Thursday, May 31, 2007

Of the Bird of the Holy Calling

Over this harrowing landscape, a pulley of carnage rescues

the few shuddering mulberry breasts & a corn rotten crow

who grew up wanting to be an egret.

& still the burden of scorched earth, of fires and shelling

means a crown is descended somewhere, down to the planet,

maybe in a city or movie theater, and alighted, as ordained

on some idiot’s head. Because only the clear eye of a swamp bird

can shudder out the seed of our High Holy Lord, this war

is a crescent on the great belt buckle in the sky. Rear up

to the truckers, for they humped those bombs all they out

of Nebraska or what other state did not cry when she was

born. So we go on, and the film has us learn Typhoon depths

& links of tears fed into processors. The crow makes us mealy

mouthed about the war, while the god makes us love it.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007


ha ha ha

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

News of the Day

We are big under the true heaven.

Little man shoots enormous Hog.

We are still a nation divided.

Protestors at the holy ranch

are required to show ID.

They nuzzle the barrier for some affection.

Hint: the knife dreams of pork thongs.

Woman leaps out of the way of oncoming

doublewide. Is unable to retrieve her

little ones. Darlings. Of the dark.

No stretch. No believing here, read the sign.


It’s not safe for you to think that.

Stop with the waving of your sword. Take

my plastic safety valve & stretch your forehead

around it. Squeeze




Monday, May 28, 2007

Friday, May 25, 2007

The Scuttle Album

A mixing of kind

in like, relish,

& the deep hamper

leeringly dovetailed

to discographies,

these mutated sounds

thrummingly emanate

from nebulae

so of equality named:

crab: equine bumpers.

With my depth modulator

& funk-forks

I pick up planetary


equatorial vibrations,

girdle grunts

that point here.

Deep space

has a discothèque

– yet unbombed –

& it likes to move it.

Move it.

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Tuesday, May 22, 2007


I’m through bringing you these little vials.

In your vestment armor I envision a cleansing of the meat board.

Still no hammer can straighten the victory loom.
Saddle your viewfinder with the trembling of weaving.

You ought not prune your Hydrangea with the broadsword of Lo-angrick!

Swing me to the myriad. I have enlargened the hoop straddle
with ingots of Thule.

Gorge wedded to the throng toggle, I, steeple grouched the heathens,
but with flowers, sweet purple Pansies, Goth-weaver.

I’m journeying to the Mall of your choice in order
register thee, my cellular to the battle axe. Such

a pretty compliment to the broken tooth,
also the queenly crown, her smooth crash:

Nordrun the cruise liner wishes to bury you.


Friday, May 18, 2007


I got you all in check.


Immersed within the goal,

to grounding, to meet the fury’s digestives,

the self, around the goal

affirms a necessary movement

within itself.

This is the fine firmament

of generation: not to be allowed

but to find the mercy

of sustenance

in the curve of permission

like the light around the edge, harbor

& steam.

This is the source. The offended hand

finds a stick to clutch

in the cane I use to keep from falling.





Thursday, May 17, 2007

knee deep

Twitch Blasphemy

My eyes aren’t drooping like the blue tarp after rain,

Rather, the twitch is like a stuttering engine

Preparing to come alive.

By the way, I also am thinking of flying to Poland,

Of dressing up my individuals and renting a bus,

Of then driving it off a cliff into a patch of my own bristly

Euphemism. (Consumer Alert: Conifer Hedge!)

When I search online for “Eye Twitch” it says

It’s caused by a combination of stress and nerve

Damage. It’s ok, though because the pretty girl

In the sidebar ad is looking happily over the rim

Of her prescriptions and I’m sure, so sure

It’s not nerve damage.

But I don’t know what the arborist thinks

When she pins that hem of green cloth

To the ailing ficus,

Be-branch the precipice of hewing.

When I think of flying to Poland, I

Am really thinking of sawing off a limb,

That order is imposed by a long needle in the neck.

Thus my social habits are like unto the

Already taxidermied Mallard:

The allure of some forgotten pond

Coupled with

Dust urchins token of death.

Also online it says Eye twitching is caused by dry eye.

This curious term clarifies to me as an audience

In an unsentimental movie, perhaps a documentary

On duck hunting or Tax reform.

Sure, the fine print on a railroad tie says beware.

I’m not that well read.

Consumer alert!

Everyone in the audience is wearing corrective 3D glasses

And I have to keep my left lid screwed down

The forehead in confusion. Consumer Alert!

These are my fingers. This is my throat.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Best American Poetry

Because you’ll want to know,

What I’m doing is leaning against

the long malformed arm of a live Oak

near the little lake downtown. It has nice

turns of concrete sidewalk. The home-

less don’t talk to you, & the helicopter

behind the great central spume

hovers over only imaginary wounded.

The sign says one complete circuit

is a kilometer and thus the exercise is

of European design. The waddling

herds of Muscovite ducks really

terrify me. Their wattles nearly covering

the black seeds of their eyes, &

the stain of their combination shit

and piss are bucolic interruptions

of the city, warning: beware, animals shitting.

And the thought of giving over your lunch

demands in the seeth of their flipper

feet, the hook on the ends their bills.

Meanwhile, an organized gang of school kids

sets up to race around the pond

just as a line of ducklings marches

to the crossing. One homeless man,

be-do-ragged & scrawny stands arms

out to protect the ducklings. The meeting

of privilege and responsibility. The kids

just run around him, whooping. I’m

still a larch end leaner looking on.

& what about you, watching me through

all this? Aren’t you sick of this yet?

The hoary ducks, the predictable circuit.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Honda VT750DC

Last Nights of the Island

What in Indo-Chinese sounds scandalous

Herds useless terms before us as we bow

Supplicant to the swirling appending of ice

Cream on the Dairy Queen sign.


To say we only just got one in our town,

Weeks of the empty storefront and the lake,

Ducks and homeless circling, lost.

Now the girls lean out too far from the drive

Up and the bums squirm down the spoiling milk

And my goal, which is to follow the shadow

Up the metaphoric staircase

Where, on a shimmery canvass,

I see a bonsai tree on your teacup, before your lips,

A wren & cracks in the mountain,

Says bonsior to the Blizzard, M&M to the Snickers

Forming at the front of my wardrobe.

Even now I’m losing sight of it, in the prayer hatch.

Sprinkled nuts & fudge. The gooey termination of society.

Wrap your bonbons in that o’ reader. Epithet

Of self abuse. Oh Queen, flapping tyrant, homily

Of men. I’m an underage fool falling down drunk

At your All Ages concert. Chinese guitar riffs.

The ducks are forming an island with their backs

To us. Soon we’ll be the only ones in line.


Monday, May 14, 2007

The Oculist Witness

-- As with everything, this is self indulgent.

The clinic at the DMV has me in the “Squinters” category

I look like a copse of lavender, with my one eye

Pirate-covered by the little paddle. I see a Z,

A memory of candlelight fading as I close my eyes.

The mind is a marching out of feelers, world replicators.

I’m not afraid to fail, I write a poem at you

Because it has teeth, not daisies. It’s a rage

Not from me, but from the not me.

These imitators can vary the length of a wave of light

Salmon-y, the hand of the optometrist rests heavy

On my shoulder. She smells like your apartment

In that gray I was drunk through. Your portrait

A calm hospital blanket over the jagged buzz

Of Picasso or the nerds lined up to fix your

Computer. Next letter I see is Omega, a listing

For apartments in tiny newspaper print.

It heaves with the functional body, bare ass to the breeze.

She puts the paddle over my right eye and I think

Of how to answer next, L, 5, Gamma. Inside here

Where the test burns me, in the thinking,

A certain descent to the bottom of the swimming pool.

I’m discovering ways to be a new man, a chemist

Or a lunger. Next time I’m in daylight, I’ll strut

With the awarenss of confession. “I can’t make it out.”

Open up to the redness, crinoline chemical on the gaze.

My eyelashes come together like the teeth

Of some tiny machine grinding chocolate. It’s late

Into the vapors, if I faint, it will be into snow

Mellow and loose, the crumpled undertow invents an Alpha.

Or the tumble of ice and waves, a cocktail:

Soft ice, the new glass of teeth. Soft teeth:

The new teeth of glass. In the waiting room

Marked in red pepper, saying goodnight Ms, closing time,

I fill in the bar marked Other with the word

“Breather”. I close both my eyes and cave to the failure.

All my life it’s been a struggle to use indifference

As a guiding principle.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Friday, May 11, 2007

Duchamp & the Traveling Graces

These horns make it difficult to pass security.

Very often the fears they inspire

are closeted by the machismos that necessitate

both airline piloting and the sort of failed

yearning for imposing order on the world

which results in the airport security detail.

I may have said too much about it already,

The sandwich lady is digging with a shovel

for pastrami and the oversized advertisements

usher me into mental decay on glacial levels.

She passed me a wrap of tapeworms and you know

what I said? I said maybe it will grow up

to look like me. Can you believe that? Also

it was wrapped in scripture, Psalm worms

wriggling up my ever after.

So I wrapped my horns in a towel and they punched

my ticket to the slippery State bordered

by constant burning repression and catatonia,

pre-awarded structures like these horns, which I

confess were made by another creature before

the security guards dispatched it.

I’m on my way to infiltrate the museum. So you know.

I’m diving in to smash the toilet I was

bred of. If you meet a tape worm, one of god’s

children in your intestine, listen for her message:

The path to mercy is an insistent flushing.

Thursday, May 10, 2007


So, looking out the window of the van I notice

the elderly woman in the car next to me is drifting

over into my lane because she is text messaging.

I’m concerned, her tires are grinding into me like

teeth, unified teeth over miles.

I’m not concerned because I can nearly read her message:

Late, lost & old. Can’t figure out how long to wait

to begin spelling again between O & L.

The steel belts under the rubber, or whatever passes

for galvanized has a wring on my mind like a noose

I explain that to you, OK?

I honk and take out my cell and wave it to the closed window,

A/C. the lanes are a dull silver what with all the smoke

from some fires. The future is a dull silver over the air.

the lord is my A/C repair man. I shall not want.

i look at the picture of my daughter on the inside wall

paper of my phone. the future is a war for air & water, you betcha.

I don’t text to any one: nrly klld by LdRly. Holla back, Oh LrD.

Ropes of woven bread, (Know your following) I like a sandwich

in a cool restaurant. the A and the C. the alpha and the chromosome

together in a child’s religion of “nah-uh.”

two paths, one the color of sky, two: the pin down of weaving,

a smoke dance in place of the rain. There’s no other

‘Cause god is lightin’ with his thumbs.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

For The Record (also)

probably the worst mohawk ever

Monday, May 07, 2007


Also known as ROCKET

Sunday, May 06, 2007

Silver City

My wife Mary and me did this collaborative piece with Henry's kindergarten class for the Strawberry St. Festival silent auction. The parents donated beater toys, Mary and the kids hot-melt glued parts together to make characters. I took the leftovers and made this thing as a space for the children's creations to inhabit. I'll put up more pictures later when it's in place and finished if I'm a little less sick of than I am now.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

One For John

Screeching Weasel-Hey Suburbia(plus a fight in the middle)