movement music 1 [2012]

A Neo-Benshi piece performed to the music video 
"Spiritual Healing" by Zu (feat. Okapi) vs. Dälek

(0:05) Monday, May 4, 1970
  whether to be punctured upon the macadam or
to be before the doctor's birthing hands
an oral assumption should be made
and then promptly dismissed
as allegations gather around
like ashen photographs

(0:26) Thursday, August 27, 1970

  like swollen mourning doves pinned around the throat
choking, this record is a regurgitation

(0:47) Wednesday, December 16, 1970
because melody is beaten and an elder
independence is one tuned to see sharper
the surrender of rhythm, a disaster manifesting
of the rusted machine headings
and the confiscated bed knobs

(1:07) Monday, July 31, 1972
an acuity of mind was promptly achieved
after an engagement with low reed instruments stalled
a pause not charted in the sheet music
and brevity was brought before economy
a short foot, tapping a nominal pedal and humming

(1:28) Monday, September 4, 1972
found frequently are reasons for doubt
lasting to become insidious enemies or friends
and a particular child at this stage of growth
might look to these blank doors
to boldly infiltrate

(1:48) Tuesday, May 22, 1973

several previous sessions introduced it as a possibility
but this yellow could not have been predicted
a curly loose elementary
harnessed and leashed to reason
this is a piano roll song
passing a history being voiced and eaten

(2:09)  Saturday, March 15, 1975
  the martyr presumed exhaustion
and absence followed the mindset like an oxidized compound
and the branches sought the trunk
to legalize the easel and the crucifix as instruments
what were once considered electric memories
were found fizzled in a pile of filthy clothing

(2:41) Tuesday, June 9, 1975
people are hand-painted doorways
and through them ghosts and resurrected jazz musicians appear
to parade before disembodied eyes and tongues
and to be seen as true objects of fiction
to be delivered lean to crooked junctions
is an animalistic wish, a prayer
winding through cold sweating pipes
and laundry chutes
as corresponding waste would
or mouthpiece spit

(3:32) Sunday, May 9, 1976
beneath cellophane wrappers
two arts are growing
to be equivalent yet unique places
they beg the eye
            and later will be windows

regarding [2010]

a sadness
a time of funerals
a winter wedding
     or school
cycling life
through nature and religion
art and science
mythology and folklore
     as glossary terms
friends and enemies
recently added
     by most popular
     or first line
(pets and other animals
are social commentaries
on occasion)

there are 2774 poems about relationships
also anniversaries and Father's day
and some others regarding past issues
mostly tearjerkers nonetheless 

this one is off the shelf
a contact
an announcement
a submission
the foundation to be considered
     beyond all resources
     and shared with
     those who have registered
     to receive the e-mail newsletter

FREE ADMISSION AFTER THE THIRD STANZA

we are learning like children
collecting like mosquitos in humidity
passing from degree to degree
tapping out polyrhythmic lines
     and taking up residency in every hall

I have written 5 months and regard this as my Post-Modernist period

Sunday Afternoon [2015]

The Tools [2009]

August 22, 2007  8:37 PM

          Tony’s god-damned dog has been digging out behind my shed again, and I’m pretty sure I saw him shuffling off with Mr. Olkowski’s colostomy bag in his mouth.  That mangy, flea-ridden mutt has been skirting the edge of my tolerance for weeks now, and he’s lucky he hasn’t gotten the hose, or worse.  If it weren’t for Tony’s close proximity to my base of operations, I would’ve offed Alfonz back in May.  Alfonz: what the hell kind of name is that for a shepherd/dane mix?  It’s a damned ignorant one, that’s what, and a disrespectful one, too!  If I had to count all the times that goofy wop bastard has disrespected me and my people, I’d need a hell of a lot more fingers and toes than I’ve got on me right now, that’s for sure.  He’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m going to sacrifice my place in this neighborhood, while that feral cur pisses all over my tulips and dredges up my progress.  I could really do something right now; something about this whole sodding mess!  And I could pound my fist on the door jam a thousand bloody times, too!  I could bust right through it, into the laundry room.  But then I’d have to put a load in, and I just don’t have time for that crap right now.  Alfonz: what the hell kind of name is that?

August 23, 2007  5:49 AM

          I couldn’t sleep at all last night.  I just kept thinking about Tony and his dog, and the shed and that well worn patch of earth behind it.  I couldn’t get all the tools out of my head.  They just kept bouncing around in there like some sharp ping pong balls, or something.  Alfonz and Tony and my tools, dancing and digging and creating and finding, all those things in my head.  I haven’t got vegetables planted back there, that’s for sure!  What’s Tony got in the ground out behind his rusty old shed?  Is it wearing a nightgown or a blazer?  A filthy bib with bloodstains and crushed apricots smeared all over it?  Why doesn’t he look somewhere else?  There’s got to be lots of things he could find somewhere else, if he’s of the mind to look.  Alfonz might even sniff out some squirrel or rabbit, or some other small and harmless creature to skin and cook for supper.  And another thing: who does Tony think he’s fooling with that dye job?  Probably thinks he’s fooling me, but he’s sure off the mark on that one, I’ll tell you.  Just because you’ve got good tricep definition and a firm ass doesn’t mean you’re not forty!  Who in this neighborhood really believes he’s a blonde?  Not me, that’s certain!  I’ll get my tools and give him a trim he won’t soon forget.  I’d like to see him strut up and down along his neatly trimmed hedges then, with a good, clean haircut and that stupid smile.  I’d like to see the ladies notice him then, with his polo shirt and Dockers, and his brown blazer with the patches on the elbows.  All that and a haircut, that would do him a whole hell of a lot of good.  I’ll have to clean up that god-damned dog, too!  And it won’t be cheap, either.

August 23, 2007  4:17 PM

          I haven’t felt this good since the day my dad came home from Vietnam.  I’m basking in a real sense of accomplishment, like I’ve done something they might not forget for a hundred years or more.  Maybe even two hundred, if I play my cards right.  Of course, there’s still lots of work to do, and Tony’s going to owe me a lot of money when I’m finished.  He’ll see the value, just like the next person, and he will open his wallet accordingly.  I might even take a shower when I’m finished, then put on my fancy shirt and sit on the porch for all the neighbors to see and admire.  I can look handsome too, if that’s what I set out to do.  My mom dressed me up real nice the day my dad came home from Vietnam, and she even cried looking at me.  That’s how good I can look!  Maybe I’ll even bring the tools out there with me; line them up along the railing so everybody can see them shine.  Of course, I’ll have to clean them up a little bit as well, but that’s no worry.  I’ve got lots of polish and rags, and the strength to do the job right.  I always do the job right, just ask anyone.  Except Mrs. Duffy.  Don’t ask that bitch anything.  She doesn’t have the faintest idea what an honest day’s work would look like.  She can’t even keep up with the garden out behind her shed, let alone manage all these tools and a heavy workload on top of it.  Now my garden, there’s something to behold!  It’s all freshly tilled and ready for planting.  I think I’ll put in some tulips.  Yes, I’ll do that tomorrow, if I can get my money from Tony.

G[ ]MM -- "Etude #006 (donkey kick)" [2015]

Book [2012]

"The book is a physical object.  

The hand-held book demands touching.  

Effort must be taken to view it.  

A print on the wall under glass has 

no volume, no shadows, little or no texture.  

It is not tangible.  It is almost non-physical.  

To the extent it can be seen, it is physical, 

but it is closer to a conceptual idea, a vision.  

Whereas a book is three dimensional.  

It has volume (space), it is a volume (object), 

and some books emit volume (sound)."

-- Keith A. Smith

Prologue

               What is to be said about a book is wholly other.  

      Holding a book in hand is an artisan's way around saying this thing or that.  

                                               Give one a book and one shall have a stair toward other books.

                          Where is the one when one has opened first the end of a book?

  Time is a book.

          A book is equivalent to one man with his mouth hanging open.

                                    Understanding the shape of a book is an exact science.

                   Science is no longer allowed to appropriate a book.

                                                 When is a book allowed to cheat on another?

                                                                                  A book is a sequence of portals.

                                    A book is to underwear as wood is to one.

        Collaborations build upon a book.

                              Samuel Beckett wrote a book about science.

                              The sphagnum bog is a book.

                                           Peaches and Beauregard are a book about unconditional love.

                           A book was thrown from the top of the bleachers.

              An eye tore through the seventh page of a book.

                                                            Weight loss is the subordinate of a book.

                                                 Loneliness is a book to experience.

       How     might     one     build     a     book?

Chapter One, etc.

(…)

Epilogue

A book is my underwear and the building of me.

“In order to read the new art one must 

apprehend the book as a structure, 

identifying its elements and understanding 

their function.”

-- Ulises Carrión

adjective [2010]

wading an afternoon in the refuse of me
discerning origins of stench and prescriptive grammar
I labored across a fester of modifiers
            and without scrutiny
extracted it
           employing a plunger and a slotted spoon

song (an artifact) [2011/2015]

I am not 
the honk of 
a trumpet     or 
the tongue 
terribly waiting 
     and waiting

I am not
the six razors
tuned to open me     or
the wind
articulating what 
     and what

  (I am no longer to be found 
in the low end 
where the evening is 
a betrayal of the speaker 
and where the list of 
recognizable names is
short)     

I am not
the skin of a goat
stretched across ceramic     or
the yellowed fingers
tapping intent 
     and intent

I am not
the circuitry
delivering noise     or
the web of wires
tangling time 
     and time

and    I will never be the never-ending song you 
                   think you hear

Termes ep Derillian [2012]

HOW TO COMPOSE A 20-LINE POEM UTILIZING THE MAPES CUT-UP METHOD [2010]

Materials
razor blade
scissors
2 language sources (magazines, newspapers, essays, etc.)
1 twenty-sided die
1 six-sided die
1 red pen
1 Tupperware bowl, with cover
a large block of time

Steps
1. Find two distinct language sources, both of which relate to you in some way, and both of which differ in their subject matter (ie. sports, music, literature, theatre, fashion, photography, woodworking, etc.).

2. Situate yourself in a quiet place, with plenty of room for you and all of your materials.

3. Beginning with your first language source, locate the first page containing actual text (not just advertisements) and proceed by counting off sections of 25 lines (if there are columns, it is up to you to decide how the "lines" should be recognized).  Designate each block of 25 lines with brackets, employing your red pen.  Continue this method until you have blocked out 25 sections of 25 lines each.  (If you find that your source is not long enough to accomodate this method, please find another that will.)

4. Once you have your 25 sections, cut them separately from their source with your scissors, and arrange them, numbered 2-26, in front of you.  (Note: You may, at this time, alter the order of the 25 sections in any way you see fit.  However, once the order has been established, deviation from it is strictly prohibited.)

5. Once the 25 sections are numbered 2-26, roll your two dice together to randomly determine which section you will use.  (If you roll a 5 on the six-sided die, and an 11 on the twenty-sided die, then you would use section 16.)

6. Once the section has been determined, then roll your dice again, in order to determine which line of the section will be used.  (Employ the same addition technique as used in step 5.)

7. Once the line has been determined, devise a method, employing your six and/or twenty-sided die, to randomly choose a word from the line.  (Example: If there are eight words in your line, you might employ both of your dice, meaning there would be the possibility of rolling any number from 2-26.  Therefore, you might designate that word one would be represented by 2, 3, and 4, while word two would be represented by 5, 6, and 7, and so on, leaving 26 to represent nothing.  So, if you ended up with a roll of 13, this would mean that you would choose the fourth word in the line.  Easy enough.)

8. Once you have determined your word, excise that word from the line with your razor blade, and set it aside.  Repeat steps 5-7 forty-nine more times, ending the process with fifty randomly selected words.

9. Repeat entire cycle with second language source, in order to extract an addtional fifty words, for a grand total of one hundred words.

10. Place the one hundred randomly selected words into your Tupperware container, attach cover, and shake rigorously for exactly 100 seconds.

11. Once your words are thoroughly shaken, remove cover to reveal them.  At this point, without looking, reach into the Tupperware container and take out 5 words.  These words will be used, in an order of your choosing, to construct the line of your poem.  (Also, please feel free to add any other words you might like to use.)  You can make this line as short or as long as you wish, but it must contain the 5 selected words.  

12. Then, repeat step 11 until you have the complete text of your twenty line poem.

13. Make any revisions you deem necessary, including the possible addition of punctuation and a title.  All rules of syntax and narrative are to be followed strictly, or ignored completely.  Do not necessarily allow yourself to have your creativity stifled.  Finish the poem.

14. Dispose of the original 100 words properly, and in a timely manner.

15. When applicable, mail copies of finished poem to original sources, indicating in the mailings that you have cut-up their publications.  Mention Burroughs and Gysin.  They will be impressed.  Expect your poem to be published by these impressed sources.

you may telephone from here ('the way') [2010]

the phone rang me at 3:00 AM (piercing a nocturnal peace) and snapped at my ear (crusted near deaf with psoriasis) as it delivered a cryptic message (like static dots and dashes) about the dead passengers (only the infant had survived) and the need to trace "the way" back home (a treacherous stumble by any standard)

I had returned once before (over bedrolls and dollar bags of chips) when Reagan was still in office (the jar of jellybeans well settled) but that was prior to the burning (my own neglect aflame) and well before my family had found a suitable equivalent of me in mathematics (linear inequalities in one variable) 

now (this fleeting time) as the calendar clocked on (a ruthless pace) days and nights and weeks and months (and perspiration) dripped like hot wax fuel onto my flaming boots (size 13 lanterns) illuminating the black path ahead of me (complete with one gaping sinkhole) and quickening my staggered gait (a limp lit)

when I tripped onto the familiar black-and-white (a deceptive unity) checkered tile floor (across "the way" from Faker and Puke) my brain sprung from the safety of my skull (clearly not properly strapped) landing with a smack (overdubbed poorly) and slid to a stop beneath a well-stocked gun rack (all correctly loaded and cocked)

suddenly (as if upon a distant request) the dog long asleep in the corner (a basset hound with three sets of teeth) stirred and sprang awake (a sacrosanct sight to behold) revealing another (better) brain beneath his massive frame (double average) and he began to howl and bark in varying turns (a code strikingly familiar)

as I stretched dumb across the flame (singeing my intent) to befriend the low beast (agitated beyond recognition) he combusted instantly before me (a holy Flash) leaving behind a grey pile of ash (a proper memorial) which I then promptly sifted through (snapshot of sandbox) to secure the (better) brain (indeed a grey matter)

once in my head (a reluctant fit) the brain proclaimed a new me (unfolding hundreds of times) and I slipped into a scholarly stride (limp lifted) which extinguished the lamps at my feet (no longer requiring time's incitement) and itself revealed "the way" through an educating homeward path (a living family alongside it)

at last (this had been 40 years coming) a frightening siren sounded forth (like the EBS) from the nearby laundry room (where I'd once pissed in the set tub) and I immediately deduced (new brain and all) that it must be the phone (you may telephone from here) but as I moved toward it (with clear ears) the next ring clipped in half (as if a mathematical equation)

someone had picked it up (a startling solution) and as I rounded the corner (doubt pounds dropped away) I noticed (eyes not smeared) on the floor (deception dissipating) a diapered child strapped into a safety seat (an infant key) and smiling (a beaming eternity) holding the receiver out to me ("hello...")

FAKE [2015]

the problem with 'The Gun Room' [2011]

bleeding profusely from
his left knee     the eldest son
collapsed in the entryway
          "...I wish I was sitting in a stuffed chair with arms to support me..."

crying and clutching he
was scooped     carried up
three flights of stairs
"...in a location cooled by fans and off the beaten path..."

this is the Gun Room
and here     we receive messages
and the occasional patient
"...where there are no phones and the lighting is complete but dim..."

I placed the panicked boy
upon the chest     trembling
and tore away his jeans
"...and there are intriguing books on shelves just at arm's length..."

the deep wound gushed with
the boy's rapid     heartbeat
there was no sign of the glass
"...and I've no pressing engagement in the foreseeable future..."

the father cursed under his breath
and left     the boy bawling
in the room beside the bedroom
          "...I am well rested and I've just come from viewing a stimulating film..."

as I entered the room
I found our son     teetering
on the edge of an old crate
"...I have a mug of hot tea beside me and a bottle of water..."

I stuffed a dirty dish towel
into his mouth     bite down
and muffled his tormented screams
"...I've just used the bathroom, which is nearby if I need to use it again..."

I asked the wife to leave
the room     and she left
before comforting the boy
"...I know my family is safe in their homes and without considerable worry..."

tears streamed down his
red face     betrayed by
a rusty grey Craftsman toolbox
"...there is a stick of Nag Champa burning in a nearby tray..."

his father produced a pair
of pointed pliers     and plunged them
into the boy's open wound
"...I am barely noticed and I barely notice the actions of others..."

  [A CD of subdued improvisations — featuring bass clarinet 
                                   and synthesizer — plays in the background, and I am 
                                   comfortable in my cargo shorts, pocket tee, and 
                                   oversized hooded sweatshirt.  It is roughly 1:00 PM
(time is of no real concern) and I've just eaten a nutritious meal.
I am seated before my computer, and I have a clear understanding of 
                                   what is wrong with my poem:  my knee is bleeding.]

preamble [2009]

end of a trumpet, and drums
finished the leaning burden, burn
take time with rusted strings before
the phone is her, is quiet her
limped through low light, to her, to
  arrive as if not 
and the dogs not
and the candles not
not only taken to
sag, scribble the sigil, snore  
tip to dreams of pornography, as
she shivers under cracked casement
and fears

that first familiar rooster
what he hears, then
stumble to drain this morrow
of its duties, its deviations
feel to find that fat fever
amongst friends, and an enemy
  (some are dressed as ladies
and some sneak the back seat with them
and some sneak death upon
their naive significants)
waitresses and attorneys are seen
those not yet gone are there
some are dressed as men, too
and ghosts

and after hours, we review recordings
like those done in the '80s
tricks traced in costume
and smiles seen at a distance
hers being singular, striking so
but
soon a languid tickle will become more
and a strange sickness will slip me
into a tempestuous slumber, and

                      I'll be amber when

The Afterword [2015]

          Logan Chalmers grew up to become a poet, and lived nearly his entire adult life estranged from his parents.  When he was found dead in the dorm room of a college sophomore, the following fragment of a poem was recovered from his breast pocket:

father

I am a not also a not     a spring in the step of another     nope     another nope and
arrival is not I nor a place in which I is free     to pursue not and springing
like sprung is a characteristic     or invisible     or an envelope filled with arrival I

this is the end     a sentence     a sentence of invisible and pursuit and not     I am
not also a springing characteristic     a distinct peculiar step to another     nope
I am also my mother a not     arrived in an envelope     smiling     period and

A Plate of Shitty Spaghetti [2010]

The Report

  A young married couple with a toddler is seated in a booth at a popular Italian restaurant.  The toddler is on the left, inside, with his mother.  The father is seated on the right.  Their booth is center stage.  It is a Friday evening, and the restaurant is moderately busy.  There is a party of six persons (five males, one female, all elderly) seated in the booth to the right of the couple, while a party of two (a teenage couple, sitting across from one another, obviously on a first date) occupies the booth to the left.  There are several unoccupied tables scattered throughout the relatively small room, and to the far right, at a table against the wall, a kitchen worker sits, wrapping silverware.  There are dozens of framed photographs and paintings, as well as some strange, rather bulky artifacts, hanging from the walls.  A waiter and a waitress come and go from time to time.  The music of Al Martino plays softly in the background, and conversation is at a pleasant, barely audible level.

  Suddenly, at the table of the young married couple, after a cell-phone rings, a voice begins to rise.  The father, obviously being scolded, nervously fumbles with his cell-phone, and then tucks it into his jacket pocket.  The mother becomes very animated, and continues to berate the father, inquiring about the cell-phone.  The father quietly begs the mother to settle down, but to no avail.  At this point, both of the other parties in the room are beginning to show signs of irritation, and the kitchen worker gets up and leaves the room.  Then, the toddler starts screaming in an extremely high pitch, and all the other occupants of the room cringe in further disgust.  The mother rises from the table, snatches the toddler into her arms, makes some sort of parting comment to the father, and then exits the room.  The waiter, perhaps sensing the end of the altercation, enters to present the bill to the father.  He pays it, checks his cell-phone, and then leaves.  The occupants of the room breathe a collective sigh of relief.

❊     ❊     ❊     ❊     ❊

The Dramatization

  "This was nice," said Mirah, as she wiped the pasta sauce from the mouth of her son, Logan.  She continued: "We haven't been out like this since that night with Dan and Audra.  What was the name of that place?"

"Castaldi's," said Ben, seeming a little distracted.

Mirah continued to clean and groom Logan, who was being strangely patient with her.  And then, when he was neat and presentable, she took a small Batman toy from her purse and presented it to him, and he sat quietly, playing with it.

"What's wrong?" said Mirah.

Ben replied: "Oh, nothing.  I guess I'm just thinking about work.  Monday's the deadline for that Washington thing, and I don't know if I'm prepared."  After a brief pause, he continued: "Where's the waiter?"

"I haven't seen him in, like, ten minutes," said Mirah, glancing over to make sure Logan was o.k.  He was.
  
Suddenly, a cell-phone rang, and Ben fumbled to remove it from his jacket pocket.  He checked the number, and pressed the "silence" button.  His face began to blush.

Mirah inquired, with a somewhat harsh tone: "What the heck was that?  I certainly hope that wasn't 'you-know-who’.”

          Ben nervously fiddled with his phone, saying nothing, and refusing to make eye-contact with hIs wife.

"It was, wasn't it?" said Mirah, with anger rising in her voice.  "I thought you said that shit was over."

"Don't swear in front of the baby," Ben said sheepishly, still avoiding eye-contact.

"What the fuck?" screamed Mirah, as the action of the room came to a screeching halt.  "Don't get phone calls from the bitch you're fucking!  That shit's a lot worse for the baby than my language, you asshole."

Ben resumed his silence, staring at his half-eaten plate of pasta.  He gently slipped his cell-phone back into his jacket pocket, and then pretended to check his other pockets for some mystery item.

Mirah continued, barely restraining herself: "You've got a lot of nerve, Ben.  I really thought we were through with this crap.  Did you ever stop seeing her?"

There was no answer.

"Don't just sit there and ignore me," said Mirah, her voice beginning to tremble.  "What the fuck, Ben?  Really?"

Again, there was no answer.

The other people in the room were a mixture of annoyed and curious, and mostly remained quiet in order to hear everything.  The teenagers in the booth to the left were giggling.  Little Logan started to fidget and grow impatient.

"So this is it?" asked Mirah.  "This is how it ends?  Over a plate of shitty spaghetti, in front of a roomful of fucking strangers?  And, in front of our son, no less?  You're a real piece of work."

Mirah began to quickly pack her things into her bag, including the Batman toy, which she snatched from the hands of Logan.  In turn, Logan began to cry, loudly.

Mirah continued sarcastically, choking back tears: " I hope you're real happy, Ben.  And, I hope she's happy with your herpes."  Mirah raised her voice, addressing the room: "That's right, I said herpes, you nosy motherfuckers!"

Mirah swiftly rose from her seat, grabbed her purse, and snatched little Logan by the arm. The child let out an ear-piercing wail.

"Look what you've done to him," said Mirah, frantically confronting Ben.

Ben looked up slowly, and finally made eye contact with Mirah.  However, he said nothing.

After a few seconds, Mirah blurted out: "Fuck you, then!"

With Logan in her arms, Mirah ran from the room, leaving Ben behind to contemplate the moment. 

After approximately a minute, the waiter finally appeared, bringing the check, which Ben immediately paid.  After failing to leave a tip, Ben stood, looked around the room, and again removed his cell-phone from his pocket.  He dialed a few digits, and then stopped, staring at the display.  Then, in an action that looked suspiciously like relief, he sighed, and finished dialing the number.  A voice was heard to answer.

          Ben replied: "Yeah, it's me.  I'm gonna need a ride."

Witness [2015]

mismemorial [2011]

I misremember nothing like it

            the gift misremembers

  where it had been 
  and its wrapping

            to witch here     (ripped freeway)

  is to raise an infant from the wreckage
with Ouija fingers     and naivety

nothing it misremembered like survival

  and the sweat
  it misremembers is
  its relation to giving

            to witch there     (left with twin)
            was to re-watch the communication

of the flap failure     from within

misremembering it is an expertise

  and it was given birth
                        in straining memory
  of its misremembers

  to witch then     (blue-black eyes)

would be to count back from 156
to 1 weeping     2 honest lies

I misremember it like nothing

  like the selfish air
  as it misremembers
  its gift of flight

  to witch now     (rendering)
is to sweep our ash athwart the ghosts
           and witness     a living thing

numbered (a timeline) [2012]

  In the autumn of 1988, on a day nothing like today, eight pasty teenage malcontents gathered in a parking lot, somewhere not too far from where they are now -- in the shadow of the 7-Eleven logo -- and bandied about them their educations and their embryonic hopes, as if they were not apart from the world, as if they cared for one another.  And, above any amorous constraints, they came to the collective realization that they were exceedingly tall.

❋     ❋     ❋     ❋     ❋

AISLE 1:      apparently     everyday is shrieking into a variety of circulations
garbage trills are creating friction between the peevish and the brewed
  $1.49

AISLE 2:  fraught with primitivity     this blasphemous sandwich is a transponder
pedaling slices attract like garlic or a stroller full of parentheses
$1.19 (+10 cent deposit)

AISLE 3:  memories are unwrapped     strewn across this habitat like nevermind
initial tangents might be seen as skeletons of engagements
$3.79

AISLE 4:  remnants of whistling twitch     as if volume were a gesture of balance
innocence in the background is an imperfection and weathering knowledge
$1.09

AISLE 5:  a miss is superficial     like the approximations of clockwork delicacies
no one is admittedly axial in this realm of aspersions and hoaxes
["price check on aisle 5"]

AISLE 6:  resin tempers the precedence     seizing sprouts made from advantages
the grain has expired here and is tantamount to forming languages
$7.29

AISLE 7:  looping down this deposit     the fluorescence is a matter of contention
cannons and skeletons stock the shelves with memorial mathematics
$0.49

AISLE 8:  blasphemous     a numbering procedure continues on the endcap
mirrors shift to reveal flickering desserts and an ellipsis idol
$2.19

❋     ❋     ❋     ❋     ❋

          In the autumn of 2012, on a day everything like today, eight damp autonomous elephants gathered in an attic, somewhere not too far from where they will one day be -- in the shadow of a phallic tower -- and bandied about them their educations and their rummaged hopes, as if they were not apart from the world, as if they cared for one another.  And, above any amorous constraints, they came to the collective realization that they were exceedingly temporal.

G[ ]MM -- "Etude #005 (theme for my marbles)" [2015]

dusk [2010]

behind a singular farewell
the left day solemn selfish     it
  slow sinks into your below
            a never known shallow

taken is a pulse     a song
the breath betrayed
as if the faith of it
were simply biblical     

and bruises ornament the length
a flowered twist of vine     cut
            of the horizon

An Ancient Tow [2015]

stations [2009]

(...click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack...)

as I lean into the yellowed glass
of this blight-creaking coach
all is dim with failing dust
and I've not seen another...

...it seems there used to be 
so many more stops
along this hallowed line
and weren't thousands of us
ill-clothed cowards 
once queued to follow it?
the destinations were certainly...

...I suppose that since
we found no mates waiting
  (to be overcome by  
our intended scents of cheap wine
or
to be swayed by 
our ridiculous club-car costumes
or
to be romanced by
the eloquent resonances of
our 90-minute mix tapes)
an agonizing possibility arises — 
  we might never have been...

...and that lost, ruinous passenger
still riding with the casket of his...

...or is it simply that
our high noses were too buried 
in borrowed books
for us to take notice 
of our stations
passing by?

(...click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack...)