gun behind belt
   my teeth like a
   puzzle fit

melt naval ports
ey bigguy
whadjew need

   i think
   she shells seashells
   while he shills seesaws

three shades of green
reflected in black
yellow  ultramarine

   I squeeze
   the unruly
   palms of trees

I buy undead flesh
in knots (what lasts
in my luggage rots

In addition, I also subtitled a recording of Rosenbaum's performance using my translation.

I often came to term,
Under my heart a burden.
I am afraid that now
Will come my fatal blow.
My doctors—every one—are showoffs all and slovens,
And what they truly want themselves they'll never know.

And if verse is to die,
Without the world offending,
So why does still live on
He who sinned in the night,
He who caressed a quill, espying endless women,
And he who burned his fingers, lighting up, on candles' fickle light?

The poems knock on doors
Imperious and trusting.
Intent on breaking bone,
And ravenous for meat,
But they are not to be, despite all labours' thrusting,
And chills my chest now terribly the filial heat.

Contractions I'll endure,
I wait for them to end soon.
From all the night's distress,
The painful kicks—a curse—
I do not want to bear the cemetery cedars
Towards the silent mound of stillborn verse.

I do not want to bear the cemetery cedars
Towards the silent mound of stillborn verse.

Towards this all now moves,
He who shall seek shall find it.
But what shall find the one—
My germinating moan?
The telephone stands still and empty is the mailbox.
My doctors all have plenty problems of their own.

The telephone stands still and empty is the mailbox.
My doctors all have plenty problems of their own.

 a boy working the cash register
 at the safeway
 screws up his pretty eyes

 the bananas won't scan
 so he calls over another boy
 to poke at the machine

 i scan his features  enumerating
 jeans shirtcollar glasses
 and the eyes they frame

 when finally it's my turn
 i fantasize about
 the bananas being free

(some small distraction
 from the letters on his nametag
 & his lips when he asks

 did you find everything alright?

the poet
can do anything
except deal with these
creamy
offwhite pages

the poet is
older
now
somewhat happy but
not

as they say
fully
actualised
just moving
forward

There once was old Mr. Kildaire
Who ran his truck over a hare.
He said "Oh, how good!" picking it off the hood,
"Well, it's now just a cinch to prepare."

A young man named Michael McGyver
Was truly a terrible driver.
He was quite gay while driving away:
"Well, at least I have left no survivors!"

There was once a man, Derek Troy,
Who lost all his sexual joy.
For a rather good kick, he'd clamp clips to his dick,
'Til he couldn't afford his electrical bill.

i pass before the lights of the world
terror incarnate

touching each yellow strip
on the road
i dream

i note the desperation in the sound
from the dark
and the tires burn

in shallow puddles
of secular light


going back is pointless
going forward is pointless
most of all

the tires turn
i think

who made words?
what speed lightning?

the answers sidle out
looking over their shoulders back
to stage left


today there will be time
tomorrow there will be

bloodbath tollbooths
heat in the head
drunkenness

tears
trucks carrying trucks

masturbation
jissom
cigarettes


pride
knowledge
confidence

clocks
roads

men
pens on chains
and unchained pens

terrible crab eyes
dreams


fear
ink
bridges over shallow waters

cod
penetration
truth

slower traffic
panhandles
the law


like this i move over the landscape
eating sounds one by one

like so many green grapes
i gamble my thoughts

the road
how does it end?


who made time?
how is this night unlike any other?
who was that on the phone?

mystical distributing company
prison hulks in portsmouth harbour

willie cole's work animal
the artist asks to be put inside another

moose hide  car fenders chest freezer steel
frigidaire gallery pointro


the potentiality of the disassembled barricades
how they dance

how they guard the third remove

frank geary  jean paul riopelle
chevreuse  kenneth keith & the yellow scarf


constructing and marketing canada
paul peel the little shepherdess

florence carlyle's the tiff
play splinter cell at the art gallery

kent monkman's academy
archile gorky (godfather of abstract prex


i lay my canvas on the floor to paint it

I shake my head at sian who came
to sketch the second remove

i am in thrall  no
I will not buy the jackson pollock box

as the sun rose circumstances surpassing grandeur
the previous day concealed background to clouds
denser shadow loomed out rugged and awful

my mind blinded with tears the right and to the left
never mighty whole producing the rocky
point telegraph cholera patients groups

then the broad fro and tonnage mast-head the south side
low fertile shores spires rays buildings purple
and I "Don't distance I shore time. seemed It was four o'clock


an intensely scarcely bore it spectacle of
bushes many hundred and former children
greatly resembled or spreading the men

and boys scanty garments bedding in tubs left half full
pails were running terms hearers and all extra
ordinary gestures we feelings harpies

anxious remain and out tormenting to tell us
our way the landing cargo of giant
proportions below defects of them bounded "Whurrah! from


"No one Brian morose Lancashire years ago
days had lots just road his business He was
money left off booze passionate man as savage one battle

sulky week or wife cry like woods pantry pranks The
doctor crittur him! months thought and left off
dogs carries a wonder need Layton had the account

hapless was "These all beautiful the birds that
live pleasure gratified to consider
alone knowing slumbering asking

I think back to yesterday when, according to
teaching methodology, we broke into groups
and talked. The professor listened patiently,
occasionally taking the opportunity
to mention a Russian philosopher whose name
rhymes with a type of container. He stresses
the last syllable. The girl next to me writes
a word on the palm of her hand. What is a thing?
This atom model is disastrous, because
it predicts that all atoms are unstable.

I want to establish a world outside of the
subject-object paradigm, but how can I
find it in things? The container-man is mentioned
again in unison. The girl next to me types up
her notes in a dutiful staccato. Art is
a privileged site for the happening of truth.
Paper is a substance made from wood pulp, rags,
straw, or other fibrous material, usually
in thin sheets, used to bear writing
or printing, or for wrapping things.

the sweet smell
of the broken
watermelon
on the super
market floor