Posts published in June 2006

What is sexy?/alluring?
/intriguing?/desired?

From what thought/what obsession
/what force/what goal/what
does the want of traits come?

To some, meek
is refreshing/susceptible
/allowing of a passings-by
/an inquisition/of a try.

To others, curvatures
, full and trim/a firmness
hollered at to be lusted in.

To few, though many
they be, a discontent/a
master/slave pursued as the.

To you, perhaps, a professional
/pundit, brought to thought
or clarity by means, monetary?

To I, sought is she
, who be, by any single wording
, less like herself than likely me
 in fumbled search o’r open sea
, as lit by Moon, a ray of ‘flect’on/’re
. In scrape of shine, flick’ring, she
 sells short her wait, but more her beauty.

What is sexy?/alluring?
/intriguing?/desired?

From what thought/what obsession
/what force/what goal/what
does the want of traits come?

To some, meek
is refreshing/susceptible
/allowing of a passings-by
/an inquisition/of a try.

To others, curvatures
, full and trim/a firmness
is lusted for or hollered at.

To few, though many
they be, a discontent/a
master/slave is pursued.

To you, perhaps, a professional
/pundit, brought to thought
or clarity by monetary means?

To I, sought is she
, who by any single wording be
less like herself than likely me
in fumbled search of open sea
as lit by Moon in ray of ‘flectioning
, cast by Sun for troll of re’
, a turn took light by want of need
. And, still, they, who might rightly be
, lend ear or eye to word, unknowing
they be she.

Would you rather be a comet
Traveling at tremendous speeds,
crashing/flashing/scooting by,
shedding/leaving/always coming
back
or would you be content to spin
in stabled motions, affectionately
scouting and rounding by
as though a planet, sitting,
in wait of bumps and bruises
as though waves skirted like
a ship on cruise in find of
the most fantastic voyage
or
would you prefer to be sharpened to,
relinquishing cast for deepest view,
sliding spartan in dance with they you
cannot get away from
yet
or would you wish to be the clearest
marking of the sea, a buoy, weighted,
rushing by in twirl of others’ worlds,
broke to breaking and breaking, still,
lifting to be portal, fixed, burnt of smile
or would you
be opened to purpose
of being here, a
slight sting of pain to be
washed away/let slip,
looked on as though
there’s more to know
than to be seen,
as though
wind breaks not
o’er skin/through hairs/
on back/in breath/loaded,
heavy with the cause of
the lifting sea what-breed/be,
locked for amusement,
spiraled,
twinge of euk’s as prok’s
know more, but, still,
we wonder
what the reason is
and find only calm in
tiring– well,
here’s to the
rush of exciting claims,
here’s to the
rise without know of fail
and here’s
to the worst and the frail/
here’s to the strong and the meek/
here’s to the reality,
welcome,

you’re welcomed here.

   ‘affectionate’ from the weakerthans’ “affectionate embrace”, ‘spartan’ from val kilmer’s “spartan”, ‘euks as proks’ from isaac asimov’s “the secret of the universe”, ‘to be washed away’ from oasis’ “champagne supernova” and “wonderwall”.

No matter your perception, you are within what is all-encompassing, what is beyond sight and sound and your touch, and only known through cognition, though the others help tremendously.

fall asleep for 2 hours, wake up, and stay awake another 4. should i go back to sleep, or take another nap in 6, or just lay on my back until the ceiling resembles stars, the mini-mountains, shadowed, showing some mark of a stabled/stationary existence, but i know, with a pinch/apush/aslightbrushing, they will fall/willcrumble, as all do, eventually.. and where do they go, these fallen remnants of a ceiling, of what is oft-seen by night, now hidden within the sheets/the carpet/behind the desk? and what of them now? what of them then? what if the vaccuum picks them and places them, distanced, from their origination?.. though, the ceiling is hardly their origin. no, they were before the ceiling/the mold from which they hung in right fashion, though they belonged elsewhere.. perhaps the plaster next were used in mold of bust, of carvings, gone through with care by wretched artist, fumbling to be known/recognized/understood as other than a simple chipper of a mound? the tv calls, and i, weak/a weektomydebts, i look down from these words, in shame, and pray, though rarely i do, pray they be a remembrance of these noble stalactites, fashioned to be ‘bove, as, in art or placement, they, through careful hands or swift swipings of a brush so used, they, in fall or stance, so known as more, as though they majesty’s fractal musings, left/or placed/or ‘signed to be, are beauty, they, those/these landers from unknown, stars, but shining shadow ‘pon their selves, as do most in wait of notice, though so purposed they may be

i’ll put it in a note

“don’t forget me”
squi/rumbles the
unfed, unthought of gut,
though a bit bellow belly
and more to the rear..

clamped, wishy-washy/tight,
the shoulder-high head to side,tilted,
a slant to see as eyes take,
transfer/transform/transmognify
the too-distant touchings
from a universe outside the skin,
the ah-waving hairs of tip
and, lost, i follow, back
inside to wait for chance,
a happy stance i may not know
without.

veins, twisting, tighten, brought fluid with the thought of something more, something outside, yet i am there, on the outside, seeing/feeling/touching/knowing/breathing/intaking all and yet i know nothing of them, except the weather/the calm/the rush of wind on palm from fingers, tracing thought in rabid raze of thinkers’ pace and though i sink farther, i rise, i rain as cloud upon these keys, to know where storm may lead, and though i feel a sense of calm, this rage, this flash, lingers on
to where, i know not, yet go, a hollow vessel, filling, leaking, holding close the image/clear, a brightened path brought close by taken steps/stairs/stares at blank, and dark, at shadow/red of veins

to chris maine: read the first two lines and the last two.

and it snows
as threads
snipped, short,
wasting
to be piled/spread.
as does smile.
as do tears.

The covering yawn of air, full-held to be escaped, to be fading from the voice’d roar, in rush of crowd, of millions, bowl’d to be as risers of the fallen, to be as harvests, loosened [rocked, rounded in the loosened soil], let sit, climbed-over, rolled in upward glance-foot/swift lifting of the core to see the fields, laid strewn/laid, stained in corpses, light held off in festive linings of the shadow-flashes, dots as stars, inversed to held as swarm, wing’ing ‘llipsed as toward goal, in twist of glances, spun, o’er heads, and distance, covering, as does solstice, ‘splosion, Sun, a whistle, pitched too high from ears of skin, though all lies through as lies in, and, cross stones, stuck, though ever-loose, hands reach, to be left at fevered swipe’ings in movements, gestives in their nature, given as clappings for the strain

and you make known your presence, your
chatter ‘long these walls, up to challenge,
though weakened with your language, your
hiding in the breath, on skin, through eyes,
you give to be taken in and, still, you speak,
you wash/click as through the brushings,
strokes, and, known, you ‘llow your sense
to be, a cradle of the mound, fresh-baked
to be a staple, stable, bustling make,
and, through these searchings, strikes,
you begin to break, as though in play,
in laughter, ‘cycled, way, you hover ’bout
to be as hand of teacher’s may, fal’n to
as festive hands may, from clap/from cheer,
though soft, to, unhindered, know, from
still as know from stalled, in as know from far,
yet, still, in stall, you give a know of all

i’m working with these words, and they belong to you,
and, when i stop, you need more, and my reluctance is but waiting
to take over, though, within me, still, i know you need/will have/deserve/will leave without more and more, and, despite, my not having/rotten thoughts, i tery, i give, as though taking from, a d feel you will find me false, though they are your words, and i am not a writer, but a fraid to go beyond the wallings of this head, and i know these tappings are without speed, with swift fingers/tipped/giving lead of me, and i hope you free them to, from thoughts, garbled/jarbled, to strike in means much longer resonating than these

and you pour,
leaking your words
down pipes,
from high, and they
trickle/find a way
to stalk the ground,
as though your prey,
and in push-soft graze
of breeze, your fingers
slip to tip of these,
and throat grows wet, in need
of dry, of speak, of world,
of breath, of thy bleed’