Hon jyst i mewn! (4)

Ben Cramer recently received this message from the very well known poet Rewfjaan V. Roofjean. You may have trouble playing it if you don't have a player that plays "wav." files. I'll try to get an mp3 version up when I can.

this am a strange interval

to this am a strange interval, my sister and mom am in a action, or, if not in a action, a we’re no matter talkative as a matter of we apiece be considering facts different being crazily interval, and I'm laying do something inbetweeny, attempt to be her “communicating,” become her explaining their feelings to each other ... cuz facts always been a part I’ve tried to game: peacemaker smootherouter, deal in ... but I ain’t do it, see ... I ain’t getting in among facts dates back to excitement ... oh, wait, now they have it edged ... (it is a action) ... mom’s yell out her chunk it’s a great time, I be considering, facts she’s saying it, no matter a great time facts she’s yell out, or yell out ahead my, but my sister ain’t reacting she’s a fair way been yell out for, I wish certainly say something, have a mind to her to have a mind to my mom her drop-in, have it edged, open facts lines at communication ... but I’m hold back ... this ain’t my action, this ain’t my excitement, this ain’t my accents, I don’t have to be one of inbetweener here above ... to, there a bash at relief in facts midst at stress, draw up these drop-in as a matter of fact decrease correct now botsett at I’m no matter is running away and no matter reacting sadly, albeit ... I’m a fair way being in the middle of

Pictures Of Me And M'Nephew, Jack Carlos McKenna

Rilke's 2nd Sonnet To Orpheus (Fragged)

And a who from this almost and of her through the and a that inside had now And in Her in that Where? that her this your Where A before almost

,
,
to me
herself my.

It girl harmony song lyre form bed ear me sleep everything trees distances heart I wonders I them meadows spring She world god sleep she desire she death theme you song itself she girl

.:
the, had
so could,:
that ever my.

Single diaphanous awesome deeply all first perfect

the., how
so no
ever to? See: and.

Stepping appeared made was touch seized slept felt Singing slept was had wake arose slept is discover consumes is vanishing

Ah, will
?—
? . . . , . . . .

Merry Christmas, Love To All

http://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/kn/snp/snp.1.08.than.html

Wild Lions On A Gerbil Wheel

looking
through a red gelatin
barbershop window
I watch
you strut
—a Bollywood star in a Gustav Klimt sari—
body and hair perfumed
with sand-scented oil

the dust motes part before you
as you step
into empty air

in this desert town
someone built a therapeutic ice pack man
out of therapeutic ice packs
stacked them high
and stuck motion-detector
light-bulbs in for his eyes

crazy-glued chains of magnifying glasses for arms
and pieces of plastic window-display sushi for fingers

the ice-pack man
tilts his head as you glide by
instinctively aware that you flee nothing
and that nothing about you is obsolete

you make we want to eat ice cream
and admit my problems

the world of dew--
is a world of dew,
and yet, and yet ...

--Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828)

Hon jyst i mewn! (3)

Interview clips. Some time ago, it seems, Ben Cramer became very good friends with someone. Here is a story, from that man (perhaps a Brit rocker?) about their first meeting.

In this clip, apparently from the same interview, he recounts a tale of adventure and guilt.

Laughs A World

The spaces between people: laughs a world. Front tarpaulin, you raise your glass to woods with burnplugs and ankles twisted sideways, feeling wishy. Not a tan in the house, all bellies white and foolish and we slung noodles at haloes for getting old kicks in. Now, this text’s prepositional transitory mood maneuver: All hauled up from clammy ditch where previous civs deposited bodies, precious stones, even flowers. Once, waiting at a stoplight, I saw them taking a dead person away. The dead person was also waiting, but not to get somewhere else. Criss-crossed lines and cankick rambling walks on roadsides, traintracks, utility-conditional spaces where cities want you to walk but not authorities. Good advert strategies: free to buy, once you’ve tasted the expensive stuff. In magazines, trinket-baby eyes wink back at you for clever moments of goofy intuition. You dreamt of last night’s good rest, an old lover who meant a lot to you, as much as I did, but probably more. In this text, you and I are the same. That was the end note, so as not to pale out too quick. The meta-narrative was the occasion, despite being able to eat, walk, conclude things about where we were. Sometimes, I have this feeling, that I have lived too many different lives to represent myself honestly. Trying feels scattered. You feel a mode, think it’s me, be that for a while. We’ll both feel freaked when it alters. Am I listening, or watching your lips for change? Time was.

Poem For Painmouth

Think: slippy cool ice chips; mint bell peals sliding down warm lips; handholding under clear cold skies, hot thermos chocolate tucked inside coat; temples rubbed by strong, careful hands; freeform cloudshifts tripping by summit tops, kites aloft with crows; kind slow kisses lost in tremulous eyelash reunions; trees leafy green and shady over desert hotheat; cake on plates, eaten at weddings between fundumb dances; carpets of moss and leaves in quiet forest silences; waking pressed to naked lover and favorite song.

the circus the circus

the circus the circus the big apple fambly circus in new york city with sparkling Chinese men in blacklit greenlight skinsuits tumbling through rings and strapped inside giant wheels that spin around a clapping axis—Jack sitting on my knee wide-eyed and startled by hilarious watery abandon of clowns and buckets and sprinklers sluicing while horses wing the ring with sand-upkicking hooves spattering front rows of kids and dads—holding my own mom’s hand while strange white-dreadlocked god-figures stand upside down on top of each other, on their hands, a human power pyramid, dark skin glistening under big misty floodlights—my sister and cousin next to me, passing around hot soggy hotdogs and tossing salty popcorn on the floor—a giant billowy puppet man with flowing blue arms and weird bulging squinty eyes sways right next to us and Jack says, “that’s kind of scary” and I say, “yeah, kind of scary, but kind of cool, too,” and he says, “yeah, cool”—and all and everpresent are shimmering tight thigh muscles of acrobats, arm and back ripples of tightrope girls, sequined calves and glittering chests of dancers—a wild guy on a bike with oldtime aviator goggles rides wobbly round the ring, up on his back wheel, while taking off the front and spinning it in his hands—clownmen piping satyr flutes while audience kid faces flicker in the strobe of this polis vortex—Jack squeezes my hand when the bikeman rides through a ring of fire, acrobats swinging on spongy poles above us...he is my nephew, he is almost four years old, and after the show he’s up on my shoulders and we run and traipse up and down sidewalks, laughing and singing about the people we saw spinning and seeing just how far we can get our fingers up our noses...can we touch our brains?

Hon jyst i mewn! (2)

Ben Cramer, strangely, has recently become a vortex for some rather startling messages from some very influential people. Here is a message he got from Yoko Ono. And here's her brief follow-up call.

Hon jyst i mewn! (1)

My good friend Ben Cramer just received this message from reporter Leon Scanowitz speaking to him live from Monrovia.

The Art Of War With Myself by Amy King

Hear this excellent poem rad by the author here!

Find yet more goodness at www.mipoesias.com

and www.amyking.org

Retired Colonel “Toro.”

Lifted argyle curtain.
Corralled fish into sucker-arms.
Fazed bacon.
Tore blue shirt with feet.
Made bricks.
Washed old dictionary.
Retired Colonel “Toro.”
Tossed newspapers at lamppost.
Busted helmet.
Woke silver dog.
Ate spicy mustard with 2 spoons (1 each hand).
Made nasty list.
Achieved hoot.
Dried ink.
Blackened headlights.
Covered paste jar with “magic” stickers.
Wrote to Anemone Board.
Mellowed nun.
Bagged Dolf Lundgren poster.
Hollered with satchel.
Pilfered Fillmore.
Replaced new art.
Considered Campeche.
Commuted paragraph.
Armed cabinet.
Hosted zoo thought.
Thrilled Gurkha.
Politicked edgy friend.
Exorcized whiskers.
Framed annoying clerk.
Warned dark.
Hocked periscope.
Varied mouthwash.
Hurled budgie.
Drank “Gasoline.”
Referred joke.
Knotted 20 µ silver-alloy likeness of Bruce Lee’s One Inch Punch.
Redacted Fancy Feast.
Raised Hulk flag.
Contacted medium cheerleader.
Snubbed haettenschweiler.
Looked, sort of.
Mattered provisionally.
Abraded masseur.
Handled past a shoe.
Ran, caped.

Todo El Poder Intelectual Es Una Salchicha

On-The-Bike-Horticulture was Ben, a Pablito, making cash to pay for tostones in the nickel window. He rode every wrong way next to the cops, without getting seen, since he always, when available, took the secret passageway. There was a little salchicha that didn’t represent, but actually was, all the power and knowledge and intellectual fortitude in the world. It was the same as Wallace Fowlie’s bald head. When he ate it, he also didn’t eat it. When he egested it, he brought the tautology to its natural conclusion. In the middle of the sea, there lies a wasted land. At the midpoint of [his] life, [he] found [himself] in a dark forest. He opted to pregin prevery prentence pre proke prith pre pround “pr.” It was better than not breathing through his nostrils the whole day. He didn’t notice that a building that was almost right next to the one he lived in had been restored (or built anew) simply because it was next to a hill. He never rides up that hill, except today, a December day when he wears cargo shorts. There is no sweaty old Septic System Cleaning Company shirt in his pocket, but there was one in the pants of a fellow he met at a wedding reception.

How Can I Assemble All The Flowers Into Something More Than Just A River?

Ever so minutely delicate, I can still feel the pink digits of day’s beginning rove through my hair. In corners, in homes with loneliness, who will weird out the pretty sources of love? Trust, in raindrop form, is the comeback’s exoskeleton.

In my search for meaning I am always alarmed, never surprised. Rapt in booming vestibules of the past, I keep finding more animal habits, more thickening games, more careful meaningless gestures. Many instruments intended to produce laughter barely suffice for groping.

So there’s me, bleary-eyed and coaxing. I wonder through the simple days, loose-jawed and without handles, avenues plush with brass tacks. The grey and green of it all is getting brighter, as I practice non-avoidance.

Joanna Newsom is strange and amazing

Here's her video for "Peach, Plum, Pear.":



And here's her doing it live:



But those are really just a minimal taste of her wild and relentless talents.

Some Emily

CXXXI

WHO never wanted,—maddest joy
Remains to him unknown;
The banquet of abstemiousness
Surpasses that of wine.

Within its hope, though yet ungrasped
Desire’s perfect goal,
No nearer, lest reality
Should disenthrall thy soul.

from Part One: Life, of Emily Dickinson’s Complete Poems. 1924.

Some e.e.

XVIII

my girl's tall with hard long eyes
as she stands, with her long hard hands keeping
silence on her dress, good for sleeping
is her long hard body filled with surprise
like a white shocking wire, when she smiles
a hard long smile it sometimes makes
gaily go clean through me tickling aches,
and the weak noise of her eyes easily files
my impatience to an edge--my girl's tall
and taut, with thin legs just like a vine
that's spent all of its life on a garden-wall,
and is going to die. When we grimly go to bed
with these legs she begins to heave and twine
about me, and to kiss my face and head.

from SONNETS-REALITIES section of &. 1925.

Some Me

Give me the ellipsis ...
My dot dot dot
In the dog-eats-boy world.

Let Cummings have his commas,
Dickinson her dashes—
I’ll take the trail to silence.

Nothing says “wait” and “feel”
At the same time
Quite like ...

Luna di settembre, arancione ed in pieno

Vista dal ponticello de Brooklyn, il 13 settembre, 2000.
Per il miei nonno e nonna.

Luna piena, sopra la vuota città,
Nel cielo dei miei nonni,
Li vedo appendere là, nella sera della mia gioventù.

Luna arancione, sopra la città molto piccola delle mele,
Nel cielo degli amanti e della polvere,
Li vedo, sognando il nuovo mondo.

Li vedo, luna di settembre, sopra la città eterna,
In mezzo d'una folla dei fantasmi,
Aumentando dalle nubi esperte fredde sconosciute calde nelle stelle.

Allen Ginsberg Reads and Sings

First, watch/listen as Ginsberg reads "C'Mon Pigs of Western Civilization, Eat More Grease!"

Then, learn with him how to "Do The Meditation Rock"

After that, "die when you die" with "Gospel Noble Truths"

Memory As Solid Smoke

Holding hands up/out in front of me to block sun going up my cavey nostrils, trance of this world, I feel you once again upwelling for my root-shot. Cavernescence of head, mucusoid webtrails pastiche my Hadean greysongs in/outward from older earthsmudge. Bean-breathing electroluminescent whorls inward from El God Eye of grief outward to forlorn navel Mandalaspace, many loves have I lost, many lives started and restarted. Many worlds have I traversed, many affairs meddling with my brainheart. Fashioned from the mawbone of my own crass mindscape, where relatives crackfall like giant Jackfruits down from trees in night, property thudding as with the routing of hogs, in shade of bitter grasses, I lay me down to contemplate itch on my bare backskin. Fish with jaws of rusted Chinese scrap metal hauled off to build big things twenty centuries from now stare at my weeding hair, upcoiling dirtily from might of candlefields and future weirdflowers. Sitting upright in possible space, the world plinks her pollen mandolin. I hurdle forward, mad through voidchasms and sundry songholes. With sun descended, free from the colloid of time, fingers press at my sides; me, self-imaged a man of tendrilhands, rustily send down feelers towards warmth that flows further past cold dirt air. And in night breathing, while manic moondrafts sluice me over, someone comes striding, wild through fields of frozen heather, to take my hand, longfingered, ringlet-haired, white-skinned and fine. I smell her own hair, busting up cold-current watercourses. I crane toward contact, feel real after centuries of blankshining vocal catatonia. Mythos plies its horned wares in dusty corners of my regal visionchambers. I sprawl outward-bodied, grab Nereid flesh and stunsing new grooves after girlwhirled nightsighing. Squalid time, you/me wretched in angelic torpor, what blithe pilgrimage are we on now, with eyes so wide we pupil-respire? I see her thin figure, strong and roiling in sleepshorn tumult, tangled, as I am tangled, in alliance of ocean-bed winewaves. We one and two to the perspiration sounds of happy fingers fumbling for new knowledge. Unestablished codes of thisness and drunken heavylidded sweetsounds double as body cartography. Mist rills flirt between lip gatherings. Flying on the ground never felt so highwinded, currents of this rococo lay circulate back to beings born of tiny phosphorescent touches. Walls bliss out like shucked snakeshrouds. Her smile is a smoky token to take on all my travels.

Writhe, Young Snakeskin-Haunted People Of This Floating World, And Find Your Way To The True Fountain.

I lay my bell-cry out, aloud from under creed of night, rioting in loadstone-mangled hands with crashburnt eyes, torn apart by fire. Flowing from tongue-induced wounds, three-souled breathfeathers embrace the daystar’s brilliance. Touchstones gather in water-stirruped windchannels, whipped aloft in softheard fury peals. No rhythm in the chest makes up for sound of rain. I angle dreams together with white winter blossoms crowded into ice along pond’s edge.

Glances Of The Previously Furious

This watermelon watch seeks everything, thinks about Monday with gigantic frustration, fails to encourage perversity. Frontiers lie fallow, haunted by housewives’ spinning eyebrows. Careers, like display cases, obscure the cracks in things. Culture is not good for much more than beverage measurement.

Anatomía

Corazón:
Choza de palos,
Lleno de ranas
Cantando en el crepúsculo azul.

Sueños:
Alas de paloma
Grabadas blanco brillante
Contra un abanico de plata.

Noche:
Cáscara
De luna irisada,
Párpado de un lagarto viejo.

Some Rilke, Some Comments on Rilke

"...Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)—they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still explained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn't pick up (it was a joy meant for somebody else—); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars,— and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many lights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labour, and of light, pale sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves—only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them."


--From The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke (1910, trans. Stephen Mitchell, 1983).


I am fallen, and hard, for 7 muses. I never expected this. My whole life spun, the most unpredictable moment, and seeing myself suddenly in an entirely new light, impossibly alive. I see her face, smell her hair, taste her skin, not only when I close my eyes.

So I must remember not to forget about Seu Jorge:

The Bed Is An Island of Freedom In An Era Of Exploration

for 7 Muses

What,
now and/or then
is the truth of poem extraction,
of the press of bodies, friendly relations
between bodies, the lingual trick and slip,
trip and slick, fleeting warmth
in an otherwise icing night?

On the outside, fish swim in air.

Why the cross-stitched milling
of bees under the rib cage?
What the truth of ticking
and beast sound, hair tingling
the upper back,
the neck, the chance
encounter with the lip-dryad?

On the outside, blue cacti tell secrets.

Time, then?
An extra-spatial thing,
a gradual occluding,
a tropical crucible
for saponification
of the senses
and window throwing…

Outside, tired cars sleep cold.

What comes in?
Who comes in?
Who gathers readiness,
nautical miles from Pangaea?
In the cant of reason,
in red-rimmed momentary
lapse of trees, outside,
where eyes tell storytales,
a dream in the crazy night runs closer,
ever more highly reticulated,
ever ready to follow a candle,
shadow of another energy signature,
into the dark. Who’ll stand
for cinnamon scented
new kisses and not deshacer?

Outside, Christmas lights think new thoughts.

Victorious humans,
in perfect
cracked-apart versions
of their body-shells,
find magnetic ease
in a hundred glances,
a hundred beginendings.

Outside, houseplants huddle closer.

In this rarified air,
in this stricken era,
the bed is an island
of freedom
in a time
of exploration.
It has its own atmosphere.

Mere

Bright and dark unbroken forest light from within my willing world to find places I’ve never gone and whisper where I might... I am a way that being does its thing. The lost cloth of a thousand years of seeing. The truncated silences that make comfort feel unreal. The feeling of the car as it moves from inside my ear. These things I cherish, along with the tight night embrace and the reeling kiss.

winter winds
roam the mountainside:
ghosts in the saguaro fields

***

watching it rise
from inside an old car:
the waning moon

***

talking about loneliness
with someone else
isn’t so lonely

Cold Duck Plaything On Red River Drink

Why the happen from the chance, Crom?! Today when the pacific is a trade from the tune to oven-folded head of your dear pal, drinkthink my chances at the lathe, I crumble coal for ya. Not a hanger, but a gliding thing that guns trip down from hotpot frightening heights, fly butter, or something such as like a fried butter pavilion where to rest your deepest tot. Wink the peel if you slip down on comedic chance the pop of iffy stuff, like falafel and smoothies made from old loofa things, radio men emerging out of froth strewn stew. All the goiters made our appetizers wet, the free-floating gobs of fist abandoned to the casa, and masters of teal and other leaden tings go belted into night. Whiff of birdshot from your doppelganger, Mr. Chance, is an encounter with your times. I still the harshest waters. You, messianic Oyster, eyes wobblewarbling over pages made of pixilated vibratto-hustling, stand in the shadows with the figures you hear to know. You'll get there.

Reliquery Redux

I a sting eyed burn event, ramble from butt of stove, make palaver out of old pipes and trees winking out at edge of civilization-colloid. Nothing but broad expanse of thought between distances of spear-popped space, capsules of old Inferno-giggles crunking their ways out from out of Mars-eye. Grunt the canticle with dents, cuz old cousins like oliphaunts know Poems have Demises, like big bellied head-legs, squids, octo-men, and whatever else rambles in night-towned dirge ditches, filtering the city dust from over-opened skies. When whispered the majesties of old Serendib? Where hallowed the crows of radio-siren-headed dervish toboggans? How tinctured streets with handblown Venetian pavementshards, wondering in kind nights from memorescent tries at visionshifting? Old friend, tumbling animal kinder, beatitudes of lilting bell-peals in the homes of your head, be well with world as spin cycles quicken and pow...

Night Work, Done In Morning

Sleep two great equalizers, greed and childhood, suppressed, grainy with dew, apes run forward off cliffs. I watch Tando listen from within weeds, gathering dusk in his nets. Flies buzz by quadruped ear tips, hunting in agitated cloud, tiny mobs. He thinks, when you’re traveling, ask a traveler for advice, not someone whose lameness keeps him in one place. Swelling from ancient heat, he makes waves with hands to remember water patterns under cover of leafy head. In sinuous folds of cities old and grim, where all things, even horror, turn to grace, he follows, in obedience to his whim, strange, feeble, charming creatures round the place. In seeking weathered notions of seem and mind-at-rest, he’s clattered his walls with hand-sewn symbols, cranky sometimes, or full of sweet radar scent, and tangerine-blanked photographs. Pancreas and penned wishes own this pose, what’s stung and told from pillow’s lies, or a long wergild parchment, stitch lines of song on guarded eyes. Pang in pang, tacit time genuflects for an old brass ring or stark hymn. Crows abandon Stand-In Alley, look grim, ready for takeover. Later in the afternoon, swimming his shadow in late afternoon clear water light, “Three-eighths-inch open end,” he says, voice raised, he sees me pause in front of ...... . We swim in nada for thin sips of life in it, he up-stones a throwing spike, an arm in strength. Tando, it is strange to live in a body, to have hands and feet and a head. Is there a simple meaning in this? Is it important to live in one part of the body more than others? Franchise of local food producers, mitochondrial collaborations, marmalade goes in, sweat goes out. For host species that live with mutualistic organisms, cues derived from symbionts are likely to be exploited by specific parasites. Where water goes, we should both go, and go under. The sting of recognition triggers the memory & try to take that apart (put that together) dissolved in day’s baked light. If your cause includes you well, you will summarize the traits most excellent, a lot of lies in words. Or flies in a jaguar sign. Now hominids eat hominids and big cats get themselves gone at the sight of them, which they always did, but perhaps with less disgust? A rum endeavor, this human wheeling, going into and over everything for a chance at lips and touch. Our voidy ball of space wrack both warms and winces from the heat of you, Tando. Look, feeling is a vividness that passes so quickly, you have to abandon the poem to follow it.

Sixteen Lines For Monkey

Sixteen Lines For Monkey

My Legs

Instead of being filled with blood, my legs are full of giant silver mastiffs, gnawing and pawing and leaping against each other from the sheer mad joy of motion.

A Train Jumped In Front Of A Woman Tonight

I scam rascals of an extra dimension.

I scam rascals of an extra dimension, tranq gun for premonitory feelings, crapulous and goring, I ride. Time to people them skies with blokes and fish hat tangerine calluses. All stories I tilled under and told to me and switched ’gators, my stomach turning hit and jump a dirt bike, dangling from a tree and throwing firelit paper crumples down on our neighbors. Not to shake it but there was a candle time when boyhood friend Danny Roemer and I built a startling tree house at the edge of the road, took boards and hammered them into branches, gambling on blindness of cops. We stashed everything secret and meaningful to us up there, everything to make fire and some money too. That was our stuff, and we liked to hold it. Once we set the street we used to play on on fire, turned Danny’s lawnmower over and opened the cap, covered asphalt in gasoline and popped a match…watched from the bushes while the elder McGuiggan boy (wearing a leather jacket) stomped the flames out, looking all around for who did it. We sunk deeper into the bushes, held each other tight for laughter. Should have known I would get these memories back, auld things and actions whipping by as my wired home-visit approaches. Got to see my brain crease in the mirror. Will I visit the Granfortuna graves again?

Writing This From Bed

Like Truman Capote I’m writing this in bed. Writing in my sleeping bag, transcriptions from skull wall, elephant ears grow from memory’s heads…ghost fragments of all friends shivering me temples. A constant staccato signal stutters outwhere, of who, of how, of whispers under my covers. I, a child, am taught to think with a new body, an awkward body, a joyfriend body, reveling under fulling moon, just letting motion happen. Even with my graying hair the body moves mostly how I tell it…spine pain grinding away under the lunatic sky, but me, laughing at the sweetness of it all…rolling along on crazzy green wheels led by the 7 muses of Art, Insight, Nonsense, Strangeness, Light, Energy, and Yes. Chanting of nonScrit sanSense words had me hand over heart, hands in air, bellowing as a baby bellows first words, tossing them out like cheerios from my lunglipped bowl. The room itself chanted, vehicle of a hundred yogis bursting with Bhaktic glee. It was a mytheirheart situation, and it was good. It knocked my shieldface off. I was happy to give it all away. José on the cushion next to me, vibrating kindness in every direction, his smile alone beats back the snarling orca of despair. And still there was the strange dream, this morning, sitting on a cold ground next to a fence, watching an owl silently wheel in a field. It came straight for me and I tapped it with my sole, sending it caroming against bumpers of soft air. It came again and this time I tapped its forehead with a broomhandle, knighting it as it veered, turned, landed next to me. Imperturbable owl.

Another Day.

It’s November in February. It’s odd in evening. It’s San Francisco in Ireland. It’s cold in keys. It’s bravery in calliopes. It’s mystical in flames. It’s peace and truth in candles. It’s Transylvania in tapeworms. It’s grout in eyes. It’s breakneck speeds in physical therapy equipment. It’s horns blaring in teacups. It’s blackmail in Gnostic rituals. It’s bands in pudding. It’s memories in Mars dust. It’s always a hand in front of my face. A stumbling block in the dunes. And an accident in your field of vision. In a gypsy wasteland, it’s a wall to crash through. The tundra. If it’s in time, it’s in mezzo mar, un paese guasto. In trips, it’s rolling. In magazine pages it trolls in my swelled head, made of grandfather, lost. It’s past, in colony of dreams, redoubling each minute, a cluster of frog’s eggs. I is a doubtful river-crosser, using sticks to support himself in the frigid whorl. It’s avocado in continent before the drift. It’s at the midpoint of my life, I find myself in an obscure selfishness. It’s a good bet that everyone I’ve ever made love with is asleep right now, at 11pm Arizona time, December 1, 2006. It’s December in February. The skies are whis’pring change. I’m Change.

Breakfast With Las Locas

Old birds and heavy old glass, and me a’battle over meself, “me” fights for pits, waked up and cracking nuts in me’s teeth, handling old new feelings like new and new again ‘til more roasted art. Poached cashews, et cetera. I rode up my bicycle on the y-axis, hills and hills and saw and sawed away at these own legs and smelled laconic luster of desert, wishsinging in my nose-thrill, fumbling upwards with wind through the beard all cool and cold, fingers passing over my face, feeling heavy think deposits upsurging and winnowing down to hills once more. The windows now are closed for a time while sweet things express themselves rottingly in garbage and other areas of everyday life. Right now old watermelon, never ‘et, just came out of fridge and went under the can lid, staining my notions of health and healthy eating for a winning lifestyle. We happy three spoke of crazzy and of how the middle has no import, of bodies doing their dead thing making skin crawl, mind popping open, like steaks slowly blowing out insides on Poltergeist countertop. You note some will say that with no purpose we’re out there with the trash, living off the carcass of a dead world. It may be. So and so-so. And bathtubs show how faces screw up into themselves, transient foxholes for ducking into when guns go blazing outside the little casa. We fit up holes in our heads for putting eggs into and papaya, too. Signs on the wall collaborated to make the breakfast restaurant feel like a tribute to itself. Little amounts of coffee kept coming keeping the conversation coming. La ciudad grandly warped its arms around me and I felt light, excited, new-intentioned, clamps loosening on moldering idea structures, a brushless carwash for the body.

Old Piano

I remember my dog liked to lie under the piano while my dad played, resonating sounds must have soothed him. I remember how my sister used to practice her string bass and we would sit around, my parents and I, listening to her. That probably only happened a few times. What do I believe? I remember listening to the birds as I woke up with Jen next to me in our bed. It's her bed now. I remember waiting for rain. I still wait for rain. I remember watching a man get his nose kicked almost clean off. I remember feeling strangely more than myself when I finally knew, for the first time, that a girl I liked really liked me. I remember sweating from drinking too much coffee. I remember falling asleep from drinking too much coffee. I remember writing poems from drinking too much coffee. I remember wondering how my mother's hands could work so well when my infant hands could barely hold onto things. Now not only my hands hold on tight.

This Morning Comes With Me

This morning comes with fatigue and a sense of purpose.
This morning comes with dread and ambition.
This morning comes with light and weight, heat and estrangement.
This morning comes crawling without romance.
This morning comes with a big feeling of wanting to make something.
This morning comes with a fist.
This morning comes with a beard trimmer.
This morning comes with a sore back.
This morning comes with a hot shower and skin scrubbing.
This morning comes quickly.
This morning comes with these lines.
This morning comes with a side of beans and salsa.
This morning comes with a little shim.
This morning comes with a story about intentions.

From The Memory

Members of The Ardsley High School Graduating Class of 1989 That I Remember off the Top of My Head(And Some Others Who Were In My Grade But Left For Other Schools):
Jeremy Kantrowitz, Suzie Canone, Richie and Dannie Guerra, Stephanie Ellis, Lyle Goldstein, Larry David, Tricia Jones, Jennifer Fencl, Andrea Dube, Jonathan Wolfson, Sam Thyrre, Howie Kobrin, Stevie Gymesi, Janet Cryan, Benjamin Liu, William Strauss, Lee Horowitz, Mark Woll, Rob Rothbaum, Tracy D'Apice, Linda Locasto, Linda Castellito, Lizette Smith, Gidon Isaacs, Paul Kyrmse, Deirdre O’Brien, Tara Mathews, Mike Beck, John Choi, Gautam Ramakrishna, Edward Lathan, Maritza Thompson, Bernie McNernie, Mindy Wachs, Shari Kleinman, Danny Roemer, Leonard Scaparatta, Richard Kim, Kazi Aoyagi, Jimmy Joe Capuano, Erica Plumer, Janine Gutteridge, Craig Stevens, Kenny Keenan, Nestor Laracuente, Joe Scapesi, Doug DiStefano, Tony Mason, Kyle Johns, Debbie Choyne, Elise Davgin, Jennifer Emerich, Christina Acampora, Lisa Dessina, Dana Absgarten, Lynn Aurbach, Jody Jacobson, Pina Monteleone, Danny Fried, Michelle Capiello, Eliot Richman, Matt Smith, Michael Rachanelli, Gary Whalen, Jasmine Rajbandary, Jimmy Markowitz, Laurie Fink, Chris Fayette, Kim Collins, Laura Schwartz, Danny Glusker, Naveh Greenberg, Dave Chenard, Jackie Shaffro, Kai Nichols, Robyn Moskowitz, Tammy Feldman, Danielle Inch, Stephanie Pecora, John Raniolo, Mike Morel, Leslie Delman, Jeff Harris, Deanna DiFillipo, Elise Takara, Victor Arone, Sibu Thomas, Victor Rugiero, Mike Weinenger, Danielle Inch, Deena Gault, Mike Venbturino, Anne Marie Mosca, Kelly Mulholland, Kevin Morris, Jeremy Gardos, Donna Zucker, Adam Shovolski, Kaori Nakamori, Naoki Kamiyama, Nick Vasti, Lino Iozzo, Chris Brown, Leslie Stern, John Tucker, Rodney Brown, Steve Kahn, Jeff Pasquale

Plum Flesh

New foundlings of a gone world roam lightly on tar and fabric. See there a stunned money man and his rumbling pocket of fish, all his meanness goes wildly and forward. Lift to uncertain height that willing dog, spots or something for feeling closer to places where I’m vulnerable…so vulnerable like seeing a young woman young and friendly but she has too hairy arms for me and something else like learning to sweat enough. The world passing me by with me staring at it in the face, swift in heart. All philosophers and plowmen whisper something to their lovers at night, some of them lovers to each other. The string thing gathered the world under its aegis and weather for new feelings for no one whatsoever wishing to rim the glasses or some kind of fish haggling in the ether for a chance at things, then things, then things again, more things. This one goes with saying, this one without. Either way, no one sees what happens in the swish, we one and another getting too sad for just doing strange things. Here, fuck, I am in my aloneness, feeling alone and like I have given up so much, the domestic world that I aspired to and gave up and couldn’t handle and the two girls perhaps were out on dates and I with nothing, but my uselessness thoughts shuffling through post-steri(li)ty, they are shabby and give no bread, no milk, no light feeling like I am free. This is the experiment, fanciful and brown in the closet. I ask and ask, but really am mostly silent, afraid, low-selfed, depressed, aloud in the world wishing for a voz intelligente and you/me you/me, poetry of the bed, little sayings with neck nuzzling et cetera and bands around my arms. There is no you and I am thirty five and alone again, Christ. Alone again and wishing for the work to be done without its doing. A lazy self1sh fuckhead, ranging thoughts through mountain scopes, alone in the world with demons and fantastic me, charged and changing. All the brothers and me are quick, grown in the elder tradition of baying hounds. Frakking pound of flesh.

Leaf Linings

In mottled breaths, trees turn up toward hills, show eyes
How paths wear grooves in hearts. And weeds grow up
Around the graves of our one-time wonder feelings.
Mirrorless, confused, life things gather
At storefront windows, looking past fishtanks.
TV pictures show fire eyes and galaxy yawns, photos
From old photobooks of endless shows that ended long ago.
Wishes and tricks all pour from pipes.
And sewer drains, bricks, and relevance rush
In angled motion, sweet tea on the porch
With someone, eleven grandmothers talk
And grasp at mailman memories, achievements
At the library. Ripe cherries pick old bugs
For raids on their redblack skin.

Who's Breath?

A lost cause returns, tired of hopping flights, coursing all veins true enough in places and going, nothing but chances and being before and being after but no now. No. No. Never now, standing there, staining the floor with my everywhere thoughts, a million trillion things all happening at once or twice and skies all open egalitarian and helping me fish with my hands. There’s that stare I was talking about when we gave coins to the kids. Remember walking through the streets, followed by watermelon smiles and all shifty-eyed and wondrous with trees and hope in the world. This morning I smiled at myself in the mirror. I laughed, or made myself laugh. Streets and potholes slow me down, when will days of air cars come? How I like to eat and wait and eat again. Something is lost, something is found, all weddings have the roots of Spain, flaming with dance and abandon. The first place I went alone was Buffalo, to visit my grandparents, now both dead. I wonder if The Force could be made real if we imagined hard enough? I could invent a cosmogony that might rectify my self, especially if I invested. The trends. The meat. The heart of things, bubbling up and slipping across all the butcher shop floors of the world (read: relationships). Our love oxidizes. In the pantry there are supplies for the decline of civilization, they wait, hoping to be utilized, against hope of the world. This line is a re-run of something said before. Loop, essenceless loop with fingers attached, classically posed against the window, inspires a hunger artist to work again. I am a glutton artist, magically aligned with my gut and missing the breaking wave. Breathe patterns of water for maximum allowance from the wind father.

Sub-Cheer

Tourmaline and flares, all suggested and whatnot, ripple over water-dells and rivulets. Tan giggles pack meat, et cetera. They writhe, wring hands, necks, elbows, get that queasy feeling from brushing two tongues…What have our screens seen? All the searchers, wishing wells, elephant people, in the train stations of the cold soy world break breathing rhythm. First feeling worsts the second. There are wilds to roam, tarnished star-raptures tumbling along bowl-topped skies. Shave seconds off feelings. Full subtle submarines, questions and experts churn romantic pastimes in dark water-spaces. In sense and trials, we feel through eye doors. Take cake fried and placed on dawn gauntlets, sending torque to find ear engines. This is the site of words, of some thing to say and say agin and not just play but go somewhere, rub the potbellied idea set thing, merely saying the frustration and finding worlds that have sails flying at edges of pop pop nude figures wheeling ever high ever trickt, lonesome bird running down my fine, hard to discern coastlines of fear and shivering. I diamond the sweetness, long the own’d owl-call, gone the long old time, sending my thought to far corners for safe keeping. Sorrow and hallowed graves, wished for long, and days are their own whens.

Dog Memories

Pop car slop out. Not a ship in size for old bottle me. I lay down. I take my rest. My first rest in a long time. Yesterday I took a nap. Delightful and full of time. Something about music makes shuddering good. I suppose I travel in a circle. Where did old trees go? My old backyard finished with me, though my dog lies buried there still. Dead of a broken heart, busted aortic tendon, chest cavity filled with blood, panting on a pillow, wanting to sleep. Sleeping now, Old Sweet Dog, survivor of car hit, of suburb family madness and weird two legged things hitting you with rubber bands, putting you in the tub and making you cold with water and soap…how COULD you have loved us? I need that forgiveness power, my Brandy. I invite you from my dream into my heart. You were always there, even in my confusion. My living makes me alive. You are in the ground behind our old house. I wish for you a celestial plane of running and many smells, much humping, much food. Or, alternatively, where can I find your holy sweet and stinky coat of brown fur somewhere out there in universe too big to imagine? You are there, I see you, having another life, reborn as a fat suburban father with kids and your own crazy jumping dog, doing it better than we did, being clear in thought, not torturing each other in broad daylight.

Weird Things Worldly

Heavy, ripe and heavy. Laguna tears et al and freedom from trust. Freaking out is so strange, I have that old apocalyptic feeling again, like the world is undergoing phase shift and I am in the middle of something that I cannot control. Fragments of dreams. Holding on to a comet that decided for a time to revolve around our planet, green and strange, hard to see what was inside it, but everyone had a vague feeling like it was alive. I thought to myself that I could hold on to this comet and continue holding on until it moved away from my own planet, Earth, and travelled to another planet with an atmosphere and people, but then I was afraid of lack of oxygen. Was the air I was breathing while holding on to the comet there because the comet had its own atmosphere or because it was using the atmosphere of the earth? I don't think I was alone on the comet. I think I was there with a woman, but I don't think it was with a woman I was "with." But I think I might have been romantically interested in her. I ultimately decided not to continue to hang on to the comet because I didn't want to suffocate in space without any oxygen and I remembered that in space time there was no way I could live for the aeons it might take for the comet to get to another planet, and who knew if it would be inhabitable or not? Sheesh, then I wondered about stars and in this dream, not that one, this one where I am alive and never sure what the nature of consciousness is, what about the possibility that stars have consciousness, I mean, if rocks and trees house sprites or spirits, why not stars? It's a conundrum, because stars are a friendly lot, when you see them from a distance, but as you get closer and closer they get hot and start to bug you, especially if you get way too close. I sand tree parts down to meet my needs. Tree parts are everywhere, wood on the rooftops and in walls and sitting on wood, so many world citizens using wood. Thanks trees, for not chopping back at us. And fish? Yesterday I thought about fish a tiny bit and ate chicken for dinner from Lucky Wishbone, fantastic fried chicken that can't be beat, so hot and juicy and they give you garlic toast and French fries with your order...it's just delightful. Especially when you are reading about the treason of Ezra Pound. Clay and fire make weird things worldly.

Standard Shitting

Pull those daisies. Crawling forward from addiction place to secondary addiction place, moderation is a dream. Whisper in hourlong sessions with ghosts of elbow past, mango students shouting about falsity of dinosaurs. Removing articles of shadow clothing, stashing truth up on a shielded shelf, nothing is gained, neither is gained, nada is ganado, callate la boca para silencio en la mente. For crying out lout, frying the pain, callous hands master card tricks with victorious boobs. Nothing to dazzle, nothing to shiver the spine chances away in a manger, adrift on a shark strewn sea, plaster and moderate protection, this has to go on from here, for more minutes. The journal of a time and something is said about it and something wishes to be made real as a wrist, as a twist, there is trick ninja shit buried here. I remember willing myself to go with people I didn't like because I am willing to buckle, all about buckling under the pressure of whatever...like, if there's pressure, I'll seek it out so I can buckle under it. Thass moi. Tracable tangerine boy from coop in burbs seeks pressure to cow under. Please, oatmeal? That's too hot, spicy chicken. My ninja captain, oh my capitan. Try lake water for maximum stench in your stool, standover height beyond the wishbone, not a shaven chance, just a belch and a Bernie MacNernie to offer a pitching career to. Well, he's a part of my memory, just as is Janet Cryan and Ben Liu, high school best friend and confidant with a BB gun. We ate a lot of rice, with strange dried pork shavings, it was always good, always warm in the kitchen, always there. Mastodon got et by them Russia. There was a flavor like beyond history in them Russia and they et it all up like a treat from The Beyond. Not many people have eaten mastodon, especially not in the golfing communities of Boca Raton. It's special if you are in Florida and the world is round, all around the world the world is round, all around the globe the curves are arcing, filling the tangential void with space, with curves and ways. It's a small trick to travel in them, like a station that spins, these curved -nesses that have being for their direct drive engines. The oatmeal is warm and fully consumable now, but boring. I feel my buds, my mind attached to my buds, wanting more powerful, more grandly stimulating sense impressions. What is my life's homepage? How does it get free from stuff, from whales made of want?

Tended Blender

For known and unknown, this thing extracts. Meat and muscle of road edge and graded technology franticate three districts. You want to say “the” but instead you must say three. The number, three number. Switch to dark side of you with intention and internationally you become known in circles, crop circles. Tangible fungible edible you, totally precious and totally buttressed and stressed and jeans jackets for the masses, oh god how does that look in a report to the nancies at central at high school courtyard? In the smoking room smoke only those whose dads gave permission and something went awry. Where did praxis slink to? The weevil tadpoles but it don’t frog down. Pry your dusky layers from old folks’ tomes, you’ll strange a weir, a dun apocalypse with fashion and breakfast on hats. Deep delving for hat space, not a chance, but then, who gets six from a dozen gets half his pay in eggs. Hoo! That cat with Duvall, Bobby Duvall, all the truncheons he must have had to endure to build endurance for trials and tests so he could fly on a plane to see The Great One, the apostle. To which day does allegiance owe something? Altogether a smile, with articulo avoidanzia, mastermind of the old shutter game and instincts like shag carpets. Such incidents make stuttering a fool. Tab naggedly, you see explosions of the moon, something happens, something else happens, like what that sighted young Willie Mason says about how all we get to knowing is how to put things on paper…give me the ether over it any day, excelsior. True blue in spirit, chicken on the cob, road treasure in the midst of broken tape tragedy, nine chances to sweet delicate dessert and abandoned hollowman eye expressions. This is the silence from which I am writing. This is the place for our down trust to magnify. Your trouble is my relief. You are me, I address me in the second person for reasons of autobiographical injunction. This is saying something, though not much. It’s ever badly a chance at gathering the folds of district riddles and other chance hopalongs. It’s capital Nifty but for the sweatybacked ballcruncher you turned out to be. All the gin my grandfather ever drank…all in a bucket with tears and memories and seven nights of only knowing. We rubs raw with nutcracker precision, a ballet of transient, cannibal sludge, grunting towards a screwed oblivion.

That Guy Has A Dorsal Fez

If the mosquitoes can get through, there must be some way to start making things bigger and smaller at the same time. When the accident started, I was in a daze. I'm still in a daze, upside down et cetera and with someone named Magnum I marauded in a dream last night, ran alongside walls, rode motorcycles encrusted with jewels over ancient maroon mansion carpets. All things were plastic, and cops could not catch me, even when they had a hold of me, I managed to jump out into space where I became ungrabbable...not space like final frontier space but space like free air above our heads. Then, riding lightning and whatever else happens nothing is for us but the smooth ejection of power. I think about the power of a man, a Bush, an Obama, a Castro. I wonder what things move through such minds as sleep approaches. Interesting things, or things that would make me nauseous? Going forward in a car over rocks and dirt. Nice to feel wired nature of the world unfold and unwind just a small bit. Peel of orange makes something for nothing in iridium chambers. Light on your fingers makes me say we should harvest figs again. In the distance a barbecue grill, dull black but still shining in spots, apple-shaped, with three legs, shadow casting a dull blob against dawnlight off-white cinderblock wall. Casting off my old garments, nothing but a bigger and bigger pile before I befriend my laundering self again.

All Colloid, All The Time

Percolatin' rhythm and shins, nothing to dangle ate all the carrots perfection and junk in coffin rooms, we sample those nodes where the forms came through. Thinking, it's good for us when we store memories we can use. Throat and glands so swollen can hardly swallow anything, not hungry even, either. Per chance, tea or some other thing tried to hep me but no avail, just some slight relief. Here is text complaining. Call the odd doctor and see what ails you. The fascination of the street moves to me when the troubles are uninflected. Pure gusto. Have to write reports on things and such as they are there are tales to tell. Oh well, not even a shoreline has a chance these days. Early in the morning, rising in the street with cars and other technological advanced fiascoes, just our luck that lunch made its numbers thin and absorption-free. What is it people are always saying? You should consider youself lucky and so on. They are always adding and so on to everything. Whazzat?! Saw the exclamation pt. inscribed inside the question mark and liked it, where did I see that. Pshaw! You feel like too many cupcakes again, me.

Something all right

When the word becomes the fall guy, there I am in the middle of drinking and when? Hip to old rhythms, like a charm or an old guy waiting at a bus stop, or a pioneering hairstyle, or a flan something. Like me for my looks or like me for my strange ways of saying Spanish, but just like me. You’ll have a thing or two to say to me when you meet my feet of happiness. When I meet my happiness, when I meet my happiness, I’ll be spinning around saucers, maybe not even here, Galaxy 1. Shine the shoes of some other world guy, he butts up against the road. It’s deboned, deveined, delightful to see you again, Mademoiselle of walking, of watching, of the colonnade, of the cannonade, of the youth pictorials done for the benefit of all the churches, we sang again. Didja hear us? We did.

moustache refiguration

all of us have moustaches on the inside, even einstein's was on the inside, too. i bet he could have rotated his moustache forty five degrees from zero if he had had a handle on his own natural mitochondrial tonal thing. but, when fred (the turtle i had as a child) ran away, all was lost...i never had good luck with reptiles again, though i tried snakes a couple more times. there is something to be said for the part of the brain that waters plants.