Saturday, February 26, 2011

278. 3 Airports

at Midway

la lune
le soleil gris

muffling grey
sounds of people in slovenly life
humbled mumbling voices
the bright lights in strips only if we look at them
crumble thought

le passetout
tout le monde (sans journal)

entreaties and detestamonials
suddenly narcolepsy
bibbed drooling but rare
seated and sated
the longest eyeful passes over the room

un soupçon du caleçon
frigide et rigide
mon oncle de Donc

the sounds in the airport irradiate
everything leads us away
terrors are small but significant
on the border of being and been
we are but reflections of absent beings

tu m’entends?
je ne m’entend pas
l’empreinte de mots

at BWI

la nuit
leur lumière
le rève du lit

a vouvray resting sweetly
voices as the sound of voices
music runs through it
deathless plastic jungle
plastic knife

l’homme qui
le mariage que
le voix époque

enough quiet to hear a voice
taste of pear and slate
horns backed by high-hats
windows darkened into mirrors
everyone also walks outside

une camisol bleue
des yeux et voici
l’altération du temps

announcing the changing of times
grumble of invisible planes climbing
olives and mixed greens
with a little olive oil and goat cheese
the palate darkens

le jazz
mon oncle
le son

at Albany International

la nuit de la nuit
les virgules de lumière
les pieds les pieds

lines toward leaving
the quiet of evening
as if there were a way to sleep
certain tentacles of thought
reaching without arriving

mes mains
un souffle des yeux
les neiges d’aujourd’hui

Friday, February 25, 2011

277. 5 Views of 2 Views

i am odd
you are even


i am an idealess

of sown leather
and seeded to anenomes

of the sea
and bound in buckled leather

for somewear else


you are worded

into panels and potlucks
with all kinds of aitches

& panes of alas
to see threw

before thaw


i am headed four-footed

and handed
back over to the author(ities)

for every grime I’ve ever omitted
to glean away

two beforenesses


you are biting the rode

your thyme your sage
and riding your words

to reed them into pieces
for wheeling people

from play to place


i am underwrought

and forewritten
given to bouts of breathing

shorn to mimicry
for the offices of grave decisions

and never had my tonsures out


you are wedged by waking

between page and scream
to see the swirl as sediments

of the little children who red
all the words they needed to red

but hadn’t ever red another sense


i am depilatory

and ated to the nines
that block the son from pining

for his wormth
and his wormth’s worth

of hosts or drafty ills


you are luculent

not trucked but given to
limpness only with an id

varied for variety
and reasoned out of ardour

weighs of doing things


i am berried

hands all read and every word
I read upon them recommend

a die it must be cast
or encased

there is an urgency to it


you are thin or inking

woods and woulds of words
of words of udders and howe

their bow’s could vine
around the necks of those

who never read

Thursday, February 24, 2011

276. As the Scroll Unfurls

~~~~~~~~~~~~ a flight ~~
~ an ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ in extremis and defeat ~~~
~ the text thing ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ burdened by breathing & its words •
~ if or only as ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ caught & kept ~~~
~ ours ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ for this fractioned moment ~~~~~
~ & parting the curtain to see its waves ~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (between eyelids’ blinks) ~~~
~ & whispers ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the gentle rhythm of the text ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~ continuing ~~~

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

275. Notes before Sleep

a small light opens up in the darkness
might be a reflection

two dormers outside may be Dutch children
those who wear wooden shoes

darkness accrues slowly
surprising me by having filled the room

I work by light but within darkness
my fingers can type even with eyes closed

tribulations of the day are blunted by night
everything is stubby and indistinct beyond this screen

the workings of the heart start crunching
crunching is like the heartbeats are all off and piled atop each other

a sound to the voice that is only breathing
eyes stitched shut with eyelashes

the cat pads heavily around the bed
I have no sight of him and may myself be afloat on a motionless black sea

deep snow outside from many snowfalls
fall is buried somewhere beneath it all

the house across the street looks at me with six eyes
one streetlight glows muddy through the gauzy curtain to my left

I cannot see the car passing before the house
only the reflection of its lights along the edge of my window

the day came and went in sleeps and starts
still fighting an infection inside my body

the world from here is as hazy as my mind
my feet invisible

a small music begins as steam enters the radiator
a slow clicking that increases with time

I cannot sing to the radiator’s tune
but I cannot sing

two days’ worth of papers beside me is a vague lightness
they rest on a chair I cannot see

my stomach tells me too insistently that it is here
something like the pain of hunger without hunger

some reflections I cannot interpret
they may be on my window or not

I generally avoid sleep as long as I can
only dreams are accomplished by sleeping

the bed is too warm
the bed cannot keep me warm enough

go ahead and figure it out
the body never stays stable

an entire continent separates us
yet sometimes not

we are given by taking
we are taken by giving

words make no sense except that we accept they do
words are sounds alive in the world

my stomach grumbles
it also sounds like a crunchiness

a tendency to write deep into the night
an urgency to sleep when it is done

squirrel sleep invisibly in the trees
even with two giant maples in my front yard I can see neither

the inclination of infection is to fester
mine has dissipated but seems interested in rebirth

if I close my eyes even the smallest lights go out
nothing reflects off the backs of my eyelids

Poetics with the Memory of Snow

You’ve done it
more work
significance of
significant times
and shadow buckets
a weighted sound
“worsted words”
yr. poetics of snow
or moving image
sounds as new vibration
found life in poem
or exactitude
dimensions of Her
being as coordinates
of new minted coins
flakes of pre-dawn
I am of the east in memory
birth world

no disaster
not even towns aflood
but wheels spinning
relations with black ice
epitome, extinct,
edifice of the buildings,
“Ah, wa, Ah wa, give off light”, I wrote
because words appear in dreams
recalcitrance as movie
utterance as belonging
a nation
“Hey, Uh, Nathan”
the old Indian says to John Wayne
“Too late, Nathan”

we go on and on until gone
she hid her poetics
beneath her blouse
in acknowledgment
a pen name
a god awful shame
Sonny Stitt, that’s it,
we’ll buy rhyme,
put it on TV,
archival footage,
I thought you buried the lead
no, maybe a trick ending,
when you said at end
I don’t reveal appraisal figures
of archival work

I am of disappearances
though postcards to Diane di Prima
because of her Beat fame
at UNC
my poetics of Thoreau
learned to swim there
I’m off making a book of years
then gone
Grant Green jazz guitar solo
as I write
Jazz the Cat in lap
Iris at the heater
poetics w/the memory of snow

winter sun
prayers for rain
stars afire, man
a claim
yr. ground

and everywhere knowing
the desert within
he walked, away
there is a place named Death Valley
is there more
to say
(Don’t get cute with me, Mister, the father says on street)
the jazz band breaks into Alexander’s Ragtime Band
literally at end
but not here

“Walk On By”

is next
where has Sonny Stitt
You are at the turnpike
near yr turn-off
in Schenectady
chants, echoes in
solo drivers in California

a sound poetics
of sound
I play ‘Worsted Words”
for my wonderful ex, Caz,
say, he’s legitimized, actualized,
the chants we’ve been singing
for yrs.

lost poems
found songs
belly echo
brain trust
a nation of alabaster

a big poster of a tattoo
3 roses

a poetics

w/a cat in lap before

got yr letter yr poem
just read yr words
& here we hi-hat cymbal
and drum now

--Jack Crimmins
February 8 & February 14, 2011

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

274. On the Gnawing Sea

freest cold

at first
freest cold
but dear

cold can’t come


in a fraction, torrid
in moments, a fragment

thinking the raw tuna

& the raw
tuna thinking
& the
raw tuna

tuna, warm
& raw,
in a honey
porter, &
a brisk walk,
to the train,
& I am made
into a vessel
of nausea

I am asea
& asway
in th’ocean
of myself

a train
in rumbling
sunlight &
the warmth
of surging
belly sea
in a train
thru the

a bit
of tea
& tannin
& a grown
given berth

& cold &
I am

threw up
3X only 2
after entering
the house

me over
the ledge

chills &
& vomit
in three
my open
me as a
tube of
wet tuna

fever &
& empty
yet con-
sions to
vomit what
no longer

as pain
& reaching
death for
release &
cramps &
& nausea
as a steep
dull pain

& sweating
& sleeping
& shivering

of not
having to

The Poem and a Letter So Far

In various way
we take heed of
the motions
of the world before
us and the one
that will come after.

Monday, February 21, 2011

273. It is In

In various and a way
we take heed of
the motions and the way
of the world before
us and the one
that will come after.

It is all unknowable.
It is all irredeemable.

In the balcony of winter
all tendencies are towards
redemption and the breaking
of ice into glass and mirrors.

It is within the strata of night
that we find the reasons
for keeping and not sleeping
the season away. Remember
a sense of darkness as liquid
flowing warm, even on
a cold night and generous
berth for the passage of time.

In our own ways and various,
we ask for the contest of time,
we extend into the future,
uncertain and dim, we become
melodies that swarm memories
out, and it is damp in the world
regarding what we refuse to forget.

It, as if you didn’t know, can be
rigorous to run this life through
and through with thought, and
we are managed and mangled
by the manner a life uses
to challenge us, yet death
is the only reward, yet life
cannot take itself away
from us or replace itself
with anything less than
the challenge of a single day,
starting with dim light,
humming on a horizon we
rarely see or even imagine.

In extreme situations, we recall
that we have no regrets, because
we cannot change anything and
because we know that any change
would also wipe out so much
that we love, that we live for,
that we wait each day to
experience just one time again.

It is the curse of the human
to want more than is possible, to do
more than we can reasonably to,
to suck in more air than we need,
to live at the very edge of our ability,
because only we understand
the possibility of it all.

In winter, though, we slow. Our
bodies are not made for winter.
We are children of the tropics,
even if we’ve never ventured
to that millennial home of ours.
The cold holds us tighter than
warmth or fever and makes us
hold ourselves in so tightly that
we see out of ourselves more clearly,
the world having become
somehow unavoidable, somehow
more perceptible, more real.

It is not to say
that we are damned or damaged
by any of this. We are merely
the beasts of body and brain
that we are, and we live through
them as much as we live through
this tiny blessed life we have
received, to do with it the best
we can, as winter challenges us
to do, and as you always do.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

272. The Architecture of Song

the limits of the extension of the plane into undefined space
the exaggerations of the desire of a cantilevered bridge
the opening through an arch into a space made greater by framing

a method for developing systems for limiting space
a concept that joins the experiences of the eye with those of the body
an architextural system of words that gives body to air and light

inchlight and


to the eyence

for blendths



doecile ayre
and lighth

you believe it as you believe as heart beats through ribcage the blessèd blood
you create it as you create the turgid craters of your dreams volcanic sough
you intend it as you intend to be who you are whenever where you are

music in the form
of voices released

a cemetery of sadness
and voluptuous drone

what you hear as light
and feel as whisper

or a finger dragged against
a neck as warm breath

a long tender wail
slighter than a wren’s voice

a warble that may be a cry
which itself might be crying

a stump
a stop

one way to make the world into shapes to hold us is not
one idea of how to create the sense of distance in a small space is not
one thought to guide your movement through a space is not

in blindst

in/to wholes

as pieces of

tarjetted from
a space of making

as a bill of lading

as s thought forgotted

as a fact

a manner of making melodious music with a mouth
a muscle that moves the hinges of the jaw
a singing that seems to point us to a fact of life
a lifting voice that carries out its fate

the opening
the exaggerations
the limits

A Few Opening Lines to a Poem, on a Sleepy Night in Manhattan

the limits of the extension of the plane into undefined space
the exaggerations of the desire of a cantilevered bridge
the opening through an arch into a space made greater by framing

271. Furthermore, Flutters

The tyranny
of small things

The lushness
of eyesight
and retrains
and gives

a book as big
as a body
and you can
live within it
from rain
by giant leaves

and you rest
inside a jungle
rich and humid
and what
doesn’t kill you
you eat yourself

This is the way
of perceiving

of living in
the world of
and you take
exception to
the monotony
of the leaves
to their regular
in terms of
shape and size
and you demand

against the faceless
shape of existence

the opportunity for
richness breadth
diversity and riotous
sounds within
raucous color

Yet you might
if you take or if
you are taken by
the thought of
believe that

there is variety
and hugeness in
the small

that a swarm is
only a billion
small beings in
the shape of
a cloud and that

pattern provides
purchase for
an eye or a

that you can
thrive in a world
that breaks
every rule
your eye would
make if only

you were
the opportunity
to believe

you were in
the world and
pierced by
what you saw
and folded into
the shadows
and carpets of
the earth and

that breathing
a swirling mass
of gnats
meant you were
alive and grateful
for the wingèd
breaths you sucked
in through your
nostrils each
filled with
the cool and
air around you.

Friday, February 18, 2011

270. Post Hoc Ergo Propter Hoc

This in being the first
item in a series of organs.
Was as the place and in
sequence. Or apt, and
approached as a pattern.
The manner of light,
and through her fingers
in shards. I see the ocean
now, and the skeletons
of every fish. Dishragdoll.
If, as part of the performance,
we had been asked to roll
the dice. He thought twice
before forgetting that again.
Iridescent, she came. It
punctured every article of
faith and clothing. Skin is
the organ of touch. May I
be the first to ask you in?
We are conscious of the
request that we speak in
a certain order. Not a
request. Parish, the thought.
My latest interest was out-
side and early on in the day.
Bartok over talk radio. I
in place of me. The difference
between distraction caused.
Please be aware of the rules
regarding the creation of
rules. He was king of the
lined paper trove. We bow
our heads to those who
came before. I ask you, my
dearly assembled, why you
do not seem of a piece? It
was all-out war. Our intent
versus. Keep that to your-
self, or sell it at half price.
Not in a million years, he.

She or it. A bit of controvery
concerning the centering of
circles. As my brother. She
knows all about it. What
happens determines what
has happened. They found it
empty but leaning into the
future. Please don’t forget.
My voice rose in unison
with my penis. Both were
blue. Take a little comfort,
southern man. To look out
over the Baltic is to see
the sea and want it more
for having seen it. Tender
but kissless. Bordering on
the perverse. Unfortunately,
only bordering. I hoarded
all of these words just so I
could give them to you today.
How is it that you live in
tomorrow? Join us sometime,
and we will show you. Not
for the half-life of plutonium.
Remember love. A peaty
scotch, and the scent remained
on her tongue (so she spoke
it) and on her breath (so she
inspired it). My only fault
was having any. Turn a kit
tight, and you might stop the
caboodle. Wheezing, sure,
but enjoying the pressure of
breathing. At that point, we
understood. The shade of
the tree exceeded its height.
We lived at right angles
from each other. You can
eat whatever is left over.
Twice so far, or thrice.

Hold me, or I might fall.
No, not you. Expressive,
as pus or sap or pus. On
time but lately. We can’t
recall why we love you so,
but we don’t question it.
Didn’t you decide that your
success was a fluke? The
only good news is that
I’ll die young. She removed
the clothes from his body
as if they were flakes.
The communion wafer
hosted a party. The moon,
huge and misty. You could
see it in her eyes. Thighs
like stanchions. Bilirubin,
and lily-livered. I would
live there if I had a notion.
And then your face dis-
(appeared) in the wineglass.
A beach continues forever
but lasts only for twilight.
Delicate, delicate, delicate.
It was a party, so you were
there. Over your other
other shoulder. As I have
just said. Not in the way
you imagine it. But weeping.
Not swooning, but crooning.
She knew it, even though
he was old. We could find
faults but not earthquakes.
Harrowing as a field. My
only wish was. You called
her your cherry. The others
surrounded you. Exactly
as expected. There was no
order to them at all. There
seemed to be sixty of them.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

269. A Tiny Beautiful Thing

fickleness in flight
& flailing, it is a tiny
beautiful thing against
the broken panes
of our eyes, & reason
given exists to exert
and produce what we
would believe if belief
were close to believable.

courage at voyaging,
and furthering forth
through din & dun,
slight light, & sleet,
until coming out in sun,
orchestrated movement
of bend & bone &
bearing what weight
the body can take.

cloisonné thinkings
through mechanical eruditions
& coloured cooler than
the break of surf or
sand as grate and grainy,
going into detail far & wide
till motion finishes
making greyest light
of any finch’s sight

terminus & porcelain,
how the thing is only
the thing seen & shining
into glory, such small
brightness, but clean
& crawling into that
deft consciousness
that holds together what
would otherwise come apart.

cunning & patient into
the wait that pervades the quest
to make the audience take
the littlest thing of the littlest
think to make a connection
out of it & sew it back into
the fabric & thew of any
enwrapt or rapturous body
of a pair of eyes watching.

cautious, not caustic, & for
cause, against churning
vowel & turning consonant,
intrigue in such an intricate
manner that the creator
could not even erase the making
or make the making mean
what otherwise we would have
of it or require of its progeny.

versus, but in the sense of parry,
& taking refuge in the vestige
of a sense of self or seeming,
so that a blade of leaf of grass
might form & hold to cut, in
tiny serrations, across the prints
of flesh of finger or of thumb
to make the writing of these words
less than the breathing of them in.

arranged in such a shape as to
suggest that order gives in sense
as much as chaos takes from
meaning every drop of water dripped
from languid lips and moveless
mouth in place of words that would
make what sound the sound of
words would be if they would be,
if they were what we wanted be

turning in the slip of sliding back
to site we had begun from, to
the sense of giving flight, as
gift of granting passage & assuming
naught but what the gifted takes
as sun, or light of sun, or sunlight
against the fallen snow, or sun’s light
resting on the crystallizing snow
and making from the light more light.

Giving Up With Nothing Besides a Title

269. A Tiny Beautiful Thing

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

268. When you think that it is

not quite
or most
of all
but close
& given
to thinking
of ways
to make
what it is
that seems
unmade made
at a time
& in a way
that requires
what thought
would be
to have to
the time
to be a
of interest
& effort
moving through
the makings
of a life
without a
notion of
what might
come before
must come
at the end
to allow
that result
wished for
to materialize
as solid
& real as
a breath
in mid-air
& mid-winter
& the way
a turn of
the head
a point
of view
the sense
that a
new world
has opened
before your
& ruining
itself through
a delicate
which is
the process
of living
& then
living out
having lived
through a
process of
being through
to a state of
perfect &
such that
you could
& you know
you’ve tried
there was
always the
that we
from the
& that
would be
an unthought
& every
every thing
seen or
felt or
just a myth
of memories
a mistake
of perfection
by which
you would
except that
it would be
a dream
wires or
tubes or
oxygen to
keep you
asleep &
a life
through an
hardly big
enough to
give you
the space
to set free
was needed
to breathe
as if breathing
& the warmth
of it filling
your lungs
to the tender
point just

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

267. The Presence of Winter in Our Lives

The wind leans into winter

That is what the children use
To measure the weight of the earth

You can feel it, I think, in Idaho,
Where winter is real and unwieldy,
Where warmth comes from the self

So it is that we are family,
From nothing more than finding
What it was we had forgotten
About those people we once held

A hand can hold all of winter
By holding in the cold and proving
The simple fact of the way the light
Changes under snow’s cloud cover
By holding cold away from the body

The heart gives out every other second.
It is in the beat of it that it stops and goes,
Pushing us forward and holding us back,
Swirling our red essence within us,
And thus keeping us warm, breathing, and
Somehow carrying forth through every winter

We each had a voice as a child, and we thought
That voice was us and who we were, an imprint
Of self on the daily creations of our bodies, but
I’m not sure I remember your voice or you mine.
The timbre has changed, and we are deeper into
Sound and making sounds, richer in the ways
Of adults, and darker than the voices of children

We are not from or of these places of winter.
We are people of a gentle hill with a view
Of a dark and cold bay so far from touch
It seemed warm and gentle. We are owners
Of lemon trees bearing their fragrant fruit
Forever. We are children of the eucalyptus,
Who live within the scent of those trees
Rising up around us in the shape of shadow

We did not ask to be human, to be given
That sense that, behind us and to the west,
Was the end of the earth, dark, blue, cold,
And continuing past the edge of sight.
We could have lived in dumb sunshine,
Filled with what food we could gather.
Ignorant of winter though familiar with cold.
We could have lived well and empty of
Thought, unable to see what we didn’t know

Patterns of snow against the snow and
The corollaries of sunlight. The few crows
Who have become kings of the mounds of snow.
Snow turned to slush turned to ice turned
Our ankles, and it is that twisting fall that
Tells us we are still alive enough to hurt
And be hurt. Leafless trees, and stark against
The grey sky beneath the grey clouds.
The way you hold yourself through the cold,
Never remembering you are not of winter

Air enters your body invisible but leaves
It white and warm and moving through
Space. We are alive because we also move,
And our thoughts have motions. Stillness
Isn’t rest but death, so we gulp goblets
Of air, wander the earth, far from our home
And mother berth, and our minds are
Moving even faster and out of the range
Of measuring, for we are searching for
The place we left behind and we know
That it may not be a place at all

In the last place
We may have none
To be or no reason
To or we might be
Forgotten or mis-
Taken or forgiven
For things we have
Not done but would
Have done if we had
Had only the breath
We’d need to make
Our words visible.

Monday, February 14, 2011

266. GiVe, SaTe

than we could ever be straight

the word for it
is “it”
(I honestly
you would know)

you would’ve known that
if you’d been paying attention
instead of standing at

the word for this
is not “known”

I would extrapolate
if I could first learn
to polate properly

it’s not that I’m telling jokes
it’s that jokes are infecting me
(or, possibly, infesting)

the difference between
the right word
and the left word
is that the right word
is used

I took up the flute at a young age
but it was only because
of my interest in champagne

as I recall, though it was
many years ago, she was
dearly departed, which
I think means we were
happy for us if not her

turning away

they came for the companionship
but stayed for the guacamole

you might remember it
it had something to do with
with that in mind you might
might you consider how
how would you ever decide
decide for now or don’t
don’t ever stop being who you are
are you the one they speak of?

unable to recall if I
had a number of questions
or a question about numbers

Wow or woe

& I can’t tell which

I explained it carefully
so you wouldn’t understand it

Don’t ask me, really, if this
is a poem. At some level, I
just don’t care. My game is
not poetry, though I say it
is. My attempts are simply
to create with words or the
things that exist within the
penumbra of words (things
like letters and sounds or
the approximations of these)

I didn’t expect to write you this

I didn’t expect to write you

I didn’t expect to write

I didn’t expect to

I didn’t expect

I didn’t

I really did not

It’s just that I find myself
stuck within a pattern of
making things and what
I do with this is sometimes
as much a surprise to you
as it is to me, believe me

you will make some sense of this
or maybe
you will not
but still
there will be sense here
even if crushed by playfulness
or crippled by incompetence
for I write for the ear of flight
and the architectural eye
and the heart and the mind of being

set your course
and keep you moving forward
and through the making of words
we never make but only put back
in order, in order to find the sense
we always had within us but
could never see or hear or feel?

there might be love in you
or hate
there might be an uncertain sense
that you might have something to say
(so you write it down)
but it’s the words speaking
or a smooth cognac that reminds us of evening stretching out into night
and we are but


of air
of light
of cognac
of thinking
of words

we hold in place until the time to set them free

Oh, and happy birthday.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

265. Twelve Fragrances and Twelve Contacts


hearing footsteps
in the middle of footprints
but can’t see’m


in such a way
that we untie
whatever we unite


unity of the
dispersed selves
of a life

the selvage
that holds it in


each echo
ends each
echo that
ends each
void btwn
each echo


the snows
falls down
piles up


your portion
of potion
precedes what
you perceive


lit it

& let it

into night


the lips
of rose
petal the
hips of
rose bush
so she
is named
rose as
a rose
who rose
with sun
and set
with night


we delve
where we

we drill
where we’re


the symbol
for cymbal

the sound
for sound


we are
even in





Saturday, February 12, 2011

264. Dreeming of Seaming

Ooomph, & conditions Of (wings((((
rendition of s))))inging)

Deadbeat day for [o]pen[ed] night
vertical ventricle o…f sof…\t\ening

or list…n…ing two birds Of an ether
for it is deep in windter & we’arey

Lockstep with hisstory & cannot snake
this fealting that I’m reemplaced Away from

The first goofball of the seesun (bright like
& wet for cold & icy) hitt At eareyeness’ spot

Beltout an entire songg, & the paints fall down,
greene from thwall & read From the bodii

Watt is not 1 is zer0) (0 that is not is mine)
(t’ kill kanary’d sungg) (or craving voided voices

Meine kleine pirouette qui ne m’écoute pas
Whoo can tell the hooting From that prance?

Little grey squiggles In the treas with a fortune
of gnuts For the furry little grey babies they’ll have

The zero ’swhat holds the void still so’t won’t
fill us full of live emptynests Of byrrhds

They spilleng Of th’wordsts isnot endportant
Thair meenings & maybeings are

Rigiditi as a flavower Of the snow
supports interdeterminacy of cataracteristics

In][twn mourning & knight wee faindt
the scentse of sleeping Into sleaping

Re-member what you dismember
& may all your embers be amber



Sprouting loony wursts At’everyone &
be-ginning to shew whay

)))))Come back((((( shee said & ’twere as if
she were real & sparkling & speeeeeeking

The kitt he were a catten wunst
& dreems now of midnight screemings

Grabbing th’upholstery With 1 h& & vigower
he said back }}}}}From wh’air wd I even come{{{{{????

To gnow what we gnaw
we must chew carelessly

Emboldened in the manner Of a dignotarry’s title
& given to bouts of ’boutness and ’foreness

Not a hole but the peaces of its parts in spurts
so’t you’d hafta prefigure it’all out

……….c)hunks of ice & flailling Down t’earth
for tea comes hotter than winter goes froth

& they sang like blood From accordions:

A\\\life|||riggd////////like a sayleboat|||but
know win))))))))))d t’move it froword))))))))))

Sweeps of strings of soundings of singings of words
Sleeps of slings of foundlings of stingings of t’wards
Overleaf & underfoot th’snow still rests icy
undersun & overland th’snow rests icy still

Birds R (b]]]]lack …periods… or ,,,commas‘‘‘
’gainst the falling snow falling On fallen snow

Je me reste ici
I’ll rest easy

Left with This for the Night's Progress

Ooomph, and conditions Of (wings((((
rendition of s))))inging)

Deadbeat day for [o]pen[ed] night
vertical ventricle o…f sof…\t\ening

Friday, February 11, 2011

263. Wondered Ways

Through stations of sleeping
the same as dreaming except for blindness and breathless
at certain stops
and a mouth dried to voiceless gumminess
through the single corridor if night
that might open into curtains filtering thinking out of daylight

Upon a pillowed milkiness and met
with men abrupt in their sweetness and swinging
through the versions of belief
they have supped on through the winter’s midriff,
waiting for a sign like lilting and lifting,
swift and shifted

Before bewitching breakwater barriers
and leaning into the surging surf and surfacing
athwart at the bow or beam of ship or house
awash beyond the furtherest beach
and wrinkling from the watery wrenching,
wait for the sight of it

Between the weight of sleep
and heaviness of life, the bland margarine of thinking
and the creaking of floorboards through the corridors
that do not lead but follow that diverted light
bursting from your eyes at the point
of waking, or of
seeing a cat do the same

Buttressed by conjunctions that stitch and direct
the articles of confession required by the merest movement
of hand or eye, and arranged in ravages
reserved for brambles and berry scent,
what conditioning would assuage
would do little to mend
the meaning of the measure you met

Cardinal as a virtue yet still
a bird was present far enough away to be a drop
of male blood and a voice that opened
a void into the creases of grey matter
and the tiny cavities of memory where
what you never wanted to know
remained remembered, remaindered,
but deep enough to equal forget

Pretty in the way of singing but a sight of it only,
and the tuxedos that march past
intermingling with a heard of llamas,
silent, yet each ready to name the form of dread
that lays a shadow for a path
they follow slowly up the mountain and out
of the range of your perception of morning
in the thin thin air of thinking

Dodgy and you cannot dodge it
so the image burns in, something not bound
to be forgotten, so free to burn, a sense of Sunday
as a time of sunlight unhindered by cloud or
a leaning away from the sun, the sin
of it being that it was deeper than evening
and you were still awake beside
the vendor of dreams and his ragtag collection of wares
he pushed through the night on two wheels

Whittled from water and
what would wander without hinder were
it not for ocean at the end of river or
the streams leading to river, the snakings
of water and to wash a hand would require
enough bending down to resemble supplication
toward the fall of baptism,
the dream you had of drowning

Calcified because calculated at the last point possible
and the disappearance,
something that leads by absence and avoidance,
yet the irreducible pressure of it
that comes from behind, like water, and pushes
not out but into
you or the shape you leave leaning
against the wall as a wet shadow,
well watered and being waited for to grow

Waking to Write a Scrap of a Beginning

Through stations of sleeping
the same as dreaming except for blindness and breathless
at certain stops
and a mouth dried to voiceless gumminess
through the single corridor if night
that might open into curtains filtering thinking out of daylight

Location:Lexington Ave,Schenectady,United States

Thursday, February 10, 2011

262. The Americans Have a Billion Words for Falling Snow

The sky in blue comes out
but also into your eyes
and I go out into the snow.

Quite a cold night
and I am wondering
because I cannot walk now
without any purpose
or as if lost. I am
wondering what the poem
could make of me,
what my poem could ever
make of you.

I once had words for singing
but I save them now for sheets
and dreaming between the lines.
I once had words for drawing
but I use them now only to fill in
the spaces between inconsistencies.
I once had words for writing
but I collect them into bundles
and wrap them with cottony thoughts.

A word will
let you down
but not easy.
Take a stack
of them and
hit against the
ear of someone
and you’ll feel
the weight of
words you use.

Trapped by words
I use words to make some sense
of me, to send some sense out
of me of the sense I mean to make,
or of what sense I can make of
the sense I mean to make with words.
You use words to hold some thought
of what a thought a person might lob
towards you, and you might hit it
back if you didn’t have an inkling
(the tiniest black word on a page)
that you didn’t want to touch it.

The night, should we believe
its outward signs, is cold and dark,
but not so dark as it might be,
because it sits on a thick mattress of white
snow, cold in and of itself, but bright
under the smallest source of illumination,
houselight falling from these windows,
streetlight falling from over the fence,
starlight dripping down, and my face
is against the bright white snow
and all I see is white like sunlight
poured over my eyes.

Cautious are the birds in winter
and the squirrels, whose homes
rest far out on the thin and floating braches
of trees and who must investigate
the snow for sustenance. Cautious
because they do not use words, cautious
as everyone who doesn’t use words,
and everything. Those of us too much
worded, wordy, of words, and never
wordless, are those who are careless,
not with words, but with life,
with a single life, our own, who live
recklessly, uncaring that our words
might not go right, might not fit,
who speak in words, who write the same,
whose dreams are dreamt right out
and through with words, but
never through with them.

If your eyes
were the color
of the sky,
at this moment
they would be
black and glossy,
a deep tunnel
of black running
right back through
into that part
of your head
where you use
every word you
ever have had.


The sky in blue comes out
but also into your eyes
and I go out into the snow.

Quite a cold night
and I am wondering
because I cannot walk now
without any purpose
or as if lost. I am
wondering what the poem
could make of me,
what my poem could ever
make of you.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

261. Of Cups and Other Vessels for Holding Water

A book through the window might be
a look

from a nother point of view
in which you see

the shape of the cup
with the handle going right

with your hand going write
with drawing

it could otherwise be

a vase with almost no lip
but bulbous

the shape of a vessel for water
requiring width

to allow
for water

if not depth
then breadth

what water takes
out of breathing

through the pencil stroke
assuming the need for correction

or breaking
in bursts

of confertisparsison
and the unison

of the hand as it writes
what the mouth says

or draws it

into sunlight
or page

or pages flipping
through the progress of time

the time it takes
to make a shape

that means something
of word or image

and I imagine there are
flagons or tankards somewhere

worth drawing into

of vessels
adrift and

there is water for drinking
out of the air

in the color of sunlight
and slipping out of shape

and color and back
into it for the best water

is colorless and shaped like
a tongue or the sound

of a tongue against
the resistance of air

what we see around us
only by the absence of seeing

so everything vital is


as it should be
as if there could be

a shape to our thinking
a manner for our drawing

our bodies through
the world

a vessel to hold
the water that we would simply be

if we were not
at this time human bodies

in the space of a moment
that might take decades

and thus with the time
to consider the shape and taste

and scent of

and the vessels
that might hold it in place

until we might draw
out of those glass

and ceramic
cups and glasses

the water we need
to live and

conclusions about
the simple symbols of

our world and what
they would mean to us

if we

draw them
drink them

and drown
in them

all at once
and over again.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

260. As if We had Set a Claim to It

the opening
of a map

& the strange
sound of

realms of
folding paper

over us
& closing

it is that
we cannot

of wherever
we aren’t

at any
point in
a peripatetic

is how

to believe

the world
as it isn’t
& simplified

out of
the fact
of an oak

at the

of the inter-
section of
a street

and a

with potholes
and the way
our car

hits with
its right

tire into
one of those

enough to

a message
our teeth

and into
the cluttered

of our
that we

keep close
at hand

in case
we are

asked to
our life

in enough
to know

the differ-

a map

is there
and what
our eyes

is there

along with
the map

left out
so that

and our

would not
have to

the same
size as
the clumsy

we move

we have

that force
to move

even when

all we
ever want
to move

is whatever

of space

us from
the serious

of gravity
and its heavy

Monday, February 7, 2011

259. s|e|o|e|w|i|n|g|i|t|i|n|t|o

& hemmed
& snowwhite

7 stitches held
the hem &
her fingers’d

even w/o blood
there was pain
in the fissures
of the fingers

that is the way
sewing works
in a string &
a sequence

& how
2 things
are held

by the willing
intention of
a 3rd & how
night & streetlight

are held together
by these stitches
of snow falling
in the rhythm

of sewing
in the way
she scatters seeds
& sees the pattern

that they fall
to th’earth
for her fingers
are crack’d

& her eyes
through the forms
of sleeplessness

we call dream
& each burst
of blackness at
the temporary

of an eye is
a black stitch
that brings back

the pieces of
so she can believe

there’s a fabric
to her seeing
that weaves
it all t’gether

it was the fingers
that did it &
brought every
piece upon every

piece & her eyes
that held it
in the stitches
of her breathing

in the rhythm
of her thinking
& the pulse
of a heart

that pulls the blood
& pushes it on
in the pattern
of stitching

that she hears
even when she cannot
see it b/c
her eyes are closed

so she can feel
the humming
of sewing
through her fingertips

Too Tired to Continue Tonight, I Leave Behind This Draft of the Opening

& hemmed
& snowwhite

7 stitches held
the hem &
her fingers’d

even w/o blood
there was pain
in the fissures
of the fingers

Sunday, February 6, 2011

258. Night’s Children

Bemused and misbegotten,
the children of the darkness,
who crouch by the side of the highway
where we occasionally see their faces,
pale white little moons,
watch us intently, and their intent
is dominion.

                      Sewn out of bolts of chiffon
and dressed for Sundays that never come,
the children talk only about how
they must kill the grown-ups to keep
from turning into them themselves. On each
of their tiny fingers, a tiny white crescent
rests in the inky sky.

                                   They live far
from the lights of the city and despise
how even the slightest illumination
causes their skin to burn and reveals
them to be as white as a night’s moon
and not the black of darkness they
most prefer.

                    Without parents, they kill
frogs and toads for meals during warm weather
and the thin meat of squirrels in the winter.
They drink water only at night when
the water appears to be the liquid form
of darkness.

                    They sleep through the day
hoping to erase the memory of sunlight
from their minds. If they wake up
before nightfall, they call out for their
mothers to stay away from them.

the pleasures of homes, they sleep in creek beds,
allowing the black water to wash their skin
even whiter than it was before, and the only
clothes they wear are two elm leaves, one each
in each palm of their hands, those leaves
placed their to hide their futures from

                    The only light they usually see
is starlight and headlights, and
they comprehend the swiftly moving constellations
of the highway as well as they do the slowly
moving constellations of the heavens.
They watch the traffic to learn
about our lives, the lives of adults, and to avoid
any similarities to us. For that reason, they
do not smoke, nor drink coffee (even though
they would appreciate its blackness and
bitterness), nor laugh or sing along
to songs they hear leaking
from automobiles.

                              They have learned
that cars follow the highway in two directions,
but they have no idea where they are going
or why. They do not understand why we don’t
live close to our food and eat it fresh and
uncooked each day. They cannot believe
we live with clothes covering our bodies
and become cold at the slightest chill.

Some nights, they walk deeper into darkness
searching for food, and they might stumble
under a city of tiny lights laid out along
the width of a valley. When they do,
they believe that every streetlight they see
and every light shining out the windows of
a house is a headlight fastened in place,
and only then do they think we are
sensible beings who have found a place
to stay and be, who have given up
constant moving.

                         No matter how far
they wander at night in search of food
or of leaves to cover their palms, they
always return to the same creek beds
to sleep. In the winter, they take rocks
and break the ice so they can rest in
waters running black and so heavy over
their skin, and their skin turns from white
to a tender pink and they are almost
always sleepy then because their sleep
is haunted by dreams of adults with
their yellowing skin.

                                   At the time a child
among them reaches the age of thirteen,
the remaining children, hold the child
against the cold earth, legs splayed,
arms out straight with the shoulders,
eyes held open to see the stars of the sky
but blindered to keep from seeing
the headlights moving nearby. And the last
sight each pubescent child sees, at that point
when their pubic hairs are tickling out
of their bodies, is the swift moving of darkness,
a giant black rock about to crush their skulls.
And the children release these dead and porcelain
Bodies back into the creeks.

                                             When you drive
a highway at night, you might see these
children of darkness, or the faint halos
of their faces, but do not pity them,
for they live as they wish to live, and
they know no pain, and are never burdened
by the inconstant trials of pleasure or happiness.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

257. In the Wonderworks of Whatever’s Left Behind

I. am

abed and ebbed
by featherlight & flight
from dreams of

American Heritage Mausoleums
log cabin houses for the dead
and Giant Abe Lincoln and
Little Folks on the Prairie peoples
each reduced to a Giant wooden head
and some member of my family }but,
by the rules of dreaming, not{
dying and waiting to die in a dry
white-sheeted hospital bed,
& crying

through parted gauze
of window curtains comes
not luminescence

but luminessence

and I can hold it
in my sleepy hands

II. am

up awhile and agile into morning

yet héávyweight from uncaught sleep
though’d seemed to have sleeping upon
and deeply through me

so in simplicity
for raining’s frozen coming’s

I’d taken the tour
of rivers of asphalt
and bags and box into
the gassed car

hoping to beat
the freezing back
to my house


III. am

caught in the humdrumming

where ice is

a gate
a gaze
a light


& later
frozen into slushy
cataracted white

under their own continuing
the ringing embellllishments
of their falling

inside I with fireplace
and zuppa di funghi
the deepening
porcini broth do sip

and’m warm enough
for Armagnac with
a maple-sugary vanilla
gaining ’gainst th’tongue

the knotwork detail
of any day’s life
any life’s day

with the thinking
of words to justify it

IIII. am

in my harbor
or our harbour

(one’s POV determines
what’s seen or forsaken)

I look and even seek
with greatest efffort
but find that I’m but



encased in winter
and winding whiter
and tighter with
the running out
of each day

my notion’s simple
architectural cuisine
the simplest image of

volute of balut

the egg of me
is a spiral
into the final

of winter’s ice and promise


feathered by fire
fettered by darkness
behind black windows
and warm

I see

fesswise across my field of vision
the turn and drive of car and
palewise the frozen rain

only through and into
the roundel of pupil
who studies all and sees
what of it there is to see

of whatever’s left behind

when knuckles’re rubbed
against th’eyelids
’gainst th’eyes

and the world is sable
but voided to show
running like a cinematograph
shapes of lozenge, mascle, rustre

shapes of lozenge
and mascle and rustre
against my tinkture’s


not aflame
but beside
a flame or
flames &
burning &
I see the
burning &
think of

its bark blistering in the flames that

birch burns best

Friday, February 4, 2011

256. lost double heart neckless

O, shit,
and fallen out of

as she’s fallen
in unsteady happenstance
so many times out
of her bra

How the saying went
or words together to make
what we were

flesh vegetables

she and I in togetherhood
and so’ve found
what slip it takes
to fall down, to come
together, to make
the fragile pottery of a life
in two

Differences pattern themselves
out into the clicking
of the world’s workings

in what we might say would
be the outlines of snowflakes
whose weight comes to ice
yet melts into tongue

as it’s saying or said

so we would sing through
the snowstorm to
disappear it

All these miraculous
disappearances precipitated
by snow

and it’s snow

that breaks two hearts
or stops them
into pacing rather than

If ire, if
this fire burning up my feet
to ankled twisting, if I are
ever well wrested then
wrestled out of
stations of placements,
foundations of
self . . .

you see, it is not
that I write but that
I am found in media
but restless and moving
through the patterns
that the sounds make
upon me, who am
but a page of a book
burning in the face
of the fire

(my poetics is of
the second part and lost,
something funny
about that, but I don’t know what,
my toes so burned
by flames)

I have not lost “a
double[-]heart neckless [necklace]”
but I have none
and’m almost neckless
from years of
evading the noose

a knot is not
nothing but what gnashing
can hardly loose, labyrinth of
rope, or loveknot’s mirrored
movements of one into
a symbol of two,
twisted & twinned

I am tree
in the forest, leaf
on the branch,
vein through the leaf,
green blood pulsing
through the vein

and we are come
to gardens of thought,
wintered out into memorie’d
gardens, or dreamed
through them, though
sleepless, right out
into morninged daylight.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

254. The Gift of a Poem

This is not a poem, nor is it a letter, because a letter is part of an alphabet, each one is 1/26 of ours, that number being, of course, unsatisfying, especially in comparison to its neigh

(Do you hear a horse?)

bor to the left, fat and furious 25, a cube of a beast, the identical makers of its cube each being the same prime number. Primed and cubed. Do numbers ever get better than this? A number, certainly, might have something to do with a poem, even if it doesn’t make a poem out of it, poemness being a delicate thing and made bitter by the slightest of false moves.

and embodied in
the fact of being
and scented in
the ways of living
and freed from
the character of value

“I have come to you,” he said, more forcefully than reassuringly, “with a tendency to expand particulars into an entire cosmos for contemplation.” She had no answer to this but she never had, believing the world was not so much a surprise as a disappointment. She could never perceive, for instance (and he mentioned this to her frequently), the difference between sunlight and sunshine.

He hungered for sunshine.

She hungered for warmth.

There was something about winter than disturbed them both.

Something about the way their yard had becomes so white it seemed to disappear.

The way the ground they walked upon resembled a sheet drying on a clothesline.

She wished she could describe it to someone so they would understand.

But there was no way to make people see her yard as she did.

what is vague
and nondescript
but felt in
the gut the craw
what comes out
of us like vapor
that is what
we most desire

poem [pronunciation unknown] n, adj, adv, art, vi, vt 1. a kind of thing made out of words, or out of fragments of words written down, or out of shapes meant to remind you of words or letters or slivers of fragments of letters 2. a way of mean by leaving things broken into lines as if they were first thought that way 3. an essay when told as a story but stored within a playscript and requiring rhyme or punning or other forms of hearing the word that is so often silent to you, as if you had never heard of a word

Scene: Two people, possibly a man and a woman, possibly two women, but definitely not two men (their shapes just don’t allow for that) sit in a dark room with their backs to each other. One of the people shuffles around on her chair, causes it feet to move across the floor and make a scratching sound. The other grabs, while still sitting on a chair, holds it with both hands, rises slightly off the floor, then slams the chair into the floor, causing a large bang. The first one speaks.

Good morning. It seems as if it will be a good day.

I hope so, after the poem I’ve had.

What’s wrong with your poem this time?

They’re always bad. You know that.

You’re just hard on yourself.

No, I’m not.

Well, you’re hard on your poems then.

That’s possible. I had a poem of a time getting home today.

Why? What was the problem?

I was driving down Poem Parkway, and a poem cut me off.
I laid on the horn but they wouldn’t start.
Went right through a red poem.

That must’ve been frightening.

Poem was.

Are you okay?

Of poem, I’m poem.

Do you recall when you were quoting a poem by a man and you said, “I think that I shall never see a poem”? Did you mean that poems were too allusive, so you could never find one? Did you mean that there’s no such thing as a poem? Did you mean that you were blind?

Which is it?

I once was
but falling
and falling
and falling
down a shaft
toward a
dim light
and I never
made it to
that light

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

253. s/n|o\w[s

a particle
or pastiche






it is a matter
of degrees




or the weight
of a leaning



it all comes
down to snow

or it all comes
down as snow



weight as

burial as
veil of white







to the

as a


it all





into the
of snow

nize it

by heft
in hand




sleep to
make it

real to
in a snow
so deep

))((( ))((
))((( ))((

so white
so blue

))((( ))((
))((( ))((

so blue

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