No escape

The boxwood hedge
In the morning glimmer
Glistening with grass spider webs
The metallic buzz of cicadas
Already the heat a sodden wrap

A glass jar
A large hornworm
On a tomato leaf
Black frass
Spotting the green

No escape
Heat of the sun condensed
In a glass bubble

Tomorrow, Maybe

Or maybe, not.

exclamation somersault

The Traveler

Down the road that
I designed myself

from a hundred walks
through many minutes

of a life, I still cannot
construct an audience

of birds, the tawny-green
of grasses bowing softly,

a patient, secret way
through honey-colored fields.

Thoughtfully, I built the silence,
hairless, weightless winds, yet

pressing down on flowers,
down like bodies of the men

who came and went, hunting
hounds racing through

ribboned, tangled woods-
the woods that I became.

Now I'll raise a tower, stone,
the road will pass beside it,

stars that I have hung, alone
and quiet in a handmade sky

will guide the traveler home.

posted here first

the reference is gone now,
you want reference, toronada,
rogers malts, taj mahal tea,
blank to all, semi-erotics,
what is a good piece, posit
interactions, lenar, orphange,
communication before death,
here and now is everywhere
and everywhen, this oughta
be typed up for all to
read, master of illusion
or, pollom, your famous
dinosaur, still fighting,

The Majesty of Words

Borges
wrote by candlelight
the quixotic
Eros of his thoughts
never blinded
to the majesty
of words

Waiting for the bus to ...

magwannroadfull

brimming multitude

on the becoming-molecule sur le devenir-imperceptible on the becoming-imperceptible sur le devenir-molécule d'une foule brimeuse
of a brimming mob


aphorisme de merde

Par définition, un poète est tout sauf, à la lettre, un poète.
Ceux qui se disent poètes ont beaucoup d'avenir, mais ils ne deviennent rien.

Scouts are Cancelled: The Movie (Hot docs)

Days PoemCover, Volume 1




Days PoemCover, Volume 1, 

the covers to my 2-volume poem Days Poem, due out soon from Meritage Press.

Days Poem Cover, Volume 2


Days Poem Cover, Volume 2, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

I'M GIVING UP THINKING ABOUT MATH AND SPENDING MY DAYS IMAGINING GOD

I don't get negative 2
and I don't have
time left to get it.

If I can't hold
negative 2 quarters
I'm not interested
in thinking about
negative 2 quarters.

I can't see God
but I can hold God
and God doesn't feel
like negative 2 quarters
to me.

But I can't explain why
and I don't have time
left for that either.

Throat

Victrola spins a threnody of writhing silk bolts;
billows blue damask from outsized spools. Trapped wing-beats,
tourmaline eye-beads, red netting on vintage millinery.

Soft bodies flutter and bleat behind epiglottis. An urgent entreaty
and the chanteuse opens her throat to release—Calliope,
Magnificent, Violet-Crowned, Lucifer. The feather tracts,

the pearl gray tips, the exotic decurving. Oh magenta gorget.
Black gorget with purple throat band.
White gorget with purple rays that may be erected.

I call this song Zelda Babycakes. Stiff swirls of frosting
instill an ache in sensitive teeth. Sugared plumules drifting.
I call this song Waverly Featherlashes. How could I resist

those exquisite eyes, those sultry sighs, that diaphanous warbling.
Captivated beak peaks through scarlet veil. Pinnaed neck undulates
until it is transfixed in the piercingly sweet envoi’s clasp:

ornamental hat pin through the throat of a hummingbird.

Diogenes and Asphalt

These mere dalliances, thoughts thought without regard for proper grammar, syntax or sentence structure. I will have none of it, none whatsoever. I am it; I am the dalliance, the mere thought of thinking, the fracturing off that results in less structure and further dalliance, a flirtation with word and text. All is mere appearance, simulacrum of appearance, ghosts and spectres, jimmying and gerrymandering without a coattail to hang onto or a shirt-sleeve to fold up. Phenomena gone bad, seen from the wrong angle, from the inside out; seen from within the imaginary appearance of things seen but not seen, the unseeable. Oh so Becketty, you say, you hotrods and quinces, you better-thanes and, by all appearances, come what titter’s. Diogenes was a spoil sport, knee crooked beneath elm and oakweek, casting aspersions upon whomever would stop long enough to be caught standing long enough, so it goes, one long antecedent chain of nonsense and blither. Fuck it (Regenstein) but I’m all tuckered out, spent like a sulphur match struck against a wooden leg scrabbled across hot steaming asphalt, a mirage of heat sores and syphilitic wanes, or so they say, they who are the imaginary other to your you and me. It’s all in the appearances, mere dalliances and bad syntax.

vespers 3.14

vespers 3.14

shyd await

'he had questioned her too brutishly[...] through his silence, his waiting' p.1

awaiting always in verse
he shyd from banks of prose
and hid in the whirls of running
pools far from stagnant entroping

and yet rather than keeping silent and waiting he could never quite stop shrouding her in writing. he wanted to answer her though he knew not how. that was the problem with water, the sonic barrier that it was to his entropy. and so he stayed in the river for now. he knew she would rather he be in the room. he would be very soon. but for now the barrier needed to be sonic. through his questioning of her, length became continuance again.

was Sail_ed

ZidoliS serpent__ed around the tree of apples around apple trees of hortusyard of apple orchards. SidoliZ pruned of S idoliZ graft his shaffty i into sap of tree doliZ graft_ed seed of he into old apple tree dolZ gave his o to fend off rot dlZ digs. dlZ discarded dental liquids to become Z Z in january sing songs to fend off feral spirits 'old apple tree Z wassails thee and hopes that thou shalt bear and so merry let Z___be and health to ye old apple tree' Z wasSailed all night all night Z was Sail__ed back and forth of orchard of hubris in hortus yard of Z's wassails. the rooting apple tree apples rotting SidoliZ fell to ground and serpent__ed away. SidoliZ wiggled back into place. ZidoliS zizzed off.

Outside The Civil Court Building In St. Louis

Outside the civil court building in St. Louis
I sat in the sunlight beside the suicide of a stiff March wind blowing in the first full day of spring
The budding branches of trees rock erratically while their shadows dance on the concrete
The blue tongue of the wind licks about my hair that can not dare to care if the sun filled air will or will not set it aflame
All the same my body is a barrier that the wind pushes against as if to nudge me toward an infinite question
Where forth have the Gods hung me out to dry on the wind swept cloth line of a secluded time pregnant with the motion of a squirrel murmuring the age old answer buried last fall in the pocket of the earth now my poetic crown and emotional vestment flapping in the liturgical wind speak of Moses and his hallucinated friend
The tulip tree and the daffodils are in full body bloom
The tree drops its pink petals in a sweet smelling snow
I am a juror in the case against the canonical hour of spring
The prosecutor of answers weep vowels and strangled consonants while spring is left to pled its case with the evidence of the Purple Martins return to St. Louis
The sun is the judge while the wind blows its argument into a crack in the sky and the blacks are held prisoner by a chain of dandelions strung around their ankles and a handcuff of Dove’s feathers around their wrists they move in a line step by step and take their seats in the lap of lady justice
Evidence one the last of the snow have forgotten to fall where the sun’s avalanche engulf buildings and trees and the sleeping asphalt of the streets
Evidence two a small rain of green things is budding on the trees holding a visible nest of a flying creature
Evidence three the flowers of tulips are held in the feeding of its leaves beneath the shadow of an Eurasian Tree Sparrow chipping its throated song along top a rustic chain-link fence
The court room is worth 12 dollar a day a small price to pay this slave wage in the fatty country in the western world
The case is done and spring have won the blacks are released to the custody of the sun where they grow darker day by day and their darkness can not be rained away

Black Kitchen Shoes

my grandmother
boiled potatoes and cabbage
in the same pot, ladling the fat from the simmer
with the same spoon she used to lay welts
into the corm of my back

she used the flat
of her hand to pit bulgur mewl
and a gar to well the crusts, the one my father
used to stave apples from the top
of the neighbour’s tree

my grandmother
fed us blood pudding and rice
barrowing cows’ tongue in cheesecloth, and wore
the same black kitchen shoes to church
summer through fall
How carefully we must have placed ourselves among rains redeeming not to slip on the tongues of frogs, or the wing of locust.

hunger confused by half lemon


crunchy sleep in the corner
of eyes awake with weakerthan
song circling inside heavy
cranium with teeth almost
clenched not from the song
rather from endless work
grind in the book smithy
hammer forge and anneal
so straighten stretch slide
between bedsheets pushing
balled socks with legs toward
open side of the bed and
carpeted floor hall to bathroom
water! water both ways sigh

east of here the sun has
been in morning sky for hours
a small motor stolen two summers
ago boat is parked on frozen
ground in a town with its
same name in front of a house
a home no longer lived in full
because of a job in the city
a mother her parents her
daughter in cement spavaonica
across from the old city eyes
still everywhere sleepless
friendly this time questions
glow in smiling cheeks

lips sealed shut from not
licking them in sleep awoke
curled small in pillowed corner
of double bed with grandmother-
made newfoundland wool
blankets on top thickest
over chilled feet the sound
of snowplow trucks scraping
the road to and from city
hall and police station not
that there’s accumulation or
even enough snow to cover
the asphalt from yesterday
and night’s falling flurries

reading occult poetry from California before the rain

     sometimes the impertinent rain
steps aside and lets this old redundancy
through the line. fascinating how
a biological process, a meteorology,
recognize each other’s occult symbolism
and necessitates the practice of common
gestures in lieu of remarks, to guide,
to divulge, the way of wandering
that limits reason by at the very next
turning slides a body through, like gold
in a vein, the cave precipitates a logic
all its own, and there’s a bear, berries,
there’s a symbol, seeds. sometimes an
indifferent set of constructs is all any
bad wind needs to blow, in captivity.
in a rage the truck comes, dry as whistle.

3/14

Memento

Fumbling fingers, blood spilt on white piano keys; and you speak of unborn virgins that lift their skirts with pride.
Soaking, delicious, blood falls lazily, streams down between your legs with a soft moan of pleasure.
the eyes spring forward with madness, the spine breaches the surface; fumbling fingers now achingly precise.
Do not stop! Crouching, slithering from piece to piece, page to page; lick each divine composition with breathless certainty.
Whisper the beauty you see before you, the horrific beauty that huddles deceitfully in the shadows of this monster.
Spit words and verses that are scribbled out on sleepless mornings, fresh dew; the words I know you never meant to say.
Eyes wide and mouth ready to take the fall, dissipate the truth from our veins and smile with bloody teeth.
Persisting, prolonged, ever-present, you shake when I suck you dry, I shake when you look in my direction.

20070320

à celle que tu fus et que nous fûmes ce sonnet


pensée d'une femme aimée longtemps

il y a longtemps déjà

petits restes de longue étendue

d'un dernier 'je t'aime' entr'aperçu

de fiançailles rompues

rien que ça

coulées chaudes du long de pommettes

tassement et détente d'un diaphragme

salive épaisse asphyxiante

érosion salée d'un coin de l'oeil

écume gélatineuse de commissures

tristesse de pouvoir trop grand

d'un vide laissé derrière ces

vers de pierre assemblés

another untitled

(On my victrola: Catherine Wheel- "Black Metallic")

1.

whirlpool such vidpuni cranch
flurry spar so politic Algol
psalm ruby
accrual chimp a silk jolt spawning lunar
indigo gibbons
act to fall into scylpt ghosts of Alnitak

2.

Tara ran Ararat raft
brisk a snarky half iron lamia
Ararat walking
stairway arts
half of story about brisk fighting is young
war child's angular rainbow
brash mind dying shorn
basilisk alloy of craving traps
for ink black

3.

quagga cutbacks ramify
aggry aglow raucous sculsh dull stuff
instruction sallow
scuttling skid is troll apt smog limits
afar myrrh

4.

labyrinth wail obsidian syzygy
trick wisp and strict sharp swarm martyrdom
with sloom so oblivious
as his odd wink passport

unknown ash
by azury myth again by strait bright air
scurry skills twitch
with usurp spiralling salvia


Never/ever/always

"The calm detour of thought, the return from itself to itself in waiting." p 41

"...shrouded in the writing, and carried by it beyond any possible beginning" she returned to waiting for never, with uncertainties rife and rivers creaking under chemistry, she could not quell diversion or bypass restraint, let alone face eels that slip through their own e’s, with a language that yields to catch. She always carried-back to page 1 where oNe glimpse closed over another. Did he remember how “continuance became length ? when this way escaped that before morning, and yet more rivers burst the banks of tongue.

ongoing long poem from Wonderland

11. Hermit Kingdom

bags were
emptied
and reified and
left
be-
hind

in my Sunday
suit
in bed
with Jeom-
Sook
animal
planet on the telly
mainly excited during
slide-down
animal tilt
side-
ways &
ver-
tical
blow-
job
with
swallow
bite
my little
tit

in-
spire

trans-
pire

em-
pire

can’t
get
out

of bed
except
to eat

Korean
pizza
with
hot sauce

12. In the Beginning

first birth has no grace
but a whelping
at the edge
of abyss
supreme clean
gums
all things re-
turn
in labor whereby
our only
mother
feeds
silence
in the manicured
garden
and first
and only
mother won’t
it be
fine
shaded
moans
roots
breaking
through rooms

the ghost-
ly
appendage
re-affixes
itself
and dear
mother dear
mother
crushes
Descarte’s
golden
flower
under
her heels

.

NO SQUARES 2

ZidoliS crosS_ed

ZidoliS crossed the steps to other sidle to other side sidling along willing to slide a_cross the tarred steps of moOr. Tarr Steps peacock colours brighter than five tone stones of river cross fjord fording SidoliZ came back to other side of ford waddling next to steps. little kitties squirreling over and under under and over tartre stepS idoli Zinging a_cross the river ford at the speed of zing, zing zang ZidoliS sing sang his way along with the peacock's wheezy horn for directions. speed of zing crossing peacock coverts green is green of tarrinn tarr inn across to dark blue water coverts, winter approaching surface crystalizing ZidoliS not bragging water icing bragg's law. diriverting no icing ZidoliS bragging diffraction no water particles crystalising but time crystal. time cryZtal of SidoliZ croSZing.

ZidoliS crosS_ed steps back. the kittying squirrels called ZidoliS off as peacock showed him off on his way away from the peahen.

office chatter

“Barb’s not at all nice, but she’s just as criminal.”

“Tell me, tell me.” “She’s accompanied me correctly.”

“But Monday mornings, you can’t talk.”
“Ha. Trying to wake up.”



back

front

hello again, shifted in the move to google
reinvited to say something but the tidal wave has flooded all thought. it's too overwhelming here. how does one
read all the entries?

hello hello hello


stevenallenmay
planbpress

always the same morning light p.40

never is ever as uncertain
certainties of molecules
unforming back to verse
precipitate impulse to prose
yet again in the yielding river

and a shimmering cry

O molly quewells hiding
from the rivers in the rivers
capting the leaked light shadows
of morning at Tarr Steps like eels
riding east to catch the last
morning light which is just
another way to escape continuing
west along the language of she said...

untitled

Tvashtar avatar
padishah ash things ftagn cargo
crawling zarlak avid wall

stay rags aroma
spurious day adorn sigil Ishtar church
balks charcoal

fault is this
star too wild old agonist
ossuary of attain matrix

for indigo scurry wail crowbar ogham
borax scaffold croon
warping swank flip filch ingot

ago Uz
you grip flowing sanguinary skald


preludiC oStiNatO

after Louis-René des Forêts

When fiction replaces reality, the climate becomes less burdensome, vision larger and beings can breathe at last in their element and find again, without much effort, a liberty of mouvement which carries them, playing out of constraints, to the summits of inventive capabilities...


so on to preludiC oStiNatoS
to ludic play of infanthood
of making it up as we go
along the lines we draw
the lines we didn't but
speak of anyway, any
ways as which will carry
the ostinatos along the pre
ludic joy of ZidoliS' plight
of ludic joy of ZidoliS' flight

single thoughts

single thoughts
shape some (pattern) lined
clearly "blind
'some days fucked, 'ously"
concerned'd (?) thai
restaurant door
propped open "formless
hollow period (running to)"
compressor on
(oiling) spray
sidewalk 'lently
(so alone) knocking
knuckle around crease
(s) one thinking
(back'd in)
"pretty ('holy')
monkey stripping
quickly" face no
face pulled
feet washed
water twice
before "emptied and
clean" forehead sweat
seating exaggeration
under tongue finger
scratched bled't
seating hand wiped
water twice
dragg'd it down
intention (less) (like)
"random stupid car
ridden, now" open
arm scratched stuck
(back up)
blood edible donut(s)
lumped which barely let't

horse of a different color

dance to the rythm of the war


Dance to the rythm of the war

For some of us it's still just to soon


Years ago I played synthesizer in a band, one of our most successful on stage tunes had the chorus "dance to the rythm of the war" and the audience did exactly that. Only a few recognized the irony. Back then the tune was a crossover between funk and what we thought was a cherokee wardance. The tune I present now is a crossover between drum 'n bass, electro punk and new age.
I'm not sure why I made this tune + video. Maybe because the emotional undercurrent in our timeframe has a _remote_ resemblance to the era preceeding 1914. Then the world knowingly or unknowingly rushed into what some people saw as "the happy war" now known as the "great war". Or maybe I made this for my students who hate my math lectures, grow up in an increasingly xenophobic society and like to play "Gears of war" all day. (not necessarily in that order)


Anyway, I hope somebody downloads this tune and takes it to a local club and invokes the irony of the "dance to rythm of the war" and perhaps sparks some thoughts.


The videoclip is designed for the large screens most clubs today have. The clip is a visual rollercoaster, the start is a take off in a jet plane and it ends with a glorious combat kill straight from "Gears of war". The main ingredients of the music are a vintage Korg MS20 analog synthesizer, a text to speach processor from Microsoft plus a load of digital voodoo. By the way the voice over is a plug-in nicked Microsoft Sam.

Of course i have youtubed this, what else, however the youtube quality is mediocre, for a reasonable full screen quality please download a wmv file here >>> dance to the rythm of the war.




Freud: The Child at Play (what was I thinking?)

Freud referred to the child as a processor of imaginative activity. In play, the child uses his or her imagination to ‘recreate’ notions of reality. Freud suggests that the creative writer in many ways exemplifies the child’s need for imaginative play drawn through to adulthood.
The creative writer does the same thing as the child at play. He creates a world of phantasy which he takes very seriously-that is, which he then invests with large amounts of emotion--while separating it sharply from reality. (Freud, 1990, V.14, p.132)
In adult terms, creativity allows the writer to recreate realities to satisfy an inherent need to create order out of the disorder of commonly experienced situations and environments. Creativity allows us to rearrange the terms of reality and enhance the notions of imagination and phantasy. In this manner, phantasy plays an integral role in the notion of creativity. Phantasies represent wish fulfillments that are common to all individuals, though not always accessible. We phantasize in order to fulfil needs that cannot be satisfied in reality. As Freud explained,
We may lay it down that a happy person never phantasies, only an unsatisfied one. The motive forces of phantasies are unsatisfied wishes, and every single phantasy is the fulfilment of a wish, a correction of unsatisfied reality. (Ibid. p.134)
These phantasies include sexual or erotic leanings that are affected by the Oedipal Conflict, and impact the imagination and creativity of the individual. In the Oedipal conflict the male child harbors feelings of love and attachment to the mother, while holding anger and hostility towards the father. In the young girl, the process is understood as the reverse. These activities fit themselves into the individual’s ‘shifting’ impressions of life, and change with every change in that individual’s situation.
What it thus creates is a daydream or phantasy, which carries about it traces of its origin from the occasion which provoked it and from the memory. (Ibid. p.135)
Imaginative activity is a cornerstone of the creation of phantasies, as it enables the repressed to find expression in symptomatic behaviours, which are present in the acting out of the phantasy. Freud writes,
As people grow up, then, they cease to play, and they seem to give up the yield of pleasure which they gained from playing. But whoever understands the human mind knows that hardly anything is harder for a man than to give up a pleasure which he has once experienced. Actually, we can never give anything up; we only exchange one thing for another. What appears to be a renunciation is really the formation of a substitute or surrogate. In the same way, the growing child, when he stops playing, gives up nothing but the link with real objects; instead of playing, he now phantasies. He builds castles in the air and creates what are called day-dreams. (Ibid. p.133)