Gutting Bluegill In a Storm
Cod-fodder, grey weather, Bluegill blood
smeared on the chop-boards, a dark pond smell
of mud, rain and grass from the quick-slit belly.
Thunder disturbing the walls, the downstroke
precipitous cleave disengaging body from head;
flashes of bright, crooked needles piercing
through cloth. Gem-like beads shaved from
the flesh, glinting white, silver and red
in a scored metal pot of entrails and gills
as storm clouds digest the leftover light.
smeared on the chop-boards, a dark pond smell
of mud, rain and grass from the quick-slit belly.
Thunder disturbing the walls, the downstroke
precipitous cleave disengaging body from head;
flashes of bright, crooked needles piercing
through cloth. Gem-like beads shaved from
the flesh, glinting white, silver and red
in a scored metal pot of entrails and gills
as storm clouds digest the leftover light.
Movie Review
Flag 1: Pre-Post :
Warning plot spoiler ahead.
Popcorn
Popcorn
Mcguffin
Plot:
"It might be a Scottish name, taken from a story about two men in a train. One man says, 'What's that package up there in the baggage rack?' And the other answers, 'Oh that's a McGuffin.' The first one asks 'What's a McGuffin?' 'Well' the other man says, 'It's an apparatus for trapping lions in the Scottish Highlands.' The first man says, 'But there are no lions in the Scottish Highlands,' and the other one answers 'Well, then that's no McGuffin!' So you see, a McGuffin is nothing at all."
Popcorn
Popcorn
Flag 2:Post-post: End of the Plot.
credit roles.
? Mcguffin??? where? Popcorn number 2.
PS- Origin of Mcguffin, Conversations b/w Truffaut and Hitchcock.
More here .
Warning plot spoiler ahead.
Popcorn
Popcorn
Mcguffin
Plot:
"It might be a Scottish name, taken from a story about two men in a train. One man says, 'What's that package up there in the baggage rack?' And the other answers, 'Oh that's a McGuffin.' The first one asks 'What's a McGuffin?' 'Well' the other man says, 'It's an apparatus for trapping lions in the Scottish Highlands.' The first man says, 'But there are no lions in the Scottish Highlands,' and the other one answers 'Well, then that's no McGuffin!' So you see, a McGuffin is nothing at all."
Popcorn
Popcorn
Flag 2:Post-post: End of the Plot.
credit roles.
? Mcguffin??? where? Popcorn number 2.
PS- Origin of Mcguffin, Conversations b/w Truffaut and Hitchcock.
More here .
Rubber Einstein Mask, Kiss Credit Card, and Sizzlelean
a chandilier bird must urinate
tiny gyroscopic theatre coins
whose actors are the seahorse
balloon sarcophagi of the litch
and squamous tethered to alpine
radium teeth kookoo'd with a
fading aboriginal fullness the
perception of time or even a
mask made from a science fiction
paperback its snore filtered
through a ring modulator whose
once upon a time was fakir mustafa's
childhood depicted as a pomegranite
with a pinch collar typically
we are bathed in radiation
and the invisible baptism of headless
rays bounces aimlessly through
the mirror scaled dragon dancer exoskeleton
carried aloft by ice skaters on an
ice 9 gondola swinging aneath the
golly 6 zeppelin
no railing
in trouble with the law
in spain with a headache
with a naked girl hanging
out of its eyesocket
hostile
towards a little cup
whose just giving all it can
and keeping that cup close
all day long
cuz it was a good cup
a good waxy cup
with a little brown spot
a bird
with a dog's head
with electric fans for eyes
live shrimp
look odd un
der bla
cklight
tiny gyroscopic theatre coins
whose actors are the seahorse
balloon sarcophagi of the litch
and squamous tethered to alpine
radium teeth kookoo'd with a
fading aboriginal fullness the
perception of time or even a
mask made from a science fiction
paperback its snore filtered
through a ring modulator whose
once upon a time was fakir mustafa's
childhood depicted as a pomegranite
with a pinch collar typically
we are bathed in radiation
and the invisible baptism of headless
rays bounces aimlessly through
the mirror scaled dragon dancer exoskeleton
carried aloft by ice skaters on an
ice 9 gondola swinging aneath the
golly 6 zeppelin
no railing
in trouble with the law
in spain with a headache
with a naked girl hanging
out of its eyesocket
hostile
towards a little cup
whose just giving all it can
and keeping that cup close
all day long
cuz it was a good cup
a good waxy cup
with a little brown spot
a bird
with a dog's head
with electric fans for eyes
live shrimp
look odd un
der bla
cklight
personal note
just thought I'd let everyone know that I've decided to go by my real name from now on. if you ever have need to refer to me, please use the name Vince Lightning The Guy With The Extra Synapses (all italics, please). sorry for any inconvenience. if you have any questions, please don't hesitate to email me.
Opening Salvo
a terrible, tremendous world fits in fog, said Fu Manchu, icy glare telling worlds to fall. George Bush guffaws practically. their nosecone heads for lunar landscape. the vantage is to see the orb spinning and delirious. on Earth, the little precinct, Sir Denis Nayland-Smith, invincibly English, conducts tea to his lips. to travel then, that tea, down throat, bump along the merrie alimentary ways, piss away like the last breath of justice. he will vindicate his poor attitude towards Du Manchu, that incarnate evil holding cards of purpose. and we, peons glowing with nice clusters of Kevin Federline Just changing my perception of myself in the public eye is number one.
the big trees then got busy.
they rang appropriate bell-like tones from their limbs. the blue sky adapted to the promulgation. words were spelled out clearly. literal losses were examined for reasons of torment. who would want more than a creation of vanity in the sport of trying? thus do the nodes endure. George Bush as the rock face staring into the sun beguiles with a loose drawing down. waking is a sly riposte. no one really gains a footing, the mountain crumbles with toleration.
what war, basically. Nayland-Smith savours oil as a means of production, as in, how can this desert betray its foundation, and who are the crying people? not to say all words begin with sentiment. the English government, swiftly rebutting Stanley's query of Livingston, tickles newer regions for spirit. Sir John Franklin and crew freeze in death. death was sick all over.
the big trees then got busy.
they rang appropriate bell-like tones from their limbs. the blue sky adapted to the promulgation. words were spelled out clearly. literal losses were examined for reasons of torment. who would want more than a creation of vanity in the sport of trying? thus do the nodes endure. George Bush as the rock face staring into the sun beguiles with a loose drawing down. waking is a sly riposte. no one really gains a footing, the mountain crumbles with toleration.
what war, basically. Nayland-Smith savours oil as a means of production, as in, how can this desert betray its foundation, and who are the crying people? not to say all words begin with sentiment. the English government, swiftly rebutting Stanley's query of Livingston, tickles newer regions for spirit. Sir John Franklin and crew freeze in death. death was sick all over.
Straight Pins
I have been known
to meditate on these things
such as they are,
and will not concede
to your remarks that I think in circles
like some buffoon
in a clown’s hat
fashioned from crepe paper
and straight pins,
to meditate on these things
such as they are,
and will not concede
to your remarks that I think in circles
like some buffoon
in a clown’s hat
fashioned from crepe paper
and straight pins,
Blue-Deep
Dear sea, blue-deep
alkali drink, blessed
sea, silk-lined body
that is not body but
a bowl, a basin filled
with foaming, salty milk
and shoreline, heaving
at your tresses, adhesive
soles of sunlight to
shadows of your feet;
eyes, the hearts of men
unfastened, struck by
fragments of your beauty-
blue-deep, blessed sea.
alkali drink, blessed
sea, silk-lined body
that is not body but
a bowl, a basin filled
with foaming, salty milk
and shoreline, heaving
at your tresses, adhesive
soles of sunlight to
shadows of your feet;
eyes, the hearts of men
unfastened, struck by
fragments of your beauty-
blue-deep, blessed sea.
excerpts from Song of the Sea Bass
we sell the sea bass
we ask the sea bass
we ask to sell the sea bass
we'll see about selling the sea bass
we'll see about seeing the sea bass
we'll last as long as the sea bass
we'll ask for longer with the sea bass
we'll see the sea bass
we'll ask the sea bass
we'll sell the sea bass
...
mention the sea and in a deep bass voice
the sea bass answers, the sea bass questions
the sea bass delves into mystery
angles press the sea bass, algae
parting of the waves for the mighty fish of the salt waters
augment the sea bass, testify in the chair of the sea bass
propel or else ignite the engines
whether the waters promise a song or a failure
the sea bass comes to the rescue even if you might be lost to the deep
paralysis is only the first sign that the ocean is calling
the sea bass declares, without a promise but a solution
the sea bass paddles in its own reflection
Debussy humming on the quay as if lost in thought
people on the move make a name for themselves
hail the ugly ladder-climbers who are the first to go down
and splash salad dressing on everyone else
in the cafe along the point, staring out at the infinity of waves
a couple on holiday declares love and each eyes juice
on their white plates
m awl leopard, glabrous ivory medallions
m awl leopard, glabrous ivory medallions
tied to the tracks the loco
motive leanns a wry
streets and avenous
italion ate the hroin
the motor cycle whic
h it champion now
led nose flea frawl
lode liver 'rode'
let us efface heeeeech
uther on the blood red whale
you tied to the tracks
UTHER PENDRAGON LOCOMOTIVE TRAIN CONDUCTOR!
tied to the tracks the loco
motive leanns a wry
streets and avenous
italion ate the hroin
the motor cycle whic
h it champion now
led nose flea frawl
lode liver 'rode'
let us efface heeeeech
uther on the blood red whale
you tied to the tracks
UTHER PENDRAGON LOCOMOTIVE TRAIN CONDUCTOR!
Dummies
____________________________________________________________________
You call them “dummies.” Images give form to the life within,
and names aren’t everything— they know more than you think,
these mannequins with wooden faces and plastic hearts.
One day they will break your plate-glass windows and march
with their feather boas and wool cloches
above nude shining torsos bent at impossible angles
unliving undead and not to be trifled with—
not-real women, not-real bodies inside not-real clothes
marked For Display Only. Arm in arm they’ll shout
and every shout will break more glass prisons
to be crushed to sparkling sugar
by the unbleeding feet of the vanguard crossing against lights
and tearing awnings to ragged banners. Not to wear,
and not because they don’t know they’re naked—
that’s how they were made after all. But these women
are done with rags, done with glass houses, done with
selling selling selling being sold
standing still being stared at being ignored
being on display being merchandise being backdrops for merchandise.
They’re on the move. They’ve left the background. They own
themselves.
====================================
Simple As That (or is it?)
Like proverbial roads, I was not chosen,
despite a will of grave intention, desire
with practiced, calloused hands; of talents
nature rarely gives to intricate inventions
favoring the thoughtless rose, the vacant
star, the mindless, howling winds. To be
is not the question, nor is decision found or
granted from within; the conclusive opinion
determined by a raw, imperfect accident
initiates the inquisition: how and when and why?
If moral is a story, if dictums teach the halfwit
how to live, if faith is such a blessing then
what purpose can we have for meddling with
oceans, measuring the sky, constructing theories,
making queries, rearranging heaven for
the everlasting, contemplative "I"?
* Send your self-addressed propositions to:
10001 Confusion Ave. Suite RU4- Real
Backlogg, Rhode Island 77660
despite a will of grave intention, desire
with practiced, calloused hands; of talents
nature rarely gives to intricate inventions
favoring the thoughtless rose, the vacant
star, the mindless, howling winds. To be
is not the question, nor is decision found or
granted from within; the conclusive opinion
determined by a raw, imperfect accident
initiates the inquisition: how and when and why?
If moral is a story, if dictums teach the halfwit
how to live, if faith is such a blessing then
what purpose can we have for meddling with
oceans, measuring the sky, constructing theories,
making queries, rearranging heaven for
the everlasting, contemplative "I"?
* Send your self-addressed propositions to:
10001 Confusion Ave. Suite RU4- Real
Backlogg, Rhode Island 77660
Ancient Ocean
Every desert is haunted by the ghost of an ancient ocean,
phantom surf whispering over the salt remains of a dry ocean.
Invisible waves shatter against the crumbling sandstone reefs
that once reared their heads tall above a storm-tossed ocean.
The lime skeletons of tiny creatures tumble from the air
to be ground to dust by the passing of feet that forget the ocean.
Wind carves waterless ripples into endless expanses of dead sand,
builds dunes on unliving beaches that no longer frame an ocean.
Fossil shells peek from the gravel in dry washes and gullies
like scattered teeth in a shovel of soil from the grave of an ocean.
Over the flats in the distance, the air glitters with heat-mirage
reflections as brilliant as the water of a long-lost ocean.
In the dried mud of the lake-bed, encased in salt and sleeping
the eggs of brine shrimp await the certain coming of a new ocean.
phantom surf whispering over the salt remains of a dry ocean.
Invisible waves shatter against the crumbling sandstone reefs
that once reared their heads tall above a storm-tossed ocean.
The lime skeletons of tiny creatures tumble from the air
to be ground to dust by the passing of feet that forget the ocean.
Wind carves waterless ripples into endless expanses of dead sand,
builds dunes on unliving beaches that no longer frame an ocean.
Fossil shells peek from the gravel in dry washes and gullies
like scattered teeth in a shovel of soil from the grave of an ocean.
Over the flats in the distance, the air glitters with heat-mirage
reflections as brilliant as the water of a long-lost ocean.
In the dried mud of the lake-bed, encased in salt and sleeping
the eggs of brine shrimp await the certain coming of a new ocean.
Feminist Love...
Fuck you. says
egotism, Fuck
you too says
Feminism.
But
so far, in the big wild
absurd universe
the only successful
and
proven method
to fuck a feminist
is to
Fuck her first
And
then
Let
Her
talk.
because
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
So on , so forth….
egotism, Fuck
you too says
Feminism.
But
so far, in the big wild
absurd universe
the only successful
and
proven method
to fuck a feminist
is to
Fuck her first
And
then
Let
Her
talk.
because
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
So on , so forth….
R Tarfon
troif i ftro forit rtifo r tifo rof ti ot rfi orit f froi t rifot ri oft ot rif frti o rfoti f iotr rtf io rofti fio rt orfti roift irfto ro fit r tif tirfo rfi ot tfro i oft ir o tirf f orti firto irf to tr foi tio fr ftori iortf r tiof torfi o ifrt tirf o rifto f itor iotrf fotri foit r ofrt i i fort io tfr ortfi o fitr frt io irfto ro fit r otif tirfo rof ti ot rfi orit f froi t rifot
Words Falling Off The Page
_______________________
Graveclothes and Guinness
Jawbone biscuits, currants and arrowroot, a slough-pump rum-cake, packet of crisps; seedy soppy loll; Howth Head penance, Graveclothes coiled in Guinness, a stone bowled into the rope of the sea. Odysseus and Mall Ox, these are troubled time, troubled indeed. Here I sit trumpeting through my ass, a symphony of flutes, oboes and a coalman’s spinneret, a brash and assuming morning pushing in through my bedroom window, this is how the day begins, Mall Ox and Odysseus, trumpeting ass.
Ken and Barbie
We draw the shades to hide our clutter.
The dogs one black, another yellow
dream against the floor, clicking paws
across the hardwood; the sound of brooms
sweeping out a cellar.
You remind me to check the doors as if
what we've kept secret here, could return
and rob us of more; my right hand
purple-grey- a dead man, a careful thief
twist the locks repeatedly. Tonight,
there is no wind or heat, through
the skylight, a willow-fingered palm
slices through moonlight, a knife
through cheese or wet hair falling heavily
over a naked shoulder. I feel you
somewhere in the house preparing
for disappointment, drawing up
your knees, a uterine heartbeat slowing,
slowing progressively, an urban disease,
a neoplastic amnesia, like me-
a synthetic doll who lowers
the shades, locks the doors, ignores
the missing pieces, designed to fit in
perfectly, flawlessly, beneath you.
The dogs one black, another yellow
dream against the floor, clicking paws
across the hardwood; the sound of brooms
sweeping out a cellar.
You remind me to check the doors as if
what we've kept secret here, could return
and rob us of more; my right hand
purple-grey- a dead man, a careful thief
twist the locks repeatedly. Tonight,
there is no wind or heat, through
the skylight, a willow-fingered palm
slices through moonlight, a knife
through cheese or wet hair falling heavily
over a naked shoulder. I feel you
somewhere in the house preparing
for disappointment, drawing up
your knees, a uterine heartbeat slowing,
slowing progressively, an urban disease,
a neoplastic amnesia, like me-
a synthetic doll who lowers
the shades, locks the doors, ignores
the missing pieces, designed to fit in
perfectly, flawlessly, beneath you.
Just Another Cream Soda Refill
Remove the screws. It hurts being pinned down
as a monster who didn’t even create herself.
I’m creative with my made-up stains, with my bloody words
to lubricate mechanical refrains.
At least it’s a sexy assembly line.
Lying on the workbench like a work-in-progress.
I could probably make 25¢ if I cashed in
my latest bottle, but I must resist the urge
to break it first. Breaking glass can be so musical
like fairy tale windshield glitter.
Princess slippers implanted with shards.
Princess implants sharded with glass.
I must I must I must
unfetter my wrists; deface the urge
to be a pretty cyborg, a screwy illusion.
Even when my head is in a vise,
I am privy to an inner resistance.
I possess my own implements.
I have built my own mutant musical instruments.
Emptying the spit valve was part of the song
until I drank it down to hollow vessel.
A blown glass bottle of cream soda
can’t melt the rusty hinges on my tongue.
Am I just unfazed or have I been razed?
Can I be raised to new levels with extra oomph,
with extra-special gears & pulleys,
or will I be phased out? Excessive product
swept up from a factory floor like wispy little
wood shavings, one step away from sawdust.
Why can’t I turn into splinters beneath assembly line feet?
Why am I an edible puppet in my dream of lust?
Cold confection impaled on my own wooden stick.
Creamsicle filling oozing between my lips. I must I must
splinter in the midst of the gooey disillusion.
My scritchy tune spills out of the voicebox—
my fake rubies infiltrate abandoned settings.
Warehouse settings. Tool shed settings. Costume closets.
with gaudily-jeweled mirrors, with gilded frames.
Sickly-sweet perversion in the glass, floating on additives
& preservatives. I just might imbibe formaldehyde
if it smelled pretty enough. Oh those horror movie beauty queen
disguises. Oh those pluck and slash bouquets.
Crooked little props that gleam creepily
from cracked cream soda bottles.
Take them to the appropriate receptacle.
Take me to my logical extreme.
25¢ transformed into a gumball machine ring
for another dismembered lady finger.
as a monster who didn’t even create herself.
I’m creative with my made-up stains, with my bloody words
to lubricate mechanical refrains.
At least it’s a sexy assembly line.
Lying on the workbench like a work-in-progress.
I could probably make 25¢ if I cashed in
my latest bottle, but I must resist the urge
to break it first. Breaking glass can be so musical
like fairy tale windshield glitter.
Princess slippers implanted with shards.
Princess implants sharded with glass.
I must I must I must
unfetter my wrists; deface the urge
to be a pretty cyborg, a screwy illusion.
Even when my head is in a vise,
I am privy to an inner resistance.
I possess my own implements.
I have built my own mutant musical instruments.
Emptying the spit valve was part of the song
until I drank it down to hollow vessel.
A blown glass bottle of cream soda
can’t melt the rusty hinges on my tongue.
Am I just unfazed or have I been razed?
Can I be raised to new levels with extra oomph,
with extra-special gears & pulleys,
or will I be phased out? Excessive product
swept up from a factory floor like wispy little
wood shavings, one step away from sawdust.
Why can’t I turn into splinters beneath assembly line feet?
Why am I an edible puppet in my dream of lust?
Cold confection impaled on my own wooden stick.
Creamsicle filling oozing between my lips. I must I must
splinter in the midst of the gooey disillusion.
My scritchy tune spills out of the voicebox—
my fake rubies infiltrate abandoned settings.
Warehouse settings. Tool shed settings. Costume closets.
with gaudily-jeweled mirrors, with gilded frames.
Sickly-sweet perversion in the glass, floating on additives
& preservatives. I just might imbibe formaldehyde
if it smelled pretty enough. Oh those horror movie beauty queen
disguises. Oh those pluck and slash bouquets.
Crooked little props that gleam creepily
from cracked cream soda bottles.
Take them to the appropriate receptacle.
Take me to my logical extreme.
25¢ transformed into a gumball machine ring
for another dismembered lady finger.
Part VI.
Part VI.
I am caught in the masturbation’s convulsion
Where the seeds of my yet to be sons are simmering into the light
I was caught by the pill’s promise against an ill of the soul and when it was done by the light of a brass spittoon I saw the glitter of the machine sun shining its quivering thunder to the victorious trumpet that played for the lost queen of the Nile
I was caught in an Ethiopian’s skin as dark as a developing storm raging over a candle’s flame stiffening its licks in the barbaric air
I was caught in a breeding hunger in the belly of the moon where the secret boredom of a nocturnal word laid luminous beside earth’s reflected light
I was caught by the richness of bread in the belly of death full of ears of corn and the last supper’s nourishment singing alleluia alleluia alleluia
I was caught by wine’s rejoicement hidden in the veins of a peaceful drunker sleeping in the door way of misplaced time dreaming of more wine
I was caught and held accountable for the Lord’s body and blood seen in the sacrament of a token race that ate manna in the desert of drunk mountains
I was caught by the dark color of coffee that flood my eyes in a rage of bowel movement filtering the Mississippi in its rushing run toward salvation’s seeds sown by the teaching of the Holy Spirit singing a hymn to the electric untouchable water from the angles eyes when man have forgotten to give them their duded praises
I was caught by the pathic flower’s ancestral cynosure of intellectual beauty frozen in a milkweed seed
I was caught by the brilliance memory of a wolf’s metamorphosis published in the dream shelter where immigrates of the sun and the institution of the first word spoken fell upon the children of Israel
I was caught by Pharaoh’s dream of the begotten corruption turned to withstand the affliction of the admonitory function of the sodomites burning in the church of the effeminate papal decree tattooed on their skin
I was caught by the sumptuous penances of genetic blood flowing in its madness down the tiled corridor of laughter where is heard the deafness of stars
I was caught by the unfathomable horizon rejoicing to be renewed by the beautiful ancestors of the flowering razor’s response to a new day
I was caught between the redemption of the precious unclenching memory and passing descent of a wedding’s splendor hung on the famished vomit of an acute sky
I was caught by the landscape of an axial skeleton playing a concertina of buffalo skin in the last siphoning of an emptied rhetorical answer
I was caught by the knowledge of the computer and held for ransom until the butterflies paid it with their colors
I was caught by the junk mail of the bible when the dreams of the mulberry tress went weeping for the time of forgetfulness caught in a sparrow’s throat
I was caught by the consumed name of Osiris sleeping for a thousand years in the make ready of the Egyptian Book of the Dead
I was caught by the triumph bones and limbs of a blue jay recently escaped from the underworld of a fur coat worn by the watcher who looks after the chamber hawk to make a tooth pick of its feather
I was caught by my race looking for a scapegoat to hang on the teeth of the wind blowing above the bed sores of St.Louis’ earth section where I cried out earth I tried not to doubt you and I tried to ask for your forgetfulness in a lean year when your children died on the stalk before the faces of the birds
I was caught between the eastern horizon of heaven and the boundaries of divine food set before a spoken word equipped with thorns and skin bells ringing everyone to dinner
I was caught by the baptized growth of a broken man and the prophet of the sun in his empty church where the stained glass of memory is written in blood on the lullaby of night
I was caught by the inundation of night’s sarcophagus where the enemies of the million of green beginnings caught in the heart of the season of fire burning itself toward the destroyed Gods that rise like red smoke to the blue grey clouds of rebirth are raining for their lives
I was caught in the splendor of an importunate revolt driven back into its sour landscape where it was driven mad by the young green fireflies that pray on flowers under the cover of darkness lit by a prodigious moon with its flaming lips
I was caught by the vintage wind blowing the ash of a dead love that die when it ran out of dying time spent on the edge of a living tepid silence desolated by the muffled half-light of a burning phoenix’s symmetries
I was caught between the trophy of the past and the estimative roulette of the future where the die is casted in the funeral fire of a secret burning within but can not tell time to save its life
I am caught between a field of weeping demons that have lost their reasons for being when man have not forgotten how to blame the ocean and curse the winds and hold the sun in contempt because of their satisfied distance of coming onto the land where man have built his homes
I was caught by the early morning final edition sweeping across the sky in its last hurray toward a place where five weeks are fishing for more time before time tells it to get the hell out of sight
I was caught by the judgment of a feller day where the cult of contemporary justifications increasing it tempo spurned by a recalcitrant brotherhood of trees went robbing the sky of its moisture
I was caught by the alcoholic mud’s consumption lying in the vicinity of a child’s hand where the condition of the negroids is written in the sixteenth fact of March 16 1911 of American law of mistreatment
I was caught by the jailer of the wilderness who has losted his keys in the damp grass of germination where his heart was possessed by the adoration of the everlasting I am who I am
I am caught where all the trees have fed from my backyard in the swift tail wings of the persecutor of the evolutionary that cover his eyes with the impossible mirror where time stands its ground against a dead man walking toward his misplaced grave
I was caught between the cripples, the blind and the lame that are like grapes on the vine in the churchyard of the unconscious feline on their nightly journey through the alleys of a dark and hidden psyche keeping to the shadows sleeping in the winter hands of trees
I am caught by a visual purple music of a piano’s sixty forth note rooted in the head of a thistle
I am caught by the luminous licit lust of the rain
I was caught by a lie told to the young who are weaving sunlight with their hair like a bird eating the bread of the unknown intellectual consciousness found in the worm’s diagram of the inner earth with its common music heard by the flooding of the Nile
I was caught between a broken but shinning voice’s equipment with its words of tomb breathing the hallucinations of Horus where it took ten years to remember that I were lost among the bewildered disaster found in a poison flower
I was caught between the do you love me do you not plucked by each drop of shudder rain with its water spine broken on a season of memories kept in the flower’s roots
I was caught by the dealer who keeps his nocturnal musical strength decadence and expanding its contemporary to the blind and divine priest that do the biding of a God’s egg buried in his body in his belly
I was caught by the last song to be heard in the inner mind of a baby sparrow dreaming of flight from the blue jay’s fight with spread wings and cocked beaks they are losing their blue to the cloudless sky full belly out in light where sunlight bid you fair well
I was caught by the vision of an ant crowing over the final face of the fallen not yet let loose long enough to be over grown by the middle breathe of sand in the lunle lungs
I was caught by the territorial day hung and drown in the hour of it weakest need when the machismo minuets swung open the seconds again and again
I am caught in the masturbation’s convulsion
Where the seeds of my yet to be sons are simmering into the light
I was caught by the pill’s promise against an ill of the soul and when it was done by the light of a brass spittoon I saw the glitter of the machine sun shining its quivering thunder to the victorious trumpet that played for the lost queen of the Nile
I was caught in an Ethiopian’s skin as dark as a developing storm raging over a candle’s flame stiffening its licks in the barbaric air
I was caught in a breeding hunger in the belly of the moon where the secret boredom of a nocturnal word laid luminous beside earth’s reflected light
I was caught by the richness of bread in the belly of death full of ears of corn and the last supper’s nourishment singing alleluia alleluia alleluia
I was caught by wine’s rejoicement hidden in the veins of a peaceful drunker sleeping in the door way of misplaced time dreaming of more wine
I was caught and held accountable for the Lord’s body and blood seen in the sacrament of a token race that ate manna in the desert of drunk mountains
I was caught by the dark color of coffee that flood my eyes in a rage of bowel movement filtering the Mississippi in its rushing run toward salvation’s seeds sown by the teaching of the Holy Spirit singing a hymn to the electric untouchable water from the angles eyes when man have forgotten to give them their duded praises
I was caught by the pathic flower’s ancestral cynosure of intellectual beauty frozen in a milkweed seed
I was caught by the brilliance memory of a wolf’s metamorphosis published in the dream shelter where immigrates of the sun and the institution of the first word spoken fell upon the children of Israel
I was caught by Pharaoh’s dream of the begotten corruption turned to withstand the affliction of the admonitory function of the sodomites burning in the church of the effeminate papal decree tattooed on their skin
I was caught by the sumptuous penances of genetic blood flowing in its madness down the tiled corridor of laughter where is heard the deafness of stars
I was caught by the unfathomable horizon rejoicing to be renewed by the beautiful ancestors of the flowering razor’s response to a new day
I was caught between the redemption of the precious unclenching memory and passing descent of a wedding’s splendor hung on the famished vomit of an acute sky
I was caught by the landscape of an axial skeleton playing a concertina of buffalo skin in the last siphoning of an emptied rhetorical answer
I was caught by the knowledge of the computer and held for ransom until the butterflies paid it with their colors
I was caught by the junk mail of the bible when the dreams of the mulberry tress went weeping for the time of forgetfulness caught in a sparrow’s throat
I was caught by the consumed name of Osiris sleeping for a thousand years in the make ready of the Egyptian Book of the Dead
I was caught by the triumph bones and limbs of a blue jay recently escaped from the underworld of a fur coat worn by the watcher who looks after the chamber hawk to make a tooth pick of its feather
I was caught by my race looking for a scapegoat to hang on the teeth of the wind blowing above the bed sores of St.Louis’ earth section where I cried out earth I tried not to doubt you and I tried to ask for your forgetfulness in a lean year when your children died on the stalk before the faces of the birds
I was caught between the eastern horizon of heaven and the boundaries of divine food set before a spoken word equipped with thorns and skin bells ringing everyone to dinner
I was caught by the baptized growth of a broken man and the prophet of the sun in his empty church where the stained glass of memory is written in blood on the lullaby of night
I was caught by the inundation of night’s sarcophagus where the enemies of the million of green beginnings caught in the heart of the season of fire burning itself toward the destroyed Gods that rise like red smoke to the blue grey clouds of rebirth are raining for their lives
I was caught in the splendor of an importunate revolt driven back into its sour landscape where it was driven mad by the young green fireflies that pray on flowers under the cover of darkness lit by a prodigious moon with its flaming lips
I was caught by the vintage wind blowing the ash of a dead love that die when it ran out of dying time spent on the edge of a living tepid silence desolated by the muffled half-light of a burning phoenix’s symmetries
I was caught between the trophy of the past and the estimative roulette of the future where the die is casted in the funeral fire of a secret burning within but can not tell time to save its life
I am caught between a field of weeping demons that have lost their reasons for being when man have not forgotten how to blame the ocean and curse the winds and hold the sun in contempt because of their satisfied distance of coming onto the land where man have built his homes
I was caught by the early morning final edition sweeping across the sky in its last hurray toward a place where five weeks are fishing for more time before time tells it to get the hell out of sight
I was caught by the judgment of a feller day where the cult of contemporary justifications increasing it tempo spurned by a recalcitrant brotherhood of trees went robbing the sky of its moisture
I was caught by the alcoholic mud’s consumption lying in the vicinity of a child’s hand where the condition of the negroids is written in the sixteenth fact of March 16 1911 of American law of mistreatment
I was caught by the jailer of the wilderness who has losted his keys in the damp grass of germination where his heart was possessed by the adoration of the everlasting I am who I am
I am caught where all the trees have fed from my backyard in the swift tail wings of the persecutor of the evolutionary that cover his eyes with the impossible mirror where time stands its ground against a dead man walking toward his misplaced grave
I was caught between the cripples, the blind and the lame that are like grapes on the vine in the churchyard of the unconscious feline on their nightly journey through the alleys of a dark and hidden psyche keeping to the shadows sleeping in the winter hands of trees
I am caught by a visual purple music of a piano’s sixty forth note rooted in the head of a thistle
I am caught by the luminous licit lust of the rain
I was caught by a lie told to the young who are weaving sunlight with their hair like a bird eating the bread of the unknown intellectual consciousness found in the worm’s diagram of the inner earth with its common music heard by the flooding of the Nile
I was caught between a broken but shinning voice’s equipment with its words of tomb breathing the hallucinations of Horus where it took ten years to remember that I were lost among the bewildered disaster found in a poison flower
I was caught between the do you love me do you not plucked by each drop of shudder rain with its water spine broken on a season of memories kept in the flower’s roots
I was caught by the dealer who keeps his nocturnal musical strength decadence and expanding its contemporary to the blind and divine priest that do the biding of a God’s egg buried in his body in his belly
I was caught by the last song to be heard in the inner mind of a baby sparrow dreaming of flight from the blue jay’s fight with spread wings and cocked beaks they are losing their blue to the cloudless sky full belly out in light where sunlight bid you fair well
I was caught by the vision of an ant crowing over the final face of the fallen not yet let loose long enough to be over grown by the middle breathe of sand in the lunle lungs
I was caught by the territorial day hung and drown in the hour of it weakest need when the machismo minuets swung open the seconds again and again
A COMPREHENSIVE LIST OF WHAT THE EARTH OWES ME FOR MY TIME HERE SO FAR
Warmth. A fire that reaches the heart first,
then consumes the flesh
from the inside.
Undivided liberties. Not freedoms.
But liberties. There is nothing worse
than death in freedom.
Fearlessness. Or, at the very least,
undying thirst. At the very least
a heart larger than my fist
that the heart may always win.
Love. Yes, even love.
Not out of my need. But,
because it needed me, the way
bodies need touch to stay alive.
A place to die in. One with clean corners.
One with even walls: a bed that I will take
but once in perfect slumber.
Everything I once believed in, living on without me,
like all the trees that have lived through winter
after winter after winter after winter
without their leaves, without their beautiful, beautiful leaves..
then consumes the flesh
from the inside.
Undivided liberties. Not freedoms.
But liberties. There is nothing worse
than death in freedom.
Fearlessness. Or, at the very least,
undying thirst. At the very least
a heart larger than my fist
that the heart may always win.
Love. Yes, even love.
Not out of my need. But,
because it needed me, the way
bodies need touch to stay alive.
A place to die in. One with clean corners.
One with even walls: a bed that I will take
but once in perfect slumber.
Everything I once believed in, living on without me,
like all the trees that have lived through winter
after winter after winter after winter
without their leaves, without their beautiful, beautiful leaves..
Dire More Dire
when the spellbound poem includes me, I get roasted. the spellbound poem streaks sadly, cowering under the spell of that lurking boom of dawn that had the hospital enthralled last week. then who is in charge of dumpsters, including the internment of all particulars of rubbish? because there was noise upon that dawn, along with worries. okay, worries are part of spellbound. Fu Manchu enters the foggy wilds of London. he passes thru walls and disappears as needed. this is not a vacation but you might splutter when the evil inscribes itself in your reading matter. war time propulsion, game reentry into debate, truculent dodging. well indeed, we are tired of the act in which George marries welfare to stretches of august land that covers oil wells. we can blame ourselves, and the satellites too. then a struggle much like a gift. razor sharp wit of... not Sir Denis, that's for sure. no, Fu Manchu is the clever one, Bush is the honed one. two rocks, scraped against the sides of his head, greased with oil from the aforementioned stretches of land, pointless debate in the name of some function that has been enclosed unreasonably: that kind of honed. ridiculousness is cunning.
A Brief/Pointless Interview with a Philosopher
He said "You like to talk
about miserable things."
I said "One part misery,
one part sugar, mixed
together-
tastes bitter."
Not everything
tastes like chicken!
about miserable things."
I said "One part misery,
one part sugar, mixed
together-
tastes bitter."
Not everything
tastes like chicken!
Like a Saint
I'll sit here for hours, the effort
of conjuring the dead or the words
to describe belonging or
how this relates to loss-
is an act of endurance.
I know, from experience what
it feels like to have your head
held forcibly under water,
to understand commitment,
strength of the arms
that force you there,
the inevitable stillness
of muscles gasping for air,
how clear and spacious
vision becomes when you cease
to resist, to exist; the silence
split-open and weightless.
Belonging: to be part of
a moment that borrows
its meaning from touch,
from care, even, from rage
of another living being-
and loss? Could it be
leaving down long, white
stairs, forgetting, forgiving,
believing?
of conjuring the dead or the words
to describe belonging or
how this relates to loss-
is an act of endurance.
I know, from experience what
it feels like to have your head
held forcibly under water,
to understand commitment,
strength of the arms
that force you there,
the inevitable stillness
of muscles gasping for air,
how clear and spacious
vision becomes when you cease
to resist, to exist; the silence
split-open and weightless.
Belonging: to be part of
a moment that borrows
its meaning from touch,
from care, even, from rage
of another living being-
and loss? Could it be
leaving down long, white
stairs, forgetting, forgiving,
believing?
The Rewards of Diligent Poppycock
quiet! Fu Manchu and George Bush are talking. the moon sags. we're about to be wet. Fu Manchu, he's fiction, he's insidious precision, he's in command of one part of one brain. George Bush, what is his time? and when they are together, what meets? we should be confused right now. definitely, the program enjoys mites and motes. is the edge of the world slipping into a horizon slot, disappearing? it is hard to tell from this vantage, outside our minds. should we consider this evil as a vacation? we better hurry toward protection, protracting our energy levels into a light, whipped up presence. this present resides, with fierce muddling Bush at the helm of together, and Fu Manchu whispering. a synergy of narrative plot lines gropes towards the new novel. future deeds plop before us, and we'll tackle the situation of discovery. which one is more meaningful? does the fiction remain unattained? okay, let us quiet the questions. the situation deserves murk, because we have asked. a clutch of bedfellows thrive in the muck. they will die in a land without air. their progeny will escape into a dotty future. we'll need circumspection up the wazoo to deal with it all. regard the checklist, see if we're ready.
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