Summer arrives;
Another season
I'm not prepared
For.
Woodcocks and Chesterfield’s
A woodcock scurried sideways across the earthy brown black earth, the ground scuttling beneath its tiny misshapen bird’s feet. At exactly 3:45am the woodcock crippled crossways across the now wet brown black earth, the rainy rain having lain a blemished on the once earthy brown black earth, the once-earth the woodcock scurry-scurried across sideways crippledly. ‘I feel sickly ill’ said the woodcock with a chirp and a twitter, his neb cloistered with wet brown black earthy earth. A blindfolded chessplayer skulked sulkingly across the blacktop black, his hat cupped (like an egg-cup cup) in the outstretched palm of his handy hand. ‘Twitter chirp twitter chirp chirp’ said the woodcock cockily. The blindfolded halfblind chessplayer croaked and moaned, his feet chipping the top of the blacktop black. ‘Oh but how I abhor chirping and twitter, makes a man unaccustomed to the egg and cup feel so fragile and weakly’ said the halfblind blindfolded chessplayer, the kip of his trouser bottoms belling and ponging, the blacktop black scurvy with eggshells and skulking. The man in the hat thought all this up, this nonsense and blather, whilst waiting in queue for the hawker to begin hawking his wares and cups. A slicker of wet rainy rain left a blemish on the once-earthy brown black earth, too slick for tomfoolery and childhood pranks. At this very moment, 4:28am, the woodcock and the blindfolded chessplayer and the man in the hat went their separate ways, each with a bone to pick with the hawker, the rainy rain and a man they had yet to meet.
A magpie flew flocking across this crisscross crossly, its tiny misshapen beak wormy with tads and cableways. The hawker, who by this time had opened his wares-table, threw a handful of hooey at the magpie, missing it by a Poe’s wing. A raven black sky, a rare consign in such a havenless place, blew back the handful of hawker’s hooey, the hawker ducking behind his wares-table like a fearful muck. Cacaw cacaw went the magpie impiously, its eyes black with desecration. Wormy worms and cawing caw cawing were too much for the man in the hat, so he turned easterly and made quick. His grandmamma made magpie pie, crimping the edges with a fork, beaks and magpie feet crabbing, his grandmamma tamping them back down with the upside of her wooden spoon. He remembered his grandmamma’s feebleness, and the way she cowered when the rain fell in rainy sheets, the curtains in the kitchen window pillowing, her eyes scorned with yesterday’s bad news and tomorrow’s worries. ‘You will eat this pie, young man, or else..!’ Her mouth curled up at the edges when she scolded him, trench-lines furrowing the trebled skin above her lip. His grandmamma smoked 27½ Chesterfield’s a day, snubbing out the smoldering filter in an empty Chockfull-O-Nuts coffee tin with her thumb. As far back as he could remember, which was far indeed, his grandmamma had a smudge on her cheek, a blemish left behind from the smoldering filter of a spent Chesterfield. When he was old enough to take up smoking (that day coming on his tenth birthday surrounded by unlikable relatives and a dope sick clown with fish breath) he smoked stinky French cigarettes that came in a blue box with a winged helmet on the front.
A magpie flew flocking across this crisscross crossly, its tiny misshapen beak wormy with tads and cableways. The hawker, who by this time had opened his wares-table, threw a handful of hooey at the magpie, missing it by a Poe’s wing. A raven black sky, a rare consign in such a havenless place, blew back the handful of hawker’s hooey, the hawker ducking behind his wares-table like a fearful muck. Cacaw cacaw went the magpie impiously, its eyes black with desecration. Wormy worms and cawing caw cawing were too much for the man in the hat, so he turned easterly and made quick. His grandmamma made magpie pie, crimping the edges with a fork, beaks and magpie feet crabbing, his grandmamma tamping them back down with the upside of her wooden spoon. He remembered his grandmamma’s feebleness, and the way she cowered when the rain fell in rainy sheets, the curtains in the kitchen window pillowing, her eyes scorned with yesterday’s bad news and tomorrow’s worries. ‘You will eat this pie, young man, or else..!’ Her mouth curled up at the edges when she scolded him, trench-lines furrowing the trebled skin above her lip. His grandmamma smoked 27½ Chesterfield’s a day, snubbing out the smoldering filter in an empty Chockfull-O-Nuts coffee tin with her thumb. As far back as he could remember, which was far indeed, his grandmamma had a smudge on her cheek, a blemish left behind from the smoldering filter of a spent Chesterfield. When he was old enough to take up smoking (that day coming on his tenth birthday surrounded by unlikable relatives and a dope sick clown with fish breath) he smoked stinky French cigarettes that came in a blue box with a winged helmet on the front.
Grandiloquent passions (written in pencil)
Grandiloquent passions—happens to be my #1 fallback position, after assuming a "lock-and-load" stance, anyway. You're half right: got the guns you've got the feathers. Wasn't this ordeal already supposed to've happened? God does not erase his work, not even his pencil sketches. What time is it? If you can't manage expectations, then what good will your social craft be? Nothing major, nothing epic. No, I mean I don't want anything big, no big deals here. We've got names, we've got obligations, we've got . . . grandiloquent cut lines. You in the market for meaning?
Hold it—hold it! This is unique, a special moment caught in lead seals and the broken pieces of another family's story. Ancient sounds of pottery shattering, liquid spilling on stone floor. Hold it! God doesn't erase his work for no one. So if this statement is true, where does the next act take place? (An airport? A flooded town?) When you don't write with words it's a shame you pay less attention to spelling, typography, design. I wouldn't be the God of Writing for all the gel pens in Japan.
Rifts--
Cleft to the root
of disavowal
a throat
distorts
letter-accretions
unworded
body excretions
dustbowels—
Winterscorched
reams of frost
unslur my name—
Ellipses of birds
take wind
sparse-growing
erasure
Body torsion
stabs
birds of inkstains
Accretions of silence
acid secretions
abraded skin of earth
slabs of denial
runnels of dead vowels
wastebuds
Cleft to the root
of disavowal
a throat
striated snow
aslant
inhabitant of silence
of disavowal
a throat
distorts
letter-accretions
unworded
body excretions
dustbowels—
Winterscorched
reams of frost
unslur my name—
Ellipses of birds
take wind
sparse-growing
erasure
Body torsion
stabs
birds of inkstains
Accretions of silence
acid secretions
abraded skin of earth
slabs of denial
runnels of dead vowels
wastebuds
Cleft to the root
of disavowal
a throat
striated snow
aslant
inhabitant of silence
dub dream rut
Gathered around a microphone / dub / dreams ruts guide the wheels of a starvation cart / Nada glides in / lubricated in pvc / black / shiny / skinny indigo denim pushchair clad arse / seething hair dye and deliberately cheap piercings / vague definitions pinpoint a failure in construction / in concrete and collapsibility / decorated toenails / wallpaper vices / flock Georgian frontage pealed back / overt desires break upon the shingle / foam / smoothed broken glass / elemental romantic diseases / strips of red / blood / structure and pre-tanned nineties penis / protected / cared for / whipped with a bouquet of roses by the Nada / revved up like I was chrome / exhaust rattling / pre-feul dripping / a curtailed interview / it wants chucking / thinks it’s hearing things / the sounds of fountains in the night / unseen cherubs puking / static golden emticsaries / crafted in Paris like lies of intellectual civilisation / nailbomb snoozes in a coffee shop / waiting to make fixtures / the muse never hit this one…
Eyes burning into the scalp / yielding a smile in cauterized animal tissue / grinning all the way to a decent sized conflagration / burning with a malignant boredom / ennui at the fingertips / at points of sensation / a once exciting waist curves away from a wooden clumped mitt / splinters / spittle oozes lecherously / a black bile manifests / becomes hole like bullets make / lifeless and standing / waiting upon legs to give way / give up / leave the groceries that spill out of the brown paper bag in an american setting / burst through the plastic bag in an english setting / and form luck strew constellations to be crushed under tyres in the supermarket parking lot…
Eyes burning into the scalp / yielding a smile in cauterized animal tissue / grinning all the way to a decent sized conflagration / burning with a malignant boredom / ennui at the fingertips / at points of sensation / a once exciting waist curves away from a wooden clumped mitt / splinters / spittle oozes lecherously / a black bile manifests / becomes hole like bullets make / lifeless and standing / waiting upon legs to give way / give up / leave the groceries that spill out of the brown paper bag in an american setting / burst through the plastic bag in an english setting / and form luck strew constellations to be crushed under tyres in the supermarket parking lot…
'my eyes ..
my eyes dim
to know fifty summers
and several falls
bark, yorkies, like you
know what's out there
the last of its kind
owl clip escaped
from a hand that won't
without quite noticing it
i get chili dust on my Marketts record
intruders
the toilet seat left up
nephews-in-law
will your book on the Oscars finish
with the year the war started
to know fifty summers
and several falls
bark, yorkies, like you
know what's out there
the last of its kind
owl clip escaped
from a hand that won't
without quite noticing it
i get chili dust on my Marketts record
intruders
the toilet seat left up
nephews-in-law
will your book on the Oscars finish
with the year the war started
Seemingly Endless Herds of Wildebeests
Cast clouds, in story, pull humid dozens from the fragments, tellingly. Poised in that muddled precociousness are the Worcesters of dropping down. This is dropping into place, where weather is logical and perceived, and still falling for the reasoning. The news satisfies as a thundercloud cracks. The earth itself lives in language, that is what we keep telling ourselves. A poem is a village where Hillary, Barack and John maunder. Luncheons are served, west backs us. Newspapers get wet in this Worcester of which you speak, said someone from precincts away. Is it truly faring as a taste? The answer is yes, tho blind and alleging. Wiser heads fail. The country of which we speak, a nation, knows no one, not even people. Names are positions in a rule of intent. We hold something to the light, and call it love. It is as strong as that, and bears us. Worcester is a place. so called. Trials and balloons each make advance. Then the poem, of its own volition, turns on the language it gave.
'..something
i want something precious
and small, to hold in my hand
against this feeling of falling
the last scatterings of fireworks
always the most beautiful
'they '
"The Fly in the Chardonnay"
they were handing out candy
by the side of the road
and one of the soldiers
in mid-gesture slowed
a little girl there
was holding her eyes
she couldn't see
their sweet surprise
it was ironic
it's like winning
a president race
and they take it away
so you get second place
it's a huge fat surplus
just goes to a war
it's a polar cap melt
when the oil's running low
it could be ironic
so the soldier's hometown
decided they'd save
the blind girl's sight
and passed the hat around
and they did it
it's like winning
a president race
and they take it away
so you get second place
it's a huge fat surplus
just goes to a war
it's a polar cap melt
when the oil's running low
it's sort of ironic
when they flew the girl home
she was so excited
she had never yet seen
her parents, benighted
so she got to the place
there were bodies strewn
she saw bullet holes
and a smoking ruin
it was scary
and she told the americans
this shit is too much
i don't want to see
if i have to see such
make me blind again
if you can't take away
what you've done to my country
my people and me
and it wasn't ironic
it was tragic
it's like winning
a president race
and they take it away
so you get second place
it's a huge fat surplus
just goes to a war
it's a polar cap melt
when the oil's running low
and it isn't ironic
it's tragic
Right Way to Attack
Fumbling fingers,
blood spills on white piano keys;
you whisper of virgins
lifting their skirts with pride.
Blood streams between legs,
a soft moan of pleasure
escapes around static.
Eyes spring forward with madness,
the spine breaches the surface--
fumbling fingers now achingly precise.
"Do not stop!"
Slither from piece to piece, page to page;
lick each divine composition with breathless certainty.
Spit words, verses scribbled on sleepless mornings.
Eyes wide, mouth ready to take the fall;
dissipate the truth from blue veins--smile with bloody teeth.
Persistent, prolonged, ever-present,
you shake when I suck you dry--
I shake when you look in my direction.
blood spills on white piano keys;
you whisper of virgins
lifting their skirts with pride.
Blood streams between legs,
a soft moan of pleasure
escapes around static.
Eyes spring forward with madness,
the spine breaches the surface--
fumbling fingers now achingly precise.
"Do not stop!"
Slither from piece to piece, page to page;
lick each divine composition with breathless certainty.
Spit words, verses scribbled on sleepless mornings.
Eyes wide, mouth ready to take the fall;
dissipate the truth from blue veins--smile with bloody teeth.
Persistent, prolonged, ever-present,
you shake when I suck you dry--
I shake when you look in my direction.
Picking Up is Hard to Do
convoy P-RAM dance to the radio edit
Isfahan thegn cornucopia
opiaform jihad · shadowland box
boxkite cor carbolic
bollix riprap GURPS
Upsilon Andromedae
When you go your way and I go mine
Then time will tell who fell
And who's been left behind,
When you go your way and I go mine.
- Bob Dylan
A Mouthful of Woman
she wakes near dawn,
eats only with noon,
feigns illness till dusk.
this rain that pours
lulls even lions to sleep -
rinses rhythm from her skin,
but does not wash.
loved once in late June,
survives the month of July,
but cries only for August -
recovers once summer passes.
and when night falls
the fear remains the same;
the devil might steady.
eats only with noon,
feigns illness till dusk.
this rain that pours
lulls even lions to sleep -
rinses rhythm from her skin,
but does not wash.
loved once in late June,
survives the month of July,
but cries only for August -
recovers once summer passes.
and when night falls
the fear remains the same;
the devil might steady.
Taking the Stairs
New Book...
"Desperation laced with hope." Corb Lund.
"Utterly (utterly) winning." Annie Freud.
Featuring the bed sit world of struggling writer Jarod Palmer immersed in battle of wits with alcoholic film producer Elliot Bale this is the absorbing tale of a young writer who is "in love with the idea of being a writer." Travelling through Toronto film sets, telemarketting rooms and the door-to-door worlds of electricity sales in Ontarian towns such as Picton, Tweed, and Bellville this novel paints a portrait of a young hopeful lad, facing the end financially. Interspersing a novel, short stories, a screenplay, letters, notes-to-self, and an ongoing love story between narrator and his quietly simmering girlfriend Aidrieneese, this is an intimate, comic ride you won't forget as Jarod Palmer tries to hold it all together while he tries to finish his first novel.
As Human Poem, People Read In
this is a new document.
the sun is quartzite, with paeans running thru. billows of escarpments perform plush rods extending cumulus, and you would think: the sky is above Worcester this shining spring morn. and the people are abundant, with whims jetting thru cycles of concerned political gantry. a wired elegance promulgates a new election, tho the candidates are stunned. these words reflect that bastion. process makes document, on any morning. sentences flock together like geese or turkeys. a turtle strides at maximum speed along bikeway, a dinosaur as much as smoke. the contest fires up. someone plays hip hop or the next understood. together we make a city. call it Worcester, and imagine something better. this is how poems make their way.
the sun is quartzite, with paeans running thru. billows of escarpments perform plush rods extending cumulus, and you would think: the sky is above Worcester this shining spring morn. and the people are abundant, with whims jetting thru cycles of concerned political gantry. a wired elegance promulgates a new election, tho the candidates are stunned. these words reflect that bastion. process makes document, on any morning. sentences flock together like geese or turkeys. a turtle strides at maximum speed along bikeway, a dinosaur as much as smoke. the contest fires up. someone plays hip hop or the next understood. together we make a city. call it Worcester, and imagine something better. this is how poems make their way.
I’ll pay for gas I’ll
pay for oil, I said, not to be confused
The culmination
with wingéd words of epic,
of drones, too.
That they wrote before
from land or
an historian settled
on his throne, away
on the coast somewhere,
not his homeland.
He watch but no
mythologies appeared,
even when the invaders
from the East had come three times to make
beachhead,
and three times
were rebuffed by
stout locals.
Now, there’s a story.
can’t make anyone’s supply of durable
more valuable in
goods or liquid assets
the retelling
of our stories now.
(after C. Olson)
My Beautiful Annabel Lee
Why do horsis fack? was written on the label of the Jack and Jill jam tin. Scrawled onto the Gibbs’ hard mustard jar was the address for a tinker’s shop in Athens: Attiki 85.74.185.# Greece. Embossed onto the cottage-ham wrapper was the name of Harold Grossmann, a phrenologist from Reykjavk Gullbringusysla 85.220.64.#, who was open for business and accepting new referrals. On the flipside of the label was the address for a podiatrist who lived in Iceland, Hamme Oost-Vlaanderen 82.174.38.# Belgium, but had his office in Reykjavk Gullbringusysla, not far from the phrenologist Harold Grossmann. And written with crayon on the back cover of the Popular Mechanics magazine were the words carbuncle in nipple, the return address for any and all queries being, Las Pias Rizal 122.2.197.# the Philippines.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
E.A. Poe
The note in the envelope read as follows: Mr. Poe would like the following cheeses sent to his room: Blue Roquefort, Camembert, Swiss, cheddar, nippy, sharp, Brie, Oka, Gouda (smoked and rawboned, rind and paraffin), Granston Blue (Llangloffan), Landsker Blue, Soft Blue (St. Florence), Gorau Glas (Quirt), Caws Preseli (Pantmawr), Perl Wen (Caws Cenarth), Cheddars and Cheddar type - Aeron Valley, ACC Llandyrnog, Hufenfa De Arfon, Llangloffan, Llanboidy, Cilowen Organic, Lancych (Caws Cenarth), Merlin (goats milk), Little Acorn (sheep milk), Caws Celtica (sheep milk), Caerffili, Caws Cenarth, Caws Nantybwla, Caerfai, Teifi, Castle Dairies, Celtic Promise (Teifi), Saval (Teifi), Caws Cerwyn (Pantmawr), St. David's (Abergavenny), Dansco Mozzarella, Teifi range, Caws Cenarth, Cheez Whiz, Egyptian Sardo, Testouri, Caravane (camel milk), Bokmakiri (goat’s milk), South African Kwaito, Japanese Sakura, Palestinian Ackawi, Basket cheese, Labneh, Jameed (goat’s milk) and Bergkäse (German for mountain cheese).
a brief state statement on diy poetics
yr in deep
no turning back
no how to be paid
this is the state
of the art sucka
no turning back
no how to be paid
this is the state
of the art sucka
The Grandfather of the Group
Spiders in ray light occur in chance. Raffles of what Olson said, in the doom of thunderstorm, on the offshore and laid to wind, spent a day to explain. People in Worcester staked claim, leaves in trees, and a position to thrill. The love call is work of radiant offing; clouds dodging bending with science in exclaim. Who cycles back when the twisting storms touch down? The forest is leveled, the natives topple, small pox is a fragrance.
Our love, a gantlet and then, but more nature than a tryst. We have kissed, and will again. This news settles when Olson, a poet, comes home. Home is freely heightened. Its language is secure. Now the names and now the commands, pouring over the landmarks while sleep concerns Aztecs. Language equals words.
Poised relentlessness caves in to documents spread over time. Time, the rival sister, shuns that opulent task of engaging Oscar-winning star clouds. Push comes to shove, and delivers. Our friends constantly wonder at us.
Our love, a gantlet and then, but more nature than a tryst. We have kissed, and will again. This news settles when Olson, a poet, comes home. Home is freely heightened. Its language is secure. Now the names and now the commands, pouring over the landmarks while sleep concerns Aztecs. Language equals words.
Poised relentlessness caves in to documents spread over time. Time, the rival sister, shuns that opulent task of engaging Oscar-winning star clouds. Push comes to shove, and delivers. Our friends constantly wonder at us.
Spontaneous for the Brimmers
Where was black
Summer back
R/Somantic slack
Masterd each
Slavering peach
Makers beach
Sieve sailors jive
Pass pears brave
Brim posts alive!
The Shania Twain Refrain
I have so much soft buttons, the berry dream to say inclusion, but I know the best way clean rivers. Donating comfort press for me to speak, these rumbling stratus clouds are through my music.
This is my therapy, my passion, ever-soaked pragmatic, and my love. I look forward to sharing with it, this new journey, mutt.
This is my therapy, my passion, ever-soaked pragmatic, and my love. I look forward to sharing with it, this new journey, mutt.
Shade
This leaf and greeny
place
is protected
but does not
protect me.
I feel
naked diamonds
of dusty sun
dance
across my skin
while I peer
between
careful
moving
branches
know that soon
some point
some small dazzle
will catch
someone's eye.
place
is protected
but does not
protect me.
I feel
naked diamonds
of dusty sun
dance
across my skin
while I peer
between
careful
moving
branches
know that soon
some point
some small dazzle
will catch
someone's eye.
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