Having made the identification (after being mugged)

I'll put your face on his
to sleep at night
-- the scar on your nose
becomes him too I'll
see it everywhere now in
noodles, coffee, my
own hand--
I can't imagine your
life even draw well-lit
pictures in the etching turf or
sandy floor where I picked
myself up--it's your voice I'll cling to
I thought I'd recognize your
hands--or your most undramatic
shadows some et cetera-- where
will you sleep tonight? I'll
fold up my instrument parts tucked
away in shapes of "mystery"
and "soul", thimble wise
crawling saws--while you
remember my face, your
thirsty fingers

You are always alone said
the philosopher stretching his toes
by the fire
and slowly curled back
in his behemoth chair bedazzled
under the taciturn weight of
italicized words untouchable to watch while
amusement played his very lips
in the form of inhalation and breathing
and ignoble fingers
Marry you have smitten fair religia and you
wiped my tears away in the dark
that was Germania, narrow,
-- now I see what lies beneath it all that
you cannot even be calculated wrath, but calm, in this
room or windy streets in weathered midday dust
old men in libarary basements
afraid of speed of turns/
or asleep in a park with the open sun
Have yourself unripened foreshorn
your secrets of authenticity rape and echoing corridors
shown me the spinning of my brittle
limbs while I closed my eyes and set
me heart shored these weaknesses and promises and
held my own hand and after the chaos and
leverage of constancy in this stacked deck of
who could wipe my tears away and who could
redeem the good in the morning
while the shadows synthetic reflections of situations and
adjust their billboard lives
in a heaving that taken one breath a smile
and populate the streets in merciless
normalcy and halls and stocking rooms
chores and revelry now listen,
there are some that even look like me, and
fester their unsang brilliance always right behind me
or one day ahead of me
while I sleep or hide unrousingly
conscious in the sprint of three thousand years
or on Nevsky where I am only a
prick of nightmarish episodes and thick
unfolding storied, faith
-- their loose tails and ripening mouths
-- faith in the past and cohesion
have whirled fantasy in sensation around me
in tricks of words and gesture
As I lie awake after I
shrug the toy of weighty prayer and mirthless
purpose / stack in step
into my life and
Even there 'back on the street' parrying enchantment
and lapping up the push of movement (this dust
in my hair) the bright-eyed shadows know me
changing my past to fit my little fingers and
little passions deliberating
my / options erasing my steps with
one in front one behind the vantage
is a corner with the
precision of pen on dry paper
and I could go on and on Philosophy
draw charts and rhyme in fumbling
rhyme, or kill you with love
and never live
but I'll leave that to you

you talk to me

half the night with

beautiful eyes those whites gone red,

those shaved eyeball organs

in pinkish soft light, off

plush blanket, you did insist

- language steps into the

kitchens and bathrooms

broken-down on a different

channel in different states

I’ll repeat them till

you fall asleep



and carry the weight of

the mark it makes

A man dashed

tan necks and easy backs

conversation seems easy:

the chairs pull away:

I’ll expand, too

to the eyes with drunken depth followed by

skin that sweat in

follicle longing the images

panned thick in this normal world

where one finds one

the words of sticky tissue honey

wrapped in poetry and

one pillowed night



We told stories as such: I

listened

Old Grey Rock Stone

Old Grey Rock Stone
Set - against crescent - highs
Long had - the path - worn up and on -
For - us to find you - here!

The face the face - a familiar one
Expecting - this - laureled - gaze
Drawing - tight - breath to consider speech -
For we were on - this side!

Heart - beats bloods - bleed
Building - to trace Stone's time -
The object - blood built is then revealed -
And I was on - that side!

Tremors of - up - Lips of Joy - stomach of Fire -
Shroud in this - different - gaze!
Blood runs twice - with toes of purple -
As old gray Rock - justifies!

With "further to go" now - and "this is the I"
Lifting the - hands so light!
Long had the path worn on and up
I strike again - create -

Old Grey Rock Stone -
Chooses - his words - again
After a - silence - he gathers my nerves
And smiles - with heart - unmoved!

Not the words - I was to wear -
Expectation's - boyish - drowns
Brain limps - to strike - now hurts - the brain -
- Cooling - Blood - under press - of doubt

See through me then old grey Stone!
Indifference - screwing out - hollows
The blood - that was - mine the blood - to make -
Against - me - now plays - in time!

Angels strong
like cotton gins
in the freezer lights
catch arabesque turns
in their pocket candy
hands
strung gently so as
not to fall
they prick each other’
s lips with
longing knife-touches
below, in the spray
of sheer blood run
cool maidens, unaware of
whites: moon dances in the
glenny forest sacking locks
of curled hair while
above, the rain is gentle
hail crafting contemplated waters
the brows left unfurrowed
in the spinning chosen touch

After the dreaming you’d
look back slung back
from the pits of his
nails, forgeign legs
release fists to your own
stomach as the flushings
drained against
hard ribs -
So this is morning? The clothing
relied on no such static to
find its precise perch
heavily on the carpet
The story could be
both old and new
You’ll read on, perhaps twice, not whispering
the winter will keep us cold, the
cotton crumpled snow piled white

The moon was not/ forever tragedy

In flowers she would have been three (he slept
one as the sunflower you’ll find her
nestled in the creaking darkness of seeds
hinges of shadows' cloud dust or more and
two an orchid of violet fervor (his face, framed in the hills and wet grasses)
skin the flavor of honey blood find shade
in the spiraling darkness behold
her beauty is the legend of
Pagans the blood they heaved as
ballet grace and the drunken love
water for
purity she is her
own legend as calm
seaborn typhoon
or cool summer grass
midnight you’ll find
three flowers
and as she falls in love the tide shivers
and her love
shepherd of men but only as he
reminds us of our mortality
she passed above
his flock for years
and finally
jammed him to Paradise begging forever
(her father smiled)
his life her breath
in a box
a life no less
a life of love
and grasshopper legs

I'll tell you how many times you've done it, and you know how it makes me feel.

At the first step I

counted four heads, you counted 5

in praise of you the upward

swept in places rounding

their faces in mock

precision we hold hands and

hold hands, and

you, gladly, want to share

(what I have taken from you

but a wielded sacrifice is not

a sacrifice atall though I smile

atall though we're nodding for

you’ll endure without listening,

all this repeating like counting

until we all have our numbers, crunch,

I write poetry, too

Insomnia Poem, part XII (and no I'm not just trying to trick out your sympathy, I think)

To fear
dreaming or the
taptap process
remember – at all
the sensation before
sleep? scratching
glass painless
fingernail tear
through the quick
knuckle drop deep through
the mattress and
crusted bloody, hoary dirt
catching fabric weaves, squeezed
skin passing
against the floor
meeting the warm-shell
Earth long forgotten
volcano imagery
hustles my genitals
waists sink and
breathing apparati rise
My body is an
awkward organ: heavier
than I remember
limbs bloating, a thing apart
from the
thickening dream water,
leaves me

Phone Call Pulls me from my Reading, Various Pictures

Today I pretended
than an ex-lover
called me
on the slim black
phone in the corner
of my room

Carpet weighed my steps:
my voice was no expectation
like glass under
a blue sky.
I sat down after I
did not recognize the voice

While she made small
talk I weighed grandiose
plans, imaging one
night of reluctant leg
nudity: fleshy weight
before a testing kiss, then

A realization of
her proximity pricked
me: to exude my
pleasure at the happiness
cherry season had brought her,
I wanted her greed

The way she opens
to the world, and
I was softer: and
louder in my reassurance.
For how she draws who I was
who: I can be

There was never any kiss
She finally says, removed
of the prosaic heart tugs.
Why bring that up at
a time like this?
she holds, lingers in reasons

Track edges broke in a room that’s
ice fever fever you are nothing
your bones will grind back into the earth
and there will be no mentioning of you
It is time to be self righteous
Entering, frozen, unbroken glass pivots about into statues
closets entering tracen polar limbs
The room is filled with my
darkest ambitions, smooth lines
Your little friends are waiting, cocks in hand
with purple smiles and a compact disk
so you can understand
the fingers that kept me
awake at rest on your round
belly sloppy back of your thighs raised
stalking into this crease of nightmare I
present no illusion
you read me as you will
Around—the glass steadies in synchronized
shutter As it is alive to crush the
sepulcher is to thrill trauma cracks through
the hoarse throat touching the lock
Of bleached hair makes the room shimmer
in glass, breathe like dawn and the
little friends go on probing their neurotic cocks
against swelling glands that startle them
as planned this world would
be fire but that is not real, a
tear of a page and the glass so delicate
so strummed together in grotesque longing
will suffer the bend of its card expectation
stalking with no illusions I’ll imagine your eyes
before dreaming, never act (and make associations
with the solid metal bat,

such – a long way to – travel

for me – to find – you – here!

such expression in sheer – up – blue

to empty – up – with tears!

Overthinking you

tricks you closer,

And kills Little Josh.

I hated him so,

touchy little prick.

oh that’s hysterical,

that you can have me, too,

project yourself into aberastract,

taste me only in twos.

your hand is shaking,

but nerves are okay,

because this day,

will still break, and there’s

always time, again

But none like this.

Oh I speak to you again,
I couldn’t turn it down,
we’ll sit across tables,
candle-dy don’t,
playing on down the smiles,

Oh I could ask you home
after many a drink,
tumbling up whiskey even,
not a kiss,

try it and
we’ll see
what I say.

I pretend like writing’s good,

because it’s already

bright outside.


If this is just neon,

and you are not hurt,

then dark is the color of sleep.

tongue tuck,

sure stuck,

wrapping your skin by sleep.


change the pressure,

simplicity,

you're still holding your breath.

They caught a spy in your house last night,
It was all they could do.
I for one am waiting for the trial to begin,
Burn him out of my life.

For a clear brain is all we can ask for, more than
Tight legs, mountain tops,

Because I had a dream that we were all frauds,
Jittering in our fine blue suits,
And though our eyes were shut in smooth steel,
Just waiting to be found out.

should have done everything differently

Shut Down

Dumb Town

Yes I’m Really This Numb


Nutty Pollen

Eye Clog

So That You See What You Like

no post is no post: oh silly poetry in the morning, sweating and for no reason, at all

feeling is just

the hallucination of

having

choice,


sucking up a

hallmark moment,

and filling your veins

with the future:


any day,

now.

oh jesus I have nothing more to say

when you’re already asleep

that I could take, you up in my arms?

and you could wake up,

if my voice were a little sharper,

if I, could make you, pain.

I could write a lot,
if you’d believe just a word,
even though my fingers,
find cloth and not the skin.

I could believe a lot,
if we’d decide together,

but your hand doesn’t start,

and I’m all out of surprises.

god I hate the sunrise

when you aren’t here.

god it’s all

just reeking yellow.

this sinus pressure.

and stacking and stacking.

when you’re waiting

for me

to write you back.

you are,

just an ugly turn,

of shoulder skin during the dawn:

I could turn it away,

two times dark,

I could keep

myself Together.

oh he takes them home does he.

well I could show you a thing or two.

not about the gint of her gabe.

but about that breath of yours.

Pack yourself back up
Matchstick man
The wind is colder than
you thought

Ugly hands can feel
in the wind
Troubled pulses can’t hide
their shape

Dropping it All: Such Awkward Weight: Don’t Cry: I’m Loose Now

Of all the headaches I have had,
This might taste cleanest yet,

Run through with you,
Of littlest Faith,

At Last
Something different

On my breath.

I have blood

if I have blood,

and this could be

my bone.

and you’d so like

a little dance,

If I could ruin

you I would.

You’re never lost,

even this morning,

wearing my t-shirt,

cold, as always,

maybe you hoped,

I was someone else,

when you said that,

And that’s the only

reason you came.

Oh, you have
no idea,

how much I’d like

to add you to my list

– and leave things at that

of all the headaches I have had
this might taste cleanest yet

not of whiskey and not of vodka
but hangover of the cleanest eyes

monday,actually a monday

bloody hell,
twosome bells

trading after a touch,
you can move

your little body,
sideline suck,

I can show you a little more,
than that.

Waking up in Moscow, Sunday afternoon, sky cold and Blue, HungOver through me Toes, Again:

and

drinky

dogga

diggidy

doo

Nothing is changing,
While The Room is Long
There's Nothing to be found
down there,
And so Your steps are just
what you think should be.


Later.

Projecting the dark
to sleep at night.

so much space

between such little thoughts,

hesitation creates the brain,

maybe I’ll turn

into something you’ll want,

find skin at the end of

this skin.

god I could kill you,

if you’d give me a chance,

red lips across your drink,

this is my mask,

just Waverly Worn,

sniffing on out

of the Dark.

I am a little hollow man
made out of bits and floor salt

I don’t want to feel it so far,
so far in from my grit

a ringing, through rags, as I
imagine not having answered,

Or filling her up with flame

The little babies would be beautiful,
and then I could run

I write a little poem because I
have nothing better to do,

and it seems like something
when something’s done,

And we can call it preparation,
because the future is always ,

When We Arrive.

And I, hollow little mince,
and, jitter little that,

Maybe I like a scoop at my innards,
weak of the night-time wait

And there are so many things
that you can do with light

and it’s all far worse, this
latent to be something whole.

Tempt the Fates, If that’s As loud As you can Speak, Even if No one Reads it, Child

The expression – on – your face –
The moisture – on – your lips –
Such a day –
is only a day –
for you.

All will be forgiven –
because all will be forgotten.

my sock is lost
somewhere in your bed

the coffee tastes stronger cold

you put on your jeans
casual quick

so that’s how the rub can go

when all those little buildings
outside your window

lose their shape:
melt to background lumps,

and jutting brick:

and you can just pass by,

don’t think it’s habit
putting them into place,

no,

And you, behind glass:
No.

It’s all just what
you’ve read before.

my first lie –

an – Experiment in texture

– he got away –

ginger on your breath - and

this stumbling – around -

lies – the – Silent assertion

why – nothing’s wrong here

all of the dark curves
in your little white body

turn the tears
I never see

into tightly wound rain:

you hear on streets, glass,
is it morning or is it still night,

it’s not even cold enough
to see your breath

and you still smile
like you’re watching,

and I never
promised you happiness

I – could breathe all night –

her – skin on skin – lightly

Nails – are friction

- gentle loss –

and she awoke – thirsty –

august, apparently

Just can't get under the skin
Under the skin:

You've shaved your legs
Two-times tart

I know the whole picture
Been in and in

So why these eyelash battings
Whore

I've seen it before
And seen it before

What makes you think I'm
In such pain?

jetlag - is - dry-throats:
something - still lost - in height.

A year Ago! Take that Sensitive Baby-Bollucks! I’ll see me Eyes in Ruin before blowing to bow You Again!

Roughly a year ago:

(in all seriousness):


I am miserable

and I hate
writing

the fucking word

- miserable


(palo alto ha ha hahaahHAh! CALIFORNIA)

we're no good anymore
you and I
We know too many
of these little looks

I can feel your tone
when you pull at his arm
as I know what you're waiting
for me to say

and on the 20th of september, rushed through and FORGOTTEN

If distance is a trick – of what you expect it to be

And Proximity has no texture
Other than what - you've felt - Before

And all you have at death – are the stories
You've told yourself – to fall asleep – at night

And money is worth only – what you give
– to protect it – as it determines – the scales

And I have changed and you have changed

I'll take my little chances – with no great cause

And leave you –
The pressure of such – little words

boiling on low
and eyes still
surprising

On the street I pull my coat closer

The morning
doesn't smell
like it should:
wet oily eggs

And I'm still trying
to close your eyes

Peel those abrasion
Downs

against stomachs

are just tall glass

taking you up in the
Blood:

Bad for me,

rock-hard Sleep.

tumbling for words -

gets stuck


fumbling in morning -

is sick


The sky can't be

all this blue


And all these

people, moving

this doesn't hurt
like the first time


though the second was
just sleep and wake,
month and month


we'll part after a hug
or two, a turn, you know
you still have
chilling eyes


And I still can't stand
the flesh
around your hips

itch comes to push
on August nights

if this isn't dust
it must be sky

- or smoke says
my little skin:

burn the money

crisp little tendrils

because you
care so much

after - rain
the streets have not
yet healed
to any
sealings of fricitives
the air - green
wet gasps of
thaT last breath

before sleep:
trying to stay
foot-touched
heart-held
before the rising
heavy
Earth -

wait to touch
that skin
hanging

sundiced
and smooth
tan

all the way
up
was worn before

your
bristle-cut

september can be a month of silly angst, too - though I promise I'm not just trying to bring you down,sweets,you know I'll do anything to impress you

Your touch is

All this powdered sugar

up my nose

and disengaged concentration


- the inability

to sneeze


Don't give in to that stomach pang

little boy

Against -
Stomachs

Are just tall glass

For,
to,

take you up in the
Blood -

bad for me:

rock-hard
sleep

your touch hurts

something deeper than blood


but your eyes

shallower than bone

travelling with fever
is bad for business
number all swell
and nowhere to land

so sleep isn't sleep
but waking is waking
after days and night of
this ridiculous concentration

Ah - I hate

how

you look at me :


Somewhere - between

good:

if it hurts
a little - slip

in all - this
open water:

harder breathing
out

- open
water

when

you need
it to hurt

Stuffed with Blue

Thumbs the - Sun

Pollen - grits it Raw

Nails on Head -

And jars still Closing

Counting Away -

The Sun

it's just a word -

after all -

it's written -

everywhere -

you look -

at me -

like it -

should be more -

because you'd like to see pain in there

you are

weight

on the lungs

chest - harder

to take in the air

with all

your little kisses

feeling the back of your legs
after you've shaved

hurts something deeper than blood

your eyes prick up

shallow as bone

such silly anxiety
still distorts the skin

edges just unwieldy
flat screens shift underarm

and lifting: that isn’t sleep

when you can still
make out all that distance

413

Dead in - summer Hurts the Sun -
all this Streaming - deaf on Grass -
Hedges - of distraught - Attention -
all - these People walking - Home

Breaking up with Poetry!

one

How 'bout a kiss my sweetest -

dearest!

Draw in all close-like - now!

For -

When I open my little mouth,

I know you want to punch it!

   Aroo!   Aroo!

 You dirty little skank!


two

A metaphor for a snowy day:

The snow falls down in heaps and bales,

And through it you must tread.

Sometimes you’d like to all your life,

 But most of the time not.
 


three

When your sister walks by

  I look

   isn’t that enough

baby?


four

Would that we could hold onto gold,

Would that we could pray,*

Would that we could keep it that way,

Would that the flame would last.#


* the “meaning it” kind of praying.
# you see why it's over, right?  I mean, this poem blows.


five

Star Blar Ting Tang,

Rang Tang girl Blang!

Bloog Blog Black Blug,

I think we should see other people.


six

Never say I've wasted your time,

I’m sure you’ve learned a touch -

As far as all I didn’t do,

I’d do the same again.


 
seven

THAT’S ADORABLE – YOU

THOUGHT WE HAD A CHANCE!

WHAT, FOREVER?



eight

All forgotten for

Recollecting Just

  a Paltry One – All

forsaken for

Just a stranger’s  - new

     accompanying -

And I’m afraid

that Stranger isn’t You.

What?  You

don’t like Emily Dickinson

- you Sexist?
 

nine

When I open my little email box

It’s not my fault if my

 little heart bumps a beat

to see her name

- It is?

Well how do you

think I feel -

She hasn’t written back

in a while.
 

ten

What can I say when

I see you cry?

what more than

tissues can I give?

You might be sure

you hate me now,

But then I myself

am rather sure

You'll find cause to hate

again.


eleven

Your face is so pretty

I’m sure you’ll love again!

They’ll be buying you beers at bars!

And laughing at all your jokes!


Why didn’t I say anything about your legs,

you ask?  No, I just thought that your best...

Oh screw it -

Your face is all you got.

Frantic Boulder birds beat time
in heaved tree dancer
and dawn de color scheme
is East and brown is dirt
Birds like paths find drawn
breath unsatisfying
Crack out in lit desire - is
a bar of half-recognitions
shoulder touches -
for they have eyes
beer bit swallow-fulls: jam
branched full the words
are like candy – long practiced
in indomnable sleep but
birds are the shrill light
pricking corners
against my better cheek:
birds hum on the relay of wings

In The Dirt / Sun Beats Two-Time

On the dirt floor the child toyed with a scorpion - while
The sun hung round and feverish yellow

The scorpion - complained in passive lashing as
the body scooted further into shadow

Here: the dust rises without form but settles
on the bridge of the nose, threatening soft eye-white

a coarse woven blanket keeps time with tepid wind
in the distance, sand

The mountains seem cold like night on top of river
- they promise the health of sandless blowing wind

And here the drunken fishermen pass by in the streets
their nets hung empty, like cracked open lips

And drooping eyes, they take in the scorpion
And head home with wine-stained lips:

the boy redraws his home -

"keep those eyes with a glint, young joshua"

Wipe - that smiling - off Your face -
I'm - more - to blame - than You -
Yes - your - Body is hungry-svelte -
But I - supply the - Gaze -

We walked like strangers

We walked like strangers
 The straight concentration    and she found my skin
holding something under breath


was love she said
was love she said

    walked heavily
            like paste

Tucked into pavement
rough bliss your
vanity heeds nerve
to stay closed
as react meets reaction
At the Break of Spring
the flowers stir in
expectant earth the brown
does not become your moistening
thighs such fingers wrought
journeys thorning my life under lock
with simple words
and unpaced eyes
March gives weight,

The World is a Vampire

I'm listening to Smashing Pumpkins. They are so totally awesome. If you don't like Smashing Pumpkins you are so totally stupid. You are so totally stupid, you're retarded.

I used to not like Smashing Pumpkins and I was so totally stupid. The are so totally awesome.

My favorite track tonight is track 4 on "Greatest Hits" album, "Cherub Rock." It is so totally sweet.

But I think you're totally stupid if you only buy the "Best of" album of a band you say you like. You're such a poser. You totally suck.

Smashing Pumpkins are so sweet.

everyone
says

they'd rock the boat


everyone
says

they'd shake things up


used to talking

to the ghosts in their heads

vanity links

My friend alai is a much better writer than you are in either your dreams or in your mom's teary, pandering eyes after you've sent her the link to your generic, driveling PoliticalBlog, cow-fucker.

I love skaoot, and so should you.

Her knees wield secrets
inside the blue jean
flesh
to trick them into
spoon tapping
would send dizzy
the observant fingers
into their pocket restrain
to finger what
of making our lives
with the
least of movement
and the dullest of
gesture

Hay Fever, Palm Trees, Volleyball Net, Unfocused Hills, Theoretical Bay, what the Fuck else Do I SEE Out MY WINDOW

Stuffed with Blue
Thumbs the Grass
Pollen grits it Raw
Nails on Head -
And jars wrenched top-up
Counting away
The Sun

Toying With A Nervous Breakdown

Or: what would happen if I shoved a sugar-coated
ibuprofen Pellet down my
Nervous jittering penile shaft, again


CARROT STICK - NERVE ENDINGS

wash-cloth quality skin

TONGUE - PRESSINGS

against my rough front teeth

EYES A LITTLE - BEHIND



It's okay, it's just a little piece of synapse that wires you
to and fro, behind the eye clockwise, back
nothing you'll miss in what could
became of all this DarkDarkDark

Souls are safe in eyeing plenty
counting up - the days
Eyes are rock and pasts are steady
relying on the - deep

Any touch resounds the raw expectation
sly-wise to the tongue
Found in rain - and tale passwords
mundane like dialing home

against white paint
and your paintings

I’ll try my hand out

sure you don’t know
what I feel



heavy, without drink

- 2 6 -

Twenty Sixth of October Nineteen Ninety Eight Big
Ben’s iron cast fist thumbing blank
crowded streets
A homeless killed himself jarred twelve
stories of river hush to indistinct
crackle death and tubes we –
make meaning of
the red leaves

and only the fall river he jumps

spread of nerves touch like stones

your poetry gives me nothing monsieur

Phone Call Pulls me from my Reading, Various Pictures

Today I pretended
than an ex-lover
called me
on the slim black
phone in the corner
of my room

Carpet weighed my steps:
my voice was no expectation
like glass under
a blue sky.
I sat down after I
did not recognize the voice

While she made small
talk I weighed grandiose
plans, imaging one
night of reluctant leg
nudity: fleshy weight
before a testing kiss, then

A realization of
her proximity pricked
me: to exude my
pleasure at the happiness
cherry season had brought her,
I wanted her greed

The way she opens
to the world, and
I was softer: and
louder in my reassurance.
For how she draws who I was
who: I can be

There was never any kiss
She finally says, removed
of the prosaic heart tugs.
Why bring that up at
a time like this?
she holds, lingers in reasons

you’ll pay tomorrow / my friend

\It was a
nervous jerk –
and so:
unfulfilling,
I’m still all nerves.
finger-tips and
heart valves.
The rocking of
sufficient breathing.
And I flit with the
desk lamp to melt
away those lines of light
across the ceiling.
This is it: convergence
of bloods, dissonance,
should there exist
such a word –

where is all of this
space when I’m
on trains? or
choosing breakfast
cereal?

All of those pens,
clips, jagged gleams
of metal on the desk –
Oh would they fit nicely
right back
behind my eyes!

From the cycle, "Variations on no Theme"

"Negligently, the way everything begins,
You yawn and bleed, you stare at
Your cut chin in the glass, the skin puckered
Under the Swedish steel,
The eye glazed in the morning light, an animal
In double jeopardy, practicing
The use of edged tools while standing on its hindlegs.
The beard hairs swarm like lice
In the basin, and each time you shave
The haggling begins again, your fear
Seeks an equilibrium: a first plea
For the innocent heart,
The amnesty long before the opened veins."

- Durs Gruenbein, translated by M. Hofmann.

Focus is not an object,
and headache isn’t a degree.
If I knew where all this
ice ended and my brow
began – I’d sleep the sleep
of babes.

No more tubes, and pressure
can just be a word. See.
On the side of
little bottles in little print,
you keep your pipes clean,
all right.
Sleep.

Insomnia, continued, again, Wedge it on through Sunday Night

I saw a terrible sign today. I saw a terrible sign today, and I can’t forget about it and nothing about this room or the darkness or the hideous threat of tomorrow morning helps. I stood looking at my bed for a solid ten minutes, after having lost myself in various distractions, old books, music, cards, computer board games, wine, and (after some more) I pretended I didn’t need to sleep - like I was some sort of superhuman - sleep was the strangest thing one could possibly imagine, Greek Gods contemplating the mortality of their lovers and brief enemies and the children that come between, or like it was some fucked-up cultural thing like people who eat dog. An interesting anecdote, something to quip about in mass emails or parties when there’s nothing else to say. I moved about yet again (distraction here, distraction there, but always conscious of the intent, so no actual distraction achieved) and pretended I didn’t need to sleep. I came up with sentences, fragments (maybe once I would have called them “poetry”) and one sentence leads to another, and another to a jumble. It’s all vanity, but at least I don’t write them down anymore. What a mess even now, what the bloody hell... a mess of tenses, but that’s the way the thinking goes to keep away from the bed, that’s been established.

green isn’t a color
and blue isn’t its friend
yellow burns my little eyes black
this dark sure takes its time

heart ache against all this green
and people – walking home
while sands – find – niche
on little minds
of strict imagination

it’s hell being so predictable kid
when you’re not needed to mark the day
silvery gears and simulation tucks
draw them to your house alright

things don't look
too good
for us now!


what with me

up in your tree!


I'd take the hint
if you'd
make it more -


Or else I can

wait all night!

saturday afternoon - curled behind a little word play

heart ache against all this green
and people – walking home
while sands – find – niche
on little minds
of strict - imagination

frizzzzzaiddeii

Night Rate - Hotel Waits
too close - By The Sun
Hand Pub - candle stubs
Talks You out - Again

Not Quite Pulled Together, kids - Come back Tomorrow for Pith

Track edges broke in a room that’s
ice fever fever you are nothing
your bones will grind back into the earth
and there will be no mentioning of you
It is time to be self righteous
Entering, frozen, unbroken glass pivots about into statues
closets entering tracen polar limbs
The room is filled with my
darkest ambitions, smooth lines
Your little friends are waiting, cocks in hand
with purple smiles and a compact disk
so you can understand
the fingers that kept me
awake at rest on your round
belly sloppy back of your thighs raised
stalking into this crease of nightmare I
present no illusion
you read me as you will
Around—the glass steadies in synchronized
shutter As it is alive to crush the
sepulcher is to thrill trauma cracks through
the hoarse throat touching the lock
Of bleached hair makes the room shimmer
in glass, breathe like dawn and the
little friends go on probing their neurotic cocks
against swelling glands that startle them
as planned this world would
be fire but that is not real, a
tear of a page and the glass so delicate
so strummed together in grotesque longing
will suffer the bend of its card expectation
stalking with no illusions I’ll imagine your eyes
before dreaming, never act (and make associations
with the solid metal bat,

thou hast used the words melancholy and lover -a ll in a single poem!

While stepping over the remarks of ashen braenwood
along a ravine of hearted stone music
I composed a few lines
to the sky, the water, the woodsy hearth

Trees found their burden heavier
as the enchanted valley enclosed me
a sky: palm in red
blackening dirt filling to my senses -like

In wine reverie the lovers’ fists turn glassy
the waters bloat in rhymed heat
or they’re braced against the bird banded trees
lip their sing and impose gentle melancholy

With a wave this world shifts brighter
Against the pillow hemmed moonlight
Or perhaps to cast off pen and labored commotion
And stay with the morning And words left alone


(not long enough for page 1162)

Revisited: Or, South-Bay Blue times two (when the words sound So Similar)

why the 'ell not
blow out your brains

on such a
melanch'ly day


granted the April
sky is crisp

Fear Loathing
Loathing Fear

Saturday Night Untitled

simple tasks have become overwhelming:
the eyes of the wooden angles followed
my ascent across the room
to ungrateful curves of glass
trays, carrot sticks and
radish wholes a list of unfinished
errands dangles off my wrist
and they notice, strange: the distance
between myself and paranoid daily
clothing is so small, though I would act
as if no one was watching, yet from the
dusty portraits so far I am not
feverish I just have nothing to say
they’ll watch where I present myself
I am not for any kind of greatness,
as for this room

Hard to break any Distance with that which feels Normal

The tis’ lit that’s okay you can
cry yourself to sleep
the can of light beer—were you
smiling!—and you touched on
the shoulder when you sleep I
can’t touch you
you smile I forget
you believe
cry forever? No, but
when I say I
think thank and cover
your shoulder under two blankets
the back of your
bra will surprise me
Next year we’ll be drunk, us
both, hang
up sharply

Even more tiring than new Yorker Poetry - sloopy middle aged men and their thoughts at night - promise me death before such an end (page 53), Mother

crescent shaped Wordsworth
 who did you fool on your
Tinturn Abbey? your flaccid member
  droops in your lap perhaps
to be convinced of heaven?
then your soul should have sailed
 as fear fell to sagery
a pleasant trump by some pleasant trees
and not come back again
many things are composed in a day
  but ne’er resurrection

from just moments after, when you have your breath back, if only to write a little something here or there

and – in these moments
of grinding – affectation
your head and your heart
an – awkward system

later there will – be time
to read this to pieces
what you could have waged –
into those little blue eyes

The moment is – escaping
the present: giving it the slip
and pegging reaction – on
dark foreign momentum

is the trick – against your
bones is the - thick against
where – your heart – should be
no, you’re wrong: there is time –

she said

national poetry month

mrup rup rup rup

do you know anyone at risk?

A Scene From A Classroom: in Under 1000 Words

She’s devouring her wintergreen gum, just leaning into it. She smacks it up and down, flips it over, and then plays with it against tongue. This tongue move, among others, is designed to provoke me (I don’t think I have to go into what else can be done with a tongue). But I’m not going to look: I’m stiff with my eyes forced forward, hands occupied now with a pencil, now with a cup of tea. It’s suave on my part – I’m drinking the tea like I enjoy it. She’s trying to trick me into looking at her; or, worse yet, smelling her. But that’s the worst part, that I can control my eyes, but not that which rolls over and over my delicate nasal membranes. Of course, I could plug up my nose, pinch it up with one of these superfluous hands, but then she’d know she has me, and in front of all of these people, they’d all think, just like she’d think, “there, the girl takes a little shower, puts on a little something something in the way of perfume, and he falls to pieces.” So, no, I’ll play her little games, but I won’t look at her – and damned if I’ll let on that I smell her.

She has taken a shower, recently - a brilliant ploy on her part. She gets to come in here, sit down, and sit back, while I squirm imaging that soft, frothy sponge ensconcing every nip and tuck of her white white skin and those little playful beads tingling here and there, rolling down her back like the gum across her tongue. Dark hair playing this way and that. It’s almost too much. It’s almost more than I can handle. Fortunately nature has bestowed upon me a rather abnormal amount of constitution, most likely a merciful gesture of compensation for my uncanny powers of observation.

But I’m suddenly gripped with an awe-imposing kind of power – my breast suddenly feels swelled and wrenched up with a kind of inhuman strength. And I’m not one to push against inspiration such as this – no. “You’ve got to live life when you feel it,” is what someone told me sometime.

Still looking right, I swing my left leg hard left, leading it right into something that I imagine to be her skirt (which quickly leads me to any number of other imagined objects) right as another sting of scent strikes and wobbles every bone in my body. I think I caught something of her neck in that. Luckily, I still have the strength to retract my left leg, to finish off my retaliatory move. Nature has instilled me not only with a sizeable constitution, but with flawless nerves, as well.

I’ll wait a second on this move (as numerous books and men’s magazine advice columns have advised me – I am quite a student of human nature, as well), also to catch my breath. She couldn’t have expected that one – no, not in thirteen million years and the Kingdom of Heaven!

“Sorry,” I whisper as I turn to her.

Now is the time to hold this little bitch right my gaze, hold those green eyes steady, show her what her little plays have come to. “Melt,” I believe, is the parlance. This will, naturally, ensure my supremacy in the relationship, and also ensure the consummation of any number of wild sexual acts, the likes of which people write alternative songs about. Some of these acts, I am sure, even though much has been written about them, I am sure to be the first ever to partake in, as it is simply beyond comprehension how one could both imagine this act, consummate it, and write about it to boot. (this paragraph will, obviously, be stricken from the record, but I did have a fun time writing it).

I have those green eyes in sight now, and I bear down – this is the point at which she’ll “melt” – it will be the moment commemorated in innumerable emails and phone calls to good-smelling girlfriends. “What should I do?” and such. I have you now, you little slut.

But she looks at me as if she doesn’t know what just happened, as if she understands neither why I am ostensibly apologizing, nor the function of my analogy in the greater context.

Then I realize it – she is good! Sweet Christ on a Blood-Cross, she is good! She’ll have me knocking on her door at odd hours of the night yet!

In the sudden confrontation of her maneuver, I can do nothing but back away, turn away, and try to keep her smell from rolling, rolling over me. But I realize it is hopeless – she must have made some sort of movement with her body, specially practiced and then executed, whereby just a touch of the rawness from under her arm wafts over, slips under whatever that body lotion is.

I have nearly had it. I am crushed. I’ll need to make one hell of a move to bounce back off of this – most likely looking her number up and calling it from payphones. The time for advice from magazines is over. The took me off of script the second she made that brilliantly “puzzled” look. It’s all instinct now.

God, I can still smell her gum.

And I’m about to punch her, I’m about to turn and crack one good right upside her carefully arranged temple, maybe break a bone or two in my hand, when I realize the day is over. They’re leaving, all of them, and I am now to leave. The day is over, the sun is down, and now I nothing else but this constant voice, when it gets dark. And the only consolation to the hours of monotony, heat ahead, is that it will all be without her wintergreen gum, and the smell of her neck rubbing against that white cotton t-shirt.

We read poetry about the hollowed moon
 whispering - we read mine
she was plashless    lonely    her - disconcerted rapture
     dead
filling the grooves we  believed - with -
                    ugly softness
was love   she said
was love   she said

I'll unwrap you like a present
little blonde girl
There will time for sorries
later, trust me

1998

insomnia continued

There’s always that feeling, eventually, that feeling of sinking (before sleep jumbled up non-consciousness), gently melting down, forgetting, when it finally comes, sinking and floating blurring together. But: I get all anxious anticipating that feeling, jittery for its sensation, and I play tricks on myself, imagining that it’s happening, its consummation through my body, sending me right through my sheets and mattress and sticky wooden floor. Pretending: Oh, yes, here we go! and here again! off we go - off to sleep oh boy it makes me sick. Just tricks, foolishness, making everything even worse, these neck muscles think they’re doing fucking pull-ups. When you’re tense it does not come. When you shake it does not come. Wait, am I shaking? What would somebody think if they watched that look I get in my eyes during insomnia? Probably try to take a picture. Yes, it’s all my neck holding me above the hewn-hewn material I must wrap myself in, all the dyes and chemicals that now seep through porous skin and run the follicles and leak. Perhaps tomorrow night I’ll sleep wrapped up in plastic! Just me and my sweat. Then an observer would really think I had gone fucking mad, and the sweat would be held against me instead of whisked away, half evaporating and half clinging.

On My Fears: presented to my internal stadium audience, with respect

that room is for incubation, the growth
of ripened flesh, porous—none of us could bear the heat
For we, the skinny and winding who populate the colder
halls, confused without the steady radio noise under the
tall sails of ceiling, shuffle hard and pinkish
adrift: the poetry on the walls, losing papers,
finding more under our translucent skin
In order to eat, piss we must pass the Room, listen
to the heady conversations
We wanted to talk like that, but the room stays
sealed and we are always
short of breath We would have broken down
the door long ago but for the unspoken law that keep us
giddy in the hallways, racked with bones
or more, like lonely children, it's
The Rumors of the Hook-Up Scenes
which tempt us each week inspire in us the
will to write to each other Once the
lights went down and we crowded
about, hoping to hear something of zippers
From that Monstrous Beading Flesh or
catch some of the smell in our penny
jars and there was some sound the
best of us maintained - even when we sleep with the beautiful
maids we Are Bored (for why would a maid
happen here or have interests in more than a coffee cup
you ask and in the possibility of your asking
we learn that words help to make memories but not to put your eyes out)
And Now, enlivened with the promise of
Tomorrow Morning
When the glorious object of the risky Nerve-endings
will flash brazen from the room, fully-grown and dull-eyed,
steeped in his own brimming essence
(we hope, too, and exhausted)
And we’ll be able to settle again in the
lost tracings of the warmth of
our calculated lives with or without the radio
noise or just a drop of it
An hour or half-hour at a time
But this is a Romance so they find each other!
And stay, sealed as we watch,
a picture to ensure we never move on, the frame,
and we - filling in the details.

At the first step I
counted four heads, you counted 5
in praise of you the upward
swept in places rounding
their faces in mock
precision we hold hands and
you, gladly, want to share
(what I have taken from you

that a wielded sacrifice is not
a sacrifice atall  for
you’ll endure without listening
 repeat like counting
until we all have our numbers, crunch,
   I write poetry, too

I don’t understand
 my arms wrapped
 switch wise through
tubes of marrow
heating blood we’ll
feel it pounded awake
after finger conversations
you give me a fairy tale
you say - you say
candles melt down the
  sinew to a joint
that sparks and whiffs
   in strange smoke:
to contrast our eyes

Frantic Boulder birds beat  time
in heaved tree dancer
   and dawn de color scheme
is East and brown is dirt
Birds like paths find drawn
    breath unsatisfying
Crack out   in lit desire in
  a bar of half-recognitions
  for they have eyes
beer bit swallow-fulls: jam
branched full the words
    are like candy – long practiced
in indomnable sleep but
birds are the shrill light
   pricking corners
  against my better cheek
  birds hum on the relay of wings

night over the Park brings such adorable little fantasies of what I could have said differently

I'll grind you up and
send you hot up my nose

I'll burn you to the base and shoot


I'll peel you down
with lemon and glass

drink you down neat

in two

A scene from Manezhnaia

there,  the old woman talking to
the statue just took a swing at
the young girl with short dark
hair tried to talk to
her, and now she's wearing
blue gloves, staggering between
  phrases with clenched cheeks
deep lines, the light
 and lips, like she's
waiting?  the statue is Zhukov,
I'll agree, terrifyingly calm on
  a solid horse, right hand
raised to drown the spiraling streets,
  the still of history, parades,
and concrete she waited and
steadied herself measuring
concentration with a thick
plastic bag, and more passed her
these not concerned because she wasn't
   talking anymore, and then picked up a bag
in either mitten, walking into the steadiness of tourists,
Russia, while three or four of us watched

2000, Moscow

Sunday with head two time the wiser

God I'm hung over today. Mixing champagne and vodka always seems like such a good idea at the time. As does playing the cowbell until 5 am...

Untitled. Or: Trying to care about poetry has me down

I don’t even know you heard
of a painter yesterday “long of
my heart” painter redrainbow blood
understood more 3 dimensions of cruelty
O the inspiration the driven madness!
begetting steel soft inspiration  found
love “long of this blood”
Losing what to know of darkness
  “Painting suffers
    in love          and   torture
          (said the writer who knew the story)
       driven the beast/  chesting
with what rage one can muster
> cutting off ears and whatnot



you know the feeling, kids?

trick the girls
to justify your life,

knife counts on the wall -

Oh,
didn't
work this time?

baby I'll clean that up.

2213 A

gloom and hem - have swept the day,
tracks across - the Lawn -
settling - edges bend to dusk -
as pitch becomes the - Dawn

god there's so much more to say / beyond the obvious questions

What can't find this
terming in a song?
Or just afraid that
you're all talk-

tooth-bit bought-broke (and what ever happened to that third line?)

Tooth occurs a soft element
When compared to the likes of steel

- -
Knowing I do nothing for you

It's just a Rut - Man has adapted to Worse!

my sock - is Gone

Somewhere in your
sheets -

The coffee tastes stronger cold

You put on your jeans

casual-quick

we'll lose more

where that -

came from!

Stomach licked and
tongue-tricked
wound in the Blood -
against Toe!
Take off your make-up
one more time
Here's how
that rub can go!

Bleach the Taste
of Palo Alto sky -
blots out
all that Blue

Something - about those hips
Friend - winds me
To the - Bone

In April /

In April
   broken heat
  stinks rising from
  the tool-wise
 pavement up-up
by a rounding  deluge
  to swallow wind
pregnant as wine
  blushing
is this air: In April
  sounds drop a
  ring  for lush
 garden green hill scenes
  pastel picking bare, no -
this is fog
  eyes to be piked on
  newly found
 hollow nasals
   and gritty
smelling glands
 night lamps share no
fog above the
 breeding April earth
 My red tongue is earth-wet
 and pelvis, vorpal-dead -
even feet are
sloppy in April

imagine / framelss girl

imagine
frameless girl of pixie  breasts
  daisy swarmed in brushes of her own nakedness
    Barefoot seltzer   she is
always    summer
         the brush of a cloud
(Here we pray
   knees in the wet mud - volley
            deprizal of our
   volvulus             words
Struck her where a rape they say jammed
   volcanic
 his winter into
     against
                (break)
Hands that could not hold on fumbled
     the slippery heating darkness     when the greatest
 of heroes     the volt of war   pinned
girls against the Walls of Troy
     (You cannot pray for nature/ alone in the mud
    She ate the DArk Fruit
struck   babbled    her eyes could
  not maintain  the image
    and the fruit burst between her
teeth        drawing
      her lips    and
             summer’s
                whet
            limp

His middle name was

perfection he drove a
cold chariot harnessed to
thirteen yogurt specters of

placid city moving city

oiled acres of cars and
invisible exhaust breath that
no, she said pictures

and the meaning I shore

myself this cold city whose
smell is agitated circumference
and soft but her eyes still

unwind the folded beds into
kitchens, pastels our hated
deftly lust

let's talk about it

412

Dead in - summer Hurts the Sun -
by this Streaming - deaf on Grass -
Hedges - of distraught - Attention -
for the - Pressure - under Glass -

She Cuts Herself                                    Bloom           


CUTS THE STEEL SOUR FLICK   PRECISELY  OF           


   herself snapped heart-bag    breathing  rock


Shade Smuggled In Choked Red Brick


            DECISIVE SHOCK SUDDEN FLIGHT TINGLE YOUR           


   against fleshy jealousy’s resounding cannon resounding


Buildings            These Walls                        The Gaze


            RED PALPATING SUNSET BILE HORROR    WATCH IT           


   paling images a night’s held my heart spining it’s


Burns                        Like                        Powder Thirst


            THRASH LASHES SINGED   TOO YIELD  HER VOICE


   depth a drop of DNA  or gods naïve pathos to blame           

there’s something that can’t hold you together
or me: but it helps not to be read then, further
you can still watch the buildings burning down
from your window, describe the columns’ stack,
even if you don’t finish tricking yourself to sleep

Tuesday: Public Notice

Skij Yesh On will be unable to post until next week. In the meantime, please enjoy the archive as well as these festive holiday-related eggs.

The Twenty-First. Night. Monday.

Anna Akhmatova


The Twenty-First. Night. Monday.
The outline of the capital in gloom.
It was just someone with nothing to do
who invented the story of love.

And either from laziness or from boredom
Everyone believed, and that’s how they live:
Waiting for rendezvous, fearing separation
And singing songs of love.

But the secret is revealed to some,
And silence settles upon them...
I stumbled upon this by chance
And from then on have been in pain.

January, 1917, Petersburg.
[English translation from the Russian, skij's 13, 2005]

there’s something that can’t hold you together
or me: but it helps not to be read then, further
you can still watch the buildings burning down
from your window, describe the columns’ stack,
even if you don’t finish tricking yourself to sleep

cablecar at daybreak, from memory, by this light of night park / or: I’d like to put myself all under your Beautiful Organs

Listen! as the city rises
in hushes and hurls - my
heart appears, the green
tail of a swimming mess
of morning commution,
and there! by that park smell
hisses immolation egg
taking means of breaking
up the fast one too literally
Are these hurling streets,
yellow on spatter on steel,
baking midday swelt out
of partridge dew and
honey soles – pick them
out with your tongues if
you can, holding off swollen
and make something out
of that charred biscuit
than meat of its own return

a little nauseous after an hour of blog surfing

oh your words prick me so!
how unexpected, a single woman
and a freedom metaphor!
what, like a body of water?
this internet poetry!

The pen light is sufficient: for all
the day was the scenery without comment
spread without detail only such
as the colors of the sky too cold
to keep my head uncovered: so the
buildings have no touch to them, just
the doors – in heat and vague
articulation of life the Romantics
spread and feign comfort as I
am losing the calluses from my hands
like glued wax paper that knows the lines
 I become softer in spite of
thronged vitality and make monotonous
 note of insomnia, the birds, truck
two-bit thoughts, to be forgotten
promptly as paper dries - ants
  disband so quickly - to make charts
and rate like a footrace,
earn a star against these
   the books that kill us dead



don’t save this

For the Edification of Young Writers; A Free Clinic

For Daniel Yuvachev


Of course I’m not sure if I believe
in such a tale but here it goes
there once was a writer who lived by a bridge
She lived by a bridge in England-town
Wrote about cats, wrote about God
A steady six weekends a year

Then one fine England-town day
something strange happened
and only this we know
she did not write she did not write
not about cats, not about God

Five years did pass and again she sat
to write a poem for dear dear Beth
justly returned from holiday she
played a tourist       Anyhow
the writer sat  the writer thought
the writer baked strawberry muffins
and the most extraordinary of extraordinary then occurred

Nothing
She had nothing to write nothing to write
Not a single thought upon her head
Not a single thought worthy of God
Worthy of dear Beth

So warn you writers, sufferers all don’t
go like the woman in our tale
write write  burn with your God
Write write    love your kittens
love your youth

Love, or / The Morning After

shocking rag Dolls  flailing limp hearts  clutch
                     at  paper moons  my veins swollen
too thick of blood and biting nails
                            scars of red tense moans

A toy   moreorless

Poisoning grasshoppers a boy's grotesque

limb tearing feast

Master   I will not remember your
song to touch
you is god sensing motion molding my heart to
feel the trojan horse lodged
both my heart or yours -
Of the prayer that lays my body flat to the air
above forest (no snow no snowy
mountain) too much
is said of ice Master   I will promise you
 none of that when
you touch my body yourskin
is more bluish grinding than
 even the angels in your eyes.
it’s hard to believe in the darkness
of your fingers at night

WE WON'T ALLOW WHAT IS TAKEN TO BE SHOUTING IN OUR FORUM, SIR

THE BANALITY OF MY WORDS
BRINGS ME TO TEARS
SOMEHOW THEY REMIND ME
OF ALL YOUR STORIES


what you don't like the word banality?

one - an excerpt in insomnia

I hate my bed. I hate the pillows, already smelling of my head, I hate the sheets, more and more laced with friction, and I hate the entire horizontalness of it, as if I’m caught heaving up from my baggy lungs to the roots of my acute-and-sensitive belly-button pinpoint half-prick to my brain that is the most tense of all and which I can almost hear going tick-tock, tick-tock, and I sneeze just thinking about what I’m lying inside of, course fabrics, too much for these tiny hair follicles and the cracks in the skin. Thinking about it, the tiny hair follicles are tiny, and for that sensitive, wired right to my brain, catching every breath of movement, every twitch that I have ceased to monitor carefully – fucking alarming how seriously I take all of this, such a wide awake in the almost-morning, such a monologue, using the word ‘hate’, who do I think I am? but there’s no other way to look at it already twisting here for over an hour, and still my heart thump-thumps as if I’m not breathing, as if I had conscious lung-control, full run of the buttons, and then forgot all about it. Maybe I’m not breathing. I am aware - that I am sweating. I can’t tell which is more tense, though, my head or my neck or where they intersect, they won’t let me sink, they won’t give - at all - a plank of wood, but almost shaking (strange) – tense (strange) – for all its brilliant world-shattering work it will not rest. Ha ha ha ha.

funny, it actually does sound like a sixteen-year-old

I met a man by the bus stop
 drunk   very
who had a story to tell   for  a
   quarter
A long story   you see
 he made short
  Some detail of a house
  Yes, he thought, a girl
  All very sad, for he ended of course
drunk by a bus stop
finishing the story trying to make it comic,
 because he saw that we were young,
and it occurred to me how some people find
feet ugly and shotguns
poetic


from a 16 year-old - just look at how he swings those words around!

Thoughts on a Saint Petersburg Winter Afternoon

as it's snowing in Piter, spring in California - from the archives



this is my blood


 and it flows


like any blood


 I suppose


1999

Meme Of The Day (tuesday)!

What's Your #1 Reason For Not Committing Suicide??


[that is, besides crying away your angst in wretched poetry / endless politic-polemic-blogging]

Skij Yesh On's:
Ritter Sport Marzipan (Qualitaet im Quadrat), Irish Breakfast Tea, Trader Joe's Liquor Aisle.

6 March, 2005

Those loosening hips
Are about to burst
this messy March ‘marn

I’d take such skin
all slick’d underneath
Even a Friday night

And Saturday noon
there’s time to stop
Pick up the empty packets

Wednesday night
There’s time to hurt
even the rum won’t coax

p

on a slip of paper by my bed

I've gotten you
out of my body

It's only blood
and muscle now

you're
just a
tremor in the bones

a slip between
tongue and lip

just a thought
my skin can't locate

But you should
write back all the same

UNTLD

“there’s a something there
yes -
on this we can agree”

night one

The night is a cover,
the inside is the hot
stink of someone new
of bedsheets, objects
hidden in drawers and
smooth moistures.
tightening chests
and tingling fabric


her skin was ripe as
undercooked chicken
prickling pores stiffened
into thigh texture, sharp
short hair, friction like a
finger across fine paper
down to the tangled
spiral, skin-sliced
thinness of membranes
drawing lines like a
nail under heat

tiny breasts feel more:
legs are wired to the
breath in her ear
a glassful of cold wine

of mouthful sensation
the sea is too tight
for words, worn
into parting fingers
to trace all the way down
to tongue meets like warmth

a heart under silk
bends bones, thong muscles
and suntanned weight
thumbs the blood
past her rolled up eyes
to her bow strung packets
of nerve and tucked up flesh

her eyes were soft
as reading light but
I still hold my breath
her arms pulling now
to a slight recline
and here - I go

guarding the nerve-string
behind her knee, straps
of fabric no more, undone
like a pen cap,
rending ink all down
a giddy thumb-tip -
and a place to wipe

transcribing the static
of itch from cotton
to strap
to tongue, mouths bored
and stripped of juice
now just cell phone
resolution snapshots
in hang-over half-smiles,
- as nothing was said

‘that was fun’ -
maybe a counting
number or ten, but that,
too, can wait until morning -
night fuckers




poetry

I'm in control girl -
I choose to wait,

I could have gotten
drunk hours ago.

no I don't notice -
the days as they pass,

But I knew
you'd ask

When you wait for me

When you wait for me
like rivers crossing
is this gravity word against
word? Diction won’t save
us, water gets cold,
And you wanted to grow -
mark your tensions like
a calendar in thick red ink,
Older, the pages don’t stick
in these slender embraces,
perforation holds no mistakes,
  the wet pages
make little noise on water, and so
this is our life not together
left with the gist of bar-
stool biographies

site of the day

I found this incredible site from another blog (lost the citation) where you can make custom bumper stickers - guaranteed a few minutes of Jittery Euphoria before the Crushing Weary Blaseness of Modern Life reduces you to Nyquil and Advil again. Here are four of my attempts

The potions in my brain

The potions in my brain are
swollen, as our attention keeps us
humble, the quiet day begins without
promise, and ends with the future
adorned in the bells and sun dresses
  of this prison-
             we laugh, cautious

O You - Imitation of Life

Palo Alto - humidity
somewhere off, a Green
Ground smell - of pine -
pavement, a Yellow building,
with the odd prick of
the natural food store here
and there: some sort of headache blase
blots out all of that blue and
I convince myself, yes,
"this is Heat" at
- half-time despite
all those Watches -

fourteen - never too late for a fourteenth!

you're so adorable
the way you chew!

I'd like to take all
those little white teeth

and put them through
the blender!

through another bolt of whiskey

through another bolt of whiskey
I can wait for days yet -

there are books to be read, teas
To be drunk, alarm buttons

to be pushed -

Even a water nozzle to turn
Here or there,

for water.

now I can only assume you’ve
Found another lover,

but then you know what little
Imagination I’ve got.

Newsflash: Indian boy fools BBC, Indian government with forged NASA-Oxford document

while I generally don’t post Wacky News, this little beauty has been a pleasure to stumble upon. It’s not because I revel in the humiliation of the Indian government, or in the humiliation of any Indians at all – as far as I’m concerned, I’m glad they’re out there doing what they do. The mass deception, though, and the near meeting with President Kalam are both pretty impressive. But such details can only really do it for the unimaginative. The turn of the screw in this story is in its details - and in that he managed to pull the government for money without having even done basic research. One, the kid claimed he took a taxi from London to Oxford every day, two, he misspelled the name of the former administrator of NASA (O’Keefe) as “Kif,” three, he included his father's name on the forged document, four, he said he took a non-existent flight on Indian Airlines to London, and five, he told a newspaper that he stayed in Buckingham Palace. But the greatest part of the forgery is the phrase: "You are the member of NASA" – which belongs in a textbook warning ESLers on the consequences of mixing up articles.

Topical Humor - for the Work Week

Should one find oneself in a social situation, at Work or at "Party", that demands the performative ritual of humor-recitation, the following bit (which will be, on average of contemporary Urban American, considered "humorous" by 20%, "distasteful" by 15%, and not understood by 65% [thus providing opportunity for demonstration of erudition in cultural matters], margin of error +/- 5%) can be recounted with positive overall effect:

A. Did you hear what happened to Hunter S. Thompson?
B. (answers may vary)
A. Well, he went the "Hemming" way.

(variant: "He decided to be 'Kurt' with life.")

and a thirteen - for symmetry

There are some times when the sun sets over Crisp red hills,
And the day plays dark across the fading Suburb streets,
Lo! The sound of a station wagon plays upon Pitch,
And you and I are near, amidst Clean vacuumed carpet.

Now Starbucks must be closed: Let's Talk in the kitchen then,
You'll throw some Dinner dishes and I'll stare off Blankly,
What could that be? The sound of a Jet-Plane overhead?
"And just imagine this, my love, after All We've Built."

and a twelfth!

stability is for Horses, kid,
they like a bit upin the bride -
And on the same trail every day,
you just get used to where to shit.

Eleven Ways to Break-Up with Poetry!

one

How 'bout a kiss my sweetest -

dearest!

Draw in all close-like - now!

For -

When I open my little mouth,

I know you want to punch it!

   Aroo!   Aroo!

 You dirty little skank!


two

A metaphor for a snowy day:

The snow falls down in heaps and bales,

And through it you must tread.

Sometimes you’d like to all your life,

 But most of the time not.
 


three

When your sister walks by

  I look

   isn’t that enough

baby?


four

Would that we could hold onto gold,

Would that we could pray,*

Would that we could keep it that way,

Would that the flame would last.#


* the “meaning it” kind of praying.
# you see why it's over, right?  I mean, this poem blows.


five

Star Blar Ting Tang,

Rang Tang girl Blang!

Bloog Blog Black Blug,

I think we should see other people.


six

Never say I've wasted your time,

I’m sure you’ve learned a touch -

As far as all I didn’t do,

I’d do the same again.


 
seven

THAT’S ADORABLE – YOU

THOUGHT WE HAD A CHANCE!

WHAT, FOREVER?



eight

All forgotten for

Recollecting Just

  a Paltry One – All

forsaken for

Just a stranger’s  - new

     accompanying -

And I’m afraid

that Stranger isn’t You.

What?  You

don’t like Emily Dickinson

- you Sexist?
 

nine

When I open my little email box

It’s not my fault if my

 little heart bumps a beat

to see her name

- It is?

Well how do you

think I feel -

She hasn’t written back

in a while.
 

ten

What can I say when

I see you cry?

what more than

tissues can I give?

You might be sure

you hate me now,

But then I myself

am rather sure

You'll find cause to hate

again.


eleven

Your face is so pretty

I’m sure you’ll love again!

They’ll be buying you beers at bars!

And laughing at all your jokes!


Why didn’t I say anything about your legs,

you ask?  No, I just thought that your best...

Oh screw it -

Your face is all you got.

Wipe that smiling off your face,
I'm more to blame than you,
Yes your body is hungry-svelte,
But I supply the gaze.

The Twenty-First. Night. Monday.

Anna Akhmatova


The Twenty-First. Night. Monday.
The outline of the capital in gloom.
It was just someone with nothing to do
who invented the story of love.

And either from laziness or from boredom
Everyone believed, and that’s how they live:
Waiting for rendezvous, fearing separation
And singing songs of love.

But the secret is revealed to some,
And silence settles upon them...
I stumbled upon this accidentally
And from then on have been in pain.

January, 1917, Petersburg.
[English Translation from the Russian c/r skij's 13, 2005]

Here's the standard translation of the poem, which is pretty inadequate. The inclusion of the phrase "good-for-nothing" is, of course, ludicrous. And what's up with the clutter of useless lines like "-who knows why-"? Jesus Christ. Who knows why indeed. The last line - "and now it seems I'm sick all the time." - causes me physical pain (though the Russian больна is very tricky to translate fluh fluh).

The Russian version is here на всякий случай.

go the way of gonzo

why the’ell not
blast out
your brains

on such
a melanch’ly
day?

granted the
Aspen sky
is crisp

Loathing
Fear, loathing
Fear.

Oh And Look Who’s In the Papers

It’s nothing but vanity,
Hunter S Thompson,
Killing yourself nozzle to tooth -
While it must take a man to clench it still,
Hemmingway would’ve approved.

A Lesson in Breathing

I’m having trouble
Swallowing
But that’s more
my Fault
than it is
Yours

"you were dancing in a garden of glass"

"
ho ho, you've stumbled onto some of my poetry, pretty little blonde girl - and to think, right at a time when I'm trying to impress you with my depth and sensitivity - what an insane coincidence, isn't life so weird?  Yes, but what if you had stumbled upon,


I dreamt about you girl

  blonde beast

  you were dancing in a garden of glass

 breath-light glass elves glass

bumblebees a-watching

and i had a bat

   you bled like it was your birthday

      I kinda liked it



Then we'd sure have to have a talk!  Through lawyers. 

But I'd help you plan the candle-light vigil.  That's how romantic I am.


 Oh that I could up and write,



 I'll unwrap you like a present

  little blonde girl

 There will be time for sorries

  later, trust me


and mean it.  That's what pretty little blonde girls are looking for in the 19-year-old-poet.

The Ultra-Violence is on its way out as a joke - no, trust me - so I'm really going to have to consider what to have you accidentally read next.
 
Would that I could make you regret me

 - and conquer the conquering of you."

{1998}

The Olympic Games 2002: - Boulder, Salt Lake, Moscow -

This was originally an article I wrote for The Moscow Times three years ago, but, due to an editor's trip to India, which is Kafka-speak for who-the-fuck-knows-why-anything-ever-happens (though an editor really did go to India) it never got published. By the time the editor returned, everyone who had any kind of access to news was so cripplingly nauseated by Olympics scandals, figure-skaters, steroids, and stories of hope that to even mention the phrase "Salt Lake" was justification for ending a date early, and it never made its way into the paper. So I figured I'd go on and "publish" (ha ha) it on the blog. Welcome back to 2002, kids.

---

- Boulder, Salt Lake, Moscow -

    I have really enjoyed Russian television’s coverage of the Olympics so far.  One reason is that I just watched the full Women’s Sprint Biathlon for a full hour from 1 am until 2 am.  Another reason is the only slightly prevalent presence of Coca-Cola ads.  And another reason is the utter and complete lack of Chevy ads with dramatic stories of American medal hopefuls.  To get to the meaning behind these I’ll have to start at the beginning.

    I had told everyone that I was Russian, from Moscow even, and that allowed me to move up to the front of the crowd at the bottom of the 90k ski jump.  It was a sizeable crowd; at least 18,000 according to the P.A. announcement.  But it was loose and easy to weave through, with the notable exception of the spectators who had brought blankets to the event, expecting to sit, relaxed on the ground, and catch all of the action, an act that could only be considered absurd in a Nordic country.   I had come to the event with my family from Colorado by car—myself on vacation from Moscow—to see my friend and native Muscovite Alexei Fadeev compete in the Nordic Combined, an event that consists of both ski-jumping and cross-country skiing.  Along with the team he had received a bronze medal in the team event four years ago in Nagano.  This year, as the team had lost a couple of key members, they didn’t have high aspirations for that event.  Alexei, the Russian national champion, was ranked 30th going into his first jump of the day.

    Telling the crowd that I was Russian (with a mild-to-slight Russian accent) had a few advantages.  First, I was allowed speedy passage through to the front, as I mentioned that my friend from Moscow was about to compete (at least that part had been completely true).  But also, I was able to witness why the Games have become such an oddity to most native Utes, and to Americans in general.  After I had been cheering for some time an American approached me, asking whether he could have a picture of his two sons along with myself and my giant Russian flag.  After that, about nine other groups of Americans, blissfully oblivious to the fact that I was actually born only some eight hours away, snapped off pictures, handed me American flag pins, and shook my hand.   One even handed me a video in Russian entitled (in Russian) “Jesus.”  After an hour of cheers in both English in Russian (“Let’s go Russia, Let’s go Russia,” “Rossiya Vperiyod, Rossiya Vperiyod!” and “No more Cold War, No more Cold War”) the Americans around me were actually mostly cheering for the Russians as they entered into the distant view atop the mountain’s jump.  This cheering was in contrast to the almost eerie static that had reigned over the crowd, but for the times when an American would appear at the top of the hill, and the flags and cheers would be unleashed, usually in a slightly unsynchronized “U-S-A!  U-S-A!”  And then diminish: no American finished top-six on the day.
 
   The reason for this doesn’t appear to be lack of goodwill, as apparent in their warmth in accepting the Russian version of me and the willingness to cheer for something not draped in white stars.  The reason was actually that the crowd had very little understanding of the sport whatsoever, evident first off in the already-mentioned blankets scattered like American flags on SUV’s in present-day American supermarkets.  Most spectators needed to be constantly reminded of the rules.  In fact, many were confused at the end of the competition when no medals were presented even though the P.A. had many times announced that this was only the first part in a two-day event.  Most spectators had come to the event only knowing two things: that it was ski jumping and that American Todd Lodwick was attempting a Cindarella-esque finish for the United States, Against-All-Adversity.  He was the first American medal hopeful for the US in the sport, ever….

    Traditionally dominated by the Germans, Austrians, Finns, Norwegians, French, Japanese (and on occasion, Russians), Nordic Combined had until recent received almost no coverage whatsoever in the US.  That was until Todd Lodwick, American, residing in my native Colorado, stepped out of his early mediocre (well, mediocre for a world-class athlete) career to dedicate his Heart and Soul to the sport, winning five World Cups this season, including one in which he strove towards the finish line well ahead of the competition with an enormous American flag.  As he crosses the finish, he stabs, poignantly, the flag into the ground and throws his arms into the air.  The point of this imagine: an instant video-byte that can be played before commercial breaks and inspire an interest in the sport, that can take the viewers through the commercials and into the next inevitable segment on Lodwick and his dream of medalling in the sport, and then through another commercial break, as this has all evoked much emotion.  I only know this because I saw this exact clip plus similar-sounding stories and background about three times preceding the event.  The largely American audience was silent during most of the competition for one because they were largely ignorant about the sport.  But they also had been so used to and comfortable with the constant American-Overcoming-Adversary images fed to them by the coverage, and the pre-Games hype, and the endless Proud-Sponsor-of-the-US-Team commercials, Hockey Team USA ’80 lighting the torch (an image still somewhat bizarre to behold in Russia: isn’t the torch supposed to be about international cooperation and not precious US miracles?), that they were expecting nothing less than an American to rip through the crowd of Other Europeans (and Japanese) and to grab a US flag out of all adversary and plant it in the snow after the finish.  Anything less and they were baffled.  As they were.  Already the first day of the Olympics, an entire event finished, and no heroics.
 
   American television presents all events in a thoroughly edited, carefully constructed format.  First, all of the events are filmed.  Then, a strategy to squeeze the most drama and suspense out of them possible is construed.  Finally, a sequence of events, skipping over 90% of the competition and the remaining 10% sometimes out of order, is put together and the commentators lend their voices to it, acting as though the sequence is unscripted, in natural running order, and, most importantly, happening before them for the first time.  The coverage allows just enough of the heavily edited portions of the event on air before jumping to a length of commercials.  Then it jumps to another event, promising the fascinating ending for which the drama has been, rightfully so or not, built up.  Then, after more commercials, mostly Coca-Cola and Chevy-US-Ski-Team, mostly with American flags buzzing in front of still American athletes, Bob Costas returns to turn our attention to yet another scripted sequence of events.  

   So all Americans at this, the first day of competition, were expecting the return from commercial, the Cinderella story which they had taken for granted because the majority of air-time (not, of course, the majority of real events) had been along those lines, because that’s what brings people back from commercials, and that’s what could garner an interest in the events after involved networks had suffered disappointing viewership in the ’00 Games in Sydney.  This element can also be seen after the Russians won the gold in the pairs’ figure skating over the Canadians.  As of February 12, an nbc.com poll registered that 96% thought the Canadians should have won gold.   There were over 200,000 responses at that point.  What does this mean?  That 200,000 can accurately and expertly pick a winner in a sport that they’re exposed to 3 hours out of a year?  The Russians had made a mistake (though the Short Program was short of perfection for the Canadians), but for a sports comparison, what if a dominant swimmer makes a mistake in competition?  He can still win.  Dominant athletes can still slip up slightly and come out on the top of the podium.  Did the Ravens have an outstanding offense in last year’s Super Bowl?  The point is not at all who should have won and who should not have, though, but that the Games coverage has led to unreasonable expectation.  Somehow the need for television-fed drama had made 96% of people who responded, some 192,000 people, think they can accurately and authoritatively say the under-dog and much-publicized Canadians should have won.
 
   And then there has been Russian television, which just broadcast the entirety of the woman’s Sprint Biathlon.  One can even watch the 50th seed finish, collapse to the ground, heave, and attempt to wave the frozen spit-saliva off of her lip.  Not that Russian television is immune to hype; sports like Nordic Combined have enjoyed much less popularity since the Russians’ third-place finish at Nagano.  But there is an actual sense of completeness to the way they televise, that the Women’s Sprint Biathlon lasts 60 minutes in a single segment as opposed to 15 minutes spread out over four.  One can even watch broadcasting mistakes, sweetly unscripted.
 
   I once asked Alexei how he managed to make it to the Olympics.  Instead of hearing what I expected: the dramatic, excruciating, movingly-romantic tale seen so constantly on television and thus imitated in all walks of sports life, even among good-yet-not-Olympian-swimmers as I may attest, he told me the following story (translated from the Russian): “My father liked cross-country skiing, so he had my brother try it.  But he wasn’t good at it.  So he had me try it, and I was good at it.”  “And then you went to the Olympics?” I asked (we had only known each other for about two days).  “Yes,” he responded.  Not to overly-dramatize my own ending, but that was one of the most moving sports sentiments I have ever heard.  And he had actually won a bronze medal.

---