the roger corman picture

clip

i put my hair back in order to contain the indefinite amount of irritation it causes over time by maintaining sort of a constant state of mid-swing on my face. across my brow like clark kent's in that dark wave, but curling 'round heavy at the temple and encroaching on the eyebrow. a reasonable sense of organization does not include this sort of excess. it's like a forehead tail. it makes no excessive sense.

that excess
of hair's weight on
skin.
not just in touch but in
heavy, licking
weight.

it is a navigation of sorts. clip clip clippity-clip, clippity-clip clip.

eyes as windows to the castratable soul

poetry's like my no-no spot right now. i can't make it go; instead i write derivative bullcrap hardly caring and place it onto the surface of the internet like a douche de noel or whatever those french cakes are that are supposed to look like logs but on the inside resemble giant hostess ho-ho's.

or let me put it this way, me: my love of my writing is about as profound as my total incomprehension of what it's doing. because i was taught to read using hop on pop, language for me is nothing but sound, and in poetry, in reading and writing poetry, all i can do is hop on to the backs of the sounds and hope that i'm either reading or writing it in deep enough because meaning escapes the word in my mind about as quickly as the unsuspecting waterbug shoots down the surprise waterfall. i guess i can't explain it, in other words. but i am stuck in it.

not that it's unenjoyable. it's just that until i have any sliver of comprehension re: what i'm putting on the virtual page, and what others are putting on the pages i read, i have no idea how to start doing poetry as opposed to having poetry do me.

cuz i can't call it poetry. i can instead ask certain questions of frank o'hara's. but he asked them better. i can start agreeing with myself that it's fun. i can wait around, spicerian. i can suck...oh, wait, that's kind of a given. and i'm not good enough to be any fresher than i am...and i'm not original enough to redefine freshness...and i'm not smart enough to get to the center of what i'm writing anyway. true confessions of a twentysomething.

none of this is bugging me much except for the blatant feeling of inadequacy. but that was there anyway. because i don't have a penis. freud was totally correct on that one.

a la maniere de

47. it would be unrewarding

to poke at the

not so much dreamcatcher
as gatecrasher. the vowels
fall off like waves from the shore,
sucked each into

the physick of sound being such that

like tapdancers on the plinth of
balance, before their parts fall over

niether the honey nor the

the waves. on the shore. see

a little something-something in the night

poem, by jesus

tired. tired tired tired.
of being shit out of time. i have a king's hands in that my fingers are fat, pink, and long. i have the palm of a child.
and i always hated elizabeth bishop. first she caught a fish, then she sat with her aunt and read national geographics.
and w.c.: images in things, and then patterson. which is all words.
my feet are the size of cow flanks. and they smell like cheese.
leave me alone. stop fondling my extremities. let me
corpsify.

correction mr.

try this again; it's been a while.

bucaholic

simply settled, it was like the degredation of the atom, on the roof of the car, watching the car jacked up and down. it was a summer's day, long as a snake, and almost as imaginary. i had hot pants on my nut-brown legs; they swung. there were cicadas; i sipped coke like a bird with a long beak. the sky was as blue as a probe. there was a jungle in my pants. my fingers were hot and brittle. the next day it all began over again.

unruh

homecoming

native to love
but set apart from it
a little.

stones dark in the topsoil
and green moss cushioning
the brook.

edged rookeries
against a long gray sky:

like cautious quick steps,
native to love but
a little apart from it.

not knowing much

soaking up jesus face

last night there was a killer on the loose in frisco.
you held your coif aloof from the headboard
using a neck pillow.
the crowd only loves you for itself, veronica,
i said, but you didn't answer.

the mag's pages made a loose flap of sound.
a peeling unicorn decal at the edge of the mirror
was like a shadow in my pants.
a ring of crumbs about the skeleton on the sideboard
next to the plate of gherkins.

your negligee was flimsy. that killer, on the loose in
frisco. there was nothing about you i didn't
want, nothing about you i
liked,
veronica.

worst poem about autumn ever

autumn

yellow
in the leaves
like a thin-beaked bird
poised for flight.

not too dirty/he actually looked like that

the below is a picture of a taco from sweden

diese zeiten sind gewaltig

wanting as a form of color
red gold color like anger but better
scented too like rust and apple blossom.

wanting is like a nothing less than.
wanting is poised and unvariant on.

mirrored in silver want want and or want like a child on a string red raspberry mouth gaping. so we take them to the yellow baler where they smash the boxes because it is dirty and denuded of some of its paint. sexy. and then there was the pillowfight. sexier. wrapped in meat like a crepe skin slit it stays good for twenty three years or more.

some things were born to be wanted
and some things to be hated. and some things were the same things.
hey down a down mofo.

it will be dark soon. there will be fewer birds in the trees and what are there will be asleep with heads inside wings. it waits for it it waited for and will wait for it. there is less of a trick to it than it might think as it races like fire along the nerves to the outward muscles the lobotamites and the labia a veritable cornucopia of parts each so vividly its own a metallic tang to its private smells and a whiteness on the bone. fluids red and gold too brilliant for tears and too heady for blood but by the gallon with red dye to brighten it. a sensation of movement in the gut, the swelling out of-- the hot proteate sensation of-- that brightness that heaping brightness and that place at the seam where it gets so lost in white and black like micate infection. cry oh how how to cry oh how how to it is a howl in the searing brightness and it is a sough in the darkness a black as still and thereby brittle as osteoporites. lying in pieces. lying. in pieces.

nobody home

interrelation 2

i was alone with
pale roots from above
laced in the massy stone.

small pale roots, twined
in the dank weight of the dirt.
they were small
and did not disturb much.

then round persephone
round as a pearl, with
slender fingers
she worked in me worked in me--
cratched shullum and balor
wyntare wyntare wyntare

illa slaugerm illa reaoth wyntare
reahkeotr--onrao meleaotheenart
illum greawtah grawmauh wrae pools
wraep pools pools a god of dirt weeps
red dust into a pale bosom.

she ate six seeds.
she ate them.

niedecker

winter when no flower.

blue sky as open.
each leaf chiaruscurate:
date, palm, holly.
the sky itself
with black backing.

angled the sun; a
pupil dilate for winter.
limpid red leaves
on the smooth and rounded branch.
shadow implied, that sharp
depth.


love the great good use
one person makes of another

corruscate horace
at the crack
with a black and red
back. it was
spring and summer
when i loved you.


daughter polly of the strawberry letter

less being more ergo all things are sum.
kill me now; i don't want
to wait for red apollyon
and dawn.

instabulata

ways of seeing a space-moment as a constellation of broke stuff.

i am
in transit, in a place
of being broken open
for you.

they stuffed me in a meat locker on a hook
and there was a sound of swishing like a hand through space.
it hurt; i died.
i died quite a lot with my nut-brown hair and hot pants.

there was a great darkness and inside it the meat throbbed.
it was bickering with space and time like a kid on a leash
decaled on the side of a bowl.
i was poison at that point, absolute poison.

it was on a side street and it was dark. i'll show you the spot.
close to the public library. you had eyes and lips and hair.
i found out that i loved you there. of course that might have been
a lie, and such a lie.

there was a contemporaneous flow to it
like lava upon the crops and the sheep or woolens in a dishwasher.
there may or may not have been a clarion call ripe as dropping fruit,
or it was perseus come to slay me. either way, sorting out the
fragments, it 's possible entirely so to see me dead as a vesuvian.

ba-doop ba-doo wah. sex.

complaints

the dread machine keeps eating my posts. i guess it doesn't like egon schiele up there. which i wouldn't mind except it keeps taking the poems with it. which i wouldn't mind except i get a little attached to them--nothing serious, it's not like i'm writing well here, but a little sick feeling in my stomach every time one of them goes...
today is my day off. it's also voting day. and the sky's all blue and crap. dag nabbit. i don't want to vote period; i want to less so when it's "nice" out.