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Friday, April 30, 2010

A Job To Do

The walls in her eyes allow little light

to filter through the canopy above the snakes and bugs

her fingertipped tendrils search for holes

to get handholds creeping skyward

it sounds like a lot of work

Dragon's Blood on mountain tops grow umbrellas

in the blue air

life hunts where there's little soil and less water

magnets spin the crank shaft

twirling batons blur in the roar of imaginable speed

an Icosahedron plays the odds with likely positive outcomes

I have but a few odd hours in my pockets

and one tenth the passion of the past

resting in pools of shade

the roads turn dark on the fringe of a very engaging face

a university of suspicions sends out patrols

for the wandering monastery

I am caught and chained to a very small room

a church

a car

a prison

with a job to do

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Crown Restructured Into Distinct Groups; Shaye Areheart Books Closed

Hey folks! This is some pretty interesting industry news, here. -Susan
Crown Restructured Into Distinct Groups; Shaye Areheart Books Closed: "The restructuring of Crown Publishing that began with theappointment of Maya ..."

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Desert (Buraydah, Saudi Arabia)

A bush here, a bush there - a pure
fill of interstices. That is how
the hard and empty push of departure
takes its stand against persistence. Now

is the time to keep on leaving. The sand
escapes over the dunes, and the distance
is unsightable. If I could remand
the scene into a simple instance,

I'd corrupt the sweet blankness
into a result. But all that would
be gotten is something next. Such excess
poorly trades on boundaries for the good.

I seek the most that I can get from the least
and hold things closely, loose, unreleased.
~William Frawley

Monday, April 26, 2010


I live the ragged edge of an un-
finished building. My windows are just
holes. My door's disframed. If you must
get to me, ford the rubble. That way none

of what may come can be gotten to.
I'm a long time coming. No one works
me. Why should they? We go from stark
to stark, like an erased plan. Who

would want to live a life like this, chipped,
brown, waiting for occupation? I guess
I do because here is where the hard press
of nothing wins, with even sadness stripped.

My walls and ceiling lean without closure
I'm unexposed, just a mere exposure.
~William Frawley

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Looking Down On Glass From A Great Hight Or Is This The Beginning Of Time

Our own secrets begin ... aburbe condita
When it breathes history in a conscious
Possession of wisdom ... then again

It ignores and deceives ... ad aperturam ad finem
Too proud to listen in a repetitive flux
Of looped half conscious pilots ... then again

The ancients with sun centred pyramids of balanced souls
Ad majorem dei gloriam ... as they contact us through
Dreams of intertwined confines of illusions ... then again

Fragmented moments of entrapped wonder ... ad nauseam
Caught between reflected needs and useless games ... then again

All the combined symbols ... on the high priest's robes
All Greek myths and plaques of adornment ... ad valorem amor patriae
Then again ...

At the gate of infinity ... anno aetatis suae
Our psyche is colonized by the West in posture
Feeding an unbalanced hue to the pigs
Of a laboured stance ... then again

Take the Seven of a confused ideology ... anno urbis conditae
And Two of a sea paster's flight and then force feed
Five thousand of the next generation of American-Haters ... then again

Annus mirabilis ... across the country of the bearded giant
Oranges and crocodiles mate with an equal laugh
As a Spanish cut Moustache in a taller light screams for fairness ... then again

Peace Park ... cacoethes loquendi ... they cry competing with a
Sickly child on a rusty swing as his hands cross his chest
With the burden of the world on his bent back ... then again

You all do not amount to a song ... caveat lector casus belli
In your private winter of solitude
Molten gold will not save you nor the yellow of the sky ... then again

Searching for certainty is the new language ... beatae memoriae
Of choice as the night is filled with locked doors and damned
Red curtains ... then again

Two films on the one screen ... de profundis quietem
With a multitude of sub-titled mysterious in the smallest detail
That of a watchmaker's harmony
In his hands that are memory ... then again

We who collect ocean gems among the driftwood and weed
Ipso facto in vino veritas ... for us TIME is whispering
From another world from curved sea shells
In the collected memory of waves on blue windowsills



A skeletal inscription touches the layers
Of self-cynicism ... love
As an engraving on a marble sarcophagus

Are we not all ... deemed indifferent
In a freedom ... a freedom confused
In the warmest security
Of a woman to nurture ... love

To endure love ... its promised kiss
On both cheeks
With a concert tempo's mist
With promenade walks ... gaining momentum
With a genteel conversation and handshakes

A dream ... after the dream we all move
Through ... past the only moment ... that lingers on
When the melody of the themed movement
Is history and song ... and
So fucking what ... !

And you know
That you are not the only one

What happens when the services of words end
In the very last of the last stanza
Of the last line
Of love poetry and madness

Statues of ingnorance ... reveal themselves
As the soft chain is inhaled ... but
What has happend
What happens next ... ?

The highly crammed mind-fuck is over
Only the memory of fairytales
Lingers on ... and on ... and on

As your head is made into a safe
A safe for misunderstood psychosis
A truth found in art desolations
And suitors of unpublished volumes
Of thirds ... thirds in an empty city

The film carriages show invitation
To higher inconsistencies and taste
Where we write a memo to our
Short comings ... and

As love is engraved on a marble sarcophagus
As a record of where your love has been
Long after the history of your flesh
Is made dust


Sunday, April 11, 2010


Black flowers of the sun

polarise in holes where light is not

their slim arms waving

in the chaos of solar winds.

A spilled geometry

orbiting the sun's red face

like the compound eyes of insects.

How lonely they must be,

and how empty

howling into being,

their absurdly flapping fall

to scream and implode on

the other side of sky,

exhaled from the thorax

of a burning bird.

How terrified they must be

turning above the buried city,

where shadows assume the form of lovers.

We were dancing, trying to grow horns,

but progress was slow, you said

because everything overflows

and we have forgotten how to pray.

Inside this empty animal all languages

are foreign. A snake flicks its tongue.

I hang stars on threads from a cage of fingers

for an audience of inner acrobats

and the moon watches, folding her icy wings -

she sees only holes dressed in light.

Don’t you understand?

I’m leaving this circus

Saturday, April 10, 2010


Today i saw myself
through eyes
other than my own
as a tour-bus trundled by
nearly killing me
as i teetered on the corner
in my flip-flops
This bus
with its’ wide-eyed
multi-cultural cargo
staring at me -
a distracted strawberry blonde
with loose, low-slung jeans
eyes like a startled deer
as i stepped off the curb
somewhere in Waikiki
...I was thinking
about the day
i felt your sanity sink
around me
as though i’d stepped in quicksand
and as the bus
pushed me back onto the curb
with a rush of air
i heard the ocean
rushing liquidly
in my ears
or maybe it was
my heartbeat
just like the day
i took our son
and sent him safely an ocean away
there was only one lifeboat
and i had to stay
on this island
a reluctant Captain
on a sinking ship
i go down
into the ocean
into a life spent
treading water
as i wait for land to appear
as my son waits for me
the only sound
for miles around
are the fists of the ocean
beating around my ears
like a heartbeat
keeping time
until the time
we can meet again

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

S e c o n d : h e l p i n g S


l…a…t…e…r ,
or more after ,
con val escence,
o b i t u a r i e s ,
r o o f g a r d e n
in F l o r e n c e,
and d a r k e n
l i b r a r i e s

[ . . . . . . . ]

At l a s t ,
a l m o s t ,
every single
Sunday roast,
of such a plural
scattered p a s t,
c a m e=:=b a c k
to my stomach
for an encore
of gastric


Monday, April 5, 2010


... this is the final decisive print edit of:
"Coming Attractions Of Human Paradigms" ...

For Anthony DiMichele.

... Coming Attractions.

Day breaks with another collision
In an out burst of red parrots
Feeding on the sharps of glass
Through a fashionable montage

A dying tribe of shamans
Living out of ox hide cases and duffel bags
Forever turning reason into labyrinths
And as unhappiness seduces all
With stale milk and that of a heavier flesh

With a gentleman's quill
All write blue verses
That of a baritone's cry
Of an unuttered multitude of myths

All filled with voids of Nazi logic
Commercial armies and particles
Of tightly leather bound stories
Hanging photographic memories

That are looped and played
On eight millimetre film
All reflections of a mid-awakening
The tempo of a great momentum
And a promise filled silhouetted night nurse

An adagio requiem to my paramedical lust
For the blood of young bridesmaids
As they stop over full of soft kisses
As a pleasure awakened in a wasted flavour

Showing the understanding of misgivings
A slow stop in mid-memories
The source in embracing the sea
With all its muscled organisms
And the androgynous engines of a space
That was created by countless orgasms

Her eyes are dirty stains in the moment before
The boundaries of tomorrows trust
Her eyes are lust and insights that unravel
To reveal the nine fixed boundaries
Of a phantom faded fuck ... fuck he says

In the blinking of an eye from the pages
Of Mr. William's lunch
Blesses the cosmic dust that rises dreams and demons
Mystified above the sculptured sound
Of sodomized night screams
And the demeanour of consequences
That become the ink in my pen

An absence of light of a past life with no exit
From the fingers pierced by thorns
With the solitude in an abandoned house
Filled with a void of shadows

DiMichele's piano walks through the mind
As remembered poetry folded five times
In this revolution of pain alongside
The experience of joy

Black geraniums
Take these memories with you
And leave behind the feel of a day
Of synchronized oneness


Dedicated To Anthony DiMichele ... Thank You For The Insight Of Countless Inspirations ...

The Foot Prints of Giants

Blue clouds over brown children at play
create this day
can you inhabit the spark that ignites them?
indivisible bewitching absolution
they shine emerald
what I lack their brains are cooking
in the shape of a fish trap
I don’t know where I come from
demolished crumbling walls of a name
from something… terrible
the marvelous violence that crackles with patrimony
the void’s engine
primeval zeal of swamp
a serpent’s egg the size of a table!
in a ring of garnets a green moth
is caught in the mouth of light
boardered by the foot prints of giants

Friday, April 2, 2010

The Last Empty Frames

The last time they were seen t o g e t h e r
was many years after their d e a t h .
Canvases were facing the w a l l s .
The walls were standing there,
where they had been b u i l t.
They seemed to r e c a l l
all kind of other things,
like long-forgotten
com p r o m i s e s
between reason
& the opposite,
unrelated objects
arranged for worship
on a semicircle of practice,
les imperfections de la recherche,
not utterly unsympathetic in situation,
a forest of inverted legs conveying, as it were,
a sense of contrasting urgency on top of a pedestal.
The prodigious size of the scene might have provoked laughter.
All this, as seriously serious as a substantial number of e m p t y