What Happened to Wake

I had a dream wherein I felt my parents were getting divorced.  They lived in a smaller house, white walls, no portraits of us hanging on the walls. A large bowl sat out near the sink, white porcelain with pink flowers.  In it, there were pink squarish cuts of pearled ham, roast beef, and something else darker. A man came with a white piano that rolled easy and it had food on it, some wrapped in butcher paper, some in ziplocs..  Steaks, ham, fish with diced peppers, and a bag of circus peanuts.  The food/piano man insisted I pay for all the circus peanuts I'd eaten, but I hadn't.  My sister said she did, so my father yelled at her to pay for her silly circus peanuts.  My mother and youngest sister left to go do something.  I took a long shower.  They had cakey soap and I had to wash myself over and over again.  I left the wrapper for the soap in protest on the shower floor.  My dad wanted to  do something.  He said, let's do something. I wanna do something.  I said let's go to a baseball game.  We were suddenly at Turner field, but the regular season was over.  Little league teams were warming up beside varsity softball teams.  And then we ran into my mother and her new boyfriend.  I ate a hot dog.  I didn't make eye contact.  I felt weird.  My father was angry. I ate chili cheese on my hot dog.  I took a bathroom break, but the field's bathroom was their bathroom.  The soap wrapper still there.  I pissed on it.  It was feeling good.  I realized I was pissing on myself for the first time since I was a child. I woke at nearly 11 am, damp, with a slight cough.

poem for yellowist yellow yellowing yellowism, all both of them

2 ppl with a art movement
1 rite on a big ol' rothko :-o

not art not anti-art:
like honey boo boo w/out the huggz :-(

rite a manifestoe
make it not make meaning, duh :-P

animated gif on yr bloog:
taxi driver :-|

you just heard about dada
cool story, bro :-)

sum advice:
buy this
free that*
don't git bored in jailz, I guess?




*Update: Katya is out!!

Fantasy Baseball

To speak first

Is to speak out of turn

To speak, first

You must open your mind

With your mouth

Without breathing it

Keeping it in

For hundreds of syllables

By which you mark time.

When the spheres were our cartels

We could do whatever we wanted

Now they orbit the moon

Of diminishing return

And when it is noon

On that gnomic orb

Hands full of lilies

Vanish under the sundial

And a venial rain

Falls slowly on it.

And when the spheres were our cartels

We began to speak

Of diminishing return

Without breathing it

Slowly filling the vein

With hundreds of syllables

That rhyme with blood.

To speak first

You must open the eye

In your mind’s eye

Out to the edge of

A bodily bound

To keep marking time

Until it is noon

On another sphere

Where hands filled with litter

Cover the lilies

And a grass house

Is deemed fitter for flourishing

There a virginal rain

Fills the vein slowly

Without bursting it

And marks time.

I was born with a gun to my head

And a face made of glass.

I was stone once

Before they made me.

I was made of the world’s gravy

That a god sopped up with a crust

And tasted of and ate, and was ashamed.

I was born in a grass house

Out to the edge of

Town (this would have been

Before the city succumbed

To the wicked sons

And the streets became veins

Filled with red syllables).

I put a gun to my head

And marked time.

I was a stone once

Before they made me

Do it.

I put the phone to my mouth

Without breathing in.

Young girls in the last century

Anybody who does not feel or feels only furtively the anguish, nausea and horror commonly felt by young girls in the last century is not susceptible to these emotions, but equally there are people whom such emotions limit.

-Georges Bataille

From nowhere we could dance

And sing, unmixed up in

The stupid and real need

To tell it all but tell it not all

At once but very slowly

While more sensible days gather

To sew us in their leather pocket.

Why won’t you come back?

Where’ve you been?

You got here nine months ago

Still feeling super bummed out.

The earth bums me out you said,

Painting over its little mirror. 

Whet Anchorage

Anchor cut

Frothing regret & promise of a pillow--

The past through hurt—

Discovered out of the lightness

Put velvet between my vertebrae:

The glands of a man are ill-built hands,'

Adept to seize

Put velvet between my vertebrae,

I relent—

                         let others gather your poses.

I am tired of rending

In the rind of your elbow--

A standby tree, snailly emotive,

Flexing thirst,  

Along distance whets

The eye a metaphor of toys,

Harbingers of gesture satcheled

Past hurt in the insipid nightbread

Muffining of the violent glass.

Fool Disclosure 2

In the beginning, a cool mirror of quick opera

Is taken like a finger, fascist over her cheek,

And the daughter watches from the study

Until her jaw hangs from a wire

Like a painting waiting on crutches

For the new doorbell to ring.

Monday's a briefcase full of left-lame legs,

And this is where the daughter sits--

A new car left for a long vacation in the Munich airport.

Our lives crest like rental cars

Topping a picturesque hill

The villages gone ugly, like flute music for Christ.

Anyway, everyone got the right things.

Where do you have your eyes?

Soon thereafter a dark mouth haired with no false teeth shawed the illumination from her words: "The business of friendship is conducted in gifts. It cannot be traded, and as such, friends cannot be betrayed.  Friends are that which cannot be betrayed.  Betray-disclose-reveal--tell the truth-disrobe-denude-expose.  To disclose is not to end you--for then did I clothes you, as a door closes, when I refused to expose you--expose--photographs, bodies, food left out, to the elements..."

And like a bird in a ballroom we grew up in bewilderment

With all that paved space and none cobbled for flight.

Fool Disclosure

Like a cotton rib

         we hurt and spread

 lightly through the afternoon.

Near the whaled windows,

lunch happens.  The eye

is a dog's girdle

rising distilled.
There is a hand 
               to efface the eye

naked as rice
               in the cauldron 
               of mourning

and an oiled-boulder clear

           as a cut onion

smells and sits strung-

out the waterfall and

          beltway between our hearts.

I made a face

with no false flowers--

           the first expression I'd

never made to face--

for the store window

looks at me

like an invisible father

drinking the better concentrate

          of my former distribution of love

in a clear vowel

            of false teeth,

  

 like a cotton rib whaled

    in the world as it is