Monday, May 31, 2010

Basilisque Saundry

[1986, Cannes, Sylvester Stallone, Libya]

its fleep is carousel, its teed the elastic neck
become a ruminant architecture

the thinking attached by a foam
no less beautiful
where trifles in banks
just keep sinking into bliss-like
hogans of spinning emerald flanges

long flexible antennae exit in arcs
from shoulder furnitures
the carousel elevators
rise toward
the place of fountains
in the sky

in the sky stair fountain place
the spinning emerald antennae
touch my shoulders

they sneak furniture
onto me while I sleep

my left jaw
is emerald

my right jaw
a shoulder
sky stair

goes the long woolen history
the thin miasmic image
of its wing

its wings
are connected along the banister
and touch my face
the cold smooth nipple
of its foaming

inside the ball
the sea of eggs
now legacy central feeding

the roper

mud tent lung fish
ornate emerald projectiles
we collected

for the soft hanging
fabric shelves
of your shoulder horns
inse toward basilesque hollow
the low flat rooms
bear windows
at their extreme edges

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Il Summa des Kunstraptiones

The sad piano drifted
throughout all space and time

and in time
the single inertia
of its keys

was a little kiss
like the ray
which bounced
inside a mirrored head
whose sad little tongue

ate foreign slobbering contrasts
upon the broken door

O Soccer thugs!

A locust has left its empty
commdone of a skin
on your giant



greets you in
the Scottish garden~

a falling stone.

Braided licorice knight, your
prehensile neon tonsil chin appendages
make peacock flute fork flourishes
unto the sponge moon mining city slaves.

Drink Gavi,
and rave.


Tuesday, May 18, 2010


Crytpic Tilogy

the foetus-piano-jawed
is watching you board

another boat.

its thin wispy tear
is like a round wet
alhambra of effervescing

whose occupants
like lithop-buttocks
proffer each
a single fungal eye,
a lugubrious ageveorthan,
an ububboo piper clad in
red cubebs, a thinking
corn whose kernals all hold
a foetal gondola jawed
fungus piano ear,

a seer-like silence
borne of no being
a century, a centaury
as in the Latin and Greek
sense of the term

centaurus; 'of unsettled origin'


If I said it, I meant it, otherwise,
its sediment, or sentiment, what's impediment

whose feats
like imps

are imperious
until lexmasperated

the date of the reaper's
last cell

the day before


Monday, May 17, 2010

Evil James Gray

Evil James Gray must die.
Track him to the ends of the Earth
like witches do the Christians,
like Christians do the witches.

Track him down, and make him live
naked, in a concrete egg.

Let his cruel wastes collect
until finally, finally,
someone mashes his head
and cuts his feet off
with a Fête.

Fate is greedy for us all,
so let Evil James Gray
be drowned
in dead horses.

Let his last breath
be pressed out
by a heavy weight
of equid necrosis.

Categorikon Bade Aclatter, Cagoulard's Chyometer~

‘a stranger in the domain of fire’

Is it a leg or a jaw, an eye,
or a naval


Energeum transferalene to
doomed moods modulating the domestic
countenance, a nearly seamless
approach to revealed hierachy,

Telemachus sounds from the lofty Azedarac,
where clear-green chrysoberyl glows, like
masques in rows,

rows of rose masks
are prepared for the liturgy,
where the excess of generation
is encoded in the naming, where
the taming of the shrew is no
verse for repair

to mesh in the war
of wishes

its seeping sue, or
issue as read to the turbulans
of the Melians, so be is bolken?

When threads run down beneath
the weft, when the thief's fine
bungarotoxin cephalalgy cods
complicately critical, an arcanum
must isinglass

around the custom dissolving

the custom
quite melted
is transferred
upon new organs
whose exact composition
must itself ever
be inexacting

unifying all

all all

image: Study for Cagoulard,
Julio González (Spanish, 1876-1942)

Not Lick Her House

Inside of enormous dentures,
accidental rooms shaped falling

(long shot) vardy gras.
aught-tradition. Jacques Callot

Harnessing the massive Mangalarga,
the reign's last days.

Sweet Curry? By then in bondage
to the utter shim, it gets taped~

The tender young thing
fitted to pert geometries.

I saw him in the diner.
My Gibassier. Lord Greystroke.

Seeing Brahman. Sage of Silence.
Minicipal Bond agency drifting.

They plead in unmistable overtones
for a warmer, lower humanity.

A person I once knew. 3 Mulberries
on Desdemona's handkerchief.

Coffee takes to squatting
like an arab, as they say.

Eyebrows long, and
entering its vortex...

each aqueous plateau I'd
ascend, the whole assemblage


Sunday, May 16, 2010

Multiscaled polarization effects in Suneve coronata (Lepidoptera) and other insects: application to anti-counterfeiting of banknotes

does the earth lack
intellectual rigor?
does life?

what are the criteria
for the development of
this planet? who put
them in place?


lepidoptera ambulate
helicoid helicopter
face replicate?

sugar domine' above
the solidus musk post
for endless culling?
trireme stapled cerebromide?


Uncertainty Is Certain?
You encounter fit.

A Burning Stare _ Upon Forlorn Greens

bonanza waste strip
a value unconcealed
would drive the radically
redesigned longship
of its signature sty

yodel Gödel's
incompleteness theorem
completely, not
to interrupt
the cooking of
the harem

totally error ridden
bonanza we call on time
state-supported rivalry
it cannot open the wonder

the miniature longhorn bull horns
extend from the cheekbones
the weird man
gets caught in the little
human door
we cut in the back
of the poem

Πρὸς Πλάτωνα
Πρὸς Ἀριστoτέλην

Sneech Roussel
dive willow spheroid
yeticrotch cheroot

tourguide's missives
left unsent
by haggard
cleft chin'd
cleaning woman

bust of Harpo
in white pine

the garden of the
five fingers


"hick poem"

image painted by Léopold Rabus titled _Homme Nourrissant un Chat_, 2008

Botany Elongating Apple For Anthropogenic Vitrines

if its thick glass paddles
were the leaves of some book
oft reread in the trafficking
of water now loosed upon
the solid cyclopian point
from which all images
became possible
to steer

cyclops mandrake minotaur
in fear would connect
its shoulders to the rudders
to dance a navigational star
under duress

steer with dorsal mohawk
accelerates to top speed
among the all-perpetraiting

several awed gods
gather like dew
in amorphous clutches
some formless tools
hanging from whatever
vestigiality or

takes to gimme a break
mack charlie
you prefer cabbies
like kadiffy

see stone trains
merging within
giving sumer
zoomorphic fits
with mutagenic
scenes of

neon corpse machines
muscles transmogrified
into ionic

verity blossoms

image by Sebastian Gögel titled _Plan_, 2005

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Old Woman With Suitcase.

tender killers,
your little boots
sit like elbows
at a table
never level

the rotok

its hide
in tremble

they ant no more

image painted by Peter Feiler titled _Artificial_, 2009

Oddly Bellowing Hippo. Bad Pharmacy Practices.

a rough bird
the thing across the countries
that is made of pills
the one vastly gnawing head

a golden buboe
obscured by hornbeam
a jade plenum
modulating into barque

the fantasy
where the western lands
inhabit no more
the eternal plastic

of ptah

image by Artists Anonymous titled _Drugs/Clownerine, 2007

Friday, May 14, 2010


variety skin pepper hamlet
a killer lurking in pique cotton
or hanging summer sails
if liguria
nods by the massive coral
projectile it assumes
the form
a vast lifting of red
concatenate rooms
pouring out its sludge
of cat heads
mice all mated
to singapore by strings
everything touching
the long curling ice needles
that signal the beginning
of the process
the secret orp pord orb
mod been clean tipped
the sufferment's gun lope
ah, candied shoulders
rise above the mail foam
for a last smile
before a drown
is canvassed to learish
ilproportion'd onobie
to see inside each universal
animal pixel the skeletal cube
centriole to the spherical migamuture
buslonture giga pure
i go up into the scoop
where the dynoracheting glissando
huffs slowly the murk
of silver fungi dorsal chins
submerging upside down
into sky's reversal chassis

mint white
its fit
its fitlitliture
the bogog

tear a-way
the ragged hall
open's up
a torso quornsly
a sewn torsion
swinging around
to orbit
the haze
the plan of the trail
of its replicating
monocle toss

lens hyphen runway
for photon

image by Gregor Gaida titled _Kind und Kreide III_, 2008,
a work in Painted polyester resin.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

It's always coffee time somewhere!

Oulothox wins fine residue.

say help to its piney cove
the smugglers' wooden tavern cut adrift
it laps up to the waist
when the wind is in its wish
ode's eye-patch dollar pitch
the black swing of its bronty prull
oh go on and pull another one
off the barnacle rail
it's softened heart
the much or mush of echinodream
pale-so-refundables stoop
to pilfer its puffins

a flexible rod and a giant parasol
lead the little stairway up
to the perch with an ample brim
the high shock of casting
bird a cantilevering
between the what
or where of the storage
in the image
you might find a gutta-percha grape
house hovering in its kin
and naked luminous mustard
in its fins
see if its mouth can hold another lantern
before you set your wings to fly

a dream foam of green whisper satin
hides the salient footfalse
fern armor to clothe the
insect stick man whose face
became the shuffling shells
wearied beans jaunt through
the messy perfected strings

kiss black curtains
branching water
holds the head

the red touching
a paint to toll
its lottery scruff
and nape

the smugglers
come up out of the trees
and into the rocks
now hold the box correctly
while they palp down into your
ears and meddle
hold fast while the siren
eats your skin

hear comes the faux
suffocating of tea
their mucky town
went down in there

you'll see
gill word
pass through
the hands
that shake this

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

As If Its Elastic Chalice Were Sifting A Last Tic Or Calloused Dynarit

to appease its letting
appear, no reaper, no oompapa,
no application, just the fruit
of the ear, as if the sun
was listening in

to a negative
space its shine
its nice blind sty
the greyset tercet bound
in essensical torcasse

your broken leg
has a hornet's nest cast

and the cast walked out
on the shoot
and the shoot pushed up

and supper,
surely they suffer
the empty squashed egg
of the empty ovoid room
and the control panel

through the stencil

after then, of

the faucet of it popularities
teretosubulate, Ingweonic

the faithful call
to simplicity
and simplicity
calls back

wet her
myth stone

water, will, wone, wood


In this damp place, we are
all weenedeed.

image by Sigurður Guðjonsson titled _Deathbed_,2006

Draft Dodger

a tiny sexy cellphone nosering
finds its way to the
top of the matterhorn's

beer foam head
security cost
analysis center

from a think-tank
of chrome manta-ray
fitness interfaces

a young fitness instructor

a living fitness vector
fit to model an economic fitness
vector, whose instantiation
is based on the biological
frame of the former

a lumpy damned old burger
sees a perfected and idealized
earcanal's communication structure
and thinks suddenly

of a storage option
marketing platform called

"anal pearl"

a lumpenburger recalls a fitness
instructor's cellphone number
but now all she has
is an email address
for her breast enhancement's
lexus' laptop's noseringcellphone's
identity causality nexus loop
adjuster's pimpbot

a viral chinese hotty
goes out into SL
to fleece some prims
from a silent Roman boner
I don't know anything about SL

Formal Implication

King Kongsbergite its Madame, to bond
the green-caped tavern of the seed
to common matrix och, what
Ouchterlony is sped, now the
pellock spins in X, ZF synchromesh
overdrive gearboxes any compatible
flank, or hyper prefixed L, for
leaking multipole, a zygosity
of unrelated subjects to bagle
the circumscribed basilicon,
that 'clear composition'
so described by the writerless
conoidals whose cossical fans
fetch and flourish where
fraudulent Grecian patterns
are pewed by premunition
in the roseate setting of its
sirrah slawm sphermaceti~
vi# polon///

We suspect that yearnful
ygrave of supplying the charks
for this Ob-Ugrian parasitization
of the rolling sonic ug~ Ugh..
The ugly and ugsome cavers
whose cawky heads would carry
to good weasure the tranquillityite
femerelled to the carnous pannicle,
non est inventus, the pintle
of the sincanter's congree
of clapperclaws, the glaucus gold
what haunts a hazard uncertain,
a kind of Lagrangian gone leisurely
rostral 'pon the souldie, or at
least the sound of its ghostly
synchysis of limbre timbred
scintillans as the eye
inmingles toward the toodle
to machen trucca unmild
with such bitter roots,
the voir dire to
etaoin shrdlu.

image by Sigga B. Sigurðardottir titled _Untitled_, 2007


it would tend to slope down     the bitter root
      to the bitter, to the bit

tongue's art         traipsed
trapped, the trappings of its total tongue, gew gaw,

the goo of awe, or oddity's good bustle craft, here, there
she shirt
hair mist
the woven matte or complex of its breath
air plane breasts its even numbered
loss of sense in numerals
or names they once
deicde (decity)

non circus deicide
can't you         clean the purse out
and be quiet   the time I spend
for you under the gun.

thick black column to hold up the bleak persistence of its wind
the sections that could be cut of the roof cake's rust

     obvious the chariot
the wheelchairs wincing in the laurels

     the bicycles
   like crow's feet
   in a mad widow's

     sausage cross
       upon witch
        a little cookie sings

          stool pigeon

the way its z
a short-hand
the frame is like that
browsers kull
it's 2 d
comi-gimi key

necessarily gesture in lines
     that tangle

where the tusk modulus mixes in
the other dimensions and species
remember how   we
save the schitzoid brains
for drug races
    we'd pare.

the painful boxe of its thread.
        vauxhall is weary
and falls.
in the slick spongey courtier's
killer whale mouth bed foam eating rubied
limbs, a kind of hushed revery
       is brushing its teeth
in the country

a windmill makes a song
like two banshees
rubbing business cards
        at a lake.

some wide thinking vanity
has curced ous with this momen

the slide
to bitter root
       vis fed off

       vand know we get up
in our giant hat parasols
and teagues and leagues

It's giraffe racing!


G.K.Chesterton, 1915

White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain--hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,--
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces--four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still--hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michaels on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,--
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed--
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign--
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.

Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

Monday, May 10, 2010

La grande abbuffata

The weeping Picea abies
makes an obvious totem,
the serpentine advancing
on the general realization
of the limb as rivulet
in a frozen waterfall.

The completely classical
Chinese sanguinity is some
sense of its solemnity
and corruscating dignity,
though it is not Asian
at all.

The tallest measured Norway Spruce,
at 63 m (207 ft) tall, is in the Perucica
Virgin Forest, Sutjeska National Park,
Bosnia-Herzegovina which suggests another
revaluation of the thing's name after

I suggest a peace in abease, a beastly
peace within distortion's womb, namely
stop and nonce. Just nonce around, and
blud. If sap filled ideograms huddle close
to illuminated gall skulls solemnly
whispering to themselves in the perfume
of perfection's closing door, the
wide sea's senseless abundance is


not yet.
it's trembling.
we are cats


Always, when I was young, I had a dream of being the
Invisible Man, but in my version, I had become, not
a great criminal, but a great xylophonist along the
lines of a Lionel Hampton. I would dress in a fabulous
green Tuxedo and play virtuosic songs intermixed
with marvelous comedic sound-effect inspired asides
aboard a 1940's cruise ship called _The Audacity_.
A favorite of the ladies, I would imagine myself
at crystalline bars having maritinis and making
trivivial conversersation with beautifullerene jigirls
of oldand irroyal bibifamilies. I would imagine
strange scenes of being invisible in those mansions
whose single theme
was the xylophone. I would imagine

those dark criminals
who would become my friends
whose xylophones

were the electromagnetic kind
the kind that hovered

I would imagine
all kinds of balloon snakes
entering and leaving my tuxedo
like a trainstation

in which I played
a song for each of the 48 States,
the cameras which could not hold the frame
the empty stares
of the critical apparatus
as 1 approaches infinity

the infinancial
realized intowardly
after it's elf

the flea
able to leap
from the concatenations
of my epaulets
into the seas
of my bees'


where p is the absolute pressure of the utterance; V is the volume; n is the amount of substance; R is the grotext constant; and T is the absolute subjectivity.

Beyond the nudity of David,
there is the invisibility of Quarles.

He perfectly expresses the conflection of


the same way
that every character
is a Griffin.


preboscid caryatid, y describshun.

there is a hole in its face where the nose
should've gone, but that hole is a monumental
geode-space whose central figure,

"the booger"

is a mangled, and "herm-crushed" white Buick 1938 Special
now used as a jalapeno planter, and as a place
where centipedes ambulate through constructed miniatures
as part of a ritualized divinatory system, or oracular
structurality. There is also a black kettle
for the libation of tea, which is not a Pu-erh, however
that's transliterated.

The nose has yet to form.
No questions are asked.
No requests for books, or readings
are given, or at least not many.
The entirety of Sodom awaits its mankibgel
upon the waters of futrel.

I quote Page 168 at length from _The Journal of Jules Renard_.
I scan and display Pages 124-125 from Hugh McAlister's
_The Flight of the Silver Ship_ from the chapter called

The Cradle of the Zeppelin.

I note the full frontal inscription:


To Vallen, From Mon Duffy

I turn off the insurance for the old 1995 Ford Ranger XLT
and donate the good old boy to the Breast Cancer Society.
I think upon Jean Baudrillard changed by some magic
into a car of some sort, or a kind of laugh.

Why have I retreated into the history of Venice?

Why is the heart both opened and closed simultaneously?

Why is the message irrevocably distorted by interference?

Can Lucky find Old Paint and get back to the fort
before supper time?

These are the questions
that plague mi.

You gall my tongue.

And I see a dockworker holding a little ballerina by the hand.
Two birds just tried to screw on the telephone wire

outside my window.

I head down to SE 82nd street
to relinquish an old Oxygen bottle,


I had let it outgas for hours yesterday,
but no end to its hissing.

Irontech got bought out.
They put in a poker joint.

Somebody's flat black Countach
is for sale out front.

There's a headshop on the corner,
and one of the best strip bars
in the whole town just up the street.

Real Indy.
Lesbian fire eater burlesque.

Kettle chips for breakfast.
The last of the great sins.

Nikola Bozovik

the manufacturer.

Just Five Smooth Stones.

Stone #1. "This is Luigi's motorcycle. I think he rode it in the country too much."

Stone #2. Nearly completely blue, the Madonna's third eye seems about to pop out from internal pressures.

Stone #3.

Stone #4.

Stone #5. Part of the My America series, this story is set in 1776 Philadelphia, where nine-year-old Hope records events both large and small in her diary. The greatest worry is for her father, a patriot who has gone on a sea journey and is overdue. Other trials include school, where a nasty schoolmaster makes things difficult, and her brother's running away to become a Tory. The intense political developments of those days are sketched in via brief references to delegates and their work. The war's presence grows too, and by the story's end, Hope and her family must flee Philadelphia to stay at her uncle's farm. Gregory does an effective job of evoking the times; the hard work routinely done by young children may be an eye opener for today's readers. Story-wise, however, kids may be unhappy that the fates of Hope's father and brother are left hanging.

Stone #6. "Who do you trust Will they feed us the womb Chrome the fetal mirage Will they feed us the womb I found the remnants Of a crescent fang It cleaned my wing Down to the bone Umbilical syllables Left to decode There was no cradle I can taste it Come on now"

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Cimmerian Frumpus (Serie)

Its Chin Shot off Like a Clown Guppy Knight


O lay down
in this soom of penthium
grass the long grass snake meadow
sun heads are spinning ions through
celibate equations soom of sun feathered
numbers your face is a bed we nymphs
spoon about your nosepillow grind
dolphin snake hats in our hips
on your eyebrows cast flaming
dice down into bubbling baby
mouths like lanterns
having fits fizzy
willful lanterns
you pull off
our taffy
fill our
tongues with
butterfly cattles
in your silk masked
harem of slick white hares
we polish the endless branching
icons of your solemn joke religion's
good natured material your herm-menoras
cross with laughter and spigot nails, your
golems of teasy twisty nymphs all of us nitwits
neat tweats taint us with witless yet overflowering
pentheus descends on skull stairs
into diamond graphs
a hook comes
from the side of the stage
giant bronze sewing pencils
replace your herculean mouth parts
and with a base tone that vibrates
the teeth from our head your monster
turtle ship descends proclaiming for all
that in sleep silk dentistry remains
on mazes of hovering pillow worlds

Arthur Conan Doyle
is now a Science Fiction Orientalist

tableau ready
renaissance impressions
of bolting

light hyphens
going anywhere you choose

hyenas sunning
where acacia blends
the hero air pieces

willfull fizzy lanterns
pour from the grass snake bed face
flusterms salamantic
here I go mucking
in vikshuk, cream whimsicles entail
a black pearl panther antler relay

the cornerless dull lead cube
with arms to reach for reason's
shoulders, our switch
snapped cleanly

I stare at you
purple popcorn Ceanothusian
and baby bumblebees attend
your heavy perfumed kernals

a ship could be made of you
like a cloud gathering mermaids
in low-slung wetslicksweet hammocks
sung randomly like the sands
of an old Montgolfier

rising sliding
the river the flowers
those purple inflatable
monarch mermaid knights
in the upper part of the spike [bear]
lanceolate, two-valved, those
two-seeded siliques.


Saturday, May 8, 2010

Off to the Opera!

a bongo is slow in the meadow
like warpaint flows from the faucet,
the thing is, the thing is,
as every director knows,
pink armadillos taste like
green felt origami

green igloo
with frankenstein

grass stains
on walrus tusk

we ride the seals all day
Solomon the king of all
with four wheel drive

demon nancy bongo
and daisy, the
thing is, the thing is

Sid and Marty Krofft
and Paul Butterfield
are speaking in low tones
about that song

"Do you believe in miracles?"
and now there are three

on my windosill
as if nature itself
were heraldry

the shield no longer

as if every still-life
contained some ineffable


yoked to hypabyssal

a porcupine manta-ray
flies like a bat
in a top-hat
wearing a

Solemn ownership
the odget

Friday, May 7, 2010


how plain its days, the flatly painted
haze in the dopler by the mirror, the rondure
lined with erratic cabinetry, spaces
for helium grandees whose perilous
snatch-phrases run out belting on tethers
to touch the kaitakas of freshly printed
jowpy birds whose simple single songs
win the thorough adoration of any
with sufficient elevation, their heels
a flux of esteem and caterwauling prose,
the long-stemmed varietals yoked by the
galleys of their thoughts en nascence,
the dumb blooms soaking up millions
of extras for their weird movies
of Vegas.


Togas flow out eternally from their shoulders
like waterfalls, and cities nest in their stockings
like kites made of rays and twisted aires, what
gamboling of almost replicant forms, every copy
jauntily clad in parity disparity, odes, these
mice stretched to bassoon proportion, these
blowholes of rainbows appeared from anywhere
to flaunt their haircurtains which mimic dispair,
or the pillaloo of pululant hulls as they
screech their chrome coal nutter bisps
to stage hands, such numpy whillilewing
mumblerblunts smoking their own twins
for gospel blox. An hour wet is a year noddy,
some fat brown ambigenial cousins
must come into kiss

the stooless


Thursday, May 6, 2010

Galling Gale To Sweel Its Mutianus

pinarrity's albumin muttlebin kajang
ain't nuthin' but a fang
it sang
bloody tooth like a lantern
it held above the bed

the log of leaky children
about to be wed
to a thing with no name
Tiberius Arre' Quero
a reek of sassy quatches
bibbing up the pingui-nictobates
in syringalingam and caladrie

what diving bell coconut is this head town
what ting tang fang
grows in the drowning land of egusi-culpon,
where the naquaire is hounded by the simurgh
with heavy flobs of throbbing jatamancy..

Pyrites Slowly Downy

And they would go down into the town
in a carriage shaped like a jug
and the carriage pulled by pugs
was a cavern of night's perfumery

from in its burnt sugar tricorne
from inside its Bermuda triangle
the driftwood made an image
the drifting bodies
of Jamaica

my old gun is near the hearth
and the peccary is sleeping
a thing
a thing on the wall
like a picture shows a leg

we're all trapped in here
making music like eels
making music like the volcano of lace
the dinner gamblers
moving such solid airs
the totally high born

they give onto such jobs
i hear them crying tuckered shoots
on Alder-piles like a black gnat
each heart organ enters our

alkermes soaks our bee's wax masks
and we crush our smiles
for hale and vial

pearl lined chambers
caste each confection a self


ole' they leap in two
two seas broken into
attachments mucho
din arrow, eros at dawn,
the tearing of its eye,
single self non identity
flourishes, a shedu
hedon, a filament
of tenements assaying
the uneasements
of fabled roadtown,
coral trains all exit
the roundhouse, choral
trails all enter, uh,
alimentally allied
with alloys, lo, its
input and output

milk, in black face, with blue cameo, the blenching

\dogs turning back, now fuddled
again by the quarrying
mute, and

they appear to be sucking
its head through
their hats, the
gray candle must sthwisthst
through the nets
to become its final mate
in the dance of

totally artichoke
a stoned booger head
comes out the side
of the llama

a good llama
is good enough
for 7 wives
or at least two

to blow his nose
on the llama
a little jazz song
you remember
crystal penguin
in its mirrored
organ duvet

go up now
inside the bust

grab the control stick
and turn the head
first right then left
then check pitch
and yaw, you
can look straight up
her crack, it's an
adolescent fantasy

cupola tism
all the homes of the officials
look like breasts
and could ordinarily catch fire
but they are shaded

where the dell meets the glade
by a kind of soft shoe
in a hand
a long thin hand like a palm
which goes out to everyone
in need

they are all in debt
with minds like
cement mixers

nothing comes out
out of the closest


when inversatile antennæ
have neither a terminal
nor a lateral bristle--->

"We hunted for five
of the most rusé tennis balls
I have ever known. They
changed colour according
to their surroundings."

It hands you
the bill of plague.

Good Luck To You All.

Or there within its other dark cloud,
the beacon obscured at base, but giving
signature at tip, of the sign which would
disturb, green and newborn deerspider
stumbling to stand unperturbed, no,
a single oracular spark whose thin
breast eases into night from night
it knows best, and travels in this
behest, a fine imitation, of which,
the data of a curse can be known
for all time, yet for a limited
place, a white that is immediately
transformed into an inkling, a
thingness scrambling to come
into its own mind, a hieroglyph
of which its equal limbs are proud
and knowing emanates, emanatal,
M notes all in quadrants, or by
pairs, nothing repaired, the
dark cloud hangs as a stone, or
something almost anthropomanic,
the dark amorphous form, or foam
of formlessness with a single
crowning star, the burning line
lept and leaping out, continuously,
from a burning point, or origin.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010






rune baboon


by the cleat in the teeth
by the mare use for hare

1 drub




nice while lasting


e raffles
e self




and the dossier's
still open

Lord, Firgive Me, I have purple Treeitis

Papa Flower
the ear is made of grass
glass stinkbugs
look like cellphones
in the mist

two orange flags
crossed over
sticky iroc z
two mangy harbinger
crows circling

Kroc sirocco
in old Morocco

crow six shooters
head down
in fetish wear

Papa Flower
in you lowing
loving you hugging you
giving you a tanned girl body
rhododendron Indian guns
the tree milk neighborhood
comes alive

minister of bikini windows
diagonal laser observatory

we sit in jelly chairs
the warming solution
washes our golden nostril horns

fall on thin cotton
babies with
hovering powder blue
yam paper ignition

we understand
the whole spectrum
of yogurt

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

The Perfect Poem.

It is time to tell
the perfect poem, many
people live in the foreign
city. Once upon a time
100,000 years ago. There
are many ways to enter
Los Angeles. Croatia,
still learing. We inspect
the newspaper over coffee.
I've learned to live
with television. Instead
of protest, try breathing.
Letting the dead die, letting
the living die, what's the
difference. In time, nothing
that I have said will matter,
nothing you have said will
matter either. Syllogisms
are like life, only more
real. Nothing matters
anymore but matter. If
all the birds are dead,
there will still be frogs
for a little while. You
can wear a condom or drink.
You can drink because it is
legal. You can lie. That is
legal. Life is fun. I said
that because it's legal
to say that life's fun,
but I wouldn't want to
force anyone to live one.
How many people. Is the
extant number of people
at this moment a moral lesson
or a bald-faced fact?
Let's get the facts straight,
don't look a gift horse
in the mouth. The tomb
is close, the tome is
closing. Kiss is not
sick, but often mispelling
can get yu into trubble.
Rubble is what's left
when nothing's left.
Nothing can be destroyed
completely. Atoms, and maybe
molecules are allowed to have
egos, but compounds and
agglutinations just have
way too many enemies and
problems to really have
any sort of realistic pride.
Those kinds of things
just fall apart. Why make
them in the first place?
An empty, and actual eternity
is bigger than the biggest
Cathedral. Have you ever noticed
how close in sound actual and
sexual are? What if you say
F sub Exual. Look at how
to "ACTUAL" or "SEXUAL":
The mathematical concept of a
function expresses the intuitive
idea that one quantity (the argument
of the function, also known as
the input) completely determines
another quantity (the value,
or the output). What is
the actual function of the
world? To have sex or FX
with itself? The perfect
poem. An n-perfect world.

From _The Desire of the Romper_

It is true, they could not find a decent history of Reed Waddell, but in that stamping of the Romper, they can see how "Oui" can become "U.S."...

In the hour of its perfected Communism, she comes inside because she feels that he is about to say something she would like to know. Dragging her bad leg, she goes to the closet, opens it [her bad leg], touches the pile of linen [inside her bad leg], pretends to be looking for something, and takes nothing, but the Romper all the while is admiring the bad leg.

Saith the Romper: 'Henceforth, to prevent the depredations of the Uskoks, and to shelter ourselves, and 'our bad legs' from the ambushes laid by the tireless brigands of Segna, to ruse and romp within the varying spirit of the galere bastarde, 'as eaten by deformed light' (et-cetera).

At Reed College, many of the usual names had poetry in them: Christ Tracy, Larry the Lug, Limehouse Chappie, 102nd Street George. They were all reds, dirty, reeds in which the con-duiting- ~ - got to romping up, ^with the Romper.

He fell asleep and dreamed that Uncle was calling him. In Naples, he'd do his best to avoid the trip to Constantinople, saying it in compressed form like _The Romper_: "Constantinaples nod sess wanna putti." The Romper called this _The Avoidance of the Curse of Lono_.

Once the reed is red, it's wrong. Once the red reed is read, its treason is told to color. The blood of patriots is on the ground, and the patriot bird is lost. How beautiful the Battle of Lepanto. We, the Uskoks, support _The Romper_ whose ultimate project is already lost.

"The weirdest wooden ship ever conceived." And that _The Romper_ is not

c-APP-tain't/ but Phan-Erotokritos is.