Monthly Archives: April 2011

Just Another Follow Up Appointment

A poetrybyemilydickinson remix:

Every time I find something lost
it’s another neutral existence manifested into victory
making secrets into facts is dirty work
like introducing an underground
laundered adolescence
to a girlfriend you are falling in love with all over again
a weight of a heavy velvet step
an Easter winter
a metal underground acting like a mortal wish
Anyone can sort through a mustarded sadness
with friends, tea and a large window.
A Helping gaze at cyber collect.
Making faces at the wall
is the loudest body language

Take me out to the world war
early on a sherbet spring
us against us
and drown out the dirty toothgrinder air
with conversations of babies
coming in July.

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Fringe counted blessing Poem

#382

I am thankful that my eyes are not a camera
but an older higher alien instrument.
That I can look at the early world slipping
through dark shutters, and the bicycling kid neighbors
paprika settling on the simmering gumbo
every street sign and smile down to the ocean
and watch the waves swallow americans and spit them back out
I can see all this, and develop it each evening
and see more than just a whiteburned slate of nothing
although my eyes were open wide for all of it.

the last angelean wilderness

Wild hills are easily found in picture books for children
Safe nature, in the easy sight of the sun,
well meaning guardians,
and that version of god who cannot see
through his own creation.
Wrinkled bridges, nail rust and bearded in kelp
above the rustic sea plains.
Cliff sheltered, gemlike, mostly the cache of
some other foreign photographer.
It tumbles along alleys and market sweeps,
candy wrapper talk of all of it being gone
except for in some far away place
too distant and expensive to visit.

But they lie, I am here
the weeds, abominable in the suburban lawn
grow unrepressed and blow like waves
the hares skirting beneath, the hillside bottlenose.
The metal trashpails rusted red
salt gleaming upon each faded hue of paint
woodboards creaking so loudly, the rock lizard stops
to hear it’s story.
Audacious blooms of canary flower
like sacred burning bushes all across the waterfront
Come prophets, you renegade believers
I am waiting for the martyr artist to taste the milk and honey
tones of the rustling sagebrush
with a liquid eye shaded by the sagging cliff palm.

My voice sounds like that race in your body
when you drive down a hot asphalt road
loud with the plastic splash of traffic lights
against muted california gray apartment haze
and you see a patch of uncut shrub behind
a gate in passing, blurred with politician’s names
and the short screech of a wheel somewhere
along the street is mistaken
by your ear for a gull song.

parked domain

From the second floor balcony
of a peeling teal apartment
I am staring into the pool on another Good Friday.
To me it looks like a flattened teardrop
but it’s shape does not change
no matter who sees it.
And I am made aware that the sight of my observing this pool
is much different than a lighter man staring at it
or a woman.
To the one watching me, it might seem
like a fisherman’s son, a crane’s perch
a chilled lotus petal above the lake
ready to enter a new life beneath the windchimes.
To the one watching the lighter man, it might seem
a boy admiring his stolen Giant’s mirror
zoo keeper of sleeping ponds, a spry frog in sweats
a rider letting his invisible horse to drink.
To the one watching the woman
it is like a small warm death,
of their hour’s blankness, a ripe medlar cloud
or wandering tempest fay looking to amend,
the first line of a blue aria.

To the water I am dew
on a vine of names that never ends.

another remix

Black Swan Down:
A One Act Play about General Custer

Nailbiter, I am alive
Hold days in milk until they disintegrate
*whirring clunking sounds
I can see your teeth when you laugh. All of them and it’s disgusting.
You are a sea monster.

You know it’s really hard to pull off
when you think about it

“Can I steal enough office supplies to ensure an early retirement?
Do artists make new genres, or is that the role of the critics?
8 Real Photographs That Prove Hell Exists on Katy Perry Has A Surprise!
My Bloody Valentine are a good band, but Pixies are better. My Last.fm reflects this…”
I’m that kind of person.
Making you wish you never wished
you could meet me.
I don’t regret changing
Being built a head turner.

Whitehair Clock Gully

The following piece is a “cento” or a poem comprised of lines or words taken from excerpts of other people’s existing poems. Every word below has been found in selected lines tweeted by Danielle Pafunda on the American Academy of Poet’s Twitter feed. This poem is in the running to win a contest on her website here.

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All dopey in the glass
sleepily indifferent,
feeling drunk in a wired minefield.
Let silence drill it’s naked passage
in the glaring white gap
to a wild continent clothed in trees
where it is easy to hide,
and one could breathe
the mannequin dark a hundred times
to count the advice of so many animals
green conjectured pearls inside the skull.
Brain theatre
a closed colony
salt limbs gone missing after
ripe beards of the young men
drink pungent orange
lying in a carousel of magnolias.

Pulley glitches,
neck-like
implicit in the reflected museum.
Hear the cathedral crash on black dunes
an arranged mystery
the Pilot alone knows
that fibrous choking codex
jars of buttons spilled, recurring:
the trick of active orbit.

I lived on every kind of shortage
to the day the ebony
eye sewing failed;
a jewel-toned wreck
a dog’s candy hospital.
I would have my new closed eye,
learn to rescue
the idea of liminal nets
the places safe from telephone,
the climbing and plunge of the palace falcon.
Now I stand upon the frontier
wrapped in velour
plutonium wings
because I was not born to run from
my own children

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benjamins

On one hand the dollar means nothing
It exists certainly, and is etched with meticulous symbolism
Often there is much commotion over such devices
But any child or bad poet can tell you,
It’s only paper.
The value is attributed by the agreement of greater beings
to redeem this flimsy note it’s worth
over the daily and every shifting drama
of a bartering system:
a potato for a leek.
Okay then,
two.

Perhaps people are only spongey bones
with skin wrapped over
built destined to be suckled on by maggot lips
and some great and odd tribunal
decided to place man at the center
in the economy of wills.