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Wednesday, December 30, 2009

New Year

blood will be spattered on the wall

by the second paragraph

with a broad brush…

before it dries

the light without you stays within…

tired and worn out rose hips and tulips

glow in the brown aftermath of playtime

around a kiss in the sand box…

hard and cold now

remembering when

the totemic twist fetishistically touched

its shadow lips with a number…

telescopic tred walks into the trunk of a tree

with gray hair in its vice…

and the relics of recall stitch the pink fingers

with Braille…

Monday, December 21, 2009

So small

why does everything suddenly seem so small

my hopeless hopes

my finger's breadth

the palm of the martyr

the synonyms and their relationships

once a family

now the solitary vocable

muffled by rain at 3am in

the light by the door

why so distant

when I stand under it

why does everything in my anything

my always and my diminishment

last so long

when life is short

what is it that is so tiny

that it needs to be reduplicated


this unspoken question that wants

its words

what is it that is so small it fits me




you fish

walking to school

that cold tree in winter

born to learn outside

on a windy night


the sand colored pyramid

to be is a self portrait

built of reptilian modesty

it is Christmas

without Christ


the wild December substitute

breathless puppet reading a black dog

sitting on his shadow

the fence jumps for joy

as the tender moment's apprentice

snows over the brickwork

her heart is featured

in the future rose

that sentinel

at the edge

of perception

Sunday, December 13, 2009

The Perfect Mask

the perfect mask easily covers my hands
those withered digits on the floor of numbered days
that pick me up as I head
for the door
once they were the size of silver dollars
made for making change
they were gloved with veils
like those over my eyes
and a hairstyle that spoke softly
of an unborn elegance
bones were blooming in a mirrored stare
here and there
I saw a lake beneath the mirror’s surface
and a window
hung up in a net of blue veins
I opened that sigh that bridge by the water
for the words
and the refund in scarlet fairytales
in dreams I could fly
by day I forced the sugar past my lips
with a happy sign held high
above my head
the night’s little arc made huge
by dawn even with the one way sign
on the one street
where the messenger
number 2
or ten thousand said
there was no one who wasn’t nobody
as if somebody could be
I argued with pain in the empty park
sleeping under yesterday’s news
but nothing gorgeous was hunting me it was winter
it was always winter one way or another
dazzle me said the oldest eyes imaginable
I dare you
unleaven another empty century of its solitude
what won’t you do?
what haven’t you done
with the doll and the gun?
under the face shell in the afterglow?

Tuesday, December 8, 2009


The Definition of Globalism

"the poor complain

they always do but that's

just idle chatter

our system brings rewards to all

at least to all that matter..."

Monday, November 30, 2009

The first hour afterwards

Early morning slips into the postcard

stillness of the future

these are the days

that drop out of the ever changing sunset

you can almost smell the neighborhood in flames

hairless hats scattered in the park

the butterfly's ballet has been sold to its shadow

by the angry skies that follow

death in the very next breath

sleepy demons rise out of our dreams

now the commercials look silly

the property lines and

plenty of space are going to bed in a storm of


we make a cameo appearance

before it disappears

gardeners decorate the ruins

with abandoned machines

human remains smoke

in the emptiness that was waiting in vain

for the green phantom

and the madmen

who are selling big red flowers

I join forces

with a watchful mantis that

cocks its head in its coffin

this is the first hour afterwards

this is the sound of the planes

screaming over the living

seconds away

the buildings want to burst their seams

with a laughter that tumbles out of rubble

the original valley of the shadow is remade

under new flags

there were good reasons

of course

no one deserves this world

this bodyscape on the lawn

this numbered day in dead furs

thinks to itself


Saturday, November 28, 2009


rain rain rain

rain everday

all the drenched greenery


the silence sings through

the sound of rain

the rain on the roof

the rain on the machines

the rain in the firs

the rain on the roads

all the fires are here

in absentia

in the rain

it is late November and it is still

warm enough to rain

ice bergs are breaking up

drifting away from Antarctica

while poor people standing in lines


waiting for a holiday handout

are not happy

with the weather

against them

they complain

or they stand silently

in the rain

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

#2099    20091124

    the dark, cool
    soggy wetness.
    dream states,
Suppressing the
    cabin fevery
    seeping in
    and cooling
    like the dampness
Numbing the nerves
    like an opiate
Like the onset of hibernation
Slowing down
Soothing restful state
Satisfying relaxation
Overtaking slowly
    In waves
Restorative --
    a candle lighting
    a room
    flickering slowly
    a wood trimmed cave
        with black windows
        and a stone hearth
        with a wood stove insert
        dying out
        dim coals orange
        shining through
        the soot of
        the doors
    shadows moving with the
        candle light --
The mind tempted to do
While the body is separate
Movement will
    end the consuming stillness
    enveloping the moment;
Letting go.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Cartoon Orange

Is the dusty ground around the ancient tomb really cartoon


the flying fish leaping over the wave

is it really a symbolic cinematic rainbow

inside an egg of imagination

in a sleepy calculus that dreams of flying machines?

your bold moaning is my rock of rain

a golden wind over the reef...

listen to this disabled symphony:

hell itself

shakes the breaking baby...

Romeo your unspoken Juliet does a solo tango

with a hungry sentimentality...

while the impossible waltz is walking away

in the spooky clown face of an autumn evening...

this sugary gluttony in the philosoph dreams

a French wedding in the doctor’s garden of secrets

on a raft in a crystal lake of time where the monumental moment

frosty with tomorrow’s storm

is moored in a paper

harbor on a factory made desk...

home cooking rests in peace

with the iridescent postcard fossils...

on a holiday an immigrant

without a passport

without color

butters the husk of the moon

for the computer gallery

and the door in the light

with its safety catch



(for Kirrill D’Kainn)

Friday, October 30, 2009

The Sand Opera

the sand opera's sunset jazz

a sullen femininity in denial

of night's black addictions

hungry junkie a pirate shaman

towering above the star's web

like a vintage exit that opens its parachute

over an abacus of distraction



with other unities’ multiplicities

the trophies

the beginnings

creeping toward their reflections

on a tiger’s back frozen in fantasies

of food alive in its mouth

the outlaw stigmata

was tattooed to his tongue

he didn’t know any other way

to talk about

being here

he ate meat all along

what difference did killing make

at this point

even fame tasted

the same

after awhile

he died


(for jim caroll, rip)

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

The Floating Dunes

our cosmic equilibrium
a cold flamingo shivering in our hearts
sleeps through the afternoon in mild
the fantastic black bus
on a crash course
moves like a mime through shallow water
with a nosebleed
making a quiet departure in the toxic
sunrise gushing galaxies
with the elegance of a forest being buried
in volcanic ash
the matter is lost in the last light
a solar submarine circles the final island
the rapture in focus
myths plugged in
for our daily dose
of inspiration
we began with a tropical magician
and the earth’s moon caught
with its trousers down
while a homeless monster hunting
with a black cat laughs to himself
thinking: we play with the devil’s marbles
in the floating dunes…

Monday, October 19, 2009

What astonishes me

Now that we don't know where we are

in the collapse…

this boring job...

under the burden of the past...

what astonishes me

is a god

or a mountain

in imagination

that keeps breathing silently

through the wars

while our hands are being watched by the herd

inside the night of our instincts…

I sit still in the dark

timing my heartbeat

to a clock on the wall…


Sunday, October 18, 2009


Once I was almost

afraid to look into your eyes

your sageless pages

your habits and the age

that brought you here

so wrinkled gray

so utterly missing

the apple orchard's farewell

the grain of stone

now liquid calm

yawing in a fallen morning

more storms with cake

look small in the arbitrary


flattering the darling days in monochrome

moonlight footprints the smallest world

in the world

on the way to town

the frightened window

favors the poet

a clock in a box

without boots

I am almost afraid to start talking

slowly rising

I can't see movement or rain

or the night's roots long cold walk

into the light

where is my native land?

my hummingbird nest?

my black and white chessboard

the game’s delight?

slave to the dance

to Sundays

and the abandoned lighthouse

by the sunken garden of the sea

once upon a time

once my once

and only


Thursday, October 8, 2009

the beautiful lamp

I can't access the rules
the tall one
that blocks sunrise
and the red dunes of the world's
blurred footsteps...
who wins a nude pink fortress
or a book within without pagination?
or a samurai rainbow?
it is the dusk of mystery…
I love the non~conformist
painting a self portrait in morning mist
with the lion's kiss
in his left hand...
meanwhile commuters with faith in computers
hover undercover like deceitful
the north star is north of nowhere
hanging vaguely over a silver blue lake on a string...
our habitual carnival
eats twilight in the black kitchen
where the web of stars
full of wanderlust longs for neon
it is because I dare:
the gothic lagoon...
the tiger's red fedora...
the wind's blue eyes...
a warm wasting away
after playtime...
that the temptation never far behind
is selling bread
all in all and none in some...
I underline

I uphold
the beautiful lamp...

Friday, October 2, 2009

The Cold Wind

Through the masks the window

in the coincidences

closes its eyes…

blue mountains in ruins

and silenced beaches remembering

the burning trees

and the oceans' sand art

in surrender…

the armored flesh on the brink

taking a little break

with a quotidian smile

painted on a meadow…

after crying over Eden

comes a chilling offering without

understanding the lessons

we never learned:

the movements in monuments

between 2 minds…

the winter seduction

and its lamp in the cold wind…


Sunday, September 27, 2009

#2081    20090906

Studying the ground
Scattered randomly
    on the grass
At the edge of the hedge
The males' decorative
    head feather bobbing
Occasional scampering
    body still
    with feed racing
    like a car
All adult sized now
And false alarms that
    reveal they know where they came from;
Covey of quail.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Sleep All Day

behind the wall:

the sunny wisdom

that stone house

of avatars

and the spirit in the fields

under the wonder dust

with the dark red sleep escape

where the ugly untitled carcass

blushes green…

admiring insomniac…

someone the object

of industrial nectar

rotted under the texture

of weather…

the Absolute playing


washes eyes and ears

in a sea foam castle

of the coming rain

running on peacock feet…

stars snow…

charcoal masquerades

as a shortcut…

the blown jazz

from far away

bounces off his shoulders

(those unwelcome mats

before the door of


that sleep all day…


Monday, September 21, 2009

The Beginning of Everything

now I think I will bite the blue ice in the toy box

with an ocean of maturation

cat whiskers in chains

a bridge from the harvest to my face

that storm tossed ghost ship

the solo cobbled together

with tales of longing and few clouds in passing

wish wish wish softly sister

the mad world is a light dancer

colors fall into the red lake

urban homesteaders fly by in a fog

shaken lovers stir the city

with a loaf of bread in full bloom

baked with dynamite

what time is nighttime tonight?

tango with the black widow

or the ventriloquist in the mirror

it is sunset's day off

it is the beginning of everything


Tuesday, September 8, 2009



We are anywhere

On the way to anywhere.

What else can it be for us

A cup of hot tea in a cold basement coffeehouse

Intellectuals frowning in their certainty sip their 5 dollar lattes

Berkenstocks over wool socks pierced ears and poney tails on bald men

The ceiling fans are still

Seen through the small leaded windows

The wind blows dead leaves down this side of the street

And the low clouds, iron gray, spatter big drops on whatever earth

Low innocuous jazz music plays nothing doing here or anywhere like here

And I shuffle back and forth and back again out into the rain blown by the wind

Spill the drink

Stumble into the cold

The insects are all dead or dying

Such a short murderous journey of blind instinct

And In my mind I still hold you close as we strip naked in the graveyard

And make ferocious love over the last resting place of an 18 year old who died in 1836

~William DiMichele 9/09 (this is a poem written by my older brother, in response to my poem: Thingless In Wonderment

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Thingless in wonderment

the gleam of chrome in the light

against the dark background of the industry

that produced it…

but let that go…

the sea is in the air…

everyday of my childhood pulls on my boots…

I can see in the dark now:

even into the shadows at the edges

of memory:

the mimosa that didn't fit into the neighborhood…

the huge moon that lured me to the ever receding


the solar eclipse glimpsed through a pin hole

in a paper plate…

the most beautiful woman I ever imagined

came true…

now I know

a musician in who is teaching dead puppets

to dance for their lives

and a woman who paints solitude

in a room without windows…

ferns five million years old still

tell about a star

that is written in stone…

I put on a hat and become invisible…

the net of my longing opens its mouth

and I am free…

with nothing to nowhere…

thingless in wonderment…

anywhere on the way

to anywhere…

Saturday, August 29, 2009


The broken canes’ ideogrammatic
flourish out the cut-black, weed-rude water
descends the glassy sky. Matter
unseals it’s fact in an adept
image, edge-burned and bound,
of prime significance to the pilgrim downed
in late summer; all uttered by, unfound
of it’s conception, the reeds’ arrangement:
their diagonals; the display; the moment.

The ass ends up of dabbling ducks mirrored;
headbroad, seizing deep in the mud-set bog,
brute law upends a polliwog.
Sprung duck repairs, buoyed on frog’s wyrrd,
rippling like vintage glaze,
just under, like the Christ’s foot when storms raise
divers’ eyes (light-minded, bright chrysoprase).
Consuming skins of fragments, sightless levels
are illuminant by swallows’ revels.

Birdsworthian filaments of vision
reeling out to the red-wing’s spongy verge,
where blue damsels and dragons merge
Love’s selves, spurred through in elision,
rhyming like fractal news,
spinning through isthmus and several sloughs,
unflattening the things as they are used,
mapped onto the radios of eyesight,
transformed, beamed, received in the body’s twilight.

Which threads are strung on hazel eyes of bulrush
along the dim, soul-settled, lake-vault shore.
Ossifrage vans (in a far soar
or back-beating while eyeing fish,
talons notorious,
simply osprey in his sky, furious,
endlessly emptying, stoop glorious)
claim purple hills that, by sun’s exit, mute
their tints, drawing closer to absolute.

Out like stars, the flickers, wrens and waxwings
hie home to their dream of velvet verdure.
Sprinklers lave the wormy green gyre;
uncanny darkness soothes all things.
Jettison the flotsam floating
in foamy moons of mood; gems are boating
overhead in the streaming milk, shooting
out into the pools and airs and eddies,
aligning fate, from apogee to Hades.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Awake again

the phone rings softly in my sleep

a mosquito is living off my blood

my hat hangs on a horse's skull on the wall

spiders jump out of sight into the shadows of corners

my dreams are smears in the aftermath of dreaming

remembering what is left as I eat an apple

is unresolved

the path round the tether pole

to be abandoned

the mistakes made that were written

in sand

the winning ticket

the loophole


how not to rejoice

in distant thunder and flashes

of lightning

or those towering clouds

in skies of purest blue?

awake again

you will perish for your illusions

I say to a bee trying to fly

through glass

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Cry Baby

I was a cry baby

I knew my mind would catch up with me one day

a day now that was or is way in the future of a life

for which death was unreal

for which death is unreal

even trees cry

under the blades

everything seems to be crying

for us to stop

the rage against death

against our names

against our faith and dreams

down down into the downess

of all flight

even then when I had no pronoun

or cause

or future

I would watch the gnats swarm over the lake

that was polluted with sewage

someone told me

a teacher I suppose

that gnats lived for only one day

they were born in the morning

and died at dusk

they didn't even eat

I cried

how could a life be lived in one


without taking another life to live?

when love walked away

I cried

when I was hired to make money

I cried silently

at lunch break

I didn't eat

I pretended I was a gnat

and it would all be over

soon enough

which kept me from crying

that one day


Monday, August 24, 2009


when you go away

when the smoke

rears itself over the maze

of my solitude

my soul stuck in a collar

and slacks

palpitates under cover

the hunter smells blood

in his boots

the ardent saint becomes

a dealer in a casino

the poet stopped laughing

a long time ago

she is not in the same branches


she is not lying in the bed of needles


is there anything in the world

is there even a world

or just this fractured distance

that I hold in my arms

like a pillow in a headlock?

is there anything beside this smoke


this desire

concealing its roots

in the floor?


(for TC)

Monday, August 17, 2009

#2070      20090810

Living cords
     tied in a loosened knot
Sustaining two spirits
     by a mortal bond
That is also the precious
     delicate gift of love;
Invaluable eternal compromises.

vanity's ashes

One minute ago
this was that...
burning in vain...

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Miracle or not

today I spent my leisure time dreaming of a lottery ticket

with one key

to the empire

of madness and lunacy…


to be free…

that is the question

that I asked the roulette table of clouds

in the sky…

don't worry too much about this

overtime without pay…

offer me a painless solution

I said to a malicious gossip on stilts

who was watching my every thought

move in and out of freedom to be

on a rock in space drenched in white light

from an exploding star…

it is all inscrutable miracle

or not:

the fanged paycheck

the forged identity

the foundering opportunity

the labors in vain