La libertad de las puertas

A door next to MACBA museum in Barcelona ;)


    "Placa y Playa"

Silence of the iambs,
On heatshimmer write
to disavow tomorrow.

If hiphop abs strike
this shivaree of vinegaroons
be advised of the dwindle
that moves like a wet skink.

smear mnemonics 1

a streetcar[e] is something . A lover is not a metro:?metrometrometrometrometrormetrometrosubwaytubesubwaytubetrain

beside bodies fllying flung in space. hurtled by sound of space. is that it? doctor, doctor?is that the pain of? the word of? lost body of? gathered by ? gathered by? these herd which garner in room flying movementi
Inside the weir a smiling egg, a body floating on the crack of the universe ~ .
yer subway standing in anyother way as nightbecome summer soul the body lost in wound covered in cower . ticked by wound

metrometrometroparisparismontrealmontrealparismetrometrormetrometrosubwaytubesubwaytubetrainalondon subway is not a motorcadeamontreal sweetnight to remember by ~

A break in

With such a high-flown knack for pressing questions between pages, gestures in private-journal-speak, as distinguished from prima-donna-ditty, claim a great deal is happening here, but to top that, I must misquote myself when I say “it is not this that varies my aptitude for tatters” but a nestling diagonal stance, winking at compactness from a miscellaneous setting, grappling whodunit proposals like a hinterland tenant with sore happy valley eyes frosted to pimples from parting company at a break in anaemic clouds.

Falling Down

I am amazed, the depth
these steps spire down;
of self, unchartered self

plunging down.

The sea is enormous; so
immeasurable it seems sky,
but though, like open grave-

sinks down.

Dark light, rope laddered
metaphor for journey, here
am I, correctly weary


in the sleeping city, walking
through the gold-leaf city
stumbling over root and stone-

falling down.

low heat

eck, the agitation
these camelhair
sweaters swirling
in angel piss
one third demon
I'm in a low fog
endless rows
of bonewhite
cocks emit
ethereal buzz
they slurp the moisure
as my ankles
begin to itch. in any
mean fixation
they are holo
graphic tugs
from holy
lands of long dead
beats. inbetween
my fat blood lump
toes I caress the
hollow-cheeked prick
brill, it clings
from a demure mound of feces
its eye turns up to sputter
but my day
is long and I'm
tired of him.

from the land of
orchard midg
et. cock
I direct myself
to the forest of
iridescent vag
I have no map
and nary a troll
we'll crane from
to kindly direct me south
the silver moon is out
one millimeter thick
measured on the gelatin fingers
of primed chimapnzees
swinging madly from
the stars hung
in lumps of cookie dough
greedily gobbled
by Summ(anus.

pinky splints
on benevolent
crotches for min
imum wage
age ten years
with a stream
of fiber glass
slobber passing
the plague of
to the knees
of severed faith

I hobble to God
on the ancient level
my talents:
given two legs
returned with four.

get out fast

"A circle with two parallel arrows
means to get out fast,
as hobos are not welcome in the area."

on est des filles


Beautiful photographs from my friend Kate's website. I hope she doesn't mind. I just thought they would go well here.





As Life

Spun, wrapped, in-sane,
to hear what is heard
or seen like crystals
forming, as they will

without form-


Particularly, neuronal
organs, mesh, a map
to eye, throat, mouth
inscribing electrical


of impulse.

Look, light! Wires
of flash, a shining shape
one could describe as

thought, as love-

as life.


Yes- old, earth, slavery; where cloud obscures the light,

a prophet's miracles are valued. Come save the laborer,

the living audience of sickly creatures, their uneasy farewells.

I know what makes the siren call, the sailor sway,

the blessed cover downcast faces; like a nameless master,

his hearse and entourage, leading the way to a grave-site.

Hats I neither own nor have doffed or thrown willy-nilly into the air.

Calico Cat hats and hats made from Ruggeri and ammonite, a haberdasher’s spectacle of hats, caps, bonnets and toques. A milliner’s hatter of hats: bonnets, caps, toques, boaters, bucket hats, fedoras, pointy, slouchy, sun bonnets, Trilbies, Balmoral Bonnet, Borsalino, zucchetto, turban, Boucle, capuchon, Taqiyah, Suma cap, Flat cap, garrison cap, wedge cap, rain hat, kepi, skullcap cap, Kufi cap, Nasaq toque, Salakot, newsboy cap and the nightcap cap.

Excerpt from 'The Jazz Symphonic Glass Ear'

Brute Beauty

page 230-239


I appeal to the good sense of the readers according to the unpardonable motion of water the untold reparation for the murder of the prophet of swamp ravens with their marvelous black inheritance bred into the watery bed down by the brown earth that swell with the will of God where the flowers are hostile and the insects seem friendly and are interest in sucking the blood of vultures feeding on the broken night encrusted with eagle powder fit for cracking the mountain’s morning moaning it hunger full of the intimate wreckage of stardust laced with dead machines and explosives milkweed seeds borrowed from their bottomless vines entwined round the muzzle of night that is naked and full of crocodile laughter that can be heard in the ear of slumber the night collapse into itself and the cities began to move to the tune of many motions that torcher the air into a torrent knotted and swollen in the throat of the greatest wild blossom blooming its color beneath the back bone of an abandon car

I appeal to the waves that saves the forsaken that is awaken in the nation’s generation of the more deplore enlightenment found in the sacred city of bees where everything is brilliant where the found fortunes of fellow-citizens is leading a virtuous life where the chants of marry and generate as the fruitful mother Mary who bore for us a boy with his irresistible electric tenderness in the everywhere air skinned by the wind that can not be waken from its forsaken curse that is the worse of known darken form found in the torment of tears shed on the ferocious canopy that shatter the fat shower’s vapor that can not hush its notion of a motion determined to counsel the infinite innumerable history of the falling rain such a simple thing within the knowledge of God the sole operator to the internal believers who shall share in his glorious grace when heaven becomes the place where the good shall wait under the thunder redeeming the seeming all eternal pace of an all encumbering grace of the prostrated prayers who have bent their knees in honor of the great all knowing machine that carried the fog on its back the fog muzzled by the scrupulous gesture of thunder incredulous in its spasmodic pilfering of darkness found hiding in the corners of spring’s eternal return

I appeal to the scalpels of winter winds that have sliced open the embrace of the air that fed the lungs of breathing creatures found wrapped in the mismanaged hunger of a transparency with its wild vivid violence vocable strength franticly venturing toward the proclaimed pestilence and pesky parasite that have proved themselves worthy to live on the meat of the earth rolling in its space of the great universe keeping its secrets of life lost in the immense void of a heaven sent storms that roar like mountains of mud mildewed and massacred by the mindless machines mining minerals midlife like the moon of hot high light presumptuous and pompous as a cat catcher’s pompadour paraded around an aquatic amber’s flame bloody and insane as the boredom of a tree swaying in the swing shift of shadows with their secondary roots worn down to the growth of drunk memories ruthless with remorse and the rigermortus of innocence dead by the age of 18 an age of unlimited emotion in the blood of a growing body that have yet to get use to its new skin to its new hair growing in secret private provided places new desires caught by the eye an age of living dangerously when nothing last for so long in the human temples where the factory of the skin devour ferociously the thirsts and hunger of nostalgia muscles stretched over the mountain of the trash of skulls of tomorrow caught in the extreme future stillborn everywhere in the approach of science and the tempestuous bread fed to the homeless forgotten amidst the murderous capitalist of brought souls in the season of a greedy Santa Causing the new born of the manger to become a selling tool

I appeal to the wet dirt covered earth worm caught in the beak of an American Red Breasted Robin in the transudation from winter to spring sprung in the daffodils in bloom Blue Birds in the budding maples and blue spruce care the everywhere warming of the air the fat warm face is a grace shine divine a glory easily gotten glued the viewed fade the grey far away clouds that knows to go some where every afire the desire of the sun to please the high supply of warmth the fair air gazed with praises spread out on the bed of grass that look its wind shook unpinned desire the wind ghost ruffle the feathers of a sparrow preached on a fence post its wise eyes surveying the passing of time in the Holy Week concern of man the worth while birds knows nothing of Gods in their lives they are unencumbered by the distress to please them a successful happy ignorant that dose not know itself to be so unencumbered by the hierarchy of the church they have no religious to control or condemn them and still they are caught in an intimacy with nature as the knowable body of God as for man take to heart the church of the mind for he is of the kindred kind the way to God is an open road lit by the sun and the moon you need no ridiculously rigid religion to show you the way religious are systems of profit that seeks to control the passion of the soul for the wealth of the church each man to his own belief each accountable to the same solo self by the very breath only you can die for your sins to be redeemed in life you stand before your maker every earnest day that place the mark upon you this is your heaven and hell made by the mind of man born of the flesh you shall come to rot in the body of God and from the decomposition of your deconstructed body shall there raise a host of life hidden in the coffin of your homestead you are the maker of all but one Gods the God of operculum of grass grounded to Its face the God of the breath of the dead woman’s face God of earth of the universal face of everything everywhere ever present ever dying and being born from that death a God insane and schizophrenic with life caught in the possession of Its orientation toward filling up earth with the universe need for proactive procreation and public pleasure a God of the many faces of life nursing at Its breast a God of convocation fornication of the probable cause proceeding as if It is all the only God that you shall know Its breath is yours Its flesh is the skin of the world Its feces feed the dung beatles It make no waste of rocks or bones or bark It is a God of consumptions among Its many mindful children man is no more special then the so-called lowly creatures of the world O God of my endless treasure kept in the collapsed advance of an approaching storm mutilated by the wind God of the mosquito’s sensations of the hibiscus’ hibernation of the heaviness of the swallowed light of the sun God of the catastrophe humming of the history of rain having its run God of the pitted pious moon of the stupidity of man held in the hollow of your hand of the invented Gods that can not control you distort you for you I will murder all the angels murder all the fraudulent Gods that people the heavens they fear you for your love of the screaming sun shining over the love of the fragile courage of man O young green God of the stars decorated night a cluster of clouds elaborating the many eyes of the guardian rain raining down its cross-eyed odor from the shaken sky lit by the deafening light of a proverb of memories burst open the terrestrial scenery drifting under the liquid sky of sweat bankrupting the sacrificial silence trembling its delight for the gigantic fruit-bearing essence of trees incorruptible by wanting weather that nurse them I call you mother nature the nurse I pick up your urgencies for life and death done down by the infected dreams with their intention of the trade winds full of forgotten words over spilling their counter-thrust of thirst with its drunkenness delivering the stagnant water spelt without remorse O mother earth the first and last God to breath the antique mountains alive O unpardonable earth your sumptuous tongue licks life like the built vision of brotherhood O water face of the water earth man shall putrefied you with his plastic waste and you shall come to find us unpardonable on the wet hump of earth we have all but over stayed our domain in the name of a tempestuous God that will make man Lord over you the pointlessness of the thing the boasting bomb making man is small of mind against the working of nature when O when will man come of mind to defend you from himself you who are tender toward us the wind is your messenger the birds your foot soldiers the trees your ministers of breath the sun your light man the moon your royal guard the galaxy your wilderness

I appeal to the demystification of thick languages and the innocent of nature in her compensation of simplicity with her common sun and common rain the common season reframe that return again and again her sea shore bellowing roar the strands of branches hands for leaves her deep seeds sleeps her sun eye that sees earth turning its ample head into its warm light her air that is an exchange all her earth of rebirth the sight of her moon face at night her birds that fly and cry out to the morning light her kids in their early life play the live long day the strong reframe of birds songs I meet her sweet life with open arms her youth strung beneath the blazing fire of the sun even man’s desire for the feel and strength of steel to feel that he is safe from her wicket winds and cold closed
freezing will in the depth of winter even here disease as divine as bees buzzing about the pine sticky resin the geography of a blaze of grass her million count sand that would be glass the negritude that will not pass in the sudden strength of a dark new born in time torn between being call African American and black a generational act I am a baby boomer black I love the tell tell heart of the sweet Lenore preached above the door with the dark echo call of never more

I appeal to my love of the half-circle sadness that dwell in everyone the mid-main pain that come and go the song sung without the tongue the close budding of a rose the drench quench falling of rain the break shake of thunder the right light of lighting that tread spread its electric crooked stick in the thick crowd clouds that flock against the rocky mountain’s rock my emotions are swung among the deep that weep this weeping is rough enough to cover the ground unbound by the choking sound that floats its notes that rest in the west where if it could it would have stood its ground against the prime time funny bone of black track television today have gone astray as if it flee from a pray that have come to slay the fresh flesh of miles of the Nile while the whispering wind whisks the surface in a motion of violent broken by the tortured unconfessed dream triumphant in its stalled meaning held in the REM sleep of dreaming the language of the dead it is a rarified thing with its grammatical participation biologically grown in the mind to the throat to the tongue a lung full of words is the easy poetry oppressed with its urgent return this precise poetry of rest this mythopoeia myth of sounds thrown around the whisper of a breath this jazz-jazz-jazz movement moving of the motion modern and non-moderate moist moire’ is grounded in the long lines breathlessness of the mind the limits of language to hold the divinity of life is a thing known to poets who are charge to do their best with the busy buzzing butt-end of bounteous bodacious words that mean a military of things the silence words on the page wait your breath to say what it is that they was made without you they are dead thing pregnant still they waits the possibilities of the breath to discharge their accomplish energy in an orgy of birth no longer the metronome rule the tick tock tick tock that rocked an earlier day now I say the flow of the syllable the jazz of the line the breath of the mind the jazz symphonic of words strung on the breath of the wind sometime couple with the riff of rhyme in a time told bold that binds both the high priest of the east with his soul roll the sound round in his throat then spited it out to the ear in the year of the silver jubilee as the sun run half the world asleep it keep its spent lament full of the leisure of pleasure for the hour that the sun strike the highest tower of a flower the earth birth a choir of fire from the volcano’s breath that reek its sleek room full of the gloom that doom with a boom busted full force onto the waiting air and the morn is born red over the low melt of snow that roll its muddy flow down the mountainside mastering rocks and tooth pick trees once strong of songs before the flames came this inspiration of the mother earth’s creation the sweet sire rapture true to itself with its giant groan sounding the ferocity of its approach wrapped in the horror that man find in nature being divine while the poets know that she is without fault of malice that her hurricanes are blind to man’s budding buildings of businesses that the intimacies between the tsunamis and the sea is an ancient unmolesting thing nature have the right of way in all her doings let no man stand in between she reign
Supreme ask not who is the God of nature but who is the nature of God


stormhostel veersiren
new brick enclave
an hour after sunrise
no haven
to have made something
or not make anything
Hearst Castle now
and it's still not yet my turn

Step this way

My amateur cantankerousness makes me suspicious of completing a picture of mannerisms best suited to living in a circle [because meeting or coming across your strifely-self too often is neither productive nor productive]. But let’s imagine in the field of self-oration there stand gates that open to peculiar aspirations, a blend of sloppiness and impromptu bubbling: a sort of improvised wishy-wash. So with off-hand in hand I proceed towards the prevailing novelty, attended to by regulars of unexpected vagary.

god blogged ~MusePapiers and SunBeams up his ass the judgemental of gods...boring ne

between the floating of this body
god blogged
Bogart's voice
read my radio
F.M. ___ A.M. radio self

clothed in fluxus

soya våren


dagen Morten er forbi




Paulsen the haiku maker

Når kommer ?

Når kommer my sushi....

[2nd] end of may

Playing Solitaire

An empty bed
with nothing but thoughts
to play with myself
leaves one restless
wanton and, for the moment, lost.

Pleasure alone
reaps shadow memories
and visions unknown
far too distant, feeling detached
from my body's sweet release
and my soul's carnal desire.

Lost in the shuffle of the illusory life,
the bondage of choices
safely tied up in (k)nots
martyrs the spirit
dying to free
the present I really crave to be.