Every so often, I make
an instant, infinitely


in spite of myself,
a memorable circle


How lucky to laugh
in this most-fear;

have you

questioned the immense
advantage of the fool?

Somewhere, while
the thought-less


slow, hushed,

the blossom,

(a metaphor
for duty)

opens air.


pirate kiss. sweetness. jealous
brutal tongues. last swollen thrust
in the atm. depleted account karma.
money disease. $20 will 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 Half

fog 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

"eye eye eye" (adam fieled)

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.


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


"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.


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.


skin internal

(two three grouped)

hand pocket
reach it distance'd

fingers suspension

them weight bits

"to speak
where it is"


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

argumentation works
according to you


stuff in the stars

expunge the phlegm
from your conscience
to absorb the stuff
in the stars

billy jno hope


"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.


"Hannah Crage" (Adam Fieled)

Her metaphor: broken lamp
(of green light, of "in a bedroom",
of "against the wall"). "We",
innocently amazed by what we
burned, to, get, her,
home. Take "me" out: they
said, "ho". Oh, bass awkward...

I eye-handled mannish (bearish)
cod-hands (of iron, soot, silk-
wood), grape-hopes growing
by gapes & bounds (her dream
attic presence extending two,
hurt, grater), oh, how, hole-leave...

oh, ho, ho, oh, hannah, man-
handed back-branded "us-muncher",
it's, tough, lie, kiss. I could ease-a-
leech into her "oh", but I won't,
no, wing, two, well what it's
cuss. Four ones, Mt. Pole must
not be chowdered, a tall...


hums that sip and swallow in a lull
hypnotized -- set on auto
tip toes and marbles bounce on concrete
hold your breath; silence in rhythms
crash down flights of stairs
you poke your head through the darkness
to find her seething and dry to the bone

weep and row and row...and weep



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


Sonnet Sleep

The long gift of dream,
if not desire, then good
or lovely things-

sweet, gold
goddess of evening

steals in

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.


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

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


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


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


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


slim bed / oven flames / sun coming in / no curtain / morning circle / resurrection of names / consent / in your room / no morning circle / dreaming is


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


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


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


Is this you / running toward / trying to position your body perfectly under moon / firelight / days passing / all as / one summer out of nothing


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.



wall "steady

somewhat" below objection


dribbles without
"attitude, writing inadequate"


entire see

it (loaf) center

right handed

center position untrusted

undulations direction

east from necessary

strong scent

pushes "moved away"


observes (inside)

attempt'd door slamming

3 poems

a sampling from new series [organ]ic:

bound to be again
ghostmist midnight
never mastered

liquor highways
reserve shattered
near psychosis

for anything



there are those that would
there are those that might


of inertia


under water



haunted fountain

bubbled under testimonial
shine teeth swarming

broken skin shrine
radio transistor

dream registers chirpsy
a europe yet to sound

equals slurpy
equals hiccup



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


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.


there's a howl
i have perfected
in rejection
of censure

billy jno hope



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.



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

this is an audio post - click to play

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.

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.
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.



Englands Rage Englands Rage
How chaste our new society

In the fields just North of here
its landscape breathing winds
seem to echo fear

Two paths run opposing
end in near affinity

the flesh, for now is human
sleep around a little
to claim little lives

Then children not buggered
by cruelty,
by everywhere uncertainty

By answers quite contradictory
then leaving by the self same

We're soon to worry democracy
female sexuality, weave hoar's tooth
Owls sooth
alternatives patterned by diplomacy.

An' train lines rugged beaten,
Sour like febrile technocracy
the lichen of flesh
the parody of history
homeless benefited martyr here
lies the safety nets
of wholes disarray.

And all in alls, said and done
we cannot escape memory
like words
all but everythings
said, anyway
In lasting , sensing reeling,
to put one truth upon another
Our future's stark, simple, thus
In my eyes, yours
the self each other



legible red
red parcels into


divided slowly
(self) analysis bending


me mine,
gives to me."


hand mordant
fingers stopped itself


ankles (ing)
(er) narrow (serrated)


that 'tentions
'pose seeing 'tracted


lost "less
harmful, uncheck't" spot


(expensive) scratch
meeting that nail


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.



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

to salt this you need to evaporate very
rapidly in the rising streams

(christine hamm)


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

illuminates you

six things for nick


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
someone else but

fuck me dead i'm a poet we're meant to be self centred.


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


cardigans: folded,
washing: put away,
essay: unwritten,
books: stacked,
letters: still there,
you; gone,
me: somewhere else,
these things we do and remember


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.


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.


...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


beating up the believable isolation

silently drifting up floating stairs
cracked and bleeding under shielded cameras spying on
Through double doors, breath released, and crumble down two flights of stairs.
The sunlight hits perishable skin - lost thoughts of beautiful poetry that never hits the paper

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.


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

how urns bear out of us
an evidence

the sun capitalizes the grass
each morning far older
bright infant
of hills


brushes nothing
"asshole, move away"

neat back
parts absent top-side

prevents that
chin balanced momentarily

(right) mine
shrinking back is

fist one
extremity fingers cart

"don't fuck
with me, bastard"

same (bright)
time pulled of

and half
it's head talking


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 Whedon

this is an audio post - click to play

Some Other American

Some 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


Becoming Perfect

this slumbering


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

broken, loud.

See how
I become (perfect)

patient, carved.


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 representation

Not 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



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)


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)



not stationary
collect'd condition artificial

same "you
speak resistance or"


throats hanged
beat that harder

out scratches
'parently after floating

above looks

part front paws

"something" hangs
that platform wall


leash on

(around) stiff'n'd bag

black plastic

floating blue dog