Sunday, September 30, 2007

forgot what i was going to say

because when I slid past you
in the narrow hallway
you jammed my frequencies

and like some hydroelectric therapy
all thoughts and memories were purged
and replaced with the hem of your tanktop.

now i remember it was to be a
dirge, a plea for it not to get worse:
"The Strong Desire to Erase Tomorrow"

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

not wet like mars

faces in the moon tonight
are irritated primitive men;
the sun we can explain.

fat hitler is cheeky, now
has sideburns, now does not;
skeleton face has a normal

back of head; then the two
pulling taffy masks, each
seeming to protrude from

the other's brain. earlier,
it was the solid rim in heaven/
demonstration of a circle

as not a shape at all, but
rather nature herself, a
drop or stain, beaten up

the spinning started by
blows, a golpe, as a boxer's
jaw becomes weak.

then the babbling starts,
tongues wagging at the sight:
that circle becomes a hook

and rather stays there, grinning
it has no effect on us
except for it's cold breathing

it seems to say that our lives
have no meaning. deadness
of dust, not tundra that jets

into the atmosphere
when a tragectile hits.
the moon can be deceiving.

Monday, September 17, 2007

this bowl of dust

zeros in the long years
somewhere we stepped through them
tires on the roadside

someone flipped a pancake
all surfaces are fried
chaos, pain is general

when they call the flag in
our sky is pink and brown
this pole could be nowhere

our windows are lit squares
motors rage between them
storms approach, moths to flame

they've drawn your name again
be quiet till it rains
you can slither away.

Land of No Bumps

We don't expect bumps here
this is an ancient lakebed
where someone's ancestors
feared the goddess Cahuilla
who may rise to reckon back
her waters, but no bumps.

If a mark in the terrain
appears, we slam the brakes
for the vehicles through the
years have flattened into
sleds, hovercrafts, skiffs.
We didn't bleed in the

first two wars to have
bumps in our traffic. The
naiades tossing their hair
in grief smoothed the sands;
their sorrow did not broom
to be stuck in ditches.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

vietnam vet

i don't think i'm gonna kill myself; i think i'm gonna die.

if my body standing up, my life, my perception, was a pie

chart, the bottom right quartile, measuring from my eyes,

would be on fire. this is the type of flame as from a hardwood log,

like it won't go to ash. It's in back of me; it starts just a centimeter

behind my peripheral vision on the right, extends about as far

as my arm stretched out, circles back behind me, like a police officer's

got me in an elbow and wrist lock, with my face up against bricks.

when I drink it crawls up top of my head like a laughing squirrel

on a farmer's cap. Asleep maybe I turn and face it; i turn a lot

of ways, like i'm rolling in it. when i wake its pulled

down over my eyes, a firing squad blindfold.

i march off to coffee like it's my last cup.

pig latin plath

Ylviasay Athplay

Incesay Istmaschray eythay avehay ivedlay ithway usway,
Uilelessgay andway earclay,
Ovalway oulsay-animalsway,
Akingtay upway alfhay ethay acespay,
Ovingmay andway ubbingray onway ethay ilksay

Invisibleway airway iftsdray,
Ivinggay away iekshray andway oppay
Enwhay attackedway, enthay ootingscay otay estray, arelybay
Ellowyay atheadcay, ueblay ishfay ----
Uchsay eerquay oonsmay eway ivelay ithway

Insteadway ofway eadday urniturefay!
Awstray atsmay, itewhay allsway
Andway esethay avelingtray
Obesglay ofway inthay airway, edray, eengray,

Ethay earthay ikelay ishesway orway eefray
Eacockspay essingblay
Oldway oundgray ithway away eatherfay
Eatenbay inway arrystay etalsmay.
Ouryay allsmay

Otherbray isway akingmay
Ishay alloonbay eaksquay ikelay away atcay.
Eemingsay otay eesay
Away unnyfay inkpay orldway ehay ightmay eatway onway ethay
otherway idesay ofway itway,
Ehay itesbay,

Enthay itssay
Ackbay, atfay ugjay
Ontemplatingcay away orldway earclay asway aterway.
Away edray
Edshray inway ishay ittlelay istfay.

Monday, September 10, 2007

my brank

i feel thankful now that I am allowed a pen. the scold's tongue may be a weapon unfairly turned on others already weary with their own complaints, but mine, now aching so but with much less blood and spittle, is just an instrument of the words that will be there and be there and want to take to air no matter how Richard or the children or the neighbors or the council or my loving parents would like the member static. It's a rambunctious little worm though, I can feel it burn way in the back even when I spell the sound of r. I must learn-- ouch!-- to let my mind and its words have their freedom without betraying my body with signs of thought or ill feeling toward others. There i've written most of all that without a twitch. I believe it's not the blade as much-- for I've learned to relax the naked monster into the bed of my lower jaw to avoid slicing outright-- as much as a little nub of metal on a part that had not been envisioned as a jabber-- ha! jabber-- as a connecting bar to hold the four-bladed spike at the threshold of my gagging parts, so that I must be careful even taking soups when I swallow. This little nib must have been created while the metal was still hot; something nicked it, maybe the corner of an anvil. It's certainly bugging me now with the wound its created which i am sure is tiny but thats grown a hard defensive bruise all about it and a good deal of pus, from the taste. It's the little things that get you.

Who'd have imagined me, of all, taking the road of the wench, the corseted rebel, with my solid and treasured fame for years as a source of comfort from my wealth of verses, freely shared, even if I had to put something down. Hanging Jill's stockings on the fence or clipping kindling from a wrecked carriage can always come second to engagement with a fellow communitarian soul. Dick would prefer i stick to business, of course, and of course now i forever shall, His grace being abundant.

But I can still hear Auntie Shama's stories of our Christ and his pain a million times more searing than this silly brace. They couldn't even get the ring to stay in place when they tied me to a mule post on the green. Were there old friends present at the public penitence who witnessed my quiet patience and respectful demeanor even as I stood there with the rusted cuff, salvaged from an old brig, pulled loose from the rotten wood, dangling about my waist? Standing just behind the vicar as I was, would it have upstaged him further-- perhaps there was cause for condemnation even then-- as a lady with less pride might have fallen, fainted, or even tried to run and jump down the well, with her hands locked fast in mode of prayer? That they would have understood; they would have understood me then.

But now I am on this path, where it takes me. Goody Beth returned to a measure of favor-- they had her lighting candles and giving out sprigs of lavendar at Thursday vespers. Even women who were never her peers, maybe especially them, found it easy to smile and thank the poor wife and exchange an earnest Godbewith, even with her funny way of speech since then.

animated gif of his face replaced with jesus's during lightning

Again, the priests reminded them the end was near. Shu Volcano was rumbling in the near distance as if pleased after the meal of virgins and handicapped.

We wondered if previous generations had felt as though they walked in a dream of imminent destruction. The bones tasted good.

Reptily, our Persian maid, hit the gong with a pig's skull on a stick. "Time for prayer!" You couldn't even argue with slaves when it came to P time. She shrieked as if it were raining liberty coins. We considered beating her after the second bell, but most of us fell asleep during Promise of Blood and woke with our faces in our Ga bowls after the lizards had shifted well behind the smoke stain.

It was still true. The keepers had spelled it simply in Tu vines hanging from their cliff loft: "we die. "

Sunday, September 9, 2007

symbiosis of ice cracking underfoot

b's white bitch tried to hump him as they were about to leave. pool robot keeps flipping over on its back. windborne sludge is gone, but it's still artificial-blue soupy. b's pups are trained to luv only; everything else is reflex. they said it would learn the layout of the bottom with its tiny electronic brain. now i am its organic helper.

a flat tire and two weekend days slapping dirtily forward. just keeping things filtered is a heroic measure. flotsam is not sickness if you can get it off you.

some things rise to the surface but just can't pop. some people's faces look like they're bearing a high lateral wind. my decay creates homes for other creatures.