no squirrels

Choose the one to watch. Had there been a need for language the language would be watched. Pull-horses. Ocean bluffs. Fondly speaking. Less fondly, pond made it to the snapshots from a throwaway. Near settler’s rock are the surmountable leaches most talk of burning.

On the mainland, as I heard the islander refer to us mainlanders, a snapping turtle crossed the street. While I yelled turtle you yelled snapping. Had this been a reason not to stop? One night I read my favorite chapter thirty times. Short, slow passage of the turtle.

Walking through the same path never gives me the same path. People remember more of how you make them feel, than what you say. For today my adages are simple.

Stick it. When you hear me complain, I had to convince you not to rip off the anti-abortion bumper sticker from the neighbor’s car. Otherwise known as pig.

Rainy day fun: Visit a grave at "Find a Grave"

Had there been Concord

(as i have mentioned before, i keep this space for revising, allowing poem to morph into different poems, try to break up the preciousness of the "publicized" writing. in my revision, there is a constant rejuvenation of forms--breaking the line in variant ways or shifting from proem to poem--so of course the words keep changing. i like to look at them in these different ways, like a family, I then decide whom to adopt if i may rely on such matronly language)


1.

Practice undoing. Others try to collect the undoing.
One takes heat
for forms spilling into other forms. I separate

our landlady’s pills, placing them in the day or night
container. No deviation. The cat needs to be fed.
I am full and thinking of wolf fish.

In Walden Pond the man caught crawfish, feeding them
to a nearby bass, I thought of casting longer sentences.
To what end? I ask myself. I ask the cat.

2.

You want to feel alongside, and are not convinced.
I change the names since this is not a record. One
wants the feeling, alongside. I am not convinced

anyone is here, with
a lot of practice. My own traps
set.


3.

What is adored is the permeable.
I adore the permeable.
My own desires abstracted

by tracing a headstand on my wall—hundreds of feet high,
toes the onlookers—not the man
on his cell phone who constantly places himself

in public spaces. Placed somewhere to meet someone.
You know, the ones who call themselves. A stranger
skirting the puddingstone or the granite wall,

covered in piss-colored paint, is on the side
I’d normally walk. I need to know
the materials.

4.

Museum-head. The woman
ready to throw her head over the terrace,
since (logical propositions abound)

baby is too large.
You said so yourself.
She looked like me.


5.

The sculpture next to the video
of the sculpture animated.

Stainless Steel. Steel.
Copper. Bronze.

P-a-t-i-n-a.

Worn out, stockpiled
beauty of damage.

6.

Paintings of downloaded images
layered with digital geometrics
gave me the creeps. See a random woman,

random leg, five images in one room
were too much for me.

Permeability.

Do prestigious words
have more legs?

Our progeny
will laugh at words called 50 cents.


6, starting over

Octopus legs regenerate.
He talks of pulling one off, getting lost
in the ink. Keep the spear gun at home.

Sugar at half-mast.
I have no reason.
(Consider weather patterns.)


7.

The can of chirping flipped over
inside the birdcage, and the mechanical parts
floating in oil imparted a jellyfish, an ocean.

The sky
a jellyfish making love to a can
of chirping. Gives the sense of

the point of impact
where Norwegians build
a doomsday repository for seeds.

Chronicles

Practice undoing and the others try to collect the undoing. One takes heat for forms spilling into other forms. As I separate our landlady’s pills, placing them in the day or the night container, there can be no deviation. The cat needs to be fed. I am full and thinking of wolf fish.

In Walden Pond the man caught crawfishes and fed them to a nearby bass as I thought about steering the flux of longer sentences. To what end?, I ask myself. I ask the cat.

One wants to feel alongside. One is not convinced. I changed the names since this is not a record. One wants the feeling of being alongside the sentence and is not convinced. Neither am I, convinced anyone is here. What would change if there were?

What is adored is the permeable. I adore the permeable. My own desires are abstracted by tracing a headstand on my wall—hundreds of feet high, my toes the onlookers—not the man talking on his cell phone who constantly places himself in public spaces. Placed somewhere to meet someone I suppose. You know the ones who call themselves.

The man skirts the puddingstone or granite wall on the side I’d normally walk; it is covered in piss-colored paint. I need to know the materials.

The woman ready to throw her head over the terrace, since (logical propositions abound) the baby is too large. You said so yourself. She looked like me.

The images downloaded from the internet with a layer of digital geometrics gave me the creeps. What is seen is a random woman, a random leg, five images in one room were too much for me. Permeability. Does a prestigious word have more legs?

Octopus legs regenerate. He talks of pulling one off, getting lost in the ink. Keep the spear gun at home. Sugar at half-mast. I have no reason. Weather patterns are considered.

The can of chirping flipped over inside the birdcage, and the mechanical parts in oil imparted the sense of a jellyfish in the ocean. The sky looks like a jelly fish making love to a can of chirping.

At the point of impact Norwegians build a doomsday repository for seeds. The sculpture appears next to a video of the sculpture animated. We stood. Who does the animating? I love the sound can. Can you make the sound?

Dispatx

Dispatx does it again with a great edition on the Plague of Language.

Two City Living Gripe

It's quasi-me until I get my box of books, foolishly uninsured. Hurry please. After force feeding a quitting meter quarters, quarreled with the post office jammed at the quay in my head since Midwest to East Coast transit has no loaded harbors, so no flotsam. What the qua! Are we back to mules? What about trucks or planes or precision or my books?

the moon

When I was born the moon was a waning crescent. What was it doing when you were born? See this site. Do tell.

Back in Boston only three days and I attend a poetry reading by Xtina Strong who is heading to Brooklyn (we should now shut the gates to deter great poets from leaving Boston for New York), and by Jack Kimball whom I was glad to have heard read. Xtina showed two films that stirred up thoughts of Sept 11, the War in Iraq, and the Katrina floods with newclips from the nemesis George W. Bush and Others, and voiceovers by Xtina posing questions about the language we use (operation, etc.) and our wartime maneuvers (another skanky word, though not included). Jack Kimball read a series of short untitled poems (what was that last haiku-ish poem of the ovary?) that gave me a sense of a person's need to write to see what can be done, and equally to question what has been done. This self is ever-ready to take some shots: when I was born I was so ugly "the doctor slapped my mother." (Sorry, don't know the exact line.) At each turn of the page, I was helicoptered into a new situation, often with an overlooker critiquing this scene. He can sure pack a wallop of voices condensed in a few words.

I'm quite horrible at this type of review, especially covering such a great reviewer as Kimball, which probably makes me want to try it more. I will not fear failure. Off I go, I will not fear failure...


Related links:

Demolicious: The great reading series, more to come in the fall
Xtina's site
Jack Kimball's blog


Now I'm off considering the possibilities of the typo "needless to see."

Other great movies to watch, if you trust me:

Black Cat, White Cat; and Underground by Emir Kustarica. I'm telling you, you will want to dance. I'm telling you twice.