Make a sign of the singing telephone the whining plane the oozing telegraph the miserable surrealist stuck in his nonfunctional parlor dreaming of Guadalajara. Was it parody?
Author Archives
Grass on my sleeve
Gaze the hard g followed by the hissing z
Or gauze or geshe or
the thrashing doves The sign of
why don’t we all go home to the drowned home with the backdrop of garbage the white elite the bored the this the that
Mercy
no rhythm
no awful
no silly
no sentence
no courage
no dependability
no glancing
no gazing
no call
no dependency
no tooth
no braids
no exoskeleton
urge to travel I will travel and see wondrous things like towels and bats, howling cats,
prattling monkeys, whale skeletons and towers of ant with garbage backdrop and
insect afterscape
I am off the bat. The boat. Boating an activity of many while they are still the middle class
Bhikkhu emptiness here in
suburbs son sprawled out
in light at 5 am this is
a ticklish dream wrapped cold
around my torso cold and
drowned around my torso
dog tickling and jiggling
jingling here him sniffing smithing
Three pots of herbs well one and two of emptiness
Small and without punctuation although
the sky is pleasant forming I am not alone
Having tea and toast face raw with bugs
alarmed
Need well something. I am in need this morning. Some new habit some new privilege to be awake and early writing with backdrop of garbage and the smell of birds
I am expecting. She is expecting in a voice so juicy with disgust or secrets I hated the way the syllable “pect” came out of the mouth oozing with gossipy fruit juice The word is ruined forever as is duds as is a lot of words like revery. Need the poets to reteach me.
The I is overwhelming here and now in land of birdsong 6 am the cheep the chirp the dark quilt on the wall alonso allons sie alliteration awfulness I am expected.
may 28, 2007
Halting pages. Tumbling trembling. The -ing captures things as happening things. Alliteration. aligned with Dogen avoiding capitalization language forming sentences no declarative I declare, no comment Alleluia Amen this is how I end it
Here I go and there I go,
I’ll try to rise,
I’ll try to rise,
I’ll raise my eyes,
I’ll all surprise,
I’ll stall the lies,
I’ll steal the whys . . .
Oh that is it and tonight the Dinner Party a casual affair.
Flooded with resistance like a blinding light.
How do I dare.
Do I how dare.
Dare I do how.
Dare how do I.
You are a zine, you are a zone, you are a megalith. The signs. Hiking to observe the signs. The craftsmanship of systems, we are in a monastery, we are monks in cubicles, with our practices our forms, making up our disciplines and our discipleship.
Try to be direct, try to direct, the team, the leadership. The common, the committee, the approach, the aftermath. Amazed. I am amazed in grass in weeds in yard work. The root, the colors, the shapes, the tiny “M”, the way things are happening. A tiny phone in a tiny hole. Rhythmic remarks. The tiny mags, the page turners.
may 26, 2007
This is for me. I am you. I know you. Inherit you, absorb you, bless you, blow you, notice you, bill you, make you, shake you, take you. Take two, textures. Take two, territories. Take two, talk to, talk to you, yes I am having a nightmare I am having a disability.
None of this material was ever here.
None of these objects can be licked.
None of this writing can be read.
None of this talking can be heard.
We’re not sure we’re wanted on this planet.
Busy women clopping by in heels.
There is some default, not my fault.
Fault and fault and fault.
The spring of faults and restitution.
I am out of synch, off kilter.
There is some compression of the spine.
There are a lack of general principles
and analytical reach. There are.
My precious treasure.
I know I am halting. I know I am making it invisible.
I know I am policy, relying on the policy.
And this morning—wrapped in the cleanest sheets of calm.
And still worms tackling.
Wishing for a voice.
Wishing for a voice.
Dreaming of comfort, dreaming of collapse.
No dreams, not at this time, no.
Some compression of the spine.
Almost done.
No, not quite.
I thought I saw one of the many Scotts twenty years later,
twenty years ago.
She wishes for answers, application.
She is a term of art.
She is a piece of work.
No facility in the hand this morning.
Children wearing gray and brown. Wishing for grey gardens.
may 25, 2007
Undo, undo, undo. Redo, redo. The present always seeming trendy, up-to-date. My jaw, my gland, my stars. My capability.
I am resting.
You are privileged. This is a practice. I see my coworkers in their cars driving to work. I see them practicing. I see them wanting to be happy. I don’t see them composing. That’s how I enforce the differences.
Hindrance adaptation. No antidote. Off the bat. Off base. Off with her head. Off I go. Fuck off. Jack off. Jerk off. Joke off. Well off. Composing. I won’t write composting in comparison.
I demand the freedom to misuse punctuation. The further
I go, the more perfect I get. Microsoft Word a continuing hindrance.
Desire composes. Composing, composing. Greed, hatred, and delusion. Putting away desire and grief for the world. Burdens. Putting away the burdens. Freedom is tranquility but composing is not. Composing is agitation, discharge of mental electricity. Composing, composing. She is a random fragment.
may 23, 2007 Wednesday 8 am Starbucks
Stealing time. Stealing it and hiding it in a perfect hiding place. Buried in a perfect dirt hole. Tell you how I miss, tell you how I miss my objects, tell you how I miss my dirty objects. This is like a gaping rawness in my heart. This is like a virgining of the flowers. This is like rotting. Don’t want that habit. Objecting to the purity.
We have a get-together. There is a relationship with the page. We have not shown that to you yet. More to be revealed. Discovery is suspect. Discovery process is pigheaded. Nerves are jazz. Music is the instrument. Tuning is resisted, this is discordance. This is the dance of discord. This is a sort of hyperbolic naming. This is a frustrated desire to name in an overnamed environment. This is afterwords. This is the wretchedness of the beach. This is me being me, and I won’t apologize. She says “Excuse me, everybody.” She says “Sorry.” She apologizes. Her voice is a snake and hers is a frayed carpet. A stalled carpet, crumpled in the infrastructure. A plan, a cornucopia. This is disaggregated. This is a collection. This is a hard time. This is opportunity management. This is a to-do list, a task list, a watch list. This is a water path. This is a box. This is a box of books. This is enjoying my handwriting. This is an addiction to form. This is a crusty rind of moldy sentences. This is an appearance. This is a disappearance. This is an over.
Imperialist. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Global Entity Master Database. Master File Project. We insist on a Master File. A Rosetta Stone. The damage is not apparent. Evolution denied. Invalid principles. A style of agreement. A style of nodding. A politeness. A reputation for irritability. A command of your tongue. Here is the cycle. I will approach you. I will sign the deal. I will get organized. We will go into production. We publish libraries. We teach. We are flabbergasted. We flout, we fail. We make Powerpoints. We are adept. We are an accounting standards board. We are widespread. We are afraid of the floors. We deny the floors. We deny the presence. We ignore the presence. We are masked. We are leftover.
We do not cotton to that.
We exude mystery.
We frighten with your quiet.
We are a Buddhist.
I will ask why. Ask the hard questions. Adapt.
Not even in personal writing do I feel comfortable with the imperative.
Underwood. Undermountain. Mr. Undertree. Mr. Underworld. Underfish, undersmoke, under the weather. This is a cloud. This is a tornado.
This is an ancient cache of figs. This is early agriculture. This is unclothed. This is pristine.
This is what for. I will give you what for. What for?
What is it? Questions. Answers. Paralysis. This is a point. This is a letter. This is a word. This is a story.
She is sad and discouraged, head resting in her hand. Head in hands. Objectionable behavior. Pressed into a diagram.
This is the geometry. This is the measurement of her. This is the slippery slope, the slide. This is the choppiness of commas. This is the desire to relax. This is hunting. Hunting for badgers. Hunting in puddles. Hunting under the microscope.
This is looking. This is devising. This is an insult. This is non-allusiveness. Allusion, illusion. Protrusion, contusion. This is desperate. Separate. Disparate. Apparent. This is desparent. This is disappearance.
may 17, 2007
This is a false mystery. This is a place. This is an aftermath. This is a play. This is a break. This is a logical diagram. This is handwriting. This is an effort. This is the chirping of a loud bird. This is a GPS. This is too bad. This is a memory. This is garbage. This is unprecedented. This is a portrait. This is a holocaust. This is a small village. This is incurable. This is this. That is that.
Some things I don’t have room for. Titles. Organizational structures. Some things I have a talent for. Some men are women, some women are men. I have my own clients now. I’m managing the project. This is my practice. Practice management system. What is manageable, what is unmanageable. What is your sentence? Linda saying. Job interview. I will ask you a hard question. Your job is to ask the hard questions. Change management. This and that. When are we on the same page.
Com mun i ca tion
Se man tics
It’s not just semantics. I will blurt. I will micromanage. I will be an addict. I will repeat the question. I will get the job done. Please.
may 15, 2007
Lost luxuries, lost goodbyes. Lost opportunity villages, lost forever. Lost and found. Once was lost. Now am found. Find a lot, lose a lot. Remember. The memory of forever. The memory of Rembrandt. The awfulness. The offing. The offertory. The the the How repetitive. Mind is cramped, contracted. How to land. Wanting to land on an object. Wanting to observe theory. Observe theory. Observing theory. Notheory. Nothery. Nothing.
The Amazon River. The big river, the small people. Adaptation.
Silences. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t tell anyone. I won’t tell anyone. Blossoming of lies like bindweed. This one doesn’t trust hate like a fool.
Choking sensation in the solar plexus area. Driving sensation I interpret as a need to be alone. Desire for code, the secret code that expresses how and what I understand. My children are not fat and both are bald. That’s over that’s enough. Embedding secret line breaks in the work. Choking sensation in the lower throat. Anger’s like a cavity in the chest.
She doesn’t want to do the “right” thing, just create a crisis. “Ask the hard questions.” And who was so careful here? And who gave such good advice? And who worked through tears watering the pity plants the plants of plot the plot of price the price of play. And who uses paints? And what’s the picture?
may 14, 2007
Lost luxuries—lost luxuries of isolation, roaming, leaving home. All the diligence, the discipline it takes, the spending and the strengthening. Part of that muscle just wants to collapse. Oh wait, that’s not the muscle, that’s the mind. What is the ethical muscle?
Happiness. Counting the days, the lines the minutes and the hours. Yes, yes I can see the Buddha in your mind is angry. The smells. You can’t deny requirements for meditation, you can’t deny the leftovers, the bowls, the cups, the glasses, the hard litter of the kitchen. You can’t deny your stomachache, you silly westerner, when are you leaving? yesterday? Someone made a study of her punctuation. And so long arriverderci after all amen.
A flicker in my toe. The obnoxiousness of writing the seethrough sheer. The obnoxiousness of writing, the impulsiveness. The retardedness. Someone has to be you and you are IT. Someone has to name the fashionable names. Someone has to translate. Someone has to have the skills. Someone has to be unresponsive. Someone has to serve the lunch, someone has to struggle in the office with a flicker in their left third toe and a stabbing pricker in their pinky and that one is me.
Let us diagnose it. But there is no diagnosis. Off my high horse.
Let the wind blow me off my high horse
let the derogatory blow me into yesterditch
let the white appalling bloom in my backyard
let the Geshe undertake me
let the mercury be done and married
let the soon be sooner and the heart be hearty
hartfelt heart fool fool hearty—
where did I see that?
I think you are crazy if you are seeing interesting, exciting things are happening any crazy where. The dogs of war.
The drains. The applicable.
Honors. No one knows. Sheer beauty of the uneditable. Sheer beauty of the secret. Sheer mudra, sheer blankets, shearling. The objection, the object model, the white suit.
She is guilty. Turn the corner, there’s an ice tea, there’s a way-too-good time, there’s a summer, there’s an ice cube. I am disestablishmentarianism, I object the mailman.
After all I read “Shaking the Pumpkin” in Nantucket
in the winter closed Nantucket
feared by all the life preservers.
This is the long form. This is the long relax. This is the long white whine. Where is the invention? What is the distinction in the roots of literature?
I am sick.
Feel made sick by these studies.
The form is a worm.
Hello goddess, hello Godfrey. Here’s a secret: Karen Finley telling me the writing seemed like psychotic ranting, I should cut it back to one page. I felt like she had requested that I violate the “Form.”
Anonymous harping. The effort to situate ourself I mean herself outsides the bounds, the grounds. Here I am—a Deity! a Diety of the Powerpoint! Someone rolls on the floor laughing —
Play Play Play Platypus
Par Par Par Parmigiana
Puk Puk Puk Pukaluk
Poke Poke Poke poke as a joke
Ha and you don’t have to like it.
Wash. Washington.
Wish. Wishington.
Harp. Harpington. The Harpy. How ground brown cow.
I am—APPALLED. Are you walking? Are you walking on the trail? Audaciously? The words of men. The Buddha gotra means the buddha lineage, the Buddha garva means the buddha womb. Are you cranking? Are you listening to the music? Or are you playing it?
This is not ecological.
Andalusia. Spells. Smells. Coffee bean.
Interplay. Fabric. The writing is a crazy fabric. No regular warp and woof to hold the thing together.
Ecology. Well, our remove from it.
I know my row of herbs in the upper yard—rosemary, sage, lady’s mantle, bergamot. Some lavender. Oh well, okay, bored.
may 9, 2007
The journal “form.” Ha!
the desire for—the freedom from delusion. Investigating the nature of delusion from my chair—this is a joy—this is a path—this is a step—this is a way—this is my ignorance—this is the light—this is my death—this is my bag of skin—this is my suffering—this is you—you are impermanent—your attributes give rise to my reactions—there is flux—curtains of loose petals streaming past the window—sun—it’s warm—the lawn—it’s green—it’s trimmed—my neck it aches, how much money in the US goes to lawn care—how many ticks are out there, how many coins, how many undiscovered facts and how much data, how many cells, how many newborn leaves, how many petals and how many sprouts, how many hours digging and how many butterflies are born, how often have you watched a turtle in the last few days—and do you barbecue upon a tiny grill—what are the unique facts of your life if any and how can they endear you to me—how does one “pray” for others—what is the difference between compassionate and sunlight—how can we be brighter and more tender—how can we be burnished and more brave—cherished and with capacity to cherish—all our cherished landscapes in a row—and then—we’re breathing into emptiness—and then—another sprout
Mental flexibility—my mind is rigid as a jungle gym—I don’t let go, my wrists are taut and strained and stretched
wishing isn’t easy
Modulation—magic breathing worked for me last week—breathed through your remarks—the smarting,
the shrinking of my skin—and now, we have the body
and a yoga practice—
how much happiness (smile) is already here
my body might as well be hung with jewels
I forgot I was a poet
with this sun thing I embraced
there is an eager energy there
sun energy—she lets it play
she delights in the sun
a form of ecstasy
but dangerous
Joanne Kyger Joanne Kyger Joanne Kyger just an image
tenderness, an inchworm, a pea sprout, a thin stalk of asparagus, the tender impulse of creation, tenderness in documents at work, tender care with headers, footers, table of contents, extending tenderness, your ravaged leaves, your petals bruised and brown, still vines of tenderness, your tendrils, tendrils reaching out, there is a sun of brightness hiding in the data, there is a shadow of creation in the project, the sun is out, the bright light of discovery, the light is beaming from my eyes, my hands, my ears receive this light, I love the light, I am an instrument of the light, an Apollonian, with my seeking tendrils climbing high
just an image
I don’t want to be involved—I’m on the plane with you, I’m in the air, I’m living in the braided strands of synapses and emotions in your body—this is oppression—this is not freedom oh Pandavas
something that I can’t resolve with mind
she clings to analysis—my savior
she clings to—something? harmony
she’s wondering about her clothes
may 5, 2007
Trepidation starting to write—iron chains, bit in my mouth, torture devices all around my head—
wind blows fluff past these windows
struggle
it seems ceaseless
What Fran did not remark upon—the line breaks, the line breaks are wicked and insidious in that “poem” and point to fractures—consciousness not flexible but fractured cracking as I struggle to shift and separate, adapt
I’m ready to go home
brief thoughts of sex—need for writing about sex—some struggle in the bedroom and some insight—my mother unable to find comfort unable to take refuge—what is my refuge? yes the moment’s smell and that sensation walking on this trail this step-by-step, yes, your shoulder and pow—the odors of your hair sensation pressing mouth into your shoulder upper arm, sensation from other parts of body sensation pleasure from the use of muscles in my limbs with a calibrated abandon—leading okay—leading out of mind—it is a kind of practice—the flexibility to change your frame of reference—to let the body lead (no breath awareness) but—this is something I have learned
I will work with Inna. She is from the Ukraine and she has definite opinions. Sigh—I am—sigh—repulsed.
Morning waves of aversion rise like nausea where am I, what am I doing.
Relaxation in the spring sun.
Leaves in chartreuse fluff state—sigh—poetry is so predictable and oppressive oppressive rules—sigh—
tools, tools, more tools and cobblestones and asphalt patch and soil
pea sprouts
asparagus shoots
let me show you
Misconceptions. A tension from upper back through neck and into head.
A sick daring causing stomachache
a slight—what sort of slight
naming what is “hard” obscuring what is “soft” or “easy”
Some problem with the order—where are the 30—were there 30 or not?
honking, rapid, repetitive
see ya later and I got the door
salad for here
sometimes best to disappear
Girls as big as horses, reminiscent hooves of shoes, long hair like manes sleek with exercise.
What business are you in?
Every movement seems audacious. Basic rule: to think, to work, invent.
Dave and Heidi. Julie and her baby.
Conestoga.
Mental flexibility is so important.
Just to let you know.
issues with travel come up when other people are doing it
the day your son gets a passport
the day a friend misinterprets
the horsey women leave and so do the foxy women and the blondes
may 3, 2007
Adorable. He’s adorable, the way he curls his toes in, snuggles. The poetic journal, contentment of those “I’s” that misarticulation. I posted indirection on my website. Someone said “I don’t know what this poem means to me.” Wouldn’t that be me?
Stone woman, take it back. TAKE IT BACK! Zip—and nothingness; or emptiness and that is that. Alternatively peace.
and animals at all four corners and canopies of birds. Need Need Need Need Crochet a cap of need, I’ll make it up to you.
There are too many things, too many words, too many songs, and too much sugar.
Yes, the lies of training, the absolute corruption of conspiracy, my sons—they stabbed me in the heart and left, reverse Samaritans, walking on their own and I am alone and without sustenance. I miss my drive. I bought some pants and patience.
Consumed, I am consumed. The self—to disintegrate it.
I believe in an-atta and here I sit consumed.
The words the words the words the magazines. Shopping at Goodwill immersed in a fabric well waiting for the dingdong bell that makes me finished and the mothers buying clothing for their kids. A load of sweetness.
Courage fails me, flies off like a flock. Set aside this jitteriness in jars. To have no adventure—it’s having no adventure, isn’t it?
april 30, 2007
Stone woman took birth back. Stone woman got surrounded got compelled and crushed stonecrushed crushed crushed stone.
Play with the baby. The gratitude, the relaxation of no baby. The brutality of babies here at home. And how will they travel? And how do they know when to come home? And when to fold their little wings and settle down and when to roam? And what day must it be for questions to make arbitrary sense? And what day must it be to clear the question buildup, do some dusting, and serve sandwiches?
A soft, soft inversion, a simple comfortable balanced inversion. Spent no time at table. Practice scooping, scooping into singing veins, the hard attack. The tremolo. The tremulo. My dad, his hand under the baby’s chin, familiar escapade.
Simple. Simple. Simple. Sometimes your writing is so simple, you can’t do it, you’re stuck below the rungs of simple with your monkey-loving hands, reaching, reaching, fingerly grasping.
april 29, 2007
limited expression limited by cloudiness and long fatigue. Unjustified by Sunday’s simple misery. So long, let go,
long song, still flow. Say so, how know, myrrh go, far low. Fairly groveling on the mat, not willing to hold still. The atmosphere changes, the mind follows. The feelings follow, and the feeling tones, a flock of sheep with perfect teeth.
I see your teeth, I see your sheep, your shape, your perfect hair. How adulterous, how adulary, how omniferous. Iron shapes the seedlings, tender iron flowing in their veins, their tremulous simple veins. Hard to know, hard attack,
mé l’art.
What am I doing? What, where, when, why, who. How. Mystery. The mystery of a white box, simple, cube, smooth sides, plastic.
Longing for the quiet of the bustling morning shops. In the small town, does anyone arise before 6? In the village, do you encounter people on the street? In the English village, naked people with monstrous faces? In the white north, chanting lunatics? In the humid south, alligators are successful, polar bears are not. Difficulties among the animal populations.