poems

21 October 2012

#15: Flower

He can call me
a flower if he wants to.
Now look what you've gone
and made me do, what
you've gone and done.

11 October 2012

#14: Reception

White glass red
glass, paper truffle.
Struggle to behave.

#13: Mariinsky

Swan Lake is a story about men
not affecting a woman who changes.
Act Two, a prince moves her
and she does not move, twirls
paralyzed, head snapping
on neck, her hands flat like two tables.
In black before the house opens
their branched arms twitch. "Niet"
calls the wincing director, waving.
A floodlight leaks through his hands.

09 October 2012

#12: Accommodation

He disposes himself in this
part of the house, going and
coming into the foyer, fearful.

A loss takes place in the foyer
under a light, penned-in but
streaming onto him, mold-cast, pale.

He sleeps, knees stacked like blocks,
despite the brightness, tightly,
breathing hot, the mirror a wall.

A leaf has this unattainable flatness.
Short sleep done, the moon out,
the streaming slows, making him frail.

08 October 2012

#11: Pressure

Our table fits into the wall, whites mixing.
Two horsehair baskets cradle bags of pasta.
Wicker wraps a carafe, seamed but holding
together, that cannot serve even as a vase.

Four green bananas lie curled there.
It was hard to buy food yesterday, there was
a street fair, swarming, swooning flowers,
we didn't make a list and were lost and unhappy.
Back on the bus, forgot beer and cashews,
tourists swelling their din in scrape languages.

Jalapenos and zucchini we dump in the crisper,
stacking cheddar with extant butter. Bananas
left on the table to change color begin to.

#10: Gravity

She is far away when she comes in
as he goes to close the door.
He dismantles himself completely
at a compliment. "I only seem
so nice and formal," he explains.
(Keep her separate, might he
do that, wouldn't it sustain him?)
She could sit between
his fingers and sigh there with
a gravity like reclamation - in how
he asked for her or said he would
not ask for her. Sullen, quarantined
indwelling breastbones. Hid by
skin. Basket for the table made from needles.

17 September 2012

#9: love note

 for Gwendolyn Brooks

My carrying voice drops you,
boy I love - being bothered by no one -
'no price ratchet between buttermilk and bars -
a full dozen, full donuts at a five -'
images (in glass) come upside down and
backwards, ends taking their places,
asking 'are you with me?' Taking note of some
palace fight that counted? Dropping what
your voice carries, I represent my expectation.
Across Telegraph, hundreds of blazing, shining donuts,
each repulsive. Or coffee. Or the midnight peaks
of brown cake. Some perfect question:
am I with you? Surely, when
carried, through some wherewithal.

05 September 2012

#8: Backing

There was a fullness or roundness. It was of
Earth, like a planet, like a spherical recognition of itself,
Roundly or unerringly restored. You came back
From Dublin; the States, belching, received you,
Restoring roundness after we drank in
Each others' hearsay, twelve or thirteen months
And change, and settle-down, and your parents
Displeased with a Nepali but accepting because
It's you. For a year your chest pitted
Against you. Now it's more "I don't know
Why they like it. They as a race or a gender
Are absurdity. Almond biscotti, its own genre,

Was all I ate there, besides popcorn at pubs
And soda bread after dinner for sobering.
Kildare flattened; the plane climbed;
There was blankness or shallowness. And here
No one has gone out of his way to restore these."

03 September 2012

#7 Escondido

Which everyone knew its meaning except me.
You can't moon me.
I don't do shame.
Our bellies touch, magnifying mouths
red by paint - not fruit blood, not makeup
(which everyone calls expensive paint except the painter) -
That nude county that gets dust for rain, its nightshade thirst.

I can enjoy that and how your throat, cramped,
fights mine. In Deer Park Buddhist Monastery
wording, red bows to pairs of golden fish.

01 September 2012

#6: How

What and why may not be genuine questions.
While I lived at home, my father had eighteen birthdays.
The last ten I woke early, made coffee, strapped
the dog around my wrist to drag to the boulangerie
for scones and danishes. Returning, the house still
unconscious, but my father'd be putting away the grounds
or standing in the drive holding the paper.
When I abandoned my yellow-wall project, he did baseboards.

31 August 2012

#5: Late For New York

I do not do what I am supposed to
because I should - that I should is repellant,
that is usual. So I forgo movement at home:

'Didn't you end up at Acacia?' 'No.
Expectations. I gave the night away.'
'I can not sleep on the plane.'

Bothered, I hang in uneasy languish:
heart of palm, of a virgin, heart of
artichoke, the exertion of lulling.

When I visit I will see Ryan
and Aidan and George, though I am only
visiting for my sister.

I am not late, but terrored that I might be.

#4: Souvenir

I molded a forgiving quality when she slept.
Watching sleep, more than watching
one who thought you were sleeping, who watches
you, must mark a willingness to keep silent.

But not weakness, since sleeping people
have give, they cannot say they see you.
In Palm Desert a woman sold me turquoise
drops, pyramids rounded in Mexican silver.
They bobbed in my ears when I nodded,
the burnished tricolor of pillows,
and swiveled when shook.

#3: Mary's Brother

I grow up to find you're not different.
No wonder Larry drank.

I meant I'm not different,
except I can't
drink because my head thought
punishment nourished it.

Unteachable
or not in the mood?
I kept misunderstanding:
John's sapphire hat blustered.

To put this off for health,
Larry said, and drop dumb talk.

A molten Hefeweizen maedchen.
I am not trying, John balked.

29 August 2012

#2: Theory

I keep wanting to drop the same thing
or person, or amount of money, for future
reference, to then map the extant coordinates.
That way, only affirmation shows up in a scan.

To betters I can chart my two-forward, one-back walk,
calling nausea humility - you buy four bananas
and have set to eat them in a pattern - one
shrivels, is broken by flies, but you hold
your pattern, so in your kitchen, everybody wins
(even the dead banana, since it belonged to you, who won).

27 August 2012

#1*: Lyn Exercise

*labeled "#1" because I am starting over with the one-a-day for the Fall 2012 academic semester, the first full week of which began today. 

What is worth keeping, my friend
said, is what you will use longest.
She folds and sniffs, fending off
a cold. I don't have anything good
to tell her about today. Even though today
was sunny, campus crowded.
I felt at odds with my body and guessing
about others' made it worse. Asking where
do I find this, which I thought would be easy,
made a mess of some clerk's morning.

It is not worth keeping the clerk's face in my mirror,
and I am practicing reverse-empathy today.
I am the practice of applying the theory, rising with it, like breathing.
To speak to my friend, I use old words but nicely.
I feel - she feels - we are helping each other get inoculated.

26 August 2012

#135: Verzichten

Waive and abstain are one-same
verb in the other speech I practice.
Behind me a beloved boils coffee
before going to open the door.

31 July 2012

#134: Poem Begun Yesterday


For Hannah

Boy, were we chaste. I did
this and that thing sans choice. But
word suck when I want to
thank you actually, & do it
better & without them so it’s clear
how much stands undiscovered.
You stand lemony in me. He
will or will fail to learn. Boy was
that not about fairness.
Kinder would be not to ask is
the advice. Don’t wait or bank
on type for smack-lip satisfaction;
the wood door draped around the
key – our bitter urban
scent of used material picked up
a scene of the next workplace,
standing in and of new trees.

26 July 2012

Tinctae*

You, I said, blue stars at dawn as they fade. Morning storms shrivel as you, stiff legged, take wet bites of smoke. Black-eyed you slink the progression of shadows while still blind stars, immediate dawn, licked tear ducts, I said, lymph nodes, wrung out, white-mouthed – and you stay stars at dawn, even to strangers. No one will miss the fuming.





* tinct.ae, Latin.
 VPAR   3 1 NOM P F PERF PASSIVE PPL tinct.ae
> tingo, tingere, tinxi, tinctus  V   [XXXAO]
> tinguo, tinguere, tinxi, tinctus  V   [XXXAO]
wet/moisten/dip/soak; color/dye/tinge/tint, stain (w/blood); imbue; impregnate;

24 July 2012

I am a new way of moving
energy around, "monkey offers
peach," confused but unopinionated,
another nervous drone.

22 July 2012

#133: Sunday

Someone does
kitchen dishes,
morning coughing.

Shrewd, she chewed
gum last night,
barely drank or kissed.

A dead dog woke
her up, smearing the
dream with black liner.

She coughs, but
none sounds like
it will be last.

Whistling, she strokes
the high kettle;
"I know, I know."

12 July 2012

Wave to the Train

The same train bays from Sacramento
in our houses, but in yours it is closer.
An unforeseen shake-up, says control,
hurts oversight. My body hurts and I don't want to stress it with making poetry. Making is effortful and I'm not even awake really. The coffee dehydrates before it kicks. Reading Bly only makes me more depressed about my political ignorance. Is that knowledge, that I know to be depressed? Or that I know ignorance. If I had the interest wouldn't I get informed? Yesterday my shelter dog turned seven and 7-11 served free mini Slurpees and unlimited refills. Hearing the train caught in the ivy fence behind my kitchen conjures what might be an earliest memory, toddlerhood summer at Powerhouse Park by the ocean on 15th Street, being up in the tree with parents' arms locked beneath me like nets, batting and crying to the passing Coaster. It stopped in Solana Beach and continued south somewhere weekdays around 4, when we went to the park. I made my first friends there and learned to climb trees. The drawling horn sent out many rich tones at once and it was happy-pain loud, the blast like tunnel wind. Then the red bars would blink back to neutral and opened the split roads to beach traffic. We could get pizza from Del Mar Pizza or parents could get beer from Americana. I feel lazy and unfulfilled when my tries at poems stall and self-absorbed half-memories leak out like soreness from lax muscles. There was nothing Bly-sad about Powerhouse Park in the 1990s except leaving it when I watched other kids have tantrums and resolved to be well-behaved for my parents.

06 July 2012

There are new green and brown bottles at the window
and little prayer flags strung up the door over a sari.
The mattress sleeps sadly by piles of clothes.
A man picks apart the recycling and pockets his choice.
Sunday is when I will install a new bed.

29 June 2012

Neil Young can start a song with 'There's a town.'

23 June 2012

#132: Landscaping

I could not look worse in my license picture. In the past,
Dad heaves spit over into the sink, washing his face.
Do you think they would let me retake? I
ask through the door. "There's a fee though."
When I am out of town I say I hate California.
Out back, gardeners buzzing down wisteria.

Scaly rolls cool, iced on a rack in the kitchen.
The view of out back shows the gardeners' mouths
bandaged in red bandanas, sweat dyes their shirts.
Mom places a plate of cantaloupe outside for them.
I think about Mexico, Tijuana and tamarind candy.

#131: Carlton

Why keep from extending neighborly affection?
All the country is my work area, but the when
makes difference. A window I have not
looked at a long time I see now
does not reflect my house back to me
but shows the next-door garage and its white
contents, nothing, and when open shows
the street. A whip and rifle decorate the wall.
I turn to breakfast again and away from it,
nauseated by smell of old coffee. On his porch
he simmers with a cigar and the TV
turned to the horse races ($100 on Dairy Cream).
We stole summer from that man (his
beer and oranges) and grew up with it.

17 June 2012

Love Horoscope, 17 June


Nobody else can make you suffer. She knows
she is pretty and he tells her you’re
pretty and she tweaks, every party’s
trills lilting. The moon moves out
of Taurus at five in the morning
on Sunday. On waking he is pretty.

Mercury (18 degrees Cancer), sesquiquadrate
(waxing). Consider there is no
pretty. She beats him with the
thought of lack, of “want of.” Neptune
(3 degrees Pisces fast frigid).
His “pretty” is translated to her “not.”

He gets away with turning away instead
of back to the crest of the hill with an
ill-disputed statue glowing on it. By night
pairs and groups have gathered, idling,
mangled, trying not to flail in a telling,
to watch searchlights from concerts hit the monument.

15 June 2012

Loose Translation


Book 2
Neptune, swollen, rocky
From surface to shoreline, crushed,
Plummets. Glittering wooded Libyan coast.
Pious Aeneas pining: new city,
Alien queen, dead wife, brine
Beach, happier soldiers. Some cut it
In pieces, quiver, flay in strips.[1]
People like
Aeneas because he vacillates. They identify.
They hear change falling out of his pocket.

Book 4
Sic velut[2] they arrested Celeste. Broke horses.
Heroes mama’s boys. Servants pour
Water over their hands. John Lee Hooker:
“Me and my baby don’t get along so well”
If Marilyn’s
        Not a natural blonde
There’s no such thing, but who’s
Counting?

Book 6
Hurry up and forgive me
Everyone.

Book 12
The curves, of course,
Were real,
the knots of the horse.
Our hero pours faith into remakes
And sequels forthcoming.


[1] Aeneid I.212: “Pars in frusta secant veribusque trementia figunt”
[2] “Just as if”

Alternatives


When readily available for use
I keep things neat,
And without going anywhere
I would be hard to find.

Kept things are neat.
I like hiding from the weather.
I would be hard to find
Behind the ferns, my place beyond the pool.

I liked hiding from the measure
Of how brown summer was
In my place beyond the pool behind the ferns.
From the looks of it my friends are sunning too.

What summer barely was
Was careful not to give its place away.
My friends were sunning from the looks of them,
But they, too, took preventative measures.

I am careful not to give my place away
Though ready and available for use,
Too taken by alternatives and measures
To go anywhere without.

Johnny Come Back


It was ugly how Aphrodite choked up on the surface with a sea-rash.
I wore blue silk and black silk ribbon and a
Fishtail braid to junior Formal, tossed the white
Corsage. Now it’s Judy’s turn to enroll at Bennington and to cry.

Judy whose father ate the exo- and endocarp of fruits.
Cellulose don’t hurt and can’t horses eat apples whole?
Today I am tough though not divorced, and eat all parts,
Johnny’s swimming wings that win him titles tautening.
Sick hacks to think I don’t know what they’re planning,
Olive curtains as far as they drew before sticking.
Bettina visiting mad Hölderlin wore eyeliner nicely done and
Transcribed all he madly said to play back after.

Home Shift


I miss the familiar wildness. School does me
Good is my report to family friends at spring parties
Of the reunion type. Get my own
Chardonnay outside. Our blissed-out faces bleach

The beach house walls. Rob rich, Kathleen remarried.
Take it from homeowners: La Jolla’s worth the wait!
Gummies in glass bowls butt fried chicken’s flat platters.
Get more of a different wine as recent grads

Mangle the foosball table in a tricked-out garage.
Longboards form a corner phalanx. I do not miss
The course of forced camaraderie, that hoax’s bitterness,
After words, civility washed of twice-tied hands.

Mere minutes after, the compulsion compunction. Need
Clean fingernails, he apologized. The faces on the shelf
Fell squarely in his lens, cloistered, relative triumphs.
How it’d been. Meant no more festive surprises.

Aisles

The longer he’s seen, the less a man looks like himself.
Brave was the first woman to take herself home
From a movie. The trip inside
Has the same seeming outcome.

In the common space near the apartment
Ivy will bleed over rubble
Which will keep saying nothing.

At the grocery store, numbered aisles.
In the kitchen, dirt, tile, eighteen
Seconds on the microwave timer and a red set
Of Matryoshka dolls, nesting like Chinese boxes.

Back Lot Palette

Henry Treadway

Sunlight on the fence makes his covered canoes
From before look like Rothkos: tomato and jewel
Tone turquoise that perch on balsa. There was
A suicide down the block before. The peeling
Red paint is marbled like black cake or wax.
Spigots branch up with rust in their noses
Beneath leaves. Strokes of white stucco
Scar up the back of the building from which
Henry fell eight floors, the balcony
People will stop kissing on until at least
Summer since there is always the fire escape,
Its tomato colored stairs and dimpled rungs.

The face was a chamomile scab. Yes, it’s been
Sunny this winter. A tarp, chocolate, lifts its chest
To fan the canoes. The lot is matte
And dumb as its trees, sulking, sweep and bend.

07 June 2012

Casuelas Cafe, Palm Desert

Humberto, our waiter from last time, was taking the same tables as Thursday, and we were seated outside so Ivonne got us. The tables outside were thin slabs of off-white marble on iron rods painted teal, boxed by solid little mintgreen chairs. The cushions of the chairs were glazed over with teal plastic. Their iron backs were cast into the shape of overlapping palm fronds; the grooves of the seaweedlike fronds had been thoroughly oxidized into whiteness, giving the back patio the appearance of shimmering underwater. This was helped by the misters positioned beneath the dozen ceiling fans. Patchy masks of bougainvillea gave shade. Apart from the table where my sister and mother sat, there were only four other occupants, a pair of leathery Hawaiian-shirted lizard elderly hunkered down over their huevos rancheros.
Ivonne: Quesadilla vegetal y flautas!
We drank pink lemonade. After the meal I fished a piece of ice from S' water glass to wash my hands as it melted, then dropped it on my side plate. As it bled smaller and smaller I recalled the chips I'd laid on my burnt knees poolside. Today was significantly cooler than the weekend at one hundred and two.
In the bathroom I examined at the walls (painted tile) but found no place to change a baby. There were two mirrors plated in worked tin facing each other. On my way back to the patio I saw a big-shouldered Mexican man holding a baby in his broad arm, the baby with a pink bow tied around her head, his tiny wife chowing down on chips and a black plastic mortar of salsa.
The old couples had gone by the time I made it outside. Mom went on the hunt for Ivonne, who had disappeared without leaving our check but who burst through right after that, flustered. The wind picked up sending the mist away from our faces, which grew warmer. Waiting for Ivonne to return with the credit card worked us into a little postprandial paroxysm of laughter that culminated in S spitting a mouthful of water gloriously across the table into my leftovers.
We signed the receipt at the bar - Ivonne had vanished again. The big-shouldered man stood in the parking lot beneath a palm tree with the baby, its ears pierced with gold-and-diamond studs. The man at the barbershop next to Casuelas strode out in a blue polyester cloak to wag his finger at his friend's new baby. Eventually the petite wife came out of Casuelas, patting her hair, and the barber gave her a happy squeeze, his black hair sweating.

29 May 2012

#130: The Catlike King

He reigns in his close kingdom. Being big,
I would not reinforce his small, fast strongness
As pre-established subjects with their charms do.

It is not my life’s work to fit into small spaces,
Neither self-imposed sign charts nor a made-up face
For morning errands, orchestrated run-ins.

Sizably, though, there is no demurring, a known bind –
Social acrobatics turn on bending –
Some tight ropes narrow to sabotage my wide feet.

The catlike king, like Alice’s red queen,
Is feisty, ill-proportioned, never sorry
(For who is sorry when he has a kingdom?),

But dramatics upset his royal guts.
It’s seen as selfish to lead him outside town
When I get the white desire all ex-pats get

To raid pressing like a planet on my back,
The unfairness of my size, half-blinding, matching
The infidelity that denies difference again.

28 May 2012

"Austerity Measures:" Occupy Transcript, 143B Discussion, 11/10/11

The state is rich.
The debt is owned by us.
And if enough people stand up and call bullshit on it that's how these things have happened.
The wealth is here, okay, if you don't want to believe it -
Just that the money is not there. The money is not there.
"I think one of the things we have to remember - ah, see what you've started..."
What power does - What Master narratives do - Birgenau can talk
Without irony about preserving the Free Speech Movement and so forth.
You have paper, right, and it's a commodity with a cash value of a penny. Not even that.
But if you write a poem on it, what's it worth?
As the song goes - absolutely nothing. (Say it again.)
It's a gift economy, it goes in the face of big economy in which profit is key.
I'm gonna give you this worthless thing. For god's sake give it to the police.
I think also of the divine horseman of Haitian mythology -
The devotee of voodoo. You become the horse that the deity rides.
You are an ascetic, suddenly worthless.
But one feeds the body as well.

#129: A Dish of Liquor

after Wallace Stevens


"Why is the Liquor on a Dish?" 


I mean enough about the peaches. Running hot
Was racy at the time the car got brought up.

The china, curdled white, had tipped its contents
Before the band, in velvet, set up its iron stands

For fanfare. Irish coffee perfumed the nightshow.
Curtains of sorry smoke rapped at the windows,

Shut, not seeping out where it might poison stars.
A word, syrup, the hostess saved for the miser

In ebony silk in the corner worked to blank avail.
Crouching in her fabrics, thanking the ailing uncle,

The house-head-elect next sopped the dish spill herself,
And, warm, addressed the servants in their language.

If any guest noticed the chamber’s fruit-rot
Cologne, it was Uncle, and he kept mute.

26 May 2012

#128: Simplicitas

both light and sound are
of the body, which
is redundant.

23 May 2012

STRIKE SONNET

If in the sifting through excess the shape or message comes,
Everything about the enterprise was success. This earns a point or
Check or drink. It means to say naturally, process. Like a long
Guest-starring list: these my effects, those my engagements,
Most things I have broken off. Better throw in everything
You know about birds. It’s that time where you’re here
Signing up for some good-to-be-bad state that burns up summer.
I’d guess that’s a season that’s troubled by staying relevant.
In lieu of work, catalogue: drugs, gum, check, pen, banana,
Phone, drum, nail, file, cards, drafts, candy jar without candy.
These old Jews could be family, we cross our ankles the same.
Better to throw in everything I know about the bird. Mating
Here has no ritual. I forget who you are exactly. This occupation
Got involuted. It’s not something you’re glad to be rotten with.

#127: New Pantoum

May Swenson asks, how will I hide?
She is sick of hiding without meaning
It, or feeling hidden. Sick
Nearly to death.

I am mean to hide out in my sickness
Without creams or medicine.
Like death, nearly.
By and by, I let my hair go bad.

Without medicines or dreams,
I am not presentable enough.
My bad hair I let go by,
Inflamed feet swelled with blood.

Enough of me is not presentable.
How will I hide?, asks May Swenson
With swelled, bloody feet inflamed,
Sick of hiding meaning without.

21 May 2012

#126: Feeling Bad About Anne Sexton, I Think About My First Book

Catching like depression,
Fetching like surliness,
I take consolation like a dram;
I cultivate it. Shame is the driver.
What I require is
A group of comprehenders.

Stopping moving might mean illness or
Bad genes. That might be the scarier.
I crave cultivation. Innocence
Is the breaker. Put your ear to

Oceans who punch beaches like bullies.
Take your ear out to get any leftover
Nervousness drunk. I don’t pretend
To have a summer project.
Youtgottoocloseandareblurry

I am losing it

The two machines!
One's fast and one outgrows you.
The bodied one which grew
Runs best when clean.
But cleaning is a grind.
Pores reek, corners rust,
Blue-eyed blind men breathe disgust
When the metal edges whine.
One sinks, the other is a ship,
Both creak their hollow hulls.
Neither swallows their blue pills.
Murple marvel graenous mop.

#125: Anne Overture

This was a question, like
Could he have made an overture
Of a nature towards you?
Awfully. Sick and slenderly. Sloven.

Put nicely, it's nice knowing
How he feels, knees mirrors, knots,
The shadowy tails of sharks. Froth,
Moon-white where it crashed, sets.

Safer to avoid interrogation, needy
Patience crossing her legs. Horribly.
"I don't remember" loaded pronouns,
Their claims thick like jumper cables.

18 May 2012

#124: Pantoum for the Last Week


It wasn’t common knowledge people talked
About not knowing where they were going.
There was a moon everyone knew to look at
Looking at it, gray; reflexive.

About knowing where they were not going
The students were certain. With self-interest
Looking at it, gray and reflexive,
They drank and kept no conscience.

The students, certain with self-interest,
Ignored mirrors and gauged others’
Not-drinking, keeping conscience,
Or pledged to stay mute, a circle with a face.

Ignoring mirrors to engage others was
Not common knowledge. People talked
Or pledged to stay mute, circles with faces
Everyone knew. There was a moon to look at.

#123: Suicide Pantoum

Realizing how you go on
So much in your head is
No surprise. Lilies in their trough
Come up again.
So much is in your head.
No fire burned. No new house
Comes up again.
Your death was of two options.
No fire burned your new house
And no cop caught you.
Your death went two directions,
Turned over like red eggs.
And no cop caught you,
Realizing how you went on
Turned over like a red egg:
No surprises, lilies in their trough.

#122: Work Poem

I can not do this any easier (work)
than I can see it being done by betters
four of whom ride with no names
two of whom are secretly in cahoots of
love, one of whom hides he is man.
Bleeding
secretly among young men, a loud
mouth. Everything today is done
with flat eyes by a processor.
I am not
how you get your name
everywhere. Ask a king that.

I would have been a great
fill-in-the-blank.
I am not
sorry not to have gotten away. What is
a smooth close is also a flaxen chain.

09 May 2012

#121: Phoenix Sheraton


Lights rooted up from the pool in mimosa bands.
Heather wore a purple lace bikini, sunglasses, French
Square manicure, navel ring, gothic-font
Shoulder tattoo. The sun makes me schizo

She sipped her drink. In for the Oregon game
I am the darling of nature Beer for
The tailgate from the white gas station
On the Arizona corner, animatronic

Dog spins from its tail like a demon
Something bloody tried to cross the road
The Ravens are beating the Bengals in the 4th
The Steelers got the Browns

Grotesque slick birds swarm phone lines
And San Diego's on top of Oakland with 9:48 left
Pittsburgh's ahead of Cleveland with 9:37 left
Sunrise in the busyard

08 May 2012

#120: The Gray Rock in the Woods

There was a puddle on the
playground. Their
dogma really needs being messed with.
I can find a lot
of sounds and make them, I can
not live another life. How did I
ever think we were going to
get something for free?

04 May 2012

How the inherent is therein, how that's its definition.
(I have smoke in my stomach, don't feed me.)

03 May 2012

#119: I Am Going

Soon I am going
to end this interregnum and key
the castle. It was surprising, the spit.
I am going to cheat
in and on speech. I am going
to tell on it. Someone always does.

28 April 2012

#118: Fletcher Cove

I'm secretive and feel like he leans
very hard on her. It would be hard
to know without my divulging how

well my scaffolding holds up.
Games of comparison are the most
reviling games and common, and

petty. "On the other side of us
is the train station, just drive
across and it's beneath the big arch."

He makes an arch with his arms.
She says something and reverses,
not leaning on him because he is weak.

26 April 2012

#117: English

out of necessity created its own
word for scalded milk, scaly
potatoes, GMO green grapes distended
with water, their skins tight.

24 April 2012

#116: Chauvet France

It is typical to glorify even
the errors and the stakes that looked
like errors who ended up dead
ends: "I don't
regret it." But the best glory happens
at a distance. A director might film
something hideous: albino crocodiles
gory-eyed from toxic runoff
that you see yourself in, regretful,
ignition sparks issuing from the bad
choice to align yourself with that.
"I don't think alligators have a choice."
To glorify an error is typical and
blind like the crocodiles of the Rhine.

16 April 2012

Lockjaw

That heavy bear who sleeps with me

- Delmore Schwartz


The grinding scream of trismus

As hope’s ugly hypotaxis

Shouted on trains in men’s voices,

Apologetic in text, shirking,


Overthought of, kept from slipping

In again; talk gets mutely hurt by

Big brown black bear dumb and futile

Even clawed. The grinding failure


Of missing out shoots three. A couple

Hours later another three get shot,

Then again in three then

Stop. It reeked of extinct uncle


Larry’s alcohols and thieved silver

dollars. This bear had that man’s eye.

These submitted him to death.

14 April 2012

Fable

There once was a man who was more of a young artist who was in the habit of willing his possessions. Only, he was wrong in that these things and feelings he willed were not his; or rather, that he could only truly will them once. To will the same possessions of his, first to one, then to another, he at first saw to be a flawless production; but it soon became apparent that in order wholly to give anything a second time to a second person, or a third to a third, he was obliged therein to take back from the first recipient his gift or thought or feeling. Such distribution charts proved wearisome, and the young artist grew irritable. For in his desire to give and to will things and feelings his own, he realized that in first giving them away he had relinquished true ownership of them. There were, as children said, No Get-Backs.

To undermine his own singularity in this respect, and un-ownership, the young artist deceived the first recipient of his gifts by replacing them one night with decoys of identical size and shape, and similar in texture; the true gifts he then bestowed, though in secret, upon their second recipient. These were well-received. All parties remained ignorant of how the true owner of things and feelings can only ever claim his poverty. Nothing belongs to the artist or the recipients of things and feelings. To unlock this fable, reconsider the second recipient as the first and the first as the second, and the artist ever himself, and the gift he possesses and bestows Infidelity.

05 April 2012

Christ,

Are you afraid of being alone?

#115: Reading

But eliding is where I draw my lines.
I still get sick. Tell me it was for
Nothing, or it was for me. Throw

Out what writes nice with thin
Tips. Fulfill patience and you find
Your drink in your own command,

The opposite of fidelity. She sits
There, handsome. I drink
More of it as it gets passed around.

Acquaintance shoulders pass and
Make smoke breaks, choking
On news of new admissions, flights

Into Brooklyn, I saw you were there
Last week, I was a cactus of
Acceptance at your going.

27 March 2012

#114: Run Aground

The sun peaks twice: outside inside the trees,
upstairs bleaching the hardwood. The light
lasts until seven in the bathroom - luckiest
prettiest child defts her hair into a backwards braid,
preys on her mothers' perfumes. She is thirty.
Late for a party. Wearing Nana's foxfur, Chanel's
eye paint and lipliner. Borrowed heels too, nude
leather. Runs aground once shooed from the family
house like a sickness to go on and have fun.
Prettiest picks at her face as she rounds a
corner in the car's clear mirror. Luckiest
arches like stuck with lightning. Nestles
up in her shoulder to smell herself, lips
curled to keep the stain on staying vivid.
It is good to be late for a party even though
she hasn't seen the hosts since a last descent
into the city, and forgets how to talk like herself,
and kids herself they will believe her background check.

25 March 2012

#113: Reruns

Here is the cheat of optics, that every
thing you look at long enough begins
to move, that Bridget Riley exploits not
paints. Exploits and paints. Made
salad from papayas out of season,
black-strapped au pairs their mothers'
Colombian kitchens spare, drowning
their voices with streams of urine
(Of course I can't hear you).
How we feel the book says shows
us how we paint. The book was made
for children, read to them by Carolina.

22 March 2012

I'm only Californian, I can't compete.
I am not going home tomorrow,
stale bread.

#112: Hemingway/Sauerbruch

Didn't think to be weird and compulsive or mannish
giggles. Or to crudely. Or to briefly or reject it.
A safe route is the misquote or mishearing, "no
it's not"
550 MG TAB every twelve as needed, elide between
slips of salt water or to cut the cramping. Sever
what didn't think to sprawl in the surgeon's book
his operating precise as to be recorded. Or to
reject the organs gently and die from that.

18 March 2012

Neolexia

Uglier than thought, the new word, sticker

Cleaner plainer, free, sober its guilt.

Someone should be here with me it

Thinks I’m so beautiful. Flicks flicker.

Other chests, carved locked outings, seek

Definition. The word man draws no jewels,

Retrieves a cup for wind from a dark region

Of verandas. Said the same in Arabic

Not Hindi. Leave with me, the pretty chest

Heaved. I still smell sticky from the spiderweb

Of lecture pared down and bruised, split ends

Sometimes heap in clumps, oil strands, reading

Frays in cosmos as shields of what each meant,

A unified pool leaping. Each bound strip spent

Foam caked at a sanguineous hole or porous grill brick

Stick-stabbing or scrubbing, movements for two dancers

Lids gaping in fatigue and not in awe until touching

Returns them to a region of dark, only verandas.

05 March 2012

#111: Palm

San Bernadino. Her friend drank
The weekend; with the purchase
Of chambory blue and red flannel she felt
Glad to be back, California a hot analgesic.
And windy and arid. Students put off
Work to smoke and examine hands for life
And heart lines, though illiterate at it.

20 February 2012

#110: Drunk Transcription

I don't even remember how I feel about this / This isn't rejection though (affirmation) / / I don't even remember how I felt about it - I don't think I said pathetic (I said pathetic just now) / the worst thing is / or did I say it was scary? You said frightening? / But it came from (Kurt Vile - "Runner Ups") / Did I tell you I found one of my bosses on OKCupid? & he's not out at work, it's so weird and sad - / maybe that one guy did kill himself recently cause of his roommate /
You're writing a lot more than what we said. I couldn't help noticing. / An egglet. Aglet. / Why did it just get so funny /
____________________________________________________________
"Babe I'm Gonna Leave You" - Led Zep /
Why do these institutions bring us together & then tear us apart / Did it start with what we were just saying? It's not fair I had a hand in this somehow I was in your presence while you were writing it ^ & then I said something like "be clear." Like, what did I just say? / (pause to smoke.) (sip of beer.) (light candle.) Careful. Is this what you just wrote down now? / Can't read at (/it) all. That's a misquote - I'm kidding.
Scratches continuation of wrist/thumb. You told me abt. GREAT GIG IN THE SKY and I forgot to write it down - Flaming Lips the same day "Soft Bulletin" / Light it again! What are you writing? Read some of it to me. (I read.)
I like to think of it as a sign of my excellent digestive abilities. / Yeah, I thought that yesterday I wanted to share it with somebody. This is a good song, but I like "La La Love You" more. Don't write this down it's not worthy / swore myself off of saying "bless you" in middle school / But I'd rather not for whatever reason
____________________________________________________________
Do you Deerhoof? ("Cast Off Crown") / Smells like Christmas, right? / That's what he said. No, it's not like that - I like it. It's like everything I say has been given - LIKE - a greater importance. (Guitar riff.) (screeching) (What was the bird that Ryan used?)
I'm all for the "gray" with an A. Are you out for all counts now? On all accounts. / What does this say here? / My house. Keep writing. (laughs) (My Bloody Valentine - "Sometimes") / I wasn't paying attention so I need to see it ("Lost in Translation") again. It's one of the few movies -
What do I do as an "ich"? Transcribe?
Make sure to get them in there.
Bedbound. At least 4 days. I'm glad we don't have periods and that guys don't bleed out of our dicks every month. It was really a good joke when he told it / You are your own lunar calendars and guys are excluded from that naturality.
____________________________________________________________
My Bloody Valentine - "Blown A Wish"

16 February 2012

#109: Cassandra

There was a lot to say about it, but
we switched roles. He spoke freely to my body
while it kept to itself. It pretended
still to be clothed. Swells rose to two, three feet.

Spoke abstractly and discouraged questions
Hamlet reduced to interrogatives.
An old mug with a blend of two herbals
Artemis sickens at the eagle feasting.

We wore our hats to go home in and stopped
traffic. The curtain of the body bloomed.

14 February 2012

#108: Black Lagoon

Back to coffee and falling
asleep with the light in the den on
Parcas volvere sic - the ego without questions,

only doubts and purging hatreds
it walked freely in the rooms of its house.
Toads at the mouth of the forest swamp

where my mother saw 1960s monsters
low, snarl, suck. The ego sees it since
my mother took it to visit Pennsylvania,

showed it the first place of its fear.
Until that point it was only startled.
Blackberries braided the entrance to the muck.

09 February 2012

#107: City Lights

Why is it I can't wear
necklaces without thinking
to choke?

I guess there was an excess
of Orbison my parents played.

08 February 2012

#106: Ego Boundaries

for Anne Sexton

What's more exciting than "my father is a jew"
or "I will not kill myself"?
Camp or kitsch, I hate it, but not him.

I could not be less that person now
salting half my plates,
watching the striped girl slurp

and read her book. For $4.50
I bought something used,
called my mother to be crude
about men again. Told her I hadn't

let him anywhere, which was true,
which I also hated. Quashed that.

#105: Rapunzel

Separately from this is how best to move
Among my chambers amidst dull hills of hair
And no room for a companion -

The labor of hefting it intangible
Even at the thought of princes underfoot
As many hundreds of pounds it must weigh

How unlikely a man with a grip as to scale it
The other kingdom's tower strips
Of its flags after sundown so we go

Halves on everything

07 February 2012

#104: Anodyne

Eating lotus and raspberry Godiva with me,

Maddi at midnight in the Leucadia

Barnes & Noble parking lot drunk on Chablis.

Chomping to take back New Zealand, her new boy.


But there is no free and she is drunk and

A cop almost sees us. Fog crowding

Planted birches in gray seats. Some people

Are unhappy here because it’s not where


They’re from, but that’s not you. Your roots

Will save you from that. But it’s an unreliable

Voice she gets when she gets like this

Shelling her eyes out on a black beach.


I use her in a sentence, image pictures

To drill my brain with it. An easy dieresis

Of a queen in denial and the homeland

She gator-tackles. Perfect is easy.