e.g. scooters, vacation, fall

thoughts, for a woman

because politically-minded, i bought and sold
my hungers, slathering at the mouth quite secretly, in magnetic
colors, like dogs going down the slalom in little jackets,

because your hair was the color of midnight.
a long and shining sluice like nuit's, but
the stars spangling nuit's hair were in your eyes.
which maybe makes your eyes thieves of nuit's hair's stars.

i don't care much about that though. want--
red. want red. making myself ill: thoughts, mine,
spin, like a haunch on a vertical spit in a case. because i run
until i stop. like the mechanized rabbit on a dogtrack, i stop at you.
because i defy art and i defy stars and i defy you--because
i defy--things that i want most--defy--all over them.

deity is for things i don't care about. i don't care about much.
i want you. want you. want you best, fresh. want to eat you. most.

pretty penny was her name

the idea is if i overwhelm with the same questions and answers over and over the corpus will solidify and revive like a shakespearean frankenstein queen. or like a dolphin back. or a bear's knee.

an elision:
oberon rode the dolphin back. he rode it well.

she said it to no-one

one-night woman sonnet plus one

spotless impurity: blushing at its own motion yet
moving anyway. something got down her shirt.
painted yellow and black like the back
of the meat-feeding wasp: new two antennae for a
new inquisition--not why or how,
but how much and for how long.
sing of it: the body electrified by
disgust, unknowingness--a desire for
tumbling, the yellowed marrow moved
through the cracked bone and the dark
of lightless muscle nestled in under skin;
a playing-card queen, playing up and down
a game she cannot fondle.

a whole for love, where two lips, split,
like ripe blades of scissors, ceaseless, come together.

individuation reflux

i used to write poems that meant nothing--literally nothing. that is, they were supposed to mean something, but what they were, really, was a marshalling of these formal elements that i suppose i shouldn't call formal, because i don't actually really know what i'm talking about--alliteration, rhythm, this sort of thing. but i didn't know that that was what those poems were doing until i came into a topic, namely v. of the 5's--and then i milked that for all it was worth. a good juicy topic like v. taught me things about the form--that is, that repetition and repetition-like actions, obsessions with forms and major sounds, depict the body's experience better than description can, at least the kind of describing i can do, which is terrible. this is an incomplete nutshell to put the things v/5 taught me--this is what i know that topic taught me; this is the part i can put into words.

but now that i know those things i think maybe i'm in another stage. and of course i don't know what that stage is--and i'm sure it looks just like the former stage. i've learned how to zone out and come up with something. not that the something is good. but it comes from a place beyond which my usual words can come. hence though everything i write at this point sounds like it means less than nothing, it actually means much more than my usual types of communication. hopefully. my brain zooms around in its skull, occasionally to the point of pain; this point of pain provides the static from which the words in the "poems" on this blog constellate. what is on this site, this "poetry" (if any of this shit can be called poetry), does come from a point of pain. occasionally joy, too--really anything so "overwhelming" (this isn't the right word) that i can't take it.

i'm an accomplished not-truth-teller, but this should not be taken with a grain of salt, because i mean it right now. permanence is what words give things, apparently according to w.c. williams; they give it badly, apparently, because retroactively, without spontaneity, without freshness, without making-it-newness, without a whole list of other shit that i refuse to accept. maybe it's because i'm a coward. i accept that. i accept that the reason i can't accept that words suck may be because i'm too much of a coward to truly examine the dirty underpinnings and coercions of language.

maybe. but maybe i just can't take any more people telling me who i should be in relation to myself, in relation to my own language. i don't have a right to feel; it's instead a necessity. i don't have a right to attempt to know myself, bumbling, shamed, and idiotic as i am; i have a necessity. i don't have a right to take this pain, or joy, or any other inexpressible (right now it's pain) and, if not stop it, at least create it diamond-hard and diamond-faceted, going not in and out but through the window. it batters me from out to in (the indomitable it); it is a necessity to push not back but through. like proprieception. let me propriecept.

don't hold me accountable to the millions of other people who are better than me.

i don't know who i'm talking to.

no kids in the engine room

multivalence:
a plain/process poem

listening to the same songs
over:
a note produced by the body and soul of leontyne price.

i want
so many things:
the vaseline-sharp stars in the velvet sky

cannot compass my desires.
a multivalence of things which make other things
into separate things; i want

every step to fall
in my province. each heel and each toeing
to fall on me. like comets
in orbit:

nothing permanent, but each
black and blue with meaning, with
heavy imprint like that quasi-vibration
of dirt gradually cleft by shovel:

almost a grind.
fall on me. make me your earth: all-
encompassed, layered, dirty.
grind minerals and detrius
into my mouth. let me spit it out:

a note.
your
note.

when myspace just won't cut it

yeah, i had a day like those days i sometimes had. hence prepare for self-indulgence.


this is about something
2.
scallop-edged and painless, hanged
like lavender:
the leftovers, the byproducts
straining against strain:
strand versus strand.

every part, every
part
something'd. a certain color, a
tracery of red or blue, marbled white and
red, like clouds,

(3.)
chiascurate, in a deepening
sky. a conversation, maintained
over years, static as memory:
narcissus pooled and echo all
echoing over him:

aborsonn, aborsonn, aborsonn--scraps,
sheets of cut metals. trache him. buy
him thing. trade his playing card for a '45
lp of sandblasting beats and castanets cratching
itch. itch. savour the sound because the sound
alone the sound can't

lie. lipless, it can't lie. down. next to you,
"i" wanna get next to "you." head
circles like falcon, searches out diamond,
neclates the prefect in soused fashion.
you see what "i'm" saying, right, though,

(4.)
that the beat goes on: promethean liver of blood and
gods grinded their stonelike teeth and create
light
ening from cheek to cheek.
it was light

today, it was light.

and everything
was singular. everything
poured like a funnel.
everything exchanged
hands. i was guilty
as hell.

the light diverted its path past me.
it sank in orbit, it sang like rabbit,
the snakesong of the rabbit biting
its tail. it snagged and it broke
like zipper. i unlaced it slightly
just to get in

(5.)
like a bodkin: smoothly.
to slip in like two cents past
coppertone. because i wove a rug
of rattleskins, because it bit my tail.
just because i saw the
light.

light
followed me
everywhere. snagging against
colors and strands like
zipper, carting like a knight, fondling
like a barbecue.

sounds boomed off bathroom walls and
i was emotionally unviable like a
like a clipped breath, like quiet
like quietude.
soft me. stop it.

rush of soundings, the gravy of them, the
lop and thump, an imagined beheading onto
carpet, in sweat like stomata, silvered over
with morphous cuts, hiding, the
meaning, in mealing mouth, like seeds in tomate:

buried protean.
oregano and sodium, lid, lid paper.
full fathom five.

1.
light// / / /
slice// / / / through// / / / like
caesurate// / / /press// / / /of breath
stop thought// / / /stop thought in// / / /
nothing but// / / /sound of pain.
\\ \ \ \...
// / / /.


// / / /...
\\ \ \ \.