substantive, this geometry of silence: amplified

o frabjous day!, tweedle-dum-deedle, here's all'ottava settimana






charity event in napa at a winery with subpar merlot, which is unfortunate




for anthony vieira






incidentally
time, as a specious preoccupation
some-time p.m.
like, "i have a real nice lawn, it's meticulous"
and the only "paper of record"
is the paper
i've decided to currently use to induce, 
sincerely seduce, 
a pre-war chanteuse drinking green chartreuse
w/ feverish carnations
flourishing to the gloom of flamenco music—
how arrogant
like, one summer evening
in late-winter
the odd & the mundane, literatured—
connotatively fraught
as a modern-art museum, as a charity event...
tonight, book-lined
the freeway a manual transmission
outside my window
past the lawn, the valley bisected, or
dissected—
i forget which, but it's kind of plurale tantum outside
w/ doldrums, salad days...
i've favoured
the firewood on fire is merely a fallen 
sun, coughing
-up tawdry hues of yellows—
the hierarchy 
of coming to terms w/ such laconic
criticism...
b/c there's something particularly intriguing
in these vacant thoughts—
second thoughts
like courtney's often been the recipient
of a glasgow grin...
i'm thinking: "fuck yeah, benefit galas!," two solitudes
or x's & o's,
"all of my girlfriend's ex-boyfriends' love letters..."
but sometimes i have to remember
that's another story
is really just another story, elaborate & more lurid—
elegant, or humdrum 
the -self behind this late-evening absurdity
in a trajectory of violets
in “triage,” in the deconstruction of charity, & finally 
valhalla, seemingly
forgetting all of the conceits that implicated 
the story arc further
through well-placed sprinklers, and tired wine

repaired & modified, a requiem

inward, a stop sign

kaiser foundation hospital, poor cassie

barraged, swathed

kite      trigger      telephone book      perfume

some saxophone, barnstorming

my lung, inculpated

through its reed, nonetheless

the threat...

delight,      imagine sanctuary

it's tempting, the punctured, inhospitable

denouement, bandaged

w/ increasingly harsh,      novel

bouquets, wreaths

startling      if accurately autobiographical

the traditional blur 

of her

& i, sieved

in white,      turbulent against 

the controlled 

ardour of colouring books      whisky, & february

of reconciliation...

disease, a cascading experiment

an absolute

the last time i let you sulk into the evening

dearest cassie      benign 

discontinued

the december of our denouement, housed

start      stop, rewind

paper parentheses

& elaborate metaphor stab wounds

sometimes lovers 

are vignettes & rebroadcast sitcoms from the 80s

wednesday afternoons

lovesick & elegant w/ construction 

paper apotheosis

the barren tree branches, couched in fog;

constant, elusive

yachting for concrete subject matter—

in stead,

offbeat & jazzed w/ abstract confessionals:

blood spatter, or the solace

of memory...

sometimes a heart is a ludwig dresden timpani

constructing a palm tree

of nightingales of bespoke apothecaries—

now and then

symbolism at the bleeding edge of lassitude,

exemplified...

wir haben es nicht gewusst—

however, eventually one comes to the foci:

the ocean in january

hushed against the hum of hospital doors...

golf cleats near a fallen tree by the aircraft carrier on the back nine




creek marigolds, sunday afternoon
the house, shrouded
blossoms blanched, italicized / tree branches
yesterday's forest
-ing shears — february, ferrotyped
a chandelier
an ampoule of chartreuse, and
another, and how / the blustery evening—
quiet light
is the conflagration of a congregation
a $1,296 pen pal
proffering, première danseuse / surprisingly
a minimal -ist fashion; (pink
elephant cuff
-links) / & golf cleats cossack dancing
on shag carpet
designed, in incongruity; as ugly ducks
press daffodils


b/c what they really want is a nice, coherent
emotionally-direct narrative

wherewithal (for lauren)

our sleepless silhouettes, engineered

wire, in the pink--

the circulatory system of ghosts;

afterall, anyone,

a clientele of butterflies,

tumbling,

cascading the window's waltz--

afterall, no?,

the curtains linger, egrets out of the radiator,

lullabies of arson & rainwater

causally

hymns & glamour, embroidered

the wherewithal

of perspective, i mean, sometimes

the pleasantries

shrouded in the arch of scotch, or preterition

inadvertently

the things i wasn't able to tell you

before sleep

as ever, let trigonometry lend syllables to the nuance of yr evening

          --jstn

auteur nihilism ~ exigent existential -isms

oh, here's to you week # 7,




sha na na, what's her name?




"Then we heard / Shouting that tore out
the light."


--Frank Stanford




the visual indifference of
"I don't think less is more.  More is better."
a wire walk
through elusive poignancy w/ welding 
mask anonymity...
an arctic palm tree, consolidated through
a telegraph of ivories--
decadent flowers under fluorescent light:
te deum, indeed,
an edge-of-the-lawn slow jam, for double bass & trombone;
o', aesthetic languor...
a wobbly aerial w/ balloons, kazoos, & bubbles
the wuthering heights
of talking 
to pretty grrls on the telephone--
but here, i want you 
to think of a 03.09.1983 single by madonna, as if 
birds are similar 
to thunderstorms, & lullabies...
baroque in sensibility--
as if some sense of hellish rhetoric 
wd invite you to 


TRAMPOLINE THAT TRIANGLE!





playing flute w/ the barrage of images shuddering past
my train's window seat


(“based upon limited information 
or malicious falsifications.”)






grizzly bears & rain drops & all that
[90 proof] jazz--
consider, specifically, "oh!  good goddamn,
scott pilgrim"
hi-fi tic tacs, or amy hempel
the colour of the ocean, today, as we 
pastel away
to warmer weather & consumptive
aeries (asthmatic)
i cdn't cling to a heart
-screech...
hoisting up the rare-book roofbeam storm front
[somewhere] 
fashion show i love you
stars & stripes, track & field forever--
in springtime
then the trajectory of a passing train's 
...heirloom tomatoes?
hello, elizabeth
through a hurried afternoon i didn't look back
how retro
the woodwind guillotine
or all those days spent w/ letters
as the balcony
goes unheard, to whomever--
"to whoever set my truck on fire," photocopied 
octnov 2010
through the hum of vintage
caution tape
the ferocious flashlights, calendared 
at the harmonies
bridesmaid antidepressants
i yowl'd
"fuck you!  trombones 
& youth choirs" & straightforward
pertinence


then things got impertinent





untitled, or dead reckoning w/in the edges of a page




i hate being the slowest guy in the lab
or a psychologist
haunted by office plants...
b/c there's
so much exhilaration to ruminate upon—
how complex, yeah...
“how come the waiting room is crying?”
else, instead: 
the sophisticated have a proclivity
an affinity
for emotionally complex 
shades of lines
or other, more difficult impulses—


but i'm leaning more toward the amourous
these days, languorously 
pretty, summeresque; taking on allure 
w/ trauermärsche
& an erlenmeyer flask of single malt islay scotch...
mostly unrepentant
all winter, then the spring finding solace
on a love seat, alone again
or the story is filled w/ speculation & intrigue!
still, in situ, floundering
for distinction in the mfa since 2008,
what's worse, the nouns
the connotations of such strident symbols









pink plagiarism 
(come to our fête, and show again that pea-green coat, thou pink of men!)




why, i am the very pinke of curtesie.
pinke for flower?


its embossed covers, with a lurid 
“sunset” 
palette of purples, pinks 
and oranges and a bold use of foil


for to perfume 
her rare perfection with some sweet-smelling 
pinck epitheton


a few in regimental pinks 
with ribbons 
on their chests, had joined their wives and 
were being told of the event


quite respectable, 
i just talk and give them whisky, no touchy-feely, 
no pink salon-type of behaviour


up before the lazy slut aurora 
has put on her
pink to captivate the ploughboys


definitive result of which he had read 
in the evening telegraph, late pink edition




‘eeyore’ smith absent-mindedly added 
a dash of ‘pink’ 
to his evening aperitif


therefore, in japan, softcore pornographic 
films are called pink movies


southern wild flowers & trees, large marsh
pink, flourishes
near the coast and from july
until september
unfolds its most beautiful flowers


from the frilled edge 
of the flowers
— the verb 


he said i was as fresh as a violet, and as fair as jessamy, 
and as sweet as a pink


how was i?  pretty much in the pink... 
my cardiovascular 
system...seems in good shape

again, thx. for reading.  it is 11.53 p.m. & i am going to finish "golf cleats near a fallen tree by the aircraft carrier on the back nine."  alas & alack & stuff until next week...


--jstn

HYMNICIDE, or helicopter rides through hallelujah

wice #6








even in eveniency, the passing of heretofore

rough draft

THE AUTHORS POLICEMEN'S UNION

vacivity, etc.          a plugged nickel;

“Ain’t There Anyone Here for Love?”

      *psychiatry,

      *ritalin,

      *brooke shields...

                  excutient,

i never stopt trying to seduce my audience:

a tableau

of candor & remorse--

      oh, the persistence of romanticism

the heartbeat of a bird in velocity

( momentum did ebb

  in the ****** but revived w/ the turbulence of

  the blasé **********-- )

      ------>i interrupt yr expectations

             for

benzedrine indifference

      a boke of escaped words, inscriptions

confident w/ its agony

arterial bleeding w/ a trumpet mute

the battlefield of a wedding ceremony

"convince me,"

she sd, i love you--

      at the same time, meanwhile, the death of

wildflowers,

            or, LINGERIE ADS FROM THE 1920s

contemplation     calmly vociferous

the foliage of light

an argument for the implication of closure

certainly

there is this impulse to

duck hunt™

tentatively,

a tangle of barbed wire, disrobed...

      chapter & verse

w/ wire coat hangers, & old lace--

criticism re: baudelaire, or the melancholy of

a radiator in summer—

b/c a SLR is even more damaging than words

            dear,

wm faulkner, a tumblr of bourbon

white phosphorous   & the land of the rising sun--

experimental dance w/in

      THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF WALT DISNEY

couching, somewhat

winds between 64 mi & 72 mph, classified

11 on the beaufort scale

"poetry is always somewhere else."

so i became a disciplined-disillusioned

eyewitness, wandering

among the grass & the flowers & the surveillance

of heart palpitations

      contemplation is a storm front--

skeletons are there, too, in the alluring

RUMOURS           wherefore

the nostalgia of the posthumously published--

the ? of rapture

here is where i hit the delete key

...it also offers a sweeping discourse

on thorazine & art,

seconal & religion,

meth & god, and ativan & evil...

"my angels have sex w/ screwy triangles," she sd,

how beautiful

militant, even; these horizontals

w/ stiletto melancholy

this town & country is a hive of bees in unfashion

-able compassion

its most fraught, edgy, & treacherous

exuberance

["it's weird how she looks dead, & i cdn't care

any less," he sd]

as if there was only this, ever—

yet, often

i am doll parts & doll hearts

a template:

say it, "baudrillard FOREVER!, you fuckface,"

then, at the pivotal moment,

i recognize

the pome’s uncertainty abt its own sentiment is probably

its most compelling argument

then i collapse

in her doll arms, coughing up blood

 

...throwing a temper tantrum w/ assorted accessories

throwing scissors at the wall

throwing houseplants at the wall

throwing a priori at the wall

throwing rain at the wall

throwing trapezoids at the wall

throwing fugues at the wall

throwing et cetera at the wall

throwing staples at the wall

throwing butterflies at the wall

throwing stasis at the wall

throwing velocity at the wall

throwing insight at the wall

throwing topography at the wall

throwing sleep at the wall

g'night & g'week--

mary magdalene is an agnes scott grrl

pum wythnos, ffrindiau














first off, a minimalist pome:







"don't let it end like this.  tell them i said something."
--last words of pancho villa










i sd, get the fuck off my lawn.

she ran into a grand piano

and we saw her narrating –––– material intrigue...

this minute

                                                            (how we admired (her))

...little museums disrupting at the drama

our dearest penelope!

            are you obsessed w/ madeira embroidery, penelope?

transfixion'd w/ the transendence of the toy chest?

            finding ministry in old texts

& singular bibliographies

i haven't read them

if this all seems to be for crisis theology

                        no ––

there has to be something else to this milieu

into the wildflowers

gathering wilderness ––– liaisoning

w/ exequies, newspapers

triskelia'd in gasoline blooms of em dashes –––

                                    there's plenty of retrospection

                                    wiring grievances, nonsymmetrical & vice versa

                                    to the curious-leaf mosaic

the historiography of coming to terms

through sheet music

and yesterday's figures

begrudge!  bespeak!  penelope!!!

outré anaphora, a hymn to stairwells

the debris of hushed, poignant

squalid stars

innocence, romanticism; seldom (if descriptive)

it was a seamless seduction

not just a black tea

affair--

then the narration detours rather violently:

train rides & nude beaches;

absurd pathos

compassion / reflection, creaking windows

primarily

on the wherethrough of

a nightingale

w/ a Leica 35mm in reference to sightings;

abruptly, in February,

backwards, from

the worn red carpet in the living room

handwritten

elsewhere, the quiet moments

subtly distorted

by the dreary precision of rec-

tangled flowers

brushwork & preliminary copy editing

sláinte, until the other week(end)

this is not a pome

WEEK FOUR

[week three was a busman's holiday; i.e., writing was written, but not posted.  now i owe mike a beer.]

but before that, some new pomes.

pome ending nabokov's butterflies crocheted w. typewriter ribbon

                                                            for joe burgess

            sewing maelstrom – tracheotomies and tulips –

...and stability,”

he sd,  “i am now an

absolute;

            like police furniture w/ philosophical kilowatt hypotheses

the color red, in 2008

(scratchy cardboard heart) b/c clearly, it's a hospital

for febr., couched –

            it's just the isoceles intimacy (she liked haute couture)

of reverb as it collides

w/ the brand of an image, isolated – the nuances

of grey areas –

but dormant oceans always seem to write you love letters

shrouded in fog

            impenatrably abstruse, not so much b/c of

lackadaisical velocity

but the thrilling resonance of resignation – which leaves open

the hostility of palindromes…

            or anne

becoming conscious to the affair;

but sometimes the spark reminds me of question marks & then

i start to resent you...

            withal, it's emotionally distinguished

w/ evocative

screeches of feedback & kites annotated

along the concrete –

            it's twee & acoustic & drowsy as the roofie

i slipped into yr tea –

            elsewhere, it's the optimism of a pastel house on the avenues

where we siphon beer

from glassine necks, & discuss a crackpot

book of theory

on the origins of the universe, or

ted berrigan, & the kids in the hall – nightswimming...

            it’s the underrated prosperity

of our relationship –

our institution of unreleased rough drafts –

            but this might be a lie

this is probably an accordion dance party wheezing

through benediction

highlighting the certain instances i take for granted, every time...

maps are sometimes an illuminative assignment

the shrubbery of dreams

hedged

in hesitation, or

emotions & dramatic situations 

for the espionage-esque memorandums delivered 

in a sultry monotone

let us establish an off-beat intimacy 

full of haunting

harmonicas; or, recycling triangles

abrupt memories

diagrammed w/in the pink patchwork

of potpourri...

or the aspirin of evidence

tumbling

through old typewriters

“i like to scotch tape the inner feelings 

of the chess board 

of a lover's heart,” he will say, prompt--

birdhouse or syphilis

like a map made of perforated “.5 heart-metre 

stress chemise”

"them's the breaks,"

she'll say, asseverating, "i got a snowflake;

it's a hell of a symbol..."

this image goes on, 

interregnum, like a door slamming

like a caress

the temple of a leaf, shifted

against the bent water of sunday's matte'd newspaper

whispering a glimpse

sometimes i get lost in the datelines

of the evening

until i am the last one standing

& sometimes

i get lost in the weeks of windy sunsets

trying to say--

scrapbook vignette

...very 1920s sex;

more wine—

or a funeral; kind-of shell shocked,

like throwing

paper airplanes at ceiling fans,

pirouetting;

but tonight, a war symphony,

or an equally

characteristic kiss g'bye...

such hushed

definitions,

plural strings & italicized woodwinds;

w/ a no-account novel

of a collage,

like bourbon & branch water

trafficking

the narration of estranged self

-definition...

the nature of loss

or grief

["morphium" by mischa spoliansky]

stormy rain

or, a tear in the aorta

as it builds

slowly to a howling finale of

sweater design;

tennis racquet & potted plant...

that this,

but for the grace of god, (is the story

of yr life,)

go i into the great unknown—

untitled, or upon the legacy of numerous...

rearrange yr faith:

for the coming of the L'ultima orgia del III Reich

(how classy)

fire extinguishers & champagne

perpetually

waking up to war crimes:

i want to irritate you like the dickens

there's a storm

inside my veins, stet:

the degenerate plays tack piano in an elevator

as i'm thinking of you—

who needs a preamble, when yesterday

is tomorrow's

rumour; this was thurs. morning

abt 4 a.m.:

seething w/ the white pain of isolation, or

the ensigncy

that comes w/ articulating

yr screams:

"holy fuckface, batman!  it's an untitled poem"

what bullshit...

the jazz of this serenity

a rabid laugh of random construction

the invulnerability

of these myriad conversations,

before words—

the producer fucked the intern, leaning politely

against the teleprompter

and on that note, i bid thee adieu.  gramercy. 

--justin l mcelfresh