This most recent poem was inspired by a hint of a spring moon and the memory of being in a sushi restaurant and finding haiku's on the cover of the menu.

I was struck by the haiku's use of a technique of rapidly jumping contexts.

The two contexts are singular units in their own right as well as being the generators of a third context created through their relationship. This ghost unit haunts each of the other contexts, effectively changing them.

Poetry attempts to create and alter units. Therefore, we attempt to lay bare and reveal these processes even as they happen. Creating a discontinuous real time of competing time-lines and voices. Herein, sense always merging with non-sense.


The most curious event happened,
cleaning out the barn yard the other day
our “team” discovered a book in hay.
It got pierced by a pitchfork was what it was.
The piss damp pages clung together.
In the back room we blew it dry.

The ink had stained due to the piss,
so that pages of text overlaid,
hard to read, but the scraps
that have been parsed,
are found, well, see-

place the book in our lap and read
this representative sample:

bending backwards to expose my opened anus, tiny finger of a worm poking at me; a needle nose pliers I use to tweeze out…

* * *

a.) as a, as a context, go to bed with the shakes, add parenthesis appropriately

as in itself as as so as in as it is.
Damn. Where goes the comma? The comma is the key to sensicality,
without it there is a red panic, a musical interlude

overwhelms the crew, the camera stops
knocked over off focus shot of stage
where the desk is on fire
and men in black run
in slow motion

the feed stops, replaced with a test pattern.
As in, imagine you’re watching television
when suddenly the programs go black.
A blue screen replaces the show.
And you are confused, and as time goes on and it does not return, you become…

A telling, of the moment t.v. shuts off, permanently
as it turns out. Forgotten, forgotten, gone, is it is.

…at that moment the speakers arise, shake off their slumber and the dirt in their mouths, babbling, orating, begging, yelling,
terrible language, language deranged.

The secret is it is forgotten and cannot be remade.

A speaker lay down stomach on ground
and beginning with knees bent legs back
spine cracks, bring feet past ears
until they sit on the ground,
the legs lower the butt down onto the skull,
saying, truly I sit on the throne of the mountain of heaven.

The motioning delights the others, whooping,
flooping down in imitation.

The big dipper ladles the smoke out to the constellations.

No comments:

Post a Comment