Sunday, June 21, 2009

Thoughts That Came To Me While Staggeringly Inert In Room 306 At The Ambassador Hotel

Yesterday I was like young.
It didn’t seem peculiar to anyone.
The ordinary is a blue cup leaking by a white plate.
It rains. I wander interstate
the inkless vein that fuels.
I think it would be nice to leave this room.


At night rain travels northward,
when I by darkness I do not own travel northward too.
Light ever magnifies
the list of days on which it snowed
and those on which it only rained.


Others huddle under covers in their beds,
because there is no hill to stand on.
Upturned palms staunch the rain
though seas flood toward the crowing cock:
a bastard I have known
who routinely killed the dreams I stroked
like the brutal farmer does his lovely horses in the field.


In darkness the eye is left to sense its limit.
Hands search walls to find a divot.
I pack my eyes
in chloroform beside my broken skis.
Laud bells announce the feast
to ring the skin off some immaculate beast.
It would have been nice to have wasted a life other than my own.

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Friday, June 19, 2009


The clock I give you
with my blood inside. This clock

I leave at your door beneath
your pillow. In the forest
of hair in the castle of its

I guard that gate
they must always be absent from.

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Sunday, June 14, 2009

Or oar: from 'The Epics'

after Louis Zukofsky

an equity --

and ore and orange
an inequity's also

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Dear Critic,

I believe I could learn to love
this newest theory of yours --

if you could learn to tongue
these lines, your lips
smeared sloppily
with that gash-red lipstick I dream on --

a dirty open-mouthed kiss
that I would gently feed
myself into --

obdurating the irrelevant
meat of my art.

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Saturday, June 6, 2009


I always feel less anxious when I recognize that the collision is already well under way.

Joe Wenderoth, Letters To Wendy's (2000).

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