Get the kite. Watch out for the wire.

The Long Day

Remember the time 

the bell in the clock tower

got stuck and struck

forty-seven times in a row

and everyone wanted to know

if the Rapture had happened

and, if so, what am I doing here?

Remember it took and ladder

truck from the firehouse

and a couple of firemen

to quiet the damn thing down?

It seemed like more of an

emergency than it really was.

 Apate -- Art Card series

 Collage with Gravy

 My drink for the day:

tall glass of crushed ice

juice of 2 limes

2 oz. of Stirrings' Ginger liqueur

swizzle and enjoy.

Neoteny - Art Card series

 

 04132021

Eugene was in a dream

Being a being. 

It’s a beginning.

The sound suddenly

Notified me that I’d

Left the water running.

I hadn’t. A big jet

Was landing at the

Air force base more

Than a county away.

Eugene was untied

And ready for Jack.

Coy Moon

Pink cheeked in a peek-a-boo sky

Multi warbled birds circle the dawn

while we shadow ourselves in sleep.

Have you seen fish kiss each other?

Let’s swim deeper under the covers,

warm the rainbows in our desires

with schools of sparks and swirls of

fire. Every inch I give is an offered

mile. Now it’s new. Now it’s full.

We float deep in a pearl flavored pool.

Ice Sky

Jonah Talks to Pinocchio

We’ve got this problem. It holds

us in its mouth like piece of candy.

The cave is dark and breaths wet

air. Am I white or black, wood or

fat? I keep my thoughts in clouds,

but how crazy do you have to be

to think you could ever be real?

Your father was a clock maker

and your mother was carving knife.

Mine was a whirlwind and a song.

We both escape to be trapped.

The clouds conspire and thoughts

rain down like soft silver bullets.

All along the coasts guards post

flares, search the shore for missing

puppets and prophets. Hear their

hardware slap their thighs. See

the darkness in their dilated eyes.

We hold each other inside. We

know the white outside swims

in icy water. You say, “beluga,”

and get tangled in your own strings.

The cosmos commands me to say

important things which scare me

to say. Leave me sick on the beach,

while you drift with the sticks

out beyond the blue, blue, blue.

Coat Check

We could meet in the parking lot

Of the Circle Cinema; the coffee

Shop has tasty tarts and comfy

Couches for us to share. Stir my

Cream in mystic spirals—recall

Steam over winter grates, clouds

Like meringue toasted in sun fall,

We were women in long clothes,

Ornamental metals chained around

our necks. In the second it takes to

Spin I have fallen in love with your

Chin and how your laughs sound.

Brown leaves as frozen as green

Buds in glaze, the season wheels

Like a drunken cinematographer

Who tries to tell what kisses mean.

National Auto

The dealership by the highway

Never takes down the fleet flag

In its floodlights and flash,

Though, because of another

Meaningless American massacre,

It is at half-staff.  

     Past midnight

In a winter storm, hail and freezing

Rain, the seams have come un-

Done among the strips.

   A body

Of blue, the stars freeze silver.

Red ribbons and white bandages

Like tentacles coil the harpoon pole.

How fast can you drive on ice?

How far?

Reflection in Difference

My chiral lover from long ago

Don’t make me sad. Say, “told

You so.” I think I do not want

To know, or impose once more.

Peripheral to lives we’ve lived

Apart and still a part of today,

I could grab your hand and find

It warm. I missed your wave

From the window as I drove

Away into the rain, the night,

Drove away from this time.

Knightly Dreams

Boiler plate on my breast

With a crest of crossed fingers

I consult my arsenal, the ideal,

Like a falcon hooded on my wrist.

I campaign for the honest truth,

Love from lust to brotherhood.

Come, run with me. Noble,

Wild as mountains or wind.

We flow together, one in blood.

Years have turned and gone, heart,

Since I touched your shiny lips,

Your laugh warm against my neck.

I will not let your death be quiet.

Though my broken voice ages

What we share will fill pages.

Log In (a paste poem in memory of J.A.)

Got it wrong in the past, rewrite it.

The normal rules of nature do not apply.

It makes individuals sensitive to context,

Regardless of the level of existence.

The peach harvest is way down in Georgia.

Sensitive to context and 'open' to change

what does apply? A two-pronged approach

helps us adapt to adversity. Push RESET.

It has practical applications. By backing up

You watch where you no longer are.

Kick in to rapidly open a window.

Strike out to emphasize the need.

Enter into a more adaptive or 'plastic' state—

The idea becomes paradoxical, a contradiction.

Aren't we surprised that it might be possible?

Imagine “I’m melting” as permanent lifestyle.

We need to pay more attention to context.

Consciousness seems to be always continuous.

Reconfigure the juxtapositions. Slice and dice

Existence at the interstices ≈ the swerve.

I believe this is the future to believe in

Again. The illusions vanish but reflect

Caught in headlights at noon—BOOM!

There are no perceivable edges, only ends.

Doesn't Say Much

Blues in Green

Once a Future

Late

Afternoon and

I hold my balls in hand.

The world should be a better place.

Wait.

Hylozoist

Matter represents itself

As all possible reality.

This apple isn’t orange,

It is roughly vermillion.

I knew as much when I

Was only four years old.

I liked the feel of warm

Sand on a sunny day.

I built office buildings

For little plastic citizens.

My best friend was far

Away at kindergarten.

I barely knew who I was.

I knew what I could do.

How do you access the

Unconscious by yourself?

A fortiori, you understand

Yourself as a subconscious.

At the core, we know what

We think of a slow sun sink.

The sun becomes the moon.

Moon becomes midnight.

Ralph said stars are alive.

I let me soul come and go.

Tidbits and Gigabytes

Adenosine is an endogenous

Sleep inducer. That's why we

Feel more awake after coffee.

You may have known

Lithium from its role

In rechargeable batteries.

Do you think it more effective

To have a cooperative network

With a clearly chosen coordinator?

Such instabilities are akin

To a snake or dragon

That swallows its own tail.

Joe tells us that the citron was

Considered a valuable commodity

Due to its healing qualities.

'Life-years lost' is a better approach

To observing mortality trends, 

Than cause of death.

Repairs

Workers

Break the street,

Pour in new concrete.

Skilled hands sculpt the curb.

Park it.

Fairy Tale

Monsters jump around in my head.

Copper green with wing feathers

Sharp as saws and lightning eyes.

I try to run from your many arms.

Fangs like ice cycles drip poison.

Lips thick and clay black kiss

The back of my neck. I bleed.

I sweat as my burning eyes roll.

Don’t tell me what is real or

What I feel. You know this is all

Your fault. Born from heartbreak

Slim dragons and crystal snakes

Tie my hands together; gag me.

Where did you take me? Desire

Wires my guts. I swallow vomit

Like liquor. You twist my wrists.

I will not look. I will not feel.

I will forget that you are real.

Used Equipment (for Michael Robbins)

Nothing about growing up in Colorado

Wheat fields or Arkansas rice paddies

Makes you have to be so critical, Mikey,

Except maybe for the homogenous space

And the insistent vibrations in your head.

Pop music microwaves the countryside.

A really pretty-white girl writes love songs

With a purple ballpoint in her spiral binder

And somehow becomes a millionaire idol.

This is the dream of every worm alive

By a heat vent in the Pacific Trench. So,

We dream of deep water and hot women.

If words riot will books self-immolate?

Will the fire illuminate the dark face

Of what life turns from? Do you think?

You have to be anonymous to remain

Autonomous. Work through questions—

No, no answers at the back of this text.

On the Road to Salvation

In long black coats

And furry black mittens,

What causes these two

Nineteen year-old boys

On missionary bicycles

To be so eager to witness

Their belief in the Book

Of Mormon and Jesus

To me and my pooch?

Don’t they have a clue

How cold it is standing

In this empty parking lot?

My dog, and right on cue,

Has a deed he needs to do.

Perseids Peaks

Parked on the edge of the Costco lot past midnight

under the hazy heaven of city lights and moon,

you point out the one star bright enough to see

and it is a planet.  One meteor streaks beyond neon.

We lean back on the windshield and drink soda,

like students in the cheap seats we wait for the

celestial shower to show what mid-August brings,

orbiting dust. We hold hands in astrological hush.

A Jet Blue heads for the airport while another

makes a steep ascent. Our vigil is spontaneous

otherwise we would be on some bluff miles

beyond the suburb. We have the radio and blues.

Trucks travel the interstate oblivious to the stars

as well as our car solitary in this vast black field.

We imagine we ride a raft over the ragged edge

of the world. We fall into a sky dizzy with breath.

Shadows move over us as a helicopter patrols

alleys and backyards. One streak explodes to six.

I squeeze you in my arms and hum satisfaction

as dawn pulls us back to earth and another day.

(After Poem of the Day: August 12 in the Nebraska

Sand Hills Watching the Perseids Meteor Shower

By Twyla Hansen) 

Noon

In hot

heft of brilliance

on a billowing blue lawn,

anesthetized by subtle breeze

we lunch.

View through Blinds

Long haired youth

strolls down the walk

in morning dew-light

He sports only nylon

basketball shorts

and his smart phone.

So much hair

his face is hidden.

Lean like an animal

in healthy wilderness,

he steps one white leg

after the other.

Ripples in the small

of his back as his

quadratus lumborum

flexes, he steps up

to the porch and in

the door, forever again.

Tough Tense Future

Full of same; feel of same, glory and good

Swirls of soft water, autumn and this blue feather,

I give you hunger. You give me savory food.

Spring, summer, one or the other, I did what I could.

I worked through years of bad to worse weather,

What we gave and got was well understood.

Real as rain, air and sky the same twist of road,

I walk in dust and mud to get us back together.

Your friends go out of their way to stay rude.

Fall and refrain, limp almost lame, broken toed,

Weeds flower in liquid particles and scatter.

Pain and passion, real or the same collude.

Autumn will be winter, same old same, wood

Ricks and racks like drunken steps stagger

Along the hem of our pasture, slippy fluid.

Same is winter flocks and flurries. Hot brewed

You draft ducks and bats, boil lace and leather.

Forget I said what I want to do. I’ll help load.

(A reflection on the Poem of the Day for August 9, 2017:

Not Pastoral Enough, By Veronica Forrest-Thompson

 homage to William Empson)

Snap

A photograph of what I once was

is more real than I am now,

more accurate for the lack of action.

You can see that nothing’s happening.

The shutter blinks in a diastolic stop.

The soul contracts, inhales the light.

The mind plays over each detail

weaving a recognizable impression.

The background is not ground but sky.

The light angles low and slightly

behind the hair. Reflections from a

white wall fill in some shadow, give

highlights under the eyebrow and

hint at something sinister in the smile.

The lips closed. Nothing to be said

that the picture does not say better.

Thursday April

We're gonna iron the dog,
cross the fence and
blonde my fries,
this day grows pnuematic
and doors bloom in the shade.

Take me lakeward and wet me
like a robot in thunderstorms,
I cannot interpret bar-b-que
or the ridge of your ribs.
Bring the possum water
and salt. Red arrows wing
like lightning into the sun.

I see it all as I step away:
Field mice skip and hum.
Hay will be made they pray.
But first, pass some time
and toss all that confetti.

Kites come with wine bottles
tied to their tails. Bottles ring.
We brought ghouda and jars.
A rugby team jaunts distant yards
as geese honk north over steeples.
Yellow lights strobe the beach.
It is so easy to lick your feet.

O organ in the woods
lift your reeds to the moon.
I am in need of seratonine
and a little piece of pie.
Wind, wind, wind, below.

The Heart of Crystal Bridges

 THE DREAM

IN    WHICH
WE    WALK
EVERY DAY

            for Joe Milazzo

You discover a Sherman tank in the attic

rumbling across rafters over acoustic tile,

electrical wire interweaves with blue steel

like the beginning of a stormy thought.

You name it “him,” so the swivel cannon

becomes a religious icon. In cord net

sweat shirt and canvas pants his skin

glows pink as a cat’s tongue and shiny.

Excuse this dream, it will not hurt

or protect you from sunburn or in-

sanity. How squeaky the treads mesh

over the trunks of forgotten letters,

heirlooms and old photos. Dust stirs.

Through multiple layers of bullet-

proof glass, you target the trapdoor

which lowers a ladder into a garage.

If any girl sticks her curls up you

will blow them out through the vent

into the bent night, the broken stars,

the sullen tree — on into the avenue

with its scatter of  tire treads and

chrome plated shards. Poof!

Like Counting Gulls

Foreign fighters flock

to the tune of a billion terrors.

The instruments, though digital,

still function as pre-medieval.

Sledge hammers do not erase

seven millennia of  stone history

so much as make virtual icons

of jackass perpetrators.

We down play perpetuation

as armies trek their annual

migrations across capital capitols.

All those domed spaces

seem to need the toll of bells

as they gleam under star fall.

We go strewn as shrapnel

and broken seashells

under the constant trickle

of time, the infinite ripple.

All pools at tidal edge.

Now you see the next combatant

lose all his downy feathers.

His hands no longer useful

for letters. Language lacks 

both permanence and perfection

no matter which prophet speaks.

Almost Buds

We were the winter trees

in chill mist and dank,

close as glass to drizzle.

I remember your hand

settling around the page

under the pillow

and between days.

We drank hot tea and talked.

Deep thoughts and serious,

we laughed at society

and our lack of place.

The equinox and new leaves

dot a weft of twigs and stems;

fringe the mist with promise.

How impossible

being this age

and never pledged.

Circumstances force us

to be the forest.

We come to a place

where memories rest.

A stone throat speaks

the heart’s silence.

Under Doll

The media eye rolls

over the female body.

This is not everybody.

I find myself in front

of the cutting edge.

Hold the honing steel.

The oval, the opal, the

range finder fastened

securely to the barrel.

More than Mississippi

nights flow through

grassy boundaries.

Could this be big fur?

I’ll take the baseball—

paint your face on it.

Could be my home run.

Actually

http://extext.tumblr.com/

eder castillo: .

eder castillo: .: ...

Nox

The night has big lips
and smiles with an overbite.
O Moon, she lets her
bright tits hang out.

I'm doing a donkey time
dancing on this one foot &
singing without any strings.

Old Lady Moon she makes
me swoon and bottles of
silver toots. I guzzle her wine
and she fills me fine like
ladles and goblets and boots.

Drip me your love, your
tears like pearls, and I'll
loll in your old blue gazebo.

Way Over

Way Over

On the way
we knew
it would be over
by the time
we got there
but we had to
get there
before
we could believe it.
We were
on the way.
There was no way
we would stop
now.
We didn't think
about it.
We couldn't.
We wouldn't
if we could.
It might have
be better
if we had,
but it still
wouldn't be good.
We didn't
let the mood
intrude.
By the time
we finally got there
there was
nothing left
but left overs.
We couldn't leave
on our own.
Our destination
was our destiny
but not our
history.
No Johnny
Come Lately
we were always
ahead of ourselves
even when
we were
behind the times.
Delay was
in the way.
Detour was
de rigueur.

Pre-Ocupado

Behind gold bars the saints of Sacks

and Goldman reign free as they will

ever be—solitary in their precious

minds. No need to prosecute the rule

writers. What use? What wrongs us?

Regulators play later like actors with

no heart. Oh, the fungible chains of

imperial favor, the up and dash to it,

the down at the Dow; Oh, legendary

ledgers, wages and wagers, Uroborus

consumer, Slice-O-Matic appliance

financers—toast me over easy as living.

Neon in Your Eyes



Here break brick
walls, work stopped,
blizzard blows snow

dunes along the walk.
Twilight at midnight,
fractals and stop lights,

sequins drift against
the doors as you
struggle out of sleep-

single cup of coffee.
Metal stockades, the
pit-bull drags a chain.

Amble out the door
and to an all night
market, someplace

open, bleak but near.
How holy the alley
under icy wires.

Squeeze around the
locked gate like half
a dream and stillness.

R.C. Cola Églogue
(after David Dodd Lee)


What he did went unmentioned
under the neon spine
of a motel sign.


The signature in the street
a paranoid scar.
The hawk


as feathered lightening
made her kill.
I will.

Unmade Beds


Little animals go
through the thicket,
by up turned pots
and on into the wild.

The broken hoe,
the rusty bucket,
the gardner rots
in his compost pile.

After  Ryan Stanford Smith's
"Stumbling On as the Light Fails"

It is either a bird in the hand
or a stick of yellow butter; heat seeks
to order the day, the hazy
creamlike spilling of eyes down cheeks.
Yes, what the bush says is true.

Artillery either blasts or laughs,
or points to monumental clouds; we're blaming
carrion, echos of royal trumpets on the hill.
Still we rub dark in our eyes, without evidence,
without reaching, and paint flame in blues.

As Long In Tooth


Film rolls inside our brains, dark rooms,
dog trots along the fence line--the camp
liberated by vacancy--where the night meets.

Cams grind gunked with clay and soil, gray
as an old womans laughter on the cellphone
and in the quiet. A horn plays the subway,

mourns the right to speak, the right to hear--
moon weather. Gone! taken away in black
packages, like little flaws in LED displays.

"It's getting worse," the whispers have it.
Head bones and hog squeals, naked in my
leather vest, I drive out to burn the field.

No Requests Aloud


He suddenly found himself in a small living with
two women named Ruby. They both had guns.

How did he go from a magazine to this? He
thought he was waiting for horses to pass by.

Call him Sandarco. His lips almost do dimples.
You can imagine any mustache looking good.

Ruby and Ruby draw out a line of sequins.
They space stars along their hems and shuffle.

It's more than chili poker and cob corn holders
by the time the blinds start to do their thing.

Our hero decides to catch the next train, if he
can find which parallels. This moon’s so purple.

Swollen (after David Lee)



The power of the inclement—we talked and sat
around the pond. The radio sang swoons.


That old black party.


A television’s on at lunch; serious actors in the rain
speak with tear wet cheeks. Dust covers the remote.


I get up to go to the kitchen. Do you need another?

Young Flowers



The mirrored chickens
had not had babies yet.


The horse cried for an
hour. The apples soured.


My sister stole schnapps
and all my better prayers.


Pa threw me way high,
so I know he was strong.


Pa bought me a cowboy
outfit with finge and snaps.


The nights grew long
as we waited for the call.


I want to go back to
Oregon and twenty-one.


My greed makes me
feel like I need to shit.


I hope no one ever sees
this, or know who I am.


If I give you a whistle
would your dog chew it?


Ma has concerns over
pa's kidney malfunction.


She didn't bring the chicken,
just the sauce and spices.


Speckles jump on the wall
and I think I hear fish talk.

Now that the Frankenstein monster, Osama Ben Laden, has been eliminated, it is time that Russia be assigned administration of Afghanistan. This reversal would truly conclude this episode of Taliban/Al-Qaida absurdity and re-institutes an authentic movement toward the globalized project of liberalized hegemony. The Russian interest is realized by the presence of Afghan drug cartels, which embody a threat to the Russia people, its allies, and by extension, Europe and North America. Russian presence is justified in the guise of a Middle Eastern "War on Drugs." This new position must be taken, in cooperation with Western forces, to reset the region to a pre-Reagan condition and allow a rational replay of the past two absurd decades.

Best Directions

To get off this desert, follow the any mirage
till you get to Bone Valley, turn down the nearest dune
and go all the way to the elevator. Push the button
for the rooftop penthouse. There you will see a lavender
wigwam under a plastic magnolia. There may be a neon
moon or a series of blinking stars. For some
reason there is a beaded door (not the traditional
rawhide). If you detect the odor of sage burning
then it is safe to enter. Otherwise wait for someone
in warpaint to scan you for metal objects.
You must be good with your hands to communicate
here, although dance also works well.
Whatever you do, keep your mouth shut.
The older women do not like to hear strangers speak.
Neither do their men.
You will find beer.

Blood Words

Shoes off in another direction. Can't keep track
of the changes. Traveling with a jazz chart. Horns.

Under seal, I can tell you only approximately how
I feel. Vague as want and as exact as you expect-

who knows a lack? It's all locked doors. & I want
to paint them black. That must be rust, or someone

bled all over these bricks. Every death is a relief.
Wow, what a rational belief. Put that on the map.

We find you sitting in the cab of your pickup listening
to Manic Zebra while bees pollinate the orange grove.

Somewhere your illegitamate children are working
in the onion fields. The banker drinks ruby martinis.

Missing Pixels

There was pile
Of hard drives
Stacked by the door.

Jill lost her I.D.
In the backseat
Of a two-door.

She carried a purse
Full of glitter bottles
And postcards.

At the height geese fly
They are always
In a fog.

Everywhere you
Could hear honk.
It's a sexy pose.

The Superstitious Prayer

Walking eyes, the painting hangs silent and still. My

imagination moves it. The milk pours. The dragon dies.

The king coughs. The sunflower looses its color and

dries. Ran over a nail in the snow, now the tire is flat.

I photograph a famous bench. I would have take your

picture, but you could not lift your veil. I understand.

Children march bare-kneed to the sound of a tin drum.

In the background you can hear paper being shredded.

We know how to learn. Any dufus can change a tire

and/or feed the chickens. Only gods can play the tuba.

Great-grandfather Rice taught us to Sake, so what’s

it to you? I’ve seen champagne bubble in the sunset.

The Iron-Wheeled Tractor

What a beautiful icon. Is it of you? I think it could be.

I know you’ve been worshipped. Holy-Moly, woman.

A million little virus can kill an ox. Cold wet feet

make my nose stop up. If you loved me you’d rub

them. As for the ox, he’s lying in state. Your icon

cries tears of real blood. I double-cross myself,

once for each thief. We’ll party like communist,

another five year plan. Plow under the bottom line.

The Agra-chemical company designs biotech

plants and marvelously proportioned minarets.

There’ll be trouble in the stubble after the boss

finds out who got his goat. I love you, little girl.

33. Simple Vowels

Selfish reasons, when something, like a flight of steps,
injures you, it is for selfish reasons. Things want attention.

Strange though, for them to be real you cannot think
about them. Except insofar as thought is an experience.

Thought is not innocence. They tell us angels dance on
the head of a pin, but do they ever get to the point!

I've embarassed myself. I make cinnamon toast in the
toaster oven. I take off my socks and turn the TV on.

I cleaned house and ironed shirts, even a linen table
cloth. The boss called and I told her about snow devils.

I cooked red rice and black beans. The person in the
back bedroom has been quiet for over a month.

32. Molecules

There are two things that we have in common. We are both
full of something, and we think that the color blue is a sky.

Does this bus have far to go? Ants and gnats plan a picnic.
We are invited, and that is why I have this mayonnaise.

Help me with this, will you? Instructions, directions, parts
lists, a simple tool, loss in translation and enlightenment.

Thank you. I want to talk some. I think there are mountains.
There bath is ready. The lecture goes on without me.

Knowledge lives in a ghosts. Birds fly over the snow.
Drummers sit quietly in their vans and wiggle their eyelids.

Tomorrow may be more real than we want it to be
judging by the sound of automatic gunfire. Communicate.

31. Metaphor Is Different

The idea comes like a bus, always a little late. You wait.
You finger the fare. You warm coins and sheild your eyes.

You want to talk some more. Everyone is between class.
Everywhere is unwalkable grass. Perfumes waft like a girl.

The sun speaks, the wind gestures to the trees. The clues
come unglued. Seems I hear French, a boy's converstation.

This composition takes on the characteristic of a striped
awning under which we find ourselves standing yawning.

I feel alien in this history. You should be more comfortable
having time to think about as you do. Guess I just hung up.

Man, if I could understand how your lips work, how your
hands make signs when you pause, I could fingure it out.

Notes to a Textbook of Poetry

30. What Thing Is

My memories are used. You chewed pixels and spat them out
like a kind of code, not the orange chair but the word for it.

Here we sit in divine love. A smoke screen divides the meaning
from the ending. That really sounds to me. That really sounds too.

Me, simply a reflection, incipient intermittency reificated in static.
This icecube melts. This drink dilutes. Yes, you are really you.

That's the end. If you didn't have time to finish/vanish worry.
Don't worry. Eyes in the woods follow you down the path.

You come to the source. It looks like a boulder, a large stone.
It must have been here a long time by the growth of moss.

Take a picture if you think you can pay for it. Fake an image
if you have the memory for it. I can smell the rock. Hear it.

As She Thinks She Is

Blue-dress woman,
I feel your heels
sky-high as thighs,
and the valley
where the railroad runs,
all locomotive as spawn.

I'm your T-shirt boy,
ticket to the east coast
and sunrise glory.
Believe. I have pearls
and rubber bullets.

Diamond hallucinations
like Lucy in the pits,
the water gurggles,
falls, turns to mists.
Silk-sweet woman,
caress me with your hair.

I know your inner girl
dolling around with me,
I lift my wings, flutter,
as you dance the thing.
Red-jeweled heart-throb,
break me where it hurts.

ESTIMATE-ZERO

I wish I was a hippie in tight with gawd.
I'd die on a cross to save some mawb.
And iffn' I was best peopl'd aplawd.
Where's the venue? O Lawrd? Lawrd!
Yawn me a heaven and lay me in sawd.
Smoke me a Bible. Unchain my dawg.
I wish I was tight, & all us's odd. Awe. Ah. A...
Daddy.

PERFECT

Ran-
Hours as an owl

So fill
A box

Essays make even
All arms

Try

Try, don't the poor hide?

How near I am
All ink-brown and sweet

"Line referances mind of bees"

In case of spill
Cry

Caramel sticks it

Roar, fans call the man at play.

I've been invited

(The public in the street

Hours parade off in direction of odors

Theory being from "they're"

(Police tickets and a cop

Thunder's a angry knot

Yes, we drive through the park,
Insisting, on signs. Feel the progress

Foyer?



Morphed from The EFFECT
by David Dodd Lee posted at
http://seventeenfingeredpoetrybird.blogspot.com/ 01-11-11

After a Romance

When I met up with Lord Byron
He was reading Jack Spicer
At the Spanish Cafe. We drank
Exotic waters. He described
Love as a concrete-blue bird.

The waiter mistook my English
For German and brought me
A steamy bowl of brains in broth.
Byron couldn't take his eyes
Off the toreador-looking youth

Waiting by the door for girls.
I had just finished reading
A long article about the status
Of critiques and literary code.
I was thinking about misconstrued

Meanings and their importance
As a creative act. Byron wanted
To wipe his feet on Portugal.
I think he must have been in love.
The noon skyline reflected

In my soup. I spooned rooftops
And slurped radio antennas.
Of course, Jack was comatose
On the elevator, clouds leaking
Our of his pockets. But Bird

And Alex know all this. Okay.
Money for a taxi's in the box
By the stove. Come ASAP.
If you know where Jim is,
Tell him it was always too late.

The Slaves Retreat


Eye blank in trout
And fin. The rot of cash ring
Is token. Fools

Save leaves on shelves.
Chalk mouth of this turf,
New gal-o-wine.

Why rivers should bathe
Those of us who teach:
Growlin' at the sky. My

Hut on the high-
Lines comes near to the
Notion. Again,

Fake. A cycle won't make
The decision. A dozen,
Say, "Piss where he's

At peace, a train station."
We hop the tram.
Ivy brought a pot of lime

To drink. Dandy,
What's not to give? Con-
Ceptual rotation.

Fig, man. "Dear War, we
Climb over Heroes."
And carrion.


_________________________

Morphed After David Dodd Lee's
The Waves Repeat 01-05-11
Seventenfingeredpoetrybird.blogspot.com

The Fifty CD Mixes of Laurie Park

Noodle with a Beat
Chinese Chicken on a Roof
Lady with Wrong Thong
Twenty Men and Mountain Fog
Going Through the Door to Sho-Sho's House
Tiny Horse with Bows
Life as a Line Drawn by Hand
Excuses for Not Dancing
Boy with Big Front Teeth [Winks]
Snow Laughter
Bright Spear and Song Bird at Dawn
Holding Hands on Stepping Stones
Goat Man Honors His Mothers
Old Fat Lou in the Bath
Mud Jump Play-along
Pictures from the Funeral
Lady Sneaks Out of Her House
Go to the Bus Stop
Eat Drink Smile Place
Best to Keep Your Mind Safe
Spinning Fry with Sour Juice
High-Walk Spaghetti Strand
Small Umbrellas for Drunks
Random Light Twinkle in Mist
Your Fish or Mine?
Blanks Left on Purpose
The Yellow Seems Real
Arched Bridge Over Soup
No Place for Ugly Child
Basket Woven of Snake Fur
Colors in Bleach
Girl Holds Kite Like Star
Unusually Normal Time
(missing)
My New Slipper Dance
Three Dolls Tea
Fire in Chip Form
Hundreds like Grains of Sand
Head Stand Kitty
The Better Infections
Dark Place for Rent
Go Before You Forget
Salad with Little Buds
Yesterday, I Saw Transistors
She Carries Strawberries
Long Before the Elephant
Cave of Impenetrable Being
Tuba Alarm Orchestra
Cheery Music Club
Filiments of Strange Sheen
All Alone Together Going
Pink Sugar Heart Pop
Eye Newt and Uvula
We'll Come in Pieces

Shiney Bones in the Dark

Eclipse my moon.
Twang my fang.
Ash my eye.
Face me
white.
Lie.

From when we were young actors and our movies were 8mm.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IAWfdbjV64I

Caroling

I find myself in a snowglobe
except it is warm
and what swirls is goose down.
The bells ring randomly
like someone dropping silver nails.
Everything through
the convex glass
seems gigantic, closer than real.
A big pink hand reaches out
and picks me up.
A shake, and I float weightless
as a star's death.
This is not liquid
but a lack of garvity.
I imagine I am convoluted.
Saved by the boot.

December 3, Mark Allen Everett Poetry Series


Shin Yu Pai must have felt constrained by the circumstances of her reading here last week.

She seemed demur and reserved. I appreciate her explanations, giving insight into the inspiration for the poems, so that she could read series without explicated each individual poem.

The poems she read are all very interior, as if they exist within the walls of a museum—a world in which she is comfortable and in control. I understand that the Buddha world is also very interior. Still, my experience is that one is engulfed in void more than one “steps into the void.” The enclosed space of the poems gives a claustrophobic feel to her work. I was wanting her to hang a window on one of her walls—Billy Collins Monday ( http://lizmuir.blogspot.com/2008/04/poets-are-at-their-windows.html ).

I was surprised when I received the copy of Sightings: Selected Works 2000-2005 which I ordered. Her book is very different from her presentation. From the die-cut cover to the exploded text of her poems, her training as a graphic artist gives these poems great vitality.

While I enjoyed her reading, her book is even better.

Slow as Centuries

All morning dump trucks rumbled up and
down the street. Derrida Demolition
wrecked the Lake Isle Hotel.
This evening I watch
yellow dust as
it settles.
So.

Big Lands

Amo rode out on the mesa with Bobby Bluepony.
They hunted stars like lustful astronomers.
The house kept quiet by the creek.
Smoke rolled around the horses.
Something slithered in dark.
Bobby was humming
like a guitar string.
Rocks fell near
and across
the path.
Blow.
Up.

Western & Country

Play the kind of music
that makes me feel like
doing laundry by hand.

Along the Beach of No Return

I find shells in shells. The sun
in my mouth and the sand
in my ears, I know the
hold & tug of under-
tow. Weeds like
waves tangle
wind and
sound.
Cry.

Half Out of Water

I am working on tomorrow, or the day after.
It is sad that I have not been invented.
You told me that I am not wanted.
I believe the rain is colder.
No wonder feels like
this slip of tongue
under the eye
and all,
yet.

(An occasional poem written for the 

2010 Paseo Arts Association Awards Ceremony & Banquet)

A Pleasure 

It's a pleasure.

It's a pleasure to be.

To be sure, it’s pleasant.

Being and all that.

Pleased to be here

and to be heard.

What's it worth?

It's worth a try.

What a Pleasure!

Here we are, still—

perfect reflections of

the primordial thrill.

Mirrored in the mire of  DNA.

What was it Santayana

used to say— “intelligence

is but one centrifugal ray

darting from the slime

to the star.” And he says,

“protoplasmic pleasure.”

Every cell full of

its own joy in living.

Joie de vivre—

as the British put it.

Every bit of life scintillates.

When all these cells

gather together

it must be a something—

a parade, an occasion.

A vacation:

The sunshine spreads

and I see cells chillin’

each under a tiny parasol.

They sport sunglasses.

They lounge on a deck,

which is some body.

Blood is the Red Sea.

The belly’s a cruise ship,

Royal Caribbean liner.

I am one happy being,

being here—like a premier:

Roll out the red rugs.

Throw a few kisses.

Gentle with those hugs.

This is what this is.

Lights! Camera! Action!

Let the public clamor.

Tonight is not ordinary.

Tonight is all for glamour,

a formal occasion,

a rare affair, a function,

even an event.

This special evening,

(did I mention?)

this is all for art.

Art is the object—

thought made real.

This is the big deal

and it is a thrill.

It’s the part that stirs the heart.

What’s the matter?

Art makes it better.

It had better. – It will.

It all seems so real.

Thrilling to the core

It’s how we feel.

We couldn’t be more.

It’s the buzz

between “will be” and “was.”

It’s a cellular celebration,

singular and world wide.

Teasing text, I type

with just my pinky fingers

on a keyboard the size

of a matchbook. Striking.

My poems become electrons,

showers of sparks in the dark.

They glitter in the sun.

A life magnifies in dewdrops.

But this is bigger, bigger

than all of us.

Bigger than life, you know,

gallery sized. That’s huge,

something like liberty.

Happiness, I guess. Yes.

I’m ready for my 3D-Imax,

high-def, Mr. Spielberg.

Bring on the elephants, acrobats;

the sane, the absurd.

My expressions grow abstract.

What’s the right word?

Which ones are left?

Let me picture them.

Real to real, it’s like

you can almost touch

the ideal. Reach. Feel.

Life is a roll in the hay.

Lovers for a day.  So.

Let music fill the ear.

Let color catch the eye.

There are reasons to live,

and this is very why.

We join the occasion

(in progress now). We

lift our glasses high.

Toast artistic creation

in all its manifestations.

We laugh. We cry. We sigh.

At last this is what we know:

What you feel is all  you show.

I’m overwhelmed in gratitude.

Gracious, and I’m grateful

for this pleasure.

But one last emoticon before I’m done : )

as Albert, in Bye Bye Birdie,

sang, “put a happy face on.”

Now, to the fun—

Honor to each and all,

and thanks,

everyone.

Fruit

So, we stopped by the Happly Apple
for some ruhbarb pie.
Scotty had on his overalls
and was beating pans with spoons.
The cream was fresh.
Betty whipped it up good.
That must've been what started it.
We thought heaven was
just around the corner.
Then Bob got mad at Sam.
I don't know who said what,
I just know the taste got bitter.

Line

The muddy river hides my tracks.
Joe says he's a snake herder.
We'll fry serpent tonight.
Wheels go around.
Nothing moves.
The moon
spits.

After Illes Balears

Moon dims, rays
rondo blue lights
across my lagoon.

Music from mandolins
or worn out guitars
reflect the few stars.

Night whips clouds
like high, thin gods.
I dance in down,
thistle and mist.

Fantazy

O, mechanical monkeys
are swinging after me.
And they are all headless.
And I really need to pee.

I run into the jungle
and climb a plastic tree.
It's coconuts are silver.
It winds up with a key.

The elephant drinks cola
and trumpets across the sea.
Buddha rings a bell, so
it must be time for tea.

The panther hides in jelly.
At night he's hard to see.
Yes, the rainbow is a halo.
If you're not in jail-be free.

It’s a Date

(Barcarolle)

Walking back
the path along
Creaky Creek,
I swear there’s
neon in the water,
dark-green neon,
spelling out
R-I-P-P-L-E-S
like neon does.

The fish flash,
while wild
leaves laugh.
Insects sigh.
Birds nest
in binoculars.
Walk back like
we say. We
agree to meet.

—Noon, at the
Point of No
Return.
Hello.

Costumes

The young guy at work says he
is going to dress up like
me for Halloween.
I am too.
Boo
!

Amuse me.

Is there anything more private than a poem?
This public confession that may or may not be fiction-
     this excess of intellect, brute emotion and archetype?
How else can the soul whisper/screem into the variant air?
Clouds are more real and less dangerous.
Rocks are no more substantial.

Deputy Do Dah ran down the road,
dirt and his heels and rocks at
his toes. Ran eight hours for
nothing and yelled at the
sun. He had a pocket
full of bullets but
none for his
gun. This
is his
in.

You
stone.
You rock.
You pebble
in the heron's
beak. You grain
of sun on the beach.
Confuse skin and flame.

Had a care.
Did.
Don't.
You?

Fashion

She had one of those new faces
that looked more beautiful
when slightly bruised--
that color of skin,
as she is seen
in French
maga
zine
s.

The Child's Confession

Baby ate a fiddle back.
Puppy's in the pond.
Daddy had a heart attack.
Who's the with my mom?

Couldn't get to school today,
Not with a bloody nose.
See, the man who likes to play
By taking off my clothes.

Living in a mobile home,
Living in the park,
I don't like to be alone,
Especially in this dark.

Motion

Parties appear
and then vanish.
For a moment it seems someone
say somethingin Spanish.
Appointments
are sharpened
and then dulled.
Expectation is denied;
love overruled.

The Frog

Look at that old poet
sitting on a log
by my pond.
How thrilled he seems
when I jump in.
He mouths, "Plop."
I make ripples.
He writes poems.

How Do You View?

What do you care about
the brick path
I walk down
with this water bucket?
Do you care about
the pot of basil
that needs the water?

Do you care about me-
how my bare feet feel?
Is it the joy
of being sympathetic,
the sensation
of your feet
and some other
brick path?
The sun
warms
even the shade.

And what a beautiful bag of blood you are,
my guttsy muscle, my skin-glistening friend.
Come, let us wrinkle together.
I have breath to share.
I know the place just beyond apprehension
where you want to be touched.
Lets find water and submerge.
Lets live the urge.

I Bike up

morning shade

alley to work,

the bird,

the squirrel,

the young man

who says,

"Hello, sir."

What did

I forget?