— Samuel Beckett
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
terminal [2010]
...but here...not sitting...not trying to write...about lawn chairs...not poems...ignoring what's not the golden light...the light of a month that's been mistaken for November...and my hair...and my neck...and my arms...this writing mistakenly touching the light...waiting to touch a few yellow lines of this light...this lawn chair...not a poem...lit from beneath and golden...what?...yellow?...yellow leaves of golden lawn chairs?...not so...not written about...not mistaking it for a well-lit November...trying to write poems about light...standing...not trying to write about writing...or November...or sitting...in well-lit golden lawn chairs...arms not mistaken for golden...nor my hair...nor my neck...lit from behind...more yellow than golden...perhaps a yellow stripe where not golden...and finally letting go...of here...of my ignorance of here...wait...stripe?...a yellow stripe?...not a golden light...not so...so...not sitting here...not writing about here...ignoring the presence here...of a mistaken golden light...yellow poems mistakenly applied to golden light...a light sitting beneath a golden lawn chair...astride a month that might once have been November...not now...not a month...not a poem about a month that's not November...a golden poem that's nothing but yellow...not about November...or my yellow hair...or arms...or neck...not a yellow sickness...not in November...or in a well-lit poem about golden mistakes...cough!...sickness?...a yellow sickness?...no...not now...not in this light...one must not mistake this yellow for sickness...nor a poem for a lawn chair...or sitting for standing...or not...not letting go...letting go of the light...the lawn chair one is not sitting in...not writing about a golden terminal sickness...not mistakenly touching the light of a month that is most certainly not November...not a month...not lit from behind...stop...terminal?...the terminal?...
"...and what if all this time I had not stirred hand or foot from the third-class waiting-room of the South-Eastern Railway Terminus, I never dared wait first on a third class ticket, and were still waiting to leave..."
— Samuel Beckett
— Samuel Beckett
Monday, June 29, 2015
the opposite of knot [2012]
kindle the lids and whisk away zipped horizons of cucumber and communism
this is not a vacancy or a sandwich or a larval sprouting of footware
this is delicate
an apparition
[ ] forget the hinges
my cranium expires and I am pendulous compelled by commands of the innocent
I am practical but a peck is more than dashing more than particular
it is catching
a procedure
[ ] tamp the dictionary
decimate what is not a lesson in this hydrate wires and shorn hemispheres
I am aslant as I rummage through cornucopias of marriage of graduation of hoaxes
the opposite is metallic
mirrored
[ ] divulge the language
the sneakers are sitters under the covers and precarious why?
because there's a lozenge in her mouth and it is cool there in speckled chiaroscuro
(...)
(...)
this is not a vacancy or a sandwich or a larval sprouting of footware
I am practical but a peck is more than dashing more than particular
I am aslant as I rummage through cornucopias of marriage of graduation of hoaxes
because there's a lozenge in her mouth and it is cool there in speckled chiaroscuro
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Saturday, June 27, 2015
insignias [2014]
witnessing no swatting at insignias
these hands are conductors of faith anymore
elemental aerialists feigning transubstantiation
waving through hack orchestrations of the ejaculatory
and soliciting silhouettes as one might the word
yet praying is parenthetical on the lingual spectrum
between this left and this right
and where one might normally find science
or the reclamation of nonsense
I am holding something like nothing
or rather a circumstance
and though it is unsettling to harbor this bracket
in a palm that once cradled schizophrenia
and the tools of a morphemic man
I am resolute in the eyes of colloquial reasoners
and deliberate in my discrimination
(CLUNK! the manifestation of knowledge is…)
these hands are conductors of faith anymore
elemental aerialists feigning transubstantiation
waving through hack orchestrations of the ejaculatory
and soliciting silhouettes as one might the word
between this left and this right
and where one might normally find science
or the reclamation of nonsense
I am holding something like nothing
in a palm that once cradled schizophrenia
and the tools of a morphemic man
I am resolute in the eyes of colloquial reasoners
and deliberate in my discrimination
Friday, June 26, 2015
The Missing Leg [2010]
He wiped his boots on the tattered remains of the welcome mat, and entered the dim, one room cabin that he had recently inherited from his deceased parents. It was dank and cold, and it stank of mothballs, rodents and rotten potatoes. He walked hesitantly across the warped, wooden plank floor, shuffling to a stop before the stove in the far right corner. He looked up through the cobwebs to find dust dancing on a thin beam of light, and realized that there was a small hole in the ceiling. The illumination allowed him to see that the stove's pipe was crooked, broken and covered in soot, and that a few ancient, charred logs still remained in the belly. Also, as his eyes further adjusted to the low lighting, he noticed that the familiar round kitchen table beside him was missing a leg. It seemed it might collapse at any minute, beneath the weight of the few mismatched plates and bowls that were strewn across its surface. He pulled out the one remaining chair (in which, a month prior, his mother's decaying body had been found), and it creaked beneath him as he sat to contemplate the moment. The frayed and faded curtains gently swayed in the window beside the door, blown by a mild wind coming through a crack in the pane.
Since he had last left this place, in the summer of 1988, he had come to feel that the old, broken down family cottage was of no worth. However, after an enlightening conversation with his wife, and a swift, concurrent financial meltdown, he found himself surveying the place with new eyes. In light (or, possibly spite) of everything, he began to sense a haunting awareness of himself, rising from the tortured, cracked floorboards. And the four musty plaster walls, which had once witnessed the most heinous betrayals of his youth, now begged his forgiveness. And, as he stood, with the sun shining in on him, and the plates and bowls spilling to the floor, he found it. This shack might finally be something to him: it could be his home.
Since he had last left this place, in the summer of 1988, he had come to feel that the old, broken down family cottage was of no worth. However, after an enlightening conversation with his wife, and a swift, concurrent financial meltdown, he found himself surveying the place with new eyes. In light (or, possibly spite) of everything, he began to sense a haunting awareness of himself, rising from the tortured, cracked floorboards. And the four musty plaster walls, which had once witnessed the most heinous betrayals of his youth, now begged his forgiveness. And, as he stood, with the sun shining in on him, and the plates and bowls spilling to the floor, he found it. This shack might finally be something to him: it could be his home.
Thursday, June 25, 2015
birthright [2011]
rare books are difficult
to find and are
often lost
this seems to be true
no matter the location
mind-set
location
or affiliation
I've spent the better part of
41 years
looking for one in particular
it is olive green
about the size of a bible
and features several chapters chronicling the history of
an unfortunate Michigan farm family (the name
of which I cannot recall)
this book
like countless others
and others
continues to elude me
[My paternal grandfather died approximately nine months before I was born.]
to find and are
often lost
no matter the location
mind-set
location
or affiliation
41 years
looking for one in particular
it is olive green
about the size of a bible
and features several chapters chronicling the history of
an unfortunate Michigan farm family (the name
of which I cannot recall)
like countless others
and others
continues to elude me
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
four degrees (and FUSION) [2010]
1.
I am a pupil dilated
and exposed
after an odd learning
I've observed them
approaching
with a mild curiosity
but have given them
little consideration
or time
2.
squeezed last
into the lying gap
between semicolon
and conclusion
what statement
would then be made?
this desk is meant
in several languages
to seat a child
3.
what if they conceptualized
an intellectual way
to grip mortality
and choke it down?
it is too dark here
for just any light
and a struck match
might scorch the coupling
of reason and other
FUSION
a.
campus life can offer a wide array of colorful opportunities for the properly motivated and ambitious student
buildings and measured the distance from the stage
to the front row and dropped a pebble into the well
and ventured through the stagnant crowds only
then can he begin to know how much time will be
wasted
c.
other
4.
orientation does not
prepare the students
for any degree of hunger
and the cafeteria
can only fail them
if I were half conscious
as one might normally be
could this have thus far gone
so effortlessly?
I am a pupil dilated
and exposed
after an odd learning
I've observed them
approaching
with a mild curiosity
but have given them
little consideration
or time
squeezed last
into the lying gap
between semicolon
and conclusion
what statement
would then be made?
this desk is meant
in several languages
to seat a child
what if they conceptualized
an intellectual way
to grip mortality
and choke it down?
it is too dark here
for just any light
and a struck match
might scorch the coupling
of reason and other
FUSION
campus life can offer a wide array of colorful opportunities for the properly motivated and ambitious student
b.
once one has counted the number of steps between buildings and measured the distance from the stage
to the front row and dropped a pebble into the well
and ventured through the stagnant crowds only
then can he begin to know how much time will be
wasted
other
orientation does not
prepare the students
for any degree of hunger
and the cafeteria
can only fail them
if I were half conscious
as one might normally be
could this have thus far gone
so effortlessly?
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
the cheese [2012]
"Ring Christmas bells
Merrily ring
Tell all the world
Cheese is my king"
-- Bill Lewis
A distress heaven is in the heart, poised for passage into the knuckles and pillow.
But communism is peevish here, underlined, as it is, in an electrical red.
But communism is peevish here, underlined, as it is, in an electrical red.
Do the planks hold up the haven as the links do the frame?
Coiled behind the register, a narrow skeleton addresses an itinerary of penitences.
Blasphemous approximations of grout and gravel are meant to be served to a
camera as improbabilities.
Blasphemous approximations of grout and gravel are meant to be served to a
camera as improbabilities.
Is the black working in conjunction with the white?
The staircase is wandering all over the blank space of the page, and the lesson
in this is the wallpaper. Apparitions make gestures toward housing in an attempt
to understand their corridors.
in this is the wallpaper. Apparitions make gestures toward housing in an attempt
to understand their corridors.
Is this particular vent superficial or is the wall crying?
And if the king were anything but a clotted howler, the seizure of the background
would be unnecessary. Though it is precarious, the shoulder twitches when
the shade is drawn.
would be unnecessary. Though it is precarious, the shoulder twitches when
the shade is drawn.
Are these tight commands in the manner of controlled density?
(this is another way of saying "chest pains")
Monday, June 22, 2015
Sunday, June 21, 2015
time was not the villain (the matter) [2010]
A deception was made of my associate before I determined that the unlikely light offered the softest translation of our failures. (I had invaded the oldest building in the territory, without a photographic understanding of the past, and had found several disfranchised, historical poets huddling together around a broken water heater, enacting a primitive, wordless play about animals and people. In the end, after several attempts at civil interruption, they could not be deterred without the fatal discharge of a firearm.
This was the city we had pronounced as our everything? This was the empire we had liberated from the savage fold of our ancestors?) Now, I'm tired of persuading dead dreams onto the pages of this register, and I'm seeking the salvation of a cleansed something other. Perhaps I'll plant a fraternal garden, illumined by the unlikeliest light, and tend it without exclusivity.
This was the city we had pronounced as our everything? This was the empire we had liberated from the savage fold of our ancestors?) Now, I'm tired of persuading dead dreams onto the pages of this register, and I'm seeking the salvation of a cleansed something other. Perhaps I'll plant a fraternal garden, illumined by the unlikeliest light, and tend it without exclusivity.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
A Denver Omelette [2011/2015]
I've forgotten what song it was -- in 1977 -- that made me want to be a musician.
I've forgotten the name of my second dog, my third, my fourth.
I've forgotten to be friendly when approached on the street.
I've forgotten to do my homework.
I've forgotten why the desperate woman was pleading for the custody of her child
on a pay phone outside of 7-Eleven.
I've forgotten that green peppers give me heartburn.
I've forgotten to call my mother. (I've forgotten to call her my mother.)
I've forgotten when I was supposed to pick up the dry cleaning.
I've forgotten how we managed to skip school so often.
I've forgotten where my grandfather was stationed during World War II.
I've forgotten the name of the person who edited my favorite book of embouchure drills.
I've forgotten to bring a sweater, a change of underwear, a thermometer, a BB gun,
a shoebox full of clipped newspaper obituaries, a corkscrew.
I've forgotten why Greg's daughter saw fit to call him "Humpty Dumpty".
I've forgotten why my entire foot had turned black.
I've forgotten the phone number for the Zioptis Foundation.
I've forgotten what my father's face looks like. (I've forgotten why we didn't get along.)
I've forgotten how many albums Don Ellis released in his lifetime.
I've forgotten my first girlfriend's name.
I've forgotten exactly how much stink five guinea pigs can make,
and how quickly they can make it.
I've forgotten how to mow the lawn, trim the shrubs, till the garden.
I've forgotten what a chai-tea latte tastes like when it's cold.
I've forgotten the Cub Scouts group leader who was caught masturbating to
blurry videos of Thai children being skinned alive.
I've forgotten the name for pan-fried shredded potatoes.
I've forgotten why my mother chose to dress Joel in yellow.
I've forgotten who narrated the Chuck Jones version of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.
I've forgotten what I was doing at the end of the dock that morning.
I've forgotten how many years I spent at Dearborn Music.
I've forgotten my address, telephone number, Social Security number,
driver's license number.
I've forgotten why Debbie was so offended by my screaming
"box" across the crowded restaurant.
I've forgotten to apply the topical cream.
I've forgotten how melted sharp cheddar cheese became
my favorite thing in the whole wide world.
I've forgotten which of the twins approached me first.
I've forgotten to shower, shave, brush my hair, apply deodorant, gargle.
I've forgotten the hiking path that ended in a pile of used condoms and syringes.
I've forgotten how many times I've seen Touch of Evil.
I've forgotten where I was standing when the Brockabrella was blown from my head.
I've forgotten the people who vote against their own best interests to keep from
voting for the black guy.
I've forgotten to lock the door, the cabinet, the jewelry box.
I've forgotten the subject matters of our varied correspondences.
I've forgotten why I want "Text 7" from Samuel Beckett's Texts for Nothing
performed at my funeral service.
I've forgotten how many rabbits are sleeping at my feet.
I've forgotten the time when life was so good, I almost died from it.
I've forgotten why we pissed away the entire evening listening to
Johnny Hartman records. (I've forgotten the breadth of Illinois Jacquet's tone.)
I've forgotten the 23 emaciated greyhounds found caged in an 8' x 10' tool shed.
I've forgotten why she was sitting on my couch in the first place.
I've forgotten the time Jim and I attended "Singles Night" at Border's in Grosse Pointe,
cheap wine on our breaths, the smell of a campfire permeating our clothes.
I've forgotten the color of his eyes. (He had some eyes.)
I've forgotten what it means to be hungry.
I've forgotten the pots, pans, silverware.
I've forgotten what dawn looks like from the other side of the cemetery.
I've forgotten that attending church on Sunday morning can make up for the fact that you're
a malicious asshole every other day of the week.
I've forgotten the time I promised Facebook I would call her the next day.
I've forgotten sea salt.
I've forgotten to tie my shoelaces, pull up my socks, brush off my knees.
I've forgotten how lucky I am.
I've forgotten which cut of pork is the tastiest. (I've forgotten why I eat pork.)
I've forgotten how I managed not to step into the confrontation,
not to raise my voice against her, not to kill her with my bare hands.
I've forgotten the number of people I've betrayed. (I've betrayed…)
I've forgotten why we decided to name him "Josh".
I've forgotten how many breast pockets I've lost to my brother's spastic,
flailing fits of "self-defense".
I've forgotten which of the preceding statements is true.
I've forgotten who ran for President -- against Ronald Reagan -- in 1984.
I've forgotten how to properly utilize the ellipsis.
I've forgotten how Erika smiles when she exits the building and sees me
waiting there for her.
I've forgotten where I parked the car.
I've forgotten the name of the woman who first introduced me to poetry.
I've forgotten how to play the trumpet.
I've forgotten who short-sheeted my bed.
I've forgotten why I stopped shitting my pants beneath the dining room table.
I've forgotten the toddler in filthy diapers running barefoot with a pack of dogs.
I've forgotten 2 + 2.
I've forgotten where we were going when the car hit the tree, how many people were
riding with me, and what exactly I was doing behind the wheel in the first place.
I've forgotten why I cry when I think about how little time I had with Sam.
I've forgotten the heat in summer, and how comforting most people find it.
I’ve forgotten how to hate another man. (I’ve forgotten how to hate another man.)
I’ve forgotten toast.
I’ve forgotten The Who’s ‘Schlitz Rocks America’ tour.
I’ve forgotten what “dying” means.
I’ve forgotten all the friends I’ve ever had.
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to reason, to give a shit about the truth,
to exercise a little fucking kindness.
I’ve forgotten how the rain on the windshield helped to change my mind.
I’ve forgotten to wear a tie.
I’ve forgotten hope.
I’ve forgotten…
I’ve forgotten…
I've forgotten how to make a Denver omelette.
I've forgotten the name of my second dog, my third, my fourth.
I've forgotten to be friendly when approached on the street.
I've forgotten to do my homework.
I've forgotten why the desperate woman was pleading for the custody of her child
on a pay phone outside of 7-Eleven.
I've forgotten that green peppers give me heartburn.
I've forgotten to call my mother. (I've forgotten to call her my mother.)
I've forgotten when I was supposed to pick up the dry cleaning.
I've forgotten how we managed to skip school so often.
I've forgotten where my grandfather was stationed during World War II.
I've forgotten the name of the person who edited my favorite book of embouchure drills.
I've forgotten to bring a sweater, a change of underwear, a thermometer, a BB gun,
a shoebox full of clipped newspaper obituaries, a corkscrew.
I've forgotten why Greg's daughter saw fit to call him "Humpty Dumpty".
I've forgotten why my entire foot had turned black.
I've forgotten the phone number for the Zioptis Foundation.
I've forgotten what my father's face looks like. (I've forgotten why we didn't get along.)
I've forgotten how many albums Don Ellis released in his lifetime.
I've forgotten my first girlfriend's name.
I've forgotten exactly how much stink five guinea pigs can make,
and how quickly they can make it.
I've forgotten how to mow the lawn, trim the shrubs, till the garden.
I've forgotten what a chai-tea latte tastes like when it's cold.
I've forgotten the Cub Scouts group leader who was caught masturbating to
blurry videos of Thai children being skinned alive.
I've forgotten the name for pan-fried shredded potatoes.
I've forgotten why my mother chose to dress Joel in yellow.
I've forgotten who narrated the Chuck Jones version of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.
I've forgotten what I was doing at the end of the dock that morning.
I've forgotten how many years I spent at Dearborn Music.
I've forgotten my address, telephone number, Social Security number,
driver's license number.
I've forgotten why Debbie was so offended by my screaming
"box" across the crowded restaurant.
I've forgotten to apply the topical cream.
I've forgotten how melted sharp cheddar cheese became
my favorite thing in the whole wide world.
I've forgotten which of the twins approached me first.
I've forgotten to shower, shave, brush my hair, apply deodorant, gargle.
I've forgotten the hiking path that ended in a pile of used condoms and syringes.
I've forgotten how many times I've seen Touch of Evil.
I've forgotten where I was standing when the Brockabrella was blown from my head.
I've forgotten the people who vote against their own best interests to keep from
voting for the black guy.
I've forgotten to lock the door, the cabinet, the jewelry box.
I've forgotten the subject matters of our varied correspondences.
I've forgotten why I want "Text 7" from Samuel Beckett's Texts for Nothing
performed at my funeral service.
I've forgotten how many rabbits are sleeping at my feet.
I've forgotten the time when life was so good, I almost died from it.
I've forgotten why we pissed away the entire evening listening to
Johnny Hartman records. (I've forgotten the breadth of Illinois Jacquet's tone.)
I've forgotten the 23 emaciated greyhounds found caged in an 8' x 10' tool shed.
I've forgotten why she was sitting on my couch in the first place.
I've forgotten the time Jim and I attended "Singles Night" at Border's in Grosse Pointe,
cheap wine on our breaths, the smell of a campfire permeating our clothes.
I've forgotten the color of his eyes. (He had some eyes.)
I've forgotten what it means to be hungry.
I've forgotten the pots, pans, silverware.
I've forgotten what dawn looks like from the other side of the cemetery.
I've forgotten that attending church on Sunday morning can make up for the fact that you're
a malicious asshole every other day of the week.
I've forgotten the time I promised Facebook I would call her the next day.
I've forgotten sea salt.
I've forgotten to tie my shoelaces, pull up my socks, brush off my knees.
I've forgotten how lucky I am.
I've forgotten which cut of pork is the tastiest. (I've forgotten why I eat pork.)
I've forgotten how I managed not to step into the confrontation,
not to raise my voice against her, not to kill her with my bare hands.
I've forgotten the number of people I've betrayed. (I've betrayed…)
I've forgotten why we decided to name him "Josh".
I've forgotten how many breast pockets I've lost to my brother's spastic,
flailing fits of "self-defense".
I've forgotten which of the preceding statements is true.
I've forgotten who ran for President -- against Ronald Reagan -- in 1984.
I've forgotten how to properly utilize the ellipsis.
I've forgotten how Erika smiles when she exits the building and sees me
waiting there for her.
I've forgotten where I parked the car.
I've forgotten the name of the woman who first introduced me to poetry.
I've forgotten how to play the trumpet.
I've forgotten who short-sheeted my bed.
I've forgotten why I stopped shitting my pants beneath the dining room table.
I've forgotten the toddler in filthy diapers running barefoot with a pack of dogs.
I've forgotten 2 + 2.
I've forgotten where we were going when the car hit the tree, how many people were
riding with me, and what exactly I was doing behind the wheel in the first place.
I've forgotten why I cry when I think about how little time I had with Sam.
I've forgotten the heat in summer, and how comforting most people find it.
I’ve forgotten how to hate another man. (I’ve forgotten how to hate another man.)
I’ve forgotten toast.
I’ve forgotten The Who’s ‘Schlitz Rocks America’ tour.
I’ve forgotten what “dying” means.
I’ve forgotten all the friends I’ve ever had.
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to reason, to give a shit about the truth,
to exercise a little fucking kindness.
I’ve forgotten how the rain on the windshield helped to change my mind.
I’ve forgotten to wear a tie.
I’ve forgotten hope.
I’ve forgotten…
I’ve forgotten…
I've forgotten how to make a Denver omelette.
Friday, June 19, 2015
12 episodes of an evening [2009]
(1)
brief breeze blows
as he is by
almost at its
most underneath
me
(2)
she is flat flavors
bulldogging
sending a snit
and nap
on wings
(3)
through down
tented to tempt
I'm interrupting
and she is as
gut gurgling
(4)
almost disappeared
on fleet ones
into a mess
of ours stacked
and out
(5)
across pulled pieces
teased tile
a blur then
upon couch
no launched
(6)
through willow
to at feet
startle thump
quick to groom
and pounce
(7)
into hay heap
clawed at
find familiar
out back behave
behind it
(8)
stop to toss
and contempt
get slicked
rattled cage
stretch to tall
(9)
look to new
beyond barriers
sneaked in
and marked
I've enough
(10)
rounded up
given to greens
gate after
and realized
over all
(11)
into potty
pause there
paws not racing
mouth munching
ears cast back
(12)
fading into
litter to last
take all in
and leap the three
to night-night
brief breeze blows
as he is by
almost at its
most underneath
me
(2)
she is flat flavors
bulldogging
sending a snit
and nap
on wings
(3)
through down
tented to tempt
I'm interrupting
and she is as
gut gurgling
(4)
almost disappeared
on fleet ones
into a mess
of ours stacked
and out
(5)
across pulled pieces
teased tile
a blur then
upon couch
no launched
(6)
through willow
to at feet
startle thump
quick to groom
and pounce
(7)
into hay heap
clawed at
find familiar
out back behave
behind it
(8)
stop to toss
and contempt
get slicked
rattled cage
stretch to tall
(9)
look to new
beyond barriers
sneaked in
and marked
I've enough
(10)
rounded up
given to greens
gate after
and realized
over all
(11)
into potty
pause there
paws not racing
mouth munching
ears cast back
(12)
fading into
litter to last
take all in
and leap the three
to night-night
Thursday, June 18, 2015
the theory of one thing and its antecedent [2011]
"Theory has nothing whatsoever to do with poetry.
The only thing that matters is how much talent someone
has and how far they're willing to go with it --
the rest of it's largely bullshit, though it's possible
one needs some bullshit in life."
-- Alice Notley
is good for the distinct ideological awareness of
the modern American in that it separates the artist-intellectual
from his symbolic poverty of character
and introduces an entirely truthful and irrational deliverance of
temporal meaning
juxtaposed with the existential necessity for
fetishism to be perceived as
a socioeconomic culture unto itself
when assessing the familial patterns of language that persist
in identifying the author as difference and the subject as
contextual product
the proper conditions for a dissipation of knowledge
lies a single languishing showcase home
and inscribed on its industrial-sized back door is
the hypothetical word
ANTECEDENCE
(consequently
the same word can now be found tattooed on the back of my left anklejust below the sock line)
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Home-Cycle [2015]
Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack…
Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack…
Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack…
Smack… Smack… […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […]
Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack…
Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack… Smack…
[…] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […]
[…] (Concentration. Oscillation. Radiation. Segmentation. Revelation.) […] […]
(What is there to think about other than this? Other than the amniotic sac?) […] […]
[…] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […] […]
Smack… Smack…
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
contributating [2013]
given ten minutes
I might seethe the day
like an uh-oh
or a UPS package
or I might right this
as I did Sade's limp
but I certainly wouldn't
de-liver
how 'bout 15 minutes?
I might seethe the day
like an uh-oh
or a UPS package
as I did Sade's limp
de-liver
Monday, June 15, 2015
cardboard horizon [2012]
"To keep your voice from being appropriated, turned into an organizing principle:
it must move and change, perhaps be displeasing or somehow confusing, unrecognizable;
above all, it must move."
-- John Taggart
fi⁄˘˙fl˘◊
˛ˇ˘ı˛fi˛
˚ˇ
˝˝˝˚
˛ˇfl∆ı˚˘˙∑Ω
˚◊
∆ı⁄fl˛˙◊fl⁄
⁄fl
fifiˇ≥˙∂˛ı≤fi˝≈˝π˙
˘˚
-- G. Matthew Mapes
Sunday, June 14, 2015
warfare [2010]
fumbling with
a gas mask
and common sense
I make
a wadded strategy
of selected
war poems
from the toilet
and commence
in a rush
CHARGE!
down the pipes
and into the trenches
where a platoon
of patriotic
enemy turds
awaits
a gas mask
and common sense
I make
a wadded strategy
of selected
war poems
from the toilet
and commence
in a rush
CHARGE!
down the pipes
and into the trenches
where a platoon
of patriotic
enemy turds
awaits
Saturday, June 13, 2015
spots outside [2011]
"I was born a while ago,
then I lived for a while,
and then I am still living."
--Aaron Perry
what isn't a closet isn't the room honored
by chanting to the hum of an exhaust fan
the secondary tune a composite drone
quiet and silence accompany shuffling loss
an apprenticed body is to be moved about
in passive blue as acting lonely gathers
empty and earthen green crates are to be placed
alongside the stunned at the perimeter
counting spaces is passing time visiting
the cold shipping cause and by plane some report
a depiction of regret a slap blessing
tucking blouses into faded corduroy pants
all that could be known about another is fine
when shaken spots outside reveal a lost walk
in worn heels and narrow shirt sleeves they struggle
momentarily with the forms that plague them
then I lived for a while,
and then I am still living."
--Aaron Perry
by chanting to the hum of an exhaust fan
the secondary tune a composite drone
quiet and silence accompany shuffling loss
in passive blue as acting lonely gathers
empty and earthen green crates are to be placed
alongside the stunned at the perimeter
the cold shipping cause and by plane some report
a depiction of regret a slap blessing
tucking blouses into faded corduroy pants
when shaken spots outside reveal a lost walk
in worn heels and narrow shirt sleeves they struggle
momentarily with the forms that plague them
Friday, June 12, 2015
Ornette Coleman (March 9, 1930 – June 11, 2015) [2015]
Went for a ride with Town Hall, 1962 around 1:00 AM, and I rolled down the windows so it could hang its face in the wind. [It’s a lonely world, Adam, and getting lonelier every day.] And the humid Ypsilanti night smiled as we drove into its emptiness and home.
Thursday, June 11, 2015
introduction [2010]
what
precedes
me
is
me
in
a
different
shirt
and
spectacles
smiling
and
hanging
from
the
skeletal
frame
of
Fuller's
dome
precedes
me
is
me
in
a
different
shirt
and
spectacles
smiling
and
hanging
from
the
skeletal
frame
of
Fuller's
dome
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
windows [2012]
"If I had use of my body,
I'd throw it out the window."
-- Samuel Beckett
1. a window open wide is a wonder to the world
and men waiting can be talking without mouths
leaving tugging poor at illogical restraints
and the shale blades have sliced thin the wandering here
forward to be embraced by the wood of the wings
and the approach of others is a certain circus
clowns beat deserters for turnips and carrots
and where is caution if not slung from the lowest branch
to swing in a breeze that is stripping and a breath
2. a wary stooge is better seen through a window
and doing the tree is not a balance into god
the body serves as metronome and calendar
and milk white whimpering is a break
from sense into the trousers of a son
and the family of waiting is a belt-line
hunger a manipulation of tattered reins
and what might be a means of controlling confusion
is sharp a sentence written into abject flesh
3. a window hangs open as if half inclined to smile
and on previous evenings standing was a constraint
a whip tasted sweet reconciliation
and pissing over the hill into the bog
leaves limp the only appendage waiting
and kindness is at the obese end of a slack leash
in song stuttering is the same as tomorrow
and though daylight has not yet conceded to night
a note the boy is through the scene alight
4. limbo is a window into what might not be seen
I'd throw it out the window."
-- Samuel Beckett
leaving tugging poor at illogical restraints
and the shale blades have sliced thin the wandering here
forward to be embraced by the wood of the wings
clowns beat deserters for turnips and carrots
and where is caution if not slung from the lowest branch
to swing in a breeze that is stripping and a breath
the body serves as metronome and calendar
and milk white whimpering is a break
from sense into the trousers of a son
hunger a manipulation of tattered reins
and what might be a means of controlling confusion
is sharp a sentence written into abject flesh
a whip tasted sweet reconciliation
and pissing over the hill into the bog
leaves limp the only appendage waiting
in song stuttering is the same as tomorrow
and though daylight has not yet conceded to night
a note the boy is through the scene alight
Monday, June 8, 2015
Miller's [2009]
the mute cat's call is
her claw
on the door-wall screen
to me
a score and six steps
ascending, no dissent
("up," he said with a sigh)
at the bottom there is only
seven pounds and mine
climb...clum...clew
acquitted for, lapping and warm
to me
and beneath this middling morn, cack!
traffic and weather on the 8s
her claw
on the door-wall screen
to me
ascending, no dissent
("up," he said with a sigh)
at the bottom there is only
climb...clum...clew
acquitted for, lapping and warm
to me
traffic and weather on the 8s
Sunday, June 7, 2015
finale [2011]
it is yellowed and an artifact
is not the turned page of his circumstance
anticipating night a shy star
interfaced commonalities of last
presumed sung this song is even light
a harsh leaving heard is cause for struggle
and himself is not a plaintive answer
as working silence and warmth disturbed
dating a February dance aligned
with shrunken seat I sitting antique
wealthy rolling spooned eyes and aging
it is last visible far at my feet
base is this a taught twisting of faith
in the company of his blotted sheep
honest color is comedy and white
an old described triumph and a miss
is not the turned page of his circumstance
anticipating night a shy star
interfaced commonalities of last
a harsh leaving heard is cause for struggle
and himself is not a plaintive answer
as working silence and warmth disturbed
with shrunken seat I sitting antique
wealthy rolling spooned eyes and aging
it is last visible far at my feet
in the company of his blotted sheep
honest color is comedy and white
an old described triumph and a miss
Saturday, June 6, 2015
Two complementary prose poems [2010]
an interview
A hulking soldier entered, holstered his sidearm, took a seat before me, and, employing a pristine white handkerchief, proceeded to wipe imaginary tears from his face.
"Why do you feign tears when it is so brutally apparent that you are a valiant man of God?"
He quickly replied, frantically waving his handkerchief, "I am not a man of God; I renounce him! This sidearm is a ruse, and I've been brutal to no one but myself. It is true that my eyes do not produce tears, but I assure you, my face needed wiping, and I am very afraid."
Before I offered my reply, I glanced at the line of prospective cowards, which stretched down the hall, and around the corner. After making a brief notation in my journal, I returned to the hero.
"If I were to bring forth, at this moment, the holy book of God, would you spit upon it, and curse his name?"
"I would most certainly...yes, sir, I believe I would. But, I must confess, as I sit before you now, I am struggling with the urge to retreat. My palms are sweaty; my pulse is racing; my mouth has gone dry. Yes, it's just that it's becoming so difficult to speak. You absolutely must sense my fear!"
I did not, and I asked the audacious liar to leave, at which point he stood, produced his sidearm, placed the barrel flush against his temple, and pulled the trigger, splattering the contents of his skull all over my ceiling, wall and floor, and onto his pristine handkerchief. And, as his courageous body slumped to the floor, his religion revealed itself in gold, appearing triumphant from beneath the collar of his blood-stained shirt.
"Next."
❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋
the crucifix and the 44.40
"Tell me, what do you think I might get for this fine gold crucifix pendant, taken from the neck of a dead soldier?"
"Well, that depends on a good many things. But first, I must ask, how have you managed to acquire the property of this fallen soldier? Was he a relative?"
"This man was no relation to me, nor was he a friend, truth be told. He was simply a hero, an anonymous hero, who happened to fall before me, when last I ventured to the front line."
"So you, yourself, are a soldier?"
"Well, I've certainly fought some great battles, but no, I've never donned the uniform."
"Ah, I see. I don't believe I can offer you anything for this pendant, sir, as I am beginning to suspect you might have acquired it by dubious action."
"You don't mean to imply that I had something to do with the man's end, do you? Because, I assure you, he did not die by my hand. No, quite the contrary: His was an honorable, even heroic death. Unfortunately, however, he died without providing any identification, and I have, quite simply, been charged with the liquidation of his few assets."
"Regardless, I find the whole matter rather distasteful, and I am going to have to ask you to leave. Good day, sir."
"I understand. What good a tarnished old crucifix anyway, right?"
"Indeed."
"Then I'll be on my way. But first, would you have no interest in this revolver; our courageous soldier's trusty sidearm?"
"Well, now that's another matter. I apologize, sir, for my hasty dismissal of your previous offering. Please, let's talk."
"Why do you feign tears when it is so brutally apparent that you are a valiant man of God?"
He quickly replied, frantically waving his handkerchief, "I am not a man of God; I renounce him! This sidearm is a ruse, and I've been brutal to no one but myself. It is true that my eyes do not produce tears, but I assure you, my face needed wiping, and I am very afraid."
Before I offered my reply, I glanced at the line of prospective cowards, which stretched down the hall, and around the corner. After making a brief notation in my journal, I returned to the hero.
"If I were to bring forth, at this moment, the holy book of God, would you spit upon it, and curse his name?"
"I would most certainly...yes, sir, I believe I would. But, I must confess, as I sit before you now, I am struggling with the urge to retreat. My palms are sweaty; my pulse is racing; my mouth has gone dry. Yes, it's just that it's becoming so difficult to speak. You absolutely must sense my fear!"
I did not, and I asked the audacious liar to leave, at which point he stood, produced his sidearm, placed the barrel flush against his temple, and pulled the trigger, splattering the contents of his skull all over my ceiling, wall and floor, and onto his pristine handkerchief. And, as his courageous body slumped to the floor, his religion revealed itself in gold, appearing triumphant from beneath the collar of his blood-stained shirt.
"Next."
❋ ❋ ❋ ❋ ❋
"Well, that depends on a good many things. But first, I must ask, how have you managed to acquire the property of this fallen soldier? Was he a relative?"
"This man was no relation to me, nor was he a friend, truth be told. He was simply a hero, an anonymous hero, who happened to fall before me, when last I ventured to the front line."
"So you, yourself, are a soldier?"
"Well, I've certainly fought some great battles, but no, I've never donned the uniform."
"Ah, I see. I don't believe I can offer you anything for this pendant, sir, as I am beginning to suspect you might have acquired it by dubious action."
"You don't mean to imply that I had something to do with the man's end, do you? Because, I assure you, he did not die by my hand. No, quite the contrary: His was an honorable, even heroic death. Unfortunately, however, he died without providing any identification, and I have, quite simply, been charged with the liquidation of his few assets."
"Regardless, I find the whole matter rather distasteful, and I am going to have to ask you to leave. Good day, sir."
"I understand. What good a tarnished old crucifix anyway, right?"
"Indeed."
"Then I'll be on my way. But first, would you have no interest in this revolver; our courageous soldier's trusty sidearm?"
"Well, now that's another matter. I apologize, sir, for my hasty dismissal of your previous offering. Please, let's talk."
Friday, June 5, 2015
Thursday, June 4, 2015
listening [2010]
click
this is an end also denoting
an opening into a circle of sound
as if silence meant nothing to hear
or say click angles of talking taken away
from mouths relocated to later mouths
gaping in arrival click not spilling degrees
to you listening intently for the patience
later click a conversation with static on
static I ring out a patient chime
struck like I am at one the tone degree
not arrived of any actual hearing click
another me pronouncing nothing
ending spilled nothing but a denoted
click
this is an end also denoting
an opening into a circle of sound
as if silence meant nothing to hear
or say click angles of talking taken away
from mouths relocated to later mouths
gaping in arrival click not spilling degrees
to you listening intently for the patience
later click a conversation with static on
static I ring out a patient chime
struck like I am at one the tone degree
not arrived of any actual hearing click
another me pronouncing nothing
ending spilled nothing but a denoted
click
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