After Cesar Vallejo

Afternoon
in suspension
between two sleeps

drains pump boredom
throughout the
city.


*


(time
it was
time it was

time)
time conducting
its vain investigations -

the clear mouth
of day
conjugates:

(tomorrow
the present
will end tomorrow)


*


Tomorrow we could
forget what
seeks

us out:we
could forget

ourselves.

'The summer

The summer it rained forever, we grew tired
of watching red blobs writhe on the weather radar.
Mushrooms grew on lawns. The river rose,
its pale gray sheen concealing toxic depths.
We learned to let our twelve-squared watts burn off
a little damp, and some of us wore raincoats
for the first time since grade school. All in all,
the dark words "global warming" did not sound.

Practice Apprearance

With process of so much world in the greenest of gorgeous, we live a straight line of giving in and out. Dawn's practice, red grass and moaning green, opens to the falling sigh of birds. A program and reliance swelters as crush winds strike sinking sinking ships. People are you tired in the morning, listing with the wind? Sunk forces bring monstrous to the end of sentence structure. What ship, in its presence, knows the lurching forward memory? Cracks in the sidewalk and huge sinking waves relieve life of death with gasp of great preamble, lungful of water and wind of curious prevalence. The strictness of love gives wildflowers, blue sky and wonder how light spears thru leafage with the grace of tomorrow. When poets lay on the bed, rising images of structure pour from certain music and botches the regular prayer. It's more than simple greenness in the course of life, it resounds in the springing of birds from branch to branch. These mysteries speak of love, not the tangle. The river goes wild. Flocks stir fires, poems send mist.

büsjamesj RED URNS

IIISFTHa

(moriemur inultae sed moriamur)

(cmmnt: ze poot ear it smells
iz stuck w/ dido UrGent
of the urgents, O High eau.
Dido's a singer
she standa up
while er willy
playsthe piano

ina nightencloeb
ona pyre just
leftaf
paira-dose)

F me

[vrey curropt]

like a

rain check
reign cheek
war cheat

(weurtsarcenically_

fuel

[ quia apparata attaca imperiala sunt de apparata mesma facta i shld kno I s an oil d

b elg ian tri] check

mate check
hate mecca
have mercy

on mornig da furst herr busjamesh spoke
ina da fortunata wheel uv chair-chaisse
und ie spoke thus:

"
sol diers ! cuntry clods!
min uv mice!
now man ur anagrams!
this wull be a furce bat all
ur airs wull need gut riddance
ur tongues chickas w/ holms in them
leeking press garbage

butta WATCHME
iam esto busj il grande rio
floodsamming wuldly

in ME the ME
the s uf ESSO ES

[signing mildlie]

i m a teen age d chole rapla gue
playing hide and seek with mankind
and und nou und so ha hu cover the land with filthy black ash
wee hen I weah giggle ma as s
tear [ggg] vulva inside out scratch
[‘’] the blood […] penis seep"

[choir of sold diers in great ira:]

[the alphabet with all vowels hanging out?]
unuther instnza of the alp ha bed lall gts oeuiaoeYYiarou

Iu

A

[guttural action]

YYYYYY

Refrain:

Wow woe h yeah hey
mankind is calling (my body count)
mankind is calling woe

Wow woe h yeah hey
mankind is calling

mankind no GND

büsjamesh da furst

//@init

There is absolutely no way of returning it.
Let me explain.

It starts with he who knows everything.

You see?

LSTN
to the
ePiC
of

BüsjaMeSj

KBBH

At the end of the street the end of the street opens and at
that
end the street
is the headlight is
the headlight
& all are
are
that

a like a

are the guns ready yes the guns are ready

are the bombs ready yes the bombs are

is the man manned yes she is

are we

yes

i

am

VRRT

{PST the FRST}

no clods no clay no game no play
no clods no clay no game no play
no clods no clay no game no play
no clods no clay no game no play

the foot-disease for my foot
the liver-disease for my liver
the ulcer-disease for my ulcer

...

REGINAREGINA
TOIQUIENSEIGNE
EINESEIGNETHE
ENDSIGNSTHEDESIGN

O, reg[gy?]

Arde[nt?]
il
a la

mala

hypopothesisthmus

die

the finger-disease for my left index finger [imp]

...

the eye-disease for mine eyes

a seven year old about to get

it

(i did crie for the bereft)

(hear me shed my ears)

The

ear-disease for mine ears

another seven year old about

it's all about

no GND fur ME
ARGENTA CITY
BANK
NILE

1. AM SELBTEN TAG…

2. AM SELBSTEN TAG…

3. AM SELBSTEN TAG…

4. AM SELBSTEN TAG…

Am Einen heisen steinen dieses do not desert me in this my desert storm
my heart is not in me my heart is not here my heart is still boozing
with der Jugend sins, the early Signs

warts a burd?
a burds a song

wart ssignet ze burd
ze burd signet

(You have 1 Urgent Security Message…)

ID estblshd its taboe ut da urGent people
from the famous the stuck with people song
ifwe write wire real kwik ze bomb will bake it

Hail do the HOE
shhtack sshhtack

CARR OT BOD IES
CAR ROT BO DIES

ORANGE JUICE CNN

No dumb plogh (cuuurrrupt*)
can do tht plghs R
four ruskies

enter The All For Ruskies of the Apocalyps
sayeth Ruskie the First is FULL METAL JAcket upon me:

LO Thou Over There

heriam heriam
put yourmeat und deine kuglen in me
heriam heriam

takame takame
taka taka taka me

[ear endeth pst th frst]

Beverly Hills Psychiatry

Why is this man narrating his story?

With no warning, despite his revisions

he meets his end with little fanfare.

Look what I have written. In a quiet room

I tell my story to a woman in a white jacket.

Her body is a blank page, a harlot's journal.

Outside, the darling world, bright and false,

strained, moving into its third act unscripted,

conspires to fill my part with understudied.

Even as I slip apart, I memorize my lines,

word for bread, pills for heart, smiles for self,

I sleepwalk out onto Roxbury Ave. to find my car.

did I mention you're a genius?

     aesthetics -- you’ll go to the bottom
     you to the basement -- I was watching
     you earlier -- you’re a genius you know 
     -- care for this gentle way of speaking

     or you’re never going to be inclusive --
     never eating an egg at midnight was
     your usual modus operandi -- did I 
     mention I’m a genius, I have a thesaurus

     -- and counting to twelve leads to a reaction
     -- parallel periscopes won’t see the same
     even if pointed dead on identical sights -- 
     aesthetics and yawning and parallelograms

     -- you must have felt something like doubt --
     the chambers were filled with bees like a
     housewife’s care for her sheets and surfaces
     -- statement a corridor and mind only tribal

Wallpapered Words

She's hurt, babbling... something about the science of things.
I'm focused on her petals. Her hous and minutes.
Anthropology, which is what attracted me to the civil service in the which one blows strongly; validation.
He comes from a distance--comes detached and spinning heavy headed.
You are sure about that? No, revenge was a dead end. If not vengence--what then?
That's easy enough to answer. Certain individuals blackmailed me.
He came slowly towards me and I found myself trembling with fear.
Climbed the fence months ago, waited for the afterbirth, something that never comes.
All will be revealed. He put his index finder along his nose, wrists.
Temper, temper--newfound warmth in his voice.
Pull my arms, lets get this over with--negativity that blights lives, weakens cultures, sickens even the message from him. Just a few words. Stop.
Sealed his lips and woke with trembling fingers--fear and red stained sheets.
A cup under her pillow, he frowned. Will it be enough?
The darkness faded and light returned, then was gone, our feeble physiques and his obvious superiority.
Tricky old devil was playing with us, knowing that we had some reasons for deteriorating like rocket exhaust. There were no answers here, so some questions, elegantly dressed, awaited us.
He blinked rapidly as I stared at my own face, we will go on the way it was. It's a long story--it all starts with a moment first.
It gurgled and slopped, as soon as possible. This is what will happen.
You will be taken to a valley of curves.
Taking command at the waist, I lifted the gun and looked at it. Not much of a choice.
The absolutely correct. So do your best to keep out of sight.
Speak down on me from a thick pipe in the ceiling.
I just changed the rules. You yourself told me that you are heading for disaster.
You appear to have lost track of one day--weeks of time paid for in a foreign currency.
Climbing his feet, lost again, I have only one question.
You didn't see it. It was over before you turned to look.
This is only the first moment of a very long story--but it was over before you could turn to look...

Surprise Sentence, Again

So many of these places dispel the crisp leafy shade, even as summer wears on. These places of change and being tuned create packages paid for, shipped, dazzled by preemptive sales while handed over, sporting a religious history in a nation of quiet moods before the final tally. Oh, and it could only be love that sparks revival, yours and mine, with snippets of robin song and crash of crows. Oh, more than that, ladder to the right window, to climb out and down, and the word of wind in trees. Trees, then, and we each find a branch. The air is filled with words and music while the wind sways our perches. Nothing is sold forever. The tribe wants to colour its distinctions yet we live on in our summer, edge of fall. No falling remains to indict, just the rampage west of here, the sweet meadow and the cloying marsh, where algae covers turtles with stray humiliation. Where's the indignation? In a day or so, we'll return to the porch. The cutting street and its merrie business will slap us silly with surprise. People will continue traipsing to places full of traipsing people, and the minute will go on.

Haiku for you

Duffy is a word
slightly frayed around the edge
but still tastes quite good

exercise in Haiku

I will shake for you
when you knock on my backdoor
just do so gently

______________________________________________________

holding red flowers,
I wait for you in the rain.
anticipation

______________________________________________________

Constant, soothing, calm,
Slowly rolling through your life
A river of strength

____________________________________________________________________

pitter, patter, drop
goes the rythmic lullabye
lulling me to sleep

______________________________________________________

the quick slaps that burn
hearts retreat, dress slightly torn
tough lesson to learn

______________________________________________________

You Bump UP or Down

The numbers stress and pour. Your
corporate sponsors, sir, miss
these. And when we mention the
trading shack of love,
buoyant oh, and the
reading list thru tears or the
next day. Such poems of
dignity store of
lifting touching moments past
the asking price again, a smoke
of diatribe to stick with
language. Too many leave and
too many leaves. Then the further
smoke of cross across the street,
narrative Nazis who believe
the line between us. These numbers
have no brain, with screams
and extra charge of dictation.
The words are in us,
always. So with this, and
this, the movie set and
transforming invaded,
only ones can save us. Spring
diplomatic wait
if you can ask me.

Stray Touch of the Summer Porch

This is the bending porch. In time, green is silly: those mock orange blossoms contain mental image pressed into white flowers just to grow. Beyond, the strange important patch of waiting that places all time in writing. Then the rains come, children. Then leaves fall. Then, dears all, snow begs the question. Waiting to a luck of finding out, you, love, you. The mock orange, the sighing ferns, and a planet still in love. No, the trees are not just heavenly, but (pausing in the smell) quiet with the resolve to fill the year. The year waits. The green where people walk is given. Then storms, again and again. The rain of spring is over. The rain of summer builds. Wait for snow, the dying sigh of mock orange blossoms. The angle of the sun creates a blush in trees. You forget the warm soil, friends. Or are you awake when the sentence begins? Quaking middle of the day when the green is lively with people, common ground. The sights are fine for having. A clutch of mosquitoes and the dog urges eager. Birds are incredible, dated to the pause. When we sit, it happens forever. Even street noise includes our words. The bending porch is tonal and strong. When all waking needs us, we ready our impression. Vast flowers, that is, keep all of us together.

CROISEMENT

Je me souviens que je m’éloignais des lumières. Il était tard dans mon existence, il me restait tant de choses à défaire, sentier balisé de la seule intensité de mes lubies éphémères. Il était difficile d’être aussi peu dans la vie que moi, tout en y demeurant. On s’était croisé dans un hasard, notre rencontre ne dura pas plus de deux minutes.

- « Café clopes à ce rythme là, tu ne va pas faire long feu » dit elle.
- « C’est peut être bien là l’objectif…de mon inconscient »
- « Oui…La mort se porte jeune et belle…C’est ça ? »
- « C’est une belle citation, qui a dit ça ? »
- « Je ne sais plus »
- « Dommage…J’aime bien »
- « Moi je ne t’aime pas, tu respire la violence sous tes airs nonchalants »
- « Tu as peur ? »
- « C’est toi qui a peur, ne confond pas tout »

Every one had decreased over the course of time

Every one had decreased over the course of time
Even the stairs were like a madmen stumbling through the hallway.
The walls of the room became shorter, his responses to people contrite.
Consequently he grew abject, quite morose, evading
His own image reflected in store windows,
No, even the probability of his own distribution began to slip out of time.
In practice he passed all of his own tests.
It became a matter of practical concern
Whether he would take care of it once and for all
Was anyone’s guess.

He was obliged to pass once again, this action weighing upon him
Like all the others that he carried in a sack inside his heart
Oh, he didn’t like using that word, he would rather be silent reinventing
The persona of a young man with inner strength,
No, rather than that, an increase or decrease in the past
That he kept living through unseen
Moving about like the rings of an actual transgression.
The coherence occurred slightly after this, in all probability
The distribution remained in the same room
Between the brain importance, and the lie- to-himself,
Isolated from his soft, young desires like a comatose cat.

No complaints.
No blame.

And in whose debt would this too weight upon him.
To evaluate the new roof of his inner strength, the barrier of this emptiness,
The young man had the presence of mind to bring these events to a close
Consequently, he was more like a death by the end of it
Calling out to passersby with the finesse of an evaporating celebrity.
He was sick; it was true, all this indicating the presence of an active desire
For something outside of himself, something relevant to his obligation
Something that would be a higher percentage
This of course was not to be, the dark sky with the absence of any sun
Told him this. The fog that swirled and coddled his feet and sealed this page
Told him this.
Bound by this agreement he knew any further action would be irrelevant.

These gods knew better than this too, and had the sense not to tempt.

The Milker II

kitten rat rat kitten

... namow ...

Baghdad
has become
the broken plate

Dick Cheney won't
stop eating
from.

Rush

Black sheep, dry branch, middle child,

un-natural wreckage. Young woman,

she knew all things came in two's:

waiting and absence, wall and chair,

bridle and rein, darkness and

the man that brought it with him.

She remembers birds flying overhead,

a windmill, night and rain, gallop of

the quarterhorse, four hooves pounding

desperately to breach the gait.

.

She tried to be rid of them, the sweet

but drew them in.

Movement III & IV

MOVEMENT IV

MOVEMENT III

hooks unhooks

this be a redondo redo
undone cant be done

----------------------------------------------------------
Guattaree pens a missive : t'a Mona and friends

GuattariComplex

Dear Mona, I know the performative is valuable. Fear not these nuts in the dèstablishment. they are deadbores. not performative. Yer friend and mouthlover DadaDuffy is the true CroWn Prince of the Potatoe. he has many spudlings as amiable pals and cheerful suds of friendship and fellows that invent the fellows of the thought that flollows.
----------------


these new so-called "Establisments" are the worst most reactionary one of all of them in the worldin
all history! I pindar ponder

"from the council right through to the publishers, the critics, the reviewere, the whole kit and kaboodle and

it has not changed " Indeed! so he say. Fandooble to tha! generalities
never cease!

[so you say]
it got worse
[yea yea yea bla bla]

One is censored
[two are censored not One the censoree and censored]

kept out controlled
[micropoetics of control]
then there is the ____ that national radio "broad" caster __ and that horrible horrible programme "Frighers in Compnay!"
(an what a n Obvious echo of great Sylvia Beach's Shakesepare and Company the woman who published one book by one man)


and that horrible gang of Middle Class controllers
[dont ya think yer being a little bit general?]
across the Country who maintain and control the machine



even the most far out???????????????????

and intelligent of poets/ writers get caught captured imprisoned by all that Bs

what DGtari say by way of Artaud ...

Every writer is a Sell out....|| hey this is too Mush!


[he should be so lucky!]


Yes,
No
it is so

it's not!




So sick and neurotic so concerned to expose their students to what they imagine are the true and right values of writing

So sick and concerned to sell their little expression their little puny expressions


and the "clicks" that formed over the years

the wanky spoken word lot




I am so glad I am living in Mongolia now


where none of these twits can bother me and Martha.

Martha my doll

Martha my wrap up Poetry Queen

Martha my Dada wife

shes my babe

and I dont need any Scribble Woman teachers or any of the rest of them dead busts from Candeada or Usamuckia!


Or

Listen we breath better in the mountains




The phone rang, Oona calling to say, we don`t believe in any of our own opinions and are as willing to drop them as a draft.

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

one more plateau paranoic in the fictives

A Postscript to the Berkeley Renaissance — 1954

by Jack Spicer

What have I lost? When shall I start to sing
A loud and idiotic song that makes
The heart rise frightened into poetry
Like birds disturbed?

I was a singer once. I sang that song.
I saw the thousands of bewildered birds
Breaking their cover into poetry
Up from the heart.

What have I lost? We lived in forests then,
Naked as jaybirds in the ever-real,
Eating our toasted buns and catching flies,
And sometimes angels, with our hooting tongues.

I was a singer once. In distant trees
We made the forests ring with sacred noise
Of gods and bears and swans and sodomy,
And no one but a bird could hear our voice.

What have I lost? The trees were full of birds.
We sat there drinking at the sour wine
In gallon bottles. Shouting song
Until the hunters came.

I was a singer once, bird-ignorant.
Time with a gun said, “Stop,
Find other forests. Teach the innocent.”
God got another and a third
Birdlimed in Eloquence.

What have I lost? At night my hooting tongue,
Naked of feathers and of softening years,
Sings through the mirror at me like a whippoorwill
And then I cannot sleep.

“I was a singer once,” it sings.
“I sing the song that every captured tongue
Sang once when free and wants again to sing.
But I can sing no song I have not sung.”

What have I lost? Spook singer, hold your tongue.
I sing a newer song no ghost-bird sings.
My tongue is sharpened on the iron’s edge.
Canaries need no trees. They have their cage.

Spay and Naught

wings like shotgun blasts
spay-cords and crows’ eyes, yellow serge
cutting the calm of naught

Grunta

Now That I Am Older

Now that I am older
My dreams have lost their value.
There is a man throwing rocks at his shadow.
As I pass he throws them at mine.
All of my rhymes have lost their signature of time.
My shadow is drunk on the sun’s wine.
Sitting street-side no one wants to meet
the me that I keep down deep.
This me never seeks to die
It just holds on waiting some predecribed end.
The wind blows into my eye and for a moment I am blind and see clear into eternity.
I spy the bird of incense smoke rising above my grave,offering me the salvation of silent.
All my enemies are gathering for the final absolute assault.
They include the children of trees, the noble ones walking on feet of clouds, their weapons are hidden things found in the house of Osiris,
Like words spoken to the doorkeeper that you can not touch,
The naked mail box is speaking in tongues.
The second coming is late and we are tired of the wait.
The mistress of knives is sharpening her repule for the destruction of words stillborn in the throat
Everybody know that I play the role of a hard to hold rejoicing when triumphant triumphantly peace rise from the barrel of a gun.
I never know when I am sleeping,
It is then that I am most alone in the safety of my dream home.
Don’t-cha know me I am the poet of divine chiefs
Bu.t I can not strengthen your limbs.
I can only advance your happiness.
Poems will purify your heart.
When it is found to be unclean concerning the lake of your desires where you sink.
Poets will tell you that the great God loves you by the shrine conceived by the advocates of mortal needs.
This poem will kiss the black laced face that lays its head on the load that you put on me.
Who am I, it has taken years not to know.
I am the divine being of the enemies of wickedness.
I am that I am heard in the life time landscape of a poem.
I come on the breath-heels of a poem that gives you sheathe from the emotional storms that roar through each pores of your skin
They hard rain rain from your pores drip drips.We becomes one when a collection of words lighting from my eyes put me to rhyme.

corporate chaos

Movement II

Movement I