'Au lu

Au lu et au tu d'une quelconque absence*********************
L'exposition humaine comme mode de mort-
Forumer serait ainsi combler-
Mais l'espace s'écartera au nom du temps gémissant d'aise)))))))
avec son ombre l'angoisse taquine-
Turquoise* l'aiguille* sa suite*sont devenus l'écran cosmique*
Mirés par d'infinis reflets-
Aux faits...

Transformation

I say it
sweet

to you
all the time

even when the strokes give you
away

I run on your lips
till I can't feel
anything

my man & I
talk about time
how it is true

unified shader <> heads of state

__________da D dong

________da D dong

doomed to die is desire
dangling like dappled daisies
darkened darts still dashing
daily dawks
deceiving deceleration _a deciduous December
with delicate de-icing deifying delight
décor defies delimitation
descrying desensitized decay
direct the deafened dream
dressed by dribbling drifts

Just in from our correspondant in Grenoble

Dépêche de dernière minute

08:24 Agence Daubé Press

"une meute de brimatographes s'est abattu hier soir sur la rive gauche de l'Isère. Le préfet de l'Isère, dans son communiqué de presse, indique que les dégats pourraient avoisiner le milliard d'euro. Aucuns des trois suspects n'est connu des services de police. Les trois hommes se disent victimes d'une machination poétique. En effet, leur descente sur Grenoble faisait partie des manifestations prévues pour le printemps des poètes. Le thème, lettera amorosa, serait la cause du déchainement dionysiaque que les trois hommes firent subir à Grenoble. Joint par le Daubé ce matin, le chef de meute, un certain Duffy, se disait satisfait du 'poème' écrit par les trois hommes à l'aide de la populace grenobloise. Il déplorait cependant que les dégats ne s'élèvent qu'au milliard d'euro. Il est certain que ce piètre évènement ravivra la question: que peuvent des corps?!"

Seas in All Song

The transport of iffy poetry made people strange.A nuclear abbey in language called echoes from teased ceilings with burning light idea a transcription of just a lot. When many congeals, gloom resumes, opined the abbot or abbe or Edward Albee on the Merv Griffin show. Or reason, slighting the impressive power of speaking viscous word over time, saturates the employment of these means with a withering. Poor crowd. But the sanctity place lets one sit down. the shadows are cool, who is in the next pew? Is it refrain when Emily Dickinson murmurs equally to the total light of a firefly, june solstice? This spell contributes to an ocean in which shadows fill the sanctum. And sank? Please read every word again. The transport of spiffy people made strange poetry. A new clear abbey in echoes called language from tea ceilings, climate of mountain, urge to “go on”. A practice of study in which reviled formalities resist our resistance causes a response from none and all. The equal sign lands with a ton. It points everywhere. Poets, of course, in this situation, are of a mind. Poetry seems to lack use, yet when thinking begins, poems spend themselves. Equinox in the virtual horizon could please all, spelled out in words, arrived at like poetry. Deploying these jutting rocks in downwards strokes uon grim mountainsides could form a church. That church would make many. We'd take the dull light in, inside, and settle. Seas flex on shorelines while winds distribute. A canon testifies, yet as always the light is low. The text remains obscure, but people are about.

thick't'comes

"sometimes my shit comes out thick
or," secondary effect assimilated paper
rolled linked community "god bless," breach
(it) less attach than
sidewalk crossing entrance two lines
rolling "no need to mention," basic trust
right foot on left hand dangle
fog thick morning chipped poured entrance
broken "belief systems, turns"
step step (stepstep) box over
corner lined (up) hydrant can light
pole "sometimes it's runny, very"
truck block slide diesel undermine "lose
as sense of definite"
bottles pack empty cigarette close plastic
container food [box + bent *
bags] moment "ramblin' around your,"
safety (lived through) "shadowy source, etc."
bottle one pointed at
bottle two rolling survivor high grasses

"... then,

“He was obliged first to discover the words with which she could then make him hear what she had to say to him.” p.26

“But then…. as soon as he had become waitless their rooms overlapped with shivering italics before running the river dry and re-filling it from memory. She half expected Maurice to hear their Infinite Conversation or at least understand what was hidden between paces or screened by yielding. Leaving traces unfinished, she could return any time and pool the pages, never refusing the tongue a vowel. He was perhaps separated from oNe line for days, but the library in his head confirmed company. Behind every square is a circle longing for corners. Unrolling Yes! down a path that proves liquid has expectations even if just to keep pace with place and make solid discoveries. But then,

... numero 20 ...

Moonage Golf Dream (updated)

help our daydream become reality

for a better world play golf on the moon

Installation by artists Paul Conneally and Tim Wright at Mile End Arts Pavillion, London UK.This collaborative work forms part of Wright's ongoing work 'Golf on the Moon (with David Bowie)' and Conneally's 'For a Better World...' series of pieces.The video shows some of the visitors to The RenewabilityExhibition,which was curated and conceived by Tomomi Iguchi of Crossover UK, holing out Hole 2 which goes from Arnold Circus to Mile End Arts Pavillion in Mile End Park, London UK.Conneally believes that most golf courses are environmentally unsound and urges:'for a better world play golf on the moon'

Bald Bird

Swelled, sweet shaped
dah-dah bird, a peering

cryptic soldier-slave,
my fate, my worm,

a crossed-out word
that means "faun".

Few females smell
such fame without

wanting a shoe-shine
or to try it on. I work

for nature. A beggar.
A dirty, white prophet-eer.

When you wake up
mysterious and pregnant

scarred with dreaming,
dusted wings, unexpected

gutteral heavings- bring
your little uncollected

feathers here.

Completely Rimbaud

He wrote about angels,
the rise and rumbling noise
of heavenly highways;

unharnessed the darker
savage shades of injurious
misfortunes to prey upon

the christian children.

Can a man be saved
if he cultivates duplicity?

Did God create the good
and evil, the summer

and its ravaged storms?

He drew a chain, a pirate's
rope and hung the masked
and poisoned souls like flags

he raised them to the sky;

the winds, his deep benevolent
pride snapped and whirling madly
cried: what precious weathervanes!

House Arrest

You were, yourself, a girl
when I was water's bud
drowning in your blood cells-

the way light evaporates
in a cave's cool, dark mouth.

We're separate now, though
often you forget that stones
were made for throwing

not holding things down
in place of gravity.

The temple is a body
disemboweled by its own
violent alchemy; priestess,

you taught me about expulsion,
the cutting away of heart

from its head. You're older now,
I am not far behind, not hidden
inside the silent house, the sleeping

pelvis that hangs like a single,
empty sock on the clothesline.

late winter prairie triptych

last great American male

what can he do? angels shoving flightless airline pilots out of open windows.
it’s the draft that no one will cop to, it’s the draft that chills the bones and elicits
a certain crooked smile from old men with erectile dysfunction. every time, boy,
every time one of those rockets goes up, Uncle Dick stands at attention. makes
a man. and makes a man proud. and makes a man a proud American. dammit!

puppy-nuts monocle fringe, gabby haze fascisp quiboard

fung bung-----------------------------haggis hagia

bar bar
bar bar bar
bar ba

blear
blight

sensible sensorium wills awl empty
augury doggerel gavelling gravelly

busklings linger at the lung

amazone
amzione

amazing graze
how sweet the sound
of lead singing sweet but nearly proximal

i wants
was yong
but now
am dowd

all grey
like chicken
feet

sat upon

the lapis entrail mask

Lazarus Lazuli
would take up the purple mmmons

little pages sprinkling grigs
in his wake

crimson grasshopper bodies fall
to toe hammers

iron wood grows
from brazilian tombs

that numb
umbral
bralene whaling whindu

bod by bod
like flame to the brocken antenna

i have not seen children playing
on life-like giant brains carved of stone

and yet
as KING OF THE WORLD

I STAND

NAKED

SKINLESS

DETERMINED

to echo
the
echoing
ing-ing-ing

gingerly
rue
the Dickinsonian
dodgy do'or

"artful"

l-a-i-r-l-a-y-e-r

Punishable

So the world wraps itself
in everything you knew,

there are seeds more
fallow than your flowering-

punishable.

If all be told, if all
the meaning grew,

then sea and all
its tributary streams

would move, will achingly
spring forth undetoured,

overjoyed, extremed.

Now the river widowed
banks overflow the bridge,

the mastered long-boned
shoulders of earth turned

to gold, to rust, to love...

in an instant, dizzy rush
beautiful becomes a poet.

"Ask Boro" 7 to 7 technical supply, line codes breakdown uplifting and remote maintenance all in rhy(th)mes !

Dear magnificent owner of this blog,
My Cliff himself, ask me to log,
To give my hand to a musical paradigm:
How to embed Songs on da Brim !

As answering is my honorable duty,
Here is my few words for you sweety ("Cliffty" wasn't that good for the rhyme ...)

First you need the basic line
JavaScript, Iframe are hard to combine
as HTML stands for "How Terrific is My Level !"
You may therefore use the following label :

<###embed src= "http://www.odeo.com/flash/audio_player_standard_gray.swf" quality="high" width="300" height="52" allowscriptaccess="always" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" flashvars= "valid_sample_rate=true&external_url=[MP3 file address]" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" autostart="false"> <###/embed>

{ be sure to remove first just the "###" before the two "embed" }

Second step, fueling the engine ...
As [MP3 file adress] stands for nothin'
Find the URL of any lullaby
Or upload you own into a virtual lobby.

Fishing a song on the Net
Is easy 'cose you got the net ! (anyone still following ?)
My example comes frow Ubuweb listing
A place I know you are cheering !

Swimming to this page,
http://www.ubu.com/outsiders/365/01-1.html
I discovered "Lady Space" with a "mp3" icon standing
In the right corner. Either rightclickin 'n "link location" copying
Or just click the image for the song to unfold
On a new page with the mp3 adress ! How bold !

Replace the fake line and post
You shall see as under 'n make a toast !





(Well I know how poor is my line ,
my tramp style begging for an alexandrine !)

prenous fenablio enco-ordyne

foggy
figpoly
philia

spica
neutharc
makara mark

^unda anda
panda vril
undertake leymien

and where the pupil flows to the teacher
and where the pupa flowers to the pitcher
and where the popo smokes to the veejer

let us shrine
in junkyard
"ontology"

bee al zebubbling hierofont flan burning masklets
hover 20 pts
gather in indra's net
see coord. ? from npc

be weel
bew wail

limmer caul drone
glimmer call drawn
cowl drown down the zoom lens
as wasp pray'er player
hyro-flonky
double tennis shoe gifting
potlatch energy mind
nerves are powers of sound
sift ifting
ifting gruel cruel
cruetts set sets settlings languor
anger under unguents
unguiculate articulations
iso - lotto

myrius mirror
mirroir cell f
hook self
celif

blong bond biracle
lonf blonde miracle of sphere

1 interruptus tuskling langue
grown
jes grew
jessamine amines
ampakine the amp kind kinder rootlings
rootless lasso tasoo
tasso loosening asshole buddha remflection saucer minned whiorld
copper egg to mino torr jelly plate
sab sub scara sacra sucro okra suco ako kako isometeor

rubber magnet armor nubbed
with transparent fluorescent nipples

tuning forks mohawk
gasps

segrik dolikuy
debo unjo fillal a grum

mudra peony touches salas hierogramete
peneloping pony hale ornery borne on silas bertram
line
liver
line
liver line

reading silver intestine hats
under pine bearded monolapse

moon in chrome taffy skull tree house fountain blending
herb and light and dirge to joyful formlessnaos


naoserine
chaonaoserine

orthoscoptrick
catopless
stratasophy

The beginning of the world

Tribute to linking ...

first line of a proposed novel / new nouvelle roman

he was sick as a piece of meat, as sick as

he chowed, contained, razzled arp as harp as a

sounds, he, naped no more meat, no more as

a piece of meat, no more reaping, aping, starting

pace

'in days of yore, and as soon as he had entered it, he had found it quite becoming a room.' p.26 French edition

In the must again of process, the becoming room was the hiding place of the oNes they were becoming. She, literally, had heard this differently. In later conversation, in correspondances that were yet to come, she often affirmed he had not said that at all, that he had told her, 'the becoming-room is the hiding pace of the oNes we are becoming.' She could prove this through traceable travels in the austere scriptorium of their writings but each time he had refuted her claims by an ever affirming yes! 'Yes! Since place will never be pace, pace is place. So let's just keep pacing along!' She had noticed that the more they stayed in the room, the more volatile they became. And it was just as well for how else would they become anything else if not through their becoming volatile? Of course, these states were often followed by quite solidifying solitudes when they were apart. He would feel heavy from the seperation, a dead weight hitting the hard line of the river-bed. Sometimes the room was a river with its banks and its bed and its riverrun into a square pond, for her sometimes it was a head full of stories or a head full of books, a library-head, for him the room was a head-library and sometimes for the oNes they were becoming, the room was a four screened movie theater, a circle screened cinema with the words and light in the back, always in the back, behind their backs, clicketing their worlds before them. And they often laughed at how Orpheus would have loved this, seeing Eurydice without having to look back, marching on pacefully to the riverrun surface! But then,

I’ll call my father
to let him know the day is off
tracks are light on the stacks
they crack when whistles fly fast
snow or plough let it roll
they see what I mean
and that is overseas

opposed swift directions
in front of the screen
click this to fill in for it
and then water the scene

***

You cannot keep age
Locked up
Nor disgrace or luck
Or bread or culture
Or love
Dayslight creeps through
With its urgency to move
Transforms
Writes wrinkles
For illusion to wake up
Again

Bat Watching

On my back with arms out and legs spread,
I recall damp grass, my wet jacket and jeans.
Meredith and I flattened out, watching bats fly in the park.
I focus on my skin, tingles like parakeets walking over me,
bathing in birdy bodies, feathers brushing the bottoms of my feet,
tiny beaks in my bellybutton searching for seeds.
I’m alone in my bedroom, lying like a gingerbread man,
face up like a child who froze making snow angels—
blue skin, cracked nose. The window was open;
inside is an oven door down yawning-mouth wide.
Hot bedroom air escapes like a nonstop exhale;
the radiator continues—the sun out in summer.
I keep still; bare legs cool on the winter-touched bedspread,
sinking in its sky blue and white ribbon stitch work,
holding me up in a doily-style net
that re-creates like a topiary maze when upon a made bed.
My back dissolves my T-shirt, sucking the frosty sensation
like butter on a pan. I’m smiling like a gingerbread man,
out of the oven, cooling on a counter, remembering Meredith
and our hours in the park, bat watching
in the middle of the night, giggling from the weed,
enjoying wet grass, the damp undersides
of our spread out bodies, how the black sky appeared
like a calm evening ocean. We sank to the sea floor,
two sets of lungs exploding.
Those drowned moments relieving,
like chilled bedspreads in an overheated apartment.
I look out my window and see only buildings—
I’m lying in a box of dead birds.




Robert Siek

what is that sudden sound of bees in my head?

somebody like Ezra Pound
broke down

negative flow

the words seep out,
an inconstant struggle

surface depth sonnet

just a surface look then
awaiting the profondeur
but as NtZe said,
'there is no beautiful surface
under which the depth
is not horrifying'
which put in rapport
with what dZe said,
'As soon as there is horror,
a story reintroduces itself,
we have missed the cry.'
might explain why, for the instant,
the eye must stay blind to the depth
below the surface, for the moment.

await

await

a wait

which is the refusal of a waitless

of a calm continuance unrolled by steps

overlapping of tongues in semi-vowels

along iambic paths of yore

and liquid consonants of dew-point

where other tongues overlapped

joy and uncontrolled shiver

in lust-hemmed yielding

catatonic threshold poem (for white marble faun)

grim thresh hold, the poem
or if
i'm in bed
suddenly realizing the path
to catatonia

the elemental highwayman smoothing back my feathers

yule be a good statue, danny
holding up a flintlock to me head

or ferns cut from red leather
my last identity
a large terra-cot ta-mask
hung from a white marble
wine stained
wall
curled up inside
"the catalonian"
"the cantaloupian"

if flesh was fungus
we sleep in catatonia
space of a tri-corn
a tri-crone

passing a big blue marble
of an eye

Vijnanabhiksu may pass a different threshing
hold
hold in there! skinny humanoid donkey carvers
move through white alabastar and black onyx
through faces checkered with niches with sleepers

nacred and nitred
aluminun skull launcher
i could stand on tope oof thatr

osiuajh
^
+

>
7
kata toney o stropheya

(((((((((((((((((((((((((*)))))))))))))))))))))))))))

living out of context

To My

little monster,
my speechless
dark emergency;

my endurable victim

borrowing, burning
oxygen- an infant flame.

Maybe a stranger,
never miraculously
frightened by starry

bodiless appearances-

a natural light
shining inside you.

To what distance,
what waiting presence
do I owe the honor

of your endless gifting?

Find me

something from a vodka party, Minnetonka, MN, Feb. 17

Terpsichore takes. but the trauma
the ideal aches. but the time is phenomenon.
for you to see our naked shapes.
it's a splinter under the skin.

---

perception is as perception does.
serengeti and the rapture. blue.
a territorial time. perception
the chime the plaint torture out
of change, torque before statement,
stars! stars! the cats know more than us.

---

tuddle tuddle the wood the wood
the fire the wood the ignition the english
the old bright the unblown harp the unignited.

I bet I knew which end they kindled, they kindly
ought to place the wood in the balance of kindling?
have you ever had the WHITE CASTLE PRETENDER?

---

terrace out of spontaneity.
the terrible date that was an hour ago.
"I wrote great drunk." -- how was it?
"it was riveting, it was so riveting."

only wear Birkenstocks or flip-flopsin the Tropics

if I have to wear the black shoes.

change. templo. temper.

never again response.

the tidepools. the tan guests.

Membranes of Motion • Jericho for Jack Spider

"This is why we do this" printed in the
back of every anthology. I'm photocopying
the back sections now, guys.
The perfected example is always what is true.
Where they take up deflection, that's where
you gotta watch out with these Platonizing
poet-critics. The cerebral act of giving up
one's poem through the window of a moving car,
that takes spark.

About, because metonymy.
Saved, because Mnemosyne.

Written on the Canvas Suit of the Fly Golem

green where the buffoon trees grimace through the watery parts
of the minotaur's face fountain and let their pink political papfletts floot
out out out YAO-MA U YAO-MA bruce nauman hanged by clowns
the distinctly cliche' post-modern summer of hesperides'

zen tea kettle performance

build the 30 fires

conch centric

rock b
rock m

loa loa
i smell banana esther hashimoto roboto
disturbed profoundly grosso modo

could never love a tree properly

green where the buffoon trees grimace through the watery parts
of the minotaur's face fountain and let their pink political papfletts floot

zen tea kettle performance

build the 30 fires

conch centric

like a clock gone round

the pitch plaid violin screaming whistles
one after another
after another conch
conch

bwaaaaa-ooooooo
bwaaaaa-ooooonh-oooooohn

dance, you pigs! Dance!
[l'otio et la crapula di Bacco..]

eyelids of wine
are staircases over the tumult

emer magi the spoilt hands

dwelt in the tillage
of broken metameat mita

mina mina
boxing broxa doxa
calling bard and clown

druid vapor of rose breasted please-eo-saud helmet
cheese tongue slice

Angus AC DC Young, the god of youth beauty poetry
He Reigned in Tir-nam-Oge, the country of the young

and played a mad song

spasm
guignol flopping bacon dada buffalo moon

giant stone boulder crushing revellers
in the lurch

spectacle, talisman
witch baby hair handles

green......?

Pacing

“The characteristic of the room is its emptiness.” p.7

“In the must again of process…even patiently pacing they appeared to be together in the emptiness, if not in the room. Was this a hiding place for the one who was standing? A length of time could yet be restored to short or go-between depth and the stare of an instant. She found it hard to recall the ceaseless less, however long she waited. Had someONE recurred unheard amongst speak again and hear again? He was thinking of More walks that may not have occurred. The room with its grassy carpet existed on the page, there he sat awhile between wheres. And she was here again at a point when “The words wear out in her the memory that they help her express” (p.7). In an unnaturally narrow room, was it possible to continue remembering? Who would forget first, leaving fullness in place of potency by slanted means. She, literally

Awaiting Here

“[for a long time what is awaited has served only to maintain the waiting,]”

“She is here

waiting to step over stop and lap against
his thinking that drinks on less-ness
and runs more past the page than dances
downstream. Each asking, padlocked in lateral limbo.
“Even as a river,--partly (it might seem)
Yielding to old remembrances,…”
hemmed in by forgetting
water wakes in the East