Thursday, May 26, 2011


for Maurice
wood work
that "with the exact temperature
of a cardinal's nest" is ruined
feeling it

this is the paranoiac-critical
mechanism of speech

a merry triste
a blue bugger

to regard would be incongruous
the roots are fine

and silent, tipped in the way
of madness the hammock far into antirrhinum buds
delicate issue of cloth an oak tablet
you're to work, root tips licked
by this common edge

a reedy bend, a Tell weakness
crutched neck owned
gets things, like a bed,
in it too. At this point whited

dandelions, that many, ready, swayed
speaking inadmissably at intervals
admissably, wisely, as the race
is doomed to require a breast
be a cardinal's temperature
and so quit its women

my neck is a cardinal's
a pain nest as Paul
Verlaine's ass became,
became Rimbaud.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Huxley Series 3 (final)


"...they will become conduits through which some beneficent influence can flow out of that other country into a world of darkened selves, chronically dying for lack of it."

get to the skin
of meaning, the mouthball
wiped too round to rightly see, or
be groped in confidence, eyed

if the soil's too well draining
the fingers, roots aside, cannot take hold
to pull the body in the event
of collapse

drain's pretense, distillation lost
the shingles poor ladders
gutters a flattened hoop

collected rain
not as this collects what
excellent eye the mouth still is


"...the so-called secondary characters of things are primary..."

a suffering thread
fine with the strain
but our fingering it
with oils, rough
with need for texture, need
ling so and rough in turn
prattling familiarity, as much
precaution to sit as it takes a guest

a calving or buckle of limb
the length of spirit
the French and not the inner


"...that which disposes is ultimately the artist's temperament..."

drawer the mover
and that'll be
the day's movement

the hung hours
dried as on a tarp
relieved, as left bound by pores,
of moisture

I cannot and so never will
direct that anything move beyond itself

the sweat moves beyond
flung as from a tarp
I am the tarp.


"...At least you aren't lulled into a sense of false security by some merely human, merely fabricated order: You have to rely on your immediate perception of the ultimate order."

And isn't this my reading
and that the window.

the shock -- which is at, re
coiling, defiance -- of ignorance

a French window is walked through.
what greater absurdity to deepen Blake's pun
and admit Aldous to the garden.

Eden was of ignorance
we forget, happily.

I inhale ash dust
from an 'urban forestry'.


"...'If you started in the wrong way...everything that happened would be a proof of the conspiracy against you. It would all be self-validating. You couldn't draw a breath without knowing it was part of the plot."

so, you think you know where madness lies.
the distraction, constantly, of truth.

placed, positioned
as in nobler grass
cleared of all angles, grass
then from all sides of womb

the foot is for kicking but
I use it to touch, tread
this lie.

I wind.
a snake's writhing's better shape.


"...the excessive, the too obvious glory of the flowers, as contrasted with the subtler miracle of their foliage."

I feel form knead backs -- which are the ins -- of knees
I come with to've been with, conform to what's rickety
I follow the intent of weight: to settle.

risk fracture.

absolution disorder like a wreck
recover to again cover, lay laurels, trim off iris to note
better the born notes in the garden
what's come formed
there, already

a boy of superlatives
resting delphinium toward his chest swollen
like a fig

woods rotting a boot out, a frog in
before some higher passerine scat

a pebble would fling
were the top laces taken to tie

"'[The Buddhas'] intention is both totality and differentiation.'"
the thing carried out
the fruit

you need to be told the end
if you need fruit

to want fruit

like a boulevard and return


"...view succeeding distant view...So far as I was concerned, transfiguration was proportional to distance. The nearer, the more divinely other. This vast, dim panorama was hardly different from itself."

transfigurative muting
the composition roof
left to be covered with

to look out, to blind and draw,
give me an ear
give me a means
don't tell me grass
in it

the shouts plenty loud
but muted in their abstraction, the call
of what's distant
no shape of being
I don't trudge and keep


"...a retreat from the outward Datum into the personal subconscious, into a mental world more squalid and more tightly closed than even the world of conscious personality."

why don't you come
get me

because I have all I need

I hear a noise
convinced of its purposelessness

I am alive at morning.


"...'the gravity of Nature and her silence startle you, when you stand face to face with her, undistracted, before a barren ridge or in the desolation of the ancient hills.' - Goethe"

ipsissima verba
likely to harm a friend
an ecclesiastes of harm from what's vainly inspired
but good art.

There is no such art.

give me an ear.
kill the angels.
they drown, loud and useless
at a distance of itself

the state, rather
than to state
the more unsystematic
the more in spite of skin
the more fucking by the ruin edge
on a camera

we have always been
where we ought to be.

I am dipped where the scabiosa
dipped earlier so suggested I submit

I am ruin
I am submission
the perfection of indigo
of that distance.

Huxley Series 2

"...the beneficiary inasmuch as language gives access to the accumulated records of other people's experience, the victim in so far as it confirms him in the belief that reduced awareness is the only awareness and as it bedevils his sense of reality, so that he is all too apt to take his concepts for data, his words for actual things."

in consecration
and rage
be consecrated, feed
ceremony in, hurtful contour of June re
cess more fussy for the working of it out
of the body system
laid, gotten there, in a wider grass

a wider grass, leveled, than its form
a longer grass

the size of mind that thought, "if
grass then from all sides of womb"
half-sphere of arm movement
on the back

a lion quietist, its sens


"...temporary by-passes [of the "reducing-valve"] may be acquired spontaneously..."

of a satelitic momentum
on leave
land to say shall we

if the door is dirty
it sounds

if the window
it sounds in pain

and height.


"...the inexhaustible theme of crumpled wool or linen..."

little help to moisture

a paint chip

what house is more beautiful
to observe storms in

and beside it
to observe flaking paint
like hands
out cupping rain


"...This participation in the manifest glory of things left no room, so to speak, for the ordinary, the necessaryconcerns of human existence, above all for concerns involving other was this aspect of human life which I wished, above all else, to forget...[the world] of self-assertion, of cocksureness, of over-valued words, and idolatrously worshipped notions."

others've said more
're less unspoken a constitution
than is thought out

is thought abruptly
and -- unbecoming of a thought --
without pain

given the pain
of ascension

given away what's left
of dispossesion


"...the doors of Vermeer's perception were only partially cleansed. A single panel had become almost perfectly transparent; the rest of the door was still muddy.../ The one-sided contemplative leaves undone many things that he ought to do..."

ought to pass
an eye and mouth
one the other
the better to see, the better in

a cool moment in heat
electricity that's deprivation of one
from the other, to later collide

the movement that's indecision still,
un-still, were the sinistral fault ways
of perception calmed

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Huxley Series 1


"Neither agreeable nor just is."

it's the pain wakes
and the hack through next rooms

scrotum and soap
picked up, pick of dextral cover edge
down on or along the thigh with, along
or down on with both hands

don't triangulate the image
with sun yet


"The great change was in the realm of objecvtive fact. What had happened to my subjective universe was relatively unimportant."

an ergot
or to be extracted so

does it ask, where,
of me that it be near
the mind not the spread of itself
but what spread is out

to match pitch
sick, or in dream, matching
sums pocketed or sound
of clean urine, grass handled, the
feed of handled grasses
quivering under the charge
of their meaning in hand
a campus fixed, everyone a guide
to the very same, to
the campus of grass


"...a breathing without returns to a starting-point, with no recurrent ebbs but only a repeated flow from beauty to heightened beauty..."

there, the floor to tread
as evident

a patch
for the arm to tread, swinging,

elbow and branch common joints
for rustlings against, the later thrill
of rustling

it is cold
enough for a coat, it is
worth walking, patched up

to see


" was anything that I -- or rather the blessed Not-I released for a moment from my throttling embrace -- cared to look at. The books, for example..."

the tubular, rollicking, heel to shoulder callous
of form; bent, so
bend, bent gotten over on, rolling, shoulders
let the bulbage rear
two soaped haunches screening oil, spread
quickening project leakage
into spurts, that
let own rhythmic leave

if eliminative, the product
of shear rashed but shorn still reprieve, ecstatic
largely useless

it's neither to be let or left form
to've taken, full, still only in so much
rumpled antirrhinum as mashed-shut nostrils,
be a depiction entered, awaiting leave
and fold, fold a crude depiction itself
of waiting compartment.
to hear sneezes from.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011


for Justin

1 men

a crack
 to let the river fill

 from behind, a fire log
 picked up by the faster hiking friend
 discarded from the condos in courtyards

thrown at    thrown at me, back
                  throttles me up from bed
                  there is a pain

 my chest – were the log formed
 where the hit fit in, a pec
 toral spread – would be broken

2 men

where, assuming the sheath
that, assuming you're a woman,
you set up and your husband sets into

assuming you are married

does the enclosure of the bed
and the room
and the hall, should there be a door
to the room

quit its irreligious calm
and become something necessary

Saturday, May 14, 2011


a place aurally locatable by train
self smelled, the skin, the skin bored of the outer off
to smell the under, went to the katana and took my sock off

a year-idle hit
's not ours to be part of
the breeze is good
want to be assumed
by matter

I never do that and I should
these are the fans
dell says

to be assumed
by formed matter
things my lungs, like thermals,
took up, causes

all injury
magic mountain
the illness of time

in no such many
the forms at what distance
determinant tide
relief, as no such many

wears down
for, with
what grass
's relief at woodpecking

the profanity of the trauma
in the equality of the forum
madly stressed

smear some crabgrass on a wet trunk
to smell of gutted fish
the skin off

to stay til dark
to know the activity of the light let go
what when I lay me down
's done is uproot

can't tell you oak
nine's wooden light
is to uproot

Thursday, May 12, 2011


a man says "Edison" at me
that he, like Edison, go on back

from 750 ml, to the government
warning lip, poured out

"kiss" less touch, contact,
than gradation of pressure

hold a banana
and put the wine bottle
on the redder of two chairs

I watch girls
sometimes they are children

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


for Lee and Maurice

in ignorance of process about me
bark in the sit

situate what can be grown of me
take corners to properties
the sense to the property of body

grieve yards their limit
my suddenness jive within them
mid-century as through props, townhouse,
egg-colored, within mentioning

held, for more cupboard mugs, to make up coffee,
smell such as lawn growth tilts a birdhouse
sat in it worn waiting for feed

were it a cupboard


having precisely enough materials
you want to eat the thing
to've made it again
tomorrow after

coupon, stacked pocketed change,
the swelling pantry

masturbate the erect effigy of an enemy idol
and get on


an apple core some literally per
verted grin, I
resent because better air exhalation,
in its duration, its pause of scent

Monday, May 2, 2011


requiring blithering quit and the mad yawp out to quit
kindness to those, deportment in light of those
that quit

particularity of form, the difference and takes
in the last stage of roast
charred stuff falling off
I like the vapor

it says "you in?"
am in to build
early to take in as much light

Monday, April 25, 2011

Old Word

"I'm not angry because I'm young
I'm angry because I'm right"

what rain will do to you
a child realizing

four deer eating grass
a child realizing.
the church or the club

I wonder who would do such a thing
I wonder if it is for the same reason we wait to shit

"We are looking for a music museum"
past the deer

Sunday, April 24, 2011


it's like the truth's there, mineral
the day is ratty
a yogurt special strains the woman
big arms craddling eight, nine, with a cart

and I think she can overhear, 7-
4- (no, she can't), my sister's discount ID I put in

I am at a pink gate that is very loud without a language
the escape of the medium that's, famously, Chopin's piano, Shostakovich's string quartet,
only the only apolitical space, which means only you can see there
the politic move, that it has not engulfed the [read me] field

this is music
this is Faustus

there is a guy who steps into the garden for salvation
but I step in to present such conditions as I may fail a crop

swallowing chalk to feel my gut settle
is deliberating, a squashling conscription
in the firm sun that while I think you are awful
is through skylights in contempt of rest: how
are you tired how are you not in a bed

you are pretty and, like music, not here
I think when you lie on the couch with your head off
like a cat with spread legs but not that position
you are an angelic and (you are not asleep!) energetic lamb
that has made up hate to call out and to so lose

you get more assumed of the map without growing
you remind that "my how she's grown" is deference
to there being nothing of your haunt of form, of the hung kill
in their like your face

you are assigned an early grave
and you can't eat there
the earth eats you in a bowl

I wish you knew more about forfeiture legality
I pick you up
it's then I wish the sun weren't in the skylights
prompting you lay on your gut which means I had to flip you
and you woke up and didn't grace me immediately

was it ok that Thoreau could see his mom from his spot?
that Percival Lowell had eyes a little fucked
but with his telescope was convinced of Martian agriculture?

Lowell's was a romance, ex:
I see canali.
Because I left them.

Thursday, April 21, 2011


hell is some riddled material
you have to set against

to make for had bellwether three pieces that
will need it back to make better

pee, having to having sex
someone had who does (but not both), their
thrill of setting up each other's (your) acquitals
or, hell, both, the sub-dom benign
seat the sink

lean-to leant against as wall
taken up the space
angles again softly gone or the surface held up by 

relating or not, to admit, allow calm
a killing whose diseased fear's skipping
and so becomes it, to worry space

hell could be gone or gone 
if gone not gone to
but out of body
hell of my gesture past
my given some dress in body length zippers
to undo the sheath and regain it
knowing how delicate you want it to've ended up being

three deer eating grass

Sunday, April 17, 2011


is a human rest
what's the shape
how will the shape maintain

the order is collapsible
the flex of order's timewise
agreed with more at those meetings

Friday, April 15, 2011


the guilty ill
stole her soc [sosh]
half-mast posts post (their) reasoning

I will starve a monarch
its violence goes into hollows
or in, fills out

inter-penetrational diseased group segment
bitty by shallow contrast commutes your ease
kept up and shortening

what is wrong with your head
that you wear yourself out
before all that need you'd anticipated

but honestly why is the flag at half
without knowing it's mysterious even aggravating religion empty or in clear need of revision
like were it greased less than evenly

Thursday, April 14, 2011


for my mother

some recipe for a run-down
to heal, cooled twigs down the back flexed
once to pick them and again opposite to receive

with my thumbnail press the fruit's bottom nubs
going largest down, like light in a very good diamond
the bus sun made for such fracture, stops, the peel
bursting stuff were we west and shadowy
you wouldn't see it 

and in fact we turn right, and the same pressure
sees out nothing, like painless neck movement
later stiff 

when I move against my clothes anywhere
I'm calmed, because of the coincidence of pressure 

Monday, April 11, 2011


feces eager, polyethylene sharp tugged by canned
beans, not less expensively a bag (as a body in a body) in a bag

I do not mean body bags but the comparative inexpensiveness of, at least,
the uniformity of both bodies copulating to reproduce 
as compared to what else might be introduced to the body (at what cost)
and a (not a can but) bag of beans here meaning dried
as carried possibly in further polyethylene bag(s), envelope, home.

what does not necessarily cost
some stressed goody brush, the profanity (of) our subsisting makes for
a fruit that's gotta be palmed
to be carried with the arm at side

violation two shapes 
the feeling for barrier no object
or objects. 

separate to be elastic than how they pertain. 
without feeling for. 
as an elasticity will have of (its) cover.
and of, as parenthetically, the possession.  
one off, as of term and hedge,
board and border in truing woods.
the local water fit in trees. 

Friday, April 8, 2011


what an exciting formative experience it was
to bend like for dryer socks over for the wallet faux leather
and with nothing of value thrown in a bush, kids.

I don't dislike skunks
the eye and nose filled that way and sudden
it's to learn you form and what's to last
lift like you do needlessly a button just to tug it left

Thursday, April 7, 2011


publique, to say clean masturbatory living
the suit and sensitivity to figures 
of oppression

there's a large jawing space
a yonic frame such's the elbows
in masturbation, an act of both (and 
however many more are available) hands

the cynic's dogged for being with
the dogs and dog-like, and is dog-like followed
cynically by the hound
who is a cynical man
among dogs that form a circle
of I guess not cynicism but of dogs of cynic's dogs' cynicism

the erotic breathing (strained, fast) 
not evidence of the rear seat man's masturbation
but the resonance as private 

this is a bus
there is seventy five cents taped (and
you can see it tug at hairs) to his leg
beneath a rolled up leg

which is how I reuse words
currency realize is the anti-media
that it cannot be reconciled with the body
and other reasons like opacity

I wish that hadn't happened 
or to the professor "Professor
hear me out" heard out

it was something about masturbation to a class of seventy

Saturday, April 2, 2011


Allegory of the Lion

Part 1

he's god
booning commander
and earth is open

Part 2 and 3

he was dead
motionless in a vault
like a shepherd

The Whale's Nature

no fish is so firm
as its image
tilling the sea upsets nothing
there are no cuts

when a lawn becomes
not a location
but a direction
this is like a whale

dilluting the small task
of its capture

Allegory of the Whale

they kindle a fire on the marvel of tinder it rests
precipitately loathe the disembarkation that's rest
and so

straightway rejoice, eat and drink and sink
into whatever hold or cushion
without wound until what season
when summer and winter contend
sucks in all those beguiled fish
while the weather can't stay as bad
as that

the floor of the sea
is the greatest tarrying mouth
that could swallow us
but instead has swallowed unbelievably, sweetly
the whale

The Mermaid's Nature

bunches of em, wholly a fish even though
you know

like a shipwreck of the body, why
any ruined sailor
would accept this fate is baffling

talk about mal de debarquement
it's like Guest, “into whose confidence
I have wandered”

don't stand for it, guy!

gurgling, varied water
know to avoid, wonder
is this really someone you want
to be talked piously to, as example
whose navel is already site
to such discursive quiet
it confuses you

or like Bernstein, “values like the butter”
and you like the idea of her?

Allegory of the Mermaid

the outside can serve
without service

what is betokened
in sturdy memory
by what's before you

tone they deceive
quiet they deceive
all of sacrament

The Elephant's Nature

Indian, big, burly, mountainous
they are like sheep

to see one topple
is to witness a nightmare
and relive it not just in but in the act
of sleep
in mud unable to move

broad lengths of chastity
chastity is an elephant

Allegory of the Elephant

suffering wants to raise up power
to get off itself

suffering is the scab
growing to discontinuity
with the skin

so is the elephant on earth
and we on an elephant
an estuary elevated
its peace lumbering on if toward quick
ening we
cannot see the mouth

The Dove's Nature and Allegory

inverted precept
perception of worms, seed, bile

she is landed on America
as excellent

easily stirred


The Ant's Nature

nickels mount, acquire, spill over
there are nickels where ground oughta be
full paid in nickels, pennies involved
as begrudging subs in change back
imagine it, running about, seldom resting
just nickels

of wood and of weed there is nothing

when it becomes winter again
and it will
food in shelter, good
to fetch food beforehand
before it can be eaten
hastening away as if it were shameful
the corn to the cave bit all in two
so that it will not become useless, ripening
into timely maturity the book of Physiologus
words scurried over with ruinous focus
burning, as if in payment, ants

Allegory of the Ant

antagonize the work at hand
keep if only partially earning
to behave as winter would have
lack all sustenance, be tired, imprudent
ly food is our security and our ticket to winter
shucking off the tried hides of repercussed body
in the cave biting whenever and whatever
the ticket is, degrees of wheat, shunned barley
fed on the law
its very seed cast off
which is just ground yet upset
a foot planted, set down

The Hart's Nature

two customs:
draws the snake
peoples the Physiologus

a third:
swallows the creature

Allegory of the Hart

as if we were mad
as if when
we seethe
thereby does mankind have ingrained
the lord's law

The Hart's Nature

Part 2

consider the cello
even if there were a hundred together
up on land while all hale and sound
slows of tiredness and others come together
to help get control of the line
we still aid in the need of arrival
we are steadfast in heaven in this
pointed, we'll get on okay
drinks have to be let melt
brothers tire, helms open
hart's sound

laws fed with to boot

Allegory of the Hart

Part 2

there is no transformative hart
no singular, complete hart in plain
every ten miles
a hart

up popped to
be let as broadleaf trunks
look for now as good
as the other

The Fox's Nature

so you wanna bitch, red and ready
leave off all deliverance the mist
will anyway wear off

you pray constantly to sojourn naked
into a fount
and make it in

food, Pater Noster
drink and drenching
covenant of made, rotted way
out alight nearby the barnyard
so lit, manageable

get to it
cock, capon, goose, gander,
neck, beak, she'll haul off

that's why men hate her

Allegory of the Fox

Part 1

pecks repayed, imagine
that she go her way
a fur ride
for cleft-snared birds
quick to take off and be taken

a dull physical party
her teeth are like rain
as admirable, avoided,

Part 2

like a film
for which there are more night showings
and dates are irrelevance
but put out for after

bids nipping to the belly's will
done wrong, the canniness
of placement of wounds
Judas was a reveler
a nipper, sayer
of virtuous shit dully

Herod was a fox
the book is right

foxes are always tortured
they are never punished
but just end suddenly, lived out

The Spider's Nature

some plans take shape on the tops
of houses

fields thus fashioned
swiftly and left

blood of no other favor
but that seizing network

and neighbor holes

Allegory of the Spider

an injured market assemblage, legs
plenty knotted, whatsoever public

look out for emblems you devour
this kind into someone, on them shouting


there is no room in my mechanism of sympathy
for their use

the docility and not the sharpness
of an edge

Friday, April 1, 2011


was written ten feet on the wall, Michigan,
of the Persian-owned discount mart

a delicate issue

they haven't chilled yet so
it's where I eat

seeds of unpacked garland figs
sucked out between primaries that
have some flavor yet, as the civic image
any, gets lost, of an attending stoves or
filling up as what's a developmental groove,
a pot or yonic (and this is not redundant) recession

a friend calls it a "trudge", the complex
to better note runners, their meanness
I said "they are a mean", is where I draw the word
but they're mean also, I guess

mean to be right, quiet, difficult (too fast) to contact
something of a lifestyles empty beside resting contacts, protected
in the bathroom of who thawed you out but's
you know, who has a lifestyle (puns

are contrapuntal, unite meaning,
are as much fugal model as...)

it's a complaint with the militaristic, that concern
be so forced away, shaped in tense packeting, folded in
not the strategies or guided meanings I use
because they don't trip at all, let alone often enough
but my strategies are as visible and left around

which is the word. state of
being left, or having been (sartre's on their dresser), or
what intelligence's left...
I am a jealous man.

struggle, as a narrative device, is something like
concealment of deliverance, mere antipathy

"this is beautiful"
he has to be told what's beautiful

let, also, a versus left
who's let, or let out to
to be left is if you like to let leave

Tuesday, March 29, 2011


"I tried to widen the notion of siege from its usual sense of military siege to an existential condition [ma 'na wujudi], in incorporating the siege of the martyr, the siege of language. National themes, topics, questions have besieged the poet. This work was an attempt to end the siege from the collective. It was announcing a complaint and a daring acknowledgement." - Mahmoud Darwish

there's something of mongering to these combinations
the, er, combinatorics attraction 
is, s's of the tile rec

tangles, the stall
that says "in
the inn with Ann who I'm
into ["to"
crossed but visible]"

that's some distance
sacrifice in the work
in the man's interest
to shrink, fold
qualification for ruin and speed

it's about care that you be as
powerful as you were to leave
up in order, felt out pulling past

Saturday, March 26, 2011


Conservative nationalism as an end in itself often seems a supplanting of concern with the body, as literally the most original and earliest felt habitation, the most original partisan divide. The body in political discourse is brought up in matters of health, life expectancy, mortality rates, population, FDA and other food-authority issues (of trust, violation, standards), all seemingly celebrating it only as a vehicle of ego, which is to say of the American experience, and a weapon, by design, against threat. Bodily health will better allow you to conform to other standards of living that will be rewarding for reasons beyond the body (of which there are actually, of course, none), and which will benefit the nation, which is your newer, nobler, more real body.

A man is not a city, but the body is. It is a resonant chamber of activity we have access to in a way image cannot (as it can with the myth of a city) exactly satisfy. We might think the idea of The Body is inseparable from an ontology of "health", the strategy and ethics of survival. I don't think so. The body is whatever happens to it, comes out, goes in. It's as much the ailment as the cure, neither's gotten out of. Vacations from the body, like vacations generally, are illusory. We shape the body only so much before damaging, and the shape in mind is anything, part of what the body has produced for itself. The body is a system but also a model that, unlike a city plan preserved within whatever city, moves about within, constitutes the political system it models for. If America is a model democracy, it is not through action within the systems being modeled for, but in America the body is this. It is not a reference.


kid, whether you're rubbing in or wiping off
the lotion from the other when you're a kid
who cares

I was very young at a point
and even now my teacher says "I
have kids who are younger than you"
when I show him my work which by
the standard for submission has my birthyear
he adds, "I have kids that are younger than you

puberty is important
menopause is very important
I think they are not affecting
as they are not affecting me
his kids

he says I am "fully formed"
some kind of pregnant, left to
be left again but more thoroughly

I make and make
no longer with the kind of preparation of
the widest yawning sous chef
except money and I
feel very close to death and
as my CAD dad after 3/5 in a week whapping
2 inch diameter cardboard tubes with stapled plastic plugs
against his head for therapy
or torture the difference again between
being who cares, fit

Friday, March 25, 2011


so for this next one
a plant
it won't do to mention

a threaded filigree
that won't

hasn't combed (that time hasn't)

have to snap up
so that when they come in they know you're a waiter
went, so to speak

Tuesday, March 22, 2011


I'm thinking of, as on a check-out conveyor belt, as for three of a film's opening credits (say, an Agnes Varda), a vodka pint, a three hundred count aspirin bottle, and a pack of m&m's, sliding in. Establishment. Credit. Also, exchange.

Monday, March 21, 2011


flowing in thaw's now a scoot, rickety, or
dry enough it sounds, so
not just doesn't flow, but responsively
it is very dry sounding and warmer still

it sounds dry, letch fed too quietly
non resonant and hit jogging
one a boy who was done talking
his ass mudless, low twigs eyed darted
round, no phone, body hair matted down
his eyes were not the point, bringing innumerable
points, objects leanly back, to run better

everything you see here
has been in my mouth
things you would've touched
so no longer wet the ground feels left
the ground here is no longer wet, the thaw's done
observing it coming out as I came out of the house mornings

today the ground is no longer wet
it feels left, what was
red shorts some
inversion of mast and sail (not "some"), how
to describe someone bodily you
cannot, possibly, be near as he's fast, bodily

was rather wet, drying quickly
is the point and that then
it rained for several hours
which you can't discount
some kind of slow rise up
this is a hilly town and
season, is also important
forty at nine, now closer fifty

it's pretty wet, someone leaves off a word, "season",
say within a country club announcement
there's a space and their arm gestures mean
to dismiss that interim, saying "is also important"
we get what's meant

that person, likely a man,
introduces his son proudly
and we bottom the son is what I meant

Sunday, March 20, 2011


I understand it is maybe a source
but an excellent source who knows

people who are attacked by dogs, say,
who attack dogs not uncommonly with dogs
sourceless, disabused, clear of vision

it's like the folks are in you
poets about that in and out
unlucky things possibly happening
if you don't let up saying "revitalize" aloud
that cerebral is to put a little out
and it is looked at boy, people
the dogs learn not to attack

to leave a dog
to represent emphasis
apart (?) from emphasis
like a wig to the woman and
the baguette she sees another with

it has been clear always
what to do
to integrate

the sura next

Saturday, March 19, 2011


the line brings objects
all of them, black bird strobes lo through
hi res crab grass
clearly daily

not something that, through
ritual I can accept

needs a sense of humor is something like needs to stop
sort of an estate sale, binding arbitration of
the agreement that's the ave maria there

flossing, the mirror bulb burnt a little pink as gums
that get turned on, that corner in common

thrumming nuisance, where you're about to hit
but everyone's quivering not as at a cold
breeze when you've stopped

today it's sixty
the mean temp in a month's time
's thirty

two subsequent manholes open, two
broke ankles and the one worse so for having
been the support during the other stress
that violin, I'm saying, that descant

* no ' as in fissure of possession, fissure as what it is.

Friday, March 18, 2011


the weather was something like not yet erotic
calm thaw textures that mingle without.

it was not a dog but my jean seam
occurrence of my scent
in the enemy

part of skateboarding's to make a lot of sound
a dry bearing even


the weather was something like she wants to fuck you
big boots retired for some seasons

very dear change
genius with nothing
against the young

an idiot in
toxicated on their own per

such dire obligations
to beat down this clerk

who has never worked
as hard as anyone
no matter how
if with interest

inhuman means to seems to mean
to often die a more violent protest
really like things, favoring as
bent to


when a woman says you call yourself a man
while, and this not being written out,
impressed with cv okay, the favor
and it says man nowhere on it it
says clerk

liking when an artist sacrifices and you did
then, the lumbar such favor or not
bend a favor, stick a keep, reaching for
puns that won't connect what's a total chore

listening, with the report
with clean hair
holding the shirt but ready
to return it, decent
by nature

Tuesday, March 15, 2011



For Anne Boyer

The ones who wash.
The ones washed.
The ones who wash the washed.

I am washing the ocean
With my golden eyeballs because

I live across the street from it
And now, you see, I’m filling

My golden eyeballs with the washed
World because they

Are goblets and this is
A medieval poem

And you are my hide,
My manuscript, so I’m going

To erase the glyphs
And write over you oh

Apocalyptic pile-up
Of cars. The car wash would you

Like a car wash no I said
I don’t want a fucking car wash today

No. Press
The ‘no’ button is red fill with

Gas. They believed the
Glyphs, the script was

Nonsense, that the letters
Were pictures of eyeballs

And so everything written
Was staring at you like

you were an erased animal in
Surveillance in
Passports we cross—the poem

Slop, I don’t want this poem
To be bought, it can’t

Ever be bought OK
So I’m posting it here in

The sell zone—if you touch
This poem

I will die
Without knowing

What the words were
Selling to you

In the eyeballs
The eye wash mine are

Open to the passport picture
Is this you


Are you there?

In screen? Inshallah?
In real time? In “The Scream”—

The stealing of it—the zone
Of the ‘what isn’t’

The ‘is’ zone
Separated by wing

air washing above and below
aerodynamic lift

In the half-life
That decays once it begins

Where nothingness
In tin

In community that props
Up corpses

Where are you?

We’re here in this
Tube of oxygenated atmosphere


Some countries—a son—
He is composed of

Cameras now.
Or tubes.

Or clicks. Is he clicking?
Does DNA

Make a sound
When it’s pulled apart?

I can’t tell if I’ve made
Cells or

Wires or tubes or
A language coming

Together like
Drops of water.

The toast. He says
“Wash mama”

So I do and now
The toast is all soggy.

An old writer—we say he’s ‘washed out’—a
Corpse ‘washes up.’

To be watched and opened
like a passport
Or woman.

The beautiful women
Of poetry posing

On a page of poetry. Do not buy
Me anymore.

Or sell my face
Is being washed because

It’s tired and I want
to stop. The sons

Of the beautiful women
Of poetry—the only

Place where once you
Could be beautiful

Or ugly or neither one—to want

to be ugly—

To reign, transcend— match
The ugly modern world

In the face mirror.

To transcend
A nation like a passport or surveillance

Or clicking on the posing

That have been washed
Like fruit.

To be deposed.

To be a son.

There are consequences, my lovely darling.

In ethic in shall uh in cleansing nick
In son of Israel in scrolls

That roll up around
The child’s foot—

The sun cupping them in
Like golden eyeballs.

In clicks of photographs
The beautiful women of poetry,

Their legs longer than
The horizon

The poems sold
Like the old world forever

Being sold I can’t tell what
I’ve made no I can tell

I’ve made cells

That are flying above
The ocean
Of horrors—the middle part

Where nothing can survive
Where the organs are supposed

To be pumping and digesting
and filling with joy

but now in the middle of the ocean
There are mirrors
And there is seaweed and a young girl

Is being wrapped up
With a white sheet

She is your sister
And you must remember that forever

And her feet have not
Been washed

By God or by anyone
How dirty the feet

And though they will end up
At the center of the sea

Two feet without a body
Walking half life

They will always be dirty
Because even the sea can’t

Wash this away. The sea’s

Defiance. The stars milk

Mothers and then the mothers’
Milk rots and that’s

What we have to work with.

This event. That one.

Those ones too. All of these events.

These times.

Monday, March 14, 2011


The act's abject. Seduction is an associative art, where this is what's associated, seduced. Ever have a dream where you can look at any intensity light without pain? You are, in “seeing” without sight, listening. Blind persons can use a technique called “flash sonar” to interpret environment through sound reverberations. I had such a dream. I see light was also a voice, a woman's, which says,

wake in my ass
and sit

Unlike Webern on a walk, it is a cruelly impartial coincidence. My fingers, similarly, resemble whole infants – “whole”, that is, not just their fingers. A violinist in playing is convinced she is sawing off her arm, and so fails to by the end of the movement: she is playing the violin.

to roll further in
which I bend to do
not so very. blanket

oak series warming
joints. blanket a loose pant, some
Austrian twig

the light is very bright on the twig
and I can look at it and keep
looking without any pain

who you want to with
a very clean memory, “I want
to see him bare his teeth
like an animal I draw”

favor of itself, want
to not have the right
to be, there in order to
like a porch repair

work and obscurity
picking back up

I pity whatever stranger's ignorance of me. Painless light is sourceless, I learn. I can look, now, at dim light without a sense of it being relief. So that is new too. Aligned at the tooth, which is the key of a low e-flat at the piano, a long rifle shooting parallel the string like were the spine, laying, that. That happens a few times. “I don't want to have the right to be there” - Catherine Breillat.

Friday, March 11, 2011


hunting to quote that others
will think as from the forest
of the text you found it in
“fresh”? Which

is not to say fresh at all
but a little beaten
very little sounding inky
even come off as come off

(zipper pockets)

but it wasn't a text
it's the ear as purpose
of eventual contractions
made elasticity of space
never gotten through, its tightness
mostly in that respect


Is it to escape torture or to receive torture contrary to how it'd have you. You don't have to disclose much in imitation. Not much is disclosed to you. Try telling off a person, and, still persisting, now they're ignorant in defiance.

The use of torture. The submissive control. A woman comes without, necessarily, thought of conception. A man comes without hope of escape from it, the gesture of fertilization, the event of orgasm indistinguishable regardless of stimulus, possessed by procreative selflessness, the urge to involve others if only in fantasy, and/or to create others without, pregnant with sperm he never sees and wastes ludicrously anyway. A woman's orgasm is both private and explosive, of the self and selfless, inviolably independent of not only men but of generation itself – she's free of tradition, while/through/despite (?) bearing it. There's something to her pleasure beyond violation, and so that can't be located. A man's sanctuary has to be.

You have to know something thoroughly to destroy it. Which you do by destroying yourself. What is clitoral mutilation but emphasis, backward from spiritual discovery, of dutiful procreation? Like parboiling aminita muscaria – which is a decomposer.


some dire contingency plan somebody
somewhere likes enough I can't
describe it further

straws through cup bottoms
to blow coke against the inside that's
against me I sweat you have to keep the pressure up
to keep the coke from falling
down, standing

there's this attendant doesn't like reduction
oughta let things be as what
they came or in this case
as little in as

stalemate's compromise
at tedium
it doesn't really happen
not that I want to but
they will be moved
not in context
but in waiting

still it comes
like you can't admit poetry or
god's that guy victor

I stand men

taurine sunrise
red bull and scope
winter dirt, it's a stitch

Wednesday, March 9, 2011


in a convict's smear, reflexion
the taken wall
the “ease of wheatsheaf” of trouser scat

my name is pete
your dirge is here
e flat is faggots
you made it


flags' two lumber barrels of salt
paramedic unit fit into the further crosswalk
lanes of what's a road seen left, turned
or taken

top off
means raised surface
lips nearer to take off that top

the mound drain off
for crop seeds raised
sending off excess

I step on grates
feel for some edged out
fall it's in what a neighbor made in likely rage

pick my voice out in the student hall
a store what sells pieces
of somebody here's mother's dress

I am eating a penny
so Stace's Jane Eyre place's lost

a store a body juggling
each piece has to hit though


folds heat in
could be but that my finger lost gorged of
vasculitic movement, rearranged
as this unnecessary bone I need

a clerk's reference to “vaginas”
I keep challenging “what?” until
's too annoyed to finish it

“taking the air with their babies”
meaning the hell out
pick sizes of cokes
you can afford the number
of kids of


it's too much
not to talk like
you want it
but sound like that sound
a, say, whittling damage

want you to whip
without indication

there is no purity
there is no form
there is no reprieve
there is no painterly ostentation
there is no trust
there is no pattern

fear is a rabbit
some riverine ambigram
you could eat, split to
you could shave when you come over


wait that can't happen
it suits me

your curiosities


Tuesday, March 8, 2011


“...makes a small man want to throw

A Medium-sized stone
At the whorehouse door” - Sandra Simonds

you know there's a book there
he should put on clothes for
it's my antonia

or burn and smell good
horn hockets this foot of ice
and floods where it's narrow pick
off river salt

think vertical opera (if you're to
freeze it, the cycle) you've climbed up somebody's gut
gat some window to get passed
snaps its legs, gains

of his violation stones
the Madame's windows
what james dean when he runs
seed on the floor

not as Onan freely on the earth
enjoining procedural whim“tells
her that teddy is lucky
to be eponymous”

like what pleromic aperture that's invisible
but you can see through
furtive as to gold

on a Monterey walk
physique filling the skin out
neared to furthered extérieur

guiltless span, the mouth licked (“an
gulus”, “angustia”), he's
clearly going to get up any
he got up

their century's dreaming
fafnerian, a boot high up
you can reach and the injury of it is
now you're high up

a moral domestic like getting up
the attended getting up
being asked whether I wanted her to
hold my medium fizzy as I stood

and I threw it in and pawed her for a foot
an inch of toe's itch on the pier, the sun
going to be a minute, some

twelve inches in shadow
toward a taurus door annoyance swung
out only a little bit

a breast bearing breakfast
which's the guy who did it
I asked him to wear my shirt

collaboration but the hollering japanese
then they're laughing so it wasn't thought assault
and I knew I was to vacuum because it blocked the door
and I wasn't about to break it just to
if you've watched a back adjusted
gotten to without puncture

Saturday, March 5, 2011


I swerved into the negative.
In curved words
That collapsed like the soft sides of architecture.

Everything you see here is pumped through
A tube and on the other side of the tube: history

With a big H that stands for: hardens in place,
That stands for without hands.

You’d think that it was late at night
When I arrived but it wasn’t.
It was all white.

It tasted the way a body tastes
When it wants love.

No one there told stories
To anyone else. Nothing was a fiction.
A girl mouthed
Language into the stone ear of another girl.

That’s what they called give and take.

There were forms
And they moved. Somehow the way insects

Move into fallen logs.

Once a day, they became
Jubilant but then

They went back into their holes.

1. We call life a forest when it looks pretty.
2. We call fiction poetry when it seems to rise out of itself.


It was time to stop being funny.
To be honest, I was never that funny anyway.

Funny is the antechamber
Of the body when you remove the liver and kidneys.

I made you a very tasty snack:


You can’t torture a skeleton
Because the skeleton is like a chandelier.

It shimmers.


There’s a black stone

In the middle of my gut. It is called “August”
And it’s sunny

When you put your hand around it.

Everyone at the beach
Looking out on infinity like it’s some ridiculous sailboat. And penny loafers. And Connecticut. And class struggle.

And vanity.

I think we should slam all the sailboats together
And call it

All the crates. I can create something for you
Right now.

The best would be to find a bombed out Best Buy
And put the ocean in it

And go swimming.

The best would be to use the melted digital gift cards
As surfboards.

International Poem

To spend as much time
talking to the internet as possible. To have
the internet send you pictures
of the internet putting his hands
around his small penis.

How frail is life?

And how much frailer
Lying down at the bottom of the ocean
Talking to the stars
Like they’re going to do
Something for you? Look up.
Pound per square inch
pressure of sea on
eyeball oysters.

To hallucinate and chat.
To chat back at a chat box in
The black box of a plane
That’s crashed.

And look at me, how beautiful I am
With my hair on fire
Making my way to the plane’s
hot door.

From Indiana to Mumbai, my digitized vulva
Like an oval window
Flying above landscape.

But then everything changed.
Someone said
He’s alive he’s alive.

A hand came out of my
Computer screen.
It was bloody and green
Like a couple centuries
Stacked on top of each other

And thrown on the side
Of the road.
That’s what they do to bodies
when they don’t
want to give them names.

Friday, March 4, 2011

The Community

When I was in 12th grade, my AP Biology class went to a chiropractic school to study cadavers. A few years later, when I was in college, my friend Sally asked if I had been on the 12th grade trip to see the cadavers. I said yes. She said did you know that on that trip, Donny stuck his finger up the ass of a cadaver?
I said I didn’t know that. That night, I slept over at Donny’s house.

The Community

has never been about communicating and yet, it is all syntactically
correct. To err grammatically

is one of the only things that would seem
terribly tactless, to retract

a claim of kinship


in the air raid design space
that we have build with willpower.

You could never tell
Me you loved me
Or that you wanted
To love me

In this white place

Or the design space would seal off
With you trapped inside
And then gas would be pumped

Into the world outside the cube
So you would have to sit there

In your little white design space cube
Holding a little white
Plastic flower
Maybe telling it all of your secrets

Like the fact that you never
Wash your underwear

Until you died.

Better not.

The Compositional Model of Women II

Girls laugh O laughs= cabbage patch dolls. Some lice bubbles over in the sun=cauldron.
Playground of charm bracelets.
Now the lice are everywhere—on the swing sets, between the fingers, crawling across nipples.
A charm of the Eifel Tower in pink.
A charm of the Challenger.
Someone’s incisor, a charm.
A drop of menstrual blood, a charm.

Some dumb father brings up Ancient Greece. The mood changes= King Tut King Tut King Tut.
If I say lice crawl across King Tut’s head, they will.
This is my poem. They do as I say.

If I say lice crawl through King Tut’s long gone pupils, they will.
This is my poem. They do as I say.

House mothers flow into the school auditorium. Now, I’m really pissed.

All of them will say something cruel to their dogs or parrots or cats. It’s a closed system.
Everyone loses.

One of them will hit her girl on the head with a hairbrush. Then she stands in the corner
Of her room. Ghost comes up behind the girl and says punished.

This is how we’re groomed.

What do these house mothers do all day anyway but spoon black soil into soup?

The Community

is, in fact, so sick
That it cannot die. It cannot die
Because it’s half ghost, half commerce

And all it does all day long
Is inject its DNA sequence
Into your DNA sequence

Thereby allowing you to
Manifest all of the symptoms of syphilis
Without ever having
Been exposed to the bacteria

Because this isn’t the year 1765 and you
Are not an aristocrat living in some
Stone castle and I’m not

This sickly lady who’s going
To give you syphilis even though
You’re the one who’s supposed

to give it to me so when
you’re on your deathbed you are not

going to ask me not to haunt you
even though I can’t not haunt you because I’m
Just that obsessed with being

Mean to you because, deep down,
I hate people
and you represent people because you
Look like a dog

And there’s nothing worse
Than watching a lost dog
Trying to find the cemetery.