Friday, September 26, 2003

Men learn more from fools than women

I'm working on a “logical” medium for the creative cleaning of drains.
I'm working on a theoretical concept that rescues wing borba from tank bolts.

I'm working on mea culpa.
I'm working on all these animal songs.

I'm working on propellers for poems.
I'm working on Moby's blog Monkey Now.

I'm working on doing this sort of a thing well.
I'm working on a sternum beginning to strain its exaggerated style.

I'm working on a point of view.
I'm working on a perfect game.

I'm working on a persona.
I'm working on a well-chosen phrase.

I'm working on a turkey like a towel.
I'm working on the final couplet of this opening section.

Wednesday, September 24, 2003

Imagine you're falling from the sky

You open your eyes and that space between your flippers

Not there

There

turns off the router and listens to the me

welling up within my mice.


I was shaped in no clear virvidividual shape

I was manipulated by widgets

Spoken to with tongs.


And after all of that negation and despair

and repeating the word "drown" into the stream

where thousands and thousands of hospital beds

like so many Cheese Whizzes

cry "defile is me"

a low dishonest, exalted life

that longs to see the waters filling with fire


The small of my back

backs up into the there's nothing else to do.



The first poet probably spoke to invisible specks

as if they were germ tips

geometric nines that act as they linger in our eyes

but act only as emblematic animals.
That Poem I Wrote The Other Night

to let go

means I haven't let gone

except now the bees build in crevices

where the children play, it's an empty house

no matter how many times you scrub and stare at it.

The police should've been called and the international language

not truncated. You have to fight because when you cover your self

in boards and rocks and scrub the emblem on your club house you're

trapped. You haven't let gone you've let a mux of inverse odor out into the world.
The Dead Add Another Voice of Reason

Blouse are the ones I want to protect.

And my cat of twenty three lives collec-

tion. Please enjoy the moment, dress her up like

an assembly line. Sleeping on a public bench is fine,

but come in out of the water.

You've heard the unspoken farewells, or you oughta

've, in three languages: Mean, Coarse and Unanswered.

How can I protect my blouse against blizzard?

Is there any hope that a goddamn garden

can stand the complex chaos of one more generation of garden

ers? Are the dead giving me uncontrollable hives

or a pistol-whipping piety broken before it arrives?

Tuesday, September 23, 2003

shine

Aloof

when the

sun strikes it

and the stayed with

her alone plucks grubs and

compulsories from your head think of

the mother birds of the world, the

transition alone is apathetic to anything except that

what effects them and their mud hut hurricane personally.


Personally,

I was

born out of

love so that I

might not feel comfortable bringing

grubs and flies to the top

of the tributary, barricaded as it is

with wood and moss and plums that are

red instead of plum, compulsory instead of couched in

Monday, September 15, 2003

They Too Are Starfish

You are punching the lights out of tiny skulls

and replacing them with amusement as to

why we read. Piece the toaster back together,

I respond to sound. Again, you are punching

what is "well" and piecing it back together

as "the best I can do." But "the best you can do"

is, "well," a lot of it is crap. I know there are

better words, like "prophet" and "pike" and

"kick-ass" but, to be honest, the Dalai Lama is

visiting and I don't have the floor, prick or

gumption to tell him that this page is far

too uncomfortable or that the hole in your

chest is too far gone. I made this up at the

Algonquin Hotel for the Badly Shot Up,

the proceeds will go to new ideas and to

the house band. Remember that just past the

guilt-edged matrix of seeing is a vast cast-

off god, taller and more genuine than any

yeast yearning to see the association of

childhood sexual abuse and the wings I've

sprouted into my belly like a cork or a

language poem. Washington ties its self

to one gate and Natalie Merchant to another.

This is automatically seen as the denaturing

of nature, as if Dallas and Chris Tyndall both

spoke so slowly that you could be in the

countrified air of Austin or in a fortified bunker

2,000 miles below the earth's surface in

Saskatchewan perfectly tricking the equation

into thinking that it solved the problem and

that the toaster is actually a flower that can

say something meaningful. Perhaps it's just

the choir preaching to the choir boy, but it

pisses me off! Because when I get up in the

"morning" it's not really a strange, fluttering

machine shop complicated by the dense

and meaningless cries of the wreckage. No.

Coherence needs a human element. Your

eyes are wide open your mouth and you

laugh "This virus is MINE!" and this snow-

cricket and this coaxial wire and this hope

that the screws in your thumb are not the

rule but the hummingbird for articulating

what many of us think. What we think is

that the brain is as dangerous and irresistible

as the briar patch and that at the center of that

patch is the fear of death. The hinge is the

line break, patches overlapping their attempt

to make us "see" the ghost instead of the

furniture inexplicably moving.

Friday, September 12, 2003

gender & war (& Arafat)

America Goes to War New fashion of this Spring

As Bart Simpson would say: hell; hell; hell; hell; endless wealth.

I had a cat of twenty lives. Says them.

Korea and another jackass country.

They're so smug that my sublet and my hat is off limits to them.

Let's face within it, we all share the same sins,

mine just have me grasping at sponge members.

Sponge members, earthquakes and some lava.

Lava that is deep and glad and does not stick to their enemies.

Their enemies have delivered themselves to a new pub in China.

I deliver my self to some router farm outside Cork.

The present bulletin is this:

bored people take everything from the value of freedom.

They take it and screw your nose into it.

I've never done that but I'm just a flash away...

and my last name in Spanish means: this thing in my belly is building a house.

What bird said that?

At 17 I sat at a table with tears so old the world seemed young.

So young that perhaps we too will be given an everlasting burning stick of incense,

but because I bought the Gentleman's Package

I'll have to mail my soul to where the building fell down.

The building fell down and all of the lamps went out.

I could see the pain and the loss and walked among some of the dead,

sharp shooting cads and quiet birds circled overhead.

I had the idea of coming and my eyelids went out like lamps,

I fell onto a vacuum cleaner and started dancing, my heart on fantasies

because rodents by nature move inward, not outward.

Your cat may miss you but it's lower moral code, like burning tongs,

will sing to you the law of new nutshells only interrupted by attempts to sell products.

Products that bring grubs and flies to the terror in the world.

The terror in the world is not beyond belief.

We stick together and show an affirming flame.

We were placed on this earth at the forge and

as soon as I stop clawing and clobbering and choking and pulverizing

I will skip stones across the dagger of the wind.

Wait, that was mostly childish, reflecting and bouncing out the door

like when you lift your arms to the great oleander in the sky,

the sky diverging so slowly that they think we are looking back at them

with the swimming movements of the dead fronting

for my compassion and kindness

which are out grazing in a haunted wood or lost in the dew.

The Palm Beach County cops will crack down on this type of movement,

slowly shrinking the name as attached to the picture.

But somehow the head remains. Oh well, while I drink on a public bench

my name is not attached to the picture. The sea is deep and glad to see you.

A life like this is crinkly, a life like yours is fraught with troubled rage,

with a thousand winds that blow the zeta strip in the courts of misinformation.

Its message is a big, round, childish hand

wakened to the zilog of the elliptical our bodies encompass.

It's a phantom Russia, a Russia that finds its continuing self on the crimson sofa.

It uses its mouth like your tongue uses its teeth. A voice like thunder

thunders through the repetition of pronouncement.

I've watched this pronouncement corrupting history and hampering the cravings

but we remain blinking apertures of a dishonest decade.

Crash!

The face within it is born by the bird they were (POW! apart!).

I was asked to write a poem that would RUN,

and I composed like them, straight into an apothecaric grave.

Give me the hippy lettuce or give me death!

The window's over there.

Would you call my friends other devices?

No, I would call my friends the mantle of ruin

or any number of aphrodisiacs,

thank you very much Mr. Samuel Johnson.