Glint by JKD

After George Vance's  De Keersmaeker at Le Manège de Reims 

corps-polygraphy

girlurgling quilted morningsong

spun stunned Persephone

towered dreamwaking from under

the grave dead gesture

of emergence

this

outof infrom

a test’s tasked

quickfreeze tableau

focused

farscape or shouder-point

her-shed

nightyearnings’ link

between known (non) points
a

vector in plainsong

to b

sharing spots, places taken

in turnstyles

being (to be)

a specific sonogram

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.

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!"

Kneeling

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
/////

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.



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

No One by JW

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?

leakage outtowards, by JKD

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

Coffee breaks banned in Italy? by JKD

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.

Everyone’s having children now . . . by JR

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

Copenhagen by JW

After George Vance's comment: Soon we shall see How Copenhagen Ended.

See how soon we shall end Copenhagen.
Copenhagen soon shall see. We end how
we end. Copenhagen shall soon see how.
How ends Copenhagen? We shall soon see.

Soon Copenhagen shall end. We see how.
We see Copenhagen ending. How soon. Shall
we end soon? How? Shall Copenhagen see
how? End soon Copenhagen. We shall. See...?

Omegah! (and Alpha too) by Amy Hollowell

after Oh-Game! by Geo Vance



A………!
?………O

is the Joyce body
of the Ulysses body
in the HCE body
of us every one no body
in the one body of every now

Nuts & Reverie by Jonathan Regier

After wirecannies by sean s, geese and poles by sean s, Circadian rhythm by Jen Dick, and the Moron Poems of George Vance and Jonathan Regier

The squirrels in Australia aren’t even 1% visible
And are still more visible than the squirrels of my
Heartland.

I have a theory—your mentioning the power-lines
Made me remember it. As a child I could never get over
Some basic difficulties. Walking was such
A difficulty. The learning curve was like an egg
Balanced on my head, and when one breaks it one dies
And can barely work until retirement in the stock room
Of a liquor store, or until the slow axe of diabetes or the
Old oak of lung cancer. Consider that the best runners
Wear the crappiest shoes as children. No one needs to say
What’s behind the comfort of modern footwear.

Those fucking squirrels live a true life, and everybody
Knows it. Everybody knows by their speed on the wire.
As a stupid child, learning to run and learning to speak,
And dropped again and again off the precipice of the schoolhouse,
I remember a flock of squirrels that
Ran from the sun to the tree, and from the tree into
The equal sensorium of inner space. Those I call
The squirrels of vision. And they never return unless
I return to a foreign country. But we’ve also got
The squirrels of my memory. And those are bounded
By the huge salt oceans.

wirecannies by sean s

accidentally after the moron-theme (?) of G Vance's Moron-egging and J Regier's Morons?

The squirrels outside my apartment are not complete
morons. They've seen Sweetie watching
them and they know what it means: run along
the wires through the leaves when I am out with my
back cooling on the concrete steps.

Idiot Song by Jonathan Wonham

After "Moron-Egging" by George Vance

Takes a coin and for the first time flips it
then tests the movement of the thumb
moronically, until the launch is perfect.

Puckers the lips to whistle, producing
his idiot song, feeble wheeze at first
like wind in a drainpipe, but with practice

pure, cadenced, vibrating with humanity.
Professional imbecile, daubing colour,
arm-length swathes of rainbow light

on a canvas nailed from dawn to dusk -
to blot their shades, their tabulations,
their numskull plans for the supply of gas.

Morons? by Jonathan Regier

After Moron-egging by G Vance

The arrow is to the huntress at origin.
She has never saved any man unless
Endymion. He was an astronomer
By some accounts, and put to sleep by
His profession. Spock, therefore,
Has a better chance than you and I.

What Was Offered by Sue Chenette

after "check this box" and "very yes very no" by Lisa Pasold; "Zerochre Zerochrome" by Sean S. and "A mite giddy on-egging" and "On" by Gvance
********
**********
Under the gift wrap, no watered silk,
********
but raploch wool,
***
wound round a doll with stone for a head.
*****
What was offered.
*******
She wove it a grass placemat,
*******
drew circles of moisture at its mouth,
********
mothered it until
**********
light pushed into the bones.
********
It taught her mineral memory --
********
a hard nut meat almost Macadamian --
********
and to keep the vertebrae perishably
***********
but tightly upright
******
daring a skating trick
**********
on the oilstained woodplank floor.

Corticle hyperbolia, by JKD

After George Vance’s 3 post-Becket posts, Synthetic Exegesis 1, then Synthetic Exegsis extract2, and the most recent Synthetic Exegesis extract 3: End

Sensual utilitarianism on forward ho! Wee bespeckled might of. Might. An uni-arthritic numerical arithmetic speechhowser housed her. Tousled. Tale. Tall. Wired-held-toss ‘em hold ‘em fold. Flippant as. Spandex. Shredded. Shrapnel. The language she loved, lolled, forth to categorizational continental breakdancers breakfasting. Bark. Bank. This isn’t as much a crash as cantaloupe. Crinoline. Crèpe urged the urgent urge-bound “clue-giver”, which homonyminally would be “nail-giver” here, not care, but snap, pound, hammer. Know where I am now? Held, housed, howled. The latex you wanted to startle with sniper-fire. Stalemate. Quilled, quelled, fleshripening basket of holly, hernias. More on “on” or then stayed off the beaten path, flayed roadway, roundbank. Connotations of clung pearls, clang peals, concubines. Triads yielding some warm admixing admonishing staged forgery of. Can you define this? Mightier? Uterine umbilical conflux of registered linkages leaked languishing linguistical pyrotechnics. Always admired the myriad phantasmagoria usages. That poem, or hysteria. Onwards, fair boy, and up! Grappling hooks, subs and speedometers. In the dark there were black boxes, body parts, twined twin thrusters ovulating underbelly of tidal concurrencies. Exsanguinate. Exchange rate. Excavation not so shy, she said, giddy whatwith forestalling notshalling. The allabove assonance of heralds, signage, signal fire. Discordance gives concomitant Karumption. This is the pop culture she was being weaned of. Summation, sum-up, summons, the garbledigoodnessess of a generation. Forthwith, onward hail!!!!

The difficulty of activating anyone by JKD

After yesterday’s strike plus October 2008 rewords poems, What’s Enough by Jonathan Regier and the form of All those Choices by George Vance


I.

To
the extent that rain is its own Metropolis of strikers
in
lament against the accepted guard, we stand
at
the iron drawbridge of the palace, crossed, a crossing, no luck, staring
into
the sun, of entering
there
is barricaded—we have no chance of getting through.

II.

For
Galileo an Armageddon of what was said, to
take
cover, rain can't ever, a certain voice hearing, over
take
running is still the break rushing to greet its brethren walking
forth:
the blind masses blinded, blinding sunrays, rise.

III.

Hours at our windows
here
climb upward to the past, back forever going
over
windows lit from the upward rushing future stars night
fall
we call "The Streetlights of Tomorrow" ancestors
blushing
strongly upward grazed to see us here, immobile.

IV.

To
say the old faith is that I believe in, as in I
believe
in a Universe without Void,
in
the Plenum, in the Vertical lacking Emptiness, to
fill
with touch its creatures I am among the
new
faith, say, I in the rain mass chest of Metropolis
rolling
forward. This blank page is just the sign we
needed.