oh shit!

Damn you, Blogger!

I like the instant gratification of poetry blogging, but it must be duly noted that I usually take these poems - sorry things they are, in their rough draft version - and re-work them properly, eventually. In a Word document.


For two years now, it's been a simple matter of cut and paste, as I'm sure all you plagiarists are aware.

But something is fucked up, and now I'm getting giant black squares as well as the text - it's being so goddamned literal about the "cut and paste" action all of a sudden. I just want the words! Just the words!!!

So, I will have to reverse the production process, I guess. Because it's supremely annoying to deal with the intricacies of re-formatting.

This may again delay my posting.

That, and I'm getting paranoid about plagarism. I clearly have convinced myself of my artistic merit, otherwise intellectual property rights wouldn't menace my fantasies quite so much...

the doctor is sick

my feet scuffed the grey - again!

tired trope: me and my bike and my backpack;
when i was a child i wished to get so far away
for awhile, i did.

grey town. grey town filled with credentialing processes
and power constructs and discourses and Foucaults,
and lacking all balance, and praising alcohol and white men and dead tongues
in suspiciously conservative parlance.

i'm growing impatient with all this glorious decomposition.
"Moi, je n'impose rien!"
Yeah, moi non plus.

Yeah, moi made for education, but by that I mean the real kind -

la more

"La-more"
He pronounced it, tongue rolling,
Head swaying,
a puppy searching for a treat -
- i laughed -
"you must think my french is crap!"
- so i gave him shit.

but today i remembered,
because the word slid out from the lubricated tongue of a fluent,
of a hugeonot, some parisian painter speaking of
l'amour
but i thought he said
la mort

yet in either case i'm right

translation

at once
the night, black and still,
and full of love safely closed behind doors and locks;
i ran it through, i ran it all the way through with my longest
and most wild fight.

i battled the thought, the lisp, the giggle
i picked up my gladius and thought 'bellarum'
my ears licked at the fulsome oink of the night
ein abend geschlossen fur mich

Helas! Helas that he was an adherent of acquisition,
a trader of slaves,
a god dethroned.

We sit in circles and must reduce his feigned greatness, now what with
the exposed, puzzling claims of that human heart.
which shall i believe more?

i think to myself, that the beautiful guerre goes on,
the belle guerillas scramble in the night
for guns and fists and bananas and girls.

und ich, ich liebe das so

the top

he twirled.
a boy
in his feet, dancing

dancing and singing to see me.


No -
- not singing -
singe-ing - he turns to flame
before my eyes.

i see it all; nothing is lost
on the attentive poet.

my ear lays always against the track,
i never move it; particularly when it hurts.

his feet betrayed him, he danced
as if to swear me off -
a ghost dance
for a white woman

fearsome, prescient, lost

sapentiae

ghost hunting
with mother and father

like the moment was trapped
in an air pocket of brain -

out sighs the rush and smell of Wyoming dirt on the wind,
of nightmare pits carved into ribs of earth,
of lonely decay behind false-fronts;
communal memories dying
in the lonely folk museum.

for a moment, this moment recedes
and my eyes fixedly recall
that sign swinging on its rusting hinge -
or was that in France,
on that cobbled quaint alley in Bretagne,
but oh no back again
to dust and death
in the american west -

grit in my hair


trees, and more trees, and hills and nothings and roads
and nothing is what i conclude

not a moment too soon

Rejoice, o internet,
for you are back inside my laptop!

- however -


my energies are somewhat diverted -

- working on the whitman prize

- nonsensical academia bullshit

- pregnant with ideas / if only i didn't have "homework" in the way...

- an argument for a return to real life

- seems like a long year ahead, with only a weary heart to face it