No differences accrue
standing naked in the doorway
with your bouquet
of shirts. I knew a tiny
man with a fork in his own thigh
by his website. It begs
a definition of knowing. Love, it is not soft
for confabulists. It is like a banquet
where one wakes already stammering
between drool, a ghost
eyeing plates for the future
of its name. A person, likewise, is a horde
of accumulations, mostly
unknown. It begs a definition.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Friday, June 01, 2007
SONGOING
3
It’s not as if the air
doesn’t touch us all
the time, which might
as well be “a rain
of breathing arrows”
There is an oscillation
here. Here. There
and here. Thus, you
can’t watch the sky
accurately enough.
So say love is a manner
Of depicting the world
honestly. So say we
have ruined this adverb
by talking. So say
we have nothing left
but to sing.
It’s not as if the air
doesn’t touch us all
the time, which might
as well be “a rain
of breathing arrows”
There is an oscillation
here. Here. There
and here. Thus, you
can’t watch the sky
accurately enough.
So say love is a manner
Of depicting the world
honestly. So say we
have ruined this adverb
by talking. So say
we have nothing left
but to sing.
SONGOING
2
I came here wanting, I left
at the back of a mouth.
Tonsil: Sometimes leaving
the opera is the opera. Adjacent
tonsil: My dear friends, they write
the best American poetry
in the entire world. Inner ear:
Forever north of so
much, a hive of oddly
shaped birds, bipedal, perambulating
the ghost-walks. Call to a ghost, say
Here Ghost, but my friends they
speak only to colossal
ghosts. My friends say, Here
Hemisphere, here. It is always that
way with them: one on
their shoulder, yet voices
thrown in unruly yarns across
the continents. Ventricle: One’s
life is as simple as
an arrow. Pointer finger: an arrow
of failure that does not pause.
I came here wanting, I left
at the back of a mouth.
Tonsil: Sometimes leaving
the opera is the opera. Adjacent
tonsil: My dear friends, they write
the best American poetry
in the entire world. Inner ear:
Forever north of so
much, a hive of oddly
shaped birds, bipedal, perambulating
the ghost-walks. Call to a ghost, say
Here Ghost, but my friends they
speak only to colossal
ghosts. My friends say, Here
Hemisphere, here. It is always that
way with them: one on
their shoulder, yet voices
thrown in unruly yarns across
the continents. Ventricle: One’s
life is as simple as
an arrow. Pointer finger: an arrow
of failure that does not pause.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
SONGOING
for Macgregor
the sun. the sun. the sun.
the sun the sun the sun.
I wake in the crush / of days, the way
everything holds
together merely by the stewardship
of tiny, voiceless orbits. Or
perhaps there is too much voice?
the sun. the sun. the sun.
the sun the sun the sun.
thesunthesunthesun.
An unsung land is a dead land
Can I call it a rain / of breathing arrows?
Does the air fear / space? Here is a representation
of you—any / you.
The sun folds into it like a melody / in the ear.
Who will sing the sun? My friends will sing the sun.
Who will sing the sun? My friends will sing the sun.
the sun. the sun. the sun.
the sun the sun the sun.
I wake in the crush / of days, the way
everything holds
together merely by the stewardship
of tiny, voiceless orbits. Or
perhaps there is too much voice?
the sun. the sun. the sun.
the sun the sun the sun.
thesunthesunthesun.
An unsung land is a dead land
Can I call it a rain / of breathing arrows?
Does the air fear / space? Here is a representation
of you—any / you.
The sun folds into it like a melody / in the ear.
Who will sing the sun? My friends will sing the sun.
Who will sing the sun? My friends will sing the sun.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Ireland Darksomes
No death is for only
one. Faces
are either empty or grown full
with ferries. These faces
are nothing
if not swimming
with death.
after Jack B. Yeats
Swans, snakes, whatever.
It is spring and the world wants
to divide, to flay
into strips. The first word
is always wrung from a stone, a tooth
a tongue, whatever. It
is always wrong. No. Yes.
Cork
Skellig. A foliage
of eels. Copying centuries
in a beehive’s embrace. A toehold
of stone. It was the only
island on the island on the island
devoid of crows. We were famous for loving
nothing so much as nothing.
Skellig Michael
There is no sky
that is not also
a sky above horrors.
A mute grey mare
leaps the cliff thick
with blood. Her rider is and is
not at peace.
after Peig Sayers, Blasket storyteller
Carpaccio of wood
pigeon, beetroot and rocket.
A long-armed star scuttles
in from the wall, Bowie
familiarly ecstatic. A limp light
patiently droops into pub
after pub. Beamish, Powers.
The Ivory Tower, Cork
I touched you coming
out the small stone
enclosure. We paid the farmer
a single coin for to
traipse up and down those
precarious steps. What is delicate that
lasts longer than god?
Staig Fort, Ring of Kerry
Birds exploiting
the wounds of Cúchulain
for sport. Crows looming in
dark knots above
the Hill of Tara. The gannets’
great white island and a brazen murder
of crows on the Rock of Cashel.
one. Faces
are either empty or grown full
with ferries. These faces
are nothing
if not swimming
with death.
after Jack B. Yeats
Swans, snakes, whatever.
It is spring and the world wants
to divide, to flay
into strips. The first word
is always wrung from a stone, a tooth
a tongue, whatever. It
is always wrong. No. Yes.
Cork
Skellig. A foliage
of eels. Copying centuries
in a beehive’s embrace. A toehold
of stone. It was the only
island on the island on the island
devoid of crows. We were famous for loving
nothing so much as nothing.
Skellig Michael
There is no sky
that is not also
a sky above horrors.
A mute grey mare
leaps the cliff thick
with blood. Her rider is and is
not at peace.
after Peig Sayers, Blasket storyteller
Carpaccio of wood
pigeon, beetroot and rocket.
A long-armed star scuttles
in from the wall, Bowie
familiarly ecstatic. A limp light
patiently droops into pub
after pub. Beamish, Powers.
The Ivory Tower, Cork
I touched you coming
out the small stone
enclosure. We paid the farmer
a single coin for to
traipse up and down those
precarious steps. What is delicate that
lasts longer than god?
Staig Fort, Ring of Kerry
Birds exploiting
the wounds of Cúchulain
for sport. Crows looming in
dark knots above
the Hill of Tara. The gannets’
great white island and a brazen murder
of crows on the Rock of Cashel.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
2
Restless seagulls inch
across the backyard, peck a Casio
keyboard dusted with snow.
Cat prints fill in
and disappear. These things persuade
at song’s loss. But there
are no empty silences.
What little sadnesses
dance free from the black
backyard wires? Around them clutch
the roughly turned veins
of vines. Even in
the black, a blacker black
escapes.
A seagull gracefully
circles bones
abandoned by schoolchildren.
It is bird
weather. Lefferts Gardens.
The 99-cent store
is as big as the cathedral.
The way the
trees make space for space
nearly guts
them. Leftovers
are picked clean by strays.
Day tugs
itself into shape.
I wake and am pervaded
by a kind of reverence. The neck
of a turtle knows
how strong one must be to do justice
by the sun. Your light, it is wrong
to think it solid. The only
solid thing is thought.
Can it really be so
strenuous, this letting
the world appear? Annuals
unfold, a leaf
curls brown at the tip. How does
one say a brown word? The melody
is like hunger.
And yet, how hopelessly
absorbed is man, to think the straight
lines straight? As
if each didn’t pitch, each
zoom oblique
at the slightest cock
of one’s curious head.
across the backyard, peck a Casio
keyboard dusted with snow.
Cat prints fill in
and disappear. These things persuade
at song’s loss. But there
are no empty silences.
What little sadnesses
dance free from the black
backyard wires? Around them clutch
the roughly turned veins
of vines. Even in
the black, a blacker black
escapes.
A seagull gracefully
circles bones
abandoned by schoolchildren.
It is bird
weather. Lefferts Gardens.
The 99-cent store
is as big as the cathedral.
The way the
trees make space for space
nearly guts
them. Leftovers
are picked clean by strays.
Day tugs
itself into shape.
I wake and am pervaded
by a kind of reverence. The neck
of a turtle knows
how strong one must be to do justice
by the sun. Your light, it is wrong
to think it solid. The only
solid thing is thought.
Can it really be so
strenuous, this letting
the world appear? Annuals
unfold, a leaf
curls brown at the tip. How does
one say a brown word? The melody
is like hunger.
And yet, how hopelessly
absorbed is man, to think the straight
lines straight? As
if each didn’t pitch, each
zoom oblique
at the slightest cock
of one’s curious head.
Friday, March 30, 2007
NOT A FEW WANDER HOMELESS ON DARKSOME PATHS
1
A bell is unable
to resist entering the bedroom, my
hand around your
calf. You look through solid
glass, your glasses, and then through
solid glass again. Where they
cross is unreal. I am dying.
The tree belies the gentility
of the air. I have
to see this. I have brought you
this bell, simply
by cocking
my ear. Once a man ruined
a part of it with his fist.
The world is not simply
the case. It is what is
called
for. Calling does
not invite reasonableness. It
beckons calling in
turn. The world is an invitation to song.
The snow stops
at our bricks or our
windows. Or it doesn't. It finds
a way into the grasp
of thought. It begins snowing through
language even. For hours. I can't
believe how cold it is.
A bell, tree, world, snow. You
are stranger
to me than any violence.
The poet wants to
be a thing and so
recommences all. Here I am
thinging somewhere at your back, full.
What is this unshaken
peal moving through
the memory of a bell? The peal
of the remembered is an
appeal. Just as sunlight
on the sleeper
gathers day into its shapes.
And yet, an artist must pick
up everything. The sky’s
trick is one
of remaining impossibly
aloof. One gulps.
Just the other
day I was strangled by it.
A bell is unable
to resist entering the bedroom, my
hand around your
calf. You look through solid
glass, your glasses, and then through
solid glass again. Where they
cross is unreal. I am dying.
The tree belies the gentility
of the air. I have
to see this. I have brought you
this bell, simply
by cocking
my ear. Once a man ruined
a part of it with his fist.
The world is not simply
the case. It is what is
called
for. Calling does
not invite reasonableness. It
beckons calling in
turn. The world is an invitation to song.
The snow stops
at our bricks or our
windows. Or it doesn't. It finds
a way into the grasp
of thought. It begins snowing through
language even. For hours. I can't
believe how cold it is.
A bell, tree, world, snow. You
are stranger
to me than any violence.
The poet wants to
be a thing and so
recommences all. Here I am
thinging somewhere at your back, full.
What is this unshaken
peal moving through
the memory of a bell? The peal
of the remembered is an
appeal. Just as sunlight
on the sleeper
gathers day into its shapes.
And yet, an artist must pick
up everything. The sky’s
trick is one
of remaining impossibly
aloof. One gulps.
Just the other
day I was strangled by it.
Monday, March 05, 2007
23
(birdsong)
I am not speaking
of the song of
(eyesong)
existence, I am
singing song
(amsong)
is existence
I am not speaking
of the song of
(eyesong)
existence, I am
singing song
(amsong)
is existence
Sunday, February 11, 2007
(HER IS BETWEEN THERE)
after Adrian Piper
Hold the back
of the camera
against the middle
of the front
of the triangle
from the nipples
to the navel
and the room
in the mirror
in the picture
holds the spirit
Hold the back
of the camera
against the middle
of the front
of the triangle
from the nipples
to the navel
and the room
in the mirror
in the picture
holds the spirit
Sunday, January 28, 2007
QUOTATION
“That the world is not striving toward a stable condition is the only thing that has been proved. Consequently one must conceive its climactic condition in such a way that it is not a condition of equilibrium—”
—Friedrich Nietzsche
—Friedrich Nietzsche
Friday, January 19, 2007
"Does it matter? Grace is everywhere..."
Does matter matter
or is it this
air, sometimes softer even
than light, one
breath hotly to thread
the others, to move
through matter, to draw
one murmuring flutter
after another, a breath
to bring things to
thought, the way an ear
is turned toward the air
of the future, how
the poet pulls the present
into past's stall
or is it this
air, sometimes softer even
than light, one
breath hotly to thread
the others, to move
through matter, to draw
one murmuring flutter
after another, a breath
to bring things to
thought, the way an ear
is turned toward the air
of the future, how
the poet pulls the present
into past's stall
Monday, January 15, 2007
DISPATCHES FROM THE KINGDOM OF NO
A hologram is a hologram
Is a hologram, save
For the rapture of a man peddling
Sausages in a black stocking
Cap, unutterable terrors
Encompassing each inch of veritable
Movement into the realm
Of poetry, just as
It is a scandal to live outside
The history of saliva, conjuring
Meek spectacles from the department
Store display windows
The entire globe was surrounded
By quotes, though inside
The bakery an old man quietly
Held a cake emblazoned
With his granddaughter’s face
Like Hugo Ball
Restively clutching the 133-year-old skull
Of a 21-year-old girl and wishing
To paint its hollow cheek with kisses
Romancing a corpse
Or simply bargaining with war, atoms
Gripped loosely in the swinging
Of a thick fist, music
Tumbling from the vegetation as if
Today’s weather
Were attuned to a Promethean Chord
And it is, of
Course, the way the eye
Fixes disaster into art and isn’t it
Good to know winter
Is coming, not denying the skylark
Its gradual movement
Towards disintegration? I am
Not like a man
Who says I have never
Been interested in knowing
Knowing and yet
There is sometimes a dark
Companion who pulls, a castanet
Snapping talismanic, calling
The air into mass as in the sea
A dandelion self-disperses and here
On asphalt, a womanly
Hobo strikes at a damp matchbook
Sparks fizzling, I saw myself
Breathing and imagined a tiny tin finger
Rapping at my ribs, today
We saw a mangy parrot voicelessly
Traipse a limb, it’s freezing
In Brooklyn and we fear the parrot
Will not survive the night, the moon
Multiplying newness, caressing
Carcasses into alien
Readymades and is it right that we
Continue to try to love that part
Of ourselves sampling annihilation?
Is a hologram, save
For the rapture of a man peddling
Sausages in a black stocking
Cap, unutterable terrors
Encompassing each inch of veritable
Movement into the realm
Of poetry, just as
It is a scandal to live outside
The history of saliva, conjuring
Meek spectacles from the department
Store display windows
The entire globe was surrounded
By quotes, though inside
The bakery an old man quietly
Held a cake emblazoned
With his granddaughter’s face
Like Hugo Ball
Restively clutching the 133-year-old skull
Of a 21-year-old girl and wishing
To paint its hollow cheek with kisses
Romancing a corpse
Or simply bargaining with war, atoms
Gripped loosely in the swinging
Of a thick fist, music
Tumbling from the vegetation as if
Today’s weather
Were attuned to a Promethean Chord
And it is, of
Course, the way the eye
Fixes disaster into art and isn’t it
Good to know winter
Is coming, not denying the skylark
Its gradual movement
Towards disintegration? I am
Not like a man
Who says I have never
Been interested in knowing
Knowing and yet
There is sometimes a dark
Companion who pulls, a castanet
Snapping talismanic, calling
The air into mass as in the sea
A dandelion self-disperses and here
On asphalt, a womanly
Hobo strikes at a damp matchbook
Sparks fizzling, I saw myself
Breathing and imagined a tiny tin finger
Rapping at my ribs, today
We saw a mangy parrot voicelessly
Traipse a limb, it’s freezing
In Brooklyn and we fear the parrot
Will not survive the night, the moon
Multiplying newness, caressing
Carcasses into alien
Readymades and is it right that we
Continue to try to love that part
Of ourselves sampling annihilation?
Friday, December 29, 2006
Sunday, December 17, 2006
TRY NOT TO KILL ANYTHING WITH YOUR FACE: AN INSTRUCTION MANUAL
by kari edwards and Chris Martin
Let's do all and anything that comes
Just sever certain things and send
~
Take it form, there
Open and discard content
Return lines to their previous breath
Slip in unnoticed sleep
Wind and release
Hover over for truth
Puncture with tooth
Peel and calibrate to nude lengths
Leap across backwards
Say yes, eyes open
~
on a rise or around a rose
on a flat
around a crowd that is one
spread that across the universe with solar winds
that is still one
~
This is still ore
Will move
“My heart still loves,
will break”
There is nothing
bleak about the shore, its tide,
restored, the breaching birds
spearing their tongues to salt
such as we would
much as we woo the unpalatable
sea, see
what lives its small
time diving among the tide’s
hours This is ours
This is all
ties and glue
blues and small eyes
shoestring and what plies
its steps through sand and
thousands of other forms.
Let’s bother Let’s throb
these lines in our breast, in
our best impression of sea, its wet
impression of sun
setting against the shore
This ore is still, will move
more soon, so on
~
take a visual field
any field
record every detail
shades movements
taste budding hopes supposed thoughts
frizzed atoms fraught molecule periodic table sum calculations
parcel post and particle paradigms found in the cracks and crevasses
then take a step and do it again
~
take as tether the line
rapt as gallows rope
open eyes, yes say
yet this is where you must pause
pull the strings until weft
slowly, solely
you must paw at the fabric
until it splits
light the pieces
melt
~
An Action
(may be performed wherever there are windows)
Throw chair through
window. Sit
on chair. Give
reading of new
poems by current
Poet Laureate.
~
take a deep breath
turn the sky in to a bite-size ball
swallow
imagine all the filth of time
the screams from war
blood shed particles
lost memories from genocide
exhaust, fumes, vapors and particles
from every motor, coal furnace, and nuclear reactor
the bones that have been crushed in machines by machines
all the hate and violence caused by fear times one million and fifty-five
isolation and madness in the upper atmosphere
each an every cry from the last of a kind
greed and the road paved with good intentions
take a deep breath
swallow
~
Open the closest closet and remove all the clothes
~
Look into the eye of a fish
See yourself
Go backwards
~
there is a hum in the air
the air is the hum
do you know the tune?
~
stand on a white piece of paper
become the paper
have some one place the paper out side
leave instruction for anyone to find the you that was on the paper,
or find the paper
~
in a large room place your voice next to the blank space
~
when it is time to do something
remember there are at least twenty-four options
~
get young black teenagers
put their pants on backwards
sell a million records
~
buy a car
commercial
take it off
the air
~
Lunge
~
remember the end is only the beginning
connect all every movies ever made including home movies
to create a endless loop
sit down to watch them
don’t forget to make enough popcorn to last
~
count out each second that you have lived
~
Live each second
that before
you had only
the time
to count
~
read a boot
shoot a gum
run a rake
bake a pier
wear a squirt
build a horse
~
Cement
Clock
Savage
Pencil
~
house
body
light
~
the path of a rain storm is a uniform pattern of rain drops that record the conception of storm from the beginning to the end of it. each raindrop contains specks of the universe that are scattered from point A to point B. once these particles descend and land they begin another journey into the soil to become a part of a planet, that is a source of food and so on.
now picture each particle’s journey as a traceable element in time with pluses and minuses in each direction, zero being the present. each particle leaving its own slight colored echo of where it’s been and where it’s going.
~
Pour your
hate into
a vial.
Smash it
over and
over again.
~
Think of how
animals kill
things using
only their faces
Try not to
kill anything
with your face
~
If I think of it now
it has happened already . . . .
if I see it, it is not longer that
~
Take a year in your hand—
it’s small, rumbles
like an antique
boxcar in a shoebox
diorama. Dare to
squeeze it. Drum
your fingers in that pleasing
way that fingers do.
Let go of the year. Let
your eyes go after it.
~
Take a drum
to an antique
car show. Shower
it with fingers.
Let a set of eyes
say yes to the year
of our lord, please,
go easy into that
Good Friday.
Let's do all and anything that comes
Just sever certain things and send
~
Take it form, there
Open and discard content
Return lines to their previous breath
Slip in unnoticed sleep
Wind and release
Hover over for truth
Puncture with tooth
Peel and calibrate to nude lengths
Leap across backwards
Say yes, eyes open
~
on a rise or around a rose
on a flat
around a crowd that is one
spread that across the universe with solar winds
that is still one
~
This is still ore
Will move
“My heart still loves,
will break”
There is nothing
bleak about the shore, its tide,
restored, the breaching birds
spearing their tongues to salt
such as we would
much as we woo the unpalatable
sea, see
what lives its small
time diving among the tide’s
hours This is ours
This is all
ties and glue
blues and small eyes
shoestring and what plies
its steps through sand and
thousands of other forms.
Let’s bother Let’s throb
these lines in our breast, in
our best impression of sea, its wet
impression of sun
setting against the shore
This ore is still, will move
more soon, so on
~
take a visual field
any field
record every detail
shades movements
taste budding hopes supposed thoughts
frizzed atoms fraught molecule periodic table sum calculations
parcel post and particle paradigms found in the cracks and crevasses
then take a step and do it again
~
take as tether the line
rapt as gallows rope
open eyes, yes say
yet this is where you must pause
pull the strings until weft
slowly, solely
you must paw at the fabric
until it splits
light the pieces
melt
~
An Action
(may be performed wherever there are windows)
Throw chair through
window. Sit
on chair. Give
reading of new
poems by current
Poet Laureate.
~
take a deep breath
turn the sky in to a bite-size ball
swallow
imagine all the filth of time
the screams from war
blood shed particles
lost memories from genocide
exhaust, fumes, vapors and particles
from every motor, coal furnace, and nuclear reactor
the bones that have been crushed in machines by machines
all the hate and violence caused by fear times one million and fifty-five
isolation and madness in the upper atmosphere
each an every cry from the last of a kind
greed and the road paved with good intentions
take a deep breath
swallow
~
Open the closest closet and remove all the clothes
~
Look into the eye of a fish
See yourself
Go backwards
~
there is a hum in the air
the air is the hum
do you know the tune?
~
stand on a white piece of paper
become the paper
have some one place the paper out side
leave instruction for anyone to find the you that was on the paper,
or find the paper
~
in a large room place your voice next to the blank space
~
when it is time to do something
remember there are at least twenty-four options
~
get young black teenagers
put their pants on backwards
sell a million records
~
buy a car
commercial
take it off
the air
~
Lunge
~
remember the end is only the beginning
connect all every movies ever made including home movies
to create a endless loop
sit down to watch them
don’t forget to make enough popcorn to last
~
count out each second that you have lived
~
Live each second
that before
you had only
the time
to count
~
read a boot
shoot a gum
run a rake
bake a pier
wear a squirt
build a horse
~
Cement
Clock
Savage
Pencil
~
house
body
light
~
the path of a rain storm is a uniform pattern of rain drops that record the conception of storm from the beginning to the end of it. each raindrop contains specks of the universe that are scattered from point A to point B. once these particles descend and land they begin another journey into the soil to become a part of a planet, that is a source of food and so on.
now picture each particle’s journey as a traceable element in time with pluses and minuses in each direction, zero being the present. each particle leaving its own slight colored echo of where it’s been and where it’s going.
~
Pour your
hate into
a vial.
Smash it
over and
over again.
~
Think of how
animals kill
things using
only their faces
Try not to
kill anything
with your face
~
If I think of it now
it has happened already . . . .
if I see it, it is not longer that
~
Take a year in your hand—
it’s small, rumbles
like an antique
boxcar in a shoebox
diorama. Dare to
squeeze it. Drum
your fingers in that pleasing
way that fingers do.
Let go of the year. Let
your eyes go after it.
~
Take a drum
to an antique
car show. Shower
it with fingers.
Let a set of eyes
say yes to the year
of our lord, please,
go easy into that
Good Friday.
Monday, December 04, 2006
OF THE MIDDLE OF
The snow comes late / the train come late / A cone of light
delivers us, right / on time to ourselves / This is not a love letter
It is a fragment of the / treatise on the / reversibility of the
glove / When was the last time you were truly / inexplicably
gloved? / Some call it looking / at the moon through
the word / When it happened I was as / far from words
as air / is / from chemistry / The first one that
returned seemed to / be I / then IF / but it was and would always
be OF / This is not a love letter / This is that
which is in continual / reprisal, it is / the middle of the
middle of the middle / of the middle of / the beginning
delivers us, right / on time to ourselves / This is not a love letter
It is a fragment of the / treatise on the / reversibility of the
glove / When was the last time you were truly / inexplicably
gloved? / Some call it looking / at the moon through
the word / When it happened I was as / far from words
as air / is / from chemistry / The first one that
returned seemed to / be I / then IF / but it was and would always
be OF / This is not a love letter / This is that
which is in continual / reprisal, it is / the middle of the
middle of the middle / of the middle of / the beginning
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
LUGGING FLOWERS INTO THE FUTURE
Sleep is a story / we tell to ourselves / the streets yellow
with swollen leaves, your face / somewhere in mine, orange
gone suddenly / sensual / Thank god you
were there to rescue intelligence / to revel in the inequality
of silences / and now I’m bursting / naps
itching joy / Eno at the bar, birthday / girls lugging
flowers into the future / without a map / I’m suddenly so New
Wave looking / at you from the bar buying us / drinks
as you grin that / scared intelligence, that could it / be we
are already / kissing grin / Just yesterday I was so
sure silence / didn’t exist / now it’s bursting
with swollen leaves, your face / somewhere in mine, orange
gone suddenly / sensual / Thank god you
were there to rescue intelligence / to revel in the inequality
of silences / and now I’m bursting / naps
itching joy / Eno at the bar, birthday / girls lugging
flowers into the future / without a map / I’m suddenly so New
Wave looking / at you from the bar buying us / drinks
as you grin that / scared intelligence, that could it / be we
are already / kissing grin / Just yesterday I was so
sure silence / didn’t exist / now it’s bursting
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
TURNING AVIAN
One posits a containment / mania / this little decoy we / tug
inside the shatters / of us fringing the world / I guess
it is sexual, a low drag / with unperceived frequencies
The green lobes / of the out-the-window / tree steeped
with yellow jellyfish flowers—we are / enmeshed in nuisances
Where is all that incommensurable / hope? You forgot it
in people / and found it there again, again / turning avian
Her tongue in my mouth / our faces pressed by the rush
of air pushed forward by the D train / we were busy
not taking / I wanted someone menacing / to approach me so
I could perplex / them with rhyme / I remembered words
of mine from the mouth / of a madman—come
home: this is / the loveliest rhyme
inside the shatters / of us fringing the world / I guess
it is sexual, a low drag / with unperceived frequencies
The green lobes / of the out-the-window / tree steeped
with yellow jellyfish flowers—we are / enmeshed in nuisances
Where is all that incommensurable / hope? You forgot it
in people / and found it there again, again / turning avian
Her tongue in my mouth / our faces pressed by the rush
of air pushed forward by the D train / we were busy
not taking / I wanted someone menacing / to approach me so
I could perplex / them with rhyme / I remembered words
of mine from the mouth / of a madman—come
home: this is / the loveliest rhyme
Saturday, October 28, 2006
THE FUCK ARE BUTTERFLIES
Truth is desire / there, I said it / as if the cost of admitting
something was something / geographic, like a tiny / blinking bug
made of ideas a spy / adhered to you / All knowledge brings up
new problems / All knowledge brings up is new
problems, but that’s exactly / what we are / desiring, there
I said something adhesive / a body that always
thought it was the consequence / of an image / And finally, here
we are coincident / trysting in a flare / of flesh / You
called while I was riding / the F for the first / time in weeks, too
dark to make out / the graffiti / I wrote my name on
a beige building wall / and it became a thing again / I say there
are butterflies / in my stomach / You say what
the fuck are butterflies / doing in your stomach?
something was something / geographic, like a tiny / blinking bug
made of ideas a spy / adhered to you / All knowledge brings up
new problems / All knowledge brings up is new
problems, but that’s exactly / what we are / desiring, there
I said something adhesive / a body that always
thought it was the consequence / of an image / And finally, here
we are coincident / trysting in a flare / of flesh / You
called while I was riding / the F for the first / time in weeks, too
dark to make out / the graffiti / I wrote my name on
a beige building wall / and it became a thing again / I say there
are butterflies / in my stomach / You say what
the fuck are butterflies / doing in your stomach?
Saturday, October 21, 2006
A SLOW, SLOW POUNCE
Alex swears / I transmuted / The woman on the 2 used
a magnifying / glass to read the police / blotter, naps
of afro jutting from / her hat / A woman may extend
to the tip of the / feather in her / hat, or further / a bullet’s
wet anchor / I was studying rhythm / a slow, slow
pounce or drag / the way a flame disappears / in the tube
of a shaft of sun / the tip wet / magnifying afros
A woman used a piece of glass to read the police her hat / a slow, slow bullet
disappearing in the tube / Alex swears I’m wearing my Dead
Ringers surgery socks / swears I’m singing My Pistol
in Your Mouth Blues / an orange light / blinking on Bleeker
blotter / further / feather / anchor / as certainly I grow
sick at placing myself, at replacing / myself in the scenes
a magnifying / glass to read the police / blotter, naps
of afro jutting from / her hat / A woman may extend
to the tip of the / feather in her / hat, or further / a bullet’s
wet anchor / I was studying rhythm / a slow, slow
pounce or drag / the way a flame disappears / in the tube
of a shaft of sun / the tip wet / magnifying afros
A woman used a piece of glass to read the police her hat / a slow, slow bullet
disappearing in the tube / Alex swears I’m wearing my Dead
Ringers surgery socks / swears I’m singing My Pistol
in Your Mouth Blues / an orange light / blinking on Bleeker
blotter / further / feather / anchor / as certainly I grow
sick at placing myself, at replacing / myself in the scenes
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