poetics, time, body disruption and marginally queer solutions

Friday, November 07, 2003

a quiet song with a summary

there is a grind, a scream, a moan, a death rattle, a chair dragged across the floor, a body shoved into a ditch, the crackle of burning flesh, the whine of a television coming on (continuously coming on, all the time, everywhere, never stopping . . . .).

could be the quack of a duck, a gaggle of geese with one speaker, a dentist drill, a cheap printer, a car starting its engine, a thousand cars starting their engines, a million cars, a million trucks, a billion motorcycles, a thousand planes, jets and missiles going off, crash landing, colliding, screeching to a halt, all at the same time.

the sizzle of water next to a plutonium rod just as the backup cooling system fails, the last sound a hermit crab makes as it suffocates in a body coated in crude oil, a stomach on salmonella, the howl of kreutzfeld-jacob disease, HIV victim’s fear amplified, a heart attack, a birth pain, the lid of a casket closing, the Wichita Vortex Sutra sung by allen ginsberg, a monk’s chant, the mind deteriorating in an alzheimer's state, slim picken’s hoot riding an atom bomb to oblivion, a burning cigarette in the swindle of silence.


my skin is clear I can see the sky
from: iduna, 2003, obooks

it was a minor negation, it was a dream, I turned left in spite of itself, it weathered, in the spirit of itself, as was predicted - chrome pretenders on a neon blue horizontal - las vegas was my mother, jean dubuffet was a name - they were all marching to las vegas - you see, you buy, I see, I want, I want to die - bury me in las vegas, spread my ashes in las vegas, make me over in your las vegas image - a penny for your mortality rate - pennies from heaven, spare cash from bruised buttresses - we are at war over - we all play in las vegas - we stopped and had soup after the chase scene - the criminals formed an interplay between the plot and the local diner - a trace left me everything - moloch, and the one called moderate devotion were there - it was a sloe gin fizz my way over permanent free roulette - give me las vegas to go - you are all form all form is emptiness, las vegas is my emptiness, my eyes and ears - I had parents with no face names just faces - for me it all started in a room with plastic cement and a former self - I met you behind the ministry of shrubbery - oh keep me warm with your long arms - las vegas is out tonight, the sky is bright.

Thursday, November 06, 2003

one of the wonderful things about bloggering, is when you meet new virtual flokz.. and they do woondrfl wrk... well I get to post it.. so please see below.. this Tim Peterson is someone to watch out for... or look for or read or something.....

Embarrassment of Riches
Tim Peterson

The grotesque imbalance of powers fuels my morning walk: azaleas, blue phlox, curbside junk. The careers of several generals winding up in the "cult status" bin, partially on account of the long night and a Lexus SUV. Part the mysterious foliage of a potted plant in the company hallway.

No harbingers, no gusts of atrocious statement. We are a free country, and in that dialysis we derive our nutrients from unfair advantage, not unlike arm-wrestling in gale-force winds. The occult language denied to me by my ancestry will emerge in news photos of the battered and the dead.

Fringe benefits. Cola. I had to try on an appearance I wore in the recesses of a dream. In the dream there was a private anchor, and I sat on top of it and rode it out of the water up onto the boat. The vessel of our sleeping company lurches forward, flank or wing.

The people around you, brain-dead though they find their polls, learn you a thing or two. In practice, the arms of the republic should embrace those who differ in hair color, build, or perception. A sequined dress, barren angle in the new world, apotheosis of corona and self-stink.

Wink. The news carried us into the souped-up sand dunes. Partially, I grow nostalgic for the intimacy of a nape, but this timidity runs fallow under rifles and manpower. I did not side with the victors. I did not lose my change on the wrong bet, rusted machines of the hard-of-hearing government.

Tim Peterson’s chapbook Cumulus was recently published by Portable Press at Yo-Yo Labs. Poetry and criticism have appeared or are forthcoming in Antennae, can we have our ball back?, Colorado Review, and Rain Taxi. Tim is on the POG board of directors, and won an honorable mention for the Robert Penn Warren Awards in 2001, a contest judged that year by John Ashbery

Let's do all and anything that comes

on a rise or around a rose

on a flat

around a crowd that is one

spread that across the universe with solar winds

that is still one

take a visual field

any field

record every detail

shade movements
taste budding hopes supposed thoughts
frizzed atoms fraught molecule periodic table sum calculations
parcel post and particle paradigms found in the cracks and crevasses

then take a step and do it again



readings @ city museum presents...

kari edwards and jarek steele
reading from their poetry

saturday, november eighth, eight pm
in beatnik bob's theater
and only five dollars gets you
into the whole museum

. . . . . .

kari is from san francisco
and has a number of books and
recently won the new langton arts
bay area award in literature
& is an mfa graduate from
wash u, too

. . . . . .

jarek's star continues to rise
since he won this year's
poetry slam in los angeles

[this series is sponsored in part by left
bank books - you know where that is]

[more info:

Wednesday, November 05, 2003

do not miss the rabid rapid revolving rancorous riot act of writing going on at as-is

ky fingers

the price tag was spanking, fomping went, browned, had never been, smacked around and didn't see the bread box was empty, something like, chased the pieces down the squirting street into a licking continuum, every last one. prelashed prices, every item must go unfucked bleeding, to be replaced by. didn't leave a return address, packed their felchs. it's that them-us-both-of-them the aardvarking entire down the fingering block fomps the smacks from the misdirection, it's them-me-you-us-all-of-them us both-of-them who said — why didn't you. then one of them said - over there is one more. the unfucking sewer, browning in the battle over peptide autographs, shafting drag asslicks or queens, raiding duke and duchess, fistfucked the newer better pecked, fistfucked with proper retrofitting more to come later. fingerfucks red glare. deep throats I will give have given, will be blowed on top — disaster relief sucks at the dinner table ... maybe, if I could if I said, if I, if I would I said I would. the periodic table. something was there with its clip-on plastic indicators, those loophole disinfectants. I got it, maybe it is it, it, you us that them both of us, a creaming long list of grade A, B, C, one million and seventy five fistfucking(s) or fistfucks or something missing that could, that in effect. fistfucks stood, others waited. all I have is, then unclefucking more.

some good sites for those interested in the use of gender neutral pronouns


Tuesday, November 04, 2003

GearySt. Reading Series

<11.06.03> 7pm
CaféMelroy <835 Geary, Downtown SF>
Patrick Durgin
Brent Cunningham
Brian Strang

from a day in the life of p.
subpress 2002

it’s the number thing all over

the triangle presented itself to whatever as a sturdy structure, endowed with the basic formulation of life, relational to the number 12, a dodecahedron, which is nothing more than a good apple pie, cut and ready for one of those festive events with a serving of twelve. it was assumed that these would be rather small pieces of pie and that that would be fine with the guests who had already eaten an entire herd of cattle. this probably would be the case at dolly’s diner where the expectation of the food portions brought the antichrist there in the first place, that and the possibility of looking cool eating with the local a.c.r.s. (antichrist representatives of state).

and when one looks at the base roots of this apple pie structure or as some might say - numerologically speaking, anything after four . . . well, it just becomes redundant. for example five is a duplication of three and two, always leaving the opening for aluminum siding and case example belief in individualization, when in reality there is nothing more than a variety of the basic elements coinciding. this could be said of four, but that seems to take the logical progression, used in cliche terms, to describe L -7 and it variants.

the triangle shape then could possibly appear outside this accumulative effect of forced vomiting as when something adds the numbers 1+1+5+5=x and then reduces it to its prime. this would accumulate on whatever's brain like the stuff on the bathroom floor, or the never heard from again on the inside of the stove, baked on til it turns into a carbon based life form, where at any moment, if more stuff was added to the already preexisting stuff, the equation would shift to 1+1+(5x2)+x=y, which would not equal four, which led to something’s repulsion of the square mode, which was to much too comprehend.

all this was similar to the tertiary mode, which would send p. over the edge of a dark hill in a desperate search for anything not squarely based.

just then the digital green glow in the dark 11:55 switched to a digital green glow in the dark 11:56. this caused something’s brain to snap oblivion back from its undescribed purposeless location, being that oblivion is shrouded in the number or non-number number zero, that has no shape or all shapes - all doing the circle dance till the wee hours of the morning, when the embers hack their last spark, crushing eternity back into a liquid form, where whatever would search for loop-de-loops in curved space, trying to get back home and at the same time being indifferent to the intention of getting back, and certainly not wanting to face 1+1+(5X2)+ x=y, which was not too far from 2 squared.

suddenly whatevers concentration surfaced somewhere in an english garden, circumventing the realization that all the other numbers on the glow in the dark digital clock were square roots of something. with hitchcockian sounds and sudden jumps to panic whatever noticed the glow in the dark green number change from a six to the interesting positions of seven, which made it somewhat more comfortable to return. at that point whatever said
-make sure whenever you leave you have a return ticket just in case the down cast winds shows up wherever you are.

dont miss this if you are in the SF area....!!!

*Reading this Sunday in San Francisco

*(Michelle Tea, Mary Burger, Matthew Iribarne)*

*Return of the Basement Reading Series!*

Invite folks. Tell everyone!

*Sunday, November 9th, 7:30 pm*

Location: 2390 Mission Street, at 20th and Mission, Third Floor

New location on the third floor! We're moving up!

Admission $3- $5 (nobody turned away)

if you are in the st. Louis area, or in the mid-west anywhere:

READINGS @ city museum
To be held in Beatnik Bob’s Theater
701 North 15th Street, St. Louis MO
All readings are SATURDAY NIGHT @ 8:00 PM
Museum admission - $5 - Stay & play till 1 AM!
November 8 - Jarek Steele & kari edwards

Though they've never met, gender activists Steele and edwards are nevertheless cobelligerents in the many-fronted war against patriarchal power. I am impressed with their bluntness and with their willingness to be who they are without worrying about whether or not the community will automatically embrace them. Such virtue is not only American but, in fact, essentially religious and vital to our survival as a race. Stylistically they range apart, however--while Steele's writing is personal and somewhat confessional, edwards pours out words, levels clichés, phrases, mixing the holy and profane. So, in different ways, these poets participate in the same project to dismantle and demolish a power structure that is at once political and linguistic.
Jarek Steele's poem Trans-Substantiation won's first-ever Poetry Slam, held on May 31 at BookExpo America in Los Angeles, and he has an article forthcoming in Lambda Book Review. Usually reticent about sharing his writing, he is now beginning to come out of the closet a little bit--a poet all along!  He works at Left Bank Books in St. Louis.

Monday, November 03, 2003


safe at any speech

bitch-ditch, get-a-wreck,
wise-crack bailey-hoe-osmosis,
do-or-die, by-the-buy.
total-global crumb-dumb bailey-wigs,
doin-the-dollar-holler wardoor-to-wardoor
stealth-pocket melodrama,
not-talkin darling-offshore
plug-in there-s/he-tows, belle-of-the-mall.
strap-on fatal-ashcroft,
pop-tart anti-god.
body-bags &
over-present ice-cream-sundaes.
to-repeat-after-gnashing teeth-on-demand,

check out-

it takes a min. to down load

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Bettridge/Sean Cole/CA Conrad/Jordan Davis/Tsering
Wangmo Dhompa/Brandon Downing/kari edwards/Greg
Fuchs/E. Tracy Grinnell/Aaron Kiely/Susan Landers/John
Latta/Dan Machlin/Christopher Martin/Anna
Moschovakis/Sawako Nakayasu/Standard Schaefer/Mark

$5, or get issue One & Two: $8.

Cy Press
c/o Dana Ward, Editor
1118 Cypress Street
Apartment 3
Cincinnati, OH 45206

Sunday, November 02, 2003

20 percent of a 20 cent sunset

I read it this way; it drops, becomes a list that is not, advances as a mad dog. the backdrop looks miniature. my eyes fixate on spattering foam. jarred back by a removal of my own flesh; a remorse code comes in loud and clear; the typical punishment mode, but with a hint of the sea. layers later; harmony point. a separate flow, a location, the cross hairs, dead flowers and a mad dog. the fierce innocence is fear, bred into paranoia, deep suited diamonds burrow into the mind’s foothold. there is a minefield, that's arrogance. someone says, it is contemporary. no water anywhere. later, which I take to be right now, there is a bleak slip, a name that names itself. everywhere is color with no reflection, that is not seen. just lips, teeth and mad dogs. I do not know the first time, maybe pools of red punctured membranes. the city ceased to be anything, but hot pockets and festering sores. there is the usual without addresses, striped of probability. all known. almost knew. I had no idea. but you knew. only a few knew. all the numbers had lice; the tree has an image problem. there was a constant hunt or worship for mad dogs or dead gods. at that moment, a known before hand foretold of pneumatic possibilities. everywhere grated smiles and triangle behavior. no buzz on irrational christians. everyone laughs then dies. matter is certain everyone is mad. the dog seems fine. it hit me later, later was tomorrow. that will be or is the day we takeover. sit down do not get overly excited, you are on random, this is normal. you send your bills in on time. cheat on the way you will be killed; bargain for a new living room set. settle on a mock makeover. “my dear . . .” is how it begins, “we will have to kill you or the dog, depends on the test; it will take a year in isolation.” saved by the bell. it is a grab bag and you're it. everything all over is really over, but at the precise moment there is a heavy clank. you swallow blue surroundings. pleasure lifts its head and leaves. I read the sentinel, had no ideal but knew it would happen. the headline will read. you are infallible, perfect and you die again. the dog is never found.



something that was something next to the other
thing that was something

there there now, defused violence on forest greens, undefined edges, unified personal asylums with large formless windows, consummates itself in desert crimson; by vertical forest greens; there now the ground is continuous, counter to brazen bold anointments, the undefined happens with various points of views; correction and proper placement. large formless someone was at the window saying; “this is my 2 2 who who mets in this how in this who to in this who is is my frozen formless thing.” this grammar violence at a wet bar, vertical of tallow, windows in my dessert dream. the day promises to be a soul without windows, a raven without a poe, a copy of a copy written in continuous flow. 120 days from now, 5 days or years ago or to come or to go years or 5 days ago, a thousand or so undefined and ageless, by by then ground down in counter to the known, by means of glass elliptic breathing; reason of numbness brazen in asylum greens

this is a new - I am new at this bloggering.... and after reading so many for so long, I will have to see how it develops, right now a composite of hits - that hit me, my work and others..

not sure how to do the links with my mac so if no one is reading this please send suggestions... if not not - I will just list URL.

in the means, time continues.. the light is gray or was and I slammed down last years version of the sopranos... no tv.. just Imacisms... with a dvd.. with limited viewing potential... still, the sopranos do make for a good weekend of cheap entertainment...

I put out a call for for short comments on the connection for correct spelling and gender... if you have any thoughts .. send them a long..