Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Dear Fanged One
This diet drink will conquer the world.
Lord, I’m feeling a nail growing into my toe
like a bad idea. After the surgery
in which the pure silver canister
replaced my brain, I shivered with
buyer’s remorse. Lord, I’m feeling
disgusted about tacos, and I’m
wondering if anything’s wrong. Did
you not get the check? I’m hoping
this diet drink is an invasive species.
Lord, I’m photo-shopping my soul,
overlaying banana leaves with spikes
& leather & real monuments of faith
like thunder & wriggling spines.
Lord, would you be satisfied with my
diet drink? Lord, I am breaking out.
The organ music you commissioned
is killing all the ladybugs.
Lord, This diet drink is working,
all the fences are clearing up.
Monday, July 30, 2007
On the Death of Ingmar Bergman
Softly & somewhere surprising the smell of the sea
flits upon us. Or is it just the rain, the tiny prayer
of bones the bats left to the corners near the burned
remains of a balsawood airplane I sacrificed to
the memory of decay which is the smell of the sea.
Encased in trembling branches, quelled to pride
by evolutionary forces, Jackdaw & maple play
dress up, pretend to whittle teeth from left over
thistles while a workman scatters bright brown
mulch across the incalculable memory of the sea.
On a route I travel from my childhood, I am at
the far edge of field of asphalt smashing vacuum
tubes from the ornate guts of a television set.
Like shrimp in the ocean, they keep coming,
materializing to my hands their alien encasings
then just as quickly turning into grenades I heave
to near distances to see them explode, juicy
fruits of exploding glass, tangy wires tangling,
spitting out two bottom nodes like bat’s teeth.
If I were left alone any more as a child I wouldn’t
now be able to see the vacuous tendencies
of rolling water. They say when a tidal wave comes
that the sea draws a breath so big the sand
is exposed for miles. In that combination of the sun
on sand is an articulation of clams pulling in
so hard to their shells they explode, before
the crash is a tinkling as if light could make
a sound, as if everything weren’t about to be lost.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Trudging, pine laden under Spanish moss, crosses straight sand
Highways. He carries his daughter on his hip over what hills line
Tallahassee. She doesn’t mind. He is mulch and swamp erect, his body
Is alive; the Belted Kingfisher, the White Heron, the Gator and Bullfrog.
He is aware of me and me of him. Our children have finally stopped
Fighting when we get them together. When I metamorphose
Erupting into searing blue flame, and ride my volcanic hell-born
Motorcycle through this blue-black Virginian city at night, it is the thought
Of our children, together, that keeps me safe, that brings me back.
It is my own combustion that set’s me out, my song thrumming underneath.
The cinders of my own desperation smolder in my own frame.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
When I was eighteen I delivered furniture in a large
White truck, some surplice device
Of a WW II engine, outfitted, from mercy, with an
Electronic lift gate that I imagined
Could sever my toes right off, pop, pop, pop. And
That’s what I called the old guy I helped
Tote Frigidaires up into the recess of Military housing,
Pop, because he smoked Ole Grandad
Pipe tobaccy, and spat black wads of lung juice,
Lung Cookies as we called em. Ol’ Pop
Scuttled to and fro, his pipe hanging from the back
Pocket of his jeans like a lever
I’m phasic, one moon looking on underwater. Later,
the lights of the pool smiling up make me long
For the smell of lighter fluid which itself dreams
Of burning to life from some dark garage of
My childhood. Like Freddy Kruger my kid fears pop up
Like tube worms from the sea floor,
That is, like fingers who live inside the glove, eponymous,
Poking out to nibble-nibble on pieces
Of my darkness. And like the Anteater, Pop used to poke
His tongue out and lick around his mouth
When he was talking, just that tongue, prehensile exclamation
To conversations, going in, coming out,
I hear the words Step it up you rotten… lick out at me, I’m
At the pool, swimming in a dream, in the dark
The pool light comes on and in the dark it’s old Pop’s tongue
Come to clean the bees and ants crawling
On my towel. In my dream, I’m working. Lifting a Couch
Around a corner in a stairwell and my finger
Gets caught and, from the knuckle on my pointer, first
The skin and then the bones and then
Everything popping out and back
Darkness like a worm,
Weight like furniture, Sweat like hog in a dream
Working like a hog in a dream.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
The Imperial ‘Stache
I see a man whose mustache is the bigger part of his face
And I feel the century cascade on upon itself.
Even in this bright cadence of light upon the upper leaves
I’m gleaming in the shape of upper things.
One measure is upon the skin of moisture, one of doom
Upon serrated antechambers of the grocery store or cloister.
I see, in limpid television screens, heads of men severed
Into society’s blooming wax of modes indifferent,
Between the seemlier beings of sweat & gas,
The honest clinging lisps of bodily emulcifants which
Cotton up the works & shake the barrel free of sticking things.
One man in the light in a century which continues to be
Bigger than all the imagination of a country made of facial hair.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Shiver me tremblers
And decode the Oafs, the later damnable
Then up, up & a weigh a ton
On it, sparkle-sparkle
The music of a violent death is much happiness
In crime, crimp, devoid
As inside the overhead compartment
Your tension straw slithers
As closer we cramp out shoulders.
I am driving on the ice, a thousand times
Spun with threads, catchy notes & song
Department officials trailing off
In the left hand lane, blinker-blinker
What do you mean? Asks the book.
This new undressing unveiled you. Spiraled
Notation, bank hammer
Smoothes the eggs into latent cups
Of disease, loose nostrils, tendrils in the outreach,
Search for the belligerent mother.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
In the Stigmatist’s Bedroom
In the issue of blood, I am already ready
To misread this garment of light.
She is wearing the look of a woman in a painting
Wearing a look of a woman in a painting in a room
In which only ten minutes ago the last drops
Of blood were cleaned from the floor, from the beckoning
Dark leather of the couch, from the frame of this frame
Within a frame.
Then, breaking the oil around
Her lips, she finally muttered a long low negative.
This woman of a bright room in a painting of a bright room
In the newly minted room. The cleaning woman gone
Also but the smell of ammonia, ornament of defeat.
This woman is bleeding herself into the room from
Her painting. She will be the lady of broken glass
When the story gets out. It will be the fight for
Ascendancy, for the wounds of the room, if the wounds
Of the woman in the room are opened,
& they are, this will require some stitching, for though
The blood flows into the mop heads & into the gleaming
Sewers, & into the mocking jowls of cleanup,
It will eventually become static, with enough air
& light. There will be millennia of clean up
Because the room is bright and the light of the room
Is in the room and of the room and the blood is the blood
Of being to, of being in the room and being the room
& it will come on, & continue to issue.
Monday, July 16, 2007
You wake on Sunday morning to find
A drowned squirrel in the kiddy pool.
Nowadays the Anchorites float more fashionably
Belly up in petroleum rubber. Those priestly burdens once
Scooped out of chapel walls are just as
Withdrawing-ly faced from the tub
With a box of Kirspy Kreme. The bolsters of the lord
Find easement in the facades of saints
Above the television.
The good lord waxes:
Come to me squirrel
The trumpets are nigh.
I feel in my desperate & slow burning calamity
To get the bills paid, to be attentive
& occasionally forthright,
The rubbery zip zip of the squirrel’s claw
Upon the dazzling rubber, such water,
The yellow, the blue, the sunrise
Now, the squirrel reminds us, we are free
To scoop the little corpses from our day.
Thank you, lord, I continue to beat the wall
With the apparatus of my forehead, the rubber
Vestibule of my brain, which squeezes off
Saints like other orifices shoot out bullets,
Remember: The brick wall stained with blood,
The scrambling claw.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
and whatever in God's green earth could possibly be in the fucking thing.
Oh, it has a blog too!
The Velvet Paranoia
Boy, you’re all really out to get me, aren’t you?
I know because of the velvet serpentine a river
would make, if there were enough rain to make
a river. I know you’re out to get me because if
you weren’t you’d bake me a red velvet cake.
Which is a favorite of dock workers & their stolen
nights. Come to think of it, that hook they use
to pull packages, the one Brando laces across
his shoulder when he bunges up the courage to
go back to work at the end of On the Waterfront,
THAT kind of leisurely gaff, that’s also how I know
you’re out to get me. The bent needle stitching
together the two velvety halves of flesh inside
my wound. The wound you made trying to get me.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
With my mother's kayak. I was the triumphant Tuscan
Raider, the paddle was my truncheon aloft
Hrukk-Uk-Uk-Uk. I was the mighty Inuit fisherman
And he was a helpless harbor seal. Or had he become
The Swamp Thing wading determinedly
Through the waves after me? I couldn't tell you
What the children thought of all this.
If you were the Swamp Thing, it wouldn't seem so hot,
Covered in your layers of vegetative mass. Also if one of your friends, say,
Lost an arm, the Swamp Thing could grow it back for them.
Thanks Swamp Thing! If you were Ghost Rider it wouldn't be so bad
As you would already be engulfed in blue fire and the Hellfire
Covering your skeletal frame would be very cold. That's how Hellfire is.
None of us have the benefit of these things.
Instead the heat devours us and our lives become fused
Like one singular, volcanic
Monday, July 09, 2007
Just south of my parent's place is an historic African-American community on the ocean front called American Beach. My dad drove me through it last week so I could take some pictures. Most of these are of a hotel as well as the old nightclub, Evan's Rendezvous.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Thursday, July 05, 2007
It Dreams of the Death of the Wurlitzer
We are in charge & the day is long.
Organ music over Formica,
Forsythia. Hour after hour
The day is long. We are in charge.
There is no finish to the flooring,
No finish here. We are in charge
Of the organ
Music. Long over the floors. The day
Is long. Over the music. We are
I can’t look over this
Awning any more. The light is loose
Corn among the bricks. I’m not in charge
Of them. Their sounds are loose
Like tongues in the wind. Reed born
Vessels of air, humming light, open
Lungs, the breath of steam and yellow
Light, we are in charge.
The light is long.
I can’t hear
The vacuum any more
You must be done. Earth & organs.
The music in length,
The length of music.
A trombonist at the window
Counting the length of light.
Repeat. Come back
Into the dark. Leave into the light.
Hours. The day is long. We are
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Me: "Yeah well, how much you spend a year on that cable tee-vee?"
Mr. Snodgrass: "Well, how much money would you have if you didn't smoke those fucking cigarettes?"
Me: "Yeah, well how much do you spend a year on being a fucking dick?"
Mr. Snodgrass: "Well fuck you then!"
Me: "And you, yourself, sir!"
Your sun’s on a track, one finger
Of casual disinterest flicks
It in a half empty room.
Bangers & walls, balance along
With felt and terrible stew,
The wheel turns on its straw.
Most shadows make quadrangles
Against sock slump, laundry
Of creaturely mass.
Or the moon’s nurse, gravity’s noose
Blends crumbling & growth
With an amusing curse,
Course & the grime & the nectarine’s
True adventure through
A blooming awake.
Imploding fruit, rays on the string,
Funnel & stirrup markers
To north, to nowhere but dark matters
Slurry crystals of ice & begotten
Shades trip failure & bombs. So long
The unfrozen’s unrotten.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Here is what you think:
I said everything:
Notice the blowing, full bore,
Production, still, out of bounds.
Nobody said you would make
A flywheel of ground dinosaur teeth;
–A sewage system of forgettable –
A canonic undertow of unwavering vanity,
All, reigned in to the heart-thump.
I SAID: you may
Northern. The sanctity, cowling doomsday,
The great ones wave banners.
Their gloved fist at the sky. Superhero
Dilettantes, the total crimson cut
Of cosmic declaration, a super-cision.
While the superfluous over bite, fiend to crinkle,
Listens to the over-sound: here comes
The report: Dupe. Acquittal. Spectral