mary oliver reminds me

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider
the orderliness of the world. Notice
something you have never noticed before, 

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket
whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb. 

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,
shaking the water-sparks from its wings. 

Let grief be your sister, she will whether or not.
Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,
like the diligent leaves. 

A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life. 

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance. 

In the glare of your mind, be modest.
And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling. 

Live with the beetle, and the wind. 

i.
Wherever in this city, screens flicker
with pornography, with science-fiction vampires,
victimized hirelings bending to the lash,
we also have to walk . . . if simply as we walk
through the rainsoaked garbage, the tabloid cruelties
of our own neighborhoods.
We need to grasp our lives inseperable
from those rancid dreams, that blurt of metal, those disgraces,
and the red begonia perilously flashing
from a tenement sill six stories high,
or the long-legged young girls playing ball
in the junior highschool playground.
No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees,
sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air,
dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding,
our animal passion rooted in the city.

from twenty-one love poems
by adrienne rich

speaking of keys...

a briefcase lost deep in the heart of the southern sahara once spoke,
sun glancing off cracked black leather,
papers shuffled hopelessly,
of some sort of ministerial oversight which resulted,
in the final analysis,
and practically overnight, actually,
in its loss, that is,
the briefcase's loss, roughly speaking,
the separation of the briefcase from its owner which,
actually,
wouldn't have anything to do with the southern sahara or anything else except that,
right away,
it should be mentioned that the keys belonging to the owner of the briefcase,
including but not limited to front, side, rear doors of house,
car,
and U-lock seldom used
were in the briefcase at the time of separation which is strange,
incidentally, because the owner of the briefcase was the sort who never,
whether by oversight,
by carelessness,
by accident,
through sheer stupidity,
a sense of adventure,
that romantic need to “just let it go”,
ever, ever, let the keys out of the pocket except, of course,
to open a lock,
and thus the placement of the keys in the briefcase was an aberration so unlikely,
so alien,
that upon hearing that the briefcase and keys had been shipped to the southern sahara from chicago, the owner of the briefcase could only pat the left pocket of the pants, over and over, rubbing up and down, over the pocket, over the leg, the thigh, slow at first, then fast and frantic, then reaching in to check, emptying the pocket, pulling out wallet and matches, checking the other pocket despite having never put the keys in the other pocket,
could only sit and sob.

ooh ooh I wrote a poem last night too

saturday or wednesday
twitching phrases catch an ear
here and there
but the purposeful driver
parked instead.

TO WHAT A1M THE RIGHT OF W4Y?

the prong bent, the plug refused, and yet -
once inside, a torrent.

once a smile, more.

tho this great wizard said to
stifle it if you can

AER4TE YOUR CA8INET

or at least shuffle with a little more deliberation, godamit,

but vulgarity is lossed on me
I’m so big I condense gravitudes
including the gnarls of age
and the horses therein

so, as HOLLYWOOD say,
(spirits these days):

sometimes you eat mary, but sometimes you AVE maria.

on the occasion of winter solstice

Pain Thinks of Addressing the Body

As you tear down the frozen
stalks, as you rake over the garden,

as you drain the fountain,
and at night, listening for the small

shapes of animals lunging
through snow--

you are not thinking of paradise.
Like you, I endure

as the season you love endures,
radiant and frozen.

- from "the fork without hunger" by laurie lamon

woo! we're going to ibiza

certain squids shall be embarking on a rollicking road trip for all the guns, glory, gore and garbage you can shake a stick at. i wish bao+squid alike the best+more, and I close with my own poetry:

Embarkation is the day of gravelly steps on a buttery wharf,
and a twinkly sky.
So then we left on a burning ship.
We walked on our hands to extinguish the testy flames.
The brocade masthead led our weariness to sea,
and the captain spake in rhymes to the crew:
"Don't lose heart, my weary squids,
for heart is a rare sea shell,
and men may rule over salty waves,
but catfish rein in hell."

ps i've been promised a guestpost by heather the one and only T+G! somebody better remind her.
pps my hair is even more like tankgirl's than before.
ppps much love
lelz

wrote a few new poems

beat-poetry alert - just don't say you haven't been warned
ps i think the middle one is the best what about you?

alone at beer

ruts rut that's what
they said in calgary
or was it tangierz
definitely the latter
the night
good night
written "nite" in order to rime with "brite" and "lite"
the nite, i was saying
that donald gave up his game of bricolage at last
not twisty enuff! that's what he was saying, but we didn't believe
no one believed
why bother?
twas all ruts and cabbage, a strange combination to be sure but not so surprising when you consider the natural order of the letters that lie in a 'eap and a 'taff around town.


at least i feel something

considering what eve was on
it's no surprise
that then before that for a split pea i saw there was nothing
nothing more
nothing more that need not rest in peas. but then
but then boredom got the better
as it ALWAYS DOES
which is when para and cata fight over lytic.
who's gonna come out a head?
it wasn't the reaction that led to the ice,
nor all those shooting streams and streaming flames and flaming shots
not them either
even as they blackened my lungs
and your lungs
and your lungs
thank you thank you thank you
no
unfortunately we are the very air we breathe
an apt meta for a dyslexicatastrofff
leaving only epitafffs
epithets?
leaving only epithets, at bottom, swill and grainy muck.


quoth the lion

if there's one thing the lion whispered in your ear
mouth hanging open
dribbling spit
stringy and whispy and waivering in the still breath of the lion
it's this:
"chchchhhhhhhhhhgggggchlachlachlahclachlahlcahlahhhhhhhchchchchggggggggBBBBBBBB"
but not to worry because i was there, I WAS THERE! and i can ahem translate.
My dear, my walnut
some ships are gray
some falcons search
from quiet quays' perch
for yesterday's taciturn
prey.
but only the quietest
heroines shriek
"chchchhhhhhhhhhgggggchlachlachlahclachlahlcahlahhhhhhhchchchchggggggggBBBBBBBB"

more poetry!

not only is the house noisy, now it's smelly.
it's the 2nd nite in the last 3 that i've been unable to sleep.
i didn't write any new poetry but i still have 2 left over from the other nite, so.


tracking two

hell is a farm on the brink of mythology
and a starcruiser out of gas
or ionized starfuel, as it were
linoleum classroom floors amidst cellar doors
and pacified aggression.
instead of attack and decay on a boat
they say fore and aft -
nobody knows where it started
least of all the poet
but it always ends on a farm
or a starcruiser
- so how do i know?
definitionaly, like two layers of eggbread cottagecheese ripe bellpepper dip-spread aubergine and you have yourself a sandwich,
or a stomach ache
which maybe you've never seen face to belly, as it were
but there's never a doubt
catastrophically, we were upset at being upset at being upset but the twists never turned and the iceberg never hit and then crack, who to tell first?
but there was never a doubt never
and all along it's a terrible sound, round, like smells and heart-ache which are the representations which they thing
as in meta and for and foreign ambassador
and so we didn't elope on 20th may i mother may i
crush this lifeless caucus race
and sift through garbage
another day.

cubic resentment

the final clap clears away long before i climb into bed
to wit i awoke long before i realized i was awake
an unstable arrangement of reds and recordings
resentment and betrayal
movement and shame
and life.
there i was dripping and naked, sprawled on the floor
all a ringing and spinning and movement
did i mention movement
how lewd to move muscles that are not stringy green beans
not cooked overnight in cacophonic and moral certitude
and righteous nausea
which is a dish so dense that when it cracks it explodes,
rips in thirds lengthwise
and folds along mobius rows,
unwilled and impassive and generally burnt.
but so impelled to forget all my fears, i arose and prepared
for my grand entrance outwards
steam blowing behind, born by sheer nervousness
and sickness of mind.

6am poetry

early morning, the 6 bus arrives and you haven't heard it yet which means you know it's 5:10am and the sun isn't out yet but that won't step the early early commuters and the late late partiers from northing on up to the loop and then to where? whatever the bus is probably empty anyway.

splitting fur

smoking sometimes in a sanguine shelter
licks of pain
and the presence of pleasure
and chiefly rabbits whose fur's notsomuch matted as stuck
like chunky spikes and the stench of your vomit
your stomach's half-cooked effluvia
like carrots on top of charmed pencil-cones and honey-tipped
bereavement, bake on high for days and days
a silent haze
stealing surely but quickly but layered
yes as in matisse but also as in beer
playing games with the foam-flecked freedom fighters
who move on diagonal when straight is too much
and jump through all hoops+garters to get to the finish
but now find themselves blind, dead and made of stone
or possibly cracked, malformed plastic
because the mold didn't hold
it wanders into alleyways and drifts past wrinkly whiskers
to speak in a desultory tone
that is
desultorily, not that we care
hush, listen:
the night is old, the sun is not up
the stones are cold, the wind is risen
the rattle of bones and the science of transit
will interweave their lessons into your dreams
and mine
and we won't even know.

A Fraturnatural Morning

[note: just found this post that i never posted]

Once on a calm wharf
I spotted a ripple; an unexpected line of motion:
it grew
and it grew
did I mention it grow?
from the water there emerged,
like a salivating purple vagina monster bathed in chocolate
one
singular
eyestalk.

It blinked once, twice, swivel swivel, and then slapped me across the face and yelled, "squidpunkd!"

hark, it is the dawning of the

brrrrr i c symphonic collusions on all sides
reminds of a waterfall in a nether world
rush & shush & rush & shush
suddenly BLAM! KERPLAM! (just kidding).

at the dinner table i am an elitist
[and? so? i've traveled galaxies, fought wars, raised monuments - i've lived for so long my beginnings are lost to memory - i love myself and i love you - so yes, i am a lelitist]

at the gay club i am a spectacle
[and what about the 35 year old lumberjack wearing a thong and tight leather pants pulled down under the thong, grinding on a metal bar - why are all the middle-aged guys watching chris and i? why did we bother with 21+ night?]

at night, wrapped in sweaty limbs, believe it or not, i am a star -
[i didn't see it coming - they and they and they didn't see it coming - but in the end, everybody is coming]

but only in pittsburgh.

to be read aloud in one or many funny accents

Left alone in the tumbling mass,
Up smoke and hopeful hate,
Ahead is not the past,
Tomorrow was my fate.

Ahem:
There is a dream where
hyenas rain in catfish dance
in pitter-patter lockstep gears,
twitching, clutching -
and sniffing tells the inescapable truth
of the tornado
which is just a hyena catfish,
after all.

Alas-
In inter-strung webs I weep.
What it means is up to the lantern,
but as of now straight laters toss up angled, noble heads
and open gnarled, able mouths
and unleash the call of honest complaint,
but it's hidden - drowned! out
by a mile,
out by the shush-a-rush and that old thing, the frown,
old and solid like a smell in the dark
until next time when it'll be just the same but you know -
I'm here and I write what I hear.

Clearly there are tunnels with
purpling wispy fingers and
other stalks which extend,
in boom and bloom,
and then heave up from out the ground.
And when they heave out, unbeknownst to them,
they also heave in,
for all is tunnels, and all tunnels look alike.

Ahem.
You have a cushion
I have a cushion
Your voice is orange-green crystal tubes
and full pitchers of sangria seaglass
My voice is ash.
If you squint and tilt your head just a little,
like this,
you'll see that my name is Gerard,
my nose is courageous,
my hair is wispy and fair,
my glasses askew,
and I come bearing baguettes.

deep deep deep in an underground vault with no walls: a short essay on essays

figure 1. extending boundaries to enable depth

alack, alack!
the hail earlier today hit my face sharply, a welcome relief from the nebulous cloud of nonsense (see fig.2) that i breathe in when i try hard to focus on the cloud without thinking about its units of nonsense. (but what is a unit of nonsense? and would not the cloud bring me greater nourishment than a tiny unit thereof?)

figure 2. the possibility of borders

fuck time, i will refuse to disintegrate and somehow forge forward.

figure 3. a question of borders

it is hard to remember to take pleasure
in contradictions
when they begin
to melt
all over
my
glasses

figure 4. on the edge of concern, there is just one more thing

enough, i say! enough!
i demand more!
it's too much! do you really need to--
totally overlooked.

figure 5. the desire to draw boundaries induces dilemma

now is the time.
(how can the time be now? i'm not ready yet!)
the world is as it is because it is as it should be and
all is how it should be because it is how it is
(***reference proof for "why giraffes go up in lifts," car cemetery 12(4):2009)

figure 6. the recent discovery of additional dimensions to the problem has dire implications for the accessibility of shimmering intergalactic portals to contemporary youth culture

and of all possibilities
we are left with the comfort that:
all things are possible
which we can conceive of as possible!

figure 7. a statistical abnormality suggests the need for new methods of analysis



comment!, e.g. with your favorite little screenshot of brain2.0?
(these invisible mediators, these quiet prompts)

poetry break - what does it mean?

It's like a plan
greedily suckling the limpid remains
the inverted fir-cone sleep machine
which, on awakening from the past
as in osmosis
or Fellini
remembering a thought well buried,
stinks worse than subtle death
and does blend twist swap
and crease the careful bends
and broken pieces.
So
Please do not squeeze
the blind eye
cold, cheery eye
fashioned from a shoestring
drawn into a cautious bunch
and then stamped,
upright,
in slipshod condescendence ->
because
a bird in hand
or even a rat
is better than any number of bushes.