I see a blossom where
you see error. Tell me,
what damage is worth
a flower? The blue-mouthed
iris speaks a broken
language, lives a random
life, a squatter's religion.
Here is where the root
meets rock, its secret
self; again, muscular
precision moves
the walls of earth.
Go further, down
an unknown distance-
in the evening, burial
on the sun-less hill.
Love Makes No Promises
piel quemada sol-- sol contusionado
fingertips that press with assurance
false eyes
hands that cover mouths quickly
move on
bottles scatter noisely
toy with the idea of deception
El amor no hace promesas
fingertips that press with assurance
false eyes
hands that cover mouths quickly
move on
bottles scatter noisely
toy with the idea of deception
El amor no hace promesas
SHRINE #6 (BLISTER PEARLS)
Folded in on myself and heavy-lidded,
the heat is unbearable.
My contortion is hinged legs,
singed hair, doll voice rattling
like charred marbles stuck behind the trapdoor
of a throat that used to be so musical,
so flexuous. So sweet-skinned
in my sequined acrobat dress and feathered masquerade mask.
I perfectly purled across laminated stages.
I lightly tumbled through flaming gold hoops
and white balloons without bursting,
without melting down…
Now the antique music box motif
is imprinted on my fevered forehead.
Folded in on myself and heavy-lidded,
this box is too small I can’t breathe.
Bones creak like sick swallow song.
My contortionism is twisted swan neck,
blistering. Beak bound shut with burnt ribbon.
White feathers disappear into acrid poofs
as the music box motor winds down;
scritches out the last few rusty notes—
bird vertebrae, cauterized syllables, crushed vowels.
Now I’m so small I could sift through
the tiny gold hoop of an earring.
Now I’m so small I’m hardly a handful
of ash from a pair of scorched pointe shoes.
Cremains of a smoldering pirouette,
bedecked with blood-stained baby teeth.
(inspired by the short film “BOX” by Takashi Miike)
the heat is unbearable.
My contortion is hinged legs,
singed hair, doll voice rattling
like charred marbles stuck behind the trapdoor
of a throat that used to be so musical,
so flexuous. So sweet-skinned
in my sequined acrobat dress and feathered masquerade mask.
I perfectly purled across laminated stages.
I lightly tumbled through flaming gold hoops
and white balloons without bursting,
without melting down…
Now the antique music box motif
is imprinted on my fevered forehead.
Folded in on myself and heavy-lidded,
this box is too small I can’t breathe.
Bones creak like sick swallow song.
My contortionism is twisted swan neck,
blistering. Beak bound shut with burnt ribbon.
White feathers disappear into acrid poofs
as the music box motor winds down;
scritches out the last few rusty notes—
bird vertebrae, cauterized syllables, crushed vowels.
Now I’m so small I could sift through
the tiny gold hoop of an earring.
Now I’m so small I’m hardly a handful
of ash from a pair of scorched pointe shoes.
Cremains of a smoldering pirouette,
bedecked with blood-stained baby teeth.
(inspired by the short film “BOX” by Takashi Miike)
a big man/man yell low
a big man/man
text-align:center
a man big man
cursor:pointer
yell low
style="display:block
a low a low
margin:0px auto 10px
a lo3w a lo9w
Jacques Plant's Face
The other day I found an Indianhead nickel in a tortoise shell. The day before that I found a string of pearls in a tin of Hilltop pork and beans; and the day before that a packet of Wringers’ chewing gum in an old shoe. Previous to those two days I found a scout’s woggle in a Tankard gin bottle. I don’t like the smell of junipers and beetroot or mulberry so I left the scout’s woggle where I found it, in the old shoe, and hightailed it home, the Indianhead nickel jingling in my pant’s pocket. When I got home the Hasidic butcher was on our front porch; he had a fistful of Eat More candy wrappers in one hand and a bundle of hockey cards cinched together with an elastic band, the Jacques Plant card on the top, in the other. He smelt faintly of lighter fluid and Crisco and his face was all red and blotchy, his right eye half-closed and prickly looking. I lost my Zippo the day before I found the Indianhead nickel in the tortoise shell. The day before that the corner store burned to the ground. And the day before that I found a Zippo in some old guy’s coat pocket, stuck to a Wringer’s chewing gum wrapper and a hard mint.
Jose Bitters and Milk Money
I smoked banana threads and corn fritters, cumin and allspice and the blackest black tea in a pie plate heated with a Zippo. I wrote my hockey card wish-list on the back of Eat More candy bar wrappers hoping beyond hope that the wishes would be granted; but they never were, so I burned down the corner store with the same Zippo I used to heat the bottom of pie plates, the one next to the Hasidic butcher who opened on Saturdays but asked me not to tell, or spend all my milk-money on Eat Mores and Fritters.
Bell Bottoms on a Rainy Day
psychotic Canaan
mistglimpse
phoned in blog entry
case by case drawing closer
sound of birds
beyond
mistglimpse
phoned in blog entry
case by case drawing closer
sound of birds
beyond
you propose prosopopoeia
your propose porpoise of posopopoeia Gilgamesh; Man proposes God dipods__dispose Pose as in One Rose Stam 'gainst the other. at lesFouFounesElectriques her arse was highmighty air. Whitman could not hold back bisexual built goddess. She was not catholick or protestation of cross-dress her high-built dress was catch-to-hook throng.
forget this. it is mightly . balk blake went to the decor to see Aix-La-Cham...ga..Blake went to See ApophRades of the deed. In the Land. was .
a letter tickered in his front teeth.
she was bard bare naked in buck naked bed.
etceter etcetera ....
--------------------------
forget this. it is mightly . balk blake went to the decor to see Aix-La-Cham...ga..Blake went to See ApophRades of the deed. In the Land. was .
a letter tickered in his front teeth.
she was bard bare naked in buck naked bed.
etceter etcetera ....
--------------------------
This is not a spoken poem
This is not a spoken poem
Of this inside of myself
It is about how they are in the desert
A desert of literature as spoken poem.
Illusory spaces, I dream. Many of us “pass” the landscape,
The beautiful and the most vulnerable about this us of us
Sometimes a more vast and enormous wilderness inside
Than that journaled out in the way they are, here.
This grand poetry, one filled with an infinite propensity for homeland
Solitary in pre-thought assurances
And an intuitive understanding of spoken word.
All this resulting in three inescapable objects,
Objects whose first glance ramifications define the image.
Image, thought, form.
I can remember viewing through this desert of understanding
Laced with the ever-present promise of infinite possibility.
As a comfort, I came to know what drove invaders, what advanced for them,
What was the very desire to see the thread running through all considered,
If only once more in this lifetime, If only once more.
Here where the desert must create a boundary between language and image,
Here where one must go to the multiple to even begin to describe
Here lies the one thing one expects to find from them, their presence.
I am thus, the process, a grand poetry, a visual poetry, a textual given language
I am images that are over real, part illusion, of their own land of their own selective focus I lived as they are with images separating one person from another
The process that I am a comfort to, the spoken poem re-considered.
The infinite geography of our inhabited space,
And the closer, the layer, this obscurantism that I was object to also.
thoughts on spies
something
should have skidded
someone
should have shafted a portal
then escape would have been
malignant
to us still feeding
on hope
but safety guts
through life paths
and mud waters decide
our feral level
it is what makes us being
we are one
in the the repression
of freedom things
should have skidded
someone
should have shafted a portal
then escape would have been
malignant
to us still feeding
on hope
but safety guts
through life paths
and mud waters decide
our feral level
it is what makes us being
we are one
in the the repression
of freedom things
IPrOPose
I ProPose a meeting betweeen William Blake and Walt Whitman. A prosopopoeia of the mind. Of trope mask song and teeth. Of Jerusalem and the mighty, the swing ing lilacs last heard and uncharterd road of London town and America America . Plenty of . and land. and the hundred ton of weight. the harlot cry. the engraver's art, the operar's fan's Ear his lorgnette? an american lorgnette Stocking ladies on high balcony balustrade beneath aside to the farther end of the room the chandeliers. Bright white glitter a coat a top of the air.
2
but mind iS body in this event of which you speak. can there be no shadow of doubtdescartes of which you envision?
2
but mind iS body in this event of which you speak. can there be no shadow of doubtdescartes of which you envision?
That Time in Duluth
Remember that time in Albuquerque when we had tripe-eel soup? You had on a hat with feathers---I think---and I a pair of genuine Navajo moccasins. You ate a moth, a blue and yellow and red moth you stabbed through the carapace with a compass-point, and I a fly—I think, a drab looking gray fly. You went about barefoot, your toes like briar knots, and I, I went about in my genuine Navajo moccasins, the ones I bought from a genuine Navajo so he said, but I doubt it, remember, because he had on a Pope’s hat with a peaked top and a pair of suede walking shoes, slip-ons, were they, yes. Do you remember any of this, any of it, or am I mistaken, deceiving myself again, yes. I still have those genuine Navajo moccasins, the ones I bought from the in-genuine Navajo, the one in suede slip-ons and a Pope’s hat. I think I ate the moth, maybe, maybe the fly, too. Or was it Duluth, was it, and not Albuquerque, and a purple and orange and black moth, or sausage soup with feathers?
theE follies of resentment versus merriment
Heamy Lobooks__ blogs are the books that I am, the confused man, the negligent man, the reckless man, the lusty, obscene, boisterous, scrupulous, lying, diabolically truthful man that I am ...
Perfection is for the museeeUm Mum|>>>>>>>>mybestfriend>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
let here/there be excess
To move forward clinging to the past is like dragging a ball and chain. The prisoner is not the one who has committed a crime, but the one who clings to his crime and lives it over and over. We are all guilty of crime, the great crime of not living life to the full. But we are all potentially free. We can stop thinking of what we have failed to do and do whatever lies within our power. What these powers are that are in us may be no one has truly dared to imagine.
I GoffardR saith Mona,
I say we is free as flow of excees libidinous excess
Inivte Mister William Blake for tea. madame Sorcerress
averglewild clipping
with its congelid livery of heavy lidded marrow slugs, the shadow barked, as an oval, into a pale blue web, hung slymniscent atween two black, spiroudal columns singled out for no apparent reason for this purpose.
it sayes, "hoo is the member of the black spot, hoo is the way for the wavering chizz of blitter to paigle forth the slipbok with the hylemnescant tyltheding, way tuorning fibrillants krill the muork with harlvey a hyde to stinkfrond, and huorvey a heald to quiver. thus the black spot will weary a bone claim in its seven tiered pagoda hat for the white crows are but statues heavy with crabtits, the lucre of ground bee metals to sugar the tonsil wounding bugbear crowns whose parapets are whips in legion carving lesion words in a wyrmiforme manifolding, a pleated circus plane where the wiles ney to werewiles in the metiswampum kala katabjornimoot, the detachable jaw- root- horn-a-graftling shorn of its haormoneys, its liquorwhelk and chaoblenniasps to shave in elst its flickerscales yumor to the twad ballasts swaying soo by the limmeridull'd hydatid, the pea-hollered hussock which cavel bines the midsection with a corotid growell loobspinny with inching greaselorbs piney with ossipants."
there, into its guts, it sthwisted huway, buggy limericks chopped from a spiney tree heavining with blondted thorn-bladder, dugs and scrotums mixed by a cactuswitch into a cavaleering messenmast, a scrawly old totemurmnade weerling a frowl of lumenusk, toadfroth cilia around its maw's abasoleum, sun milk with fritter cutletzenyolky, to spirulinden mates these crabmonkey frothballoons in an alter of bread while langue moosts its humanate savories, cross liquors skoop and bolt, out like ivory puppet helmets growing growling ringlets of frivulets letterin let her in to yer old black hovel by the sea bled boskin shack there to prime its dowelry, it sifares down in drowning here, say this, say this betty in the pike stall handing them beaten senseless to moony calfs the stars folding up, in a paper purse heavy wisprockets gummed by eyeless leperwort, the heavy hinge which creases the socket for a mug brimming and steaming with, faces the leopard of spider-faced baroque cathedral bananas hollowed by tourniquet headed minstrel snakes their fingerings but, suppurating blowholes cetacean in the hylgepessar hiomble jiomble hotch kipotch a pellet for a murmixikont to snap open in its transparent, ribwings some honeysuckly piplarchmeant of villean sweemenpetal, that flidgety buttery kissynosed bombast of babywood wilky with hitherfeather and bumpshussaddled peligroponiflexure, the ink gravy mirrors smile into the shuddering, camisole chimney lace flixy with nippled stamenomen nasty with the huorgnoddling yextervilblets, the gurney huggling kubordiclownjik which waddles into any caveorn by, orn its prine is a salt-needled citadeal for the butterflied kissing buggery mouths this henryanus headed crown doth linger in transparent purple petal flesh and only inside seenits pollengolems cavuortling such, gameygametesgaming its odes are leathern balloon shapes pegged to a vast and undulant wallworkaratechuloomb, a clockwork rabbit with blue fungal lantern teeth aswarm with orchid firefly planes shardel me pardon pane, gibveres to Semnaulont, a deep unabiding kiss to yer tagroots....
it sayes, "hoo is the member of the black spot, hoo is the way for the wavering chizz of blitter to paigle forth the slipbok with the hylemnescant tyltheding, way tuorning fibrillants krill the muork with harlvey a hyde to stinkfrond, and huorvey a heald to quiver. thus the black spot will weary a bone claim in its seven tiered pagoda hat for the white crows are but statues heavy with crabtits, the lucre of ground bee metals to sugar the tonsil wounding bugbear crowns whose parapets are whips in legion carving lesion words in a wyrmiforme manifolding, a pleated circus plane where the wiles ney to werewiles in the metiswampum kala katabjornimoot, the detachable jaw- root- horn-a-graftling shorn of its haormoneys, its liquorwhelk and chaoblenniasps to shave in elst its flickerscales yumor to the twad ballasts swaying soo by the limmeridull'd hydatid, the pea-hollered hussock which cavel bines the midsection with a corotid growell loobspinny with inching greaselorbs piney with ossipants."
there, into its guts, it sthwisted huway, buggy limericks chopped from a spiney tree heavining with blondted thorn-bladder, dugs and scrotums mixed by a cactuswitch into a cavaleering messenmast, a scrawly old totemurmnade weerling a frowl of lumenusk, toadfroth cilia around its maw's abasoleum, sun milk with fritter cutletzenyolky, to spirulinden mates these crabmonkey frothballoons in an alter of bread while langue moosts its humanate savories, cross liquors skoop and bolt, out like ivory puppet helmets growing growling ringlets of frivulets letterin let her in to yer old black hovel by the sea bled boskin shack there to prime its dowelry, it sifares down in drowning here, say this, say this betty in the pike stall handing them beaten senseless to moony calfs the stars folding up, in a paper purse heavy wisprockets gummed by eyeless leperwort, the heavy hinge which creases the socket for a mug brimming and steaming with, faces the leopard of spider-faced baroque cathedral bananas hollowed by tourniquet headed minstrel snakes their fingerings but, suppurating blowholes cetacean in the hylgepessar hiomble jiomble hotch kipotch a pellet for a murmixikont to snap open in its transparent, ribwings some honeysuckly piplarchmeant of villean sweemenpetal, that flidgety buttery kissynosed bombast of babywood wilky with hitherfeather and bumpshussaddled peligroponiflexure, the ink gravy mirrors smile into the shuddering, camisole chimney lace flixy with nippled stamenomen nasty with the huorgnoddling yextervilblets, the gurney huggling kubordiclownjik which waddles into any caveorn by, orn its prine is a salt-needled citadeal for the butterflied kissing buggery mouths this henryanus headed crown doth linger in transparent purple petal flesh and only inside seenits pollengolems cavuortling such, gameygametesgaming its odes are leathern balloon shapes pegged to a vast and undulant wallworkaratechuloomb, a clockwork rabbit with blue fungal lantern teeth aswarm with orchid firefly planes shardel me pardon pane, gibveres to Semnaulont, a deep unabiding kiss to yer tagroots....
w is for
cleaned out by white
possibility smoulders
dazed by irony
in the hurried wide open
wishes enter
gasping for outline
ditching gaze -
a jaded pastime
to mature on
possibility smoulders
dazed by irony
in the hurried wide open
wishes enter
gasping for outline
ditching gaze -
a jaded pastime
to mature on
things which you did: ibidem ibidem|duree 2, 2,2,2,2,2,2,
the problem with you is you took it seriously when i was a comedian a comic when comedy is my forte, its yer serious deadness which ruins things for you and others, and thus your fanaticism thats why you got caught in the shite yer in. with yer house and the dogs and kids and washing machine and paranoia. and no fun a. and possessive spouses. and diseases. you killed yer joy and lost yer honesty. like thE Waitress did the waistress. and so you feel sorry for yourself stopping an d starting all the time. making grand announcements and prima donna entraces & exits . and speaking of praying? its not a sentimental effusion but an action. like art . so quit this shit. yer wolvees are barking. yer gods are wolverines. my children y ou took from me. come to my have a baby. itts here for you with the seven sun. of the crescent mooned mad barbed sky. never mind muss editory and her crappy sidewise attempt. what is this? but eros reader close to the shape o f your ass. a tomtom. a bucking bull. a yule.
oh the one there. yea. she think something cannot. read. said once wanted to be a cop but became a writer. she sat on this with me to say its filth and lie. poor wee lady so young and dumb. not you this waistress of bull stinging shaft. what behold that?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
it a strange machine and freeing i see it as a sort of return to what print used to be and my sense is a lot of writers and peots and others tend to see blog as the old media inside the new media meaning they expect it to do what the older ones did and do.
its a classic mistake and error/ putting new wine in old bottles thinkin new thoughts, of form expressioncontent in old thinkings. its very dumb!~
-----------------------------------------
Not only do they not compose a whole together, but they do not testify to a whole from which each part is torn, different from every other, in akind of dialogue between universes. But the force
with which the parts are projected into the world, violently stuck together despite their unmatching edges, causes them to be recognized as parts, though without composing a whole, even a hidden one, without
emanating from totalities, even lost ones
By settling fragments into fragments, [] finds
the means of making us contemplate them all, but with-
out reference to a unity from which they might derive,
or which would derive from them (ibid) .
the poem sets-up diagonals or transversals, movements which:
cause us to leap from world to another, from one
word to another, without ever reducing many to the One,
without ever gathering up the multiple into a whole,
but affirming the original unity of precisely that
multiplicity, affirming all these irreducible
fragments ().
Leap
Leap
Leap
Dont you like that Mister AntiOedipus? hahahahaha He zinged herhisheadingofftheleaptheleapas matrix to the swell.
5,000 years ago someone told me the code to make spaces here in bloggetteland but its very boring to do that, and very bourgeois!~ dont you think? and think?
since all 'my' poemsare on parole
lets be candid admitting all my
"I's" 're on parole too!!~
eh!
Life is a short brief.
et HoSHi YeSHua was here
-------------------------------
her vagina dentata come as to seize the sexure.
This carved stone replica is an example of how the name of Yeshua was A carved Stone and a Fish__ as She's appeared in first century Hebrew, in ancient documents, ossuaries, and cave walls. . Question: Did Yeshua collect welfarE cause she was a Single Mother?
kenyou pleasant that thot?as she was switch to herMona she wore worst sock to her hair,coming along her bone him said smooth alongthe side soap spot soapstone to her repeating her climbed up her
her vagina dentata come as to seize the sexure.
This carved stone replica is an example of how the name of Yeshua was A carved Stone and a Fish__ as She's appeared in first century Hebrew, in ancient documents, ossuaries, and cave walls. . Question: Did Yeshua collect welfarE cause she was a Single Mother?
kenyou pleasant that thot?as she was switch to herMona she wore worst sock to her hair,coming along her bone him said smooth alongthe side soap spot soapstone to her repeating her climbed up her
I should have been born male.
Shes hurt, babbling . . . something about the science of things. I'm focused on her petals. her hours and minutes. Pull my arms, lets get it over with-- negativity that blights lives, weakens cultures, sickens even the message from him, just a few words. Sealed his lips and woke me with trembling fingers, red stained sheets. a cup under her pillow. He frowned. Will it be enough?
Ho Chi's Mean Trail of Tears
Yeshua has died, an old man with tangled nose hairs
and rotten teeth. I place two of Caesar's denarii on
his eyes, to blind his death-stare. Soon, in this Ionian
island's fierce heat, his body will release the first
odors of its corruption. from Sequel on Skorpiós
by Michael Bishop
In the towering hymnails of Narnia, the great lion is chow,
refuge and abattoir for the many neumes of the sage-green
Axismael, Ismail Ax, male or plate mail, the first person-
shooter has left the grid. Dumb avatars buy dum-dums from dodo.
The Goat Ranchers all wear rubber Jesus Masks, are all clones
of the Ismaili Hassan-I-Sabbah, my friend is a baby goat, a baby
tragedy, just not rooting in the entrails of a giant Albino Gorilla Whale
for some little Jonah playing video games on the toenails of corpses.
"Traces of Ishmael's Axe body-spray on the scarred trunks of the cedar trees"
Japans unt Germins send some AxisMail to Moby-Gorilla-Dick-Jesus-Christ
saying a medical bookstore, a medical bookstore, along the gentle hecg,
where frail chiasmus bloom, such sums and dotters as the mist inheld, a
breath, or was it doubt that many of the robots had also malfunctioned.
Roses are red, violence is blue, perhaps, perhaps, there are more
Ramana Maharshi in the universe than you have dreamed of
in the towering hymnails of Narnianow your stories supple the
caw of the voodoo lily, blunt the song of devil's club,
pa ta phy sics de noue ment cor alch oral ode lithicorpheus
Rod Asclepius' hot rod show down sundown deformatavita
may. Jesus is both Apollo and Dionysius and a Cereal Box.
The peace of the broom bush be upon Yew. Cloud term nexus.
and rotten teeth. I place two of Caesar's denarii on
his eyes, to blind his death-stare. Soon, in this Ionian
island's fierce heat, his body will release the first
odors of its corruption. from Sequel on Skorpiós
by Michael Bishop
In the towering hymnails of Narnia, the great lion is chow,
refuge and abattoir for the many neumes of the sage-green
Axismael, Ismail Ax, male or plate mail, the first person-
shooter has left the grid. Dumb avatars buy dum-dums from dodo.
The Goat Ranchers all wear rubber Jesus Masks, are all clones
of the Ismaili Hassan-I-Sabbah, my friend is a baby goat, a baby
tragedy, just not rooting in the entrails of a giant Albino Gorilla Whale
for some little Jonah playing video games on the toenails of corpses.
"Traces of Ishmael's Axe body-spray on the scarred trunks of the cedar trees"
Japans unt Germins send some AxisMail to Moby-Gorilla-Dick-Jesus-Christ
saying a medical bookstore, a medical bookstore, along the gentle hecg,
where frail chiasmus bloom, such sums and dotters as the mist inheld, a
breath, or was it doubt that many of the robots had also malfunctioned.
Roses are red, violence is blue, perhaps, perhaps, there are more
Ramana Maharshi in the universe than you have dreamed of
in the towering hymnails of Narnianow your stories supple the
caw of the voodoo lily, blunt the song of devil's club,
pa ta phy sics de noue ment cor alch oral ode lithicorpheus
Rod Asclepius' hot rod show down sundown deformatavita
may. Jesus is both Apollo and Dionysius and a Cereal Box.
The peace of the broom bush be upon Yew. Cloud term nexus.
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