Thursday, April 29, 2010



Even in the briefing slide
the trap door

slot of the abyss
The rate of decline
a sigh attempt

O sigh attempt

These weapons are your dancing

The arms dance - General
stroke width
The buzz in this bang
buzz the water

O light in the window  

Which means that singing

And then destroy all the Strikers
Skin on the wings to sing on the sidelines of each feed legs waging war against the story
The skin on wings of song to the coast of all the legs feed the story of the war against
story against

history against
to the Wick
the light of the wick

Margin and war, and the skin the skin of the feet in the building for our bodies in the light our body with respect to the extension of emergency so that we only feel the lightning is moving  we do not flash the moment in the narrowest of winter as the call to unite

Wednesday, April 28, 2010


...and possible 28, 29, 30. Was all productive this morning. (When I plan to go the gym, is this my brain's way of thwarting me? This compulsion to actually write poems for the first time in a while...) Let's see what happens tomorrow, eh?

The Marriage of Figaro—Overture



So bounding in the slippage

& the abyss trap door, tripping

makes the rise so so

makes the fall so so

O sigh, O try


this dance yr arms

my arms

swing wide


O joy


& bang this buzz into


O light in the window


is what it means to sing

then crash from each lash

lashing onto wings onto singing each fringe forages our legs waging war against the floors


against the floors

stepping forward

toward this light wick


bounding again, rising, rising


the fringe, the war, the floors lashing the feet the light to our bodies in such urgent sprawl that we feel only the moving feel only the lightning in the darkest winter like starnight inviting unites

Clarinet Concerto—I. Allegro



O sway in and drip

this lilting lilting

so too repeating and


felt into this quick tip

of ink trills that tendrils whispers


sew happiness in the wind & field

this fielding hill so sweep

the day sweep sky sweep

away like happy having




O sing! O love!


how the morning lifts sun

if luck


or storm the world the room with water

flooding out each stinking

weather clement


time in fever—



down into a low note


so slow

for pause

to remember



like fingers in ears

on cheeks

the smear

of passing


and the lift of arms the lift of eyes the upwards momen of each single dripping bit of life that corners into each river swell


to push, to cure & push, in such a fast


sew the spinning world to a new day

Requiem in D Minor—Introitus: Requiem Aeternam



Enter opaque march in deep


burning—heats the heather


with seeding red.



Until her heart is in the room

singing pastoral.



What leaving feels. What leaving leaves


her heart sonorous—



A fire that baritones

a kindling of larynx.



And the pulse is biblical.



And we spin the dream, weave it

a ladder heavenward, saying "please—



And they keep their eyes

like their voices

in the chords.


O god—

they say.


O lord—


Tuesday, April 27, 2010


I have no energy for Poem 27. How is that in the beginning it was exciting and new and the poems were terrible but they happened and now neither is true.

Try this ride along the highway
in turn stasis ate the bank
and flow tings the pave I meant
to wide sail eat cherries sea,
each wary see these breezy
yesses. Say yes. Seance.
Save us.

The wheels will wile us
into heaven. Your will wilts
wildly in two havens.

Monday, April 26, 2010


At Home

the city clicks

the pavement grit
in draining grates

in the rain
and winding

the buses call
out to the Sound

from the hills

Sunday, April 25, 2010


listen to
the quiet

trickle of

into night's
empty room


Something in the water
like a flower
will devour



~Lorine Niedecker

your hunger
is impeccable,

a tidy couplet:

leaf motes
eating the sky


for Frankie

It's 10:25 am
so she bares her belly
to rising light.

Earlier she chased
false red light
& bound thread.

She needled
the various upholstery

But she can be O
so calm
under slim beams of sun.

Friday, April 23, 2010


These guts are rust-
ridden & ladeled
on the table
for display. Touch

the small intestine.
Then taste your fingers.

Broken & metalled

to steel against
the coming, the burning
the fallout.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010


the goose is loose in streets inching tide
quiet feathers proving sweet in cinching tide

one striated as a pale bell elide
a round sound deflates the inching tide

this day a dusk a stretch of song in wide
tucked in the chest a blood knot inching tide

do not sing don't sing do not sing inside
the sea's asleep lulled inching tide


after ee cummings

eye care re: your artist knees
my art) iamb inert with outlets (a knee ware
eye go hugo, mightier; any twats sever stone
bio lonely meteor dyeing my doll wing)
high for-
nicate (for your army benefit, mice wheat) i want
narwhals (for butte in fully Ozarks my whirled, might rue)
antics sewer watt advert a new ooh nasa weighs men tan
dot heather ascent willow ways seeing as you

heresy deep set secrete no bodies’ knots
(heiress the rue tough the rue tanned thrum atop the bud
ant dusk eye tusk eye sophistry gall lead lie; wit chug rows
hire than the sole can hope or mind can hide)
and thistles the one dearth at ski peony these tar saps art

Monday, April 19, 2010


Poem called everybody loves a narcissist
(from a line by Stephen Rodeffer)

Oh look at me! Aren't I glorious
for you to behold. My hair
as sweet as bouganvilla. Eyes
like stars in the crease of night.
Skin as soft as rose petals,
blushing just the same.

Love me. Don't you love me?
Please, love me.

Sunday, April 18, 2010


we heft our sails
their pearls
like fingers from fists

remember how to breathe
in quiet

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Poem 17

let's ready the fragments
the grit & soot & filament

i took because i'm a taker
it was red & fibrous

you aren't a giver, not giving
your pulp in your palm

we string the stringy bits
like thread to make a sandwich

lick our gums, lick all the guns
each pistol, crumbling paper


from a line by niedecker// in the dandelion heat/ in the wood panelling/ under the silver rafters/ between the blades of grass/ on the smoking pavement// turn, turn a longing for / turn longing in/ longing into/ meaning prepositions

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Thursday, April 15, 2010

Poem 15

for Lisa Robertson

How does greatness happen?

Lis: Her
Lis: a circular enclosure with earthen wall.
Lis: Law.
Lisa: god is an oath, a vow

Rob: to steal from
Rob: juice from a fruit
obe: a village
robe: a long garment, to clothe, a room for apparel
ert: to incite, urge, encourage
son: a male child
son: a slow cuban dance
son: to conceive
sun: the brightest of the heavenly bodies
sun: to warm
sun: gives life
robertson: son of robert, bright and famous
robert: also robin, to steal from the rich, to give to the poor

god is a vow
bright, she shes,
she clothes urgency,
she conceives our village, her
vow is our village,
her bright warm earth
her law.
Poor, she gives us
her heavenly body.

She asks:
What shall I do with my senses?

We answer.
We listen.

Entry #15

Jenny's Lunch Line.

Oh god I forgot how enjoyable they could be.

Sundance here we come!

I am a broke writer. Help send this animated film of my poems, Regular People, to festivals. Even a dollar helps. There are prizes if you can give more. Go here:

Poem 14

To know the secret. To ring the bell.


Seek clay, words

To act as god


Unearth what they form

As discovery

As a root


The natural world is this bell

A path to god

Cast and pray


Sometimes we know things unknowing. By hand. Wet silt informing each line.  That we slip on. Slip into.

Then fire and ice burning in other's doubt. And if it doesn't ring. Sing out of the heavens.

A hole opens. How we've carved ourselves. We lie there. In the openings.

Poem 13


In my dream
your book
had a picture of Hello Kitty
on the cover.

I wanted to tell you
"Hello Kitty, your pink
makes me think
of benadryl."

But your stories
are nothing to sneeze at.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

I'm behind. Three poems tomorrow.

Monday, April 12, 2010

Poem9 and Poem 10 and Poem11 and Poem12

"Skeptically Smiling" by Paul Klee

come to pieces
your face
is my face
is shattered

"Fox Games" by Sandy Skoglund

Be my red death
red room
our violence is gray
& loving

without sustenance

"M.F. in her Striped and Beaded Sleepy Jacket" by Lisa Yuskavage

Your shotgun's
to erect the world

"Max, Raven, and Scissors" by Pia Stadtbaumer

we could be violent
in our youth
certain kinds of omens
sharp or black

let me hold your other hand
for light


A vibrant lie hangs bright between two days. nights red in petaled death. If I could choose. If I could burn a message on your flesh. We might know each other. Instead I straddle a calcified bone that belongs to who I don't remember.

Fwd: poem7

blur as trees pine / needles in the skin of fog / each puncture an opening as tender as a lung / breathe the daylight in & breathe / each painful breath for fear of crows / falling into an icy / dying without you there /  to know him

Fwd: poem6

snow flies like stars / at glass / kiss kiss on a slip and slide / no daring bright / all forward night

Monday, April 5, 2010

Poem5, I think they're getting worse...

A life burns through a fire of enlightenment: the red ocher on canvas designing a desert. Its truth, the oil we spread on each of our bodies, each of our objects, coloring the world over.

Beauty doesn't answer. Beauty is the motes of dust we often miss unless the light shines through the window at just the right angle, highlighting each floating speck like tufts of dandelion in summer.

But we hardly know them. Like the lines in our own hands. how we forget and are so often surprised that they are there.

Sunday, April 4, 2010


Where We Sleep is an Arpeggio

A treble

Three pieces:
of erotic longing

to be at once

a chord

Saturday, April 3, 2010


Beginning with lines from Oppen:

The heart uselessly opens
To 3 words, which is too little

you hold my hand
i love your palmistry

a red pulse does not mean
but vessels carry

feelings empty of nerves
their vibrating skin their seeds

the atriums full of pain
the hallways open for living

our scalpels sharpen
we are late

Friday, April 2, 2010


Roman Warm Period--Pumakale

walk hot up
to blind & salty pools

to summer ponds
algae slicked columns

slip inside
the greening

to swim against
a history

Where We Sleep is an Arpeggio

and each dreams

a note broken

from its narrative.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

And so it Begins, Poem1

The prompt: Title your poem, “Self-Portrait with ___________” and start writing from there.

Self-Portrait with Paper Flowers

a black rib, ribbed to cradle
each blossom

red crinkle
yellow husk

these ribs hold words in my chest
& paper clipped against my bones

a language meant for calling out
to the world how big

our hearts are