Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Multiple #1

Your something this and your something that and did you get enough sleep this month, this week, this year is a strange one. You go to interviews you write and you think and you write until your hands come off or it feels like they do and you try to breathe and you ride your bike up and down hills and hills and something like the shortness of the day closes your eyes for a moment and you are up again and doing it again there is no next day only a sense of again again again. There is the disc, glowing the sky, our sky, a musical place with animals and yams to hang on. Some sort of glow comes from inside our hands, our writing hands are re-wiring and something goes, making sounds as it goes, making me (us) ((our multiplicity of selves)) into something more, something rich with sound and unconnected rhythms, something about loving makes loving easier, something about all of this regarding the frightful truth. And friends in strange hats make things easier to see, to understand the roil of sounds inside, axle grease, refusal to fight, switch and be progress, be all over sound, be fire trickster and range rider, steel tube rider, with wheels below and a shocking sense of hair getting thinner, urgency of poetry and urgency of torque, legs, et cetera. Something about memory and smell. This, then again, maybe this other.

Sunday, December 02, 2007

Series Of Teams

What it means to be sad and unheard,
Why the door to the roof is locked,
Why children fear basements.

There is the ground,
Up where the sky begins.
The ground’s dissonance makes it beautiful.

Shining through soliloquies
Of lamps and translucent skin,
The voice of a lonely man roves towards town.

Thinks the voice: How to be a part of something that rings,
How to leave this old blandness behind?
I could be a bandit, stealing food for my family,

Or slip away unseen,
No one knowing I was here when the world was dying,
And become an inert chunk of time.

The voice trips over hills between fields,
Dissolving as lights from town approach.
No alarm sounds.

The plight of being made of thought, rats and voices alike:
One team must seek, the other must flee.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

His Language Of Need

And he makes them, and makes them, and he makes animal sounds, he makes animal sounds and the day is, and the day he makes animals sounds the day runs into ruin, as the sounds run and he makes it, he makes them run, he rolls them, rubs the river, the day changes, he makes the day’s changes and it makes him, it names him, the animals name him, they go to him, he seeks them, they turn to him and he turns the day, the day runs with him, makes him something, goes toward rivers, makes changes, his sounds, make them changes, make them bread, make them with eyes and long uninterrupted swing sets with horns where eyes are, horns above lightning, feelings in the deep, in the war, he makes war with animals in his mind, the animals don’t befriend him if he makes war, and he makes it, he puts his face aside, he runs with the combinations, he retools things, makes everything run in the belly of animals, of scared people he knows, of walls, and he resigns, he goes to the basement, he keeps his tools there, he makes sound there, makes words and elephants, big elephant words that carry him in his war with words and animals and walls and the frayed ends of his liver that he wonders about in his medications, he sweeps aside things with his hands, his hands roll the grass up and take everyone to the river and to the train tracks and to the prison cell, he sneezes peels, he syrups snowstorm snowdrifts, he shadows his hearing under snakes, he envelopes crying, his tears tear his jaw down, he slumps, he feels horror, he goes to the people, they cry around him, they take his liver out, he looks at it, they are afraid, he is afraid, they feed him to animals and his liver regrows him, he is alive again, he is not angry with people, they took care of him, they did what was necessary, they eliminated the ardor, they followed through, they made him whole again, they fed him, they gave him a sense of when the time would be right for him to go on a journey, he went, he came back, they thanked him, everyone was having lunch, they sat him down, he told his story, they ate his story while they listened to him speak, there were bones making noises in the rooms inside their houses, the war was in their houses and the man told them of their war and they ate lunch, they had lunch next to the man, gave him sandwiches and salads and soups and they saw something of a feeling coming out of him and he was alone in that he could not feel them seeing that something was happening to him, he was alone and they were together and they felt him give way, he felt himself give way, there was something to say and he couldn’t say it, they listened and he said it but they could only hear their own hearing, them feelings, they thought, them feelings he’s having, it’s the war, they thought, it’s the war, and they asked if he wanted to leave them and he said no, and they stopped eating and asked him to sit down again and he took his arms and did something with his arms, used them in a way they could not understand, he made new words, made words without sounds or symbols of sounds, made unconnected wheelings of arm words and he left them thinking he might come back again, then the sky allowed for his passing, the light covered his shoulders in orange and he was washed clean of even his name and feelings and any other forms he used when was alone, now he was his own together with the dawn and the rich animal sounds coming from the river and his newly formed words that only he knew, his language of need

Monday, July 30, 2007

Blake's "The Tyger" (and film)

THE TYGER (from Songs Of Experience)

By William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


Saturday, May 26, 2007

Amando Tu Aparición

para la mujer que mora en su propia campiña

Amando tu aparición,
Tus manos de sombra,
Tu cuchicheo:
Respiración sin aliento.

Abrazando tu fantasma,
Olor de la tierra en su cabello,
Vórtice de su pupila…
Donde está el amor y donde está la muerte?

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

I, Too, Am A Fly, Chanting Recollections, Waiting To Be Shocked Into The Next World By The Strong Blue Light Above

So how can I get close to that rebellious creation force? If there be madness, may it go unswatted. Container of spoiled cottage cheese green and tough at the edges and I have my ambrosia. Riveting. Waste smell: a desperate inspiration. Cherish these pearlish wings, they bring travel freedom for mites and viral fevers. Artists move from illness to gloried striving: rare to find much food in their bins. They have no voice, but I thank myself for them. Racing over can continents and steaming dung islands, I lay eggs in everything, my posterior insuring I have left something to posterity.


by Patti Smith

I keep trying to figure out what it means
to be american. When I look in myself
I see arabia, venus, nineteenth-century
french but I can't recognize what
makes me american. I think about
Robert Frank's photographs -- broke down
jukeboxes in gallup, new mexico...
swaying hips and spurs...ponytails and
syphilitic cowpokes. I think about a
red, white and blue rag I wrap around
my pillow. Maybe it's nothing material
maybe it's just being free.

Freedom is a waterfall, is pacing
linoleum till dawn, is the right to
write the wrong words, and I done
plenty of that...

april 1971

Monday, May 07, 2007

The Hungriest Day Is Devoured

I start myself with a question: Simplicity in me? Whoa, I don’t know. Bouncing bell horses smuggle what’s blue, playing like a room. Shh, I told myself, myths abound in forests, waiting to be counted, counting on weight, rolling under steam.

Only change can come from the gong, open the way all sound opens, ritmo under span of buses, bridges, tunnels and plains. Notions glimmer a moment, even some of all of them. Not afraid to be completely skull, skeleton and other masses rippling. In rubbings, ministers show winning numbers, a marina for twisted ships, tumbling in the grip of flanged abandon.

We hunker out in corpse of ocean and waist deep in my marrow find a meadow of cool place. There is swerving silence; bonjour swerving silence, brushing worthy building-tops, from whence have you come? Coarse walkers crash the planet, scene in time. Jellolujah, sing the kids, up-ended in angles of light.

Here is we, filling dense mystery with fuel from swollen mornings, faces cleansed by total eclipse. Haul down the skipper picture, our new captain ate the sea.

Anecdote Of The Bear

Breaking bread with a grizzly, a chronic allergy sufferer sneezed mucus onto the bear’s shoulder. The grizzly pulled off the fellow’s hands and wore them for a whole winter, keeping them on as he slept through the cold and snow. He kept the dismembered allergy sufferer in an insulated barrel at the back of his cave. In the spring, still wearing the hands, the bear went out and used them to pick berries and scoop honey into his mouth. He found them much more useful than his own awkward paws. Nevertheless, the compassionate bear hauled the emaciated allergy sufferer out of the barrel, reattached the hands, and taught him to forage for his meals. When he was plump and healthy again, the thankful fellow embraced the huge grizzly, shook his paw, and went on his way in the world, never to sneeze again. Lonely once more, and unable to keep a diary without opposable thumbs, the bear returned to the city of his birth. Eventually, he married a beautiful Spanish hedge fund manager. In the small but wealthy circles of society he and his wife frequented, he became rather well known for his soft fur, kind strength, and wise investment strategies.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

All One And Alone

my voiceworld
will be my helmet
my protection
in sullen places
a dog makes his way
simply dissolves
a lonely pony
like a leader of granite men
I wantonly scramble
through infusions of tea
bearing ritual objects
through fire
down chameleon-eyed walls
with weird friends
I get out of the shower
with weird friends
down chameleon-eyed walls
through fire
bearing ritual objects
through infusions of tea
I wantonly scramble
like a leader of granite men
a lonely pony
simply dissolves
a dog makes his way
in sullen places
my protection
will be my helmet
my voiceworld

Exploding Heads

Men used to be able to make their heads explode. Some could do it by staring at the sun for a long time. Some could do it by snorting a few grains of rice up into one of their nostrils. Still others could do it just by watching another man’s head explode. Most of the men who used to be able to do it aren’t around anymore to teach the upcoming generations. If they were here, would they share their art with others, or would keeping it a secret be a matter of pride?

In a room, an oiled and shiny head spins on the end of a stick. Swiftly back and forth, the eyes maintain a crucial rhythm. Sounds are shut out, the mouth is opened wide but remains silent. Eager young men file into the room, laying their cash on the floor and trying to catch diamond engagement rings that fly from the spinning head’s ears, one to a customer. As each man exits the room, his head explodes.

Three skilled pilots flying three separate airplanes crash-land in the same mountain range. After wandering for a while, they happen upon each other. One has water, one has food, one has matches. They build a rainproof hut out of leafy green branches and diligently tend to a large signal fire. One day they see a plane flying overhead. They shout wildly and wave their arms at it. They watch it crash into a nearby mountain. Before the plane explodes, their heads explode.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

An Inuit Song

And I thought over again
My small adventures
As with a shore-wind I drifted out
In my kayak
And thought I was in danger,

My fears,
Those small ones
That Ithought so big
For all the vital things
I had to get and to reach.

And yet, there is only
One great thing,
The only thing;
To live to see in huts and on journeys
The great day that dawns,
And the light that fills the world.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Monday, April 23, 2007

So Many Damned War Pigs

For Your Listening Rage:

The Black Sabbath Version

The Cake Version

The Doormouse Version

The Freakwater Version

The Hayseed Dixie Version

The Government Mule Version

Back in college,

In 1991
when the Gulf War
had just started
it was close to exam time for me &
I remember
I had this sociology final
& the class
was dead boring

I could barely drag my ass into the room

where the professor would drone away
all the football goons staring at our T.A.
a tall blond grad student I was afraid to talk to
but I used to go to class anyway
’cause there was this gorgeous and feisty girl
I was dating who was MAJORING in sociology
& she was the only thing that kept me there

I couldn’t study a bit

not even when the final came
I stayed up for two (maybe three) nights in a row
thinking about I dunno what
staring into space thinking


here’s spoiled notstudying me in college
& guys my age are gonna go DIE
in the desert & I’m gonna sit here
mooning myself & messing around with women


& when I had to take the final
on 2 days with no sleep
I fell asleep during the test
& dreamed I was in tan fatigues
a soldier in the Gulf
so I finished my stupid multiple choice test
took a bus downtown to the

Marine Recruiting Office

& asked to speak with a hangdog-jowled officer
who sat me down & said

“The Marines will teach you about life
and how to be a man
and take care of yourself!”

& I, in my frenzy
of insomniac lucidity
asked a billion questions
about every detail


what do you do eat
what do you do talk about with the other MEN
when the shooting and bombing is over for the day
& what is the pay like
& other stuff

after a while

the guy looked at me
sadfaced, beaten
(& beaten) said


in the end,
The Marines is just like any other 9 to 5 job...”

but I finished the thought
in my head with

“except you have to kill
and maybe get killed.”

So I shook hands & walked out as 2 young kids
in heavy metal T-shirts were standing in front of another grayfaced
officer taking the Marine Oath

and I went back to college
to sleep.

Letter From An Angry Soldier

From the best of Craigslist, a letter from an angry soldier.

We Will Have Our Little Lives

May it be delightful my house,
From my head may it be delightful,
To my feet may it be delightful,
Where I lie may it be delightful,
All above me may it be delightful,
All around me may it be delightful.
--Navajo Chant

I wish you delight. When you wake up, when you sleep. When I am there or not there. Yes, we will live our little lives. I've got potatoes in the oven and a steak defrosting on the counter. You have your beer and chat in your little piso Boliviano. I watch TV on my computer, after the day of writing and teaching is done. You watch it in a room I can’t imagine, though I try...stocking it with random Germans whose faces and voices I do not know. We live our little lives. With clear eyes and full hearts, we can’t lose. Almost four full moons between us now. I’ve had one haircut and I’ll have another. I’ll grow a beard between now and when I see you again. And I feel so small and big in the in-between. In between seeing you. In between poems. In between the sound of your voice and the sound of your voice. And we each have our day’s little insanities. The company projects that you dropped down into from another continent and made your own. My lecture on Godzilla, his death and disintegration. Yeah, we live our little lives. Drink from the Lethe each night and begin again each day. Each morning I wake up without you, here in my little life. I told you to name your apartment. Though I have yet to name mine. I will name it in this poem. Right now it feels like it wants to be called the apartment that misses you. Are we a team? Do you know what it’s like to be a team? No, this is not the poem to talk about teams. That’s for a time when we have more than hope and waiting. We do our lines and have our days. With clear eyes and full hearts. And I feel a little empty inside, it’s an emptiness that fills me. I take it like a pill when I wake up and remember; it gets me through the day, this little empty feeling. And you are young. And I am young, too, in my way. And we don’t know yet just how we will love each other. Will we take our little lives and make them one big life? That’s what I’m calling this place, “The little apartment of big life.” It wants to hold you, with every arm I have. It wants to see what we can make together.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

All My Pain I Ask How

Light gets in the way. Whatever me there is,
feels sensation, senses feeling.
Out at the edges, emptiness, gog and m’god...
Somewhere, the dark,,,

I love the dark.

The obscure side of love:
I run at it like voodoo.
People ride in cars,
my world is only dust.
An undead dog, eating the cities,
trying not to hate so much. Pain of sex.
togetherness a glimpse of the good life?
Chance to see what cleanliness might be? Not me.

A trapped rat, tooth and wings of hardship.
all the masses
colliding with earth
and magic death of earth.

Before the dirt I would do one right thing.

Human, human, human.
I seek the human.
God am I human.


Beings unravel.

I see messiah hordes
rubbing their eyes.


Should we tie ourselves to...

the people...

we love...


no more otherness...please...

Saturday, April 21, 2007

In Stumbleville, A Pack Of Worldlings

A pack of infantile worldings runs across visionary lobster traps. Crucifying nothing, incandescence leaves their fingers. Feet barely touch. A bound fool runs behind, blunders a candle, goes out with ritual gesture.

Facts keep everyone’s heads cool when dead folks crowd the mayor’s house. Leaders emerge from the breakfast nook, colossal haircuts in waves of comic shots. Downtown is full of honchos.

Before elections, municipal leaders switched with men in the service industry. Now old janitors drink all day soda-pop, digging for clams at the mud flats.

A quick dog runs up and down every aspect of local life.

Men are steamrolled by area rug saleswomen. Your floors are too slippery, they say. Do you want your poor child, or worse, your poor wife, to break her delicate bones? A tramp, convinced he is king, keeps an eye on himself.

From the pudding factory comes the sound of loudly whirring blades. Not as sharp as we could hope, but some consolation after the abuse the town received in the radio exposé.

We feel alone in this world.

At the pub, an insect wing descends from the boring ceiling, cheered on by beer mugs. A poster of Yip Man, Bruce Lee’s teacher, hangs on the wall outside the high school. Students must bow low before entering. The county is endothermic.

Villagers could something if they weren’t at a loss. They’ve documented this shamanistic hodge-podge before, but it’s penned in the attic at the old movie house.

It Was Okay.

Your madness was something we couldn’t get around.
In the end, it was all light,
plus a few simmering stars and roadmaps.

Close To The Way The Freaks Lie Down

Moving generals of a minister land
Mild ponds cramp most fully with ore
Humble suits skin warbled skin
Most wasn’t waste
Moments for finding strain
What nights could break under slalom grooves
Earned sure to be away
Flight of mangled trains
Cover who’s to be
Verbs made vines grow
Nothing else for that

Friday, April 20, 2007

Advance To Primal

Me at 10 or 12,
forest roaming,
treehouse building,
salamanders, big beetles.

13 & 14, science fiction,
slingshots, BB guns, all sorts of targets:
cans, bottles, squirrels,
sadly, birds.

One day some moment
moved thoughts
to thinking
and made girls happen.

15, serious for girls,
to have them
and have them
have me.

Front seat of 1st girl’s car,
dashboard light so green,
clock going aroundaround,
my house across the street alldark...

Every minute a hundred-
year eyeblink and long.
Leaning over lost
in swimming head,

Someone I love?
Leaves on trees. Wind.
Planes in air. Water. My face. Death—

in moment before kiss,
I escape,
fleeing to girl...

And lips touch, conceive
the perfect firebrand
I sought, would seek
again and forever.

Godzilla, 1956


Young Kafka, A Dalai Lama

A painting done in 1995 by Mexican painter Arturo Elizondo (b. 1956). It is now housed in the Museum of Modern Art, New York.
So I just watched this movie with Christopher Walken in it called Seven Psychopaths. It's not a great movie. It's not even a very good movie. But it's not terrible either. I'd say it's a notch or two above mediocre. And I'm watching this movie and there are several scenes that are good-not-great. And while I'm watching them, I'm kind of puzzled and scratching my head and thinking to myself: "This is a decent scene. But I BET if you had a crack at the screenplay before production started, you could have turned this scene into something really tremendous. Something that people would quote to each other late at night, while drunk." And then after the movie is over I listen to an old Led Zeppelin song, from a concert they did. It's "Going to California." Anyway, while I'm listening to it, again, I think of you, and I think about how some of my blood and a bunch of my words are, in fact, "going to California," to greet you...be with you. And THEN, for some strange-ass reason, I think of this painting that I love, that's hanging in the New York MOMA, called "Young Kafka, A Dalai Lama." And I'm imagining the picture, and looking at the picture, and imagining the picture... And then I'm imagining the two of us standing in front of the picture in the New York MOMA, and we're holding hands, and looking at the painting very intently, and very quietly. And all these people are walking by us, looking at the painting briefly, and then walking on. And time kind of slows down for us, and, in the same way that there seem to be either flower petals or large snowflakes hanging in the air in the painting, while young Kafka stands on the surface of a lake, so also are we suddenly aware that the motes of dust in the air around us, and the passersby, and their swishing scarves, are all frozen still in the air. And yet somehow we can turn our heads to look at each other, even in the midst of frozen time. And we are aware that the ground we stand on has properties very much like liquid, or even air. And it's only because we are there together, wondering about the crack of the universe, and stillness, and the yearning to express the depths of time and loneliness, that are all evoked by the painting, that we are not sinking through the floor into the stone, like sinking into liquid.

Puccini; I Ching

Both navigational rowboats.
Stealthily, an ice storm,
Javanese beam.
And who then?
Daggers of Empire.
Riddlin’ for your choir.
Sponges for tugging.
Mudpies on sunset bridges.
Wriggle away, paste to be made.
A rock good garden diffuses day.
The walking lathe walked in,
Fornicated under auspices.
Look all you want: the 3x cubed showtune.
Frozen lake upstream steaming.
Difficulty overmuch. Tusk tusk.
Chariot cars strode silver.
Calculations; festooned gibbons.
L’chaim inscription.
Needed: one line about needing,
Read by a veiny forehead man:
Stand with your legs apart, Boyscout;
Remember your training;
Stop dressing sissy.
(Shackwater Heyoka,
Tacky, too.)
Heroics unrecycled,
Five feet under.
Vacuum Wednesday,
Or do it today.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

A Letter From James Joyce To His Wife Nora

If this letter entertains or enlightens, there are several more HERE.


Dublin 16 December 1909

My sweet darling girl At last you write to me! You must have given that naughty little cunt of yours a most ferocious frigging to write me such a disjointed letter. As for me, darling, I am so played out that you would have to lick me for a good hour before I could get a horn stiff enough even to put into you, to say nothing of blocking you. I have done so much and so often that I am afraid to look to see how that thing I had is after all I have done to myself. Darling, please don't fuck me too much when I go back. Fuck all you can out of me for the first night or so but make me get myself cured. The fucking must all be done by you, darling as I am so small and soft now that no girl in Europe except yourself would waste her time trying the job. Fuck me, darling, in as many new ways as your lust will suggest. Fuck me dressed in your full outdoor costume with your hat and veil on, your face flushed with the cold and wind and rain and your boots muddy, either straddling across my legs when I am sitting in a chair and riding me up and down with the frills of your drawers showing and my cock sticking up stiff in your cunt or riding me over the back of the sofa. Fuck me naked with your hat and stockings on only flat on the floor with a crimson flower in your hole behind, riding me like a man with your thighs between mine and your rump very fat. Fuck me in your dressing gown (I hope you have that nice one) with nothing on under it, opening it suddenly and showing me your belly and thighs and back an pulling me on top of you on the kitchen table. Fuck me into you arseways, lying on your face on the bed, with your hair flying loose naked but with a lovely scented pair of pink drawers opened shamelessly behind and half sleeping down over your peeping bum. Fuck me on the stairs in the dark, like a nursery-maid fucking her soldier, unbuttoning his trousers gently and slipping her hand in his fly and fiddling with his shirt and feeling it getting wet and then pulling it gently up and fiddling with his two bursting balls and at last pulling out boldly the mickey she loves to handle and frigging it for him softly, murmuring into his ear dirty words and dirty stories that other girls told her and dirty things she said, and all the time pissing her drawers with pleasure and letting off soft warm quiet little farts behind until her own girlish cockey is as stiff as his and suddenly sticking him up in her and riding him.

Basta! Basta per Dio!

I have come now and the foolery is over. Now for your questions!


Get ready. Put some warm-brown-linoleum on the kitchen and hang a pair of red common curtains on the windows at night. Get some kind of a cheap common comfortable armchair for your lazy lover. Do this above all, darling, as I shall not quit that kitchen for a whole week after I arrive, reading, lolling, smoking, and watching you get ready the meals and talking, talking, talking, talking to you. O how supremely happy I shall be! God in heaven, I shall be happy there! I figlioli, il fuoco, una buona mangiata, un caffè nero, un Brasil (cigar), il Piccolo della Sera, e Nora, Nora mia, Norina, Noretta, Noruccia ecc ecc...

Eva and Eileen must sleep together. Get some place for Georgie. I wish Nora and I had two beds for night-work. I am keeping and shall keep my promise, love. Time fly on quickly! I want to go back to my love, my life, my star, my little strange-eyed Ireland!

A hundred thousand kisses, darling!


Separation, by Hafiz

by Khwajeh Shams al-Din Muhammad Hafiz-e Shirazi, translated by Paul Smith

May none be shattered like me by the woes of separation;
My life has passed by wasted by the throes of separation.

Exited stranger, lover, heartsick beggar, mind bewildered;
I've shouldered brunt of Fortune and blows of separation.

If ever separation should fall into my hand I will kill it;
With tears, in blood, I will pay all the dues of separation.

Where to go, what to do, who to tell my heart's state to?
Who gives justice, who pays out, for those of separation?

From the pain of separation not a moment's peace is mine;
For the sake of God, be just, give the dues of separation.

By separation from Your Presence I'll make separation sick,
Until the heart's blood flows from the eyes of separation.

From where am I and from where are separation and grief?
Seems my mother bore me for grief that grows of separation.

Therefore, at day and at night, branded by love, like Hafiz,
With nightingales of dawn, I cry songs, woes of separation.

Monday, April 16, 2007


where go and where come
oh mind of mind
you tick me so knot
i is rolling
over i goes
is busted up
heartarm cranked back
too far
too far

To A Headless Dead Snake:

Missing your head, oozing your goop into the road, where are you now? What does your new body feel like? Where is your head? Can I touch it? What is your life? Are you practiced in certain lost arts, unnamed since Malebolgia was formed? You missed the grass by just a few feet, you unlucky viper. Then it got ya, the car, or the shovel, or whatever. Now half of you is flat, and covered with a shiny film. They say it's myth that snakes are slimy. But in headless death, it's true.


What is the mind then?
Just an emptiness that moves
Somewhere in the brain?

Rumor Confirmed: Five Immortal Cicadas Control The World.

We cannot know this, but it feels correct. Being terribly small, smaller than gnomes, we seriously consider erasing ourselves. Delirious cucumber harvesters fall, exhausted, into oblong nightmares. Demons rise from the soil, spraying our fears with a viscous, salty fluid. This fluid is the breath of life. Plants long dead come alive and draw themselves up out of a steaming broth. A cracked plate throws itself through a restaurant window. The family afraid to deny the convict in the bathroom is bound for disaster.

Even So Sad Gets My Moon Lady Breathing

You get yourself inside me and I'll show you what it takes to be. In this our final stand, hunkered copse of trees with washing-clean the mind bombs going all around, I want to tell you that I love and that now I owe you none. Didn't fantasies blow down from felling clouds of mist? Didn't second breaths reign for several seconds more? In this maelstrom, who will gather up my fingers and wait for boats that spring from far blown port? Sleeping on straw, faces drown in morning, stick in walls and mirrors, show the bottom of a world. Twilight checks our moorings. There come ways to get collected. Deep in night and time nerves let go when flow subsides. Deliberate the middle of the rite. Interrupt our inching selves to rant or wash the ceiling. It's exciting to be dead the way I am. More still to know that death is something more. Hungry ghosts write. Horizon and rubble. Brother wrecked if never my faith is clean. My moon lady can't come over for the mind bombs weary when I ache.

One Of My Favorite Scenes from HBO's "The Wire"

In which detectives Bunk and McNulty re-enact a murder in a woman's apartment, communicating almost exclusively using the word "fuck." Best show on TV?

Sunday, April 15, 2007

#3 Mad Lipramble

avec Mark Follman and Jeanna Steele

Despite flies and the surfaces of flies,
and the eyes of brother-seeking eyes,
all trance-inducing trances
anger emerald doorjambs.

Lonely phosphorescent strumpets
croon songs of punkness,
pink tangelos careen up the Empire
State building.

Improper leers spring from deep jungle
stupas laced with charcoal,
burning in the cold night air.

A lonely puppy staggers three-footed
over ram horns and rubble,
dining on cow dung and other dainties,
effigies of Thor swing mightily
in the wind.

'Tis a high pleasure to be in the midst of all this
congestion, what with all the fireflies
crowded in our backpacks.

Damnation is, essentially, a thing of the past,
relegated to the likes of parachute pants
and the moonwalk.

We are the grand game,
mischievously cramming toothpicks in our mouths,
running windsprints down grassy knolls,
impersonating the mutts of Bora Bora;
8,000 Great Walls pound away at our earlobes.

Nothing Doesn't Sting

But it doesn't feel good, either.
It's more like a story than a person.
If you've traveled,
You may have felt a difference in your happinesses,
In a basement coolness.
Nothing plays a part in those transformations.
When you go from day to night there’s bound to be some suffering.
People talk about love songs and dislocation.
But the floor still pounds against feet,
Delivering not one answer.
A hair will singe when held against a match
That’s just gone out.
If you can get inside of that,
You might catch a glimpse of Nothing.
Lights and music.
Bums, mannequins, and cigarettes.
Who wouldn't clap for Nothing?
From ear to ear, from person to person,
Nothing treks like a stranger through every town.

I woke up with a gnome in my apartment.

He was frittering around in my kitchen, jangling pots and pans and pissing off my pet bird. I usually consider it wise to leave a gnome alone, but this little bastard was making so much noise that I picked up my heavy desk lamp and...O, let’s come off it! Does anyone feel like weeping? What do we care if the gnome had both his legs broken by my lamp or if he barely managed to crawl through the slats of the heating vent? We have to use hard facts and experience results. Some cicadas spend seventeen years gestating in the dirt. One day the maddening dark forces them to emerge. Try and refute that. Because of biological processes and weather conditions, cicadas come out and die after a few weeks of singing and mating. Right now, using phrases like "breath of life" really gets us off track. Five hundred people control half the world’s wealth. Cyanide smells like almonds. I am a survivor. I had to cover myself in filth, but I’ve avoided detection.

Friday, April 13, 2007

Tournament Of Nakedness

a collaborative poem with Alicia Marie Howard

On tops of buildings,
our beautiful stones of teeth
between cold scrambled walls

after sullen rain,
muses in their spin,
in endless engines of light,

one loneliness roves.
One of loneliness roves.
A smile needs to tell

the story of the body
even a hand
cannot commit to its fever, but still

can have its way:
the timing is right.
The laws are see-through and

all movement is a ride
on top of head, on palm tree
down the night.

The slide of death
through trick skulls.
We fall into the arms of great sweetness—

Nobody alone.
No body

Not Just Nipples


Tom Waits puts a fish in his pants whilst fishing with John Lurie.

Thursday, April 12, 2007


Saturday, April 07, 2007

Not Going To Dinner With The Poets, Coming Home And Writing Instead

The woman up at the front of the room was giving me diamonds, I swear I could taste them like drops of white lemon in my mouth. Dinner! Everyone said “Dinner! Let’s all go out for Dinner!” And I thought, “Huh, Dinner, I like it, like Dinner, as much as the next mouth.” But there was no way I could not go home to write after that. There were 'possums on the roadway in my head and I imagined squirrels and songs I could write. I wished for to be something other than I am for a long time, long and long, waiting for the way the eaves open upward and windows everywhere, nothing not-alive and nothing to be ashamed of and just me and opening up my worldhead, the mother up in front of the room, reading poems about her son the Pisces and I am a Pisces and I was her son for a moment, though she might have been even younger than me, but she was all mother love in the world and I felt good about it, remembered reading and getting kissed on the forehead and the cheek, wishing to be alive forever in that love, and also remembered breaking up hard with a woman I loved like a mother and even called her that accidentally a few times...But it was no accident, I was looking for a mother, for someone’s sustenance, direction, piles of warm and wonder to hold me in my lonely post-traumatic, even-now-traumatic life, and found myself lost when we broke, when she left for another fellow, another bloke, who needed no nurturing the way I needed. So she said goodbye I’m kissing another guy, starting a life with another gent, and I dropped the phone, put on my running shoes and ran out into the rain, went running in the cold winter rain for hours, didn’t care about ninjistic ice brain that kept forming and re-forming, didn’t care about lungburn, legs getting wobbly and wanting to cry. (But I ask you, how the hell do you let your fuckin' legs cry when they need to? You just freaking can’t.) And I came home from that run and was alive to the moment of insane cinderblocks packed into my chest (a wonder of hurt), a bullet traveling slowly through me, barbed and empty, made of desire, bursting out my back, leaving a great canyon behind. And I sat down simply on the floor to get contact with basic breath, kernel of non-pain. No good, no good, no good, still sad me in realm of thought, expiring alone, alone in the world, lonely forever. Sitting for hours, untalking. And then my mom, my heavenly Ma, small-framed and thin, Laurie, with love stronger than thought, drove over, walked in my room, knelt down, my Mother Saint of Grace, held me in her long little arms while I followed my breath. Me crying, shoulders shaking in her hands. She simply held me, protected, man in her arms. Now, thinking back on that moment, full decade ago, more dreamlike than anything else, I remember dimly the pain, but remember the love like fire, live fire all around me, strong hearth emanations coming up from generations of blood and mothers. And tonight, as I write this, the desert is outside, alive. And as that poet read to me from her poems, another saintly woman, I could tell, I simply knew, I could feel my heart go slippy and make contact with inner world of motherlove again again again. Good, and I was drinking Coke. It was good, it was sweet, it had a mystic tinge, nothing about me felt wounded, nothing was behind me, sinister or full of fear, I was aware of the wicker basket at the back of the room, aware of the painting on the wall to the left, with an athlete, face fixed in severe gaze of striving and yearning. A feeling of mercy filled the room, a feeling of holy mixing with whatever hells the listeners were in and it was okay, no plague of desire, no writhing frustration, even though poems of longing and poems that hinted at the way the world could be if we could lead with our hands instead of our balled fists. Nobody was sad, nobody’s body rebelled against her, the future there was promise and the air was easy to breathe. I could feel my legs talking to the hair on my legs. They were happy together. Which was strange, since they never had a conflict or a problem before. But tonight they were appreciative of their relations. O, I suppose there was some yearning, some sense that people everywhere had tears and busted up lives to keep living out. But up there was a mother, Hoa Nguyen, pouring out her mere everything for us, and she knew and we knew and even in the midst of a city (collection of lost souls living close to feel like the fire’s not far) we were connected, we felt, or at least I felt, like I inhabited a connected body. Body of work and body of light. Body of feeling. And if I were to die today (I almost died last night—ah, Christ, I’m always almost dying, so much so that to hell with the whole concept. Who needs it? Who needs it? Not me, no death. Like Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, famous death guru, says, after you spend enough time next to the dying, you know. Know it’s all bunk, all mirror-myth. No Death. No End. Reepicheep knows it, has gone beyond fear. Just moving onward. Who knows where? No worries, just a way, una selva oscura, a path into the woods, no trubba, trubba not, zanting in the minced moonlight, all eyes peering out from some teary cold head-world, and even though I almost went under a car last night, tonight I am willing, open up my arms. Right now, no shit. As I write this, no joke. I’m really doing it, really opening my arms, it’s good. No helmet on as I write this, no need, even though the night is full of things, full of ways to respire my last. I hope the next time I die I’ll die with wide open inner eyes, unworrying, inward-smiling, poems reeling forth quietly from my ears...Poem of the quiet night beyond whatever nutty way my body rings the gong.) it’d be okay. And I promise to write letters to the people of the world, this language we have, this love, this expression of the lost world that lies within us, we make it and frame it in such wacked-out ways. (Hey, that’s good. That’s okay.) And I’m no longer fearful of that part of myself that seeks something motherly in a mate, soft hands and compassion, it’s cool. But what of the dance, the extra-dance that utters softly in the night? That is not mother/son. Something else entirely, hey? Yes, though it’s soft it has a different kind of heart, a feeling of making close connections, good for everyone’s inner self, good for the body, good for the connection force, good for principalities of pleasure and the bright soft living inside illumination of holy connection between bodies, lover and lover, ah, you sense its quiet raucous power, ‘tis good, ‘tis mighty good. Green things grow green because of that pushing. Bodies? Hell, bodies are just containers. Something to hold our feelings for us. Something for letting them go, too.

Friday, April 06, 2007

KungFu vs. Yoga

Okay, friends, if you haven't seen this before, then you have never seen ANYTHING like it. Holy Smokes! KungFu vs. Yoga. No matter who wins, your sense of what's possible loses!

One Take New York

In his 1921 review of Poesies, by Jean Cocteau, Ezra Pound writes: "The life of a village is narrative; you have not been there three weeks before you know that in the revolution et cetera, and when M le Comte et cetera, and so forth. In a city the visual impressions succeed each other, overlap, overcross, they are “cinematographic,” but they are not a simple linear sequence. They are often a flood of nouns without verbal relations."

One Take New York, the hatchling filmmaking crew, understands this, and, as visual poets themselves, are doing something wonderful.

Visit them at www.onetakenewyork.com and watch one of their first films right here:

The Last Chase

Track Midnight

Track the midnight changes, all powder burning tea, et cetera. My head, my hand, every day a distance. Cringing floor, tourniquet-essence extracted from this gone globe...I’m living off dust of broken civilizations. I go to bed, get up, again/again, bed a place of Random Image Hunger. All claims to the contrary, all walls up around me, mockumentaries for my making...in making I am made something less than whole, something more than the null set. And if I go running (or thinking of her running) via cities, thinking of mirrored selves, endlessly expressing, I can go precisely where? Tension in the gone world. Ten tons in the gone whorl. Then run in a gun whirl. Wing Chun and a fun gurl. Feel something? I ask myself and detect a wishing spot, as of a new organ growing inside me.

I Vote

that we spontaneously make Beth Orton the President of the United States of America.

Few Are Chosen...

Put away all the mystical shit and just get into this. Open up with it, you rebel soul, you delinquent messianic anti-hero.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Ah, Plavalaguna!

The "mad scene" aria "Il dolce suono" from the 3rd Act of the opera "Lucia di Lammermoor," by Gaetano Donizetti (Italian libretto by Salvatore Cammarano after Sir Walter Scott's historical novel The Bride of Lammermoor) as featured in the film The Fifth Element in a performance by the alien diva, Plavalaguna (voiced by Albanian soprano Inva Mula-Tchako and played onscreen by French actress Maïwenn Le Besco). You'll also see Milla Jovovich go into radical, alien-smashing, Bruce Lee mode.

Mouse And J Story, With The Inherency 0

What it does to be quicker possible me it is necessary! The DJ and person present time morning demanded in the method map book which takes out the method mouse which dies in the San Francisco of the house of the silver mine. Short history age... The thing and from here in the house my woman demanded yet in you, (that I in goopy, inside distance where walking these people does not put I, increase it gives charge of a hazard heart but). To our mouse you 2 divination sign grudge where operation area is necessary - the cube which the root it writes (operation area duration of visit of weekend of mine) butter which is identical ground discovers in poisonous peanut which will stagger the small adoptee that is, guaranteed, it decides my spouse and a standstill room living there to be a money expense which is experienced. It grips and to empty support of the fireman engineer the license the J person explains dined again in the hazard house which it will cut. After the sourish mine my woman dies and hazard house them embolism poison, the question of the attention mouse and the mouse and two possibilities to be complete goes, it leaves there! Truly was contracted assuredly it grips! Denouement? The e feels it gets married in the ground of the tecto. The mouse it will snap off! The urination talked the mine woman with medical service. The general who is insufficient inside brevity in this method J combination expensively looks away, and the day when it is insufficient to be expensive in disco method and expense is complete discovery inside the specialist. The subject is only the indemnity bonanza which is, when compared does not relate to me must threaten, 0 packs of 5 through the disk mornings my accumulation, my woman, and it fires. Him that 5 flesh is, when this it controls connecting, canceling and packs through the disks at day, immediately its inherency being special inside the kingdom demands recording depository institutional of 0 the voices and tie will go to it!

Best Of Craigslist

Holy Crap!

Do you want to read some hilarious and totally wacked out stuff that people (just like you) are doing/selling/dating/buying?

If so, just click!

Wednesday, April 04, 2007


God, do I love cake?! HELL YES I love cake, God!

One Thing Inspires Another

One idea about one thing inspires another idea about another thing in a non-sequential manner. I can tell the listener about a record cover... thus you can find a useful channel for just about anything. If it’s good, one thing inspires another. One thing inspires another and that inspires something else. So I’m hoping to actually get out there and do some photography. This way the interaction between lyrics and music is the best possible, because one thing inspires another. One thing inspires another, in fact the dream or the nightmare never ends...Saying one thing inspires another thing is not the same as saying one thing equals the other thing. So it's pretty obvious that there are similarities between riffs and that one thing inspires another. It was a throw away comment really, but one thing inspires another - and isn't it nice to know that people are reading our collective inane ramblings? Isn't it funny how one thing inspires another....You bring that out so poetically but discernable too. Hence the so on, and so on in the title -- one thing inspires another, and in turn another and so on and so on... Live without regret, because one thing inspires another! Inspiration comes from everywhere and it's circular...one thing inspires another which inspires yet another which influences the first, etc. Japanese filmmaking has had a major influence, but so have Italian and British and French and German...and even American filmmakers. Do you find that one thing inspires another? Creativity doesn't exist in a vacuum, one thing inspires another and it keeps going. It was a throw away comment really, but one thing inspires another - and isn't it ...

nothing haiku

haiku for nothing,
and nothing for this haiku--
haiku ain't nothing.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007


All morning/Toda la mañana

Early tragic morning
Nothing stands out like ruddy eyes
Told trees a quick dyed face
Fresh oranges for the crows
Ten days a space of road
Cars driven by dogs
No one alone
Everyone playing
Pills for waking
Pills for dying
Dust hand tooth wide
Hug tons of selves
Early early morning
Restrict everything not freedom


Mañana temprano trágica
Nada se destaca como ojos rubicundos
Árboles dichos una cara teñida rápida
Naranjas frescas para los cuervos
Diez días un espacio de camino
Coches conducidos por perros
Nadie solo
Cada uno jugando
Píldoras para despertar
Píldoras para morir
Diente de mano de polvo amplio
Abrace toneladas de identidades
Temprano temprano en mañana
Restrinjas todo no libertad

Just Let Go

And Let Jimi

Mark Leyner Interview

Mark Leyner is the author of the wild novel, My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist. Part cyberpunk, part automatic Dadaist explosion, part pomo stuffpile, there's never a dull moment. He's also written The Tetherballs of Bougainville, I Smell Esther Williams, and several other novels. They all have a crazed intensity to them, tossing language against the wall and cracking its skull. If it's sheer ribald panting you seek, the first chapter of My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist, "i was an infinitely hot and dense dot," will get you there. This link will take you to it, then you can "look inside the book" to read the first chapter.

Here's a good, early interview with Leyner. It should give y'all some good idears.

And here's a later interview, where you'll sense a deeper maturity, but the crazziness is still there.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

For Rain's Lee

I am up late.
This night
cannot sleep.
And I wish for rain
and to be with you;
it’s a kind of rain.
To wish for you
is to wish for rain.
And sudden things
and higher things
and all shelter
is rain.
I open my window
and listen for you.

Hear this poem.

Get Some Knowledge


Absorbed In The Park Of Joan Miró

One can see
Bird ladies landing coarsely over sand.
Puzzled worms extend
From the tips of their bayonets.
Each small worm carries an umbrella.
Each a tiny candy, dancing without music or sound.
The swiveling night, rudely angular,
Is a frieze of tangled lines,
Twisted into trees,
Gnawing at the earth.
The soil of our great planet is falling,
Cries fade into sepia daydreams.
Tears illuminate the night.

Night, Becoming Aware Of Itself


Sweet and without clouds—
From crinkled star corners, a sense of place.


The floor remembers the feet.
Memories pose in dusty rooms.
At the hour of darkness,
They identify with candles.


Insect silence.
Outlines of trees.
Near the river, a ceremony.
Wind scattering.


Doors lead to hushed streams
Under veering stars,
Mud wends over stones.
Only the leaves make sounds.


Not cold, not breathing.
Alone in black grass,
The waiting water.

Friday, March 23, 2007

A Recent Missive From Jamey

The following is a message I received back in November from my great pal, Jamey:

Just an hour ago, as I walked into my back yard to
throw cantaloupe scraps into the compost pile, I came
upon a small square of paper bearing a neatly written
note. It must have blown over the fence with the
maple leaves in last night’'s wind. By the way, I’m
not making this up.

At the end of my block is Walter Reed Army Medical
Center, which includes a best-of-class amputee center
and major medical facility. Many of the injured
soldiers from the current war wind up there. Just two
doors down from our house is a barracks for outpatient
soldiers who have mostly healed physically. I’'ve met
people staying there who, miraculously, though with
grave injuries, survived instances in which their
friends and fellows beside them were lost.

Of course, I can’t say for sure where the note came
from. And you can make your own sense of what it says.

For me, it is a reminder that there are people
suffering right now and struggling to make sense of
things – not only out there in the world somewhere,
but right next door. Though I'’m loathe to insert a
political tilt to this story, it is hard not to
remember what Ronald Reagan said in his 1980
presidential campaign: “Before you vote, ask yourself,
‘Am I better off today than I was 4 years ago?’”

And how about your neighbor? Here'’s the note, copied
as written:
Wed Sept. 27, 2006 131pm
* Be Honorable, never lie to hurt someone, and only
under circumstances do you do so to protect feelings
* respect wishes of other
* Do not cheat myself
* Be more Discipline
* Seek Vast knowledge and wisdom
* accept the way of this world as is
* honor and remember those you knew know and love

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Shall We Dance

Shall we dance? Shall Yul Brynner approach your town and sling his Winchester Model 94 over his shoulder and laugh a strongman’s laugh and erupt into gunfire and cat-calling while his hands rub against each other with precision? He always said that: “With precision.” And then he’d grin and shoot a cow in effigy. On his estate we used to watch him make papier mache animals for days, adjusting the horns of the water buffaloes to look startlingly authentic in the hot midday Texas sun. Then we would gather at the bay window

and watch him shoot those paper animal effigies to smithereens while he laughed and laughed

until he fell down, watching bits and shreds of animal paper falling away into the wind, swept along into the fields where real animals grazed. Goats. Yul always had goats so that he had something to eat up the paper that he would shoot all over his fields. It sort of made sense to all of us. All of us except Young Jesus, who never showed up. I can’t say where he was at those times. Perhaps moseying around the village square, bumping into people, saying, “Excuse me, if my mother is looking for me, would you please tell her that I’m in my father’s house?” But of course most of the people he bumped into were little children being led by their mothers and they would usually pull the children away and look back nervously at Young Jesus, wondering what kind of child would have such bloodshot eyes and why on earth he would be wearing a weird loincloth with tahini stains on the seat.

We Long For Regular Stuff

And it seems, but only seems, to come up out of doors and floors and in brine we fit ourselves with homing devices, shifting from one slippery foot to another, waiting to be taken away by pages and squires, also known as sharks.

The knights are cold, and called Ocean. Shimmying down into cranky cold bottom, sand whispers things like: Better not wait, I should be your priority, make me top of things to do. We wash our hands in the sea, which takes no time, since this is the long slow process of legally drowning.

Our airplane beeps down there, under my pants and the fishes under my pants. Floes of mentation imitate dollops of a hungry city. Idea-dirigibles swim around, but wait, no island. We wait. My comrades are here, just thoughts like a dozen or so effigies, dissolving.

Cranky thought of land runs up my leg and makes me laugh too hard. I survive once more and again. Even the sun has waited to hear something to give hope to the fishes.

This is a knot, a story of retribution, a scenario of the way I closed my eyes and felt around under a buoyant continent and came up shorthanded. Near to me is the fellow who marked me for dead, and he’s dead.

They find me departed and I find them the same. The captain of castaways said dine and we dined, although there was simply nothing.

Watching The Kid Make A Fool Of Himself Was Liberating, In A Way

There was nothing to do in the room, no food or drink. That strange face, pale with eyes too close together, hung in the window next to the sink. It swung slowly while the kid fumbled with his zipper.

To The Geckoes

You are the squadrons of youth. You, of the mighty darting limbs and the bug-bellied singing, I root for you. A country without you is a country without a president. You hunt even with your eyes. What foolish ambassador would fail to recognize your greatness? I once heard that the people of Mauritius sent a case of you to the planet Neptune and you took the place over.

Sexiest Knife In The Drawer

The bright dark shines in the dark,
a silent knoll tolls,
mellow witches pass the doobie.

The earth a lot of dirt,
most folks dig kids,
obvious heavy parrot tocks.

The weight on a scale of one to ten
harrows the labyrinths of hell,
looking for the Brontë sisters.

Landscape With Lorca

By mistake the evening
had dressed in cold.

And we ran as we glanced through sheets of rain, stumbled over brooks and wolf sounds. Walls around us filled with water, held us in with frogs and scared fauns. Streets bent and sank into city brine.

Through the mist on the panes
all the children
watch a yellow tree
change into birds.

Names exchange as stars beneath time burn day to cinders. Eyes blow on candles, sing their inceptions. Petals, out of space, split into here and not here.

Evening is stretched out
all down the river.
And the flush of an apple
shivers over tile roofs.

Bodies of birds swim in gardens, pebbles quivering under grass. Leaping with all their fishes, ponds leave holes in the past. Moments share swiftness with drifting blossoms.

In Perp

Braying of dove,
crumble of horse,
open bursting book
to knife the line:
Systems are a hell
of a thing
apart from stingrays.

Whiplash effects ring
ash in content, state:
Collapse into green
fur suit.

By bronze them
corn glide
village cities.

For Poem To Activate

Immersion in the break
(as in the break of a wave)
is what must:

eradicate rigid acres
(counties of thought
fouling out dead tribunal banter);

open more than jars of relish
(mere tensepoints banking at cozy poembottom
in wreck’d clammy tangles).

Then the act of making
has to put up its dukes
against the action of what’s made.

Charged into more than life’s pretty corpse,
(if we die in life, our dreams die, too)
the poem activates,
evicts the jealous why,
embraces the prodigal hOW.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

A Blessing:

May Srikanth Reddy Always Have People To Smile On Him And Help Him When He Needs It

Dapper Dutch Youngster, Handsome Dutch Bike (1905)

Friday, March 02, 2007

They Feed They Lion

by Philip Levine

Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter,
Out of black bean and wet slate bread,
Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar,
Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies,
They Lion grow.

Out of the gray hills
Of industrial barns, out of rain, out of bus ride,
West Virginia to Kiss My Ass, out of buried aunties,
Mothers hardening like pounded stumps, out of stumps,
Out of the bones' need to sharpen and the muscles' to stretch,
They Lion grow.

Earth is eating trees, fence posts,
Gutted cars, earth is calling in her little ones,
"Come home, Come home!" From pig balls,
From the ferocity of pig driven to holiness,
From the furred ear and the full jowl come
The repose of the hung belly, from the purpose
They Lion grow.

From the sweet glues of the trotters
Come the sweet kinks of the fist, from the full flower
Of the hams the thorax of caves,
From "Bow Down" come "Rise Up,"
Come they Lion from the reeds of shovels,
The grained arm that pulls the hands,
They Lion grow.

From my five arms and all my hands,
From all my white sins forgiven, they feed,
From my car passing under the stars,
They Lion, from my children inherit,
From the oak turned to a wall, they Lion,
From they sack and they belly opened
And all that was hidden burning on the oil-stained earth
They feed they Lion and he comes.

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Karate Fix

C'mon now, sometimes you just need to get some Karate in you!

Here's some high kickin' action:

Here's some serious fighting skills:

Thursday, February 22, 2007

You Want To Run

You hiss nickel daydreams into the fog and fog answers back, "Your life is your own if you want it." What about fear of falling, or flying, or powers in a cave or a cage and the respondents to The Hankering Survey? They were all about a packable apocalypse, one you can fit in your pocket and it folds into itself like a trick joke: a joke that is supposed to be funny but you’ve been tricked and it’s just not. And then some expression from somebody’s weird heart comes through and you have to deal with that like it’s serious even though you have nothing serious to say especially when you are in a group and you want to run instead of talk.

Friday, February 16, 2007

I went to the woods...

An excerpt from Henry David Thoreau's Walden:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, to discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and to be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

The Run Up

Absolutely no way ever, allowing singers to triple their 400 hundred ten million action on the court, number one, in the run-up you gave away 1.2 million, which was awesome when you figure what it’s like standing in front of a mountain, Zambia, Gondwana, the wide ranging gold element for a charity you simply can’t meet or get something in return, yes, I’ve been to the street outside the white house and the government may try to prove it, we’re looking at a low income charitable initiative talking to someone who is being paid to prevent 300,000 children from going to school does Zambia stand a chance? Special thanks to everyone who vultured the shit out of everything just to get the best things, if you want, you get to want, and wanting is wanting, is wanting the want for much more, oh yes, much much more wanting, you could want a train a car a magnet a chalupa a tragedy compendium a reporter to follow every place you go and if you could extract more than 76 million dollars then you could want more and more and what about speculating about the cheap birds that whisper in your ear with political muscle, trying to get the number one donor to some presidents and security men and maybe former mayors of cities, obviously very close to collecting money from poor coffee cups, the state of the union is cobbled together with old buckles and shit and some other fucked up stuff that has been earmarked for other shit.

Problem It Is

Problem it is beautiful,
it is, the felt,
the felt and the attempt other
problem which those observe usually,

perhaps are.
Those can use
other problem
always almost.

et. al.

And therefore all night you walked someone sufficiently opens the complete blood of shoes of the dry dock of snowbank of his et. al. Ones and the yeast river to steamheat of the room with the gate draws up the enormous suicide and the Grecian month tree and boiling which is cooked by the lamb of imagination where sort of his "et. al." ones cried. The complete onion and bad music of pushcarts makes the box sit down or the rear which ate food which digested the crab of the basis of the mud of the river of Bowery is put in place ahead of the wartime of the month it should cover, with love depending upon opium is blue, bottom of the floodlight. The decision of the large main thing where so it makes with darkness of the bridge which breathes at the cliff bank of the apartment of Hudson, under being small. Had it with the hat of the 6th floor of Harlem? The attic which does the rose to his et. al. ones? The roll during the yellow morning when you surround the sky where flame has been attached being shaken, the pancake of thin where it runs and theology of wooden framework of the orange lathe which you write, you cooked the tail of a lung, central feet of an animal which rots and it has dreams, has a meal of corn, roof of the watch which you threw apparently always successfully in 10 spell. All night the pure plant boundary disordered language ream which sank monopolized ones in order to throw the ticket eternal for outside time in order to pursue an egg under the meat track/truck is high is the wrist 3 which and eye the clock head. Next, everyday opened, it cut, you abandoned, it was forced, the antique. The house you think of the senior person where it reached with the taxi which is drunk by the action which is the absolute actual responsibility where it fell down. Really? And method of the sonorous healthy steel iron regiment of the tanked-up nitroglycerin point scream and announcement and being unlucky with Madison of poetry whose God is heavy main line. The lime bridge which it brews in order to clothe the flannel of the innocent person who lucid edition mustard gas gust is done to happen this. It jumped, was confused to free beer where there is an unknown, which does to walking and sings the window outside the Chinatown soup tunnel and his et. al. One balances and has forgotten living, or get off and burn slurp and cry to open those it increases: the illusion of firetrucks? Wastefulness of the German jazz which is completed with sort of the slurping crying where you see, fall outside the window of the subway, jumps with impure Passaic, black, dances? It jumps anywhere? Class of wine of grape which was broken by 30 age of record homesick Europe did and groaned and the skin with in order to throw the groan voice which was broken in his et. al. The washroom of the blood, sound of voice in order to participate the ear and enormous steam gust as for seventy-two time crosscountry me had in range of vision and how discover drove high, in order mutually barreled traveling the lonely watch of the jail of hotrod-Golgotha, blow the fact that the whistle is blown under the past highway Birmingham jazz incarnation and to be or as for him there is a range of vision which discovers eternity in range of vision. Who, who navigates, does Denver, which dies, arrive, being Denver, reach to Denver? It returned? Waiting, it reaches, end Denver which was seen and reaches in order to consider from method and time Denver of discovery, finally knows crosses, and Denver now is lonesome, as for her hero where the quiet knee cathedral falls down? You saw in order to pray rescue because of each other, the hair to mind second illuminated the light/write and the chest, in.

Monday, February 12, 2007

The Beauty Of Things

The beauty of things
is that they usually
look, feel,
smell and taste

like other things.
They almost always
do the work
of other things.

Imagined Midnights

Who told the moon to come out?

Was it the hands of the fountain,
So outstretched they couldn’t be anything but lonely?

Was it the sigh of the owl,
Rounding the treetops in vagabond sadness?

It was the high, cold pines, who,
Uninterested, made the whole sky jealous.

I Dreamt Of You, My Bearded Professor

for Carey Harrison

In Dharamsala, India, where Avolokitesvara sells T-shirts and incense,
I walked up a little mountainside every day for a week,
Sat for a while with my meditation pals,
Picked stones out of rice,
And watched monks and monkeys shout at each other.

Two times that week I dreamt of you.
I can’t remember the first dream at all.
But in the second, we clasped hands and danced together in a huge ballroom.
Spinning around and around,
Women in beaded dresses and men in tuxedos became a wallpapery blur.

We had yellow Buddha robes on.
You morphed into Brando,
I into Pacino.
Godfathers One and Two,
Of no soul.

5.06 AM (Every Stranger's Eyes)

by Roger Waters

[Waitress:] "Hello, you wanna cup of coffee?"
[Customers:] "Heh, Turn that fucking juke box down
You want to turn down that juke box....loud in here"
[Waitress:] "I'm sorry, would you like a cup of coffee?
Ok, you take cream and sugar? Sure."

In truck stops and hamburger joints
In Cadillac limousines
In the company of has-beens
And bent-backs
And sleeping forms on pavement steps
In libraries and railway stations
In books and banks
In the pages of history
In suicidal cavalry attacks
I recognise...
Myself in every stranger's eyes

And in wheelchairs by monuments
Under tube trains and commuter accidents
In council care and county courts
At Easter fairs and sea-side resorts
In drawing rooms and city morgues
In award winning photographs
Of life rafts on the China seas
In transit camps, under arc lamps
On unloading ramps
In faces blurred by rubber stamps
I recognise...
Myself in every stranger's eyes

And now, from where I stand
Upon this hill
I plundered from the pool
I look around
I search the skies
I shade my eyes
So nearly blind
And I see signs of half remembered days
I hear bells that chime in strange familiar ways
I recognise...
The hope you kindle in your eyes

It's oh so easy now
As we lie here in the dark
Nothing interferes, it's obvious
How to beat the tears
That threaten to snuff out
The spark of our love

Friday, February 09, 2007

Saguaro, Bud, I'm afraid
If you don't bloom soon
My heart will bust.

Gone With The Mind

“Bugged the flesh and bugged the mind
and bugged the scene between.”

Some folks think I’m lonely,
Or sad in my little room,
But breathing keeps me warmly,
When I’m sitting in the gloom.

I stand in friendless alleyways,
Waiting for a dream,
I banjo dusty crossroads,
Howling at the scene.

I blow at tumbled weeds,
And ring the lonesome bell,
And rock my onlyness back to sleep,
On wide green ocean swells.

I see myself a sailor,
Tossed on endless tongues,
Groaning in the darkness,
Breath beating at my lungs.

It’s tough to have to love things,
And tougher still to leave,
Since time’s a flick of batwings,
And death’s a heartless heave.

I wish the world a pile of love,
From my dopey tarnished heart,
May children play in sainted lands,
May lovers never part.

But truth is hard and kicks the head,
No matter what I say,
And kids and dogs and seas of green,
All must fade away.

Click to hear this poem.

Résumé Of Friends And Rites

Ben Cramer. Blond Indiana madman. Six foot four in the shade. Size sixteen shoes. Quiet genius. Won’t buy products that appear on TV. Sees humanity as an experiment. All the thoughts of civilization swimming in his blue blue eyes. Asks without fear: If you had a choice, how would you go out? Rural North Carolina Rite: Down by the train tracks, we drink cokes and watch freights go by. Ben picks me up by the waist and flings me at a coal car. I grab a handle and my legs are almost cut off. Finally I swing myself onto the beast. Ben jumps on, laughs at my gangly legs dangling. We ride a hundred miles into cowfields and clover. Watch the crazy sun rise over the steaming south. I jump off and hitch a ride home. Cramer keeps going. Calls me from Seattle.

Buck Schall. Sits for hours in zazen. Keeps head shaved. Speaks in koans. With his camera, documents dissolution. Photographs fire. Writes backwards and upside down. Tells me not to wonder what he’s thinking, to follow my own breath to safety. 400 Horsepower Pontiac Rite: Buck drives me into the Utah desert at a hundred miles an hour. Turns off the road, straight into the brush. Away from all human traces. Sits me down on a rock. Shuts his eyes and speaks. You got to get to where you can’t smell people. You can’t get quiet unless you sit. Are you listening?

Jann O’Mara. Shining black hair, sharp green eyes, animal grin. Lithe runner’s legs, quick painter’s hands. Paints beetles. Takes me home when I’m a wandering scribbler dwelling in black clouds. Shows me her paintings, what a disciplined mind can do. Speaks to me in perfect Italian. I don’t get the words, but understand. Desert Storm Rite: During Gulf War One, takes me up on her roof. Open air privacy. We remove some clothes to make it interesting. Photographs me doing handstands on the ledge. She begins to cry. If there’s a draft, promise me you’ll go to South America. Holds my head in her hands. There are words in here that have to come out. Don’t lose them in that shit war.

Manfred DeMateo.
Aikido wizard. Hispanic kid in Bruce Lee’s body. Thundering voice, shrill laughter. Dreams often of dead father. Like me, a mountain roamer. Communion Rite: Zinging on LSD, Manny goes into my kitchen, takes a watermelon out of the fridge, finds a meat cleaver. Howling and dancing, spins in the air around the blade. Jumping and shouting. Nothing to lose but his arms, hands, eyes. I’m afraid to look in the clanging kitchen. After an hour, quiet. Manny is naked, sweating over a table full of pink pyramids, finely chopped. Panting laughter. Take, eat! This is the work of my body! We fall to, sucking down melonflesh, spitting pits, cool sweet crunch crisp in our cerebellums, eyes wide with impossible flavor.

Another Version of "Father Death Blues"

Here's a link to another, earlier version of "Father Death Blues." It's from 1976 and has lots more musical and polyvocal accompaniment.

Can we remember to "continue our celebration," no matter what happens?

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

Come Back Masking

In midst of all, this busted hovel, the temperate nature of x, smooth mendicancy. When it's then, we’ll go toward fine bodies of water, burglarize lonely and sanguine, busting chops like a long day: mines, rapid skies and hunting movements. My chemicals induce Guilt in volts, in hindsight perhaps, or feelers, as of an old bug found by some pathtaker. Free of copying, of hankering distractions, wheels bop some in-between space.

The ship traverses the map. An older kid makes games, vagabundos, telemetry. Nobody stops him. Planet lumps once more = the way I’m thinking.

In arm strength, come back masking. And when we slowly meet again, there’ll be bones, rattling like old bones, in a can. I wait for you, bathtub my robed fingers, kneeling. My wanting rides the night.

A tang of heavy knife freezes me in a tide. You.

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

What Stays?

written for and read at the wedding ceremony of Alfredo and Rayne Mathew, Summer 2005


Breath in our booming lungs and heartgongs beating away,
Lives of redwoods and blueberry bushes and humans flashing by
As we spin in a rush and tumble over this delicate,
Durable, thundering sphere of water and air, flesh and stone.

What stays? What lasts? What is passed on?

Inhale the moment, exhale the moment,
This blissful, terminal, eternal press of moment after moment,
Faces in the crowd, drops on the dunegrass in the morning,
Rain in afternoon tidepools, orange clouds at sundown.

What stays? What lasts? What is passed on?

Today you will hold your lover’s hand
While rivers and tides roll in the wind.
Tonight you will hold hands and dance a samba
And stars in their ever-widening orbits will dance.

What will stay? What can last? What is passed on?

In every human moment, at the crack of the homerun bat,
In the millisecond that the camera shutters,
Comets in deep space slowly dissolve, bright in the void,
And the Himalayas are growing, and the Appalachias are crumbling…

What could you make that stays? What could you build that lasts? What could you pass on?


There is one thing, the only thing,
That stays,
Though the cities we now make our lives in
Will one day sleep under oceans and sand.

As you hold your lover’s hand,
Dance that samba with stars reeling above you,
With every wild-eyed grin
And tap of your feet
And each thrum of your corazón
A great vibration of love goes forth,
To the unknown end of the universe…

And every moment that our hearts are full of that brightness
We build the real world.
For, even as the roots of roadside flowers
Dissolve the cement along the highway,
The rays of love are unbending and unbreakable.

We stand and sit and dance and kiss
In the eternal living history
Of all the love that ever emerged
From everyone’s blessed heart...and we pass it on...
And we use it to learn and to live and to love one another.


So dance in the light of the dusk or the dawn,
And kiss in the kitchen with no clothing on,
And run in the ocean and roll in the hay,
And start revolutions that say, “Love is the Way.”

Your Dante’s and Virgil’s, Sappho’s and Rodin’s,
Have done what they could to make themselves last.
And in the unceasing rush of world cycles,
Their creations appear and flicker out
Like lights from summer fireflies.

And so our best strategy,
Now, and millennia from now,
Is to tune in to the unwavering wavelength,
Keep our arms and hearts open on the ride—
All the time knowing that when we gong with cariño
We shake the stars,
For ever and ever,
And love is what stays.