You slept that night, promised
to die- an offering, offering;
you're two eyes swimming
further, further back like
a perishing flower failing
the vine, a fish desperately
pulling a bright-white string
out to the safety of sea-
reeled in finally.
Sweet weight, a seizure,
slipping away, a ship from
its moor, moves carefully
like sun on a low-lying hill,
this born-again quiet, this
laced, silver film. How strange
your mouth lying against
my satin-thread pillow-
unlatched and dreaming
and dreaming.
Canine Compromise
The dogs are digging
in the yard; I taught
them manners, not
to howl at ambulances
driving by or to chase
the tabby secretly stealing
their prize-hunted mice
despite the posted sign:
NO CATS ALLOWED.
This is a matter for nature,
how it rules its creatures,
pulls muscle and jaw like
a puppeteer, a sloppy
display of quivering nerves
randomly firing. They dig
with such gusto I can hardly
protest; if they can't kill
a cat, at least they can
practice burying them.
*Note to cat owners:
illiteracy killed the cat.
in the yard; I taught
them manners, not
to howl at ambulances
driving by or to chase
the tabby secretly stealing
their prize-hunted mice
despite the posted sign:
NO CATS ALLOWED.
This is a matter for nature,
how it rules its creatures,
pulls muscle and jaw like
a puppeteer, a sloppy
display of quivering nerves
randomly firing. They dig
with such gusto I can hardly
protest; if they can't kill
a cat, at least they can
practice burying them.
*Note to cat owners:
illiteracy killed the cat.
Google Poem #whatever
Out of the window I can see snowdrops - bloody loads of them
Out of the window I can see that everyone is out for a late afternoon stroll
Out of the window I can see the distant city
Out of the window I can see Shanghai in full dynamic action
Out of the window I can see Klang Temple
Out of the window I can see blue skies and green meadows
Out of the window I can see the high-rise flats
Out of the window I can see water on the Rideau Canal
Out of the window I can see a fleet of police cars and meat wagons
Out of the window I can see Voodoo Tower
Out of the window I can see an old chapel
Out of the window I can see and hear the bird family and the squirrel family
Out of the window I can see HP and Fujitsu's buildings
Out of the window I can see the marshals waving at me
Out of the window I can see some streetlights on, some off
Out of the window I can see people going about their usual Friday night business
Out of the window I can see more distant trees
Out of the window I can see treetops, rooftops, a pagoda spiked up into the air
Out of the window I can see green trees, and birds
Out of the window I can see what I think is one of your - Beijing's - warships
Out of the window I can see from there the simple village park
Out of the window I can see Mount Canigou newly iced with snow
Out of the window I can see mountains and water
Out of the window I can see another brick wall.
Out of the window I can see that everyone is out for a late afternoon stroll
Out of the window I can see the distant city
Out of the window I can see Shanghai in full dynamic action
Out of the window I can see Klang Temple
Out of the window I can see blue skies and green meadows
Out of the window I can see the high-rise flats
Out of the window I can see water on the Rideau Canal
Out of the window I can see a fleet of police cars and meat wagons
Out of the window I can see Voodoo Tower
Out of the window I can see an old chapel
Out of the window I can see and hear the bird family and the squirrel family
Out of the window I can see HP and Fujitsu's buildings
Out of the window I can see the marshals waving at me
Out of the window I can see some streetlights on, some off
Out of the window I can see people going about their usual Friday night business
Out of the window I can see more distant trees
Out of the window I can see treetops, rooftops, a pagoda spiked up into the air
Out of the window I can see green trees, and birds
Out of the window I can see what I think is one of your - Beijing's - warships
Out of the window I can see from there the simple village park
Out of the window I can see Mount Canigou newly iced with snow
Out of the window I can see mountains and water
Out of the window I can see another brick wall.
Interests and Tasks
In truth, of course, I am a transcendental ego, but I am not conscious of this; being in a particular attitude, the natural attitude, I am completely given over to the object poles, completely bound by interests and tasks which are exclusively directed towards them. (Edmund Husserl, Cartesian Meditations).
The ego-less-I, that transcendent conscious that is unconscious of it's very transcendence. Now isn't phenomenology fun?
Erasing Stone
Create (check)
erase;
permit
the waters
to efface
the stone.
Make smooth
(grind)
proof
the jagged edges
are really round;
yield (exit)
there is nothing
in this world
that can't be
altered.
Change (trap)
the rough
inside
the beautiful.
erase;
permit
the waters
to efface
the stone.
Make smooth
(grind)
proof
the jagged edges
are really round;
yield (exit)
there is nothing
in this world
that can't be
altered.
Change (trap)
the rough
inside
the beautiful.
easy livin' scratch sun
Curtain of prehensile fluteworks
[open]
the promise of the day
is up one level onto the rooftops
cascades
volcano
rosenkavalier
in rose armor
on horseback
or pink izod
makara
with bouqet tattoo
billie holiday
singing
in portland
the sun, silly
every wo e an d ma n
a gene E oos
they say in topo slik
mic ro grey a
y sam soo ini
i sing in ancient languages
i hear in my mind
to the sun
sounds silly?
it is, silly
so simple
this
easy livin'
now into this sunshine picture
and out
all frames
must be rain or tears
but sun says
take all of me
over to you now
big muscled demon drummers
or the strong hand
squeezing an orange of lava
network genies scrivennnnnnnn
headgate
agent in torsion room
hook suit
skein dancing
pulled this way and that
flip flipping
high hat
the high hat
the high hat witch has spoken
the black rod
has tapped three times
Calling DR BOMBAY
CALLING DR STRANGE
calling red langue -- sylph slather sky minnie
hymn-brawl
epepepoeeoepoepoepoepoeoepoeoepoepopoepoidodioi
peoepro opeo e porp eroerofld ldj fdj epopeor por oeporo p poreor prpoorporeporo
[open]
the promise of the day
is up one level onto the rooftops
cascades
volcano
rosenkavalier
in rose armor
on horseback
or pink izod
makara
with bouqet tattoo
billie holiday
singing
in portland
the sun, silly
every wo e an d ma n
a gene E oos
they say in topo slik
mic ro grey a
y sam soo ini
i sing in ancient languages
i hear in my mind
to the sun
sounds silly?
it is, silly
so simple
this
easy livin'
now into this sunshine picture
and out
all frames
must be rain or tears
but sun says
take all of me
over to you now
big muscled demon drummers
or the strong hand
squeezing an orange of lava
network genies scrivennnnnnnn
headgate
agent in torsion room
hook suit
skein dancing
pulled this way and that
flip flipping
high hat
the high hat
the high hat witch has spoken
the black rod
has tapped three times
Calling DR BOMBAY
CALLING DR STRANGE
calling red langue -- sylph slather sky minnie
hymn-brawl
epepepoeeoepoepoepoepoeoepoeoepoepopoepoidodioi
peoepro opeo e porp eroerofld ldj fdj epopeor por oeporo p poreor prpoorporeporo
lost legs
Hi all. I haven't posted here before. My name is Marcus Slease. I currently teach ESL in Poland. I am finishing a manuscript I wrote in Korea called Wonderland. The last section is a long poem. It alternates between Korea and memories of growing up in Northern Ireland and some scattered memories of living in Las Vegas and North Carolina. This is a section from a Northern Ireland memory. I was around six in Portadown and a bomb exploded somewhere. We were unfortunate enough to run into the area where the bomb was detonated and I saw a man with his legs gone. Looked like carpet on the pavement with some wiggling legs. Anyway. The memory is fragmented as well. So the agitprop cuts many ways. The propaganda on both sides and I also question the nature of my memory of the experience.
10. Agitprop
for a split
second
in-
sensed
&
smoke-
choked
you are
legs
on gravel
blood-stumped and cherry
red ploy
to sell
the soul
and you
don't know what is leased, leashed, and lashed
don't know what is la blade for murals advertising divides
for God
and Ulster
for a
united
Ireland
legs blown
asunder
scissors
open
and shut
ex-
posed
&
sun
shine
never been
the same
since
10. Agitprop
for a split
second
in-
sensed
&
smoke-
choked
you are
legs
on gravel
blood-stumped and cherry
red ploy
to sell
the soul
and you
don't know what is leased, leashed, and lashed
don't know what is la blade for murals advertising divides
for God
and Ulster
for a
united
Ireland
legs blown
asunder
scissors
open
and shut
ex-
posed
&
sun
shine
never been
the same
since
Mobile Still
“He walked ahead, marking out for her a path…” p.39
“… together we are separated by a locked room. Where oNe stands, they stand. When alone, doubts translate into certainties (had he meant never for certain?) She had no hesitation in being inconsistent, when you add up all the forgetting she had to do, it was no surprise their pages were numbered differently. And yet they mysteriously followed each other down passages read and unread. Rubbing time together in the weightless waiting room. When Fanshawe began eternally recurring on page 199, a phone had already rung on page 3, and the potency of n turned dialogue inside out. In case he heard in another language she said…
“… together we are separated by a locked room. Where oNe stands, they stand. When alone, doubts translate into certainties (had he meant never for certain?) She had no hesitation in being inconsistent, when you add up all the forgetting she had to do, it was no surprise their pages were numbered differently. And yet they mysteriously followed each other down passages read and unread. Rubbing time together in the weightless waiting room. When Fanshawe began eternally recurring on page 199, a phone had already rung on page 3, and the potency of n turned dialogue inside out. In case he heard in another language she said…
[anti-manifesto #1]
poetry is not a career / there is no money in language / every poet who takes poetry seriously is an amateur / every approach to language is the 1st one / a poet who is bored by life is by default frustrated with language
words stink / they must / sometimes like musk / sometimes like a full toilet bowl
each serious poet takes reading seriously / and read for serious pleasure / reading is not a career / reading is writing / only not
there is
no other qualification
to poetry
but passion
no job / or degree / can bestow passion upon a person / every serious poet is a failure / every serious poet measures success by how well the poet fails
the poet must live within / create / own contradictions
poetry is poetry
money is money
there is no metaphor in this
the poet goes to language with seriously empty hands
words stink / they must / sometimes like musk / sometimes like a full toilet bowl
each serious poet takes reading seriously / and read for serious pleasure / reading is not a career / reading is writing / only not
there is
no other qualification
to poetry
but passion
no job / or degree / can bestow passion upon a person / every serious poet is a failure / every serious poet measures success by how well the poet fails
the poet must live within / create / own contradictions
poetry is poetry
money is money
there is no metaphor in this
the poet goes to language with seriously empty hands
Shine
The book is a critic. "Like you",
he said, " better left un-opened".
You can use a knife to peel
an orange, though easier done
with your teeth; a scraping tool
is death, the irony of discovery.
Living, then, is a hazelnut,
smooth-skinned, unpenetrated,
natural as a grove choked by
brush, where mouse-birds nest
like glass-bulbs of a chandelier
powdered in fine, brown dust.
The only freedom is light
outside its room, lost-
no layers or skein, just
wide, thoughtless shining.
he said, " better left un-opened".
You can use a knife to peel
an orange, though easier done
with your teeth; a scraping tool
is death, the irony of discovery.
Living, then, is a hazelnut,
smooth-skinned, unpenetrated,
natural as a grove choked by
brush, where mouse-birds nest
like glass-bulbs of a chandelier
powdered in fine, brown dust.
The only freedom is light
outside its room, lost-
no layers or skein, just
wide, thoughtless shining.
non-book list sonnet
awaiting the first April blackbirds
in the soundless cold of March
i wake at six and drink coffee
and 'robins singing their hearts out'
in the Vercors montains, where I feel free
to list the non-book things about me
which include the saltiness taste of an it's over kiss
walking the empty rose garden in Berkeley
knowing imperceptibly it is the last time
and ink-stained fingers and speaking with a look
and smiling at strangers and shoving
broken madeleines in a heap in my mouth
to throw them up here saying i'm writing
something in fourteen lines and calling
in the soundless cold of March
i wake at six and drink coffee
and 'robins singing their hearts out'
in the Vercors montains, where I feel free
to list the non-book things about me
which include the saltiness taste of an it's over kiss
walking the empty rose garden in Berkeley
knowing imperceptibly it is the last time
and ink-stained fingers and speaking with a look
and smiling at strangers and shoving
broken madeleines in a heap in my mouth
to throw them up here saying i'm writing
something in fourteen lines and calling
The Immateria
"I lost some time once. It's always in the last place you look for it." --Neil Gaiman
"I am the least difficult of men." --Frank O'Hara
Don't scare for skin.
(or your belongings!)
Proverbial worm-
grave-food.
There is only life
and a life unlived.
(Yours is which?)
Today,
I am OCEAN.
Prayer rain,
Holy Water emancipates.
(tear)
when I no -longer-
tangled in the Sails
Wash me away God
In calm sea.
Immateria
The things unseen
(are there)
Ghost religion
Show Happiness
Promising Summer
Better
Times
Ahead.
For me,
The least difficult of men.
For me,
Who can not put the
Feeling in words.
--Nobius Black
"I am the least difficult of men." --Frank O'Hara
The Immateria
Don't scare for skin.
(or your belongings!)
Proverbial worm-
grave-food.
There is only life
and a life unlived.
(Yours is which?)
Today,
I am OCEAN.
Prayer rain,
Holy Water emancipates.
(tear)
when I no -longer-
tangled in the Sails
Wash me away God
In calm sea.
Immateria
The things unseen
(are there)
Ghost religion
Show Happiness
Promising Summer
Better
Times
Ahead.
For me,
The least difficult of men.
For me,
Who can not put the
Feeling in words.
--Nobius Black
Ode To the Swift Singer
swifts disturbed
descend destended
myrrhy with huxters
bad or blended
nurses who
themselves are sick
ignore the beauty
within the trick
swift of tradition
"handling lore"
imagined beauty's
symmetric gore
swifts not mere
epiphenomenal success
a mad house dance
in perfected dress
wit to the cave
lantern to the bungle
stockings to the fray
ing's kaironomiac trundle
full void or toroid
the temblor's might displayed
you might be dismayed
at the power of my nose
swift swift
modern modern
early early
prose
sweet shit
of swifts
in tubs
as gifts
descend destended
myrrhy with huxters
bad or blended
nurses who
themselves are sick
ignore the beauty
within the trick
swift of tradition
"handling lore"
imagined beauty's
symmetric gore
swifts not mere
epiphenomenal success
a mad house dance
in perfected dress
wit to the cave
lantern to the bungle
stockings to the fray
ing's kaironomiac trundle
full void or toroid
the temblor's might displayed
you might be dismayed
at the power of my nose
swift swift
modern modern
early early
prose
sweet shit
of swifts
in tubs
as gifts
Cartesian Medications
I am a phenomenologist, not a Husserlian or a Merleau-Pontyian, or a Getafe smoking Sartrean, though I do enjoy a Blond Gallicises occasionally. I do, however, have a penchant for Absinthe and green tea. I have been known to wear culottes before July and a sou'wester, sometimes a Trilby without a hatband, when it’s uncalled for and unfashionable to do so. We phenomenologist’s, apodictically speaking, are not always what we appear to be, though Martin, M. Edmund and Jean-Paul might take umbrage at such a statement, all appearances to the contrary, of course.
Wistawa Szymborska's World
Inspiration is sweat, driven out
from its pore, the inhabitation
of destitute, waterless fields
with a heart like an ocean
and eyes built right up
to the lakeshore. Devotion-
a peculiarly loud clanging
bell that rings like no other,
mournful exuberance climbing
the stairs, a stubborn existence
that pulls out each hair as if
plucking fresh roses, pruning
weed from the vine. And Love?
Feeding on poison, surviving
its kill, a cripple crawling towards
window to speak to the moon,
the pink-pearly shine of a question,
the answer- a personalized key
to a more personal Hell; freezing
without feeling, burning without
healing, a hole in the chest's wall
larger than Russia, miles upon
miles of misunderstandings
and still, we endlessly
travel there.
from its pore, the inhabitation
of destitute, waterless fields
with a heart like an ocean
and eyes built right up
to the lakeshore. Devotion-
a peculiarly loud clanging
bell that rings like no other,
mournful exuberance climbing
the stairs, a stubborn existence
that pulls out each hair as if
plucking fresh roses, pruning
weed from the vine. And Love?
Feeding on poison, surviving
its kill, a cripple crawling towards
window to speak to the moon,
the pink-pearly shine of a question,
the answer- a personalized key
to a more personal Hell; freezing
without feeling, burning without
healing, a hole in the chest's wall
larger than Russia, miles upon
miles of misunderstandings
and still, we endlessly
travel there.
An Effort in the Same Place
Expressive sky, tolls something something, the tears present as muster for the day
excessive sky of blurring death on blue, the sun seems to fall
saturation of that red that says nothing only time involved in alpenglow
tracks of zipping thru stars that stage moments and cringing, which we talk about
what is the same love in our gesture, as we guide vocabulary to the treetops?
stir emotion thru a realm or two, and sigh with protection:
I will love you as a soon and late, you'll see, and seeing makes the sentence break its daze
I will love you over the moments surrounding some steps on the way
other statements will fly forth, over trees and even birds will break their oaths of meaning to go on
birds will go on for sure but they will not sing, they will resist
resistance is the tang of staying in colour
does this make sense, or should words render new moons above the same fens and leas and meadows coming into spring?
Will looking bring a touch?
This poem as it wants leans fiercely towards the colours changing in the only sky we have
you can thank the words eventually
excessive sky of blurring death on blue, the sun seems to fall
saturation of that red that says nothing only time involved in alpenglow
tracks of zipping thru stars that stage moments and cringing, which we talk about
what is the same love in our gesture, as we guide vocabulary to the treetops?
stir emotion thru a realm or two, and sigh with protection:
I will love you as a soon and late, you'll see, and seeing makes the sentence break its daze
I will love you over the moments surrounding some steps on the way
other statements will fly forth, over trees and even birds will break their oaths of meaning to go on
birds will go on for sure but they will not sing, they will resist
resistance is the tang of staying in colour
does this make sense, or should words render new moons above the same fens and leas and meadows coming into spring?
Will looking bring a touch?
This poem as it wants leans fiercely towards the colours changing in the only sky we have
you can thank the words eventually
Oceanaire (Seafood) Restaurant,
Minneapolis, July 2, 2000
Minneapolis, July 2, 2000
Postmidsummer, long evening
seeing through a poisoned brain:
“I drink only black coffee.”
Odysseus said it, all
his tools he wrote
for himself, listening
to Sirens’ songs.
Writer’s mind, drunkard’s mind.
Buzzing around, no center.
Why not scheduled,
controlled experience
of “mile high”?
“Money doesn’t get cold.”
(Latinos in St. Paul restroom)
“liberate the fish!”
(toilet imagining)
toilet is tiled and clean
sloppy and writing
outside of perception,
this real mind
at dusk, writing all down
stare of the invalid eye-beam,
perception of the REAL
Thomas' Liver
He recalled, against his better judgment, a woman he knew whose father forced her to eat blood pudding and headcheese for breakfast, a placental mush stirred bloodied with a fork, wingtips of blood and gruel discolouring her face, a clownish smile gone terribly wrong. Some people are fated with Thomas’ liver, sopped with Port and Paddy’s cure-all, a phonetic mess of dilettantism and Welsh bolshie’s, a portrait of the drunkard as a young dog: her liver the size of a soccer ball, bloated and septic with corpsegas, briny with carrion and lye. She drinks to assuage the tremors, the scourge of Saint John’s Wart: hogshead tripe with blood pudding, an earwig salad, a light vinaigrette on the side plate, not for the faint of stomach or kidney, renal failure and so-and-so. Her children sat in the squalor of her thoughts, reading takeout menus and other people’s mail. Linking sausage to sausage, Eaton’s sells blood pudding casing, twenty-five to the dollar, skillet-fried with bacon rind and allspice, a peppering of confectionary sugar to stave off the spoiling aftertaste in the scrotum of her throat, a banshee screeching in the pendulum of her sternum.
When the Moon Becomes a Mouth
When I was sixteen
all day I stayed awake,
a venus-trap waiting
for flies, honey-ed
mouth, a young moon
gathering clouds.
In my twenties,
a vibrant angel trolling
for stars; I could never
name the constellations
but I wanted to be one,
a cluster of one.
Thirty four... I gave up
prowling the sky, settled
my sights on uneven
ground, learned to see
in the dark like an owl-
a large, slow bird.
Forty-some years, my ears
grown accustomed to voices,
faint as footsteps walking
in slippers, soft as touching
winter fur. Over and over,
they whispered: "listen closer".
Sixty-five hours draw nearer,
wrinkled wrists, furrowed lines,
worried brow. Weighted down
like fruit on its stem, a depressed
clown, the body is tested,
the mysterious, damaged.
Eighty seven, the moon
becomes a mouth, honey
sets on the tip of my tongue
and flies, so desired when
I was young, gather
excitedly.
all day I stayed awake,
a venus-trap waiting
for flies, honey-ed
mouth, a young moon
gathering clouds.
In my twenties,
a vibrant angel trolling
for stars; I could never
name the constellations
but I wanted to be one,
a cluster of one.
Thirty four... I gave up
prowling the sky, settled
my sights on uneven
ground, learned to see
in the dark like an owl-
a large, slow bird.
Forty-some years, my ears
grown accustomed to voices,
faint as footsteps walking
in slippers, soft as touching
winter fur. Over and over,
they whispered: "listen closer".
Sixty-five hours draw nearer,
wrinkled wrists, furrowed lines,
worried brow. Weighted down
like fruit on its stem, a depressed
clown, the body is tested,
the mysterious, damaged.
Eighty seven, the moon
becomes a mouth, honey
sets on the tip of my tongue
and flies, so desired when
I was young, gather
excitedly.
two from April 7, 2006
1.
victim narratology.
I have my eye on you, son.
pass the house, drive
around the block.
got another idea.
do you think
this is supposed to be a joke, specifically?
not only here but us.
call back later.
get back to us later.
come back home after.
state your name and play it back
for us, later.
not only here but us.
thus they walked, immobile p.40
"are we together?" p.32
she had no doubt that Maurice could hear them as could Paul and Fanshawe and Thomas and Sam and Lydia and you and me and i and he and she had no doubt they could hear them as could the others and as she had no doubt about this she was ceaselessly asking him to read from the book to her from the books in the different languages with the different maps to the inside of the books the different mathematics of the pages the inconsistent numbering of the same passages the same yet different passages the different yet the same of those passages and so he started reading from page thirty two of his book Nous ne sommes pas seuls ici Non, nous ne sommes pas vraiment seuls Est-ce que nous accepterions de l'être? Seuls, mais non pas chacun pour son compte, seuls pour être ensemble Sommes-nous ensemble? which he always translates because he likes to and because then she can have another different yet the same in the same language a purer different We are not alone here No, we are not really alone Would we accept it if we were? Alone, but not each one to his own, alone so as to be together Are we together? are they together he asks does she think they are alone does he think they are alone are they alone together they are alone together they are alone so as to be different together which means they are alone together and then Sommes-nous ensemble? Seulement si nous pouvions être séparés Are we together? Only if we could be separated together we are
she had no doubt that Maurice could hear them as could Paul and Fanshawe and Thomas and Sam and Lydia and you and me and i and he and she had no doubt they could hear them as could the others and as she had no doubt about this she was ceaselessly asking him to read from the book to her from the books in the different languages with the different maps to the inside of the books the different mathematics of the pages the inconsistent numbering of the same passages the same yet different passages the different yet the same of those passages and so he started reading from page thirty two of his book Nous ne sommes pas seuls ici Non, nous ne sommes pas vraiment seuls Est-ce que nous accepterions de l'être? Seuls, mais non pas chacun pour son compte, seuls pour être ensemble Sommes-nous ensemble? which he always translates because he likes to and because then she can have another different yet the same in the same language a purer different We are not alone here No, we are not really alone Would we accept it if we were? Alone, but not each one to his own, alone so as to be together Are we together? are they together he asks does she think they are alone does he think they are alone are they alone together they are alone together they are alone so as to be different together which means they are alone together and then Sommes-nous ensemble? Seulement si nous pouvions être séparés Are we together? Only if we could be separated together we are
The Months of Many Faces
hands as safe as his
the earth is nothing but paint and sawdust--nothing but bruised hands cradling mine
his smile coaxes out the snow in December, a smile my heart refuses to forget
hands as tender as a lover
the mouth of a goddess spilling blood, lies and smoke trapped in January's cunt
Lies that stab at her chest, a sacrificial love
hands as misplaced as the rain
sin blushes in the face of February
secrets suffocate under dirty mattresses
hands as silently violent as the ocean
hollow bones reverberate confessions of unborn babies--unborn mistakes!
stairways lead us to March; stairways that should never be traveled alone
hands as dry as a headache
years that pass by on crows wings; the shallow breaths she takes leaves her with a mouth full of feathers
compressions and broken ribs rain down in April
hands as hopeful as hearts fluttering in chests
May spreads her legs again as her blood runs cold; tears shower down her heart
washing her soul in sadness--he calls out to her, she recedes further, holding her gaze somewhere far and away
hands as absent as empty houses
vices remain paralyzed in falling snowing and tightened skin
June holds the heart of a dying bird
hands as bruised as a strangled throat
Her breath exhales in rhythm with a bird; July hides in the mouth of a killer
She stares back through the mirror with bloody teeth
hands as anxious as tea kettles
August requires no other name, whether waking or dying, the house is ruled under the aftermath
The bird does not sing until night fall
hands as naive as a child
we stretched ourselves to limits thought unreachable
yet our eyes failed to see farther than September's warm embrace
hands as eager as brush strokes
I imagine her name to nestle in the womb of October
Dark almonds cradle in the pit of a stomach
hands as unearthly as a ghost
tongues and hands circle through city streets--alone, so very alone
He fades out slowly as November consumes all that is already dead
inspired by Anne Sexton.
the earth is nothing but paint and sawdust--nothing but bruised hands cradling mine
his smile coaxes out the snow in December, a smile my heart refuses to forget
hands as tender as a lover
the mouth of a goddess spilling blood, lies and smoke trapped in January's cunt
Lies that stab at her chest, a sacrificial love
hands as misplaced as the rain
sin blushes in the face of February
secrets suffocate under dirty mattresses
hands as silently violent as the ocean
hollow bones reverberate confessions of unborn babies--unborn mistakes!
stairways lead us to March; stairways that should never be traveled alone
hands as dry as a headache
years that pass by on crows wings; the shallow breaths she takes leaves her with a mouth full of feathers
compressions and broken ribs rain down in April
hands as hopeful as hearts fluttering in chests
May spreads her legs again as her blood runs cold; tears shower down her heart
washing her soul in sadness--he calls out to her, she recedes further, holding her gaze somewhere far and away
hands as absent as empty houses
vices remain paralyzed in falling snowing and tightened skin
June holds the heart of a dying bird
hands as bruised as a strangled throat
Her breath exhales in rhythm with a bird; July hides in the mouth of a killer
She stares back through the mirror with bloody teeth
hands as anxious as tea kettles
August requires no other name, whether waking or dying, the house is ruled under the aftermath
The bird does not sing until night fall
hands as naive as a child
we stretched ourselves to limits thought unreachable
yet our eyes failed to see farther than September's warm embrace
hands as eager as brush strokes
I imagine her name to nestle in the womb of October
Dark almonds cradle in the pit of a stomach
hands as unearthly as a ghost
tongues and hands circle through city streets--alone, so very alone
He fades out slowly as November consumes all that is already dead
inspired by Anne Sexton.
Neither Wood nor Lyre
A bold-blue reflection
when the face turns
white is a sign
of suffering.
In another country
rain beats down
on poplar trees
bleeding purple;
my weary eyes
explain the sallow
skin of fading light.
All morning, sun
a crimson flower
cries blood into
a million hungry
iris; obliterates
a canopy of violet-
neither wood
nor lyre will revive
the tattered dying.
when the face turns
white is a sign
of suffering.
In another country
rain beats down
on poplar trees
bleeding purple;
my weary eyes
explain the sallow
skin of fading light.
All morning, sun
a crimson flower
cries blood into
a million hungry
iris; obliterates
a canopy of violet-
neither wood
nor lyre will revive
the tattered dying.
Brockton Love Poem
it was one of those nights when geese fly into clouds and stay there. it was one of those times when the earth seems soggy—O much-needed drizzle!—in its constant wobble. it was a moment of reaching for the phone, just to call someone and explain that the willow looks wonderful on saturdays. Brockton, Massachusetts, is a place where things are noted and, casually, by god, voices speak words.
the singing frogs proved their excitement that the textbooks once again were right. bats caught the joke and entered flight patterns reaching limits of squirrel. in Brockton, your dance partner has been there, and is pleased, additionally, to explain where ‘there’ might be. you go along because ‘here’ is over, or at least needs an overhaul.
Brockton invites all those who have the idea and the words to say what they think or think what they say. hunger is a continent and parsimony a clever joke aimed at a certain few. the efforts of the magnanimous provoke traffic lights to open avenues to all inspired travel. there is nowhere further from nowhere than Brockton, city in mind. c u there!
night of going bonkers and night of dancing sweat and night of troops frightened into action and night of cluttering moonlight: all in all, and something to say. be normative, then, my friends, in the electricity provoked by whatever discussion sits on the table with the red and white checkered tablecloth and the candle dripping yesterday. your community awaits the delicacy of your touch. the folk of Brockton are up in arms, or floating in the living room. each day is rather lovely, after all.
the singing frogs proved their excitement that the textbooks once again were right. bats caught the joke and entered flight patterns reaching limits of squirrel. in Brockton, your dance partner has been there, and is pleased, additionally, to explain where ‘there’ might be. you go along because ‘here’ is over, or at least needs an overhaul.
Brockton invites all those who have the idea and the words to say what they think or think what they say. hunger is a continent and parsimony a clever joke aimed at a certain few. the efforts of the magnanimous provoke traffic lights to open avenues to all inspired travel. there is nowhere further from nowhere than Brockton, city in mind. c u there!
night of going bonkers and night of dancing sweat and night of troops frightened into action and night of cluttering moonlight: all in all, and something to say. be normative, then, my friends, in the electricity provoked by whatever discussion sits on the table with the red and white checkered tablecloth and the candle dripping yesterday. your community awaits the delicacy of your touch. the folk of Brockton are up in arms, or floating in the living room. each day is rather lovely, after all.
Philosophy for Beginners
these chords, my simulated heart, make my father die while crying for a day. these chords, a little warzone, pities the wife and child, the people. these days, the night has a fat moonlight building to the end of time. time ends today, my friends. these chords are correct and lurching, breaking the afternoon into shards for evening’s sake. why talk, the world is a bomb. my bomb loves my wife and child, and dad’s a good gentle man. do you love the bland fog of last night, and how the morning went deftly quiet, no explosions or tearing noise? our changes are crude indications of some fiery element called a final chord. that chord is voiced for seasons and the glinting ray. spring starts early, in our very day, and we feel no loss whatsoever. we’ve got this elegant charge and start. look how vocal one can be, words all around. these chords, brusque and diffident, in the age that wears on us, speaks these seasons and these trysts. I love my wife, my son, my father and my light. we should all be together. good night in love extending thru the doors and windows to the very night abroad. we are soaring chords alone.
Reply to Maria Shriver
my god Maria Shriver, the awesome stars sing, as brilliant as your teeth! anything you say is everything. if I could but write the word that you are, finding each perfect letter by the side of the road. I need the dazed perfection of your eyes, that sees vocabulary in everything you do. if I could just understand words as things, as do you, and nail them to my friends, I would be whole and complete, a vocabulary beyond reach. believe me, Maria Shirver, I am curious about you, and your busted butt; I truly want to be an instance in this world. you have history, invented primly for your purposes. please indulge me the time it takes to write to you, my words learn to speak. sincerely, Allen, endlessly
Yes, That Maria Shriver
eople droop, try hard. people go over there, look around, come back and tell about it, using any word they can approach. it's rainy, but see the clear area over that way. people talk and listen, have grapefruits flown in from tropical places, think of friends. friends are people, distant, average. a good time's to be had, people looking at their watches. thoughts brought to mind are shared, people at work. work is an advantage for some, a breaking for others. people make up stories. stories fill our homes, standing nicely on our shelves. people read up, get things down. "hi, I am Maria Shriver, my explanation is simple." some people are everyone, celebrated, and the time is right. what Maria Shriver writes is just one example. won't you please come into this room? Maria Shriver in the bathroom. people drop from the sky, curious and curiously. landing on earth is just another day. people see Maria Shriver and know everything. the time will be right, and the writing will point this out. Maria Shriver is someone, anywhere. it makes no difference if there is no name here, just a flat plane known as someone. anyone who is someone can go home.
Weeeyard Inci dent
Weirdincident...[1] also called, When a naked woman waves at you in the night?
Lets see how what happened one night late winter. I was carrying a cold around and you know how a head carrying around the cold feels, awfully heavy and weird as if you are pregnant in your head, a vague debilitating feeling which prompts questions like how many cartoon characters you know that have committed suicide? Under such difficult circumstances, S asked me for a drink down the pub, though it was a weekday given my state, I thought it wasn’t a bad idea at all and as expected we had a fairly good time but were unable to escape darkly futile detours like how many cartoon characters we knew that had committed suicide? But by and large it wasn’t too bad at all and after returning I went straight to bed only to be awakened by my head crying itself in pain at 3 am so naturally I went to the kitchen to pop a couple paracetamols and as I peered at the darkness through the window I saw a bare-naked glowing feminine form, lovely and pale, smiling and waving at me, given the state of my head and the drink inside it I waved back impulsively without sparing a thought and duly went back to bed only did when I realise the nature of the incident and returned back to the window to find nothing , no man or woman waving , not even a sausage; oh the old mind playing tricks or the drink or the cold or perhaps a combination of all, I buried myself beneath the linens of a cliché and went to deep dark noiseless sleep and when I woke up P was smiling her lovely smile and making me a fresh coffee, morning I wished back and during the course of conversation casually remarked about the incident and she first thought I was taking the mick out but then scoffed saying she had found a marble underneath the bed last night to which I promptly replied mine were fine the last time I checked and then I asked her two questions - 1 How many cartoon characters she knew that have killed themselves? and 2 Does she believe in ghosts? She disdainfully dismissed in one stroke of feminine genius saying ah you should watch your drink , but the cheeky girl she is,worried within that someone was trying to seduce me, had walked all the way through to the security office which led to the cctv footage of the night in question to be scanned frame by frame and eventually culminated in me discovering in the newspaper the following day that some religious cult was hanging around in the vicinity of my backyard having orgies at late night; I, of course was filled with a deep sense of regret to have missed the opportunity that would have gone directly up to the top five of the 100 things about me chartlist, oh what a miss,I had pictured myself proudly saying gentleman and ladies, ask not what syphilis did to you , ask what you did to the syphilis? and how you did it? but for now I just pray and hope at nights standing before the window not minding the three cameras that have been newly fitted for an omen.
So dear reader, kindly do something more than waving back at the naked woman who waves at you in the night from outside a window for these days not everyone can have the chance to be in an orgy , Heck ! How many cartoon characters you know who were in an orgy anyway?
Lets see how what happened one night late winter. I was carrying a cold around and you know how a head carrying around the cold feels, awfully heavy and weird as if you are pregnant in your head, a vague debilitating feeling which prompts questions like how many cartoon characters you know that have committed suicide? Under such difficult circumstances, S asked me for a drink down the pub, though it was a weekday given my state, I thought it wasn’t a bad idea at all and as expected we had a fairly good time but were unable to escape darkly futile detours like how many cartoon characters we knew that had committed suicide? But by and large it wasn’t too bad at all and after returning I went straight to bed only to be awakened by my head crying itself in pain at 3 am so naturally I went to the kitchen to pop a couple paracetamols and as I peered at the darkness through the window I saw a bare-naked glowing feminine form, lovely and pale, smiling and waving at me, given the state of my head and the drink inside it I waved back impulsively without sparing a thought and duly went back to bed only did when I realise the nature of the incident and returned back to the window to find nothing , no man or woman waving , not even a sausage; oh the old mind playing tricks or the drink or the cold or perhaps a combination of all, I buried myself beneath the linens of a cliché and went to deep dark noiseless sleep and when I woke up P was smiling her lovely smile and making me a fresh coffee, morning I wished back and during the course of conversation casually remarked about the incident and she first thought I was taking the mick out but then scoffed saying she had found a marble underneath the bed last night to which I promptly replied mine were fine the last time I checked and then I asked her two questions - 1 How many cartoon characters she knew that have killed themselves? and 2 Does she believe in ghosts? She disdainfully dismissed in one stroke of feminine genius saying ah you should watch your drink , but the cheeky girl she is,worried within that someone was trying to seduce me, had walked all the way through to the security office which led to the cctv footage of the night in question to be scanned frame by frame and eventually culminated in me discovering in the newspaper the following day that some religious cult was hanging around in the vicinity of my backyard having orgies at late night; I, of course was filled with a deep sense of regret to have missed the opportunity that would have gone directly up to the top five of the 100 things about me chartlist, oh what a miss,I had pictured myself proudly saying gentleman and ladies, ask not what syphilis did to you , ask what you did to the syphilis? and how you did it? but for now I just pray and hope at nights standing before the window not minding the three cameras that have been newly fitted for an omen.
So dear reader, kindly do something more than waving back at the naked woman who waves at you in the night from outside a window for these days not everyone can have the chance to be in an orgy , Heck ! How many cartoon characters you know who were in an orgy anyway?
reterritory sonnet
pondering the wandering pome
emitted on a potentially finite infinity
of machines machined by keyboard fingers
wondering about the state of the pome
emitted in this manner on whether it is
a copy a simulacrum or a multiplicity
caught in a becoming-multiplicity
of nature changing lines spreading
horizontally through connections
of machines to one text creating
a textus of texts filament on filament
of dots of light of different colours
as before the filagreed compartments
of paper
as now the lines of light of screen
emitted on a potentially finite infinity
of machines machined by keyboard fingers
wondering about the state of the pome
emitted in this manner on whether it is
a copy a simulacrum or a multiplicity
caught in a becoming-multiplicity
of nature changing lines spreading
horizontally through connections
of machines to one text creating
a textus of texts filament on filament
of dots of light of different colours
as before the filagreed compartments
of paper
as now the lines of light of screen
Electric,
this fire burns
dreadful
and all at once
we are branded
survivors
or witless
shakers of
silence.
Once, you plucked
a thorn from this bush,
said,
take me to
tomorrow, there I will be
branches, there
I will know
sorrow
no longer
than these days. Battered
winds of empty
passing, corridors
are the ones winding
into concrete,
thin air.
A step at a time.
this fire burns
dreadful
and all at once
we are branded
survivors
or witless
shakers of
silence.
Once, you plucked
a thorn from this bush,
said,
take me to
tomorrow, there I will be
branches, there
I will know
sorrow
no longer
than these days. Battered
winds of empty
passing, corridors
are the ones winding
into concrete,
thin air.
A step at a time.
the first time...
The first time I read Baudrillard has to be called an accident. I was housesitting for some well-off, sweet, writerly people who had a massive library, books everywhere, in every nook and cranny in a house with a lot of nooks and crannies. A lot of their books were hippy-scholarly, nonfiction, loads of easternalia or whatnot, psychology books, Buddhism books, hundreds of cooks. As I say, they were sweet people and they had sweet dogs. Also, they left us some pot, very kind, and in those days I liked to smoke jazz cigarettes. Smoking a jazz cigarette and walking the hounds in the snow.
Of course I spent a lot of time the first night perusing the bookcases. Not a primarily literary library, so I was moving quickly. Somehow improbably (it felt improbable at the time, in this collection) I spotted a book called The Transparency of Evil by Jean Baudrillard. The title intrigued me. I'd never heard of Baudrillard. I had no reference whatsoever. I liked the cover. I began reading it and thought, What the hell is this?
Anyway, it gripped me. I came to read a lot of his books, seduced by his figures of speech. They smoke, and he uses all of them. I came to feel he was creating texts, following the trajectory of his own language-making. Not necessarily explicating anything. Later (and later came quickly), it was hard to defend some of his "political" positions, most importantly to myself, but his poetry, if I can call it that, knocked my head into startling new word-places I found fantastically pleasurable, kind of like an I Ching effect or something. The literariness of his texts, if not his program, is why I think his books will survive (well, you know, as things survive), and I am happy for anyone who has never read him to first encounter these canny pieces of literature.
Here ends my chatty remembrance.
Of course I spent a lot of time the first night perusing the bookcases. Not a primarily literary library, so I was moving quickly. Somehow improbably (it felt improbable at the time, in this collection) I spotted a book called The Transparency of Evil by Jean Baudrillard. The title intrigued me. I'd never heard of Baudrillard. I had no reference whatsoever. I liked the cover. I began reading it and thought, What the hell is this?
Anyway, it gripped me. I came to read a lot of his books, seduced by his figures of speech. They smoke, and he uses all of them. I came to feel he was creating texts, following the trajectory of his own language-making. Not necessarily explicating anything. Later (and later came quickly), it was hard to defend some of his "political" positions, most importantly to myself, but his poetry, if I can call it that, knocked my head into startling new word-places I found fantastically pleasurable, kind of like an I Ching effect or something. The literariness of his texts, if not his program, is why I think his books will survive (well, you know, as things survive), and I am happy for anyone who has never read him to first encounter these canny pieces of literature.
Here ends my chatty remembrance.
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