After Rufo Q "Indian summer"
Exceptionally
the same man dies
who died before
and evening comes.
The year has ended
under a duvet of snow
and across the earth
so many worlds have ended
as all worlds do
that harden into ours.
Monday, September 29, 2008
NEW: Indian summer by Rufo Q
.
.
There were four geese and two in the Iowan sky,
pink at evening, an Indian summer;
the world had ended two days before
and between the lines the vivid blue was terror.
Marbled like beef the heavens
came down to deaden us like a duvet
but there was a sense of what do we do
and a sense of who is the one beside me?
............................................The men grew beards,
the women girdled their wombs in wire,
drunkards tended to roister no more
and everywhere the big sky rolled,
slowly then faster, a table-cloth slipping.
The land was mahogany for a moment,
shone, then turned the scratchy colour of earth:
clods and stalks and scarecrows
and good plants cropped for nothing.
............................................The world had ended
and the world would never end;
this year like all the others the same man died
but proved a little harder to coax out of night.
Leave me a while, he said,
leave me until your turn comes to split;
the hug of the dark is without shape,
better to find my arms in it then
than to have them now and go alone
............................................into that embrace.
.
There were four geese and two in the Iowan sky,
pink at evening, an Indian summer;
the world had ended two days before
and between the lines the vivid blue was terror.
Marbled like beef the heavens
came down to deaden us like a duvet
but there was a sense of what do we do
and a sense of who is the one beside me?
............................................The men grew beards,
the women girdled their wombs in wire,
drunkards tended to roister no more
and everywhere the big sky rolled,
slowly then faster, a table-cloth slipping.
The land was mahogany for a moment,
shone, then turned the scratchy colour of earth:
clods and stalks and scarecrows
and good plants cropped for nothing.
............................................The world had ended
and the world would never end;
this year like all the others the same man died
but proved a little harder to coax out of night.
Leave me a while, he said,
leave me until your turn comes to split;
the hug of the dark is without shape,
better to find my arms in it then
than to have them now and go alone
............................................into that embrace.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
The Greyhound
after Slow Ignition by JKD
The Greyhound,
Sitting with its long muzzle down,
As if sitting and sleeping.
The Greyhound,
Sitting with its long muzzle down,
As if sitting and sleeping.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Slow Ignition by JKD
After fire -making for by Beverley Bie Brahic (from July 28, 2008, click her title here to see orig post)
What body will rain
crave
on the roof
play of love
one steals
Oak-shy,
bark white as
stark
starlings dry as tender
Shoulders, fire, ash
night
coming to know
leaf
applies to sting
Ferns, twig, feather
circle of thirst
stripped
to stone
The outer layers
underneath
an only
spark
What body will rain
crave
on the roof
play of love
one steals
Oak-shy,
bark white as
stark
starlings dry as tender
Shoulders, fire, ash
night
coming to know
leaf
applies to sting
Ferns, twig, feather
circle of thirst
stripped
to stone
The outer layers
underneath
an only
spark
Indefenestration
After Never without Visions by Miranda, (from July 2008), by JKD
Broken whisper her
stutter-mouth
lock,
solidify
A syllable’s longing,
emerge from
window. View fallen
to clatter.
Teeth—cold—heat—
Not wood
or sought I
verbs—visions—vocabulary
Spark,
the edge of
past shaken consonants.
The self
breath’s wheeze
fallen
in instants
overheard
many
scratched out contexts,
bordering on
golden—plastified—crimson
a shelf life of,
I said, nothing.
By choice.
Picture
blank.
Patio—terror—alabaster
where she showed
In forming languages
held, whole,
The place of trust transpired.
Broken whisper her
stutter-mouth
lock,
solidify
A syllable’s longing,
emerge from
window. View fallen
to clatter.
Teeth—cold—heat—
Not wood
or sought I
verbs—visions—vocabulary
Spark,
the edge of
past shaken consonants.
The self
breath’s wheeze
fallen
in instants
overheard
many
scratched out contexts,
bordering on
golden—plastified—crimson
a shelf life of,
I said, nothing.
By choice.
Picture
blank.
Patio—terror—alabaster
where she showed
In forming languages
held, whole,
The place of trust transpired.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
NEW: Souvenir by Amanda Deutch
Souvenir
for João
A tiny
piece
of whale bone
thumbprint
flat, smooth
ridged along
perimeter
etches
carved
into its surface—
of a man
with a harpoon
& a whale
a wound
(this piece
of scrimshaw
of who won—
if the whale
had made it,
be holding
it’s cold bone
in
palm.)
a
whale with a wound
is that
both man
and whale
in
a valiant
effort. You
me, insisted
I take home,
a souvenir
the
Azores.
I would
preferred
you.
but
along
I had
hoped
a cold
piece
of
drawn
upon
(scrimshaw)
that first
night
in
after whisky
and tea,
you reached
pulled out
a box
of
you’d found
while spear fishing,
diving
Altlantic
Ocean—
bones,
bottles,
pieces
of plates.
you said,
“You must
take this.
like a child
looking at
someone
I’d really
wanted it.
You gave
over a
glass of
water
a wicked
smile.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Now - two variations after J.Regier's Idling & Listening to Music
by lisa pasold
1.
watching the horse racing in the Clamecy bar, can't smoke anymore
but there's a ghost of the way it's s'posed to smell
and across the street a man walks out of a grocery store.
he's got nothing in his hands. which seems
like how we all feel, some mornings.
we look at all those choices on the field, the dark horses
against the impossibly green greens of the television
and we walk out with nothing. can't be helped.
just the same, this man woke up and came out
with good intentions. I mean, I know he woke up. I have
a good feeling he woke up. and I can tell
from the way he's holding his empty hands
he would stake money on any bright horse this morning.
because he and I have a quality, yet undetermined,
not so easy to pin down, even from here. but it's a quality
worth looking into. gets me to thinking that the jockey silks
might get to be the right colour, a little later on today.
2.
I'm watching the horse racing in the Clamecy bar, can't smoke here anymore but there's a ghost of the way it's supposed to smell. and across the street a man walks out of a grocery store. he's got nothing in his hands. which seems like how we all feel, some mornings. we look at all those choices on the field, the dark horses against the impossibly green greens of the television and we walk out with nothing. can't be helped. we want to choose, we want to lay down our bets, but there's something holding us back, like a bit in the mouth, pulling in a way that's not the direction we want. just the same, despite this feeling, this man woke up, as I did, and came out, with good intentions. I mean, I know he woke up, I have a good feeling that he woke up. and I can tell from the way he's holding his empty hands, he would stake money on any bright horse this morning, and yet did not. because some mornings are simply that way, and there's nothing either of us can do. you see, he and I have that quality, not so easy to pin down, even from across the street.
1.
watching the horse racing in the Clamecy bar, can't smoke anymore
but there's a ghost of the way it's s'posed to smell
and across the street a man walks out of a grocery store.
he's got nothing in his hands. which seems
like how we all feel, some mornings.
we look at all those choices on the field, the dark horses
against the impossibly green greens of the television
and we walk out with nothing. can't be helped.
just the same, this man woke up and came out
with good intentions. I mean, I know he woke up. I have
a good feeling he woke up. and I can tell
from the way he's holding his empty hands
he would stake money on any bright horse this morning.
because he and I have a quality, yet undetermined,
not so easy to pin down, even from here. but it's a quality
worth looking into. gets me to thinking that the jockey silks
might get to be the right colour, a little later on today.
2.
I'm watching the horse racing in the Clamecy bar, can't smoke here anymore but there's a ghost of the way it's supposed to smell. and across the street a man walks out of a grocery store. he's got nothing in his hands. which seems like how we all feel, some mornings. we look at all those choices on the field, the dark horses against the impossibly green greens of the television and we walk out with nothing. can't be helped. we want to choose, we want to lay down our bets, but there's something holding us back, like a bit in the mouth, pulling in a way that's not the direction we want. just the same, despite this feeling, this man woke up, as I did, and came out, with good intentions. I mean, I know he woke up, I have a good feeling that he woke up. and I can tell from the way he's holding his empty hands, he would stake money on any bright horse this morning, and yet did not. because some mornings are simply that way, and there's nothing either of us can do. you see, he and I have that quality, not so easy to pin down, even from across the street.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Idling and Listening to Music by Jonathan Regier
By Jonathan Regier, After JKD’s Returning
A man walks out of a grocery store called Ferrell’s.
Give me a second before I tell you he’s got nothing in his hands.
He’s really got nothing in his hands.
Now, I don’t know what time this man woke up in the morning,
But I know he woke up. I have a good feeling he woke up.
I have a very good feeling about it and would stake money on it,
Because I would stake my money on any bright horse this afternoon,
Because he and I have a quality, yet undetermined,
That I can’t really put my finger on.
And I think we will both be remembered in a very small way.
A man walks out of a grocery store called Ferrell’s.
Give me a second before I tell you he’s got nothing in his hands.
He’s really got nothing in his hands.
Now, I don’t know what time this man woke up in the morning,
But I know he woke up. I have a good feeling he woke up.
I have a very good feeling about it and would stake money on it,
Because I would stake my money on any bright horse this afternoon,
Because he and I have a quality, yet undetermined,
That I can’t really put my finger on.
And I think we will both be remembered in a very small way.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Gathering, by JKD
After Jonathan Regier's The Lake to the Sea
That lake, sticks of perfume, little steel chains or skulls or delicate tattoos.
Not to replace glass bongs, the state’s founded allegations about a red Buick sedan.
1995 spinning round in my head, as if I were selling doctors things I refuse to forget.
I’m just a science-fiction man, static clinics hanging on a map of Nebraskan invasion.
That snow’s planing far over an ancient sea, or perhaps within, under a glass dome.
Truck stops or dime stores, I’d order a catalogue for Katie if it’d do any good now.
Start over with the pulmonary state of motivation, my own arterial waters, a clamp.
How’d it be then, snapped flat, angry, forgetting I’m bold enough to grow a red Atlantis.
If to stop were to build houses for forever, to weather winters without any cigarettes.
True, I could never sleep out here without the rumble of engines, this stain of oil.
I say, “If it gets bad, once, as in a trinket in the bottom of a cereal box.”
You tell me to just crack the ice, check the inventory, stockpile whatever remains to recollect.
See, there’s only part of an engine in this 2-seater sedan, a sign of grace, a grey scratch on your scarification.
Perhaps this is about bats or the wings of a creature yet to define, things or time which flaps past like something I once said to you or then.
That lake, sticks of perfume, little steel chains or skulls or delicate tattoos.
Not to replace glass bongs, the state’s founded allegations about a red Buick sedan.
1995 spinning round in my head, as if I were selling doctors things I refuse to forget.
I’m just a science-fiction man, static clinics hanging on a map of Nebraskan invasion.
That snow’s planing far over an ancient sea, or perhaps within, under a glass dome.
Truck stops or dime stores, I’d order a catalogue for Katie if it’d do any good now.
Start over with the pulmonary state of motivation, my own arterial waters, a clamp.
How’d it be then, snapped flat, angry, forgetting I’m bold enough to grow a red Atlantis.
If to stop were to build houses for forever, to weather winters without any cigarettes.
True, I could never sleep out here without the rumble of engines, this stain of oil.
I say, “If it gets bad, once, as in a trinket in the bottom of a cereal box.”
You tell me to just crack the ice, check the inventory, stockpile whatever remains to recollect.
See, there’s only part of an engine in this 2-seater sedan, a sign of grace, a grey scratch on your scarification.
Perhaps this is about bats or the wings of a creature yet to define, things or time which flaps past like something I once said to you or then.
New: The Lake to the Sea
The Lake to the Sea
*
That lake, that’s the place where I went with the sticks of perfume,
Selling little skulls on delicate steel chains, also impermanent tattoos.
I didn’t sell glass bongs, as the State would allege. I have a red Buick sedan from
1995 in my head. A doctor of medicine is in the back. He’s selling me things
That I refuse to forget. He’s a science-fiction man. I’m gonna start with
The pulmonary state of motivation. It’s on a map. Nebraska hangs over
The waters, then snaps flat. I’m angry at myself for forgetting. You get told
How stupid you are, again and again. Then you’re on to something.
*
-------------------------------------------------When the doctor says,
“Stop,” I’m willing. The road runs a thousand meters along the cold Atlantic,
Then stops dead. The houses aren’t built for winter. I say to the doctor,
“Now, please go outside if you want a cigarette.”
The snow’s setting in
Planar over the ancient sea.
“We should sleep out here,”
The doctor recommends:
“You’ll run the engines if it gets bad.”
“Look, Doctor,” I say, “there’s only one engine in this sedan.”
*
That lake, that’s the place where I went with the sticks of perfume,
Selling little skulls on delicate steel chains, also impermanent tattoos.
I didn’t sell glass bongs, as the State would allege. I have a red Buick sedan from
1995 in my head. A doctor of medicine is in the back. He’s selling me things
That I refuse to forget. He’s a science-fiction man. I’m gonna start with
The pulmonary state of motivation. It’s on a map. Nebraska hangs over
The waters, then snaps flat. I’m angry at myself for forgetting. You get told
How stupid you are, again and again. Then you’re on to something.
*
-------------------------------------------------When the doctor says,
“Stop,” I’m willing. The road runs a thousand meters along the cold Atlantic,
Then stops dead. The houses aren’t built for winter. I say to the doctor,
“Now, please go outside if you want a cigarette.”
The snow’s setting in
Planar over the ancient sea.
“We should sleep out here,”
The doctor recommends:
“You’ll run the engines if it gets bad.”
“Look, Doctor,” I say, “there’s only one engine in this sedan.”
cookie monster by sean s
reworded, with apologies, after JKD's Every Reflection Comes Back To One
Everyone comes back to
lifting cookies.
my teeth clacking on the yummy crumbs
(well okay, "munching" would be better,
maybe, a better image, not to
mention it would dovetail sonically into "yummy
crumbs" more nicely, and what is
cookie eating if not nice?
but she didn't use "munching" did she?)
right
in your larynx =
you are doing it wrong.
o cookie, chewy echo of the fire
in us all, meeting
itself under my hungry chandelier.
When I was still too little to
remember my age, dad
called me into their bedroom and
confronted my tiny person: Did you eat the cake
in the refrigerator last night?
o the holy glow of the bulb
in the kitchen night, my hands in
the icing. Thinking fast: I think it was Cookie
Monster!
It was the best lie I ever told. Sometimes
even Cookie Monster has to
settle for cake.
Everyone comes back to
lifting cookies.
my teeth clacking on the yummy crumbs
(well okay, "munching" would be better,
maybe, a better image, not to
mention it would dovetail sonically into "yummy
crumbs" more nicely, and what is
cookie eating if not nice?
but she didn't use "munching" did she?)
right
in your larynx =
you are doing it wrong.
o cookie, chewy echo of the fire
in us all, meeting
itself under my hungry chandelier.
When I was still too little to
remember my age, dad
called me into their bedroom and
confronted my tiny person: Did you eat the cake
in the refrigerator last night?
o the holy glow of the bulb
in the kitchen night, my hands in
the icing. Thinking fast: I think it was Cookie
Monster!
It was the best lie I ever told. Sometimes
even Cookie Monster has to
settle for cake.
Every Reflection Comes Back to One
After Amanda Deutch’s Everyone Comes back in Reflection, by Jen K Dick
You open
the bed
lift the chickens
put the house
under wraps
what does it mean, to be
quiet except
my teeth clacking
bright stars or piano
keys, coasters with pink “Dylan”
and “Allison” letters
remain after they devised
a plan against getting
married,
the caseof mirrors,
small treasure
means nothing
but
a train for two
wetness not provided
maybe
a fingertip
needs
someone else’s
my hand
tours and boundaries.
That is
all
a cross country
missing
the oncoming
acrostics
year of
possible substitutions--
the frame full
of music
claws
When what I contained
right
in her larynx
makes
me
very tired:
a day still
with energy
I suspect
I am always
Right now
Think
over it, the wavelets.
When was I
two people,
listening?
You promise to tell
me a mystery novel
Is that it?
factory collections
endtables
solid thread count
Everyone
comes
back
lifting cooking
dreaming
I would go into things.
In fact,
why don’t
I call
me back
Pace through the rooms of here
I’d love
to hear
my voice
See those chandeliers
the tinkle of
glass or crystal
raised
to what
am I
referring
myself to
this voice,
or echo?
You open
the bed
lift the chickens
put the house
under wraps
what does it mean, to be
quiet except
my teeth clacking
bright stars or piano
keys, coasters with pink “Dylan”
and “Allison” letters
remain after they devised
a plan against getting
married,
the caseof mirrors,
small treasure
means nothing
but
a train for two
wetness not provided
maybe
a fingertip
needs
someone else’s
my hand
tours and boundaries.
That is
all
a cross country
missing
the oncoming
acrostics
year of
possible substitutions--
the frame full
of music
claws
When what I contained
right
in her larynx
makes
me
very tired:
a day still
with energy
I suspect
I am always
Right now
Think
over it, the wavelets.
When was I
two people,
listening?
You promise to tell
me a mystery novel
Is that it?
factory collections
endtables
solid thread count
Everyone
comes
back
lifting cooking
dreaming
I would go into things.
In fact,
why don’t
I call
me back
Pace through the rooms of here
I’d love
to hear
my voice
See those chandeliers
the tinkle of
glass or crystal
raised
to what
am I
referring
myself to
this voice,
or echo?
Friday, September 12, 2008
Everyone Comes Back in Reflection by Amanda Deutch
Everyone Comes Back
with, “I’ve just
put the chickens
The house is
quiet except
Cohen and
the clacking
of keys. Dylan
and Allison are
getting married.”
of mirrors,
small
means nothing,
but
train for two
days
everything we
need
a fingertip
from
hand
touching
That is
all
from a cross country
train
About the
coming year, Paul
is it possible
to make
substitutions--
full of
music
with energy
and romance
I am always
a suspect.
have you
got,
right now
I think
me
very tired.
two people,
another me
how to spend hours
listening
American music.
I even
I’ll tell you
about it
Now, I just want
to make seasonal pies
spending energy
on subjects.
comes
back
cleaning things
lifting
drinking
something.
back too. In
fact,
you call
me
to hear
your voice.
After a letter from Paul
Returning (for RS and CV)
by JK Dick, after Laura M’s cituated
To greet the self, turn of angle in the mirror, eye, the other, the empty half of this
bed returning to reach over the angle of body missed something
like reruns or flash forwards, the flood of words itself a poem’s unknitting rumble
to the o the turned on itself slow adieu meaning hollow
if we could know scatter and distanced pace of will, provincial weeks long as months this
day’s marathon in the thump of seeding, voice or voiced
receding days, hours flat angled, unfull, this effort to say “last” to pass on “how will you
remember me?” will I echo echo caught in the woodgrain bedpost cushion
I do not know yet how to be home, to home in on each task with yawning gapes across some
tundra of our living at the end of turning again will I greet will I see
something like you now in that reflection, in this light lifting morning the voice in the throat
of the russet robin, constant distanced tremolo choking still, stiller
To greet the self, turn of angle in the mirror, eye, the other, the empty half of this
bed returning to reach over the angle of body missed something
like reruns or flash forwards, the flood of words itself a poem’s unknitting rumble
to the o the turned on itself slow adieu meaning hollow
if we could know scatter and distanced pace of will, provincial weeks long as months this
day’s marathon in the thump of seeding, voice or voiced
receding days, hours flat angled, unfull, this effort to say “last” to pass on “how will you
remember me?” will I echo echo caught in the woodgrain bedpost cushion
I do not know yet how to be home, to home in on each task with yawning gapes across some
tundra of our living at the end of turning again will I greet will I see
something like you now in that reflection, in this light lifting morning the voice in the throat
of the russet robin, constant distanced tremolo choking still, stiller
Aftersite, JKD
after Laura M’s cituated
To greet the self, turn of angle in the mirror, eye, the other, the empty half of this
bed returning to reach over the angle of body missed something
like reruns or flash forwards, the flood of words itself a poem’s unknitting rumble
to the o the turned on itself slow adieu meaning hollow
if we could know scatter and distanced pace of will, provincial weeks long as months this
day’s marathon in the thump of seeding, voice or voiced
receding days, hours flat angled, unfull, this effort to say “last” to pass on “how will you
remember me?” will I echo echo caught in the woodgrain bedpost cushion
I do not know yet how to be home, to home in on each task with yawning gapes across some
tundra of our living at the end of turning again will I greet will I see
something like you now in that reflection, in this light lifting morning the voice in the throat
of the russet robin, constant distanced tremolo choking still, stiller as I wait
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
about by sean s
after Strange Vines (an erasure) by BBB
Africa with dirty
fingernails writing villages of white
(fever eraser on a pencil sickness)
rice, sticky and
a dollop of butter. And water
vining from the tap
in a strange sink. Don't
stare when they drink, dear. And
don't write that.
Africa with dirty
fingernails writing villages of white
(fever eraser on a pencil sickness)
rice, sticky and
a dollop of butter. And water
vining from the tap
in a strange sink. Don't
stare when they drink, dear. And
don't write that.
cituated (for RS & after JKD after BB)
return to the o the turned on itself poem someone slowly says adieu meaning something hollows if we could know
if we could swoop and scatter of will distanced and provincial "I wanted to..." tell you weeks at best days likely
days likely flat angled full of the effort to say some last to last how you will remember me how I will echo echo
know how to be home
I will know and across some at the end of some in some turning again greet you something like you now
if we could swoop and scatter of will distanced and provincial "I wanted to..." tell you weeks at best days likely
days likely flat angled full of the effort to say some last to last how you will remember me how I will echo echo
know how to be home
I will know and across some at the end of some in some turning again greet you something like you now
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Strange Vines (an erasure), by bbb
after "Figs," by Amanda Deutch
Strange vines
in the sink
finally I snuck out
to the village
the men all stared at me
trying to write
about africa
with dirty fingernails
blue shared cab
white rice
mint tea moon
meaning fever
Strange vines
in the sink
finally I snuck out
to the village
the men all stared at me
trying to write
about africa
with dirty fingernails
blue shared cab
white rice
mint tea moon
meaning fever
fig leaf by sean s
after Figs by Amanda Deutch, After Figs by Rufo Q
squid rice and shelled
fathoms, bilge crabs attention and a lectern
where Hegel said
haricots, harlots, if eating is
knowing, then digestion is
consuming our culture:
the bilge in your tankards,
a stumbling five-fingered
footnote, a discount, a breakdown, summation,
a fever of white sick, white
moon in the gut,
sweat of the chicken,
sweet figgernales soberly, soberly.
squid rice and shelled
fathoms, bilge crabs attention and a lectern
where Hegel said
haricots, harlots, if eating is
knowing, then digestion is
consuming our culture:
the bilge in your tankards,
a stumbling five-fingered
footnote, a discount, a breakdown, summation,
a fever of white sick, white
moon in the gut,
sweat of the chicken,
sweet figgernales soberly, soberly.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Cityscapes by jkd
After the last stanza of Beverley Bie Brahic's, The Giant Sequoia...
O love in the ruins, o return to floodlights, oilslicks, gated building complexes with peeling paint, their cracked windows long to look as far as scattering birds in the snow of a distant province, the herding of cattle, sheep, goats, the song of wind in poplars tall as small, roundbacked mountains. Here, no moonglow in the safety-lights on the floor of the linoleum-slick structures, glass-shine flat-angled, flat-lined as a heart terminating to guide evacuated corridors towards their nearest emergency exit. O as in an ode, as in the odd misspent tones, hearing the distant song of consciousness in a lung’s cooling, fading, puffing the body into, through breezes along roadways, intersections, blinking stoplights. Building of mirrors glassfronted stores echo. The solitude of the city arcs, tides of waste processing, crest of the self selfless in the mirage of being whole in the urban grey erasure. O to own, o to one without form and void. O to awe and the awestruck arrivals like encounters with numbers from the brochure of jumbled images once dreamt, redemption or a ticket to fulfilment creeping among the masses. Recollections: country of youth, its silent forest. Now, what is run through by a snaking interstate, what is the clank of cutlery in the all-night truck stop, what is the blocked sequence of cityscapes becoming the promised land. O to luring the next batch forward. O to a being, its profound depths, not unlike noise leaking from the overhead bins.
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