3 noviembre 2008

darkness begins a Monday
out of it fell the frost
on plants and objects real
or human-made     why curse
the white sheet on your wind
shield because your ancestors
moved about and chose or not
to settle in this wondrous
place both très chaud et très
froid—here comes winter

the cave of our local history
twice visited for work today
still didn’t look or feel
like home where i should be
winds off the bay of fundy
shook the truck for many hours
as we dismantled recent acquisitions
and hauled them away to storage
limbo before i—dressed in black—
refuled the truck with irving
processed prehuman sea creatures
and my right hand exudes diesel

sun ring (earlier) twice as wide
as divided highway      danish beer
and deep sea scallops await me

Roach Whisperer

counterinsurgency forth
lungfish answering
stoop · relish prayer wisp anthem island
brackish agonist wetwork inkhorn accent
my affable boil
crackling straw
shadows sluice out infirm Ogpu afterbirth

this verse twist about '


'two'hobos walking   after  the sun
cooking on their hot plate
  a friend and me

                                                    in eternity


so button

you will be mouth  (? I dont get this at duffy _ Who will be 'mouth?')
against river as silent teeth peeve its true switchback
      there are narrative slaves at  this tent
saddened by  a truer road 
its boxed in lathe not a knight's
way  but one  weathered by owls and geese  

                               (I don't like this at all but it's okay. not really up to your personages)

_____________________Jill is gonna get   cackle over this one    ~ 
'Shes come to the bed . She s stayed there. Her and here was. It to her funsome . Not ' etcetera

                You are very kind to send me this as I was wrought up and had nothing . Anyhow, someone said you are filthy rich so how can you whatever you pretend to be, write about bums, hobos,vagabonds, tramps, and what not?

        I earn 32,000 in 8 months,   for you that's spending money! I mean, like , that's what you play with , right?

It Was The Last Thing That I Wanted To Do

It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the day as if it was a man in need of sex
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the woman as if she was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the child as if it was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the dog as if it was a man
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the silver maple as if it was an individual
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the sun as if it was a God
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the moon as if it had its own light
It was the last thing that I wanted to do
To do the stars as if they have life.
fanzine, where is thy sting? online the cabbage is only money, but connotation draws more sustenance out of thin grey vocabularies than a rant coming through on shortwave or boborygmoid channels. it’s a screen of dollars & cents. always behind the technological 8-ball, you used to tell me. banish my fears with a wave of your telescope. and another duck down the dark promised alley, into a still darker place—that sign tells you where to go (“they make it nice for us”), washing your palms with light and handing you a bottle of new experience. they’ve got it made. they’ve made it for us to get. a tusk spikes like sound of framing its own understatement. now, as it starts raining, as it does every day, every purpose shown like lightning across the form of space… choked down in a rage. slapped upside the head with calm. they tell you their lies in persuasive rhythms. tonic lulling. “that’s just so unacceptable—how can you pass this off, this kinda hokey spondee-driven shallow text? this weak talk sinks all boats the same. this drink toughens the last pause with a dribble and a praise. drown much lately?” “it has a beat, honey, but it’s not dance music.”

for cliff (the slavedriver!) i love ya

kerbock, seeing more than the
artist saw, easy enough to make
it actual, this is not a painting,
self-portrait badge, a red circle
with nothing in it, this is refer,
what’s your insect, question
postage, siamese twin erotica,
naka beyond, emphasis on the amp,
do you recognize the fruit,
certain things, ye ole eye lamp,
a chance for data to flow,
grown-ups and grown-downs,
this text needs to be set free,
what is all this junk, comprun,
miss peek peetes keens, sixteen
hundred, the generic term for
q-tip, toupee ham, blandname,
tibed, the eskimo car, oneiros,
rough eye know, eye own, bug
fighting, dodgery chryslery,
gorgos, permanent blue sky,
raise cotillion, blithesome,
earning details, handing
paper from person to person,
actually pay your own bills,
shop til you puke, can’t even
do long division anymore,
the beer is gone but the
label remains, ununiversal,
aphesis, telanglectasia, the
sea turns to concrete,
cromlech, readograph, flashe,
emerged in the heyday of


Trust Me

Trust me, when vengeance finds thee out.
All this shall nothing avail thee with out your trust.
In manhood’s vigor I will bring thee
Safely through those leagues of water
That has magnified the seas and won for thee
The blessing that pledge to save thee.
Your requests of a love that last forever and
Your assault of passion shall come near me
To over take me with a province of its own
Now, as then besiege me with your cries for forgiveness.
Be not afraid to touch the prophet’s bones.
The dead men are wise no more toward the prize
That last forever, neither rich in poverty of livelihood
Nor flush with flesh.
Faith wait for you calmly and lovingly to claim your gift.
Haste all this to your heart surely as dead dreams come from an over wrought brain that fight to make thee insane.
Content thyself with the mercy hard won by poets as protectors of the human spirit and Nature as the one true Godhead of the living and the dead for She surely rule all that can be said by the well fed who fill their heads with the knowledge of the dead.
Be you content with the make of your bone, long shall you live with it and wish you no more to be like that man fair of face or this man rich in coins for all thee are made up of the self that thee carry about like no other.
Nature is thy mother, thy maker, thy provider of substance to feed thy muscle and make thee mindful of the working of the Gods, have none before her she is the knowable deity before your eyes, easy to spy, thou can not separate thy self from the bold bounty of her body for all there is to be known is by her precept.

Of Morning, Distant

To be this night,
dark garden of the trees
and stars, this sadness webbed,
a fragile gauze shrinking

in the dying shadows.

Of morning, distant
arc of blue and gold
turns wildly silver-white
as hair, as ice, as wings.

With longing, ripe
and amber as the moon-
to live; shattered as a ray
of light- to die filled

with fire, tears and blood.

waiting for the ultrasound

waiting for the ultrasound

Playing with the Wolfs

Down Fell I, Face to Earth

Down fell I, face to earth
And with great rejoicing among the people a deadly griping it was that took me with cruel torment that tore off my wings and burnt them in the town square.
A great fire roared up to light the heavens and by that light I saw for the first time the faces of my enemies.
My enemies have gathered together and they boast of their strength to overcome me, to bring me lower then the hearts of human that must muck about on earth.
They would have in the heart of the city my corpse to lie like dung on the ground for the passer-by to wonder just what was my crime.
While the battles were afoot news came that the speed of my demise was at hand but I could not let it be so.
I mustered my strength with the wisdom of my muscles behind me and called for a treaty of alliance at large.
Fain would my confederates and friends enroll in my aid still I took the upper hand by speed of being a man of constraining power who love for the battler is legendary for I have fought in the company of uncircumcised children who cheered for my conquest.
The angels that rebel against me care not to doubt that I have been successful against the suicidal act that they wish to use to beat me down, they are powerless to defeat my spirit, my will to live as one in the dark skin of a man.
I fight them to know my father’s sins, by it am I a guilty man but his sins has strengthen my resolve to win for man a place in the heart of the natural God of stone and bark, wind and fire, water and air, such are my cares.
Do not take pity on me nor call me brave as one who battles the angels.
I will bring my enemies low; bring them to nothing, bring them to know me as I go victorious over the bodies of my foes.
The angels have God on their side but I need no such deity as I have nature as my aid, she will defeat their flesh and I shall school their spirits with defeat.

Dancing Round Caules’ Stones

The day Lela met the man in the hat and the harridan’s sister she had a vision that the sky would fall. She stood in front of the harridan’s sister’s knickknack table and stared at the pop-siècle placemats, her eyes twitching like clock-mice. She seized hold of one of the dories and spun the masthead like a pinwheel. She had a vision of children with impossibly small feet dancing round a maypole. One of the dancing children was wearing a flagstaff hat with a toy whistle attached to a chin-string. Another was dressed in a loose-fitting jumpsuit made from sheet music and apple skins. And yet another was wearing impossibly small booties with pinhole tops, her face red with excited exertion. She smelled boiled onions, a familiar smell from her childhood, and fainted, her legs giving away beneath her like wobbly ninepins.

Lela knew a man from Vereeniging Gauteng South Africa who had similar visions, but his were of devils dancing round caules’ stones. There was a man, a very large man, who lived in Meriden Connecticut who had visions of the man in South Africa. And another man, a very small man, who lived in a boathouse in Eschborn Hessen Germany who had visions of visions. A woman in Dunshaughlin Meath Ireland had visions of people having visions, but none of her own. In Most Ustecky Kraj in the Czech Republic a man named Karneval had visions of people who had no visions of their own, but if they did, they would be the visions he had of their visions. And in Kaunas Kauno Apskritis Lithuania a woman with baggy stockings had visions of people who never had visions of their own, but if they did they would be the visions of the large man from Meriden Connecticut who had visions of the man in Vereeniging Gauteng South Africa who had similar visions, but his were of devils dancing round caules’ stones.

i saw

i saw the 1st fall of leaf
not drop
but thud

as i passed its tree
in the warm golden evening

hit the sidewalk
w/ a serious passion

it let go

[witnessed on 9/25/08]

Beautifull Back People in the Life


the liberated puss

The liberated puss / pressed into lint oozing through gauze / some years later your septic vampiric kiss releases a hot gush from my torn jugular / in your grip my feet kick and dance / smearing sticky red on the white tiled floor / my new found somnolent gaze fixes on an advert playing on a security monitor / a family in a silver car winds up a narrow mountain road / winds up my mind / high on adrenaline passed to me via your saliva / I blink and the family in the car is screaming / descending into their seats as though melting / spumes of blood froth upwards across the tinted windows / warm upon my face and into my eyes as you scalp me / rolling back the skin across my bonce / rolling back the prices a smiling mother pats her buttock / black chipped nails tap and scrawl on my exposed skull / I feel you point at my forehead and then with a specially sharpened fingernail cut down the centre of my surface / my reddened face / inane / still staring at the images in the security screen / you peel off my face in strips / cut generously with a blade around the eyes so that it looks like I’m wearing glasses / comical / sat on drying agitated muscle / I hear you laugh / a monkey and a jingle for chocolate milk / glazed / eyeballs rigid unable to cross the abyss to yours / you lower me to the ground / gently / clutching my tattered flapping throat / I can no longer see the screen / just its reflection in a municipal door / mottled / crosshatched with embedded wire / a montaged smear of films I ought to watch / you remove my clothing / damp / soaked in immobilized fear / you remove it in practised routine / Belmondo wraps sticks of dynamite round his head / in the reflection / in reverse / you dig fingers into my flesh / my perineum / and with an upward motion tear off my cock / balls ‘n’ all / I’m aware of a hunched shadow eating from its hands / of images of a boy firing his first shots into reversing footage of the Nazi regime / its atrocities / your stylised slurpings / my maimed face remanents twitch / tauten / eyes stuck to the reflected scenes / you toss aside my half eaten morsel / Joe Pesci smashes a head with a car door / you belch / I feel a splutter of your hunger wetten my chest / you stab in controlled frenzy / horizontal / serrating my abdomen so that I might later be torn in half / you wait panting / Robbin Williams detonates a bomb in a noisy crowd / my intestines erupt / carefully / intact / excavated by your burrowing hands / you crack open my chest / parting waves of bone to dribble soporific spittle upon my heart / asleep in viscera / in a stream of idols / Jeanne Moreau / the girl on the motorcycle / Myra Hindley / you push air / force it from my mouth by squeezing my naked lungs as if in the grip of a passion with another woman / my eyes stiff / fixed / staring into the fantasy spattered with my own blood / obscured with my own blood / and then you must leave me / I feel the breath of the door swing open / then shut / I think I vomit / a film starts in the fragmentary reflection / oh shit / it’s Night of the Demon…
Yes I am
Falling, and
Yadda yadda.

A Position of Idyll Repair

In this rain, these crests of trees flip with famished response. These trees, our own, set tone. Water rolls the streets to marshes, marshes are set. A word sets on every point of the travelogue, even as the grey clouds lift three inches, just to impress. Stevens, the greatest poet in corpulent times, dares to drink a martini. His children, thousands of them, settle in petals. Leafy daydreams sputter thru the window. There is an image left behind, one that dazzles with last humour. A backache becomes the essence of New Hampshire, and ripples of auroras castigate sameness as the discussion turns on a jet. What does language do when everyone is quiet? A dusting of rain thru the day and into morning a baroque event, no doubt, we would watch for more. A love of such and such, then people thru the years, then what course does our dance take? It is curious to remain standing while others take their seats. Their seats are prominent responses. Each step with the drum, intended, becomes a cooling refreshment of utter means. We are not captivated, only equipped. Subtle movements in the trees bespeak the squirrels and merrily, but the day is not over. A dream of something effective, a talk with the devil itself, a fire in one’s range of vision, all this prepares a base for the effort up the mountain. Yes, Everest in the distance, just as trashed and facing as ever. We loom inside, with extreme sense, and a poem by Stevens. His cooling stare is so professional and kind. Avalanches mean nothing compared to him.