wher e did tha t go ?

where did it go? where did that
body go
where did that , wisp, love, go?
in snow? half-cut rhyme slacked
by the running section of tuba-trombone?
was that her hair, in the wind, on a night bus,
parking near the back of a cabin, a language,
gift, to her eyes, tongue, the air of its salt taste,
the rare reckoning of love, her, her s .

You Could Be Hit By The Same Spatial Eddies That Set the Flier Off Course

The dog barks green, the earth of spring. In spring of all weather and whether or not, the light suffers change of tree. Tiny trees begat large rags and rages in each day. And soon a smile thru sunset gives a glow but now we are dry. No drier to forget the teeming winter without effort, and the saddened summer that lack all it could. Now the dog at peak stays green with a bark worse than a frog's. We hold our heads together with this line f reasoning. So strong a listening of a patron, the best could be rabbit. That rabbit, hidden in grass, and grumbling about the weather that didn't stay, remains a dust spoken in between. Lifeless pauses constrict a tale, but that rabbit rushes towards wherever is convenient. And the rains stopped enough to let the rivers spread. They've spread into Concord and all the other edges. Thoreau dreams the dog, we dream the green, the evening fills its space with open window. So much more myth than history lives.

I am the song I cannot sing
I am chained to your whims
I am the lesson I cannot learn
I am the hallow cistern
I am the eyes of the dead
I am bound to your might
I am the over-wound clock
I am the sun's last breath
I am the fading dream
Drink,
Drink,
Drink my surrender

The art of Forgetting and Remembering:

It is like this-

Lurpak unsalted or slightly salted? Hmmm. Salt for bones,for oceans , ah! what makes the seas less saltier than oceans? Oh the sea and the mind of the sea!! Sudden soft feminine hands on shoulders. Shrill of excitement, familiar voice. Surprised, who could this be? Unusual...now...turn back now.
Hello how are you? ermm fine, what’s her name, smile smile. Ha, When are you back here? No just visiting. I’m fine, fine. Ah! she used to work in my previous team, remember she has a tattoo on her arm, what’s er bloody name? Come,come,come Now. I am here just for a few days, a special enquiry, how are you? ....Oh.. Thank you! You look good yourself. Round face, long hair, nose quite economical, unhappy almond eyes, has she done her hair? Smiles a lot , unnecessarily. What’s her bloody name? Tip of tongue, tipotong, tipon No, Come now Please. Oh She is fine , Yeah he is fine too, on a holiday now in Catalunya, yes.
Yes , been around. Ill be here till Wednesday , yeah we should meet up for a drink. Sure Sure. what’s her name, Strange divinity and coincidences, must be getting old, starts with B, name name name?
Yes she was the one who got drunk on blond at the castle arms. Yes that’s her, that face yes, but what’s her name? Bev? No! Shit. Don take chances. Risky and embarrassing- This memory box and the mastered art of forgetting, Oh! Be nice and get over it, high standards.
Right, nice seeing you, you too.
Catch you.
Bye now,
Bye , bye.................yes B.. Brenda...yes , yes.
Hey bye now Brenda,
Brenda Chapman.
It is like this
Back to butter , hmmm slight salted then.

nova. nowa. new. explosions. the auspicious One.

mind is an accordion, an old squeezebox

travel in perpendicular motion of the bellows

sounding an entire

chord by

depressing

one key

Fenland Spoil and Castor

The eating of mock-chicken, 85% beef bolognas, and mock-bologna, for that matter, is strictly forbidden. Liver worst and kidney is fine, but must be boiled at a temperature not in excess of 200% centigrade or below that of a stern simmer or roil, depending on whether you are using a convex-oven or a hotplate. She complained that you smell of boiled scald-clothe and rabies. I said you were lycanthropic and smelled of no such thing. I said she’d said enough; she that I had said too much yet said nothing at all, nothing at least of importance, not yet at least. She had the faint ardour of sackcloth, like that worn by roustabouts and roughnecks. I smelt dimly of celery-root, a bunghole bung tamped into place with a cooper’s hammer, the very same one I use to recant so forth fare well knar-do-whale. In the ego lies the Lego-logos, that place where nothing much happens, and if it did, no one would give a rat’s ass that it did. He, this fellow who is I, writes from within the Lego-logos, constructing and reconstructing blither and blather and dither, a sty-pen of mad-cattery and fenland fen, all this spoil and rot, wither come or not, it’s all a bunch of hooey. I knew a guy in high school named Cedric Van Mahooey, he has probably gone onto greater things than I, scald-cloth and rabies and cooper’s mallet held at the ready, for tamping and bunging and for relieving the stench of sackcloth and onions, skins left on.

Moving Still

Click to Play

experimental short

'clamor

clamor inly not
as mowers rage, halcyon
the mute interval

more and more silent, less and
less the need to distinguish

Distil Later

illusive parts of the last sentence, calls frog music into play. Frog music tones down into night, you might as well swim the dark. The dark isn't tune itself but a membrane left behind. Your words are given. How much more the words could entail just by being frog? Let the frog go. As the frog goes, you listen, it splashes. It marks situation on the map. It is not hungry but timed. You are timed. I am timed. This table is red now, timed. The illusive part of the next sentence won't matter without frogs. Frogs play with us. Their chair is a refrigerator tuned to staying. Their refrigerator is a stair tuned to chaining. The cat offers nothing yet, simple awaits by an empty bowl. An average works out to extension, as in the wide night or the bones of breakfast. When we hear that a poem exists, someone in the dark perhaps, we are alert. We remain so until the poem falls apart. Gravity of poem, in its frog voice, stays with us. We look at gravity as a thing. The thing somehow remains, as it disappears, not beaten, not exactly proven.

Neo-modernistic Explosion

When I cut myself, blood
rises like bread. Lavae
flows down the mountain
into the sea. See the smoke-
it has no body. Remember
how fair the skin stretched
across bones, how green

the hills before flame?

My spirit is pulsing. The river,
cool as sleeping in snow. Now,
trees jangle and ring like thin
leaden bells, latticed and poisoned.
Remember the cold ocean swells,
how jeweled foam rolled into white
frothy crests- before eruption?

The Woman Who Wouldn't Steal the Key

to unlock the door
is a convict. Very likeable
woman, but her husband
glued her eyelids down
like shutters. Damn
blind woman- scratch
and claw until your nails
fall off. If you can't find
the key- break open
the lock.

DARK FOLLICLES

You forage for gorgeous dead flowers,
prettily decaying off their stems. Infested
moss grows on mouse bones. Bird beaks
cling to skeletal remains. You caress
a decadent wick; charm a snake
until it exudes this mesmerizing perfume:
--violet pastilles and burnt lace
--mounds of dilapidated doll meat
--acrid tinge of mons venus heat

It skitters like spider feet when you rip open
the black tasseling that sewed your servant girl’s lips into a snarl
until you were ready for her to speak. Now she’s your silk-lined clutch
with her decorative beading. Her knotty maw. Her rotten zinnias bleeding.
You fill her raw mouth-hole with a dark purple votive. You make her drip
violet wax when she whimpers. You make her flicker through your hall
of antique mirrors, then use her flame to plant a scorching kiss
into the furrowed scalp of your dirty mannikin head.
Dark tendrils steam and writhe from the root beds…

Colored Lamb Picket Fence...

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