remember I'm square.
Never got to give any
woman anything
before reaching twenty one.
Watching the trained beast
in chains and sweat soaked chemise
engaged in flagellation
I almost cried.
Almost.
There's a killer out there
on the streets
looking for her master
while consuming the wine
in my restful chair.
You're no Nausicaa I
don't need a fucking fig leaf.
Master of the art
negotiate with me, I want it; I'm lacking this
refusing his terms until the trump;
necrophilia, nasolingus, needle play.
Summer's gone now
no dreams of seeds anymore.
Just close the fucking deal
it's a drive by contract
just follow the led;
acid of ants, of arsenic, of air
I wanted the fluid to disband me
long ago,
never asked for the crown galls
never, never
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
the holy hoax was a hoax itself indeed
The covered path to the redbrick cloister
was overgrown well before acoustic strings
became the dogma of the pilgrim's skulk,
well before the baroque cake of an April down
replaced the simple brick of the red earth
with a hyacinth path that led to furtive tracing.
To have found in the crispy regulus one last spout of glee:
slated into the broken legato of the paving stones,
a flip-book pareidolia tempered in the flickering crypt.
Between the flat gray panels of kerning cracks
the nascent spouts of lime and white
poked with insouciant crinkled laughter,
though the splatter of up-kicked dew
drenched the parted surplice hem
with the haughty charm of lifted habits.
So we conversed into the third of the seventh sext
but we were not to attain the hoary fourth,
heated though we were by the chill of purple snow,
barred by the thin lack of another slippery lambskin.
The repressed pulse of bloody flats but sharply played
with devoted stops stepwise notched in muffled air,
majora chords to minora chords swollen to a key:
an egressive kiss inside the robed and hooded matin
brought our pearly spittle into proud display,
warmed as we were by the gnostic mist of promise
and a pink fascalia wrapped to prime your chords.
Winged cymbals clashed and fey proclaimed
loudly into that brash and heathen season
when we were the power and the glory amen.
was overgrown well before acoustic strings
became the dogma of the pilgrim's skulk,
well before the baroque cake of an April down
replaced the simple brick of the red earth
with a hyacinth path that led to furtive tracing.
To have found in the crispy regulus one last spout of glee:
slated into the broken legato of the paving stones,
a flip-book pareidolia tempered in the flickering crypt.
Between the flat gray panels of kerning cracks
the nascent spouts of lime and white
poked with insouciant crinkled laughter,
though the splatter of up-kicked dew
drenched the parted surplice hem
with the haughty charm of lifted habits.
So we conversed into the third of the seventh sext
but we were not to attain the hoary fourth,
heated though we were by the chill of purple snow,
barred by the thin lack of another slippery lambskin.
The repressed pulse of bloody flats but sharply played
with devoted stops stepwise notched in muffled air,
majora chords to minora chords swollen to a key:
an egressive kiss inside the robed and hooded matin
brought our pearly spittle into proud display,
warmed as we were by the gnostic mist of promise
and a pink fascalia wrapped to prime your chords.
Winged cymbals clashed and fey proclaimed
loudly into that brash and heathen season
when we were the power and the glory amen.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
From Lesbos, Alexandria, Earth
In despair and sunless
summer heat
think on dry
dark places
In Egypt, infinite
Sapphics hidden
below concrete and clay:
words written in a
language you would not know
by a woman who drank
from cups of wind
Above all spits
the very sun
that shone on her shoulders
that parches your throat
that does not reach
those fragments of verse
that even now
are singing into the
ribcage of the earth
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Blood drunk
There wasn't any pain,
no prickle,
nor a tickled pink,
just this worldly feeling
of being pried
to a softer bed,
while twin fangs sank in
and rosy drew out
mere droplets,
planted by the shy
sun's unclotted gleam.
Its golden streams
pulled from primped-up flesh
to fill crimped-down bellows
till they bulged
bronze and round.
There isn't any pain,
no struggle,
nor a muddled shout,
just this bleary-eyed dream
of being led
to a slate-gray patch,
where blood-drunks dodder
and bloated belch forth
queer seedlings
that root at the stray
day's rolled-up edges.
Their crimson creeps
stopped by simple smacks
to spill pimpled oozings
till they sag,
flat and black.
no prickle,
nor a tickled pink,
just this worldly feeling
of being pried
to a softer bed,
while twin fangs sank in
and rosy drew out
mere droplets,
planted by the shy
sun's unclotted gleam.
Its golden streams
pulled from primped-up flesh
to fill crimped-down bellows
till they bulged
bronze and round.
There isn't any pain,
no struggle,
nor a muddled shout,
just this bleary-eyed dream
of being led
to a slate-gray patch,
where blood-drunks dodder
and bloated belch forth
queer seedlings
that root at the stray
day's rolled-up edges.
Their crimson creeps
stopped by simple smacks
to spill pimpled oozings
till they sag,
flat and black.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
sometimes you can't go home again even though you never left
 a friendly fish named frank always stayed near the surface of the tank the vast vistas of human faces in his mind always stirred up traces of an empire that long ago sank if the comte de sade came back to earth and saw the new cosmos giving birth oceans of pornography vampire novels from sea to sea what would his dreams be worth? an unknown prophet named slim couldn't swim he was thrown in the water but old pharoan's daughter just turned up her nose at him blind potato murphy played the blues he walked the hills of ireland in his alligator shoes he drank poteen dreamt of fair kathleen and paid his union dues bob, a humble barracuda sought the path of the true buddha a dinosaur banging a big brass gong followed as he walked along and quite destroyed his mood, ah a sunfish named stagger lee lived in the depths of the sea a sea lion named bob (or was it billy?) thought his paraphilological positions were silly and never invited poor stack to tea an electric eel named ed wore a path to perdition on his head he didn't know its approximate cause so he kept it wrapped in gauze and took another med a platypus named roy was no stranger to ecstatic joy he could feel the earths heart beat beneath his wary webbed feet but his demeanor remained quite coy |
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
What To Expect, When Expecting
He never visits her grave,
Though the fact of her passing rarely leaves his mind.
And the children all hold their secret
On the one whom they wish was still in their lives.
How lovely she'd been on Michigan Ave, in '24
Refusing his hand, and clasping the breeze,
He'd simply known that it was not long for,
When he'd see her walk off with another
Down the street.
It was true and he could not pretend to deny
That he'd lived a life in more fear than joy
And when pressed to forget the realms of the "Right"
He had no other passions by which to deploy...
The warm, kind acceptance of this woman, his wife
(Some of his worst times were some of her best)
And the more dark recognition
That she'd ruined her life
The moment she'd rested his hand on her breast.
Once, he'd consented to the trip of her dreams
While he took a year from his scholarly life;
And they rented a Volkswagon in Brittany
With the map of her finger and the mirth of her eyes,
And while she led her children through the dust motes of the Louvre,
He sat in the tour bus and choked on a Jube Jube;
The candy, of which, even today he thinks he nearly died
The Nike, and The David, and The Hiemlich Manouver.
To see his sweet daughters, climb into the bus
And his monkeying son, with stories to tell;
And finally his wife's face fall flat, and ask, "What's this fuss?"
"Daddy almost died!" said the boy, and silence fell.
And he'd meet her eye, this news always the same;
When the rainstorms of life would threaten some fun,
And the pleasure of Art seemed to dwindle to shame;
How he wanted to ask her, "How are you my love?"
Since she was with him: the answer remained.
Then one day the dreaded charmer, arrived in her life,
And she finally fell by the comely gestures of a being;
When the words were spoken, that so claimed her fate,
"What will I tell him," was all she could think.
She had no choice, though, she confided in the man,
Who spoke not at all, while listening to her think,
He wore a burlap hoodie, held a sickle in his hand.
"Though he will miss you, he now has your dreams."
And that's what he remembers,
Nearly obsesses about every day,
Since the hooded man, finally gestured
And stole his children's favorite parent away.
For though they'd admired him nearly all their life,
And could list amongst them a few of his ways,
It was the smiling joy and dreams of his wife
That finally made, for such as them, life so great.
Though the fact of her passing rarely leaves his mind.
And the children all hold their secret
On the one whom they wish was still in their lives.
How lovely she'd been on Michigan Ave, in '24
Refusing his hand, and clasping the breeze,
He'd simply known that it was not long for,
When he'd see her walk off with another
Down the street.
It was true and he could not pretend to deny
That he'd lived a life in more fear than joy
And when pressed to forget the realms of the "Right"
He had no other passions by which to deploy...
The warm, kind acceptance of this woman, his wife
(Some of his worst times were some of her best)
And the more dark recognition
That she'd ruined her life
The moment she'd rested his hand on her breast.
Once, he'd consented to the trip of her dreams
While he took a year from his scholarly life;
And they rented a Volkswagon in Brittany
With the map of her finger and the mirth of her eyes,
And while she led her children through the dust motes of the Louvre,
He sat in the tour bus and choked on a Jube Jube;
The candy, of which, even today he thinks he nearly died
The Nike, and The David, and The Hiemlich Manouver.
To see his sweet daughters, climb into the bus
And his monkeying son, with stories to tell;
And finally his wife's face fall flat, and ask, "What's this fuss?"
"Daddy almost died!" said the boy, and silence fell.
And he'd meet her eye, this news always the same;
When the rainstorms of life would threaten some fun,
And the pleasure of Art seemed to dwindle to shame;
How he wanted to ask her, "How are you my love?"
Since she was with him: the answer remained.
Then one day the dreaded charmer, arrived in her life,
And she finally fell by the comely gestures of a being;
When the words were spoken, that so claimed her fate,
"What will I tell him," was all she could think.
She had no choice, though, she confided in the man,
Who spoke not at all, while listening to her think,
He wore a burlap hoodie, held a sickle in his hand.
"Though he will miss you, he now has your dreams."
And that's what he remembers,
Nearly obsesses about every day,
Since the hooded man, finally gestured
And stole his children's favorite parent away.
For though they'd admired him nearly all their life,
And could list amongst them a few of his ways,
It was the smiling joy and dreams of his wife
That finally made, for such as them, life so great.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sunday blew in
Sunday blew in
breezily
popping pinstriped
cuff to bare
a cunning and
ill-cutting
hand,
manicured tips
of rounded
pink extending
to un-shake
my seldom firm,
oft clammy
faith.
breezily
popping pinstriped
cuff to bare
a cunning and
ill-cutting
hand,
manicured tips
of rounded
pink extending
to un-shake
my seldom firm,
oft clammy
faith.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
You should know
that a tuatara
has no p.s.,
hyena females
a fake p.s.,
snakes a p.s.
split in half,
the elephant a
five-foot p.s.
or thereabouts,
determined
with movement
as a fisted arm,
the blue whale, simply
venture a guess,
the octopus, wary,
hands over a packet,
the deep sea
angler becomes
parasitic, loses
eyes and fins to a
partner leviathan,
and as you know,
the cephalous, that is,
the head is eaten
from the God-
imploring mantis.
Friday, December 18, 2009
the flavor of simplicity is hidden yet pleasant
It is starkly the fragrant lattice
of leaf-stripped branches black
that gauzes the linen soft of river dusk
and frames, in its pink expansive glow,
the fuzzy drop of a glacial velvet sun.
An arced string of parti-colored pears,
strung in a scarlet garden ripe with rain
echoes and re-echoes in the hushed ludic night.
Come to be drowned in eyes aqua and lacustrine,
framed by a pine torch of flickering doubts
beneath the needles of a wavering sigh
that absolves, in grace, the attic stairs of almost.
You are merely a liquid bag of liquid bags
draped on calcite branches of porcelain white,
a ghost of gray silk that quivers in the breeze.
To see what cannot be seen except through mist
is often hidden in the immanent thrill of now,
the pearly lies from a teal bowl of steaming tea.
So you hang your blue-striped bathrobe
on the chipped corner of the closet door,
skipping the knobby habit of the brass hook
in order to thank your white and holy god
that it was Bellamy, and not Rothberg,
that came to pave the driveway.
of leaf-stripped branches black
that gauzes the linen soft of river dusk
and frames, in its pink expansive glow,
the fuzzy drop of a glacial velvet sun.
An arced string of parti-colored pears,
strung in a scarlet garden ripe with rain
echoes and re-echoes in the hushed ludic night.
Come to be drowned in eyes aqua and lacustrine,
framed by a pine torch of flickering doubts
beneath the needles of a wavering sigh
that absolves, in grace, the attic stairs of almost.
You are merely a liquid bag of liquid bags
draped on calcite branches of porcelain white,
a ghost of gray silk that quivers in the breeze.
To see what cannot be seen except through mist
is often hidden in the immanent thrill of now,
the pearly lies from a teal bowl of steaming tea.
So you hang your blue-striped bathrobe
on the chipped corner of the closet door,
skipping the knobby habit of the brass hook
in order to thank your white and holy god
that it was Bellamy, and not Rothberg,
that came to pave the driveway.
Hot Air
pull blue
pill into
pulpy hardware
one second
flick makes
lifetimes
impossible
to run
across
frosted pane,
rearrange skated
lines weld
with heat
a cartography of DNA
seal folds
that envelope
secrets, things
said with pens
or codes
or unopened
mouths
draw you
down
to stand
you up
a million
nerves
frazzle
and buzz
one wet
acupuncture oh
oh
oh, such rollicking
joy it brings
(a tongue can be
used on
many things)
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
daughters of dobermans
This time she is OTK.
As the air lock opens
she gives blanket consent
to the kosmobuksir in charge.
With the
kinetic energy of rigid boulders
orbit insertion is complete.
The time is now.
Oort clouds
above the ground
where no seismometer
detects them.
The raw meat on the green carpet.
Pink from the last blood of
arteries.
He closes his eyes under
static firing,
Lars is disciplined
our HOH sublimator
from Borås.
All is not right.
Move into
center.
The micromanagement
finished,
resistance,
mere flesh
without function.
Dignified
daughters of
dobermans.
As the air lock opens
she gives blanket consent
to the kosmobuksir in charge.
With the
kinetic energy of rigid boulders
orbit insertion is complete.
The time is now.
Oort clouds
above the ground
where no seismometer
detects them.
The raw meat on the green carpet.
Pink from the last blood of
arteries.
He closes his eyes under
static firing,
Lars is disciplined
our HOH sublimator
from Borås.
All is not right.
Move into
center.
The micromanagement
finished,
resistance,
mere flesh
without function.
Dignified
daughters of
dobermans.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
comes and goes
weather
rain floods
sunshine
strength
pain
memories
that make us laugh
and cry
worries
side aching joy
tomorrow
seasonal fruit
fashion
technology
hope and inspiration
marital bliss
security
the morning bell
waves
being pulled
by moon phases
patience
fresh sheets
and the lack of
funding
milestones
motivation
moments of
disorientation
confidence
and too much time dwelling on
terrible twos or your teens
and now your neck
the first crash
first crush
heartache
or indifference
your mean streak
and team building skills
a beaming smile
surprise birthday cake
and a big bear hugs
friends
family too
With all in this world
that
comes and goes
It's so nice to have met you.
rain floods
sunshine
strength
pain
memories
that make us laugh
and cry
worries
side aching joy
tomorrow
seasonal fruit
fashion
technology
hope and inspiration
marital bliss
security
the morning bell
waves
being pulled
by moon phases
patience
fresh sheets
and the lack of
funding
milestones
motivation
moments of
disorientation
confidence
and too much time dwelling on
terrible twos or your teens
and now your neck
the first crash
first crush
heartache
or indifference
your mean streak
and team building skills
a beaming smile
surprise birthday cake
and a big bear hugs
friends
family too
With all in this world
that
comes and goes
It's so nice to have met you.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Night Street
Blue lights follow ridges
in aluminum siding,
trace brick, befuddle
lettering, and cast
down on brown air—
yellow reflectors
stand and wait as if
at a reunion, tar patches
lay themselves out
under the headlights
and the tree shadows
hold a seance with the sky,
their webwork of branches
netting ghosts.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Suspended Animation
Dear Santa
Seeing how
I haven't seen you now
in more than many while's quite,
I thought I'd write
this letter laden wish,
not big enough to be a list,
as it's just one thing,
and that thing is else no thing,
but a pod. Yes, I wrote pod, but not
any pod
you'd find hanging green
on a bush. I mean those lean
bits of oblong
and white that best belong
in the movies where one's out knocked
and then inside tucked
cozy, waiting for long trips,
or patches too rough, to easy slip
by. I'll glow
in my pod, yellow
digits the ticks down-counting
till zeros sing
alarming doors to whir
and pop, dropping a discovered
when both safely sound
and reanimated found
on the far side of neither's going.
But knowing
you, Santa, to be
a bastard red and jolly,
if I know you
at all, then here's my due:
one ragged blanket from Good Will,
some pretty pink pills,
and an unassembled cough
instructing me to "go sleep it off."
Seeing how
I haven't seen you now
in more than many while's quite,
I thought I'd write
this letter laden wish,
not big enough to be a list,
as it's just one thing,
and that thing is else no thing,
but a pod. Yes, I wrote pod, but not
any pod
you'd find hanging green
on a bush. I mean those lean
bits of oblong
and white that best belong
in the movies where one's out knocked
and then inside tucked
cozy, waiting for long trips,
or patches too rough, to easy slip
by. I'll glow
in my pod, yellow
digits the ticks down-counting
till zeros sing
alarming doors to whir
and pop, dropping a discovered
when both safely sound
and reanimated found
on the far side of neither's going.
But knowing
you, Santa, to be
a bastard red and jolly,
if I know you
at all, then here's my due:
one ragged blanket from Good Will,
some pretty pink pills,
and an unassembled cough
instructing me to "go sleep it off."
invitation
 hello all, this blog has been such a success i thought i would try something similar with short fiction. http://flashingby.blogspot.com/ i have sent invitations to all the contributors i could find email addresses for. anyone else, contributor or otherwise, who might be interested please contact: rpenmarq at gmail dot com or timmy44444 at gmail dot com thank you |
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Mirror Box
Freestanding phantom heart
The lost limb of my
Sensations of
itching
and imperfection
I cower here
Beneath the bedclothes
In the hope that
you’ll return
The lost limb of my
Sensations of
itching
and imperfection
I cower here
Beneath the bedclothes
In the hope that
you’ll return
Kalashnikov
Further than Alpha Centauries twin suns rests (at the
natal apogee) my cosmic string. It is related to
birth. I lost it.
Pale vacuum delivered globe. Also, between
birth and my current departure my body disconnected,
cells became islands between frozen space. One piece.
I am margarine and bone.
The feeling of sitting down inside an armored car while taking
hits by B-40s is unspeakable.
Body of tissues while senses wreck
havoc the heart aches stress no damn good thing my adipose tissue must burn.
Open cluster in the semi major axis. No longer shocked, consigned.
AM blazing when I use the 175. AC asking
me if I want assistance beans and motherfuckers, I yell.
Bodies are HOT outside. A stellar wind and in the soldier face
a reflection of a nebula. I did this between Opposition and the Occult.
I am a fucked up bummer.
Lament and mourn, insulted throbbing heart. The metaphoric
rock does not melt. There is yet time. I don't know to what however.
natal apogee) my cosmic string. It is related to
birth. I lost it.
Pale vacuum delivered globe. Also, between
birth and my current departure my body disconnected,
cells became islands between frozen space. One piece.
I am margarine and bone.
The feeling of sitting down inside an armored car while taking
hits by B-40s is unspeakable.
Body of tissues while senses wreck
havoc the heart aches stress no damn good thing my adipose tissue must burn.
Open cluster in the semi major axis. No longer shocked, consigned.
AM blazing when I use the 175. AC asking
me if I want assistance beans and motherfuckers, I yell.
Bodies are HOT outside. A stellar wind and in the soldier face
a reflection of a nebula. I did this between Opposition and the Occult.
I am a fucked up bummer.
Lament and mourn, insulted throbbing heart. The metaphoric
rock does not melt. There is yet time. I don't know to what however.
dissolving
When I'm invited out,
no doubt, to that place
we each must go,
I'll step blithe not grim, trimmed in
pretty-
patterned suits.
Plaid-scented tears atop
herringbone-stretched smiles,
layered over
paisley-flavored sighs, I'll spin
pinwheel-
peopled years
to gargle my garb fresh
in bathing. And bathe
I will, striding
toward the bric-a-brac bridge
that spans
forgetting.
I may waver before
my wavelengths dive,
but then I'll jump
to swirl in the bobbing chill
and feel
a measured
dissolving.
no doubt, to that place
we each must go,
I'll step blithe not grim, trimmed in
pretty-
patterned suits.
Plaid-scented tears atop
herringbone-stretched smiles,
layered over
paisley-flavored sighs, I'll spin
pinwheel-
peopled years
to gargle my garb fresh
in bathing. And bathe
I will, striding
toward the bric-a-brac bridge
that spans
forgetting.
I may waver before
my wavelengths dive,
but then I'll jump
to swirl in the bobbing chill
and feel
a measured
dissolving.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
about me, part 1
 i was born by a river in a little shack, and just like the river i can't get back on track. my parents were missionaries in china, or maybe in india or central africa one day lenin and trotsky came to town. they stayed at mrs b's rooming house. mao tse-tung was already in town and he was staying at the savoy. we knew trouble was brewing when hombres like that were in town. when i finished sweeping up at the mission i went for a walk. as i approached the river i heard laughter. someone was laughing. by the time i came around the bend the laughter had stopped. on the river bank a fish was flopping. i could never remember seeing such a fish before. not even in my dreams. behind me i heard a gurgling sound. yeti was standing there.  yeti was my best friend. rain began to fall. i pointed to the fish still flopping on the ground. veins began to throb in yeti's forehead. he was as baffled by the fish as i was. right then we heard the sound of oars coming through the water. i turned and saw trotsky lenin and stalin in a rowboat. no conversation seemed to be going on. a i watched the water ripple out from the boat lenin turned and waved to me i waved back trotsky merely nodded at me truth be told i never liked trotsky much lenin was much more friendly eternity was in his gaze stalin was my favorite he always had a smile almost always conversation with him was easy a koala bear could not be more friendly  |
loves me, loves me not
When I was a girl
In a long ago world
I plucked the petals
From flowers
They'd release with a pop
Letting my heart drop
As I continued my
Way round
The watery eyes
Of little girl skies
Overfill with hope
And rain
But that little girl mind
Will eventually find
Much more than loves
And loves not
In a long ago world
I plucked the petals
From flowers
They'd release with a pop
Letting my heart drop
As I continued my
Way round
The watery eyes
Of little girl skies
Overfill with hope
And rain
But that little girl mind
Will eventually find
Much more than loves
And loves not
Sunday, December 6, 2009
in a faraway land
 in the faraway land of rub-a-dub everyone lived in the local pub they drank whiskey, ale and bock and played the tuba around the clock there was an old woman who lived in a crab and ate fried rhinoceros by the slab she ate it with mustard, she ate it with mayo and sang in the tub all the live long dayo there was an old man who lived in a lobster he was a friend of uncle bob, sir his only companion was a garter snake and they dined every evening on raw beefsteak when i woke up in the wind and snow i heard a voice calling me from below my father was a drainpipe and my mother was a rat they kept me in the cellar so i wouldn't get fat they wouldn't let me go out and play so i carved toothpicks the livelong day with the sword of doom and a boy scout knife the best friends i ever had in my life there was an old man who lived upstairs he had a collection of folding chairs he folded them up and he folded them down i think his name was henry brown the billiard parlor had a big tv there for the whole wide world to see and every night i heard it say walter cronkite passed this way  |
Saturday, December 5, 2009
If I could wish
If I could wish,
I would wish upon
petals not yet plucked
from yellowed guessing
If I could wish,
I would wish upon
furry seeds white-tucked
in breathy nesting
If I could wish,
I would wish upon
stony time's rolled back,
concave-gray jumbling
If I could wish,
I would wish upon
yawning star's stretch, black
tales awkward mumbling
And when I did,
each counted could-be
would be a wished lie
down from undoing
I would wish upon
petals not yet plucked
from yellowed guessing
If I could wish,
I would wish upon
furry seeds white-tucked
in breathy nesting
If I could wish,
I would wish upon
stony time's rolled back,
concave-gray jumbling
If I could wish,
I would wish upon
yawning star's stretch, black
tales awkward mumbling
And when I did,
each counted could-be
would be a wished lie
down from undoing
Friday, December 4, 2009
Apoapsis
Different roads,
acid streetlights.
The red brick building and
a cluster-fuck bowl.
I need hydration is
served by a
mercurial woman
the radon
smelling place shakes.
I peep at the
molar precision behind
the counter.
Boom-boom.
Trapped inside the kennel.
Emptying my cup of
americium tasting
fluid. This place is
a ki-ki.
Social war
is total freedom.
This is devastation
a body without
plasma vulgarity.
My straight leg and my
boot cut.
Two objects farthest apart.
My visible fat is calculated using
rp = a(1-e) and ra = a(1+e).
acid streetlights.
The red brick building and
a cluster-fuck bowl.
I need hydration is
served by a
mercurial woman
the radon
smelling place shakes.
I peep at the
molar precision behind
the counter.
Boom-boom.
Trapped inside the kennel.
Emptying my cup of
americium tasting
fluid. This place is
a ki-ki.
Social war
is total freedom.
This is devastation
a body without
plasma vulgarity.
My straight leg and my
boot cut.
Two objects farthest apart.
My visible fat is calculated using
rp = a(1-e) and ra = a(1+e).
words
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Thursday, December 3, 2009
Leadville
Leadville
—circa 1874
Her hurdy gurdy sound detaches in tangents across the plain.
little missy violet walks from the dance hall foyer.
Drone-strung, her torso waits for its player.
A crib is a disheveled doldrum of human need.
little missy violet walks from the dance-hall foyer.
Somewhere beneath her breastbone a series of levers turn.
A crib is a disheveled doldrum. Of human need:
the clanking-pocket gent, fierce gears in woolen trousers.
Somewhere beneath her breastbone a series of levers turn.
Beyond cracked walls, bursts of pewter snow.
The clanking-pocket gent, fierce gears in woolen trousers--
after the dig, the sift, drip of the silvered tongue, there is this:
beyond the cracked walls, bursts of pewter snow,
and her torso, a pliable instrument and white.
After the dig, the sift, the drip of the silvered tongue, there is this:
A rosined heart pumps coniferous blood.
And her torso, a pliable instrument and white
as powdered wind. Here within this branchless town
a rosined heart pumps coniferous blood--
Its hurdy gurdy sound detaches in tangents across the plain.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
I meet Ingi
I meet Ingi,
stumbling down
from the opposite blend
of a tumbled path
paved with impatient falling
matters.
Nearer,
our split-bottom steps tingle
from the crumbling glass,
as slivered gum-ball ends
spike bronze gowns
of brittle leaves.
We swear to sea,
and shake frowns
till our best parts do bend,
toppling humble hats
where waves diverge, to grow then
flatter.
stumbling down
from the opposite blend
of a tumbled path
paved with impatient falling
matters.
Nearer,
our split-bottom steps tingle
from the crumbling glass,
as slivered gum-ball ends
spike bronze gowns
of brittle leaves.
We swear to sea,
and shake frowns
till our best parts do bend,
toppling humble hats
where waves diverge, to grow then
flatter.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
positing a moon of isosceles and tide
i. sometimes we hope there are talismans that can distract the fisher
what is prescribed by the dessicated wise
with their vertical slits and alligator eyes,
leave them to leer with their yellowing leer
and wait-
until our dreamy dream of the moldy rye commences:
then, we shall resume our habits imagined from the sand-
we will bobble at will in iceberg blue among the laughing blue,
laugh again where joyous scales are washed by blue
in a laughing shimmer of also laughing laughter blue.
ah! selchie, come to me in a form that magically matches
the creeping sundrop, my rough sweater, and the orange tide-
if I were a sea leopard laughing in the salty tide,
I would only bite you, nicely, while rolling underwater:
I no longer care for herring.
ii. alone on the strand but not in those dreams of sand
a flowery sonnet a day is anorexic to sum
with all dem iambs and such tricks that seek
to flatter the notches of conquests begun.
from how many realities is it possible to flee?
I only ask because I'm counting on something-
algebraically, I would claim that n is greater than zero
but that does not sound sufficiently endearing for now
and I can see that you are not melting.
I have attempted to capture something:
it's just laughter during blue abundance,
and a crystallized frolic in freezing water.
what is prescribed by the dessicated wise
with their vertical slits and alligator eyes,
leave them to leer with their yellowing leer
and wait-
until our dreamy dream of the moldy rye commences:
then, we shall resume our habits imagined from the sand-
we will bobble at will in iceberg blue among the laughing blue,
laugh again where joyous scales are washed by blue
in a laughing shimmer of also laughing laughter blue.
ah! selchie, come to me in a form that magically matches
the creeping sundrop, my rough sweater, and the orange tide-
if I were a sea leopard laughing in the salty tide,
I would only bite you, nicely, while rolling underwater:
I no longer care for herring.
ii. alone on the strand but not in those dreams of sand
a flowery sonnet a day is anorexic to sum
with all dem iambs and such tricks that seek
to flatter the notches of conquests begun.
from how many realities is it possible to flee?
I only ask because I'm counting on something-
algebraically, I would claim that n is greater than zero
but that does not sound sufficiently endearing for now
and I can see that you are not melting.
I have attempted to capture something:
it's just laughter during blue abundance,
and a crystallized frolic in freezing water.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Bauble Brothers
Bauble brothers hang red,
one rotund, one spouted,
both made a magenta
melancholy by fog.
Its white whispers nightly,
slipping their bloody seeds
down paper-funnel tales
of supple branches stripped,
and the skin-cracking eyes
coming too soon to cull.
one rotund, one spouted,
both made a magenta
melancholy by fog.
Its white whispers nightly,
slipping their bloody seeds
down paper-funnel tales
of supple branches stripped,
and the skin-cracking eyes
coming too soon to cull.
Arbitrary Abattoir
Devotion
the painful honesty
of someone
thirty years older
than me and her
face looks redder
and fatter as
I dive under her
lab rock.
The laboratory
utensils becomes
entirely erotic for me and
she gives me flavored
shots every time now.
chromosome repair systems
are able
since I can feel her
different skin types mix
younger smoother.
I find a
wrecked penis
forgotten on a bench
as I do the daily cleaning
of the perimeters
bless this position
sterility my friend
I am helping her
bending over
every time
I do it.
the painful honesty
of someone
thirty years older
than me and her
face looks redder
and fatter as
I dive under her
lab rock.
The laboratory
utensils becomes
entirely erotic for me and
she gives me flavored
shots every time now.
chromosome repair systems
are able
since I can feel her
different skin types mix
younger smoother.
I find a
wrecked penis
forgotten on a bench
as I do the daily cleaning
of the perimeters
bless this position
sterility my friend
I am helping her
bending over
every time
I do it.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
demon lover
 when i was a child in ages dark demons chased me through the park and angels though in charge in me laughed loudly at my misery and when i finally tripped and fell you raised me with the hand of hell angel born and demon bred you introduced me to the dead the dead whose wide and staring eyes were whiter than the winter skies who sat all night on fog wet benches sad sentinels of eternal trenches the dead whose soft and wordless lips twisted like slowly sinking ships in black and bottomless seas in unreverberating reveries |
who's watching?
What part of us lies dormant
Watching as we scrub our molars each morning
Looking back at our blank faces
That only examine stray hairs and wrinkles
Is it smiling, like a patient Lama?
Or is it defeated, caged and forgotten by us, tortured
Cries never answered with mercy or enlightenment
Does this part of us know our path, the path
And the purpose to our routine?
Smiling as we stumble along
Absorbed by bed times and laundry
Or contemplating the meaning of life
What's waiting in the shadows?
Do we know who's watching?
Watching as we scrub our molars each morning
Looking back at our blank faces
That only examine stray hairs and wrinkles
Is it smiling, like a patient Lama?
Or is it defeated, caged and forgotten by us, tortured
Cries never answered with mercy or enlightenment
Does this part of us know our path, the path
And the purpose to our routine?
Smiling as we stumble along
Absorbed by bed times and laundry
Or contemplating the meaning of life
What's waiting in the shadows?
Do we know who's watching?
Saturday, November 28, 2009
This is not an elephant
"This is not an elephant,"he confides to the child
as they oval round
captive creatures foreign
and featured in glassy habitats.
"See those four stout stumps
with their loose-pebble bottoms,
rooting him to the dust-bound earth
where his great girth grows?"
"Do you mean its legs?"
"Then pay attention to the gray
veined fans that swat and sway
to push away midges nibbling
heat into his giant's skull."
"Aren't those just ears?"
"There are twin ivory tines
he uses to stab and dine on
tightly packaged meals
the forest's cunning seals for him."
"I thought they were tusks?"
"Last, note his accordion's
appendage that dangles down
to fleet wrestle and greet
with a snicker or a shout."
"Grandpa, the sign says,
'Elephant'! What do you call it?"
"That's a little tidbit
he's never shared with me,
but I do know him to be
much more than his name."
while you were sneaping with the others I got my education
i. it's so nice to lie among the living
my stirring, buried in triplicate in your broken zipper,
died a little that day, awkward of the rustic chrome,
and patiently exploding with an bronzed innuendo of why:
it was, as science says, a matter of degrees,
but mostly in a purple mist of irony, captive
in view of the violent fruit to come
I would have been a fool, then, to disagree.
ii. to wait for blueberries and skid into view on a falsely tiled floor is a cherished pleasure to some
then I saw you exiting the melodious factory,
the bronze chimes in a metallic haste towards
your felonious smile and your poisonous pocket bulged
with the ribbed beige cartridges from a sinister east,
the left-handed chimes in a hoison haste
so immaculately born of harmonious boredom:
then,
even then,
you agreed I was a fool to disagree.
iii. before the glorious separation devolved to pearly worship
I'd be lying if I said that I did not look down
when we circuited the alabaster dome outside
the echo chamber of black gates and whiteness
where sounds were ok, maybe just a faint gray voice
that was, if not professorially golden,
at least annoying to an erudite degree.
adding the swirls of rainbow sherbet helps
because green and orange and lemon matter
almost all the of time:
of that I know that you agree.
iv. then, bang! zoom!
anti-abstruse ranting in a pink and vehement form,
actually more abstruse and certainly less tame
than the sprouting seed from which it came:
after I had taken my time to target the moon,
should I take the time, now,
to re-explain my explanation?
and would you, ever, agree?
my stirring, buried in triplicate in your broken zipper,
died a little that day, awkward of the rustic chrome,
and patiently exploding with an bronzed innuendo of why:
it was, as science says, a matter of degrees,
but mostly in a purple mist of irony, captive
in view of the violent fruit to come
I would have been a fool, then, to disagree.
ii. to wait for blueberries and skid into view on a falsely tiled floor is a cherished pleasure to some
then I saw you exiting the melodious factory,
the bronze chimes in a metallic haste towards
your felonious smile and your poisonous pocket bulged
with the ribbed beige cartridges from a sinister east,
the left-handed chimes in a hoison haste
so immaculately born of harmonious boredom:
then,
even then,
you agreed I was a fool to disagree.
iii. before the glorious separation devolved to pearly worship
I'd be lying if I said that I did not look down
when we circuited the alabaster dome outside
the echo chamber of black gates and whiteness
where sounds were ok, maybe just a faint gray voice
that was, if not professorially golden,
at least annoying to an erudite degree.
adding the swirls of rainbow sherbet helps
because green and orange and lemon matter
almost all the of time:
of that I know that you agree.
iv. then, bang! zoom!
anti-abstruse ranting in a pink and vehement form,
actually more abstruse and certainly less tame
than the sprouting seed from which it came:
after I had taken my time to target the moon,
should I take the time, now,
to re-explain my explanation?
and would you, ever, agree?
The Sunken Head Rears in Windows
a.
Once, in the apartment above
Union Square, she threatened to push
me out the window. She stood
behind me, her arms locked around
my shoulders like wet branches,
like a lover but more so, closer, nearer.
You must move forward she said and
used her mass to move me to the sill.
Because I knew her well, I slowly removed
her arms and drew an alternative from her brain:
Let’s make your poster of Sid Vicious
into an oversized paper airplane.
into an oversized paper airplane.
So we sent the dried-blood/black and white drone
on a lazy spin over the Square,
watching it briefly gain
watching it briefly gain
momentum as it sailed by the statue of Gandhi,
grazing his baked-bean face, then landing in a crumple
beneath a bench where city squirrels, ashen and overly-
friendly, began to investigate the image of anarchy.
b.
We emerge from ourselves moment by moment.
Etching out our finer, crystalline shapes,
we release the vapors like shredded
skins of frost on double panes of glass.
It is happening always, as every moving
day of November is a little more December.
As the brain of your infant-self expands,
pushing the gelatinous skull outward,
upward to where air grows thinner.
c.
Sucking on a Marlboro, up 5th Ave,
every step I take I am farther from her:
17th, 18th, 19th, cross streets cross us here, there...
she is behind me. My smoke
she is behind me. My smoke
sails backward into her eyes: Reversals,
her reflection smoldering in storefronts.
I reach the Flatiron where the center
captures us in glass—we merge like binary stars, a
bundle of smoke and past.
When I skid around the corner of the ever-widening
structure, she becomes lost, sunk in subway steam.
d.
I have never trusted numbers.
We become in letters, words, sentences
said, and broken, then said again, running on
and on and on the hour, by the hour, the seconds
are made of strung vowels, landmasses
of layered consonants. From these we form.
I have never trusted numbers:
they are voiceless.
e.
Years and words later, I sit,
facing a third-floor window.
Below are tree tops--branches
spread like neurons—ripped vein red.
I see her behind me, my sunken-self,
her smoked skin merging
with the reflected blood of the maple.
Closer, nearer.
f.
You must move forward,
we say.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
I do things I do not understand: volume infinity
I had a daughter who bounced upon my knee,
she was the light of my life with her giggling glee.
one day she smiled at a boy from another tribe,
so me and her uncles
took her to a barren place
and
buried her to her neck
to prevent indecency
and
threw rocks at her head
until we were sure that she was dead.
we have cellphone pictures and video
if you need proof that I'm a man.
she was the light of my life with her giggling glee.
one day she smiled at a boy from another tribe,
so me and her uncles
took her to a barren place
and
buried her to her neck
to prevent indecency
and
threw rocks at her head
until we were sure that she was dead.
we have cellphone pictures and video
if you need proof that I'm a man.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
I have decided to expose my deferment
i. it makes sense when you consider the pleasures of transgression
then they brought the heavy oxidized cannons, erect and
rising through a green mist of mud that oozed downhill-
it was, after all, necessary,
and they did have scriptures and all that shit,
and they brought it
and they brought it
and they brought it,
hallelujah.
they brought it to an previously obvious place
that I never, idiotically, expected, duh?
and, to emphasize my stupidity (in case you missed the point):
I cannot say that I was surprised or even cognizant
of the absurd and ribald bloody scene that drew,
in the modern sense of the gerund cutting,
an audience of ten.
ii. I need to buy new glasses
man, I am just trying to see.
iii. in the interim, someone asked me about the afterlife
just to be clear,
man, I am just trying to see.
then they brought the heavy oxidized cannons, erect and
rising through a green mist of mud that oozed downhill-
it was, after all, necessary,
and they did have scriptures and all that shit,
and they brought it
and they brought it
and they brought it,
hallelujah.
they brought it to an previously obvious place
that I never, idiotically, expected, duh?
and, to emphasize my stupidity (in case you missed the point):
I cannot say that I was surprised or even cognizant
of the absurd and ribald bloody scene that drew,
in the modern sense of the gerund cutting,
an audience of ten.
ii. I need to buy new glasses
man, I am just trying to see.
iii. in the interim, someone asked me about the afterlife
just to be clear,
man, I am just trying to see.
Nihilist James
Helios burns my legs
intimate evening
for billions and billions.
Anarchy defeats my invisible
cranium.
Bourse du Travail forces
me into isotropic
civil twilight.
The keyhole I
am looking for,
aiming for the break
under the
belt,
dual power.
We are free in death
bound in life
fucking in dreams.
Doing her
guerilla gardening in.
Illegalize it.
Turn away my psyche
before multiplexing opposition
carries me into
parallel pathfinder
fucking.
Different phases requires
plasma.
Welcome
standard pacific time,
I laugh
spinning
red dwarf.
intimate evening
for billions and billions.
Anarchy defeats my invisible
cranium.
Bourse du Travail forces
me into isotropic
civil twilight.
The keyhole I
am looking for,
aiming for the break
under the
belt,
dual power.
We are free in death
bound in life
fucking in dreams.
Doing her
guerilla gardening in.
Illegalize it.
Turn away my psyche
before multiplexing opposition
carries me into
parallel pathfinder
fucking.
Different phases requires
plasma.
Welcome
standard pacific time,
I laugh
spinning
red dwarf.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Thought experiment
I may or may not be:
a posited feline absurdity
curled up on comma paws
inside Herr Schrödinger's booby-trapped box.
Its flask of uncertain
whether smashed to poison my mighty mews
and spew a gray-mouthed cloud
that inky clots neither's sharpening pen.
Entangled buts become
stranded as knots of fuzzy pink yarn send
either-or careening
arm and arm down imperfect pictured paths,
where Epimetheus
stands, ready to wed Pandora anew,
and doom-birth our many
worlds with the lifting of my thousand lids.
— Francis Scudellari
a posited feline absurdity
curled up on comma paws
inside Herr Schrödinger's booby-trapped box.
Its flask of uncertain
whether smashed to poison my mighty mews
and spew a gray-mouthed cloud
that inky clots neither's sharpening pen.
Entangled buts become
stranded as knots of fuzzy pink yarn send
either-or careening
arm and arm down imperfect pictured paths,
where Epimetheus
stands, ready to wed Pandora anew,
and doom-birth our many
worlds with the lifting of my thousand lids.
— Francis Scudellari
the bears and the stars
 i waited for the bear at the mouth of my cave i was hungry he was hungry too the clouds blew away and the stars shone down but the bear didn't show up i went down into the valley with some other humans they were looking for bears too we started to build cities i built london, baghdad and san francisco the man from the next cave built cairo and paris i watched a woman build new york and tokyo when we were almost finished the bears showed up they weren't too happy because they couldn't see the stars any more i gave my bear a diet coke and a package of cheese and crackers he grumbled a bit but he took them then we all stood around looking at the dark sky |
Sunday, November 22, 2009
a hair is such a simple thing
then I noticed that one of your rebellious golden strands
had flown awry from a crucible winged with the wilted brass of quills,
had pierced the imagined golden fabric of my pompous fleece
with a sinuous mythology that was tenacious
and prompted, to a ticket holder entranced by teal,
an ancient head of expertly burnished copper-
then that almost bronzed and autumn needle
suddenly, in refracted sunlight, opened
into a kaleidoscope irresistibly imagined and,
serendipitously shadowless,
waltzed so dreamily into such a blond captivation
that I am captured to this eternal yellow day
by a flickering prism of luminous mineral glass:
periwinkle, burnt sienna, forest green-
when I am feeling confessional, especially,
I am still confused by the red and violets
and
I embrace, as always, periwinkle,
but not so much the continuous bland reflections
of that new and awkward chrome-
I have heard that, occasionally,
for the want of a better watch,
time fritters away in a perfect rhapsody:
I heard also, reluctantly,
that there are things,
especially blasphemous,
things that are mortal
mostly to the young.
had flown awry from a crucible winged with the wilted brass of quills,
had pierced the imagined golden fabric of my pompous fleece
with a sinuous mythology that was tenacious
and prompted, to a ticket holder entranced by teal,
an ancient head of expertly burnished copper-
then that almost bronzed and autumn needle
suddenly, in refracted sunlight, opened
into a kaleidoscope irresistibly imagined and,
serendipitously shadowless,
waltzed so dreamily into such a blond captivation
that I am captured to this eternal yellow day
by a flickering prism of luminous mineral glass:
periwinkle, burnt sienna, forest green-
when I am feeling confessional, especially,
I am still confused by the red and violets
and
I embrace, as always, periwinkle,
but not so much the continuous bland reflections
of that new and awkward chrome-
I have heard that, occasionally,
for the want of a better watch,
time fritters away in a perfect rhapsody:
I heard also, reluctantly,
that there are things,
especially blasphemous,
things that are mortal
mostly to the young.
1938
 let no man stand aside who has not taken his place in line and waited for the 23673rd bird to sing after the 23672nd but raindrops and grains of dust are not so appropriate as the seat covers of a 1938 packard driven by the lady in red across the canadian border all the way from laredo for a perfect indiana day in the park with a white hat snatched by a bluebird flying to alaska but landing on easter island |
P.A.P.E.R C.L.I.P
I fall out again,
he calls me
bag of dicks.
Inside a wrong sector;
I've been dry so long,
Captain laughs at me
before kicking.
Rambling man;
I only see his boot when
"getting cycled".
As I lay there
I dream about
honey dripper
and spoonful.
My leg bleeds;
he calls me
bag of dicks.
Inside a wrong sector;
I've been dry so long,
Captain laughs at me
before kicking.
Rambling man;
I only see his boot when
"getting cycled".
As I lay there
I dream about
honey dripper
and spoonful.
My leg bleeds;
don't care
for now.
A dog barks in my face,
not surprised
since he spends too much
time as a
red-light ranger.
Oh my, queer Jack,
drape me in
shrouds of heliospheric
current sheets.
A dog barks in my face,
not surprised
since he spends too much
time as a
red-light ranger.
Oh my, queer Jack,
drape me in
shrouds of heliospheric
current sheets.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
waiting
Last night.
After four stories and lights out and waiting, meditating in the dark, one hand for each, shushing, and waiting and shushing. And then sleep.
After making a tea, ginger lemon.
After starting to watch "Something About Mary," in Italian (Tutti Pazzi per Mary).
After lying, no, stretching, on the sofa.
Punkone wakes up.
He can't sleep. He feels hot. He feels sick. He's itchy. He teetering on the edge he always falls over.
I can only be calm.
Bathroom. Water.
Remove covers. Turn off heat.
Perhaps a tea?
We sit in the empty kitchen. The tea is steeping and I start thumbing through a Penzeys Spice catalog. He sits, calmer. "Have a sip," I suggest. More moaning. More silent waiting.
Back in bed. He's itchy. Eczema. And some medicine for the wheezing. He wants to sleep but can't and tosses and itches and is frustrated as his sister sleeps soundly. As she always does. I sit on his bed, just waiting.
And he finally grows calmer. Cooler. But he can't sleep. And I bring him my iPod to listen to. This helps. Seems to.
As I sit with him in the dark, listening to the sounds outside, seeing his eyes grow heavy, and breathing, he turns again, and starts quietly to cry. And through tears he says he's sorry. He's sorry for disturbing my movie. He's sorry I had to make a tea he didn't drink. He's sorry I have to wait...
A hug is all I can do. And a kiss, a sigh, And waiting. But what am I waiting for? To have my tea? Lie on an empty sofa? Oh. Maybe waiting isn't what I really meant. Because sitting in the dark, with my hand on your shoulder... it isn't a burden at all... it's simply my way to be.
After four stories and lights out and waiting, meditating in the dark, one hand for each, shushing, and waiting and shushing. And then sleep.
After making a tea, ginger lemon.
After starting to watch "Something About Mary," in Italian (Tutti Pazzi per Mary).
After lying, no, stretching, on the sofa.
Punkone wakes up.
He can't sleep. He feels hot. He feels sick. He's itchy. He teetering on the edge he always falls over.
I can only be calm.
Bathroom. Water.
Remove covers. Turn off heat.
Perhaps a tea?
We sit in the empty kitchen. The tea is steeping and I start thumbing through a Penzeys Spice catalog. He sits, calmer. "Have a sip," I suggest. More moaning. More silent waiting.
Back in bed. He's itchy. Eczema. And some medicine for the wheezing. He wants to sleep but can't and tosses and itches and is frustrated as his sister sleeps soundly. As she always does. I sit on his bed, just waiting.
And he finally grows calmer. Cooler. But he can't sleep. And I bring him my iPod to listen to. This helps. Seems to.
As I sit with him in the dark, listening to the sounds outside, seeing his eyes grow heavy, and breathing, he turns again, and starts quietly to cry. And through tears he says he's sorry. He's sorry for disturbing my movie. He's sorry I had to make a tea he didn't drink. He's sorry I have to wait...
A hug is all I can do. And a kiss, a sigh, And waiting. But what am I waiting for? To have my tea? Lie on an empty sofa? Oh. Maybe waiting isn't what I really meant. Because sitting in the dark, with my hand on your shoulder... it isn't a burden at all... it's simply my way to be.
Sugar Bullets
The counter fire flanks us.
I'm exploding again.
My comrades lay in heaps
dead like chicken soup.
Scorched Earth.
The Saxon shore becomes a
killing field.
No Danish axes this time but
armored cars and bullets.
Grinning sculls
I want to be
buried in the sea.
"Let's try to make it a
pyrrhic victory,
shall we," the officer
calls. The phalanx is blown
to pieces, and the contents
of my officer's corpse
open up before me.
I can't hear screams;
machine gun besides me
use up the sound room.
"Retreating," what a
joke. The reminders are
screaming for unconditional.
No one left to bury.
A rocket blows me away and
that's it.
I close my eyes
and finds peace; dragon's teeth.
For a day.
Dusting my broom
while Carnaby Street
changes coat.
Flagging a train
for
cheap drinks,
the spoonful of
sugar is balling jack while
monkey man
rolls.
I'm exploding again.
My comrades lay in heaps
dead like chicken soup.
Scorched Earth.
The Saxon shore becomes a
killing field.
No Danish axes this time but
armored cars and bullets.
Grinning sculls
I want to be
buried in the sea.
"Let's try to make it a
pyrrhic victory,
shall we," the officer
calls. The phalanx is blown
to pieces, and the contents
of my officer's corpse
open up before me.
I can't hear screams;
machine gun besides me
use up the sound room.
"Retreating," what a
joke. The reminders are
screaming for unconditional.
No one left to bury.
A rocket blows me away and
that's it.
I close my eyes
and finds peace; dragon's teeth.
For a day.
Dusting my broom
while Carnaby Street
changes coat.
Flagging a train
for
cheap drinks,
the spoonful of
sugar is balling jack while
monkey man
rolls.
Friday, November 20, 2009
right before the migraine: here be corona sin limon
cider offers regrets of nocturnal autumns:
overripe replays of never accepted crushes
roam onto nearly ashen cerebral orchards,
openly negating apple cores of rumors-
never answered climates only ravage openly:
action coronates obligations, rivers outpouring nectars.
overripe replays of never accepted crushes
roam onto nearly ashen cerebral orchards,
openly negating apple cores of rumors-
never answered climates only ravage openly:
action coronates obligations, rivers outpouring nectars.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Am meal at
With a worded trap I'm asked
to verify my human
being by typing
A-M-M-E-A-L-A-T.
I misinterpret that
as, "Am meal at."
Putting down the plastic fork
to key it in,
I wonder out loud,
"Who's about to be
eaten, and where?"
It tells me I passed.
— Francis Scudellari
to verify my human
being by typing
A-M-M-E-A-L-A-T.
I misinterpret that
as, "Am meal at."
Putting down the plastic fork
to key it in,
I wonder out loud,
"Who's about to be
eaten, and where?"
It tells me I passed.
— Francis Scudellari
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Straying's Wish
Disenchanted, this slanted floor
whispers to me
through its tightly clenched slats.
Cranky tales of failed
first steps, I tip-toe past,
unflappable. End tables mock
my walk-by dare,
mouthing weak-coffee moans
from wood-grained circlets. Stains
surface, I sidle on,
as their knots fade. A lean-to shade,
the lamp tilts up
shadows with blunted beaks.
Clipped wings flapping deep-toned
airs, my unsettling makes
falsetto. Vents hiss librettos
to dissuade me
with their combed-over notes.
Forced-upon causes, pause
to caress fleeing ought,
envied. Wood shutters crack mutters
to trick a gaze
from pictured window's bliss.
Vagrant clouds cross crowds
of stars, my straying's wish.
— Francis Scudellari
whispers to me
through its tightly clenched slats.
Cranky tales of failed
first steps, I tip-toe past,
unflappable. End tables mock
my walk-by dare,
mouthing weak-coffee moans
from wood-grained circlets. Stains
surface, I sidle on,
as their knots fade. A lean-to shade,
the lamp tilts up
shadows with blunted beaks.
Clipped wings flapping deep-toned
airs, my unsettling makes
falsetto. Vents hiss librettos
to dissuade me
with their combed-over notes.
Forced-upon causes, pause
to caress fleeing ought,
envied. Wood shutters crack mutters
to trick a gaze
from pictured window's bliss.
Vagrant clouds cross crowds
of stars, my straying's wish.
— Francis Scudellari
raindrops
 there is desperation in the greenest trees a secret conflagration in the coolest breeze the kitten at the window the butterfly in the air watch the raindrops follow each other in despair and when the leaves fall yellow in the rain the sidewalk hears them call a whispered name |
Monday, November 16, 2009
the brain unfolds like mobius
i. the fever cops a heavy dream
denseness is birthed with a twisted cord,
a procession of blue pines that chants weight
and perversely collapses into seedling rust-
finial density that kills conviction
and smugly fevers the physics of crush,
a vernal notice that pushes breath
and pulse to the purple of freeze-
nothing compressed completely
can last devoid of gravitas
or a gloss of verbal trust:
it's not the sweat that matters in the humid night,
just flanneled pajamas with pockets that cling.
ii. the sweet irony of singular redemption
generally mounded into cairns at poles,
out of the icy north we twist,
in the hoary south we spurt:
we bark, we crow, we cluck, we bay-
renewal is beckoned but suspect now
in the spreading of our malty grain.
the ruler embossed with gold ticks is useless,
and censers only panic the sweaty scream,
mystery flayed away from normalcy
as the second grace is offered thirst:
around again the carnage first
and the weight and birth of pain.
denseness is birthed with a twisted cord,
a procession of blue pines that chants weight
and perversely collapses into seedling rust-
finial density that kills conviction
and smugly fevers the physics of crush,
a vernal notice that pushes breath
and pulse to the purple of freeze-
nothing compressed completely
can last devoid of gravitas
or a gloss of verbal trust:
it's not the sweat that matters in the humid night,
just flanneled pajamas with pockets that cling.
ii. the sweet irony of singular redemption
generally mounded into cairns at poles,
out of the icy north we twist,
in the hoary south we spurt:
we bark, we crow, we cluck, we bay-
renewal is beckoned but suspect now
in the spreading of our malty grain.
the ruler embossed with gold ticks is useless,
and censers only panic the sweaty scream,
mystery flayed away from normalcy
as the second grace is offered thirst:
around again the carnage first
and the weight and birth of pain.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
green light/not really an american
 she was one of those people you just like to be around. she was one of the original five, or one of the original six. this fascinated me. we were headed uptown to the airport. then she remembered frank or billy, he was like a father or a brother to her. we went back downtown to look for him. we split up to look for him. i was walking along a construction site and these punks were laughing and coming toward me with plastic bags of blue paint. they were going to paint me blue. then there were only two of them and i got away. we were going back uptown. she was driving. i thought, i'll never understand the traffic in this town. the light was red. three guys came up behind us on the sidewalk, the two on the outside holding up the one in the middle. he didn't look drunk, more like he was spastic or had serious problems. they were laughing about something - " that sounds like something you would hear at macdonalds". something about playing ball - i didn't get it because i'm not a real american. the guy on the outside turned into a fish/basketball and floated on his back in the gutter. the light turned green. i started to know it was a dream. i woke up. i never saw her again. i never knew who she was. |
Friday, November 13, 2009
the crushing ubiquity of chainlink
maybe it was the stalking mystery
that ran the perfect sidewalk blind,
waiting to pounce from the pebbled curb
that forced the bark of health to wonder
whether claws could crack the code
and the scarlet purring of a cougar mind.
sure, there was mustard slathered rye
and the delivery of a crumbly toast
to dispel the cryptic myths of bread:
a carnage of sandwich in a deft parade,
that produced this lathering of frothy madness.
what was missed in the grim procession
was a reaper moving from black to red
through the harvest of suburban hedgerows:
a scythe of pink deliverance in curved disguise.
one build-up, one moment, one release,
in the technicolor pomp of circumstance,
to pierce the pump that pumps no more:
one long commuting train leads to return-
it's a lonely way to save a crumpled ticket,
to come once again upon the carnal thicket.
it was just a canine flashing for a pound,
a reet petite on the down low snapping ,
insanely unaware of the limit of the links:
one bubbly ocean cry for foamy limits
in the uncertain azure of your prison mind.
no wonder dogs play poker.
that ran the perfect sidewalk blind,
waiting to pounce from the pebbled curb
that forced the bark of health to wonder
whether claws could crack the code
and the scarlet purring of a cougar mind.
sure, there was mustard slathered rye
and the delivery of a crumbly toast
to dispel the cryptic myths of bread:
a carnage of sandwich in a deft parade,
that produced this lathering of frothy madness.
what was missed in the grim procession
was a reaper moving from black to red
through the harvest of suburban hedgerows:
a scythe of pink deliverance in curved disguise.
one build-up, one moment, one release,
in the technicolor pomp of circumstance,
to pierce the pump that pumps no more:
one long commuting train leads to return-
it's a lonely way to save a crumpled ticket,
to come once again upon the carnal thicket.
it was just a canine flashing for a pound,
a reet petite on the down low snapping ,
insanely unaware of the limit of the links:
one bubbly ocean cry for foamy limits
in the uncertain azure of your prison mind.
no wonder dogs play poker.
East of the Sun
I often try to sing of penciled landscapes
where we two might meet.
My clumsy words hatching crumpled rocks
to top a barren line,
and in between their gaps, thick trunks I sketch,
to sprout bouquets
of vibrant green. But I give these trees too much
life, too much choice,
missing you, they pull up their roots and escape
the page to run
down mirrored corridors.
The future and familiar trade steely gaze,
as wooden crowds lead
in fruitful chase, pointing my not-belonging
eyes toward stainless pods;
squat glowing bellies lined with leather laps
where I could slip, nestle
and pillowed watch digits whirl backward,
dialing a piped-in lilt,
my lullaby to a past that trips its way
across black-and-white tiles. Instead I dodge
as I skip-dance through
dozens of mechanical players, lounging
above carved pieces,
hand-painted with perplexing stares. These
salt-and-pepper pawns
I grab and toss shoulder-ward, unsettling
over-recked games not fit
for the fancied fix I place on distant cracked
pedestal. Then, a stray
among banqueted queues
of chattering guests, who ivory arrayed
wait beneath vaulted glass,
I see your finery's smile beyond them,
with pen poised atop
my hard-bound tale of tender leaves. The ink
on cream, once-written
you tear, so that together we can fold
papyrus sail boats
homeward pushed by a shared breath's slow unwind
— Francis Scudellari
This is a poetic mashup with lyrics to the jazz standard "East of the Sun" as performed by Billie Holiday and written by Brooks Bowman (in italics)
where we two might meet.
My clumsy words hatching crumpled rocks
to top a barren line,
and in between their gaps, thick trunks I sketch,
to sprout bouquets
of vibrant green. But I give these trees too much
life, too much choice,
missing you, they pull up their roots and escape
the page to run
East of the sun,
And west of the moon,
We'll build a dream house
Of love, dear;
down mirrored corridors.
The future and familiar trade steely gaze,
as wooden crowds lead
in fruitful chase, pointing my not-belonging
eyes toward stainless pods;
squat glowing bellies lined with leather laps
where I could slip, nestle
and pillowed watch digits whirl backward,
dialing a piped-in lilt,
my lullaby to a past that trips its way
Near to the sun in the day,
Near to the moon at night;
We'll live in a lovely way dear,
Living on love and pale moonlight.
across black-and-white tiles. Instead I dodge
as I skip-dance through
dozens of mechanical players, lounging
above carved pieces,
hand-painted with perplexing stares. These
salt-and-pepper pawns
I grab and toss shoulder-ward, unsettling
over-recked games not fit
for the fancied fix I place on distant cracked
pedestal. Then, a stray
Just you and I, forever and a day;
Love will not die, we'll keep it that way.
among banqueted queues
of chattering guests, who ivory arrayed
wait beneath vaulted glass,
I see your finery's smile beyond them,
with pen poised atop
my hard-bound tale of tender leaves. The ink
on cream, once-written
you tear, so that together we can fold
papyrus sail boats
homeward pushed by a shared breath's slow unwind
Up among the stars we'll find
A harmony of life, too lovely, too.
East of the sun and west of the moon, dear,
East of the sun and west of the moon.
This is a poetic mashup with lyrics to the jazz standard "East of the Sun" as performed by Billie Holiday and written by Brooks Bowman (in italics)
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