Monday, October 26, 2009

chatter box

yr so dumb. conufliction in the rapacious night.
there were twos and threes and methamphetamine ambitions.
no one saw the straw on the table before
you did, no one could pick up a line better.

or was that a pick up line. i don't want
to be holding on to your psychosis all night.
find me a coat hook and flea bag motel. if you
were a hooker this would all be easier, as it is
your inner slut gets the better of you
and the bills go unpaid.

just your luck you visited cougar town
before the hot chix were there. just your luck
your weathly patron lives in a trailor park.
no trees to hand yourself from. i am

unsympathetic in writing. but you're not asking me
for smokes so our pact carries forward. the pages
of the globe whip the conditoned air. you are only
surviving. how can i blame you for that? i was the one
wanted you to live.

so the poem ...
now the blog....

>«(((º> >«(((º> >«(((º> >«(((º> >«(((º> >«(((º>

Saturday, October 24, 2009

be of use

#2 [-]

(10/24/09 08:44:29)


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the suicide is an interesting personality to live with. base state is time out. inherent problem with my brand of crazy he says. i need to obsess and focus on the clinical aspect of this desire to throw myself in front of a truck in order to save my life. when i die will you write my story? on a writer's level it's almost impossible to not want to transcribe the words of this person. he says it's not my art , it's my religion. our relationship has always had the aspect of mentor/student, for in the boy i saw myself. young, unsure, abandoned to adulthood without the first notion of its deadening rack. not to say naivety of the circumstances. any fool can see the contraption's bolts , the thistles climbing between the struts which hold the arches and cantilevered tasks aloft. no, what we didn't know was the way the desire to escape manifested itself in a slow drown inside the rainbow on the edge of the oil slick. sometimes the old lover creeps into the scene, wounds the moment with sentiment, but for the most part i'm satisfied as journalist, . that's when he's had enough, leaves the room, takes his words with him. i can't help but be relieved on one level. still, his words have an affect. they infiltrate the triibutes to my religion of the tale.

what i meant for him to try to integrate is how these very stimuli,the tasks before us, are part of the disease. the triggers. he wants to ignore triggers now, because they have no use. but last week he understood them in slices of flesh on his shoulder. if the master won't, he feels free to oblige. now he blithely ignores them in the face of lithium and seroquel. a flash comes to writer, how this is the mirror she warned me about. falling into the interlocutor's surface, how every man wants a woman who will reflect his story. this one is interesting enough, and safe. i was trained in the bi polar, only this time, i know what it's about, how it manifests, how to control it. it is my own lesson. student/mentor.

kurt vonnegut wrote the sirens of titan in the seventies. he was a chronic depressive. the suicidal was never far beneath his clownish stories. still, he lived into his eighties. the suicide argues but his was not mine, this bi polarity is unique and classifiable, on a range of charts and balances we could slide a mix into a cocktail that would allow me to harness the potential i have instead of wasting it on this obsession, which is the vortex that actually keeps me from jumping in front of the truck. if i stopped thinking about it, for one minute, i'd already be dead. the writer finds it interesting how the obsession feeds on itself. the mystic wants to give him a clue. the ex lover wants to pay for his meds. the teacher wants to beat him with a cane. he wants a mommy. she is not in the room. the student wants this class to be over.

Friday, October 23, 2009

galileo's finger

galileo's finger
Lead [-]

(10/22/09 21:00:38)


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i keep you trapped
in gilded glass, your fingerprints
search for the sun.

dawn lifts a cotton
blouse, revealing what you
long to touch

i guide you down a side street
up a culvert, over gentlle mounds, between
my lips come the songs of sirens

where you lose your flesh like all mortals.
fortuna favet fortibus. your bones carry
the secrets of stars. brush them
against my skin

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Electricity made us Angels.

Electricity made us Angels.

dark palms throw their heads tribal under
streetlights. the superconducting night
in static on legs. i put my foot in
a puddle on your knee. you brush it
aside, you have to wear those pants again.
my shoe drops. open the bottle
of electrons, it's in the kitchen brewing
in drips, methane flame blues
plays on the ipod. where there was none
tension builds. ions in the ozone
of our eyes.


when they touch you it feels like poison

you slide up next to me, slippery juice, a piece of mercury.
i move away but you follow gravity's well. you have s needle
in your tongue seeking vein. i'm close enough to hold pain
against your throat, but you're quicker, a stalling jet to my plain.
you know the release will disappear a llittle more so you
get your measuring tape, the video recorder, the digital scale.
but there's no accounting for the way the engine runs on this mix.
it perplexes you while you prepare a fix. acid reign in our bed,
the skin exchanged, the carrion, bled.

Monday, October 19, 2009

lebyakin's swansong (part 12)

strange thievery in the air.
calculator from seventh period.
ipod from a red convertible, netbook
from my living room. things
not valued. valuable money, for the weak.

the gods the gods the gods. i met a russian
lion, he was a fair nurse, not a guy
who set mice free, who chewed through ropes he
brushed the leaves of his night blooming sirus
let the strands of his daughter's hair
root in his fingers. there was not much
i could be for the man who wasn't there, he'd

let soundtrack into his bed and she kept him there.
back pain and indigestion. sweeping death out the door
all day long, i left a stain on his carpet, but not
much in his eyes. once i thought i saw him
but the wall shivered opaque, casting his hands
into shadows of ravens flying east. i was too earnest
by half, he was too hip to be bold.

but he'd loved once. yes he had. stepan trymanovitch-
avoided that fate, he did. he married her. the lass the girl
with a bottle of whimsy. liza he called her. moi malenkai babushka
he sighed and cleaned her with his tongue. she ran her fingers
thru his mane and plucked the hairs out one by one.

after that there was not much left to say. she took the baby
the cave was sold. he met a rebound, tried it all again, with
different sets but the same outcome. that's my cue.

i said to the man who wasn't there, dyosh vedanya.
to my surprise he nodded back, through time delay
and the collection of signs. we did a minuet. kissed
twice on each cheek. tightened the nooses round
each other's necks to stay warm. it was time to move
on the tundra of the bed. frank zappa and several
wine spills tried to warn us, but there was no danger.
we both knew it was just a little detente in the snow.

blog , the renewable retro

" they got all these gentrified gym rat abortionists
running onto the blogosphere from
myspaceing and facebook suicides. "

i think the next link in the chain
should be the strongest. time for that kind of pressure
and mettle. a blog of titles . a blog for font3 poems.
the chain link fence blog. willagong flog. tidal forces
squeeze europa every day. she wakes in the jovian morning
her insides churning. jellyfish for breakfast again.
plot sneaks up behind her and makes her flame her balloon
so she has to go change into a new one which makes her late
for work again. they notice. but they don't say anything.
at this point it's a marriage of convenience. she nods
to the flashing leds , who whisper something derivative
to HR, who issues a memo in red ink and posts it
on the company vortex. europa doesn't give a shit.
she knows t's about her, but they don't have the bloomeyes
to point a tentacle so she's gonna keep her cumulonimbus
just the way they are. titan whispers dirty little secrets
again, out of spite. europa counts to antares, by nine, but
it doesn't help, so she rips a hole into titan's crust
just to watch it freeze again. on the dark side, so titan
can't see it. dido sees it though, but has been sworn
to secrecy, a greek mythology her punishment should she speak.
europa is unaware of this special dispensation by the pope.
she would be livid if she knew, which makes it three times
as hard for dido, being the hall monitor she is, to keep quiet.
she's going to ask for a raise. this is a helium grade job.

time to manage to blogrollcall. europa grabs her
lightning and thunder and descends onto the floor.
let the g ames begin.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

your biggest fear

is that i put you in a pome.
welcome to your nightmare.

listen it was ok
that we make out like teenagers
with your exwife landlady
holding the door you go thru

and when i stop it's cuz you know i should.
yr so catholic that way.
but why try to tell me that moving out
makes a difference?

that you like my company &
want to see more. get me thinking
of accompaniment, making song.
it's not like you don't get what you want
without building lies of lives we'll never have.

i tell the young man actions speak louder than words.
and it's true. they collapse the moment
but words hurt worse. they create hope
where there was none. i'm so sorry i hit you
baby i wont' do it again.


the best part is i'll write this
and get it out of me. you're just another liar
playing on your lyre in the summer triangle
and i intend to let it die here. rot.
so the next time i see you
i can smile and say hey
who ya doin tonite?

yr such a slut. and think i am
just because i let you in
side my bra. heavy petting
i know you brah, you keep forgetting
i am more a poet and you
a papillon, a witches brew.

and now i hope to finish this
leave you to your stealing kiss
so much fun for you 2 think
your fantasy is just a wink

away from your death gasp
you're getting there, viagra clasp
someone'll take you up on it
maybe then you'll follow bliss

to your grave, mistaken knave
i am not your fantasy,

Wednesday, October 07, 2009


he says you can't have
too many walls. she spills
the red wind on the cream
carpet, he takes pictures of blood.

she twists and pulls, another
face appears this one has
a saxophone in his mouth. beer
in his hand. the moon is a sliced pancake
served up in a puddle of piss.

each layer peels the way of the previous
still, she's not impervious to nuance~
intellectually speaking, he seems to keep up.

where are your people from she asks.
poland, lithuania, south russia. she smiles.
steals another line from a philosopher.

listen, five years is a long time
but this moment
is the finest available. it's been aged
to perfection, curved , formed
to fit into the last one, carry the next.

he breaks glass with feathers, she paints
her shoes with a palette knife.
a string breaks in the next room.
they twist open another face.

as the dolls get smaller
they grow suicidally prouder.
another twist, another, another.
pretty soon all that's left is a point
that no one gets. you just
had to be there.

Monday, October 05, 2009


i'm afraid to do a tarot
too much to believe in.

besides it's been going
swimmingly without all that
whispering in my ear.

i mean it's enough
that there's so many
complications that appear
in the same rags
you wore last time.

well not exactly the same,
not tie with zippers
and safety pin necklaces.
not checks and stripes and buddy holly
glasses, but the same loose hip
chicken dance i always loves
when i open my eyes.

i mean. you dance.
philosophy can wait.


esidue count too high #1 [-]

(10/03/09 12:12:27)


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in those days there were public
libraries in the midst of communities
connected by surface roads and cloverleaf.

we imported our souls from russia, a heavy
cream settled in a samovar.

played in art theaters to less than
sold out houses, recieved
enthusiastically by those that were there.
especially the white out finale.

the elevator went up and down. stravinsky
markets flowered the finer hotels, dostoevsky
was sold in the library basement for a dollar.

where ever europe walked: the joys
of capitalsim and the manners of the civiilized.
our women were allowed some thoughts.
we delighted in fragrances and steam baths.
a freshly mowed lawn. abs of steel.

"i won't answer for it; the depths of the female heart
have not been explored to this day"

then russia stepped in. oh russia, your coarse
blonde steppes, plumbago eyes. buxom and willing
to warm up in the cold. but the phone call
remained a mystery, unopened.

in those days culverts where a man could lie
and let the sun beat down on him
in private were scarce. in those days
cell phones masked the insane. someone
could be calling. even with the batteries dead.


she steps out of the cafe for a smoke. wishes they'd been seated outside instead of by the bar, where beer and wine and football are served, with a band of nervous turkey in the background. the space is cavernous, sports an unused mezzanine in her city there are minarets of silver, a tea room with copies of gorsky on the tables, a flayed horse of metal lays on its side beside US41. it has caused some controversy. she opens her cell phone in front of the sculpture, which at first glance is the side of an ant, but upon closer examination is the horse with its agony/ecstasy rictus. she holds the cell phone up to her ear. silence. she speaks into it, pulls on her camel light. pretends to listen, then talk, then listen. traffic rolls by less than two feet from where she stands on the sidewalk, tires hissing over a lightly sprinkled road. if they'd sat outside, the food would be damp. it's not so much she wants to be unapproachable as she wants to seem as if she doesn't need it. rapprochement. the line between genders breached. this is a pub. sometimes things like that happen. she studies the sculpture, decides ecstacy. her cigarette is done. it's been good talking to you she tells the mute phone. let's do this again some time. closes her personal communication device with a snap, and goes back inside, where the crowd and the music-loud, dancing, cheerful and drunk-provides a canvass for her silence.


i had to take my car into the shop today. a headlite's been out for a while and a cop pulled me over last nite. the ticket, had he written it, would be one sixty. if he'd decided to inspect my car, the weed could have meant a trip to jail. oh well. some alt universe perhaps. russia, during the cold war period, let's say. america, in this post bill of rights era. luckily i had no current registration so he could write me up for that instead. only ten bux and a pain in my butt courthouse time. i rolled into ice cold auto air about ten. told them how i'd replaced the socket, replaced the bulb-twice because it's halogen she says, and i made sure i didn't touch the tip at all with the second one, he shakes his head it's not as fragile as they say-replaced the fuse with a known working one, and still only the high beams work can you check it out? he says can you leave it here for a while? sure, she nods. i'll walk over to the library. it's beginning to heat up indian summer after three days of florida fall (don't blink, you'll miss it) and the grass is that spectacular brand of deep neon green you can only see in nature as it's limned by road tar and tires.

russia's been on my mind ever since i saw cold souls on thursday. one of the characters is a russian mule that transports other people's souls into the USA for rent. half the movie was filmed in st. petersberg, in the winter, where the sky was the color of melting tundra. last nite the minarets of plant museum gleamed in the tampa sky, silver as a bullet, the moon a werewoman in a shades of gray babushka. i had dinne r with a nordic looking man, who liked the thai soup very much. and the coffee. he tells me how you can't have too many walls. i think of berlin. when i get home i notice the post about fdovstoev getting props and writing like a ..i was gonna say madman, but if it's poetry (and it is) that's redundant. feel like maybe i do know my ass from a hole in the ground. re poetry. re soul. re trusting my tastes.

on the way to the library i walk past the wrought iron fence of the buhddist temple. it's painted yellow, and all the structures within are also yellow. not lemon yellow or school bus yellow. some shade midway between the two. daffodil perhaps. i remember daffodils growing in the median of I95 the summer you were moving away, the summer i was moving out. the way they burst and whipped in the interstate wind. how the carolinas made your face less strict, as if going through the tunnel of pines as the sun rose to our right reminded you of something you once said you were going to do, but hadn't got around to yet. it was that kind of free light, opened upon small pass where we had met much earlier than we were supposed to. my skirt is the color of the flowers. the flowers are the color of the temple gates, where i stand, both in and out of the holy place at the same time, stalking god. a monk in robes tinted more orange, with a shaved head, walks in circles around a brightly painted twelve foot statue of guatama buhdda. he is seated lotus postition, the statue. he holds a lotus in his hand. he's made of garden concrete and hope. the face smiles , stoned.

to the east of the temple is an empty lot the size of an apartment complex. a culvert has been dug in the florida sand. there are florida sandspurs among the other bright green foliage. little bits of yellow from bee sized orchids dot the flat landscape. i want to smoke a bowl before i go into the library. the new library, with two stories, windows and a playground. have only seen it from outside. i walk down into the culvert, avoiding most of the burrs. the concrete is white as if had been just poured. metal bars slice across the openings, designed to keep discarded couches, stray shopping carts , bodies caught in a flash flood, from getting stuck in the ditch that runs under the sidewalk which traverses the lot on a manufactured berm. the sidewalk also looks newly poured. the early sun pours over the treeless lot. a dead weed, about 2 feet tall, provides enough shade for ants. there are no humans in the scene, but a monarch butterfly bumps along the small daisy bushes which sheild the back of the temple from nightfallen over the fence encroachments by TNC teens with spray cans and tags. i think about war and peace, flatness on the russian steppes, how a soldier might hide in the slightest dip in such an unremarkable landscape. last nite you said you see dark times coming and that we deserve it. i left you to your shadows, found a man with vodka on his tongue. he said i was right about that star beside the moon being jupiter. i save the information in notes on the floor of the culvert, imitating the art of desert sages who were left with only words when the wind stopped blowing.

in those days they raised a bit of money selling used books inside the library's lobby. hard backs for a dollar, paperbacks fifty cents. i find dovstoevsky in the poetry section. it's a novel but i think that's appropriate. this copy was printed in nineteen thirty six, and contains the unpublish/ed/able outtake that was not serialised during its first run in the progressive press from st. petersburg. too risque for the masses, i suppose. this draft is expurgated but the un does not survive so it will have to do. i pay a dollar and take the book upstairs into the library proper where a young child is crying in frusration somewhere in the children's section which is separated from the main library by doors that are not closed. everyone in the main library can hear the child being a brat. i wish a librarian would kick them out. the petulance darkens the eastern sun slanting in the upstairs windows. the colors are neutrals . the windows are deep and have sills which you can lay a book upon, lean over and read while the world passes by on the street below in the form of a blue toyota going over a speed bump, followed by a dark green jeep like you used to have before you drove it off the side of a mountain. tolstoy snickers behind me on the shelf. still thinking of t he inquires, with a sneer, tempered with a snicker. of him, i correct. why not? russians like to hold onto our melancholy. we pour it into a rinsed glass, mix it with vodka. tears are added to taste. some say it's much better if you can add someone else's to your own. when i arrive home, the history of civilization is a link away, and the composer of the music is stravinsky. i take the elevator to the top, pull out the possessed and sample this :

"you are a goddess of anitquity and i am nothing, but have had a glimpse of infinity.look on it as a poem and no more, for, after all, poetry is nonsense and justifies what we be considered impudence in prose.can the sun be angry with the infusoria if the latter composes verses to her from the drop of water...