Saturday, June 30, 2007
At the end of the film my wife told me I couldn't go off to be a "dark spirit of vengeance" because I have two little kids.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Bonnet. Horror. Betrothal.
Introductions: before we bury the bridge,
Here the plume of overbite, rehearsing the break,
Meet the fair-weather concrete in the dam.
You’re both so high and mighty.
Still, free from the stick, this Rough shapes
The new broken bones.
On the down-hunt, we meet caverns, tomb-ly,
Roach havens who burn their headless
Corpses at both ends.
Meticulous informant. Superfluous detergent,
Blood stains reign mightily
Upon the tunnel entrance, the wedge of dark
Buried under the overpass & heading
To the parking lot beside the river. Each river,
Each parking lot a proving ground to youth.
Squeamish drill, the great chain of credit
Admonishes us to heave, broken teeth to
Rotting livers, mind the grates, the wretched
Fingers slick out, slick out. To nervous jiggling.
Scourge wrapped tinkle, breach the deviant till
The children ask amnesty to this That, literally:
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Arnold Gargle
Jab with the elbow spear in the gladiator’s den.
Look down yon purple heart, the snake eats its way
into the governor’s seat. Ha Ha, your little tie amuses me.
There were script problems from the start.
Dousing the snake women with their master’s blood.
Maria, I’ll be in the car.
Here is the Q-tip used to kill Ross Perot. Yes, the serpent’s
minion is a puny man. Hammer of rock legends,
Hammer of Iron Maiden’s youthful penny, hammer
of Folk metal pining against glam.
Conan Vs. Vince Neil. The stars will shatter into
tax relief. Witness X, the mother-core, on the run
from the wolf pack. What is the secret of steel?
Drive big ones, smoke big ones. remember when I said
I’d eat you laugh. Last, Latvian Hammer of
through-chest. Gods of pretty men, we salute you.
Conan’s gargle. Heave the gigantic pot of your argument,
the arms, the limbs of it, upon the gathered wretched.
Raised by Huns, teaches one anguish, twenty years of it.
Are we also to assume it stitches slabs of muscle on one
Like a heavy wool coat on a hanger?
Before I became Governor, but after I stole away the Princess
James Earl Jones killed my ultimate metal girlfriend
By straightening a snake and firing it with a bow
Deep into her chest. I drew the length of it out of her.
Her corpse exploded into fireworks on the pyre.
I remember her jagged, black and white,
Camouflaged in her Anvil of Crom warpaint,
Patting her scimitar in her open palm,
Just before she cut down ten strong men.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Scuttled on peaks and listing, great rents torn
Like smoke is torn. Sides stove in from cannon-fire.
Smoke-feathered up the ridge, passing,
There are ships passing that you have not seen.
Their music of pines and limestone, lush and hoary.
There is nothing else to be missed in Tennessee.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
So I put it in my truck cause the smelly hippy made it run dirty.
(oh by the way this is our 900th post) (!)
Last Thursday I took off on my motorcycle to ride the Parkway.
Here are some pictures.
On Sunday I rode back from my aunts' place in the Smokies. I got on the Parkway at Cherokee, North Carolina, and rode it approximately four hundred miles to Roanoke in about thirteen hours. I can almost feel my ass today.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Scene: Through an upper window
the swollen ground is mucousy with rain.
Clear sky, an ointment. Fade to sky.
No matter how love pushes away the knife,
it is always translucent, like a fish.
Like the memory of a fish we look for
trying to make out the hook from
the other gleamings, color deeming
outright. Fade to sky. Repeat:
The act of memory bounded.
I wash the carrots and put them in Tupperware
with enough water to keep them from drowning.
Utility is like pine shade in the yard.
I am ready for breakfast, for lunch, to reach
back through sunlight on linoleum
to push my hand away from the stove,
from the broken glass, from the yawning
oven of despair, wet like an open mouth.
The director may be subtracted from hell.
Utility is an authentic voice.
The princely export in a gleam disguise
These dark angles wherein comfort lies.
With the shades drawn the window is an impenetrable
slate. Unmessage: Hear the tree amusing herself,
the roots disgorging this ground, the clutch
of a curious customer no longer interested in this
or that stump ability, clump of marbled mass.
Mossy bereavement the ground exhales in chunky
Scene: This tree, generational pine left out to suburban
monument lays down her toil; goes in search
inside. Wants back into the darkness of the day.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
At the Oysterpan Coffee Parking Lot
Do you mark asphalt, sibilant Oil-pan?
It begins in the twin. Wet black skin of seal,
Refracted halo and slick thinness of plate.
The caress down gutter, not quite cruel. The men
At the outdoor tables whittle women from
Wormwood. The marks strike sparks
In the Everclear vapors of heat & road,
Ephemera factory. The knife breaths into
Coolness. See it? Then it ends. The women
In shawls. Four trays of weary light above
The yawning bus-your-own table bin.
To keep it here, the car is moving. Away.
This is wrong. Jump up the steep
Aggression of currency. Time & fat. Crucible
Of slick, rainbow curve & asphalt. Engine
Engine of Nowhere song. Cascadent effervescent
Monday, June 11, 2007
Friday, June 08, 2007
The Drought at Goose Pond Trail
& on this stump the rude broken
Rude like a dream of the crippling
Cross bound traffic. The strict
Decline of star power, radiated night.
I tell you I cant remember which dipper
You use to find the North Star
& I can’t see how they make a bear
Although a swan, sure, except the swan
Becomes a rock and every year
The cross wears its hankie to wipe
Away the snot you get with spring time.
I’m hobbled, I tell you. Just mine-swept
By the empty lake & her geese who,
Since the water S-shaped and evaporated
Just flew away, & now there’s only
The one carcass run over over by the Ruby
Teusday, that day before the Lent
When we gorge to celebrate want & loss.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Monday, June 04, 2007
Emily Dickinson Comes Back From the Dead to Eat the Brains of Billy Collins
He cowers in the room at the top of the stairs
to the left of the bathroom, the only one
left with a lock.
He can hear her in the hall, her & the heroines
also murdered by E.A. Poe. Those
ladies suited to the subject of poetry.
Such lines are the easily masticated leftovers
of the Marquis of poetry. Billy, she mumbles
her voice a shuffle on the carpet –
I know you’re in there, Billy, I can smell
your – He bought the runner because its paisleys
marched in tune with a thought he had
while looking down from his window
when the leaves parted in an afternoon breeze
and he could see how much better he was
than everybody else. Also, the paisleys look
like brains, sweet, sweet brains. She’s at the lock
now. Billy hears a fly because she’s dead
& walking, her two-step century shoes.
Billy is about to be revised into an abstract.
Before he goes, though, let me say
that inside that room, the lights off & the end,
Billy, the comfort of space is its closing. There,
the abstract like an opening mouth, the room
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Friday, June 01, 2007
The Descending Crown
Vita Ordinariurm. The pond is a philandering bowtie.
The gorse is in tails, luminous as drought,
our drought, ever after the dust rising.
& through perennial elongations like an elephant’s
family tree, the destitute pond turtle
turns to asphalt marching out across
the television. While also Bees, lost to target,
stretch their missiles, here the text is central
because of the cellular waves that hatch
miscues to the bumbles & hornets, reruns
of Edens, where the Holy Billing Statement (HBS)
shuns man & and his ungainly flightless
carnivores. Now what the thunder says
is sailing down into rebroadcast.
As the tires wheel round, the pond is dry,
the turtle levies his flipper in prayerful
plea. The Holy-Holy comes down on him.
He is ordained in a shatter of retread.