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Wednesday, March 31, 2010


a little poisonous
but not really
just a bit
of the deadly nightshade
on my lips
do you risk
the bite
do you miss
the little death
that comes for you
in the night?
i am a strange
savoury fruit
blood red and dripping
down your chin
and between your fingers
a bit of sugar
but none of the sweet
my fruit
won’t kill you
at the very least

(at least, not quite)

Monday, March 29, 2010

White Stars on a blue field 2/05

White Stars on a blue field 2/05 tom odegard
(long ago blood was the strenght of the physical body)

under tech no_logic discoveries
seeming inconsequential consequences build...
what are these recurring nightmares?
uncountable historic repetitions
of tell tale blood drained away?
white stripes punctuated by
fresh red bandages waving in the breeze,
morbid reminders of our war dead?
survivors of undeclared actions
with blown apart bodies, limbs, and shrapnelled minds?

Do these wind driven cloths underwrite our loss
and promise utopian futures
even as we fly them
to justify another war?

Our children's blood wastes away...

Anticipating Armageddon some folk
queue up for Christ's promised paradise
raptured into perfect bodies: special salvations,
immortal lives for the chosen.
Woe unto the unbelievers
whose children's blood wastes away
in prophetic cities of sand...

Are we sane, sapient, and upholders of compassion?
I'd recommend pharmaceutical mood_alters
promising a kinder present save for adverse
side effects: parenticide, murder, psychotic catastrophes.
The blood drains out of the living stars floating on a blue field
dead zone purities: What ARE WE seeking?

What want lies feverish in our flag struck eyes?
Want as in salivations, gastro-intestinal clenchings,
tetanies and thinglings in skin, muscle, tendon, bone,
textures, carresses, cremasteric reflexes...
satiated and renewed thru mindless sex, meals,
piecemeals, dangerous chemicals, instant gratification,
acquisitions filling up our lives with unlikely possibilities.
Everywhere, 80,000 daily compounds alchemically turn
gold into lead outside our cognizance: changing us in small steps,
providing illusions to comfort us with momentary pips of joy.

Oh yes, these satiations stuff us full beyond doing,
we are become the dragons of legend
guarding our treasures,
imprisoning our chiledren in towers of desire,
seeking holloweyed relief
from personal want...
so our blood drains away
covering us with a red and white striped shroud

What was our true unjaded desire?
Our formative want still hiding in our secret self?
That particular wish the obverse of which
crushes our utopian hope
in this endless holocaust of war?
blood wastes away

Earth's oceans die
her waves break higher upon the cliffs
roll farther inland on the Atlantic shore
while volcanoes grumble and
tectonic plates heave or grind.
What do these flags shredded by rising winds proclaim?
Where the remnants of our lost children,
our lost focus, our unacknowledged hope?

Close up we see ourselves: mute
transparent, our blood drained away.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

like parchment upon which your lips wrote with indelible ink

Draw me a picture
of what drew me
to you
and you to me
Tell me why
you left me
writing bad poetry
scrawled furtively
across the back of my hand,
your memory
painting desire
like an indelible ink
onto my lips,
across the bones of my hips…
My heart
like an old house
haunted by your
lingering ghost
weaving whispered farewells
like kisses
along the line of my jaw
down the curve of my neck
until finally,
I turned my head
only to encounter
the empty air

smoking with god

God lit up a stogie
at the crack of dawn
and blew the smoke
over the city
as i was walking
so i cut through
the alleys
where it gathered
most thickly
so i could feel
my solitude
more keenly
like something
then i joined in
lit up
adding to the
this morning
i shared a smoke
with god
and it was good.

A poem of a test

Sometimes it's best

When performing a test

to build yourself a submission

To hear the wails

See if it fails

And requires intercession



Location : 272-750 Dougherty Ln, Friday Harbor, WA 98250,

Saturday, March 27, 2010

D i c t i o n a r Y [1]


[ h i s t o r y ] : massive and ornate,

porticoes, spread balustrades,

with colonnated assurance,

assurances, and insurance,

tea-rooms and empty rooms,

and yet there are little rooms,

full of comfortable u n t i d i n e s s,

and the bedrooms are flowered with

p h i l o s o p h y…et…p h i l o s o p h i e


Tuesday, March 23, 2010

R e a l i t y s h o W


After sitting down
In their dressing gown
Hardly spoke at all
Though neither tall
Nor very smelly
Watching the telly
They looked very still
As it were u n t i l
The very moment
When with no comment
They did drop their head
As if they were dead



All destruction begins in the mind
tunnel vision
the circle in origins
a lunar silence
in collusion with
fur on a pronoun
proof treading the water
of a fragile veil wonderstruck within
and washed ashore somewhere
the last factory
behind the wall
in your eye
is consumed
as storms in a butterfly
land on the edge of a sharp tongued
woman or a cricket
drinking dust
back to the beginning again
boundaries flourish
insomnia soars over faith
after the blizzard comes to a flying halt
an old man shoulders strange new zeros
a symmetry that was posed
between grandmothers
and their sensitive darkness inside
their eggs on the dunes by the poolside
the gush of the same day's eloquent grief in a paradise
of complexities made simple by machines
dignified by the end from the very first

(for Kirrill D’Kainn)

Friday, March 19, 2010

Avec ou sanS


a dressing-table
at a distressing angle
slightly entangled
in a kangaroo tango


a sepulchral ornament
ripped open in advance
of a return to France
for a mock tournament


in the flesh of the plush
arm in armchairz no rush
pour en finir in a flash
leg in legchairz no rash


was there any pain
no return to Spain
did they mention
t h e w e a t h e r
knock me down
with a feather


Thursday, March 11, 2010

Cupping Water

here again is lonely sunset
and that familiar emptiness growing
even as the light itself diminishes,
like touching hands through a screen door
knowing that departure comes next
even while wondering why

how I feel each time you slip
from the passenger seat
into the cool arms of the night,
cold metal and glass suddenly
a wall between me and you
and your brisk steps away from me,
the last look over your shoulder
before you disappear behind the corner

some kind of ship that sinks nightly
drowning the tiny clutching hands
of my attachments,
spilling their contents into the sea
of darkening night,
longing and desire set adrift,
flotsam on the currents of passing time

another day has slipped like water
through my fingers
and I have nothing to show
for the air and water and
sunlight consumed,
nothing but these aging hairs
upon my head imperceptibly
marking time
and this calendar of heartbeats
I cannot read

what will I do with the sunlight
if given again tomorrow?

when will I be infinitely aware
that every moment, each exhaled breath
is sunset?
and every next moment,
each new rising of my chest
an un-promised sunrise?

when will I unflinchingly see
that time passes at the speed of light,
and yet any moment, cupped
like precious water in my hands,
holds infinitely still?

for ADM, march 2008

Wednesday, March 10, 2010



my first home

can you imagine

making wreathes of wind

for your hair?

I should be happy

with duty


obedience comes

more than my share

every necessity comes

with resignation

until we find ourselves

holding hands with

an agitated inconsolable

inward stare

Monday, March 8, 2010


The astronaut
Of the concealing mind
Who said that human excrement
Is the final proof
Of the existence of a civilization ...

Packed with suicides in reverse ... clean flickered
Moments in arched wonder
And a soul-less shaped compassion
Not amounting to a blurred fuck
To illuminate the way for the start of Monday

Politically correct environmental rupturing
In all the destruction of decimation
And more ...

Fiends exploit my astronaut
Running out of
Bedlam strained values

A big display of black roses and green flies
Of sparrow pains and arrow heads
Imbedded in the soft of my heart
A dead end slow
Reflexes of accurate and articulate fires
Burn as the fuel
Of my astronaut's mind

My magnolia and I remember touching
The soft waters of my transplanted
Peace trees
Translated through the silk of space



The Strange
Where all sins meet to revolt in
The passages of lust without the guard
To curiosity of red wine and slow burns
Of the shunting reflections of night lamps
Filled with the souls of blue sailers ...

Between the pages ... here the genitals
Remove their own clothes in a calling of legs
And arms ... do genitals dream
Of the complexities
Of the life of the strange
Purpose filled fuck-tools and nothing more

Who needs the food of rented rainbows
When I always have honey-eyed fuck-flesh
In the see-through ... from my days of storm
In the furthest purpose of the knowing
Of the posterity in the bending of the coin


Saturday, March 6, 2010

Vanity's Ashes

A moment ago

this was that...

burning in vain...


If I have made a career of failure...

it is because success has always looked like

a life of crime to me...


We erase more with our eyes than we see...


Friday, March 5, 2010

d ' a p r è s . a n t o i n e



Thursday, March 4, 2010


is there a mathematics
of desire?
like Pi,
transcendental number
that explains
this conundrum?
what is
the sum of
the circumference
of love?
does the root
of what lies
between my ribs
and between my legs
and i?
if god
is in the numbers
then so is love
and the language
of desire
is a universal tongue

Wednesday, March 3, 2010


Succulent ... the first fulfilment
Of your second wish ... gasping
Another dust dance underwritten
And forgotten ... a superficial truth

Is seen being exchanged for
A half priced product made in Asia
And distributed in generic windowless
Parcels ... chained unpacking and saved

Imagine the half-priced cans of dog-food
That can be eaten by people who
Do not own dogs ... stray cats - maybe ...
Every body is minutes away from hours

Lost in the flooded river that has gone dry
Seasons are missed and banks are
Filled with flower red faces and party walls
Let us walk backwards facing the mountains

Backwards to the start of the past ...
First stop ... nineteen-sixty-nine
The radio ... replaced informative television news
Punch-card computers - anyone?

To calculate
All your counter-revolutions ... and
Governmentally killed students


Tuesday, March 2, 2010


A raw nerve
Ending in the polystylistic machine
For the making of a beastlike brute
Engineered for pornographic beheadings

A twisted flutter
Out-side of shattered resuscitated eagles
And brave whispers
From the third reincarnation of anglers
Who burned all boats in metaphysical
Hallucinations and elaborate wisdom

A hand drawn photograph of the world
Is only half finished as the rain is sketched
With impunity against obvious infinity
Subtitles form ... from my ink and fingers
Resinate the afterlife ... without prayers

A multipication of painted assassins
With six micrograms of hashish each
Watch ... unless the glass bricks with
The impossible nothing of a ten foot
Lumberjack caught between the fruity
Autumn blooms ... perfuming magic

Embedded formations of pigeons
And it is beautiful to see ... to hear
Stunning ... the never-past is here
Beneath my feet - the ground has
Aged four hundred and twenty-five years



The hospital music is accelerating
With all the red and green compromises
In sickbed medicine ...

I am here ... !

To have my thoughts cut ... stimulated

I am no-longer here ... !

An un bricked string of dark symphonies
Cliches and edges of unbroken trumpets
Signifying the seconde movement
The victory over the start ... and vanished
White lines - black pipelines and grit

Surrealism dressed in shark-skin dreams
Consciousness divided on the operating
Tables and unimaginable magic of the
Doctor's gun ... no longer entertaining
The bottles of empty degradation ...

With vintage simian tools ... doctors
Are the arrowheads of perhaps ... God
And the lights on the beep-machines ... Saints


Before I Became a Robot

I wore a red satin copyright

before I became a robot

I was a tulip

a parrot

before the mast

teetering over parts 1 & 2

loving only the prelude of an erotic

hunting expedition

look at me


the day is homeward to the drunken


rum and frost

this is the who

you are looking for

the what misunderstood

which is the best side of a subliminal

portrait juggled by the hands

of time

on the boundary line

between confluences

where two digits become one


salad king

it is time for the bison herds' damage


and a piano with oblique angles

before I became a robot with a banner

purple was so soft


(for GEO(r)(g)(e)

Monday, March 1, 2010

Static stickS

Once upon a time,
there was a space,
a place for horses to race,
in advance of a broken rhyme;
the logic behind such an infinity
of practical modifications
was a we-oui-we made
set of aleatory effects
engraved in a series
of c o n c e n t r i c
r i d d l e - w a l k s
on s t a t i c sticks.