My Great Uncle
My great uncle stove the cow’s head in with the hammer he used
for knocking nails and shims into tracks of dry wood and posts
its legs buckled under as the hammer hit bone gristle and skull
a popping sound issuing as the hammer swung quick then away
its eyes went red then white, then its shoulders slackened and fell
I closed my eyes as it fell, tongue tacked to the chisel of its teeth
my uncle spitting whiskey and quid into the grain of the barn wood floor
be still & travel with a new prayer
entering the twilight railroad
your heart must be contained in the spikes
no longer will you speak to me of fire
triumphing out there on my long grasses
no longer will you speak to me.
all their guts like one ice-white granite flower
hurled from windows that never held glass
re-enter me, oh my heart
in a window still fogged by lovemaking that has ended
in a mirror crowded with stereo speakers twitching
electrical fans bringing me the clipped voices of edited children
who will not be frozen by time
who will be blessed by the cancerous gambles of the sun
lampshade sitting on my head, eyes numb as lawnmower blades
re-enter me
oh my heart
when i will wish
to wrap a raindrop in tinfoil
or put the feet of a dead driveway bird in my mouth
or wake up misty-eyed in a crib of sealed glass
shortened limbs & teethmarked wrists.
allow me another month of gambling on this broken hand
on these cold glass-flecked paths of health insurance & antique clocks
Microsoft nestled in knotted treebark
circuits snipped by the chipped buck-teeth of sacrificial squirrels
allow her to continue stepping out of rainbow-cylindered cars just before they explode
allow my engine to catch up with the horsepower of heaven
allow my long hands to fling birds into the polished dining room
& they to flee the cool bouquets & silverware
& crowd my metal bedrooms with new noise
lower my musical arguments into a well of thick moss walls
bring up a bucket of glistening saliva & toss out the long horse teeth
that you find there--unthreatening knives--
we mix blue yarn with attic cobwebs,
upsetting the gone spider's sacred witless math
and heave the old treehouses to the tops of skyscrapers
and love my overripe heart
until it's yearning crosses the blue & white of airport tv screens
and love your green heart until it's alien mathematics succeed
outside the rusted sun dial & the black & grey judgements
of the digitally photographed grandparents
and love again my science-fiction eardrums waiting for saxophones to kill satan--
re-enter me
(not carefully)
oh my heart.
entering the twilight railroad
your heart must be contained in the spikes
no longer will you speak to me of fire
triumphing out there on my long grasses
no longer will you speak to me.
all their guts like one ice-white granite flower
hurled from windows that never held glass
re-enter me, oh my heart
in a window still fogged by lovemaking that has ended
in a mirror crowded with stereo speakers twitching
electrical fans bringing me the clipped voices of edited children
who will not be frozen by time
who will be blessed by the cancerous gambles of the sun
lampshade sitting on my head, eyes numb as lawnmower blades
re-enter me
oh my heart
when i will wish
to wrap a raindrop in tinfoil
or put the feet of a dead driveway bird in my mouth
or wake up misty-eyed in a crib of sealed glass
shortened limbs & teethmarked wrists.
allow me another month of gambling on this broken hand
on these cold glass-flecked paths of health insurance & antique clocks
Microsoft nestled in knotted treebark
circuits snipped by the chipped buck-teeth of sacrificial squirrels
allow her to continue stepping out of rainbow-cylindered cars just before they explode
allow my engine to catch up with the horsepower of heaven
allow my long hands to fling birds into the polished dining room
& they to flee the cool bouquets & silverware
& crowd my metal bedrooms with new noise
lower my musical arguments into a well of thick moss walls
bring up a bucket of glistening saliva & toss out the long horse teeth
that you find there--unthreatening knives--
we mix blue yarn with attic cobwebs,
upsetting the gone spider's sacred witless math
and heave the old treehouses to the tops of skyscrapers
and love my overripe heart
until it's yearning crosses the blue & white of airport tv screens
and love your green heart until it's alien mathematics succeed
outside the rusted sun dial & the black & grey judgements
of the digitally photographed grandparents
and love again my science-fiction eardrums waiting for saxophones to kill satan--
re-enter me
(not carefully)
oh my heart.
Death Metal Throw Rug
Report from the road!
Some toe rag nicked my
"gray rag of rotted calico,"
in the very mention of "obbligatos"
we got our first hitch from an
ex-Warwick student washing oneself
with a rag on a stick,
After that I dry the rag thorough1v again
and put it in a bottle, tin box
Plan A for Canadians seems to be
to hitch rides with the Americans,
hitchhike is defined as a couch that tends
to make a comfortable right's rest,
Use a damp rag to wipe them down once a year
If necessary, apply brown chalk
If you do not get any color on the rug
the cleaner/solvent should be safe
for the Salty Dog, neither warm nor comfortable
you know, what we always really,
truly felt comfortable with:
an extra-strength drool rag
the horse is comfortable pushing his face
into your space
as gingerly as you might a rag
soaked in HIV germs,
giving his sword-belt a hitch,
and thrusting his morion a little on one side
I was seduced by the quiet, comfortable hum
of archive quality digital prints
our rendition was more like a wet Routine,
Jupiter freaked me out a little, though.
Some toe rag nicked my
"gray rag of rotted calico,"
in the very mention of "obbligatos"
we got our first hitch from an
ex-Warwick student washing oneself
with a rag on a stick,
After that I dry the rag thorough1v again
and put it in a bottle, tin box
Plan A for Canadians seems to be
to hitch rides with the Americans,
hitchhike is defined as a couch that tends
to make a comfortable right's rest,
Use a damp rag to wipe them down once a year
If necessary, apply brown chalk
If you do not get any color on the rug
the cleaner/solvent should be safe
for the Salty Dog, neither warm nor comfortable
you know, what we always really,
truly felt comfortable with:
an extra-strength drool rag
the horse is comfortable pushing his face
into your space
as gingerly as you might a rag
soaked in HIV germs,
giving his sword-belt a hitch,
and thrusting his morion a little on one side
I was seduced by the quiet, comfortable hum
of archive quality digital prints
our rendition was more like a wet Routine,
Jupiter freaked me out a little, though.
so sorry
this is not an exercise.
this is not something you can take home.
this is for you to decide in your own time.
the revolution already happened,
and it was televised, and you missed out
when they were passing out the royalty checks.
11/9/06
this is not something you can take home.
this is for you to decide in your own time.
the revolution already happened,
and it was televised, and you missed out
when they were passing out the royalty checks.
11/9/06
an earful of written words
a poem pursued
three separate
interference factors
which decisioned in
public gusts surnamed
Wow Wallpaper or
Shifty Trees
with the thrill of
disease
bundled into
popular upthrust
market pamper
why do we accept
the banging sound
of the bolt upright
dog-eyed old
time explanatory
word units plucked
from other places
where words
and the season
spit sentence factor
on reading factor
until perfect interference
makes same day as
net worth?
you pose the poem
and the people fill
the throng
this poem
is part of
that poem
eddies stop for nothing
three separate
interference factors
which decisioned in
public gusts surnamed
Wow Wallpaper or
Shifty Trees
with the thrill of
disease
bundled into
popular upthrust
market pamper
why do we accept
the banging sound
of the bolt upright
dog-eyed old
time explanatory
word units plucked
from other places
where words
and the season
spit sentence factor
on reading factor
until perfect interference
makes same day as
net worth?
you pose the poem
and the people fill
the throng
this poem
is part of
that poem
eddies stop for nothing
magistrating
_______________________
The magistrate Schreiber had an awful tic and a wren on the fret of his brow; and a lasso Iliad he kept on a leash made of moles’ hair and hemp. He tight-fistedly free-associated, having little time for grunting or circuitous conversions, and wore his hat in disrespect to good manners. He recollected things that didn’t exist, and made noises that appeared to emanate from the cup of his bowel. He cleared his throat at will, recalling his disgust for Schopenhauer, Kant and Hegel, and Goethe, whom he abhorred with fervour. He disliked Persian rugs, African art and pointy things, and saw no utility in having antiquities that encouraged clutter and dust. He preferred walking to brougham and horse, and wore unfashionable shoes, brown Oxford’s with pinpricks in the wingtips. He was allergic to cigar smoke, mints, especially humbugs, and liquorice allsorts, the kind that stuck together in droves. He wrote a book on lycanthropy and vermin, and a monogram on structural irregularities in jawbones. One night after dinner, a pork roast with potatoes, sweet corn and Crème Brule, he fell asleep on his couch never to awake.
_____________________________________
The magistrate Schreiber had an awful tic and a wren on the fret of his brow; and a lasso Iliad he kept on a leash made of moles’ hair and hemp. He tight-fistedly free-associated, having little time for grunting or circuitous conversions, and wore his hat in disrespect to good manners. He recollected things that didn’t exist, and made noises that appeared to emanate from the cup of his bowel. He cleared his throat at will, recalling his disgust for Schopenhauer, Kant and Hegel, and Goethe, whom he abhorred with fervour. He disliked Persian rugs, African art and pointy things, and saw no utility in having antiquities that encouraged clutter and dust. He preferred walking to brougham and horse, and wore unfashionable shoes, brown Oxford’s with pinpricks in the wingtips. He was allergic to cigar smoke, mints, especially humbugs, and liquorice allsorts, the kind that stuck together in droves. He wrote a book on lycanthropy and vermin, and a monogram on structural irregularities in jawbones. One night after dinner, a pork roast with potatoes, sweet corn and Crème Brule, he fell asleep on his couch never to awake.
_____________________________________
A sociable poem
I have these outwardnesses
to keep me numb
when a hunger is inward calling.
I have these three and thirty hearts,
irreconcilable.
I have
these small animals in shells
crawling on the knuckle of a foreign finger
insisting that I own every bend.
I have these breasts supported
supported by a gravestone
a gravestone that I will eat
when every public gesture freezes
tightly into solitude eternal.
Ass Chair Poem
save colour with a quiet legion. chair asks a question. formidable ass applies its theory. someone sits there. colour could include even the way to feel light. well, chair asks more. formidable ass weighs price of being there, secure. colour imagines a downright world. ass in chair firmly asserts place. maybe someone will vote ascetic. the green of exactly that green tree survives, tho autumn fails into winter. ass in chair continues in the moment of staying put. green is integral to all greenness. a chair always means place for ass. the very ass of formidable sitting converts motion to sitting. sitting is transitive until it pulls stasis from where and then, ass sitting chair. chair without ass is table or program or art. then ass in chair stops that fully, and ass sits. green trees survive until dead. winter comes along. autumn blows away. someone and their ass survives to sit the chair.
don't trust bears
I lost my lunch
I lost my picnic basket,
when Stogie the Bear
charged out of the forest --
had already eaten the park ranger.
“Boo-Boo, leave the pastrami
sandwiches for me -- fucking mooch”
10/12/06
I lost my picnic basket,
when Stogie the Bear
charged out of the forest --
had already eaten the park ranger.
“Boo-Boo, leave the pastrami
sandwiches for me -- fucking mooch”
10/12/06
My Pet
I don't have a pet. If I could have one, I would like a troll. I would name my troll Kevin. The thing I would most enjoy doing with Kevin is watching him have sex with other trolls.
weekly report
tend to map, accept sudden
drinking sound in wind, sudden
appearance of nothing, slow change
pulls on the rain, rain stops with
garlands, garlands equal
soft evening or wayside
naming pieces of speech, speech
qualifies for time
space, rain doesn't end
on any point, map reacts to
person's stand, standing here
with rain and loss
is a mark, reasons exist, time stops
with new tales, tales start
in a running conversation,
we converse with everything
time offers, map tends to
mean, we mean something
in anything, speech ratifies
and qualifies, finally the picture
of leaves endlessly stopped
and colour finally finished,
then you write
on edge,
until conscious in the map
and beyond, lightly
stepping as you go
drinking sound in wind, sudden
appearance of nothing, slow change
pulls on the rain, rain stops with
garlands, garlands equal
soft evening or wayside
naming pieces of speech, speech
qualifies for time
space, rain doesn't end
on any point, map reacts to
person's stand, standing here
with rain and loss
is a mark, reasons exist, time stops
with new tales, tales start
in a running conversation,
we converse with everything
time offers, map tends to
mean, we mean something
in anything, speech ratifies
and qualifies, finally the picture
of leaves endlessly stopped
and colour finally finished,
then you write
on edge,
until conscious in the map
and beyond, lightly
stepping as you go
Blink () )( ()
At the foothills of eye
to bat with lash is a sore sighted
gaze worth fluttering. Cloudless
ahead of cataract, no other squint
fringes the same overshadow.
to bat with lash is a sore sighted
gaze worth fluttering. Cloudless
ahead of cataract, no other squint
fringes the same overshadow.
The soft sound
I know the soft sound
that lives in the wary,
temporary, sneaky
brain.
I know the wavering
journey toward
the purple fire.
But I don't know
the name of a
glimmering, terrific
postman that
delivers my envelopes
to all of you.
may 2005
subway ride from Jackson Hts. to Coney Island
going somewhere
not moving but never
standing still.
smell of incense from
Jackson Hts., next stop
Stillwell Ave. and Coney
Island just for the joyride,
just for a moving passage
in the cheap seats.
Samosa chat behind us
and the forests in acres
of girder columns
supporting every subway tunnel
in Brooklyn.
in the dark
down here below the mountain,
only light is spark and 3rd-
rail flash, blue on shadow
and epochal soot.
Ditmas Ave. station’s
beige walls of an outdoor
prison. blue on shadowy
support skeleton and
braces, the souls of ancient
iron workers wrought
eternally in strong memorials,
cast deep and projecting
only into perception
where the cars’ wheels gap
and blue arcs—
they are demons
they are devis
they are crying voices
in night resident
or leaping under
the carriages and
the living passengers,
contained in all our own
oblivion of consciousness.
“I repeat—standing
clear of the buh buh buh.”
going somewhere,
but Avenue P is
not that place.
.
sign at the Coney Island station:
M A N H
& QUEENS
10/22/06
not moving but never
standing still.
smell of incense from
Jackson Hts., next stop
Stillwell Ave. and Coney
Island just for the joyride,
just for a moving passage
in the cheap seats.
Samosa chat behind us
and the forests in acres
of girder columns
supporting every subway tunnel
in Brooklyn.
in the dark
down here below the mountain,
only light is spark and 3rd-
rail flash, blue on shadow
and epochal soot.
Ditmas Ave. station’s
beige walls of an outdoor
prison. blue on shadowy
support skeleton and
braces, the souls of ancient
iron workers wrought
eternally in strong memorials,
cast deep and projecting
only into perception
where the cars’ wheels gap
and blue arcs—
they are demons
they are devis
they are crying voices
in night resident
or leaping under
the carriages and
the living passengers,
contained in all our own
oblivion of consciousness.
“I repeat—standing
clear of the buh buh buh.”
going somewhere,
but Avenue P is
not that place.
.
sign at the Coney Island station:
M A N H
& QUEENS
10/22/06
we who dance reptilian obedience
resembling alone, united by a single piece of, unable to make blank reappear, marked by the nothing engaged calendar monologue, I find indifference to things, get calls for identity that spells reasonable.
lost in the morning, the fog horn reiterates location for those that long for possession, a fuller horror of reality, unattended floating existences reduced to shattered invisibles, crawling through brambles.
lost in the morning, the fog horn reiterates location for those that long for possession, a fuller horror of reality, unattended floating existences reduced to shattered invisibles, crawling through brambles.
Shoed_ only gummy
Fintan, shoed only in gummy-soled boots, plowed trudging through waist-high jujube-black snowing snow and sighing fatigued, said ‘I deplore the damnable Jesuits all’. His great-scrappy hands, hammocks of loose variegated skin, held tightly a sack of brownish paper in which he toted a bevel and mortise-rake for raking stone and beveling. In neither garrets nor sack-clothes was he attired, as he felt that these were relics of god-fearless cunning and wholesale connivance’s. A jujube-black Civet cat, eyes yellow-spidery slits, eyed him intently, chewing garishly on nettles and roan-brown scats that had fallen free from thorn, thistle and stemma.
Denticulate Blazes Boylan macerates the licescales and dogsbodies from between dear, warbling Molly’s scabbard-red thighs jiggling jolly piggish. Thus bespoke Bloom cuckoldedly. Godsfearless young Stephen Dedalus intones; gods be with you, damnable Jesuit cunts! And is done with it, tutor-money accounted for and pocketed among lint and mint-wrappings. Recently deceased Paddy Dignam’s funeral procession recrossed over the suet canal that bifurcates thighs wide the city of Dublin gods’land so say the Jesuit brethren. This funereal procession, of course, pretenses a dead, rotting corpsebody stuffed waiting with viscera and chewable idbits. A grocer or abattoirist’s gold mine, one might suggest.
Untitled
Cities rise on my fingers when darkness sets.
Empires risen on sand of dead generations.
Blisters with the taste of bliss.
Dead as I am no one can be... And yet they live as such!
No soul, no pity, no mercy... no one!
Empires risen on sand of dead generations.
Blisters with the taste of bliss.
Dead as I am no one can be... And yet they live as such!
No soul, no pity, no mercy... no one!
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