Travel Signs

When tired, calculate

2012-02-15T13:07:00.000-08:00

Stabilize circumference matrix transformations for rotations to detourne
turbulence. Stable marks for gun-shot; races, sprints, blood
pounding up from hoof and into heart beat down again, thud.
Spin the races wracking & leap long falling to, fingerly, miss

Catch instead the glitch notched in jitters up or down till the belt
loop snugs neckly. Long to linger, each finger flips or toggles
in the precise language of mechanics and judo and percussion -
which is not music. Music is the lungs, and remembering how
your whole body is for running, and for squeezing out with that
belt.

Falling, positively derive, and mathematically jerk, precisely described,
circumscribed in numbers remembering each small twist by matrix, a final
drop in the spiked 3rd derivative, a moment crystallized in mechanics so
staccato that, almost, a discord can imagine. But it is not music and
drumbeats stutter, slow

tomorrow morning confined to graph paper, and plucked
point by point map from threespace this holographic universe
flat in the singular whole, holes flushed to points and lines and
on one plane only creeping with maniac worms or stared
at by cosmologists forever.

Ornithology

2012-02-08T17:29:00.000-08:00

all yawn the mouth and puffed with berries
with the cloud spout shuffling
and the mouth has kissed and burnt itself slight with white steam
left a linger to be puffed
and the taste of red-clay

Remember all kinds of birds stacked in bookshelves and
crammed down alleyways and the feathers are all berry-hued
or plain white in coats and always pushing through

cataloging sheets of beaks and chirps stuck on pages or pulled
to other countries than their own, cataloging currents of remiges, and rectrices, and coverts
and all too streamlined to be held but by the wind

and fingers coax, stutter, and pluck, reddining
note by note and the puffed yawn, mouthed round berries
bobbled and jostled. Dropped tones spun in octaves smelling of the sear
of mouth flesh and it hurts to not know how, just yet, to remember
cracked stalactites and ice of the body crafted over amphetamine momentum

coiled about in copper spins

2011-12-15T12:13:00.000-08:00

Arbitration is a tire iron twisted

is wrenched like flashlight through prism-glass
is a science experiment cut in thin layers and drip-soaked in formaldahyde
and on display like a caged crawling man covered in fur faking
a tiger too pathetic to be turned out when the rot set in
and where are his teeth? Turned out by the hard thrusts of compromise
splintered in bone-wheel brackets from iron torque
and on the tip of the tongue a screw to tighten
each night another half tone towards slyence

is it quiet or simply supersonic a hard frequencing quivering
out and above the range of my lemur ear, my codfish eye, what
is this empty socket spun full of gray-matter skeins till not a spot
of light can be left

right down the center, strike an axe, strike an axe and crack the glass watch the beads of perspiration
and blood bustle in cosmopolitan minglings across the face of your emergency

the color of your right eye, when it is alone in the dark.

Capacitance

2011-11-08T20:06:00.000-08:00

Tongue tied tight, knot slipped, slick words a-tumble
tripping answer by stilt, by silt, by the slippery clay --
would that each enumeration stumbled so well.

Behind, staccato like changing minds,
staggered power-train tempos (catching heart-stutter, breathe pretty now)
and slips spinning off in violent loops and cluster-
cudgels blowing back macadam and bones beneath.

intended. precisely placed.

Between.
anesthetic and aesthetic an-aesthetic
governed by:

At the time of slaughter, animals should be healthy

and psychologically normal. For the immobilization of bovines

a blow to the skull with a large-sized hammer is still

being practised, in particular in developing countries.

The method requires only manual force, no maintenance

of equipment or spares as cartridges, and is therefore cheap.

wanton is a calibration table.
ticked each linear, regressing towards tacit disagreement.
gap for quiet, like a capacitor - two hands not quite clapping
each almost building becomings. When mouths empty echo
chambers with momentum inauspicious and deafening
on the thunderroom, a blanket on wormed wool, a
pillow for

spread wide
and full up of torque, angular momentum, spin
entangled till everything is one ugly quantum knot,
collapsing a moment's moment from absolute zero
a tick, miscalibrated kelvin

what did you expect?

2011-11-02T17:33:00.000-07:00

You are the wrong colour. You grin too much
and when your teeth are fiercely cavitied, filled up
with rot, almost black almost full of everything and
I want to compress you. I want to press you down (all
carbon anyway) to some diamond point and sell you
on the black market. I want to imagine that each person
is worth the value of their carbon-constituent diamond and
that maybe even diamond mines are just great graveyards and
battlefields and piles of wealth-from-slaughter. I want to
imagine that there are only blood diamonds.

You are the wrong colour and you talk too much and your
ears are whistling with the hollows of your skull and when
tomorrow talks to you, tells you your time and touches your tongue
with pretty words you are just a conch shell, you are just the
sounds of the ocean formed from a pretty hollow shape, you
are just stutters and echoes, vibrations and reflections, blusters
boiled and shuffled into seeming sense.

You are the wrong colour with your tin skin, your mottle, your
scab-calico, and you track me with your automaton eyes in feedback
loops that make me stutter and make me limp and hurt me in the teeth
like ice cubes or ice picks and you remind me of fondue but a horrible
giants fondue with platelets packing into rafts and dotting darker each
terrible dip of bone bread and I do not imagine you with your
horrible empty skull and your stupid smile and your left handedness. I know
you are left handed because you are not me and I am not left handed and
I know that.

Atunement

2011-10-26T18:58:00.000-07:00

On the colour:

I am browned and pocked, dotted with scab, scarred, white-pink puckers touring each skin. calico, a mottle of blood and mud clotting spotted in asphalt specks.

Would-be catalog:

1. right ankle, kicked
2. left ankle, turned, yesterday, favoring right down a crooked stair
3. thumb swells tender
4. and red sharp, like drying, like a cold-split lip

Here are my smallest promises. Here is a trick to remember my name.
And each correspondence drifts two closer, coordinating responses, collaborating
on what is real between them, what is one current creeping, or
the thrum of not-yet-tuned, between two strings - a dissonance bead
beating ever slower.

Oubliette

2011-09-15T14:54:00.000-07:00

Still is an awning, untroubled by wind.
Every stroke, each heavy line, pushed blackly
thorough in ink. Am fleckwards, am opened
rib by rib and under belly bloat a deep
well for the brush, a fecund hollow bearing
whole-cloth each image exposed by bristle and
canvas commingle.

Still is old cloth, now crumpled. Owl sounds
lowing up from canopy, sunk below sunlimned
surface. Sea-shade sloughs the last light,
wave caressed away by wind through
bird-frothed branches, coaxing down night.

But what in this dark sub-terre? Whorled
crystal, or the spark of sanguine tectonics,
or in inch-worm intervals, through from
tabled sound and outer tones elbowing
so slow great tunneling branches outstretched
amazon oeuvre, each missionary tangle
building in earth-brown cathedrals from filament
to fistule to, loam scent spilling, pillars of oaken
puissance many miles deep. What Kraken forest
under the earth, where each secret limb
lips up moisture and marries with boulders
breaking off slow children once every century
to roll one foot, or four, and then still.

Giants Orbiting

2011-09-11T20:37:00.000-07:00

Wind stroke wing stoked flame knotted in wind. Tangled and
taught swiftness by rote. Though tugged with tumult, tower
slung like rigging over the splay of land. On the wind is
too hot breath, is breaking tones and the clamour of chimes
or shatter?

What lungful? Each day a full billow blast borrowed against
the clock, a rhythmic hour, a lock step of century looming
and one garden planted with sundials and stone faces watching
the traffic of a single great flame where tracks turmoil.

Still, in the summer linger there is an undawn, and its sinking
face shades and shadows insolently, covering mouths gapped
with pleasure, or furtive hands, or a simple mixing of tongue
and cheek, a poured drink spilling over in festival froth.

DId I stutter?

2011-08-22T18:05:00.000-07:00

liftup throats speak without rote write rhythms with cough

and throatrasp

cut spitting with notes and smacked track lines down like

vinyl trim, cut deep, whipped in circles, screech scratch

repeat

like throats speak kitch clips and grasp passing like a hungry

cough, spasming up soundful and eager for the world

a birthing, a cacophone spirit to eat up healthful air

Latch left open. Is it a beckon? In slips still sticking licks

lipping and all

Another memory cannot be unsaid or the grey lines webbing

to thought on synapsed silica still membered but better dis, better

un.

like a drum, like a broken guitar, like a conveyer belt snapped and

stuttering in terrible strikes tearing and torquing and covered in blood

this tongue this never-unsaying

cuts as into vinyl vicious enumerations:

1. < a name should not be written >
2. < this worlds materials are caltrops or, perhaps, cannon lined before me >
3. < no northwest passage, and when it comes, descendants watch with fear >

Moments later, I fell again and was flattered

2011-08-14T18:59:00.000-07:00

Were wires slipknot stuck, slipped in twists, cracks, crevices
left like leaves on back-alley macadam or like strips of grass
pushing up through concrete and where wire whips there too,
humming in machine tongue, march bits breaking faster.

I am wing-torque, tipping, tumbling to stall seven thousand
feet above wherever, and when there is no nose to pull
into the wind, wherever whips up faster and finds
pilots praying or posturing or I once heard them contemplating
their wish to know the place they were soon to meet, and to
fill their heads with fantasies etching lives into the corn fields
and small farms that they soon furrowed - a small creation given
without remorse as a dying trust to my careful abstract ear.

When spun so fine, dust ekes or carouses or slinks or settles with
each separate abandon hidden and still life stammers into muffled
radiance where each separate mote mottles in time - despite painters
preference, so that there will be movement even there, still, and perhaps
tarnishing the colors themselves will trapped embers of passing
preserve and stare out on those who stare and wonder what was
down the hall, or by the window, or under the lamp light, to give
shadow and stalling colour just so.

Historiography

2011-08-04T06:55:00.000-07:00

Showed a crawlspace sloping down to floor level, below,
to transactions limnlight spinning exchanges of spiders
and small things each million legs lifting gossamer by
another candle. Showed with care the fragile link, kink
of knee where joint locks land last.

A snapshot stolen at the intersection of two stories, where
one man stammers in time to Tommy/where one man, stumbling
home, slips in slick too red
Is there remembrance or is it the hoarders impulse only?

Showed a snapdragon mouth lipping carefully a childs finger and
what flower shows such soft hunger, but damaged by rain
another time it will flow up from its roots and be but another
muddy corpse.

overfull

2011-07-28T14:13:00.000-07:00

On the point of my turn where the last finger of Hellen's hand slips
from the recessed corner of my eye and before me sits the sturdy
Stephen and slim Samantha stirs against him and am I ever going to be
free of you all? is it a rhythm of face and hands and every clutter another
bump and there are all conjoined and too many conjunctions clumping
my view with bodies and brought on by overcomfort and unlonely and
there again I have said too many things together but am I am or we and
where we are is whisped and warbled as if by bird tongues early morning
or with sunset blush and do not remind me of night where y/our bodies
press and push and every day I am less myself and more ourselves slipping
cell by cell into union and perversely I think harder on my single and self
filled with other hands and hearts and thoughts muddled and lapping the shores
of eachother like sand slipped out to sea one night and gone forever to the
fullness of the bottom, tied grain by grain to its old place and
tracked in currents

write the sounds of recovery

2011-07-18T20:55:00.000-07:00

limned in hums, rushes, buzz-snaps sutured from spark and the stammer of
just-stilled strings shrouded in their own cast off so shifts the air hollow with

held-air, a sucklung full, a belly-gasp garbled in wound and, quieted, the
soft thud of a leaking held shut, teeth teaching discipline to chin mouth taught
and tongue tucked safely (for now) tucked behind rows and rows redundant
as sharks and as sharp

swallow, rattle, whimper, where once tracked toe and tread together there
now hums only a mechanical threat, a bird braced braked and brought to bear
without one foot foreign

trace where lines light limning launch and perhaps there will be no sounds this time
perhaps there will be finally quiet on the rattle planet
as one more gear goes smooth and stops

2011-07-16T21:28:00.000-07:00

I have a mouthful of stars.

When I chew, they burn my tongue and break my teeth and I have learned to tolerate their touch on my tongue so I can maneuver them, burning just the necessary number of taste buds, out of the way of my food, to hold them back from my throat as I swallow.

When I speak they spill out and foam and froth about my words and melt them together or slag them entirely or set off catastrophic reactions that bust word into word and smashing fuse or fis all meanings imploding and exploding like popcorn and gushers and tents taken down at the end of a trip and when they are done my poor words limp and crawl or lumber in their misshapen forms into some semblance of what I had tried to say around the stars in my mouth about the stars in my mouth, which are even now spilling out and boiling ponds of spittle and burning grasslands and dry forests all across the american southwest and these stars in my mouth are terribly expensive and each is filled with diamonds and you cannot have them.

On Trajectory

2011-06-30T12:18:00.000-07:00

Tort: grievous mention as sallow sweeps the
face another dawn dribbled over.

Whether weather signs chemical showers or
slips to staccato hail, whimpers will waft an
other orbit to star shrieking satellites.

Great and small, all creatures creeping but
a mm frequency from microwave, infrared, the
ultraviolent twitched and spun looming up
skeins of radio-signal bought and sold.

Inertia building borrowed from time to time on
largess licensed tomorrow for today an
other stutter triptonguing staggered steps like
burrowed ants earthquaked to each other's levels
lanced grasswise looming dew drip dropping
to mouth to mudden and drown.

Deep in ground
transmit rhythms rock
myth signal
called by cellphone
to sick sky stars

St. Joseph's Hospital

2011-06-28T07:21:00.000-07:00

Fastened by slat-light sheaves pinioned in
splay thrum the wounds exposed. Thrum the
windows with the pressure air, thudding air
like thunder skims pond surface, pushes
down bullfrogs beneath the surface. Who
thump their throats in the shallows and
bubble up boils of tadpoles and bursts of
belches of water-ripple, not-sound.

Knight errant

2011-06-21T06:41:00.000-07:00

mace and ermine the fur swing and
slip and each tooth another long
story another scar for my inner thigh or
the palm of my hand

enough about me. there errant and
not losing so much as where the map
still is no more territory stretching to the
tattered edges of the land the parchment extends
spreads out over cliff faces and in
outdate, even antiquated, but I digress
needle and star and long lines scrivened to
mark circumference
spreading out over oceans
over "here there be dragons" over
empty empty lands seen once, on shipdeck
with a spyglass and a broken compass
and where these newfound lands that track out beyond the
burned maws and where the blustered
boy to brain them, carry their flesh back to feast,
and, flushed in vinyard volumes, mark the map to
history

I am tired and the stretch falls away, land long
lost though mapped and stretched and staid

Drums on the Far Shore

2011-06-15T12:08:00.000-07:00

pooled ink pulses by tripped fountain pen
where in the air was that thud
heavy, laden almost with- and there pulses again
and almost rhythm almost tomorrow wrenched
through sound and siphoned to taut ear skin stretched

another word scratched, even etched, a heiroglyph to
distraction with each line a glance away and a slip
streamed from empty consciousness and not as Buddha would
in form, perhaps, this:

Thorns thrash. ash lips lift over brush fire tips
Tracked another outfit flutter with
wind expanding. Sound, slow to meet, now slips
lark tongues tremble now bowed. sound slashed myth

No? annotations tell of, well, crafthands marching over
pages, pulsing pressures on key and cranium and drumming
skulls and there it is again that creak sneaking over
water that wracks and warps with wind, waves on seabirds
to their nests, above the waterline. A scrawl of claw
marks, etchings submerged and blurred under ocean encroach
marred markings:

Thunders torn. taught and longing in measure
Hammers sweep the air and flatten sand shapes
orbits on longitude, birds cry pleasure
and fish glisten like live silicon apes

Candid and yet sly a balanced polit
Backing bluster and cracking chestnut jaw
thorns sucked thumb by bloody thumb, the dole it
cart by carted now wear and tear gun-law

no? clash another color, purple green and orange admixed
on the tide and is that ash the wind carries as far as
an unfinished poem
wired through bit breezes and lapped on each digit shore

My Apartment is Clean

2011-06-09T07:58:00.000-07:00

dusted, no motes idle,
catch, and flash when the sun
lances my window - its final
thrusts before evening leaving

Lazy Tides

2011-06-06T06:20:00.000-07:00

I don't read enough poetry, it's
easy to tell that reading perhaps
enough is not quite right, what is
enough but what I meant was poetry
is not always echoing about my head
and, well, sometimes it hurts to be
without words and when broiling in
brain play some thoughts think clearer
in a stew of sounds and syllables
cast by clearer tongues than mine

- a vein of ore pulsing with old thoughts calcified by time and culled of unsustainable sentiment -

But perhaps, on reconsideration, I find
that I am not just not reading enough
poetry, but also not thinking enough of
my own poems and saying enough of silly
rhymes and where o where are the notebooks
of my youth and why am I afraid to be trite
and why don't I take the time to mine

- the tongued tangle of sound pressed through the air on each meeting of people and pressing of hands and each whistle and pop of that most fascinating human organ, the mouth -

it's not the mouth though, is it? it's something
like the voicebox, like, hmm, vibration and sound
and wasn't it a swede who found all the shapes to
make each vowel. I wonder if poems are allowed
links. It seems like that would have been a good
place for one

On the end of poetry

2011-05-26T19:39:00.000-07:00

curled with veined tongue twisted
and another thing - I will talk with three mouths
creep, clutter, tongue touched stutter trip tagged
lip lagged - the definition of stutter tongue, which tongue
forked around the oldest flames and

was I subtle?

Nowhere whispered another airy echo and ellipses contaminate
those enclosed spaces tripped parentheticals all of grammar
collapsing under its punctuated weight and
another thing

was I bold?

bluster tongued badmouthed bullish and big what say you to that?
In triplines stepped and steeped looking long and laughing with
even those
who laughed when the dark was first being born from nothing and the
seas of shadow were finding within themselves shades of slightest difference
and what is least noticeable is the movement of an eye as it
crosses a line again and if I built all poetry I would cast that eye and
spasm it across each page and every eye would spin like stuxnets spinners
and cycle until, gasping, no reader nor eater would clutch fork to tongue
so surely again, kinesthetics aside what hammer would hit
an unseen nail so hard on its head so was I bold, was I subtle, or
are you just too tired to notice anymore?

Too Drunk to Sleep

2011-05-06T13:43:00.000-07:00

on another evening there was smokescreen

and sleep wiped like water with windshields until nothing but waking and darkness dwelt together

and in waking, darkness dreamt, and in darkness, waking wept, and so was kept the balance of things

though perhaps not quite balance

perhaps a grain of weight mislaid or a careless dullard denying the scale its daily maintenance

waking darkness dreamt and dreamt of darker things, and weeping wavers in the balance it brings

Tom Nikon. Tired, named for a lens he had nothing of and lost to an inheritance split too many times

It is a tired time Tom tells us, sitting with hand on camera lens and leaning forward, too close for telling of tales too far for touch or lipped tongue taste

It is a tired time and one empty of ambition

where few are willing and many are weak - flesh and spirit

and too Tom answers Mary Monet

who asks him

"But what of the new and unexplored

but what of me?"

Tom, taxed in twee response coaxes tired words to loss

and Mary Monet, who is not tired or twee, answers him unlovingly "Tom tired and taught, twee, unloved, untaught sleep now and do not bother me"

and where her words fell on his ears Tom felt he ought

and where her words fell on his ears Tom felt taught, stretched to breaking, unbreaking stretched to bending, unbending stretched to lord of infinite abyss and there to die, but for Mary Monet

who rescues with word play and crafts a seat of puns and net of nouns and sleeping cats and cradles, towns employed in lingering story stretching to the other shore the way of things on the sea to rhythms of wave and wind and Mary Monet with quiet content knows Tom has nothing and will soon be spent

as here, again, he goes

crying "I'm tired and out and roundabout and emptied through the nose, and when a husk, through myrrh and musk I'll leave and not suppose / that underhill and undersky and steep though course may be, a tired man with stewed brainpan will not a poet nor great bard be"

whiskey and toothpaste

2011-05-04T20:23:00.000-07:00

Tonight I poured a glass of whiskey

As I sometimes do on nights

And though I had looked forward to it

As I sometimes do on nights

I forgot it

As I brushed my teeth and minted and all and

annointed my tongue with Pyrrhic listerine recalling

peat moss by its total difference

So now, in bed, I sip some aged oak liquor and

write a poem about nothing at all

Caravans

2011-04-21T20:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight there is travel on the wind

and in the old earth there is stirring

sleep will drift and another wicked

wash of light and sound might

make an unexpected shift

inthick the trips and tacks caught one

and another and another like tongues

tied together by fumbled and

failing thought and when inthick the

slips lisp together and out

Wasted

2011-04-20T20:00:00.000-07:00

There are two few letters on myp keyboard and another time might mourn mmy finger's passing my misttype tonguelines tripped and wandered over clatter keys with one too few letters and symbols and unequivocally there notes and sings and zebra striped extractionsmock and mange the hallowed folds and I have used them all now. I have used each and every sound and crept in twos and threes and multiples and manifolds until the chimney weeps me up and out and I mispelt everything today and tomorrow and my hadnds dont remember thir right way and my veined hands dont recall the proper punctiuation or spelling or clatterstep is that the right work dclatterstep and another thousand tyupose from now where each hand strikes independent and loud and makes neat choreography on the clatterboard I possess another virtue, the virtue of distraction the virtue of you will always know the right name for this gift that I am ungiving and taking away the last words will leave you with just myp own and my own fingers formulated into refuse, language clutter and chaff

Made

2011-04-18T18:38:00.000-07:00

Matching is marking is craft and creeping and cold is a color
white is a winter long forgotten and since when is there
another bond that bites deeper and brings closer and makers
are finders of shapes things dreamt of being long before they
warped and lifted through branch and bow always thinking
of what craft hand will realize such seemings

Feelings fit better into baroque descriptions

2011-04-17T19:43:00.000-07:00

rupture tongues marking skylines sound shivers rumbling

masticated by moments of force crumple zones packing one into another

see inextricable babushka corrugated on lines long etched in engineering notebooks

collapse, creak, cornered

On another note there is distance and though heavy heads hang there rests both

above and below a viscous air abundant with buoyancy and bowing brings bower up

but still, what is a pain in the throat or an empty hand or an idle day spent walking

when in another colder country skies open only to sputter snow; leaving clouds conspire

with cancer

Stage I:

enclosed hard knotted in subtly damaged folds fermenting the flesh

Node:

in fistules reaching poison, fever flecked blood and bone brackwater

backed and too taste in mouth

Stage 3, 4:

If staged, exit left, no curtain fall and an audience sits until tired, disaffected

or empty themselves they walk, leaving one who may have fallen asleep

waking hours later to a lonely theater a spotlight shining on unattended

Finding door locked and alarmed is it guilt or wonder that prompts him

not to call but rather sit, still and staring in his lonely seat until morning

crawls from its heavy waters

2011-04-13T06:45:00.000-07:00

pencil scratchings pile slowly

at the foot of an easel growing

graphite grey with each flat

stroke and as each mark reveals

the minute contour of an

"empty" page of cracks ripples

warps and what would one

expect of an artist, but to

darken a page until anyone

can see what he knew was already

there

lapse

2011-04-10T20:28:00.000-07:00

I am all written and every word is a scrawl

and when black as birds are there are still grips

and canvases without a single stroke of flight or

feather and when too many conjunctions creep

together to glue down a page and crack and

crop and corrupt and and

and watching, watcher, is not the creeptone

trembling far enough? Are not the many

miles crawling with wires and coiled about

cold feet formula enough? And when

sleeping on evening air heavy with

cold stars and breezed over with

cannon sounds from indiantown gap,

is there anything

left to look at?

fabrication bias

2011-04-07T19:54:00.000-07:00

When I lie I lie with utmost confidence, knowing that
when I have said the right lie the right number of times
and have blessed it with bluster, a perfect smile, and
a canny crinkle to my eye I can know, it will come true
it will have been that way forever and the sayings I have
said untrue will all turn around and open up and be
(as they always were) real

I tell you this, and note my belief

sevenly

2011-04-07T08:16:00.000-07:00

kitted in crisp licks lacking luster or even creaked handles

where, once in languid splay there skittered and stepped

stones and flat bottomed they skipped and on the water

wrote circles that expanded until crossed and surfaced

with rippled crease the pondway warped into waft and

weave of little undoings, disturbances, in the small

peace where rock least recent stopped there sat the

seeming still and under it all skipping stones piled

A lake filled with smooth stones and young boys practicing

wrist-flick, stone lift, the sidearm and frisby, the

careful

communion of pressed fingers and the warmwet rock

a beach growing out of practice and as the water

slimmed and hid among the filling pebbles there skipped

stones in the tens and fifteens and, once, in the summer

of 96, Eric Martins counted 42 skips and his stone

spun all across the pond and pegged the far shore

and he marked the spot and kept his rock in his pocket

long after

On the order of

2011-04-05T18:41:00.000-07:00

In silicon spans, over gaps guarded by the boundary

conditions of physics and last september, when I

called you by your name and wouldn't look at you

I didn't mean my words, only their emptiness

and in cathode rays there were little sparks but now

pixels clean everything and decompose them down to

single-colored boxes for light

I am always amazed by how much green goes into faces

and how much yellow is in a summer sky

kited inch by inch against the wind would the stars remember

would they recognize old dust transformed and tracked

through void and pyre and plow and finally beaten into

clearing pipes to track away enough lines for finally fetching

lifting, and heaving to

Opening

2011-04-05T06:16:00.000-07:00

Warrens spill
My brothers and I have had another drink together and
if tomorrow is coming
it is coming to quickly and with the ominous rush of
skidding trains and a great
heavy front of air is pushing up against my face and
filling my nostril with
pretension... the scent of poetry
unable to write real webbing whorls of unready, tired,
too young

I am not old enough and may never be

Untended (warmup poem one)

2011-04-03T20:34:00.000-07:00

sound is split line by line

out of beowulf with seem

striped in neat typographic

casts, some printer placing

piece by piece, blocks of

poem and wondering what

monk mashed together this

song and story and made it

full of God and giftgiving and

why grendel, and his mother

and noise filled with pain for

the soft ears of some lonely

native all piled together to make

a diptych story tracking in parted

stanzas on a printed page the

creep from old gods to new

and through what door was

the break-in, and by who

Hum, for lack of a song

2010-11-08T21:18:00.000-08:00

Industrial Nomad - the shiver-shinned gypsy bluster-blown through smokestacks and red brick ruins, blackened

A cast of one. On another inroad, another shift of frame and through a heavy sky crashes, red-waddled, the rooster god.

As it is industry, the rooster god is headless and spouts in great ash flecked fountains the arterial blood that once powered its tiny seat of omniscience. In the sea of blood one might find some sign of sentience, some indication that the powerful heart of the titanic fowl sprays its contents with purpose and divine ingenuity for now the scene is painted red as a fur coat and draping its drippings as if curtains spread from stack to stack and all about the soot has fallen flat and been pulled from the air and the industrial nomad who, for lack of better occupation, begins to clean the side stacks with a lone mop and bucket, or perhaps a toothbrush, or perhaps a zamboni. Unlikely though it is, she soon has clotted all great gouts and in rusted piles stacked each platlette patty for the vultures of midday and morning-after to take up until, like a "turned" hotel room, all that is left is the uninhabited hollows of all these artifacts strewn about

2010-10-29T08:05:00.000-07:00

With wind crisped on finger tips and crystal crust thickening and each square foot another degree cooler another spreading of and cooling of and when I need to be empty I spread until I am zero degrees and everything stops and I fall apart into the densest clump and another thing, why are you trying to see through me?

Driftwood figures are fishes and carved like totems into the skin of and bones of and when I'm out of conjunctions I spit to stick my words together and when I can't walk no more I swagger so I don't stagger I can expand at a thousand feet per second I can spread until I am all around and when you seem to see through me it's just into the back of me again and why, really why are you doing that anyway?

Cranberry wine is the color of my secret which I have told to be vacuous and under ever meaningless word and into each empty phrase it breathes 0.001% of chlorine gas so no one man must be a mustard and I am not always breathing death. I think Smaug went flying because he was tired of the underside of the mountain and really didn't mind much that his horde was hobbitted and Another breastplate hole is filled when I am too tired to talk through things and even my autopilot poet cant find another word

Fiction

2010-05-26T13:12:00.000-07:00

On december 21st of the year of our lord 2017, the first frosts clumped and crystaled among stretches of silicon waste. The sun rose, and frost films warmed, melted, and evaporated. Left was a dry stretch of silicon waste.

Langley

2010-05-26T13:09:00.000-07:00

Will anticipate canonical agreggate nitpick corbotonic calcify model trap catalog of annum marble fascinate contour trench faulty tours trip down national anthem nobody needs this ninja

2010-03-14T21:51:00.000-07:00

Filled.

In the background I have taken to playing cliched music. It has a rough baseline and crunch guitar licks. SOme singer describes his angst in mildly obfuscated terms.

The even light is eeriest.

I see the signs and I wait still longer

2010-03-05T12:43:00.000-08:00

what color is cold on fingertip
tarmac
augury green
anesthetic seeps or drips
it never floods

When greeting the day
augury grey
another will creep and clip
a lock of morning
from your hair

In an Echo

2010-02-22T19:50:00.000-08:00

a turned wrist accounting for all
but one stretched tendon
its particular curl reconstructable
only in the event of
a more formidable turn of events
perhaps a twisted finger
or rapidly torqued thumb

I am still a Patriot

2010-02-09T17:14:00.000-08:00

flag snaps the air in anger
taught, its striped back stretches
furls
and springs, whipcord

were I still starred
and straight backed
coddled over the cobbled
streets of

were I still spangled
spattered with the
cold darts of winter
starlight

I would walk on the crisp ground
and leave heavy prints in crystal
and leave heavy water molten
and roiled in my heavy tread
and softly, stick swinging in arcs
once circumscribed by
Finn, and Saturn, and all those

you might remember what was said
when the first lines lashed
with this winded page
when the first lines lobbed
and lo'

there might be my shadow
there might be a ripple under my shadow
that twins me and my distortions and
there might be my shadows shadow, which is all light and
lingers on my back in brightness so I cannot see
it and my shadow but it
and my shadow steal glances
of one another over my shoulder
and play footsie beneath my feet

and, when I am distracted, I
think they hold hands behind me and
confuse the lovers of light
with their twined fingers of shimmer and shade

but I am not the only one

FYI

2010-02-06T20:28:00.001-08:00

So I'm doing a thing to make my writing better. Here is the thing.
Every week I'm going to write a couple poems. Every six months, I'm
going to publish a long posts with revisions of the past six month's poems.

Hopefully they will be less bad by the time they show up the second time.

This isn't the first time I've posted a bunch of revisions of previously posted poems, but before I had classes to motivate me to do so, whereas now I'm doing work that's about as far from poetry writing as can be reasonably imagined. Anyway, I hope it works.

bad poem 1

2010-02-06T20:17:00.000-08:00

In the awful hollows between
stars and planets, I wonder if there
is stretch, or torque, or some other
non-trivial force on
sedentary helium

which brings me round to my question.

In the spaces between
the breaths
of our
shared
sentence

what torrents and vortices have
coupled?

Perhaps another day will find us folded
or stretched like disks among the stars
as Aasimov imagined.

I am candid

2010-02-01T13:54:00.000-08:00

Dash and Clip
Collared.
On Aberdeen Avenue, at the intersection with the purple stoplight
but another time, maybe

full air

2010-01-31T17:27:00.000-08:00

The most important coffee invention of the 21st century.

Recommended by Experts.

When used properly, produces a remarkably good espresso-style coffee and an excellent American-style cup. In fact, it produces a better espresso-style coffee than many home machines that cost twenty or thirty times as much.

The most important Experts use properly.
When recommened, produce a remarkably good and excellent cup, in fact.
Better coffee. Many home cost twenty or thirty times as much.

What nipple of tongue tip. What track of the line.

Listed, shirked.

One day Experts will crave to be recommended, be left because they cost twenty or thirty times as much, will drink in the dark bitter draught of their, well.

A better espresso-style coffee than many.

someday-saplings

2010-01-19T21:29:00.000-08:00

Foulmouth, remember the
trip of tongue, the stale
taste

Not paired, or barely brusque,
bands of dark stone stumble
bads of brusque pears and peach pits
(bads: pl. groups of grotesqueries, holding not much appeal beyond the morbid)

With a thin knife, the slip-slit
with a snicker snack the apple, cored for consumption,
deprived of seed,
Reduced to fruit, food, from the pulpy womb of
someday-saplings

crisp, like the taste of autumn, and
like autumn, folded in faint must, is it strange
that while spring smells at first of rot and winter
stabs the nostrils with the blank tang of steel and
there is, about autumn, only the musk of age, as if
grandfather had empty his pipe all across the
summer and mothballed it to scent it (like he used
to do for our cedar linen chest) and winter
only came when Anya, the cleaning lady, lifted the
cushioned lid and emptying it sprayed febreze and
mint and bleached each
and
every
sheet blank

Brothers

2009-12-23T14:42:00.000-08:00

wind up
a deep breath
depth charges inhaled
exploded
exhaled
a quick belch burst from
not quite fear
from a belly weight of shared primordial soup
the sacred strings of A G T &c that
well, we are brothers

On the loft I count wingstrokes
count breezebreaths
count the tastes of the sky on my eyes
on my slipstream tumble

I have this ballast in my belly
I will not be rolled
I will not be rolled

Tonight when I "roll in" on four lumpy tires
sleep-eyed. I will not see them

Tonight, when I "crash" in mine, the third bed,
the welcome mat for each mornings sun-stretch,
I will not see them

And when morning comes a-crawling, a-clawing at
my sleepy eyes as it cat-stretches stark sun
over my pillowed head
I will perhaps not want to see them
I will, perhaps, turn over
cover my head with my old sheets
that used to be dinosaur sheets
that used to bulge under the deformed nose
of a purple pterodactyl, and the sickly
yellow of
well, they were perhaps an artists interpretation

But I will wake, eventually, and stretch as did the sun
and remember the bones of it all and see them, my brothers,
pillowed in their darker beds
where, perhaps, the sunlight has not quite yet come

Lingering

2009-12-22T10:23:00.000-08:00

Heavy, now, with stuttered steps
a syncopation of slip drag stick
and

Humming in the slightest shadows
hovering under frequencies tense
beneath the threshold of perception
beneath the warmth of a small hand
left like a paperweight
heavy as the last dark before birds
wake and warble

if the weather changed
if the slip slacked, stuttered

what make we of this? Which of these sentences tangle into the
triptych of turnkey pleasures, into the catacomb of cordial tongues,
into the tak-tak of skull thunder where each of these sentences tangle?

Another thrum modulates listening ear
more cracks than solid stones
A gore ring wraps, wrenches each
tone from tongue, each clipped
consonant from cut lip, each
drop of blood flecked from
chapped and charred mouths
menacing the crimson ground
till it is one mouth
one maw

Undersun

2009-12-17T07:40:00.000-08:00

In the belly of the burns
where, without subtlety, there are sick
thorns of fire, spewing and mawing and pawing
at pools and sunspots

Where thorns at click distance. Mouse hovering
flickering back. Recoil recording last minute
indecision. and here, in the belly, there clutch

tongue teams springing and spouting up tower walls
and burnrings spreading through london and chicago
and if spewed under sun, if thorned from click, if
recoiled in spews, clutch belly and paw

I iterate

2009-12-13T13:49:00.001-08:00

On water there is this to say
uncensor, unscreen unundo there is so much deleting
there is so much deleting I cant
ugh

There is a certain amount of text that comes from your fingers before you have a poem

There is a certain amount of text that must come from your fletched fingertips before they strike out, in tandem, a poem

In the clatter of fletching fingertips, poems
pressed, plucked, pummeled. I cannot write this yet

In the clatter of fletched fingertips. I remake myself streamlined
I remake myself cut from finest wood, smoothed to glass smooth surface, sanded
(sand and lighting make my smooth black glass, coarseness and cutline fire forming
fastened sheets of starred glass shard) Glass
is a metaphor for poetry as it
slowly seeps from seaming sharpness to soft amorphidity
look, now, at your windowpane. In a million million years it will
be a slumped glob of glint and glisten. remember wordsworth
I am unsharpened already.

If each poem packs printlines too dense to untangle from glass glob
if each poem prints packt lines, cluttered into
I break and fall, and
where is the structure to it all?

Back on Track

2009-12-13T13:48:00.000-08:00

I'm fed up with being so far behind on my poem a day schedule. I'm amping it up. I don't know if I'll make a poem a day, but I know I can do better than I'm doing now. Ready, set, poem.

from foreign shores

2009-11-13T12:53:00.001-08:00

There's not much to say, I think, that this light has not already shed
Its broken rays upon. Where in the spectrum is red

Telling Stories

2009-10-23T10:51:00.000-07:00

In the dusk of Sikasso, where the sun melts, rather than sets
there may have been three

There were certainly at least two, for one took from a
fold of cloth (un-ascertainably, but predictably, a pocket)
or other hiding space, a small caliber firearm and
with great precision, perforated the skull, heart, and left
kneecap of the other (in reverse order)

Investigations indicate that, though the setting was pastoral,
the crime was urban in origin, a dispute regarding
certain substances to be distributed in a proximate
city

The bullets were recovered. Interestingly, they
The bullets were recovered, deformed by their pilgrimage through
the bullets perforated the body with prejudice, but
we say there may have been three

what of the third? if we talked of him we would be merely telling stories

2009-09-30T13:25:00.000-07:00

Clasped. Shiver ways through liquored lines
long streams of steam and whiskey warped,
weft pulled and wrung around. Closely, observe.

In Amsterdam, on a may morning, perhaps just before 10,
there was a girl. She walked in two steps the length
of her shadow. In three steps the length of the length.
Craftily, deep in animal cunning, she clicked twice her heels
and held close. Another time, perhaps.

2009-09-23T07:08:00.000-07:00

When Maeve was seven her hair, lifted in circlets of stiffened tow
traced listed lines, circumnavigations of stars and stark
trims of tomorrow morning.

Now, she is sitting with back to blackened window glass as
stretched turns and , smooth , shudder , perhaps not smooth but rather
smoothed as oblivion edges out the harsher edges under its omnipresent
roughness as sickened, you no longer notice the line of spittle dripping
after torrents of

the water metaphors perhaps break down, but it is sure that she was not well.

2009-09-21T21:19:00.000-07:00

I hear waltz time trance, here in the walls
there transients they're licked for tricklines
summoned on stirred spindles on webworks of wave and wave in wave
cricked notions of still cracked them bent back them then
slept the water, slept the water slow and soft
swept the water, sweat, the water low about face and
fracture lines leaking salt, leaking into gore in the
morbid mass of
masticat and
clumped muscled law

Hollow Mouth

2009-09-20T12:48:00.001-07:00

Chords of Tongue in its echo chamber
against the sound of
stutters of
corded layers, lisped and scripted

in the thin film of the air, the
tone of - perhaps for a moment consider -
the beating of breath, almost too faint
almost a shimmer of substance a
monofilament of sensation slipping
this perhaps hollows the mouth further
and

entrapped exclamant. Cold in filters too
swift to follow swifts tumble in the overspace
in cathedral, in a vault of breath and
back, turned

A Lasting Committment

2009-09-14T14:28:00.001-07:00

am veins, etched to inverse arm
slipped like scratch-lines down
morning, vain, marks and slumps
lumps of knot. perhaps some new
intersection in the blood where
an overpass coil, a kinked hose
a tourniquet of twisted streams
in turn tourniqueted, too. torn

crimped in couplings of statosphere
what drip? what stut
terred
fall, flip
cups catalyzing, crisp, or perhaps
merely crusted, over rot that
seeps and eases into clouded threads

Arbitration

2009-09-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

Filament considered burnt when whisped to
an ash of light a cingle sinder snift from
centered darkness and
faded like a gel cut light line to
a single moment of data
a sharp sliver of - just barely -

A catacomb lifts up dark nights and dripped

Perhaps I should begin again

In a filament's fire symbols shiver out
in dust and ash and dripping wax symbols shiver out
In each line you misread, in the smith waterman of stars

I forget when thrip, drip, slip
I forged a symbol shivered in stone and out smith sharp silver into a single moment

2009-08-23T11:25:00.001-07:00

On the surface of the body
Wired and, naturally, twisted to the center
naturally, where the last
thorn of some slipped kingdom

Naturally there are ten drinks orbiting
an allopen mouth. Nicely, with clean
water, with clean
mouth, the clean
nights of marbled wind and waves
washing each other in salt and
saline silently sweeping, nicely
naturally

Molt

2009-08-23T07:23:00.000-07:00

There are too few verbs.
Etymology of earth, telling tales in the shapes of
warped rockbed
corrugated magma
folded face of boulderhead

Under. There are

If by neglecting all movement they can
eschew doing, stealing earmarked moments from

if I align onehundred uncertaintiesAndFailures
if I align one--dred certainties and failures
If U align 100 --------------ties and failures

One Thick Thrum

Reverberates, or something

Fidelity

2009-07-19T19:50:00.000-07:00

Each stone of the late light falls and spreads, rippling, across sightsurface
to shift the leaves of memory into torrents of page, into tripping mists that,
darling, I will likely not remember.

Each drift slips past with careen intact, torquing in driptime, knocking the
fluttered figures of postern butterflies, left behind to guard the escape of
a single, silken moth.

I am true to you, as the fallen are true to the earth, and the last shooting tendril
is true to collapsed eye-bud, and slipping snail. I am true to my wormed core.

Arbitrage

2009-06-23T18:14:00.000-07:00

Nightly a shimmer of slylight skips inward
in word fact and folly form into trackland
on the order of Tue's proper domains. Ink

mailed on a lisp of sheet a shift of cryp
tych. Each panel is a riddle, each panel
falls in flakes before awl and canon. Ano
ther there.

Each panel is a riddle mailed for Proper
dominance, ominous ackland trolly Tue Can
there be no other in Ink each panel slyly
slips.

on spider nights

2009-04-15T18:59:00.001-07:00

ON spider nights in the sclimb limb lash there
site sits underamor slimming fixing filled and warn with
crass unmade the thunder blade slips back slips tracks
gurneyed folding and fetching with astringent folds
wishfully and watching and cracked with sniplength follows
and fetches
flicked and formed with ardent form anananzi anasazi
man or stone

Gone by then

2009-04-04T14:10:00.000-07:00

In the mirror at Halsted and Diversey there slumps a striped shade lamp, and
though i cannot work out which quadrant of the canvassed street it
lies in, I creep closer each morning.

On Tuesday mornings, the coroners advise me of the futility of my search. Of the
striped shade mirror-lamp they say there is simply no evidence of life.
I remark on the
craven nature of their afterlifeless commentary, and they stumble
into the mirror's cracks
on Halsted and Diversey

Perhaps the sidewalk is hiding my lamp shade striped mirror in the strips of
caulk filling the cracks and preventing winter freeze and thaw from
shattering the concrete by my mirror

but, on Wednesday afternoons I find crippled ex-linemen lined with age and
linen shirted sons and daughters wheeling and walking to the steak house and
remembering

But they cannot properly manage it. In the slipstream of traffic another
motorcycle skids to a stop and, in the Mirror on Halsted and Diversey I notice
the shade lamp stripe has submerged itself in some darkened cranny and finally
has vanished

I am confident, that on Thursday evening another walker will be baffled in some similar way. But I will be gone by then.

Borrowing

2009-03-19T14:28:00.000-07:00

I have borrowed the three feathers from her wing
Where she borrowed Nipponese Lacquer to

I have borrowed the last words I shall ever speak
and stealthily laid them in my coffin linings

I am unsatisfied in disenfranchisment, uninterested in knowless and the
ebon fingers of her filmed feathers are not just quite

I have borrowed the final fix, and the red lines, and the

I wish I have

am borrowed in finale

I wish

In the circle sands there will be two brothers
They will lie at my feet and stir the sand soup
and ask me for my perfect feathers of ebon and obsidian
to smooth striking fossils into the sand

In the circle stands I will sand and slip
borrowed bread from their
borrowed fingers
and will not give

am borrowed wish for the simmering
infin

In the circle stand's sands there will be sand and slip
and they will lie at my feet and stir the sand soup with fossils
of my feathered fingers
and in ebon and obsidian mark dontnations of far Nippon and
I will have forgotten her by then

DEL_TEST

2009-03-16T21:18:00.000-07:00

In deep sea streets, walkers bubble-whisper
tracking the last expanding edges
and wobbling on their drunken orbits
in the wake of a sinkstone
in the wake of a turbulence of sea lions and
south shore lines
until the treaders, softly
stirring the lake-edge wither
to the merest tracings and another walker
treads to the bottom
touches stone
and

Arbitrary Paths

2009-03-06T12:27:00.000-08:00

Enduring this slow.
Cantering with carnival rhythm.
Carnal enders avail themselves of snow.
With rhythm.
With smack-lipped thrust.
With snow.

2009-03-02T20:01:00.000-08:00

Sharon sat on the edge of winter and
waited for the edge of slipped
tongue tassles to finally introduce
her to an arbitrary cold, under new
light, in the hands of a simulated stand
of slow.

hi

2009-02-28T15:21:00.000-08:00

I am falling asleep.
I see you
It is a tired sunday.
You're a rory thing to do.
Tomorrow I will wake up twice, once for each time you died.
And in the evening there will be a sunrise.

Orbits

2009-02-27T11:04:00.000-08:00

Drum lines have multiplied into
rhythm sections of shark fin

Philosophy of Poetry

2009-02-08T14:49:00.000-08:00

At the limit
imposed by infinity I find that slowly
withering correspondent corpses shed more
light on the bloated morbidity of language
than on any shift in the measure or medium
of this millenium. I Punctuate because that
is who I am. I believe in Oxford Commas. When
I die, my obituary will capitalize my name, and
profoundly place each period before a double space.

Di

2008-12-06T18:26:00.000-08:00

Evidentiary research remarks facility in

Take 2:
Snap slickened slice, black pryex cannisters
schlop and shred we read that theremin sound

Racks of tracked and marked masks mill and
twist correlated with arcs and signs
symbols denoting, through complex combination,

the particular shade of leather I can cut from you
the parabola of your folded knee
the bezier surface denoting the subtle deformation of
the crest of your right cheekbone

INBRED basilisk chimeraize in clades, folding inward
exacting fixed precision contortions with cropped
catalysts

ACT in short stutters: GAC,
TAG (you are it for this small body)
CAT(aclysm for thistledown thrumming slowly away)
don't overexert

stripped of body of late I crisp slickly, wet ash
corroborating the snowy descriptions, soaked in a liter
of my favorite vodka

Sequence

2008-12-04T07:13:00.000-08:00

Thoroughly and one and two. Faster still there sneaking under helix and
small tributaries aggregating to unsimulated sun-splash

Were simple clusterings folded again? I repeat myself
Were smple clusterings folded again? I have forgotten

Tracked and folded and flashed, hashed, pyrogenetic blast
darwin whipped to flame on the operating table of blender and bug eyed
microscope-ing igor accruing more and folding it blast by blast
under the hood of the thousands and crackling with current lets
big blue deeply drive and pass the splices paste the pieces brightly
back to one

Tin and Trouble

2008-11-28T07:57:00.000-08:00

There is thin track wickering lines through city.
Lines through cracking stacking thorn and stumble
once upon once upon once the thin track wickering
and slack track slips and trips fast

A bad poem

2008-11-11T10:31:00.000-08:00

Gold spun the Logrus and slipping tripped its lines.
Fashioned pattern pallid points the last sweet tracks
on carotid stunts and making mast the last of new and
moored the making placing pacing drakes to orbit none.

Freeman fashioned most unabashed marking mix with labelled tongue
undermining fortune finding fastened by the clattered strum
last and most the practiced post makes mastered augury undone.

I am cordial ever more and making last the past must be.

By Appointment Only

2008-10-26T21:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I clapped my hand around the air and
summoned a new sound

Yesterday I crisped the edge of my thumb with match-flame

Yesterday, it was a sullen saturday with all its
marbled sunlight cracking on the faults of my
eye-glasses, I noticed that when the tip of my
tongue touched my taught lip, it made the hum
of a deep reed and smelled like nothing I have known

With the rattle planet

2008-10-21T12:27:00.000-07:00

Might you once machine, once machine and crack filament
once machine and crack filament on longitude and latitude
crack filament on fistule and firmament, crack
Apositive.

Haphazard

2008-10-20T14:54:00.001-07:00

God Save us! And there is nothing. Drifting we can lose ourselves again. I have loved you. Warbled tongues slowly mutate, grotesque grow until slowing low the sweet refrain once more. I have loved you. Carrion, Morrigan sings and angling most marvelous she smarts the whole host. She classes them with giants and leaves their bones for glue. Fomorian, from me to you. Let us gather up a great host of gaurdian demons to ravage her. Let us cower beneath hedges and hollow barrow graves and soon someday there is another dream of forever and a day. Let us take that dream and, Fomorian, bring their bones to the boneyard where they will whiten and dry.

Mad Jennie

2008-10-15T12:05:00.000-07:00

Foreign light marbles her brown stare
In stumble-upon fashion I cluster my fingers
and run them
un-confounded moles tunneling through the mass
her clumped hair

Foreign to mass, shifted cobs and webs locking
where there are dark crops, their curious
same-style seams, coded at every level
and farm fashion
mollifies simple hares in finger form thumping
the coarse ground by her seat on the
crop circle's curve

Shadeways slip down corn alleys and in their
recesses a cat eye cuts the darkness with a
glint - ominous, as her favored mouse glances,
doubts, and is devoured

Cardiff

2008-10-10T11:25:00.000-07:00

Milestones on the water, a lily pond pasture for the last coastline

A causeway of whales warbling out on oil slick sea

Damn you, fisherman. I have stepped from stone to stone on

alder bristled mountain and loved no others but you and yet.

Across the water slipshapes stumble in the waves, bearing

in their bodies the secret of your first and only name.

Cancel my subscription, please

2008-10-04T08:57:00.000-07:00

guardlines linked, chink by kinked chink crossing
clutched in gordian splendor, convex code-spiders crawl

link by link

crackback, somatose, the crisp green's gone slack, down tracks
we've walked before infrequent. cashackle, don't fall

more THAN forceps slink, dArkened, to where we prop pluto
and adumbraTe tOrpid ogreS curled in root knot
beneath the calloused tree's many million cancered rhizomes
stretching frenetic for mortuary funds and falling forms
overcome from shatreem, follow now, follow, watch un
crass and martyr slums folding and cracking weakening

link by link

Foil and Fire

2008-10-01T20:26:00.000-07:00

Uncurl, shifted crennelate, spark-plug passion

glowing again.

Drive, the shaft smooths then cracks, the submerged

piston presses and sheets fold and flutter in

Crack-ed far below the kraken stirs. An ebon

fault line filled with suck-stud arms.

Matched with doubled turns, tracks melt

un garden. Four slipped. Four fell.

Seven Fly the wicked track

2008-09-23T17:49:00.000-07:00

Mastered in baram, eng, end, valence swinging moreover

I am another

and again

Show fist and feather, fastened fascinated swift engorgers

pass the sweet dram, drag, carnal lasting on

Core

2008-09-21T09:41:00.000-07:00

Myriad in angelsus orestes cave canem I argue with several tongues

with worm-wash and argentium, agni lifted on a silken hammock

Where?

Latch and frame, the skeleton longitudinally inclined. Slick trimmings

lined, lined again. Dha Tri Cathair Cuig. Ontologically

Jasper

2008-09-20T18:32:00.000-07:00

Ideally.

Marked with indifference and aplomb.

Marked with arkadian drifts.

Where the snow lies against dried buttresses of salt.

Marked with indfference and aplomb, ideally.

Goldenrod

2008-09-19T15:09:00.000-07:00

In orbits there the skies. One deep circumference slimming

to tracked silver filigree. And there the skies shifting again.

One moment ago, I distracted a simpleton with a song of fish and falling mana.

Fremen folds, cloaks and dry trenches washed with wind. Wicked Crafter,

cut me another fletched bolt, another etched plate. Blood and silicon.

One moment ago, I caught hold of the cold and gave it to her curled body.

Mild Mistress

2008-09-18T07:30:00.001-07:00

Washing back again our last drink of fanned flame. Fortune was silk. Something fastened under missive silt. This writ on wandering spreads. Understone. Fasten eight. Long lines stretched, stacked, sliding or stinging or striding on fan deck. Understone. Old age marble, ash, pyrite and black glass, the smell of sulphur. On dream scans of tension, lines fastened.

2008-09-18T07:30:00.000-07:00

Thud-un-thud fall. During sold seconds. Paid in portions of kashmir and leather.

Fold-under. Fasten eight cracked padlock.

Murmur summing fortune and filling fantastic. Laurence on smooth sand. Laurence

on shifting sand. Laurence leather in his hand his back his shift-smoothed back crested

with welts and shivered with sweat and shimmered heat and where, Laurence? Murmur

Track-ant-ack. Fastidious. Under marbled skies an glare glints and glooms. Fold it. Fold it

again.

Borderlines

2008-09-14T00:21:00.000-07:00

hedges drawn drim-dram latchings for latchings for arm ram trim trostles

failed follow. Wold and dram. dragging dim dober... dana falling fast and

one slip

For nothing there is nothing, for nothing there is nothing. Thrax, latch drips

down then slant summarily smoothing shortened seemings. argue again this

dripsss

Older Things Than These

2008-09-12T17:44:00.000-07:00

Cold and color. My thoughts murmured over each syllable as I wrote them. Cold and color, the color of my breath on the cold air - not white, but pale blues and greys and little glints of green. The cold of arctic air slurring my breath and slowing my tongue. I wrote cold verses on the brittle breadth of my parchment. I got tired, after a while, and stared through the growing patterns of ghostlight on the edges of my vision. The darkness crystallized slowly at my eye-edge. Slowly creeping, the eddies of blur and black shift inward. Unme. Later, I discovered that though blind I lived. Some slow scratch of pencil on paper caught at the edges of my creaking mind. My hand. With seeping terror I moved my left to my right. I crept my leathered gloves, stiff in frost, up from the still moving pencil grip, above the numbed wrist, higher, and in a blur to the raw flesh and bone, the point of frozen severance where my still writing hand lay disconnected. In the dark I folded slowly, my shock completing the numb, my numb smoothing my broken skin, my broken skin bunching again to dark crevices of perfect pain into which great swathes of me sank - pieces I could not reclaim.

2008-09-11T07:22:00.000-07:00

Crass and cormarine: these colors fade and

shift with age. Folded likely ways and made

to break bask with early rays, plays of sun

undone

Cormorant and creme: my recipe, unloaded

drunk daft formulaically impressed

under sweet slopings

sweet slopings

called again.

Grasp

2008-09-09T22:24:00.000-07:00

Along chosen paths rifled winds

turbulesce echoingly

draftways lunged up among

draped laundry

lingerie disturbed in the press of air knot numbulance

The crisped edges of an over-pressed pant leg grate

on raw brick

Caol Illa

2008-08-16T06:36:00.000-07:00

Knock-tooth, the guardian of the gate languid, perhaps couchant
His marbled thighs shift in the shade-play under flapped flags
flagging mortems license postulant. Knock-tooth, unperturbed

Halsted & Diversey

2008-08-11T16:26:00.000-07:00

Muffled untroubled torrents trip the lights
red red green
and now washing away in stunted streams
rolled lines laughing darkly
the sky dreams a snarl of morning
foliage flimsy and for small stutters of
brack breath: the last winds foiled
in the crush of the streets

Core lines

2008-08-05T18:57:00.000-07:00

Filing in, filling shacked, blacked, bordered with marks of marble
long rolling laterals, shifted slowly. Arched tension, bridges of
cut iron ten thousand degrees of rotation, torque, flimsy things on

Arbiter, what is this you shout so sonorously. Ponderous. Plodding.

Snipped under lines of sturgeon. Snipped under cannon fire. The sharp
rat tat of flipping wire. Boatswain, what have you done?

2008-07-28T18:38:00.000-07:00

Lance the soil. The lot sings tar songs. slow night murmurs
Gwen, vivacious warbles with it smoothing now slowing
sweet orbits arranged in strides the length of cannon echoes
repeated in tongues; a round.
Table that thought, mixed into new nones. Final fright and lost
How cannily he sings, his tongue locked in step with the evening
shivering outward her tune tasks the air where once solemn
ministers rounded. Carmine and Leather. Softly now.
Dearest neck, why do you fade so pale

last dream of gordian

2008-07-08T19:58:00.000-07:00

Draftlines slink, urban sounds raftering from undone dream through lashes
still twined with sleep / I am waiting with storied slenderlings laxing broadly
folded in curved articles of string

Foundry smoke drifts under, Lasts for more, colder, whisped smoothly in
flimsy rhizomes. warbled, a soot robin. marked overland limping /She
orders from the side menu when they look over quiet strands

Grasp thin spinarettes between warped

For some slipped drinks

2008-07-03T08:21:00.000-07:00

Snapdragon.

She called to me across the in

On the backwash I buzzed, rifled

Cordelion dreams. A dandelion stretched
in rifled roughland

Where in dreaming do stretched roughlands
snap

She called to me under