Wednesday, 29 December 2010

about being silent.

Switched lights target low flight
scattering feathers of
constant re-hashed time flow
the weaving thoughts of
pre-poetics clamor for
the front lobe pole position
on page and drawn reality

these spirits of miss-formed
P's and E's
grumbling sigils of
peace and ease
easily piecing together the
frozen leopard
from cross-state

we can walk on it
and ignor the cracking doom
of ruined sweaters and
substandard living
gasping for an overhang that
can keep us out of the cold

it brings you to me,
shivering with the
spirit of lowell and
san fransisco, chicago, and

I walk through a miasma
of reconsideration to find it,
breathing underground
with the heaving chests
of social alcaholism

I twist my body and mind around
it's pointed pen, vessel for
spirits of lowell, san fransisco,
chicago, and home

I write you down so that
you can be small on the page,
and so
so big when I breathe you

out onto the new

freed from my mind but
contained in images of
the silent, wanting to
be silent
the silence


being silent isn't knowing how to make no sounds, it's knowing what sounds you can make and still not be heard.

be silent.

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

snow day

it's not the snow
coming down in a steady winter coat
a rested hand upon the head of
our slush filled shoes
unreal to us until it
at our slush fearing feet

the anticipation of what
comes after the fall
my unrested mind trying
to imagine a world with
calm, rested presence of
earthly context
this universal feeling we get from this
worldly phenomenon
this crystallized realization of
the worth of our roofs, jackets,
and communal warmth

it swirls around lightposts
illuminated and uniformly
the golden halo now grey and
so bright and grey
so bright and grey

sinking through the souls of our feet
the souls of our walking and wishing
forward feet

framed by tree and lamp and this thought and

it's not
the snow

it's how the world might look after

how the spaces will be filled
and the burners in our
hearts will be stoked with

it's not
the snow

it's how I imagine you might look with flakes in your hair

and how you might squint so you can see

it's not
the snow
the things that might come after
and how they'll all

Saturday, 11 December 2010

about fixed form and the lounge

the sound amplified by the
sound of my dying frequent friends
sequentially dying friends of
subsequent things that end in
super-ceded thought of dreams

snake skinned tambourines
dictionary poets with eyes the size of wings
could concieve the fashion
but terrified of things
that sleep away the rainy days
and bring us to our knees

what are these things these stupid things
that take away our dreams

these jabberwocky, made up monsters
face eternal screams

these fixtures in the walls of carvings
made of brick and sex and starving
fueled with liquor, soda, frosting
caked with sweetness, sad, and roasting
kicking it with teachers, teaching



fade away you tired things
you ghosts of what that could have been
you mock me with your cheerfull grin
you take me through the phases

I try to pass but stop some how
my mind is teatherd to the crowd
and murmmurs with this silent. loud.
and cracks with stifled laughter

the room the room the sacred room
protected by 3 gold dubloons
could open up the sun and moon
and steady nihilistic crazes

face yourselves and prey good health
on those who share this wordy wealth
and thank you, for you share yourself
and that's what we're all after



the barriers of minds are breaking
talking, speaking, cracking, quaking
falling into sleepers wakened
and by 7:30 these seats are taken

we angels covered in the dirt of the world
breathing underground and sing

through wood and ground and jazz and stairs
our pen and paper bring

from passing through it seems
I saw between these things
we are steel, we are flynt
god given and sent
believed the walls for their scent
but we never relent

smaerd fo thguoht dedec-repus
ni dne taht sgniht tneuqesbus
fo sdneirf gniyd yllaitneuqes
sdneirf tneuqerf gniyd ym fo dnuos
nht yb deifilpma dnuos eht

Wednesday, 8 December 2010

something about the tears of oblivion, Brighton

what if these baby-blue gifts from the maternal aegis,
were nothing more than protective
torn from the blinking reality of
assume existence
do you die when I turn my head,
can you feel it,
does it hurt?

interrupted meta-narratives of
meta-understanding and meta-
cannot save me from \the screaming idea
that when I cannot see you,
you are not there.

I am the cross-stitched pattern of flesh
that you are dreamed from and
I have not heard silence since
I kissed you\and the blood in my head
rushed [out of my ears, onto the floor,
and dissolved in the amen filled void
down near the Matterly Bowl

when I cannot feel your skin,
mine shivers
when I cannot hear your voice,
all I can hear is the ringing reminder that I am not the master of reality.

You said I looked good in blue.
and you stitched the green
into my hat.
and sometimes I look at it, and
visit you in the void,
where it still might be silent (but we are probably dead)

for every texture, there is a shadow and
I stitch a portrait of you, using threads that I find
between them.

untitled, in brighton

Tea and the implied smoulder
of half ribbed terran hearts
spinning dervish of Hackneyed
shorditch passing counter culture
eyes with condor wings, the
bald spinning, virginal smoke
what ground that we tread on
with shakey, whole fear
the burning spiral of terrestrial hearts
the greatest rival of
the cosmos
we hold and control you
with names, starting with
I, as you, and the beginning
dance endlessly upon the
beating chest of gia

the wind can only destroy
your form, obliterate your
significance from the
visible spectrum

strumming Joe's and others
of narcissistic Shorditch
endless fear, and
referential glory

the best is the ground that
does not tip us over, and
the whirling smoke is the
best we can do

Tea, brewed with the hearts of
crashing test pilots, shoved
up our noses, mellowed
with a curl of fractal

and we are with it

and through the smoke, I can
see you swirling
digits rigid with euphoria
legs rooted in with terrestrial

we we we they we they they we
they are weak
and we are they

Wednesday, 1 December 2010

the lack

I write on neglected
passing through moments
of silence and
forgotten phrases of
eager to find
the living green
form of star
growling black and
green growing green

I look to you from
the unseen angle
the you when
unfound you and
unseen lines
you have gilded
edges and worn
a dark panel with
gemmed lock

I look to you from
the unseen angle
trying to remember
a face that will
always be more
beautiful in the
third dimension

I write on neglected
pages, simple words
and green growing

I look to you from
unseen angles
digging deep into
tattered pockets for
pictures of time
that do not exist

I am the traveler
I am the face of
unfinished thought

I am the lack

I write on neglected
pages, trying to find
the unseen angel
of growing life on the
deconstructed form
of star

the neglected thought
of preservation

I am the lack

I must continue
and push


the empty

to find you again