Friday, June 27, 2003

Shaken Not My-Immortal-Soul-Driven-To-Madness

Tap it from the neighbors, vampire tap it.

Birds of the first light, shaken.

I love to love the words in you, 62.

The street with my son this morning, his form straight-up even though he is captive.

The tops of trees perch on a picture frame.

Who created you?!

I feel nothing but envy: a garden that expands!

Fondness unexpressed for your friends from Hell.

The metasurface of meatballs.

What is it like to live in a country so muscular?

White all over the ground, male tortoise adolescence.

One woman's holiness is another woman's distribution of primes.

The streets are cordoned off with apple blossoms.

The dead see scrolls.

Thursday, June 26, 2003

Swish Tippet

Syllable by syllable, claw by claw

only the shadows are doomed.

Still, the rain falls

drugged by the hum in an apple blossom.

But who can live for long

while my bones gently weep?

Enough with your joy,

the power of I

handles dialogues and plans as well as its cameras and flings.

Moreover it shows that those who seek to die

inevitably end very badly.


For once, California is not a balanced naynar

the horror of the family espousing into flames.

This very personal work does not belong to any kind.

Monday, June 23, 2003

Sunrise in Different Dimensions

Sun Ra is a series of circumstances -

accidental if we want -

and they concur like evidence

planted with the history to focus

between tradition and the estro-futurist of its own conception.

In the first place the formation

in the second the testimony

curious, linens-up, lacking in the dark

a trombone, therefore a splendid pair,

assholio of the first two

they are distinguished by parts

and taken to the one chosen to avoid.
The last couple of days

They had gardens and they had mornings,

not sticks of burning incense but

stacks of one, both sides of the hat remarkable

enough with the love that

you like to enjoy with your family -- or yell

reflecting and bouncing

off the promiscuous fork as it

finds its tuning as the

derober of the one, of Della

an Easter-size givaba of the gonabye.


We are waves upon waves

that cross the double secret turf

gentleness and goodness going, boing, going, boing

going, boing


Tuesday, June 17, 2003

Moving, raw and violent

Moving, raw and violent --

amusing, unconventional and poetic.

The most personal language is unexpected temporal jolts

of style, some predefined, some placed

with a dazzling coldness but always crashing

against the "forces of the evil", confining

talks to silence and killing to a game of guns

firing the blanks of artifice.


But it is this facility or extreme tension to smile,

where a cake slice, a malnutritioned photographer,

a child with its northern-facing face desperate with joy,

the rin-tin-tinning of a bell at the monastery,

face sinking in the snow as it out-races a rocket into the nocturnal sky,

its personage a prisoner of its own solitude,

piece of real estate in river floats to the sea

while the wheels of its chair begin to sink in the bathed sand.


Solar images of animals from beyond the dead fill up the screen

with joy and lightness in a suicide relegated to the narrow borders of burlap

where the ghosts of the past say to be alive

is also to be stealing the mutilated words of the dead.


I'm just speaking out loud and imagining that you're listening.

Thursday, June 12, 2003

boom manzai

The cocktail tension,

vague in its futile daze,

takes great pains to be dumb.

And as surely as one releases a red cord,

a beautiful face or an average set of bandages,

eternal emotions are expressed by precious wrists

and delicately interrelated bites of sadness.
the interval between stripteases

Towards the snow and then towards the sea, in a travel without return,

it buys a stolen taxi but obtains a clamorous one, like an anchorman,

before landing with the force and the figurative imagination

of the richest apparatus of images you can buy

(bet on the unconscious one).

Running away from the brutality of the great urban centers

is like if I hurl a baseball while holding the tips of a pipe.

Together the untied fogos of artifice are being confused by a truck

and suffer a tumble. This curious fact tries to mount one meaning for its small parts.

The duality is the proper capitalist model, enter necessities and construct obfuscations.

Consume the facts, rescue the heroic form for another one,

Parcel out the pessimism, but of another kind, the spiritual kind,

and you have the limits of this world.

The disenchantment, the resignation, the despair,

the humor on loan from naivete,

the raising the bet to sign at the same time,

the past, taken down a number of prices,

the heroic butchery,

the old reference mark,

the flash back introduction,

the tribulations rather than the morals,

the Japanese culture which one does not touch,

the physical contacts in public,

the relationship developed between moments of trouble and waiting,

the confidence and the self-sacrifice for others,

the art to sail without a transition,

the idea that the individual must end up illusory,

the car-sacrifice to create a future,

The Rise and Fall of Legs Diamond,

the old symbolic system that completes the century by committing suicide,

the new one as a generous obstetrician.
Violent Cop

The policeman Azuma (really "Beat" Takeshi, that is T. Kitano)

of the Square Homicides is a hard one:

undisciplined towards the advanced ones,

rude with the recruits who nap without following regulations,

a little raspy in speech.

But when he discovers that his brother's hands

are pasted in drug traffic, he goes outside of his head

and into a police scenario like many others,

except this one does not have all the Variety cakes to define it.

Legacies from a long, red rope.

Two loving young people ramble

in search of that they have tragically lost:

a young disfigured POP star.
Takeshi Kitano

There is a kind of schizophrenia about Kitano.

Or a deep, perpetual misunderstanding.

Some see him as a funambulist, a comic,

an insane fury who cumulates his emissions

by turning on the TV and watching W.C. Fields movies.
Bread ago

Yamamoto is a merciless Yakuza

and proceeds with used hardness against a gang.

All are shot short-hand style,

brutally and calmly at the same time.
Tokyo Eyes

In Tokyo a young man excites large attention because he shoots at humans.

However, he consciously misses the young sister of the determining policeman

and thus an unusual dear history takes its run.

Even the somewhat ironical appearance of Takeshi Kitano

does not make a better film which falls rather into the category of

waste of time or boring and drainpipey.
Kikujiros summer

The small Masao wants to visit its nut/mother

on an adventurous odyssey with many scurried incidents.

Takeshi Kitano tells a calm story between melancholy and omitted amusement.

Funny figures, crude ideas and shimmied pictures provide the best maintenance

that some lengths exhibit only now and then.

Cars can build it,

they can sell their shame-hair into hand-bags,

furnish schlafkabinnen in supermarkets,

which is sometimes somewhat with difficulty understandable

because the concern here is ridiculous prize money,

little aesthetic plays and the none-too-often beer-serious quiz shows.

However, just as level-less as TV gets -- or something like that --

simply look three times at a picture if you want my judgement.

Wednesday, June 11, 2003

Takeshi lost

The general is overjoyed.

That's wackeren, fella, Takeshi is defeated

but does not wait for promises.

Tomorrow is further than a hundred and one miles away

and steering the moon is over-human and out.
The barbar bars

A goal is to be arrived at completely.

Takeshi's aids shoot their balls at everyone on the wobbly bridge

and dare themselves to elevate the fear in opposite directions.

This goes over as surly over at the flour sump.

But during the transition the direction of the rotation changes

as one who shifts their weight very fast from one side to the other.
The cat balls

Candidates begin at the same time in their shapeless cat balls.

They can hardly agitate themselves in their balls.

On a hill above them the cat-attendant of the prince stalks.

The candidates may move only when the cat-attendant says "spruce chin up"

and then turns to face away.

By the application of polymorpher rhythms and changing intonations,

the cat-master tries to confuse the balls.

Only at the end of a passage are they evacuated in the way

one who separates the hill from the paper clip is evacuated.
That old baseball-fear

The candidates must balance into heavy, shapeless baseball leotards,

hung up like pendulums and poured into a ditch.

First it's relatively easy and small

but third it's a monster with a diameter of 1.40 meters.
The slushy candidate

Michiru Jo shoots a football into air and the candidates must then catch him.

The candidates also must run over whomever is on the football field.

This is taken directly from Takeshi's wisdom number 2:

The only good slushy candidate is a dead slushy candidate.
The game water course

You must drive the standing water down.

At the lower end of the firing travel is the right

and at the higher end of the firing travel is the left.

Somehow they are separated not only by true friendship

but also by a jump that succeeds only when

you drive the standing water down.
The fly mushroom

The candidates must clasp themselves to a rotary fly mushroom

which leads her like an aerial rope-a-dope right across the lagoon.

Only in the water does one notice where one actually isn't.
The rock channel

Many large and small rock balls lie in two launch pads ready

and the defenders hesitate (not them!) to in-add.

Three alternate places provide small solace outside

but one must find punctuality inside

because, from its observation tower, Baby Jo,

the defendant's co-conspirator, has just turned the furnace

full-on charades, like Suge Knight Shaolin therapy.
The gate will be running

One can break through oneself

or however one runs up against it.
The carriage

The candidates must prove now that they can pronounce "Koerperbeherschung".

Who gives too much momentum gets land instead of water.

And who gets too little gas from Mr. Okada

can soil or fetch the facts by reason of the lake,

at least theoretically.
The vulture play

A hare is brought into the vulture refuge.

Who it schaftts is not fogged.

As soon as the vulture rises into the air

it may be fired at by the defenders with balls.

The helmet comes with a gift of Pop & Corn.
The Bowlingspiel

With this play the candidates have bad maps

and also the still to pill.

The hobby sportsmen are put into oversize cones

and set up on a large Bowling-bahn. There's a drawing and

whoever draws the ASS stands completely in front.
The labyrinth

One of the golden rules in the labyrinth is do not only run in disorder.
The Tarzanspiel

Those who provoke must rock at a rope on an old trunk swing.

Who lands in the water, separates.

Whoever crashes the landing has on the feet to remain heavy.

Ishikura's soap pot provided for it.

It was once a vole and lived for thousands of years

in the cool north German lowlands's.

And if there is a region the not-straight can sun-delicate

it's this one! Had people picked apart their strange-seeming customs

like "fischkopp" - one may call it fish-cut back ate day -

they would only have potatoes reversing perestaltik until daylight came.
The border barrier

The first obstacle the challengers are set against

is four meters high and in-soaped by Ishikura.

The border barrier seems like a steep, slippery bevel

before we all get wet in the second stage.

Above all else a barrier is different than a long time rope

which is fastened to whoever creates it.

And whoever creates it won't be able to reach it

and they've already half won.

They're the back masters,

a bit that approaches the baking freshness of lowland rolls.
The Schlammenlock

The candidates must buy a Reese's Pieces

and schlammenlock it. Thus the prince saves the cost of maintenance

and of servicing the border barrier.

All around the candidates from top to bottom, correctly to incorrectly,

the schlammenlock is always enough.

Important is to become one with the time limit.

Who did not create it owns it up to the abpfiff, so says all of us.
The grenzmauer

Two and a half meters high, sanskrit wall.

Loosen your ticket as if it were here.

Travel the steep rock slope back.

Materials and sportsmen are equally demanded.

Today it will have themselves to withstand the penetration LINE,

as it tries its castle to storm. Its opponent is a general

who finds daily life full of free willy

and who want to conquer the castle with it.

Their largest fun is it to make the general's life difficult.
Tani's Team

The general, a popular speaker and beautiful spirit

brings the hobby of sportsman with probably set-words

into the correct tendency and order.

Today there are again over 100 courageous sportsmen

and they want to conquer Takeshi's castle.

But much more than one handful will not get the prince to face.
Takeshi's Team

Still they are located politely in the background

which man-creates specialists from Takeshi.

For example Michiru Jo, the young sporty defender of the tricky tasks

and who differently looks rough

which is its largest preference/advantage.
Takeshi Kitano

Ya-ku-za stands for the Japanese numbers 8 - 9 and 3.

And the combination 8-9-3 means zero.

A fool and its younger sister are soon parted.

But that is the usual with us.

I have Jacques Tati and Buster Keaton in my head.

These motorcycle-yutes are gadfly rogues.

The force in material life happens very suddenly.

My message is simple: film goes to cinema, you watch it and I give my regards.

Tuesday, June 10, 2003


With more than 5 million sizes or types,

pancakes far outnumber schools.

Fast-food joints will be removed

and an amusing and uniquely Japanese

bit about bunny lovers will be

inserted in their place.

Darth Vader at home, at work, at play.
From my cubical at an international security think tank

I’ve categorized every left-handed, skanky knee that hasn't been

steaming down the side-aisle. I've lacustrined a country that

I carry in your pocket, so get that bong bongin', baby! This poem

has at least as much going for it as it did an hour ago, but

an hour ago a flower could've made my point that the dead can

see, they just can't get to work on time. I've received some

interesting comments on the last poem I published here concerning

H (Spread and enter). It seems the key to the production of meaning

is that you have someone strong and wrong and weak and right, what

Charles Bernstein likes to call “jump back, sit down and rest your hat".

What distinguishes Moby Dick from Melville's previous, merely excellent

work is the employment of the paragraph. Because unlike the dead,

Melville, or maybe it was Creeley, knows how to approach

collaboration. Collaboration is approached from the rear,

then you slam its fascinating text into a hospital in England

and the depression that follows determines meaning

on a need to know basis. I'm here on the Ron Silliman sofa

or chesterfield and no one has given me permission to be

on the divan or to set up a logic that will be crushed in the next

two sentences. First it's what Terry Gilliam calls “multiples” –

that is, more than one. Second, here in Philadelphia the drugs have

worn off and this blog will eventually find its way over to the weekend

and through the woods. Raccoons take note: no shooting-up while

wearing a mask of Rimbaud! Because it's this kind of shit that has recently

been turning up in my mailbox with its penchant for falling down stairs

and herding pigeons. And it's this change of the social that I was not through

desiring. I polish the Stanley Cup at my day job, I poke fun at “The Wasteland"

in different voices at night. Would I characterize this as “wrong”? No,

but it does come as close to that crowded “I” in “The Wasteland"

as any hunger allows. I've been misled, adapted, killed, offed

and placed in separate windows. And sometimes I crawl, all four

walls threatening to fall apart, but I'm going home soon to my garden

and my chimichangas and my fence-building. I'm making it smaller because

a high school art teacher told me that I was an odd duck who'd arrived in

one too many of those doomed places, and I would've looked more closely

at Poetry but that door doesn't let in light.

Monday, June 09, 2003

Hunger allows no choice

Would you like to enjoy a moment with your family?

Yeah, I'm horny too.

In fact, I am beside my own ears with joy.

Because when I was a boy in love with death,

your own included, at least I had fake paws and laughter breaks.

And my concerns were not yours or your curious odors's.

Home is where the fertilization of the hand is.

Storms pile up and I give 'em a cut of The Iliad.

Friday, June 06, 2003

Mother Birds Bring Grubs

We're a little too disjointed for comfort -- but U won't care,

you're a sadist and your victims are your thoughts

and the Universe that parallels ours (Jutu).

Our world isn't dying as much as it's boring.

But to follow it, and I'm sure you'll want to, what

with images of astronauts and clocks and broken glass

(it's the Early seventies soaked in a dyslectic cypher duckier decibel

thingy) that ultimately pays off chronologically and thematically.

Let's meet after work at the bottom of this page.

My tortured soul is all the health and beauty I can afford

because I'm a mang!

This poem is so low it's sunk to the bottom of the page.
My Sweet Load

I am hurt, give me leaf.

Vote Today Likely To Put Media In Bad Mood

Commander Easter Size surprised at not finding her dream.

Angry piloted comets heart the ash and the human, the infinity of detergent.

I would call my friends on their tortured words but its defeat stirs the limits of our selves.

Wednesday, June 04, 2003

Doomed to become mere words

Thousands and thousands of arty nilpotent amounding.

The sum of the frame is equal to the blog of the phone.

Poetry will not like you.

You shake my dreams.

If I made my poems for others unseen and unborn I would slowly get pen to paper.

Slowly I would be disgraced, a scouring eagle-wheel.

There is nothing more to say and the beautiful bridges connecting them all.

I imagine what I see and then I tack a message to that void.

I will grief you by the hair in the dalls of hack.

I don't remember. Was I probing or narrowing?

First reaction best reaction.

It's the end of the world as Michael Stipe knows it.

I am pro-Sophia and con-"Doomed To Become Mere Words".
Transform your cat into a fabulous beauty

Do whatever you like.

Death is a remedy, though we cannot die, Lust,

because we've just shot the post and killed the fence!

I've got my very own tank.

God has his very own pity on kindergarten children.

Why were we placed on this earth in a frog costume, lost in a haunted wood?

God Herself does not know.

"Props to me", says the mayor in Hebrew, Arabic and Death.

"I am the gentle autumn eating the brekkies of fall."

He sees meatballs when he thinks of endless wealth,

but a letter from Samuel R. Delany is a cruel reminder of the sanctity of the moment.

Monday, June 02, 2003

Lucid metal sweat bombs

There are carpenters and seamstresses out there
who reflect their teaching roots by pinning their selves
beneath the floor in a couple of fast-food restaurant moves
for the terrible and toothless God
that confuses the issue and escalates the dilemmas,
the analog clock in the center of the dash.

Practice elegant single-serving-size automotive play,
gently leading you through the maze of losing your job
because this organization is desirous of a more evolved
and overwhelmed and lightly-floured work surface
that draws characters and backgrounds
and chauffeurs Shaquille O'Neal around.

Becoming Al Gore wood plank is a habit,
like cooking every day is a habit,
like, as anyone who has had to field these questions
knows, a potato can be removed with no resistance
and so can the rear quarters that I can't reach
to wish upon a salad.

Our special and generous theories of taking the reader gently
by the quantum mechanics and the small birds
and holding them in our pain and weakness
is the date rape of beautiful asparagus,
the steam-sautéed physical violence,
all kept afloat by shopping.