Rewords

New: De Keersmaeker at Le Manège de Reims

2012-01-08T18:09:00.006+01:00

cesena

polycorps

bodysongs corpophony

helping hands helping the quick helping the

dying into the grave

dead reawakening from the black bower

tercento tones and peasantry Breug’ling crowds

called to task by a farmer’s kyrie

outof infrom the body

nurse’s therapist’s gestures

quickfreeze tableaux

moving bodies moving moving bodies

jumprunning scampering fucking about

surveiling guarding safeguarding

presented selves focus on far points no points

running amock saved by more helpingquick hands

cripple-hops

group vectors herd-pointing

a yelling plainsong

sharing spots, places taking turns in them

taking turns being human taking turns being

a specific human

saying good-bye to 700 years of yesterdays

bodywrangling

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

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!

2011-12-16T20:50:00.004+01:00

Red

hard, the way.

we’re built,

to never ever wonder why.

Child

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

Stoned

The cyclone

Stops

Can see

Here. . .

There’s no one exactly

Cause your all where you are

Faces

I still never know

How to see

Those

Luminous

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

—1999

New: Show Me da Road by Amanda Deutch

2011-12-10T20:03:00.000+01:00

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

New: At Home by Amanda Deutch

2011-12-08T06:47:00.004+01:00

At Home

Serene

sparrow morning dove

punch me in the kisser

make me believe

what you believe

today

now

right now

in Brooklyn.

2011-11-30T22:40:00.002+01:00

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?

Card Tricks (by Dzina after JKD & Lisa P)

2011-11-23T08:41:00.000+01:00

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!

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

2011-11-22T18:17:00.002+01:00

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.

The poker wars of the South West Coast by lisa pasold

2011-10-23T05:46:00.003+02:00

(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.

After Watching "A Woman Under the Influence"

2011-06-28T19:49:00.001+02:00

a very old poem...in 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

It’s like he said (s)he says

2011-04-24T11:05:00.000+02:00

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.

She coulda stammered... (JKD)

2011-04-21T23:40:00.003+02:00

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.

Tips for: (by JKD)

2011-04-14T01:10:00.001+02:00

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.

for Daphie (by sean s)

2011-03-27T17:31:00.001+02:00

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

OMG WTF am i DO ing i have NO thing
nothing.

Patience.

II.
Patience.

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

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

over the windowpanes, ghosts of this moment.

V.
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.

VI.
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.

needle trading off (grief is good)

2011-03-21T22:53:00.001+01:00

>>>"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.

NEW: Gold by Rufo Q

2011-03-19T22:53:00.001+01:00

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.

not far from New Orleans by lisa pasold

2011-02-24T19:37:00.007+01:00

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.

It's a Fine Line by Jonathan Regier

2011-02-14T20:33:00.011+01:00

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

2011-02-14T15:52:00.002+01:00

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.

Approach misled (Translation) by Sue Chenette

2011-02-12T05:12:00.006+01:00

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.
xxxxxxx
xxxxxxx

Distillations

2011-02-10T12:44:00.004+01:00

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).

–––––

Approach mislead (New) by Jennifer K Dick

2011-02-08T13:41:00.001+01:00

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.

This Music by JW

2011-01-29T23:46:00.006+01:00

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.

Facet Fragment by amanda deutch after Bonnie Finberg's "Amsterdam" and "Please Relax"

2010-12-28T22:53:00.001+01:00

examine the holes for angels
moving between tongues
art of surgery upon light
noisy clucking screen
so between cracks
see color
a lush street
covered in sun

Facet by Amanda Deutch after Bonnie Finberg’s “Amsterdam” and “Please Relax…”

2010-12-28T22:48:00.005+01:00

Facet

examine the holes for angels
moving between tongues
art of surgery upon light
noisy clucking screen
so between cracks
see color
a lush street
covered in sun.
On the phone
someone reminds me of Zappa,
“Don’t go near the yellow snow.
Don’t go where the huskies go…”
But there is no yellow snow
only fresh white powder.
I plop down and make an angel
the snow so deep I sink right in.
Plie myself with espresso and
read Bernadette Mayer who happens
to be writing about snow.
I am getting closer to a rhythm of days
finding angels in the holes.
Outside, a woman yells at me
for getting snow on the sidewalk she just shoveled.
I shuffle on to get a sandwich and lemon soda.

Amsterdam (new) by Bonny Finberg

2010-12-20T15:11:00.002+01:00

I examine my coat for holes,
angles moving toward the symmetry of age,
a crack between tenses.
The Dutch for lack of chins,
round homely Van Loons,
employ their art instead of surgery,
a gauze of light, a color scheme, a screen.
Van Gogh's wheat fields at Arles, at Cuivers,
besieged by cows,
by thunderclouds, the Reaper,
the tongues of Babel just a temporary measure.

Please relax, thank you by Bonny Finberg after Michelle Noteboom's "Untitled Landscape."

2010-12-19T00:33:00.011+01:00

AFTER UNTITLED LANDSCAPE by MICHELLE NOTEBOOM

You former wastrel, just find the can for once looking in the wrong direction falling like a star here it’s all going like like fiberglass You You you the nitwit the gegenschein pinned the mooncalf tail of sky on autumn   Maybe focus more on the body, there’s a substance   that’ll stop the outline filtering forward from the depths of fallacy   In this blurred sepia image you can’t teach a century to unlock sturm und drang   tumblers and cylinders reflecting on the shift in the infrastructure,   the oh-so-subtle activities and folds you itch to take apart employed inward yet again are   kinds of origami   but your gloved hands   lull the galaxy.

Stake Your Turf, by JKD

2010-12-16T01:28:00.001+01:00

After Memphis and déshabille-toi by Lisa Pasold & Schoenberg in Pieces by Johnathan Wonham (click their titles to read thier poems)

Thinking, exist, break going down to perform, low bow
which does not fire but yowl, outside triangulation
Strangu- can leave and not perform that satchel scale
which does not carry on, stitched to thinking flight
on Beale Street and again, and to gain “it’s not exactly
speech” (screech to a halt, squeal scalded arpeggio)
which dares not, ground to a—you or ya’ll yawled, say
yew, stretch up to, reach that, state your name or, say:
“demographic of departure”, a flight of stairs, 12-string,
downtown, grit or grind of the bar, sleep on it, stale, yawn
out that yarn, that tale, that good ol’ boy tune, think, stay.

Slippery Phenomena by JKD (new)

2010-12-08T01:41:00.002+01:00

.
.
breakage
is this thin
as night
.

Memphis (new) by lisa pasold

2010-11-08T16:55:00.003+01:00

Blind Willie McTell

goes down

the alley

and thinking

godDamn

I'm back as a dog

on Beale Street

again and wanting

that 12-string.

Schoenberg in Pieces by JW

2010-10-25T21:50:00.002+02:00

After a fragment by JKD and Schoenberg Variations by JW.

Does that bread not exist? Perform one bow
which cannot exist. Which does not fire.

One that can perform bows triangulated
can exist outside. One which leaves and bows
does not not perform that.

The sachel which does not exist
cannot perform the bow that does exist.

Which carrion cannot perform stitched?
Not one. And which stitched cases cannot bow?
Not one stitched case cannot perform bows.

Does reaping that which exists stitched
not perform that which cannot bow?

Does one exist which takes no bows?

Perform. One cannot take flight.

A fragment by JKD

2010-10-25T18:20:00.003+02:00

after Sue Chenette

Bread bow fire
triangulated outside leaves
the sachel
the space
carrions and cases
reaping stitched
flight

New: Schoenberg Variations by JW

2010-10-21T00:01:00.002+02:00

"One cannot perform that which does not exist"

Does that not exist? Perform one which cannot
exist. Which does not. One that can perform
that can exist. One which does not not perform
that which does not exist cannot perform one

that does exist. Which cannot perform? Not one.
Not one cannot perform. Does that which exists
not perform that which cannot? Does one exist
which does that? Perform. One cannot not exist.

Kneeling

2010-10-11T20:44:00.005+02:00

by Sue Chenette after gv, AD, JKD, & BBB

What do I know?
/////
Kneeling in these pages
/////
minstrelsy of crossings
/////
bred bun bow fire
/////
half triangulated
/////
while outside
/////
wind-shuffled leaves
/////

disconnected

2010-10-05T13:09:00.004+02:00

by gv after AD,JKD & BBB

know what?

I am in my pages

kneeling of being

crossing minute situations

my knees buzz

^^^^^^^^

Buzz Rustle Shift by AD after JKD's Connected

2010-09-22T19:07:00.004+02:00

You know what?
I am getting marks in my pages
kneeling towards a freedom
of being
crossing over situations,
not speaking of minutes
on my knees, listening
to a buzz.

Connected by JKD

2010-09-21T23:03:00.002+02:00

After AD's untitled after BBB's Selected Letters

I am getting you from time
marks not to speak of minutes
ahead of night
scars
covered sentences dream
crossover
into tomorrow
half kneeling, half seconded
freedom
sails triangulated
museums, women, things
said into her
pages
cards
personalized impotence: a situation
she said to
or a sentence
in a nightmare
the most important part of
is being
you know what?
listened
listen
to

Untitled by AD after BBB's Selected Letters

2010-09-16T17:45:00.001+02:00

ahead of time
she has no minutes to speak of
half covered night
dream a sentence that
would cross over into tomorrow
working complete
half knee
freedom
painting on cards,
a woman in the museum,
triangles of sails
said into her phone
“am I getting you from something?”

marks my page
on the card
her phone
personal situation
she said to her phone
a sentence
a dream

“I think the most important part of being is. You know what? You listen.”

In Alabaster Books, the clerk and I...

2010-09-14T07:07:00.007+02:00

In Alabaster Books
the clerk and I,
we read Sophie Calle
ask two blind men
what their definition
of beauty is.
It is a day of marvelous
insight
from blue veiled nuns
washing along the subway platform
to tears rivering down my
cheeks
I ride subways all day long
uptown
downtown
each turn
I am along for the ride
and it takes me places I never expected.

-- 9/2010

New: Bulb by Amanda Deutch ( partially reworded from Sunday's NY Times Book Review)

2010-09-14T06:13:00.025+02:00

Bulb

Show
between
a space--
it's strong
like
**sea
in a way
no language
can tell.

New: 53rd and Lex by Amanda Deutch

2010-09-14T06:09:00.004+02:00

53rd and Lexington

Nuns flood the crowded subway platform
on 53rd and Lex.
"Follow the blue veils," one shouts.
I am trying to photograph them
as they blush and raise
their hands to their faces.

“SELECTED LETTERS 1910-1944” AND A POSTCARD PANTOUM (New) by BBB

2010-09-05T00:04:00.005+02:00

Last night lying on straw, a dream so beautiful:
his last letter to Gretchen, who urged him to leave.
In the dream, a sentence he couldn’t read
because a kerchief half-covered her knee,

he wrote Gretchen, who urged him to leave.
Tomorrow, he said, they would cross into Spain
(but the kerchief half-covered her knee)
if no one denounced them, if the guide came.

Tomorrow they’ll cross into Spain,
freedom, America, a white triangle of sail,
if no one denounced them, if the guide came.
Marking the page, a postcard, a painting:

a freeway, America, white triangle of sail.
“Well, this doesn’t do much for me”—
the painting on the card that marks my page—
the woman in the museum said into her phone.

“Well, this doesn’t do much for me—
am I getting you from something?”
in the museum she said to her phone.
Extend my sincere gratitude to Doctor P.

“Am I getting you from something?”
My personal situation is no better,
but my sincere gratitude to Doctor P.
When the letter reached her, he was dead.

My personal situation is no better.
Tell Teddy I’m working on the manuscript.
When the letter reached her, he was dead.
Complete uncertainty what the next month will bring.

Tell Teddy I’m working on the manuscript.
Last night lying on straw, a dream so beautiful.
Complete uncertainty what the next month will bring.
In his dream, a sentence he couldn’t read.

The Execution, by Brandon Shimoda

2010-09-02T17:45:00.005+02:00

after "The radiant point" by Megan M. Garr

The passing blazes
Does not fast

Enough. Look up

The wind
Along the lines

Might get
To everyone more than just
As concentrated

Storm and Prussian
Blue, vermilion and white
Equally near to shadow—

The sound
Approaching

Onslaught—

Every event is this
Every night this night. Burnt earth and even vermilion—
Every arm incorrigibly composed
Upon the solar
Gesture, every gesture violence gray, moving
The radiant dome, the stars
Do exit

Swallowed
Into muscle—

Every history
Is this
Hand perhaps
It opens out
The flesh sings wide at the new
Architecture, holding
The execution
Together

What can I do with such small
Children on my hands?

THE MAID'S ROOM by christine herzer [new]

2010-09-01T13:34:00.001+02:00

after FOR GV, from JD

For GV, from JD

2010-08-27T11:16:00.003+02:00

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

2010-08-24T18:36:00.003+02:00

(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

2010-08-22T04:52:00.001+02:00

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

2010-08-20T14:53:00.003+02:00

after Michelle Noteboom's Untitled Landscape

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.

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.

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

2010-08-17T20:19:00.001+02:00

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

2010-08-17T12:52:00.003+02:00

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

2010-08-14T16:15:00.005+02:00

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

2010-08-11T17:08:00.002+02:00

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

2010-08-11T17:04:00.003+02:00

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

2010-08-10T03:47:00.001+02:00

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)

2010-08-09T17:38:00.000+02:00

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

2010-08-09T13:41:00.005+02:00

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).

déshabille-toi! by Lisa Pasold

2010-07-25T23:09:00.005+02:00

after Apparition by JKD

Alright the bar doesn't mean just because I was born here. I wish you didn't drink yet here I am with another beer in my hand. It's not exactly speech, coming back here, but good and tactile. god I love to drink, even with the usual wary, tender uncertainty of appearance in a phrasal universe. Yes, all those big words, for you in this parking lot, in this same small town you're haunting. I'm stripped of bearings, again, you ghost you. Syllabic but grounded with sensory inebriation. Where is this touch with its false demarcation? Your opposite of red, your skipping stones, your electric conviction to be judged wanting. Blank as that reproduction of me in-between image, imagined, veiled. Yes, I know the voice outside the window singing off-key Broadway songs, yes, I know, that voice is mine, professed, unmoored. And you, not arriving anywhere near the demographic of departure. The drinking might have been just a phase, if you'd had more time. A phrase, unverifiable. Most literal. So how come I now know all the words to this lyric?

Apparition (new, after listening to Oppen) by JKD

2010-07-21T05:15:00.003+02:00

I feel « the uncertainty of appearance in a phrase universe » places, light « looking through it, » I am « passed » and stripped of bearings, grounded to sensory inebriation. Where is this touch to lead, this false demarcation? Skin. Our darkness the opposite of red. Which burns, here, when reaching over left on electric comes to howl and to howl and to… I am not. Or blank as that reproduction of me between. An image, imagined, an imago. Take it back, unveil it, déshabille-toi! The voice is mine, professed. Rain is only sound inside the enclosed here. « There are no moorings in conversation ». Voice other than, credited, solitary within the not arriving demographic of departure. That is, shaking when I may be remembering. I might have been just a phase. A phrase, unverifiable. Tactile as is wary, tender and dangerous. Speech. Syllabic.

No One by JW

2010-07-19T20:22:00.001+02:00

After N/O/1 by GV

No one
is giving anything away.

No one
has enough for anyone
but themselves.

Everybody
wants something for nothing.

Of course
everybody
wants something for nothing -

especially
if the something
is a valuable something.

But what if the nothing
is valuable too?

N/O/1

2010-06-28T10:44:00.005+02:00

after Jen & Jon by geovance

OH NO! NO-ONE? OH.

NO O? NO 1? OH.

NO-ONE WON? WON NO-1. OH.

NO WON. NOW ON. ON WON (ham). OH.

JON WON? NO, JEN.

NO 1 1.

HO.

onononononononononononononononow1

EauNo-one, by JKD

2010-06-19T14:28:00.003+02:00

After Johnathan Wonham's NOON

ooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
(eau eau eau eau eau eau eau eau)
nnnnnnnnNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNo
oooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnNNNeeeee

NEW: noon by JW

2010-06-13T00:11:00.002+02:00

NEW: ugh by JW

2010-06-06T10:38:00.005+02:00

New: poem by Rufo Q

2010-05-28T00:26:00.001+02:00

a mouth of sperm and guinness

and the edges of the atlas temper

honesty with need; would I had

your legs, horatio, would I did

but I don't, we didn't, the angels

we thought were all around us

aren't; by the traintrack I saw

a mule and a donkey turn to face

what must have been the sun;

it was so damn cloudy I couldn't,

really couldn't for the life of me

tell.

hygiene by sean s

2010-05-18T16:21:00.002+02:00

after JKD's The Materiality of Language

I
pull

a
part

wo
ords

like
u

s
re

wo
ords

like
wo

ords
its

mutual
pulled

a
way

forom
at

aterial
al

ways
pulled.

The Materiality of Language, by JKD

2010-05-18T13:19:00.001+02:00

after J Wonham's A language apart

A language of quarks

how we say words

pulled apart

like us

A Language Apart by JW

2010-05-13T13:08:00.006+02:00

After Sean Standish's "To say how we use a language pulls us and our words apart like quarks"

A language apart, to pull us like quarks and say how we use our words.
A language to pull us apart, like quarks. We say our words and use how
we like our quarky language. Words pull us apart. To say how, and use a
language, we say to words: "pulls us and our quarks apart". How like a used

language our pulled-apart quarks: words, to say how we like. And us, a use
apart, a quark-like use - our words and language, to say how we pull us
apart - to say how we, quark-like, use a language. Our words pull us and,
like quarks, we pull apart. A language says how to, and our words use us.

leakage outtowards, by JKD

2010-05-03T23:21:00.003+02:00

After Sean S's Pantalooz and George Vance's Oh.

I caught this drinking problem from the bartender say
(weigh)
say
(sigh)

I caught this thinking problem from the carburettor then rev
(why)
revvvvv
(ply-

-ing me home again), It is this stumfumbling in the back of radiowaves
I
caught this I
might say

“walk into a bar”
might yammer on ’bout “knock, knock” then
clipped caught caper-copper feelin’ the fandango of this

caught up in the I got, yellow snapper, snipped up in the snipe-wipe your hands clean of my, I gotta say, this paper sallow shape of the porcelain base, gotta know it, chipped, chipper
swept clear clean of myself then
outta fuel
vaporized I
fumed

Oh.

2010-04-29T12:51:00.003+02:00

By geova, After Sean S’s pantalooz

dear wacky

yellow plastic’s

~~so full~~

~~so much~~

viewers get lost

in a second

like trousers across the globe

too flippin fast

who walks into a horse bar?

why? he says

doc’s doing my family

~~wait~~

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

pantalooz by sean s

2010-04-29T03:36:00.001+02:00


Oh dear.  My hair's hairs unwashed.
Why I can't just DO a thing
I must addition cost.

Your portmandoollarloondoubleaux
O wacky neotropes
O Shakespeherian

Zoo spending has increased a yellow
fog on our checkbooks and plastic
Our plasbooks, our maze, the mayzoo, zoonpants pantlaps, pantflaps, zoopants
arghsonovaon our wheres, ou wheres we do not know.
          ^
Congratulations, it's a clown!
Hey-o!
I am
excited and yoghurt no, and yoghurt, yes!
so much.  so full.

so much.  so full.  so much.
Viewers, Middle America, fellow tax evaders, this race is tighter than Charo's pants.
You'd get lost down there (I have (this was not paren
parenthetical, but this is, mea culpa)

forget to come upThat's for air.
That's no moon!  That's a space station in pinstripes.

Let's get forrealz for a second.
The fact is that we're still stuck with Kan
the last 2000 yrs have been nothing but an oscillation
(let's see 20, 18 19, y3s) a stiff wind,
we are returning between two poles.
Yes, the north and the south!  And now they are flipping like pants. trousers!
across thte entire globe.  the globe, yo.
pretty soon they will be flipping too flippin fast to see them, that's how fast
this race is.

Knock knock.
Who's there, there.
A hoarse walks into a bar.
A horse walks into a bar who?
The bartender says, Why the long face?, and he says, I caught this drinking problem from

my doctor and it's destroying my family.  No goddammit, wait a second

on the road Meeting three quarks for muster mike by sean s

2010-04-27T03:16:00.008+02:00

)after Justine el-Khazen's not a word

To say How we use a language
pulls us and our words apart like quarks.

A drench morn
The wind becomes aeroplanes in the trees.
All that waving take me

on empty Sunday walls llsh

~~The~~ Threes green is still yellow.
Elbows on the counter and watching the ~~waitress~~ barista's ass.

A rainy empty Sunday morning walks into the crepery. Y
I need to do those dthings I'm supposed to

do everyday.
Lisht are not supposed to live that long. ~~Flaring~~ Flare with check
marks, scribbles and Strike-throughs.

My jojürnal has lost its virginity thank the fuckit.
~~The~~ Sunday keeps pushing out pedestriansa umbrellsta
papers twirling.
All numbers made of three, elementary
partiecles. Moody slow aeorplanes. Typing drugged through the even

somethine sleepy in my torso is

tossing

Untitled Riff by JW

2010-04-24T01:10:00.004+02:00

after JH's Untitled

lust and
a ring
i realise
(washing
dishes
in the sink)

a ring
and a
circumstance
and a
lust and a
circumstance

lust
circumstance
washing
sink

i sink
the dishes
and leave

In Limbo, If Pleasantly by Robert M Keefe

2010-04-22T06:03:00.001+02:00

The bag lady with the paper bag full of paperbacks stands indecisive at the coffee shop counter. I know that feeling.

SwedeX + 5 by Robert M Keefe

2010-04-22T05:37:00.004+02:00

After Untitled by JH

washing the organ of speech i realize
kitchen-refuse and affection
leave a curl in the discount-rate

(key: tallrik - talorgan, kättja - köksavfall, omständighet - onatur, ring - ringla, diskho - diskonto)

Not a word by Justine el-Khazen

2010-04-21T04:41:00.004+02:00

After Alone, they are a-maze (by JKD), Everyone's having children now by Jonathan Regier, and Everyday Includes Today by Lisa Pasold.

Magnets are the maps,
world smoothed over:
things that settle beyond the GPS.

An aeroplane arrives,
and it’s all over.

Mourning and noon agree blankly.
Night and the numbers:
10, 9, 7, 8.

Blood of the children,
black and level.
Vines map the body
in thick braids and ladders
of blood,
of blood

(children included).

A bridegroom opens the door.

Alone, they are a-maze (by JKD)

2010-04-15T06:44:00.001+02:00

After Everyone's having children now by Jonathan Regier, and Everyday Includes Today by Lisa Pasold.

A bridegroom throws open the doors:
playing in the soil, mourning noon and night,
The madcap flatterer’s leafing through the butterflies.
A cup, a paper doily, the fix-it maman
cannot quite re-stitch the happy couple back together.
You listen in closely, you can hear the whispers:
Where has she gone? And, hence, to Mexico!
We clink our glasses with everyone’s children—
or vines. And then it is we begin to agree blankly:
Finland is a fine place to be if you are finicky. Or nimble.
He will drink his exquisite coffee though the dogs bark
and not say a word about the magnets
soaking in their blood, or the hemlock she’s just plucked.
Sympathies? Whichever happens to come before 8am.
I say it will all be fine again. The world smoothed over.
Just wait or shake it a little bit.
Scraps of blown papers settle beyond the GPS.
But at 9 o'clock, when you think it’s all over, I hear him say:
I suppose I should have tagged her. An aeroplane arrives.
Will you sit a little while longer before you shimmer?

every day includes today by lisa pasold

2010-04-09T16:58:00.004+02:00

after Everyone's having children now... by JR

At 8 o'clock it is a maze;
At 9 o'clock, an aeroplane arrives;
At 10 o'clock all is possible; wash your grubby little hands.
There is everything to soil.
It is a few minutes after 10 o'clock.
Visit 'burn all your regrets' at
abonfireinyourbackyard.com
At 7 o'clock, none of this has happened.
At midnight, you are basking in the reflected glory
of being able to say no, I have nothing to declare, it is gone
entirely now and I am leaving on that jet plane
with my small fluffy dog.
At ten minutes after midnight, your taxi is waiting in Mexico.
Everything is possible.
The dog is barking.
Flames lick at your fingers.

I've an urge to talk to you by JW

2010-04-08T00:05:00.009+02:00

After Laura Mullen's "I've an urge to say I miss you, but I don't know who I'm talking to." from the Bride Journal video post on her blog afterIwasdead

"I've an urge to talk to you", you say. "But Miss I, I don't know who I'm
talking to Miss... but, I've an urge too". You say: "I, I don't know who I'm
missing". I urge you to say who I am. Aye, I have to know. But don't talk
to talk. To urge. I say: "I've missed you, but I don't know who I am."

"I don't know who I am, but I've missed you", I say. To talk. To urge.
But have I? I don't know. Aye, I urge you to talk: to say who I'm missing.
"I don't know who you're missing." But I say: "I, I've an urge to talk to
I-don't-know-who Miss." And you say: "Aye, I, I've an urge to talk too."

Coffee breaks banned in Italy? by JKD

2010-03-22T20:42:00.004+01:00

After Jennifer Huxta, Jonathan Regier, Beverley Bie Brahic, George Vance & Rufo Quintavalle’s poems about coffee.

Put contemplation on the burner, simmer. My legs, I say, then soil like a door throwing itself upon the bridegroom, chocolate covered grubbies, I say, toasted magnetic. These fields foreshorn level, eyeglasses UP, then wait. Wonton. Remember the 50s images, the test subjects, pilots, recordings, mushroom or lava lamp? Pass me the… I will drink my children, or to. Trinkets and car-salesman with beat-up cabriolets or the four-door can’t hold it open Cadillac. Give me a polish, stir, caffeinate, get it to take out or up. Fine, the paper says, the paper explains, the paper announces: Smartphone simulations systematically can’t get enough of other explanations, opinions, news. Morning tipping a hat to TV dinners, bailing on M*A*S*H. Is the fact that Hollywood makes so many war films an endorsement? What was she practicing? I would join the CIA, FBI, ATF, PTA, IRA, WHO, FDA, LBGA, ABA drooling swindled with her AK47 something like a pistol, she was, or pissed-off piston. Too many shots. Should limit oneself to a cup in the morning, a cup at noon. What did you think I was talking about? Out of tune, time, sixteen dead fawns don’t make a musical. I was the sound of…. Or off. Remain. Stay? Tunnel. Out past the deep, the buoys, the borderlands, the reputable. Split or spilt. I like it black, no sugar. That’s what I would say if I were Ret at the counter of a 5 and dime in a beige trench with a pair of Matrix glasses I could pull on then do it all in Horatio slo-mo “noooo, suuuggaar” waiting for the Miami boats to roar up in HD colorized fantasy island at my back. Cut to credits. No subtitles. Raw. A flash, he writes, hanging only a flower. The sea, the scapegoat. A designer farmer in an organic bushhut serves up the BLT, holding himself down, Stockholm syndrome. Life is just as surreptitiously slanted as those olive trees, 9euros90 each. Didn’t I tell you I have always wanted. This is a ringed circus. A meditation circle. Step inside, just be sure to hide any the trace of the frontier. Book positioned on the shelf, cover closed, leather-bound. An artefact. The last one left in a post-post-post moderncontemprary third millennium digital wasteland. You board the shuttle, and the door swhooshes closed. This leaves me a lot to think about, but is there still a nespresso left? Hand me that purple capsule.

Only Captains by JW

2010-03-11T23:56:00.006+01:00

After JKD's comment (quoting Sean Standish): Like captains only with sex in them

Them only like captains with sex in
them sex-captains. Them only likin'
sex with captains like them. Only in
sex them like captains, only with

them like. Only captains with sex in,
only them like sex. Captains in with
captains, only them likin' sex with
only sex in, with them captains like.

Untitled by JH

2010-03-11T06:25:00.003+01:00

washing dishes i realize
lust and circumstance
leave a ring in the sink

Everyone’s having children now . . . by JR

2010-03-11T01:10:00.004+01:00

after all the talk of coffee from brahic, vance, rq

Everyone’s having children now My legs, I say my legs,
Are not vines to be - - Wash your grubby little hands
Playing in the soil, morning noon and night,
Morning like a bridegroom throwing open the doors

I will drink my coffee, children, until Leave the butterflies
Alone They are exquisite wonderful They go to Mexico
Piling over the mountains Scraps of blown around paper with daddy’s
GPS in their magnetic blood

---------I’ll drink my coffee, children, black as soil
---------Until I sympathize with you or whichever comes first
---------Get to your level

FIRST AND LAST by Beverley Bie Brahic

2010-03-09T20:32:00.005+01:00

afterRQ’s WCW out-take, Coffee, a man, Culling, Allongiation, Sevintina

Disreputable ha! Coffee, a man
Would be lonesome enough expertisers now say
That the carbonical pricefulness
Was shop-lifted, crazes piled up
In his closet. Remember M*A*S*H
& TV dinners? Don’t let the men in.

An ice-cream parlor at 2:30 in the morning
I am sixteen going on seventeen
And out of tune. And “The Great Rock
And Roll Swindle” with its dead fawn,
Similarital systematics. Remainstay tunellated toward this one
and this one me is only
A disreputable farmhand. Ha!

after RQ's WCW out-take

2010-03-04T14:15:00.001+01:00

george vance

Disreputable ha!

it’s this not your head

coffeebutter flies but

a flash hanging only in a flower

or that other day a farmhand

sits kicking, gambols

his child, him

to the would-be lonesome

split road hands

NEW: coffee, a man

2010-03-02T16:55:00.002+01:00

this is taken from the top left corner of the seventieth page of the New Directions paperback, Imaginations by William Carlos Williams.

coffee, a man would be lonesome enough
his child gambols
him; it's this or that
other day. But
butterflies

not your head
roads - only
in a flower
a flash only
to the split
hands hanging
ha, ha!
sits kicking

a disreputable farmhand

(New) Culling, Culled by JKD

2010-02-14T22:13:00.006+01:00

After George Oppen: an exercise in "culling" during class listening to his reading (off the Pennsound site) of Of Being Numerous, from his Collected Poems.

We belonged
to life and its death
speaking obscured
by a parthenon: glassed city
we encountered

populus' fluid ages
dwelling
stooped and gated
in a paroxysm bewildered

growing older people infinitely unaging
against the singlular bonds of this one earthly form
failing

to shuffle, crowd, speak
wave to myself
among those small doors, people
spotted by a curb crossing
a green slab between blocked apartments

fixture of a world
constructed--the rain falls, and the walls remain
things change and are unchanged
my own face over and over generations
fortunate to find
everything, the dead end
losing its solidity when we apply it to ourselves

it is distant--
.................distance of blasted roads,
carved out concave construction

bowl of the bored-into city
in which I, androgynous, seek

to exist on a Saturday afternoon
during a pre-holiday shopping spree
what brand glows bright
can I distinguish?

my own madness of living
in the many, hoped,
...........................hoping is estranged
as the self from the roped self
strung up the verge of

the executioner's block he is
me the axe in hand a second
living past the other
me on the block ended

we do not go on
the seasons seeded influx I exhale
toward this and this one me is only

.

Allongiation

2010-02-12T14:01:00.003+01:00

NEW by g vance

Alertment:

Expertisers now say that the carbonical pricefulness

in coming monthlyalities will dependentate mostly

on whether coalescent–dependentative industrialistical

nationalities like the Unificated Estatements and Australiania

will doubledoublefy their effortances to introducturate

similarital systematics. Remainstay tunellated.

^^^^^^^^

Seventina 6 by JW

2010-02-10T00:41:00.002+01:00

It was shop-lifted crazes piled up in his closet
amongst scavenged porn, fly-tipped on building sites.
It was a knotted Durex, slowly burnishing to gold
that we knew how to locate, on which branch.
And when we hunkered on his bed with the monoplayer on
it was the irreconcilable void between the Bee Gees' "Stayin' Alive"
and "The Great Rock and Roll Swindle" with its dead fawn.

Sevintina V, by JKD

2010-02-08T23:31:00.003+01:00

(the 5th in what a proposed 11-post project of 7 line '70s discosextains. After the 4 preceding this one: chime in!)

Remember M*A*S*H and TV dinners?
Sat-night-Dad post Lawrence Welk driving us half-asleep
in the brown van to pick up Mom from Mercy Hospital.
I liked to go inside to watch cell samples spin in centrifuges.
I liked the warm applesauce under tin foil, peeling it back,
or bread rising, kneaded, rising again as we sang
“I am sixteen going on seventeen”, 6 and out of tune.

Seventina 4 by amanda deutch

2010-02-06T07:27:00.005+01:00

It’s a Set-Up, Gena Rowlands

Don’t let the men in these

movies ***** push ** push ***** push you around

Scream at you

Because you wear sunglasses.

Wake up because it's night.

She thinks it's funny to eat ice cream

in an ice cream parlor at 2:30 in the morning. That’s all.

3/14/2004

(After watching Minnie and Moskowitz)

Seventina III

2010-02-04T15:52:00.009+01:00

(see JKD & Sean S entries' comments for more info on this Seventies Project)

my hippy mother's rainbow-tie-dyed friends in communal bellbottoms, cinematic Hair, long long long inhaled conversations re. digging latrines, Buckminster Fuller
putting the YES back into Polyester. but who was Idi Amin, i thought 'Idiot Amen' (he was a despot so it made sense.) Kool-Aid politics and Hamburger Helper at home
with Sonny & Cher vs Donny & Marie face-off in kindergarten.

Discosextain II (or Seventina II) by JKD

2010-01-31T12:52:00.006+01:00

after Sean S Seventina I

*
Pre-espresso, taking lubes, heroine-chic post-acidhead we were
The 70s going for the Disco glam, the sequins, lounging out in a
post-hippy haze, listening to K-Tel record’s Top One Hundred:
Gloria Gaynor, Donna Summer, Stevie Wonder
Groovin’ to the Bee-Gees on Solid Gold Saturday afternoons.
In white polyester bellbottoms, Sat Night Fever style, thinkin’
If Barney Miller isn’t Bewitched, then perhaps we are Bob Marley?

NOTE: Sean S & I call on everyone for this miniproject: 11 7-line minipoems/stanzas all about the 70s. See comments for more.

seventina 1 by sean s

2010-01-29T16:00:00.000+01:00

O Abba, hear me. A decade of fever and grease
echoed forth by wars of love onto lost Ilian wavelets,
the hammy Attican cry of a thousand hoodlums and actors.
Xanadu spilling, gowned in Olivia Newton-John and ELO,
across skin, an appeal to Ovid on Saturday night (that is, weekly),
while the OSI sends cyborgs to fight the Soviets
but never the Vietnamese.

Deny by JW

2010-01-23T18:15:00.005+01:00

Cut up created from a dozen or so recent Rewords poems.

After an anonymous 16th century optical riddle by Jonathan Regier

2010-01-20T22:29:00.007+01:00

A sun in eclipse, although with the coin of the moon not
Fully spun atop her, the blazing sun in half-eclipse, in semi-eclipse,
Through the crosswise pattern of fingers held up, likewise through

Put what I don't have in the sink. I'll wash it with what I do have.

Put the plates on the plates and the bowls on the bowls.

Swivel by Amanda Deutch (Newish)

2010-01-17T19:28:00.002+01:00

Swivel

Type explosion
Mixplosion
*******“girls girls”

live girls
*********(do the dead ones dance too?)

imageways
the taking of 1,2,3

**re locate of your own

beer-stout, ipa
***********and
gardenias

--2004

In tunnels by RQ

2010-01-15T22:50:00.006+01:00

after Myopic Lines by JKD

They turned against me

in tunnels and pressed

my face into gravelly pools;

I breathed and the pellets

grazed my brain,

whittling my hippocamp

to the shape of a chestnut;

they turn against me I thought

were of my kin, kicking my ankles

each time I try to rise.

Myopic Lines by JKD (New)

2010-01-15T12:43:00.002+01:00

After 3 lines by American poet, editor & critic Hank Lazer from his poem 78 in the book Days (Lavendar Ink, 2002)

« they took turns longing
against the narratives »
tuning forks and pitch
they turned against me
in tunnels, white dusted
emergence lounged against
star-studded fissures
walls hemming us in
stitched to walls hindering
us they took tales down
scratching that which
we could not mouth to
I the corner of the cell
or you would purchase rings
on another continent in
light bright yellow they
squint in the shadows
picking at sores taking
down the final words of
each passing each to
which handle now I take
my turn dusting the dark
off into the night the light
of curve surfaceward
impossible reaching story

Underearthed by JKD

2010-01-13T20:30:00.001+01:00

After Amy Hollowell’s Part Song on Late Curve & Blue Mirror Song

my uneven hand branches
into the dirt we love
like radishes bright
red blush in the midnight soil
scavenging hunger thirst
bodies symmetrical breaking

Part 4: Song on the Late Curve, by Amy Hollowell

2010-01-06T10:49:00.002+01:00

after AD’s Part 1 and Part 3 and AH’s Part 2

And on the late curve of afternoon
we are symmetrical, my love,
part good, part not,
two in one uneven pile at the window
outside and in
with snow, wine and song.

Part 3: shape shape mirror human song, by Amanda Deutch, after Amy Hollowell's Part 2

2010-01-06T03:33:00.003+01:00

We are one
Part part
blue
mirrors of a
afternoons
hands atop hands
atop hands
atop
uneven song of love, my dirt
eyes, lips, voice, bone, branches
curve

into one
shape
singing
'we.'