Scenic [Route
by Jennifer K Dick
●
I alone escape
this drain-pipe life
sea-anemone
beaten, lacerated, aired
in the bluff of my voice
detected
Register, I, along
perfume and metallic lanes
garce, name-called, gouine
mustered up texture
sandpapered eyes
called I
I call
.......Mount
...............Mounted
.........................Motion
(this?)
_________________________
................................(that?)
Closer,
..........come-
...................hither,
feathers
in a wide-brimmed white cap
emoting scaled facades,
gloating
laced lines paced
.....................along turbined hills
in Grasse on a soaplabel
turn-of-the-century
dried lungs buried
among my packed pickled
plucked-up diversions or
cemetery pines
detected? -ing? -ive?
..........................I
..........................am
............a live one
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
After various LP, RQ and RSO Sightings
Sonnet 7/11
By Amy Hollowell
Dream notes gleaned
For astral works
Firmament bodies wellhung with
Sweet heavenfruit
In the blue nightfield of revving
And I wonder at dark sightings ---
Every soft and hard where
Here street walking l'éphémère
Or l'effet mère
Or les faits mère ---
Learning light through shadow now as
Rain strips the day, leaving
Red berries a bare cluster of
Clitoris in the pine.
By Amy Hollowell
Dream notes gleaned
For astral works
Firmament bodies wellhung with
Sweet heavenfruit
In the blue nightfield of revving
And I wonder at dark sightings ---
Every soft and hard where
Here street walking l'éphémère
Or l'effet mère
Or les faits mère ---
Learning light through shadow now as
Rain strips the day, leaving
Red berries a bare cluster of
Clitoris in the pine.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
After Rufo Q's "Further sightings"
Until Further Sightings
by Robert Savino Oventile
Was last week
a slice of bone?
Now it's just there,
everywhere in Paris.
Nobody, hordes,
together again,
out on the boulevards,
like marrow.
No, the town, my friends,
couldn’t take Atala
off the star I need seen.
NOTE: “Atala,” in this poem, refers to the asteroid of that name that occasionally eclipses specific stars.
by Robert Savino Oventile
Was last week
a slice of bone?
Now it's just there,
everywhere in Paris.
Nobody, hordes,
together again,
out on the boulevards,
like marrow.
No, the town, my friends,
couldn’t take Atala
off the star I need seen.
NOTE: “Atala,” in this poem, refers to the asteroid of that name that occasionally eclipses specific stars.
After "Whit(h)er" (Version 2), by Jennifer K. Dick
WHIT(H)ER
Version #3
by Brandon Shimoda
particles float in the morning bonelets break flags accordingly skeletal, sagging splinters, the terrible bags, hers hears my confectionary burns white while steeples while through dust, away, whalebones prick ineluctable sky dost cast a statuesque pillar of bark and foam, an inveigled rib parts like cousins pulling hands from the bridge, a way for carcasses to carry Charon’s boating to eye-thicken portaged without
clothes, with out-closing lace manifest in the baling moss hung from trunk’s desire, is taffy—lenses' bottlebottom like ruby lips drenched through glass openings peer at her (me) we’re ladder-rungs (you, by the belt, by the middle state, the soft foot wedged into the potted drum), echelons steepled in white while dust cloud-climbing Lethe’s muffling wavelets, like boating, like limbs (sacre), livers (orders), lugged over lucubrations of flower-conversation in lapsed artefact—get fur le snow
artifactual plaster where found the Spain, the commonplace powder unhemmed, what will wise lessons restitch rays of oll-revealed atoms, teeth like thieves narrowing into wood, lay (me)(you) horizontal in the kestrel, find (you)(me) shaking a thicket over thistles, tapestries palmfrond our hands over mouth over thighs over sighed sight ululas
tonsils, larynxes…….boxes, springs, conical heads, the tail in the greenth produces a hand…….lettuce…….launched into…….choral…….inflammation laid with ceremony corralled…….by her ……. sere shift ripped forth and forward float low…….ing raft tile tilt, whirl of, while…….white the flesh stretches the world whorled of…….particle…..splitting
Version #3
by Brandon Shimoda
particles float in the morning bonelets break flags accordingly skeletal, sagging splinters, the terrible bags, hers hears my confectionary burns white while steeples while through dust, away, whalebones prick ineluctable sky dost cast a statuesque pillar of bark and foam, an inveigled rib parts like cousins pulling hands from the bridge, a way for carcasses to carry Charon’s boating to eye-thicken portaged without
clothes, with out-closing lace manifest in the baling moss hung from trunk’s desire, is taffy—lenses' bottlebottom like ruby lips drenched through glass openings peer at her (me) we’re ladder-rungs (you, by the belt, by the middle state, the soft foot wedged into the potted drum), echelons steepled in white while dust cloud-climbing Lethe’s muffling wavelets, like boating, like limbs (sacre), livers (orders), lugged over lucubrations of flower-conversation in lapsed artefact—get fur le snow
artifactual plaster where found the Spain, the commonplace powder unhemmed, what will wise lessons restitch rays of oll-revealed atoms, teeth like thieves narrowing into wood, lay (me)(you) horizontal in the kestrel, find (you)(me) shaking a thicket over thistles, tapestries palmfrond our hands over mouth over thighs over sighed sight ululas
tonsils, larynxes…….boxes, springs, conical heads, the tail in the greenth produces a hand…….lettuce…….launched into…….choral…….inflammation laid with ceremony corralled…….by her ……. sere shift ripped forth and forward float low…….ing raft tile tilt, whirl of, while…….white the flesh stretches the world whorled of…….particle…..splitting
After 'sighting' by LP & 'Two Scenes' by AD
Further sightings
by Rufo Q
Nobody in Paris
had seen the moon
until Atala;
now it's everywhere.
Just last week
there it was,
mid-afternoon
like a slice of bone
marrow.
Out-of-town friends
took me out
to take my mind
off it
but mulligatawny
& chicken
chow mein
couldn't stick me
together again.
No, what I need
is country stars,
hordes
of them, stetsons
cocked, cooing
on the boulevards.
After Amanda Deutsch's "Two Scenes" & J.K. Dick's "Whit(h)er"
sighting
Stars and contrary stars, ignoring the aurora,
or staring star-mouthed? green, the brain's
skeletal confectionary portaged together, go on:
stick me together again, give me a new
colour ripped forward, flow, whirl, turned and
clavicle-split, pace-maker'd, peace-brokered
on that moss-ice melting re-
member how it felt
on the tongue, membrane stretching.
what a heist
that was, hoisted (you might say)
on some ceremonial arctic petard, split
particles & participles
dangling. go on: i'm still
waiting.
Stars and contrary stars, ignoring the aurora,
or staring star-mouthed? green, the brain's
skeletal confectionary portaged together, go on:
stick me together again, give me a new
colour ripped forward, flow, whirl, turned and
clavicle-split, pace-maker'd, peace-brokered
on that moss-ice melting re-
member how it felt
on the tongue, membrane stretching.
what a heist
that was, hoisted (you might say)
on some ceremonial arctic petard, split
particles & participles
dangling. go on: i'm still
waiting.
Monday, November 5, 2007
New: TWO SCENES by AMANDA DEUTCH
Scenes 15 & 44 from Amour/Mort/More
Scene 15
Stairs and contrary stairs
stares and dangerous stares
myriad of crumpled notes
I try to read them
Do I try too hard?
_______________________________
We didn’t prepare me
for perfume and metal
and everything is
perfume
. . . metal
. . . . . . . . .here
Scene 44
(I, alone)
Can I escape. make a clean getaway
shimmy up. drain pipe.
hoist. my body.
over the stone wall.
to another side.
or will I get caught. up in. the trap of images.
Go on your way evening boulevard.
lacerer
maroufler
lacerées marouflées
beat it
dust
do it again
make air
call my bluff
mister monsieur detective
you
Scene 15
Stairs and contrary stairs
stares and dangerous stares
myriad of crumpled notes
I try to read them
Do I try too hard?
_______________________________
We didn’t prepare me
for perfume and metal
and everything is
perfume
. . . metal
. . . . . . . . .here
Scene 44
(I, alone)
Can I escape. make a clean getaway
shimmy up. drain pipe.
hoist. my body.
over the stone wall.
to another side.
or will I get caught. up in. the trap of images.
Go on your way evening boulevard.
lacerer
maroufler
lacerées marouflées
beat it
dust
do it again
make air
call my bluff
mister monsieur detective
you
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