Here are some month-aways.

ORGANISM
ORGANISM 

from the big brass organ – eviscerating singular
then multiplicitous,   moving stain glass
	in-and-out-in-and-out
		imperceivable.

inside wood slats, felt-velvet-
air bubbling kinetic,
	stressing against the
	potentiality of fingertips. 

I.  to play this be 5’10” or more
II. bleed dissonance – dodge and careen around
	the visceral localities -
	cultural organ significances. 

mozart’s broken a finger today –
	crunch into the heavy white
	window sill,
watching blood spot and spread through
	lattice-work lead paint cracks
	wincing at its beauty

thusly there will be no B flat in today’s
mesopotamian evocation.

bone on bone maybe a twofold
	trigger – product of
	intension. 

GOD-BOX

they say god lived in a jukebox – 1943 to 1957.
face pucker-fished to glass
	prodder balanced like a magnetic magic
	trick.
I watched gleaming 45’s and rainbow cubes on
	rotators. 

this short stint – caused by redecoration of that
	whatever-ethereal –
	popped pills from the
	reconstituted, rationality
foil-packaging. 

pumped esoteric lab rats
from miles around –
	gaping at page fourty-seven
	of jukebox Serial #443807-1-1-period.
		1943 to 1957. 

GEOMETRY

I.

I had a parallel
	which I tipped over and
	created a juncture –
	found, curious potency
	in the marring of anti-mechanical
	resolution. 

We drank the poignant flesh of the fruit –
	Metaphorical ham-radio-fuzz
		to bridge the gap-time. 

II. 

between – our lips, this supernatural sweetness
		sings, in a sense or textural anomalies
		in the celestial mark – and the
		indignant referent. 

phenomenological textures
	(normally), normalized –
	fragments of – distance, resonance 

and orange peels. 


DRAGONFLIES

I.

taking a hand turned, round its axis
protruding fingers into meaning –
	I rewind and replay it in non-imagery

taking a detail of a gesture and
replacing it for an opinion

	and cannot dissect its tendoned intentionality.
I find here again,
the deep fissure between biology and biology.

II. 

I found a desperate grave watcher,
here – there are many-bells ringing
	leaves his hands white-knuckled on the spade. 

the wringing continues – and he continues
	the dead can wait for anybody. 

III.

I am back in the hospital in a manger,
with other linoleum dream ships, in a blue blanket –
	pink cap for attempted comedy.
and I can’t understand something so basic
as my own reflection in
the semi-translucent ceiling mirrors,
	and the fragmented imagos in the –
	un encapsulated future.

In the interim time, here are a few more poems (and photos) for your brain.

FOREST FRUIT

Here I keep my antiquated seed –
its physical description is spinning elsewhere
probably lost – these things work like that. 

The water is too dry, lacking a certain few molecules to grip.
this soil lacks a few minerals
sun lacks its photosynthetic elements –
                    reflections only. 

Remarkable coincidence it is indeed
that time slinks from moment to moment
aware and embarrassed –
that it keeps losing its previous self.

I have correspondences with this seed
and that seed
and the gaping infinite in-between.

CHRIST-MASS

If you’re reading this then you know – I’m sure
I’m invariably different now-a-days,
and these words flowed with a different sense of meaning.

I am sitting in a bowl chair, in a fair-suburban
mirage. 

I could just as easily be sitting in the wax-cup
of an imaginary flower, and
forming words by scooping
the buzzing of ACUnits – from the air.

Flagon-dries. 

See, I’m watching you.
Over shoulder, future goggles in hand –
interpreting thought strands
and staring     for your head
	through the static interference. 

Christmas. 

ONE: CONVERSANT 

“She said: i love but do not in-love with you am,
i am a pine,
but no pineapple - for sure.
We mix like apple juice and cactus needles,
ether and hang-gliding,
mother parachute cockatoo ginger snaps,
		chirp – 

I said:  I left me in the sun for two weeks and see if I don’t dry out –
she is getting –
mighty old in here my demons, whispering
to my spinal column,
push push shape air don’t ask don’t ask
tomorrow your feet will be further from your bed”

		She said.

TWO: JOURNAL

11.17.1946

Tweet and all that – this nest mighty sturdy,
chicks protected, intact, fed, kept company –
			in that order. 

Klang Klang
factory row house, hammer pop, steel -
old light to new light.

Salamander  - to far to risk,
mate gone
			owl.

 - Finch

THREE: OVERHEARD  

Excuse me, 

the -  your steak-knife sir 	 your, steak-knife,     sir
it seems perturbed. 

See - I had it at the carnival, took it on the tilt-a-whirl,
bought it cotton candy,
pink flavored blur and reflections   -  whirling whirling twist push snap.
			boy – fountain lines ago.

PEAKED STICK

Sometimes – I believe all antique-shops are in convex,
positronic, fish-eye. 

Lamp shade, demons – pom-pom string teeth
from the fifties – semitranslucent
floral-body. 

If the past looked like this – invest in more shag-carpet,
Marlboro crochet, transparent brown cube cut ashtray,
brown, tan, smokey offwhite, cream, mustyorange, grapefruit (both ceramic and representational)
generally and often
and scotch.

Art-deco Sears and Roebuck dog ear’d for ages. 

I’m waving my arms around a little and testing the air currents, kicking a few wheels and seeing how it runs. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on your previous thoughts, i can no longer post photographs directionally into the posts. More specifically I can not figure out how to alter this space to allow for that.

Hopefully I’ll figure out all the other confusing ins and outs of running web based thought-objects, and be able to format my work correctly on the page.

Happy Boxing Day - I’m lookin’ at you United Kingdom, Australia , Canada, New Zealand.

Some new poems.

Comment if you like jellybeans.

Vatican Museum

St. Peter

DEAR, READER

I began, knowing – dear,
reader. that at some,
anonomous  time frame
	(what I did not know in particular)
that your mind would
read
	this
		form.
for a moment now
I can force you –
into considering previously
unrelated words – in the page-box. 

you see reader,
my mind can create
meaning out of:

	blank-space
and pencaps out of pencaps,
my mysterious power
is forcing your
consideration – romantic:
		families of deer
		on the runway – snowy –
		a beautiful delay
		for the traveling salesman
		or family unit. 

See what I did there?
Can you trans-relate?
Don’t look now – fly open:
Psssst (I can make sounds out of pencil lead).

FANCY FOOTWEAR 

someday – maybe
my socks will be collector’s items
no – no
that is presumptuous
there is no poetic value in socks

ROYGBIV (everything is fucking, rainbows)

There are places where the light bends –
requiring a certain inquisitive mass,
I’m sure. Which shapes and molds
singularities into – spectrum lines.

.

Download audio file (10-funkallero-alternate.mp3)

‘Ello ‘ello, thanks for stopping in.

I’ve got a few more poems for your eye sockets . Please leave comments! I’d love to get some feedback.

If your a poetry fan, you might recognize these as inspired by Berryman. I just finished the first 77 dream songs, and i wanted to mess with a similar shiftiness. Mmm, perhaps that’s saying too much.

-ALIST

oh yeah -
I’ve met you,
retching, psychotic -
you ate
unconsciously
peering out
the tops of your eyelids -
and

now you mark your words -
pressing, fully against
pressing palms,
racking - I, obscurity
pirouetting -
grinning smacking, lips
and envisioning -
what the other
side breaths like.

OH -

dear anonymous girl -
dear, anonymous girl
I’m fixing too.
your magic need not be present

see,
I have tools and a toolbox
and we -
we are materials.

GOD ON THE HILL

LOOK,
see, there
the hill no up up,
yes - there it is.

something -
on the hill
just
behind my indicating
finger-tip.

I wanted
so badly -
you, you saw it.
no, I understand, it’s fault is not yours -
my nail’s
in the way.

Download audio file (02-gil-scott-heron-lady-day-and-john-coltrane.mp3)

Hello. I don’t mean for these to become monthy updates, and they won’t be from now on i promise.

Here are some new poems. Please let me know what you think of them, i know there are some people visiting the site.

POCKETS

Define stalker,
I’ll cross my fingers
That your definition does not
Define me to a T.

Like a canary coal mine
Litmus test,
I place my palms together
Tap my fingers
Pass the moments between
Passing out on my perch
And hitting the tunnel floor.
Methane dreams
Of feasting on crumbs
And gliding on
Hot air pockets.

DALI

I have time
Knob kneed
Sitting
On the oriental rug
Peering
Restless eyed
At grandfather clock
Transparent mechanics
And pocket
Watches
Melting over fallen
Trees
In the picture frame

From my breast coat pocket
I draw a tethered time piece
And wind it taught
To pass the time.

4-snoopy-waves A song from Deerhoof’s phenomenal newest album “Offend Maggie”

What he said.

More poems.

I’ve been getting more and more into short short poems, singular ideas normally.

Go ahead and click read on… or the title of these posts to view them in their entirety.

Untitled Short #2

Everything (I need) is between my ears
Or sometimes in my ears
Or on the page.
It’s encoded…
Hard to understand
Really
Even for supercomputers.

———————————————

Untitled Short #4

I stopped dreaming,
About the past,
When the cyborg’s
Invented
Mind-vision.

——————————————–

Release

There was a spider on my Norton Anthology
I moved quickly down the stairs through the double doors and single doors.
As I walk I twist and turn this text
Keeping the spider on the same plane
I imagine a divine being rotating the earth
And creating gravity.
I imagine explaining to this spider
Fourth dimensional physics
Two dimensional planes rotating in three
Rotating in four.
Introducing the spider to the
Cold outside
I wonder how long it will take
For it joints to freeze
And for it to die,
After liberation.

Its been a busy few weeks for me. Many apologies for the lack of updating.
More Poems for your brain.

Go ahead and click read on… or the title of these posts to view them in their entirety.

Conversing

We were sitting
No maybe standing
God all those mornings
And their stillborn irrelevancies,
We were at the bus stop
In our best motivations
Sipping from cups
With mermaids on the heat-shields.

This is a time
Where I would try to hone
My telepathic abilities -
Trying to get you to engage
Even in dry utterances.
Rather than seem desperate
Infiltrating the awkward stillness
Of Edward T. Hall’s proxcemic structure
Personal distance (one to three feet)
I pretend I have a trendy
Earpiece mobile phone,
Which I fashion out of a rubber gasket
With my imagination,
And that I’m losing an important call.

I end, conversing with
A staple ridden telephone poll,
And speaking to someone’s anonymous
Lost cat
About the financial stability
Of my imaginary office.

————————————————————
A Photograph I Found

In that chair
Whitewall window room
Oak
You with the grey cardigan
Quarter posture.

Your cupped hands
Resting, knees
Restlessly still.
Pursed lips
All full of the contour of teeth.
There’s a seagull in the corner -
Caught, genetically developmentally struck stuck
Off-guard
Drifting by the window,
Complementing
Grey eyes and grey skirt.

Poems from this week. Click “read on” or the title of this post to access them.

As a side note all the photos i’ve uploded so far have been my own scans of film taken on a Lomo LC-A+, which is a small Russian point and shoot. You can check them out all over the place online, or check out my Lomohome @ www.lomohomes.com/lomo.requiem.

(no name yet)

In my head

Sparrows are chattering mischievously

And the bell-tower is calling

The villagers to church

And the wind is rustling through the wheat fields.

I grip the sides of my head and half-yell

My god will you stop the fucking noise.

So I through rocks at the sparrows

To expel them from the dogwood trees,

And I through rocks at the monk

Pulling the church tower’s strings,

And grimace smugly at the wheat

In its presumptuous field,

And can only project my will.

The local knights find me,

Sulking at

And amidst the wheat

And inquire into my feelings against the monk.

I tell them it is within my power,

To act in such a way

Being that I am a grouchy hermit,

Yet they put me a cell in the catacombs.

Back in reality

I brush some leaves from my behind

And bid the clouds adieu.

(Insert name here)

There’s a skeleton in my closet.

It smells a bit, and its placement

Is quite unfortunate when trying to dress.

I named it AL

Like from happy days,

And I insert my hand into

The back of its skull

And rant about fox news,

Or read Kierkegaard out loud to myself,

And talk about the daily specials.

Boring the occupants of my liquor cabinet closet.

In crowded shopping malls

I see my skeleton’s curly hair

Or olive skin wrapped around

The hand of some other sugar-pill-sap.

The image blurs into dull descriptors

And I remember…

Sort of.

Sometimes my skeleton dons minty chap-stick

And we reenact the moment previous

When I fell down the stairs,

Cracked my head into reflections,

My wrists into edges,

And wrote cliché poems about love.

Download audio file (15-crystal_castles-black_panther.mp3)