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.

The Community Garden

As panopticon fried steak: what happens in the community stays
Caught and dour.
What happens is an antibiotic injected into the leg
Of a limp chicken under the dry sun.

You lick the antibiotic off your dinner plate
With your black tongue
And then black milk drips from your third nipple
Because now you are a dog.

This is why no one will allow you your bizarre sexual practices.
Because you are a dog.

The heart is like metal that slams
Into an ice field, a closed
System of opening gills; I see you walking across the ice field
Towards me holding a chicken or steak knife
Or the fried heart of a small mammal.

The fish swim to the center of the earth and burn up.
Even they cannot get away
From their enormous blood or geology.

Everyone gets old and is replaced by these

Tremendously fueled fish hormones
Swimming to the center of the earth.

Some people have sex. They exist.
They cut each other’s necks

And then they kiss. They kiss
Their kisses into a closing system of gills

And then you hear something splash.

Space exists.
It exists on the other side of their chicken water kiss.

The Community

Is clear-headed and believes in numerology.
It is partial
To clarity like clarity.

The community enacts false zeros.
It is determined
But not determinate like a
Communicable disease.

The community is always detrimental
Like addition or bomb power
Spreading damaging mushrooms.

Perhaps it has been juiced
Like tropical fruit?

The community makes decisions
About the community
Because the community
Can only act
As numerology. This is what
Is referred to as: a parallel universe.

The community is the opposite of a city.
To the community, all cities
Falsify clarity.

The city is crooked.
The city takes moribund drugs
And contains moribund trees. Trees grow through

Members and this makes a small man want to throw

A Medium-sized stone
At the whorehouse door
And then throw the whorehouse door

Over his shoulder
And drag it through
The paved trails into the woods
And out of sight.

The message of this poem is:
I do not believe in community.

The Community

The community has one desire:
To be a community.
To commerce around desire,
To commiserate.

We often talk of communal
Living, of design spaces
That are white and stretch
Infinity out across

The community like
A death sheet.

Like beds. Like weak
Arousal. Like
The infrastructures

Of masochism. Like moons
That resolve age-old
mathematical jokes.

Cuckoo. Cuckoo.

Remember me?
I walked across the grocery store
Parking lot to talk to you
and you told me
I was a good person.
A very good person.
I am such a good, good person.

All ashy, I called myself
community giving.

The community lectures
To cross
Out specific spots

Where uncleanness
Comes into

Spots such as: the moon, the sun,
Orchids, crematoriums.

The Compositional Model of Women

That they compose and corpse
That they corpse pose

That they come on strong or gently
In tropical climates
While modeling yoga

That they corporeal on sofas
And husband like recliners

That they sun
That they sun all day long

That they take the sunny
Into their bathing suits
And wave
To toddlers who make

That they waver
Or do not waver
In concave positions of the body

That they flesh you
That they flesh you all day long until
They’re old and they can no longer flesh you
And still they flesh

That they coordinate
That they secretarial skills and keep their limbs
Extra coordinated
Like the gymnastic children of God.

That they gymnasium onlookers
And pick fights
With their own skin
Like fucked up neurotic parrots

Who gossip in tropical trees
In tropical climates
In the most tropical parts of the earth

That they also Sweden
With tallness

That they also Chinese
With dexterity

That they also American
With SUVs

That they also Spanish
With Flamenco red lip gloss and nails

That they also French
With sexual situations

That they also Iceland
With Bjork-like weirdness

That they also max out
Like world travelers

That they third world
And first

That they come home
To the stiff

Black blood
That collects

At the core
Of the earth.