Saturday, December 30, 2006
Like the little down hawk
Pace-pacing the furrow
The neck and the penance
To scarlet and be-beady-eyed
This is the way, the proffered hand
To the infernality
Realm of quick steak and precooked
Twist an eye and win. Wind.
There’s a rat. There’s a squirrel.
Each a subject of conquest.
The fur line of a closed eye
A twinkle down below
Friday, December 22, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
1. In terms of picking up after my dog, I play the percentages and thus wind up with dog poo on my foot for a percentage of each day. My footsteps are therefore an olfactory experience one can follow absentmindedly.
2. Prior to marrying me, my wife had never gone into a K-Mart.
3. Every time I watch the TV I see not just one but a pair of swirling mouths trying to chew through the screen and eat me.
4. At least once a week I say out loud to my self: I am Batman.
5. I would rather listen to death metal than read poetry, but I would rather write poetry than be in a death metal band.
I pass on the virtue of confession to theblondestsleep and ssandrassimmondds and allstarme.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
1. I have an irrational fear of zombies, complete with fifteen years worth of various nightmares about them. This has been the main impetus for this blog. In every house I have lived in in my adult life I have made detailed plans to barricade against attacking zombie hordes.
2. I have a intensely strong aversion to wadded up paper napkins and tissue. It's made much worse if they are wet. I always feel that they are somehow going to end up in my mouth.
3. I also very much dislike the words "topping" and "bodice." I hate them for no good reason other than they sound hideous to me. I have a good friend, Chris Kopczinski, who is a wonderful man but was born, I believe, with the most unfortunate last name anyone could wish for.
4. I married a former Little Miss Bedford (Va).
5. I used to believe that drunken pyromania was an ideal form of social activism within the community.
Friday, December 15, 2006
I have my layer of white thermal to cover me. I rise and
Each blessed vertebrae knuckles together, straightens, and I stand.
Geese catch light under their wings as they arc the sunrise.
There is nothing under the horizon coming for me.
This life doesn't have to be war.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Then put them back in the rectangles of sun
After the weeks and loss, and corn
I thought I’d die, looking up at the white part
Of the mountain, scoops of lipstick,
Sleeves of office shirts amputated
Amongst the mountain crocus, a broach
Of appetite, the beginning of life,
On film reels, silence, kisses
Stretch out time, the vast seal.
Mention of the police, beating
Finally, each other. The first image
Through telescope, night
And the long black tree. Decades
Of walking through images
Dirty baby clothes, rafters, ants.
For slender wings
Hear murmuring. The arms are everything
Prowling through mud
The knees are wrong, believe me.
My petals are strewn, emulsified
In this impenetrable, and such a combed
Of homeless shoes, shiners
Back bones of the snakes I spoke to
Tinkling with light. Some you can
Just barely see, freezing dawn.
Here, this postage rivets
To the one yard line,
This sack is impending, you bet,
This loose seam
Okays in the building’s foundation.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
And floats, completely motionless, on his back,
My hand resting beneath the small ridge of his spine.
He's studying the ceiling like I told him to,
Like I did for endless laps. Just like tonight,
The gymnasium lights, the sound of water displaced
By many silent kids, the damp heat against the windows
In December, the chlorine. He's not afraid anymore.
Maybe he'll get his name on the board for best time.
Maybe this prince will grow the gills I never did and
Go beneath the ocean forever, like Namor, the Sub-mariner.
I will show him how to embrace it, to uncurl and move
Through it like space, pure and alone. I will let him go.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Forty Four: I am leaving through gravel
Which is a voice, a voice of lines.
Forty Five: All the kings of plastic meant
No harm by the Drive-in, only ripples of snow
Forty Six: On the killing fields. Affection
Buys a ticket for the shivering wings.
Forty Seven: The last voice is a vacation,
Wholesale nutrients and evaporation.
In the mud, more of us have left B
It in the mud, not mine, you see R
Still thrashing in this version unhealthy A
Teeth, interpretation, recognition, I
Unhealthy. And so I’m tired and going N
Everywhere with legs like faces S
Pressed down by black gloves, L
Ivy skinned, wrinkled. The wet U
Makes snowshoes around my eyes, G
The knees, the windows open O
Like skipping records, bobble headed P
Continuum, one part stereo system, E
One part natural cog, seem-like N
Carrots on the wing. S
The muscular god crenellated
his wing dome with a machine
of quotes, of quotes, one
part love, one part overheard speech
without the voice there is no mangling.
Without chalk the marks
are not decided. Oh arrow, oh fence,
pick the chunks of my dreams
from the softness still murmured
in the concertina wire chunks.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
And shipped to a friend
Just for a break, just for
A joke. The ribbed back
Of my La-Z-Boy is labial
In its pulsing, parrots bobbing
Over a seaside sunset.
They say if the red eye of Jupiter
Were on earth, there’d be no Miami.
How could a destination unravel
So easily? So damned credibly?
Look at all the overturned boat hulls
Bobbing in the surf.
So much packaging.
Friday, December 08, 2006
With such flattering gratitude?
Someone’s licked the telephone poles
To candy cane with a bloody tongue.
Such focus to carve a crayon into judgment:
Judas, the clan of animal crackers
Playing Godot to the furnace of cheers.
The sand is so grateful because the sea
Redeems every voucher, beach towel
And corpse. If Jesus had a sea side spot
The cranium of his could be tanned
And sporty as well as shined up just
Right for his movie roll. Later in life
I’ll regret I ever made fun of this.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Satan takes the Staten Is. Ferry.
Kicks depressives like pea stones
Into the drink.
Abandon all Popes all ye who inter
Armies march on cocoa bean steam,
Stew up villagers for sustain:
Feedback and sustain
The blood smear your ear exchanges
With the eye
Stains and smudge families
Reunite to the laundry basket,
The whole hole of bent and broken
Plastic grips, like a homestead
Maybe a loose quail and a certain
Incline of a head before some splatter.
Satan says, buy American.
Pump your arms and swerve
These roads a filled with tikes.
Train in, train out.
Each time the movie is new.
Rambo is a cravat eating stinker
Clint gets an eyeful of poverty
Reagan pounds his fist in favor
Of the money shot
The money shot, Satan says,
Is the train running over
Again and again, that
Little starving kid in the “Help
The Poor” commercial.
Satan says, eat the cow. Eat into
The paper bags.
Thistle breath gnawed
from the self owned toes
to operate on
found dead on the Mt.
Left and buried the snow
And stones make face out of my landscape.
See? Me one the lamb
A mighty army chugaluga
Little ones and little ones
And highway accidents
And accidental freezings.
Satan bought a Ferrari
With what I paid for it
A hamburger steady
A cheese combustion
Poof up, tie down, take
Step past the rope-a-steer
Join the tournament.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Monday, December 04, 2006
Toes bent to sand and light
Dust or money lurking to
History, to maps to calipers
When I was a kid there was a cloud.
When I was older I watched a man
Twist a cigar on a bench on Lincoln.
It was night, there were no clouds
But beach sand lurked everywhere
People walked on bent toes,
People watched, ignoring
The sleeping men in their designer
Filth and body smells.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Saturday, December 02, 2006
And the stars are first required
To breech a horizon of pines
And turkey calls, then the swish
Smoke from wet wood will
Knuckle into the living room
Of some far off alien life form
Enriched by the enterprise
Of someone needlepointing
A map of chaos, some bleary
Eyed grandma coerced by
Angels and fumigation chemicals
To rescind her ancient denial
Of the devil and his Cadillac
And make a spread sheet
Out of yarn to march us one
And all back into the fields
Where the guards will set us free.