m drawn from memory









[needs flash 8]

radish revolt

THE BRIDE

An Ordinary Morning

The less you look

for happiness, the more

you find it. I am not surprised



or puzzled by the darkness.

What leaves no visible sign of

being- the oiled palm print,



the disarray of foliage altered

by a heavy foot, the streak of

daylight bleeding in a summer sky,



the shadow of a passing bird

moments before disappearing

into a wall of fog and cloud-



need not be understood.



Everywhere is sadness, shame

nothing saves us from it. Here,

I close my eyes and quickly see



rays of light, blazing edges burning

outward like an ordinary sun just

rising in an ordinary morning.

Capturing

Cup the hands into a bed to
hold the sick bird, gently place
on colored leaves; the sky
does not appear to notice,
a piece of it is dying.

Roll the hands like periscope,
frame the moon. A hole of light,
a tunnel to the soul emerges,
haunting, lovely. Later, in the evening
stand beneath the cedar trees; listen

to the silence of its shining.

Open up the hands for sleeping;
fingers poised to catch a dream or
shadows moving over linen hills
like waves of sea. Forget the hands,

the heart will tell you, mark
its drum, the beating darkness.
Use the muscle, its hollow rooms
to capture love.

en

there was one direction
tapering back to a
chance
whisper
where to read these (graced) notes
I now see

the clumsiness of shadow always remains unfinished
To Save A Poem


The fire burns fierce and primitive like a cleansing angel. Thick black smoke pours out from the flaming house. I was lucky to have awakened to. Now I'm fighting to get back in.

They grab me, wrestles me to the ground. I struggle like a wild animal. They don't give in. My tears explode from eyes.

The fire truck comes too late. The crowd gasps as the house destructs. I finally free myself and rush into the ruins.

My relief shouts to heaven. The mob watches astonished as I emerge jubilant kissing a black notebook.

“He done gone crazy,” they exclaim.

I laugh even harder.

And then I begin to eat my words.

To Live in This World

Those circles beneath your eyes

like bruises; those lips that rise

subtle as the Mona Lisa smiles-


a disappointed mystery.


Who doesn't love the ringlets

dancing off your neck? What

star's beauty suffers from a lack


of pleasure?


For miracles, alone, I stop to

ponder how the light reflects,

cast back, regressed and shining


on your blessed face.


If sadness sketched is loneliness,

if where you look, my heart must

follow; there is rapture in my body-


there is rapture.




choreboy

What If I Were

The night has offered me
its womb; canal of darkness,
memory. That which God
fears most- abandonment.

I hear the silence in
your bones, the snapping
of your injured wing; we know
that mourning, gracefully

removes destruction.

How can I believe or bless
the wounded in its ruin?
Whose faith correlates with
leaving what you've found

for being what you've been?

overillumination

the world is growing thin
the impressions you get
are passed off like they
were papers in an album
someone ripped out
last week came to no
culmination, no apocalypse,
even though we fasted
on our way up to Duluth
all that paper, all around,
circling in the yellows
and the reds of changing
aspens, the fierce swans
of the wetlands fading out

lost near Bear Mtn.

Vittore Baroni

Wake the Wolf

Wolf, I woke you! I was but tremble
in your prowl; fierce-eyed horse,
remember how I rode you into battle.

Now, you cling to hollow brooks,
fern across your brow; the smell of
soil in your claw, your homeland

takes you from me.

How I wish my fish-pale hands,
useless as a ghost could follow
through forest, field and rivulet

your midnight gallop.

The Guest

Pulled down like root,

secret, twisting, I neglect

the city's splendour-


sleepy cafes, gleaming

streets, young girls leaning

out cotton-curtain balconies


to watch the urchins play

below with stolen fruit. Did it rain

today? I would not know


or care to know; these eyes

sunk down inside their heart.

If I were guest, this riverbed


would greet me, now it's body

barely moving, shuts me out.

The light it needs, the whirling


skylarks often feeding from

its tangled banks are missing;

what is missing walks with me.





fiction_blogs.pdf (application/pdf Object)

fiction_blogs.pdf (application/pdf Object)


&

animation here

To


MARCEL MARCEAU

poem


The garden that began my education,
the asphault path that took me by the wrist,
in days succumbed; in nights lie interlaced.
Our shelves are now inclined planes. Superstition
boils upon the airwaves as a swarm
of perfect famymaho watches fast
this mild marmoreal bard unspool his parsed
stutterings: escape is on the lam.
The garden is a pit of spammers. Yet
there will be looking back, sans albatross,
and cured of zeyg we neither curse nor bless
these orotund melees with bloodshed fraught.
I wait beside, disarmed, the park of asphault.




distance of language

ellipsis (detail)

About Forever

Of heaven: gaping eye,
all silence, light. A sea
of light; white, white

silence. Of darkness:

implausible, distant
distance. Not like
anchored night but wider

as in blindness. Of spaces:

wall of fire, shadowed wood,
floorless room. Floating,
falling, hacking,

bending. About forever:

enormous waiting,
sleeping, waking,
dreaming; no escaping,

no departure.

Time

(for d.k.)


let's have it framed:


the double in (disappears)
the single differrence (appears)
notes on the fridge
door, verses, lines


all modalities of the empty in
the voice is us vulnerable it is
it needs its being so bad it

could cut


the voice making time
for wont of play &
you play with time
as time makes you
together

sotospeak


it could be
truthwalling
out of the in

into the out (a


prepared statement

to fetch the data markers
that we once pinned there
where some of our
souls fled a flare
that was too bright for
how they lust after
the grainy texture
of the move into
the obscure)


(a condition of

the procedure)


(anyway we too

are lost we grief

our lack as we split

ourselves

each time another

one eternity )


so while i break here into

now fire occurs in yellow

ochre & some chalkdust

as well use it ? well
we'll see or wait we'll


compete with
running loops
the standing

record is

Buffalo Sign texted juxtaposition









Image Mick Boyle, Text Clifford Duffy

Meeting Point

Having Supper With Raymond Burr

So Raymond Burr comes to my house for a late supper, late on account of I got home late from work and one of the cows whose heads’ I bash in was quite uncooperative. First (let me tell you) he comes strolling up the sidewalk and then strolls like a bowshot right up the steps and onto my front porch. I say ‘hey Burr where’s your wheelchair anyhow?’ He gives me a nasty bowshot look and says (I mean really, he says) ‘that was on the television show, I’m quite able-bodied in real life’. I says ‘I bash in cows’ heads with a big sledgehammer, for a job, I mean, that’s what I do when I’m not here at home’. He gives me one of those TV actor looks and says ‘so what’s for supper?’ I look down at him, on account of he’s still on the second step, and say ‘hey man, ease up I had a fuck of a day’. So Burr says ‘you must put a lot of cows in wheelchairs?’ So I invite him in and we eat Swiss steak with boiled potatoes and creamed corn and warm Doctor Pepper, on account of my refrigerator is on the blink.

Back to Hearth

Fashioned like a particular life,

they say, beyond living

the process takes a turn;


and so occasionally, a sense

of stillness within motion brings

a folded surface forward.


What emerges differently than skin,

the bones, the body; then, naturally

the subtle act of forming void? Here,


the spirit splits apart, patterned as

the evening sky; so oil, water, smoke

and dust, morphs itself to light.


We leave some trace, a tremor, fixed

and spiked the body stays, stripped of

dream or violence,


















Blame It on the Wind

Rain or so sky stained cloud; it was

the wind (your trail) made flowered,

mossy grass, butter root and shallow

bowls of soil spring.


I thought of thunder, how resonant

and rich your speaking weighs the blue

light down, travelling to some high point

then burning.


I do not appear to love you only

when I dream; a storm is coming

heading home relentlessly. Rain

or so the sky stained cloud,


it was the wind.