Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
in simple terms, a structure
standing in for music.
There are almonds on the ground
in place of gravel.
We eat what ends between our toes
forgetting the importance of respiration.
The hull is sore.
Our mouths are ragged.
Eighth notes standing in.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
a lot of neat work & poems from fellow greener Nicholas Perrin (whom I don't actaully know, but whose name i recognize from slightly west, confirmed in the biographical note as producer of cross cultural poetics for the last two years)
Monday, December 04, 2006
Does anyone need help reading submissions?
We're supposed to put out an issue soon.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Saturday, November 25, 2006
here is the starting of a story:
My friend destroys my friend. I fluff the bowl ears. I wait next to the television. It's shirtless teenagers. Ninth grade. Outside, dirt road, busy highway, clouds, my friend covered in mud, possessions in piles. Last night, perpendicular rain, I suppose, and we hid in the shed, enjoying the sharp smell of tools and steel racks, and later, when the tapping became hollow, we ventured out beside the highway and pelted passing cars with paint balls and toilet paper. I was transient and waterless. My friends were friends, or employees, and in each of us, the mission, or reasonable facsimile, a set of stairs, a picnic table.
here is the starting of another story:
Someone said, there's a place on the gulf where the desert merges with the sea. I am there, and wet. I feed myself. Do I have a wife? A car? I have a job. I have a television and many video games. I have a water filter.
The water is hard.
My domestic partner leaves me a message. This grocery store has been modified. Wood flooring, earth tones, black aprons. The food, no fresher.
I am driving my car. I am not an algorithm.
Analysis of each rule's frequency of occurrence, among individuals, in the three samples revealed highly significant differentiation for twenty-eight rules.
I receive a ticket for speeding.
At home, something is flickering.
here are two poem from a series of "love poems":
You fruit you will empty the beautiful dark emptiness
you will save the sacrificial penguins
you will plummet
so “Let them wear scarves!”
or “Abandon the museum!”
but don’t beware or be wary or wait whitely
for woe is no band-aid
like the Parthenon & strange or not
i won’t be gone in a minute.
i’m followed by fruit by earth by tentacles
or tedium, green plants & prairie dogs
our lonely raccoon scaling the lonely dumpster
& sporting his ontological t-shirt
a dream against a dream against the sun
a germ against the plan for fifteen plums
against nature against the sea against the sea
mis-waived or mis-saved or underscored
the letter i wrote i wrote un-wrote
O face O finger O feature
O shiny teeth little nose dimpled chin
tumble your tendrils, my pet
& arm what armchairs arm at the zoo.
Here are three memoirs:
My best friend chases his brother down Hwy 99 brandishing a large kitchen knife. His belly flops over his striped boxers, his only clothing, his luscious breasts (and they are luscious), brown nipples pert, flap like a flag on a windy day, his bare feet trod heedlessly over gravel and broken glass. No cars honk or stop, so Justin and I chase him down and ask him what people will think about a fat guy in boxers chasing his brother with a kitchen knife down a major highway in broad daylight. He doesn’t have a good answer so we go back to his house and watch cartoons.
My best friend’s brother’s friend stops by to watch the basketball game. We admire his new car. He says that he took it from the car lot around the corner. Nobody asks him to leave. The Sonics win.
My best friend tells me that he would like to pursue a career in law enforcement.
I don't know why I posted this stuff. I think I was sad that dimlab had been so lonely for so long. Anyway, those were the more recent failures (there are many more). Now I'm going to write something good. Maybe.
Or maybe I'll watch TV. I could watch Con Air. It is a terrible movie but is on TV right now.
Monday, October 23, 2006
like cala lillies,
in the morning.
Shark-toothed, when you
bite my thighs,
when you break the skin.
I was wondering how to
walk through doors
If our room
would always be this
Our mouths only opening
bottles and lies.
in the abrasive glow
of flourescent lights.
And we made a language
of lead and loops.
O, were I again a finger
upon such subtle ridges!
Combing your point across
oblivious whiteness, and
words like sugar on the
brittle tips of us
breaking into nothing.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Monday, October 02, 2006
just a note: as something of an exercise (& to keep me going on the novella i started a very long time ago) i will be posting one chapter a week, give or take, as i go through the editing process at amputations which now also appears at the bottom of the sidebar. I'd appreciate any comments ya'll might have as i try to edit/finish writing the damned thing.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
And there is the strangler!
As Project Runway seems to have run it's way out of ideas (oh that was poor), the Amish inspired spread in Harpers Bazaar makes me press my fingertips over a scandalized giggle in conservative glee. Oh for colorless garments, so slender, so shapeless. Oh for pinafores and bonnets that cover our shameful hair.
A prayer for the forty-year-old woman in a tennis skirt and teeny-bopper tank before me in the grocery store, telling her eight-year-old daughter to take back the pink-lip-gloss and come back with the peach.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
PS: I'm also working on post card and t-shirt designs. Eventually I'll post those up to see what you think.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
check out prose from Sara Levine, David Gianatasio, Kristen Iskandrian, Greg Mulcahy, Colleen Frakes, & Benjamin Buchholz!
Sunday, September 03, 2006
I also saw this movie, Oldboy. Very good. And very disturbing. I think I spent ten minutes afterwards trying to process, and not cry, and not throw up. A challenging movie, I guess I would say. Challenged the way I looked at certain things, at least. I would recommend it.
That's about it.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Friday, August 04, 2006
this is my favorite part:
"Maybe I should elaborate, though often my elaborations end up as complications. But here goes. To show the range of my methods, I'll give examples. in the low 90's in June, in New York City, I finished a novel and started another. I'd write a first draft of each chapter in one day, though some took two days. I did about 30 of them in a month and a half. The thirtieth, we'll say, wouldn't content itself as a short chapter and became a short novel, Abortions, which I wrote the first draft of and then the final one. I sent it to Henry Holt and Co., who'd published Interstate and The Stories of Stephen Dixon, and they took it. Then, because I can be perverse in my methodology in this way, I started writing the final draft of the 29 other first-draft chapters, we'll say, and called the novel 30. But I started writing the novel in the opposite chronological order I'd written the first drafts in. No. 29 became chapter one, "Shortcut." 28 became [chapter] two, "Popovers." You get the picture. Working backwards, I came to 15, or so, and that started growing too, like Abortions, and became another short novel, Evangeline. Since the character in all of these was named Gould, I decided to send Holt Evangeline, bridge the two books with the title Gould, and add a subtitle: "A Novel in Two Novels." Holt liked the idea and published the book. Meanwhile, I was working my way back till I came to the final chapter (first draft), which became the final final-draft chapter. But I wasn't finished yet. I then wrote the final draft of the second part of 30, finished it in final-draft form, and wrote the first draft of the second chapter in the second part of 30, which was going to be called—this second part—Ends. So you see that I used two different methods, if not more, in writing 30: lots of first drafts at first and then writing the final drafts all in a row; and with Ends, first and then final draft of each chapter before I went on to the second. 30 became an enormous novel and is as good a work as I've ever done."
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Ultimately I feel like the Gudding essay fails. I still feel like it reads more like a book report "this is what this person thinks and this is what that person thinks." Can't really disagree with the thesis that most of the poets from the 60's became more personal in their approach to poetry (with the exception perhaps of the Pacific Northwest Set...and even they pulled away some from nature and narrative). Also can't really disagree with the fact that a lot of poets have/do believe that there is some sort of "otherness" speaking through them.
However that has never been something that I have felt.
And while I do think that poetry continues to be personal, I also think that there has been a recent push towards skill, theory, and language. It's not enough to speak of your own experience. It must be interesting in terms of language and approach as well.
This is basically my thesis.
And my own personal approach in writing. I feel like we speak towards a common experience by speaking of personal experience. That as poets we must write in an interesting way in order to be successful, in order to have people want to read it, and to be able to feel the experience as concordant with their own.
I believe that often times we read poetry, and personal experience less because we want to see what other people's lives are like, than we actually want to see that their lives and experiences are like our own. That we are, in fact, not alone. That we are a part of something bigger than ourselves. (I mean this as my experience, and why I like to read poetry...and while I could never say for certain for other people, I still believe this is true for other people whether they recognize it or not).
I have written this without the aid of my notes so this may be general, and some of my assertions about Gudding's essay may be off. But it still expresses what I think.
That's all folks. Time to go run some stairs and punch a big red cushion.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Monday, July 24, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Zukofsky's A (been thinking about buying it for a long time then came across it...)
Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury (to replace the copy stolen by my mother, hardback & still brilliant)
Steinbeck's Travels with Charley
& a little chapbook, seemingly self-published by Alex Crangle entitled Emotion is a Robotic Piano Playing the Twelve Tones of You. i found this little book at the Plymouth book exchange in a small college town for three dollars. i assume alex crangle is a student there. i like it alright. he, after all, writes such poems as: "An Epic Space Poem: Part 1 or; From Your Seat in the Dirigible, A Million Miles Up" and "Long Legged Anthropods Probably Crawl On Me In My Sleep" and "The Centipedes Are Getting Downright Arrogant". Here is an example of Crangle's skillz:
The Guardsman 40,000 Is
The Guardsman 40,000 is now
a bald tire in the dirt surrounded
by last year's brown leaves and the cracked
vacuum chambers of old street lights
now fallen, their filaments hanging out like
thin mercury tongues in a broken bed of glass
and dust. I have to be careful, my shoes
are somehwere in Vermont and the twine keeping
the paperback books on my feet is unwinding
quietly, cut by rocks and giant emerging pythons
of deep, established roots. The black-
market book merchant sells Thomas Mann and Jean
Genet from suspended trenchcoat wings, promoting
the modern thought I use to wander this new rhodo-
dendron forest. But I fear
these fraying thoughts
will only hold for so
long. I'll never
see the rubber
walls of this
anyways, in some of the poems there is a randomness that entrances me, tho also, sadly, at least for me, an admiration for bukowski...
just getting into Matt Hart's Who's Who Vivid & enjoying it. it is fun, easy going stuff, & heartfelt. i particularly like the first poem, the poem that appears in alice blue 1. a lot of it relies on the juxtaposition of images, as though the connecting lines have been cut free, & perhaps a little surrealism, but tamed.
still thinking about Jim Goar's Whole Milk, from Effing Press. I like it more & more.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Friday, June 30, 2006
And Beckman read and we laughed at such wonderful lines as "Bad raccoon in a good world..." But I yawned a lot. And sat next to two books by authors "Staples," and "Starbuck" and felt like I might be watching a commercial for how to sell a poet.
And then I bought World Jelly and Whole Milk, and may go back for Plots...since it came so highly recommended. And the diary of James Schuyler. Hold off on his collected works (at the criminal price of 32 bucks) until I can afford to spend 32 bucks on one book...
Open Books was welcoming as always...but I find the audiences at these readings always a little disappointing. For some reason, 19 year old hipster kids with limp mohawks seems too easy.
Wish you were here.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
anyways, leaving soon. laters yo.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Friday, June 02, 2006
Sunday, May 28, 2006
all of that aside, this earlier post comparing a Billy Collins lyric poem & Jennifer Moxley lyric poem is still quite interesting, & seeing the poems side by side, both using similar strategies etc... just curious what you fellow dimlabbers think of the analysis etc...
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
pushed sabotage wound acquires braggarts
buttresses gigantic turrets
oh great w/o the pair i
protect trailer blue
exempt behind ballads &
wired killing jelly i adapt!
w/ sheep that inflate empty lands
despot animals & charisma
the decided alarms of eyes
my cough capture factory reopens
& men that never shake
remain unseen the war vigorous
w/ boorish death spitfire
events we simulate the record
in my kill-drink-tunnel
grass & platings neglect & shepherds
airplanes attacking tundra
dissimulated canaries my
& an army of well-dressed galas
on zero summer cruise
generate wars & sea recovery
for considered men who restrict
positronic boy repair or
scandal my voice that drags screens
w/ intrusive benevolent red
we prefer regulation
for my iridium rope opera
& men who peel risks hands
the school vampire paradigm
don't disembark my behavior is
a skull wire intern
w/o lamentation one random pledge
removed my circumspect malady
Bereft bank teller, my blatant armada
that preempts chaps & braggarts &
halts tall, peerless & pell-mell. Eschew
these exempt ballads, vagrant laggards,
heedless canards that span the spartan
phalanx. Adapt! sheep that swell vacant
lands & canvass adamant sleepers, eye
alarms, & men that never see war. Stal-
wart heresy cheers these events. We
cheer grass & dented veneers. Slapdash
ramparts & reddened shepherds. Carnal
reverends & secret vassals. Pretend egret
& canary. Scan level fresh and well-
dressed—demented army between thwart
& gala. Engender effete wars & esteemed
men. Repress scandal, my drawl, canvas
sheets. We prefer men of settlement. Men
that carry green bananas & sandals. Men
that peel hazards & hands when they land
garb temples. The fracas settles banal
regret. A ballast, haphazard, repelled,
seedy warrant, my malady a leery vertex.
i just finished reading "Lyric Poetry After Auschwitz" by Kent Johnson, "Red Juice" by Hoa Nguyen (amber i'll be sending you a copy), & "World Jelly" by Tony Tost, all from Effing Press. all enjoyable reads.
i also just finished "Letters to Wendy's" by Joe Wenderoth (this i took on my secret manager trip to seattle & read on the airplane). also a terrific book, analyzing human life, as it does, in all its joys & traumas, in relation to fast food & pornography, but in a good way...
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
to end her suffering because
she could not except failure in herself
I have not seen her in years
Elementary School was so long ago
she was one of my best friends then
it hurts me now as if she was still my best friend.
It's over for her now,
but memories of her will still live on.
I will always remember.
Monday, May 08, 2006
She throws herself back into her past
Her bruises show that people don't change,
Her head is bruised from the stairs
Her daddy killed her baby
Her period, a month late
He kicked her stomach to the point
of an unexpected period: heavy and disturbing, bleeding,
Her daddy killed her baby
She fought back - she made him bleed
but her body is still bruised
Her emotions are still broken
Her daddy killed her baby
Why did she go back?
How could her foster parents let her?
She has no answers
Her daddy killed her baby
He used to rape her everyday
until she was 15
Yet she went back
Her daddy killed her baby
Her daddy killed her baby
Her daddy killed her baby
Sunday, May 07, 2006
i bring the laughter
the average natal pod of unknown methods
in the company of people who change the research
& share like occasional motels
or starships that earn great returns of squares
& break the ball of unperfect chaos
the model radically reduced
by belltowers or bumblebees of human misery
that bring closer a population of dye
my starship of tact of coast
starship that lobs belltowers
of satisfied burdens my starship now legal
w/ perceptible dad costume
when donned does not function
only negotiates for square operations
& swims the worlds you carry w/ meow
or town table of tragedy do
i of the prose pawn
of the yawl of the knack ploy
the hayrack natal of toys
of the halo crate
of the of i
of the prototype of simple ones
of the toy of the lull of the ploy of already
of the sofa of the unperfect
of stiff people of movement of human hating
which cuts it
you do not laugh or square
& the bumblebees realize
& relocate again
their pictures of tiles arranged
so i cut her song charms
in the enterprise of it
to become the pursuit
& station-wagons or starships have my unperfect ball
not technicolor or square not me
disarranged in fashions unknown,
Society becomes the target - the mimicked fortune.
Tiles twist & break to form an unperfect sphere-
marbled pattern chaos that satisfies as a community.
Human drones follow each other in a stiff motion.
In order to feel accepted they have disowned individuality.
They've traded themselves for copy-cat picture perfection.
People realize and yet the drones march on.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
and conversations in my head
Who knew the mind had so much to say that it never ends because the words aren't outloud
and the computer hums
and the sound of fingers tapping echo in the room
because no voice escapes
silence is loud.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
we are at peter piper pizza eating pizza & watching the cavs demolish the wizards. this is the only place nearby w/ internet access.
it is ninety five degrees. there are palm trees & cacti. every third car is a hummer.
will & sarah
Friday, April 21, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
"Flaubert scans the streets indifferently, it seems, like a camera. Just as when we watch a film we no longer notice what has been excluded, so we no longer notice what Flaubert chooses not to notice. And we no longer notice that what he has selected is not of course casually scanned but quite savagely chosen, that each detail is almost frozen in its gel of chosenness."
May God have mercy on our souls! "Each detail is almost frozen in its gel of chosenness"? If I were paying $40,000 per year to hear this guy profess the practice of literary criticism, I would file a lawsuit immediately. Allow me to follow that up with a randomly selected passage from Flaubert's collected letters:
"What is wrong with your health, pauvre cherie? What are all these vomitings, stomach pains, etc.? I am sure that you came close to doing something completely foolish. I should like to hear that you were well again - completely. I'll not hide from you that the landing of the Redcoats was a tremendous relief to me. May the god of coitus grant that I never again go through such agony ... But the joy I subsequently felt has been profitable for me, I think."
Okay, so I may not have lit upon the most feverishly brilliant and incisive stretch of Flaubert's writing career, but at least he was a dapper hand at euphemism.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Saturday, April 15, 2006
in this algebraic equation
I mean: the "q" doesn't matter
its all starlight like
punctured construction paper
punctured is what going away
do you see what I mean?
there is an exact mathematical equation
for the way that I'm feeling
though it will not be simple or beautiful yet
it is something perfect and true
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The man with the wooden leg cringes at our existence
but, only dirty dishes clog the sink
and the peanut butter cracker crunch grows old
of their slander and libel
creaking doorhindge hangs over the silence
translucent symbols delicately carved into the wooden box
and the yogurt dances
Judges of the inferior tickle the pencils & attempt to address the issue at hand
of the women who was unconciously aware
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Saturday, April 08, 2006
also, my sister wrote the following poem on her blog:
The OPT of the thought of Shi was joke to the led chare,
which is blue, paving stone
which cries the timid emotion of the summer
thy out of afflictions of the good of the refuse of Thy of the ewes
fell the piled up ewes
Shi from the welkin from the end from traction from the ballot box
from the oats that the unequal nut of the chi points out?
There the forest of the sun of the hire of the dye was stopped the
banquet which the ascending stags tail and sees hello reversed the
acclamation of the joke and the fabrics of the OPT
of the thought of Joyce Shi of the led grape,
blue of the stags hello, fitted hundredth of Shi recalls dittoes thy
loose the hulas,
the misusages scrabbled in the sharpies,
thy Gitano Shi cries too well the oats
Your of the framework of the ewes of
Ebola dissimulated with the cheerio of the led, blue west of the joke
what i think: this is brilliant & reads like a disjointed children's story, particularly the repititions of "of the" which connect numerous disparate images. for example: "There the forest of the sun of the hire of the dye was stopped" or "thy out of afflictions of the good of the refuse of Thy of the ewes". & so, as i read, i detect a subtle flow of emotion beneath the language while enjoying the surprise of new word combinations. who wouldn't smile at "the framework of the ewes" or "Ebola dissimulated with the cheerio" or " the misusages scrabbled in the sharpies" or "sees hello reversed" or "loose the hulas" or "which cries the timid emotion of the summer". i have the feeling of reading another language, teetering on the point of meaning, but, w/ all overt meaning removed, only possibility remains. i'm reminded of reading Tender Buttons & the loops, both in rhythmic sound & in the language itself as words are imbued with a sort of "negative capability" (i may be using this term incorrectly). but here, in "the wierd", i read more possibility in words than i generally do, as their ability to mean is stretched.
i just reread that & it sounds like bs but that's how i feel
Friday, April 07, 2006
The simplist way to put it. I have problems.
Talk about moving.
Talk about wierd.
What if my heart stops beating?
Are you married?
Those who like Neil Diamond and those who don't.
Baby step around the office. That's a month.
I'll be back.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
* copied from our submission from Viola Lee
Sunday, April 02, 2006
I like bow ties and bicycles
it was never so much about cobblestone
if you really loved me, you'd pick up that penny
el mar, thalassa, sea
you see the blue wall
we are kept from our deepest thoughts
by each other
when I wake up I want to dream of you
when I wake up I want to go snorkeling
you'll play dress up
this is our luckless organ
made of alleyways
I also say that we try to hit the Joshua Maria Wilkinson reading at Open Books the night before. 7:30pm. Let me know.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Saturday, March 25, 2006
you punk blanch
you bleaching punter
you have the sea
the coiled bus you then mast
the sham huntings of harp of flight
of bestemming yon lingam
the ear toneless
that strikes nervously thru
he’s your weak fiat
that the toe kennels keck
without the objectified
the estuary of her male handholds
the follow-up dog of hunting villains
& suture from outside
from cahoots from cunning
under oath it falls up
sows cold & ugly fingers
& without the leaves diapered
enfeebles that crummy arch
from her debugged moats
handholds thicken the entity
that then thread your undermine
*a note on process: i generally used the process discussed here (after the poem) with some minor changes. i collaged a little w/ my pre- & post-translated text when i felt word choice benefitted & i translated the original text through two cycles using french, dutch, & portugese, going back to english twice. i removed all linebreaks before translation then added line breaks to the final text as i saw fit. the poem i started with was something i wrote in highschool called saturday afternoon, the text of which is:
they sat on a park bench
cooled by a thin mist
she ran her hands through her hair
nervously stroking her wool coat
he stared at his feet
aimlessly kicking red-gold leaves
back and forth
he took her hand
and stared off at passing cars
her hand felt cold and clammy
her fingers thin and lifeless
like crumpled leaves.
began to thicken into a drizzle
the sun invisible
behind a thick band of gray clouds
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
The leaves in the wind etc… Don’t pee backwards.
That robot has the spinning disease.
Hang your stapler from that tree as an example to the others.
Our toaster could take us to planet x.
Buy more things. It’s my job.
Diet soda is for liars.
I want to explode a stuffed squirrel.
Our clothing is made of strings.
I could eat 5000 cows, & not be sated.
We could dance on a gerbil.
Your bird is a slut.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
All’s left in leaves-
aligned. An alumnus lull-like contract,
annulled on signing. Contrasts
annealed by long-term repetition,
axioms both loaned and stale. We
made vast plans,
anxious strategies contingent on nothing
in pens, in piles, in variables, in
imitation of our own loaming; gasps,
of curls, of camels, a delicate
- S. Burgess
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Friday, March 17, 2006
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
for dinner & mushy lickin' good.
That's why he slurred so bad in
his parking lot pamphlet gibberish.
"Give it to me like a one minute photo booth."
"This isn't no five finger discount."
"How cum," you said.
"The legs won't open properly."
"That's what the jack is for."
"I only have one left arm."
But it didn't matter & he waved
*dedicated to all those who know my work best. just 'cause you wouldn't expect anything less.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Friday, March 03, 2006
upholding what bent me most
& a deadly habit. just mouth-
wash & annihilation you said.
promise me more holes & be-
moan our yellow grievance.
oppress w/ a few powerful fam-
ilies whose children flag docu-
ments to the oligarchy. while
love codes software simulators
before circling & recircling. fin-
ally overwhelmed w/ ciphers.
the pollination will love me
more than you ever did & even
after the encrypted landscapes
flower & you toss off love e-
mails to alaska, our forest of
asphalt, i will vacuum the hall-
way until our shed creeps lowly.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
yr nucleus thrash
do yr laborers seize
slaughter & waste
as remedy for indo-
lence & zeal I mere-
ly speculate if you
identify suicide as
therapy for dullness
& absurdity what
sense does yr petri-
fied revelation furn-
ish to the traffic a-
round you the bud-
ding vegetation the
inching flowers the
fleeting birds the
the muttering poor
the sporadic droplets
laden with awkward
stillness yr bias fixes
with puzzling enig-
mas & proficiencies
no one will ever ident-
ify your beliefs be-
cause you advocate
tongues & philosophy
Sunday, February 26, 2006
we wait for what we can’t manufacture, the
moon, the tides,
norepinephrine, the watch.
Nobody worries over pie-tins and
porch-lights, broken keels, struggles with helmets;
we press greasy faces to flowing glass,
gasping like rheumatic fevers “why
no sparrow, mother?
why still mistake?”
Saturday, February 25, 2006
enthrall my effervescent challenge
& search drapes & deserts
abstract letters that swell by hand
& center the ashen artery
a well-dressed parable
drags & keels
as the sea flashes
masked desks & parallel spreadsheets
databases that eat spleen!
& skewer tea
present separate beers each week
at relevant staff meetings
Friday, February 24, 2006
Glorious and seductive Albany, Oregon!
Come for the food, stay for the accent marks.
It's about 30 minutes outside of Salem.
Salem - A Tragedy
The capital of Oregon, where sullen pigeons plop
Upon the Stalinesque expanse of bureaus for the state,
And downtown buildings crumble scenically before they drop,
And diners weep from hearing decomposing codgers prate.
There lived a girl (let's name her May) along a wooded lane;
Her house bore all the hallmarks of a lonely life indeed.
Her parents died when she was only eight, and it was plain
That little May would never get the love that young ones need.
Raised by older brothers who both sallied forth for fame,
Young May became the matron of an old and empty house.
With cash enough for sustenance, and no one left to blame,
She shot her father's rifle, and she wore her mother's blouse.
Sundays saw her walk to town along the railroad tracks;
She only went to Safeway, and she only bought canned peas.
But once, she saw a handsome man in pinstriped cotton slacks;
Her heartbeat grew irregular, her footsteps ill at ease.
The handsome man, he caught her gaze, and stepped up with a hop,
Proclaiming, "Why, I'm staggered that such prettiness exists."
"It doesn't," warned the weary May - she watched his features drop
And knew she'd love him always, so she took him by the wrists.
They wed within a fortnight, and the house grew less alone:
The bride put out a porch swing, and some flowers in the sills;
The groom put in a sunroof (the entire kitchen shone).
They cooked each other breakfast, and they rambled distant hills.
A mental patient, discharged from an underfunded home,
One day found them kissing in a sun-bespotted glade.
He killed them with a shovel, and he buried them in loam,
Thus orphaning their treasured son, who'd reached the second grade.
Never move to Salem! If you live there, please don't stay:
State capitals are magnets for the criminal insane.
They're put in homes for treatment, but they aren't put away,
So kill a mental patient, and prevent an orphan's pain.
The end. I'm thrilled to join this blog! Expect from me more cheerful poetry and depressing photographs.
w/ many primary sensor suites &
target acquisition systems or
target designation systems
really w/ four subsystems &
laser rangefinders / spot trackers / target designators
it resembles a barrel set on its side
colloquially referred to as the "Super Bug"
& sometimes the "Rhino"
(for its prodigious nose)
but love vacations in
Cordova, Spain—the Andalusian Caliphate
love tells schoolchildren about the Wright Brothers & Ibn Firnas
“we thought he was certainly mad & feared for his life”
considerably, as if a bird
& love lounges at the mall w/ many stylish teenagers
& space traveling advertisers while
love codes software simulators
& assigns missions to Canada
for microbrews, erotic dancing, & biplanes
love throttles through turbulence
to de-cloud the systematic undressing of open
air malls in Kansas
love loves love
but lamination can only save the faithful
while love labors internationally
& abandoned now w/ computer princesses,
jet planes, & tax burdens,
what mule will displace love’s tawny gap?
while hiding in the Ozarks
will love know the cloak & dagger maneuvers?
the clandestine accounts of silly torpedoes?
& isolated in the stratosphere w/ threescore enemies
or doppler radar tracking each feint & shimmy
will love puddle again?
as we investigate these precise robots
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
you have a skiff. you, skiff. that’s a verdict of history. you have a skiff. it’s not your skiff, you have. just two short centuries. not my skiff, anymore. any. living standards to undreamed heights. let’s talk about pre-capitalist skiffs. let’s talk about. a skiff about to talk about political yolk. skiff of feudal eggs. skiff no longer wracked by famine & recurrent plague. skiff of unspeakable poverty. not another skiff. not another. you have my skiff. dear. not another. you have my skiff dear. can do no more. not my skiff. can do no. you have it, dear. not my skiff. let’s talk about market price, dear. you, skiff of mine. tell me, skiff. you, skiff of mine.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
a trip to stolid pond. astronomy. no one’s afraid of bird flu. i laugh a last flurry. his hut still waits on tourists who think “this” is invasion. i scan & nothing can harm a man who shrugs as winds adapt. i shoot a million photos of night sky as ticking broadcasts alarm. i join a rush of owls & a million washouts amass. that's a lot of ammunition, I say as i stoop into my plot. i study this small shack, doubt our bombing provisions. an odd arrow spouts crimson & calls a tornado to dismay this data of brutal augur. looming storm, you scowl at my invalid faith. i point to a shotgun & a proviso of stylish indians across the river. i build it all, halt as i solicit an icon for our only portico. i panic our marquis who will unbind us of this task & pit us against imps in a cock fight. a swift spoil chops, possibly, or a firing row prolonging. i log how my pallid skin harks again. you study in calm activity, of tourists crying about lost wood, bowls that swap a glossy pond & job formation. an arbitrary dig will bully doctors & boots. our skirmish haunts bits of old spartan custom. i ask who’ll join my backyard tonight, as I dig tombs for ribs that fail to contract as airbags contract on highways. who can bury our trio and sing hymns to vacant lodgings in solitary
Friday, February 17, 2006
You diet robots, you robots in food systems, you robots who detect anti-personnel land mines in
Robots that ‘live’ on the bottom of the ocean, robots that hit birds hit by climate, motion / position / status robots, diet / nutrition / consumption robots.”
Senate robot wars & those gearing up for robot wars.
O port of the war on terrorism, department’s broad agency, purchaser of designer brief-cases & LEGO robot kits.
Can scientists help win the war against bio-invasion?
Diet war robots who make automatons who make gripper robots & hands for robots.
Where are the personal robots? the zero gravity boots?
O robots, you diets & wars, you robot colonies on the moon who manipulate and control robots in this time of war, you ragtag group of misfit robots, you simple story of a boy & his robot dog battling evil.
You robot theological society who wrote about robots & commander robot’s capture.
You mission robot leaders discovering deadly enemies—enemies who seek to change robot goal structures.
& you mobile autonomous robot software, engineer of human / robot interactions, creator of synergistic cyber-forces.
Robot destruction is at hand.
With weapons of precise destruction.
With pioneer pilot robots.
You, developer of robot vehicles, & LEGOnauts, will cease.
Intentional self-destruction is illegal in the robot destruction derby.
You treasonous bunny.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
product development says, “great success.” red & yellow signs. bunny rabbits. child-hordes. a feel-good story w/ marketers hand-in-hand, their cherub cheeks puffed azure, a sky like sky like commercial, & so many children w/ wristwatch calculators figuring sales tax & chore burdens—such talents taught lovingly in elementary school. O love, i need you & your spiral catalog. i need your dewdrop eyes pulling tears from my pores. i need your orange fleece vest & its dewy warmth to hold me through this wintry quarter.
& suburban teenagers will take all the fashionable poetry to the supermarket in black jeeps & w/ their parents’ watches, they will revolutionize disaffection. i am only commercialized as i appropriate ethical t-shirts & support our burgeoning economy. so many newspapers & the closest thing to war is independent music. i’m independent. i’m no corporate pawn. i balloon at your insinuation. protest is better than the prom & i have fifteen kittens, one for each country i will visit after graduation. i will wrap them as gifts but not cruelly & w/ such fine hair it is no wonder i can’t strangle even myself w/out some caustic remark. O marginal people. don’t forget to be grateful for everything you know.