how wonderful it is

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 22:42:53 GMT

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

Mon, 07 Jul 2008 23:40:16 GMT

"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!"

he lost his nerve in the fire

Wed, 28 May 2008 03:18:38 GMT

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.

disappearing into a voice

Sun, 13 Apr 2008 15:57:35 GMT

fill my cheeks with pennies
gargle white mice
muscleman mosaic
milky bugle boy
arizona arizona air
horse houses

fleshy girl cousins grown like elephants

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 16:47:02 GMT

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

a cage in a cage in a country

Sun, 02 Mar 2008 04:08:37 GMT

"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.

animal noises

Thu, 31 Jan 2008 04:35:56 GMT

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

"We called our hippopotamus It's Toasted."

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 22:25:32 GMT

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.

gaze

Tue, 30 Oct 2007 13:16:54 GMT

a swan of bees

enigmatic wheelbarrows, or language in crisis

Thu, 13 Sep 2007 20:30:08 GMT

"Why are you so proud of the failure of your imagination?"

playing pianos filled with flames on empty rings around the sun

Fri, 07 Sep 2007 05:22:38 GMT

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.

like graham crackers

Sat, 28 Apr 2007 05:02:54 GMT

for a second, a moment even, everything makes perfect sense, and I guess the onslaught of "yes" brought the ruckus.

and then?

Thu, 19 Apr 2007 03:41:39 GMT

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.

given more than two dimensions

Fri, 06 Apr 2007 14:38:47 GMT

compelled to evolve, remember?

when things don't look as pizzzzazzzzed as they do in real life

Fri, 02 Mar 2007 02:51:58 GMT

enough of that.

an epidemic!

Sun, 11 Feb 2007 00:23:18 GMT

Thu, 08 Feb 2007 01:14:38 GMT

the outside moves towards the inside while she's turning inside-out, and an apparition:

the timestamps will come off to contraction to memory to flex to memory to landscape memory

she grew a spine

Sat, 03 Feb 2007 16:40:12 GMT

blueprints to hinges to exoskeleton to ribcage

don't doze off

Fri, 02 Feb 2007 00:46:31 GMT

air to pump to flow to thought to speak

I wish I had someone to quote other than mr. mcdaniel, or perhaps thoughts of my own

Tue, 30 Jan 2007 02:34:35 GMT

"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.” "

leaf, leave, now, leaf

Tue, 23 Jan 2007 20:27:44 GMT

hum she say
hummm said she.

Blinds are pulled shut for weeks, there's something about looking out into the world when there's an egocentric bedroom lying around by its lonesome. There's something about not having to see the same old scenery and something about ignoring it.

Escapism is photosynthetic.

Got my silo, Genevive? Build it up. Construct something less shakey than what was there before, forewarned, warming, minimal. Foreshortening. Four. Build it up. Build it up up up. Be aware, beware.

embark

Wed, 17 Jan 2007 21:06:18 GMT

e(motion)

overbaked

exposure

backdrop, our backs drop, our rails pop, and sunspots ensue.

I try to incorporate Pompeii into my daily life.

Wed, 17 Jan 2007 03:32:29 GMT

Calpurnia relinquished his brushes, his pens. He handed over every adjective that had ever passed his lips. Soon the vowels were gone, soon everything was monochromatic. It was beautiful. Beautiful? I digress. It was breathtaking. Gorgeous. Calpurnia has a glint of a memory of a past life of a someone, of a someone saying that Gorgeous is the highest form of compliment. The Gorgeous landscape hindered my inhalation. The Gorgeous clarity arrested my inspiration. The Gorgeous enlightenment was a goldengreen road and Calpurnia was a ladybug, maybe an earwig, maybe a caterpillar, hoping that the next blundering traveler was carrying a broom. Put away your shoes, dear cobbler, put away your sole, dear softener. Put away your softener, washing machine. There's a third-degree grass stain and a zero percent chance for the renewal of ignorance.
He stops. Looks. Stops. Looks. Calpurnia! You don't have a brain!

We both leave you with "The Number One reason I Will Fail One Half of My Concentration Project Baby Bumpkin Yodel Because of Lack of Reason to Make an 'Effort' And Because I Am About To Walk Out of Art Class Every Day" also entitled "Calpurnia's Insides." I should be ashamed of actually putting a real-live piece of information in this transaction with You All.

tripped on my words

Thu, 04 Jan 2007 03:05:28 GMT

Je voudrais etre
and you know.
Je ne sais rien.
That's unRight.
But takingcare is gettingold
and beingBold is growing cold
and gorging elephant sounds
and recording ah-ha-has...
C'est toi! Could it be you?
Could it possibly be me?

Down to beehive
(codeword honeycomb):

After not using "I" for so long, using it seems trite. This (not "I think this" or "I have come to a conclusion" or "my experience here" or "there" or "over there" or "pretty over there") is intolerable, if there ever was such a thing as intolerable. Show ("me") an archetype Myself who emerged unscathed. Let ("me") wade through the non-metaphorical shallows. There are shallows. There are swallows swooping over shallows and singing Goodbye songs because they know what is good for them. You, you communal, you all-inclusive you, who is not even being addressed here, You have crossed the threshold into Stupendous Irrationality And The Underbelly Of Carelessness. This is more insulting than simply dubbing ("you") unworthy. Find your worth in the murky cereal bowl, find your worth in tangles.

I leave you with analytical observation of something sprayed with spitwater.

I wonder if I could tie the ocean to your knees

Fri, 29 Dec 2006 00:21:05 GMT

And there was, in our right-in-front-of-us vision, a mountain, or even a great rise of land, or a great mountain into the sky or into the atmosphere, or into Inner Space or outer faces
and we couldn't go around and we couldn't go above and we couldn't go beneath and we couldn't go back, so we had to go forward and we
had
to go through it
so our traintracks run through it
and our traintracks ran through it
and we thought about it and how about it and how it might work with us and us going through it
and we thought about how we might duck under the creek and run into the street and be roan deer or red deer or a foal
Foals being yearlings, and yearlings knowing everything, and wouldn't you like to be one?
And see one?
Have I ever been a yearling, I have liked and would like to see an orange grove and maybe an orangutan and I would like and do like to grasp it's or her or his handfingers and gallump across the countryside like transcendental Ones or Twos
to be confused
To Be Confused as an infinitive
with transcending, as I wrote in my first draft, as is below, in case you were wondering:

[And maybe Damien’s romantic view on the people in this world is crashing to pieces. Maybe there is no transcendence. Maybe humanity is at its peak when everyone is worrying only about how white their teeth, where their next meal will come from, what she said and he said and oh gosh, where have you been my whole life? And the second you begin Damien’s Transcendence, you really digress. It’s a doublethink doublespeak doublefeel sort of thing. It’s putting pores in your skin where only bullet holes should be. It’s a convoluted smile on the face of humanity and it is eating through your lovebuds. There’s a sheet of scratch metal plucking at your heartstrings, and we’re never leaving cloud nine to get there.

“Fuck clichés,” said an artist somewhere. “Fuck life in general.”

Leslie used to be an artist. What does that mean anyway? She used to paint things. Things, meaning everything.

“Fuck everything,” said an artist named Leslie.

If Lobster could talk, he would ask to be nothing. “Nothing,” he would say. “I would like to be nothing.”

Because everything and nothing are mutually exclusive, and you can’t fuck nothing. You can’t kill nothing, and you can’t hand nothing to lobster man behind the counter laughing until he bleeds through his sound waves. You can’t pretend that nothing exists and you can’t save nothing from a cruel and unusual death. Except it’s not that unusual. All lobsters die, and most lobsters die in a pot of boiling water.

Imagine it.

“Imagine it,” says Leslie to lobster man behind the counter. But lobster man only has thoughts for Juillet the Human, who he saw once ducking behind a dumpster.]

as usual, I leave you with a glimmer of hope, or, a glimmer of house: