Cozy and flexed, my kitchen window
stretches a new found view, it affects
the whole house, makes snow or heaves
a humid afternoon. In the floorboards
a little water from the storm, a little
ocean with sea women, sea teeth, mermaids,
ambience of drowning, particular mermaids
disperse a toad’s evolution at a cashier’s window,
movies piecing together a glance at your little
leg, the tree you are staked to; which effects
ambulation’s variables, gains strength and boards
the little organ in its house until it heaves
out a burn victim from its vacuum’s heaving
breast, rescued at sea by the fleshy slip of a mermaid’s
tongue, the pulling hands, to the squalid boards
of her double wide, mold stains above the window,
its forest floor, the brown condemned effect
of the carpet, unhurried corkscrew, to her little
shivering fingers paused over little
buttons, to the shower of fuel, who heaves
rainbows of fuel in swampy obscurity, affecting
sallow mug shots in bashful pride like a mermaid
caught with her pants down in the window,
two the jagged sticks on her resurrecting boards,
wounds where dog’s put their ribs through boards,
out of restraint the scalpel sees its ancestry in little
hanging plastic casements. Scatter my windows
with the cold ladle, telegram the scalpel heaves
into ashes on a salad dressed in creamed mermaid
the cost of a family reunion. I am cold, my affects
wash up on the beach, undulating defects
rumpled in tide, spend a little time in boards
dress in my habits, the confiscated mermaids
wearing what the common folk worry little
about. You know we eat our children, heave
them like invasive species through the window.
See how the mermaids dress heaves with opinions?
Her little tide like breast holds back the boards,
gives the affect of falling into water
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Canto Perilous
Cozy and flexed, my kitchen window
stretches a new found view, it affects
the whole house, makes snow or heaves
a humid afternoon. In the floorboards
a little water from the storm, a little
ocean with sea women, sea teeth, mermaids,
ambience of drowning, particular mermaids
disperse a toad’s evolution at a cashier’s window,
movies piecing together a glance at your little
leg, the tree you are staked to; which effects
ambulation’s variables, gains strength and boards
the little organ in its house until it heaves
out a burn victim from its vacuum’s heaving
breast, rescued at sea by the fleshy slip of a mermaid’s
tongue, the pulling hands, to the squalid boards
of her double wide, mold stains above the window,
its forest floor, the brown condemned effect
of the carpet, unhurried corkscrew, to her little
shivering fingers paused over little
buttons, to the shower of fuel, who heaves
rainbows of fuel in swampy obscurity, affecting
sallow mug shots in bashful pride like a mermaid
caught with her pants down in the window,
two the jagged sticks on her resurrecting boards,
wounds where dog’s put their ribs through boards,
out of restraint the scalpel sees its ancestry in little
hanging plastic casements. Scatter my windows
with the cold ladle, telegram the scalpel heaves
into ashes on a salad dressed in creamed mermaid
the cost of a family reunion. I am cold, my affects
wash up on the beach, undulating defects
rumpled in tide, spend a little time in boards
dress in my habits, the confiscated mermaids
wearing what the common folk worry little
about. You know we eat our children, heave
them like invasive species through the window.
See how the mermaids dress heaves with opinions?
Her little tide like breast holds back the boards,
gives the affect of falling into water
stretches a new found view, it affects
the whole house, makes snow or heaves
a humid afternoon. In the floorboards
a little water from the storm, a little
ocean with sea women, sea teeth, mermaids,
ambience of drowning, particular mermaids
disperse a toad’s evolution at a cashier’s window,
movies piecing together a glance at your little
leg, the tree you are staked to; which effects
ambulation’s variables, gains strength and boards
the little organ in its house until it heaves
out a burn victim from its vacuum’s heaving
breast, rescued at sea by the fleshy slip of a mermaid’s
tongue, the pulling hands, to the squalid boards
of her double wide, mold stains above the window,
its forest floor, the brown condemned effect
of the carpet, unhurried corkscrew, to her little
shivering fingers paused over little
buttons, to the shower of fuel, who heaves
rainbows of fuel in swampy obscurity, affecting
sallow mug shots in bashful pride like a mermaid
caught with her pants down in the window,
two the jagged sticks on her resurrecting boards,
wounds where dog’s put their ribs through boards,
out of restraint the scalpel sees its ancestry in little
hanging plastic casements. Scatter my windows
with the cold ladle, telegram the scalpel heaves
into ashes on a salad dressed in creamed mermaid
the cost of a family reunion. I am cold, my affects
wash up on the beach, undulating defects
rumpled in tide, spend a little time in boards
dress in my habits, the confiscated mermaids
wearing what the common folk worry little
about. You know we eat our children, heave
them like invasive species through the window.
See how the mermaids dress heaves with opinions?
Her little tide like breast holds back the boards,
gives the affect of falling into water
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Canto Carnage
Momma is relaxing in her favorite sledge of granite.
Practicing for the grave is what the papers say.
Memento Mori for the service she wrought.
That, and the shade of expectations, everything else
we put in the doomed arcade. I affirmed
without help or fear of the present
which describes the line of a mitered present
prefab sarcophagus which is the unspoken granite
for an extremely sensitive tooth I affirmed
by wincing, the upper part fixed to what I say
internally, harsh vertical sense of or-else
drying over the bowl which heaving hath wrought,
like a cage that permits us internment, a writhing
music so loud that gnashing is all I can present
to the regulators. The magneto shudders nothing else
as one, the skin slithers over new granite
and two, one eye smothers the other to say
the tempo chews on hinges turning affirmation
until the displaced fragment of memories firm
to globes of meat made fingers wringing
hands and spinning random lip locator to say
they are cut from fascism or other recent presents
like circumcisions on happiness. Map me a granite
chronicle, I believe in the roundness of someone else’s
limit, seem of limit standing. You, who else,
with your wallet out waiting to pay the affirmed
to negate me. Your currant agrees with the granite
tide, with scrambled evolutions, something wrought
coming out of the shadows to spin in the present.
Notice these alfalfa fields and letters that say
the scientists in the back seat of their cars sway
with sweaty rubberized DNA, there is nothing else
these letters of relatives can unearth from the present,
from the barn near the causeway of doom, can affirm
that each section of the year, strumming, wreaks
a coffin from the earth’s pores, her skin in granite.
These letters of the skin say peel me or else
top off the horn wrought twisting and be affirmed
in the granite presentation she trembles with.
Practicing for the grave is what the papers say.
Memento Mori for the service she wrought.
That, and the shade of expectations, everything else
we put in the doomed arcade. I affirmed
without help or fear of the present
which describes the line of a mitered present
prefab sarcophagus which is the unspoken granite
for an extremely sensitive tooth I affirmed
by wincing, the upper part fixed to what I say
internally, harsh vertical sense of or-else
drying over the bowl which heaving hath wrought,
like a cage that permits us internment, a writhing
music so loud that gnashing is all I can present
to the regulators. The magneto shudders nothing else
as one, the skin slithers over new granite
and two, one eye smothers the other to say
the tempo chews on hinges turning affirmation
until the displaced fragment of memories firm
to globes of meat made fingers wringing
hands and spinning random lip locator to say
they are cut from fascism or other recent presents
like circumcisions on happiness. Map me a granite
chronicle, I believe in the roundness of someone else’s
limit, seem of limit standing. You, who else,
with your wallet out waiting to pay the affirmed
to negate me. Your currant agrees with the granite
tide, with scrambled evolutions, something wrought
coming out of the shadows to spin in the present.
Notice these alfalfa fields and letters that say
the scientists in the back seat of their cars sway
with sweaty rubberized DNA, there is nothing else
these letters of relatives can unearth from the present,
from the barn near the causeway of doom, can affirm
that each section of the year, strumming, wreaks
a coffin from the earth’s pores, her skin in granite.
These letters of the skin say peel me or else
top off the horn wrought twisting and be affirmed
in the granite presentation she trembles with.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Frankenstein
Just before the rubbing out of function
the movies are monster green with value
or with comfort like grass in a memory
on a hill infested with ants, subterranean.
globes to make meat from fingers touching
dollar bills and a photo of me as a child
mapping me a chronicle to imitate the child
of the gardener, that knight, who functions
with his organ of poison, crumpling to the touch
of the sun. Feet are currents that resist the value
of water, a pair of shoes to a subterranean
proverb. Exclude the sun’s memory.
Exclude carelessness and favor the memory,
the one law of the interminably protected child
in a chemical shower, subterranean
prayer wheel. Set the eye to function
an undermining execution of value,
blessed misdirection in the feathery touch
of an eye. Spin the random indicator to touch
the cut of fascism or other recent renegade memories
of circumcisions, other happinesses devalued.
I will follow the yellow moon until a child
is eaten by the viper in a mechanical function
of digestion, an un-inherited subterranean
legless shudder, passing a batch of subterranean
darkness, the kind you might touch
only because you have no functioning
sense of decency, no choice or memory,
monster who crack-tooth gnaws the child
out of me. Because there is no other value
this side of death’s river, I can’t value
my twig emotion no matter how subterranean
the demon factory hovers, touching
the mists, the thump-a-thump of a child
playing cars, by and by. I’m touching
the barrier of fog burning the memory
of saints on fire, slipping in to dysfunction.
Noose, function of burning tides, hacking
value, the subterranean touch of a child’s
lumps, is memory become factory, given up.
the movies are monster green with value
or with comfort like grass in a memory
on a hill infested with ants, subterranean.
globes to make meat from fingers touching
dollar bills and a photo of me as a child
mapping me a chronicle to imitate the child
of the gardener, that knight, who functions
with his organ of poison, crumpling to the touch
of the sun. Feet are currents that resist the value
of water, a pair of shoes to a subterranean
proverb. Exclude the sun’s memory.
Exclude carelessness and favor the memory,
the one law of the interminably protected child
in a chemical shower, subterranean
prayer wheel. Set the eye to function
an undermining execution of value,
blessed misdirection in the feathery touch
of an eye. Spin the random indicator to touch
the cut of fascism or other recent renegade memories
of circumcisions, other happinesses devalued.
I will follow the yellow moon until a child
is eaten by the viper in a mechanical function
of digestion, an un-inherited subterranean
legless shudder, passing a batch of subterranean
darkness, the kind you might touch
only because you have no functioning
sense of decency, no choice or memory,
monster who crack-tooth gnaws the child
out of me. Because there is no other value
this side of death’s river, I can’t value
my twig emotion no matter how subterranean
the demon factory hovers, touching
the mists, the thump-a-thump of a child
playing cars, by and by. I’m touching
the barrier of fog burning the memory
of saints on fire, slipping in to dysfunction.
Noose, function of burning tides, hacking
value, the subterranean touch of a child’s
lumps, is memory become factory, given up.
Monday, October 05, 2009
Zombie Movie
Either I’m a people in a world of zombies
or a zombie in a world of people, either
that or I’m in a movie that takes place,
in order to show what kind of thinking
goes on in a zombie’s head as he tries to eat
the person who is mistakenly hiding
in a pickup which is not a bad place to hide
except it died halfway between zombies
and safety which is when they finally eat
their way through to the credits. Either
that or it’s an illusion, and I am only thinking
of safety which is, in the end, a place
where zombies and their thinking replace
notions of getaways and trying to hide
in the right place so as not to be thinking
of anything when you go in to see this zombie
movie which will be so full of either
gore or squirming you wont be able to eat
the popcorn you got because you forgot to eat,
and which look like brains now in place
of popcorn but that doesn’t bother you either
because there is a human concern hiding
that churns deep and rubbery in the zombie
as he shambles in his bloodied suit, thinking
about how he will get you even as you think
you’ll get out of the theater and eat
some real dinner, somewhere real zombies
wouldn’t even consider like a sushi place
not fast food where the maggots are hiding
disease that turns you grunting either
to a cloud of gas, huffing putrid ether,
or just a shabby business man who thinks
he’ll make it if he tucks in his bowels, hides
the puddles and turns down the urge to eat
his neighbor, while that stain formed in his place
calls the mantra of the shopping mall zombies:
either you hide in your place or the zombies
will eat you. More importantly, do you think
they validate? Validate? Validate.
or a zombie in a world of people, either
that or I’m in a movie that takes place,
in order to show what kind of thinking
goes on in a zombie’s head as he tries to eat
the person who is mistakenly hiding
in a pickup which is not a bad place to hide
except it died halfway between zombies
and safety which is when they finally eat
their way through to the credits. Either
that or it’s an illusion, and I am only thinking
of safety which is, in the end, a place
where zombies and their thinking replace
notions of getaways and trying to hide
in the right place so as not to be thinking
of anything when you go in to see this zombie
movie which will be so full of either
gore or squirming you wont be able to eat
the popcorn you got because you forgot to eat,
and which look like brains now in place
of popcorn but that doesn’t bother you either
because there is a human concern hiding
that churns deep and rubbery in the zombie
as he shambles in his bloodied suit, thinking
about how he will get you even as you think
you’ll get out of the theater and eat
some real dinner, somewhere real zombies
wouldn’t even consider like a sushi place
not fast food where the maggots are hiding
disease that turns you grunting either
to a cloud of gas, huffing putrid ether,
or just a shabby business man who thinks
he’ll make it if he tucks in his bowels, hides
the puddles and turns down the urge to eat
his neighbor, while that stain formed in his place
calls the mantra of the shopping mall zombies:
either you hide in your place or the zombies
will eat you. More importantly, do you think
they validate? Validate? Validate.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Buzz Buzz Beelzebub
Witches chalk circle fails to detect
the dark lord’s insect passing over me,
evacuee of time. Instead I sing
homilies in pulped language, fragment
of my eye, the witness insists I nail
down the furniture god carved of serpents,
electric like the ocean used to be, a serpent
who probed with squeezing to detect
the winds of an epic thought naturally nailed
to my mouth, sucking, as it were, me
into delicious intention while the fragments
watched the centuries jaundice and sang
that captive prayer the belted criminals sing
at inquests. And yet you deny the serpent
who wallows for the sake of it, deny fragments
intruded and by the supreme inquisitor detected
my lies that burn, oh heaven save me,
like insects inserted in my relation like nails,
buttery up-drift, profile, garlic and snails
who with marble in their columns sing
through their nostrils songs that watch me
twist and squeeze the alter like a serpent
the good priest put his hand down and detected
squeezing my heart out into fragments
like pomegranate pulp, teeth, fragments
of bone. How he wishes to collect me, nail
me back together. I say use a metal detector
to sweep the dirt and shit until it sings
of the jointed beams that ride as two serpents
together like shoulders carrying me
into the country, setting the stake, burning me.
I am pages in the book of curses, fragments
from the garden, hiss of the condemned serpent
spreading a foliage of light, dressing with nails
the green, an avian sound resonant, sings
advent of wings, flap insipid detector
keeps the serpents in the chalk circle so we
can nail them down and cut their tails into
fragments. Singing shivers, they devour me.
the dark lord’s insect passing over me,
evacuee of time. Instead I sing
homilies in pulped language, fragment
of my eye, the witness insists I nail
down the furniture god carved of serpents,
electric like the ocean used to be, a serpent
who probed with squeezing to detect
the winds of an epic thought naturally nailed
to my mouth, sucking, as it were, me
into delicious intention while the fragments
watched the centuries jaundice and sang
that captive prayer the belted criminals sing
at inquests. And yet you deny the serpent
who wallows for the sake of it, deny fragments
intruded and by the supreme inquisitor detected
my lies that burn, oh heaven save me,
like insects inserted in my relation like nails,
buttery up-drift, profile, garlic and snails
who with marble in their columns sing
through their nostrils songs that watch me
twist and squeeze the alter like a serpent
the good priest put his hand down and detected
squeezing my heart out into fragments
like pomegranate pulp, teeth, fragments
of bone. How he wishes to collect me, nail
me back together. I say use a metal detector
to sweep the dirt and shit until it sings
of the jointed beams that ride as two serpents
together like shoulders carrying me
into the country, setting the stake, burning me.
I am pages in the book of curses, fragments
from the garden, hiss of the condemned serpent
spreading a foliage of light, dressing with nails
the green, an avian sound resonant, sings
advent of wings, flap insipid detector
keeps the serpents in the chalk circle so we
can nail them down and cut their tails into
fragments. Singing shivers, they devour me.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Apotheosis
**
The nails are in search of a man to make
not a god, but a Tonka toy inspired
by track star haircuts leaned in from shaving,
milk wash like flesh over Formica until
it’s transparent. All art should be smooth.
Two handed but concrete soft, like in a dream.
Read the air. Not god but deception dreamed
this bomb. Not juice but horizons made
this confirmation of madness secret-smooth.
Print outs of not god but robot inspired
insects. The carnival secretes a visit until
I dissipate like a sink full of shaving
cream, a cake covered in chocolate shavings
radiating out in ripples like a dream
of denuded faces cutting density until
the lord uncorks in a wild fiasco made
for the people in the dunking stand, inspired
by the amoebas all over the smooth
carpet. I am almost never smooth
no matter how much combing and shaving
I can’t quite get the ladies inspired
to stitch their pulsing cages to my dream
or to climb through pressure and make
that noise that heats the room until
the wallpaper droops, or at least until
I convalesce in wheezy flame and smooth
the sheets. Involuntarily I make
the folds of a chair ration out the shaving
light between hard stomachs in a dream
in which I am almost nearly inspired
to give in and fall down the stair well spire,
to turn within the hospital parking garage until
there is nothing but fried ampersands, dreams
of grease & gravy, secretions holy-smooth
where I am the prisoner desperately shaving
a gun out of innocence or whatever I can make.
I’ll inspire you with a ring made of wax,
shave a little time off my dream until it is smooth
and hairless and ready to be holy, holy.
**
**
The nails are in search of a man to make
not a god, but a Tonka toy inspired
by track star haircuts leaned in from shaving,
milk wash like flesh over Formica until
it’s transparent. All art should be smooth.
Two handed but concrete soft, like in a dream.
Read the air. Not god but deception dreamed
this bomb. Not juice but horizons made
this confirmation of madness secret-smooth.
Print outs of not god but robot inspired
insects. The carnival secretes a visit until
I dissipate like a sink full of shaving
cream, a cake covered in chocolate shavings
radiating out in ripples like a dream
of denuded faces cutting density until
the lord uncorks in a wild fiasco made
for the people in the dunking stand, inspired
by the amoebas all over the smooth
carpet. I am almost never smooth
no matter how much combing and shaving
I can’t quite get the ladies inspired
to stitch their pulsing cages to my dream
or to climb through pressure and make
that noise that heats the room until
the wallpaper droops, or at least until
I convalesce in wheezy flame and smooth
the sheets. Involuntarily I make
the folds of a chair ration out the shaving
light between hard stomachs in a dream
in which I am almost nearly inspired
to give in and fall down the stair well spire,
to turn within the hospital parking garage until
there is nothing but fried ampersands, dreams
of grease & gravy, secretions holy-smooth
where I am the prisoner desperately shaving
a gun out of innocence or whatever I can make.
I’ll inspire you with a ring made of wax,
shave a little time off my dream until it is smooth
and hairless and ready to be holy, holy.
**
**
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Devotee
*
The drain is a circle of eyes blinking back
the remnants of my shame. They investigate
so enormously as we dredge facile fact-bombs.
I am pierced in rows by a scientific fetish
and they labor in the Chrysanthemum-bulge
I cornered with the dogs to show you
I meant the best for your toad appendages.
Samples of decay threaded with appendages
like fingers and off-road tread leading back
to nightly deranges, how a house-fire bulges
with gowns of sound clawing to investigate
consciousness, the wet earth her scarlet fetish
prehensile projects from the tonsil her hope-bombs
the names withdrawing to canvass, bombed
to tombstone, all-terrain scrambled appendage,
time-balls; in with the oils like a candy fetish
in a dead rat’s mouth on the pestilent back
highway, where exterminators investigate
how long the carcasses make circus bulges
like bags of microwave popcorn bulge
from radiation, little roadside bombs
machine moved and glass investigated
by the machete who wants your appendage
removed from hero view, pruned back
along the historic landscape, that fetish
made turgid by hairs that tingle, that fetish
how your sting makes me welt, bulge
like the curve bones showing in your back
your heart beats away the dark with bomb
shakes, sprouts my prayer box to appendages
and the doctor splints, squints to investigate
how the trauma victim invests in closed gates
hedges of sheep, pink and wire fenced fetish
precision, with wild swinging appendages
that dance at the end of broken flower bulges,
like fields of gazing sunflowers carefully bomb
cut and gathered with hands to give back.
Thus the gentle caressing bomb of highway accident
is like the fetish for a missing appendage,
a bulge in your shirt worth investigating.
**
* *
The drain is a circle of eyes blinking back
the remnants of my shame. They investigate
so enormously as we dredge facile fact-bombs.
I am pierced in rows by a scientific fetish
and they labor in the Chrysanthemum-bulge
I cornered with the dogs to show you
I meant the best for your toad appendages.
Samples of decay threaded with appendages
like fingers and off-road tread leading back
to nightly deranges, how a house-fire bulges
with gowns of sound clawing to investigate
consciousness, the wet earth her scarlet fetish
prehensile projects from the tonsil her hope-bombs
the names withdrawing to canvass, bombed
to tombstone, all-terrain scrambled appendage,
time-balls; in with the oils like a candy fetish
in a dead rat’s mouth on the pestilent back
highway, where exterminators investigate
how long the carcasses make circus bulges
like bags of microwave popcorn bulge
from radiation, little roadside bombs
machine moved and glass investigated
by the machete who wants your appendage
removed from hero view, pruned back
along the historic landscape, that fetish
made turgid by hairs that tingle, that fetish
how your sting makes me welt, bulge
like the curve bones showing in your back
your heart beats away the dark with bomb
shakes, sprouts my prayer box to appendages
and the doctor splints, squints to investigate
how the trauma victim invests in closed gates
hedges of sheep, pink and wire fenced fetish
precision, with wild swinging appendages
that dance at the end of broken flower bulges,
like fields of gazing sunflowers carefully bomb
cut and gathered with hands to give back.
Thus the gentle caressing bomb of highway accident
is like the fetish for a missing appendage,
a bulge in your shirt worth investigating.
**
* *
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