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.