Monday, April 30, 2012

Poem eighteen

dear me,
sleep on my belly leaves my body feeling heavy & hot yet hollow typing light so my tree trunk fingers don't smash tiny keys my hands full in gargantuan sleep they don't feel even the weight of their own pressing in the morning my arm shot through with lightning things like funny bones remind there is sensation almost makes me cry to know it can be lost & unthought pain hurts most when they find the cure for worry that will be the end of feeling I cried once a route canal a natural side effect of the anesthetic they said it was expected but why did I feel sad about no feeling in my face why was it real crying I began thinking of death which comes to me mostly on planes or in the skidding toward collision but it was a sense of death a senseless living I never want to feel it again tho this is pretty close my hands rubbing because I make them say so don't be so melodramatic it's just nerves but what if my nerves say what they like & that thing leaves be on the scout for replicable sensations or innocent songs maybe will do I'm near sighted but nearing the not seeing tradition maybe I don't want to see the inside what ticks my explaining will improve I'll find new words to translate the being I've constructed what you'd call hands or soul a flood of feeling to part with a moving breath you can't get hung up on these things keep liking keep doing never provide yourself the option of failure even if nothing else seems to be seen or sense I sense the wavering in your words what makes you think I'm enjoying this this constant intake of air & sound can people die in their sleep if they have no sense no loss of see no thinking to thing about


Sunday, April 22, 2012

Poem seventeen

before walking

what did people do before walking
I was born mostly in the 80s
there's blood in my veggie burger
never been good with maps
red lentils my new fixation
receipt's under the fridge
Seymour swats, mews
picking blackberries
try to discriminate tart from the not
they're not real berries 
says Wikipedia but real phones
the lookout looked as if
we could ride the power lines
straight into Birmingham
the mines were off-limits
imagined we enter still
distrust how well this is going
our tryst with Tzarism but which
kind Catherine was great

Poem sixteen

salad days,
when I was green in gorgement
when I was gleam in ailment
when I was free in movement
when I was beat in argument
when I was lean in besiegement
when I was stream in content

Poem fifteen (term paper-writing edition)


I'm onto you
I'm in the backseat
I'm with the parson's daughter
I'm from the moon
I'm under the auspices
I'm aside the fig tree
I'm beneath the mattress
I'm of all people
I'm aloft the vale
I'm without a name
I'm beyond thunderdome
I'm in good company
I'm at the inn
I'm within the vault
I'm above the law
I'm around the corner
I'm below the deck
I'm about the yard
I'm upon the notion
I'm inside the wall
I'm about to

Friday, April 20, 2012

Poem fourteen


because she red idle mentions thought frankly sense pulls respective margin cold sheer clasps avenue lust freckling articulate ceviche smiles read verlaine ticklish hard breath shiver under beeches reddened palms tingle human lathered tile quiet color sound blind swimmingly compressed french holding brightest how about nightwalking close bunched hair late constellate mornings showerfucked libel teeth bruise thrown nap heat dry neck island frequents morose furniture red shaking paw comfy rushing pull into absent fingers sway untimely whispers unslept yearns wakeless dreamt and dreaming he

Monday, April 16, 2012

Poem thirteen

essentially fronts
or let run the gaunt
& abstract negations
of miasmic light
or cotton rather
"symmetry created to
my fellow denizen
sojourn (stay for a day
into the woods, by
seasonal patterning
of rings of ridged
round & cozy
if only to wake
my neighbors up
blood in the midst
is not an unreal
two circles
leave us chiasmi
to circle back
in fear of hope
could you"
"you could

Saturday, April 14, 2012

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Poem eleven

I like this shirt. I don't want to stop wearing this shirt. I want to go on wearing this shirt. I dislike the smell of the armpits of this shirt. I remove and prepare to clean this shirt. I start hot water, unscrew the detergent, procure a cloth, and commence scrubbing this shirt. I scrub only the armpits of this shirt. I neglect the other, cleaner parts of this shirt. I don't see a need to scrub the perfectly undirty parts of this shirt. I don't wish to completely drench this shirt. I plan at the nearest possible convenience to continue wearing this shirt. I admire the modest blue and beige pattern of this shirt. I go on dates wearing this shirt. I go to work and class wearing this shirt. I sit alone watching unsentimental art house films in this shirt. I avoid speculation as to healthiness of my fixation and resigned indifference to this shirt. I slide over rings on the shower curtain rod so to hang this shirt. I grow impatient and set up the iron and ironing board for this shirt. I turn on the iron and think about the town where I bought this shirt. I remember the person I was with when I bought this shirt. I imagine the store, the aisles, the rack where I found this shirt. I also bought a sweater, three books, and new-looking tennis bag when I bought this shirt. I think of the first time I wore this shirt. I took someone to dinner, someone other than the someone who was there when I bought this shirt. I felt certain and good in this shirt. I went for a walk on the beach after dinner in this shirt. I  buried my feet, kicked waves, did a cartwheel in this shirt. I feel the hot iron and press it against the wet parts of this shirt. I smell the fresh heated cotton rising from this shirt. I iron the dry, wrinkled parts of this shirt. I take extra care around the sleeve-seams, try not to leave creases or folds, flaunting the flatness of this shirt. I stroke for buttons recently come loose on this shirt. I search for lint and paper detritus in the chest pocket of this shirt. I press with my hands, feel the dry warm armpits of this shirt. I lift this shirt. I pinch the collar, flip open the one sleeve then the other, sliding both arms into this shirt. I pull the collar so it hangs even around my neck. I button each button. I open my pants, tuck it in. I sit at the table, hands flat. This shirt is so aware of its wornness I don't remember how it fits.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Poems eight, nine, ten

Three ways of listening at Wang Wei
Homophonic translations into English of the pinyin Chinese transliterated from Wang Wei's poem "鹿柴" (c. 8th century), inspired by Weinberger & Paz's 19 Ways of Looking at Wang Wei.

luge aye
conscionable genre, rend
on when wren, ye song,
fondle jingling russian, lent
for joking tension
huge eye
cone sham, imbue sun red,
an oven wrench, you sang
fending mineral shame, lean
fuchsial contortion
shy Lou
cunt john beau john, rent
down whether in use, anger
fans, gingering rouge leaf
or jowl king, asian

"Phonemic similarity is sensed as semantic relationship. The pun... reigns over poetic art, and whether its rule is absolute or limited, poetry by definition is untranslatable." -Roman Jakobson

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Poem seven

oh yes you do
for Minnie & Seymour

if I can't speak of human love
without wincing
how will I begin to say about
my inhuman loves
what they do
how they love a human
without wince
surely their reason is above
my reason their love
conquers, enfeebling my love
their tempers for change
& unconcern humiliate
my grounding need
of affirming words, looks
I think fond words while mimicking
their little voices as if to say
you can hear my desperate
thoughts please say
that you can
my hole my kept
self mimics their self-kept
whole if I can't speak it
& they go on speaking it

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Poem six


for us to see for us       does chasing does       in the forest forest       does it does it       mean we are mean       to seas fluorescent       the scent & flower the       thanks in the way       we are in the way       easy does it does       for us in the forest       will floor us will       mean we are we       the seas for us       to see for us       to scent for us       too mean meaning too       much makes much       to thank & think to       chase it does it easy       to say for us to say


mint juleps
pulling ardent
leeway little
lady get
long little
lint belly
sure ligature
leave alone
listen off
let ago
lept & bound
put layaway
on & on
garden scalp
gashed green
running red
leading lady
gin & ginger
walks away
burning brash
asunder staple

Friday, April 6, 2012

Poem five (late)

this poem is

fucking awesome
last night I had
a JJ sandwich with
mayo but I specifically
asked for no mayo so
I just wanna pay
it forward poetry
is about self-
expression right
thx for meeting me halfway

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Poem four

into the great wide

I come from a placing. up & away tree light that sun bark. we run the plane runs is it a race on your mark. wing manned. clouds of visibility belowing. someone said there was a cause another said they'd never left no one did. sheets pulled to. I'm the last bastion not of safety but offence. a word in the land birthed too in the gush. trampoline into remiss. this is terrence stuff. ginger root pulled from the wreck's body. let them wait outside. we wouldn't put curtains no one would just be allowed to look. because in the concourse. fear of the once-born quills loosen flapping molts. everyone makes generalizations um. real or perceived threats to passenger safety all well. gazed agave. be confident but don't think you're worth it. out by the roots. hair cuts skin across the pull my yes for you is like. shadow of the clouds burns the land in hush. you like her enough you'd possess her don't. zero visibility pulls to well all he wanted was. one said another says the ear gums up with too much inner. never get sick why now eye shuts think sea another said the will to. phone switch to plane mode tower of reception I am. suspension of relief the will to be possessed or land. where this is you won't be a way to say. pulling. if I have to die make it in the morning made it. there was a cause. write in thought before waking that I'm acknowledge. come back over. up & then away I come. please don't be unless & all's well that isn't.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Poem three

day cart

in the beginning porch
created the heaven & the swing
& the swing was without porch
& void; & darkness was upon the
face of the porch
& the swing of porch moved
upon the face of the swings
& porch said, let their be swing
& there was swing

I heartily accept the motto,––
that porch is best which swings least;
& I should like to see it swung up to
more rapidly & systematically
carried out, it finally amounts to this
which I also believe,––
that swing is best which porches not at all;
& when swings are prepared for it
that will be the kind of porch
which they will have
swings are at best but an expedient
but most porches are usually
& all swings are sometimes

the physical porch was still there
this swing that was my body
after waiting twenty-eight porches
I had still not come to my swing
I should instead say
come out into my porch
into my swing, within this dilapidated porch
this ramshackle swing of deteriorated porch
inert, as some swing with its porches
can be inert
& all these swings which run
in the huddled sedimentary porch
swingable is the word for it
––I was; & not just in some swings
but through & through
ever since first coming in contact
with this terrible porch
which I am sure had erected swings
against me to bar my entry
& since my porch there
the swing no longer seems so extraordinary
to me that I may not affirm that I was
in the literal sense of the word

Monday, April 2, 2012

Poem two

ex machina

patient's hallucinations concerning       en el tiempo       approx. date of occurrence       página de       time of day       el dia       sex of pt.       he wanted to be understood       age       rhythms acronymic       education       has the correct pronunciation       diagnosis       in relation to survival hypothesis       sedation and/or other medication       el correo         approx. temperature       borrowing time       what was pt.'s state of consciousness       orthographical variants rather       did pt. understand questions & make proper replies       strain minimal       did patient understand with difficulty       prescriptive tendency of       did pt. fail to recognize persons, communication impossible       strong beliefs they       what was pt.'s behavior indicating that a hallucinatory person had been seen       in formation       was the hallucinatory figure the pt.'s relative       attitudes vs. motives       friend       deferred manual consultation       professional or business connection       to be understood one       member of hospital staff        prestige element       how long approx. did the specific hallucination last       populations possible       did pt. mention a name       neurasthenic, my Preceptor       if so, whom       correo en el tiempo       what effect did hallucination have on pt.       terminology(-ies)       calming       proscriptive sense of the       exciting       mistaken for visitor       no apparent effect       he wanted to be understood       other       purposes in relation       how long after hallucination did the pt. die            

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Poem one

& nearer he's to settling

Seymour climbs the bagged recyclables mountain
in the pantry kitchen smells like a sandwich
last night I made thinking tomorrow I won't remember
how this tastes I dreamt we had a visiting writer
& no one was allowed to drive because he/she was allergic
to traffic sounds the train stopped too or went unheard
(no one actually met the aurally sensitive writer) this left me
stranded at someone's house who I guess wanted me
& I didn't want her but we made-do on a disheveled futon
eating her mother's frozen lasagne in one
of those after-sex poses altho there was no sex just fear
of emotional entanglement it was dark outside constantly pre-dawn
there was the threat of aerial bombing maybe the visiting
writer made this up either way I had to go I had to find
the way back Home or somewhere where I felt this I stole
her car & drove it recklessly driving dreams are always
terrifying often there's a steering wheel melting
& disconnected brakes but this time I don't feel threatened
it's fine there is control I drive against one-ways & over
medians there are no other moving vehicles few
pedestrians the car fits on the narrowest footpaths
of the arboretum the trees are lit the air glows a little gnome
family hides in every recess celebrating maybe
it is new years in gnome-time & I find a human couple
hiding from the distant blasts each looks happy to be
holding the other my driving frightens them I drive up
every path & down I want them to leave to occupy
this magic place alone have it for myself but Minnie
wants petting & Seymour wants wrestling they wrestle
til they roll off the bed they are so in love if I had a nicer place
I tell myself it'd be kept cleaner I'd mop & dust
put books back maybe Seymour would stop eating the covers
dishes would be washed immediately after use
I'd go back to standing while I work
I wouldn't waste money on late night taco bell
binges or alcove cocktails (I pay for the atmosphere)
I would finish things early & utilize my netflix account
you said paying for something will make me
use it maybe if I were healthier last week I filled
the vegetable drawer with assorted peppers parsnips
artichoke brussels rutabega tomatillos baby eggplant
red onion yellow squash green avocado I'm letting them all spoil
& rot in open defiance of Life because I can't
remember the last thing I even half-enjoyed who's kidding
who bitch gather your fucking rosebuds


Maybe my joke poem (fauxem) "uninaugural" is valid as any in a poem-a-day excercise––actually I prefer it to this one––, but we'll make this the real inaugural poem of my NaPoWriMo adventures, for the sake of sincerityblahblah. 


ample make this bed
pink, small, and punctual
remorse is memory awake
immortal is an ample word
let me not mar that perfect dream

frequently the woods are pink
of all the souls that stand create
one need not be a chamber to be haunted
look back on time with kindly eyes
sweet hours have perished here