the dance of cummings

Cummings has influenced and continues to send radiant lines out to everyone. Who would ever imagine that a closed book could stop its beauties from reaching out across to readers? we read and are read by texts such as his without even knowin' it/ deleuze guattari and thousands of readers can testify to his longevity and memory in their hearts. One takes to heart the poetry of the heart.


Whos the monster, can?

Who’s the monster cant breath flowers in the sudden day death stands its name I am wondering about that this and the other where it clasps the brigade the braid of hair falling off your face on the subway death escapes you everyday hum of the big city its portentous needs a death mask for me.

Me? What is me 'that' seems so strange bodies bodies
elusive Eleusinian bodies hang me hang me brother __hand me the spitting over cash where you where you
splinter down the seed of its darling
cash pay the bills conceal the cache the cache
of a moment where you spread steel working
in the prose moment of its detail
a slipped away over the board word
casting away the depths to the soul, the soul.
what they name the soul and its falling
asleep molds alabaster and dope like
Ann-Marie’s smile that many years
back decades now grow death in the
sludge of its richess sort of like French
and my sobriety my drunkenness is a
song off the harpsichord of this Radio
that I escape my misting name your face
the other faces off the page molecules filtering the view the typewriter clacks Ramboo and FlamMan the MoonLan and SeeMan of the BooCan the water man woman woman womban man in his clutter pan Or the ice tray as when the night is a hun a humming bird saw the old saw creeping up and spitting in your eye! what bother of casing in this rifle aimed character mixes up the names ambles dizzy spells headaches tooth aches to the name early readings and other special deals you got going with heaven where in heaven our bodies dance they dance yes they dance dance figurine of heaven all my hearts against pounding in the beat of your failure grabs the inward file rushes the carousel of right and wrong night and day its word a hemming grab on the stitch of night

Over on the other side Pat dying and its name hanging in the dust your mellow moment the preacher’s song oh that song that redevils the wave of its lip slides the porch hands her a brooch of pearl and mother of laugh the girl the dame in quite a bit of distress she was dying of a special kind of disease the kink of language someone else says I am a lord of it lord of her verbs and swings the mood noun and jocose as the terrible pause between the danger eyes I proud the simile instant

On the spot of its terrible eye
dragon pencilled and flagon face

red hot riding hood - Google Video

There 's something about cartoons and poetry. One of the things I do and do in the fictions is turn Jil, Mona and Franny(ostenibly Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari and a host of fictional others) is write them as cartoons. I asked a friend about whether _ she is a visual artist_ she could see it that way and she responded that yes she could. But she's not the kind o artist who can do this sort of thing __ In any vase, voila,

Red Riding Hood redone

MGM 7 min 14 sec - Apr 17, 2005

my favorite cartoon of all time. a new view on an old story.
Tex Avery



stranger days of absent

haunting me as I walk
I walk to that rhythm

the beauty of women

the beauty never ending, and their intensity

the ball bearings of the beat

Someone I know has died
24 years of age
her name was April
What a lovely name
for April is ...

and people __ how boring __ speak about literature -- as some kind of institution. it is not.

an institution.
(an instuition is what it it is)

it's an attitude and a way .

what do those who do not make poetry and art know of it?

the other day in the long walk in the city I wondered what the higher power

was up to _ with me and my life.

Am I dying, and am I dying with out ?

a body, one speaks of a body.
but it's nothing but a blanket.

we cherish


a poke at the pope

Marx wrote that religion is "the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions." For most followers, Christianity and Catholicism offer comfort in ---- this cruelle world for the end__ for to end.

a poke at pope is what we're having ___ creat a counter culture __make things your own socialize your words socialized yer ___ bodies in sap

space time

was a text pome in your mouth
she reminded me, hours later, of who I remembered, Nancy.
Modigliani eyes, perfect aquiline nose, Picasso eye away

why be a visage?

it's dubious to 'have' to 'have''
to have a face

the wrong side of capitalism

Scoop! :: The wrong side of capitalism

the rong side

“Capitalism, no thanks…”

the rong side
the rong side
the rong side
the rong side
the rongrong side
the rongrong side
the rong rong side
the rong rong side
the rong side
the rong side
the rong side
the rong side wrong wrong wrong
rong side
rong side
r'ong s'ide
r'ong s'ide
rong rong rongrong
rauserause rause
rongrause rongrause rauserong


  • 2005/04/05

    the eyes of some past tense

    How to make a poem act as a body -- does the pome ask a question. Many poets believe the voice they are speaking. Not so for us, we believe nothing, and know we are nothing, but a body speaking, wasting time, waiting for time, wondering what to do next, about the next desire lover....

    ....... ....................

    Today woman's eyes momentarily swiftly cutting [do you really think I need two adjectives?]
    the hand the tale my thought's only pace [why my, isn't thought collective?]
    breathing in and out in spring's almost rutting
    its advent the one that presages resurrection of a fiction
    great tale of return and word
    mixing bread and face
    that glows in ours who was it that spoke you in the night
    Who was it that made the spook speak
    in the good woman's eyes over city and booth
    holding forth as the Lord's voice commanded
    go forth and multiplicity

    waves ocean speak

    Paris between her eyes

    a face that could change cities

    wards filled with the men who threw themselves at her

    gnashing hollow howls of her victors

    cry of lover hand over space

    Mona there clutter Orpheus mutter [call this close rhyming]
    [she likes it when you move to the prose it fictionalizes more easily]

    Eurydice stutters Sappho and the angelica flag o cry against loneliness
    and belonging

    in the city before spring when the ghost crawls she
    hides her pregnant word like you have we turn with the speaking
    return with the going a tape-recorder always spinning
    in our heads
    skulls shine quickly on the tabla the shaman's eyes
    laugh as you slide down the fireman's pole half-waiting
    and half-wasting for time to end

    that is why so lyric poetry as such does not really appeal to me anymore . the voice is personal and leads down the wrong path leaving the reader with the impression that there is something personal to be said.

    so you say.

    good, then let us go dance.


    The wherein is continued the grove of lust

    be hook-nosed my love
    follow me to the city grove
    on Grosvernor Avenue I sat and sobbed
    be the nose that pulls

    me in my amberesque state
    created man in a crate
    of panic and fright
    noun clatter rift fire

    with body yer nose
    scents me rose
    of content and flair
    flamboyant as your hair

    stand on my body
    beneath the steps
    where lust's not gaudy
    rip into my teeth

    your honker sniffing
    my orchards bad poetry
    our game sucking our joy
    huffing after tiffing

    cute snap of smell
    yer nose lingers
    my hands silhouette
    shape Egypt of hunger

    not rhymed by imperfect self
    but walker to body
    hunger sweet lioness
    nose and eyes hang a spill me down kiss