some news
implosions explosions disappearances

la maison blanche

Gee kew dubbed ho
rendez vous
avec anti
the sis
pure home
run cheap
as straw
hill sans
the berry

W. The
whore of Babylon.

news. Burnouses
burning. Burn us.

as was
burns as is



we burning
you burning us

socratic meth

perfection equals the erasure of contextual roan syllogist-
untimely as a robin wrought by
faith that blunders into an ad hominem estrangement
that detracts from who you were when you were rasterized
along with pink dull threads of chromes past
x and y and lively shears zigging with yeast along the pedagogic
episode exemplified by discipline dispelling bees within a universe their own true sea
a higher order than dominican initiative upheld
befriending sea shirk of rebellion near the organs equal to
a spirit singular with cramps alleged to have ramped up eternity
to mingle with the problematic
of a play tome via wild morality infectious as the dust misnamed
although enchanting for its signature opacity

outinoutinoutin (submitted)

is two wheels"

two bicycles

compete street directly

the thigh

this verse'd throat

will strain"

raised hand illuminated

action spring

"the colloquies stomach

liver" they

had known dropped

that you


Series Magritte #25


is popularly
supposed to be

period between
two wars. Let's

then that
the actions of

who invaded
Iraq or blew

Atocha Station
were parts of

final act
of a tragedy

not part
of the intermission.

co-posted to Series Magritte

I taught myself
upon the diving board
to make myself
because this
equaled the sole
the act was all
I had

snug paced
value pax
trombonely wandered out

lorded continuo over
prax of
leisure downtime

"miniscule" she placed
the accent on
another syll-


you are the urge to stay awake awake
upright and alive the space
between your throat and jaw
can hold me
all of me
you keep me you are
the rush of blood traversing the
gradient of capillary to
vein to whole round heart you
the heat in my skin and the air
crystallizes around you thick
as amber we are trapped
in my room they'll find us
like flies
millions of years from

in out in out in out =

the smell one another great
hand wait records eye 'thigh'
it" up/in back part seat
thumb heats it ascending spring
air grate metal blown that
known side face that you
"she's stunning" goodbye to't F

wakes up cold
to death
us wait "is't
a color,
is it wet
and finished?"
thumb and middle
2 inches
measuring to nose
another joy


or tom

? :  :
?   :    .

for tom

do a
real good ?

it's hell
on my :

me to
a complete .


Beckett's hayku sav accoun'ings - get (na)it "empty"

You hay (na)

Ever ku

sAved have



hay(na)Ever ku
sAved have ?

A deposit in Tom Beckett's hay(na)ku savings account

your hay(na)ku
ever saved you?

poem #132 (proust - p.35)

A clock brings
only anxiety and a deep source of poetry.

The room saturated
with silence I could taste.

Combray kept waiting before
a wintry sun

a snug retreat
an unconfessed gluttony
to bury myself in the flowered quilt.


$ out $ out $ $

remained above elbow
the night"
gutted tent it
has outside
broken live (s)
start (ing)
before circumstance'd it
while dissent
fall (ing) opposes
(ing) to
for it are
wide mouths
(extremity) [risky cohesiveness
rich &
poor'r we] is
the into
vomiting as enriching
"I stayed
up all night"
elbow (ing)
ed echoed written
months before
circumstance'd it as
fall out
mouths wide (end)
[cohesiveness ventured
rich & poor'r


Make that

My Mistakes



have never
saved my hay(na)ku.

scissors, rock.
Penis, vagina, mouth.

falling on
top of water.

last kiss.
One last kiss.

like rakes...
drum brushes scouring.

must yield
to each other.

the plane
of another's surface.

fingers are
whispering on silk.



catch all wreaths i-I
can only but
break freeway concrete
cartoons over

this neatness
hedge outside the window
down flower noise

must be pyracantha
(sp: not into
it up right now)
break down again
the picnic break
once every year!
in yellow with honeysuckle

Texas sucks

or no
someone says
satin or egg
i oozing all over
i-I dip into

i am
someone sincerely i-I
today felt yet


# in # out # in # out # () !

a bottle stolichnaya: tentacled K's arms
writhe in joy
"every day these things happen and some
writes "as death
"from you and us and we and
them" songs spring
during a long weekend above finish(ing) Broadway
(we I you)
joy under brownish (ness) seeing 'one's thigh'
"each day where
death deathing (ed) work it above of
panning camera " of

Listening to Mingus and Reading Creeley

Open letter to Duke
how brilliant is that?
and the music.



terse place this.
despite round numbers.
flocking umber near
the nest just west of here.
retraction not to be
confused with traction.
long bother of a spoke
to spain toward
louvered drawers. mean
while these echoes. twice
as loud as thunder.
chemistry and so
forth background not

retrace a song
i am releasing a signal that echoes like any other signal along a foggy coast
up in stance
"what do you say"
when blunders fail

out ^ in

up vomiting in 'richer less
cohesive' ways pre noon fall
isn't a picture through TV
windows (ing) sushi esque elbowing

lined up up obviously on/off/on/on
walking down the street


cannot let
this silence continue.

run & in & out &

(s) written outside tapering away
"legs want of these" thigh
in binary groups writing" existing
not 0/1 never then you
messages: "look you either jay
walk(ed) or you didn't" springing


have succumbed
& started my

blog. Find
it at

stucco serene
near mauve meridian


sheep on far hillside
perhaps cloud


from thin window traffic
and repeated bird


clippings of citrus edible
versus decorative


conversation in mind temperature
set to seventy-something


breathing in and out

(run * run * (in/in) * out

"fuck example" fourteen me in
orange hands working to fall
it grows wonder (loath) "irritated
word" you we they us
hand delivers low above "start
with memory then an elbow
startled "fuck this example" fourteen
me in orange vests falling
growing out in wonder (loath)

"you say" angry you us
hand down hand up "start
with memory then an elbow"""



She took up her
roots, long sunk below

and the grit of the footpath

she watched
so jealously the

slow descent of purple
tears never

making the ground and
she takes them up like

long tangled hair
curls of hair

so she can slither
down the street

toward the horizon.


birds instead of chanting
pierce near daylight
I reinvent from memory
and tell myself
you are upstairs
adrift in standalone
season across miles
share that with others
by half as though
to mention is to own

Smoke and Mirrors

for Rachael

there's smoke
there's burning
and confusion.

is not
a window
a funhouse

a false
telling you
you're fat
you're not,

a deceiving
of shards
of truth
rearranged to
and say
about you
is wrong.

Fuck that.

the glass,
embrace yourself
a deep
and leave
the room.

For Tom

So sorry I neglected
to say this; so
much is shed for
Rob's house, cigarettes
I found were better
for burning what

was soft.
So much is shed I lose
so much for
Rob's house, liquor
in the Christmas tree lights
they were

soft in the night time.
I ignored them in favour of
cigarettes I didn't say but
I'm favouring burning

I'm favouring smoke
alone in my room tonight,
soft under music given
by the last boy who didn't

know. I didn't tell him about
cigarettes and what
tears taste like, salt
and blood, what I smell

when I cry I'm
soft and bloated so much
is shed,
so much is shed.

Everything in the world that is cold
in the world is the case without you.
Wittgenstein said that, just so I
could be fashionable. It's a small
consolation for watching decorating

shows without you. Everything in
the world that makes a case
for the world could also be represented
by a grinning orange asterisk, a spacious

engagement with surfaces and engorged
with ergonomics. Brini Maxwell said that,

not thinking that one day I'd be
dreaming of your arms out
of focus, winnowing these tall

latent ocean weeds, a new dance

for milk.


elefa stat hirds
focuse eriods te
ts stakes e let smooth fl nfle oth
smokes telefax s sta mongst le igh
e focused rock t snatch snaps modul gatew a
post esson cleaned those flun smok s
lex g e stashed league w hirds rhy
c sn g a odule mostly t her adge
ast lep file se hop flunk h mo lon
elex edio s get stash leak th
ocks snaps snakes memory t sl
all stuff lens those rhy
ate ges stash
cus i s mod
t d l lurry m
l e sta i g

( * run * out * run * in

rejection (ing)'(s) pleasant obsessed "it you said that the joy"
in/on/at 11pm and you" only start frightful emptiness diffident finish(ed)
ignorant: "he pulls all these" the ugly suffering stunned deaths
(ing) reject standard (s) mean nice obsessed "she said joy"
get then all diffident empty fearful only a moment finish(ed)
ignorant: "pull all these" pressured stunned suffering trouble ugly deaths

with spontaneous
no longer superlative
base trundle of phoneme
reflex the nouveau
poetique is the same
awareness of reason
wherein troops troop
ie verb reifies noumena
stickler for punctuation

A rose...

A arroz.

Sonnet Cycle

Sonnet Cycle

abab cdcd efef gg
bcbc dede fgfg hh
cdcd efef ghgh ii
dede fgfg hihi jj
efef ghgh ijij kk
fgfg hihi jkjk ll
ghgh ijij klkl mm
hihi jkjk lmlm nn
ijij klkl mnmn oo
jkjk lmlm nono pp
klkl mnmn opop qq
lmlm nono pqpq rr
mnmn opop qrqr ss
nono pqpq rsrs tt
opop qrqr stst uu
pqpq rsrs tutu vv
qrqr stst uvuv ww
rsrs tutu vwvw xx
stst uvuv wxwx yy
tutu vwvw xyxy zz
uvuv wxwx yzyz aa
vwvw xyxy zaza bb
wxwx yzyz abab cc
xyxy zaza bcbc dd
yzyz abab cdcd ee
zaza bcbc dede ff
abab cdcd efef gg

--Halvard Johnson


split that
sun-warmed peach

wet half
in each hand


Anti Stalinist Draft

If my family tree goes back to the Romans
then I will change my name to Jones
(Belle & Sebastian)


clean wake-up drought
for insurance, you'll need
our arms sustain you

these for you, melodic
siren toward this
effort, written tinsel

The measure, then, is
approximately two to
three lines, pleasure

of the quick stop
routine, recovered
tones or the lost

ones become twice
bound to narrative,
its historical dissolution

There's some danger
in the sudden pauses
unequal transitions

of power, political
mistakes, allegiances
distributed unevenly

making the reading
process itself just
as complex as first

transcription and edit
to never speak on behalf
of a dictator or nation

instead, the stanzas
represent avenues in
the city, the parallel

quality of couplets
being a dated formalism
with no aura seemingly

left for the self-identified
failure poet to use for
what resource reasons

a repetition /


Which can open a second book
second look at whose
visionary sidewalk words

in that city sustained our
losses, in relation to what
stable place whose affairs

coincided with ours, the we
invoked as a repetitionary
measure, obsessed at times

with Measure, John Wieners'
rare magazine published
only 3 issues between 1957

and 1962, I could be wrong
about the years and numbers,
now when I pass the Lamont

Library in Cambridge I think
the great Boston poet worked
there, etc. there's still no

romance in any poem, beauty
is after all present despite
the dictatorship of the present

repetition /


With music the pact
was sealed, a mean
established to hold

the words to purpose-
fully developed chapters
each fort disguised

a wilderness reach
a train shakes our
apartment in the air

so much 4 night

night is getting {long, } i p refer d awn

pl ease .

night wing
quiet song's
long color

for Eileen et al.

in hand -
the night harmonious!


fails to be
a blindered being

night's own
soft branches


is linkage.
What of you?


is language.
And I will.

Mark and Tom

is landscape
Walk with me


night the
landscape is autonomous.

night the
landscape is anonymous.


{ run out run in }

then sleep
'mon left
function run

that dreams(er) "o
it started
saying it is

that sing "a"
not today
noon night
started or

saying it {where'ver
it's appropriate}
hair scratching

tonight midnight forget
(ing) sleep
(ing) on
the bus

"whose gonna hater"
no eating
but smoke
in hairs

toonamajig jumble Bugs Bunny in this fashion free-for-all Puma tracked down Spider-Man because of his smell - must be that distinctive Spider-Deodorant Voltron All your base recorded at planet-earth 2003 and inlaid along the top with swirling Persian-blue tesserae arranged as the software pages are apparently the most popular among anglophones might have got the election, if the "ballot and bullet" butternut machinery had monkeypoo gives you 17 red-orange cinnamon-flavoured gummy bears avacor bosley club hair hair hair hair loss minoxidil propecia restoration rogaine & Sons Limited of Maidenhead, Berkshire, England, a subsidiary of Mattel Inc
Directed many cartoons including Huckleberry Hound, The Flintstones, and The Jetsons, partner of Joseph killed while skydiving Fonzie's all standin' around, and Joanie didn't want Fonzie, she wanted Chachi but to paraphrase Aristotle it is not merely enough just to hook up i dont wanna have sex with you just some hairy poon tang pie for me to chew you may to the surprise of all exact amounts will be found ie no pie extra or short to make the payment disclosure that hundreds of Vietnamese civilians had been killed in the village of Mylai rogue investigative journalists shunned by the mainstream media vampire slayers ghost hunters bigfoot researchers mind control victims and former military and intelligence personnel prepared to tell-all what is more absurd and more impious than to attribute the name of Lucifer to the devil, that is, to personified evil the intellectual Lucifer is the spirit of intelligence and love; it is the paraclete, it is the Holy Spirit, while the physical Lucifer is the great agent of universal magnetism a colorful circus program, a balloon, a trade card for Dr. Nostrum's Herbified Extract


suggested i/then

later that s/he suggested that before the space and time was it
swims I/you carried through that child gone down athena was one
age an inhabitant temple that waits
a return


Kid wages war with
white queen to black
bishop on the screen in the
corner of the cafe he's taught
by the man (don't know his name)
with an Eastern European

edge his hair
is sharp short and
asphalt grey to indicate
he is intelligent and up with all
the best ways to be a man but

it's chess, always chess, forever
chess and he teaches it all around town
he teaches boys all
around town chess is life.

And I should learn it, I fence
well in that I don't fence well I
understand the complication the dimensions
of a sword and it's trajectory energy
spanning the wrist to
the chest to the hit.

Logic in body logic from
your right lung your hand does the
reasoning your head stays
out of the way.

If I asked, would he tell me
chess is the
Would the lively boy folded
up in the cafe chair answer
for him?

after she / then i


after she suggested that
we all jump from the fourteenth story
i figured out that she
was a cult leader
and i was a devotee
but that i was only
attracted to her alluring


after she suggested that
the world was planning to destroy me
i figured out that she
was probably correct
about everything in life
and that i was
a strange yellow dog about to be


after she suggested that
her toenails could pierce my eyelids
i figured out that she
was the kinkiest lover
that i had ever known
but that i was
a boring dull 6 foot


after she suggested that
before space and time was nothing
i realized that she was
a brain-child descended
from athena
and that i was
a temple dweller waiting for a


As/Is2 is up & running - if you wish to join & didn't recieve an invite please contact me.

[ run out/run in ]

"really it's not imported, care not, make it run"
"possibility" new chain morning edge "starsky & hutch" bus
to turn starting below the involved plastic water

from: obedience

from: obedience

as a beloved reminder
we listen to the fearful groan
making murder
murdering boredom
choking a passing fancy
like they say
the other way is no way

someone orders a continuum
everyone longs for a contingenciy
eveyones plans become fixated on
glowing dreams of moralless utopias
quick enough for
pyrotechnic freedoms
to ride the diminishing spiral
off the screen

lately becoming has
become a spread sheet
that becomes
a body to a dress
a look to a role
a static song
in a pastoral poem
a blue print of words never taken

everywhere there is a push for
sculpture gardens
and indoor plumbing
there is a push for
a institutionalized unique
a nothing
an insult
more tiny bits
more nothingness amid
broken into
bound-up and gagged
clawed into
making plans for a counter attack
an counter plans for
future indeterminacy
nothing and plumbing

eighteen thousand years ago
ready to suffer the now now
long words began another premise
(in the room of the dear one)


this is the room of a dear one
this is life as a side door
ever clear and calling nothing
this is a remote and yet populated dice
this is a room in the middle of the night
a certain place at a certain time
examined by written confessions
not being personal
examining the barbaric with the sword
not being personal
in the blood splattered contours of nonexistence
of nothing personal

this is a reality principle
promoting justifiable terrible
assurances from the reasonable
with questionable umbrellas
full of read and fall of anger
this is home
a room full of sentences
utterly clear
as the edgewise kite cuts the sky
utterly full of sense, faded song
boundless beings bound by borrowed gods
caught in a mayhem of tears
with their still there, still asking
can you spare a kidney?
can you lend a blade of grass?
can you turn your,
leap to a fall or
your fall to a leap and back again
before the bottom rises to the surface
can you beam your time to a shapeless cry
in the labyrinth at midnight

if this is the here and now of how
then to come
and our dreams are random
born to maps of weeping figures

then how will I know
if I am blinded by
the protagonist's ring of eyes
super situated under cover of error
lost in a shooting speech atmosphere
of a used car classic in transcendental rhetoric
famously tossed down the annals of time
in reference to biblical apology?

how can I say, wait, when I want to say, soon?
when I only read the signs between us
when the phone rings
we speak
fill our plastic bottle with place
in a room filled with space
in a world in space
undulating in the deeds
as a remembrance of things

I say
there is something between us
I say, wait
it’s a reflection of eyes
I say its
reflection at a distant
ever present grief
something under construction
driven by a marching band
ripped away as the sun starts to set
I speak in excluded points of failure
with taps from
behind the walls at amontillado

call it the gaze
visibility surging
a field of human presence
looking away from catastrophe
a slackened compromise
crossing a field on nothing happening
no voice no path
just variation without measure
call it x-something and give it presence
call it storm wheels and electric sea
strata captured sediment
magnetic taped recordings
a trajectory folded into the hand
before it’s cold
choice untaxed prospects
call it when then what now what's next

call it yourself and the world
call it a formula of complication
an appropriated metaphor
a connection with a difference
a connection that keeps repeating
call it sympathetic and crazy
no one’s watching - no one cares

there is a certainty below the threaten peace
domestic sex with mutual logistics
the wrong clothes on the right day

I watch,
humanity approaches in a certain shirt
I want to criticize
instead I criticize
the book on the table
on the size of the book on the table
on the operations in the book on the table
on the growing index in the book on the table
I call it a table
call it a position, timbre, discipline, theories
requirements in style
manner and procedure
call it gross plagiarism
call it lack of spiritual integrity
call it blows against life
so powerful
so furious
so blood thirsty
call it whatever
call it I don't know
I don’t care
just your feet and tears
a fractal identity
obsessive restraints
too much
depression digression
over and over and over
images in blood
over and over
highlighted and underlined
over and over
images in forget me not factual land
images of fragile simplicity
a vital liquid
rigid with futile language
glass replacements
for matter in-between
in a clairvoyant down pour
in the overworked world of oz

this could be a spotlight
through a gasoline rainbow
a sophist who mistakes
touch for a dream
a dream for an infection
curvature of space for an optical illusion

I am talking about an antechamber of words
a petrified forest of images
faucets dripping from the underground
the ball of wax and second class citizens
a replica of who counts
ad infinitum till the bones are crushed to the last breath

this is the moment
we trip over a shadow
in a rash cluster of funnel suns
a trajectory in a moment
with a vision of a burial
in an illusion of a burial
as a vision of an illusion
as rock paper scissors
curved scythes and cold holy oil
absent of our own history of remorse
absent from the melancholia of another tomorrow
absent the blue leech that draws us to our coffin

at birth the thunder gives life
at death the thunder takes my heart
as I walk the streets
I am your alien
sticks and dried leafs readied for the pyre
times passes through my pores
first the butterflies
then wool and cotton fabric
a rooster crows
we plant seeds in disorder
we accomplish animal artifice
desire to be philosophers
create beggars in rags
create conveniences like longer lasting lettuce
all are taught the wholeness of expensive
all assume honorable in defense of horror
many others think, things
as other things that end conversations
many of those things are not things
but reflexes being cornered
many things are narrow targets
as the fairies are reduced to nothing
narrow and diminished
losing their momentary radiance
losing their clouded aspects and dazed astonishment
many things are weeks in advance
with clouded aspect
many things gather authority in plutonium dust
in an authority of discontinualities
as an authority of subordinating agreements
in an act of encasement and entrapment
of a kind of blinking blank that is almost vapor

you smell voices
I spell sensation
you are on the inside of the return
a return from tomorrow
considering the scent of a noun
forgetting the long walk home
forgetting forlorn weights and measures
forgetting chromatic states of laughter

this is duration
this is an indefinite continuation
this is a claim number - to damp residue sealed in a dream
this is tomorrow’s tomorrow - wandering in a murmur of midnight
this is duration in a spark
and this is duration on the edge of intimacy
this could be the sound of a childs cry
the body that becomes a prayer
a squirrel that knows
this could be looming close to liquid
barley green
high pitched
with impact spots for the solid.


rapt in stance
the lit mussed
caveat poised
ink against
white page


the cabal in foucault's hotpants

it's definitely a cabal
but not in arizona
it's in foucault's hotpants.
the main admins
are still Andrew and Clayton -
us other(s) [those in the secret cabal] just
(speaking for myself)
try to get more victims to participate.
wrapped so to speak, or not to speak(ing) wrapped in hotpants...

an idea, if you were an admin you could start this "side blog."

btw, great idea

(one moment please, clayton or andrew?)

so just who is in charge of this thing anyway?

Query: Were I to go thru the process of starting an As/Is "side blog" I would certainly want to get permish from the current admin of As/Is - which begs the question - just who *is* the current administrator(s) of this blog anyway? It was started by Andrew Lundwall & Clayton Couch, obviously, but as I recall they were looking for new administrators - so just who is doing that now? or is it some secret, shadowy Cabal hidden deep in caves in Arizona? if someone could give me email contact info I would be much obliged

A proposal

A proposal: I think the creation of a second, or perhaps secondary, blog to spin off from AS/IS would be an excellent idea - it would include discussions of poetry & poetics, comments on AS/IS poems too long for comment boxes, announcements, writing exercises, links & bric a brac that wouldn't belong in AS/IS proper - AS/IS II could be a forum to further discuss & digress on ideas raised, such as politics, art, the homeostasis of postlinear poetic exchanges & Michel Focault's hotpants - how about it? anyone interested?


The Hotpants of Michel Foucault

Cathy said

his pinkened cheeks and
the long red streaks

wrapped around his insoucient
French neck, and

the rope burn around wrists that made
millions of pale and clever college

sigh -

"I am blinded by my

- and the red distant lacquer of eyes

drowsily around the
clever, progressive room,

were the work of the town of San Francisco.
We knew he would sample

the hard-gloss leather of the Disneyland of sex.
Of course he would lecture


and happy,

pink rubber hotpants beneath
his black wool trousers.

*based on a true story.


my body can no longer be considered a body,
or even a semblance of a body,
I have become violent surges and nameless deletion
circling in a chemical reaction,
spurt, pops, eruptions,
underneath two thousand years of ash covered bodies.


Im on a train, a commuter train,
probably one of those east coaster going west.
I can always tell where I am by the bulging backyards,
with their tractor heaps and bundles of cars.
I am lolly-gaggin towards saturation,
going west, following the sun.
I following a storm saying something or other,
but the other has a purpose,
I am the purpose, but invisible.
I am here to rest from virtues relative perspective
as the catch of the day - your caught, your it.
I am here to rest one more moment,
maybe at the next stop,
a double feature with
buttered popcorn marlena dietrich tuxedo
and top hat following the troop to battle;
I am invisible,
contact is departing,
I cant maintain this double . . .


twisting chalk and distant sun particles
are consumed in a vortex receptacle -
flesh and earth combined in a creeping
electrical blender creeping up my legs,
first the ankles, devouring bone,
muscles, red blood cells, living tissue,
enveloping intuition in energetic conundrum . . .
then . . .


I could go any where
that is somewhere that would be fine anywhere.
I was once told a rocking chair didnt talk back,
but that wasn't anywhere.
no, I need something somewhere that's somewhere
to escape this megalith that creep into my storage locker.
somewhere where that points to a departure time
at precisely 10:15, that will take me somewhere, anywhere.
I stand in front of a door with a name,
the name no meaning,
but I keep asking for a door with meaning,
somewhere where there’s somewhere,
where there a where there, somewhere,
a door or something that is there away from here.


the cancer increases its rotation,
swallowing each cell in a liquid extraction,
burning incapsulated bone particles,
chomping the ankle bone with the sound of a hells lawn mower,
at the speed to the sound.


it seems as if my escape policy has deserted me,
gone on a hiatus,
there’s no more positions to delete,
no more tunnels dig follow.


the mass wave of distortion
has reached the last will and testament,
caught in a bear trap; struggling is fruitless,
the last foot hold standing
is stopped in its tracks,
a meteor the size of kansas comes to quick stop;
corralled in stasis, without escape,
without disbursement,
the center of war and plague in one innocent moment,
no exit points, no side door.
a mad dog cough on a broken chain
waiting to devour itself at the feet of itself.
I am alive then dead in an insist.
before the mind can find refuge
the body scatters into trillion pieces,
a cloud busts,
micro particles extend in instantaneous evaporation,
gone in -0 seconds


these are gestured silk
these are respites
these pints of joie de plural peace
these pores across which you
these spates of limbic alterations
these pure syllables
these windowsills
these heated debates gone still
these leaves of leaflet
these assimilable quartets
these solo parts
these african daisies
these least common denouements
these receding hairlines
these smooth places
these cool waters after all
these lumbering plots where flowers
these recollections posing as these present flowers

poem #130

Lady Lovelace's objection may be parried

There is nothing new that was not simply the growth of the seed

Machines take me by surprise because I do not do sufficient calculation

Assumptions of my vicious ways throw doubt on my credibility

I testify to silence my critic

The idea of surprise required a creative mental act

Machines cannot give rise to philosophers

The nervous system is not discrete

A small error in the neuron may make a large difference to the being

If we adhere to the conditions of the interrogator the situation can be made clearer

It is not possible to describe what a man should do


Didn't mean to
keep my hand locked around
the brace of my belly while
your full moon smile
locked onto the way
I looked hungry and
I didn't mean

I am


watch me

(I am

starving my hand is

there to keep me



(found) Helpful Tips for Acronyms

ASP (read letters)
CRM (read letters)
ERP (read letters)
ESP (read letters)
IDS (read letters)
IPS (read letters)
ISP (read letters)
KM (read letters)
LANs (rhymes with fans)
Linux (rhymes with clinics)
MAC OS (read "mack" OS)
Mobile (sounds like moe-bill)
NAS (read letters)
OS/400 (read letters, no slash, read numbers)
Routers (rhymes with shouters)
SAN (rhymes with fan)
SCSI (read letters)
Solaris (sounds like sole-air-us)
UNIX (said U nicks)
UPS (read letters)
VAD (read letters)
VAR (rhymes with bar)
VM/MVS (read letters, no slash)
VOIP (read letters or say Voice Over IP)
VPN (read letters)
Wi-Fi (sounds like HI-FI)
.NET (say "dot net")

FREE Tools 4 Poets

Radiation emanating from
Outrage to our common sense.
Besides, the only good data
Equation is A + B = C.
Radioactive substances.
The first orbit.

Has zero energy.

Moved since the light flashed
As St. Thomas Aquina.
Rutherford's bag of tricks.
Collision this sum
Had positive total energy.

• Alleocrostic based on Physics for Poets by Robert M. March

Romance languages
Equipment of written words
Recognises the trademarks.
In the first person singular.
come as a shock.
Knight Templar.

Be far out.
Observe Swedish, German or
Meaning of our particles.
Elementary lopograms called "radicals".
Regularity of sound correspondences.

• Alleocrostic based on "Loom of Language" by Frederick Bormer

glow-in-the-dark frog
clogging the hot-tub's filter --
glurg schlurrrp glurg glurg schlurrrp

Free Tools 4 Poets

More Free Titles

8. Spanktastic Sunshine Express
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12. I Find "Cathy" Funny & I'm Proud
13. Blogwarts Paradiso
14. Kissing Lazarus
15. Megaphone Tesseraction

OK so you send me a letter &
it says you no longer love me so you
think we should see "other people". Bertrand
Russell is smart, but he doesn't have a clue.

1+1=3, sometimes, when you're
at the end of you're rope, nowhere
to go but down & you say you deplored
my taste in sonnets. A cheap shot, not fair,

is my whining reply, a sonnets needs
a "but" somewhere & an iambic base,
but I'll make the rules as I go, I plead,
But that's why you left me in the first place.

I understand couplets more than couples,
Couples have no closure, only troubles.

Free Titles

1. Eileen Tabios, Superstar
2. Love: a miniseries
3. Kiss My Blogspot
4. Dirty Underpaints
5. Pimp Hat Chronicles
6. Emily Dickinson Meets Godzilla
7. The Hotpants of Michel Foucault

to meaning*--
a gentle probing.

had meant
to type moaning.


poem #129

i'd missed a nuance.
he was based on myself.
vince. myself that i am hopelessly ill-equipped to face.

Party at Tim's place

drive careful don't crash in the drive careful withhim he brandied her she'll bleed in the drive careful in the blank of bathroom handpaint we miss you drive be now careful.

Party at Tim's place

What is Scotty doing with
the cringing descent of her
breast to her bra?

How can I read
his slack swollen face?

Is she straw now?
Will she blow away?

Party at Tim's place

Drink port sweet to
forget why
the couch enfolds clamchildren
mollusc snug it's
because of
the port, really
the brandy their eyes
swim with colours don't worry,
drink with me.

Party at Tim's place

Joyful the outside such
a declamation of togetherness come
back to mine tomorrow for
breakfast, we'll coal all our
Rachael, we're diamonds.
Rachael, isn't it joyful?

Party at Tim's place

get into
a fight
later but
I'm mobile
in the snow
you'd never
seen these
fists were
to keep
me warm
along your
naked shoulder
your frail
trace it
to see


she's like that sometimes

Silence licks a metonymy, without those localizing articles you saw and ordered from Ghaza. Rhododendrons unruffle among shifts of iceberg pause, almost lactating with barbs. I listed each in its own table, and then queried what was softer than I. The bytecode docking in premature thickness. The awkward hallow of introspection. Insecticide tickling over my fingers like a bald spray of lisping baby's breath, this thread that splits ends nowhere near where you snore, or else I would come to get you. To kiss you. Seems almost lucid when the pendulous daylights slip across me.

A coal morning of slow participles needs cigarette food in silence unlocking unquiet cat's feet upon my bloodied boots. Today I'm covered by the film of loss, flickering gauze just fit to my skin, won't wash off. You kissed my dreams raw until they stung and I got up, robot water and coffee flung agravated from my eyes. I keep asking you if it's true there are things softer than myself. "This room is the exact same color as old wine." You failed to mention my confidence, which omits any and all such cacophony of intimacies. I pry daisies from your shadow, worn like a tan into my complexion.

This skin (which is mine, nourished in your heart) kills everything wintered by a long frantic walk.

The adjectives cluster. A novel evolves at the mention of igniting spider tines. "Stuck. You don't want to pin me to living with you like a fucked-up child. Sucking another raw sunrise, you see the difference." I must have left the equations in my other coat. Aspiring to a matte finish, Christine who loves the cocaine loves an afternoon's obelisk, even when my head's erad by silicon. "Who wouldn't find that bleeding edge erotic?" Christine's ended, too, buttocks spread like a Cobra's hood. Brad reached into, pulling toward him the tray shivered with these vvials of serum. "Fuck me harder. Fuck me like you fuck your dad*" It's quiet now. The word for the day is autodidact. Ducts ramble in a quagmire as acid; as acid is access to voluptuousness uprooted or re-routed somewhat; at access is issue, of consequence, hereto. I lay my hand to Brad. Last night a cop on my block tried to get off. Christine tells us: cells, lepidoptics, staining glass until it trembles with your veins. At least you end your login session with a kiss. I'm stuck here with Brad, an absolute other; he's autistic, a system pistil of amorous withdrawal, but then Christine's insides are a butter of silk.

"Would you like to see my collection? Everyone who has ever loved me has given me a lousy t-shirt. On days like this, when the gravity's so low we can't seem to stay together, I take my bowl of grapenuts out onto the back deck to watch the sun rise. " Snow moans, so chilling they swaddle my throat mid-gulp. Brad notes that Christine mentioned once that I claim to be responsive with a cube of ice, stroking it as if drawing the moisture across your chapped labia. In the dessert, sand is whipped to the consistency of topaz; articles seperate luxuriously from their objects, leaving me strung out behind the dunes and not sure and not if I'm single or plural, reciprocity of the feminine or heart-gnawed recitation of the shelves of a knifed sky expiring. "Yeah, she's like that sometimes* "

I know you are, but what am I?

Brad, where did the outside go? "Straining light to separate articles from their objects, there is no designation giddy with ideals. The pure form of you is a myth I bite with grappling eyes." The Upanishads mention a delicate androgyny of hydrogen as this mother, as this father: behind my cock, waves that solve, threading in a pant of mouths. Cover yourself for God's sake Christine! "Hydrageas subtly echo across your chest. "

Not that you are unengaged. No money no hope. Not. I have boundless enthusiasm for every undertaking I took.

Stung my eyes with smoke. Clinging to a hung of coral, muddy, numb. That's me in the back among black bandages, heated by my own decomposition. "They don't remember my name there, but you push that yellow light like slush through my cells, and now goddamnit it's raining posies across my dick!" Tying it off, foaming as the mouth moistens with moth thumbs. Om. Or saviors too almost lose sullen followers to those wars of sodden farmers at mulch with the chum. In early thirteenth century Nova Scotia, serfs under rule spray basic furrows with fish heads. They grew into moss the way asimuth peppered your epigrams with a condescending salt. I know you like this; you like it in you. You're still leaving your footprints there, to stale in snow so dark David Rounds has to fight to read. Instead, I walk out to the old field, on ice warm and still blushing, and almost tumble right into the gash a new school left. "And here, where I learned an early erasure, on Oberlin Avenue fat and acne'd and in a black t-shirt, now churned under and gaping, now these snow-laced walks are no part of me, now seperate and objective like similes geld drives and lanes and courts aching to be in New England." With a book of xerox poems under my arm, taking them to John's because there's a tinfoil fold of four hits of acid between Chris Franke. "And the dead too curl their toes in a frost they can't feel; they testify to your dissolution, the way it ululates like telephones and sacrament, the way they cascade unquiet through tangled dreams; all the bubbles popping when they hit the surface, bathwater brown. " You're going to blow. At this moment, to preserve memory, this handhead machine is rubbing its own boards with small doses of charge. Are Sam and Mindy electric, as in what spark of his makes her laugh? I fall low like buildings growling to keep the houses in the suburbs busy. "A link taster." You have to draw harder on joints. I crack as I stand. Half an hour to go, and still ogling the support of space empathizing around me. What a shame. That hole in the street by the cemetary scares me. She believes that the dead will return to feed on us. Tearing apart warm strips of fried chicken; breading crackles, and you hear in the room that salty smack of nutrition. "Shesleeps off a sex hunger for guns and rum. With a xerox book of prachment under your arm. You just happen to know the arcs and endearments of such shallow composition, as well as mock wool when churches force mean annuals astride a mop's throat. As she negotiates satiation, the comforter rasps against unshaved legs. It is warm, raw. A pride of harm. " Being an adult means not killing those that hurt you. Tell yourself you'll start again. Less selection tempts keeping an open mind about bandaged gag reflections furnished athwart rows of surplus cornice eventually. Towels. Lots simmering beneath immersed and desperate sunshine. You reel your hand there. Does play have a face? Her clitoris sifts down your throat. Took and takes it, is is is. I am a test-toyfor inanimate objects that fuck.

print "press into";
print "anonymous ushers";
echo $navel;

function airWheels(theShapeOfMyselfThere, erosion){


if (! isset(this)){

echo this;

print "the way skin yields and is";
print "close, like the scale of";
print "this winter finally tripped";

whenItWarmsUp.wormsOfABlindness.andTheEchoStunk._fromHere = "agave ";

_global.veniceSin.vengeanceOfNuance._insideHer="the appetizer sampler; her fingers studious with rings that minister; wind up pillow sighs to this enamored pitch";

echo " ";


womanHunger.hairShadowMarkingADelicious.entrance.onLoad=function () {
for (lick=shine, lick >= "burns", lick++)
ping "why frown"."with fingers"."when"."holes of a skin ocean";
ping "have caused an"."invalid page fault in"."kernel 32"."fuck me";
ping "with your big"."ass cradling"."such tight grip"."on";
ping "my now"."desperation reaching"."for Renee across"."sore folds hot";


she's exasper-

and the bees also
the wild-

I wish the windows could be wide open safely and that she were here to sing, replacing single melody with chimed duet

so far the only light that comes in is

and it goes out again on

try to get a message to her

publish it in many languages

repeat yourself basso profundo
be clandestine in another

until she poses as a person

(and then what)

she snickered a little and said,
isn't that nail in your head pretty?

indeed, said i,
it is.

special flight bombardment of bird cries under a window ledge when a boy begins to scream
and a season shuffles along like a postal cart on the way to some affair among the dingy boxes.

sponge bath

[ run out run in ]

into slabs" one across the street "I long for your hair"
do not ] buckets are made examination each direction "blood
"whether the situation," F is imprinted one bulletin no

Diffused by adoption and female alliances
With shutting up the places of religious worship.
Almost induce us to forgive.

Guards preserved a respected distance
In a station useful to the service.
Beyond the conception of modern luxury,
But after weighing with attention,
Obsolete sects,
Never carried his arms beyond the Euphrates.

• Alleogram based on "Decline & Fall of the Roman Empire" by Edward Gibbon


In a skein,
The exultations.
Any other messenger
Lighted by the

City that is one.
A moment that follows.
Lanterns hung from the
Village. All glass like
Its foundation.
Now in

• Alleogram based on "Invisible Cities" by Italo Calvino

stained rumour sneeze

one by one by 3
they heave their rumour
up my stairway
into disgust
they saw a porn
in a photograph
they developed rumours ago
for lack of cumfaction

billy jno hope catharsis


cat has
been dating Duchamp

Dinnertime. She
goes rrose selavy.

Party at Tim's place

is he here?
is he here?
is he here?
is he how?
is how my?
my how is?
hair here my?
how is my

Party at Tim's place

"They call me anaconda -
if you understand my meaning -
for when I unzip my pants the
mighty Amazon trembles
as I unfurl
and hit the floor -
if you understand my meaning.
I don't know what a schooner is.
Rachael, how did we start this conversation?"

Party at Tim's place

Tim's eyes were
wet like something left outside
for the frost and slugs. But it was
his lips, really, that committed
his face to
when he caught me in the doorway,
offended I'd turn my head
to the clean cavernous light
of a room
I never expected to find him in.

Party at Tim's place

all hair cuts are
the eternal hair cut.
you cannot know the hair cut.
the hair cut is the path you walk along.

Dubious Razors

If you play Rachmaninoff fast enough it turns into bebop

I wouldn't know about that, dubious razors

( run in run out )

away convenience running nothing where verbal (al) rage'd or
touch (es) casting is behind arrive/leaves black events in bus
"strictly speaking the situation isn't" wandering feet in water


g rasp

is ease
c luck in
of choice
is length width
approbation some
where cornered
botch t his
he s waggered
just in
time the voice
rinses new
blue meds like

she said she'd teach me
how to walk like there was dick
in my pants. odd,

given all she had
was a clit
(dry as her lips)

like a
shrunken pea
beneath the fingers of my dominant

hand. but
it's okay.
she was trying. she

gets to the
heart of things, she
is the heart

of things
i peer
into vaulted ventricle ceilings

and see her,
her hair tangled in

swatting blood from her eyes.
i swore i'd

write about something
other than sex and

spring makes this
hard like the dick
in my



but still reading

Check out

my blues for Crag Hill at Vanishing Points of Resemblance

templ ate

magnetized other-
wise leisurely
filings into what
was called
their place
thereby dis-
in favor (por favor)
of a thing
to be-
hold without
quite looking

(run in run out)

specific survey of
tension laugh
hair each
stimulated one (ing)
(tion) (lat)
after then and
sleeps with
recondi express raised
forced as
a blood [tioned]

if not with
then at least
with Mark Young


if not with
then at least
with Hegel

Series Magritte #22

In praise of dialectics

He tried to
take over the discussion
by stating that the
principles of dialectical materialism
gave life to what might
otherwise have been un-
realised revolutions in
several former
European colonies. It was
a successful coup
but no-one stayed around
to acknowledge it. They
left through the window
& entered the house inside.


if not with
then at least
with privates

if not with
then at least
with generals

if not with
then at least
with benison

if not with
then at least
with venison


if not with
then at least
with venom

for a short

my anus was on my forehead
and was bleeding

everyone in the room laughed
as did i

a puddle began to form around my feet
the room began to spin
so i
traded my anus for
a box of jelly beans (mostly christmas flavors)
i felt much

fapt leo tack apt or

verds by very nar

bean eatin z bounce

eyes align
to fatigue smoked stagnant and stale
crust fether

into one saloon called driven
by pimp an

otherwise an after an

arrative efunct and
initive plunk

whither bush robods
teeth glean tom demograb


rampant icon seedling forewarm

slow down to allow for the passage of one
gunk drama cack

an inter and ingular


narrative, isn't that the sort of thing that muff sniffs identity, maybe I was thinking of another narrative. whatever the asslicking case . . . I see narrative as fucking that spanks to be creamed, discarded or at least sent through the fucking shredder.

I personally attempt to find the edge that spews into disintegrated dada, ends up dripping an endless [cycle] of rejecting, felching [and] expelling . . . digressing from the thread of the possible, to the farting impossible, to the jerking utopian . . . that fall into the charvering depths of a fart shadow . . . did I mention; beaten, raped, then murdered . . . I am not sure I said that . . . anyways, I try to maintain a thin connective tissue of an object at hand, so I don't lose myself to a lack of gravity, fear, or ballbusting diagnostics and statistical manual mental fucks. but the wad was pulling question on how loose can the titty fucking connective tissue be and still maintain a pecking sense of cohesion? does there even need to be cocksucking on gender; linguistics urinary track on, what brand of sex narcissistic scheme thrusting surgically balled on a raiding different way, internalizing gangbanging nineteen deep throats indeterminacy drama theorys, and a farting short section on S & M multitextual fingerfucks.' well with a assfucking light reliance on nonetheless narrative, I wanted to see if I could bring the dripping conspiracy shafting possibilities on a fisting permanent holiday....

something left as a reminder from last year -

Locating Asheville

"I hate the metaphors" Robert Creeley

Of any number of wars by
which we might be disturbed, thinking
of alternatives often also leads
to being considered a parasite such
as a rat. One endures collateral
malice while suggesting that the commander
in-chief resembles a clown, being that
his speech lacks more than discretion, unable
as he is to communicate unconstrained
in public without sounding the dolt. Who
knows why one froths at the mouth while
threatening to batter another inert? One protesting
sign, by some found to be funny, is claimed
an excuse. One afternoon the police
become maddened and force a crowd to step
up onto a sidewalk constricted. Up
against a wall then, some stumble off
again into the road and are thereupon slammed
face first onto the pavement (having
disobeyed orders) whereupon beef kneels
onto the back of his client. Meaning
to protect and serve, as is the motto,
one seeks a menace and finds those with
that motto. Arms wrenched around back
and wrists linked with plastic, one
against the war's toes drag, whereas
she's hefted along by two other beeves
her arms acting as handles; viola'
she's luggage and flung into a van caged
and reeking of vomit. The shoulders not meant
to articulate as described well
nigh disunite. Others are dragged
away by their clothing and hair, one
number of any examples peculiar
to freedom deployed, another group focus and
apprehended thereby on film which condemns
those with cameras likewise to lockup.

it was only a hammer!


Series Magritte #20

On apples

Once made
the comment
that Magritte
would have been
better off
if he'd done
what de Chirico did
& reinvented
himself by
replicating his own
paintings. He
must have
been listening.

Check out
this from 1952

from 1953

& from 1958.

Only the landscape
is changed

the landscape

"In the Crator of Haleakala, Maui, c. 1948"

Ansel, your mid-air slab full cloud
our first

in firefly letters:

one pine breath is religion

climaxing away

one bristlecone performance

To soothsay the canyon updraft
edges for mind stripped

to finally as we know it,
but how not

bounding in the heavenly arc
of a violet rock
this final

Hypnotizing, the how.

Four sun neon
vultures spiral
toward flood
at confluence
I am dreaming in, out,
two rivers

Here is a half moon
for Haleakala clouds
to palpate what looks
a blade of infinite
bare shoulder


with with moth

with moth
withhold the month
this whirl (deliberate)
things pieced together
gathering pronunciation hurried (thatched)
living a month
amid these moths
perceived apart from Thales
in a month just silver
all these panes across
the sight one fastens on
as slowing

i won't do
with out you

here this won't


this isn't
enough without

you i'm birthing

in agony



you i'm
torn from

cunt to forehead

without you i
can't with
tyou i

poem #122

Lonliness shows itself most sharply
in stray remarks.
The lonely man cannot establish contact
he is exposed
in solitude. In lonliness deserted
by the world. Companionship
for the solitary man saves them
from the dialogue of thought
makes them speak with the single voice.

Solitary man can no longer find
the redeeming grace
of companionship.
Nietzsche tells of the empty
expectation of the lonely.
What prepares man for totalitarian
domination is lonliness.
An everyday experience of our century.

(run in run out)

the emergency
reacts now bus
(it parallels
the a corridor
sympathetic continued which
is first "in
lines symp
[] hung excess
(ears) athetic or


fidelity the bird splits thirds in river likenesses of overhead


a correct mantra is a seasoned actual


so to contraindicate a rock by heart of wholly tree


as flocked with paper the equivalent of a mercurial hack of blasphemy


that comes out tuning vacuum to a thready G


a knack for execution tubs its ambulant paucity


bell choirs rehearse so neighbors algebraicly retort their principles long spritzed


with white overshirts show easels may be trimmed of sketch while sifting atmosphere of what is pleasing



the way i remembered it the
cockatoos were lemon-fresh were
sprinkled in trees raw
with winter like
christmas ornaments.

or (do

remember i am remembering and
memory is incorrect and faithless
to the actual bird, the
actual tree,
the actual day as numb as icewater)

they were fat pristine fruit,
grown from brittle treehands
by their grey feet.

they said nothing about
being written about; moreover,
they tired of being


A flock of around
two hundred
white cockatoos
has just flown over-
head, exploding
the overcast morning
with their raucous
insistent squawking
& proclaiming that
they can no longer
not be written about.

I must've forgotten. Nations built. Examiner paid just
enough to retire. An ambulance picks up; his deal's gone
bust. The President receives an executive order. A secure
future, trading vacuum cleaners: he locked up the shed
and ran inside with the thunder. I believe we talked about
where to have a drink, have a film about saving greasy
lakes from succumbing to mercury. A fool's pursuit,
you said that we should cling to the bottom. The day
our words became a hot tub, and steam-cleaned what
simulated dirty talk. Pursuit of happiness, semi-conducted
to a hack barfly at midnight, upchucks like a coolant leak
onto my mechanic's eyeglasses. Sure enough, the painting
mixed the wall with what trembled in your pink tonsils,
and I almost called it art. I believe we should skip the tip,
as taxes can't be trusted with the decision to date a siren.

after being hit with the pen,
the poet thinks,
that was kind of kinky.

Ending with the

Isn't it irritating how poets end lines with the
I can't remember the name of the
poet who ends the
lines with the
same word the
every time the
topic comes up I get the
strangest feeling in the
gut like maybe the
world is coming to end in the

(run in run out)

somebody said "it can im-movable as them" they walked
street (ed) perfectly "somebody" certain said it/are my hair
to appear take care figure'd street (tion) extracted not

that some had said "shelter are/is" flows closed blood
combs say then "deceased (th) that they smell" and
leaving the clothes behind S "have not, shuttle lack"


Series Magritte #19

The Listening Room

An apple
on the table
is no threat; but
walk into a room
to find it
filled by a
giant apple.....


Had gone
to write "the apple
peers out the
window". Wrote
"pears" instead. A
slight tectonic drift
of associated words
done accidently &


placement of objects is
deliberate, is earth-
quake territory. The
displacement of space
by things that should
not be there
but are seemingly
quite at home.


Maldoror in whom I dream apples.


Only a painter
could place
this giant object
in a space where
the entry
place & space
is so small.


Cliffs, chasms. A
precipice pre-
cipitated by the
unexpected. It is why
even in the light
we fear closed doors
& rooms that
may not be empty.


How large the tree?
Who picked the apple?


There are no
eyes. How then to
tell in
what direction
it is facing? The
apple appears
to be looking
out the window. Small
wordplay. All
the room
that's left to
in. There
are no ears.


What is it
listening for?



billy jno hope seeds


missing from her warmth
this felt brown rectangle
in wrinkled plastic
slipped into a drawer
that sings open and shut
signaling legality of her departure
pronouncing also each way
of holding still together
out of habit or a new rejoicing
loving any way to sleep
as landscape
pagan or not pagan
softens paint
dark or pastel

pan number

lifting a surname from legal graft
onto the neck replace the missing
head for an odd spot of space
we invoke noise for the signal's
flushed sleep a warm propagation
so pagan in its pain it's paint
killed the beast as landscapes

pen umbra

ink blood pieced to place
entires the mono grapheme twilight facing
marquee's palaver
hoisted as surtitle
over prime s pace
thus invoking lollygag amid sure speech

East side industrial

the trauma "that
none is"
a warm propagation
above given
direct the traction
tension relation
(ing) "mine stands
hair as
for me" when
another one
announced that one
self pointed
another time piled
up with
the usual eyes
extra page
varying loaded excess
whelming dried
skin of sunwindrain
around the



My favourite pen is a sapphire blue Parker fountain pen.
It is as sleek and hard and flamboyantly functional as a 1950s hot rod.
It truly enjoys ink. It has a healthy appetite for it.
However, the nib never clogs.

I am not writing this with my pen.
I am writing this with my hands on my keyboard on a table in a cafe in Davis, where I live.
What I am writing now is fuelled by self consciousness and an instinct to avoid the paper I have to write.
An acquaintance of mine is sitting on the couch behind me reading 'McSweeneys.'
I was thinking of getting up and whispering loudly "dilettante!"
It would be playful. I have the same issue in my bag.

The Roddy Doyle story was particularly good.

My pen, if given the choice, would write in Mongolia.
It would sit beside me in long, crackling grass and draw thick, steady lines over and over and over in a leather-bound book.
I would be there to look out for bison and grass pirates.
In my pen's version of Mongolia, there are, of course, bison and grass pirates.

The plain is as wide and invariable as the ocean.
It makes my temples ache to look at the horizon. The horizon feels close but
it isn't, I would fail if I tried to reach out and touch it.
Just as I'd fail if I tried to stretch my fingertips out to either wall of this cafe.
It would be very good for my shoulders, though.

My pen knows nothing of my fear of the ocean.
It's never seen it.
The closest its been to the ocean is Circular Quay.
I sat on a bench outside the Museum of Contemporary Art and wrote something in my black notebook.
I don't remember what. That notebook is back home.
Circular Quay doesn't count as the ocean.
My pen doesn't know that.

(continued in my website, 'cause this is getting kinda long)


here they learn the

infinite chill of
their black heaven and
the water now
filling their ears with

salt they're learning how water

is dead.

water knows only containment. all

it seeks is its own level.

and then they

is their level now.

eAsT sidE IndUStrial

duration & uncommon
intensity exceeding
"the one
that I eat"
vary 10
or 1
F thinks thus
reality that the
n't it
broken laud(ering)
F feet exposition
"if in one
left skin
rubbing deeper
between two bricks
oppresses the ordinary
drained too
much to
adapt (s) while
the meet(ings) sweat(ed)s



its an uncareful world,
wedged on the viaduct
of proper conduct;
plastic silhouettes
and boat people in body suits.
sometimes, theres a name for that,
but it changes, depending on the country;
and proper name,
given to the director
of the institute
that names names;
names the damn,
picks-up the check,
stars in a starry night chance scene
on the streets of san francisco.

this is my badge, this is an i-beam, along side an athenaeum, along side another-long sided disengagement;
along side profanities in a petri dish,
on a bridge, displacing soft flesh and carrying a big stick

lying about

con trivial re
past or knack
the lit urge
blank as
for sooth
winter a weather
pawned the awning
u arial
ponce de
praxis known
to mendacity

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