foul wasteland, nestled between my heaven & clocks
themselves speckled with old failures, thin metal veins;
back toward their blank abyss you beckon,
with old sevens to grandfather nascent plans.
heaving silence in momentous nothings,
back and forth between my heaven & clocks,
you sling a senseless sort of small remembrance
snatched from somewhere in the distance.
'neath one wispy strand of old times you stand,
siren, and the ticking and tocking never ceases.
it only drones onward, ever onward, grating on my heaven.
all the while old clocks march in line, keeping time.
JHS
Friday, December 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Stuck
When I stuck you,
I wasn't sure if you were stuck with me
or if I was stuck with you,
if we were bound to some other principle,
but we didn't talk much about it,
in fact, not at all, because
we both were anti-stuck
--didn't want anything to do with it
too sticky we would say, for me
because everything is sticky when
you're unstuck:
spitting out the apple
"Zero adhesion please,"
"I'm not a dying man."
but if I were...
You stuck me, though--
i was a pig before but no more--
stuck me like a polish pikeman
and now i'm covered in sticky
and without antivenom I convulse
and wait for you.
I wasn't sure if you were stuck with me
or if I was stuck with you,
if we were bound to some other principle,
but we didn't talk much about it,
in fact, not at all, because
we both were anti-stuck
--didn't want anything to do with it
too sticky we would say, for me
because everything is sticky when
you're unstuck:
spitting out the apple
"Zero adhesion please,"
"I'm not a dying man."
but if I were...
You stuck me, though--
i was a pig before but no more--
stuck me like a polish pikeman
and now i'm covered in sticky
and without antivenom I convulse
and wait for you.
LD
Thursday, November 18, 2010
OK This is Called Three Guys Hanging Out in Baltimore on Wednesday Night
Baltimore tomorrow on the edge of a piece of garbage
on an inexhaustible bridge of nothing which only gives me problems
trouble mouths ungummed in the eyes of mother shouting
shouting louder in the face of nothing which only asks to be pondered
pounding out unnaturally optical double shouts
triumphantly asking the thing which knows itself to be asked in both question and answer
truly traveling in triple space
there's a rabbit that went by my Baltimore wait there's life here?
ravenously devouring The Wall before us in the nothing that stands before everything in the brief prelude to infinity
can I accept that my second is fractionally equivalent to some other listener's moment of listenership somewhere else for a similar amount of time?
somewhere else in Baltimore I might
let us gum gratuitously at the gall bladder of infinity
but wait, the tear of a spleen traveler wiggles within your lukewarm liver
rummaging through the rubbish of invisible dirigibles
deep in tunnels of exhausted tummy ticklers
either you're stuck or your legs don't bend and be careful because it all starts over
JWR & RJM
on an inexhaustible bridge of nothing which only gives me problems
trouble mouths ungummed in the eyes of mother shouting
shouting louder in the face of nothing which only asks to be pondered
pounding out unnaturally optical double shouts
triumphantly asking the thing which knows itself to be asked in both question and answer
truly traveling in triple space
there's a rabbit that went by my Baltimore wait there's life here?
ravenously devouring The Wall before us in the nothing that stands before everything in the brief prelude to infinity
can I accept that my second is fractionally equivalent to some other listener's moment of listenership somewhere else for a similar amount of time?
somewhere else in Baltimore I might
let us gum gratuitously at the gall bladder of infinity
but wait, the tear of a spleen traveler wiggles within your lukewarm liver
rummaging through the rubbish of invisible dirigibles
deep in tunnels of exhausted tummy ticklers
either you're stuck or your legs don't bend and be careful because it all starts over
JWR & RJM
Monday, October 25, 2010
Some Saturday Morning
the sad avenue,
its broken down starlets
just standing, not looking
for some soothsayer
nor swaying for some lover-
just standing, swallowed by
the sounds of some treacly pop group.
it's too early in the morning,
too early to stand there empty,
without quietude.
when the parade petered out,
passed along like this morning sunlight
through clouds of cotton candy, shouting,
hollering with all its punchdrunk, sadeyed brilliance,
the avenue sat, sadly, and all its tired sadness sat,
wondering how in the hell it had gotten there.
JHS
These Manufactured Poems, Matrices 9-10: The Party Matrices
9.
You just force head,
dicklick! Can't your marbles
(the rest) change not?
Best on. Bro it.
You DICKLICK! The best
just can't rest on
force. Your change, bro.
Head marbles. Not "it."
You can't change it.
Best rest your head.
10.
You, bleakest rye friend,
blacker are your colors.
Scream. AM: My fire,
I, bathing space, sunshine.
You blacker, scream. I,
bleakest (are?) am. Bathing
rye, your myspace
friend colors fire (sunshine).
You are my sunshine.
I am your friend.
You just force head,
dicklick! Can't your marbles
(the rest) change not?
Best on. Bro it.
You DICKLICK! The best
just can't rest on
force. Your change, bro.
Head marbles. Not "it."
You can't change it.
Best rest your head.
10.
You, bleakest rye friend,
blacker are your colors.
Scream. AM: My fire,
I, bathing space, sunshine.
You blacker, scream. I,
bleakest (are?) am. Bathing
rye, your myspace
friend colors fire (sunshine).
You are my sunshine.
I am your friend.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
These Manufactured Poems, Matrices 3-5
3.
Tremble small, never inward.
Blindly stumble, wriggle, looking,
single thimble, humbled, simple,
dimpled tripper, rubber member.
Tremble blindly, single-dimpled
small-stumble thimble-tripper.
Never wriggle, humbled rubber,
inward-looking simple member.
Tremble, stumble, humbled member.
Dimpled thimble, wriggle inward.
4.
Devil only owns shoes,
walks in elephant suit
around- wearing Sunday best.
God tears, "Purple hat!"
Devil walks around God
only in wearing tears,
owns elephant, Sunday purple
shoes, suit, best hat.
Devil in Sunday hat.
God, wearing elephant shoes.
5.
A terribly eerie calm,
Christ! Storm the origins!
My like is fierce
nothing... new is brewing.
A Christ. My nothing.
Terribly storm, like new.
Eerie the "is" is.
Calm origins, fierce brewing.
A storm is brewing,
nothing like the calm.
Tremble small, never inward.
Blindly stumble, wriggle, looking,
single thimble, humbled, simple,
dimpled tripper, rubber member.
Tremble blindly, single-dimpled
small-stumble thimble-tripper.
Never wriggle, humbled rubber,
inward-looking simple member.
Tremble, stumble, humbled member.
Dimpled thimble, wriggle inward.
4.
Devil only owns shoes,
walks in elephant suit
around- wearing Sunday best.
God tears, "Purple hat!"
Devil walks around God
only in wearing tears,
owns elephant, Sunday purple
shoes, suit, best hat.
Devil in Sunday hat.
God, wearing elephant shoes.
5.
A terribly eerie calm,
Christ! Storm the origins!
My like is fierce
nothing... new is brewing.
A Christ. My nothing.
Terribly storm, like new.
Eerie the "is" is.
Calm origins, fierce brewing.
A storm is brewing,
nothing like the calm.
Monday, October 18, 2010
July 5th
on some jambalaya tuesday,
when the riots died down. you,
in your evening gown, went round the
apartment, lighting candles, humming softly
under the din of the dying refrigerator,
under the din of the drunk, dying riots.
on this tuesday, jumbled like your curls --
unkempt, unspoiled, the pipes had broken down --
a roach gallavanters across the tile, leaving
a tiny trail in the thinness of the dust, scurrying
under the refrigerator, doomed to die
like the refigerator, like you, like me, and
the sluggishness of this slow crawl --
our slow death, the death of the slow riot,
the riot against all of the sluggishness --
it slows me, slows the flames in the candles.
and so, sitting on our private perch above the square,
the wind gently moving neither here nor there,
where rioters square themselves against the squares,
i turn round, stare at you -- you, humming,
lighting candles, haphazardly hee-hawing
from kitchen counter to bedside tower, and
the sluggishness of it all somehow satisfies.
suddenly i strive toward a slowness in the sequence 'fore i die,
a slowness never found with fists thrust high into the sky;
so i shut the door on rioters, their din now dead and done,
and i move round, blow your candles out, and pour myself more rum.
JHS
when the riots died down. you,
in your evening gown, went round the
apartment, lighting candles, humming softly
under the din of the dying refrigerator,
under the din of the drunk, dying riots.
on this tuesday, jumbled like your curls --
unkempt, unspoiled, the pipes had broken down --
a roach gallavanters across the tile, leaving
a tiny trail in the thinness of the dust, scurrying
under the refrigerator, doomed to die
like the refigerator, like you, like me, and
the sluggishness of this slow crawl --
our slow death, the death of the slow riot,
the riot against all of the sluggishness --
it slows me, slows the flames in the candles.
and so, sitting on our private perch above the square,
the wind gently moving neither here nor there,
where rioters square themselves against the squares,
i turn round, stare at you -- you, humming,
lighting candles, haphazardly hee-hawing
from kitchen counter to bedside tower, and
the sluggishness of it all somehow satisfies.
suddenly i strive toward a slowness in the sequence 'fore i die,
a slowness never found with fists thrust high into the sky;
so i shut the door on rioters, their din now dead and done,
and i move round, blow your candles out, and pour myself more rum.
JHS
Friday, October 8, 2010
Friday
...the real drunk guy comes out to hunt for rare strains of alcohol tonight.
"Also, prepare to die, Don Nacho. We'll see where we end up."
He rolls up his trousers and wipes his sleeve on the counter emphatically.
"Ready."
The bartender, confused (he's never really seen anyone drink before),
questions a dumb one: "What'll it be?"
The man answers. "Alcohol, please. On the double."
A few blind minutes future, slinging back a wet spaghetti basket
he splutters, "Whatten stagnation thissaint no goddam likker?"
But it's way too late.
Waking up already, hollowed out but heavy headed,
having traversed an impossible path to his own bed.
Good thing this here woman knows about the crazy man inside.
And good thing she loves him. And good thing it's pajama Saturday.
"Who're I?" says he first, "This bed's gone all Moses and firesticks
And my thoughts are invisible."
She soothes sayingly, "The man is here..."
(they both pajama back over to the bartop
and bloody Mary their way around another Saturday morning,
but that's another story:
NDW & JWR
"Also, prepare to die, Don Nacho. We'll see where we end up."
He rolls up his trousers and wipes his sleeve on the counter emphatically.
"Ready."
The bartender, confused (he's never really seen anyone drink before),
questions a dumb one: "What'll it be?"
The man answers. "Alcohol, please. On the double."
A few blind minutes future, slinging back a wet spaghetti basket
he splutters, "Whatten stagnation thissaint no goddam likker?"
But it's way too late.
Waking up already, hollowed out but heavy headed,
having traversed an impossible path to his own bed.
Good thing this here woman knows about the crazy man inside.
And good thing she loves him. And good thing it's pajama Saturday.
"Who're I?" says he first, "This bed's gone all Moses and firesticks
And my thoughts are invisible."
She soothes sayingly, "The man is here..."
(they both pajama back over to the bartop
and bloody Mary their way around another Saturday morning,
but that's another story:
NDW & JWR
Monday, September 20, 2010
no balance
spitting shitfaced bullshit belligerently
with no sense of balance
berating with snapping sharp consonants
teetering and sneering insults, i
sling shit at everyone standing around
seething and snarling at foreign figures
only recently friends
tottering totems saying nothing now
dismembering these symbols, i
misremember their meanings unfound
shitting out an oversensitive screaming stream
of bellicose nonsense
spouting torrentially, smearing and staining my senses
straining no longer to stand, i
topple to the ground
JWR
with no sense of balance
berating with snapping sharp consonants
teetering and sneering insults, i
sling shit at everyone standing around
seething and snarling at foreign figures
only recently friends
tottering totems saying nothing now
dismembering these symbols, i
misremember their meanings unfound
shitting out an oversensitive screaming stream
of bellicose nonsense
spouting torrentially, smearing and staining my senses
straining no longer to stand, i
topple to the ground
JWR
Form with function, yet hardly functioning, too busy fathoming and fornicating.
It's more like floundering, really, even with the immense understanding belying that Fall.
Frivolous fledgling, fondling this freedom, pondering that forgiveness.
And yet still, frying the backs of your eyeballs for superficial thrills.
Who are you? Better question - you are who? Here is who you arent.
Your whole self. (Though I suppose through and through, this is physically you.)
An instantiation; proof that you exist. But more just a pointer we point to.
When you die, you're really gone. And there's no use asking.
But if you asked where? I'd point neither here nor there.
Because where you really are, we can't point to. Not in the air.
VLS
It's more like floundering, really, even with the immense understanding belying that Fall.
Frivolous fledgling, fondling this freedom, pondering that forgiveness.
And yet still, frying the backs of your eyeballs for superficial thrills.
Who are you? Better question - you are who? Here is who you arent.
Your whole self. (Though I suppose through and through, this is physically you.)
An instantiation; proof that you exist. But more just a pointer we point to.
When you die, you're really gone. And there's no use asking.
But if you asked where? I'd point neither here nor there.
Because where you really are, we can't point to. Not in the air.
VLS
Sunday, September 19, 2010
argentines want to drink my beer.
I am walking on clouds
high above where
argentines want to drink my beer
that i sip through a straw
& they confuse me with
my passport
& see me as a name they can't pronounce
consonant clusters which
are so natural become
unnatural
unnaturally broad & slender
But I confuse them too:
with friends & enemies
with words & ways of walking.
Why see difference
when you can see sameness
& similarity?
Why take when
you could receive?
& in giving a dollar or 4 pesos
what is returned?
what is the value of experience?
of jumpstarting braincells to
take in stimuli?
It is the returning which teaches
us to open.
But the argentine who wants
to drink my beer
still picks fights with me
from 5000 miles away.
I tell him "if you want to go
outside that's your problem"
& he says "do you wan' to go ou'side?"
I say "no, I want you to go outside-
I paid to be here"
& we walk away from trouble
but not from the problem.
Later in the bathroom after
5 handshakes
he tells me my presidents fuck
his country (with no specifics)
I'm holding my dick
& my tongue
& rolling my eyes.
He thinks he's educating me
But all he really wants
is the cigarette I don't have
& the beer I finished.
he doesn't want to fight
he wants to talk about it.
he wants to demonstrate
in the street
every Thursday & 2nd Sunday
of the month.
"When you go home you make change"
he gave me no specifics
but cardboard & a fence post
can't change much.
Now I'm riding much
closer to the ground
at home where
other people will want to drink my beer
& I will give it to them
If they will only ask.
PDM
high above where
argentines want to drink my beer
that i sip through a straw
& they confuse me with
my passport
& see me as a name they can't pronounce
consonant clusters which
are so natural become
unnatural
unnaturally broad & slender
But I confuse them too:
with friends & enemies
with words & ways of walking.
Why see difference
when you can see sameness
& similarity?
Why take when
you could receive?
& in giving a dollar or 4 pesos
what is returned?
what is the value of experience?
of jumpstarting braincells to
take in stimuli?
It is the returning which teaches
us to open.
But the argentine who wants
to drink my beer
still picks fights with me
from 5000 miles away.
I tell him "if you want to go
outside that's your problem"
& he says "do you wan' to go ou'side?"
I say "no, I want you to go outside-
I paid to be here"
& we walk away from trouble
but not from the problem.
Later in the bathroom after
5 handshakes
he tells me my presidents fuck
his country (with no specifics)
I'm holding my dick
& my tongue
& rolling my eyes.
He thinks he's educating me
But all he really wants
is the cigarette I don't have
& the beer I finished.
he doesn't want to fight
he wants to talk about it.
he wants to demonstrate
in the street
every Thursday & 2nd Sunday
of the month.
"When you go home you make change"
he gave me no specifics
but cardboard & a fence post
can't change much.
Now I'm riding much
closer to the ground
at home where
other people will want to drink my beer
& I will give it to them
If they will only ask.
PDM
9/18/10
reading old manifestos is like looking into lost, mad pasts,
and the future isn't anything like it seemed it'd be when
writing those lines in tiny black notebooks, tightly bound,
in tiny, ramshackle black print.
looking at old photographs is like looking into lies
and the future isn't anything like it seemed it'd be when
the flash went off, when our smiles told some impossibly small fraction of the story,
without any of the depth that makes reality real.
looking inside is like digging through your own mess,
and the future isn't anything like it seemed it'd be when
you left things muddied, half-forgotten, knowing you'd be back to dig,
unaware of how different your digger would be
JHS
and the future isn't anything like it seemed it'd be when
writing those lines in tiny black notebooks, tightly bound,
in tiny, ramshackle black print.
looking at old photographs is like looking into lies
and the future isn't anything like it seemed it'd be when
the flash went off, when our smiles told some impossibly small fraction of the story,
without any of the depth that makes reality real.
looking inside is like digging through your own mess,
and the future isn't anything like it seemed it'd be when
you left things muddied, half-forgotten, knowing you'd be back to dig,
unaware of how different your digger would be
JHS
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
I don't want to perceive infinity
I don't want to perceive infinity
to braid my mind infinitely
into unknowable patterns
of mind
from Socrates to Plato
unasking their own answers
in a writhing synergy
of mind
to me
unknowing nothing of my own mind
noting a few patterned infinities
in the singular synapse
that is my perception
JWR
to braid my mind infinitely
into unknowable patterns
of mind
from Socrates to Plato
unasking their own answers
in a writhing synergy
of mind
to me
unknowing nothing of my own mind
noting a few patterned infinities
in the singular synapse
that is my perception
JWR
Friday, September 10, 2010
A Sonnet Regarding Poetry's Inability to Fully Recreate an Experience Beside a Brook (That I May or May Not Have Had)
If I should stop to stand beside a brook
(if I should ever be so near to one)
and stoop to ground to get a better look
and gently graze its softly glittered run,
or should I brookside toss a stone to bed
to hear hardscrabbled rubble babble good,
or should I shout across the bank instead
to hear high hollow echoes in the wood-
If any of these actions I should take,
(if any of these sequences occur)
should I, in pauses there- which I should make-
should I attempt to play at raconteur
and write the wooded brook, it would be nice.
But one poor man's recounting won't suffice.
JWR
(if I should ever be so near to one)
and stoop to ground to get a better look
and gently graze its softly glittered run,
or should I brookside toss a stone to bed
to hear hardscrabbled rubble babble good,
or should I shout across the bank instead
to hear high hollow echoes in the wood-
If any of these actions I should take,
(if any of these sequences occur)
should I, in pauses there- which I should make-
should I attempt to play at raconteur
and write the wooded brook, it would be nice.
But one poor man's recounting won't suffice.
JWR
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
One a.m (a different work in progress)
hot dog wrapped in cheese
I am 1 a.m
Day 32
I am 1 a.m
cloudy I'm sure
I am at 1 a.m
recognizing some inadequacy
in television
I am 1 a.m (when I am
amazed by the planet)
[1 a.m] I am
in High definition
I am 1 a.m
Fade to blue
the new color of t.v.
i am 1 a.m
...no really…
I am 4:16 a.m and I am ready to fall asleep
but not quite ready
the tv beckons
it's quality cable, ya gatta admit
it don't quit
it's still kicken after
1 a.m I am
soon taken over by infomercials at 4:17 a.m
PDM
I am 1 a.m
Day 32
I am 1 a.m
cloudy I'm sure
I am at 1 a.m
recognizing some inadequacy
in television
I am 1 a.m (when I am
amazed by the planet)
[1 a.m] I am
in High definition
I am 1 a.m
Fade to blue
the new color of t.v.
i am 1 a.m
...no really…
I am 4:16 a.m and I am ready to fall asleep
but not quite ready
the tv beckons
it's quality cable, ya gatta admit
it don't quit
it's still kicken after
1 a.m I am
soon taken over by infomercials at 4:17 a.m
PDM
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
sunday
two men are quietly making love
in an empty bar
on a sunday
falling into their beers
leaning in
listening
saying something meaning
"i'm lonesome"
"me too"
But where are all the lonesome women?
As I'm worrying about where they're at
I turn the corner
& there she is
Beautiful & lonely
So I set the table for one
and she says
"it's actually for two..."
& I go off the lonely one.
PDM
in an empty bar
on a sunday
falling into their beers
leaning in
listening
saying something meaning
"i'm lonesome"
"me too"
But where are all the lonesome women?
As I'm worrying about where they're at
I turn the corner
& there she is
Beautiful & lonely
So I set the table for one
and she says
"it's actually for two..."
& I go off the lonely one.
PDM
Friday, September 3, 2010
here
here
here where we stand
on foreign land
here where we aren't us
where we're everything we've known
that we know that we don't
that we've grown
here we sit
or sleep or lay
or recover
on a couch
others stand
in other spots
in high hopes
in silly shrines
and let them
and envy them
if you must
if you're sad
if you're happy
if you wait
i'll arrive here
i'll be good
but i'd rather be here
but i'm here
for a sec
for now
NDW
here where we stand
on foreign land
here where we aren't us
where we're everything we've known
that we know that we don't
that we've grown
here we sit
or sleep or lay
or recover
on a couch
others stand
in other spots
in high hopes
in silly shrines
and let them
and envy them
if you must
if you're sad
if you're happy
if you wait
i'll arrive here
i'll be good
but i'd rather be here
but i'm here
for a sec
for now
NDW
layers
layers
ones that lay
in heaps full of them selves
lying
lovers
laying
laden lady
being laid
two rest
leaning
laid out
liquid
loaded
languid
leeks
in a field
deep
in the deep
meanderered
inside
in a layer
in a brick
home
cozy
lazy lays he
days she do
later
lately
dazey
in a daisy
on a lane
on a day
in a dream
in a dream
NDW
ones that lay
in heaps full of them selves
lying
lovers
laying
laden lady
being laid
two rest
leaning
laid out
liquid
loaded
languid
leeks
in a field
deep
in the deep
meanderered
inside
in a layer
in a brick
home
cozy
lazy lays he
days she do
later
lately
dazey
in a daisy
on a lane
on a day
in a dream
in a dream
NDW
Heatwave
heatwave
the heat comes in waves
like a gas leak
above a candle
the air is waving
& guns go in the ground
again
it was a heatlight
a hotnight
though frighteningly barren
And that light fades
PDM
the heat comes in waves
like a gas leak
above a candle
the air is waving
& guns go in the ground
again
it was a heatlight
a hotnight
though frighteningly barren
And that light fades
PDM
“Wish I met you sooner…”
And it won’t matter tomorrow that you ran your fingers down my forearm,
crashing them over my knuckles like waves over a jetty. Even if you locked those same
fingers into mine and brought our hands to your lips, kissing prolonged a clasp that
seemed to be meaningful. It won’t matter that you turned towards me after sex instead
of away, resting your head on my chest, looking up softly and studiously into my eyes.
I won’t think about the way your hair would drape around my face while you
straddled me, sealing out the world, like in a tent or behind a falls. I won’t think about
how your looked so natural while the Venetian blinds cast a blanket of shadow over you,
nude, while the aqua glow of your blackberry illuminated your face and I stood watching
from the doorway.
I’ll forget about the comfort, the sanctum from the stresses of the world that I
found in your bed or in your eyes. I’ll forget about the time I sang you old Bee Gees
songs when you were crying, and the laughter that pushed its way out from under the
tears. I’ll forget about the time you saw me in just my business socks, or the times you
wore my t-shirts to bed.
I can’t remember you because it’s poison in my veins. I can’t remember you
because I have to. Because I’ll never see you again—and if I do than I’ll forget it all.
Chris Carlin
crashing them over my knuckles like waves over a jetty. Even if you locked those same
fingers into mine and brought our hands to your lips, kissing prolonged a clasp that
seemed to be meaningful. It won’t matter that you turned towards me after sex instead
of away, resting your head on my chest, looking up softly and studiously into my eyes.
I won’t think about the way your hair would drape around my face while you
straddled me, sealing out the world, like in a tent or behind a falls. I won’t think about
how your looked so natural while the Venetian blinds cast a blanket of shadow over you,
nude, while the aqua glow of your blackberry illuminated your face and I stood watching
from the doorway.
I’ll forget about the comfort, the sanctum from the stresses of the world that I
found in your bed or in your eyes. I’ll forget about the time I sang you old Bee Gees
songs when you were crying, and the laughter that pushed its way out from under the
tears. I’ll forget about the time you saw me in just my business socks, or the times you
wore my t-shirts to bed.
I can’t remember you because it’s poison in my veins. I can’t remember you
because I have to. Because I’ll never see you again—and if I do than I’ll forget it all.
Chris Carlin
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Please, Remember to Remember
Take this time bless it caress it and kiss it
and wish it would always be there and then miss it
think fond of the moment the moment was found
and then cherish it, hold it to light, wish renown
on the makers of memories worth your remembrance
and hope that your summons comes after your penance
for ten ants on one hill of sand underfoot
are all equally sundered and equally shook
by the flames that lick lustfully out of the eyes
of the beast everwanting that takes all our lives
And here it arrives
JWR
and wish it would always be there and then miss it
think fond of the moment the moment was found
and then cherish it, hold it to light, wish renown
on the makers of memories worth your remembrance
and hope that your summons comes after your penance
for ten ants on one hill of sand underfoot
are all equally sundered and equally shook
by the flames that lick lustfully out of the eyes
of the beast everwanting that takes all our lives
And here it arrives
JWR
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
a bizzar interlude that happened when a goose was heard honking
The geese descended on the green
it was the end of their journey
but they had come too late
For it was the end of all human righteousness
They flew far & when they touched down
A sound similar to but different
from a whisper
greeted them.
PDM
it was the end of their journey
but they had come too late
For it was the end of all human righteousness
They flew far & when they touched down
A sound similar to but different
from a whisper
greeted them.
PDM
One of my Acid Rants
Hat headed
hat wearing
Strangers
&
Ranger
And blackeyed
Muffdiving wierdos
Slap me a new
Millenium
Friday is Thursday
nope~L. Delko
Monday, August 30, 2010
On Loss
The living life vanished left a vortex of sadness swirling dumbly on the damaged horizon, numb
wellwishers caregivers and undertakers making small talk over an open casket
Making not to lie, made not to lie, wishing well
with little heart to spare I’m so sorry for your loss Mrs. Johnson, a man
standing quiet with less and less to say he was a fine boy
and today’s the fucking day I say God Damn You God
and thanks for all the truth I can’t think about
and thanks for how much life he could have lived
but You were a little careless this time
with Your Untimely Death
So here we are all gathered together birds of mournful feather beating wing for dear life
Spinning in the storm
JWR & NDW
wellwishers caregivers and undertakers making small talk over an open casket
Making not to lie, made not to lie, wishing well
with little heart to spare I’m so sorry for your loss Mrs. Johnson, a man
standing quiet with less and less to say he was a fine boy
and today’s the fucking day I say God Damn You God
and thanks for all the truth I can’t think about
and thanks for how much life he could have lived
but You were a little careless this time
with Your Untimely Death
So here we are all gathered together birds of mournful feather beating wing for dear life
Spinning in the storm
JWR & NDW
Monday, August 23, 2010
balance
spitting shitfaced bullshit belligerently
silly thoughtless thought unsullied by examination
from without
without fear of retribution
without grace or style or any other element
without myself to blame
i was drunk once at a party
telling everybody how old i was
and that i loved them
i was drunk again last night
telling myself not to know
it wasn't the same
straining to stand on foreign land
when all land feels foreign
from within
(as long as being is fine,
as long as i can be mine) is fine to me
as long as i can balance my bellicose verbiage
JWR
silly thoughtless thought unsullied by examination
from without
without fear of retribution
without grace or style or any other element
without myself to blame
i was drunk once at a party
telling everybody how old i was
and that i loved them
i was drunk again last night
telling myself not to know
it wasn't the same
straining to stand on foreign land
when all land feels foreign
from within
(as long as being is fine,
as long as i can be mine) is fine to me
as long as i can balance my bellicose verbiage
JWR
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
All Through The Night
Poems are like shit There's always a part of us eating the other part or feeding the other part And nobody thinks their own stinks until eyes blinking their thoughts evaporate like coal dust flying through the aether like it all hit the fan and becomes nothing but when the door (rusted shut) blows open it is the wind fighting the light All Through The Night
PDM & NDW
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
I'm John Russell (a voicemail transcript)
I'm John Russell.
I'm John Russell.
I just hit my head, hard.
My head hurts, but I'm still John Russell.
I'm in love with Torie, Shipley.
And I'll do anything.
It doesn't matter what it is th–, that it is, you know,
It doesn't matter what it might take
I'm John Russell.
And uh,
I don't like things being explicit,
I like to be really–
I like my life to be like The Beatles wrote it.
I like it to be special.
Uh,
Nobody should really say anything, unless they're they're they're li- they're like
“John, who's equal to John Russell?... There's nobody.”
So, you know, praise the Lord, thank the God, um... the God of Gods, the Metagod, he's the god.
Who's alive and he says John Russell is the fucking, motherfucking shit.
Who cares? Nobody, except I'm Torie Shipley.
Except I'm–
You know,
Nevermind... that I said that about myself.
Alright.
NDW
I'm John Russell.
I just hit my head, hard.
My head hurts, but I'm still John Russell.
I'm in love with Torie, Shipley.
And I'll do anything.
It doesn't matter what it is th–, that it is, you know,
It doesn't matter what it might take
I'm John Russell.
And uh,
I don't like things being explicit,
I like to be really–
I like my life to be like The Beatles wrote it.
I like it to be special.
Uh,
Nobody should really say anything, unless they're they're they're li- they're like
“John, who's equal to John Russell?... There's nobody.”
So, you know, praise the Lord, thank the God, um... the God of Gods, the Metagod, he's the god.
Who's alive and he says John Russell is the fucking, motherfucking shit.
Who cares? Nobody, except I'm Torie Shipley.
Except I'm–
You know,
Nevermind... that I said that about myself.
Alright.
NDW
Party I & Party II
I. (Hazy)
Make the great pilgrimage to the Mecca of the mind on a misty morning
of marijuana meditation
Ride the caravan to the far-flung corners of careless thought ‘cause
We spend our days downstream, dazed
In a downdream marijuana haze
And we must pay homage
But
We bow not before some weird black stone from the sky
Nor before the great pyramids testamented to nothing but injustice and our own stupidity
Nor any other silly shrine
We pay it simply to ourselves
And the chemical combinations we call our selves
taking tokes in the mean meaningless madly moaning morning
having sexual intercourse with blades of grass on our skin
II. (Dazey)
Climb the great mountain at the bottom of the sea of drunkenness
Immerse the heart of hearts in obeisance at the apex
Bow before the obelisk of drunken alcohol
For tonight we dine on wine and enshrine all the forgotten memories
All the impromptu perfect poetry
All the garbage flung from our trashy smashed mouths,
Shouted slurs at 3am slung with high hopes
That heaven might crack open and crack up with us
The chair teetering at 5am
These are all relics
Of times partially forgotten and exhaustively recounted
And now placed at the drowned drunken peak of Mount Party in an offering to the evening.
JWR & NDW
Make the great pilgrimage to the Mecca of the mind on a misty morning
of marijuana meditation
Ride the caravan to the far-flung corners of careless thought ‘cause
We spend our days downstream, dazed
In a downdream marijuana haze
And we must pay homage
But
We bow not before some weird black stone from the sky
Nor before the great pyramids testamented to nothing but injustice and our own stupidity
Nor any other silly shrine
We pay it simply to ourselves
And the chemical combinations we call our selves
taking tokes in the mean meaningless madly moaning morning
having sexual intercourse with blades of grass on our skin
II. (Dazey)
Climb the great mountain at the bottom of the sea of drunkenness
Immerse the heart of hearts in obeisance at the apex
Bow before the obelisk of drunken alcohol
For tonight we dine on wine and enshrine all the forgotten memories
All the impromptu perfect poetry
All the garbage flung from our trashy smashed mouths,
Shouted slurs at 3am slung with high hopes
That heaven might crack open and crack up with us
The chair teetering at 5am
These are all relics
Of times partially forgotten and exhaustively recounted
And now placed at the drowned drunken peak of Mount Party in an offering to the evening.
JWR & NDW
Monday, August 16, 2010
pure mind vomit revealing that i desire to produce a child
holy mcgod squad of squiddly squuddles
slip me a sly one alone like a dead swordfish
sling a jiggled squiggler a larval mesquiteo
to finally finish and forget my greatest apology
a marriage of one to oneself would be legal
if you could fuck yourself but you cant and thats why i tell you to
and the frogs vagina turned into a chickens vagina
spewing forth forlorn lullabyes of the simple unknowing of perpetual youth
NDW
slip me a sly one alone like a dead swordfish
sling a jiggled squiggler a larval mesquiteo
to finally finish and forget my greatest apology
a marriage of one to oneself would be legal
if you could fuck yourself but you cant and thats why i tell you to
and the frogs vagina turned into a chickens vagina
spewing forth forlorn lullabyes of the simple unknowing of perpetual youth
NDW
Baby Avalanche
Small Steps
Baby Avalanche
He took one step
and a little avalanche rolled under his feet.
Jah does rule the world
small steps
cause a Baby avalanche
small parts
of a grandmaster plan
Jah does rule the world
small steps on a staircase
Causes a tiny avalanche
which rolls
down a huge hill
Jah does rule the world
small steps taken to avoid
tiny avalanches
are a good thing
when
Jah does rule the world
small stone falling
part of an avalanche
does damage
but
Jah does rules the world
PDM
Baby Avalanche
He took one step
and a little avalanche rolled under his feet.
Jah does rule the world
small steps
cause a Baby avalanche
small parts
of a grandmaster plan
Jah does rule the world
small steps on a staircase
Causes a tiny avalanche
which rolls
down a huge hill
Jah does rule the world
small steps taken to avoid
tiny avalanches
are a good thing
when
Jah does rule the world
small stone falling
part of an avalanche
does damage
but
Jah does rules the world
PDM
Sunday, August 15, 2010
the georgetown vision killer (perpetual work in progress)
youre an original sinning virginal whore
with a cold shoulder for the aboriginal in darfur and or flint michigan
just a woman alone
with no love from anyone
a poor twin spore of your own blood kin
her engine of war
worn in gore
torn and sore from skin to core
warning children of the foreign army storming the border
swore informing us and imploring for medicine for her father
a bit of water for her mother
a pittance for her simple daughter and dead son
but her important horror storys a boring chore youre ignoring
snoring from beginning to finish
youre soaring in azure in an invisible dirigible touring the morning
soaking in gin and orange glory on the shore
or fidgeting with digital belligerents blowing four dollars on your phone
thinking youre scoring or winning
somehow or other getting your load on
every now and again tripping and bitching over nothing
but mostly missing the broken notion of emotion on the floor
closing the door on her though theres more hurt in store for her before more
youre numb
but there are hundreds of millions of such women
and youre killing them all at this very moment
and so youre the spitting image of a primitive criminal
loving yourself
an intelligent but ignorant little individual murderer
a literate idiot who knows about numbers and words and thats about it
your incentives were invented in a libidinal religion in earlier millennia
and its totally uncertain if youll ever get the message
or ever turn your own ignition
or just become an adult
go get some exposure
no one can know if youll earn your citizenship as a person of the world
or give a gift for a minute
or a single shit
go fuck yourself
but surely your unforgivable petition for a personal reward is the single worst and most hypocritical structure were forced to endure
pull your own fucking trigger
NDW
with a cold shoulder for the aboriginal in darfur and or flint michigan
just a woman alone
with no love from anyone
a poor twin spore of your own blood kin
her engine of war
worn in gore
torn and sore from skin to core
warning children of the foreign army storming the border
swore informing us and imploring for medicine for her father
a bit of water for her mother
a pittance for her simple daughter and dead son
but her important horror storys a boring chore youre ignoring
snoring from beginning to finish
youre soaring in azure in an invisible dirigible touring the morning
soaking in gin and orange glory on the shore
or fidgeting with digital belligerents blowing four dollars on your phone
thinking youre scoring or winning
somehow or other getting your load on
every now and again tripping and bitching over nothing
but mostly missing the broken notion of emotion on the floor
closing the door on her though theres more hurt in store for her before more
youre numb
but there are hundreds of millions of such women
and youre killing them all at this very moment
and so youre the spitting image of a primitive criminal
loving yourself
an intelligent but ignorant little individual murderer
a literate idiot who knows about numbers and words and thats about it
your incentives were invented in a libidinal religion in earlier millennia
and its totally uncertain if youll ever get the message
or ever turn your own ignition
or just become an adult
go get some exposure
no one can know if youll earn your citizenship as a person of the world
or give a gift for a minute
or a single shit
go fuck yourself
but surely your unforgivable petition for a personal reward is the single worst and most hypocritical structure were forced to endure
pull your own fucking trigger
NDW
right about the one thing
phase: interrupted
it didn't work out
visions corrupted by a roundabout
when you're right about the one thing
and wrong about the rest
visions creep
from the opened chest
life interjected
by an offhand remark
safe but rejected by a blow from the dark
when you're right about the one thing
but wrong about it too
who are you to tell me
exactly what to do
safely allocated
to a place under the stairs
i am relocated outside of that affair
when you're right about the one thing
and wrong about the choice
emotions cling
to a quivering voice
PDM
it didn't work out
visions corrupted by a roundabout
when you're right about the one thing
and wrong about the rest
visions creep
from the opened chest
life interjected
by an offhand remark
safe but rejected by a blow from the dark
when you're right about the one thing
but wrong about it too
who are you to tell me
exactly what to do
safely allocated
to a place under the stairs
i am relocated outside of that affair
when you're right about the one thing
and wrong about the choice
emotions cling
to a quivering voice
PDM
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Souls
Souls seriously searching
themselves
Minds merrily smirching
the shelves
Souls seriously searching
for other souls
My mind remarks about
the results
Souls seriously searching
for friends and
Men merely waiting
without wreason.
Souls seriously scandalizing
some serious shit
That they found in a magazine
(something gained & something seen).
Some souls search seeing signs
in the wind
While weary wreathes wringed with
weathered cones
float as feathers.
Seriously singing soles sought souls singing,
sinking into the mud,
but were caught
but were rescued.
PDM
themselves
Minds merrily smirching
the shelves
Souls seriously searching
for other souls
My mind remarks about
the results
Souls seriously searching
for friends and
Men merely waiting
without wreason.
Souls seriously scandalizing
some serious shit
That they found in a magazine
(something gained & something seen).
Some souls search seeing signs
in the wind
While weary wreathes wringed with
weathered cones
float as feathers.
Seriously singing soles sought souls singing,
sinking into the mud,
but were caught
but were rescued.
PDM
Love & Respect
Love & Respect
Love & Respect
Love & Respect
3 words which when one
rereads them act crass.
They refuse to be understandable
They refuse to see wonder and say whatever
2 people come close to what
3 words represent.
but some connections fail,
and some electrocutions of frail men
read better off the paper in the morning
before the shredded oats mix with milk.
Some things simply taste better
on a stomach crowded with orange juice
& granulated sugar.
A comedy flashes on the screen until a butt cheek grazes a button:
a half-sleeping groan emerges.
A respected man inspects again (without his spectacles)
the spectacular show, which he deems,
well, over valued.
PDM
Love & Respect
Love & Respect
3 words which when one
rereads them act crass.
They refuse to be understandable
They refuse to see wonder and say whatever
2 people come close to what
3 words represent.
but some connections fail,
and some electrocutions of frail men
read better off the paper in the morning
before the shredded oats mix with milk.
Some things simply taste better
on a stomach crowded with orange juice
& granulated sugar.
A comedy flashes on the screen until a butt cheek grazes a button:
a half-sleeping groan emerges.
A respected man inspects again (without his spectacles)
the spectacular show, which he deems,
well, over valued.
PDM
Thursday, August 12, 2010
"Who's What?"??
You Aren't What You Eat (working title)
_____________________________________
"Who's what?" asked a friend of mine, but not to anybody,
About the scene we made of fake play people at the party.
I took the chance to tell him that that's not how he should think,
That people shouldn't be confused with alcohol they drink.
Because the fair question to ask, of course, isn't "Who's what?" but rather "What's whose?"
He said, "I spend my nights, floating, in a glass of gin."
I said, "Listen friend, it doesn't matter, that means nothing."
People remember clothes you wear or videos they show you,
They might recall the times you share, and even think they know you.
But at the end of this long day, is our question really, "What will we be having tonight?"?
From when you wake in a haze, 'til your daze in the nights,
It's like all that you love are your likes and dislikes.
You can hope the good life goes forever and ever,
You may vomit your laughs, and full-throated "Whatever!"s.
And after enough time has simply passed, you'll forget most of them, and go on that way.
I've wondered too much, about what was whose,
Assessing the damage, examining my shoes.
They're the ones my dad wore when he tried psychedelics,
So it's not like I only care about my own relics.
In fact, convince me why I shouldn't hang on for dear life to all of it.
From the hands that I've shaken and streets that I've crossed,
To the places I loved with the people I've lost,
For the ones in my mind I give most of my time to,
And to most of you, who are somewhere I can't find you:
Thank you for coming, enjoy yourselves, and please remember to remember.
NDW
_____________________________________
"Who's what?" asked a friend of mine, but not to anybody,
About the scene we made of fake play people at the party.
I took the chance to tell him that that's not how he should think,
That people shouldn't be confused with alcohol they drink.
Because the fair question to ask, of course, isn't "Who's what?" but rather "What's whose?"
He said, "I spend my nights, floating, in a glass of gin."
I said, "Listen friend, it doesn't matter, that means nothing."
People remember clothes you wear or videos they show you,
They might recall the times you share, and even think they know you.
But at the end of this long day, is our question really, "What will we be having tonight?"?
From when you wake in a haze, 'til your daze in the nights,
It's like all that you love are your likes and dislikes.
You can hope the good life goes forever and ever,
You may vomit your laughs, and full-throated "Whatever!"s.
And after enough time has simply passed, you'll forget most of them, and go on that way.
I've wondered too much, about what was whose,
Assessing the damage, examining my shoes.
They're the ones my dad wore when he tried psychedelics,
So it's not like I only care about my own relics.
In fact, convince me why I shouldn't hang on for dear life to all of it.
From the hands that I've shaken and streets that I've crossed,
To the places I loved with the people I've lost,
For the ones in my mind I give most of my time to,
And to most of you, who are somewhere I can't find you:
Thank you for coming, enjoy yourselves, and please remember to remember.
NDW
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Whiskey Poem
Be Provocative; Be Organized.
Put an evocative look in your eyes.
Realize that you have yet to theorize me.
Leave it locked between your thighs,
Before your eyes beget sore eyes.
We are talkative and horrified
When your rarified and ossified lives revive
A sight for sore eyes.
Arrive at the door of Mordor alive.
Thrive and bask in the last cask of Amontillado.
Store your soul in a low lonely dive,
And ask not to not rot but to slowly imbibe
Until the sky cries for a slow rise in temperature,
And hampering your temper dampens for sure
The cloth clinging to mossy oak.
Bridge the Docker-and-Mocassin divide.
Divinely described, the poem's subject walks smiling.
NDW & PDM
Put an evocative look in your eyes.
Realize that you have yet to theorize me.
Leave it locked between your thighs,
Before your eyes beget sore eyes.
We are talkative and horrified
When your rarified and ossified lives revive
A sight for sore eyes.
Arrive at the door of Mordor alive.
Thrive and bask in the last cask of Amontillado.
Store your soul in a low lonely dive,
And ask not to not rot but to slowly imbibe
Until the sky cries for a slow rise in temperature,
And hampering your temper dampens for sure
The cloth clinging to mossy oak.
Bridge the Docker-and-Mocassin divide.
Divinely described, the poem's subject walks smiling.
NDW & PDM
Monday, August 2, 2010
food stamps
Movers & shakers
givers & takers
are you a doer? or a does-not
What have you done lately?
to help yourself, or, hell, to help me?
Don't forget to sleep off all of that inactivity
you need to be well rested to Do nothing at all.
An iced, cold coffee might make you give a damn
But its more likely to speed up your digestion.
Don't worry, dad's on the line
I'm sure you won't grow hungry this month.
PDM
givers & takers
are you a doer? or a does-not
What have you done lately?
to help yourself, or, hell, to help me?
Don't forget to sleep off all of that inactivity
you need to be well rested to Do nothing at all.
An iced, cold coffee might make you give a damn
But its more likely to speed up your digestion.
Don't worry, dad's on the line
I'm sure you won't grow hungry this month.
PDM
Unmake the Chaos
Crystalized envelopement:
The final battle begins.
Passionate; irrelevant;
remarks from the wings.
Three pairs of wings are beating
It is one of them
the seraphim
The terror wings, which
"Quickly; Quietly; Nervously..."
Whose wings were they?
Were they whose wings war was worrying about?
About renching and rending?
When God made the world,
he forgot to unmake the chaos.
So it seems that chaos
Would unmake the world.
Halos of Gold, Powerful feet
Wings which would have served
the sun itself in their
magnificient wingspan and tremulous power
in their agitated states.
Halos of Gold, Powerful feet
Eyes which could have seen farther than sight permits.
Replicated orbises of visions volume.
PDM
The final battle begins.
Passionate; irrelevant;
remarks from the wings.
Three pairs of wings are beating
It is one of them
the seraphim
The terror wings, which
"Quickly; Quietly; Nervously..."
Whose wings were they?
Were they whose wings war was worrying about?
About renching and rending?
When God made the world,
he forgot to unmake the chaos.
So it seems that chaos
Would unmake the world.
Halos of Gold, Powerful feet
Wings which would have served
the sun itself in their
magnificient wingspan and tremulous power
in their agitated states.
Halos of Gold, Powerful feet
Eyes which could have seen farther than sight permits.
Replicated orbises of visions volume.
PDM
Broken Back
can you Imagine?
to lay a tortured body to rest?
a day that begins on one day
& ends 3 hours before the next
dollars may fill my pockets,
but the wounded and broken back
still cannot heal &
will not heal.
A man who cannot bend does
not bend in the storm
A man who cannot bend to touch
his toes, does not stop to think
about the consequences of
A Broken Back
PDM
to lay a tortured body to rest?
a day that begins on one day
& ends 3 hours before the next
dollars may fill my pockets,
but the wounded and broken back
still cannot heal &
will not heal.
A man who cannot bend does
not bend in the storm
A man who cannot bend to touch
his toes, does not stop to think
about the consequences of
A Broken Back
PDM
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