06 July 2012

come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 11

            candle wax on the green grass
            the periodic multiplication table of elements

                                                “The wires in the rose are beautiful.”
                                                “Imagine this as lyric poetry.”

           hurry up, we are, perhaps, dreaming •• of Central Valley countryside or downtown Oakland, Ca. basement apartments •• Deutsche Grammophon conductors •• interpreting “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down” in thrall, imaginably •• to Looney Tunes femmes fatales— •• no, that’s probably a faulty emotion •• we most likely need San Francisco city council meetings •• as seen fuzzily •• through a pair of 1950s Rembrandt VHF/UHF bunny ears •• or snow falling on weeping willows— •• the slender legs of Tina Turner dancing the Varen’ka •• O, how we become startled •• to find ourselves in our own personal snug harbour of such renowned, ridiculous reverie •• correspondingly, i put a songbird •• in my throat to wreak havoc w/ the voice-recognition software— •• this is crucial •• b/c it is there we introduced the lyrical “i” •• as in: I SHOCK MYSELF •• taking a Stihl FS45 weed trimmer to a bed of geraniums— •• yet, i never thought this day wd come •• reading Blaise Cendrars on the Trans-Siberian Express toward Vladivostok •• or, chasing a ground squirrel across a golf course in an April rainstorm— •• “O, where will you find me now?” •• my lover whispers •• of something collapsing & being built simultaneously •• as she pulls a Tijuana Bible •• from her Frederick Mellinger of Hollywood Marabou Peignoir— •• the catalog says it’s 1964 •• so i name a blue heron Deep Throat •• & rent “All the President’s Men” from the old Video Station on Wilshire Boulevard— •• the palm trees erupt, O what a tremendous time we’re having: •• Emily Dickinson analyzing Donald Barthelme short stories •• Charlotte Rampling reading Dick Tracy comics from the 40s •• on a St. James Chaise from J. Robert Scott— •• but the typewriter ODs •• as i shove the aforesaid flower wreckage into a 1929 Pierce-Arrow radiator •• thinking of ekstasis & the angriest man in jazz— •• the tiny particulates dusting •• my copy editor’s Duckie Brown wingtip shoes— •• a Lefaucheux revolver & a Rand McNally World Portrait desk-top globe •• i heard everything disappearing •• “i want to make mistakes & fall in love,” i whisper •• thinking of her pretty blue dress as it liberates the lust •• of many a wallflower •• one can speculate that his romantic hopes were unfulfilled •• as she tells him to slow down— •• it’s the serial crises of imagery •• envisioned as hand-to-hand combat w/ dinosaur fossils •• as i adjudicate the brass tacks of another dream— •• “O, the wine tasted like a marching band in the rain,” i thought •• as i had poured another glass of McManis Viognier •• everything i will have done is symbolized in the past-perfect future •• a paper full of treble •• it’s the matter my pop culture references will be forgotten in a couple of years •• i.e., Willa Cather w/ her Beats by Dr. Dre headphones

05 July 2012

come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 10

            disarm you w/ a smile

            fist fight in a grocery store •• theories on brevity •• this is verifiably a pome abt telecommunication systems •• concerning the extraordinary patterns as seen on re-runs of Rubicon on AMC •• (w/ a strategy borrowed from Charles Simic) •• or today feels like how Casey Kasem felt when he first reflected upon the day that music died •• b/c in the snowdrift •• there was something, but it wasn’t consolation •• the decimal points of white noise reifying •• a prospect of flowers •• i imagine a cleaner from Cosa Nostra taking a vacuum cleaner to white noise •• blood dislocated all over the daytime •• Melrose Place on Fox in the shape of Our Lady of the Flowers •• my U-turn at 3:27 a.m. •• shoving the Aurora Borealis into my eyes •• or a little house on the prairie •• into Freemasonry •• w/ Prince and the New Power Generation’s “7” •• as a suggestive soundtrack for jungle fever in Jerusalem •• how irresistible, really, a Playboy Bunny in a snowsuit •• (by the will of Zeus •• undress!) •• else, the silhouette of a stick figure named Pluto •• as it contemplates •• euthanasia or Elton John or existentialism or eroticism •• that one Metallica video w/ scenes from Johnny Got His Gun •• on Wednesday afternoon, Sappho seducing Eros •• humdrum & a hacksaw •• harbouring the august of our discontent •• i presume •• “i will just never describe you” •• the heart of a crocodile w/ Pomp & Circumstance •• i admit •• “you are beautiful, if you wd only be real” •• it’s just the rainwater edged against yr breasts remind me •• Lady Day consulted the idea of fire for me •• as i was gorgeously lost •• clocking the wrong dreams w/ sympathetic research & hysteria •• my sleep deprivation •• implicated in the squadron of silhouettes •• a thousand discoloured letters like injured birds •• somewhere an owl hooting in amusement •• to flapper phonographs w/ Jesus hummingbirds •• berserk like Ping-Pong in a garage •• or a Crusader quantum-leaped into the future •• onto a Pop Warner Wiffle Ball field •• she whispers, “you sir, are certifiably 5150” •• but i’m too tired to argue •• or articulate why i wish •• to bring back the word “affine” •• so this will just have to exist •• then again, i may be convinced something is categorically wrong •• i.e. sleeping w/ somebody dreaming of someone else •• i need to stop being such a romantic •• walking past a baby blue jay in the public gardens •• eating opium w/ Pluto’s mistress of the moment •• this lady’s name is too much •• i think her stare is perfume •• i think, the inherent philosophical error of a lit match •• might salvage the subconscious •• the sibilance of which •• may as well be the national anthem of Canada •• playing as a typographer’s picas sprout from my torso •• to wit, i saw a police officer click on their Mag-Lite •• and having lost my way •• i can believe that •• as the sunshine bores the daylights out of me

04 July 2012

come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 9

a hummingbird hiking up its skirt

...Civil War VHS
a blank canvas of snow, morphine & concrete
scrapbook nostalgia
acrobat bone chaos & absurd conceits
w/ narrative contexts:
wind-swept blood clot fire plug embellishment
old-timer jugband tunes
& FM Braille shipwrecked against personal experience—
an incredibly beautiful exorcism;
a refurbished boatshed
where Theodore masturbates to “The Story of O”
w/ some scissors & glue
as well as a little help from Elsie, probably...
a priori whispering
kamikaze butterfly anatomy operating theatre collage
a textbook perspective
educated w/ box wine & owd-feshioned spelling bees
archetypally, in principal
our clothes on the floor in a b&w summer vacation
photographed by Reed B. Bontecou, MD
w/ a star-spangled banshee
enslaved to ceramic doll frottage—
the dreamy eroticism w/in the petite stabs at seventh heaven
celestially horrific
avec birdcage elevator orgasm imprimatur
paralytic, nevertheless
blatant Caravaggio ex cathedra mise-en-scène...
uncouth exit hyperbole
there isn’t enough melodrama
out of left-field
to outright Norman Rockwell sexual resonance—
empirical, jejune
imagine cherubim or dove plastic surgery
handsomely ferocious loveseat transcendence
yet macabre in the meantime...

03 July 2012

come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 8

a baby seal singing “a kiss from a rose from the grave” or something

quay-side: possibly,
a container ship of consular Dutch tulips—
i’d sooner
be a frantic fragment—
art not loved
w/in the maritime requiem of this rainy afternoon—
in the cartography
of found language...i.e., she later
became addicted
to potassium bromide, and the marriage
(i squint, unaccustomed
to this indirect sadness) the only fire familiarized
was in the disputed shrubbery
of some ‘Leaves of Grass’—
the transference
was probably a boat, or a metaphor abt the Titanic—
i think i was supposed
to love you, i guess—
but i was frustrated
i sd, ‘what nice incarcerated gardens’
then i mowed
the unresolved dandelions into detonation
in the backyard
for a happier splotch of how-beautiful-we-fucked-up colour
as beauty had won its casualty—
i daydreamed i was on Alcatraz
& a seagull sd, “let me entrust in you a story,”
the intimacy, if i trust you
(i love you so much, historically)
sensually cascading
the holy schizophrenia of fresh-cut flowers
as interpreted
as a shark attack—
the blood in the water, whispers, such harrowing solace
where did you sleep last night, justin?
i find a tornado
in my heart palpitations
its thesis
is a Koala bear having a wet dream in a Motown song—
no! — i’m sardonically crippled
i find an apothecary in my anorak
i’m fidgeting w/ the amenity that is a slice of orange
a toy periscope
bargaining for a ream of light—
my face feeling like Piano Piece #13 (for Nam June Paik)
torn up by ghosts, the presentiment

this is how memories are crowded clean
teeth shattered into proof, presumably...

02 July 2012

come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 7

if i imagined Joseph Burgess as a sonnet in Ted Berrigan’s “The Sonnets”

...it was too late, i had already begun
to stash 60-watt light bulbs up her skirt;
dear Harry, it’s 3:21 a.m., stop singing “Cocoanut Woman”
what we need is < Anne > to be a little less difficult.
it’s time to unholster these fairytales:
her shoulder blades of prom photos & butterfly knives;
her heart of backgammon moves in Braille
hidden in the dialogue of “Days of our Lives.”
but it’s hard when her disarmed smile is a woodcut
of a Joe Brainard ‘Nancy’ tip-toeing via
Tulsa nightlife: filth, gin, a slut;
it’s the Stations of the Cross as a palindrome’s trauma

that reconciles the stiletto afterglow of such hallowed, histrionic clouds.
& i’m awake b/c my heartbeat is too loud...


inaugural video of Justin, Etc. reading to things: 

01 July 2012

come on in and take off yr skin and rattle around in yr bones # 6

dramamineFlowers in the wartimeWater

enemy artillery w/ nineteen-seventies newspaper objectivism
like a Fragonard
or a roaring BYG-Actuel aside—
everything is as it is & as it shd be in a time of happiness:
unbuttoned neck
w/ ascot, & a Great St. Bernard Pass Sidecar;[1]
a French-cuff shirt
replete w/ mismatched cuff links;
(no comment;)
a living room full of verbs & a drove of doves reading back issues
of men’s magazines—
everything is & this is Our Lady of Our Lover’s
Best Friends
(in autumn & other discrete Tuesdays)
listening intensely
to This Magic Moment by Doc Pomus & Mort Shuman as sung by the Drifters;
here, intentional fallacy,[2]
along w/ the Death of the Author & the well-trimmed
rhododendrons give a polite scent
as someone mentions
a long-lost musical from the Great Depression—
the last words spoken
as a man w/ a pocket trumpet plays a dirge against an old rugged cross
as concussion grenade
sighs “wound my heart w/ monotonous languor—”
the distant dreams
w/ All The Things You Are as my new Desire gospel;
slagging through
jazz Mass enthrallment skronk:
The Voice & The Maieutic, a song for a Breuer chair doing penance
in the corner curve
humming Nearer My God to Thee—
O’ Love Song
this is where Sheridan sais, slashing through the ballade light,
“this is a poem for ******;”
A Desire named ‘Streetcar’ where the str. light
(spindled through the window)
sais Kuutamo Metsässä;
the barricades where the strep throat smooth jazz takes five;
a song for extinct or exotic birds
Aco Dei de Madrugada
after the Hospital of the late-evening’s Goodbye’s...
a horizon at the touch
of yr voice

[1] Grand Marnier instead of Cointreau
[2] this is a story abt the hypotnenuse of a ghost