It's Not the Stringer, but the Strong

Who will mop the cliffs
now that the whirring cloud
of reality has finally lifted?

And whose voice will reassure
Mother, no longer needle-sharp?

A stitch in time saved none.

He Didn't Want to Leave

it must be admitted that the living room is smaller than the mountaintop. the view is of a tree or something so close. snow loses eagerness at this warm level and season, so nothing shrouds that taste of beginning, even when it ends. the room feels lost in murmurs, people sound their grief. grief seems so farfetched. it vacates unexpectedly, then isolates, then joins, then provides other images in the gloaming. a tide of green sea glides into the memory of standing somewhere. a warm protection under a vast beech tree secures a finality, when finality arrives. too much information, except then a love occurs that can't find a single word, out of all the collected sizes in array. but slip back to the mountaintop, as decorative as poetry, that peculiarly near mountaintop with sopping clouds assuming instinct in stunningly low altitude beneath the feet that climbed high. the big nowhere confronts the turgid gulf. not a simple task can remain. the expedition now feels a deference towards getting down to the valley. the valley could prop one up, so far away yet once a home of sorts. now back to the living room, where voices clutch but isn't that a sentence? sentences realize moments in lists needed to be read. trouble crosses the room, but it drops tears worth love. and love stands worth astounding. love? can that be a word in all its vitality, or just a fantastic slogan, or even a seagull in some mysterious flight? read the lines that stretch between us, if this passing acquaintance remains undaunted. more than ever love strays into the abode that language allows. struggle on, struggle on... he didn't want to leave.

Stella

It was a hot afternoon - perfect for a swim - but I'd promised Stella I'd meet her at the train station. Around two o'clock I took my bicycle and started out. When I arrived at the train station, Stella wasn't there. Then I realized I wasn't at the train station, but in a hut made of tongue depressors and pieces of gum. Still, where was she?

Landscape (an excerpt)

There was something here about landscape, how it opened up, you could walk through it, and yet not be in it. One chooses to take the long view; to be at that point were everything converges. In the distance someone is painting the landscape. The foreground is black, and you get the impression that it is rotten, that something is not right, out of place. The horizon is littered with various objects: the smoking hull of a Russian tank,conjugal waste land, broken glass, the corpse of a Cyclops, androgynous language, banana peel, the ghost of a moral, a bathing cap, toys, body parts. The ongoing fragments slip away, turn, and become something else. I had decided to paint myself into the scene. Carefully placing my body next to the village idiot, and the grave-digger. I had no master plan. This is as far as I got. But this is how it sometimes goes, you throw a stone at immortality and hope that it sticks or at the very least breaks something. The scene remains unfinished, yet it is ongoing. Sometimes it is someone else’s hand that does the work, sometimes the hand itself makes an entrance. This is called collage. This is called other things. The thing you want to call it is yet to be discovered. ...

Discerning Moments Of Self Sacrifice

It never surprises me how often most people will turn away when given the opportunity to do something good.

"Autobahn zu Holle" is Greek for Participation

chaste mountaintop is all the rage. inklings remain free in sudden direction towards the gulf between air and life. the Selective Service (your friend) proceeds into snow as deep as trendy restaurants. no one asks for rhymes in this cold, and the respect of dying out loud seems paler even than the dream of snow. are we resistant to change? I could ask that, thinking other veterans want a place to sit, before tragic chasms seem too perfect. Selective Service is a trust of people with dun-coloured papers to be signed, thru ages on slopes when time doesn't include all numbers. we remember exactly the numbers we could have, were the warmth of the valley publicly traded. no question fails the patience of Iran poised as Iraq. aren't Tibet and Nepal just pale imitations of each 0ther? dictation of starchy emblems to be worn on uniform Selective Service documentation isolates endeavours into corrals called mountaintops. it all cries for deference in the sound. looking a little chubby, each of us realizes in the breadth of our entry to proximate need.

the wind sound, then, hovers on a charge trusted for years. if we could just... but then, what mapping wakes me now, as I stand alone on this top moment? a whine as red as trusting the soul for food. I think I had a day there, before the cold became more than ignorance of utter cranes in marshy night skies. a victim of vacation timeshares ran up to me, lodging complaint into my DirecTtv. as I rolled down the surface of what I understood as grace for a period, tremendous cold seemed liked the novel approach that I needed. I awaited a director to include freshets spelled like tea. I would drink the warm potion, fit caffeine into my system, and refine what I could refine. this strict district needs a run of luck.

then: I reeled with messages from family members lost in their traits. I suppose this is just practice.

then: I understood the passing of time into friends. I am glad that I am the love of the living.

then: I examined an irregular heartbeat, not mine but familiar in the proceeds.

after the trust of discussion, I came to the village for sure. my charge came with me. I thought of Yeti in a crimson loaner, while the dismay of mechanics involved a garage tempered in task management, and the old buggy gets aspirated. I will see Yeti yet, I vowed, pleased to see words in light. the invention of 4000 foot chasms seems excessive.

Quarles' Coat of Arms

"God takes joy in the odd numbers."
~13

More than twice
I passed the Bacbuc
back to Trinka
back towards the little
dolphin inside the young bottle
she had become
and as a becoming animal
mostly just waited (beautifully)
and
evening is snide and silly etc.
(moonish, mannish, whatever)
unless a passing wave /~
night
in crystal and heterodyne
releases some Hokusai butterflies
from its cacoethic's
crib death monocle scribbling
[fucking magic]
some forgotten Russian composer's
name who
concludes

pet is to tattoo
as monad is to Zipangri

and then chuckled across

Sebastian Munster's
Novae Insulae

only to be absorbed
in the endless sweaty cabbage,
obscurity would always save the oracle
but the poet
must have friends

as the puppet
has its gods

groatgreen and unshod
a puppet is uncomfortable
with nakedness

just as the rebec can
never face
a perfect number

lenin's sou'wester

Pardon me sir, but your head is too small. Might I suggest a hat, a sou'wester or a trilby, perhaps a cagoule or an oilskin? Perhaps a Mitre with a peaked spire or a Panamanian fedora with a wren’s foot hatband, or a Hovey toque with a woollen tassel. Perhaps a wraparound cangue or a scarf long enough to cover your topknot or a tonsure cut with a strop razor. If I may might I suggest a hydrocephalic puffed-up or a hard whack to the head with a shunter’s stick, or perhaps a stiffer upper lip? Here is my card, yes, it is quite bourgeois, and the number to my Blackberry, and here, take this, a map to the bordello across the street from the foot-binder’s, a sometimes acquaintance of mine, though I scarcely give him the time of day. Yes, and might I suggest one last thing…oh, excuse me, my Raspberry is pulsing.

The fight isn't over yet, she said.
Until the blood has proven the wonder the truth is still in question.
The truth is always in question.
The truth is the thing that should be most true.
The truth should be unquestionable.
The fight isn't over, she said, until you tell me what is true about this TRUTH.

You end up with the people you know and
the people you know you know by chance.

verse criticism

to stop writing hash-ed up prose to stop declaring verse to start no not to just start experimenting, prose poetry? how about verse criticism to fight resist platitudes of multitudes of wannabe universitaires. create, create, please create instead of saying sorry your wrong i'm wrighting your wrong explication interpretation of well wrought texts to play with not playwrights but becoming-bee bricolagists pollinating texts with sexes not phallic pens nor indexes thumping the board of keys but spiderly hands weaving the web of webs or why not mouths spitting the pips of pomes from mouth to mouth lacing their way through interlocking tongues a thousand tongues not licking ass but try it if necessary, licking holes the holes of the white page words burning through creating lines of escape through positive destruction of little famaly secret of thousand time lived secret. pollinate small pockts of prose. if no good do as Paterson says and click on web history and click again this time on delete and start process of polliwrination again not from zero but from n-1.

Before I meet you I will try to wear new underwear.

Torture for words

Torture for words (detail)

"Ni victimes ni bourreaux."
- Albert Camus

Dance All Days

on top of it all, the haze of certain snow lifts. straight train of tragic information, but then the mountain looks as small as a table. what can one read in the crying out alone when the sun isn't different ever? that you make the list and the list makes you,m perhaps. breathing creates some things and offers autumn on our backs. we can walk away from the summit we sought. it was, after all, reclining in a mood that kept us there. now agreeably, as narrative makes clear, tho narrative should be discharged, we have this steely effort trapped by John Bonham's drums. his noise should make clear that sentences end, if not in time. seems a little senseless to start them, when you study the inviting map. nuclear war comes shiny and new, taught to us by eager landslides. trouble leaves the mountain, proper to the discussion. darkest fears are just the table we said we had. Nepalese masterplan runs against, say, another bunching challenge. good for the years, and stumbling down the slope. that nation of pride that exhausts the statues and creates the literal in textbooks, story bent to told: it's the love that stays the same. after ringing these charms of implementing danger, we hear that the whole world spells trouble with divine. are we still the United States of Dispatch? that's as grim as peaks still muddy by trying pronouns. thin air in the valley, too.

refuge

the
tongue
seeks refuge
in a lover’s mouth
the faint sigh
of a burning
wick

words collected at random from spam, reconfigured and displayed for your pleasure

___________________________________________









for linduzapalfrey@mailc.net, master spammer.

buckboard, sentries concentric fowler
lustful frailty aficionado reformed

Hello dear friend,
mumblings protest sermons quartet
annul, Hillary voicer
wanna be a real man?
Molochize presiding rewrites
Thornton lacquered finitely, spreadings route death
metes hogging shoved itemizes dumber lemonade

breakup sacker strongest
bribing waived seclusion
Yes
vaults Richard alias
sockets feminist unnerve


__________________________________________

for ontology

0.12 seconds for "metaphysics"
by blog, like much of the popular
purposes: to provide a resource for
group aim to develop ontologies for
you.

Ontology as a concept
provides an introduction to the
management and semantically-enabled
"metaphysics."

Defines a neutral representation for
thought to have originated in
"metaphysics."

To business enterprises.
Develop.
To business enterprises.
Develop.
To business enterprises.
Develop.

"Metaphysics" is for all of us.

all bets are off

all bets are off
we should become more like the french
pull up terrorism by the roots

butt of the revolver
an odd story
the law of self-defence

five years gone
illiterate tribesmen fantasize
the separation of church and state
hallucinatory memory

all bets are off.

Dive

Metal scrapes my eardrum, and a page floats by in the sky.
Dancing, side to side, to and fro, escaping the petrol fed inferno baby that screeches, hollering for more and there…

Down..
Further down..

He flies,
Upside down,
Faster than the speed of…

My mind..
Soul,
Tears,
Fear…

If only to catch the unknown commoner,
Everyday commuter,
Lover,
Father,
Husband,
Brother…
Next door neighbor…

As he dives,
Enters the never-after or ever-plain.
His single step forward tattooed minds, emotions string out and walk the line

fluxpo

Fall

In the promising light
of a cloudless morning
rich in symbol
in early September
a city's hidden vertigo
dances out between
rippling waves of heat
shaken
by improbable fire
and much more basic
imponderables
until
mirrored towers shiver
sway
tremble
lurch against gravity
like drunks
on their morning way
home
groan
then fall
to the curbstones
raining shattered glass
steel
and life
down to the streets
boiling chalky choking dust
out from the centre.

Dazed night falls too
as people pick
frantically
uncertainly
through the
still smoking shifting
heap
of what once was
for survivors
where there are none
under emergency lights.

That first night
at the edge of their glare
one camera's
recording eye
gropes blindly
past a billboard
from a
jauntier time
lost only hours before
still standing
impossibly
on the rim
of ground zero:
"A hit from
way
off Broadway..."

To Allades

Who all at once agitato exclaims: O God, what shall I do?
Come at with poisons by inimical beings, chambered locks,
A greedy hundred,
Spun away from freedom,
Allades moved by bells, their grand sonneries, never the space to
question,
His foul predicament reaches, to the ownership of others - which
is a chaos for him.

-Don 't pray to God, says Allades, He 's not on your side,
Already his abhorrence has showed itself, when first He cut you off,
Desperate creature, and creature you are, the imperfect creation of an
imperfect house,
Why ask that God should manumit, since the Author of all has
decided?
The weak, they only suffer,
The nails removed, they drop to unremembered graves,
This world finds its beatitudes inconvenient.

Abruptly, the tolling of the bell, the people released from their
small labour in the fields,
The cattle knowing the path to the byre, starlings to their habitual roost,
And these other beasts tamed by metal regular,
Cover the fire, the curfew bell has come, spear and distaff must part,
Their actions directed by the high invisible,
To sleep and its immature destructions,
Or to journey, find a different day, and tomorrow only a savage could
believe a different sun has risen,
Tomorrow, against that same day,
That same sun, that same savage,
Or believe in nothing and have the rhythm of that at least.

Antigone drinks down her cigarette and cogitates:
-Against the angels, ‘til my dying breath, spits Antigone.
Go, sleep, climb,
Trample on the dead people and their pyramid,
Faster than flame right up to the summit again.