Tuesday, September 29, 2009
A squirrel seen in Australia is like an egg resting on your head.
(I would apologize for associating the frantic and the smooth, the compulsive and the enigmatic, but scholastically, emotionally, it is right, plus you started it.)
Inside the egg are stock rooms, libraries, liquor stores. They are unevenly distributed, chances are. They are Australian, pushing down the waters unevenly in that part of the world.
The squirrels in Australia are more than 99% invisible. But still less than 100%. So I wonder. How do we divide a squirrel? Is it the difference between white and yolk? White and iris? Between wick and childhood?
Between falling up and clinging to gravity by one's fingertips?
Swimming between the stocks, books, and bottles, tow-headed children, crane drivers harnessed: to their avenues, high ledges, memories of upside-down sunset in streaky panes above girderwork, of feet trimmed too short for burning, for the wind.
They are hunting the squirrels there. Their one-percent pelts. Double-hafted algorithms that can part anything, or that's what they were told at purchase, though it doesn't matter because the vendors do not give refunds.
It doesn't matter. The squirrels live a true life and everybody knows it but them. Just another doubt stickying up the measurements. It is a red red. And an unred. Or. Try laying a knife edge to it.
The egg burns with a calm and slow flame. The flocks in the shell squirrel in delight, a chance liquid running up the walls. Broth, liquor and ink. The semisalt of waveform. Tide by balance.
The powerlines die off into radio waves, bobbing on the air, bonehums.
The corner of your vision, a squirrel startles at the snap. The egg falling from one's head spills an ocean with an incomplete margin of error.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Theory lines wake her, curved slow axe. She turns.
To look back at the visibility, running stock retired. Retry.
To split the egg without losing yolk, consider the signs
under anaesthetic. Tides bound or bounded by salt licks.
Her refraction still power. Lines make her remember.
Overlearning, oak, cure. The sleep less an axis than spit.
Basic patterns of respiration between rapid eye movements.
No need to say what’s beyond these comforts.
Speed down the wire, speak and roll over.
Precipice. She is her own.
And from the outer calls herself, beckons
as if the curtained night were behind her now.
Reckoning. Plates clatter in the quake. Hold on.
Snowstill incubation of winter falling towards her.
She would make it stop, wherever she is.
Amnesiac dreamcatcher, letting every image pour
through its net. Those which held her down, weave
along unsuspected flights, chill, naked to the wake.
And then, to call up under fingertip, a print, curl
foetal alongside artefacts, raised dust pinned back under.
Roasting, or robed, the sheets twist and strangle.
A light breeze, or hair, wafts closer.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
after "Circadian Rhythm" by Jennifer K. Dick
To lured Libanaise
Friday, September 18, 2009
The squirrels in Australia aren’t even 1% visible
And are still more visible than the squirrels of my
I have a theory—your mentioning the power-lines
Made me remember it. As a child I could never get over
Some basic difficulties. Walking was such
A difficulty. The learning curve was like an egg
Balanced on my head, and when one breaks it one dies
And can barely work until retirement in the stock room
Of a liquor store, or until the slow axe of diabetes or the
Old oak of lung cancer. Consider that the best runners
Wear the crappiest shoes as children. No one needs to say
What’s behind the comfort of modern footwear.
Those fucking squirrels live a true life, and everybody
Knows it. Everybody knows by their speed on the wire.
As a stupid child, learning to run and learning to speak,
And dropped again and again off the precipice of the schoolhouse,
I remember a flock of squirrels that
Ran from the sun to the tree, and from the tree into
The equal sensorium of inner space. Those I call
The squirrels of vision. And they never return unless
I return to a foreign country. But we’ve also got
The squirrels of my memory. And those are bounded
By the huge salt oceans.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
his heart just stopped
somewhere between beats
void of course
He was too cold to ask you
why before all this endlessness
we are here and then not
But he was up early and baring his ass
falling from wasted variegated heights
because there was nothing else
in these idling shadows of traffic
but to hurl shots of light
flicked feathered fadeaways
on a street court into
hoops with no net.
vast cobalt torso
The morass of
Monday, September 14, 2009
The squirrels outside my apartment are not complete
morons. They've seen Sweetie watching
them and they know what it means: run along
the wires through the leaves when I am out with my
back cooling on the concrete steps.
Where might she now? Drifting.
Inside her sensorium, the waterline’s sail-drenched inward swoop and scatter of will distanced and provincial
This part danger, part reason desperate.
Classically bridging into the assumption of anemic winters, women men longed for, men longed for women longing for women she is dreaming there, glassily, setting ahoy, ahail, below the aft side slipping silent below the glacier blueice slipping splinter into
Scythes scaling away fields out of reach of
Breath. As aquatic.
Dangerous parting of sleep. Here. Heal. Knee, or set strap over shoulders: only to part, only to make it
Firmly, mark her.
She is the lack of control, in release she is puppet stringlifted. Turn in on itself slowly. Gazed. Saying adieu meaning something hollow. Nightsweats pressed against lucid dreaming. Inert
White, star-speckled skin in the obsidian depths, beyond the unseeing predators, the rays, the gauzey curtain. If she could last out there, beyond that
delicacy of the return
Mouthing words in the silent sleep beyond the wall of outbound REM cycles. the weight of a body bending, rent, peared upon a moistened sail when, in an effort to say echo, to say oh, a gadget’s missing.
metal, the Aegean’s obelisk or
lead mirrors drowning, anchor-heavy, as stone.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Really I only
see his shake as he bounces at
his knee to settle the straps over his shoulders.
The only part to make it into my sensorium, firmly,
classically bridging into the assumption of other things.
He scares away most the geese when he
leans down to grasp.
The rest sail glassily away to out of reach of
anything but technology while he
coffee and cigarette and balding and long-poled
gadgets to scrounge missed metal below the water line.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Dangerous parting of sleep
From terrible head
As grease responsibility
Desperate for reason is a feller
Pear upon a moistened sail
Winter afternoon, I found
And anemic for women
Delicacy of the nose
Inserting itself into the hole
As danger masks starling to greet
I will soon be eating my neighbor's house
From winter splits
Or die. Soon also be eating my neighbor
I’ve been drinking my coffee
In the morning
In our captain’s suite
Because he never got on.
I’ve been smoking beside
That shadow on the wall
Our quartermaster made
While sitting in the sun.
I’ve been keeping house
With the mouser’s water dish
And the wainscoting of
The mess where the mice
Are supposed to live.
The SS Cauchemarine
When we set sail
Had a different name.
A man wakes in a hammock,
He and the hammock
Like a sibilant.
The name of the ship is
The SS Cauchemarine.
The inquisition of the sea
Thumps her between
Eastward and sleep.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Or she is the opened skeleton. The dangerous sleep caught cross-continental through cycles, REM, remote. Underfatigue, reasoning afternoon’s disparate, dislocational. She, the ululating, cuffed to decks and mopped her wet sloshed overboard. Linked back to mineral. Time longed or longing as she lounges in sleepchains with women along miles of vast breath fawning. Of cicatrice and scraw, of clicks and clichés, her torso separated on film is maw of language. The tidal cauchemardesque cobalt slipped under her. She would let her self float, here, hearing. She would buoy or anchor. Drag light, the sack of bones which become her. Wintered as blank. As frothed horizons. Wavelets letting blood or bled under seeping belljars centuries of belonging could not carry her back even in the green underworld of that dream to here, to disintegrate. Beam. Solid. Chalky. The morass of daring openings. Should she not nightly endure, displeasing, reason wracked out like coughs. Pestilence, parasites, pandemic of her release nightly upright. This ballast. That angled harkening. Siren dissection of ear and her lured lightly into the dawn’s illusive certainty. Now, to tag that, phalange, femur, thoracic cage cartilaginous structure which surrounds. Hull.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The dangerous part of sleep is the afternoon.
The dastardly truth about fatigue, it gets desperate
For reason. Getting desperate for reason is a feller
Getting desperate for women, liable to choose the wrong one,
Maybe live with her a long time. Although keep in mind
Wrong reason, come winter, is certainly better than none.
Winter’s funny because light gets cold, specifically light
In the bones. Wherefore I say light, bones, and reason
Should not endure nightly. They should all either sleep
Or die. Too much enduring makes anything crazy.
Have a look at our crazy lie.
There is the body and the sleeping under the gift wrap. There is the sleep in body’s waking no watered silk, to knot. She turns. She whirls. She is in the waking sleep round wool, of wound. She is REM, a doll with stone for a head. She is motor purr rune stone casting over her. Who but rapt locks. Dangling. Therein her body lies. What was offered, it dreams. She is the awoken nervous commands of insomnia settling seaweed under her sleep. She is pillowed, woven into grass placemats. Down feather in her head she is casting herself farther out. She lilts, drawn circles of moisture at its mouth, the cove of it. The body begging, beginning. She follows light pushed into the bones. Her dreamcatcher is farther now. It taught her mineral memory. Of mare to night. Hard meat almost Macadamian she might caterwaul to herself waking here, of her, of howl to keep the vertebrae. She drifts back down, heavier, perishable. She dwindling cell function of storylines leading tightly upright. There where the morning glistens dawn-still cobalts. The radio seeing right through her, a skating trick. Calcium, magnesium phosphorescence against the slick grey where eye movement stops. The trick of seeking inbound on the oilstained woodplank floor. Daring. The sight of and, but, the tissue of her or she is the skeleton fragmenting. Opened.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Takes a coin and for the first time flips it
then tests the movement of the thumb
moronically, until the launch is perfect.
Puckers the lips to whistle, producing
his idiot song, feeble wheeze at first
like wind in a drainpipe, but with practice
pure, cadenced, vibrating with humanity.
Professional imbecile, daubing colour,
arm-length swathes of rainbow light
on a canvas nailed from dawn to dusk -
to blot their shades, their tabulations,
their numskull plans for the supply of gas.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The arrow is to the huntress at origin.
She has never saved any man unless
Endymion. He was an astronomer
By some accounts, and put to sleep by
His profession. Spock, therefore,
Has a better chance than you and I.
The arrow is light.
The hog is pig who sacks
The crone. Spock fakes
For a Pasteur (Who, Man?) all dead.
It is barred to bare up
And buy curfew : of that self
Can it bare up a lewd meal
Through divers’ epox’.
A Spock is a lewd-tryst acted
Dead. An arrow is light
If a spillage or shitty-hog cannot sack
It, but the south will be vary-fête.
Will she save any killed men
And give to sea-heirs?