Friday, December 16, 2011

New (old) RED by AD Every year on my birthday, I usually write a poem. This is one from the evening when I turned 21!


hard, the way.

we’re built,

to never ever wonder why.


Keep your balance

Don’t fall one way

Or another

War has come up 3 times

Body is 6:33 a.m.

Winging an investigation

On my newly fucked

And feeling child

No people from my past remain

For they have changed as have I

At the foot of the moment, when you feel

Your whole being,

Whole life, every person, every poem, every thought, every pulse, every taste, every

Fuck, every kiss, every face, every sight, every ground, every hiss, every footstep, every breath,

Every song, every brain soaking rain, every ink-stain

Child diseased said they

Life squeezed

Brain left out too long in the rain

Mischievous this child, too old for her youth

6:33p.m. turned to 6:33a.m. turned to light again

Carries the stars away


The cyclone


Can see

Here. . .

There’s no one exactly

Cause your all where you are


I still never know

How to see



Each one that passes paralyses

Secret that pulses through beast, breast, breath, body

That distant horn

Those colored lights

From the place I left

To the place I go

That violin bow rubs against my body

Music, far off, but edible

Be it the moon,

A traffic light,

Headlights, a face

Lying on a scaly fluorescent chameleon muse

You have to remember

To forget

In my room watching

A pale peach sea through

Black silhouettes of Persephone

Fingers stained

And in my bed, a boy sleeps

Snow & ice

On the ground and I am 21 years old.

Pressing souls

Footplates in fresh white snow

Cryptic circles wrapped in fangs

Blurry designs

Flesh in light

Negatives, orange & black

x-rays, she took

Of our oral, mortal sense of right

Balance in calm jittery fright

Just being here

Not letting the breath fall out of my ear

Keeps me occupied

The past and the future always close by

Wooing to take me away

Like an eternal dream

The hiss of the primordial stream rushes through us all

Taking us away with each moment

The pressing of all the souls we have been

Converging, merging, submerging, waving goodbye

Like blurry flesh & faces


Saturday, December 10, 2011

New: Show Me da Road by Amanda Deutch

A mistranslation of René Char's, “ Chaume des vosges”

(for Brandon and Marilou)

Show me da road


Beauty, my always, by the roots of ladders,

at the top of lamps and of courage closed,

could I be grace and could I be soft, feminine December?

Movie future in underwear. It is a ton—vision.

When to sleep?

—December 10, 2011, Brooklyn

Thursday, December 8, 2011

New: At Home by Amanda Deutch

At Home


sparrow morning dove

punch me in the kisser

make me believe

what you believe



right now

in Brooklyn.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Hey reworders,

Having a dillemma I have had in the past...trying to put spaces before a line. Someone suggested asterisk and then selecting them white, but when I post that it shows the white asterisk... Any suggestions?

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Card Tricks (by Dzina after JKD & Lisa P)

After JKD's "Time These Wars..."

Lucky as a penny, now I can turn 'em
heads or tails you get your wish.
Lacta alea est when it's deadlinetime,
our time's up and I got this circle it's
pretty black & white. Looking
from the outside will cost you
and don't hope for future mes
that stick. The hourglass is cracked,
the sand is down, and I'm all business. Professional
I don't care. I'll tear you apart, defoliate
you, defy your evergreen for green.
My future secure no thanks to the
main channel. God bless my Laundry
Hotel.  I play my cards right,
there won't be no future to rectify.
No need to catch body parts with
a net, once most famous everything's
available on purpose thanks to
breakthroughs in science your eye
can see that make a pretty penny
making pretty one day. I call the
citadel Mall Noir, and all flagship
procedures lead to my Laundry Hotel,
where there's no need to check out
ghosts of architecture past, no archive
to explore, just life as a zen kitty
out of the closet. Meow!

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Time These Wars... (by JKD after Lisa P)

After Lisa P's The Poker Wars of the South...

Time these wars: two at the South bar, ban the West Coast, no one is as insignificant as a port city post-hurricane, or this oil-less desert, sand and more blanks buried deep underneath. Perhaps my bones, or…

And then, she sidles in, slides up next to me on a stool just a little too tall so her toes are dangling like a neck on the line as she says, “When will I begin my real noir?”

Whose is this story? Tall tale of the blank slate, the scratched over. Reset.

She/I/you are not only on the outside, with that easily-forgettable face, place, race for the next ravine, or office. I cast a die, then leave a wish. In the after of the aftermath, solitude returns to remind us work has only a couple of pennies, the watchlist lives in a laundry hotel, and trotting out our pasts, ancient archived maps, is only her will to search for every day’s melting trough over the robot architecture caught up rebuilding.

Hold the images higher, into their solarization. This is just a still, a b&w pic of this other era. A net.

He snapped off her hands, her feet like no other woman. That is how much he wanted her to stay his “special lady”.

What of this article just does not fit?

I left, I came back because of your talent (no husband, no kids, no dust storm to remind me). Neither high as a citadel of poker playing. She was typing “Do not care” on the post-its one by one. I began fixing them to surfaces where they refused to stick. The rooms fall landscapes of leaflike squares “not” “care” do”. A bold determination to give up.

But then, she got that call again. The revervist’s reservist. A doily in a red doll dress, clown lipstick. This is crimson if ever such orange scuttled their plans. I nodded. We both knew that I/you/she could be a true professional, in a sharp-creased uniform, if only the night would give us a chance to rectify our futures. Return her limbs. Her joints. My eyes.

Dates are behind us now. I give her a jab, to check, then wave at the window where what once most famous takes a job. Her feet dangle and that last word, “noir” flutters out a crack in the glass between us.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

The poker wars of the South West Coast by lisa pasold

(cut-up courtesy of google translation)

The two wars between the South West Coast, the then insignificant port city will begin your real "noir".
The story's not only on the outside easily forgettable face - leave a wish, see you after. But your work also has a couple of pennies, which lives in a hotel laundry will search for every day melting trough over the robot. Still, era like no other woman, even a special lady just does not fit because of your talent (no husband, no kids, no home) do not care, and a bold determination to give up job to be a true professional. You leaves behind and neither is the citadel of poker playing, where purposeful's most famous takes a job.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

After Watching "A Woman Under the Influence"

a very old honor of Peter Falk (wish I had a "Columbo" poem, but I don't..)

After Watching A Woman Under the Influence

Picket house fence
You are not crazy
“Just a little nervous”

Making funny noises with your face
— a Bronx cheer
allowing children to run around naked
in the white shafts of a 1976 afternoon

You are not crazy

(serving spaghetti to the crew)

Leave it

Leave it

Leave it all
and go smoke your damn cigarettes

(a Woman Under the Influence)
3/24/05 1:03 pm

Sunday, April 24, 2011

It’s like he said (s)he says

Guinness harpness rumdark (coffee).  More than enough sans tan.  That moth didn’t make it, flirting with that flame in our arroyo. The good news is not all was lost: spider watch, wait, stagnant as patterns like ours. Yummy. A trap unspoken, unspeakably loved to death. I need to finish this game, pin the tail on. Get some lawyers. Eat. Yodle, “Craig has a list that’s broken.”  Hand to trace-lace-bind, center stuff, burlap pokeydead center, look ma no hands. Tattletales don’t exist if yr rich. Whose dropsy keeps our system so blottobloatado? Whatchanow? Whodunnit? (This whore’s in pieces). Bleedwork box leftbehind leaves us dna-denied and blind.. Had she a future past this picture less-than -perfect post-greeting, I would have taken care of her. Uh-huh. Nothing more to do but whine, whinny, whimper, whistle. Trent Reznor’s turn.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

She coulda stammered... (JKD)


She coulda stammered anything, but straight-arrowed me with “Is grief porous as a pin cushion?”

After Dzina’s Needle Trading Off, with help from Laura Mullen’s PieceWork (with parts from Lisa Pasold) & Rufo Quintavalle’s Gold.

Plum outta autofills, here in her harp-sign-and-signal-less labyrinth wondering—which hole to plug, which gap or griffon clawed into the gaffaw? I could not laugh dark enough to get the bile up outta here, her heralding a blind center, a hokypoke stem of a tendril choke-hold. I was watching, waiting, wandering round the gate thinking whichever one of us gets pricked— could be a rhetorical ring to pattern the trap not to speak (to), see, know, how to pin the tail on. Or sigh. Her yodle. Then a yammerin’ clamour whatchr lookn at cephalothorax? The lick of her neck, a candlestick. I got to wonderin’, what’s it take?, or, to break? Hand to trace-lace-bind, center stuff, staple, stroke. You’d a known it was me, my folded grammar, tattletale forgotten, coat in the wind, wishing for a chintz dress glitzy nightshift. Echo of who’s got the dropsy? Betcha she could take us all in that hopscotch match. This crash course six shooter hold up drawback to kick is just a mishmash of watchnknow? wouldchanow? Whodunbeenit? There, where I cut back the years, say “go to pieces”. The patched bleedwork, box leftbehind of yellows. I suppose, had she a forwarding address, past this advent advantageous calendar’s seasonal greeting, I would have been a taker. No. No no more. As she wrote it: “Seems a seams been lying in the wait, lined up ahead, flagging the signless poledancer back down under us.” Sure, I mighta responded, cause after all it seems I never could stop that automatic capitalization from defining time. And yes, lady, it really is someone else's turn. Uh-huh. So, blathering up the foam in the fountain, the vanilla or bubbly eucalyptus, round the bend, to turn then turn again to come, enfin, to a pause, a price, a plate platter onto which I give her over. And will you take care of her? Heel, hell, howl now don’ com’n back, ‘k? Y’hear? Breaks me a bone, deep as marrow exposed syntax, to know the direction that dart was heading. Nothing more to do but whine, whinny, whimper, whistle. A happy tune? Or a harp? The needle was pointing due West. Shoulda followed it.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Tips for: (by JKD)

after For Daphni, by Sean S

Sleep moresothan than to-do day before dousing your lights.

Outside suncold shadows flit birds.

Windows ghost over panes, pangs of this moment.

Drought-times or frozen lakes stretched to consider, perhaps, pink.

Songpractice, your head unpulled, plucked drifting by melody upstairs.

Soft-stretched schoolteachers: first crush (crunch). No score.

A hoodie and coat bedazzled by her latticed silhouette.

Barren: tree abetting my frozen river.

Underpursed, arm offtaken, to go.

Steps resounding like backgammon tiles.

Sitting is always the first note in (im) patience.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

for Daphie (by sean s)

Sitting down to this -- what is always
the first thing?

OMG WTF am i DO ing i have NO thing



III. Tips For Better Sleep
Even moresothan that list of Do Today, there is, before dousing your lights,

The sunlight outside is cold and dry. Shadows
of birds flit

over the windowpanes, ghosts of this moment.

In times of drought, or frozen lakes, consider
your head, along the back and sides
is sticky, soft, stretched.
Perhaps pink.
Unpull it.
Pluck through it like a schoolteacher's songpractice
drifting upstairs through the floor.

A hoodie and coat to take out the trash
before the latticed silhouette of that bare tree abetting the lake.
My frozen lake.

Your purse under your arm,
and off you go, taking steps like the back of your head.

Monday, March 21, 2011

needle trading off (grief is good)

>>>"Piece Work" (Laura Mullen>>>LisaP, JKD) &
>>>"Gold" (RQ)

porous pin cushion plum outta autofills
which hole to plug, which’n gets pricked,
it’s a rhetorical o ring dummy pattern
shit trap not to speak (to), see, know
whatchr lookn at cephalothorax pin the tail
yumdummie like child candieneck
lace blind center stuffed stapled bloke
hokeypoke folded fold it’s a it’s a
it’s a hopskotch, watchnknow where
yr toes go, patch pieces, bleedwork
which box to stick, which ball to kick
one up one down open close frontward
fwhap! black right leftbehind yellow
nomo advent advantageous calendar
seasoned f'n greedy taker no no no more 
seams line up ahead flaggn signless to
stop automatic capitalization defining
default autopilot muslin itchy dressie
bessie once upon a bassackwards time
(scratch/   balls)     
bun(ga) bun(ga) lady
it's someone else's turn.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

NEW: Gold by Rufo Q

Oh good grief, Benozzo Gozzoli, it's
like looking at a photo of yourself
as a child: where did it all go wrong?
There was a world of cushions once, before the C.E.O.
was stapled by his tongue to the toilet-bowl.
Oh sing that lullaby again, Good Grief,
the golden one.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

not far from New Orleans by lisa pasold

after It's a Fine Line by Jonathan Regier

Mobile and ramshackle, motorized vendors seek and hunt in their lust to sell without someone yelling “Taxi?” on foot. We are unheard of with almost equal frequency, establishing rapport with virtually no chance they understand. I ask them, "are you one of the tribe of Seraphim?" The next evening, I understand the situation better. Go hype thyself is the worser fortune. Without exception in the Mata Hari shopping mall, really fine coffee worth is almost half our lackluster currency, miscoloured by repeated cycles in fate's unsteady washing machine. At the final language barrier, Napoleon pastry in hand, the driver refuses the big yellow sheet, so we veer impolitely around the roundabout, striving oh justice not to fall from the bike.

Monday, February 14, 2011

It's a Fine Line by Jonathan Regier

after Tones are lickin' under by JKD, Approach Misled (Translation) by Sue Chenette, Distillations by Geo Vance, The Music by JW, The Greyhound

In the city night, it looks like a fine line one hundred kilometers away. It has nothing to do with the laws of perspective: it looks like a fine line up close. A homunculus is riding his bike along the line.

I ask him, "Are you a Virtue, a Cherub, or one of the tribe of Seraphim that hide their multitudinous eyes behind peacock feathers?"

Falling off his bike, he shouts, "Be quiet! I'm not far away. It is a ... 'fickle gulf'!"

When he says, 'fickle gulf', the heavens shake as if a tremendous Scrabble piece had been turned over. I cover my head, running to the shelter of a nearby tree.

The next evening, I understand the situation better. It was indeed one from the class of Virtues that I met last night. They must be so tiny because of the very fine lines that they navigate in the world. The winds doth rattle the hand: one must slide one's finger along the creases of the petal or dangerously lose the sense.

The next evening, I approach him from far away. (Although it's difficult to know when I've gotten close enough, because he doesn't change size.)

I holler, "Orchidblues!" A storm cloud appears beside his head. A yellow bolt of lightening pops from the cloud and shocks his hat, and all the felt and stuffing explode.

He looks up at me with terror. He begins racing along his fine line.

"'Hello-tropic'! 'Hype the love'!" (I'd prepared all of these that morning, noting them on a morsel of graph paper that I folded up in my pocket.) A milk truck flies out of the intersection with its horn running so fast and long that the doppler effect puts a shiver in my spine.

I laugh deeply and bellow, "Thou dost ride thy bike like Job himself!" Then: " 'Please relax', 'Shaft of salad', 'Writing about snow'" . . .

A greyhound--which had been hitherto the stone adornment of an ancient fireplace--springs to life and speeds alongside him.

"The spheres turn and comets whizzz, but nothing can out-pace the greyhound! He is faster than television, he is the fastest of all the arts! He is faster still than even Virtue!"

Tones are lickin’ under by JKD

After Sue Chenette’s Approach misled (Translation) and seeing this youtube video of The Passenger: Iggy Pop & the Stooges 70's (click names of authors/vid for links)

Passenger-woven incapable of culbability… high…
remainders understar shoots-up out sun-sin scarred
Heliotropic morrow of bone-thinned sliver slur:
a gold lime, a hunt purr welded carnal step or
steeped up to the mike, perched, poled Iggy
Pop-over to slim down to the slither grounding
Wet-fishers, stitched-eye-shut hutch of hunched
back caterwauling wing he snags cult roan
scenes seen to seem seamed seeing throat-slit
zigzag ziggernaut zip-bag pre-authorized Matilde
-waltz loss, the groan duck blind hexed disc offered
manatees or hands, palm-up, frond of fickle gulf
dreamsounding hooch: mary jane’s flicked-laugh
ground giggle file sandstoned, paperscribbled,
limed botanist’s orchidblues, eyes, a pent need
rent forth note snowed over, bland obliquity
to puddle body ululations aromatic angst
he-snagged in the preceding laugh-loom pulse hop.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Approach misled (Translation) by Sue Chenette

After J K D's Approach mislead

Mail me actual captured arabesques: bitter sin-snug scarves,
the hello-tropic marrow bone. Cult or scene? Zigzag
to ask, snag aromatic undulations of pork tenders:
in weather woods, catch trout. Caterwaul purr in oblique
carnal call botany. Slant repair, dew hut, hi-
jack the laugh loom, love, proceeding aweigh with fishers stitched
ten per cent hooch wild, a swim fin the hunch of a need pent
sounddreaming, awakedrumming. Pulsed hop. Stilt alp
or alpen-perch shock a snow storm grain-forage trick
a spin or wheedle on the accused tincturist’s go for gold lime
in a gulf gloom, holiday brought to test integument.
A paisley manatee disc offer, pre-authorized. Waltz roar
satin-sway slipping tiptoe blue
? Tones are lickin’ under
the hexed or lost duck blind. Woven inculpable of morning.

Thursday, February 10, 2011


after JD's 'approach misled'
by Geo Vance

Daily fractural; it, in cards, holoscopic whats.

Sign through map, volcanic, as in words, out.

Her, the Brittany. Go do. Hype the love. Away fissures!

Represent child. If the ( ), of seed downstreaming, closed, set;

or in acupuncturist’s, a line, a game; a ( ) outta disfigurement,

personality reorganized.

Your shaping to -? A( ), into, next-last. Open of: ( o f).

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Approach mislead (New) by Jennifer K Dick

After reading “the science seemed so solid (poems from Graceful Degradation)" a Dusie Chap from Dusie Kollectiv 5 by Betsy Fagin

Daily factual, fractured fractalesque : it is in the cards,
the holoscopic horoscope. What’s your sign? Signal
through ash, map the volcanic distillations as portended:
in other words, cash out. Catapult her in the Glee
cannonball Brittany. Can’t go there, do that, hype
up the lifeline, love, secreting away the fissures which
represent each child as if in the husk of a seed sent
downstreaming, awaycoming. Closed shop. Set up
or open each chakra glowworm green-orange stick
a pin or needle in the acupuncturist’s got a good line
on a golf game, on a way outta this disfigurement.
A personality disorder, reorganized. What’s your
Saturday shaping up to boil?
Time’s a tickin’ into
the next or last decade. Open incapable of mooring.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

This Music by JW

After Bunny’s Landscape by David Caddy
and Facet Fragment by Amanda Deutsch

This music’s like not
and has no direction.
It’s foot roving universal
and sweeps for a feel.
It’s so between the cracks
a humming shaft of salad.