Tuesday, April 11, 2006
but i know / /
out side / every thing is anxious / trees
nervous with buds / the ground is quiver ing
a gain / / ah / rest less ness of spring
/
Monday, April 10, 2006
Let Alone Wash
The first morning I knew we had neighbors
they came inside, ate, used the drill to make
a ledge for items, and left. The were some celebrities
who lived down the street, those who came over
that day were not celebrities. Weeks later, I returned
their drill, gave them back the aluminum pan used
for the roast, and let them live in their house once again.
they came inside, ate, used the drill to make
a ledge for items, and left. The were some celebrities
who lived down the street, those who came over
that day were not celebrities. Weeks later, I returned
their drill, gave them back the aluminum pan used
for the roast, and let them live in their house once again.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
permanent occupation
and yet we
expected
everything radiant names
to explode carving the
shape o f
into sinister f i r e w o r k s
highways
rushing t o w a r d
as we crossed the thres h o l d
into lakes of sewage in the streets
n o p a s a r a n
enter a desolate world
of skeletal b u i l d i n g s weeping
p o w e r l i n e s
cathedrals of concrete
converge into a p l e x u s
of nerves connecting the eye to the land
name s
of cities are epithets for the things
we forgot as we crossed the
t h r e s h o l d of the cities
grew out of
primitive
accumulation
leave among r u i n s
Trombone Angels
The trombone angels have no teeth.
No ears.
Lips like a frozen kiss.
Their last dance was in the air,
ghost band hovering over the flames
at Auschwitz, Cambodia, Iraq.
Dressed in black raincoats,
they shuffle to fresh graveyards
and bone laden ditches,
feet cut and dirty.
What did they think
when they once flew,
ground rushing beneath them so fast?
Did they see gods reach
out to snatch soul from body
before flesh died?
Is that too much to believe?
Too much to hope for?
They blow a sweet tune
for those who no longer buy lies
from bible-rumped matrons
about lesser gods
for those not washed in Christ's blood
or chained to a catholic sainthood.
Those matrons claim we're all sinners.
They cast the first stones to prove it.
The wail of the trombones rises
as night tosses its net of stars.
A cock cries three times.
The silence from the graves is deafening.
So named for the men who once followed
the hearses through New Orleans streets
If I did this correctly, here's an audio link for the poem, with music/effects.
No ears.
Lips like a frozen kiss.
Their last dance was in the air,
ghost band hovering over the flames
at Auschwitz, Cambodia, Iraq.
Dressed in black raincoats,
they shuffle to fresh graveyards
and bone laden ditches,
feet cut and dirty.
What did they think
when they once flew,
ground rushing beneath them so fast?
Did they see gods reach
out to snatch soul from body
before flesh died?
Is that too much to believe?
Too much to hope for?
They blow a sweet tune
for those who no longer buy lies
from bible-rumped matrons
about lesser gods
for those not washed in Christ's blood
or chained to a catholic sainthood.
Those matrons claim we're all sinners.
They cast the first stones to prove it.
The wail of the trombones rises
as night tosses its net of stars.
A cock cries three times.
The silence from the graves is deafening.
So named for the men who once followed
the hearses through New Orleans streets
If I did this correctly, here's an audio link for the poem, with music/effects.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Reflections on Weight and Mass
Its amazing how much
some weightless things weight
and how some heavy things float.
Take for example desire and passion.
The standard weight measure
for desire is the fuckbushel.
Passion is usually measured in fellatons,
or metric fellatons for non-Americans.
My eyelids…
each eyelash is an anvil
while reflecting sighs
of my sweet little orgy
with her exes and ohhs
her prayers to a god called Yes
her sacred words gorged
with pleasure and semen
words that transform night into insomnia
and distill daylight into daydreams
and in between the two
my eyelids finally give way
to the heaviness of hours
(measured in kilominutes)
and at this time
I become aware
That I am floating
and the mass that used to be
my body no longer has
a standard weight.
some weightless things weight
and how some heavy things float.
Take for example desire and passion.
The standard weight measure
for desire is the fuckbushel.
Passion is usually measured in fellatons,
or metric fellatons for non-Americans.
My eyelids…
each eyelash is an anvil
while reflecting sighs
of my sweet little orgy
with her exes and ohhs
her prayers to a god called Yes
her sacred words gorged
with pleasure and semen
words that transform night into insomnia
and distill daylight into daydreams
and in between the two
my eyelids finally give way
to the heaviness of hours
(measured in kilominutes)
and at this time
I become aware
That I am floating
and the mass that used to be
my body no longer has
a standard weight.
cafe' cafe' Help us with the next Goodnight Show!
Leave me or Michelle questions (funny or otherwise) so that we can answer in the next show. You can record your questions using audio blogger so it sounds like a real phone call. Here is the link to audio blogger http://www.audioblogger.com/ --
Thank you,
Didi
Thank you,
Didi
Another One About Night
How stable the night
seems to be.
All alone, no one to leave it
or do anything with.
Everyone takes it standing
like a word said
and meant.
You say you love the night,
and it keeps silent.
seems to be.
All alone, no one to leave it
or do anything with.
Everyone takes it standing
like a word said
and meant.
You say you love the night,
and it keeps silent.
Mourning Morning
Mourning Morning
I don’t know why I feel so bereft
tonight. I’ve got nothing left to lose.
Oh sure, my mother, yes.
But at this point it seems that she will live
forever. If death didn’t kill her,
nothing will. Grief has become super-
fluous in my life. Like the little black
dress cut down and up to there
that I’ll never wear dangling
on a wire hanger in the closet
like a skin that’s lost its skeleton
along with the come-fuck me pumps
hiding in the box with soles
as new and unworn as newborn twins.
And you. But I’m always losing
you in the same grain by grain
erosion as the shore sliding
into the ocean. I’m used to
the sensation of sand slipping
out from under my feet.
Tonight’s no different
than any other night.
My hand is my only lover,
And this bed, my soft husband.
So why am I widowed?
Why do I watch the clock
and grieve every second ticking
off never to be ticked again?
Why do I mourn morning
certain that it will never come?
I don’t know why I feel so bereft
tonight. I’ve got nothing left to lose.
Oh sure, my mother, yes.
But at this point it seems that she will live
forever. If death didn’t kill her,
nothing will. Grief has become super-
fluous in my life. Like the little black
dress cut down and up to there
that I’ll never wear dangling
on a wire hanger in the closet
like a skin that’s lost its skeleton
along with the come-fuck me pumps
hiding in the box with soles
as new and unworn as newborn twins.
And you. But I’m always losing
you in the same grain by grain
erosion as the shore sliding
into the ocean. I’m used to
the sensation of sand slipping
out from under my feet.
Tonight’s no different
than any other night.
My hand is my only lover,
And this bed, my soft husband.
So why am I widowed?
Why do I watch the clock
and grieve every second ticking
off never to be ticked again?
Why do I mourn morning
certain that it will never come?
Friday, April 07, 2006
Third Degree Burns
I am sorry you were
a victim of the fire.
At least you are still alive.
You stand across from me
slightly deformed,
a bit uglier than before,
complaining about how
your mouth can’t kiss
like it once did
worried about your dick
and how it hangs
thick and stagnant
in that funk without soul
like the early morning smell
of booze and regrets
puked on the sidewalk
of streets adjoining bars.
I often wonder how you got out,
and why you survived...
but that is no excuse
for your sad little story
from that side of the mirror.
Get used to it pussy.
Sometimes love hurts a little
Sometimes this happens.
a victim of the fire.
At least you are still alive.
You stand across from me
slightly deformed,
a bit uglier than before,
complaining about how
your mouth can’t kiss
like it once did
worried about your dick
and how it hangs
thick and stagnant
in that funk without soul
like the early morning smell
of booze and regrets
puked on the sidewalk
of streets adjoining bars.
I often wonder how you got out,
and why you survived...
but that is no excuse
for your sad little story
from that side of the mirror.
Get used to it pussy.
Sometimes love hurts a little
Sometimes this happens.
Dear Jesus
If I walk a shore
inadvertently step
into a stalking wave
will I
ascend as though
climbing a ladder to
Toronto in the rain
Queen Street stripped
for spring
the hooker outside Eaton Place
praying at the feet
of every dry parking garage
Each day a stone is moved
from the grave
of another coffee cup
the twisted keyhole
in another locked
and fortified door
and the body is gone
creating the void
of mystery
dear Jesus
I could climb waves all day
and still never qualify
for a gold VISA card
inadvertently step
into a stalking wave
will I
ascend as though
climbing a ladder to
Toronto in the rain
Queen Street stripped
for spring
the hooker outside Eaton Place
praying at the feet
of every dry parking garage
Each day a stone is moved
from the grave
of another coffee cup
the twisted keyhole
in another locked
and fortified door
and the body is gone
creating the void
of mystery
dear Jesus
I could climb waves all day
and still never qualify
for a gold VISA card
Indictment
Whereas,
I'm the damsel in distress and you're the knight who drinks too much, slaps our kids on the ass or kicks the dog for the least misdeed: misplacing your slippers, chewing the fabic of your Lazy Boy couch, spilling chocolate milk in a pool under the high chair or interrupting the football games that you watch.
Whereas,
The paperboy is now afraid to deliver here anymore after you opened the door last Sunday night when he came to collect, half dressed with no shirt, wearing only boxers and socks, holding tightly clenched your favorite 12 gauge Mossberg, eyes glazed and your face in a snarl because I cooked your steak just a little too far past raw.
Whereas,
You used to tickle my ears when we fucked in the afternoon, whispering how much you loved the skin that you touched, the breasts that you cupped, the smell of my hair and the hard arch my back made when I replied to each thrust that you made from behind.
Whereas,
Once upon a time I bathed in your smile, thinking to myself how innocent it seemed, how like a little boy you were, constantly seeking to please, performing little tricks of the manly trade, showing off your strength, or pulling roses from behind your back and pushing them in my face, as if love was a game and I was the prize.
Whereas,
We all make mistakes, and this one is all mine: that I never looked too close, never examined all the evidence you presented to me, because I was blind to the signs that my fairy tale dream of you had gone awry; little things like the edge in your voice, the hard grip on my arm, the vacant, jealous clamped jaw threats you made whenever another boy passed by and looked my way.
Whereas,
I'm guilty of crimes against the kids and myself, for each black eye, each dislocated small limb, each bruise and each scar on my face and on theirs, and the lies that I told to cover for you, to hide from the world my horrendous mistake: letting you take over my life in exchange for a false promise of bliss that I told myself must be true.
Whereas,
In light of the fact that I, being of sound mind and body, have freely confessed these crimes, the worst of these having made you my metaphor, I fully accept my due punishment for same, i.e., the loss of this life, which it's true, I don't mind losing, and the loss of my children, a far crueler penalty, but one I deserve for having led them into such a bad tale.
Therefore,
Drink from the cup of life, my dear, for by the time you find this we will be gone, and you will remain here on earth where you belong, for hell is not found in the afterlife, darling, it's whatever is left to you before departure is near.
I'm the damsel in distress and you're the knight who drinks too much, slaps our kids on the ass or kicks the dog for the least misdeed: misplacing your slippers, chewing the fabic of your Lazy Boy couch, spilling chocolate milk in a pool under the high chair or interrupting the football games that you watch.
Whereas,
The paperboy is now afraid to deliver here anymore after you opened the door last Sunday night when he came to collect, half dressed with no shirt, wearing only boxers and socks, holding tightly clenched your favorite 12 gauge Mossberg, eyes glazed and your face in a snarl because I cooked your steak just a little too far past raw.
Whereas,
You used to tickle my ears when we fucked in the afternoon, whispering how much you loved the skin that you touched, the breasts that you cupped, the smell of my hair and the hard arch my back made when I replied to each thrust that you made from behind.
Whereas,
Once upon a time I bathed in your smile, thinking to myself how innocent it seemed, how like a little boy you were, constantly seeking to please, performing little tricks of the manly trade, showing off your strength, or pulling roses from behind your back and pushing them in my face, as if love was a game and I was the prize.
Whereas,
We all make mistakes, and this one is all mine: that I never looked too close, never examined all the evidence you presented to me, because I was blind to the signs that my fairy tale dream of you had gone awry; little things like the edge in your voice, the hard grip on my arm, the vacant, jealous clamped jaw threats you made whenever another boy passed by and looked my way.
Whereas,
I'm guilty of crimes against the kids and myself, for each black eye, each dislocated small limb, each bruise and each scar on my face and on theirs, and the lies that I told to cover for you, to hide from the world my horrendous mistake: letting you take over my life in exchange for a false promise of bliss that I told myself must be true.
Whereas,
In light of the fact that I, being of sound mind and body, have freely confessed these crimes, the worst of these having made you my metaphor, I fully accept my due punishment for same, i.e., the loss of this life, which it's true, I don't mind losing, and the loss of my children, a far crueler penalty, but one I deserve for having led them into such a bad tale.
Therefore,
Drink from the cup of life, my dear, for by the time you find this we will be gone, and you will remain here on earth where you belong, for hell is not found in the afterlife, darling, it's whatever is left to you before departure is near.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Asian-American Poetry - hello
Hello all, I hope you're doing well. Just wanted to let you know that after a short hiatus from regular blogging, I should be blogging daily or close to daily in the foreseeable future at http://asianamericanpoetry.blogspot.com. Right now, I'm working on a long sequence, entitled "The Adventures of Kudos the Poet." Thanks!
The Move
He took off his belt so that the buckle wouldn't scratch
and removed other sharp objects from his person.
He did not find out how the furniture had been put
together. Nor did he look for any parts that could be
detached. He didn't study the route to use or locate
anything that would cause trouble. For example light fixtures jutting out the wall.
He may have lifted the furniture where it was strongest. However the glass table-
top
he moved without the route being cleared of obstructions;
he didn't wrap it in a blanket to prevent any damage.
Items needed on a daily basis were simply pushed to one side without regard to their being delicate or fragile.
He didn't help me plan exactly where he would place anything. The temperature of the new locations was much higher and a
sudden and extreme variation in humidity
threatened.
Yet nothing was moved slowly or carefully.
The armchair bumped against the doorway, the walls were marked.
He didn't hold the sofa firmly. It almost slipped from his
hands. He slid and then dragged it along the floor into
the alcove and perhaps the boards were scratched and certainly the carpet
torn.
Obviously no careful or meticulous planning so neither of us examined the sideboard for loose joinery and didn't remove its
....................................................................... shelves or drawers.
A highly polished occasional table was lifted, not by its legs, but by its top, which threatened to detach. The dining chairs were ............lifted by
.......................................................................................... their arms.
As for essential items - kettle, tea bags and coffee, cups, bathroom supplies, towels, mobile phone recharger, first-aid supplies, these
were scattered by a fierce and intrusive wind, which had no regard for emergency.
Yet everything also slow and meticulous.
The bed got dragged across the yard, as excessive lateral pressure on its legs caused them
to shear off.
And although the fridge and freezer emptied and defrosted
themselves, because the bed was out of action, there was no correlation anything to anything so we had to
fuck
on the floor. All the windows ........................................flew open.
The appliances became unplugged. The neighbours forgot which
day
it was.
Only the books
lay flat with alternate bindings preventing spinal
....................damage.
Otherwise there were bruises and blood.
Clothing had no consciousness for hangers,
bodies,
closets or drawers.
Arms and legs as one.
Temporarily all the electronics switched on.
Histrionics. Hysterics. It was not a case of separate, or bubble wrapped or inkless or safe in anyway whatsoever. Pads, bowls, hollows, suggestive materials. Screams. Scratches. Lots and lots and lots
of scratches.
Then layers. Layers and layers. Tears. Tissues. History. Small and large without regard to time
or
carcass or suitability.
God in the newsprint. Chaos down
...................................wires. .......Upright position where possible. And not possible. Until
afterwards.
Labelled: reclosable.
Smears gone and the hair in place.
Blankets on and a few scuffed smiles.
He took off his belt so that the buckle wouldn't scratch
and removed other sharp objects from his person.
He did not find out how the furniture had been put
together. Nor did he look for any parts that could be
detached. He didn't study the route to use or locate
anything that would cause trouble. For example light fixtures jutting out the wall.
He may have lifted the furniture where it was strongest. However the glass table-
top
he moved without the route being cleared of obstructions;
he didn't wrap it in a blanket to prevent any damage.
Items needed on a daily basis were simply pushed to one side without regard to their being delicate or fragile.
He didn't help me plan exactly where he would place anything. The temperature of the new locations was much higher and a
sudden and extreme variation in humidity
threatened.
Yet nothing was moved slowly or carefully.
The armchair bumped against the doorway, the walls were marked.
He didn't hold the sofa firmly. It almost slipped from his
hands. He slid and then dragged it along the floor into
the alcove and perhaps the boards were scratched and certainly the carpet
torn.
Obviously no careful or meticulous planning so neither of us examined the sideboard for loose joinery and didn't remove its
....................................................................... shelves or drawers.
A highly polished occasional table was lifted, not by its legs, but by its top, which threatened to detach. The dining chairs were ............lifted by
.......................................................................................... their arms.
As for essential items - kettle, tea bags and coffee, cups, bathroom supplies, towels, mobile phone recharger, first-aid supplies, these
were scattered by a fierce and intrusive wind, which had no regard for emergency.
Yet everything also slow and meticulous.
The bed got dragged across the yard, as excessive lateral pressure on its legs caused them
to shear off.
And although the fridge and freezer emptied and defrosted
themselves, because the bed was out of action, there was no correlation anything to anything so we had to
fuck
on the floor. All the windows ........................................flew open.
The appliances became unplugged. The neighbours forgot which
day
it was.
Only the books
lay flat with alternate bindings preventing spinal
....................damage.
Otherwise there were bruises and blood.
Clothing had no consciousness for hangers,
bodies,
closets or drawers.
Arms and legs as one.
Temporarily all the electronics switched on.
Histrionics. Hysterics. It was not a case of separate, or bubble wrapped or inkless or safe in anyway whatsoever. Pads, bowls, hollows, suggestive materials. Screams. Scratches. Lots and lots and lots
of scratches.
Then layers. Layers and layers. Tears. Tissues. History. Small and large without regard to time
or
carcass or suitability.
God in the newsprint. Chaos down
...................................wires. .......Upright position where possible. And not possible. Until
afterwards.
Labelled: reclosable.
Smears gone and the hair in place.
Blankets on and a few scuffed smiles.
8 questions
are curtains the permissive shield
is light a quenching of reluctant morning
are these finches piercing daylight
which of the rain tones lulls a child to sleep
are feathers free form near new leaves
how are freedoms given to refraction
when does morning offer feverish repeating
are repeat signs poised to offer innovation
half disguised as fact?
is light a quenching of reluctant morning
are these finches piercing daylight
which of the rain tones lulls a child to sleep
are feathers free form near new leaves
how are freedoms given to refraction
when does morning offer feverish repeating
are repeat signs poised to offer innovation
half disguised as fact?
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
napowrimo 3
let sleeping dogs
lie with dragons
their fires
banked like this river
snow vanishing
light fades & rain
pulls green from black ground one penny
in the jar & wishes
like white moths
eating holes in this
afghan made from leftover yarn from
sweaters of teal of raspberry of
chokecherry picking in high mountains ever alert
for bears but cougars
another matter altogether
look up!
parakeets court & mate & court & mate &
squirrels roll through the flowerbed clenched
together one animal one ecstatic mad creature
twigs & branches everywhere swelling everywhere
pushing up pushing up
wings
Monday, April 03, 2006
Womb-wattle and Daub
In order that she hold too,
he sent out posts upright
between his oughts: oak
staves.
Her fill subsoil,
straw on good days
or cow-dung and lime.
Whatever.
He'd weave withes,
willow thoughts that he'd slither
wet meandering through her tough home hessian-here
used to hold ‘til dry.
A wall on which would be nought
but tedious historicity,
perhaps a house-
front facsimile
not sturdy though like lath and plaster
but crack-faults for soft lap
laughter moon
lather.
One night some slight unplanned
imprint of dedicated buttercup fossilled star
so hollow it fleshed a beholdened path mirroring
her sighs.
Well tired, so very tired
and all along alone he faltered
but high so unstrong he'd cry, use tears' salts
to lip'a steer by.
She tipped her tongue
and rimmed corona 'round
his stockaded clearing tumbling
to trust
because weak
because ancient
because distant because half-
asleep because ......................stranded
revealed dead kings crazed tombs catacombs
where solitude had brazened them.
Trenches which bore children.
Fears rodomontaded.
Some Thing. Gold.
At which he tore.
And more.
Thrust.
She it was who riddled plains
for fools, forswore the use of knife.
It is a dermisal device. I cannot find it in any book
my love. Help
me. Who clawed his shroud
to heaven threads, spun out a sodden horizon, sinking, fell from dread to ga/ether handfuls of stippled diamond drool stinking,
bled birth emblem, emblazoning leucorrhoeal trail
led and asked why are these trees like webs
in the lamp's light dear?
and this question
he followed
back
to roots
to slatted-keep. As strangers do
who have only modern moment-moated
clues to cling to.
In order that she hold too,
he sent out posts upright
between his oughts: oak
staves.
Her fill subsoil,
straw on good days
or cow-dung and lime.
Whatever.
He'd weave withes,
willow thoughts that he'd slither
wet meandering through her tough home hessian-here
used to hold ‘til dry.
A wall on which would be nought
but tedious historicity,
perhaps a house-
front facsimile
not sturdy though like lath and plaster
but crack-faults for soft lap
laughter moon
lather.
One night some slight unplanned
imprint of dedicated buttercup fossilled star
so hollow it fleshed a beholdened path mirroring
her sighs.
Well tired, so very tired
and all along alone he faltered
but high so unstrong he'd cry, use tears' salts
to lip'a steer by.
She tipped her tongue
and rimmed corona 'round
his stockaded clearing tumbling
to trust
because weak
because ancient
because distant because half-
asleep because ......................stranded
revealed dead kings crazed tombs catacombs
where solitude had brazened them.
Trenches which bore children.
Fears rodomontaded.
Some Thing. Gold.
At which he tore.
And more.
Thrust.
She it was who riddled plains
for fools, forswore the use of knife.
It is a dermisal device. I cannot find it in any book
my love. Help
me. Who clawed his shroud
to heaven threads, spun out a sodden horizon, sinking, fell from dread to ga/ether handfuls of stippled diamond drool stinking,
bled birth emblem, emblazoning leucorrhoeal trail
led and asked why are these trees like webs
in the lamp's light dear?
and this question
he followed
back
to roots
to slatted-keep. As strangers do
who have only modern moment-moated
clues to cling to.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
tramp jumping with lesbians
tramp jumping with lesbians
(for BJD)
never have snorted uppers
except that one time in highschool
when i became more interested in jumping
on the trampoline
for five hours
with the lesbians
than
jumping on the three girls
who were very permissively
interested in me.
it was the last big hurrah.
the end of the summer after my senior year.
&
they were smokin' hot boy crazy eighteen year olds,
who never had to chase a boy further than two feet.
maybe they were on drugs
or maybe there was simply no reason left
for them to hide the fact
that they were interested in me and
unreasonably so at that.
this makes me want to go back in time and thank them.
and also send a thank you to the lesbians
for keeping me safe.
yes.
special thanks to the lesbians.
04-01-06
luc u! ~
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