Category Archives: language

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What is it? We don’t have it, something we don’t have.

The mystery the mercury the moistery the mastery. The wiggle room,

the where we ought to be. The shame of oughts the sin of noughts,

of nougats piled high and sickly sweet.

What are you, sweet or sweat? The giggle room, the pickle room,

the ambidextrous grace. Kids cannot find you,

longing longing for the kindness of your mercury.

Kids cannot find you, quicksilver. Not find nor chase you.

Not aligned.

And he is not aligned. Just at cross purposes,

and cross as well. Overarching cross and crass and

cress, the water crescents of belief. The ripple room.

Semantics, syntax. The sticky aftermath of wine,

here I am, table, table, table, table, baby.

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This is more than less.
This is a venti no water Americano.
This is a lemonade.
This is without respect.
This is a poetry of abuse.
The abuse poem. The nirvana poem. The well poem, the ill poem.
This is a leap out of poetry the false well.
This is a heartstring.
This is a spoonrocket (K. Prevallet)
This is a landfish (Sam).
This is incapacity.
This is the rest of the beggars.
This is the consistent.
This is the technical.
This is your sip, these are your glasses,
this is your mirror, this is your window.
This is your sudden face,
this is rabid dog fear in the night,
this is jumping flea ukulele.
This is Mr. Killbug, this is a Burgher. This is a Beggar.
This is air, this is male pattern baldness,
this is a reduction, this is avoiding getting organized.
This is not a gnat, this is not a note.
This is the scent of your sweat and a sharp pain behind the eyes,
this is code, this is a tangerine, this is over but not over,
this is ooh and aah
this is lipsynch, this is lip stuck

this is father daughter day
and after all that okay

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Pace accelerated or slowed down, watching mind, allow for the irrational, allow for traveling socks, allow for hairdos, allow for walkie-talkies, long bones, commutes, the military. Allow for focus allow for data entry. Allow for exercise, clichés, and chatter of all kinds.

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It seems like a recurrent theme.
It themes like a recurrent seem.
It dreams like a recurrent cream.
It memes like a recurrent fream. I mean team.
The team is a recurrent dream I mean.

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How far how far loosening pressed into discovery

the enso pressed into making something whole

and something closed

turning C to O and that is CO

not OC except it starts here

I at the bottom oops and that was I

may280001.jpg

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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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?

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Restful inconsistencies
emerald generalities
tawdry perpetuities
garbanzo beans and
phony etymologies
a bunch of garbage

Failure rate;
how to increase it

Shake it out the funny duck
the incompetent
with hair of feathers

Fragile—something
she cannot avoid

Secret secret sad sad secret
secretions

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No matter where I set my sights, your language cannot reach me.

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She would like to be more formal but she needs to trample on the Styles and Formatting first. Hello Auto Format hello button hello program hello nice to meet you and make you she wants to read an Art Book. Nothing appropriate in her reflection.

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I never gather Duncan. I try to read the poems assigned, I never get them. I buy some of his books, don’t think I’ll crack them. I pay $300 for this class, I’m not sure why. I pay it in installments once a month, and I get shy about my childish checks with purple swirlies on them and a Comic front. I think I should have soberer checks like a real poet.

Trying to contribute. I translate a poem of mine into Olde English. Enjoy this exercise. I’m asked to read it aloud, a fairly strugglish effort. Seems okay. Better in Olde English than it was in New. Lisa picks out phrases in our poems. Well, should I toss the rest away, enshrine that phrase? Who knows.

I learn some techniques, puzzle over leading vowels. I want craft but I don’t want it. I am interested in the other students. I’m interested in shaping the interactions. The environment is so subdued, inhibiting. I ask a lot of questions. One dominates. She seems suitably irritable for a teacher of poetry. Poetry teachers swimming daily in bad words. THere are no highlights. I observe the women’s clothes. I’m familiar with an odd fact or two, like Ian Hamilton Finlay’s death this year or fallout on the Hanford Reservation.

Somewhere I don’t bloom. People very sparing with email, commentary, keeping their vast opinions to themselves. Closetsfull of opinions, jamming in on the shelves.

One of my thematic exercises highlights the word Intimacy.

I go to Bernadette Mayer’s reading at St. Mark’s. Appreciate it. I read Winter’s Day from cover to cover on my 2nd try.

I drop Ashbery’s name a couple of times, get a small sound of acknowledgement from Lisa, but no more.

Incomprehensible.

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If I could find my way to a simpler conception. If I could find my way to the egg on the pedestal, if I could find my way to the walking rock. No table salt. No laughing pepper. No funny farm. No moldy vegetables. Rot in a garden. Where do we see that rot, the heavy mosses, the packed earth of the path? The beaten borders, crumbling boundaries? The edge trees fallen into the river, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, in a death flirtation with the current. Where do we see that? Where do we see the planes? How far away are they? The red light blinks far away at night and there you are, another person. We forget that all of these poets are also persons, one after the other, exhibiting bodily functions. Yes you are a wizard of language. Yes you may set a bonfire. Yes you can turn and turn and turn. No you are not a clergy person. No none of this should be bandied about. No you are not for sale. No you have no memory of the mountain of marzipan you saw in Italy.

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I can’t scratch my left eye. I can’t applaud. There’s no use applauding now is there. I’ve been in two rooms where applause has been called for, and yet—unable to applaud. No applause necessary. Applaud with aplomb. The plaudits, the maldits, the well-dits. How-do-you-do-dits. This is what we have to say.

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Part of me is just super fucking suspicious about this goddawful meaningless poetry. I can’t write anything like that! I think about the hermits pushing against the bounds of possible experience.
I think of the poets pushing, pushing out of bounds the wheelbarrows full of language. Clods, clots, clothoppers. Hamemers.

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Investing. She is investing time. She struggles to define the terms and conditions. The terms of daylight and nightlight. The conditions of breakfast, tea, noise, and satisfaction. She is not sufficiently passionate. Her passion is weak (again). I can learn from the past. I can make a move out of passion. I can dedicate.
I will dedicate my room to the poetries, my living museum of cloth and pixels. The pixels are little squares in the fabric. Her technique is appalling. Going back through the catch—fishes, shells, seaweed, and garbage. Fishes fish, dishes or dish. Hollywood Hollywood Hollywood (dactylic) Perilous Perilous (dactylic) In my room (anapestic). I could go through some poems, mark them. I could observe them in their carriages.

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The positions, the choreography of your gestures does not relate to the metrical feet, and though it should. There are metrical feet hiding in the prose, wearing veils. There are hard hearts, hard- hearted orb that rules the night. I am lost. Contemporary. The past. You can ask, you can ask to attach, you can task to attach your trash. There is nothing else to say.

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I want to post something online I am taken with the practice of blogging I am taken in a different direction          It has been hard to learn         Yes it is my focus that is needed         Telescoping eyes         Zoom out zoom in               sometimes

you just don’t feel like talking