Long Sentence

Legislated marsh, with wind across a moment finding torrents of last hour battering some compost and the organisms under a rock, till the chill refers to some class of registration, the sun almost over the trees but untouched, a drill into the same trusting note of change, poised for a the fall of leaves into the full sky, marking a history that rolls, powered by increments of colour turning toward brown, all in an enclosed figure set, each item named as seen, like a crow whipped in the air current, a squirrel tuned to the nature of rock, a rabbits brighter in force than a planetary bee, all such facts rippling inside the need to talk about them, remaining underscored and drastic, dating the pieces with reverence, now a year in another day, now another day for a year…

Poésie frontale



L'expérience, ainsi que les vérités issues de certaines traditions nous disent que le comportement humain peut être modifié
.

Experience, and truths from certain traditions tell us that human behaviour can be modified.
And I'd really like to believe that. Will we persis as a group in our destructive activities as those for which we are globally responsible?
I rather think so!...
Et j'aimerais tellement y croire. Allons-nous persister en tant que groupe à des activités destructrices telles que celles dont nous sommes présentement globalement responsables?
J'en ai bien peur!...

The Sound of Disappearance

What is it that holds you back
from me? I was already yours,

waiting to hear your voice
in a sea of voices, to know

your face as if it were my own,
each habitual trace of your body

an enduring memory.

Now everyday you are moving away
from me, a great bird disappearing

into a halo of cloud; the last sound,
the final sound (I cannot say yours or mine)

a call, a cry or howl.

See

see the washman, under the snow
takes me back to the rage
of walking on the dime, that river
strolling to the rocks, the ungodly,
the house was strung on the bluffs
the washed nature of memories.

mind fill the house with dislocated
purpose. that image mezmerizes.

("you got a plughole—I'm not looking at anything")

64

quelqu'un lit et il écrit, someone reads and he writes, quelqu'un lit et après il écrit, someone reads and then he writes, quelqu'un écrit et il lit, someone writes and he reads, quelqu'un lit, écrit, relit et récrit, someone reads, writes, re-reads and rewrites, et quelqu'un ne fait presque que ça, and someone does almost nothing but that, quelqu'un ne fait presque que relire et réécrire, someone does almost nothing but re-read and rewrite, sans arrêt, incessantly, et tout ça ça fait des textes, and all that results in texts, et tout ça ça crée des textes, and all that creates texts, quelqu’un lit, écrit et il crée, someone reads, writes and creates, et ce qu’il crée c’est un texte, and what he creates is a text, ou un poème, or a poem, ou un livre, or a book, ou de la prose, or prose, on s’en fout comment ça s’appelle, we don’t give a toss how we call it, ce qui compte c’est que ce quelqu’un crée, all that counts is that that someone creates, et quelqu’un ça attend personne pour relire et réécrire, and someone doesn’t wait for anyone to re-read and re-write, on a attendu personne pour réécrire sans arrêt, we waited for no-one to rewrite incessantly, et des fois on lit et on réécrit ce qu’on a lu, and sometimes we read and rewrite what we read, et des fois on lit et on réécrit ce qu’on a écrit, and sometimes we read and rewrite what we wrote, et des fois on se dit « merde! ça a déjà été écrit par un autre en zoulou! »,and sometimes we say « shit! this has already been written in zulu !», et après quelqu’un dit que quelqu’un est un traducteur, and then someone says that someone is a translator, et quelqu’un dit à quelqu’un qu’il écrit, and someone tells someone that he writes, qu’il s’en fout de ce qu’on l’appelle parce qu’il crée, that he doesn’t give a toss what we call him because he creates, et après quelqu’un d’autre dit que quelqu’un devrait lire machin et machin et truc et qu’il verra, and then someone else says that someone should read such and such and thing and he’ll see, et quelqu’un dit qu’il voit tous les jours et qu’il voit ce qu’il veut, and someone says he sees everyday and sees what he likes, et quelqu’un écrit qu’en écrivant someone il aurait dû réécrire quelque chose de différent, and someone writes that in writing quelqu’un he should have rewritten something different, que ç’aurait été moins chiant, that it would have been less shitty, plus marrant, more fun, et puis quelqu’un relit réécrit et se tait, and then someone re-reads rewrites and shuts up, pour l’instant, for the moment.

8-word poem: THE TIMES THEY ARE A CHANGIN' STORY

 .

Red, white,
Blue—
Black?
Get used
To it.


.

I can't remember...

Free Collage Art

Fear of Drowning

And what if the book and the pen must become my only lover? What if no one else will be able to… love me this way… make love to me this way… with the power of such feeling?

(a thousand valiant horses pounding on my brain, dizzying sex like opium or headlights, flushed breath, insane noises, all flock towards me… eaten by birds)


A deranged spinster in an attic flat filled with birdcages and Venetian death masks, radioactive rocks and black and white Audrey Beardsley pictures? Muttering to herself, giving herself completely, surrendering all she is, legs akimbo, a sad hallucination, all adoring to her art?

Is this horrifying beauty?
Is this the only way?
Already, no one sees me for dust these days.

Who can match up, how can I match up any more

when I am an overgrown forest, a babbling brook, an overcast shadow, a yellow crab with pincers, a veritable feast, unknown still, misshapen, god, who will take me with so much emotion?

Too many tectonic plates moving, sliding.

I got Ethiopia in my twisted right foot, full scale blizzards in my cheeks, aurora, red, snowdrops, a wealth of peonies, fickle shadows, black legions of marching men, all tramping through the silent place where pleasure soars and danger beats (it’s here, sniff, the light between my thighs)

My writing voice is that of the wizened and post nubile.

Anonymous, androgynous, without form, shape, breasts.

Take me out of this place and I’m ceasing to know myself again.
Alien to me, with my lustrous hair, fingers soft and simple, and they still call me a beauty.

I shed her in these blank pages, dead as a door nail, voiceless abandon in a ferocious wind, graceless.

Such freedom tears me, all abrupt, seeking triumph, absolution...to be faceless.

I fear total submersion in my own rivers, death by drowning.

Rote Rot

Along the ridges of loose jeans
the
folk singer spills another meal.
Food is
good for thoughtFont sizeand all the singers want a chance
to mend a melody without stating the obvious.

Rote is rotting like a demension of inner peace
that longs to celebrate the eternal.
The wheel of seasons brought to the next,
over and over again like trees dropping fruit.

One hand makes a sound,
even the smallest atom screams
for the sake of the others.
Some binds are harder than softer.

The collisions come and go,
each occasion a chance to start anew.
Why barter with a repeat engagement?
Suffer the specter of other useless pleasures.

Rote is the method behind the madness.
That's why the mad return to their dementia.
It is easier to be familiar with the misshapen,
than to parody meaning out of random passion.

Bound together like beads on a string,
the time to learn is something new rendered old.
Repeat the following mantra:
Tarry not until I come, the beginning has no end.