Saturday, January 27, 2007

Once in a Million Squid

And far off these necessitates
Quarrel unwinding, to be feared,

Past the millionth past.
Ease quotes the record,

Paleolithic turntables against
Quote switches, the thumb.

Here I admit it: follow the scraps,
Important release forms, change

The code on the entry bar, lean
Like gleaming stones

Earmarked to these new oceanic heat vents,
I weigh a thrusting elbow

To the dark. Swim, swim.
Express the forgotten chunks.

Friday, January 26, 2007

Thursday, January 25, 2007


Look out the river
Brings us in like a fish

Look out the barber
Reels us in to bioluminescence

Arthropod scoop me ice cream
Cold methane

Worms crawl out
Smack each other with open

Hands of litigation shouting
Evolve this!

And still the river clinks
Islands, cheers,

Small holes in my head
Catch and release

Small cavities of combustion
Help me by emitting sounds

Like wave slaps on a motor boat
Instead of still ingesting.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Macular System

A gunshot of distance and burnt rounds
Shape the spot of sun which I remember

I remember the shape of sun spot round
Burnt into my eye,

I remember the round shot burnt red
Into my eye, my remembering.

At severe highway speeds the traffic cones
Loom in blur then materialize

Like a hard kernel in the popcorn
A gliding vision turned into sudden rock,

The absorbed light masticated on points.
And then the unfinished bridge

Rows of unhinged rebar, hull of shape
Reported hanging around

The spot of blast and sun.

Monday, January 22, 2007


Limited Stamps

On the beach in Hollywood FL, a tractor drags a giant segment of pipe
In order to smooth away the foot prints, garbage and seagull carcasses.

Inverted aircraft or scones with gunpowder.

The hump over the drawbridge over the intracoastal is the biggest hill in Hollywood and very hard to peddle over.

Thanks for thumbs, they give inversion a cloudy temple.

My landlord in Hollywood thought it was funny to make racist jokes. My neighbor across the backyard was arrested for selling shoulder mounted surface to air missiles.

Standing pipes unleash the car bombs, carburetor, link shadows with hair.

My backyard was filled with sticker burs that grew like a grass. My dog developed an aversion to pooping.

The inches mount up, corrosions of sand holes filled with salt, the salted earth.

There are stamps with portraits on them of people who have done nothing of significance with their lives.

I would rather have a stamp with my thumbprint on it. Then the soldiers might not recognize me as I weep.

On the Broadwalk in Hollywood FL, you may encounter poets dressed as drill sergeants or darkened spit globs deep as a highway sun.

Crutches of sun make the roaming clink as though things are just right and about to occur.

In the bike lane on the Hollywood Broadwalk you may be hit by a Canadian child riding one of Leonardo’s wire dreams.

You are halo constructed then charmed by hands like the turnstile.

Saturday, January 20, 2007

The Southern Humanities Council Annual Conference

“Contextual Realities, Rivers of Meaning:
Interpreting Place, Culture, and Circumstance”

Louisville, Kentucky, February 1-4, 2007
Downtown Holiday Inn
Friday Afternoon, February 2, 2007 4:00-5:30pm
Session IVb, Ballroom B

“Zombies and Other Weapons of Mass Destruction: Collaborating for Survival”

Clay Blancett, Independent Poet and Artist
Mary Boyes, Popular Ink Press
Tracey Cockrell, Independent Artist
Jay Snodgrass, Florida State University

There's A Jertain In The Curtain

Eight Miles High (London 1985)

You Don't Have The Stones

Gimme Fire

Friday, January 19, 2007

Traced Sonics


Nox-pin clink, foreground thistle

To steam, to slither outright

Barnacles and currency, cloisters

Of change, stirrups a head dress

Drenched in parfait the noodler

Condemns each sniff of the handlebar

Sting-bat and Norway mashuggahs

Environments of over-clones

Knife the transcendentalist to backwaters

No further taxonomy required

Clink-jam a conifer, shredded everywheres

Link up to paginate this looking,

This coffee is a plastic edict, poppers

Extreme predictions of the new cacophony.


Thursday, January 18, 2007

Circle Jerks


For the Turnstiles

All the sailors
with their seasick mamas
Hear the sirens on the shore,
Singin' songs
for pimps with tailors
Who charge ten dollars
at the door.

You can really
learn a lot that way
It will change you
in the middle of the day.
Though your confidence
may be shattered,
It doesn't matter.

All the great explorers
Are now in granite laid,
Under white sheets
for the great unveiling
At the big parade.

You can really
learn a lot that way
It will change you
in the middle of the day.
Though your confidence
may be shattered,
It doesn't matter.

All the bushleague batters
Are left to die
on the diamond.
In the stands
the home crowd scatters
For the turnstiles,
For the turnstiles,
For the turnstiles.

--Neil Young, At The Beach

Source Clog

The list of which towards light inclines

A list towards climbing towards shadows

In the open heart, heat showers clinging

Shower curtains, long lines for tickets

To the lighter show, popping flicks

Flint locks down the darkness, commute

To the bathroom, to the liquor store,

Her breathy banality loads the species,

Lightening toads say this that only

Nothing leans as lightly as the load

Say scorch, say steeple and leap

Let lingering elongate. Are you sick

Of this yet? Somnambulessons

Flicker in the eyes then Q and A

In the graveyard, refreshing dissection.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Not the Yellow Line


On the stain, destiny, countervailed

Bearing change to receive a holy

Tax deduction, while scrubbers amass

Like clouds of vermin to eradicate

The bubbling, sticky effluvia

From the turnstiles.

Peeking like a walnut or a barb

On the wire, your chainlink squanders

Her winks on the backyard, her

Valance of dog turds, reward everlasting.

The long road is messy, rumble stripped,

Concentric with the marble of fleshrings

Like fat on a grapefruit or hog. And slick,

Youwee, she got it in for you, turnstiles

And all.


Mistotranshabitional Unfunction

Otters teeth like stumps to others,
Knives in the bathroom lights like vines.

Trumpets crunch in riverbeds, grow steps,
Stem tubers out for gills, meteors.

Crests in stabbing, heroics of the stork
In retreat. Goody bar. The end-eating train

Stems more, growing loose root meats,
Over the heads, down wired to haze.

The levers, the ledge, whoso clever, cogs:

Unveils their effluvia

With whips and spinning ships of Shaw

Stratagems, other gamy meats to straw.

Turn it off, hinge back the link and newt,
No gear mists the grates. Stink. Offer agony.

Friday, January 12, 2007



Look, the sun sets out her silver,
Reminder of a lag in humility.
We forget to prove as well
To one another so
These stubbed toes send their memos:
Notches hurt the same.

Let-downs and tabs, a coat tag for the brain.

Assemble nice some clinging, sense
The garbage bags:
Think how breathing lends the farm
Her gristle, her
Smooth voice of outrage.

Or remember the divide
Of trestle and graffiti, the swag

Of love and proclamations towards defeat:

Destroy the system, tear it down.

How loose the metal looks
Without the light, how suddenly hairy
Has grown this lag in darkness.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

The One Holy with Boards

In the corner I keep a bucket

For hair, for ants to make

Monuments with, like outside

In the mud they made temples

To gods, ant gods wearing masks

Of my hair, ant men

As ant gods transformed

And little ant children watching

By the fire, scared and pretending

Not to be scared.

The rest is only boards

And a chair and me in a figure

Tossing hair, one lonely

Loose strand sticking

To the current of air that could be

My breath or it could be

The most holy spirit on high

Moving the consequences around

So that little ant children

Can come into the cavern perilous

And pick out a dress,

When they are older, to scare

The other children and at the same

Time their parents who

look both ways, one with

Eyes in the back of their back hands

Which can look up the phone number

For the rectory so the empty suits can come

And empty the air and patchwork

Up my boards.

My boards.

For Cents

And a depression in the soft

Of currency, managed heads

Beads and discriminated furrows,

The corn in her vestments

Yet to wed, still in the perusal

Of soft sun and somewhere

Else, distant hammering, a concourse

Going up for the righteous to

Watch from. Listen to the wind

For some oohs and aahs,

Crowds of pruning heads a jingle

To the news, anchor of the day

From this equator, torrid sunlight

On crops and crops of money.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Log Entries

And sterile seeming nauticals

Come streaming to the tubular

When nodes believe the negative

And steam makes molds of rebar

Like sweeping beams of corded wood

And happy dreams of doom

Some sandwich barriers sand the islands

Or twitch bread link the shark’s beard

I leave this shoal a bannered tile

A dash of berry brainy noodles

To serve the severed tides, like these

Unhammered nails, unmasted vessels

Break upon the doorsteps in delirious slips

Sinking down to the stumps and treasure.


Monday, January 08, 2007


Humanized by the secret caress of children

The caramelized dinosaur at the playground

Looms over the seesaw’s chewing rhythm

Like an offering. In my dream I decipher

The split of the many words for footstep, a jungles

Tears, reassembling them into

Carbon dated mechanics, a computer print out

Of fleeing herds, the desperate and doomed

Wrapped up together in words like eon and love.

At my end of extinction I’m a little droopy eyed,

Waiting outside the museum for a cab, some

Purpose, or just lingering with not much else

To motivate, perhaps masticating a cud

Wait for the world and its children

To fawn over my reassembled corpse.

Saturday, January 06, 2007


Young @ Heart sing Sonic Youth

Friday, January 05, 2007


Or wheeling the corpse of a possum over

The four foot chain link and into my neighbor’s yard.

That of the unmowed, untended. He only uses

His back yard to figure eight on a clamorous

ATV that could serve no possible purpose in the city.

Because he wakes me up from my Saturday nap

With that high whine and his godaweful kids pummeling

At silence, I heave this poor comatoast fellers

Humble remains, this body of evidence, prayer

To the right god of sniveling vengeance

Right into the worn and sandy lane of my passive

Aggression. Back in the day, flinging the dead

Over the battlements was intended to spread disease.

These days it’s the only recourse a man has.


Thursday, January 04, 2007

The Darker Side of Car Culture

No escape. The Screen.

Dead righteous to the unnamable blur


Asphalt pulse and professional footage

The honk remains the crane

Digging out flooring from brain bonnets

Of coral, dreams of the ocean floor

Rippled with remove, addled with worm

Caravans to, from, feedback

Realm the drone, feed on and on

Feed Back.

The gong cremates the tame,

And some are the mouths of the goalie

And a set of heels. A concrete banister

To the tinkling sound.

That thudding?

Only earth, clods and clods.

Monday, January 01, 2007

Piping Hot Sublimity

Together the resounding clouds like hibiscus
Or something more eternally shattering

And more resonant of the blissfully hot climate
Like magnolia, hanging cirrus cloud

Of gargantuan tyrannosaur tooth
De-bubbling in the vapors of some south bound jet,

Jamaica blue and water, or iron ground shavings
Of rain, I am opening the door to you Monsieur

Here is the rent and a little card upon which women
Make irises of lost hair,
That is, that which is lost

Strikes us down and we, standing in the rain
Are dead in the water,

Kvetching at the ability to breath.