29 December 2008
11 December 2008
09 December 2008
07 December 2008
10 November 2008
08 November 2008
05 November 2008
04 November 2008
1 How to hit upon what matters
2 Weighing the grading, & how to parse
3 You lazy lackey — Thought
4 The Contrarian, where hid His hands
5 While rung the bell? Turner having
6 Fourteen fingers His ring is lost.
7 This is the season, my enemy,
8 Today we join and brag atop the Hill
9 Preferential Wine, no lighted haze
10 No dialect. Never just, a whirl of minds
11 My friend, same, today we bear
12 Down our standards — Have you cast
13 Out the inexorable? — Have you
14 Hatchet for this Wakers’ sleep?
15 In deference to the nightmare we bow
16 To God & listen to His Truth
17 Milking between curb & gutter
18 The cutting noon sun.
19 I’m lost inside the pulses, heavy
20 In their purposes, red or read
21 Mind left to Turner’s leech
22 Sullen skin peeling from His reach
23 Hands wringing, instead unready.
25 October 2008
isnt this amazing
take a look at this joe
this is something!!!
imagine putting them together?
what the hell do they mean,
"actors held in dictaphone mystery"?
this is from canada..
no, this is from newyork?
You know i never did like wilson.
He was from New Jersey?
Yeah, he was. He
was an autocrat.
Ernest Hemingway. Now, he was a handsome
guy. Yes, he was! Isn't that music pretty.
This guy. They did a terrific job here. In 1918
woodrow wilson image formed at Camp
Sherman. Fantastic Joe, Fantastic!
It's hard to believe.
Now if it was done today you'd say, "He did this with computers!"
But, it's not. Oh, World War 2, My father.
Oh World War One. he didn't talk about it
but i Remember him telling my brother. You don't
know what it was like. But afterwards he told us.
We didn't have to go World War One.
We didn't have to go in. We were just helping
Britain. That lousy Wilhelm... he was a nephew
of Queen Victoria. He was sick in the head.
Prince Albert ... he was originally from Germany.
At one time they didn't even speak English.
ambiguity undermine human relationships ..."
Bare your breast for the Hanged
Young girls and women, fatalistic,
Neither more nor less
To shy from recreating figures
burn off the coiled snake.
Sundries such as scents and spirits.
20 October 2008
03 October 2008
things are looking up
no one whose anyone hopes
for this kind of woe, news and shock
eyes on the prize.
He's matted in black-night crosshatch
emphatically battering radio noise
one, two many beers
about to hit a dog
& your children will never forgive
the cooling slice of rubber painted on the road.
28 September 2008
but the vision sustained
now Fire & inverted converse
cracks sanded over with practice
scan victimless vices
scan scattered screams
finally still. Converges
unread paternal gaze
the middle ages wash across the sky,
swelling black hopelessly beneath
the swilling gray clouds
24 September 2008
sit beside me, my instinct boils
What unjust pretense aroused
What right given to man
not afforded to Hymn?
Spontaneous beauty filling
whatever holds It
wraps the form of any body.
No right was granted
& no right shall be assumed.
19 September 2008
but arrived before Savage
found it more appropriate
is that a problem? the choice
bisects the purpose's reason
I'm slicing off bits of my fingers
offering them up in their palms
I'm eating dried bits of my fingers
i have no ambition, it's disgusting.
I want to sit down at a table and instantly excel at something.
i seem destined to be an absolute failure.
i miss the easy life: round meals with meats and vegetables prepared by my mother: i never had to pay. sulking in my room when things didn't go my way. going out on the weekends for x and y and returning for a rent free soft bed.
i want to blame everyone for my problems.
but it's me. it's me. it's me. it's me!!!! I get it. I need a do over!
my childhood was a failure. i partied and thought a lot about how to have fun, never how i would get ahead in the future. now it's now and i'm done. I'm in limbo, nowhere. Utopia. What a fucking disaster. MoveOn.fuck
14 September 2008
05 September 2008
that kind of thing is no concern
lists are metaphors for real conversation
non-random variables conjured in presence
curiosity, hopeful connections / expectation
bent for sound, unreal inside a crowd's eye
never meant for the smash of purpose
03 September 2008
29 August 2008
same piercing gravel road, neither
the purse to spy a map nor compass
but how i've bumped this great vacant villa
where lies an ottoman
for my abuse & leisure
beside that: a chair, a fireplace
for care, great care and staring
where i rest, my legs
forgiven and mind set
to share a burden of waking
one morning -- i wake unshod.
ugly women deserve
jealousy, eyes like slits
in a steam pipe, fat
with unchecked rage & hands
a black and white dress, petals
hung from a dim lamp; darting
two-thumbed jewel; scanning
the longest legs, not-your's hair
& unimagined fulfillment
if your face was more symmetrical
you'd be a poem or limerick, though
time to all false unveils, and in wind
embraces the gate into love & powder
our journey's race run
the blister feels earned
uneven, puppeted: I've come
to love your single swooping
uneven cheek, it's tenuous play
hands laid onto the war
pulling breath from my chest,
witnessing your name
returns a calm even strength.
06 July 2008
Quick Explanation: I've been slacking with my writing recently. Between my job and 'extra curricular' activities, in a dark, dark corner somewhere I find a little solace and sneak away to write sometimes, but it's not enough. So I've designed a quick and simple writing exercise for myself ala college Sophomore-era creative writing classes: Merriam-Webster jets me a 'Word of the Day' email everyday, so I'll take that as an opportunity to provide myself with a promise of, at least, to have a puzzle-work ingredients for a poem everyday. However, if a poem takes more than a day to write I won't expect to abandon it simply because a new word arrives.
Cool, so here is today's coffer:
Word of the Day
: inherent baseness : depravity; also : a base act Example Sentence
The judge declared that the murders were the product of a gross moral turpitude.
Did you know?
"Turpitude" came to English from Latin by way of Middle French. The Latin word “turpitudo” comes from “turpis,” which means "vile" or "base." The word is often heard in the phrase "moral turpitude," an expression used in law to designate an act or behavior that gravely violates the sentiment or accepted standard of the community. A criminal offense that involves "moral turpitude" is considered wrong or evil by moral standards, in addition to being the violation of a statute.
Heaped upon muscular hooks mass the messes,
the pile washes with sea water, anemone
slowly creeps into blackness
blue at extremes, crawling further.
Biology's virtue sweeps away their sadness: Filtering the neurotoxin
Note to self: Refine around metaphor of Anemone/Turpitude
AUGUST 1 UPDATE:
Initial experiment was a complete failure. As with moth endeavours, as soon as the thing was begun I psyched myself out of the required work. This is the ultimate problem of my life. I could give it an easy label, "Fear of Success," but that feels... cheap. Easy. I keep finding myself suggesting a deeper investigation. A second look. Like those behind me who can separate fun and work and are constantly looking over my shoulder, complimenting and/or ridiculing. There is no difference. Is this a poem? Maybe, a little. Not really. Sometimes it's fun to just trail off and let the words pave the way. So that's that.
Watching Comedian earlier today led me to thoughts of how Life is just hard work. In the barrel some lives float to the top, others settle toward the bottom in the shift caused by the upward motion of those who succeed. Generally, it seems to me, I do not have the propulsion to succeed but have the desire for something greater. My failures of person constitute that sinking feeling. I'm forced to choose between easy and up.
Easy or Up?
Everyday is a sort of fork where any decision you make can greatly influence the rest of your life. In either way. Anyway.
I'm done beating the horse.
03 July 2008
sand, sinking all
dog barks, a reminder
some live for questions and some
love livid reality, lapping at the marrow.
what a strange eastern european tradition,
lapping at the piddle marrow, when there's so much
meat circling the bone.
if unspoken, tradition
shutter a whispering
need, call it a habit.
and if you turn off a thing
something so lite
the rise, the sad sand, the sinking
all dog barks, some live for questions
some love livid reality, lapping at the marrow.
(incomplete first draft)
28 June 2008
A variant of any death,
The numbers fall away:
Now, in fear, she is equalized
Sound erased -- In sloppy strokes,
a child rubs the butt of his hand
Over half-dimmed pencil marks --
Now, placated and abundant:
Reference point a descent;
Reference point distant,
Controlled by a panicked calm
Punctured plane window,
The ice collects in rivulets
Around her eyes,
Nose, mouth and ears:
The child perched upon the branch
Smiles in spite of the bash
Pushed into to her, the love of her father
Don’t sit too close, never under the window,
Don’t offer, don’t give, don’t negotiate, and never winnow.
This time, reflected, never winnows
Blood pools at the puncture’s knees
Calls for immemorial, never screams
Violence and all her ungracious grabbing.
08 June 2008
05 June 2008
01 May 2008
degradation, the failing
of language — more &
sore swallowing feels the same —
the radiating nervousness,
from the bone out, about
to vomit, to convulse,
in the interest of hiding
your fears you hide them
behind cars, under baseball bats,
inside bottles — half drunk —
in the powder sallow in your
the stone rolls back, an open grave,
no body. you know things:
you can't hide what hasn't died;
you can love anything,
but you can't love an unloving nothing;
that voice breaks agonizing silence,
that smell rend comfort because
both are haunting, both
familiar specters; a trailer is just a house
and accents straddle words. you know
things & won't let go
of the trash
in the middle of the road.
would spill itself out and liquefy
to pay for it ... "
-from Futures by Jorie Graham
I worry that when I'm dead, someone will exhume my ridiculous Black Books (which WILL be buried with my fleshy flesh flesh) and structure some base cowboy religion on my rants and half-empty ravines.
Religion always beetles people into strange little, indefensible rituals.
Here are yours, from the Lazarus Joe, Pontiff Exhumed:
My followers, all good people, harangue each other into big-city solitude: Stuck up beside your candle collection with an old bean can full of Micron 05s, your thoughts would choke you like mine have choked me, but instead of the bright lights going dimmer, they fall, cold, high-speed film: