SLS - 2-28-09 (Historical Moral #1)

Rats had a ball with the plague. 

...

(k)

Burn All My Poems

It's not the repetition

--recognition, misuse, misreadings--

I'm afraid of,

the carriage, the death, the waiting,

and to you...  my poems,

Destroy them, etc.

Feel their weight and

breathe

deeply;

inhale the rising carnage

toxic and suspended and, etc.

colloid, like Jell-O,

like horses heads

pointed towards eternity.

-[m]

(for q)

Dear Nietzsche, Convincing Is Exhausting

I don't have much

of a concept of how often 

is too often. Often

to me isn't often

enough. I suppose it's that ol'

empty husk chestnut 

that slippery slope 

of definition, that recognition

of the fatality of words, and how often 

they fall short of actual. 

I admit that it's strange how often

I profess that I love 

them, and that I want

so much of myself

in their existence, and that

I spend so much time convincing

myself that words are truthful, but never 

quite believing it. I don't sleep

well sober. 

...

(k)

SLS - 2-21-09. (Foresight)

I want to paint all the good people left red so I can pick them out from far away.

...

(k)

SLS 2.21.09

My blood is not a condiment.

...
[y]

Backlash

The Pages Are Filling Up

With Numbers. Nothing 

Against Them, Of Course.

Ruled Lines Match Them Well.

-[m]

Admission

I have wool socks

and a full tank of gas.

I'll go anywhere you want me to.

...

(k)

Not Even I Know Why I Feel Anxious Right Now

Not every night can be the best night ever.

That was a fact.

I wrote it, so it's true

I have to go outside to smoke a cigarette.

I bring wine with me because it is past five o'clock.

There are snowflakes in my Pinot Noir.

I didn't think I would have to wear this sweater.

I hear sounds of someone breaking into a house,

or hammering up a painting.

I think it is not a painting,

because a girl walks past the sound

and the sound stops.

Earlier today it was sunny.

We were walking over bricked sidewalks and sloping gutters.

I'm almost out of cigarettes and it is just past five o' clock.

It's a ten minute walk to the nearest bodega,

although no one calls it that.

I think I need some music.

I think I need a job.

I think that if I were in solitary confinement

I would not do well.

I would eat my hands. 

Today I read,

"Do you realize that all great literatures are

all about what a bummer it is to be a human being?"*

I'm scared again.

It's always true that the way out is by moving,

so I tell myself in times like this

to be like the shark

or the cement truck

because some people have no idea,

no concept,

of the shit they are walking past. 

...

(k)

*Kurt Vonnegut

Confession

The plant that you gave me is not doing well,

but that doesn't mean I don't love you.

...

(k)

Working Class Frustration

Take that monocle out of your eye socket
It's making my son and his friends upset.

We're having his birthday party today
At this Ground Round™--

It's a pity that we can't afford to rent a hall for ourselves
But my husband and I are just not making a lot of money right now.

You seem insane but I'm glad you're easily approachable.
Can't you take a minute to notice the other people

Here today just enjoying some burgers and chicken fingers on the cheap?
The children were having an excellent time before you came.

They were having so much fun that I thought my son
Had pretty much forgotten about how we promised him

We would have his party at the laser tag place
But he didn't forget--no.

He mentioned it just a moment ago
When he confessed how upset your monocle was making him.

...
[y]

Wife Trophy

All of the ugly women wrapped around
The lamppost across the street from my house.
Rubbernecking is what they do for fun.
All of their tiny feet on tip toe
Springing up and down--elastic bodies.

There are car accidents all the time on my street.

...
[y]

Single Line Saturday (Sunday). Like the Fuzz You Can Feel But Never Grasp

An errant hair is flirting with my eyeball.

...
(k)

Single Sat. 02.14.09 - Posthumous Reproducers

Like a tumbleweed, traveling dead.

-[m]

Comic Primer

the gutter is a rest,

don't make it bridge--

allow it to divide you, as

one dancing on the graves

of strangers.

-[m]

24 Productive Hours

...
[y]

Magik People

...

{q}

Farm Prison

On the map
I gesture to my take
Like I'm fanning out
An invisible deck of cards.

"I'll ride
My horse
Down this
Mile-wide path"

It stretches
From Nova Scotia
Down
To someplace
In Florida.

"All I mean to do is ride my horse."

...
[y]

Key to the City

I hereby award you

A key to the city.

For excellence

For keeping your cool

For not wigging out under pressure

For not killing an entire airplane of human

For landing your airplane of human instead of crashing it into a tall building

("Too soon" you may have thought)

You are excellent.

You excellently landed the human plane in the crashing waters

You kept your cool

You coulda wigged or buckled

Heroes don't buckle, wigg, they got the still hand

They bleed excellence

They land the plane (humans) in the water (crashing)

No sweat. 

Or did you? Did you sweat a little? You'd still be a hero.

You are so fucking excellent.

You get the key, man

For being a bloody hero.

For doing your job.

You saved the bleeding, sweaty human plane of buckling assholes

You saved us all

People at the newspaper company (they thank you)

Me, Mayor Fuckin Bloomberg (God do I thank you this makes me look awesome)

Your job is to fly planes and not crash them

You are a New York hero:

...

{q}

Viscosity

Motif Fledgling - an 

accessory to the murals,

the portraits, & the

backgrounds of culture.

Flightless, Pitiless, still

chained to the ground,

its movement patterns that

of a serpent; guileless; guided.

Our own growing pains

mark writhing & pleading,

mark entrance & exits;

a flower shaking for the sky.

But never discount 

the voracity of youth -

viscous as phlegm,

sticking to the throats of animals.

-[m]

Warped Reflection (Point 1)

How time distorts things.

Soon all you'll be thinking of is:

sex 

and 

"where can I get it?"

...

(s) + (k)

My Conversation with Émile Boirac (his) Clone

My clone visits my grave
I am dead.
But there is something very powerful
About his visits.
I think that maybe when he comes
He is experiencing déjà vu.
Experiencing déjà vu.

...
[y]

Single-Line Saturday 02.07.09 - Colloid

Like an underwater flower, exposed, soaking in the sun.

-[m]

A General Westward

This isn’t the type of place where the birds hum like bees.
An elegance floats in these airs. an elegance with a firm line.

So tear me up and call me “trenchant,” or maybe just “trenched;”
we’re all stuck, but a mudpit can only go so far before hitting crust.

Black-Eyed Susans make the lawn, marking dawn,
and it's rare to find a whole city just a futuristic graveyard.

But darting skyward what else is there but palms and sun?
Neither indigenous to methodical wastelands, no matter the season.

Grafting limbs and lawns, hymns and haws,
spectacular craftsmanship by people who remember dreams,

but can’t recollect past lives. They may only visit
solemn things to-be, and avenues not yet constructed.

These are the visionaries we’ve envisioned ourselves—
black as markets,
calm as stockades,
brittle and foreboding 
as time’s myriad passageways.

Enjoyment hallows our halls, and scars our shallows,
blankets our yards in thick, red and white checkers,

breezy and alone – skittering cloth beneath our shoes.
It’s high noon for everything but us.

A balanced framework hides us and guides us,
but it’s petals that mark our progress. Ringing outward

in yearly, cyclic, patterns. Draped thoroughly around
everything. And that’s just what we always need.

Believing is only the last step, but mark my words,
This place is due for its beliefs.

-[m]

my expectations died

and now i am free

Maybe I havent done enough
I might be ashamed of that.
For not doing enough
For not giving enough
For not being more perceptive, not being aware enough
For not understanding
For... being stupid

(Charles Manson)

What Little I Know

Why write? Why the medium of pen and ink and hand? It is certainly not for my penmanship, or my carefulness; indeed, most of what I write is not legible to others, and most of that has been ruined by a spilled drink or a small pocket. So, why then writing? I think it is a love of words, and, more particularly, the love of seeing thought crystalize on the page. Or, maybe it is because everyone can write, because nearly everyone can hold a pen, but only few can write something that is affective to the body, something that is just beyond the surface of reality, but still wrenchingly honest. There are many ways to write a story or a poem--I write mine with a cigarette in my hand--but it is difficult to write something that you care about, and that others will care about, despite what you are holding in your non-writing hand. For what little I know, I know that good writing is honest--and this is not to say that good writing falls under the category of memoir or nonfiction, for writing honestly in a memoir is even harder to do--but to write fiction and poetry well, you have to be as honest as possible. You have to be sure that you are writing from a perspective lacking both ego and id, which means that what you are writing you are writing hurriedly, as if necessary to your breathing, and that what you are writing, as you are writing it, has killed any thought about how it could be perceived. 

...

(k)

REMEMBER

"If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and nights will flame like fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It is the only good fight there is."

-Charles Bukowski (Factotum) 

critical essay

research the fates.

research revelations.

if nothing else,

try and do at least one thing well.

using evidence from the text

is your best option.

stay informative.

stay out of it.

always remember,

they don't want to hear about you.

they want to hear about it.

it is what will keep them going. 

be convincing,

which is to say,

be confident.

even if you are kidding yourself,

pretend that you are a king

making just, yet clinical, observations.

don't care if you are right,

care that you are vehement.

don't back down,

sit with your back straight.

try to pretend that you are wearing

a heavier hat.

put on a hat. 

indulge in pomposity.

don't let your eyes

stray from the subject,

even if there is a mosquito

sucking at your armpit-

ignore it 

it is not important.

let it suck at you

for you know that you are doing something better.

be proud, 

and whatever you do

keep your eyes focused,

because victory is straight ahead of you,

if only you can bear it. 

...

(k)

Computer Lab Musings

Hello?

I heard your bird
Say a word
It said turd.

Your bird has a filthy beak.

I cannot force myself to appreciate
The fact that you have gone behind
God's back to make your bird
Cuss so.

...
[y]

Hockey's Always Good (overheard in the corridor between Stetson and Curry)

It's the same dream as usual:
I'm being trampled by horses;
And cowboys and indians
Are riding them.
And they're cursing.
Not at me but at each other.

Someone says (in Japanese):
Don't complicate this.
Don't trip all over your shadow.
And
Who's in charge of the money?
And
Who is it!

It's an efficient production.
I'm startled.
I trip over my shadow.
But just as free will is being strangled by fate,
I tell a lie.

...
[y]

most important

...

{q}

Scooter Vacation

Dreeeeaaaaaamin

(scooter vacation)

Steeeeaaaaaamin

(a real sensation)

Gleeeeaaaaaamin

(its just inflation)

Creeeeeaaaaamin

(in the gas station)

---

{q}

Flashbulb

He looked over his shoulder
At the sound of some rummaging through boxes.

Claudia come down stairs and cheer up--

His chair creaked in that old familiar way

--Won't you?

But only sounds of displacing
Bric-a-brac from upstairs
Kept on--no reply.
Come on, now, old girl.
So he lurched forward
To put his hands down on
The arms of his chair,
Get his balance and
Advance toward
The foyer.

Hey!

He fastened his hand to the banister and made his way, slowly, up the stairs.

Please don't come in, papa--for i can't begin
To explain my business in these boxes!

Ok. Ok. Ok.
But you'll have to come down sooner or later for supper.

Fine, then.

You know, Claudia, I shouldn't mind refreshing my memory
Of some of her old things either.

Refreshing, but what for. The greater part of your life was spent with her.

Sure. Sure. The memories, though, Claudia, they change around
Relocate.
They need to be tuned sometimes, too.
Just like the old piano in the living room.
And. You can vouch for me that that old thing hasn't had a tune in years.
But then again. Then again it still plays marvelously.
It can carry a tune that is.
One we might not recognize at all if it were properly tuned.

These old things though--

--Yes?

[y]

Taken from Kristina 2.3.09

When I was rolling over to face the alarm
I picked up a spool of thread
It was a deep reddish color--
The thread.
I almost completely forgot
That
I
Was
Rolling over
For a reason.

My sheets drew a shadow
Across my face
And, strangely, I was colder;
There was a rattling sound
Coming from the radiator
When, suddenly,
My alarm
Started ringing
Ringing and
Ringing again.

I pressed the button on top
And resumed laying still.
I smelled something delicious
Frying in the kitchen
And I heard the sink water running--
That recognizable hissing that's always accompanied by gargling.

I closed my eyes a little longer
But felt compelled
Finally
To get out of bed and
Start my day.

...
[y]

Poem Project: Use Something Of Mine As Yours (a phrase, a word, a piece, a sentence, etc)

When All Is Present, But Nothing Is Given

I wake up with strange words, or sometimes phrases, on my tongue.

Usually, they are in languages that I don't know.

I research how I think these strange things should be spelled. 

It is a disarming exercise.

Mea culpa,

joie de vivre,

pied-a-terre.

Sometimes they are in my language, but I still have to look them up anyways because I am not certain that they mean what I think they should. 

Conscription,

insouciance,

cryptogenic.

Sometimes I know the words exactly, and know what they mean, but when I look them up anyways, I am surprised that what I knew was wrong, or at least, not fully correct.

Glamour,

travel. 

Sometimes I become angry at this, angry at myself for not knowing simple things that I should.

How could I have not known that there were so many definitions for

heart

and how silly was I to think I knew what the word meant without knowing the other parts of it.

Sometimes I wonder if there is more meaning to all of it, these early literatures, or if it is just a simple matter of waking up with words in my mouth, like pieces of a dream that I kept hidden under my tongue like a pill or a communion cracker, just a piece of a dream sentence that got stuck when I was rolling over to face the alarm again, waiting for when I am ready to cough it out into consciousness.

Maybe it is as simple as that. 

...

(k)

Near Moosehead Lake

Around the river's bend and towards home:
My brother, myself, a boatswain and dog.
The edge of Sugar Island was lined with white foam;
The reluctant noon sun was slowly swallowed by fog

A sound from the east in the crag of a scree
Startled the dog; his head cocked in that direction.
The boatswain whispered softly, "dog what do you see?"
My brother saw the plumage of the Peregrine Falcon

The boatswain used a branch to trace a line in the sky;
My brother secured a good photo to take.
The dog flared his nostrils and let out a cry;
The falcon's reflection flickered over the lake.

Neighboring falcons resigned to their flock
As we knotted the line and lassoed our dock.

...
[y]

Sunday Sonnets, 2-1-09

Watermarked

How quickly things can get away,

how often thoughts just disappear,

despite the ink or time one takes

to liter'lize what's between the ears

it all goes swiftly from our clutch,

our brains move faster than our hands,

and we all want to say so much,

but brains can't make hands understand.

But when brains can manipulate

the fingers over pen and page

the words that come rely on fate,

and pray that beer will not upstage,

for nothing is as humbling

as writing that has been drowning. 

...

(k)

Sonnet Sundays

Murphy's Song

A rhyme but wouldn't dare have come to die

If only his was this, a right to air

The fearful trade many for just one eye

And justice knows just this: the word of "fair"

But heroes come from Gallus blood to fight

A man of generations looped and sewn

Be armor clad with semi-automatic might

Electric eyes and will parts steel and bone

Ride on to splash their blood upon the soil

The green of earth is mother's perfect sword

And Boddickers, all on knees of selfish toil

Regain the truth of the imperfect word

The herds of pushing thoughtless always run

While heavy knights walk on 'till hides the sun

---

{q}