Monday, March 28, 2005

There’s a blue sea lurking somewhere past my broken heart
With a bib of spilled cartoon soul candy
Stretching like a grove of wounded gauze
Across the broken table legs

And oh the pale blue and the deep blue of
My shallow and deep spring-times
Full of a roaring kettle full of birds
Whose twitters and tweats are friendly colors visiting

My friendly universe
With the sizzle and the scratch-scratch and the clots
And the paralyzed charm
Of yesterday’s downpour in a jug

Butterflies assembled from the jitters
Imitate explosions
While spilled thumbs
Collect in a fungus of rolled mass


Saturday, March 19, 2005

A grasshopper-fog-legs-fiddles

A million tiny fingerprintlets like
Tiny empty bags unzipped and our tears
Made a way on tiny little see-through
Winglets buzzing-purring-vibrating-see

The ant has been tucked in his supplied
World; the grasshopper through his
Healed-split fiddles, fog-lenses burn
Off like mist as sun invades wet worlds

A thousand empty signals like
A whole brain abandoned in the middle of
Receiving transmissions from a self that moves to
Fast to focus eyes on and betrays

The solid-wing-case-tightened-oiled

Friday, March 18, 2005


Wednesday, March 16, 2005

A wolf with a few red petals in a square snout
Barks from a throat like a sphincter like a fan
The blades whirling and releasing grey fog
While a black VCR in the background chews the time

The time is a small dog frisking on the wolf’s nose
Sort of like a brown scorpion with its tail up
Meanwhile a frail X carved in the fog
Spills blood through its south-west quadrant, from a wound

In the map produced by creating it
Whenever they organize something, it just traps
Some non-combatant in darkness, on the disconnected end
Of a phonecall to utopia

And the sun doesn’t rise, it just leaks in
In some goldarned hideous form that makes us blush


Monday, March 14, 2005

The essential colors, because they are the only colors, always adulterated, always replaced by versions of themselves, sometimes submit to blue and blank and get driven down into the loin-cloth of the computer, a black plastic shell like the hull of a digital column. Like a condom the computer wore in a green blink at the assassinated bulkhead of the hull of shell, the essential colors, because they are the only colors, always finding kinship with every other color because of spectra shared and because of their loyalty to the artist who wants to mix all of the colors in order to create the sweet idea of adulteration on which art depends, the essential colors, because they are the only colors, colors that we cannot see are the subject of the art stuffed into our cum by aliens, there’s more to life than heroic children, let’s hear it for the motionless of circular today.

Sunday, March 13, 2005


Saturday, March 12, 2005

One day all the rays of light hidden in the bed began to pour straight up. It was as if a rainbow had been hidden in the bed’s puffy bladder, and began to be pissed out through a lot of tiny holes. Like a rainbow being snuck out through some pinholes. But the beauty of the rainbow is confused and cannot rejoin unitary archness. The beauty of the rainbow is retained in tiny strings like omnivorous spittle of all light hung out to dry upside down like little lost stalactites of the spectrum. And the bed like a fish out of which all the ingredients have snuck. The bed lies down on the sea-floor and becomes the pool chair where the gray age of forgotten starlets grows, like a gray moss of the background, eclipsing the vitality of washed-up vessels (the unlimited exuberance passes us, having done us, as individuals, the good it could do us: my gray coat surrounds my infant starlight on the seafloor, as forever as forever as forever bubbles up.) I said, “I am the starlet of the spectrum, and my radiance surpasses vast.” I was only kidding, though: the flipped-over bed is camouflaged to match the sea-floor of the paper-stock.

Friday, March 11, 2005


Tuesday, March 08, 2005


What are unions? Who are two?
I am perfect. I begin. I end.
I begin. I end. I bend.
I bend. My thumbs are eggshells spilling rock’s blood in the river.

Roc’s blood. bed.
Color’s scalpels. wed.
Blue posts and circuits. said.
The creation of union in ingratiation. fed.

I be an end.
I we an and.
I say of hid.
I free of head.

My thumbs hatched parasitic colors
Blue amoeba darts.
The least essential of creations.
Extra tongues that wrap like licenses around

words. Roc’s call blue shun.


Friday, March 04, 2005

Sometimes in the middle of a dream the bed you’re on curls its vague smoke and folds and unfolds to assume the form of an antique Model-T Ford. In a basic black antique Model-T Ford cloudbank, you are rolling then through a serene piece of paper with nothing but your own charcoally thin emissions to show you’re there. Certainly you’re looking for a green oasis where carbon is retained amid a little splendor, a little chlorophyllic charm. Just because you’re flammable doesn’t mean you have to be dry and scratchy, and indeed the classy way is to mix a little damp amidst your sparkability, you know, keep yourself tamped down. Sometimes though the only color you can muster is the tell-tale smear-away-to-gray of something that has been burned till it hath no fire to give. “Ashen” they call it, in the catalogs. So, in an ashen antique Model-T Ford cloudbank straight out of the catalog, you are rolling then through a flammable place without the power to incite anything. The simplest expression, “Hey” for example, runs into you and becomes a puzzle. “Hey” is for horses and they burn it in their bellies full of spanking acid. You have no incitements with which to begin the process of taking fuel from “Hey.” It would require a catalyst. It would require you to inject a catalyst, so the molecules on the outside of “Hey” would begin falling off. So they could fall into your saucer where you could lap them. So the molecules would become fuzzy and solitary and fall into your saucer of serene paper, flammable as milk, through which your antique ashen Model T-Ford cloudbank rolls. Folding and unfolding like an adjustable sofa-bed with a jaw with piano wires inside. A jaw with piano wires and braces and contraptions folding and unfolding in its midst in a bed which folds up into a classic ashen Model-T Ford cloud.

Thursday, March 03, 2005


With Apologies

Oh rosy empty how I wouldn’t dare
Oh rosy empty how I wouldn’t dare to
scratch you with an unclipped fingernail
some places you have to clean yourself before you put your

Before you let your thumb-troughs cling
to the all-smooth wall of what wants
to be unwanted. But empty potential is our
bribe, it’s why we want to live, to invent it in the middle of history

fucking colonialist settler shit-heads’ll kill anything to invent wet
dreams before they gasped on the gluey tailpipe of animal sewage
Stupid beautiful fictions with their worded anus
how they wouldn’t dare to with a tool or a breath begin to

with an ink-drum hush


Wednesday, March 02, 2005

A fog-bank
full of furniture
full of fires
in suspension

smothers the bed
in surprises
too many possible
motions collect in a dense core

as if fire and smoke
compressed became
terrains of a few planets
patched together

quilts like anything contain
fires in potential
densities smoldering
casting out

creeper-vines of sparks
wound like DNA
in granny-knots of
shoelace dissipate

Tuesday, March 01, 2005