Techno-Thought

Oh! what are men
compared

to iPods?

The Basket

A yard sale, where sells

the superfluous, cheap

objects that someone wanted

some-time but not for long.

Cracked bowls, sad pastels

of printed pictures, candles

half-burned, stained sheets

even an earring missing a mate.

But a basket, thick weaved,

green (you can almost smell

the grass, the moss it held)

for a dollar and a quarter.

How lovely violets sit

within its wickered chest

on the doorstep like an old

shoe with a new foot.

Stealing Mo-Jo

Try to imagine a man,
a little man immersed
in a simpler scene-

a crowded coffee house
or complicated, a cliff
three hundred feet

over the sea.

The size of a cup
or the depth of
an ocean signifies

the importance
of presence; when you
weren't looking

I drank
your latte

and jumped.

Pagan Season

We all go down, like a ritual
of the woods, down from the hills

in blue overalls, hunting jackets,
oiled gloves to harvest the syrup;

we surprise a wild fox
licking the hard-candied veins,

scraping its teeth against
purple-bruised bark, stopped

by the startle of birds
from the overhead brush-

he learns of encroachment.

The sun's red spear catches
his fur like fiery rust, each

strand bristling flame, his eyes
a stranger to light, large,

disproportionate- a pagan
whose senses deceived him.

Many harvests, cold mornings
pulling tins from the trees,

brown sweet-smell of maple,
thick smeared tar on our skins,

we would always remember
that remarkable season.

Analogy #2

Art arranges gesture strain arrogance centre trap persistence
cerulean giggle strip pop psychologies stifle original thought
thought hurt ouch challenge genetically modified gentrification
ontological graffiti time is a meadow don't you know it's not
allowed a loud void within which a wilting voice echoes esoteric
terminology logos gossip terra firma tear up the firmament
mention you lauded them first letter tension craves irritation
irritating ingestion gesticulating guest notes nothing moves hint
in the hit target aim swing pull lull ultra I'll trade devil stick
stick something tick tock click scenic sea lick the face of the
land angrily

The Concord River

The Concord River, originally uploaded by allen_bramhall.

Allen Bramhall Presents the DAYS POEM Promotional Tour

Analogy

Level love leans lightly licks ghost words draw veil surprise
rise like iris smoke mouthing hostility. Become who you really
were Love over venom moment The next exit envisaged don't
you go on one two three empathy Become nothing Love over again
Again we ask what we have to gain. Metal momentous mention only
on this frame Is it the same game? Theosophy softly but often
knock turn all love leans lightly

1+1

Je vois deux îles sur la mer. Qui se regardent mais jamais ne se touchent, jamais ne se ressentent.

Tu dis que sous la mer, ces deux îles sont une même terre.

Je dis que peu m’importe, que je ne suis pas un poisson, ni une île après tout.

The Perspicuity Store :: The Perspicuity Store :: Yanomami

The Perspicuity Store :: The Perspicuity Store :: Yanomami

The Clockwork Tiger

"I give you concrete shoes." --Megadeth

"I thought I could write about the horrors of the city but the horror is too big and it goes on forever." --Grant Morrison



Gabcast! White Rabbit - *BLACK HOLE* #5

The Clockwork Tiger

my clockwork
heart
tiger
growls angry
beats sensitive

overworked
desire

pounce dust
kicks up frenzy
clouds
I
pain
I
joy

Zoo.

-Surreal Me--
Words with skin.
paper truths
breathe.

swallowing Earth
anxiety hope
(little drops)
Raise umbrella
(again)
for Tuesday's
rain
& Angels
falling
from

broken skies.
It's a yellow brick
rOAD
We follow home.
Me, my ghosts,
the clock on the wall.
As if I'd forget...

Tonight.

----Nobius Black

RED CHEEKS STAR VASSAL AUDIENCE, 1-COYOTE SLAPS THE SILLY AFFECT BURGHERS

your silly affect world
is your silly affect world

i am substance
and i am
talking to your silly affect world

hello silly affect world
you like "bimbo couture jolly representation x or 7y?{

hello silly substance
this is dead buffalo accident of maoist train robbery
played in cinema gallery

there is umwelt
and things in it

Its full name is

Terra preta do indio

indi- gene

//

it is not a little film
it is not a little book

it is a planet
composed of extremely complex organisms

physical machines
susceptible to narrative
susceptible to your silly affect worlds of culture

zen has spoken of this
try to release the silence of substance

poetry once tried to release the "singing"
silence of substance

even in your silly affect there sings
the silly silence singing of its affect's silence THRUMMING

?
ourobouri/

The monster is not a manifestation of pure culture,
except in a second sense of culture as a

bacteriumwelt

each animal
a unique civilisation

and if I could whack each one of you
with a YANOMAMI legal bat across your foreheads
to get this through your skull I would

AFFECT WORLDS KILL!

GET IT?

Do yourselves a flavor...

Get "Terra preta do indio"
or "GET THE FLOCK OFF THIS OCTOPUS BUS"

Chi-Ken in

does abe k

does Abe talk to Walt when firs the last li_lac bloom? ||

was lakeside saunter Wordsworth| the Rep'ublic Fran'cais[add
punctuation as need]
pour liberer desir? how shall 18th c. end?

with yer flixflox of tongue? slipped to talk.

Abe call Whit_ Man we gotta leave the graass
we gotta a Newark walk to Keneda them
is not what we thought as
waiting was not her inflected verb sbut shewas refreshed to mater her coign to knoun. thus sound to recollect is Colderidge to beat boar at with its maid with
zither swoll cag a ~ .

theseconde able whitmanesque was


it was in this period
we started the Homotextual movement. Now amnesia to
her professed eyeBall.
Ball her? didshe handheldin'galalongst.urbain.
back from Dublin
.
-----------------------------

---------------
in the critique of dialectical reason
jean-paul full Sartre, Jean-Paul discuss
the impossible inertia of radio ca
ll in programme. some
intutive truth there but hamradio operater change
frequency and sip disperssal power
snot the same as when first the sweet girl
rang

---------------

May is over it is now June

Abraham Lincoln

Abraham Lincoln

late XXI calendar poem

My Desktop is pregnant with IT
My Files are at war My Children

are Toast as We Speak but Do WE?

My Space is Mate
FireFlies are moot
Do You Like That

Like a

everywhere is
everywhere you
can't escape it

the making of Same Song Said
wis no was the sisters of king are
und damit: brothers of kong are
but (aime toi) are you? Ha!

The solution :
more yoghourt,
much more.

b)

eg: put your finger in your mouth: is it? nono no way it is.
put your finger in the sea: is it?
nono no way it is.

put yoghourt in milk: is it? Ha! Luigi thou knowest now

(screensaviours lecturama's tabloidesiacs
lightbulbchewers petits herbes au mo/anets)

perhaps i'm in love again, are you? Isles of Passione
Chocolates on Screen, Voices get hightened, flattened
Hair Collates? Toothpaste.

Enter Gates
Squander Goats
Shed a tear
love's a candy
bear, is it not

f)

• insert coin | abort mission

plato's garage & bare buttocks ~

Did I tell you how Plato worked in a garage?

Interesting to view the conversation of Lady this and Madame that carried on as the desire-machines of fiction?

Why not turn space in to the place of fiction creation, becomings, other maximum entries over tree and see saw merry go round?


If it's not fun ~ well poof!

electronic dust or bust!

for me everything I do ought to be a creation, une devenir, des "things" a schizoanalysis people ask what is that? it means not to put only Oedipal daddy-mommy constructions on top of your experience. Yer experience is always richer and more various than this.
Love is an intensity of becomings

over the selves and her bodies
we change with the changement of waves
we understand languages we did not

we are intuitive beings.

this silly photo altered. yet not made enuff my own to end it s fetishing of the human body

Onion Statues Make Me Cry Tiny Blue Human Tadpoles

Orgy and Beast
Orgy and Beast

Frog with a monocle saving
obscene cactus notes Halley's
Fallujah Edmons Velodromedarius

Venus rectum hosiery
sayeth

Orpheus

L'EGGs

the plastic ego
with an asp pause
button
nose

snow-mobile
cauldrum

rummaging
om your crotch

this hand called
Fagin

ore swallow
by an artful lodger

maypole yank
lodgepole

pining after these
your yester

ears dangle on a string
wax ear crayons

pomeranian ice jesus amoeba
in black licorice rocking chair bruddha

takes the shiny copper
venus bell
in and out of its flagella lined
eye socket templus

ladies (start your enginelles)
with jade forehead plugs
work
complex rows of needles
into its tongue

Atlantis with hairless aquabear orgy and

Beast Porky Manta Vest
Stendahl Syndromos = Taj My Ole'

Grunter

sprung raw

april skies' by jesus & mary chain peels away
skin

idiomatic is plaintive for
the idiot

funny with a seriously funny
mein

chows behind gates bark thru their blue
tongues

newspapers milk cartons cigarette
butts

& black lugies spat out by the
bums

get that going on my
feet

i''m no one but continuing on keeping me
dumb

Guns and gas

Flesh-Tone Nylons

What if when I call to tell her
she didn’t get the job, she asks why
and I accidentally spill the truth—
I had a vendetta against her flesh-tone nylons
and matching suit (a corporate blue skirt & blazer number)
because a few years ago, a different woman wearing the same outfit
had a vendetta against my lip ring and I didn’t get the job.
Truth be told, that happened a few times and I guess I started suspecting
those who wear blazers and pumps must be somehow interchangeable.
Of course, that’s more or less ridiculous. I’m not interchangeable with
everyone else adorned by body jewelry. Like those taut-torso girls
who get their bellybuttons pierced might as well be sorority chicks.
How about those tricky dicks with barbells all the way up the shaft?
I’d love to see them whip it out in front of all the Christian moms
who look down on me for mutilating my temple.
They really shouldn’t talk when they’re morbidly obese
cows who can hardly even make their calves fit
into the queen-sized sheaths of those cheap
flesh-tone nylons from mass-produced plastic eggs.
Maybe God’s special plan involves them
buying Thighmasters. Maybe my low-rider attire
isn’t half as undesirable as their plodding
cluck cluck moo moo delivery. Besotted
by one of my more violent fantasies, I watch
their numchucked muumuued udders burst
like water balloons finally freed from dusty barn rafters.
She pronounced condescendingly, ‘You can make holes in your body,
but only Jesus can fill the hole in your heart.’
He was wearing his sweaty purple gym shorts in public
when he fixed that teenage girl with his derisive glare and declared,
‘The nail that stands out should be hammered back into place.’
She had a DIY goth/punk aesthetic, a little clichéd, but a creative attempt
to separate herself from the suburban doll injection mold of her reality.
Maybe he should have painted his nails bright purple
if he was so intent on matching. Maybe if she wanted the job,
she should have Googled me and discovered that I prefer knee socks.
She handed me her resume, but all I could see were those legs;
their die cast sheen an insidious symbol of her fake golden brown proclivities;
her mute conformity. His casual cruelty as if teenage eyeliner was such a threat.
Of course, she wasn’t really mute. Her gingerbread girl lips were moving,
but all I could hear was that uniformed bus driver who gestured crudely
towards my lip and asked, ‘What is that, your hook?’
All I could think was too bad those flesh-tone nylons
don’t breed the flesh-eating disease.

poem

"Some Words of Plain Good Sense in a Time of Troubles"

stalked by 11:11
just so we're all on the same page

i like the new chemicals
inoperable empire

our new flavor is the only flavor


Doris Wishman.


Piglet is Entirely Surrounded By Water"

walk through gilded incense
a hungry sparrow sings innocence
warriors
and this is war's horizontal
fire down to here
long beautiful fire
and spangled dearth
and mild caracul stains attend the guest
to fall as the dead fall

from the Wikipedia page about myself
toxilicious
the storms came

oodoolay
and robodobermans dripping

Block: how do you write creative non-fiction about God

long icecream cones
packaged for the rain
there were demon clouds
in early bible stories

la langue de le unconscious

The Foundry of Immanence

If as Lacan suggests the unconscious is structured like a language, then I’m surely illiterate. Ricouer sees the unconscious as a hermeneutic foundry, a place of concealment and revealing. There is a constant tension between the repressed and the revealing, the two representing a binary opposition, the one hiding from the other, the other prying and pushing and cajoling the hidden to reveal itself. What is revealed is never the hidden, but a reification or reconstitution or translation of a supposed hidden, a yet to be revealed. What exists in this foundry, this storehouse called the unconscious, is nothing but symptomology, aphasia, the inability to express the inexpressible, the yet to be expressed or revealed. To say, as Lacan does, that the unconscious is structured like a language is like saying that black is white and white is black depending on how I reveal or conceal it. Everything is black and everything is white, things yet to be revealed, yet to be concealed, hidden in the structure of an inexpressible language. If the unconscious is structured like a language, then it is a poetics of hidden and revealed, white and black, a symptom of revealing and concealing, a language without grammar, syntax or meaning, a hermeneutics of immanence.

http://www.egs.edu/resources/lacan.html

kenneth patchen

like to learn more about Kenneth Patchen?
was he kid of poesy? kid of bed pan?added the outdoor above ~ For anyone who did not already
know Kenneth Patchen was crippled spending "adult life on his back "




Kenneth Patchen 1911-1972




And this connect
beauty to

visual

patchen

miriam patchen : a story

not a woman's world. angles work straightened around used old work

that Patchen woman and her remarkable cookies

"I sum up my hair, wear it braided"

an empty glass, she and her years, wearing xxxl in destiny.

circumstancial squirrels populate her world:

sclerosis of tables.... mementos .... "I I have an orange opinion."

sclerosis, "peace on display."

I , wearing years, moved to another place with poet-painter ken

and later their orange life. an avant-garde love. two smart avantgarde loves.

together. strained niche life.

I Surrender

Gold-blue silver
sound, soul, wrist;

catch me
in your claws-

a perfect, tight
cold fist

that squeezes
my physical

ness.

The Lesson of Fire

Not borrowed, but studied,

earned. How can I be

disobedient if I love you?

Precisely, the weight

of struggle, tired muscles,

the sad collisions of fog

and light- my life,

the usual dreaming,

mountains drifting apart,

the mother figure

standing between us-

the edge ablaze,

a wounded heart

or a cigarrette

left to smolder

in the corner

of my mouth.

Deer Head Variations

instead of severed, stuffed deer heads and their velvety racks,
this study is mounted with pelvic girdles with jewels
embedded in the pubis and iliac crest

the kind of jewels that might inhabit treacherous fairy tale
hair combs of the decorative and lethal bent
the kind of jewels that might adorn feminine crossbows—
hot metal & rubies & chokecherries

artificed porcelain cups contain
inexplicably wobbling eggs
although tongueless in their shells
they hum glossal murmurations

*

instead of pipe smoke plumes against a backdrop
of hunter green, stinking up the taxidermy pheasants,
this study is perfumed with a slow seep

vapors from violet veins, sugar channels, baby pears
in heavy syrup and others in formaldehyde
glass jars of plucked feathers, bleach, honey, googly eyes,
silver-tapped wisdom teeth

these birdies are cuckoo clock quails
with crooked feet, battered beaks, askew springs
leaking out half-shattered necks
metallic warblings cut with turpentine

*

as pomegranates crack open and bleed out
their pulpy seeds, she molds a small bird of marzipan
to serve as candied companion piece

or does she mean to pit the misfit birds against each other
like a scaled-down yet sinister version of a cock fight
does she secrete snuff films into furtive vaults
as the eggs soak up pernicious vibrations, begin to convulse

the bitter chokecherries could be ittty bitty ball gags
if the eggs had mouths if the eggs had hands
the porcelain pocills could be tiny pillories
her poison-dipped nib quivers with anticipation

*

to blow out their guts, truss them to a tree,
behold with perfidious glee another batch
of these ornately stained carapaces

*

instead of a strapping sporting scene,
albumen slithering down the walls

Art is Dogfood

More "art" . . . this one a photo of mine, taken in Toronto, that was white-dot screened on a photocopier (remember that technology?) and reprinted on the cover of Poetry Halifax Dartmouth, No. 24, September 1988. Joe Blades = Broken Joe.

argus hand - flute hand

shiva

Shiva walked backward to sot her sodden fay
its wing a precious jewel storming her bodice
bodkin to her bustless way
manned demobbed she was tart fruit futile bliss
of her ghast past.
what socky meter was that?

>20060303/Sonnet

me too, i love you too
moi aussi, je t'aime aussi
tu ne m'aimes plus en français!
you don't love me in English anymore!
pourquoi tu ne m'aimes plus en français?
why don't you love me in English anymore?
pourquoi tu ne m'aimes plus qu'en anglais?
why do you only love me in French?
en me disant i love you ou me too
by saying je t'aime or moi aussi

et non je t'aime ou moi aussi.
and not i love you or me too.


plus personne te dit je t'aime maintenant, maintenant tu te dis j'm'aime
nobody says i love you to you now, now you say i love myself to yourself


pourquoi tu dis jamais rien? pourquoi tu restes toujours muet en français? pourquoi tu gueules
why do you never say anything? why are you always mute in English? why do you shout only
qu'en anglais? pourquoi? pourquoi?
in French? why? why?

pourqui c'est fini?
it's over who?
pourqu'où c'est fini?
it's over where?
pour quand, c'est fini pour quand, quand ça a fini, où ça a fini, avec qui on a fini, d'aller où?
for when, it's over when, when was it over, where was it over, with whom was it over, over
c'est fini pour qui?
where? for who it's over?

c'est qui celui où tu vas?
who are you going to where?

ache the poem

ache the poem
papapapapappapoem an exit to yourself

stage right, he crie[s] to her exist. Sartrean ethics to a love-amour.
shes exalted in her boom-boxy bubby! carried by nave and rave.
sacked by her tent. glabrous eye to his moon. she carry anus
to his trophy. not socked by the weathered yield of pathos.

----------------------------------------------------------

14 yr after. not met infleshdecade gone . love
rousersrosesherodesrosedhim all monthshotlong
tolove's caboose.

DELPHINE

like purple eyeshadow shattering
out of its small enclosure
such a glittery crumble
such a crummy spill
such a wipeaway shiner

such nude & veiny
lids with overdone orphan girl lashes
like arachnids on dirty steroids
like dodgy drag queen spider legs
blue black pigmentation clinging to the shaft

like some seedy super heroine
like some filthy little underground saint
tiara of scrap metal and spray paint
the color of dead dog sputum
the color of rentboy rape

blood drips down a carousel
horse face, the burnt out gems
of its eyes, the distended nostrils melting
into spinnerets, her belly is swollen
from all the lurid egg sacs

spunk drips down a broken bottle
rammed down her tender throat
shoved into her throbbing minge
for spiderlings and their dispersal
ballooning is the best way to spread

jabon el dominio

cartoon

cartoon

Blue Morning

Our blue morning never came

though the movie played over

and over again. Sometimes,

in the middle of the night,

a train whistle blows

and no one hears it.

And the knife that we keep

by our beds calls for the place

in our hearts it was meant for,

where the meaning of home

is the space between our hands,

the uninhabited web, the wasted

tomb, the unknown land where

flowers never bloom, where moon

is the closing eye, the last blue sliver

of light that passes through us.

HUMAN DIGITAL

- Monsieur Brecht ?
- Oui.
- Votre mère s’est annoncée en bas à l’accueil. Elle vous attend.
- Ma mère ???...Mais elle est morte ma mère.
- Oui je sais, c’est ce qu’elle m’a dit aussi.

[Fishturn] [experiences digitales]

Regina mia

A New Edge to the Same Old Knife

Animated start to the new finish brings the poem to a close. Those trees, vital oaks, shall tassel in the wind. Meanwhile, argent clouds, full of disgust (why must description live so powerfully?) fill tumbling minds with remains and the day. Coastal waters surge, moon gets heavy. The war in Iraq is an exact document, full of holes. Those holes themselves are firm in their resolve, well-peopled, and talk about dying! Name tag Afghanistan, for another example, but don't stop at the end of the list. The moonstruck factors of growing bolder seem to think that uselessness is perfect. Are they touring the same streets that we see? This religion, darkened by mass, hampers any gravitational field. Going down is the new expectation of up. The poem has been favoured for feeling, yet feeling is going boastful: such modern in the times. And furthermore, you want to love, and live in oaks, and smell the effective blue that calls itself sky. This is such a yard and extent to master, like we need masters, like we aren't women and men in particular and thru out the time it takes to say so. The text will start, sometime, maybe. It won't end, because that would prove nothing. Uselessness is the means of saying something out of bounds. Uselessness is the cage of American trials, quick trills in the basic Abu Ghraib story, or whatever. Whatever itself is a feint, it's a name for the district beyond real naming. Okay, the power of exhaust, in the hottest spots, in the trade forever, in the smoke above campus. Critical reading seems nice, critical speaking seems fully, critical poetry has its turning. And all these wiles, these whiles, these times fretted toward the same expansion, the outermost dust called a new universe, and we feel varyingly small. A period starts a sentence not ends it, which is just as the symptoms of the poem demand.