Thursday, December 27, 2007

From atop a garbage heap someone shouts Amanda Deutch

After "skulture" and "box that contained champagne glasses" by G. Vance and "shine" by S. Browning,

today weaved to freighters
I spy saliva in the checkout line
little else to buy in Queen’s bodegas and corner stores
empty shelves sell over priced milk,
cornpops, raisin brain, a splotchy green bell pepper
cubic emptiness in these parts is costly
swallowing a shopping bag would help you fit in.
bone to bone glints thick and shiny, but everyone on the street has eyes pasted to escape. they’ll never. the sea is just a short train ride or walk from here. but muscles weaved to magazines and propoganda machines know so little of freedom. are you tired? try this. my doctor prescribed it. poetry is almost illegal here in this the glass industry of self. If you take the pill, you will forget all about future and mystery.
I’ll just keep on walking.


by george v after ‘My head...’ by A. Deutsch

I spy saliva
E-flesh, merging E-rect
vous & your toped velocities
this bed-everness found in a byre
geschplittled received all right
rest ablurred, history’s anything but


Friday, December 21, 2007

My Head in a Petrie Dish by Amanda Deutch

After "Last Rites of Meteors: More Riddles" by Jonathan W. and "Scavenged" by George V.

emerge from which flesh
erect, sparkling?
dry spittle at flash lit eye’s corners

vous lost you topia

as if there were ever a bed
a place to get anything but blurred rest and history
bound in fire

take my splittle,


I’m awake.

Shine by Sommer Browning

after May by Rufo Q posted on November 27, 2007

The tin glints and someone shouts
Alleluia. A fish bone dislodged,

a shopping bag
thick with swallowing. What tours

with you?

Mussels weaved to freighters,
sea pasted in the captains’ eyes.

new: conundrum

by george vance (after all)

snug bug rug
mystery-wrapped insider enigma
rushin’ dolls in these unlit darks
mislucent fuddle with unzoomed iotas
treeblurred forests pointilized with debrightened clearingups
unrevealed calves over haired bareness
clothed truths, truthed-up falsities
bared falsies & crackproof nuts
black whole


Sunday, December 16, 2007

Bits by JKD

Nonriddles, after J Wonhams many puzzle poems

Nommer est /


If she weren't all linguistic spirals,
the map would lead her.

NEW: box that contained champagne glasses

from Industrial Totems
by G vance

Grapesgone .. glasswhat .. whodrinks
cubic emptiness ... youdidit ... yourfault
the roundness within
escaped free!
of us .. of it
where’llwe ... when’llwe ... why
kaputyou ... going out ...


Friday, December 14, 2007

Last Rites of Meteors: More Riddles by Jonathan Wonham

after Sliver by Jennifer K. Dick

I'm priceless when chipped,
no mother-of-pearl,
men fever for me, best friend
of a dream girl.


From which part of my body
emerges, well, sparks?


Supine pose
converging sap
and insect -

round your neck














Last rites
of meteors,

spittle and fire

take me, I'm


(answers in the comments...)


by george vance (right after 'Sliver' by JKD)

father-of-moral peever
con dreamtained
(emerges from which body?)
Spell warks!
con (verging
sine unphew
eevell angluid anglluage
eaves f-fake wipple-erects
let’s wave
[racelets] orb-b [rakes]
lotch of spermeotrites
pittle and sire (for)
out dere morf dem bolden sharknews)
earring hehe


"Sliver" (New) by Jennifer K Dick

...................mother-of-pearl fever


.........(from which body emerges?)

......................................when supine
...................................................leveled languid language

........leaves wake ripple-effects


.....................................[brakes] or [bracelets]

splotch of
................................................................spittle and
...........where from out emboldened darkness)


Thursday, December 13, 2007

NEW: Riddle by Jonathan Wonham

I'm rock, but I roll.
I'm not brave yet I'm...?


(answer in the comments...)

Scavenged edit (tardy entry)

by george vance after 'Could' by L. Pasold

unstuck flash-lit flesh
bound in a solar-iced blackroom

custodial argue-meant conciergial cant

key of lost-utopia

vous. do that voodoo that
conceived her s’well
(bed of the stricken pickup, history of)

finger-feeling into blurred silhouette. semblant.

as if there were a ‘were’


Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Committee by Barbara Beck

After reduced by L. Pasold, Point to the Eye by B. Shimoda
and others...

We've been winging it means
a spinning mobile can rip our heads off.
All of us pinning our hopes
on a new profile closer to the laws
of physics. Jane runs the numbers:
this crescent based on a smiley
outlook, this scimitar to sever hairs.
Alex prefers a gondola mustache.
Vanessa moves that we limit
our activity to dissassemblage,
get ourselves into the youth market.
Another wrecking-ball universe,
says the pres. We open
and close windows, remember air
trapped in feathers, fur, ice
even as the origami minutes
fold inward. A closet full of dirty
ecliptics. Rubber gloves point
every way away is pinker
than our maiden math. What
did she say, does overhead
breed gegenschein?
That's why we're here, what
we're trying to figure out!

Monday, December 10, 2007


After "a pointing word" by lauren levin & "Scene: in the back of the closet" by J.K.Dick

here we are again in the closet eating hearts. tasting of fiberglass, pinning hopes on infrastructure--we're nitwit overfocused on disassemblage, blood-mouthed, itching.
even as packing proves the laws of physics are fallible--there's so much more on this inside, the wasted origami of ventricles, clean underwear, rubber gloves slipping past our teeth.

Sunday, December 9, 2007

a pointing word (by lauren levin)

after "POINT TO THE EYE" by Brandon Shimoda & "Down to the Wire" by Amy Hollowell


a mobile spinning

....a crescent stretching

....the public toward

This Will Do by JKD

after "This Eiderdown" by Rufo Quintevalle

Praxilcontagent this conifer’s
.......cogniscent of clatter, prominent
.................backstained blood axes axel will do as well
................................violence undertaken of
......................................loaded lingo strung back to

Thursday, December 6, 2007

This eiderdown by Rufo Q

after "Down to the Wire" by Amy Hollowell

This eiderdown
home, reduced
means means
praxis, no
waste vacant.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

POINT TO THE EYE by Brandon Shimoda

after "Down to the Wire" by Amy Hollowell

the great gust
reduced to the wire
stripped storm

please, the white
mobile spinning
dire stems, extend

a thin vapor, corpse
in mortar
and maiden blind crescent

Giacometti stretches
limbs, loving
lean toward secret

Step next forth by Jennifer K Dick

after “un cap franchi” by Lisa Pasold
(Method: writing a line between each of hers)

culinary bruises, there's the space between
my eyes, furrowed lines sketching out
her names, heavy and constantly
volubile. speak, taken aback, trekked deep into that
white-night capitulating. all nightgown and balcony-
fondled, all caterwauling and lolita lollipops
bloodied juliet. every inflated disagreement
his back slammed to wall, to covenants
redressed, her receptions keep turning into
rosaries, daily ablutions fire-hot blessed water
my deceptions. rearrange my tattoos
a sketch pad or palimpsest clue-sought
and i'm set for the next amorous equivalency.
backgammon or years of chess played close to the bone
once swallowed, the question's rather less
tactile than plastified. her game overwrought more forthright
than promised: however many storeys up, the ground
is given over his name given up, spit out. my mouth
becomes moot.

Monday, December 3, 2007

Scene: in back of the closet by Jennifer K Dick

After, or a tissage of, Michelle Noteboom's "Untitled Landscape" & Amanda Deutch's "Scene 7: Amour, Mort, More"

Looky here, he is in the closet eating body hearts. It’s all going in the wrong direction, he is always there in between lanes corridors métro tunnels. Like a falling star. Like fiberglass. Like the gegenschein pinned on the tail of an autumn sky. This is it, why we are here, what we are trying to figure out! You mooncalf. You nitwit overfocused on the body substance, the blurred outline filtering forward from the sepiaed depths of a former century. A shift in the infrastructure, oh-so-subtle, is lookin’ out for, is snapped together, pinned to him. After all, it is the one who has the questions that prowls. Maybe that’ll teach you to, in this image, stop reflecting. Prowl like this for bloody organs, the kinds of activities employed to take tumblers and cylinders apart. But there’s, or there it is. And the fallacy folds inward. Again. We do not yet know his identity, or what he calls himself. You itch to unlock the origami. Madame D doesn’t tell me Courbet caught the origin of the world between a woman’s legs. Find your hands are gloved, the galaxy lulled. 1866 on only his first version, vision. She, yet. Doesn’t trust the métro (too fast) takes the bus instead. Just can the sturm und drang for once. He calls it “L”, toile d’araignée. You wastrel. Origins and mondes, wasted neurotoxins in the biohazard bag stashed by his old suitcases. What did you say? It was a good vintage.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

NEW: Scene 7 by Amanda Deutch

new: another Scene from Amour/Mort/More

Scene 7

He is in the closet eating body hearts.
he is always there in between lanes corridors métro tunnels
This is it. why we are here. what we are trying to figure out.
it is the one who has the questions that prowls. prowls like this for bloody organs.
we do not yet know his identity. or what he calls himself

Madame D doesn’t tell me
Courbet thought the origin of the world
was between a woman’s legs in 1866
only she doesn’t trust the métro (too fast)
takes the bus instead

he calls it “L’origine du monde”
huile sur toile
...........toile d’araignée

NEW: Untitled Landscape by Michelle Noteboom

Looky here. It’s all going in the wrong direction. Like a falling star. Like fiberglass. Like the gegenschein pinned on the tail of an autumn sky. You mooncalf. You nitwit. Maybe that’ll teach you to focus more on the body substance, the blurred outline filtering forward from the sepiaed depths of a former century. In this image, you can’t stop reflecting on the kinds of activities employed to take tumblers and cylinders apart. But there’s a shift in the infrastructure, oh-so-subtle, and the fallacy folds inward again. You itch to unlock the origami yet find your hands are gloved, the galaxy lulled. Just can the sturm und drang for once. You wastrel.

Memories of Athena, by RS Oventile

(After JKD’s “Athena”)

See azure, hard snows; hear winds.
The barred window mirrors the rough, red arc.

Shuddered of her; she sprang out,
torrid, tidal, her face ancestral, brazen.

Her obsidian defiance,
Her stillness, her gazelle flight.

Wedded to bronze, to arrow shafts,
riding air, she shadows the meridian.

Friday, November 30, 2007

Into the meridian by Barbara Beck

After Image by JKD, Transience by A. Hollowell,
could by L. Pasold and baited blurs by G. Vance

ride the arcs slices stuck together adjust darkness
burgundy fields a fingered wall aslope the wild line
become imaginary tainted at mean midnight sway
around my table in any old clothes shadowy
within an assemblage of rings muster one room's
worth of flatness floor cookies coke pages lexicons
of luring hold down from shuddering out
dissolving in windows all the people I know
flat-earthers facets of an elusive sum

Thursday, November 29, 2007

that by Lisa Pasold

After After Cartier-Bresson by Alex M & Cessation by Jonathan W

what draws me, happens before the couple sits down, before they decide on that parting

in the train station, frowning, before the dog gets lost, before the school clothes rustle,

before the kerchief, the bench, the street, before the sixty years of sleeping together, before the bridge.

ah, before the bridge, the bride, before the photograph, the bouquet tossed into a river, what happens

before all that, draws me, happens again and happens again and happens, the sunglasses so

like before, lying in that place, shoes cast aside, the bedsheets lost, and how

I happen after.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Cessation by Jonathan Wonham

after After Cartier-Bresson by Alex M and Like The Day Upstairs by Amy H and May by Rufo Q and Athena Undone by Michelle N and Doxodox Blinks Morse Code by Rob SO

the couples         undone
        are parting
                in a blur       while

through leafy haze
         undecomposed morning
coughs up

of memory
      pollinated, balanced by
               the swipe
       of life

     in a splendid flurry
        the summer street
                 the young woman’s

the dog watching
                like slander
in off-white shades

              and though
to wish us

            unbridled risqué
in parks, on benches, on bridges
          routing out
               time passed

what draws me
      ashen letters
              is to concede
          in her hair
a white

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

un cap franchi by Lisa Pasold

after The Question's Moot by Jonathan Wonham

culinary bruises, there's the space between
her names, heavy and constantly
white-night capitulating. all nightgown and balcony-
bloodied juliet. every inflated disagreement
redressed, her receptions keep turning into
my deceptions. rearrange my tattoos
and i'm set for the next amorous equivalency.
once swallowed, the question's rather less
than promised: however many storeys up, the ground
becomes moot.

Like the Day Upstairs by Amy Hollowell

after May by Rufo Q

Like the day upstairs
nothing is undone --- not me, finely
pointing a nose through leafy haze
to the same thing,

Morning coughed up frail
in clear light
can’t be saved.

In recent bouts of memory and dream
flowers fell and pollinated,
balanced by the swipe of life
like fighting cats on the wall
lost in the splendid flurry.

NEW: May by Rufo Q

It came in dreams like the day upstairs
on the bus commentary from a tourist
bus came in the window and all
of us were like nuclei or vanilla
flecks in ice-cream;
                                    the same thing
given like corned beef to a cargo cult
to everyone to chug away down
the pollinating summer street
with and do with what they will.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Image by JKD

after "The Question's Moot" by Jonathan Wonham

statuesque corollaries
.......................dissolved in windows
.................................................of which you speak
........................neon grappling
................................................needled hands informing
replications of
........................cagey grassblades

promised balconies

Saturday, November 24, 2007


after "Infinite Sets" by Jon Wonham

O blink me the oblique apex of the whole low curves

of an elusive sum swinging aslope intersecting lives

merged articulations emerging in cropped selves’

perfect resemblance of parity’s particularities

pried omens clam-shelled fingergrasped wonder

at the endless wandering refractions splinter-spluttering

contractions of I end-stopped by the eye, seen, to preen

in the mean median of the obtuse obfuscation gazing

green underhill or taken or whelmed, a realm of

omniscient over climaxing or –es in the growl fowl merged

to grapple blossom and seeded back to black cores' cords

suck sipped juiced jittering worm in the worldly wormhole

of this apple set (stet) infinite passageways beyond O overt

"Athena Undone" by Michelle Noteboom

After "Athena" by Jennifer K. Dick

meat slab &
under wraps
plundered skirts

tomes in off-
white shades
purblind spite

moot busker
thus turpentined
slattern swills

unbridled risqué
shaft shunt
routing out
another comedo

The Question's Moot by Jonathan Wonham

After Terminal Figure by Barbara Beck.

And could "your hat" survive "among graylings?" The question's moot. They sold "your three-dollar throat" and bought a five dollar gullet "with all the live elements rolled into one." Hence "your culinary bruises." Some took exception to "your cold little beluga" since all at one time or another have been "cradled in a water loop". About "mud flavors" they agree to be "unduly woken ie. voluted."

"Your rock that contains two generations" now contains three, since "your ruby pivot" was not without impression. Could "middle name" become last name? I think, yes, it possibly could. "The heavy task of tamping" weighs heavily upon us all, and "constantly". "To the left", of course, always to the left. "Your half dream" matched our half dreams and "kept" like an "uncombed" language "in a ravine" as if dedicatedly designed "for usufruit".

"Your white-night capitulation" pares the one-off from the singular as if "to the neon marquise" it does not really matter that "no one's touching anymore" and "anyway your Thursdays" are "not sequels" or even prequels "but parodies" drippingly entitled "picnic by proxy". Some find "your dilemma" not to be their own, as if speaking "of the red-tiled swimming pool" could improve neither "your mnemonics" or whatever left you "flat out".

Get "over early morning misgivings" since "each day's headdress" will be its own redress, "your igneous underlife" a rallying call both "ripped forth and" sent "forward. Now it's every sunset motel" for itself and "every glass lover" with their dreams shattered, "seeing out of" the one place or thing "whose eyes" leave "you" to "vacillate".

Evolving "your amphibian" keeps them "on-ramps" but "once engineered" serves "for getaways" that imply "no". It's "diversionary" in the sense that it is also "traction" but once you "haul yourself out" it's just a shamble and a leap "to the end of the prospect. Your dorsal view" has long been respected in the same way that the products "of a lime kiln" respect what at once "surrounded" them "by equally" dissolving their "statuesque corollaries".

"The other windows" of which you speak "are", by definition, "cagey" in as much as they are "arrangements" which once "full of wind" may seem inflated, as if "the bromides" were meant for them and "you" were left to "swallow" only "as cloudspotters do". Beyond them, "a promise of balconies" leaves us "with evident" shortcomings that some might call "vocational" and others mere "trysts".

Of course, "your amorous equivalent" is not the equal "of a garden conversation" but someone who "can't tell who's ticklish. And" it's not, finally, the same someone "who's bilious". All of this "greenth" just as "your votive finger bowl" greenth the seed "coming after" or touches off "a" harmless "series of ill-fated litmus tests." Either to "stop or" to "go" might still, legitimately, send us "hither".

And could "poking" fire "up quarrels" as others "speaking" draw us back in to their "near-body" experience of "accents." Even if "your deceptions" are our deceptions and our deceptions yours, any "killer" of "equations" can figure what pierces "to the deeper tissues". These are the issues of which "the refinements" are many, and wonderful, and still most thankfully "to come".

Friday, November 23, 2007

"PreFigure Object Count" by Jennifer K Dick

after/a sieving of "Terminal Figure" by Barbara Beck

hat graylings
three-dollar throat
culinary bruises
beluga cradled
water loop mud flavors
ruby pivot tamping uncombed ravine capitulation
marquise, not sequels by proxy
red-tiled mnemonics
flat headdress
igneous underlife sunset motel
glass lover vacillate amphibian on-ramps
engineered getaways
diversionary traction haul
dorsal view lime kiln statuesque corollaries
cagey correlations full of wind,
bromides, cloudspotters, balconies

vocational trysts,
amorous bilious votive
equivalent litmus STOP!!!!

Hinterland quarrels speak near-body accents:
deceptive equations in deep(her) tissue refinements.

Doxodox Blinks Morse Code; Sophia Lethe Translates & Replies by Robert Savino Oventile

after SF's "Fragment 3"

D: to act toward disappearance
SL: wills disappearance’s appearance
D: inevitably a misappearance
SL: willy-nilly images will’s persistence
D: nihil-I still a will-I
SL: a problem?
D: will ceases, the muse appears
SL: ha! so a hope for appearance
D: but also: “only pure absence […] can inspire”
SL: besides embarrassing, you are impossible
D: neither more nor less than ashen letters floating up a chimney and skyward to summon Athena in the guise of a British nanny
SL: for your sake, no comment, except to concede: the brainchild’s fiery, surprising appearance from the cranium’s side may imply will’s cessation
D: so call the will the heart’s foreskin
SL: which concedes to me
D: willingly

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Transience by Amy Hollowell

after Decadence by Nick Urban

Unveil the eyes
and bearded lips

a thigh, crazed thumb and index
to the wild line

still sculpting the longgone

FLASHLIT by Jennifer k Dick

after COULD by Lisa Pasold

editing backlight
through a utopian key
darkness wooden
adjust her scavenged sentience
forbidden silhouette
brass brighter
in pick-up sticks
blurred to fuchsia

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Infinite Sets by Jonathan Wonham

after 'Apex' by Amy Hollowell

O perfect resemblance of particularity
blink to me the apex of the whole that can’t be

rise up obliquely in low swinging curves
following the slope of our intersecting lives

merge articulations of an elusive sum
to the endless selves of our daily wonder.

fragment 3 by sandy florian

After RO's Sophia Lethe Talks Doxodox Down

d: to split the soul, no the ends
sl: or just split (finally)
d: to dis-embroider the soulful edges
sl: circumcise the heart
d: no, to amputate the legs, no, the fists
sl: at the line on the wrists
d: no, at the shoulder, no, at the
sl: chim chiminey chim chim cheroo
d: chin, yes, the chin, no
sl: the sweep is as lucky as
d: the mou -
sl: lucky can be


After Whit(h)er by Jen Dick, Stainless Sunset and Youthful Trust by Michelle Noteboom

your hat among graylings.
your three-dollar throat with all the live elements rolled into one.
your culinary bruises.
your cold little beluga cradled in a water loop. mud flavors unduly woken ie. voluted.
your rock that contains two generations.
your ruby pivot middle name. the heavy task of tamping constantly to the left.
your half dream kept uncombed in a ravine, for usufruit.
your white-night capitulation to the neon marquise. no one's touching anymore anyway.
your Thursdays, not sequels but parodies called "picnic by proxy".
your dilemma of the red-tiled swimming pool.
your mnemonics flat out over early morning misgivings. each day's headdress.
your igneous underlife ripped forth and forward. now it's every sunset motel every glass lover seeing out of whose eyes you vacillate.
your amphibian on-ramps once engineered for getaways no diversionary traction. haul yourself out to the end of the prospect.
your dorsal view of a lime kiln surrounded by equally statuesque corollaries. the other windows are cagey arrangements full of wind.
the bromides you swallow as cloudspotters do a promise of balconies with evident vocational trysts.
your amorous equivalent of a garden conversation. can't tell who's ticklish and who's bilious greenth.
your votive finger bowl coming after a series of ill-fated litmus tests. stop or go hither poking up quarrels speaking in near-body accents.
your deceptions and killer equations to the deeper tissues. the refinements to come.

Decadence by Nick Urban

After "CRAVING" by Jennifer K Dick

anvil eyes
declining the meters

angelic at

CRAVING by Jennifer k Dick

After "In the Rush" by Jonathon Wonhom

pressed against the sky



Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Peacock by Brandon Shimoda

after "could" by Lisa Pasold

Get in, the
Lights the

Transmission the
Strike, swell of meats weathering

Gargoyles winter in the lush
Sand, the scavenge

Strikes, the hickory

Collapses the chain
Of arms
Gather, get

In the lights, ropes of tails grace
The water as

Swarm sees
The edits in

Water penance in circle
Chen, the familiar

Tense solarized

The counter
Invention, weathered

Meats in the
Swell, take this eye
Let from the casing

I meant history when
I let

Be bound
In victory string

To get her involved

Could darkness into silhouette
Come, in
Lush, winter

Removes the source
To the neck

Wrangled the very
Meat you
Stalled again

could by Lisa Pasold

After "Mixed Penance" by Jennifer K Dick

strike, struck, scavenged. sticking herself together
voodoo-like then collapsing in pick-up sticks, flash-lit,
flesh-bound. it's all
in the editing.
darkroom penance, blacklight
backlit, her model
solarized. "But I meant" history of,
invention with (intervention within) custodian
and concierge argument, as if
there were a key that the doorman lost. utopian,
what could, would. adjust
along the wall, fingers coming into
silhouette, blurred, assembled, her
convinced, conceived, and

Monday, November 19, 2007

Athena (New)

by Jennifer K Dick

A centered red-metal tablet and her eye,
ear, hear, hard of
wimples or whimper in the dampered dumpster
She barred wings and broke opaline bows
shadows shuddered out of her
prior cloaks, disguised name-calling
diagonally dismal,
.......................seemed rough, riding
into the meridian, cuff ruffled white
tail as in feathers or farther off
spit spot short-sighted, snow’s false face
her codpiece, her wedded-to window
iron mildewing or root-bodice
cream curdling ancestral ash
....................................buck to
break back against her, tidal, torrid
the azure topaz tourmaline collections
staggered in the buff brush winds
to see, say, sway forward as marble
registers stillness, wood-slat rooms
visitors' steps
...................round her table, tell
tales of brazen arrowshafts’ wooded arc
night-flight forest-fronded defiance
her obsidian grazed-gaze gambolling
gazelle making light of air, our
touch reach retched back-sprung
to based, debased huntress

Sunday, November 18, 2007

...baited blurs

by george vance

After ‘Mixed Penance’ by J Dick

penance growing beneath words' root
metallic-creaking grey dreams rolled blank
closet-rustling refugees listening cock-eyed
Lisa’s grasses softly forming between burgundy fields
luring-hook snipped to
this preamble wings to steam palimpsests brighter

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Mixed Penance by Jennifer K Dick

After "Height" by Jill Darling following Maksik's "Half-light"

Mixed penance
beneath and between
cut at the root
a metallic
creaking eucalyptus
over grey half-light
two-quarter dreams
rolled restless
signalling another blank
flash-lit broomcloset
child-scavengers rustling
refugees in rows
listening cock-eyed
to Lisa’s tales
pampas grasses
smell softly
letters forming words
between lips
lexicons of luring
baited hook
halls snipped short
rocking to and
against this
blacklit wings
boiled to bone
iron pots steam
into brighter blurs

Friday, November 16, 2007

EQUATION by Amanda Deutch

after "Earrims, pieces gathered" by George V. and "Apex" by Amy H

my whorling body sums

assemblest all the rest
putting on houses over head
stone and wood costume over skin
naked underneath
round to the nearest daily motion
amounting blinks to increase wonder
if an equation:
blinks = instants

doors revolve you
meantime, relish all the decimals
yes pls continue to

height by Jill Darling

in response to Alexander Maksik's Half-Light: NEW

over grey half-light
among eucalyptus kisses and a
two-quarter flashlight

a metallic

growing beneath
and between
surgery smelling softly
cut at the root


Scene: A Figure, by Jennifer K Dick

After Amanda Deutch's "Two Scenes", 5/11/07

Scene: A figure of the self, I,
or: Solace

red barked
staking in
myriad notes,.................scrapes
..............scrapped readings
our voices......................(mine)
.................or I
My in the multudinousness of
cuffed to the


an escapade the

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Earrims, pieces gathered

by george vance
After 'After Art After...' by Laura M & 'The mathemetician...' by Sue C

my whorling miss, know :

e(re)volving : (re)solution :

∞ = you³ -(all the rest)


me to the nth

rounded to the farthest decimal


Sunday, November 11, 2007

The mathematician to his lady love, by Sue Chenette. After φ by george vance

The mathematician to his lady love

lark me in spirals
incurve me round the tender rim of your ear
dance me dunce-like re. tagged averages
helix me a voluted capital
the sum of our traction will yield multividing
mine us introuvable in the them

Stains from Loopy Waterfronts by Jennifer K Dick

After "Stainless Sunset with Interesting Water Loop" by Michelle Noteboom

in the slag
to bring ideas
home you see if the shadow
you are is really
if you tell
what’s going
what’s down………another
an urban speaks dwarfing
elements (while (whenever you were) human(e))
out in vast glut
gut de(con)struction
gutted or groutted
it’s ……………… one is
anymore anyway
so slip the it squint shift or
makes thinks mine shaft
a lime or a conditioned
image this dismantle
your city brick
prick and shallow
bowls hybrid vines
dusty orange 15-day squirrels
you still yourself
a way to asperity
once engineered
the core

After "Scenic [Route" by Jennifer K. Dick, "Sonnet 7/11" by Amy Hollowell, "Inside City Light" and "A Kind of Soft Sound" by Alexander Maksik

In the Rush
by Jonathan Wonham

Dreaming shivering
take me in a photograph
pressed against the sky.

Take me in I am
air stung, ravenous
spread for me

dark and soft. Against
this withered morning
I will fit so perfectly in

right there slide me slowly
down metallic lanes
and revving, vanish.

After "Burlesque" by AD "Echoes" "Whit(h)er" "In Somnolence" JKD "A Kind of Soft Sound" AM "Imagine Laid..." BS "Stainless Sunset..." MN "Glut" JW

(Please note, as the blogger format doesn't allow long enough lines on some screens, that this is meant to be all in couplets, with one final last line.)
We Carried Shallow Bowls
by Sue Chenette

We carried shallow bowls through thickets of oak and thistle
past Blockbuster and Rush, Sleep Comfort, Blinds To Go

balanced them in both hands. Sometimes
wandering the mall after work we saw reflected

flashes of flightless birds familiar with tufts and feathers,
displaced in vague parts of our body. Or bonelets

fell in splintering the blue places forgotten.
On soft mornings the bowls cradled mirror-echelons

clouds whorled and rafted an inverted sky and then,
or nights when satellites and planets hung lit in the dark water

it seemed deeper. We weren’t sure.
From time to time the surface, pinguid, exploded in flame

and we staggered, stiffened our arms to save ourselves.
Some burned, woke again as white dust

in the 3 am fluorescence of our television screens.
We grieved for them, rain troubled our thin roof.

Our palms thickened with calluses, fingers warped
around the particular shapes of soup plates, saladiers.

Our necks cricked looking into them.
The bowls grew heavy, and when we came through dusty vines

to October, its yellow leaves pressed tight against the sky,
we laid them on the grass. It wasn’t the water’s shimmer we missed

when, with a kind of soft sound, we set them down,
but their rough concavity against our hands:

concrete, or stone, knobbed gourds, gnarled ironwood.

Friday, November 9, 2007

After Art After Shadow (November)

After "Articulation of Shadow" By Jennifer K Dick
by Laura M

in body in
recognized pieces failing
to sum

say mislaid

how many times
can you take
a face

apart those fluffy white perfectly round clouds
suspended under the bed are full of baby

in body abruptly written off by the coverlet's
edge and in voice somewhat muffled

assembled in memory

that small gathering of glass
figures grouped around a missing
cradle missing
child start

again with the eyes
or the image

After AH’s “Sonnet 7/11”

For the Impossible
By Robert Savino Oventile

Withdrawing luminosity’s veil,
light unfurls shadow,
where, in darker sightings,
black becomes raven; and red, crimson.

On a street corner,
under noon’s blue dome,
stands Henri Rousseau,
playing his violin, imagining.

Needing ever fewer photons,
sight ventures toward plushest shade,
as if the eye could receive
what the sun cannot show.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

New: φ


by george vance

spiralarc II minus
spiralarc I
redundancy III.ii
bentstraight inthat
tagged averages

multividing yields sumtractions
√ [ 1: 1.618/x ± 0 >< -0]

quite illogically the it
is ‘introuvable’ in the them

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

After Amanda Deutch's "2 Scenes"

Scenic [Route
by Jennifer K Dick

I alone escape
this drain-pipe life
beaten, lacerated, aired
in the bluff of my voice

Register, I, along
perfume and metallic lanes
garce, name-called, gouine
mustered up texture
sandpapered eyes
called I
I call

in a wide-brimmed white cap
emoting scaled facades,
laced lines paced
.....................along turbined hills
in Grasse on a soaplabel
dried lungs buried
among my packed pickled
plucked-up diversions or
cemetery pines

detected? -ing? -ive?
............a live one

After various LP, RQ and RSO Sightings

Sonnet 7/11
By Amy Hollowell

Dream notes gleaned
For astral works
Firmament bodies wellhung with
Sweet heavenfruit
In the blue nightfield of revving
And I wonder at dark sightings ---
Every soft and hard where
Here street walking l'éphémère
Or l'effet mère
Or les faits mère ---
Learning light through shadow now as
Rain strips the day, leaving

Red berries a bare cluster of
Clitoris in the pine.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

After Rufo Q's "Further sightings"

Until Further Sightings
by Robert Savino Oventile

Was last week
a slice of bone?
Now it's just there,
everywhere in Paris.

Nobody, hordes,
together again,
out on the boulevards,
like marrow.

No, the town, my friends,
couldn’t take Atala
off the star I need seen.

NOTE: “Atala,” in this poem, refers to the asteroid of that name that occasionally eclipses specific stars.

After "Whit(h)er" (Version 2), by Jennifer K. Dick

Version #3
by Brandon Shimoda

particles float in the morning bonelets break flags accordingly skeletal, sagging splinters, the terrible bags, hers hears my confectionary burns white while steeples while through dust, away, whalebones prick ineluctable sky dost cast a statuesque pillar of bark and foam, an inveigled rib parts like cousins pulling hands from the bridge, a way for carcasses to carry Charon’s boating to eye-thicken portaged without

clothes, with out-closing lace manifest in the baling moss hung from trunk’s desire, is taffy—lenses' bottlebottom like ruby lips drenched through glass openings peer at her (me) we’re ladder-rungs (you, by the belt, by the middle state, the soft foot wedged into the potted drum), echelons steepled in white while dust cloud-climbing Lethe’s muffling wavelets, like boating, like limbs (sacre), livers (orders), lugged over lucubrations of flower-conversation in lapsed artefact—get fur le snow

artifactual plaster where found the Spain, the commonplace powder unhemmed, what will wise lessons restitch rays of oll-revealed atoms, teeth like thieves narrowing into wood, lay (me)(you) horizontal in the kestrel, find (you)(me) shaking a thicket over thistles, tapestries palmfrond our hands over mouth over thighs over sighed sight ululas

tonsils, larynxes…….boxes, springs, conical heads, the tail in the greenth produces a hand…….lettuce…….launched into…….choral…….inflammation laid with ceremony corralled…….by her ……. sere shift ripped forth and forward float low…….ing raft tile tilt, whirl of, while…….white the flesh stretches the world whorled of…….particle…..splitting

After 'sighting' by LP & 'Two Scenes' by AD

Further sightings

by Rufo Q

Nobody in Paris
had seen the moon
until Atala;
now it's everywhere.
Just last week
there it was,
like a slice of bone
Out-of-town friends
took me out
to take my mind
off it
but mulligatawny
& chicken
chow mein
couldn't stick me
together again.
No, what I need
is country stars,
of them, stetsons
cocked, cooing
on the boulevards.

After Amanda Deutsch's "Two Scenes" & J.K. Dick's "Whit(h)er"


Stars and contrary stars, ignoring the aurora,
or staring star-mouthed? green, the brain's
skeletal confectionary portaged together, go on:

stick me together again, give me a new
colour ripped forward, flow, whirl, turned and
clavicle-split, pace-maker'd, peace-brokered
on that moss-ice melting re-
member how it felt
on the tongue, membrane stretching.

what a heist
that was, hoisted (you might say)
on some ceremonial arctic petard, split
particles & participles
dangling. go on: i'm still

Monday, November 5, 2007


Scenes 15 & 44 from Amour/Mort/More

Scene 15

Stairs and contrary stairs
stares and dangerous stares
myriad of crumpled notes
I try to read them
Do I try too hard?


We didn’t prepare me
for perfume and metal
and everything is
. . . metal
. . . . . . . . .here

Scene 44
(I, alone)

Can I escape. make a clean getaway
shimmy up. drain pipe.
hoist. my body.
over the stone wall.
to another side.

or will I get caught. up in. the trap of images.

Go on your way evening boulevard.

lacerées marouflées

beat it
do it again
make air

call my bluff

mister monsieur detective

After “Imagine Laid with Ceremony” by Brandon Shimoda from 30 Oct

Version 2, By Jennifer K Dick

the particles still to float in the morning bonelets skeletal splinterings, her, my confectionary burns white steeples through dust, whalebones, ribs, carcasses to carry over Charon’s boating to eye-thickened memories
................................portaged together: desire's taffey-lenses' bottlebottom glass like ruby lips drenched through hotel openings peer at her (me) we’re ladder-rungs, echelons steepled in white dust cloud-climbed upon Lethe’s muffling wavelets, limbs, livers, lugged over lugubriations of flower-conversation in a lapsed artefact,
....................................................................artifactual plaster powdered unhemmed lessons restiched between rays revealed atoms' teethlike thieves shaking a thicket of thistles, paled tapestries or palmfronds or hands over mouth over thighs over sighed sightings
.......................overhead ululas, tonsils, larynxes launched into a choral inflammation heard laid with ceremony corralled by her, my, imagination in the seered shift ripped forth and forward float flowing of the raft tile tilt, whirl of, while, world whorled of, particle-splitting

Sunday, November 4, 2007


Eve’s Poet-Hood
by Robert Savino Oventile

If she sees the instant seizing her
as her breeze-imbibing author
who, by warding her, provokes her
to look away toward a tree anew,

If her ruby-scaled witness
(of coal interior, granted)
suggests, on eating the tree’s fruit,
she will de-dis-resemble said author,

If, in her disarmed sight,
her claustrophobic
partner’s glazed
getaway gaze implores, “Yes,”

And if, simple, sensuous, and passionate,
poetry implies touch torched,
then, in Eve’s ward,
who loves Eve’s poet-hood best?

After ‘Quintan 1’ by Amanda D, 'e lonely c' by Rufo Q, & ‘Extant Towers’ & ‘Enveloppe’ by Jennifer D

subjective correlative
by george vance

withered frogamphibians wined nobody
justlike a wombman
breathed serpentine honey
lasslovers jumbled
autist floating a usedfruit world

(meddling with apple-reds/rusted skyflavors

dissembling glass

Saturday, November 3, 2007

After EYE CONTACT by R.S. Oventile & SORT OF TRUE by Geo Vance

by Jennifer K Dick

Sight's disarmed
....or I'll
................ale in the inked
wind, voiced over
who in the who's who
whodunit of slit-throated
...................touch torched
........dismantled lean-to
serpent-throated me wanted
my (that) (their)
...........getaway gaze
coal interior of its milky iris
witness(ed) (ing)

Friday, November 2, 2007

After QUINTAN by Amanda Deutch

Extant Towers
by Jennifer K Dick

She tastes like glass
honey serpents
the red tongues of cobalt buds
out the back past
maroon steps
Heated bricks and nightcloth
greygreen white Jouhet sky
lichen or salamanders scaling
ragged walls She tastes
of ropes rugged dripping
mossy undertows off rowboats
scales of palisades
troweled earth, shoulderblade
she in the on the tongue of
afternoons' transparencies
plasticized dawns touching
othersides, whereas, wares
scavanging mirrored shes
to know of taste or tastes of
razorthin rust-colored
iron file-cabinet flavors
filling the mouth her
tipped tongue lead
poison-apple-red scavenging
to crystal

Thursday, November 1, 2007

After “fragment 2” by Sandy Florian

Eye Contact

This eye between me and alter ego’s,

Eye contact’s blind moment,

Sight’s organs disarming to learn touch.

By Robert Savino Oventile

After ‘NOT SO FAKE’ by Amanda D

After ‘NOT SO FAKE’ by Amanda D

Sort of true
by george vance


every so sudden serpent upon throats
me want to be substance
nearer bodies
walking disas-


Wednesday, October 31, 2007

After "Warders" by SF , "Articulation of Shadows" by JD and Bob Dylan QUINTAN revamped version 2 by Amanda Deutch

I edited my original response (see October 30 post of same name) and wanted to share it.

QUINTAN 1 (ague or fever)

with her fog amphetamines wind no body
to guess crackle ruby in arms of memories how many
must we cross until we
can take off hour clothes undress the aches and
not be
just be
at blind blood oranges lit corners stung skeletons and her. she tastes just like glass lovers crimson hours jumbled discomfort and homicidal eyes reminder of that just so way. here you breathe.
wake to hear you breath. You once were breathe. subtle science of stop or keep on. skip on skeleton
I throat to recollect your honey illuminate serpents so ill asleep almost homicidal
even if green eyes. finally
she sees just like a woman queen of spades
like all floating worlds, she is just
fruit lines and greening maps

NEW: Sophia Lethe Talks Doxodox Down by RS Oventile

Sophia Lethe Talks Doxodox Down

D: From emptiness, to emptiness.
SL: Oh, Daddy-O, please.
D: What, “What the thunder said”?
SL: No, not nothing.
D: “Amor vincit omnia”?
SL: Idealize.
D: Or not.
SL: An exit dilemma.
D: Heart’s “rag and bone shop”?
SL: Yes (finally … ).

By Robert Savino Oventile

after 'preprogrammed' by george vance

e lonely c

by Rufo Q



soft 10

After "Articulation of Shadows" by JD, "Warders" by SF and naturally more stolen Dylan

by Amanda Deutch

every so often a serpent suddenly throats upon me and I want
to be nearer to the substance of you walking
bodies disassembled and together

After "Warders" by SF, "After-Warder" by JD , "Articulation of Shadow" by JD with a little Bob Dylan thrown in for good measure

QUINTAN (ague or fever)
by Amanda Deutch

with her fog amphetamines wind nobody has to guess cracked ruby in
arms of her memories how many memories must we cross until
we can take off hour clothes undress the aches and be not afraid to
look at blind blood oranges, lit corners, stung skeletons and her
she tastes just like glass lovers crimson hours jumbled discomfort
and homicidal eyes reminder of that way... just so. wake to hear you
breath. You once were waking for me to hear you breathe. subtle
science of stop or keep on. I throat to recollect your honey illuminate
serpents so ill asleep almost homicidal even green eyes. finally she
sees just like a woman queen of spades like all floating worlds,
she is--fruit lines and greening maps

After "Stainless Sunset with Interesting Water Loop" by Michelle Noteboom # 2

for DL
by Amanda Deutch

eating buildings dismantling cities she is
carrying mouthfuls of bromides boneliest
swallows shadows and regurgitates bricks
(you can’t tell what’s going up and what’s coming down)
try clipping through dim urban spaces and
speaking try tongues
touching images
(No one’s touching anymore anyway)
live elements or lime skins
why it makes you dismantle the self you might
have been once
in the slag heap and guts

New: Mutterbutterjinglemash

by Talan Memmott & Sandy Florian (based on Gertrude Stein's Advertisements)

click here: Mutterbutterjinglemash

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

After "While You Were Out an Old Man/Woman Came and Replaced You (After "Stainless Sunset with Interesting Water Loop" by M. Noteboom") by A. Deutch

Imagine Laid with Ceremony
by Brandon Shimoda

In the morning

echelon as clouds
do buildings echelon as clouds do

bonelets form       in morning
move white dust

as hands as hands
all feathers wake as
clouds confectionary burns

bonelets form              scab green mouths

the clouds of the chorus
embraces white photos in the wide window

shake another face
speaks the clouds of the chorus
embraces white photos on the wide walls

shake the noh mask
haggles over confectionary        was

it you
were out an old man in a noh mask
breaks the thick glass shakes        was

it you
were a woman came and replaced the
flowers with a conversation
lapsed in artifact

pink, little thief
bonelets coming through the photos coming
through the windows

the walls shake
each flower
swallows the building it sounds like
one or more than
three                photos

in succession
hand over mouth hand over
mouth hand over mouth

the choral inflammation
echelons as clouds do
you imagine laid with ceremony

the particles still
or float her

After "Stainless Sunset with Interesting Water Loop" by Michelle Noteboom,

While You Were Out Another Man/ Woman Came to Replace You
by Amanda Deutch

This is not unusual
write you
a virus

in the morning


knee burns
broiling green scab

years of

myth of windows

another face
of cores

mask days
witness matter

break open

flash flash


and thicken
flowers quite

more than high

little thief lady
steal gushing

bonelets (human)
coming through

handle or deal

odorous dignity

more than

body on

skin shed
relatives of

laid with
to stiffen


After ‘After-Warder’ & 'Articulation of Shadow' by Jennifer D, & ‘Warders’ by Sandy F

by george vance

be sure to check the shadows’ angles
light-motif ill-lumened

headress on an ant-eaten lover
swung open

cra-walking Eveward
the fruit’s red rind


After "Warders" by Sandy Florian

By Jennifer K Dick

By the subtle reminder
of her throat or the recollection
of that small serpent
diamondbacked seated on the rock then
walking, by the subtle
sensation of green a
reminder of homicide,
in the substantial nature
of suicide, by the subtle
stance of her or you, a
reminder of that way
we talk or chat or stop, say
to keep on, that way just
once in the dusk we’re
walking, I wake to
you and cloverbreathed
a community of walkers and
signposts acknowledging
the warders of Eve, so
pampered inwalled, so
ill-tempered, so ill-asleep,
this floating world
so ill-illumined by
the arc of a fruit’s red rind
the shadows on the moon

Monday, October 29, 2007

New: The Warders of Eve

by Sandy Florian

By the subtle reminder of that small serpent walking, by the subtle reminder of homicide, of suicide, by the subtle reminder of that way to keep on, to keep that way just walking, I wake to a community of walkers and the warders of Eve, so ill-tempered, so ill-asleep, so ill-illumined by the shadows on the moon.

New "Articulation of Shadow"

By Jennifer K Dick

Articulation of
................Body in
pieces. The hand
of a red dress. Red
maiden. The crimson
skirt of it. Rabbit
splayed open
to be swung
(or stung). What
does the body know
of its own discomforts
(nausea)? Am orange
velour skeleton. Hours
on his perch while
in a corner the blind
girl is clasped, tight
in the arms of her
A headless dress is.
Should be glass
headless paper-like
pivot ruby wrestler
a joint
eyed. Self-image as
in she, jumbled mis-haps,
misplaced cartilage
orange or
a faded (foddered)
greening map
of a body
MRI, X-ray, stethoscope
listening for lost
stenographer’s notes.
............Was cracked
and unmendable

After "Stainless Sunset..." by Michelle Noteboom


by Jonathan Wonham

He carries her, light as a shadow,
between the dusty vines.

She turns her face towards the sun,
eyelids shimmering, crepe papery.

Her sweet translucence
fattens his tongue.

Might the crushed city
from which they have come

gently reform over them
like children cradled in a concrete ark?

Through their teeth, the ladies sing
of that vast glut, of how

the glimpse is slipped, of how
a candle flickers on, untouched.

Sunday, October 28, 2007


Stainless Sunset with Interesting Water Loop
by Michelle Noteboom

Try bromides. Try bonelets. Try coming through the slag heap to bring this idea home. Because if you can see the shadow, what you’re really seeing is translucence. Even if you can’t tell what’s going up and what’s coming down. Another face-off in an urban space that speaks to dwarfing, while the redemptive element (human) seeps out in a vast glut of deconstruction. It’s pinguid. No one’s touching anymore anyway, so why slip the glimpse? It makes you think of a mine shaft. Of a lime kiln. Or an air-conditioned junkyard. In this image, you dismantle your own city – brick by brick – and carry shallow bowls to the hybrid slash. The vines grow dusty; the water, orange. And 15 days later, you still find yourself striving after the asperity that once would have been engineered at the core.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

After "Thursdays" by Sandy F, "Burlesque" by Amanda D, "Translucent Ant Skin" by Sawako N and "Cathedrals" by Rufo Q

Youthful Trust, Pre-programmed
By Michelle Noteboom

It’s the body accents and shelves – a whole new tightest bend in a field of natives. All that porphyry snagging the green light even at ten, glowing so clear like a bit of a bigger way into two-bit pills and three-dollar desires. But I, shiny, combing out indiscretions & taboos, all buzzed out and airbrushed into the night like no such thing. White-lit waiting until some sort of monastic explodes your horn (the most recent catch emerging out of the proverbial ground). Nearby skin focuses the myth of days, moon-flapped aureoles. The rhetoric reiterating the blaring stain on the violet shag: "there is no death".

Friday, October 26, 2007

After 'Echoes' by JD, 'I wandered...' by LM, 'Translucent Ant Skin' by SN & 'Tangential...' by BB

by george vance

how the lonely crowed
placed-pokes memorized
shelved after-lifes

undulywoken at 3:
neon portico of the
endoftheworld café

sleepfall at 10
(six ghosts : the elders inventing

Thursday, October 25, 2007

After "Burlesque" by Amanda Deutch & "In Somnolence" by Jen Dick

Tangential Truck Bed
by barbara b

Remembers her field work with Audubon's pickup boys
fading landscapes mythical two-pill nights in the bag
some somnolent picnic birds replacing sheep
countable say going up a burlesque
post-prandial nature trail
where non-native oats freckle the "bliss of solitude"
tamed practical romance squeals in the distance
her errings hazy on the side of shy should've bushed
the feathers handed the duffle to the dudes

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

After "Awakenings" by Sandy F, "Burlesque" by Amanda D, " & "Aire Tropicale" by Geo V

by Jennifer k Dick

impel me toward
gnarled ironwood
spaced undertow

your voice pokes places forgotten
flightless life-death

it’s you on the
don’t call back neon

marquises—what would it mean, shelf life,
toward a shapeless world: globules, static,
hold to glue to

keep in 3 am fluorescence
green light corner stores
together stains

how I remember blaring
so the flame preserved

might still be kept alive
walk toward a voice, to a voiced
white light

nights kept unduly wide
even at ten am
awake, fall to sleep

gruel underwhorls
prints and then backtrack

toward sound
this refraction mirroring

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

After R’s ‘Cathedral’, JD’s ‘Plane’ & ‘In Somnolence’, LP's 'offset' & AD's 'I is Another'

Aire Tropicale
by george vance

Isno I
pronouncing lineages after
4 liters of kava

dawn meets dusk
reins in light
gnarled ironwood
with bark(ack)ing flightless

life-death line spaced
at undertow
wherebefore porphyrins

Monday, October 22, 2007

After JD's "In Somnolence", GV's "Among" and R's "Cathedral"


by Lisa Pasold

dawnmare taste of apples, undertowing

sweetheart barbiturates. the downy

comforter taken from the dryer just

so and pulled up over almost muffling

that bar next door (down beneath

bedside below the dog slumbering)

After "Cathedral" by Rufo Q

“to say suffering is not for nothing”
by Jennifer K Dick

That there is no death this morning
Lime-skin thin in the stark citrus air
Removed from pavement: what’s left?
Dolls, sieves, towels, a scent of lingering
Transported along a vertical green line
Cast in then away, tropical music, fuchsia
That lasts and lasts after the fall
A body, a keyhole, the whispering of his
Door silence through the roar

After Plane by JD, I is Another by AD, FIRST AFTERNOON by Amy Hollowell

First Afternoon
By Amy Hollowell

Dances go like this
in whisps
one step four and two
back on the cheek
and still

like he said
I is
out of the cradle
endlessly rocking

no where to go for
the song but hear
in the first afternoon
brim with a

After Bale by nm, Fragment 2 by sd, I Wandered As the Lonely Crowd by lm, I IS ANOTHER by Amanda Deutch

I is Another

err slur ur blurring
this I and I and I

ack ack lady is
at it again
screaming “ack ack ack ack ack”
at her window all day long
a reliable performance
pulling open the curtain and ack ack acking
till someone sees her
then she disappears

ack ack ack she goes
slowly churning minutes
with her sounds
projection of
primal core that we confine
in delicacy
and distance
drawls of color

you know you sometimes want to
“ack ack ack” away the afternoon

squacking squeaking gravel voiced
errring release this I
between eye and eye

loosen the reigns
a gallon of dark
drip of the ripe here.

New: CATHEDRAL by Rufo


All that porphyry to say suffering
is not for nothing, that there is no death.
Last night music came up through the shower
from the bar next door; then, this morning, rain.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

After BALE by Nicholas Manning

by Jennifer K. Dick

in the
love we drank raw
coats of varnished strings
whining between off-note arpeggios
scaled-flat somber air
paint the gravel awning
the eaves pewter
of her
a gallon of cider
apple branches
whisps of hair
in my mouth
on the rocking chair
this creek, creak
in the maple
the carbonized

After 'In Somnolence' (et al) by Jennifer K Dick

AMONG by George Vance

our aunty’s chambers’re
womany mentions
as lief a cot as not a
post-pills’ plangent pot o’
ottomanly silk-naps’ tea-steept
birds’ chirped maladies
wring lies before our
mornings’ upnings

Friday, October 19, 2007

After "BURLESQUE", "BALE" & "I WANDERED..." by NM, AD & LM

In Somnolence
By Jennifer K Dick

reigns in the love where a gallon of dark
remembers a certain kind of freckles where are eyes
our wakes dream up a field book full-up to no rooming or
board for Audobon’s non-native curls familiar tufts tailfeathers
in splices birds or beds I cannot identify through the erring haze
blurring eyesight spite this cold core in dappled
accidents, antechambers, duffles, sleeping sacks,
hammocks, posts, posits two pills when oats mirror
see the refraction’s a prism’s silk nightie toothbrush from 1920
the violet lamp would be a loose carpet-end, a spotted lilac
this awe or here, or her, hearing this drip, drip
tamed to picnic, say I am 28, 47, 99 —
take two pills (barbiturates suppose)
princess prices groaning up little fluorescent combs
her pink velvet pipe springs in the darkness
drawls of colour by the fading Romantic landscape
seals it in, squeals again, by wallpaper are
projection screen being the only seen right through trust
an issue, the counting, step down, sheep down
in the flouncy incisors dark velvet velour
to hear you errs at a bit of a distance
erstwhile emphasis on the pre-"beside" "beneath"
“bedside” notices we never see the tangent in an agency question
calculation agitation counting replacing sleep
steep climbs seepy tisanes shepherds and the "bliss of solitude"
in downy duvets, canapé-lits, comforters, night-lights
luminescence the howl hollow hailing in the
practical splintering blue

Thursday, October 18, 2007

New: BURLESQUE by Amanda Deutch


So they say
a certain kind of coat burlesques his remember freckles where are but I wake up a dream from of your parents a field full of native birds familiar with tufts and tails and feathers in places I recognize but cannot identify take two pills and am high sort of eat cereal flakes oats mirror see the mirror reflection toothbrush say I am 28 take two pills (barbiturates suppose) so they say princess prices are going up little fluorescent circles stickers with numbers $3, $5 , 50 cents for her comb $30 for her pink silk nightie from 1920 the violet shag carpet and lilac velvet wallpaper are

“Attachments” $3
“Tabu” $5
“Indiscretions” $6
“Desire” $3
for sale on the sink

you in your corner I in mine no rules rhetoric reiterate no memory “I honestly didn’t know you could misplace 20 years.” tell me this sort of stuff what do you they ask want you grow up as if it never happens you call and leave a message your voice pokes places forgotten that’s it you don’t call back in neon marquises of our shelf life in 3 am fluorescent light corner stores bodegas stain all over the us that is the United States how I remember it all blaring white lights even at ten am darling I hated it when you called me darling sucker punch good evening aureole tremens ring all these pick up truck boys with their hard ons and sweet sweet smiles displaced in vague parts of my body accents and shelves busy working hard to dispel the myth of days while the moon flap my gums grab my tits and my mouth gets in the way of so called progress

--Feb 20 2006

After Jen Dick's Intuition Incorporating Sandy Florian's Fragment 2


by Nicholas Manning

reigns in the love we
a gallon of dark
drawls of gravel
draw colours by the fading
of to hear your ear errs
to hear this awe or
to hear this drip
of the ripe
the darkness

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

After Translucent Ant Skin by Sawako Nakayasu & other

I Wandered as the Lonely Crowd
By Laura M

Slowly turning back to me the delicate
Flowers another Romantic landscape tamed to picnic
Translucent table cloth
Projection screen
And being the only
I can see right through
That beautiful
An issue

At a bit of a distance emphasis on the pre-
Positions: "beside" "beneath" so that hardly anyone reading
Wordsworth's famous poem seems to notice we never see

The proverbial money shot

Agitation and the question of counting replacing

And the "bliss of solitude"

Now of course I know there is no such thing

fragment 2, after Jen DIck's Intuition

by Sandy Florian

this eye between I and I
a gallon of milk
and a slurry blur

Monday, October 15, 2007

After Nicholas Manning's Form Given by Fading

by Jennifer K Dick

…………and the light will light of itself
appleseed and mirrordarkness………….this
I…… this
a way is
…………………block of

a back door……...a lie is
……………………………...……………cut to

folds in old colour
.……………………….imaging (ine) greatness
……….as granite….greyness… salt
the less softened………the lesser
……….host of itself
….. forsake it (un) seaming….will of
………………..logicstratasense of parallelisms
……….a priori, the selfless


Sunday, October 14, 2007

FORM GIVEN BY FADING . . . After BECAUSE MEMORY . . . by Jennifer K. Dick

by Nicholas Manning

the mirror of myself
is myself

playback : turning
logical antecedents ceding
stricter like

“give light, and the darkness
will darkness

. . . of itself” – Erasmus

the host hides its gee
-spot turning on
from on

to textures plentify
I multiply plies
in lies

break to indication
give cut to old colours

by what this greyness images in
it forsakes the seeming
the less softened

Because Memory..., After AND ARE GHOSTS by Cole Swensen

Because Memory of These Spaces
By Jennifer K Dick

the appears
is the void of myself
is my void…… ghost is

…………...…...emptiness of
me this apparition is empty
perspective of void of a parent
reflective of
a vacuum

……………...…is this? apparition
what is appears………is………..vacated
stance of me is…….…a void
devoid of my meaning.........this
ghost is………………a parent
of me


an after thought

I really did have a magnificent magenta dahlia once
It sat on my desk for almost two weeks
in a brown glass bottle
lion faced and ecstatic


By Amanda Deutch

How did you know dahlias would appear so often?
always in the dirt
bending televisions broken murmurs
stumble over blind bodies lying on concrete, pedestals, cowboys
in questionable pockets
maps of night masked in
dubious outstretched arms
form shadows misleading

pull out
a gasp

dubious outstretched arms full of dust bunnies
almost religious in their purity
soaked interrogation

mother spilling blood, spitting axes
dahlias, magenta under fire
simmer on the vacant stove

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Inter-interrogations, After Amanda Deutch's INTVESTIGATION

Response 2 by Jennifer k Dick to Amanda Deutch's "Investigation"

Mistake dirt under staircases for waves
Eyelids, metros in the soaked duplex
Of air speaking. Barley haloes or crop circles—
This awareness held in hand at 5am acts like
Crystal barely discernable in night’s jilted pocket.
If only tin cans of stumblers in that bumbling reflection
Could uncurl the linguistic spirals, the maps misleading.
Flat miasma of questionable air, masked
Magenta layers of interrogations—fog’s tattered wisps.
A message carries its outstretched arms.
Bury responses to syntagmes under dahlias on fire.
Pedestals, Picket fences, marble terrasses form a shadow.
Finale come like mother of pearl splitting the axes.
Glint at the blind starscape, or the house of air.
Rooms where relevant syntaxes in broomclosets gather.
Dustbunnies, stick up cowboys, models: What relevance
to breath’s slow remaindering?
A gasp in the tides
pulling out and back, simmering on the vacant stove.

Root Sytems, After Amanda Deutch's Investigation

Root Systems
By Jennifer K Dick, after Amanda Deutch's "Investigation"

Mistake dirt under her staircase for waves
Her lids, metros in the soaked duplex
Of air speaking. Barley haloes or crop circles—
Yes, relocation sometimes makes an axe.
If it weren’t all a hoax anyway, spritely
Syntaxes and responses to syntagmes under fire.
The awareness she holds in her hand at 5am acts like
Crystal barely discernable in night’s jilted pocket.
And yet, if only, then another run-down flat, a reflection
In the tin can of stumblers shagging in her bumbling alley.
Miasma of air, questionable layers of interrogations.
A magenta pond where fog’s tattered coat wisps
Toward her carrying a message in its outstretched arms.
Dahlias and pedestals. Picket fences or lawn guard.
This white decimal comes to form a final point. Shadow
like mother of pearl glinting up at the evening’s blind starscape.

Friday, October 12, 2007

fragment, after Jen Dick's ***

by Sandy Florian

looking for the instant that
seizes me, but it’s the author
of me that provokes me
to look away

Thursday, October 11, 2007


in response to Sandy's poem, 'Awakening'.
by Amanda Deutch

Speaking of air
filth of the night
something barely discernable to the eye
soaked in duplex and pearl

one must ask oneself sometimes
“Why do I insist on staying awake?”
It is simply that—an insistence.

reflection in the métro
mistake it for someone else

dirt under your eyes (lids)
eyes’ lids
and yet more staircases

maison de l’air

house of air

Monday, October 8, 2007

*** after Nakayasu's TRANSLUSCENT ANT SKIN

By Jennifer K Dick, after Sawako Nakayasu's "Transluscent Ant Skin" posted 7 Oct 2007. This post is from 8 Oct 2007.

Not the skinned ant in the lion’s den or the apple peel. The tingling legs of the helicopter or were they blades? Who is the being that can see me, for instance, truly glowing? The red airbrushed translucence : morning indelicateness, fuchsia lilies powdering the closed throat of me inside, breathless, away from.

For that matter, she has been hard at work for hours on her most recent catch: tadpoles. She has frog fear and orange butterflies flagrantly nodding against her ear. A single anything might emerge, but instead we are caught in masses of ants, herds, hurdles, huddles of park picnics sprouting their own demise on knobbly green lawns.

You might admire the crescent of that half-orange, there, moulding in the underbrush, but I know the leaves will come running soon. Auburn flakes rattle against our voices, call cavernous caving hibernators inside stony apartments. A flatline, a chime caterwauls. Not only this crisp rustle of praying mantis paws held forth in delight, but the sandpaper exfoliating my thin remains.

Monuments to voices, predators, spindly furry eggs of a tarantula : Where is the (her) (my) universe of the ant in all his miles? My gaze merely the glass tower of Torino. Vertigo. What aquatic blues are silkscreened over the curtains in an enclosure? Walkways toward transportation systems. A respiratory line the crumbs marry me back to, forth, industrious as I am.

NEW: Translucent Ant Skin... by Sawako Nakayasu

Translucent Ant Skin in Spring
by Sawako Nakayasu
(posted 10/7/2007)

Everyone has been hard at work for hours now on the most recent catch, half an orange, I believe, when one single ant emerges out of the ground, at a bit of a distance from the others. All the rest of the ants have been pre-programmed to keep its attention focused on the orange, but I can see it quite well, the way the ant catches the light: the skin of this ant, shiny and youthful, giving the freshly sprouted green leaves on that nearby tree a run for their proverbial money. Now of course I know that there is no such thing as skin on an ant, but trust me, it is truly that glowing, and truly that beautiful, it’s not airbrushed it’s not photo-shopped it’s so clear I can almost see right through it, and being the only who can see it, for that matter, I turn and sigh at the delicate flowers who are slowly turning their backs to me.

TATTERED after Cole Swensen's "And Are Ghosts"

After Cole Swensen's "And Are Ghosts" from 4 Oct 2007, this from that same day: Tattered by Jennifer K Dick

and three days it took her……….........……whole
haunting inside the sidling….marrow
seascapes, waves,….……..….landmasses….powdered over

distances elongate through snow……..……a gasp
hovers white in the night………..air a ghost
of what architecture………….she………...might’ve

gone to, touched………..……..wooden siding, that
aluminium roof’s red tile……….…….angling
11th century—Italian?………or newer—nearer—inside

the beads fingered……….a code………….of her passing
coddled….…against the freezing blades…..…winded
grass, hollowed corn stalks…..…yellow wheat

fields’ white…………..……..and the waves
she pressed lips to………whispered………inhaled the rose
to grow back to………………….as if to sprout

yet, to rewind him…….…..there,……..…along mottled
pew-rows, a bony hand….arthritic
gnarled uncanny recanting…………………..softly

to the pebbles…………here……….….time’s crunching
miles and miles……………...….in her breath
night or……....…..the blank……..…….....road filling, billows

harrowing……….…..of his stated prairie………of her farms
opening pages reading………….….lines from psalms
voice that fade….… bones………sanded flat