a centaur

was humping me.


was definitely

outside of myself.


"bodies that

matter" rarely exist.


(from pears--poems for Braden Russell's 57 pear sculptures)

Rind, wrapped
of its own generation
holding itself watery
internally. The skin
separable only with
violence, precision
malicious alteration.

It's true the face
shows its contents
though speech aspires
otherwise, "I am fine!"

You are not fine. You
are paler green and worrisome.
Pallid and scathe easily.

The footprints are apparent.
Someone has been here.

When last aware
it was branches end
incipient pinch-held
whereas now is all piles and
in the unnerving middle of it.


To the Bachelors and their Artifacts

make me
un do me

how use
less becomes me

in shadow
i outstrip you

melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks issue 1

the first ever issue of melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks is online now...

poets featured in this edition of mtd:


John M. Bennett!

Marcia Arrieta!

Petra Backonja!

Anny Ballardini!

Bob Marcacci!

Robert Chrysler!

kari edwards!

Alex Gildzen!

Johannes Goransson!

Richard Denner!

Jeff Harrison!

Chris Toll!

Eileen Tabios!

Lina Ramona Vitkauskas!

please visit:




Any small thing
that outlives
its happiness

must learn
to keep
from freezing.

Slowly, the dying
flame quietly
tells its story...

"while there was
some warmth
left of morning,

she described
her dream-
the last one,

the lost one,
the one about
her absent lover".

Now, in the cold
trees, a vision,
a frozen bird-

stiff and white
and empty
as these words.



Welcome to the Matrix

You think this is poetry you're reading?

--Kevin Doran



The wood is slow
to crack when it's green.

Father chops the blocks
while I gather kindling-

the work between
a man and his daughter.

When it rains,
the fire is moist

and green, spitting
tiny, shooting stars.

My life began
like this-

two sticks


and what was

a spark so faint,
so doubtful,

they called it

destiny asked me
my conference glass
in telepathically house hand
and space only voices
several times became too expensive
sound the felt motion
touched out
who was movies
eating lethargic
going room
to remember
my idea
any addiction
but celibate
and stamped on
by varicose veins
and women
solar in the theory

twilight gestalt talk
and tantric dark
i'm this pressure quivering
with romantic english
cohabitation on most wild shade
foliage of turns into city
shock lot of floor fatigued
of wood mysteries


Haiku- Water and Sand

I am familiar with water. Walk
and the sand will walk

with you; water will only
run away. At night,

the blackness

and the water
spills with it.


A note to God: here
is the history I promised-

the center of my city,
the mouth of my belonging,

the secret, serious invisible
longing, the stolen jewel.

Bless the younger life
that borrows its body,

returns- dissected
and touched and broken.

Bless the pages I have
torn and crushed

and thrown away-

the mistakes I've made.
In a long letter, I question


Block Island to Point Judith

Block Island to Point Judith

I look forward to something new
like "rain light pulverizes the beach"

this will never happen

though bikinis
extend lines impossibly

I repeat softly
the tip of your breast

& imagine open lips
purring thighs

or softening dimly
the ferry's wake.

Apparition Poem #553 (adam fieled)

i'd love to
enter you

this way-
go, stop,

go; go, stop,
go; until

i could fill
your canvas

w/ presence;
i'd love to

turn you
onto yourself;

you, who
yourself, are,



P.S. More fun/frolic up at cafe cafe.

Stammer/Lacook/Crescent 4 (Silver Summer)


I'm Too Stale

swollen lips from late night tension quiver beneath cotton sheets
twice bitten with blood that has soaked through to the matress
the slam of the door shakes even the deathly state of my heart

the days that stretched beyond time due to rainy day naps folded under you
darkness that for once was warm and inviting
darkness that I dreamed I could sleep through peacefully

choking familiarity creeps in with stolen suffering
dainty wrists and uncharted territories that seemed forbidden

Stammer/Lacook/Crescent 3 (Dance)


A Simple Quest

Everywhere, light
fills itself with itself-

I have not knelt
in years or

watched the shore
with earth-colored
eyes, understood

the simple quest
of sky, the grey
complexion of sea,

the startling line
that divides them

How is it possible
to leave this

I should have
looked more often
for reconciliation-

the long gull,
tipped wing
that could

so fragilely
connect them.

the outline of gravity beaches

night comes hardly
the new neck shore of longing
comes in difficult absence
and final high
flickering metropolitan
signaling this swing
for somewhat words

sweet saying with waking
behold impulse machines
and the outline of gravity beaches


electrical technique
a maximum hand moment
veil blown vapor confusion eyes
to ecstatic distances of memory
like especially tasted

ever-increasing flow
against marionette sleep
poppy my eyes
in permanent countries


night curves gravity
youth-giving road tissues
to leap entire bewilderment

longing light shape
to pass current
could remain complicated

aware in swim springs
and grow room
need anaesthesia
fire with turning
youthful for burn

uncomfortable carefully
plays your mountains
of electrical connection


The Edible Part

My search is an old one.
I crack the seeds
with careful deliberation;

inside their skulls
are makings of flower.

I've ruined that now,
by exposing the sweet,

fleshy, edible part.



If it was there in the beginning no one noticed.
Even the house has given up.  One corner skidding
off to god-knows-where.  
The sun spills its feral light, drips out
like a stuck sore over the carcass of a dog whose bones whistle the song of the dead.      It is morning
and I watch you eat a bowl of cornflakes as the rain turns to snow, and the snow turns to the dog and commands him to stay.  

Somewhere there is a stone inside a stone.
I found one in my driveway; some birds were kicking it around.
I asked if I could join them.
One lifted its wing and I crawled under.
As I picked the lice out from its black
feathers the stone opened up to reveal another stone.
“We find these things in the belly of the earth” they kept saying.
This was on a Thursday.  It was beginning to rain.
“All the fullness of time cannot reveal the mystery of the stone--
A stone always hides another stone.”
I found this tattooed in the armpit of the bird.

Draw the stone closer. Pass it from your hand
to hers. Roll it between your palms.
Watch as the sparks flash across the ceiling.
     In the long history of the stone
the stone is the only constant.  Even now
the stone rises
replacing the setting sun
with the image of a hand sinking into
A stone.

As a kid in the backyard at night
Susie and I watched them fall.
She approached one cautiously
from behind and poked it
with a stick.  To our surprise
the stone didn’t react in anger
but opened up like a flower
and in she climbed.
The stone
blossoming in the terrible
light of the moon.  


At noon, the hour the light
falls down directly

on ferns hanging outside
my small kitchen window;

the wind's breath
steams through the leaves.

I write: there is patience
in darkness that waits

like a spell on its loom.

Tonight, I will erase
these words and begin

again: at noon, the hour
the light falls down...

you were always on my mind

terrified and distanced
every face petrified
in name

can you hear
this ringing?

can you hear
this wringing?

i'm alone
on the outer
and i spoke
and i spoke
of poker
of technology
and thunder

the alien carded me desparate
the alien carded me desirous
the alien was my experiment
with eroticism
was my experiment
with another
with washedup
was drinking
was drinking
black black fluid


why is this?
what have i done
when opened wide?
what have? i deny

i am many
and fewer
in feverish
i'll cut your wings
i don't care

a secret
listen closely
listen closely


If I Could Make a List of Everything I Have Not Thought Of

transitive verbs go slack
against prevailing clarity
as the lariat of tumbleweed
sweeps/gathers from the field
the trends and tendencies
revealed in their assemblage

let's take a dip in the dry
river/tend supply side
omnipotenti while the dithers
that arrest fall guys foster
lachrymose endowments very
plural even as they mimic

stores of qualifying plants
and mulch upended by impulsive
wheels unguarded in determined
functions ratcheted up the cha
in prolonged in indentation
called upon to prompt and press
the sides and surfaces for signs

of water despite evidence of
contraindicatory spokes and upward
piercings of the earth as if
to point to an agreed-upon
to-order vastness of a sky

You Think I Look Happy; Looks Can Be Deceiving

momentary lapses of make believe, of learning how to expel emotions like genuine promises
I can hear his husky voice from flights of stairs away, humming the lullaby his mother used to sing to him in Italian
never a man of god, now closing his eyes and thinking about walking with Jesus
we tip toe, high strung, and ectopic
she pounds the ground with footsteps naive and oblivious; we are given a unfair mask of lies
eight years later the world seems to be sinking around my feet
I'm swimming in shoulder height water, singing as loud as I can the bits and pieces I remember of that lullaby
My eyelids collapse and lungs begin to burn with the familiar fire
You tell me you love me, and just as I was naive then, I am naive now


dear jesus

dear jesus,

the infant mantis remains my hostage as well as sex fantasies presidents advancing in age bikinied and jogging on atolls of my own design wear pastel floppy hats. fisher price mantis legs detached between stacked boxes of ex-possessions, the raccoon receives an awful knock on her noggin by the equinox, stillness and quietude. this is not prophecy. am i to guard the presidential fat roll and loose skin? his tan-lined torso digests epiphanies spoken in a dream of marine one, whirls, whirls, whirls. does the president wait for drink service on air force one or fantasize about the male flight attendants, write his number on a “you are now free to move about the country” cocktail napkin only to throw it away? this is prayer i wrote to sixth-grade sarah unages ago. she never wrote back either dear jesus

was i embarrassed


memory escapes me. perhaps i could rediscover innocence my legs spread in the back of bulletproof gmc suvs. if i ignore you long enough dear jesus and your compassions perhaps i could forget what i was looking for, live in understated bliss, bleach staining all my lost favorite shirts, slacks and reefs while it makes my knickers shining white, a transfiguration.

under a pint glass on my kitchen counter the infant mantis. just say the word and i’ll release.

as. writes. always. waits,



The Furnace- An Abstract Study of Possibilities

A good horseman
can ride any horse well.

He was able to juggle four plates
and sing at the same time.

Squirrels carry nuts
in their jowls. The boy

broke off a large chunk
of bread and ate it.

The blind man and his dog
are inseparable.

When the poor old fellow
got hit by a truck, his death

was instantaneous; the experience
seemed as insubstantial

as a dream. The dog
still sits on a cold streetcorner.

Why isn't the furnace
sending up any heat?


"missy mcewan" (adam fieled)

cups & putzes
between us. bags,
papers, pinks. wrinkly
autumn shades
around what
i held. dualities of

ears, either side--
tootsies, rolls.
that the thing
for cleaning
is to the left.
what's right isn't
what used to be.


Virgil, Dante

souls for new bodies the fate ordained,

souls who drink Lethe waters

and long oblivion

In the beginning an inner spirit feeds skies

and lands, oceans, the shining moon and sun,

it s an expanding mind

that lights and blends all the earth

What is revealed through the universe

closed in just one room, is hidden in these depths

(Virgil, Aeneid VI; Dante, Paradise)


Cash Missives That Remind Us of Dead Time

sunlight like an animal
its rapture (breathing) shatter recital
gales coupling stipends with a stone defiance
hurled with other gestures at the cold, inert
features of the whole stinking affair (stuck in
a sweat-soaked and hungry sky)

burnt shrieks a hard truth
to carry down that dark tunnel
(always reeking of the visionary--always),
not that it stopped any of them
from walking as if physics really,
genuinely mattered

a simple striping of the herd drinking in the elegance of
nothing exposed but long, rusted pipes all alone in the private
subtleties of syntax caked to your jeans
(to somehow triumph over the tacit)
burrowed into skeletal frames become (the bars bitten)
a universal symbol of marginality, a matted density
stationed wherever the money goes to share its war,
its poverty, its crippling alienation
for many days and nights.


"fish" (adam fieled)

more spring than spring. curtains
had a seemingly yellow presence.
there was trembling & vulnerable.
there were martial fish between us.
a bovine moon hung congruent.
the mystery was all in what's simple.
there was a calling, but not by us.
we weren't talking, but springing.
all the fish had solid skeletons.

had the cards been shuffled differently. had they



The Whole Megillah

I sink my teeth into the blue of your skull.
In the morning dawn will arrive to split us from the light.
An investigation of your body reveals that your library contains more tears than anything.
I felt like a bird whose flesh was made of mouths.
I propped a ladder up against your window, but when I climbed up to look in on you, your room had been replaced by 30% sand, 30% water, 30% pointless babble, 10% cotton.
I was informed by the powers that be that in actuality you do not exist.
We are not human beings.
All of the loud speakers have been replaced with yawns.
The yard is full of tourists.
The walls are full of insects.
There is a sign over your bed that is unintelligible.
The yard of your body is full of broken down cars.
The walls of your body are overcome with loss.
Are night sweats a sign of disease?
I will need a pony if we are going to go any further.
We have been discovered by the flash-bulbs of the dead.
Some part of me is disappointed that the execution was delayed.
We met in a hotel room, and you were gone before I could even open my mouth to ask you what it was that you kept in the basement.
Someone has left the backdoor unlocked.
For some reason I never come around any more.
I blame the French.
They were drawing a smile across your face with a knife.
The sun has been replaced by a series of yawns.
I am building a temple out of used ape parts.
Our conversation was terminated after someone unplugged the river.
The morning was full of birds.
Somehow the light here seems more authentic-- it is staving off the orthodontia of night.
All the laws were changed to include an inexhaustible supply of mayonnaise.
Already we are exhausted.
The pen, lifted from the page, fills the room with moths.
All our ideas are composed of dark matter.
The meaning too often relies on the context.
I cannot justify any of my returns.
Flip a switch.
You are thirsty.
We need bigger bombs (boobs?)
Communication relies on an understanding of the method.
Your body is like a Russian novel (one of the good ones).
You are Russia returning from sleep.
I exaggerate.
Everyday I get smaller.
We couldn't find a parking space, so we kept on driving. Eventually we will run out of earth.
You are a forced march though Poland.
It is already Tuesday.

The Lottery

Every morning
she woke up
with that lottery ticket
mentality, that one

in fourteen billion


hope offers
its victims.

Self Debt

caught a whiff of spiritual angst
thrust open
stark orgasmic vanity
rebooted my wings
for judgement age
i am suspended
in the skin of conscience
the tribunal begins
slivers of venal vapors
fragile distorted timelines
i channel deep for immortal debts
i pay the soul cost

Billy Jno Hope


and the gentle
ever very wild
dead have charmed like gray
until world breathes only
deep portion
the tale the no only lone
my crystal bones
midnight's mutilated mix

thirsting life
lured wild
until the waste wandering
stillworld virgins
boneparted in love



beast looks at me
deep sigh
such snow towers voice
and mother meaning

you've drilled holes in skyline
of incommunicable dreams
spiraling through airsprings

what purgatoried transport
what wordwaste destroys you now
in hyperimpulse blowing
a steel draft wind
colder than fantasy

go you thither should be friend
where puncture wounds
do not tunnel
do not deeper dig into

this selfpronounced gig
is lonesome
it is wanderous
and feverish
mysteriously terrifying
undazzling vertiginous

only swooping sounds
and sounds alone
of scythe on scythe
make sense of step backwards
of manypronged withdrawal


Keep Your Car Off My Grass

... and the oil spills. You have no sense
of carbon and how it stains the wheels.

Is God a stalled machine- a breed

with a special appreciation
for itself?

In my yard, there are natural,
perfect things... keep your car

off my grass.

The Basis For Further Advance On Land

Korea, if you lived
in this town

I would
fight you tonight

with lemon martinis
and 100
megatons of cliche.


The Ceiling Fan

See, I look at the fan over my head
and I think it wants to kill me. Not in that psychotic, serial way.
But slowly, with an allure and panache, a swagger. It is patient
unlike some pasts I unwillingly remember
and it will wait smiling. It will wait
for just the right moment
to turn the moon into a strobe light
and switch my heart off.

"debra harnigan" (adam fieled)

Noting/ cheekbone sluice/ china veneer
Impulses/ bathroom stalls/ naughtiness
I'm in on it/ gentle as anesthesia/ drops
Disrupt/ retrograde attitude/ mercurial
Your middle/ leaned up/ lifting belly
Your bottom/ budging metal/ melting
In-drip/ innards ingrown/ warm war

& then the how the went the into the flush


Without a Crucifix

I say "great doubt" is of little consequence,
my "trust" hides in certain places-
plastic soldiers beneath the bed
in spools of dust. This war is mine.

"Absolute death" I think is living
in a sterile world. The body of a woman
becomes unrecognizable, neglected
without a crucifix to pin it to.

To each man I give an apple,
an addiction, the gorgeous adjective
"radiant"... a hundred years
this mysterious garden

grows its fruits, although,
I'm fairly sure of winter.


night stars of voice
kissing intangibles
dug deep to center

if i were a vegetable
and the world were metal spiraling
what would i make of your furtherness

there are others around
with eyes of speckled egg
my blue teeth chatter a collective evening

i'm not entirely certain of you
i dive swerving from coast to coast
to die completely inevitably

fallen into

struggled against
struggled without
placed my face
amidst the empties

strangely act
and sufferably
fallen into
fallen into arcs
fallen into silenced
fallen without

hard to watch
the nest
the feel
the puncture me
rapturous substances


sun burned skin; sun bruised
fingertips press with assurance
false eyes
hands that cover mouths quickly
move on
bottles scatter noisely
toy with the idea of deception
words that cannot wrap these loose bits together


The Stone Collector

I collect stones. My hands renew
the curves, the secret trauma
of treasured bones-
how nature's chisel, her strong,
relentless mallet
shaped them.

One, is like the belly
of a pregnant girl,
sandblasted egg-
a birth-button,
filled with foam and scent
of sea, folds inward-

almost human.

Another, sacred tablet
scrolled by gods
and dropped against
the sand- read now
by insect-crabs and feeding
white gulls.

Balsa wood, ochre
twisted sculptures filled
with broken, pearly shells-
strange and pretty dolls
of tide's children stranded
on the shore.

The sound of moving
water in the pebbles,
remnants of fireworks,
softly fizzle back and forth
fashioning the art, my hands
so pleasurably explore.

of spring things of snakecharmed sighs
a ship trapped in bottle swirling ash
i'll write you

of the whip and its longevity
its horizon
of loneliness and speakeasies

you're a sadeyed lie

kept here kept dying kept dusting eternally
recurring in blue smoke real ether slowlike
under pleasant roofs of nowheres spheres
of imagine snow of huge stained glass factory windows
of nightowls howling fakity in embrace moaning one true moon

electric lamp

feel your skin
your sensation

or fed up
or fed ex

time of day fixings
redblooded take on

to measure
weatherworn sweetener
of faces lengthways

you attach neglect
you attach the heat on

you bare water
of showtime
of the shiny
and springdictioned

to it

renewed it seems
sensitive shins
fallen captive
into misbehave

"lucy stingle" (adam fieled)

yr back's back in back. black.
fingers ride cheeks like sea-foam.
soft cut of a hard look. tow-
headed horse's ass pony-tail.
rather a strong black-strapped sit.
quick tongue-dart like plane's
blinking beacon. now i'm "back",
or you're fronting. easy trick. rote
gimmick. gerund: "gallivanting".
meaning: to parade, wantonly.
i'll, we'll, give it "back". easy. still black.


Good Morning

Distinction of your scent,
floral and humanly warm,
and your head turning your
eyes to see mine, in the morning

crossing the highway bridge
where, so early, cars under,
go home, or to work,
or where else? Elsewhere.

The air of our exchange, then,
given by breath or simply
atmosphere. I look for you,
later, in the imperceptible

breeze, now--scent or memory
exhaled and given to the
world where I got it, with
you, and hope to find again.



The last house in town,
a bridge, not the sturdy kind,
railroad tracks
no one has traveled
in a long time;

the sky shoved back by
a dark, invisible hand,
the only moon, a lamp
slow burned, three colored,

one in each eye-

a man must learn
to recognize what
lies within him.

A country, huddled stones,
the smell of it- raw earth,
gun-powdered loins,
dirty oiled streets,

serum gold, neon
tumored stars,
a river made of heat,
twisted veins-

a man
must wrestle with
his tangled nature.


feet elbows. she for leave is her shoes

Compiled 7/8/2006 5:49:44 AM GMT
for CH

of bed to her feet. “She’s too short
were firmly in her shoes, Darnell
Jenna related news, she now has all
of car tell you they were - part

and from beneath her rough wollen skirt
alone, and so they leave her in the small
bottle with one hand while keeping it still
- trimming of any kind. The skirt

This time, she nudged his elbow with
the fact they were found on top of car
- I put her off for a second while

kicking off her shoes. She feels the earth
all of that I She even went so far
and swinging feet disturbed her while

Bookends (In three)


as scientist


here is space

the bodily process

Benveniste's experiment

ground-up nux vomica seeds

they produce these symptoms themselves

I am a logic from the last chapter

diagrams the faultless-ness

roots mean 'similar suffering'

when disturbed

go into shock

here is space


flawed, emotional, coincidental as some say the flat earth is


the pearl of pearl
whitman grim
frozen fringe find-me-not

oh this thing we
love and love and
hate to love because

what we hate
to love
is what we end up loving


balance lost permanently, which often happens upon entering a dream


I am the molting of wings Siam haven held-up for drinks at Baccardi temples wing shack run-around I am assaulting so I sing l'chaim for velvet stewardships brink of where? contrapuntal echoes spackle smiles

"jess dubois" (adam fieled)

oh, thick legs, crossed from
not caring. scuffed boots. shot
looks. back & froth. other
flotation devices lulled in yr
hands. its better w/ me under
water. i'm a sharp reef. i might
fray yr fringe. you need no
other tattoo. but that's flesh--
colored. seedy. thin. seam in.



If the rain thinks
that this is an emergency,
can we organize it
into something like speech?

Never a mountain wanted
over rain,
its formlessness is a
repetition tho
of what no one is quite

Nothing can sleep like the
rain, whose irony is never
quite far behind.
Each drop an
erasure of what
comes before.

If the rain is an abstraction
then each of its bodies
rise, perilously, in black and
white. Drifting. Breathing.

The rain is a door
that opens, and closes
like an eyelid straining
to watch,
against sleep,
its first opening.


white blocks

music haunts me as the wind
hissing of flaming logs
cracking and whining

huge white blocks
horses declined past two
that lie there so cold

plumage and ever
and the wind which bloweth
summons unanswered invitations

the soft voice rolls
beside the street
suddenly was the moon

a shining cut
and nothing moves

the confessional

the items that keep me sane keep me focused are my love letters
to no one in particular those souls who consider sobriety
a deformity of the soul spoken in lethal accents
such worthies kiss candies in secluded patches
of park somewheres i can't quite keep my mind
as we stroll along the hedges and contain ourselves
in critical boxes stranded minimalist each downpour
i send to you is a sword by which i cut
my useless vapor hair a swift stroke
of bassoon swedish covered in jelly
you'll understand this lingering as
i write further travel of
the fruity hours and tangy years
and the fountains o tangle up
is to fog and reader you
can know nothing of this
but hey listen can i hit
you up for a twenty
and a big mac feast yeah
my hot hut is where
we'll meet beyond
our teaparty sea
when i posses it
i part to thy right
i forget
the size of my cock
often pleasantries
it is mythical
actually it's a possum
i've forgotten
is sensual graffitti
a rollercoaster
into the wilderness throbbing
like so much bubbly
i fuck you in verdana ref remember that the white is greased eyelids
heavy we surf abandoned waves into wisdom we're screwed
we're pretty close i know your candles and sweaty mini-golf courses
i give chase because i can and am transgressively worthless
find this on page 365 that particular passage near chaos
and 1st that one outsiders are desparately unknowing of
more coffee i'll watch through my binoculars dressed
in boxers boxers boxers only your cringing offers me
a positively poisoned italic erection headbanging
under a metal cloud wringing hands teethgrinding
the whole lot
i'll never see again and that's what it is o telescopial music
to mature to bring back the pinstripes on the wall
are venomous floral breaths as time perceives and
penetrates back into into rings truer green eggs and
mandarin oranges such a pipe such a see you next fall
such travel distant baby

"paula" (adam fieled)

chaos, order, clipped bird-like into
wings & cries. i could only ever
think: paula. all the thrusts &
pumps that could never be. "all"
that must be withheld, & that
it might be better that way.

you gave me the gift: savoring
wanting. how it really was you
i wanted. not a body but a soul.
i tell myself i've "been through
you", forever & never. zero here,
same as two. empty. saturated. dark.

Half Steps

folly cracked the mirror
a soul gasping wound
voodoo induced vertigo
psychedelic blackouts
in the cracks
between art and blasphemy
paralyzing paranoia of becoming
the vision that heals
cast shadows to douse the flames
starved enlightenment
i betrayed my muse
i wallowed in nostalgic fumes
blood clots from yesteryears insurrection
mad dissident desire found wanting
a rage dissipating
in the twilight of friendship
a facade evolved.

Billy Jno Hope


Brookline Hills

Situation of brick
shack adjoined wood fence
with ivy twines took
many years to not happen
any of the manifold
turns to
stop and
form place

Likewise you who
moves around so much
would not if you would.

baking beck and froth pom

baking beck and froth pom

gang or cocoa is bastardization or alligator

the moking beck n f

swt rrrrrrrrrr

mead with dyslogist
     boy moves for usurp
          hay mobi(l)

distant asse (opponyms: clangorous, rapter, bugeye logis)

Dyslogisms cellblock; buckled by their mugger.


straking kats

Although burdensome, the calaboose neophyte is the principle hagiographer in the dustless dismissive.

calaboose neophyte = spokecurbfeedprow
     key inserter in the depth of

bieke and

the rod dyslogism

pert frame stap, the main crawlbar hacked into facebonesection

a fermentohop
     wape shrape
          the pour spurt of besten kopfbieren

the same
that (gu(a)sh g(u)ash) that  
     kid has (fluud)



I was late for the apocalypse. Not the personal,
The universal.  I looked for a scalper to scalp me
A ticket. It is always the last place you look.
Under some cushions, next to an expired ant.

For a long time nothing happens, then.  Somewhere
around Friday I get a call.  There is a car waiting.  
There is travel involved. You can never be too late.  
The horizon bends into the earth. It is a sign.  
The sun a blood orange. Think. Run. Define the details.
Pick the right man out of the crowd.  He has an
Offer to make you. Heads or tails. Make it quick.
Someone slices you along the belly and slips their
Hand into the cool of your flesh.  All fat and blubber.

The crowd is overcome.  The stadium parking lot
Is stuffed full of ghosts.  Someone has overpaid.
Get in and go for a ride.  Listen to the chants
They want blood, and more blood. Nothing to
Suffice.  Go back in and dial a number.
Pickup the receiver. Your hands are already disappearing.


strange rope falling from a ripe sky
immensities of tangled wirehair
sponge caught in brainnet
radio squeezing sounds
like molten through
pourus eye sockets
struggled to understand
stood as tall as can against bottlerockets
a feeling of wanting a pipe overhead
of being few a hushedness and fewer
of flowering optical going blinded by code
some dare get physical foreign languages
others on picnic benches fooling night children
still others sit stunned watching images of glass slide by
amidst profane blue screens sliding into a ne'er eternity
of stunted voices calling out collisions what's the occasion
don't you know it is it is public service announcement

ovid, milton, me

in the beginning, out of Chaos,

nihil est nisi mortis imago only death s faces

no light, but rather darkness visible

sed inter tenebras the mind...

in itself can make

a heaven of hell,

a hell of heaven

orbis ultimus here it s the last world,

the palpable obscure

et quocumque and everywhere

the void profound of unessential night

et for evil only good, eu cad

where all life dies, death lives

into the heart of an immense burel...

a black dungeon

through the void immense to search

with wandering quest a place foretold

being covered with darkness

and tears that would not fall

and Parcae: the new age was asked a change...

everybody, everything, you, I, all that exists

( Ovid, Milton, me)

From the Balcony He Watched Music Pour from Silver

He did not speak.
He heard the simulacrum
of sine wave enlist his sadness.
Apart from her he felt the music
take her place. She took a sample
of the melody, released it to the room.
They each would walk away.

The place from which he watched
was never filled with tune.
He sensed the needle draw
the faculty of hearing forward,
form a line from her to him.

She noticed how the music left her
to become the music and the instrument
he had been hearing all his life.
Along the staves a stammer left
the little hill of whole notes
clear, considered full, as if
to parse a sostenuto.