tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-185308202024-03-13T12:08:21.554-05:00The Shambling Darkness ProjectJay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.comBlogger1192125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-89165032557755649872014-04-07T10:32:00.000-05:002014-04-07T10:32:00.999-05:00<a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B49-DDUP-WjXbXNMdHQzUU0tQ2s/edit?usp=sharing" target="_blank">Ratchet Scroll</a>Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-26629365211177546772013-02-05T11:19:00.001-05:002013-02-05T11:19:59.437-05:00Deathmetallyrics #1Horse radish despair<br />
carbuncle function<br />
depleted<br />
<br />
Deathmetallyrics: you are my Fenric, my wolves of Fenric I am make you<br />
corn swans and then I die.Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-35179745092338311262012-08-13T10:00:00.001-05:002012-08-13T10:00:53.424-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiykFrBu3uCFnni5kDGQ2umqLp1WM_xw4SUYR58IybRKxyKLQl4yL-VscfuskkaReVRSILwQ0g4wEZ-8C97M0j4o5Ppwdfwmud7xMYwyZslL2vZjybv-VML_taVYI5TjC9RwF4tg/s1600/Jackanape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiykFrBu3uCFnni5kDGQ2umqLp1WM_xw4SUYR58IybRKxyKLQl4yL-VscfuskkaReVRSILwQ0g4wEZ-8C97M0j4o5Ppwdfwmud7xMYwyZslL2vZjybv-VML_taVYI5TjC9RwF4tg/s400/Jackanape.jpg" width="307" /></a></div>
<br />Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-78624579302458270122012-08-08T20:20:00.000-05:002012-08-08T20:20:36.403-05:00<object height="236" width="420"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/wWfXFc8Cd6o?version=3&hl=en_US"></param>
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<embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/wWfXFc8Cd6o?version=3&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="420" height="236" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>Clay Blancetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17095843828286956470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-44945413851991206912012-08-08T20:05:00.001-05:002012-08-08T20:22:54.323-05:00Revenge Boat RevisitedIt's not that bad, this reunion tour, divorced, deadbeat.<br />
Not having referred to myself as a poet for ten years.<br />
This is not a website, it's a distraction, it is a dream, recurrent.<br />
Crawled from the swamp and writhing along your morning route<br />
Curled under the wild hibiscus as it blooms white and prefect<br />
The size of a fist, sprung straight from the mud.<br />
This is not a swamp, it's the hospital where I work.<br />
I'm sitting in the lobby on break, along with the Bhutanese<br />
That populate the kitchen. My eyes are closed, their language<br />
Washes over me. None of this matters, really. <br />
I'm only leaving this here for my children to find <br />
Much, much later, when our bodies are no longer our own,<br />
<br />
Trust me, I know what I'm doing.Clay Blancetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17095843828286956470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-63338243193541116402012-08-08T13:44:00.001-05:002012-08-08T13:45:08.634-05:00You've Come a Long Way, Baby<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p6JcT16yMO0/UCKzY4PO60I/AAAAAAAAEqI/ud1dJgB9PCY/s1600/frank-frazetta_berserker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p6JcT16yMO0/UCKzY4PO60I/AAAAAAAAEqI/ud1dJgB9PCY/s400/frank-frazetta_berserker.jpg" width="313" /></a></div>
<br />Clay Blancetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17095843828286956470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-66318737198318381392012-08-08T13:43:00.000-05:002012-08-08T13:43:47.484-05:00BOOM HUTCH<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-29937544854809482302010-03-30T13:19:00.001-05:002010-03-30T13:19:24.332-05:00StelarcMy high school art teacher is famous for suspending himself <br />with hooks from office ceilings and from high rise <br />window washing scaffolds. It’s hard not to live in his <br />shadow as he is also famous for being naked and painting <br />his body in the ash of cremated road kill. I always wanted<br />to live up to that but because he wasn’t my parent it didn’t<br />really matter anyway and if I fell short with my pen rubbings<br />of giant robots or a clutch of chickens beheaded by chainsaws<br />it was ok because he was older and famous already <br />and I couldn’t expect to be famous myself just by cutting <br />holes in my skin or reworking my neurons with old <br />used computer wiring. Heck, I don’t even know how to <br />wire or do electrical so I probably shouldn’t feel bad about<br />that either although if I really put my mind to it I could <br />learn to dance, lose weight or peal my skin back over my head<br />like one of those sex robots whose mouths are always open <br />in strange wonder. No, I suppose I won’t become a robot <br />like my high school art teacher. One time I saw someone <br />high up on a building who looked like they were going to jump<br />and I stared up with my mouth open in preparation for <br />horror or disgust or orgasm and I thought about my High <br />school art teacher and for a second I thought it might be him <br />up there getting ready to put an end to it all because art <br />had failed to remake man, or because truth really was relative<br />or whatever reason artists destroy themselves for, art I guess. <br />Then I thought I hoped it wasn’t, that it wasn’t anyone who <br />was really going to jump off there and splatter paint <br />the sidewalk, though it might have been interesting to try <br />with a robot filled with paint to simulate the world weary <br />feeling I get from robots or automatic doors or lift gates<br />that I think about at night before I go to sleep, how they <br />must be tired of going up and down or in and out over <br />and over without crying. But then it really wasn’t anyone <br />up there and I was glad because if it was my high school <br />art teacher then I wouldn’t have the chance to tell him <br />that I wanted to be meaningful or relevant but that I didn’t <br />have the courage to step off that ledge. I imagine him <br />smiling, his bald futuristic head wrinkling a little from that, <br />and saying it was often alright not to function correctly. <br />Then he’d walk out of my head on his giant spider legs.Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-79912693565147466752010-02-15T15:03:00.000-05:002010-02-15T15:05:12.243-05:00Value Judgment<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CJAMES%7E1.SNO%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">The café has a large window looking on to the street. A man at a booth is waving his arms dramatically to a woman who is invisible at this angle. One wants to go in and rescue her but in all likelihood it is another man who is in agreement with the gesticulator and would not look favorably on our interruption. We pass beneath mortar and brick opposite, as pigeons swirl through the cold looking for morsels, we have an urge to go in and stop the man’s talking. The world pushes urgently with its hands. The man has a thin moustache and oily skin. He is old and turning to dust as we pass, moving on to silence. </p> Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-17364539361782431532009-11-12T16:12:00.002-05:002009-11-12T16:13:22.990-05:00Canto PerilousCozy and flexed, my kitchen window<br />stretches a new found view, it affects<br />the whole house, makes snow or heaves<br />a humid afternoon. In the floorboards<br />a little water from the storm, a little<br />ocean with sea women, sea teeth, mermaids,<br /><br />ambience of drowning, particular mermaids<br />disperse a toad’s evolution at a cashier’s window,<br />movies piecing together a glance at your little<br />leg, the tree you are staked to; which effects<br />ambulation’s variables, gains strength and boards<br />the little organ in its house until it heaves<br /><br />out a burn victim from its vacuum’s heaving<br />breast, rescued at sea by the fleshy slip of a mermaid’s<br />tongue, the pulling hands, to the squalid boards<br />of her double wide, mold stains above the window,<br />its forest floor, the brown condemned effect<br />of the carpet, unhurried corkscrew, to her little<br /><br />shivering fingers paused over little<br />buttons, to the shower of fuel, who heaves<br />rainbows of fuel in swampy obscurity, affecting<br />sallow mug shots in bashful pride like a mermaid<br />caught with her pants down in the window,<br />two the jagged sticks on her resurrecting boards,<br /><br />wounds where dog’s put their ribs through boards, <br />out of restraint the scalpel sees its ancestry in little<br />hanging plastic casements. Scatter my windows<br />with the cold ladle, telegram the scalpel heaves<br />into ashes on a salad dressed in creamed mermaid<br />the cost of a family reunion. I am cold, my affects<br /><br />wash up on the beach, undulating defects<br />rumpled in tide, spend a little time in boards<br />dress in my habits, the confiscated mermaids<br />wearing what the common folk worry little<br />about. You know we eat our children, heave<br />them like invasive species through the window.<br /><br />See how the mermaids dress heaves with opinions?<br />Her little tide like breast holds back the boards,<br />gives the affect of falling into waterJay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-83986811462273650132009-11-12T16:12:00.001-05:002009-11-12T16:12:31.926-05:00Canto PerilousCozy and flexed, my kitchen window<br />stretches a new found view, it affects<br />the whole house, makes snow or heaves<br />a humid afternoon. In the floorboards<br />a little water from the storm, a little<br />ocean with sea women, sea teeth, mermaids,<br /><br />ambience of drowning, particular mermaids<br />disperse a toad’s evolution at a cashier’s window,<br />movies piecing together a glance at your little<br />leg, the tree you are staked to; which effects<br />ambulation’s variables, gains strength and boards<br />the little organ in its house until it heaves<br /><br />out a burn victim from its vacuum’s heaving<br />breast, rescued at sea by the fleshy slip of a mermaid’s<br />tongue, the pulling hands, to the squalid boards<br />of her double wide, mold stains above the window,<br />its forest floor, the brown condemned effect<br />of the carpet, unhurried corkscrew, to her little<br /><br />shivering fingers paused over little<br />buttons, to the shower of fuel, who heaves<br />rainbows of fuel in swampy obscurity, affecting<br />sallow mug shots in bashful pride like a mermaid<br />caught with her pants down in the window,<br />two the jagged sticks on her resurrecting boards,<br /><br />wounds where dog’s put their ribs through boards, <br />out of restraint the scalpel sees its ancestry in little<br />hanging plastic casements. Scatter my windows<br />with the cold ladle, telegram the scalpel heaves<br />into ashes on a salad dressed in creamed mermaid<br />the cost of a family reunion. I am cold, my affects<br /><br />wash up on the beach, undulating defects<br />rumpled in tide, spend a little time in boards<br />dress in my habits, the confiscated mermaids<br />wearing what the common folk worry little<br />about. You know we eat our children, heave<br />them like invasive species through the window.<br /><br />See how the mermaids dress heaves with opinions?<br />Her little tide like breast holds back the boards,<br />gives the affect of falling into waterJay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-35768705991500168052009-11-11T15:33:00.002-05:002009-11-11T15:34:36.899-05:00Canto CarnageMomma is relaxing in her favorite sledge of granite.<br />Practicing for the grave is what the papers say.<br />Memento Mori for the service she wrought.<br />That, and the shade of expectations, everything else<br />we put in the doomed arcade. I affirmed<br />without help or fear of the present<br /><br />which describes the line of a mitered present<br />prefab sarcophagus which is the unspoken granite<br />for an extremely sensitive tooth I affirmed<br />by wincing, the upper part fixed to what I say<br />internally, harsh vertical sense of or-else<br />drying over the bowl which heaving hath wrought,<br /><br />like a cage that permits us internment, a writhing<br />music so loud that gnashing is all I can present<br />to the regulators. The magneto shudders nothing else<br />as one, the skin slithers over new granite<br />and two, one eye smothers the other to say<br />the tempo chews on hinges turning affirmation<br /><br />until the displaced fragment of memories firm<br />to globes of meat made fingers wringing<br />hands and spinning random lip locator to say<br />they are cut from fascism or other recent presents<br />like circumcisions on happiness. Map me a granite<br />chronicle, I believe in the roundness of someone else’s<br /><br />limit, seem of limit standing. You, who else,<br />with your wallet out waiting to pay the affirmed<br />to negate me. Your currant agrees with the granite<br />tide, with scrambled evolutions, something wrought<br />coming out of the shadows to spin in the present.<br />Notice these alfalfa fields and letters that say<br /><br />the scientists in the back seat of their cars sway<br />with sweaty rubberized DNA, there is nothing else<br />these letters of relatives can unearth from the present,<br />from the barn near the causeway of doom, can affirm<br />that each section of the year, strumming, wreaks<br />a coffin from the earth’s pores, her skin in granite.<br /><br />These letters of the skin say peel me or else<br />top off the horn wrought twisting and be affirmed<br />in the granite presentation she trembles with.Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-17286097782935352262009-10-08T14:51:00.001-05:002009-10-08T14:51:38.726-05:00FrankensteinJust before the rubbing out of function<br />the movies are monster green with value<br />or with comfort like grass in a memory<br />on a hill infested with ants, subterranean. <br />globes to make meat from fingers touching<br />dollar bills and a photo of me as a child<br /><br />mapping me a chronicle to imitate the child<br />of the gardener, that knight, who functions<br />with his organ of poison, crumpling to the touch<br />of the sun. Feet are currents that resist the value<br />of water, a pair of shoes to a subterranean<br />proverb. Exclude the sun’s memory.<br /><br />Exclude carelessness and favor the memory,<br />the one law of the interminably protected child<br />in a chemical shower, subterranean <br />prayer wheel. Set the eye to function<br />an undermining execution of value,<br />blessed misdirection in the feathery touch<br /><br />of an eye. Spin the random indicator to touch<br />the cut of fascism or other recent renegade memories<br />of circumcisions, other happinesses devalued.<br />I will follow the yellow moon until a child<br />is eaten by the viper in a mechanical function<br />of digestion, an un-inherited subterranean<br /><br />legless shudder, passing a batch of subterranean<br />darkness, the kind you might touch<br />only because you have no functioning<br />sense of decency, no choice or memory,<br />monster who crack-tooth gnaws the child<br />out of me. Because there is no other value<br /><br />this side of death’s river, I can’t value<br />my twig emotion no matter how subterranean<br /><a name="_Toc226362717">the demon factory</a> hovers, touching<br />the mists, the thump-a-thump of a child<br />playing cars, by and by. I’m touching<br />the barrier of fog burning the memory <br />of saints on fire, slipping in to dysfunction.<br /><br />Noose, function of burning tides, hacking<br />value, the subterranean touch of a child’s<br />lumps, is memory become factory, given up.Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-33039940264359839362009-10-05T14:33:00.001-05:002009-10-05T14:33:59.303-05:00Zombie MovieEither I’m a people in a world of zombies<br />or a zombie in a world of people, either<br />that or I’m in a movie that takes place,<br />in order to show what kind of thinking<br />goes on in a zombie’s head as he tries to eat<br />the person who is mistakenly hiding<br /><br />in a pickup which is not a bad place to hide<br />except it died halfway between zombies <br />and safety which is when they finally eat<br />their way through to the credits. Either<br />that or it’s an illusion, and I am only thinking<br />of safety which is, in the end, a place<br /><br />where zombies and their thinking replace<br />notions of getaways and trying to hide<br />in the right place so as not to be thinking<br />of anything when you go in to see this zombie<br />movie which will be so full of either<br />gore or squirming you wont be able to eat<br /><br />the popcorn you got because you forgot to eat, <br />and which look like brains now in place<br />of popcorn but that doesn’t bother you either<br />because there is a human concern hiding<br />that churns deep and rubbery in the zombie <br />as he shambles in his bloodied suit, thinking<br /><br />about how he will get you even as you think<br />you’ll get out of the theater and eat<br />some real dinner, somewhere real zombies<br />wouldn’t even consider like a sushi place<br />not fast food where the maggots are hiding<br />disease that turns you grunting either<br /><br />to a cloud of gas, huffing putrid ether, <br />or just a shabby business man who thinks<br />he’ll make it if he tucks in his bowels, hides<br />the puddles and turns down the urge to eat<br />his neighbor, while that stain formed in his place<br />calls the mantra of the shopping mall zombies:<br /><br />either you hide in your place or the zombies<br />will eat you. More importantly, do you think<br />they validate? Validate? Validate.Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-59900192319601427192009-09-30T15:11:00.001-05:002009-09-30T15:11:59.836-05:00Buzz Buzz BeelzebubWitches chalk circle fails to detect<br />the dark lord’s insect passing over me,<br />evacuee of time. Instead I sing<br />homilies in pulped language, fragment<br />of my eye, the witness insists I nail<br />down the furniture god carved of serpents,<br /><br />electric like the ocean used to be, a serpent<br />who probed with squeezing to detect<br />the winds of an epic thought naturally nailed<br />to my mouth, sucking, as it were, me<br />into delicious intention while the fragments<br />watched the centuries jaundice and sang<br /><br />that captive prayer the belted criminals sing<br />at inquests. And yet you deny the serpent<br />who wallows for the sake of it, deny fragments<br />intruded and by the supreme inquisitor detected<br />my lies that burn, oh heaven save me, <br />like insects inserted in my relation like nails,<br /><br />buttery up-drift, profile, garlic and snails<br />who with marble in their columns sing<br />through their nostrils songs that watch me<br />twist and squeeze the alter like a serpent<br />the good priest put his hand down and detected<br />squeezing my heart out into fragments<br /><br />like pomegranate pulp, teeth, fragments<br />of bone. How he wishes to collect me, nail<br />me back together. I say use a metal detector<br />to sweep the dirt and shit until it sings<br />of the jointed beams that ride as two serpents<br />together like shoulders carrying me<br /><br />into the country, setting the stake, burning me.<br />I am pages in the book of curses, fragments<br />from the garden, hiss of the condemned serpent<br />spreading a foliage of light, dressing with nails<br />the green, an avian sound resonant, sings<br />advent of wings, flap insipid detector<br /><br />keeps the serpents in the chalk circle so we<br />can nail them down and cut their tails into<br />fragments. Singing shivers, they devour me.Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-11805718968295603292009-09-28T14:30:00.000-05:002009-09-28T14:31:29.781-05:00Apotheosis**<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The nails are in search of a man to make<br />not a god, but a Tonka toy inspired<br />by track star haircuts leaned in from shaving,<br />milk wash like flesh over Formica until<br />it’s transparent. All art should be smooth.<br />Two handed but concrete soft, like in a dream.<br /><br />Read the air. Not god but deception dreamed<br />this bomb. Not juice but horizons made<br />this confirmation of madness secret-smooth.<br />Print outs of not god but robot inspired<br />insects. The carnival secretes a visit until<br />I dissipate like a sink full of shaving<br /><br />cream, a cake covered in chocolate shavings<br />radiating out in ripples like a dream<br />of denuded faces cutting density until<br />the lord uncorks in a wild fiasco made<br />for the people in the dunking stand, inspired<br />by the amoebas all over the smooth<br /><br />carpet. I am almost never smooth<br />no matter how much combing and shaving<br />I can’t quite get the ladies inspired<br />to stitch their pulsing cages to my dream<br />or to climb through pressure and make<br />that noise that heats the room until<br /><br />the wallpaper droops, or at least until<br />I convalesce in wheezy flame and smooth<br />the sheets. Involuntarily I make<br />the folds of a chair ration out the shaving<br />light between hard stomachs in a dream<br />in which I am almost nearly inspired<br /><br />to give in and fall down the stair well spire,<br />to turn within the hospital parking garage until<br />there is nothing but fried ampersands, dreams<br />of grease & gravy, secretions holy-smooth<br />where I am the prisoner desperately shaving<br />a gun out of innocence or whatever I can make.<br /><br />I’ll inspire you with a ring made of wax,<br />shave a little time off my dream until it is smooth<br />and hairless and ready to be holy, holy.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />**<br /><br /><br />**Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-41413039258577138882009-09-24T15:04:00.000-05:002009-09-24T15:05:09.120-05:00Devotee*<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The drain is a circle of eyes blinking back<br />the remnants of my shame. They investigate<br />so enormously as we dredge facile fact-bombs.<br />I am pierced in rows by a scientific fetish<br />and they labor in the Chrysanthemum-bulge<br />I cornered with the dogs to show you<br />I meant the best for your toad appendages.<br /><br />Samples of decay threaded with appendages<br />like fingers and off-road tread leading back<br />to nightly deranges, how a house-fire bulges<br />with gowns of sound clawing to investigate<br />consciousness, the wet earth her scarlet fetish<br />prehensile projects from the tonsil her hope-bombs<br /><br />the names withdrawing to canvass, bombed<br />to tombstone, all-terrain scrambled appendage,<br />time-balls; in with the oils like a candy fetish<br />in a dead rat’s mouth on the pestilent back<br />highway, where exterminators investigate<br />how long the carcasses make circus bulges<br /><br />like bags of microwave popcorn bulge<br />from radiation, little roadside bombs<br />machine moved and glass investigated<br />by the machete who wants your appendage<br />removed from hero view, pruned back<br />along the historic landscape, that fetish<br /><br />made turgid by hairs that tingle, that fetish<br />how your sting makes me welt, bulge<br />like the curve bones showing in your back<br />your heart beats away the dark with bomb<br />shakes, sprouts my prayer box to appendages<br />and the doctor splints, squints to investigate<br /><br />how the trauma victim invests in closed gates<br />hedges of sheep, pink and wire fenced fetish<br />precision, with wild swinging appendages<br />that dance at the end of broken flower bulges,<br />like fields of gazing sunflowers carefully bomb<br />cut and gathered with hands to give back.<br /><br />Thus the gentle caressing bomb of highway accident<br />is like the fetish for a missing appendage,<br />a bulge in your shirt worth investigating. <br /><br /><br /><br />**<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* *Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-59566076307619366112009-09-23T16:12:00.000-05:002009-09-23T16:13:08.651-05:00Darwin's WrenToday my school had a special lecture on Darwin<br />which the public thought might raise a stink<br />with those who disagree with Moses and evolution.<br />Some on the faculty called for the creation<br />of a committee which would have a Wren<br />as its logo and could be seen from the walk<br /><br />if you didn’t drive and chose instead to walk<br />which is how on the Galapagos Darwin<br />got around, spotting those big beaked wrens<br />and trudging through the waste and stink<br />of giant turtles who by their own creation<br />nest in sand bowls the product of evolutions<br /><br />of flipper tosses and waddling revolutions<br />and romantic turtle starry night walks<br />on the theoretical beach, humming to create<br />just the right mood to catch observant Darwin<br />off guard with his notepad of fleeing the stink<br />of sea weed or the rotting body of a wren<br /><br />I hit with my car on the way home, wrenching<br />the steering wheel to miss. I guess evolution<br />had it in for that bird, though it really stinks<br />because when I was a kid and still had to walk<br />I flinched at birds. poking notes like Darwin<br />at the beagle’s hull, like sympathy creates<br /><br />possibilities, like turtles with necks create<br />less effective hidey-holes or if that wren<br />had just swooped up I wouldn’t need Darwin<br />to feel better, to justify its death as evolution.<br />I could have at least stopped, got out, walked<br />back to see. I open the vents to get the stink<br /><br />out of the van when I pass something stinking<br />and dead. Sometimes it’s an act of creation<br />to kill, a turtle. To get in the car, leave walking<br />behind. Maybe there will be a giant beaked Wren<br />that can take on cars, something that evolves<br />into the splat on the road called Darwin.<br /><br />Wheels roll out a wren’s beak in the traction<br />of my evolution. Every mark bears the stink<br />of creation. Monkeys walk in Darwin’s head.Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-70785065332673193822009-09-21T14:14:00.001-05:002009-09-21T14:14:32.668-05:00Judgment of the FuriesWe inherit grace, middle school and needles.<br />Recall how we were gasoline weaned<br />for mercy’s sake because mercy delights<br />in her electrical lights (bitch) meanwhile sparks<br />on the horizon are a prelude to the whip of dawn,<br />her magnetic cleavage beneath the meteor gown.<br /><br />You men who worship at the temple gown<br />we can see you are in full endowment, needles<br />opening the gates to penetrate the crowd, dawn<br />of faces in delight. She stitches with grab cloth to wean<br />the abandoned flesh with the illuminating sparks<br />in hidden faces, by covering forbidden delights<br /><br />in the feel of the sling in a beefy dress, delightful<br />and sexy, how the shudders trumpet in a patched gown,<br />how well she sutures it to my face with sparks<br />like a mouth. The officers assign needle-<br />time to fix utterance to your mouths, still unweaned<br />of distance, other undiscussed gasping dawns,<br /><br />like the good or free will entombed in the hard dawn<br />of her new predicament, pouty with a tourist’s delight<br />for gasping sake in the leaving off. Rip, weaned,<br />rip rip, oh the windows open with new gowns,<br />a hand slung bodice of beads made with needles.<br />I remember being drawn, joined like sparks<br /><br />to kindling, into fire then rearing from sparks<br />up onto cloth, exploding your clothes like a dawn<br />sky investing fingers with the ruse of needles.<br />Come water, she thinks, bead by bead. It delights<br />with shudders the fading water of the faithful gown.<br />She uses her jiggling trumpet call to wean<br /><br />the pavement and grasses, she disaster weans.<br />What comes after? the radio? disasters sparking<br />earthquakes in solidarity with the long grass gowns<br />over what is sufferable, the held breath, dawn<br />shaped sewer’s burning lungs. The ocean bride delights<br />in the first dance on the surface of needles.<br /><br />So the dawn of her dark eyes sparks needles.<br />My hand goes through her dark gown and I lose<br />it. She weans me of judgment and I delight.Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-56952678544358650162009-09-16T14:18:00.001-05:002009-09-17T08:18:44.498-05:00Hagia SophiaFor a thousand years her breast was architecture’s flagship,<br />portal to the other world, holding the sky static<br />in her giant dome. Goddess of wisdom, we worship<br />the balanced helmet in her glossy paint, ship<br />in a bottle in a shop where with a t-shirt you get<br />a sandwich and a certificate of citizenship<br />in heaven, and with no commitment to stewardship,<br />and the shop keepers like angels are giving away<br />admission to knowledge or heaven or whichever way<br />you feel most conforms to the ambassadorship<br />the lord endows his buildings with, with wisdom<br />or the smug inverted hanging down face of wisdom<br /><br />bearing hawkers of penance and bouncers pelting wisdom<br />with denial and velvet, buck toothed, high on internships<br />the cavernous emptiness of a bronzed-over wisdom<br />hides under plaster, saint craw, forgiving wisdom<br />where the priests rub their naked bodies, raising static<br />columns of fleshy worship, supporting the wise dome<br />brought from the temple of Artemis, sister of wisdom<br />who pawned her father’s house for what she could get<br />some track marks where they dragged her to get<br />her out of the way, morphine needles of wisdom,<br />minarets in her arm, blood poison to take her away<br />forsaking her as a goddess, though not even a saint’s way<br /><br />is rough enough, like how a woman who fights away<br />the devil gets a plaque hewn in the scar of wisdom<br />like the church’s medical records, silver, bronze carried away<br />by the Moors, or under lathe and plaster sealed away.<br />Note who gets tickets to heaven can be a matter of ownership.<br />The rest of you maybe get statues or get to stay<br />in the wrinkled organs of the world, menageries packed away<br />like hard lozenges of mud and trees in the attic,<br />little bodies molded in front of the T.V. static<br />snowy packaging tied up and sent on rivers away<br />from comfort and couches, sent on a mission to get<br />life out of, not reviving juice, but the cracked eggs we get.<br /><br />When the earth quake opened Sophia’s dome she didn’t get<br />under her desk in time, she couldn’t move the stars away<br />and climb in to the painted firmament. And things get<br />tricky when heaven is an idea on a wall. People get<br />impatient, they go for microwave dinners not wisdom,<br />they wonder why they were never let in on the get<br />or why the red silk ribbons spilled over the wall get<br />sticky. They wonder at the nibs of scribal penmanship.<br />It’s not irrelevant that the minarets look like spaceships<br />how the hell else could we be expected to get<br />from here to there? She wears a holy gown, mother fanatic,<br />it shimmers golden at the edges, paramour ecstatic,<br /><br />Hagia, saint of balloons, rubbing up electrostatic<br />shock into knowledge, the brain and heart metastatic<br />growing one into the other until there’s no other way<br />but god to invert the dome to a dish so that it’s stable<br />in the middle, fruit on the table, round dogmatic<br />and delicious And a ripe and ready cure for wisdom<br />can be injected, spaceship, module mother wisdom,<br />church, sepulcher, juices injected, serum vatic<br />whosoever man or god can deny her ladyship,<br />one garment worn over or torn off, we worship.<br /><br />Crown of thorns, minarets or horns, holy fellowship<br />demands drunkenness in air. Recall that by wisdom<br />we are tied, a boat in passing waters, may easily forget<br />the powdered dust that covers us, settling away<br />like the saints faces laid out in silver iconostasis.Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-60447100352787764542009-08-13T09:57:00.000-05:002009-08-13T09:58:14.128-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3yiXWlMHmLc/SoQp_909EaI/AAAAAAAAC58/5Jm7CP1E6eA/s1600-h/100_1868.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3yiXWlMHmLc/SoQp_909EaI/AAAAAAAAC58/5Jm7CP1E6eA/s400/100_1868.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369462834637640098" /></a>Clay Blancetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17095843828286956470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-56174213656596312422009-07-25T16:41:00.001-05:002009-07-25T16:41:55.101-05:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvBuWM62KKIEx57wdJMwsulwqfZZOOSO2qinvpRbeOJV5Gf4xlpboD8Q7NrM_c-fa6_DrKTAzoUFivH2Ov6cYFEzKVyFw65IOep02_ZwcdzdQwKEu6wggAaaYXFbIZl_KdDvr1A/s1600-h/batmobile1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362516247937781090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvBuWM62KKIEx57wdJMwsulwqfZZOOSO2qinvpRbeOJV5Gf4xlpboD8Q7NrM_c-fa6_DrKTAzoUFivH2Ov6cYFEzKVyFw65IOep02_ZwcdzdQwKEu6wggAaaYXFbIZl_KdDvr1A/s320/batmobile1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Jay Snodgrasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08310704886103680373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-56988564150741850202009-07-25T00:23:00.001-05:002009-07-25T00:23:17.078-05:00Marianas Trench<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/a53BBlHIB6o&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/a53BBlHIB6o&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Clay Blancetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17095843828286956470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18530820.post-62148466068749702602009-07-14T08:21:00.001-05:002009-07-14T08:21:59.504-05:00<object style="WIDTH: 600px; 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