For GV, from JD

after GV

A sort-of-leaving, sort-of ending
Begins with the promise of return

To those who will hold down fort, compile

Compose, contradict the flowing out

Or down of whirled-whorled streams

Puncturing the air with wordsensemusic

Sirens calling return, sweet-song-soliloquy

Praise of here, and here, and here

This each stone to stain red stabbed phoneme

Into place, and built block upward flowing city

Which must be hemmed into shape and

Calls and coos and lures like bait back

Into the savage ideas textual splicing spaces

Cemented to Paris-francofying artcentering

Walks along familiar defamiliarized defying

Grammar, desyntaxed unstitching original

Inspired splaying wordformating frags

Sentence-streakings nonstop alphabet

Friend: irreplaceable soundmaking contact

To be missed, to be seen again.



>>>>>>>>>>>>>

4 JD

(new) by gv

A whirlwind moves off southeasterly

carrying along fragments, phonemes, po-emes

blocks of text ramifying

sentence-streakings

enjambed ideas stained into wordwoof

nonstop force forthing along alphabet, streets,

galleries, roads, waterways, rhythmings, soundclusters, friends.

Moves off to other turns at life and art and

everything-in-between-which-is-to-say-poetry.

Will swirl back a day or another it is expected, hoped.

Like a sort-of-era sort-of-ending.

∞∞∞∞∞

Today (shortlisted) new by Amanda Deutch

Today (shortlisted)

The Queen of Coney Island on a bike, sea breezes, Swollen eyes, no shadows, advil, Shalom toys on a box, a huge sandwich from the deli, Aleve, the shore hotel down, two iced teas, reflection in a broken mirror from years gone by, An interview, skee-ball, Lavender telepathy,
That can’t be her real name.

Bunny's Landscape by David Caddy

after Michelle Noteboom's Untitled Landscape

1

Drift in the counter direction and it feels like hail
sweeping over the hills and pounding on your door

when you wastrel, you cannot look down shafts of
wormholes and don’t see the marauding earwigs

centipedes and dung beetles congregating by your step
and foot stool. Look at those events, births and deaths,

luncheons, not as inconsequential to your employment,
to your devotion to history, to three dimensional

coordinates, line and volume, the fallacies of
Cartesian logic and universal growth, rather

as subtle gestures and impulses for oncoming
meteors, cooling stars extra solar activity.

2

Knee and crag stresses jerk sounds from howling dog

to starling call, yapping percussion and trumpet.

The pheasant possesses the ground upon which it runs

as the altocumulous inhabits the mackerel beds.

Seeking a word to make change I choose voice

the alterotica of accent and localised sensation.

Listen those meandering protons touch more than grass

scattering at mid-latitudes in geomagnetic storms.

My lover’s brassy voice looks within and looks around

my body to find arteries, nerves and receptive pores.

She perforates my restless aura regardless of time

absolutely makes me tongue tied at dinner parties.

3

Here in this factory with so many men,

stealing moments, a bike pump, some oil.

The bells! The market! The drove! It’s Monday!

Rooting around my beard to find a chisel.

Cecil keeps his pencil behind his ear.

I must burst the bubble in my spirit level.

If you look twice at me I will give you

one finger. No one takes away my fidelity.

Alert to the tactile, brass on wrist,

yet full of mustn’t’s, don’t’s, do, do, do.

Touch me. Touch me without fear.

I will walk towards you if I must.

The radiant point, by Megan M. Garr

After Untitled by David Caddy

Look up.
The wind picks up
more than just the sound of

the subtle, approaching onslaught—
count the silicate ablaze.

Every event is this event.
Every night this night
in arms, her desire, that stars exit their solar gestures,
your bare feet on timber boards, the sleeping
child, the phone rings.

This is history but not history,
you have been here,
are here again.

Look out
in any direction and
get your bearings in the storm of them.
Their parallel, perfect speed, their perfect disappearance.

Perhaps the hand opens out.
Wouldn’t that be something.

Untitled by David Caddy

After Untitled Landscape by Michelle Noteboom

Drift in the counter direction and it feels like hail
sweeping over the hills and pounding on your door

when you wastrel, you cannot look down shafts of
wormholes and don’t see the marauding earwigs

centipedes and dung beetles congregating by your step
and foot stool. Look at those events, births and deaths,

luncheons, not as inconsequential to your employment,
to your devotion to history, to three dimensional

coordinates, line and volume, the fallacies of
Cartesian logic and universal growth, rather

as subtle gestures and impulses for oncoming
meteors, cooling stars extra solar activity.

The Hour of Ecanus, by JKD

After Laura Mullen's Piece Work and Tony Jolley's Sleeve & Air, and My Father's Son

Deep in the bone
wings
black mist
dimly alight
just a memory
not the forearm I remember
nor flesh
stripped back to that barest
use, the word
spacing unteneted
correct grazing
the air out at each deep marked edge
this effort
set
stark stripped to joint
near the present event

dream’s static
appears out of scapula
to find afloat
on air
the feel of time
rooting
vines sprouts veins
cover her body
in a downy velour
here, green
like early feathers
over her
surfacing
the whirring machine
fabric dusted
lack
of masks
of flight

phrases’ slip
speaking each to each
set into leaving
bereaved
soon
roots, identity
earth
drop away
a glancing as if words
licked into arcs
lyric
space or expunged records
withered
into was, and where
arctic and anthropomorphic
dispersing
recollection in the bone

New: Sleeve and Air by Tony Jolley

Nothing there.
Mostly sleeve and air.
Not much flesh on the bone;
Not the forearm I remember -
Strong enough to push a house over;
Now stripped back to that barest of bones
Too lean even to be Cassius
For want of a hungrier look.
Nothing there
Only sleeve and air.

New: My Father's Son by Tony Jolley

I am my father's son.
I am my daughter's dad.
He seems set to be leaving me soon.
Though he still has the heart to stay,
His body, it seems, just won't obey.
She's disowned me,
Disemboweled me,
Silently,
Surreptitiously,
By Deed Poll bureaucracy:
Disavowed her birth,
Her roots,
Her identity:
My earth.
I am still my father's son,
My daughter's dad
Till the end may come.

Apparition, translated from the english by sean s

after Apparition by JKD

I feel « the mist of what I see in world of piled sentences » places, which we see without knowing by what we see « bypassed, passthrough » and in all directions reduced, equal, fallen, solid, sullen, full of senses. The unknown prod, shape astray and untrue: Skin. How we can't see, the counterpoint of our pain from fire, our here, the same encompassing unkilled current arrives again to howl and again. I am not or empty, weaved inside out in my copy, unreal and what creates me. Seize it, turn it inside out again, tear its clothes off! That was me, again ideal. However you close here, reclose, the only recluse is rain. « This conversation adrift on the water. » The othernot voice, assumed and alone inside the graph of absence, always stepping back. Again, shaking when I might remember. I might have been only this: a branch from the piled world, irrepeatable fabric woven of hesitation, love under the weight of threat: the sound of a voice: syllapilon.

Piece Work (new-ish)

It's not exactly speech, coming back here, but good and tactile. (Lisa Pasold / JKD)
The voice is mine, professed. (JKD)

Only to resuse materials given
Deep in the wings the musty black dimly lit where we each to each just a memory there
The word reuse not recognized
The failure to recognize
Spacing I can’t correct
The characters gazing off into the air or out but not at each other and never exactly off-stage never deep into the wings as if to acknowledge that marked edge of this effort
“I can’t correct” or set
Some words marks made near the present event
Set
Down would have wanted more than anything else to be honest but the static of dream and wish and memory and the desire to appear in a flattering
Only these clothes in each the feel it time and effort someone bent over
Hear the whirring machine as you slip it on wear the clacking machine the hot room fabric dust a brief lunch break and lack lack lack lack
To let the mask as the phrase goes slip
Staring off and speaking each their piece the pieces of their our their our

New "Flaming June-July" by Jennifer K Dick

After Liane Lang’s video, Leighton House Museum Flaming July show ongoing to Aug 15, 2010.


*

This impersonalized come into howl or would-flail. She windmills, wild-eyed as after the surfaces of before. Time ticks. Crumbled old flare on the mantel, trapped in photos, in this somber bedding too heavy to lift. She’s sadness. The creaking, boarded-up, hoisted. Says “sack” or “abandoned”, asks “What is?” Trapped dreams ticking. Time is no escape hatch. The iron bedposts to the frame gilds the shed of lives. Crossbeams pull to dust, the old potato-emptied skin ricochets between-space. Caught. If only she’d given in, round a stroke-stole chime. All objects singing backwards. Boards black, attached in the corner under a salt-cellar stair—day and night, guilt and grating. She is her voice, retracted into arms air-signalling language. Tongue never noticed. Scraped canister. Leighton’s ghost clocks tick, tick. Shade or shadow. Old gilded mirror and framed lies salvaged or stored. Bolster the banisters. Time twined into her.


*

Then to awake on a boy’s palm. Lifeline. What can a table or spirit measure? Tails, or heads unsure. Split bedside. What’s to weather? To be? The hill glows—bright stump of a face or a southern seacoast hot against her. Blink a few times, back into her curled body wrapped as an orange now growing, glowing, closer. Life turns to azure, as fire must flinch or be a bird high-up, remain where a ribbon of cloth dreams, is caught sleeping alight. Keep spring from his red throat, calling out to paths seeping still. She is only a mirage caught in a fire, licks at the boy’s ankles. Eyes, thigh, heels. He does not toss into air. Woman in a long field formed from a dream where he ducks out of view. An old sorceress in an mandarine hat, trace or treeline. Then blue stairwells. An echo, where she turns.


*
Medusa’s raft round her, enfolded. Everything is blown. What sets sail? Stone, hearth underfoot. Listening? To list into. Bed of crumpled duvets. Wartime-crushed voice too muted to tap, traipse, crawl back out of the rucksack-earth growling upward. Trenched. Structure of a shadow where shades vie for rescue. Time has poured sandbags too far. Cornflower blue, beige, wheat fields shorn short as summer. Stamp-hues fading. Things like asking for the beginning point, departure. Roam, say, flight. Dams too often, too few to seep into. A passage she recalls, or is called towards. Sound familiar as Charon’s ferry. Doll taken away, back, porcelain-powder, wax, glaze given up. Tectonic plates vying for surface structure. Posted, there, the girl who would (could) answer. Thames’ tides, and broken dikes. Collapsed markers on a fade. Feeling of night. A glow.

**(click museum name for address, show name for more info & Liane's name for her site).