return the lad to the front lines
with Villon and Modigliani
in the pere lachaise was it it?
la chaise de poesie
chairs of painting she sat on my lap
all the way from Liverpool her self
wriggling like the night's wet slap
jelly-roll it honey jelly roll helly rool hello roool
hellium rool roll

slumping down


back to the poetry drums
the dumps or what was the word?
head spining

is that it?
is that what you call word?

ok re-begin
continues where Blue Dog left over
at the thread unconscious or convisions
of St. Hubert street.. homeless
faces in wind

then walks
Parking lot

her face in the wind



Now how would it be any other way,
than beauty? of its bare buttocks song,
the rare one calibrated by the tune of death,
its rangers, or forest soft slipper ?
along the mouth of hunters and makers?
in shipping rooms where receivers
darken the hour with your thoughts?

chronicle of the schizo-organes

as the Knight was sad sick and sad, or was the Dulcinea read Knight's eyes cossetting the plain or was that dancing in the rest of the bucolic space which each river cried. but what was the gerundive of correct? sitting by his body shes holding he shore to each not wishing a loll distance to detach her cream coloured her lesbic make-up or the heavy lean to of doubt

The Knight has no Organes when saving is the treat the stinging self when it waiting.


says to me\is Void MooN?

Tanya says to me, is void moon , full?

straps tied to boots quilts over the cane field,
in Dominica, in Cuba, where doctors travel
far and wide,  to Venezeula, and 

Zeus peers down his mirror,

of enjambments and blandishments of this sort,
she has no part.
at the hour prior to electric chairs.
Standing sill, window heaped open
to chair in the wind.

No, she says, that's not it,
what would your first lover've said


Void moon
monkeys around the baseball plate
curvature and the solo sun in.

In Paris, and China, we have .
many father, and whoring was simple as the plate of blue.

Come smoke my cigarette
kiss my sexy sex sexy


We walked all night then
shedding the lies,
she 'd told in another of her lives,
mildew on the phosphate cap of her
cries no her cities where lies.

Bad writing's born everyday



Vallejo _

his work remains inside of me, coursing my veins
even hearing the Spanish, a language I love,
(andso much more than French _ ) for me its a language of liberty
and love, passion and heart.
Duende as Lorca

Señor de los Milagros process through Lima streets
Walter Silvera / Tafos,1990, Lima

Everywhere I go I find that a poet has been there before me.
-- Sigmund Freud




Hay golpes en la vida tan fuertes . . . ¡Yo no se!
Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos;
la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma¡
Yo no se!

Son pocos; pero son . . . abren zanjas oscuras
en el rostro mas fiero y en el lomo mas fuerte,
Serán talvez los potros de bárbaros atilas;
o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte

Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma,de alguna adorable que el Destino Blasfema,
Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones
de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema

Y el hombre....pobre...¡pobre!
Vuelve los ojos,
como cuando por sobre el hombro
nos llama una palmada;
vuelve los ojos locos,
y todo lo vivido
se empoza, como charco de culpa,
en la mirada.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes . . . ¡Yo no se!

Vallejo died in exile in Paris, in a rainy day on April 15, 1938. I am like the pigeon of a condor whose feathers were stripped by a Latin handgun; like humanity's flower, I fly over the Andes like the eternal light of Lazarus .. ..

In Spanish;

Yo soy el pichón de un condor desplumado por un arcabuz latino; a flor de humanidad, sobrevuelo los Andes como un eterno L'azaro de luz....


I He

I could not Smell &
(and now I see)
Guess what?
(amazing face)
Now I do

and the world Stinks

bea u tifully wonderf ully

even yer lemon scented breath

and the


and the



ode to


of nose


Indeed I am a snooker sharp


for ten years almost off step to his nose
(dear kill those commas they're ruin'in the ambiguities)
he sought to scent the stink of poesy

out of whack with his rhyme

marjoram & rosemary

flew to her coup


unlatch patty cakes
salt vinegars
apple pie scent in a cafe

sitting with C~

Indeed Italian revery is true
she hairs down her willies
no longer trying a lyric artist's part
she transfixed his fate
her lover
of smooths and sallows



a shallow fate waits her akimbo
mothering mumb[o]-jumbo

re metanoid

'bad' poetry gets around real fast

are you certain? oh yea, it's a given. its like shitty wine!

what? of course, you numbskull!

is this a formula of metanoid and privy?

indeed . seek and ya find it. its a cumbersome

grace of ego of belonger believers .

how it clunker the page of there and then.


bad poetry Im not even sure it exists. After all that language just sort
of disappears in a 'puff up their own fundaments' to quote an old friend
of mine.


"We trod the pavement in a dead patrol."
the Possum wrote that.

void moon

void moon coming

come vanish



over withering sails & breath

wreath her ~.



rifair profile of desire machines
hell bent
hell's bells
fair weather lover

lookit here
look it her

she shoots he scores
type one A

all bets off
best off


black hole|white wall


back black hole swirl
again a face rip up the funnel

of white wall
bouncing off

In italy we trawled the avenue
hipping for your walling taxi
attitude of feline like a lover whose body 's told
too much so much its secret is let out in doses
of delivery not death
but birth of thighs, tin whistles, weights,
overture to the clapping of audiences bound by death


and other objet petit and otherwise
riding riding roughing
up the body
snuggling the lane's

what a sorry excuse that was for rain
Tanya, says was is not is,
its treat becoming's like my skinny ever so falling body
guarding angel
loser takes all honey
loser takes

you must bet
see there is no end
to l and its fabrications
if it's hard the better
the better


It's a face you must end. end. face. off face. preface. preColumbian art. death of the hero, crusade of the carafe, end the kerchief, or some woman's high cheek bones.

close to it. the nave.

Image of white wall from



over there

open the glass and see you made
under cherry tree and flax
its roundelay merry clacked the tray
of its barky intent

___ a still born picture
taken old age an oleograph

your beautiful daughter is a golden in the sun
counting the day's fair unfair filament its rage
filigreed by pattern and age
its talented pedigree not a marker in your sunset crowd

was it really

was it really you betty blue
was it really really you you
the maniac sex the washing machine
is it true to you?

betty bleu betty bleu and a few
other charmers who went achoo
and choo choo the choo choo chatanooga
gaga chew and
was it like that you're a few
in one aren't you ?
a crew in one
and two
an shiny oxford shoe
an old brown shoe

dancing at the disco with her bones on fire

when betty blue....

when betty blue found out she got _____,

she stopped speakin'to him completely
it was his fault, of course, naturally,
all his

problem, she"c ared about him" "so much,"
he never understood, how much,

after all, she was the one with the ----,
and the -----,

and he was the one with poem


she shucked that, trying to steal it,
but no go.

it's too bad, you gotta go, when you gotta go,
by bone or moan,
by tone or crone,

harridan nights, and weepy cirrus belts around yer head,
sacking for the dead,
its the way it goes, it goes,
when you live in your clothes

and obssess with the dead,
obssess with the dead in your head,

but India and Pakistan walk away


connections where there're none
the prophet cast her feet in the vase
wailin for his praise
raise the dead
skilly their feet
over river and kale away my lovelies
its the sea sand scape in her face


Naturally we arent suppose to speak like this . however we gotta do. sometime. eh? what do you think elegant hardness was made for _Grief. and its docking bed.. Some essay this is not poetry or poetry's gift, the accident prone weakness of the writer.



we're not sure any mor eof the possible multiple plural of what is named by others their food and taste, as it wakens each hour, each second of death in your media empire hankerkin g after the blood of others. Simone deBeauvoir knew about that, and so did the doctors fighting the mullahs back then, and the poverty of sacking, and the weakening of veins. Shot rang out, in the middle, surgery, I thought she was there. Her breast had a cancer told me she has wayward feet and vein trouble. Life is trouble veined rooftop and split needle of plaster child.


sort of

sort of wagon wheel
to tent to river
blanket and

over the water
the deep

at modigliani's grave

at modigliani's grave again
roses strewn

his lover

recites Villon
Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi ? - L'Éternité.
C'est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.

which is ebb sand of floor

Portrait of Chaim Soutine.. Staatsgalerie, Stuttgart, Germany. by Modigliani, Itlian painter, 100% hand painted


star ____________--t

star ________________________-t

in the mid _________________dle


O has got to be redone or something

i dont think i like that one its not doing what id like but then someone might say well thats not someting u got control over the school
of revisionists poetics would say

doctor it ferlinghetti said once to an interviewer
other ones like thomas and numerous, like
well, anyhhow

BAD poetry
what is it?
grade 4 had to memorize the ryhme of the ancient mariner
write translations of latin, some of the greek classics

then had to write some stuff liek it in both langauges
english & the latin patin

But what about the French Canadian I was hearing every day?
Va't'en toi _ pronounced twee. mean sounding.

what is bad poetry that rhymes in sonnets, or
is it really some whorish thin g to write tercets?

when an article hangs like it did at the end of that stanza
i get someone else to hear, it, read it,
see what happens,

often a cool hanging 'll escape my ear
as e ven my own ear is trained with expectations....

tis the conditioning right? and not the air conditioning

yea. the water is everywher not a drop to drink

then the spokne prose poem is not the same.

got to practice more with angela.
angela was away for a time. where?
i dont remember.

and the bass player had a fit of consciousness.
adn the cello was sunk in straw,
straws of heat
and other deaths
and some poem i wrote for you

when back then i was 17
not 17 but whatever it was
it shaded around the edges of your consciouness
saying I love you. I love you.

little ships of consciousness.
well reading with Charlie Parker is not EASY!
hes real fast I mean that Jazz speeds up like something you never done.
we typed it onthe screen hung it by the sides of our monitors and heard
the blast.

SIGN Time!
the crowd laughed. we laughed today. the SHOW is a ReHearSal.....

Never leave the Studio.

Go to Dance instead
where Bodies are Live Dead.

ASnd so a bad poem?
a pretentious poem
a figure of speech poem
a analogy piece
an anthology string

goes on and on....


C an you PLease Stop Writing Bad Poetry
and sending it to asking for my Approval?




whats bad.


whos' good.


whats author authority.


question mark?
or symbological symBloglogical....

Oh well bodies
dance in the night
stuffed in the deaths of the ir night

Lew Welch was in that book.

Im not sure if I buy Spicer's (Jack) poetics as so much of it was informed by
active alcholism

it must have distoted his perceptions, no matter how smart he was.


Come to the Radio
Orpheus the microphone's off.
she's here.



' we have ceased fighting anything
or anyone __'

cease and desist the eyes
narrow for the page
its engagement
a rare stare
to fortune's eyes
a poodle waltzing in rain
in Paris

as greeted i was by Tristan
his lover stood by her
in the rain
it was the awkward achieve
of its farandola
and the near miss
of things
and winding about
or overing after
concluding since
not prating its shamble beneath
such beseech was not
fair gander for the two remained
mancled by hankering

or when
he said to us
its hoarse wind in the cold
heart of Ethics its pray
as J backed in the hole

it would play
its own up keep
a simple sailor to love her lips
something aside the belvedere
terracing down
its crowdy miss
of hither come happy
its hip mit bliss



is this, how your hand, works, like this?
like this, and over, again this that like,
over a tumbling weed, of summer, awkard
as the chair, rocking , rocked,

and tin to that over
self, of bodies in shame,
and love, or your face,so long ago,
seen, lends me a comma,
come to cover, your culvert,
like a punctuation mark,
and your



bod hi sat va

who own s the bodhi sattva

who is bodidharma

'No suffering, no origination,
no stopping, no path, no cognition,
also no attainment with nothing to attain.'

So proclaim the Prajna Paramita mantra,
proclaim the mantra which says:

gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha

gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha
gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha.


I ching says

I Ching sez no blamebalm for cutVishnu standMother matrix of giveno'er night's bad bandHere across the suburbthe country layer where foxesshut their heads accidents dont countI ching says cloud over mountainlake hanging on the thing that worksnot tired of the trip of the body yourstangles around my arms unhappy as deathschizophrenia the poetry of pustulenot the sacking of whirling I's or other shitwhats the thing that worksbetween peoples of bodieshearts hung like striated treesshouting inthe windnot the unfriendly powerof powerbut powerless's sweet tonguelike your love