Friday, November 30, 2007
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
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
the couples undone
in a blur while
through leafy haze
pollinated, balanced by
in a splendid flurry
the summer street
the young woman’s
the dog watching
in off-white shades
to wish us
in parks, on benches, on bridges
what draws me
is to concede
in her hair
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
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
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.
Monday, November 26, 2007
.......................dissolved in windows
.................................................of which you speak
................................................needled hands informing
Saturday, November 24, 2007
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
meat slab &
tomes in off-
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
water loop mud flavors
ruby pivot tamping uncombed ravine capitulation
marquise, not sequels by proxy
igneous underlife sunset motel
glass lover vacillate amphibian on-ramps
diversionary traction haul
dorsal view lime kiln statuesque corollaries
cagey correlations full of wind,
bromides, cloudspotters, balconies
amorous bilious votive
equivalent litmus STOP!!!!
Hinterland quarrels speak near-body accents:
deceptive equations in deep(her) tissue refinements.
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
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
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.
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
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.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Get in, the
Strike, swell of meats weathering
Gargoyles winter in the lush
Sand, the scavenge
Strikes, the hickory
Collapses the chain
In the lights, ropes of tails grace
The water as
The edits in
Water penance in circle
Chen, the familiar
Meats in the
Swell, take this eye
Let from the casing
I meant history when
In victory string
To get her involved
Could darkness into silhouette
Removes the source
To the neck
Wrangled the very
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
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
.......................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
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
...................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
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
beneath and between
cut at the root
over grey half-light
signalling another blank
refugees in rows
to Lisa’s tales
letters forming words
lexicons of luring
halls snipped short
rocking to and
boiled to bone
iron pots steam
into brighter blurs
Friday, November 16, 2007
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
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
over grey half-light
among eucalyptus kisses and a
surgery smelling softly
cut at the root
Scene: A figure of the self, I,
My in the multudinousness of
cuffed to the
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
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
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
in the slag
to bring ideas
home you see if the shadow
you are is really
if you tell
an urban speaks dwarfing
elements (while (whenever you were) human(e))
out in vast glut
gutted or groutted
it’s ………………..no one is
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
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
by Jonathan Wonham
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
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
by Laura M
in body in
recognized pieces failing
how many times
can you take
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
again with the eyes
or the image
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
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
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
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
detected? -ing? -ive?
............a live one
By Amy Hollowell
Dream notes gleaned
For astral works
Firmament bodies wellhung with
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
by Robert Savino Oventile
Was last week
a slice of bone?
Now it's just there,
everywhere in Paris.
out on the boulevards,
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.
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
by Rufo Q
Nobody in Paris
had seen the moon
now it's everywhere.
Just last week
there it was,
like a slice of bone
took me out
to take my mind
couldn't stick me
No, what I need
is country stars,
of them, stetsons
on the boulevards.
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
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
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.
do it again
call my bluff
mister monsieur detective
Sunday, November 4, 2007
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,
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
by george vance
withered frogamphibians wined nobody
justlike a wombman
breathed serpentine honey
autist floating a usedfruit world
(meddling with apple-reds/rusted skyflavors
Saturday, November 3, 2007
by Jennifer K Dick
................ale in the inked
wind, voiced over
who in the who's who
whodunit of slit-throated
serpent-throated me wanted
my (that) (their)
coal interior of its milky iris
Friday, November 2, 2007
by Jennifer K Dick
She tastes like glass
the red tongues of cobalt buds
out the back past
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
plasticized dawns touching
othersides, whereas, wares
scavanging mirrored shes
to know of taste or tastes of
iron file-cabinet flavors
filling the mouth her
tipped tongue lead