simpleRECURSION

four minutes thirty-three seconds of noise

2012-03-09T14:53:55-05:00

mmm da-da
                    n          n

mmm da-da
                    n          n

mmm da-da
                    i set up the stage

mmm da-da
                    i mimic the sage

mmm da-da
                    i deliver my rage

mmm da-da
                    i take home my wage

mmm da-da
                    i open the page

mmm da-da
                    i open the page

mmm da-da
                    i open the cage
                                               [beat]

when i was three there was a sound that i learned how to make when no other sound could be made the terrible noise of the noose loose of the restraints of rows of boys and the terrible smell of green i set to the extreme the hues i lose on the plane and the air does not line the design i am bored to my core with the laws of the land and the landing path atop the wrath of khan of the sitting stand of the mmm da-da

so i type with hype and style a mile a minute it's time for wine but my mind and rhyme are not in it why do forty four boys multiply dance in the twilight of the nude sky who am i asks the parrot the man with the hat pen in hand without merit don't delay the day to the grass but do kiss my rotfront because that is where words come from hey you in the back what is your favourite orifice through which to convey words

this is my dilemma i wake up in the morning and i go to work (woo hoo make words into lemmas how many worlds' worth will you destroy wordsworth for the sake of the monkey brain anagram that tastes so deliciously on the tongue the problem here is that these letters make so much sense that the only recourse is to make sound because this (this this this word (word word word is (is is is mine (mine mine mine

reverse the reverb to the verb to the transitive interpenetrations between transitional phrase and the electricians of the soul who can say when a word can come if a word is even permitted a climax anymore all that's left is to put down the little whore in fishnets with which it catches its kameraden and in high heels that remind me that the poet is an escaped goat the poet is a wandering jew why does allen get to speak to angels in leather butt chaps and i open the page and the page frankly says לך תזדין יא בן זונה

everything fits together cat bird democracy the perpetual overdetermined detour of signification the long division of thought we used to have typewriters to abuse with our hands mighty oaks and men in shirttails who would give us sap we thought we were clever but now what do we have with the exception of the 0.05 blood alcohol level there was a poem in here somewhere the word fills me but i have no worlds

there are schools for poetry and schools of thought there are books made for eyes and books in the shape of pistols watch the colours run down the walls watch me connect subjects to the foils of predicates name myself the king absolute of hermeneutics doppelgangbanger if you will if i kill you can i have your eye blazej sounds it says finished to me but i can barely tell the bottle from the glass

italiciz the chai knees! invest in tormulent colonic catasphony! whatever i think multiply by three disentangle my think in aleph betical order the soop buy all beards half price from invisible mustache machines what's this letter got to do with false teeth skeletons spiders and the embraces of octopi the president eats his tie oh melpomene daj dupe kurwo pourquoi such variegated thought за что отдашь разноречие

what is the secret of long life certainly not composition my work is done i diagnose and retreat to resolution of thought with a thick black beard i paint the kata and the kana of love with liquids extracted from the myelin sheath say hello to the kids rent cats with steering wheels all on the same side the ephemeral beauty of tzar fa tit and bilabial baba babel she's got a thicket to ride and she don't care

сытые волки бегают по полке thought pursues the asymptotic form of dreams pourquoi ne puis-je enseigner la scansion de mon frère mort eye returns to the invisible worm of thought (почему вы так на меня смотрите? ты хочешь умереть или просто убить всю мысль? [beat] is that right? да ну что ж и это неплохо

terminus

2012-02-18T13:32:34-05:00

air canada one forty four
suddenly I am raised to godlike status
apotheosis cum double double

around me germans chatter
in sharp vocables laugh

as a deafmute bavarian dervish
sells his birthright for bottles
of liquid wrath (im miniatur

beer is the last thing I need right now
but I get it anyway

I will need it for my run to the gate
where on flight one oh eight
a blonde stewardess with a brilliant smile

will ask me
vood you like anything to trink?

Amagram

2012-01-17T17:46:48-05:00

[circa]

Hi, latchkeys' milkmen!
Cheetah kills my mink.

Lily teaches kink. Hmm—
chalkiest hymen milk.

Mythical Shekel mink
matches helm kinkily.

expulsis piratis, restitua comercia (unfinished)

2011-12-27T19:49:41-05:00

[circa]

   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

The Birth of Poetry

2011-12-22T08:38:46-05:00

This is my translation of Александр Розенбаум [Aleksander Rosenbaum's] «Рождение стихов». While (because of my belief in the primacy of rhythm and sound) I have deviated somewhat from the original text, the essence of the original song remains.

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

The Birth of Poetry

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.

the defenestration of poesy

2011-10-17T16:46:05-05:00

To Allen Ginsberg

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 word is an ekphrastic nightmare...

2011-10-15T22:19:36-05:00

the word is an ekphrastic nightmare
a semantic blackhole   it exists

      the ice in my glass makes pretty grotesques
      my drink is a horror

   but try to perceive it (let alone describe
   explicate without removing the self

      the two fingers of bourbon never melt
      their soft touch gently burns the cut in my lip

hunger

2011-10-01T01:24:11-05:00

the neon
blue
clock on the wall
says
it's after one
but this place is open
forever

when the food comes
I admire its shapes
& its fresh
lattices

when the food comes
I cut my pleasure
into small pieces
with a steak knife

I cut
&
cut but the mouth
de
mands silent he
gemony so I feed
the mouth

when a thought comes
I admire its shapes
& its colours
but it has no flesh

when the thought comes
so I try to cut
it too but thoughts are
so unlike plea

sure
the
neon blue clock
on
the wall says &
I have to
agree

the poet...

2011-10-01T01:05:05-05:00

[circa]

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

an outlier for now

2011-09-26T14:40:32-05:00

margaret atwood is too broad
a search term

   you're looking at dystopia
   in the handmaid's tale

   we use our heads
   we do the work

      sometimes you've gotta go
      aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh

can you see the power
of subject headings

   if it's not linear
   you're doing good

  (we ran into this
   with the tomato soup thing

      we used our noggins
      and we did a keyword search

you bait the end of the fishing hook
with what you think you're going to pull in

   they are our friends
   the boolean operators

   yes that's accurate
   hang on to that

can I pull it out...

2011-09-20T15:39:05-05:00

can I pull it out
I ask the bar girl

she says wait a minute
enter the pin

the way she touches you
as you dance

the colour of exchange
taints me

i want to trade
tit for tat

you're richer
than you think

says the hermit to the stranger
in the looking glass

how did you win
the battle of thermopylae

with those
thighs

there are languages...

2011-09-16T22:45:05-05:00

there are languages
rattling inside my skull

phonemes and morphemes
sending vibratey feelings

transitioning from eh to see
my train runs its course

choo choo up the asshole
water damage on the ceiling

there is no sound
but the sound of sound

colour and sound
stain everything with light

when will you come
to rescue me

from my fascination
with the past perfect progressive

Limericks Mk. 5

2011-08-27T21:55:00-05:00

[circa]

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

2011-08-27T21:50:25-05:00

I wrote this somewhere between Colorado and Utah.

To Derek Choy

i pass

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?

the effluvium of thought...

2011-08-16T06:46:50-05:00

the effluvium of thought
snakes its oily way past
empty beercans and sadness

the sages were wrong
time cannot be conquered
through time alone

so the day stands still
at the eclipse of
the ethereal