this warm sleep blanket next to and skin still breathing when you wake,
a hospital of ladders, bind and twist to the very small diagnosis
blood tube form name scrawled nurse label lens bulb visit you remote
shrink shrink shrinking along shrink shrink shrink down
to passengers
DNARNADNARNADNARNADNARNADNARNADNARNADNARNADNARNADNARNADNARNADNARNA
perfectly transmitted let us hope and hope
and hope and hope and hope
let us hold and hope tightly
so tightly,
that hope is life itself,
it is a child,
a grandchild,
and quiet as joy
as joy as you please
freedom, a way forward we think, a way in, a ways to go
I worry
and I could not take you in, big everywhere everything big
fat pop frying pan stick a.m. missed you with butter, coffee,
bread, milk, egg, avocado, corn, mushroom, parmesan, honey,
meats, small small cherry tomato, basil, caked on plate drying photograph
still
I have a box of you near my bed, and
I worry
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
to the Save JKS Players
that we are sculpting sculpting
preconstructed space
a line and bulbed finger curve
down the position position
of the tongue in exhalations
that we will be brought
in some uncertain future
to a place of deep remembrance,
scaffolding to paint paint in celluloid
in that way we can be made to
remember with another's fingers
[Artifice is also a truth.
The audience also the protagonist.]
that we might mourn, and sleep, and gnash.
and gnash.
preconstructed space
a line and bulbed finger curve
down the position position
of the tongue in exhalations
that we will be brought
in some uncertain future
to a place of deep remembrance,
scaffolding to paint paint in celluloid
in that way we can be made to
remember with another's fingers
[Artifice is also a truth.
The audience also the protagonist.]
that we might mourn, and sleep, and gnash.
and gnash.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
bellevue rd and nothing to see--
and that was littleton
in the dark
making sara's tall skin freckling the eyes to thin
kiss in the watery pool spotlight
:that she was as you inflexible remain:
I hear she is a mother now.
That gladdened highway, all beckoned
the broken columns of college.
Ey, the broken collars,
Ho, and lingering guitar necks in her name,
she the
artist hand defying that mother's
beorne fences crossed of christ in
manifold!
in epic!
what to west mountain ocean spirit thing
to burrow to limestone texas and
fashion blackened chains to twisted live oak
flash flood gauge cactus collections
palms in the walkways
never in hallways
and once along that bright body
she makes with you the silver end
of a moonlight trend to ecstasy
a sorrow recalled at the height
release!
how you coil into your warm present
just begging to forget
it takes her mouth to form your name
in the dark
making sara's tall skin freckling the eyes to thin
kiss in the watery pool spotlight
:that she was as you inflexible remain:
I hear she is a mother now.
That gladdened highway, all beckoned
the broken columns of college.
Ey, the broken collars,
Ho, and lingering guitar necks in her name,
she the
artist hand defying that mother's
beorne fences crossed of christ in
manifold!
in epic!
what to west mountain ocean spirit thing
to burrow to limestone texas and
fashion blackened chains to twisted live oak
flash flood gauge cactus collections
palms in the walkways
never in hallways
and once along that bright body
she makes with you the silver end
of a moonlight trend to ecstasy
a sorrow recalled at the height
release!
how you coil into your warm present
just begging to forget
it takes her mouth to form your name
New Ireland
The firmament of finding shoes, whole pictographic notebooks, mirrors, jade and emeralds, fastened belt-buckles, remodeled kitchens-- the old appliances lift in our homeland-- manifestos, new potatoes, boats that bring us close in to the rocks, wet salt ropes to ascend, cliffs' spray to negotiate/scramble/claw.
Michael Collins in his previously undonned black suit and hat, no one left to protects, defend, speak for, die for, die for, die for--we all have arrived. Are made whole. At once. Again. Continuously in this place meadow and new. Begin and proceed.
There is nothing new under our sun but our hands in praise of daughters, us, we, lead one each another to new dark lands as feversome as the last.
Michael Collins in his previously undonned black suit and hat, no one left to protects, defend, speak for, die for, die for, die for--we all have arrived. Are made whole. At once. Again. Continuously in this place meadow and new. Begin and proceed.
There is nothing new under our sun but our hands in praise of daughters, us, we, lead one each another to new dark lands as feversome as the last.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
She is the word signifying a moment in time, darkly scanning the heavens for a release from sealed lips, the rough winds we use to push her through rooms of you’s– she suddenly halts on the ends of our tongues, just behind the top row of teeth, and lingers. She is the word for an unexpected brightness, an inconsistency measurable to within a second of our blotting her out with our giant fat asses, just trying to scoot between. She is the name of that pull we sense when we stand at the ocean, or on ships, at night.
What she wants: to know her name. She is already advancing across the sky
Be the subject of gravity and the object of looking longly. You are held within the same fabric as she, but you have a different name.
Forget about your own name. No one cares.
We shouldn’t shy away from things just because they are clichés…but maybe we can do better.
She’ll be comin’ round the mountain when she comes, that is we will see her first upon the mountain’s peak. And we will feel her entering our throats, and we will want all at once to speak her as a noun and verb, qualifier and particle, adverbial and conjunction.
Oh she is the MOON!! The moon. The moon. The moon. Of course she is the moon, she is the name of the moon. The name of the moon. But if the moon is a thing, and its name is “moon,” and if she is this name, then “moon” is not her name. Her name is what names the moon. I am only just arriving at this thought. I’m sorry if you’ve been waiting long.
She shall have to look for a driver’s license, a cable bill, a tag in her underwear.
She shall have to lean in closely to hear—causing massive tidal disturbances, shipwrecks, tsunamis, the submersion of archipelagos in the west—but she must ask us.
She must expand her place on the page.
She sits moonzing on the parchment. Nouning her every moonly position. It moons a dance.
She begins to wonder if the way to learn her name is to follow the distinct abstract forms scattered in the ocean after a tremendous run upon the rocks. That is, we do not see her wondering. We see her recognizing the shapes in the water, then we see her diving in after what looks like the mainsail.
She is already wet, we cannot wet her a second time. Perhaps it hangs in the bubbles that float relatively freely above the word of her name, and the words of the names of everything. She is the moon as sister, she is the moon of memory, how many copies of her have we seen? She is the sad white moon. She is the moon of wolves, and so the moon of vicious men, and so the moon of blood, and so the moon of origins, sustenance, regrets that we chew and tear.
[You missed her.] Well she was there. And she looks like your mother and she is very concerned about all the things you want in life. She told me so. What’s important to you? Children? She told me she loves her children. Not only that, she loves your children, and she will do anything to keep your children safe. You can understand that can’t you? If I had only told you that she remembers her daughter by opening a blue diary to the page marked by a crushed violet, and reading aloud the words “tomorrow is almost here, and then we’re diving into the ocean, but I can’t sleep,”—that she keeps this diary with her and rarely opens it during the day—well then you could not have managed to be her, not even for a moment. She is making models of herself out of Styrofoam, and plans to display them for everyone. She won’t need to leave the house ever again, and we can be satisfied for a while, until the novelty wears off.
We will have her reach into a hat and pull out a name like “Julia.” We will have her smile and hold it close to her heart. We will have her warm and understood. Do you understand? She will finally know the mystery. And we can forget about boats and bubbles and moons, oh especially moons! And just focus on how this moment can be placed on a shelf, in a book filled with other such moments, someone having scribbled a caption next to our faces.
It reads: “Not Windows!”
Why, she wonders aloud, the less like my body is my body the more it rests. The moon is not as bright as a blue candle. The moon does not fall on, look on, shine on, shine on. Moon is moon. Moon = moon. Now relate this.
And so she is the name of the moon. Julia, or something. She learns this by mistake, but she was also trying to find her name. A happy accident. Just like her children. All of whom need names immediately.
She tried to kiss her son, but he was cold.
She buried her daughter in fire. Julia the mother, moon the devourer.
She wants to be.
And when we comprehend existence, the scene will end. Or else when we are finally denied that comprehension. Either way.
We do not believe in dreams, only things that are like them. She is after all only a symbol, her name only a metaphor, not even a substance. Yes, this is very much like a dream.
What she wants: to know her name. She is already advancing across the sky
Be the subject of gravity and the object of looking longly. You are held within the same fabric as she, but you have a different name.
Forget about your own name. No one cares.
We shouldn’t shy away from things just because they are clichés…but maybe we can do better.
She’ll be comin’ round the mountain when she comes, that is we will see her first upon the mountain’s peak. And we will feel her entering our throats, and we will want all at once to speak her as a noun and verb, qualifier and particle, adverbial and conjunction.
Oh she is the MOON!! The moon. The moon. The moon. Of course she is the moon, she is the name of the moon. The name of the moon. But if the moon is a thing, and its name is “moon,” and if she is this name, then “moon” is not her name. Her name is what names the moon. I am only just arriving at this thought. I’m sorry if you’ve been waiting long.
She shall have to look for a driver’s license, a cable bill, a tag in her underwear.
She shall have to lean in closely to hear—causing massive tidal disturbances, shipwrecks, tsunamis, the submersion of archipelagos in the west—but she must ask us.
She must expand her place on the page.
She sits moonzing on the parchment. Nouning her every moonly position. It moons a dance.
She begins to wonder if the way to learn her name is to follow the distinct abstract forms scattered in the ocean after a tremendous run upon the rocks. That is, we do not see her wondering. We see her recognizing the shapes in the water, then we see her diving in after what looks like the mainsail.
She is already wet, we cannot wet her a second time. Perhaps it hangs in the bubbles that float relatively freely above the word of her name, and the words of the names of everything. She is the moon as sister, she is the moon of memory, how many copies of her have we seen? She is the sad white moon. She is the moon of wolves, and so the moon of vicious men, and so the moon of blood, and so the moon of origins, sustenance, regrets that we chew and tear.
[You missed her.] Well she was there. And she looks like your mother and she is very concerned about all the things you want in life. She told me so. What’s important to you? Children? She told me she loves her children. Not only that, she loves your children, and she will do anything to keep your children safe. You can understand that can’t you? If I had only told you that she remembers her daughter by opening a blue diary to the page marked by a crushed violet, and reading aloud the words “tomorrow is almost here, and then we’re diving into the ocean, but I can’t sleep,”—that she keeps this diary with her and rarely opens it during the day—well then you could not have managed to be her, not even for a moment. She is making models of herself out of Styrofoam, and plans to display them for everyone. She won’t need to leave the house ever again, and we can be satisfied for a while, until the novelty wears off.
We will have her reach into a hat and pull out a name like “Julia.” We will have her smile and hold it close to her heart. We will have her warm and understood. Do you understand? She will finally know the mystery. And we can forget about boats and bubbles and moons, oh especially moons! And just focus on how this moment can be placed on a shelf, in a book filled with other such moments, someone having scribbled a caption next to our faces.
It reads: “Not Windows!”
Why, she wonders aloud, the less like my body is my body the more it rests. The moon is not as bright as a blue candle. The moon does not fall on, look on, shine on, shine on. Moon is moon. Moon = moon. Now relate this.
And so she is the name of the moon. Julia, or something. She learns this by mistake, but she was also trying to find her name. A happy accident. Just like her children. All of whom need names immediately.
She tried to kiss her son, but he was cold.
She buried her daughter in fire. Julia the mother, moon the devourer.
She wants to be.
And when we comprehend existence, the scene will end. Or else when we are finally denied that comprehension. Either way.
We do not believe in dreams, only things that are like them. She is after all only a symbol, her name only a metaphor, not even a substance. Yes, this is very much like a dream.
Friday, October 7, 2011
the practice is a sorry self
of the absent black Takamine
and soft fingertips
they used to pick tangerines
useless, riddled with flies
of tar pit tracks and sabres
wool to wear in an ice age
and hardened blisters we
climbed, rocks
oh the rocks!
of foxes feet in the cement
and we always lay flat hands
on misshapen earth to remember
that we once loved in a real place
The Real Places, such real places
we have been! Rusted car doors and wet leaves
sticking to our ankles, we clung to each other's coats
and
faces,
torn up faces
in the bathroom, on the stairs, we were all wet, all wet and left
with cement on our feet.
they are all the same face
I culled from a dream
the face of all falling faces,
stars shutting off
at the pale twilight,
just going out forever.
that aged bent and spindly traveler
gray
waxy skin and boiling red eyeballs, I will
kill him with smoke!
kill him with liquor!
kill him with rich cheeses
and syrupy sodas!
his death will glance into coffee cups I will take them with milk and
recall
that there is a blankness ahead
as it recedes
into bondages of bandanges
wrapped burns
motorcycle burns
boils on the hand
they butter you like bacon
and they're planning eat your cooked fingers
lapping up grease
and so
coat their
lips and
tongues
in the
latent
pain
of red
and white
sores
and of recalled dreams. Do you need firmer ground to stand on?
and soft fingertips
they used to pick tangerines
useless, riddled with flies
of tar pit tracks and sabres
wool to wear in an ice age
and hardened blisters we
climbed, rocks
oh the rocks!
of foxes feet in the cement
and we always lay flat hands
on misshapen earth to remember
that we once loved in a real place
The Real Places, such real places
we have been! Rusted car doors and wet leaves
sticking to our ankles, we clung to each other's coats
and
faces,
torn up faces
in the bathroom, on the stairs, we were all wet, all wet and left
with cement on our feet.
they are all the same face
I culled from a dream
the face of all falling faces,
stars shutting off
at the pale twilight,
just going out forever.
that aged bent and spindly traveler
gray
waxy skin and boiling red eyeballs, I will
kill him with smoke!
kill him with liquor!
kill him with rich cheeses
and syrupy sodas!
his death will glance into coffee cups I will take them with milk and
recall
that there is a blankness ahead
as it recedes
into bondages of bandanges
wrapped burns
motorcycle burns
boils on the hand
they butter you like bacon
and they're planning eat your cooked fingers
lapping up grease
and so
coat their
lips and
tongues
in the
latent
pain
of red
and white
sores
and of recalled dreams. Do you need firmer ground to stand on?
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
muRMur (a sketch)
and in and in to a bRight wheelbaRRow afteRnoon,
is it, all of it, Really?
to lay in the gRass,
no it's not, I have a pass,
scattered gRavelly shoes thin bright
shadows, I am in the low
murmurmurmurmurmurrrrr
close to the gRound
her Musician's chin Resting
on the black body of the guitaR
and I can't heaR heR, but I love heR
haven't had a dRop
the heat dRip of
hot coffee
waRM tongue
cool wind
bRight blasted day...
i don't need to taste it,
the poRcelain scRape of
Mugs And sidewalk ceMent
Makes enough to iMbibe.
joe is like a lion--pondeRing
caRolyn is the Roof of a tRee--editing
and what i Must be is
those scatteRed gRavelly sandals
in the hallelujahs
of iRonic pop songs
the subliMity of tasty sandwiches
Rolled fish pRessed flouR
Rice and
thai beeR laRd
tequila
is it, all of it, Really?
to lay in the gRass,
no it's not, I have a pass,
scattered gRavelly shoes thin bright
shadows, I am in the low
murmurmurmurmurmurrrrr
close to the gRound
her Musician's chin Resting
on the black body of the guitaR
and I can't heaR heR, but I love heR
haven't had a dRop
the heat dRip of
hot coffee
waRM tongue
cool wind
bRight blasted day...
i don't need to taste it,
the poRcelain scRape of
Mugs And sidewalk ceMent
Makes enough to iMbibe.
joe is like a lion--pondeRing
caRolyn is the Roof of a tRee--editing
and what i Must be is
those scatteRed gRavelly sandals
in the hallelujahs
of iRonic pop songs
the subliMity of tasty sandwiches
Rolled fish pRessed flouR
Rice and
thai beeR laRd
tequila
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