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6.30.2006
Duty
Every so often, I make an instant, infinitely making in spite of myself, a memorable circle (etern-fully)How lucky to laugh in this most-fear; have you questioned the immense advantage of the fool? Somewhere, while the thought-less breath... slow, hushed, slenderly the blossom,(a metaphor for duty) opens air.
ATM pirate kiss. sweetness. jealous brutal tongues. last swollen thrust in the atm. depleted account karma. money disease. $20 will ride.to the edge of reincarnate. broken sidewalk. urban rage. street milk rising. sour. fiendish rewards. paranoid. one last kiss. deceived. accused. unbroken. kill the atm. $280 for murder. fraud mist rising. last kissed sealed. madness holy. poetic justice. poetic fangs snarled.bitter harvest (written inside hate 2006)
Billy Jno Hope
READwriteARTmusic: denver syntax issue 8
Half life will travel
First Halffog or bog. million-to- ( mon frer). lisp-conch dewrag. worn to attend. functions in Medieval Corridor of Philadelphia Jungian Society where the id-fabricay is motion in-tiny lapses salt shaker fray of nipluck. sunken. i was sunk like the sunken sunk to sink i sink he sinks she sinks we all sink. la-la-la or to say that faster rapid eye movement therapies explode M-80 duck's throat. pâté. 250 degree neck-spin double axle on iceberg watch. oh this is a eustachian nightmare! conchs have it worse when the sea goes pink with manta rays. if you want to be released without cerebellum intercontinental risk-reward diuretics. pick the pistachio under which. flags skeletonize their tele-graphic parabola-shaped spleens / horizons redgiantsuns swallow so we don't have to deal with the fallout Second Half * log or dog. filial shoe. bomb scare. sips bong skew shags born few upends suctions sin. real view horrid floor taffeta. hungerment properties bear simmer salmon days fizz quotes hymn inter-finicky fault factual May's broth listed tucked done-in. sky fuzz debunked psyched for drunken chunk fool proves this entropy below eminem stuck moat. oil decay. duel "if" she emcees insect din bubble paxil flows tinker pith path planted maze. sift moo Kant's ruby greased dismount repellent rim Zirconial mental fist forward Dianetics. sick the stash plunder filch. crags fell better tone dyes fair sell pathmark in manic arabia-dripped means / shore bites sans theymighbetheones bail low so key soaked brave you feel this trifle bout -------------------------- *second half was composed as a sonically associative echo of the first, much like a homophonic translation
Beams: Madame Psychosis: eye eye eye
nile-wide, eye eye eye.
a sylph, bee low my buzz.
it wants, to do, at mouth.
no. not every one. can end,
dare a-licked, like is. or:
put it, porn again. dew wit
like its done, on, cyber.
space, opened, bee twain. no,
went in sight. tight tight.
6.29.2006
two poems
some move into teal night departed human union smoke dragging muscle torn vertically always long bruised legs brush by kicking sawed off orificed aluminum an alley an accomplice behind shop whispers there are more in sweaters repeated there are more will wear you brick through a window widowed offers problematic sawdusted floor footprints lips of fish fondling gray torture surrounded by islanded flashed flesh of the one who walks along other rooms chattering teeth your other rooms i think are yours nailbiting yours let's go
hands emocursed in unusual flame of all angles cut vertically dismantling indexed shadows taken into widowarmed account taken in shaken fake framed given access given fuckembraced falsity a faultywinged decade swallowed of unsober allegiances sucked in bottlewise where are you how now when disgust hinges follow fellows followed in hollowed hashish followed in fabricked fooling flowing flawed of whispered foolish radish of followed and followed in distant disappear dear
6.28.2006
"lizzie mclean" (adam fieled)
was all pot roast. hope: that i can't hold, doll. for you write, wrong. big. bold. ass, a nine-volt shite. "boners were tulips", yes, butt, i never, have never, buttered heads, as such, w/ you. its' all weary simper. i, conned, take, your, "can't".
One Morning Before Another
Accustomed as he was to insignificance, her shelter made him wince. He would delete the friction that derived from all the dither of her doting. He would rinse his hands repeatedly and turn inward, anticipating still repeated onslaughts. He would lather his forearms and let the cleanliness contain him. He would shield the silence he preferred from whatever she had said. He was a shadow of her overtime, sensing the unwanted love. He yearned to hold his youth in check while she inflicted her experience. He brought home what he had and locked the door as though it were a new door. He repainted its exterior the color of resistance. He failed to think the rain might be a form of tearing up. He was invisible as precipitation sans the dust.
6.27.2006
A Graceful Addiction *(First Steps in Snow)
I bring with me- (remember, I have lived) harder and harder, complete and impossible- a beautiful planet. For my light, somewhere in this room, I give my eyes to science, all exiled, dreaming, secret and finished- a perpetual infant. I understand (one brief,necessary moment) the mind, the land, this steaming island- as if I, once belonged here. I leave ( a graceful addiction to this world) unspoken words, the language of my prayers- who remembered in springtime, the first steps in snow? *I bring with me
a beautiful planet,
for my light, somewhere
and finished- a perpetual infant,
I understand, as if
I once belonged here-
I leave the first steps
in snow.
nail'bite
odd skin internal (two three grouped) comment hand pocket reach it distance'd it fingers suspension them weight bits broken "to speak where it is"
6.26.2006
Cobra and Sons, Inc.
I am taught to love the ending as much as we are in love with endings. Flexibility is the same as fragility. But these days the lotus is evidence, and I have tried again and again to memorize your face, but it is the air placed between our bones, when our bones are outside of us and fertile as the blackbird's bright red carnelian eye. Maybe we will wake up in our tombs. Maybe we will be born drenched.
collaborative argumentation works according to you
6.25.2006
stuff in the stars expunge the phlegm from your conscience to absorb the stuff in the stars billy jno hope
Un-Life
"What are dark things?" not, strangely, the middle of a fire, but... cold black-seeded life, the small uneven dots on the back of feathered moths, the dusty night-flower, charcoal-satin clothed beneath our window. And other thoughts... midnight grass, shy purple green, dried leaves fingered by the brown vine, the earthen cracks it streams from- immeasurably deepening. Un-life, frail dark myth (despite)a corpeslike gleam arising from the center of our fires.
6.24.2006
Mary Walker Graham: Poetry Magazine: September 2005
Every once in a while, I find solid evidence that mainstream Amer-Lit verse is not completely dead. Mary Walker Graham's two poems in the September issue of "Poetry" are such proof. In an established mainstream context, Graham subverts mainstream conventions by creating what seems to me to be an "anti-epiphanic I." That is, these are (more or less) lyric poems, which pay close and loving attention to syntax, craft, and melopoeia; but the protagonist of the poems goes out of her way to preserve her moody mysteries, reject closure, keep the reader compelled. This, rather than walking the proverbial dark woods to gain, via an ecstatic moment of realization, knowledge to didactically, bombastically impart. Stanley Kubrick used camera angles to create subtle moods of alienation and unease; Graham uses her "I" in much the same way. These are the closing lines of "No where, No one":
Drowned or owned,
I'm now here. My face breaks with a bit of blue—
a bit of bruise and some rawness in the rushes.
Many staple Amer-Lit poems are puppy dogs, slobbering all over us in an attempt to gain love and acceptance. Graham's are not. Graham throws a veil over herself and dares us to peek beneath, dares us to care. It is a dare because Graham is complete and self-sufficient in her isolated stasis; she doesn't need us. Exquisite alliterations in these lines, but they don't cloy, because Graham seems to be throwing them out merely to create ambiance. She thus moves beyond the faux-intimacy of Confessional poetry, into a realm of Impressionistic, free-associative chance/roulette. The anti-epiphanic I is sustained (though slightly diluted by hints of Elektra-consonant approval seeking) in "Parts of a Story," but "No where, No one" is the essential piece, the most pure expression, it seems, of Graham's original talent. It's encouraging to see "Poetry" taking a chance with some fresh, intriguing new voices. It's even nicer to see Ms. Graham deconstruct the mainstream lyric poem and put it back together in such an original fashion. I hope to see more from her soon.
6.23.2006
Companion
No one will believe us... our paths intersect without moving- moving, now dense as grass with its thousand dancing legs.
let deep dear things drink
twilight locks lusty take on to the scales all beauty weathered of honey'd nerves none shall echo in song knocked unto heaven's eunuch wings it's time you came and sink to me mists a running first fever let deep dear things drink of the leafage eared in seed past pyramids who lifted you off your hinges unheeded air waters of threshold of winter shining of iron spring fictioned night breaks moved into you as cloaked storms clapped followed into infernal flashlight beam your parallel darknesses away tickled by deadend moss and of harsh friction rub nature spermatazoa into urns as ash
6.22.2006
Sonnet Sleep
The long gift of dream, if not desire, then good or lovely things- sweet, gold goddess of evening steals in capturing the purpled city, its dim-lit towers. Each mountain's wings, saffron-flowered robes and mouths of light (sleep's drifting motion) loose as longing, open smoked-stained eyes identical to breathing... lightly, lightly fall.
untitled
poetry like there's no tomorrow poems for when you feel like sneezing hurling poems poems to tickle your toes poetry for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow poems lost in the flood poems with a touch of vinegar poems for the weak need poems to complain about well-folded poetry poetry under the rug blind-deaf-mute poems poems for kicking yourself --my friend Diana Londono Ave Mary-Juana
Beams: Madame Psychosis: Becky Grace (adam fieled)
It's woven into her, that polo
shirt. She might even fuck w/ it.
Not "we", post-we or sub-we, but
just "pseudo", "quasi", "ersatz".
Nothing w/ "self" in it; nothing
implying discrete boundaries.
Becky isn't bounded, or has
boundlessness woven into her...
Polo shirts are what they are,
remain so. If I say "objective
correlative", I bring string into it,
so that Becky might be
strung up. I don't deny a "literal"
element, or that Becky might stay in.
All I mean is, between "us", there's
"more-than-us". That's what I'm
"getting at"; it's woven into me
6.21.2006
Home Economics
my gypsy mother,
clove scented
and stuffed with lemon
she tied us with scarves
to the calf when we moved
from gulf to gulf
the sound of rain hitting the leaves
larva plinking from the sky
the nebula, staring, disapproves
a fairy in the name of a plant or animal
the easy find torches to make their fancy
and thus our hoses were too short
and the potatoes froze that summer
our hands chapped with super glue
our minds pianos out of tune
in this procedure, the proper noun
for place is falling
Seven Postcards from Friends Hospital
1. It's late and you are a verbogeometric catastrophe in that dress / the one with sunspots gazing in / through / banyan roots ripped open / from tender plot / across in-loving-memory. I knew that man to be an astronaut / aerosol of criticism / way he said you should hold a baseball / two fingers across the stitching / remote mitt / dust of photo-finishes 2. My cheek opened as / faultline / Red Sea / same place Jacob wrestled / lost / is that how it went? / double doors / no, go back let me go back I will be fine no just let me go back I will be fine no let me go back I will be fine no let me go let go of me let go 3. slim bed / oven flames / sun coming in / no curtain / morning circle / resurrection of names / consent / in your room / no morning circle / dreaming is 4. I thought the rainbow that day / meant something more / so sad that there are no more perfect half-circles of spectrum / driving in the opposite direction / only one direction / expressions said this / translator of voices / dopamine / "i wish" / no it was / the lack of 5. I can only keep my mouth open for so long / dumb moth / she said / ice crystals in your lungs / I can see them forming / coming in from all hours of the night / every angle / shadows have six legs / come forward 6. I can still smell the yellow of dandelions on the back of my eyes / reaching me here / how many minutes crawl in front / plashing of wind through pin oaks / one in particular / withstood hundred thrashes / lightning wet or / what he called joy / carving you out of your skin / don't need anymore 7. Is this you / running toward / trying to position your body perfectly under moon / firelight / days passing / all as / one summer out of nothing
6.20.2006
What Confounds Us...
God never said: you will survive- whose house remains, what dust settles here in such a windstorm? Even our windows cloud, our freshest fruit rots, the flies gather, excited and they fall like tiny, black specks of disassembled star- how darkness collects like birds at end of day, huddled, homesick and afraid. The world begins in the middle of the night- we cannot hide from what confounds us.
full'lipped
trusting wall "steady somewhat" below objection guided dribbles without "attitude, writing inadequate" release entire see it (loaf) center or right handed center position untrusted line undulations direction east from necessary not strong scent pushes "moved away" impulse observes (inside) attempt'd door slamming
3 poems
a sampling from new series [organ]ic: bound to be again ghostmist midnight never mastered tramping liquor highways reserve shattered near psychosis fisted skullmad anxious for anything inertia ************************** there are those that would there are those that might spotted owly spotlighted trembling of inertia spaghetti tequila under water keyhole wonder ************************** spotlighted haunted fountain bubbled under testimonial shine teeth swarming broken skin shrine romanticized radio transistor cringe dream registers chirpsy a europe yet to sound equals slurpy equals hiccup everything
6.19.2006
Decadented down. blackout. stained.
i am suffering.
truth she sold me faultlines.
the village is doomed.
a hurricane. down. blackout
howl. the 33rd witness
sold me out to babylon.Billy Jno Hope
6.17.2006
Our Room
At the end of the bed, I count shadows moving- one of them in the shape of a flower, bent towards the window. Another dances the wall to the rhythm of music- silent, naked and shoeless- I wonder, what breathe impales them, whose thoughts give them life? You stir next to me- a ripple of water whose core began with a small stone thrown, like flickering light that defines the shadows I recite from the darkness of our bed. I think of hard things that create soft things, of absorption- the warmth of a body as it lies still and burning, whose skin gleams like tiny moons, gentle and silver in a sky not unlike our room.
driven there's a howl i have perfected in rejection of censure billy jno hope
6.16.2006
Pills
 Hi. My name is Michelle. This is my first time posting, though I've been reading and enjoying the blog for a month or so. This picturepoem is from a series called Psychedelic Domestic. Thanks!
6.15.2006
White Rabbit Fall
From the debut issue of Calliope Nerve:"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in a rather scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean--neither more or less." -- Lewis Carroll
"Next thing you know they'll take my thoughts away..." --Megadeth  White Rabbit Fall
(look through mirror)
I -greater- than glass.
White Rabbit Fall.
In my world, You lack volume
Say name - o'er and o'er.
night
(mask)
You run girl.
Memories have long lives,
Nothing is forgotten.
Waiting like wanting child.
(out hands stretched.)
I got broken for you.
Some bones.
And heart.
You should know by now
Nobius knows best.
--author--
Not searching for Lewis Carrol.
(Mirror Again.)
You're searching for yourself.
Albums with Sharp, Pointed Teeth
I was ablated yesterday by Grove Press neurologists. The dimensions continue to bubble and pour Clorox onto positrons of sunlight. Contrary to the bless you sneezing its grace period on sneaker trails, I overshadowed my own fuselage's reconstruction and saw the fortified book of life jump to the front of the fire. Your strange balloon is sneaking into bed with my wife every night. It fills her with helium and from then on, she is never like I remembered.
6.14.2006
untitled
Englands Rage Englands RageHow chaste our new societyIn the fields just North of hereits landscape breathing windsseem to echo fearTwo paths run opposingend in near affinitythe flesh, for now is humannesssleep around a littleto claim little livesuntraceableThen children not buggeredby cruelty,by everywhere uncertaintyBy answers quite contradictorythen leaving by the self sameapathyWe're soon to worry democracyfemale sexuality, weave hoar's toothOwls soothalternatives patterned by diplomacy.An' train lines rugged beaten,Sour like febrile technocracythe lichen of fleshthe parody of historyhomeless benefited martyr herelies the safety netsof wholes disarray.And all in alls, said and donewe cannot escape memorylike wordscommunicateall but everythingssaid, anywayIn lasting , sensing reeling,to put one truth upon anotherOur future's stark, simple, thusIn my eyes, yoursthe self each other
frivo'lous
shirt(s) legible red red parcels into land divided slowly (self) analysis bending "this me mine, gives to me." numb hand mordant fingers stopped itself rising ankles (ing) (er) narrow (serrated) refuse that 'tentions 'pose seeing 'tracted space lost "less harmful, uncheck't" spot vacant (expensive) scratch meeting that nail
6.13.2006
Incessantly, Intentionally She Says His Name
Incessantlly, intentionally, she says his name as though we may decide to like him if we hear it frequently, mellifluously, imbued with her affection. And when she speaks his name, it sounds as though she's holding on to it to keep her breath and heartbeat moving to a tune she's sure we've heard and she is hearing. Within hearing distance are the consonants, the vowels, the syllables that form when tongue and teeth pronounce them. She pronounces each as if her life will not collapse if she repeats it. She repeats the vowel sounds and little fences made by consonants surrounding, and as if protection is a function of her voice, her heart and hemline, filling in the blemishes, the vacancies. She is enlisting us to close the openings through which the letters of his name might slide, might inform the aura that surrounds his lifeline of the mirror image of a struggle through soft white clutter of a cloud. She requests our hope for leveling the plot of land that stretches between people as if to take away the barriers she knows are there and will be there so long as we can see them, taste them, reinvent them.
6.12.2006
THE SWORD SWALLOWER'S MEAL
this private summer the bacteria move the liquid OF THE TONGUE in practical mouths machines for making the natural homes of chicken and bread decay or refrigerating -- a mixture of cold pork and Melissa every St. Petersburg or Vacaville burns cream and other comestibles the smoke a dissipating soup we will rub it on this utensil handle, her skin, in order to make the inside of food we must either make the flame disappear inside your throat or you need to decay a little ice with a hearty fork supplied with kerosene the pipes inside have a small box or room, cool and even, to make small fresh meat, to keep it illuminating A WARM PLACE to salt this you need to evaporate very rapidly in the rising streams (christine hamm)
atomsmasher
you won't clasp your hand over idiom's lithography none of it renders me helpless as the conversation I've left helpless none of me leaves you shaking in dew spatially adept eliminating illuminates you all-at-once
six things for nick
1. it's cold inside & out, this essay is unwritten and i breathe in and i'm afraid my right wrist resting against the keyboard swollen where i clamped it between bus door & overpacked bag leaving town. when you called the other day i was in your housemate's bed but, probably, you already knew, but we talked like old times 'cept instead of 'special' you called me 'self centred,' but i've learned that's what boys call you when you stop fucking them and start someone else but fuck me dead i'm a poet we're meant to be self centred. 2. i'm not a bad person i'm not bad i'm not a bad person i'm not stomach crunches on my bedroom floor keeps everything tight and i'm not a bad person up i'm not i'm not down i'm not a bad person my clamshell phone inches from my head we go up we go down 3. cardigans: folded, washing: put away, essay: unwritten, books: stacked, letters: still there, you; gone, me: somewhere else, these things we do and remember 5. alone and you're not i'm not bothered 'cause how big is my heart? it grows and grows and grows. it wants to spout big cliches, 'you ripped the skin right off me like an almond, without even parboiling first,' the garbage truck sprays the windows with unflattering light and my hair is as distressed as this essay, as this poem. 6. we went through our lists together, you know i've had my men before and it's the ones like you i didn't want who rip the skin off just like a goddamned almond.
6.11.2006
...of myriad small things/this time through the mirage of you (when hearsay becomes capable of dissipating blistered seconds rising from the road in blind idiot wisps of naivete) quickened to savour/past the rhetoric of The West and nihilism's corrosive ruins/to bomb loaded cadavers embedded in the center that justifed falling from the half-way mark of grace to drink the boredom of gods forging the distance of revision/created to still blasphemy and a fair amount of pain curling its speckled wings to shield their precious whores from the net of tomorrow raining whys from the depths of space
6.09.2006
No one wants a dog to suffer
She said her dog died of a brain tumor. Happened quickly, seizures one after another. For years that dog sat between them on the couch, they talked through him and to him like the child they never - - Saturday morning chores after walking the dog she'd go through the motions with her husband in and out and inandout she'd lie and listen for the dryer to buzz, think about what she could use to remove the stains from the shower years building up in the corners, a small bruise beneath the skin. They got a new dog. And some new scented trash bags for the kitchen that stretch and flex and never tear.
6.08.2006
Rue de la Plume
oceans fitful birth operas i am living on the surface drowning is a life i haven’t learned how to pronounce correctly snow is equal to a summer evening (i have drowned evenly with you) your hair is a seaweed of infinite blue i will transcribe you starting with heel-thick winds empty as my hands orange light windows capable of equating the collapsed hour how urns bear out of us an evidence the sun capitalizes the grass each morning far older bright infant of hills
sugar'tooth
screen brushes nothing "asshole, move away" (carapace) neat back parts absent top-side above prevents that chin balanced momentarily hand (right) mine shrinking back is another fist one extremity fingers cart grocery "don't fuck with me, bastard" felt same (bright) time pulled of talk and half it's head talking
6.05.2006
Some Other American
"In the pale light of the moon, I play the Game of You. Whoever I am. Where ever you are. I walk through the stars and sky. A trinity of You." --Neil Gaiman
"Wash never liked details to get in the way of a bad metaphor." --Josh WhedonSome Other AmericanSome other Nobius Lives upside down Where twilight super heroes Can't get it right Blink out and fade Then fall from the sky Imperfect lenses watch American Vertigo Turning life to art Fields to wheat Artists are like that An answer to the roses. -- Nobius Black
6.03.2006
Becoming Perfect
this slumbering sad and utterly tenderly morning flowers thrilled and pregnant as a girl spills water, faith and clouds- less breathing than climbs (air) and how you rise Messiah fleece white light, so balanced, broken, loud. See how I become (perfect) patient, carved.
Insurgency
I believe with all of the antipathy you shed on me that I will outlive an opposing infantry without the thought of branch officious notes miscast into long lines of twelve insistent on selfocracy. It is my swear word of the month to torch definity unless you let go kite string after nominative bunching. Then and only now will I arrest the permanent record of antiquity to have propeled the existential into stealth care. Promise me you'll never shelve these warm and gestured sonnet leaves. They strip their veins of dust when I'm afraid to watch them bear up under shadow lint. Confrontive silhouettes reveal forfeited light. The word "if" might have been a mantra if the styles did more than show themselves to night. The wear and tear of opulence removes our sleep, as one does not resist comparing grace notes to their singular divided light.
Gentle Thunder
Gentle Thunder: sinking skin as alphabet neutrino grace levering a secret caravan shucking and jiving the electric belonging to all of us and running through our fingers simultaneously, boldly squeezed confident alignment writing desires as parted lips meeting everything at some rubbing of the self on the sonic taste/creating sight syllables (no longer king of the click) Truth as universal pall-bearer? Digging through quiverig paranoia the mirror becoming the supreme issue of our time, exposing the sham metaphysics lurking insidiously behind all forms of representationNot even good for the setting sun that makes music sexy... wishing past your pants, facetious as ever, creating titanic all we can do miasma frying subterfuge with the glory of an epidemic rifle addressed to the ancestors of water-dreams chewing on the lumpen band-aids incipient, feeling spacious and dangerous allure peddling a busty trauma freezing cold, thinking constantly about veneered lines of lonely so becoming of the sky Cross-posted to: Poetry State
6.02.2006
free
In the end one found himself alone under a bridge at night, with the fear the river would overflow. The day after he wandered again the place where work in obsession, went up the stairs of a building, one of a thousand, got to the top and jumped down.
... (from "3000 worlds in just a flash of life",
of guido monte/vittorio cozzo)
6.01.2006
Dadagram #14
The breath of beauty (repose)/banned in public coming as taped sieves to hardened stomachs (just below the religious in one big bicycle) crossed the book of avenues alive with bronzed, sweaty backs/knowing the cessation of desire fully (between the terror and the transcendental)
'oggy'oggy
paused not stationary collect'd condition artificial meant same "you speak resistance or" loud throats hanged beat that harder hands out scratches 'parently after floating straight above looks part front paws stucco "something" hangs that platform wall neck leash on (around) stiff'n'd bag color black plastic floating blue dog
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