it is a colored pencil.

heyo, all.
been working on a new comic strip.
i call it, "ionpoem".

you can smell it
or if you print it out, you could manipulate it with your 'fingers'.



(here's one.)



(and another.)

double soluble

...............

this morning i was thinking about apple-jacks.

it was a heart attack (on a plate) it was a fan and one arm, falling asleep, guess what the morning sunlight slowly bowling and slowing my blood down.

it was warm,
this morning.

this morning i was breathing the air.

bouncing, trouncing little speck and a fish-handled whip hammer and flick, whip and flick.

it was like the box of crayons or maybe the duster.

it spoke true to me,
and was.

this morning sought out the twelve truths gone past, far past.

someone thought they were winning, like it was a game, and someone died from the cold and they didn't have a house where their cat lived and the soda in the refridgerator.

talked about it.
people forgot about the half-turn and the brother surf. someone finished all the slowmotion categories, and we all pressed our buttons.

do you know how many
CAKE
there is??

...................%

hmmmm... haven't written on the 'ol blog for a REALLLLLLY long time. so, when somebody said, "hey, written on that blog recently?" to me, i said,
"dang. i should do that again."

THUS.

okay, so news, then. i'm playing in the Madison band, Chime Collective, a unit of genius sprung from the mind of Adam Gregory Pergament - we're brewing a distinctly different sound down here (or up here, depending on your attitude or geographic location) and i'm excited about it.

http://www.flowpoetry.com

wee haw... there's the website, kidos.

maybe i'll post again soon. for now, it's organic chemistry time.

loop dee

this thing is pretty flibb.

it is pretty made of rib
* * * * * * bones.

so I like it.

(*It's all the states I've ever been!)


I am made of squirrelly toadstool map

If you click on that link that I mad html-crazed, you will go to a place where you can make your own one of these and laugh when you put it up on your blog because you need a break from looking at papers on high performance liquid chromatography techniques for assessing concentrations of nonpolar phloroglucinol derivatives.

Or whatever you do for fun.
(I think for sum, it's rum. But not I, as you see that I am definitely sharper than a tweedle-bug love-gun with both photosensitive diode arrays coiled and couched-out on the futon ready to send a gnarlish black boon of liquid-exude in your general direction, loverly.)

I am actually having a grand time typing this mush to you. (*laughs audiably in computer lab*)






so you should clap your hands?
so you should clap your hands? how 'bout a poem? (O. K.)

astoif

stood quite as.
it was light-night floating to.
stroke of the oar if.
croak from the shore as,
a cloud floating past to.
leap out lily lie if.
no,
crackling flame as.
an oar that is dipped to
a sugar
* * * * * wafer.

backspace, backspace, comma space, backspace...

A short list of fractalized comments:

• The Pickney St. Block Party was fantastic - lots of good friends and fun, some not half-bad food and DEFINITLEY some FINE music. I definitley hope that the whole shindig goes down again next year. Chris Dols? The man.

• Not minding rain - we've gotta put in our committment for May flowers, I guess. It's cold, but rain always puts me in a good mood.

• I have once again migrated to the forever classic "shuffle" mode on I-tunes. Wait - is that John Popper sitting in with Béla Fleck and the Flecktones?!? I think so.

• Looking forward to returning to Eau Claire, actually, quite a lot. I'll miss the boys from SToNEFLoAT and the friends that stay here in Madison over the summer, but I am looking foward to seeing family and friends alike in the BIG EC. Three story tree forts, Wisconsin Bayou, bike rides.... weeding gardens all day in 88º heat? Oh, yeahhhhh....

that's pretty much that.

•¶§¶•

Now, I think some poetry would do the trick.
Yes, how about it?
this one's called
chronological continuity

step
six
involves
two crepé plates
mirror weep white glass
plates crisp steam bright mornings. mournings
flowering dull salt occurred maybe paper lantern bulb
drawn in wax crayon lumps compass needle a footstep beetle silhouetted stalk-bow
brace for impact and flashing light fact red right said don’t roll brother don’t you roll like that

we rode bus onion blow road dust coughing pink lung crust tennessee-or-bust roll up our sleeves airplaning all day where people must sprout sea seethes

[written 4/16/06] ®

hmmmmm... chewing on that. it's a little Fibonacci metering. yes.



<< the william taylor anamoly >>

hmmmmm

kool aid
plant physiology
afternoon sun

hmmmmm
lightweight psychedelic rock music
one earplug, guitar pick.

eyelashes, sugar packets, sweat feet.

I kissed the pavement, dodged cars
slept on the couch and felt right.



( "marymargaretmollykathrineann" )

the dogron

he flies upon the breeze he flies above the steam on the vent

he makes me laugh when I need to laugh

huh, wordddddds.

Yes.

A poem. A poem, A POEM!!!!!!!!

I am feeling in my arms again.
Here we go:

I.

come with me down the
soda water of my spirit

a licorice
a stick of licorice
a slice of it
a licorice

the night called me deep
unfolding
it’s arms
oh why’d you have to open up the
door
that light IS like




come with me into the vaccum
crater 100 W. Lake St tone
and tone alike

I was born here
I lived here with my mother
father
hmmm… brother, yes
yes – ter – day the only flicker
cloud
scape up
above

take my hand
love me
a squeeze
SO TIGHT
I think it’s all over –
annihilation
of
the
self

trip and tumble down the hill
on our concrete toes
on our rubber platelet toes
yes
over time and grown between
the cracks that our feet are
flapping on
growing there and unblinking
unanswering
unbundled.

become the dawn
and see through it
become a speck
the speck
speckled of all things,
become.

take my hand
that in this night I
find another
that is the night
I find

upside down
upside

down

and very still, here

kiss me once

for
good
lucking
thrice
uhhh… yeah, 1968.










II. EXIT
EXIT
EXIT
EXIT
and blossom
in your branchings
touching together
scraping together
in the breeze

we are the coldest day in this winter
we are the breath
we take of crispness
of stately order
and translucence
we break
ice on a lake
and swell the crest
of the morning
on the oranges and violets
there.

I’ll admit that I would
trade it all for that
first breath
to be my entirety.

that I would,
the cloth
soaked
in splashing
mountain spring
and cascade one hundred and fifty four
feet in my embrace.

I’m a novice
at this penetrating thought
a rope looped
tricked-up like
the puzzle sewn
through shoulder blade –

black and white
a stately art
in squares
majestic
I am the line in the off-white
of the white I was before
the light changed,
never defined
always a constant

of rearranging.

In motion I am the play of the mountain
of the bird wings
of the thousand star sleep dust
that soots
the pavement up

HURRAH FOR THIS LIFE!

HURRAH for crazy scratching
hairy bark musk
and subtle lean scoop
shout frost beard
of us all!



I’ll be the first to cry for all of
our happiness.
Take my hand and we’ll weep together,
all
thrown up
silk in the breeze
cotton fibres on the breeze
dogwood bundles on the breeze
particles when someone sneeze
us out
we shout reverberating
us all we are
reverb er at ing
us all we are
dwelling us all
we are basking now all lawning now all

seeping and creaking
all
growing and stoning
ourselves all
with little bits of grass and
pebbles dusk
all
with our sacrifice we all
a scent transduced to be
all
of
us.

I would once more
to play at

obeah
my divining sticks
for pits and pictures
of the saints I saw
touching was I dreaming?

the garden is my home
for squashes
and the tomatoes
and bean poles
and raw glow sweat
dirt
that
I am.

no bloody roast rat finger pencil undulation spruce jacket hilltop button blackout

Let's all just all be one big community, okay?




This one is from the Noland Zoology Building. Look for the hidden member of the family Magnoliaceae!

Sounds good.

Now, about the Chemical Society (as I have had my poem of the same title returned to me):

•

western thought
a mind buzz
locus point
and shredder
(a paper shredder, that is, to say)

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…
THROW OFF THOSE CHAINS!

awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww…
THROW OFF THOSE CHAINS!

(and) welcome to the Chemical Society
a nuance of sobriety
over-launched and stumbling.

let’s sit in a little warm room
and vacuum tube
inside outside (binnder)
outside outsind linder binder

come over here and blush on me
just a little bit, your poetry (I mean)
in little steaming droplets
on my leg –
a full round ringing of a bell

pepper and rose petals
elastic band
guitar smoke and a
laser

beam.

I am a single ball of warmth

amorphous and
without boundary
someone takes their hand
and smears it across the page

* snap back *

and vision blurs sharp to the
left side

a breeze on the mountainside
push me down the valley slopes
over rocks
and tufts of grass

I’ll be so gentle
you’ll never see me come
in hilarity
oh, laughing and creased
an old man with little crooked teeth.

I delight! (and never need to sleep again,
you see…)

breathing
a waterfall on the inside
throat bone connected
to blue sun magic flag

flapping behind a bicycle.


look at those leaves, man!
that’s sweet shit
you wouldn’t even believe ‘ it.

my eardrums, I can’t avoid the beat
bass drum thump
comb back the hair

a shrine made
from my rib bones
and some yellow string –


maybe red.

•

I really like it!
I really like it!

So, The Chemical Society is an organization of people who wish to use their brains, in short.
Together, we use the arts of meditation (brain chemicals) and moderate, intelligent external chemical use to expand our overall perceptions of the world.

It's juicy, I know.
Read the last post to join.
•

I would also like to point you in the direction of an excellent website, 391.org. It's the continuation of Tristan Tzara's original DADA magazine, first published in 1917, and a goddamn good time. Plus , I have artwork up on the photostream.

IT'S A DOUBLE WHAMMY!!!!!!!!!

awdrgyjilpawdrgyjilpawdrgyjilpawdrgy

First and foremost, some wonderful brain food.

Like chum in the water, gather around, my neuron-shark piece people, asunder!



This one's called 'bilk'.

I have four midterms this week. That is probably the most wonderful thing ever.



Okay.
So, now that that's over with, let's have some right proper fun.

First off, a never ending poem. (*just for you, of course.)

one, three -
he placed his foot on the floor
one, four -
his foot on the floor
foot ON the FLOOR.

a shimmer flickered there
a
shining flickered
on the floor.

one, three -
he placed his foot on the floor
one, four -
his foot on the floor
foot ON the FLOOR.

a shimmer flickered there
a
shining flickered
on the floor.

one, three -
he placed his foot on the floor
one, four -
his foot on the floor
foot ON the FLOOR.

a shimmer flickered there
a
shining flickered
on the floor.

You can repeat it as you'd like, of course. I do it and clap my hands as I walk to class. (Not very loud, however - that would be rather odd. [*joke])

•∞•

Ok, here's a second poem (chunk) and a nonrelated oath to a awesome pseudo-secret order. (* the order itself is not pseudo-anything, it's merely that the pseudo modifyer applies to the word secret, instead.)

•II•

in sanskrit they said
the verse was once

in books so leavened on the stairs
and I became the light reflected
there
in plastic artificial and
metal oxides
and
polymer alloy
driven to cry out and claw for breath and breath and breathing -

*COME BACK TO THE LIGHT!*

blinking I fell down here and I can't get back out!

*COME BACK TO THE DAY SO SEEPED IN LIFE, the organism!*

SACRED BOOK of the SIKHS

eighty-two, the number 82.

veranda.

••••
wow!
••••

now, the oath.

to join THE CHEMICAL SOCIETY, you must simply say the following oath:

"Welcome to The Chemical Society, a nuance of sobriety - cold goose duck turkey monkey shotgun smith on the pond, lighter.

I stand away from the flame.
I stand away from the closet-holes.

I hold in my hand the blessing that I recieved.

I wish to stand with my brothers and sisters - freedom of the mind is better than it thought." (*preliminary draft oath*)

Thanks.
You'll probably all wonder what the hell THE CHEMICAL SOCIETY is. It's too bad I can't tell you right now.

I'VE GOT A CHEMISTRY TEST.

come over here for a second, please.

The Mountain Man

I

he smelling sweetly
of sage rolling
and blowing
twisted working leaf
on branching
an utter wealth
light in fractals
dispersed, condensing.

in afternoon, a symphony
lush greening branching
listless ways

a song so softly sewn
but a wisp on palate-cheek

ask me again –
a call in the forest,
safety.

in naked dangling
bouncing from bough
to branch
and spent –
float and flutter down
a leaf kissed to loamy earth unmoving.

beauty, in it’s ways
stabbing eye sockets
boulder lawn trim
clipper ship
or hairy –
labirinthae, son of mortals, too keen,
a wisp of smoke
caught on the breeze




II

a poet
a fighter
both will show a noble toe
draw across the pond
ripples rising,
both are far too slow

the mountain man,
crying river
rumble boulder jungle
is better spent
than keeper clocks
keeping
brewing up a greeting
of sky and marrow
slender shaft of
moon delights the eye

rain will fall
upon his face,
a forest
matted tangle
moss and underbrush

beetle sideways on the limb
beetle, sandwich days goodbye
beetle lovely branch scratch
and live earth
caked on his toes

a dance for cloudscapes,
survival
lit a smudge of sage
crumbling dispositions
cast away

III

who will choose
cucumber-melon
body mist over
this sweet loamy creaking
bone sweat
earth rumble
tumbling on the lay?

tobacco drawings on his
flesh
dried up tension
shaken away

even shit,
his processes are
better
that that bottle.
an offer
I will have to refuse.

•§•fini.•§•

Short list of things I like doing:

spray-painting clocks
wearing plaid sleep-pants all day long
drinking ginger ale
gluing buttons to spray-painted clocks

discussing livery coulours
listening to Primus and enjoying the burning sensation of Pace 'hot' picante sauce at the same time

hitting buttons on my calculator randomly then hitting the clear key and laughing
pretending to be a physics major (see above...)
arranging push-pins on the board behind my desk and being to opposed to disrupting their
color patterns to actually use them

wearing ankle bracelets

inventing words like lippant or skrayler
discussing the finer elements of The Siket Disc

taxonomy worksheets
dissuading people from stacking things
breathing night air in great gulps

cutting out paper dolls of famous cosmic-doom metal bassists

making short lists of things I like doing.

GOODNIGHT AND A JOLLY FHATM'WA TO YOU

this, the delicious nature of jungle, judgement

the freshest of hand-crafted eyechedelica.

•§•

Battle-song of the Poet

We are warriors few, and proud
but no swords do we carry
instead in hand a pencil
sharpened at the point

We march under streetlights
and in the back alleys
conducting orchestras in every breath

We march through the bars, the cafes, the libraries –
everywhere, yet unseen by any who care to look

We are warriors few, and proud
on our tonques the scent of dawn
caressed on palate pink
and spit on concrete

Fear our fury!
The poet is the bloodied saint –
martyr and killer of martyrs
in one thought
a wing on every facet and
every grain – blades of grass
and
flecks of dust
lightning bolts
smoky air
wreathed ‘round halos that we wear.

One step closer and I’ll shoot
a bullet to the brain is
enough to act as proof
and step in front of one of us
you’ll likely taste some graphite dust –
or perhaps a little ink in flows so slow

We are warriors few, and proud
raised on muddy water,
wisps of clouds –
souls charged up to release a blast
a volcano, lightning
and
the chill of paper on the skin.

•§•

Right-o. I'm going to go ahead and say it: I am a shā 'ir. "One Who Knows" - the title our arabic friends give to the poets of their land. Long seen as being almost one with the supernatural, the poet was one to hold in awe and in fear. Almost considered magicians in pre-Islamic arabia, poets were thought to be able to cast their words upon others to good or bad effect.

Oh, yeah - we're pretty good at that.

So, I come to you this year as one of the shā 'ir - and the closest to you, too. (Consider yourself lucky.)

(*light, light, light AND
ALREADY spoken and turning
rejoice in rain and night air!
rejoice!)

Ode to Joy (welcome home, welcome home, welcome love so sweetly...)

as inaugural as virtually possible:

I am ever so happy to return to my home away from homes - Madison, The Ape Village, has claimed me again.

The first day back was reverberant, really. It blew my expectations for welcome away, in fact - a wonderful local musician connection with Tani Diakite and a wave of warm conversation and smooth hooka smoke on a crisp late August evening.

Delightful.

But the good comes with the bitter, I suppose - and I leave my first love in these opening moments. I guess one Mr. Steve Georgiou would say, "The first cut is the deepest..." I am moving on with a half-smiling, half-forlorn look on my face and not a hard feeling harboured in my heart. I just hope that feeling is held dear by both parties - and I think it probably is.

ANYWAY, enough of the philosophising. LET'S GET SOME smoke and clay a cookin' on the poetry burner! Strap on your spurs and let's see this through!

Here's one I like with the title, Anklung.

sway in the lean
teeming

a soap cuttle catfish
sunning in the brown below the water-line

I breathe in the sediment
the organic soupy drifting
and grow anew

sway to the creak and chiming of
anklung

tic-tack
throng k-tong

and flutter of flute song

a breeze that carries music such
bound in waves
upon the shoreline

bouncing along -
two feet
one foot

floating.

sip in the sunlight
I caught in my coffee cup
haul the lobster trap up the starboard side
and gasp for air

I breathe in the sediment
but freshly minced and aromatic
sage brush
and seaweed

one foot
two feet-
break into a run and
lolling,
arms criss-cross
lumber-ing
lumber-ing
ringing footsteps on the pavement

lean back for a while
and take root
absorb one's nitrogen fixation
and look at new sprouts forming,
budding out the fingertip

tell me a story of old oak wood and smoke
a room for platters of mulled wine and cheese
blink in rhythm
to banjo - or lute
carry me back to anklung

and breezy retreat-

so still, so still, so still....

...and dreaming.


•§•

night, y'all

∆

gross, mechanical.
sons of abraham
marzipan

bill and bile duct rolling
paper tissue rent at the seams
burning in dreams

fog on the eye
fog on the skate-blade
roller cymbal
I delight

Imagine a cool egg sound
arching back
millhouse where he was born
rred light
gorgeous

I am extruded
open callous
and sweetly

fluorescence
over droplets and matter
thining in ellipsoids, rather
there wil be a blackness
cutting with scissors

eye looplets
belt smell and washing
green label
inside out pant leg and superimposed and sprightly
incandescence
candlestick
knitting grass-threads, drinking.

puking
an inferno
blue shifting and cordial invitationi
drake on the pad
synth station, unwheeling

carve triangles from soapstone
carve *
sweat droppings on the brain
cake crumbled into crackers
$2$E
gateau, as they say
jelly crumbled into smoke
and floating into windows
I am sitting.

such a sickness
twining fingers
red and yellow a throat, A THROAT
inscense of feces
incense of feces
inscence of feces

it’s an emergency
eyelid.
it crumples
tea floating softly on the water
ice cream
pencil shaving connected with hyphens
towards the margins



Lightning of Lindbergh
the drowning
• the drowning
under tree lights
and weavings
coat hangers
and slimy


gross, mechanical.
sons of abraham
marzipan

bill and bile duct rolling
paper tissue rent at the seams
burning in dreams

fog on the eye
fog on the skate-blade
roller cymbal
I delight

Imagine a cool egg sound
arching back
millhouse where he was born
rred light
gorgeous

I am extruded
open callous
and sweetly

fluorescence
over droplets and matter
thining in ellipsoids, rather
there wil be a blackness
cutting with scissors

eye looplets
belt smell and washing
green label
inside out pant leg and superimposed and sprightly
incandescence
candlestick
knitting grass-threads, drinking.

puking
an inferno
blue shifting and cordial invitationi
drake on the pad
synth station, unwheeling

carve triangles from soapstone
carve *
sweat droppings on the brain
cake crumbled into crackers
$2$E
gateau, as they say
jelly crumbled into smoke
and floating into windows
I am sitting.

such a sickness
twining fingers
red and yellow a throat, A THROAT
inscense of feces
incense of feces
inscence of feces

it’s an emergency
eyelid.
it crumples
tea floating softly on the water
ice cream
pencil shaving connected with hyphens
towards the margins



Lightning of Lindbergh
the drowning
• the drowning
under tree lights
and weavings
coat hangers
and slimy


gross, mechanical.
sons of abraham
marzipan

bill and bile duct rolling
paper tissue rent at the seams
burning in dreams

fog on the eye
fog on the skate-blade
roller cymbal
I delight

Imagine a cool egg sound
arching back
millhouse where he was born
rred light
gorgeous

I am extruded
open callous
and sweetly

fluorescence
over droplets and matter
thining in ellipsoids, rather
there wil be a blackness
cutting with scissors

eye looplets
belt smell and washing
green label
inside out pant leg and superimposed and sprightly
incandescence
candlestick
knitting grass-threads, drinking.

puking
an inferno
blue shifting and cordial invitationi
drake on the pad
synth station, unwheeling

carve triangles from soapstone
carve *
sweat droppings on the brain
cake crumbled into crackers
$2$E
gateau, as they say
jelly crumbled into smoke
and floating into windows
I am sitting.

such a sickness
twining fingers
red and yellow a throat, A THROAT
inscense of feces
incense of feces
inscence of feces

it’s an emergency
eyelid.
it crumples
tea floating softly on the water
ice cream
pencil shaving connected with hyphens
towards the margins



Lightning of Lindbergh
the drowning
• the drowning
under tree lights
and weavings
coat hangers
and slimy


gross, mechanical.
sons of abraham
marzipan

bill and bile duct rolling
paper tissue rent at the seams
burning in dreams

fog on the eye
fog on the skate-blade
roller cymbal
I delight

Imagine a cool egg sound
arching back
millhouse where he was born
rred light
gorgeous

I am extruded
open callous
and sweetly

fluorescence
over droplets and matter
thining in ellipsoids, rather
there wil be a blackness
cutting with scissors

eye looplets
belt smell and washing
green label
inside out pant leg and superimposed and sprightly
incandescence
candlestick
knitting grass-threads, drinking.

puking
an inferno
blue shifting and cordial invitationi
drake on the pad
synth station, unwheeling

carve triangles from soapstone
carve *
sweat droppings on the brain
cake crumbled into crackers
$2$E
gateau, as they say
jelly crumbled into smoke
and floating into windows
I am sitting.

such a sickness
twining fingers
red and yellow a throat, A THROAT
inscense of feces
incense of feces
inscence of feces

it’s an emergency
eyelid.
it crumples
tea floating softly on the water
ice cream
pencil shaving connected with hyphens
towards the margins



Lightning of Lindbergh
the drowning
• the drowning
under tree lights
and weavings
coat hangers
and slimy


gross, mechanical.
sons of abraham
marzipan

bill and bile duct rolling
paper tissue rent at the seams
burning in dreams

fog on the eye
fog on the skate-blade
roller cymbal
I delight

Imagine a cool egg sound
arching back
millhouse where he was born
rred light
gorgeous

I am extruded
open callous
and sweetly

fluorescence
over droplets and matter
thining in ellipsoids, rather
there wil be a blackness
cutting with scissors

eye looplets
belt smell and washing
green label
inside out pant leg and superimposed and sprightly
incandescence
candlestick
knitting grass-threads, drinking.

puking
an inferno
blue shifting and cordial invitationi
drake on the pad
synth station, unwheeling

carve triangles from soapstone
carve *
sweat droppings on the brain
cake crumbled into crackers
$2$E
gateau, as they say
jelly crumbled into smoke
and floating into windows
I am sitting.

such a sickness
twining fingers
red and yellow a throat, A THROAT
inscense of feces
incense of feces
inscence of feces

it’s an emergency
eyelid.
it crumples
tea floating softly on the water
ice cream
pencil shaving connected with hyphens
towards the margins



Lightning of Lindbergh
the drowning
• the drowning
under tree lights
and weavings
coat hangers
and slimy

hullooooooo

HUA!!!

Just wanted to let everybody know that this weekend should hopefully be my StoneFloat shows #21 and #22 - and that you can pick up some of their rock and fire at their section of the live archive:

http://www.archive.org/audio/etreelisting-browse.php?collection=etree&cat=StoneFloat&PHPSESSID=b69136bf65fdecb51dd192d1f23e860b

As far as the Ape Village, I truly believe I am not the only one losing my mind. Everybody is taut and anticipating the coming of finals. I have one week to go of classes and I don't know if I will survive.

Probably not.

Do this for me - go out and have a good weekend. Enjoy yourself and breathe some air. Love the people you love and have some cake. (If you don't like cake, then eat something that isn't particularly good for you but you like a little more than cake. ex. - sea slugs)

I can dig my digital camera.

*#(#)•ª

This is a story about Lemurs.

"the guitarist"

First off, I would like to honor one of my very favorite poets, Tristan Tzara (Sami Rosenstock). He was a wonderful man and was writing things back in the 1920's that is still awe-inspiring and revolutionary today.

SO, I decided I'd share a poem of Monsieur Tzara's and write one for him as well.

The Great Lament of My Obscurity III

where we live the flowers of the clocks catch fire and the plumes encircle the brightness in the distant sulphur morning the cows lick the salt lilies
my son
my son
let us always shuffle through the colour of the world
which looks bluer than the subway and astronomy
we are too thin
we have no mouth
our legs are stiff and knock together
our faces are formeless like the stars
crystal points without strength burned basilica
mad : the zigzags crack
telephone
bite the rigging liquefy
the arc
climb
astral
memory
towards the north through its double fruit
like raw flesh
hunger fire blood

• Tristan Tzara •

Mr. Tzara, I dedicate this poem to you.
It's called " Zack L. on the Waterfront ":

if I give you this stuff will you drink it?
syrup draught
a river coursing in my vein
berries and twigs
I picked with my fingers

LEAPING!
graceful and eyes widening
taking light, ernest in all pursuits
and in the fortnight
green hair in rivulets on his forehead, sprouting.

his face is the soil
ray of light through diner window
egg awaft and curled in moustache
wax
for a shoeshine
on his face
settling
particles a float in air-drink
plow to break the earth and
concede what they had written.

this is something we call antioch
oh, hold-pray
list bracken the forwards of branches weaving
luminent round fountain of
this place
floor is paved
by ancestor squares

∞ Simon Piler ∞



"sampling"

moore and moor and more

First off is this poem I composed for one Evan Mowry some time ago.
I think it was in a letter or an email.

porridge portage
pouring poke
sliding silver
silver soke
Lindberg ARRIVAL
Lindberg De-tuning oaf and oak
lake leaf line large lozenge

Yodel and redefine
several to the time

Tickled and torn
erasure
complacent
hill dweller
road splitter
down to china halfpike
down to pine smell dime
well thought out phrase

•

If you want me to write you a poem, let me know, and maybe I will. It might take a while, but I'll be damned if it's not awesome.

•

set up a trap
to snare small dreams
in the under-brush-herb-layer

pick up a broom
and play air guitar
sweeping-chord-structure-stasis

stomp a foot
meet a liter
shake hands
and
swallow

blow-back a firestorm
wobble,
toil,
and
stumble

melon flavor
gravy stream
coil of cotton
vision steam

sword for cutting
hair that grows
undercurrrent
syrup-sloughs

coughing, crying
'larmclock wakes
cookie-biscuit-cracker
bakes

lightning bolt.
hurricane.
scythe on the wave
pushed confusion
in ripe gold grain

( epilogue, fades off into silence... )

torreador.

surface of the moon.

jupiter.

grapes, peeling.

•

words of smoke
ides of white light
hearing aid
cool cream
and ice

bananna-strawberry
green
______and
________purple;

BLACK
waves of eiphraim
solar sugar on my back
and heart holding hands with the air

squeeze and I will feel you, love .
squeeze and I will trace it back

•

....AND..... PICTURES.



YES!

Ode on morning

So here's the full story, unabridged, and with good shock value.

Those of you who are weak to the wrath of bizarre ways, mild to strong warnings I issue at this point.

First off, I had been feeling incredibly compressed and sad the past week (despite many good things astir...) and I decided that I needed a ceremonial cleansing and healing in spring's hands.

So on Saturday I had a spring-ceremony. It was most enjoyable and truthfully I feel a lot better.

First I decided that I needed to see myself how I was feeling. I took off my shirt and put my raven-magic hat aside. I looked at my face and at my ribs and at my eyes. Then, using the red lab grease-pencil I have procured, I marked under my eyes in long strokes - careful to keep my pattern symmetrical. At the point this took place, I hadn't bathed for three or four days, and so I shook out my hair as best I could, and tied my blue mountainman bandanna around my neck.

Then, I took out my assorted herbs (which naturally reside in a brown paper bag over my desk area) and set to work preparing a cleansing tea.

The tea was easily over fifteen parts (some of which I am having trouble remembering at this point) but I will try to list them below:

juniper berries, crushed, and with the seeds
montana sage brush
birch leaves
willow leaves
black walnut leaves
(homegrown) ground red chili pepper (w/ seeds)
texas mesquite from Big Bend national park (sort of a big deal - I hadn't ever used any of this...)
pepper plant
tobacco (really just a pinch)
powdered dandelion root
sweet red clover (with crushed flowerheads)
mulberry leaves
nettle chaff
(homegrown) mint leaves
mint stalks
willow twigs
orange peel

To make the ceremony truly personal I recalled that mayan rulers occasionally let their blood onto the incense they used in their temples. I don't really like inflicting pain on my person. In fact, I think it's terrifying, but I decided that feeling the fear and the self-sacrifice of the injury to my person was something understand my own emotion more thoroughly and to involve in the cleansing and cleaning that was going to happen afterwards. In a way, it was a motion of drawing the hurt from my body and letting it be absorbed and neutralized in the healing notions of the herbs.

I took my pocket knife, and with the blade, peirced my leg. It wasn't deep, but enough so that I could squeeze a drop of blood onto some of the orange peel I put into the tea. I added this final ingredient and took to preparing the drink.

I took water from my giant 4L jug in the english army-issue aluminum teapot my grandmother gave me and steeped the tea for a long time. While preparing the tea I listened to Sigur Rós (which I feel is incredibly calming...). When it all was ready, for some reason I put on The Big Wu's "Get off your Ass and Jam" which, upon reflection, was a bizarre choice in music, but actually, it has always been a "feel good" song for me, which fit the occasion.

After I deemed the drink ready, I lifted up my arms to the morning outside my window, and lifted the tea to my lips. Remarkably, it tasted tangy and was exploding with a spice I hadn't quite expected. (I think the pepper plant and the nettle added more flavor than I had expected for their proportion of the substance) I finished it off slowly, conserving the heat of the beverage, and enjoying the aroma of the steam.

Upon finishing, I had a moment of of silent meditation - just an instant of floating peace on the morning sun.

Then I poured the remaining water I had saved from the teapot into the now empty cup. A soft golden liquid - the remaining residues of the tea - stayed in the cup. I deemed this to be a sort of cleansing wash, and set it aside. I laid out the coffeefilter of the leaves and twigs aside to dry out - I'd need some of the stuff later.

I went back to the mirror and looked at my face again - not much better, but with a different twinge to it. The red was still there, so I took a rag, poured some of the golden wash onto it and ritually cleaned my face. I wiped my cheeks first, then both eyelids, one at a time. Next, I pulled the rag over my forehead - from right to left, and finished by cleaning my neck and wiping both of my lips. I repeated the process again, in the same tempo and order, then set the rag aside. My leg was still bleeding lightly, so I took another rag and poured more of the healing water on it. I washed my wound, making sure to get all the blood off. I took the grease pencil and wrote my "smokeword" of meditation - n'chala - around the wound. (my drawing of the word n'chala is below...)



(It looks better when done by hand and on legs, probably...)

After all of this, I was beginning to feel very calm, and as I had been sitting on the floor while cleansing my leg, I became very aware - the sharpened eye came up again sharply for the first time in two (three?) weeks - and I felt almost dizzy. I saw the corners of my room and the morning sun made every speck of dust and every bump on the wall vibrate just a little bit. I breathed fast and swayed there for a while. It was blissful.

Eventually I decided I should probably get up and continue my ritual. That was good idea because I was getting very dizzy and my legs were a little weak when I stood up.

It was at this point that I had to pee. (*please brace yourself*)

As I hadn't eaten anything that morning yet (it was early...) I figured I didn't want to lose any of the tea and realized that I could be very satisfied by returning that hurt and sadness I was about to excrete to the earth.

I found the bottle from the Mr. Fizz I had earlier in the week (*see one of the previous posts...) and took off the label with my knife. I peed into it, somewhat startled and yet somewhat pleased at the deep yellow-gold of it. I wrote n'chala on the front, and sorta held it in my hand for a little while and let the light filter through it.

To tell the truth, I think it's funny to say, but it was really beautiful.

I wrapped the urine-bottle in a rag and got my raven-magic hat and put it on. I took my guitar strap and made a sort of sash out of it with a shoelace and put on my prophet-sweater.

And so I went, barefoot off onto campus - out of the dorm, past the sunbathers on Bascom, and over to the most natural place I know near Chadbourne... ...the lakeshore area behind the Social Sciences building.

The shoots and stones on the path nipped my feet a little, but I wasn't thinking about that. I hummed a chanting song that started from a simple three notes and evolved to have some sort of words... I think it was about walking at this point, a sojourn-song. I stopped to smell the sweet, white blossom of a flowering tree and almost cried for the waves it made in me.

Then I went on - behind Social Sciences I found a place off in the trees where there were little patches of growing things, behind a fallen tree. I dug a hole in the clay and took out a portion of the tea leaves I had saved. I singed them a little and scattered them in the hole, pouring my urine on top. Replacing the earth, I said some stuff I can't really remember - things about finishing cycles and letting spring grow out of hurt. They were nice, and I felt renewed, in a sense.

I walked back to Chadbourne briskly, grey clay-earth still on my hands, empty bottle in it's cloth.

I sang a song with my name in it. Halyn and halyn-a were repeated at the end of the lines. It was a "song for springtime".

I laughed a little.

The Canela ( second edition )

Book of Winnowed Fates

I
cards aplenty
insurance rates
tenor functioned, wit and guile
places where the dead are piled
missle system,
debonair,
showered,
symptom,
long red hair.
Evil tied between each sheet -
and something more -an aura leeched
away at touch of fingertip
some say, "Well, that's what you get."
and smile as if they have to pay
for those who do not know the way
to snake-knot-root
wedge-peel-sight-pitch
lemur madness,
oval flight
and words so wrangled to the fathoms,
ten inches - more,
ten ways to calus ( the brain )

II
Launch ourtright the bile you hold inside.
Spread it's oil upon your hide.
Grow wider and more hairy till'
you are a beast engaged in acts of war,
human race devoured at autumn's door.
Natural thick and wrinkled faces
combined from all the human races
in life,
in tearing thought,
in smell and grinding ferocity

Loathe to touch the oils and flesh
or sooth with herb on gasping breath
neither rockets nor the stars
but mere survival on our minds (not in cars)

shelter,
woven cord.
beltline highway, supermall
fluorescent light,
mating call.

Tom: connected, redefined
acrobatics from limb to limb
sparks to touch from fingertips
and brush aside
a mental limbering of the brain. ( plastic )

III (for two speakers)
waywar anonymity
*( scar tissues )
of distant face
and candycane cojoined to friend and limb alike
*( center )
ten penis hut fork-load rapture
twenty-five meanger floating bone-weavings
*( center )
alight three fathoms of smoke
*( water crystal )
re-breathe your food,
re-breathe your snakes.



Amber Grows

I
Amber grows
here in window panes,
Flashing.

It swells with each breath
Then dies, fades away to black again
Automated rebirth
And metered tranquility

Oh, come closer and hear the drums
Played with hands together in rhythm
together in warmest earth-speak and embrace
each beat is a slow stirring
Spring in the limbs of permafrost

Reach down to touch a paving stone
Tie bootlace, bandanna on the neck
Pluck a feather for the hat
Blue-black traces whirl the sky-god’s colors
Lift feet along the track

Oh, come closer and see the clouds
Lit up in this liquid dreamscape
High above the airplanes
And airships
High above the mountaintops and sea-birds and rocket-blips

II
Amber grows a hundred feet a day
She wears a cape tied up with a flag
She waves a bag
Was sewn last Easter

Grandmother
Cordless telephone

Wheel is turning
Subtle overtone

Call out the refrain from your shoulders
Cut off all the pockets and the straps
“The end of the world is coming!”
Wishful thinking is about where you’re at.

Oooooh blow blue air into the
Vapor stream
Ice dementia,
Coil,
Devotion,
Under seas of cream.

Hypnotist
Aerodrome
Marzipan and lace

Wake and feces
debonair
Bone-comb,
system rake

Read your lines right
To left – behind and upside-down
Tweak results to tie code breakers
To walls of soap-wash sound



It's called el pres... but it's a dumb name. He isn't a president.

Duh...