Where

Friday, October 16th, 2009 11:59 pm — PoemsComments (0)


you look ahead to where this will end but a complex of lies has no word count, no pages. cadences of a high school dance band convene in your mind like bachelors in the sweet gum of humiliation. you learn the languages of paper-folding and textbook indexing to express your droll processions of blight, those frumpy drops of righteous pornography in which you, you, only you hold the truest grain of currency, a token with which you gather mist and spoils from a zero-degree cloud of mathematical confusion. you can make a living off of this, from the sparkles of suicide, hunger, and your own slyest greed. you stand, basically naked, listening to the robots call your answering machine, listening for your name or an automated affirmation that the call is not for the woman who used this phone number for 40 years before you. your gutter fills with morning, with spoiled cream and a cold Syrian wind tossing about your kitchen, troubling your serenity with cultivated dissonances, thick and self-inflicted, juggled in the hands of your mind like the puzzled turnings of a child’s toy. one day you will speak outside of your confidentiality. your hymn of clutter, your song of lurid turmoil will jump from tension to cliché, a comic treacle that enters the room as a clown and never leaves, collecting graffiti in symmetrical slashes, the markings parallel but unevenly treaded, skillfully so, to distinguish the hecklings from the fallow depths of your song. one day next you will march up staircases not yet built, calling out for people never born, announcing delivery of their memories as you proudly produce the pre-sorted envelopes of their lives. the doors sit quizzically shut, stopped, consciously dead like your morning sleep from which you have no strength to awaken, the doors locked in their frames as your disdain is locked in your jaw. like you these doors are awake but they can not move. you are both prisoner and trespasser — how can that be? — in a phantom space of dead energy, a place where passion drowns and hunger hides under invisible bodily contortions. you do not look ahead. you do not look back. you are not missed.

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Hugo Chávez

Sunday, April 19th, 2009 6:21 pm — PoemsComments (0)

His
concentration
blasted a
universe into being.
Immediate war he
declared among
instant extinctions
to dry the galaxies
of their
bitterly
different
philosophies.

Invisible to history,
unknown to
poets and popes,
his universe is
inferred by the
soaring, sour squalls
of your griping,
sublingual mind.

It huddles near his ceiling,
follows him from his hole,
then scrambles at his
ankles like a
hungry stray.

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Layers

Monday, April 13th, 2009 10:13 am — PoemsComments (0)

We saw a mighty grave at Calvary.
Tall, the proud angel looking east,
the structure looked close to collapse.
The bottom had fallen away,
   the hillside itself eroded,
   the inner foundation
   of the tomb 
   revealed as a
   buckling thicket of
   bricks.

A hundred years old and
dangerously close to ruin
I saw this tomb as a
model of vanity and lies.

The complexity we imagine ourselves to be is
busy within the language of lies.
Reaching back through the generations
of a single human being’s life I think
language itself is a carnival of fibs,
a circus of entertainments and vagaries
too thick and selfish to remember.

 

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Museum

Tuesday, April 7th, 2009 11:06 am — PoemsComments (0)

I see myself
once here and then there
as others see me.
As a person who
does things,
spends his time
this way or that,
not mysterious as I imagine but
puzzling and trapped by
slothful poisons.
Yes, yes,
those things and more as I
question quantity of life
versus quality,
the greed for more years
at the backward-reaching expense
of their meaning.

I have been looking at
human beings in a way
that is new to me.
All human beings,
not anyone I know but
arbitrary specimens of human
passing through
my museum of the present,
my showroom of future memory.

We are strange concatenations of matter
parading ourselves, exposed,
it is impossible to hide the
obviousness of what we are, yet
uncertainty lingers like the
disdain of a stranger.

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This code

Tuesday, October 14th, 2008 12:53 pm — PoemsComments (0)


Talk about current events.
Talk about streetlights.
Talk about famine.
YHWH.
Burdock root.
Trout fishing.
Nothing to talk about.
If any proof was needed
I find all I can write about is writing.
Writing about writing?
Wasteful!
Talk about talking?
Drink about drinking?
Shit about shitting?
What can I say?
Code excites me.
It perks my mind.
I don't mean computer "code"
(That is not code at all).
I mean this.
This.
This code,
this cipher, this
attempt to
translate the zeitgeist
from its rottenness,
to pull its perfect
poisons from
beneath the
scum
that separates
what you see from
what you get.
I call it "scum" today.
Next week:
phlegm.
Next month:
Spiritual miasma.
Next year:
Aura's rev
(versus aura's exhaust).
The thin sewage of restraint,
a restless melancholy
beneath which sincerity sits,
that is my combat.
I could sweat it out in a sauna,
or by swimming in the ocean.
Feet and hands pressed
flat to the earth
I could pass it from my system
and into the primordial
backwash of our
wasted energy.
It would return,
that scum,
the accumulation,
yours wrapped in mine and
mine soaked in
cold memory.
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O

Saturday, March 8th, 2008 5:06 pm — PoemsComments (0)

Oo oo oO ooOoOoo ooO Ooo oO Oo ooOooOoo oooOoooOooo ooOooOoo ooO Ooo oO Oo Oo o oO
o o O o o o O o O OoO O o O o o o O o O o o o o O o oo o O O o o o O o O O o O O o O O
o
O o
O oOo O oo oOo oOo oo ooo o O o ooo OO OO
oooo oooo
o O ooo O o oO o OO o Oo OOOOO o OOOOO o o oO Oo o o o O o O oo o o o o oo O O O OooOoOooO o o o o o o o o


o O o


oo oOo oo o Oo oO o o OO o o Oo Oo oO oO o O oOo oOo oOo O o o o o o o o o o O oo O oo O oo oo O oo Oo oO oo O O O o o o o
O O o o O O o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o O O o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o O O o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
O O
o o oOo

o o o
oOo ooOoo oOo oO oOo Oo oO Oo oO Oo Ooo ooOOOoo ooO oO oO oO oO ooo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo oo oO OOO OOO o OO o OOO OOO o oO Oo ooO Ooo oo

O O O O O O

ooO Ooo OoOoOo oOoOoO ooO Ooo o o oOo Ooo OoO OoO ooO oOo oo oo
o o
O O Ooo oo oo O oo oo ooO O O o o O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O o O o O O O O O O O O O O O o o O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O o O o O O O O O O O O O O O o o O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O o O o O O O O O O O O O O O o o O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O O o O o O O O O O O O O O O O oo o o oOooooOo oOooooOo oOo O O O O oOo o o o o o o oO oO oO Oo Oo Oo O o o o o O O O oOo O O o O O oOo o OO ooo OO ooo OO o o o o o O O o o o o O O o o o o o o O O O o o o o o O O o o O O O O


O O O O O O

o o O o o O o O OoO O o O o o O o O o o o o O o oOo o O o o o o O O o O O O O O O O O O O O O oOo oOo oOo

o oooooo o o o o o o o o o o o O O oooo oooo o o o o o o oOoOOoOOOoo ooOOOoOOoOo O OO OO oo oOOo oo OO OO oo oo ooo oo oo ooo oo oo OoO ooO oOOOOo Ooo OoO



o
O o


Oo oo oO ooOoOoo ooO Ooo oO Oo ooOooOoo oooOoooOooo ooOooOoo ooO Ooo oO Oo Oo o oO
o o O o o o O o O OoO O o O o o o O o O o o o o O o oo o O O o o o O o O O o O O o O O

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Rock Concert!

Monday, August 21st, 2006 8:40 pm — PoemsComments (0)


THERE ARE 7 ROCK CONCERTS IN THE FREEZER.
ALL OF MONDAY’S ROCK CONCERTS ARE BLANKETED.
HARRY SPAARNAY HAS HOSTED ALL OF MARK ROTH’S ROCK CONCERTS.
THERE ARE NO COMPLAINING ROCK CONCERTS.
ALL ROCK CONCERTS ARE IN ARIZONA.
EVERY ROCK CONCERT IN YOUR OVEN COSTS $14.99.
MY BUS DRIVER EXAMINED THE ROCK CONCERT IN MY EYES.
I SAW A ROCK CONCERT AT THE BOTTOM OF A BIG HOLE.
I SAW A ROCK CONCERT IN ONE WINDOW OF A LOW-LANDING JET PLANE.
SO BILL GATES, A PRIEST, AND A ROCK CONCERT WALK INTO A BAR…
WALGREEN’S OCCASIONALLY HAS BINS FULL OF ROCK CONCERTS FOR 29¢ EACH.
THERE’S A ROCK CONCERT BEING FOUGHT ON THE TURNPIKE, AND A BALLET BEING FOUGHT OUT IN THE ALLEY.
I HAVE KNOWN ROCK CONCERTS TO BE IGNORANT, UNDERWATER, TEAL, AND FLANNEL.
THERE ARE NO SECURE ROCK CONCERTS.
MOST ROCK CONCERTS REQUIRE SATIN SHEETS.
THOUSANDS OF ILLEGAL ROCK CONCERTS ENTER AMERICA EVERY WEEK, MOSTLY THROUGH MISSOURI.
THE HIGHEST POINT IN ARIZONA IS A ROCK CONCERT.
THERE SHOULD BE MORE FLATSCREEN ROCK CONCERTS.
THERE WERE TWELVE ROCK CONCERTS IN THE 9TH CENTURY.
MASTURBATION IS A ROCK CONCERT.
THE ACTION AISLE IS A ROCK CONCERT.
THE SECRET SAUCE IS A ROCK CONCERT.

 


 

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80sdorf h a lsan MM& ask damn ab

Monday, April 18th, 2005 6:11 am — PoemsComments (0)



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Wuppen oa 89  ,smnd bnfkjk

80sdorf h a  lsan MM& ask damn  ab


     BUIx,m    i 0 l




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Pompom Poem

Monday, March 28th, 2005 6:18 am — PoemsComments (0)






POMPOM POEM

POMPOM PASSION
POMPOM POISON
POMPOM PREGNANT
POMPOM PRISON
POMPOM PAGEANT
POMPOM POIGNANT
POMPOM PORNOGRAPH
POMPOM PLANET
POMPOM PUNK
POMPOM POPE
POMPOM PRANKS
POMPOM PLAYGROUND
POMPOM PICKLE
POMPOM PLAQUE
POMPOM PANTS
POMPOM PENANCE
POMPOM PIANO
POMPOM PLANK
POMPOM PLATTER
POMPOM PLAGUE
POMPOM PRIEST


 


 



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