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| 06:36pm 25/07/2008 |
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Driving through / hot brushy country / in the late autumn, / I saw a hawk / crucified on a / barbed-wire fence. / / I guess as a kind / of advertisement / to other hawks, / saying from the pages / of a leading women's / magazine, / / "She's beautiful, / but burn all the maps / to your body. / I'm not here / of my own choosing."
the double-bed dream gallows / richard brautigan |
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| 07:34pm 07/07/2008 |
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"If it is now the belief of my fellow men, who call themselves the public, that their mood requires victims, then I say: The public good be damned, I will have no part of it!" |
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| he lost his nerve in the fire |
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| 10:55pm 27/05/2008 |
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all we have written are letters to grandma(Great) on graph paper stomachs.
"the iridescent eyeball," says N-N-N-N-N. "it has the infinite wisdom of a thousand fleshy cousins. we are the closest we will ever be when we say goodbye."
we burn the birth canals and conquer little suns. / we baptize you with dead earth and ardent rain. /
tell your little brothers everything; / about how women bleed into lakes. / about how we will erode into each other and tangle in the dark dark underground /we are soapy and unwanted, grandma(Great) /
true #3:
we have our annual Christmas party at The American Legion in Rockland every year on 26 December. Joanne signs the rent contract, which reads:
<< your blackberry poem is dead. if you eat peaches inside, you betray your fellow countrymen. if you raise your flags to the moles that swarm underground, glory will be had. there is soggy fruit in all of your cups. wet grass, wet, wet, wet grass. let the girls' rooms accumulate spoons. every inhabitant must smell like yesterday and the day before. >>
nobody likes to eat the pit, so the security deposit is never reimbursed.
on the cold floor in a warm room, we notice that
buildings are creaking under the heavy skyline.
i have lost my last words to this oily mess
and my socks are never clean. |
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| disappearing into a voice |
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| 11:53am 13/04/2008 |
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fill my cheeks with pennies
gargle white mice
muscleman mosaic
milky bugle boy
arizona arizona air
horse houses |
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| fleshy girl cousins grown like elephants |
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| 12:33pm 30/03/2008 |
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all the dogs in the dog pen get kicked all the dogs in the dog pen get kicked all the dogs
if there were orange trees, they would crumble
into our pupils, negotiating engine grease,
"and a dog, three
falling in love,
or your grandmother"
excavate tongues
excavate tongues
excavate tongues
i'm tired and want to leave
no no no
we're tired and want to leave
yes
naked poetry on napkins
drowning in pools of our own pocket lint
29 march 2008 c.e.
sitting in a garage, just one colored chair
i'm so tired. it is 6:30 pm should go to bed. it's cold.
30 march 2008 c.e. 1130am
something must leave must leave. leigh and i yelled last night a fight just to get upset just to get physical just to see blurry. it turns out that the white fuzzy monster is just a feather. fowl terror. there are finches running around my feet. i'd rather not be part of it. it smells like loose change and death and we're sitting downwind. woolbright in 50 years just walked by and looked me in the face. that kid is wearing a leash and has his mittens sewn to his sleeves this woman is sitting next to me hands me a Post says it's free starts talking about circulars. "every dog has his day" says the man on my right with the filthy eyeglasses. need to leave this place, migrate south, walk south, walk to 13th. these people are rambling about the weather they seem thrilled. sunday morning is a big deal. i haven't taken out my contacts since thursday. "they took out all the circulars" she says. goiter. loose. resurrect |
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| a cage in a cage in a country |
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| 10:59pm 01/03/2008 |
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"A cage in a cage in a country," I say.
"Things will be brighter tomorrow," you say. "Heck, tomorrow will be the first day of our lives!"
But Zesty Beverage Jr. forgot to tell you that tomorrow has taken the day off. We are stuck with only each other now. There is no tomorrow to make excuses for.
"What now, you?"
"Reserve your right to bare arms," you say, shedding your corn husks. |
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| animal noises |
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| 11:19pm 30/01/2008 |
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I <3 MY DOBERMAN RECYCLING CENTER!
we gathered all of our nothings into ice cube rucksacks
I swallow my stomach
some folks die having never met each other -- from a milkshake perspective, this is beautiful.
all I hear are animal noises
all I see are swarms; they live in my throat. all of my friends are bog beasts. when I speak, rain comes out and everyone gets damp and cranky. The same jive has been looping for days. every child with a boom box knows these words. now, ladies and gentle ones, they are finally true. how great is that? pretty great.
we take off the pot's top and everyone gets hot.
I will collect all of the concrete in new york sit-ee and store it under my skin.
Kittens are crawling around in my intestines.
I never expected anything from you, but it seemed that you, like the meat-packing plant, were implied.
Childhood was dreadfully boring. They should have sent me to the coal mines to dig up my winged grand-ma-ma. Sometimes we go and sometimes we hold it. Sometimes we have accidents in the supermarket. Like telling the cashier that she would look good on toast (or in our beds).
My genesis was interrupted by a flowering bulb. We cut them back in the summertime. We cut our eyelashes and mix them with our saliva collected under a full moon in order to prove our love to each other. Your New Year's resolution is to finally kill off the best part of yourself. We paint our faces with each other's backbones. I fill your diary with knots.
notes to a pen pal with x-ray vision:
dear You,
one day soon we will take over the cake shop.
a |
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| "We called our hippopotamus It's Toasted." |
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| 05:03pm 04/12/2007 |
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notes for the future
aesthetically repulsive
authorship and silence
unique evils-- standardize rhetoric and accidents.
humanity does not encounter difference and immediately slaughter
vagina on a plate- gradually becoming pianos.
where we are right now is (il)legitimate
(I) spend (my) life negotiating screens and information flow
"vulvae and butterflies"
we are the data
Arch Length and Peach Pit go to the shore to bake their favorite totebags pie. |
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| 09:11am 30/10/2007 |
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a swan of bees |
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| playing pianos filled with flames on empty rings around the sun |
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| 12:39am 07/09/2007 |
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The giraffe (what's yellow and brown and red all over?) is the only indication that ecosystems had once thrived in that place where my bed has spontaneously generated. It dreams of being a four-poster and wearing an Indochinese skirt 'round its ankles, and I dream of fishbowls and the organelles of our speech bubbles that rise to the surface of the aquarium in tandem with the earlier notion of instability.
The most beautiful blub-blub asks if she can help.
"Oh. Yes. Not with comic books, though."
"Are you looking?"
"But not for comic books. You can help." And put sponges on your feet and walk around the interior of my corneas, and then I'll look some more. "I guess you can just point me in the direction of the books that come with an icicle package, and controlled environments."
"Storage?"
"I'd suppose."
"In any case."
"It appears that I am helpless. I have a love of situation but a lack of interest. Simple syntactical discourse really gets me going."
"Such a hot subject. So hot. Abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz."
So we wordwordwordwordwordwordwordword for a while until she feels guilty about being a human and tucks her face back into the flap behind her frontal lobe. Walking away, the squeaks between her footfalls squished out the sounds of soufflés bursting, and I consider the exchange well worth it.
Help the homeless; purchase a child.
Booster seat the weekends and spoon-feed Easter anecdotes to the silkiest of smooth.
Vowels have never been more exhausted. As it happens, they are awake, and laaaa laaaa laaaa ing. Oh giraffe, I have so much to tell you. |
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| like graham crackers |
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| 12:38am 28/04/2007 |
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for a second, a moment even, everything makes perfect sense, and I guess the onslaught of "yes" brought the ruckus. |
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| and then? |
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| 11:39pm 18/04/2007 |
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MARGARET:
Your pictures violated the photobucket terms of service and thus cannot be displayed here. Ultimately, this is an accomplishment for everyone. Give me your email and I'll send you the pictures. |
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| I wish I had someone to quote other than mr. mcdaniel, or perhaps thoughts of my own |
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| 09:21pm 29/01/2007 |
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"National Poetry Month will hereby be abolished and replaced with National Poetry Minute,
when everyone in the entire nation will be required by law to read the same poem
in unison so that our brothers and sisters around the world will know that we Americans have heartbeats. The poem will be prefaced with the following official preamble:
“Yo, this goes out to all my homeys chilling on Mars.” " |
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foggygoggle's journal