Monday, September 29, 2008

Exceptionally by Jonathan Wonham

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.

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.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

The Greyhound

after Slow Ignition by JKD

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

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.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

NEW: Souvenir by Amanda Deutch

Souvenir
for João


A tiny
piece
of whale bone
thumbprint

sized
flat, smooth
ridged along
perimeter

ink
etches
carved
into its surface—

a sketch
of a man
with a harpoon
& a whale

with
a wound
(this piece
of scrimshaw

is evidence
of who won—
if the whale
had made it,

I wouldn’t
be holding
it’s cold bone
in

my
palm.)
a
whale with a wound

My guess
is that
both man
and whale

put
in
a valiant
effort. You

gave this to
me, insisted
I take home,
a souvenir

from
the
Azores.
I would

have
preferred
you.
but

all
along
I had
hoped

I’d find
a cold
piece
of

whalebone
drawn
upon
(scrimshaw)

and there
that first
night
in

your cabin
after whisky
and tea,
you reached

into a corner
pulled out
a box
of

treasures
you’d found
while spear fishing,
diving

in the icy
Altlantic
Ocean—
bones,

glass
bottles,
pieces
of plates.

“Here,”
you said,
“You must
take this.

Secretly,
like a child
looking at
someone

else’s toys,
I’d really
wanted it.
You gave

it to me
over a
glass of
water

and
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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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?

Friday, September 12, 2008

Everyone Comes Back in Reflection by Amanda Deutch

Everyone Comes Back


You open your letter
with, “I’ve just
put the chickens

to bed.
The house is
quiet except

for Leonard
Cohen and
the clacking

of keys. Dylan
and Allison are
getting married.”

In the case
of mirrors,
small

measure
means nothing,
but

to take that
train for two
days

provides
everything we
need

except maybe
a fingertip
from

someone else’s
hand
touching

our boundaries.
That is
all

that’s missing
from a cross country
train

ride.
About the
coming year, Paul

is it possible
to make
substitutions--

a week
full of
music

or a day still
with energy
and romance

I suspect
I am always
a suspect.

What else
have you
got,

Paul?
right now
I think

and it makes
me
very tired.

When I was
two people,
another me

I knew
how to spend hours
listening

to this
American music.
I even

had fun.
I’ll tell you
about it

sometime.
Now, I just want
to make seasonal pies

and stop
spending energy
on subjects.

Everyone
comes
back

to cooking things
cleaning things
lifting

things or
drinking
something.

I would go
back too. In
fact,

why don’t
you call
me

I’d love
to hear
your voice.

—Sept 12, 2008
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

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.

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

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

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.

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.