scooters, vacation, fall
nothing is enclosed, nothing has been spent, nothing has gone missing, nothing will kill you, in a nothing trance, blank crossed out, canadian nothingness, kitty-corner from nothingness, gol, scannerless, the coming of nothing, the passing of nothing, murcott, hanging around downtown, cgmb, all the education in the world won't help you now, deep orange brick, hardman the contending elements, bcyb, frankly nothing, remove the edge, fold crease and tear drop, kiss & drop, bp laydown area, along the dotted line teardrops, nothing remains but the barcode, someone slipped this 68 into my pocket, the message is the gift, close enuf for the bank, glamor, environment and heredity combined, here's my new number, other ways to contact, embrace confinement, do you want me to engrave this, cloccb, did i invent this word?, this is here this is what we are doing, this is the loop we are trapped in, snails scribble, concrete skylight, elaborate hat, in hoc signo vinces, tystnaden, focussed the trance, hopefully energy could, non-quantifiable film, affliction drama, randomly clustered golden cecropsis, mutton grass, gambel's oak, eighteenth century that historians, teen-dyers, caterpillar heads erupting, tiny concrete cubes, karmapa, canadians are everywhere in hollywood, penny bridge, a cocaine ingesting device, garimpeiros, chartreuse de mergetroid, hand-crank operated computers,
Further Proof that Poems Exist
Poets call for improved marveling. Too many words left unregistered. More lilting could do trick.
Exotic dancers cite location as imperative. Their sitting replaces words. Words aren't properly situated. Time now to react.
Later agitation occurs with revelation of loss. Nobody meant to mean nothing, it just happened. A poem harnessed for years becomes unglued.
What are we to make of making? asks poet, some sort of dullard, or expert in raining.
Trees instead of vacation, asserts the remedy. Unhand the glossary, step back from function.
Tremendous tides in the sea place risk on shorelines. Ravenous sharks eat openly. Swimmers divagate in the morning, digest in the afternoon. A poem in this oracular jungle cannot stay trained.
Literally pulled back, as if track of each word would dedicate too much. Some explanation was “necessary”, yet diligence could not hold on. Shark swallowed something, performed no evaluation.
The poet has gauze for eyes, observed a textual champion. Inside observation replaces outer reception. Programming language paces a display “in the future”. The future cancels poem's beginning.
Shark futures distribute food in randomly excited parcels. Poets like their chances just staying afloat. Poems, meanwhile, remain mindless.
Exotic dancers cite location as imperative. Their sitting replaces words. Words aren't properly situated. Time now to react.
Later agitation occurs with revelation of loss. Nobody meant to mean nothing, it just happened. A poem harnessed for years becomes unglued.
What are we to make of making? asks poet, some sort of dullard, or expert in raining.
Trees instead of vacation, asserts the remedy. Unhand the glossary, step back from function.
Tremendous tides in the sea place risk on shorelines. Ravenous sharks eat openly. Swimmers divagate in the morning, digest in the afternoon. A poem in this oracular jungle cannot stay trained.
Literally pulled back, as if track of each word would dedicate too much. Some explanation was “necessary”, yet diligence could not hold on. Shark swallowed something, performed no evaluation.
The poet has gauze for eyes, observed a textual champion. Inside observation replaces outer reception. Programming language paces a display “in the future”. The future cancels poem's beginning.
Shark futures distribute food in randomly excited parcels. Poets like their chances just staying afloat. Poems, meanwhile, remain mindless.
Furive Categories
The poem, listed on the Registry of Poems as “Poem”, grew nothing, stayed there.
Alien mixtures of hydrocarbons, dimity and sand. Piles of wordplay scored from prehistoric rocking. Stood upon the heads of greatness and crushed. Trapped in a topic sentence with stellar warmth diminishing.
An appetite for growing old.
Tunneling lingual sport.
Search fragment tower feud.
Opulence is belief.
The firm of wearing out, associated within stressed nature of even the least module of meaning, tells of its stymie day.
Welladay, and what a night.
Further implications stun with acquiescence to impractical means. Shortage of really want to be there. Too much of this clever depredation of instinct. Candle held to egg, egg is empty.
Thoroughly modern featurette reveals these half truths, that almonds were created sequel.
Buoyancy retards fragrance. Shark bites halfassed surfer, literally halfassed. To be fully assed in these days demands lack of shark mouth entry.
The poem, meanwhile, struggles in its cage.
The gosh of snow season, when we turn to something, seems so.
Which poem is the last, when you start choosing? Reader, make a list now.
Alien mixtures of hydrocarbons, dimity and sand. Piles of wordplay scored from prehistoric rocking. Stood upon the heads of greatness and crushed. Trapped in a topic sentence with stellar warmth diminishing.
An appetite for growing old.
Tunneling lingual sport.
Search fragment tower feud.
Opulence is belief.
The firm of wearing out, associated within stressed nature of even the least module of meaning, tells of its stymie day.
Welladay, and what a night.
Further implications stun with acquiescence to impractical means. Shortage of really want to be there. Too much of this clever depredation of instinct. Candle held to egg, egg is empty.
Thoroughly modern featurette reveals these half truths, that almonds were created sequel.
Buoyancy retards fragrance. Shark bites halfassed surfer, literally halfassed. To be fully assed in these days demands lack of shark mouth entry.
The poem, meanwhile, struggles in its cage.
The gosh of snow season, when we turn to something, seems so.
Which poem is the last, when you start choosing? Reader, make a list now.
My lifetime
The entering of something so much like a child
I can remember viewing an act of something
So much larger than these woods,
This wild, this form of myself.
These woods, this wild,
from that I could feel the presence
A peace and a brotherhood wild, acting
From an entire lifetime
I lived the presence of something
So much larger than what mirrored
And reflected in the universe inside myself
My lifetime. I lived with being undeniably a part of.
I can remember viewing an act of something
So much larger than these woods,
This wild, this form of myself.
These woods, this wild,
from that I could feel the presence
A peace and a brotherhood wild, acting
From an entire lifetime
I lived the presence of something
So much larger than what mirrored
And reflected in the universe inside myself
My lifetime. I lived with being undeniably a part of.
AUTOMATIC SHRINK WRAP MACHINE
1.
My hands have accommodated themselves to the rote
shift of levers, the tranquilizing muzak, the persistent
tap of mute digits, the insistent flow
chart blip blip blip blip blip blip………………
It’s difficult to avoid the gradual merger
with death. The almost imperceptible graying
of the blood until the face dims into an anonymous
grisaille. The hands might as well be monster binder clips
as I collate more blips into preordained sequences. Click by gradated click,
the breathing becomes cog-like. Automatic time punch machine,
controlled by another lever. Voice box clogged with fiber fill.
Eyes laminated in the latest corporate veneer. Paper water cone
dispensers used to leer; now they just blend into the subtle drone
of fluorescent track lights. Bathroom liquid soap dispensers used to look like
robotic cow udders. Hundreds of gray hands
use levers to leave neat imprints
inside the proper lines. Red tooth mark
of numerals. Tiny digits. Tiny dreams deflating like
promotional balloons from some outdated marketing campaign.
Speech bubbles filled with clichés. ‘Go get ‘em, tiger!’
screams a psychotic cat lady, beaming, about to go out in a blaze
of misfiring staple guns, crumbling cubicle walls, confetti
of wan yellow self-adhesive notes, exploding toner cartridge, push pins through the eyes…
2.
My hands let wet toner ink drip all over file folders.
My hands might as well be staple removers with sexy metal fangs.
I blow up the balloons again—bloody crullers,
misshapen phalli, bulbous sausage links about to burst
apart. My daydreams grow increasingly bizarre.
The automatic soap dispenser was a disconnected appendage,
then it was an entire tiny, shiny animal simply chewing its cud,
and now it is cussing up a storm, blowing bubbles, and electrocuting
the upper management team. One of the boob-shaped balloons
asks me if I’d like a raise and I decline. Instead I extend myself,
limb by limb into the automatic shrink wrap machine, giggling
as vivid blood oozes between my teeth and splatters randomly.
The conveyer belt screeches off, jammed with pieces of my hand,
and then starts back up, chugging and spewing my gory chunks
all over mail chutes, in-boxes, box lunches, and Inspirational Posters
like the ubiquitous kitten clinging tenaciously to a branch. Guess what, pussy?
Mucus can be tenacious, too, and that’s called a disorder. Not an inspiration.
Now quit your sniffling and shove your damned hand down the garbage disposal.
It’s better to be mangled than to be numb.
My hands have accommodated themselves to the rote
shift of levers, the tranquilizing muzak, the persistent
tap of mute digits, the insistent flow
chart blip blip blip blip blip blip………………
It’s difficult to avoid the gradual merger
with death. The almost imperceptible graying
of the blood until the face dims into an anonymous
grisaille. The hands might as well be monster binder clips
as I collate more blips into preordained sequences. Click by gradated click,
the breathing becomes cog-like. Automatic time punch machine,
controlled by another lever. Voice box clogged with fiber fill.
Eyes laminated in the latest corporate veneer. Paper water cone
dispensers used to leer; now they just blend into the subtle drone
of fluorescent track lights. Bathroom liquid soap dispensers used to look like
robotic cow udders. Hundreds of gray hands
use levers to leave neat imprints
inside the proper lines. Red tooth mark
of numerals. Tiny digits. Tiny dreams deflating like
promotional balloons from some outdated marketing campaign.
Speech bubbles filled with clichés. ‘Go get ‘em, tiger!’
screams a psychotic cat lady, beaming, about to go out in a blaze
of misfiring staple guns, crumbling cubicle walls, confetti
of wan yellow self-adhesive notes, exploding toner cartridge, push pins through the eyes…
2.
My hands let wet toner ink drip all over file folders.
My hands might as well be staple removers with sexy metal fangs.
I blow up the balloons again—bloody crullers,
misshapen phalli, bulbous sausage links about to burst
apart. My daydreams grow increasingly bizarre.
The automatic soap dispenser was a disconnected appendage,
then it was an entire tiny, shiny animal simply chewing its cud,
and now it is cussing up a storm, blowing bubbles, and electrocuting
the upper management team. One of the boob-shaped balloons
asks me if I’d like a raise and I decline. Instead I extend myself,
limb by limb into the automatic shrink wrap machine, giggling
as vivid blood oozes between my teeth and splatters randomly.
The conveyer belt screeches off, jammed with pieces of my hand,
and then starts back up, chugging and spewing my gory chunks
all over mail chutes, in-boxes, box lunches, and Inspirational Posters
like the ubiquitous kitten clinging tenaciously to a branch. Guess what, pussy?
Mucus can be tenacious, too, and that’s called a disorder. Not an inspiration.
Now quit your sniffling and shove your damned hand down the garbage disposal.
It’s better to be mangled than to be numb.
Johnny Marx, your Theophany is waiting
Johnny Marx your mother’s calling and the sky is thin and your vowels have defeated you even at the point of articulation. Johnny Marx come come because you’re God again — third time this week — and everyone’s asking what your name really is. If you answer, if you tell, if you so much as think you really know, well there goes the Theophany everybody bought tickets for. Now how do you like that? Do you really think it’s a good idea to disappoint all these decent people?
Spiritual Burn
We were drinking sin. We were smoking redemption. There was no cloud cover. She swept into view behind a flame.
“What do you need?” I asked.
She blinked and rattled in tongues. Her short cropped hair threatened to tickle my vision.
“What do you need?” I repeated with another gulp of sin.
“I thought I heard orgasmic things,” she replied.
We were drinking sin. We were smoking redemption. There was no cloud cover. She swept into view behind a flame.
“What do you need?” I asked.
She blinked and rattled in tongues. Her short cropped hair threatened to tickle my vision.
“What do you need?” I repeated with another gulp of sin.
“I thought I heard orgasmic things,” she replied.
Micah P Hinson
I heard a song
in the key of G
that broke out
a hunger
gnawing deep
within me.
I heard the song
of a resolute man
in faded jeans
and baseball cap,
pale guitar in his hand.
His fingers
skittered
like stones
across seas,
guitar strings set on fire,
his voice,
electricity
through a
rusty wire.
I heard a song
in the key of G,
it woke up
God and the Devil,
singing in me.
in the key of G
that broke out
a hunger
gnawing deep
within me.
I heard the song
of a resolute man
in faded jeans
and baseball cap,
pale guitar in his hand.
His fingers
skittered
like stones
across seas,
guitar strings set on fire,
his voice,
electricity
through a
rusty wire.
I heard a song
in the key of G,
it woke up
God and the Devil,
singing in me.
Grey Lions
Look, on the southern horizon
the terrible grey lions with shining white manes
rise and spread their claws. Soon they’ll fall
on the hapless city, with whips of hail
and shake the buildings with their roaring
then grumble off to northward
with shreds of umbrella fabric
stuck between their teeth.
the terrible grey lions with shining white manes
rise and spread their claws. Soon they’ll fall
on the hapless city, with whips of hail
and shake the buildings with their roaring
then grumble off to northward
with shreds of umbrella fabric
stuck between their teeth.
Fishcakes and Vinegar
Albert Scrim awoke with cumin and allspice on the scup of his tongue. He had eaten fishcakes the night before with an onion and garlic aspic. His father had insisted on braised mutton testicles stewed in Port and vinegar, but his mother refused to de-vein the testicles or serve Port with sheep. That afternoon Albert found a small plastic moustache in a box of Cracker Jacks, having prayed for a plastic whistle or a pocket-comb. The moustache pinched the fig of skin between his nose-holes, making him look like a circus clown with watery eyes. He was trying to reread Dante’s Inferno for the second time, but the words ran one into the other like crows feet. His father read Popular Mechanics and Reader’s Digest and waxed his moustache with skillet lard, twirling the ends into pikes. Albert’s father snuck a tureen of sheep’s testicles into the tool shed, opened his copy of Popular Mechanics, and relished in the fatty acrid taste of Port and mutton.
cheppled in deep runny pug-a-sys, love louvres threxish
cheppled to purgorack, the punge gibbets
the hye, "xerofarthingale for oxen futher gallowing"
tribes lisp
letters hissed
pissed ledgers zoofup
the ponty tourigiblings
exampling plongentlemange
under murkier irks an stains
head waters interrupted
by a lightning meat labyrinth
word wood chewing lissome lithivowelvules
pollit with twit and hexibells
now in kleenex
a mind
standard marquis
tiny columnar brain
makes a cigarrest
po-lice livid
in the red like districts
lawless unemclumbering massphodelphi
filter pore size = "blue"
solvents tide out the chirt and collar bushes
my old girly in her saucers and weevil gear
torching the battered bolts again
with thrixen
voss
and cane
shoulders ala bastard white
some freckles in the flag
massive electric
vertical structure of wavering wire
pixel is gong
1000 feet terrible drool eat
scribble doodle
humanoid water dummies strapped to
giant poodles get recorded in lebanoun
cedar
here
there
chi moves around the barbary pole
posinegus peganoose nausipugilust pogilist
pegative nositive
p/n
electron lens
sorta happy bait shop
gives worms warm homes before
workaday sacrifice
fir for rest cold uncanny
some unidentified machine
along unkempt trail
bodies get scared
lonely
jealous or nervous
cancel the party tonight
regulus say
all earth fibber
we lucky sun root creatures
friends in the well bottomed mud
blue paddled song-mates
crunch the orange pistilmane
wolf's head dynamo mo mom momen omen tarry
this leer gwurden harbor not mot vindle
priglet to a shine blot
levers the tindle bit
cheppling the kraalovars
the hye, "xerofarthingale for oxen futher gallowing"
tribes lisp
letters hissed
pissed ledgers zoofup
the ponty tourigiblings
exampling plongentlemange
under murkier irks an stains
head waters interrupted
by a lightning meat labyrinth
word wood chewing lissome lithivowelvules
pollit with twit and hexibells
now in kleenex
a mind
standard marquis
tiny columnar brain
makes a cigarrest
po-lice livid
in the red like districts
lawless unemclumbering massphodelphi
filter pore size = "blue"
solvents tide out the chirt and collar bushes
my old girly in her saucers and weevil gear
torching the battered bolts again
with thrixen
voss
and cane
shoulders ala bastard white
some freckles in the flag
massive electric
vertical structure of wavering wire
pixel is gong
1000 feet terrible drool eat
scribble doodle
humanoid water dummies strapped to
giant poodles get recorded in lebanoun
cedar
here
there
chi moves around the barbary pole
posinegus peganoose nausipugilust pogilist
pegative nositive
p/n
electron lens
sorta happy bait shop
gives worms warm homes before
workaday sacrifice
fir for rest cold uncanny
some unidentified machine
along unkempt trail
bodies get scared
lonely
jealous or nervous
cancel the party tonight
regulus say
all earth fibber
we lucky sun root creatures
friends in the well bottomed mud
blue paddled song-mates
crunch the orange pistilmane
wolf's head dynamo mo mom momen omen tarry
this leer gwurden harbor not mot vindle
priglet to a shine blot
levers the tindle bit
cheppling the kraalovars
Bear Wolf Raven
Able and fatigued
sour mint Curie
ate bizarre volume
ode savior tied
fit sun hurt
commie ode Jacquelin
flippant inducement, flippant
à la porch
ode ma chamber
cell soul and
rain ode plus
Thwart! we in
thud-canning rhyme
grapefruit the ravelings
Allen freedom Oft
Scald Surfing scenario
rectum moneybag set
often Episode earl
rest wear fee
seafront funder the
MC's pageboy Wessex
under Wolcott him
symbol-bedsitter gofer
horn-ride Tehran scolder
combat Roldan was
good caning! Doubling
Landis we die
la fête somnolent
picaresque: strafer was
after gong in
eardrum one god
sender force-fearful
congeal hie thee
dragon ardor-lease
flange wile Him-free
undress wean One
foils par Minuit
lugubrious,
Landis we die Protestantisms
sour mint Curie
ate bizarre volume
ode savior tied
fit sun hurt
commie ode Jacquelin
flippant inducement, flippant
à la porch
ode ma chamber
cell soul and
rain ode plus
Thwart! we in
thud-canning rhyme
grapefruit the ravelings
Allen freedom Oft
Scald Surfing scenario
rectum moneybag set
often Episode earl
rest wear fee
seafront funder the
MC's pageboy Wessex
under Wolcott him
symbol-bedsitter gofer
horn-ride Tehran scolder
combat Roldan was
good caning! Doubling
Landis we die
la fête somnolent
picaresque: strafer was
after gong in
eardrum one god
sender force-fearful
congeal hie thee
dragon ardor-lease
flange wile Him-free
undress wean One
foils par Minuit
lugubrious,
Landis we die Protestantisms
BLACK TAFFY
Black Taffy unexpectedly swirls in the cups
of a pink foam egg carton. Small pearlescent basins
stained. Her sticky fingertips stretch it out.
She pops sugar skulls like they’re breath mints.
Her piebald cat laps up mercury spills.
It looks like an albino until
the black core is revealed. A bullseye. Glistening beads
on the pussy’s tongue. An oily seep beneath yellow wallpaper
in her boudoir perfumed with licorice. Silver goblet
of shiraz. Ramekin of white cake with a melanoid heart.
The deviative grimalkin looks askance at the cream.
Vamooses, then vanishes while slinking around
the miscreated spiral staircase. Suddenly plunges
into Black Taffy. Purling, puling, purring.
Somewhere underneath warping floorboards, the clink
as another thermometer shatters upon contact
with the claw-dragged strings of Black Taffy.
She peers into the chasm, emits an exploratory miaou,
inserts a finger into the abysmal gloppiness
and shimmies it around. Something hisses. Something heaves up
a Black Taffy blob, creeping towards her wrist…
of a pink foam egg carton. Small pearlescent basins
stained. Her sticky fingertips stretch it out.
She pops sugar skulls like they’re breath mints.
Her piebald cat laps up mercury spills.
It looks like an albino until
the black core is revealed. A bullseye. Glistening beads
on the pussy’s tongue. An oily seep beneath yellow wallpaper
in her boudoir perfumed with licorice. Silver goblet
of shiraz. Ramekin of white cake with a melanoid heart.
The deviative grimalkin looks askance at the cream.
Vamooses, then vanishes while slinking around
the miscreated spiral staircase. Suddenly plunges
into Black Taffy. Purling, puling, purring.
Somewhere underneath warping floorboards, the clink
as another thermometer shatters upon contact
with the claw-dragged strings of Black Taffy.
She peers into the chasm, emits an exploratory miaou,
inserts a finger into the abysmal gloppiness
and shimmies it around. Something hisses. Something heaves up
a Black Taffy blob, creeping towards her wrist…
Nervous Mass Finds the Odd Films
it wasn't any willful wash
but it did seem swollen
as i licked the flair died down
over hong kong bay
in hamlet's FIE
all the worldliness of tiny disasters
stepping in like saturn
to the goldmine
the cherub mine
as if in some quag of clocks
and coals and cold cinders mudding
bright yellow babies sighed out
from under the double chins
of dead lame royalty
foreskins are happy hiding
under bright colors
clitoris as little red riding hood
a bird far off
away from the kingship and qeenbarge
of our quotidian genitales
IS LANDS
OZ LANDS
the hovering capochinga
where the turbans of milk
slosh with frail six-fingered monkeys
coccooned in sugar coral
dabloons of opium smouldering
in their I sockets
the screwdriver crew
is wed
we wed
on on a dusky road
chattering excitedly
into an alarmed mass of joints
scalps and dithering pronouncements
this corn
we tossed
to well-packed earth
now pecked up and gone
little machine birds we favor
little birds we machine
little seeds we take black into
our openings
sub tusks
turn and curl away from the light
rolling
pillar helix tuskrows
combine
chaff of eunoia
paratactic to
the fine gratings
of terrible rhythms
beat out by single human lives
against the leather pandora sump house
"what i didn't get"
or into that humorless vortext
naked except for a big pink rubber band
this hand flames
these gills flash diamond spider chassis
assembling into sensetenses
subsad
the carapace where i cling
dumb in the rampart gushing ivory scowl of years
head wrinkled over in grey heavy clover
lead elephant ear tuxedo cross sewn into my irony orifice
the knotted cross of antechrist
as in
sweet old ladies selling dirt cookies
heads like dry thistles under spittled wool
rubber stomach house where they laid me
swaddling in a mulch of dictionaries and coffee grounds
sloth with halo
puckers his pink throbbing asshole
and produces a green pearl
hold it up to the light
to see the little tadpole foetus plants
polyp horns walking the tango cake turnpike upside
drown
all these chaoral apostomies
impugning the touch of serious saints
we all in flesh
absord the surd
blordlings bladderi
with fever trinkets
glossopell
mello to the skin trading sacrifice machine
the bombed out or
lenient victim
we somehow floated up
into a hollow whale
lay silent in the stone hair pews
listening to the singing
the dull black car
now a mush of wasted groceries
light is alien
and is an eye and centipede
exploding in the mouth
i sneak a kiss
to "mother"
the fire weeping
from purple anemone
how can the tongue
tell a respect
when the world's rude
mouth is ever gobbling
i will try to help
but all i am is soggy bread
left by an open window
as if these two accidental eyes
were the weeping fang holes
in cleopatra's breast
of marquetry
but it did seem swollen
as i licked the flair died down
over hong kong bay
in hamlet's FIE
all the worldliness of tiny disasters
stepping in like saturn
to the goldmine
the cherub mine
as if in some quag of clocks
and coals and cold cinders mudding
bright yellow babies sighed out
from under the double chins
of dead lame royalty
foreskins are happy hiding
under bright colors
clitoris as little red riding hood
a bird far off
away from the kingship and qeenbarge
of our quotidian genitales
IS LANDS
OZ LANDS
the hovering capochinga
where the turbans of milk
slosh with frail six-fingered monkeys
coccooned in sugar coral
dabloons of opium smouldering
in their I sockets
the screwdriver crew
is wed
we wed
on on a dusky road
chattering excitedly
into an alarmed mass of joints
scalps and dithering pronouncements
this corn
we tossed
to well-packed earth
now pecked up and gone
little machine birds we favor
little birds we machine
little seeds we take black into
our openings
sub tusks
turn and curl away from the light
rolling
pillar helix tuskrows
combine
chaff of eunoia
paratactic to
the fine gratings
of terrible rhythms
beat out by single human lives
against the leather pandora sump house
"what i didn't get"
or into that humorless vortext
naked except for a big pink rubber band
this hand flames
these gills flash diamond spider chassis
assembling into sensetenses
subsad
the carapace where i cling
dumb in the rampart gushing ivory scowl of years
head wrinkled over in grey heavy clover
lead elephant ear tuxedo cross sewn into my irony orifice
the knotted cross of antechrist
as in
sweet old ladies selling dirt cookies
heads like dry thistles under spittled wool
rubber stomach house where they laid me
swaddling in a mulch of dictionaries and coffee grounds
sloth with halo
puckers his pink throbbing asshole
and produces a green pearl
hold it up to the light
to see the little tadpole foetus plants
polyp horns walking the tango cake turnpike upside
drown
all these chaoral apostomies
impugning the touch of serious saints
we all in flesh
absord the surd
blordlings bladderi
with fever trinkets
glossopell
mello to the skin trading sacrifice machine
the bombed out or
lenient victim
we somehow floated up
into a hollow whale
lay silent in the stone hair pews
listening to the singing
the dull black car
now a mush of wasted groceries
light is alien
and is an eye and centipede
exploding in the mouth
i sneak a kiss
to "mother"
the fire weeping
from purple anemone
how can the tongue
tell a respect
when the world's rude
mouth is ever gobbling
i will try to help
but all i am is soggy bread
left by an open window
as if these two accidental eyes
were the weeping fang holes
in cleopatra's breast
of marquetry
there are only two bookstores in Naples, Florida
Books-A-Million has no poetry.
Books-A-Million is no poetry.
Books-A-Million oppresses the worker with dark ash walls and dead-eyed clerks,
and shelves and shelves and shelves,
but no Wallace Stevens.
In Stitches
the hum click slower and faster
of the sewing machine, the needle a big fish
feeding from the bottom
of my mother’s hand, the tiny light
like a glass eye hovering over her
fingers
my mother unfolds the transparent
human-colored paper, slides off my shirt
so she can wrap the paper around me
mark space with a pencil
I hold my breath
the hair on my arms
rising
her hands on me
the woman who tucks herself smaller
than the hidden kittens
invisible when I call
my skin as sensitive as the gap
of a missing tooth
if I move my eyes or sigh
she’ll remember I‘m here
Eclipse
A telephone with mighty wings flew into the President's head. No one was injured. Why? Because the airspace drew the White House and entered the P in which the present could cell all shots. It was trial and error and stuff manse of legends. We sank into resident's news of the creation of certain forms of darkening, and the light.
A mighty tone of telephone entered the world gloom at the idea. Assimilating this was an idea.
We wrote what we knew, on the outskirts of this funny escapade. We never dreamed that widget such as the President's brain could go awry. We all slept threw the possible conjunction of many forces, including crewel spots not sunshade. And then we rose in the morning, the rose as dead.
A mighty tone of telephone entered the world gloom at the idea. Assimilating this was an idea.
We wrote what we knew, on the outskirts of this funny escapade. We never dreamed that widget such as the President's brain could go awry. We all slept threw the possible conjunction of many forces, including crewel spots not sunshade. And then we rose in the morning, the rose as dead.
Progenitive of Sauce and, Devisor of Third Eye Jellyfish
to a perfect winter
aphrodite clothed
in the threadless air
to a coming spring
yellow is the tragic hennepin
the broken kettle of cagamite
hatcheted under embonpoint
too loose
and then
too tight
as master shoeki taught
many are the products
born of delusion resulting
from an unbalanced emphasis
on purity
cag97
shoe58ki
a mitey gog a mighty
hatchet
hatchet
knocked the poor maid down
with their
hatchets
and gave her many wounds
the maker wears his own
garrrhgh meant
needlehid to woofling
[symposium]
paradoxes are always dangerous things
"in the name of"
...
let the mirror letter
litter the mirror with lees
letting bloodless
the bloody ages' imitation
let's remember the future
as it was
a belief in contamination's
light and unwavering
wave
caput
the experience of aporia
"vs."
aporia as experience
| IDEA |
"to request something checkered like the skin of a lizard"
the certain something
which reconciles pleasure
and virtue
or with whatever human remains
bacchus rushing in
with a truncheon in one hand
and a boll of whine
in the otter
globetrotter bottle
and the oracle within
la bonne dame penie
for thisgood (sod of hunger)
was
created earless, rigoureux
for "ronduration"
aphrodite clothed
in the threadless air
to a coming spring
yellow is the tragic hennepin
the broken kettle of cagamite
hatcheted under embonpoint
too loose
and then
too tight
as master shoeki taught
many are the products
born of delusion resulting
from an unbalanced emphasis
on purity
cag97
shoe58ki
a mitey gog a mighty
hatchet
hatchet
knocked the poor maid down
with their
hatchets
and gave her many wounds
the maker wears his own
garrrhgh meant
needlehid to woofling
[symposium]
paradoxes are always dangerous things
"in the name of"
...
let the mirror letter
litter the mirror with lees
letting bloodless
the bloody ages' imitation
let's remember the future
as it was
a belief in contamination's
light and unwavering
wave
caput
the experience of aporia
"vs."
aporia as experience
| IDEA |
"to request something checkered like the skin of a lizard"
the certain something
which reconciles pleasure
and virtue
or with whatever human remains
bacchus rushing in
with a truncheon in one hand
and a boll of whine
in the otter
globetrotter bottle
and the oracle within
la bonne dame penie
for thisgood (sod of hunger)
was
created earless, rigoureux
for "ronduration"
Fruit Bowl
A painter fell in love with a bowl of fruit. They enjoyed each other so fully that they hardly ate or slept for two months and a half. One morning the painter received the visit of an important person, who bought all his paintings and had them exhibited in a famous museum. The bowl of fruit was on the cover of an art magazine owned by the same person. The painter and the bowl of fruit bought a castle in Spain. They became farmers, read books, and helped needy people.
where
"it was a hotel room. Long and narrow, unnaturally long maybe." p.6
where it is time to stop dancing now and to resort to some sort of patient pacing. They had danced now for what had seemed an unending length of time, a length of multiple points multiplying ceaselessly. Trying to rethink this length, he notices they have often spoken less, literally. She of awaiting less, he of less again in ceaseless. He remembers the recurring un- of unheard unseen that is unknown. He thinks he remembers all this, recalls all this, recurrs some of these. In the room now he rests a few instants. Not rest really, just not dancing on his feet, just trying to unsee all he says in his head. He thinks of walks on the moors. He is unsure as to whether he ever walked them. That is the problem with hearing words he has seen on pages. He is sure he recalls the Soldier and Friend and the cider at Torre and Cynthia the pig. Not a pig of course but a sow but people don't make the difference anymore. She has spoken so that he has heard her read her and seen her on the page. She is no less real for existing on the page, nor more virtual. It all lies in the actual, in the actualisation of her. Sitting immobile he tires faster than if dancing. He wonders if she's going to sit down awhile too, or will she say 'come' again so that he be there again. He wants to dance again now. It is as if everything had speeded up since he sat down, he wants it all to slow down again, in the again slow dance of he and her. Of these two third persons becoming one. He keeps asking questions but would rather propose literal problems. That they may overlap again in their overlapping steps overlapping each other towards the one beyond, the step beyond overlapping the next. In the must again of process,
where it is time to stop dancing now and to resort to some sort of patient pacing. They had danced now for what had seemed an unending length of time, a length of multiple points multiplying ceaselessly. Trying to rethink this length, he notices they have often spoken less, literally. She of awaiting less, he of less again in ceaseless. He remembers the recurring un- of unheard unseen that is unknown. He thinks he remembers all this, recalls all this, recurrs some of these. In the room now he rests a few instants. Not rest really, just not dancing on his feet, just trying to unsee all he says in his head. He thinks of walks on the moors. He is unsure as to whether he ever walked them. That is the problem with hearing words he has seen on pages. He is sure he recalls the Soldier and Friend and the cider at Torre and Cynthia the pig. Not a pig of course but a sow but people don't make the difference anymore. She has spoken so that he has heard her read her and seen her on the page. She is no less real for existing on the page, nor more virtual. It all lies in the actual, in the actualisation of her. Sitting immobile he tires faster than if dancing. He wonders if she's going to sit down awhile too, or will she say 'come' again so that he be there again. He wants to dance again now. It is as if everything had speeded up since he sat down, he wants it all to slow down again, in the again slow dance of he and her. Of these two third persons becoming one. He keeps asking questions but would rather propose literal problems. That they may overlap again in their overlapping steps overlapping each other towards the one beyond, the step beyond overlapping the next. In the must again of process,
awaiting where
"In this extreme point of awaiting where[...] in the maybe last, maybe infinite moment: man still amongst us." p.5
to him, I say…
she is here...
so come, she says, come
dance with me, here,
in the lublivion of literal problems
in the overlapping steps
of a dainty lightlessness
to stop asking in the waiting
awaking the waking awaiting
of a dance of thinking 'une danse
de la pensée' walking the moors
drunk on the pure running water
of the Exe and Dart in the West
and not of hemlock from a man in Porlock
where___
to him, I say…
she is here...
so come, she says, come
dance with me, here,
in the lublivion of literal problems
in the overlapping steps
of a dainty lightlessness
to stop asking in the waiting
awaking the waking awaiting
of a dance of thinking 'une danse
de la pensée' walking the moors
drunk on the pure running water
of the Exe and Dart in the West
and not of hemlock from a man in Porlock
where___
poem
Fraoshkart crystal laptop
forlorn as ghost akin tamarind
crystal story accrual from myriad
ask you magnolia
clockwork slag
basilisk spool atop coil
forlorn as ghost akin tamarind
crystal story accrual from myriad
ask you magnolia
clockwork slag
basilisk spool atop coil
Personal
1. Your brother lives in my neighborhood. 2. You are left-handed. 3. You carry a blue briefcase. 4. Your grandfather collects insects.
ArS PoetIca _ the famous lines by MacLeiSh herE Contrasted wIth LeBEcoming
================================================
_____________________________
I don’t believe art is dangerous, I think there is dangerous audiences one way or another,” Vergne said.
Kara’s work is a look back at an unspeakable past, Vergne said. But you can’t go forward without looking back.
-----------------------------
Ars Poetica
................................
.........................
.......................................
...............................
.......A poem should not mean
But be .......................
......................
Jill come along kick backing her shoe. Looking around her outside inSide for
loverclover:
She say a poem shouldn't just be or bebebebebebebe but
BeCome BeCome BeCome BeCome
DeVeNiR DevEnIr DevEniR
becomingsebbsflowEr
----------------
We agree saith Franny Fanny her cracked buttocks
a pillow a bordello.
_____________________________
epiphany on So Florida highways
drove all day drove away
from glitter gulch
from antique apes
through aligator alley
to spangly miami miami
and sixteen-year-old
sister-in-law thought
the Obba bracelet was best
pink -- like Santa Rita --
watches over the hopeless
talked music on the way back
with her, trance, rock
Santa Rita, we're back in Naples --
whole joint is a wasteland.
from glitter gulch
from antique apes
through aligator alley
to spangly miami miami
and sixteen-year-old
sister-in-law thought
the Obba bracelet was best
pink -- like Santa Rita --
watches over the hopeless
talked music on the way back
with her, trance, rock
Santa Rita, we're back in Naples --
whole joint is a wasteland.
Who Am I?
No need to offer
your condolence,
I am not offended.
When a rodent dies
by charmed display
of yellowed snake-eyes,
it is not offended;
even as the river dries,
it does not curse the heat
that drinks it. Who am I?
Remember how barbed
wire fences kept the horses
in, the lions out? Consider why
the blue-est sky transcends
to mono-chromatic night,
counts its daily blessings.
If man can be a martyr, if
sun can set and rise, if life
so casually destroyed & broken...
then, who am I?
*Is there a less eloquent way
to say kiss my patooty?!!!
your condolence,
I am not offended.
When a rodent dies
by charmed display
of yellowed snake-eyes,
it is not offended;
even as the river dries,
it does not curse the heat
that drinks it. Who am I?
Remember how barbed
wire fences kept the horses
in, the lions out? Consider why
the blue-est sky transcends
to mono-chromatic night,
counts its daily blessings.
If man can be a martyr, if
sun can set and rise, if life
so casually destroyed & broken...
then, who am I?
*Is there a less eloquent way
to say kiss my patooty?!!!
i = knot i = kitbashing pome
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitbashing
tomorrow cannot be
the good arab
the good arab
in the apple tree
is the torn and shabby
rose marie
i kiss your face
and see the color
brain coral teasing
solar razor
mindflay candy
cupola arc
Taddeo Zuccari
meets
American Park
amateur! amorture!
amatory orrery!
arsnlot harnslot
HIRNIA!!
gaspsf
gaps
oopfs!
childish necrofiles this beings
in a jolly jinkle bean stalkning reighn
please good arab
do not lie
cherry head gearge washingtown axe
i cannot
peruke
chalk wigged a giant hand
some cliche' of "motoring"
do i think it
or it me
"itorisme"
the dance of the genitive
some say that all language is
"that"
/possession/
we take it everywhere..
everywares unawares
unabomb-air
una bombast
wambats
bat fish
look mush mouth
poor thing
"existence"
through my words as ha(n)d gestures
see
{simple simeon robot shoe}
tap tap tap
the egalite'
energy girl is
girlses
electra poman and dyna-churl!
Friends, Pomans, Lind mi ur Eer?
or do i sleep eternally in the stuffed blue terricloth manticore doll
coffee slooshing through my yellow drapery nostrils
into the calcite donkey explosion caverns
tomorrow cannot be
the good arab
the good arab
in the apple tree
is the torn and shabby
rose marie
i kiss your face
and see the color
brain coral teasing
solar razor
mindflay candy
cupola arc
Taddeo Zuccari
meets
American Park
amateur! amorture!
amatory orrery!
arsnlot harnslot
HIRNIA!!
gaspsf
gaps
oopfs!
childish necrofiles this beings
in a jolly jinkle bean stalkning reighn
please good arab
do not lie
cherry head gearge washingtown axe
i cannot
peruke
chalk wigged a giant hand
some cliche' of "motoring"
do i think it
or it me
"itorisme"
the dance of the genitive
some say that all language is
"that"
/possession/
we take it everywhere..
everywares unawares
unabomb-air
una bombast
wambats
bat fish
look mush mouth
poor thing
"existence"
through my words as ha(n)d gestures
see
{simple simeon robot shoe}
tap tap tap
the egalite'
energy girl is
girlses
electra poman and dyna-churl!
Friends, Pomans, Lind mi ur Eer?
or do i sleep eternally in the stuffed blue terricloth manticore doll
coffee slooshing through my yellow drapery nostrils
into the calcite donkey explosion caverns
Nayburrs
Dear landlord, I pen this letter without malice of intent. The situation as I write offers the reader an insight to my current plight. As you are well aware the neighbours who inhabit 7606 Broadway have left me no recourse but to file a complaint to the powers that be. I would like to catalog the numerous times the persons in the dwelling below have discomforted my happiness and pleasure but it would take up reams of paper the planet can ill afford the luxury of dispensing with.I will however attempt to confine my story to the recent past, noteworthy this previous month of December 2006. Let me begin with the various sounds that emanate from the apartment , at any given time and quite out of the blue a shrill deafening yell that shudders, piercing the air stirring the senses and creating a tension that disturbs. The voice is almost always the male but not exclusive to him for the female has her share of the performance.The banter is neither kind or congenial and many a foul and crude compilation of derogatory words are exchanged. Often heard is the brouhaha and the clang of doors being slammed the outburst of young childrens screams and the racket of toys, always followed by unexpected uproar of voices, then a short lull inevitably accompanied by the blast of the hi-fi and the reverberating thump thump thump of bass. I could stop here but I just begin. It's the little kids crying in the background after a thunderous tumult from the fathers bile mouth, the boys whimpering threw the rafters, then more ruckus as the folk down there escalate the furor, little do they know or if they did, they seem not to care the leaking of the their lives events onto those who would prefer not to hear. In my estimation the substructure of this building is been compromised as a result of the incessant door slamming. The foundation around the doors, battered as they are have permitted cracks to appear throughout the walls. My own time spent in the apartment accounts for about 20 % of my daily living. As a rule they are quiet after 11.pm due to the fact the children are in bed but there has been a number of times I've had to ask them to lower the noise levels. Yes,the building is old and has degraded through time but fundamentally the law states I am entitled to peace and enjoyment from the place I inhabit. now I ask you as the landlord to facilitate this request after which I will have recourse to the law.
Here
‘It was a kind of struggle that she was pursuing with him, a silent dispute through which she asked him for and gave him justification.’ p5
“she is there... at intervals taut between false and true
where the point is pointed: do I hear what is said?
or recur to him now as at first, when the page,
ceaselessly blank, forms words out of probability
“operating a donation” neither later nor early
to him, I say…
“she is there... at intervals taut between false and true
where the point is pointed: do I hear what is said?
or recur to him now as at first, when the page,
ceaselessly blank, forms words out of probability
“operating a donation” neither later nor early
to him, I say…
Vibraaatory Encantaatoror
e
i
ther
ether the true protoplasm
and make it blu
me
ro oo e bo oos
susala
if you reflect
Lorna Green
then you are
"loved"
if not..
well,
the tight rope
is a trip wire
"hurry miss tuffet"
thus spake
zurau thusel tra-la
castle takes
queen bishop
takes pawn knight
takes all
grid black eye
scree non
scree non
image:
Cheiro encountering a device called
the "register of thought"
a necklace
of keel hauled sailors
luminous with phosphorescent
algae
pyrocryptophyta-ta
moustache is two
overlarge flagella
one real
one
the symbol of poverty
kafkaescargots
i
ther
ether the true protoplasm
and make it blu
me
ro oo e bo oos
susala
if you reflect
Lorna Green
then you are
"loved"
if not..
well,
the tight rope
is a trip wire
"hurry miss tuffet"
thus spake
zurau thusel tra-la
castle takes
queen bishop
takes pawn knight
takes all
grid black eye
scree non
scree non
image:
Cheiro encountering a device called
the "register of thought"
a necklace
of keel hauled sailors
luminous with phosphorescent
algae
pyrocryptophyta-ta
moustache is two
overlarge flagella
one real
one
the symbol of poverty
kafkaescargots
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