The Poker Wars of the Southwest Coast, Contents Page by sean s

Rewording The poker wars of the South West Coast by Lisa Pasold


Preface: Two Wars Between: the South West Coast
Prologue: The Then-insignificant Port City Will Begin Your Real "Noir"

Chapter One:
The Story's Not Only On the Outside Easily

Interlude: Forgettable Face - Leave a Wish, See You After

Chapter Two:
But your work also has a couple of pennies (which lives in a hotel laundry)

Chapter Three:
laundry will search for an every day melting trough over the robot.  Still

Interlude: Era Like No Other Woman

Chapter Four:
even a special lady just does not fit because of your talent (no husband, no kids, no home)

Chapter Five:
Do not care, and a bold determination to give up job to be true professional

Chapter Six:
"You" Leaves Behind and Neither Is: The Citadel of Poker Playing

Epilogue: Where Purposeful's Most Famous Takes a Job

Porches, by sean s

Rewording Jennifer Dick's Passages.

Place somewhere in my out held hand

nodes of a cage, the (un)physical

beat between bars

because

unable to collapse the pause's wave-form

I, because

to collapse the world's porches

holding out some steps for some steps

verbations   barbarations

a p(a(u)l)se s

becaulmes

mreal

wholmdeang

3-day Weekend by sean s

There was nothing on my front porch but quiet
and my hand hanging from my wrist for a few decades more,

and here I am trying to spoil all that.

Whown by sean s

After JKD's Who...

After a conversation, who

now

were I as green as a twister's

now

who

sighting

down the roar unfearing northlike

a cat's eye under basement steps

now, a little farther

a little farther

the boreal under my roots

under the steps of my Brooklyn

were I under my own steps

my o'n

for Daphie (by sean s)

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.

Apparition, translated from the english by sean s

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.

pantalooz by sean s

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

)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

seventina 1 by sean s

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.

Dunvegan, translated from the English by sean s

after Dunvegan by Sue Chenette

The ideal of all in Dunvegan's heart,
like a home of clapped baked stones, the gate
fashioned per the avenue's limit, an apparition
risen from raw and distant property,
its feet quicklimed in dark and permafrost.

Her libations on our heads, then clambering steps
in the child night. Sleep tumbles us a hall's width,
an unadorned bed, a facecloth and bowl,
as plain as the spiritless, bodiless weather.

Morning and the light stroke of an oak's twig
submerges the daylight's plane against your window.

threadjacker by sean s

after JKD's To Be Read, Perhaps, In Reverse

These are tunnels under the sky
because sky is earth
and earth is where we go when we die.

Cliffs and old bottles tell
elsewhere tell the decades of battles and treaties
a cobbled raft crossing history's
spindly winesacks and marriages.

Vows knotted arms drunk in a corner of our labyrinth.
Threadjackers.
You, for example, whispering under

shelled yellowjackets, curled on a stone step.
Betrayed by a chemical, a pathway through matter.
Hospitals under your fingernails

where scratching is useless.
The dulcet clatter of loose change in my pocket
a history like the rest of us.

to the amish cabin by sean s

after Medusa by JKD

A trip to the Amish cabin
A distant will scattered amidst the provinces.
Route 14, a detour

Inside her sensorium surrounded by oversized sunglasses.
Sundaes. Daysuns
in mirrors shining from the backseat.

NYC - part danger, part reason.
A medusa clinging in your hair. A job hunt,
the revving of a leap that never jumps.
Squeezing a meantime novel from clotted sinuses,
another anemic winter on its way, your handwriting
blurring the distance between hibernation,
liberation, hanging from that bed post or the
other

The mileage sleeps her dyedred locks
into the passenger seat curling. Shavings
of connection, split ends flying
down four palms of wheel on the road.

alternate theory, or somersault by sean s

after Nuts & Reverie by Jonathan Regier

A squirrel seen in Australia is like an egg resting on your head.

(I would apologize for associating the frantic and the smooth, the compulsive and the enigmatic, but scholastically, emotionally, it is right, plus you started it.)

Inside the egg are stock rooms, libraries, liquor stores. They are unevenly distributed, chances are. They are Australian, pushing down the waters unevenly in that part of the world.

The squirrels in Australia are more than 99% invisible. But still less than 100%. So I wonder. How do we divide a squirrel? Is it the difference between white and yolk? White and iris? Between wick and childhood?

Between falling up and clinging to gravity by one's fingertips?

Swimming between the stocks, books, and bottles, tow-headed children, crane drivers harnessed: to their avenues, high ledges, memories of upside-down sunset in streaky panes above girderwork, of feet trimmed too short for burning, for the wind.

They are hunting the squirrels there. Their one-percent pelts. Double-hafted algorithms that can part anything, or that's what they were told at purchase, though it doesn't matter because the vendors do not give refunds.

It doesn't matter. The squirrels live a true life and everybody knows it but them. Just another doubt stickying up the measurements. It is a red red. And an unred. Or. Try laying a knife edge to it.

The egg burns with a calm and slow flame. The flocks in the shell squirrel in delight, a chance liquid running up the walls. Broth, liquor and ink. The semisalt of waveform. Tide by balance.

The powerlines die off into radio waves, bobbing on the air, bonehums.

The corner of your vision, a squirrel startles at the snap. The egg falling from one's head spills an ocean with an incomplete margin of error.

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.

geese and poles by sean s (new)

One park morning a man pulls on waders.
Really I only
see his shake as he bounces at
his knee to settle the straps over his shoulders.
The only part to make it into my sensorium, firmly,
classically bridging into the assumption of other things.
He scares away most the geese when he
leans down to grasp.
The rest sail glassily away to out of reach of
anything but technology while he
coffee and cigarette and balding and long-poled
gadgets to scrounge missed metal below the water line.

dormitories by sean s (new)

I want a sleeping pill to
swallow a slow train blowing
its horn through the town at
night crossroads or boys playing their skateboards
up and down park dormitory roofs

old poem by sean s

after NEW: poem by Rufo Q

the most present false earth imaginable

the most imaginable false
whirlpools sent
to what end of ?sills
ladders
thrown sashes:

ah ghosts
ghosts
ghosts are only the relatively uncorpor.
more
less
why measure the wrong things
the wrong things measure why

Zerochre Zerochrome. by sean s

after Unboxed by JKD

I.

It occurs to
Utopia
gift wrapping, shiny thin
ribbn
holiday mornings
stuffed in a paper bag


II.

Zerochre. Your presents are gone because
they are unwrapped.
We will bury now the torn, abbreveiated desire shiny
that is - mercantile sides up, as pleasing
to any discarnate sky father,
always about the front holes.
and their coveres. Maps. The Emperor card.
Thank you doctor.
You've remolded my mind into a heaven on eartht.
Oils thick with grace, the fluid of earth, thich
words, fuck, come. Dry land, doctor.
From doctor. Form, decor.


III.

Dirt back in place, a grass
placemat to shield us tables trajectories from
the glasses' circles of moisture.
Condensed folds of flesh full of grace
stone for a head

Which remainder misbarren, what maskun.
Tsones and hsales. Build us off the numbnis of markers
numbers, toubwers of piled invention. Build

us into starlight, ships of icy skein, plie
the implicit emptily inhmane skie
underneath above the thin atmostpher one in
in all gravites and curvess between
every ancient collapse and explode.

filled stairs by sean s

after Midnight on the NY Subway by Justin T

Mom's purse hangs a
heavy slap to hold to hold to
Filled with leaves
and crying boys and
the smack of lust walking downstairs below you

[ fragment 2 ] by sean s (new.)

A raindrop forms a hypothesis, if

we could be small enough we could


peer through the refracted world
wear it over our pupils. Pass through
our losses


A simple
the perfect shape of freefall no thing
implicated is imperfect but the shape of the cosmos,

other motions.
Aeons of maths. Grammar demands

a particular scale,
a Newtonian formula. The maths and losses

strikes a sentence and splatters
drops smaller and smaller. Our scale scatters.
Matters are too simpl

these thumbsy pre
positions damn this

where is my language at a distance?
Does grammar have a peculiar scale? Is it a


I meant performs.