Serial Poems Pt.1.1

May only be mental, but seems like this is a building period, a gathering period. That is to say, an empty age an age of waiting. Christ on the cross just a man again now that the spirit has left him. Oh, using drugs too much also.



a strange trip, mariuanna,

and lonesome

electric air

guitar twangs

ultimate expression of self

the urge to be sated

precedes knowing what on

preacher with tumor

silent in the face

of this vision without future


stars sky end of the line

moon game heat of the day

whistle blind stepped on a mine

kidney stink the dark drinks my ink

crumble castle blow it out your asshole

house keys memories the hand moves always


perspective is the field

feeling a basket

of reoccurring fragments


the sum the root the revolution a click

the cog finds its slot

a beautiful full dead end

of blossoms and liquid, a sea of shimmering bodies

laying so open on the sandy beach.

AGE and Pictures

hoo boy /this is some old hooch / know what i mean / slick

Brought him to me
Came out of me
Sound of God
destroy world
tears fall black
touch others
the love'd touch them
but they didn't realize
"Let go" love of god wanted
another in the airport
In my closet the light
creeps I gave it

Ghost world

Looks for the house. only smooth walls your not suprised. We love snakes. Wet scales and grass between. All our bodies. pressure fades everything to patterns. Our lives ended. we didn't make the joke. Lay awake. The night is missing
any senses. No color to your hand. The joke was a column. Lights and wires. This sleep. Is this deep or didn't we make it. Something to say or not. I rolled over twice. You were gone. A new world. No column. Simple things: no words. Creep vine. Snake liked The wine.


dramatic difference
not computer generated"
are our strengths,
our weaknesses?

Magic as art. Art as a spell.
We should compile a book.
In the brain cloud.
Free sample money back credit.

on our
hands o
ver the
field of

You See Dream Vistas
ropes of
cat ego rization
Wrapt round
and through the things
and concepts of your
world and its new to you
BUT not to me its
not BUT you'll learn quick

maintain relation ships

For the two’s

Nick S. and Nick N.

The two Jim’s


Looking Over

the gummed note pages

of my appointment

book. The spaces of future days, engulfed like blue, cherries and berries and bananas

in yogurt. Enfold writing. Enfold cat power. Enfold the selves of you together. Present,

this writing / time

that folds


edit revisions,

well through evening

even missed my meeting

without knowing, like

, but not Kafka or Lynch.

Hitchcockian on occasion

Unsure what to say,

neighbor Adam sings a few, off-key.

The sound disappears.

Didn’t or did know I’m on the porch?

and if, how

...does that affect his decision to sing?

Not going, still working

“Call Centers on the Internet”

I’d rather do t hat than drive

to Allen town for three hours

though I am sad to miss

the after-meeting bowling.

It's a good team.

Elijah is a dude

He Works.

Gets fired up

for you

cultivates qualities of excellence.

I come not to praise him, but to tell him I’m

not going to be @ the meeting.

And If

I don’t or will?...

(I did not know then,

when I wrote it,

(In fact I did call))


“my way has always been to walk away quietly.”

To not notify.

Oh knives.

My my

My my my

My My My My My




Text Box: “Quality Pays” …………….     ………….                    .. ..   ..         ..  . .. .. .   ..   … .         ..   .    ...    …………..     …   ….  . . iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii





com/2010/05/RAP 2: Don’t Assu



Knife Country. No. Knife. No. KNIVE. NO.

Knife Summer?

It is still

the knife summer


I don’t do that so much anymore.

Huh. Entanglements. A recurring pain

generated in a point in my bowls,

hangs high and to the left

of my spine,

my crotch shackra,

high and to the left



close your eyes and ride,



The Diaghram, Breath through.....................................Work

always Breathe, No MaTTER

W H A T I T I S..........................................Compile summarize

of how or why......................................................BREAK Down

you have come

T O B E T H E R E................................................ FREE

The Knife summer pursues me and I pursue myself, a round evening

energy spikes then drops. Making phone calls, not.

All the many subtlties and maneuvers, then it breaks, stone

crash through plate glass. Whatever gets you off,

whatever you truly get

off / on




Poem for People

Prannic Squid Named Laura

for Lowell, Meredith, Tim and John Coltrane (Individually then all together)

Meaning, reality, perception, communication, feeling, connection: Do these things exist as we think they do or do they have an independent existence separable from what we think? What do we think is going on and what is really going on? Big questions, unanswerable questions. There is more going on under the sun than we dare to think. Or no matter what we think this will remain true.

Butchered Switch is proud to present this post as a remedy or further confusion of these questions.

Seeds borne to foreign

cities floating silhouette and throat

singing in the sky

under the sun and the evening,

going with and meeting scoundrels.

This is where insert your memory.

Your stories recall

unseen places, patterns of behavior and

sexual existence

spoke over smoke in sunglasses

with an air, something in the ear

rings heavy, all

not as it seems.


this idea of creating

reoccurring pain

through interaction with scoundrels

we draw to us somehow.

more than luck, we want.

we do not want. Bang,

split. that’s it.

we are all Laura Palmer.

doubles. multiples.

the multiples are, but do not, can not, meet.


swirl and sift,

like grades of fuel,

above our crude, the ghost.

The smoke of our self

burns up the chimney.

Breaking placenta of space

into pranna,

the thick invisible

formless realm,

bridged to ours by a rope

tethered to the skull’s crown.

A tentacle, if you will,

dragging along down on the bottom of the sea,

dangled lazily by the giant prannic squid, named Laura,

measureless mass the size of our mind

space, tangling

all their tentacles together,

telepathy is the electricity traveling these channels,

it can happen that the body gets a whiff

a glimmer of this orgy,

but the totality or scale we can’t fathom.

The squid drag us,

they are big balloons with just enough air to lift us onto tip toes,

skirting the turf,

no control

going and doing what we do not want,

hence Laura Palmer Syndrome,

hence we stress

our innocence.

RAP 2: Don't Assume

The Raps Continue to Rain Down

Don’t assume I don’t consume just coz im nice to you.
my dandruff is enough to blaze
so high my verses rain down
the sky don’t turn light
its always night and clans fight
for resources
deny our return to the worms,
drinking the dirt reclaim a claim for the earth,
yea yea yea,
you heard this before Im sure
but still the absurd underlies that return
so don’t scorn words
even when possibly violently expiring
elevates the values of silence and stealth,
to be explicit which is it intention or inspirations
intervention from beyond The Beyond

The Grave carves a terrifying space,
sightless beasts grow like snow
in a globe, rap holds up the glass to our condition of Woe
now is this pretension or actual extension
of the mind outside its boundary line
titanic eruption, erection of monoliths by
mongoloid minds do not transcend time
they create a rhyme on the fly no style so wild as a childs
and no indignation less deserving than a white guys
to even begin answering why will consume a life-time
a historical inheritance of indolence and spoiled kids,
outlet for frustrations in obsession over
even simple concepts like honor or acceptance of squalor,
we don’t know
who did this
the hand that pulls the slip
is covered in shit
now and forever we stink of it.


Somehow the feelings of an individual for an individual transmute into their feelings on the world. Or vice versa. Sometimes we come to love what we condemn. Can only love it after we have condemned it. This poem is the result of such a feeling. It is a response to MOUNTAIN Poem which is somewhere in the archive. That is an apocalypse poem, a cry against a blasted earth. Now I find that I love that world...not that that changes what it is?


that love

struck itself

with a stone


the time of toxic wonders

simpleton travelers

circling the stone,

left out

for Behemoth,

to clean,

a sweep

motion devolves onto their heads,

overpowering everything,

the perpetual

MacGuffin of our chatter

through which, at times,

breaks this heavy fucking


serious stink

over the mountain

and it cleaned them out,

the louts didn’t know a thing

or if they did didn’t say, see.

that is, this

is all poetry criticism


the point

being, doom

saying contains an elegy,


backwards rush


regardless of context

transforms the objects of prophesy,

rendering Gomorrah fit for judgment on different scales,

and simultaneously, the rush,

being intuitive,

is enough,

known or not,

as the paradox must go

love to the stricken place

love to the stricken place

R A P 1: Language Rap

Butchered Switch is very proud indeed to introduce a new feature, raps!
Yes, raps. Brought fresh from the market every morning by MC Michael Cody alias MC Shadetree alias djmussolini, aka Big Momma aka Modest Blossoms, the Chopper.

What makes a poem different from a rap? Is a rap a poem? Possibly, it is all a question of intention. I intend to write a rap and it looks like a poem, but I believe it is still a rap. If you agree and see the possibility write me some beats.

Rap 1: Language

when words are used do you assume

that paper moves

tangibly as a disease or a retreat

obviously means words used seem true

but what about the document dips


does not really rip the document's

downside sways in front of me.

alter one while going on it later says

“The present seems true but listen—try not to?

Is he a single person it usually is

thinking about my implications

though I maintain with trangsressive sayings

writing to talk it

more comes out of where its taken

and the element comes to talk to whom

I read for to much to soon

even just saying

I’m not one context,

people realize with me the shit does have weight,

Capacity to feed leads to functions that did not exist,

do not belong, until the rhyme is re-printed

though needing to change

removing earnestness

don’t make sense–turn my head and we happen

is there obsession? what

we finally figured out how to count moments

regardless of what we thought was real was wrong

all we thought was real was wrong

with whatever seconds left listen—

the options invaded

the present

never really seems there or be real

or even has meaning—

see in a sense I just rip the document

alter the process

With one trangsressive saying

I in my writing read everything

in the nature of its times

alienate people because

how to leave


until relationships start to matter

You in the action, a virus that can be is printed

language shape paper learns for us,


we just percent the time

Poem for Nancy

This is the poem Butchered Switch has been most nervous about posting. It might not be good. It is not meant to be good. It is trying to be very honest.

Eulogy for Nancy

Nurse’s voice, in collapsing space,


it was the strangest thing.

You fell, a part

there on us.”

parched lips meant

no more story time

parched lips meant

bring her the cup

hold her head

til she begins to tilt in

help her, help her to fall

come on. come on. come on. come on.

help. help. come on. oh come on.

again and again

the road is not peaceful.

peace will come when we memorize, erase

There was a big thunderstorm

the day you died.

All day it was hot, then it cooled

and in the evening came a big storm.

Sitting out on the porch in the lurch,

not wanting to do anything normal

not wanting to smoke or watch t.v.

to feel this disruption

as long as focus could hold because

it was going to be swallowed,

was already scrambling to be swallowed.

oh well.

Speak with that person in your mind

and the rain drops.

When it rains

I accept


of my imperfection

and yours, a weight I’ll shoulder,

to deal with another time.

This is what we can do.

We’ll like it. Be there together.

foam floats over

the edges

to be covered

the square to be made circle

God dancin in her heaven.

Moments stolen out of time

need not be returned

the cosmos is a pattern

wove around such random nodes.

This concentration widens

other pieces break out into focus

the tangential are ghost

squid whose long tentacles mingle and mix

holding the mass but not in place

quick grab them, as many as you can.

That’s life. So it goes.

We don’t know anything.

as we fall

into the oblivion




a sea

of love.

I will wash your hair

I will comb your feet.

come on. come on. come on. come on.

help. oh help. come on. help.


Poem for Willum

for Willum

I wrote on him wall. ‘off to the races.’

a chicken’s dream on sunday

talking horse play on the porch

I didn’t know what to do when I did.

but it happened, and moved on


good poetry came out of this night

all the good poems fluttering around to be grabbed


it was so easy to do what we did

and we weren’t doing a thing wrong

nor wronging anyone in the whole world

even just to have done that, to not wrong for even a second

can we ever in certainty say this without fear of reprove

and is our fear a sign of guilt and shame

or heightened sensitivity to the wrongs we do.

call god a she, say the lords prayer.

go take a piss.

recite as you walk to your tree.

before the poet can write without ego she must examine her ego

bear it explore it and come to terms

terms mean tears most times

but still,


in this room of rain walls

this blue room

shadow mother

sister brother

morphing reptiles have eaten my family.

and replaced them with their duplicates.

who seduce me with love and understanding.

then to what purpose

well I can’t but wait and see


if that I don’t

still won’t be quit of.

Poem For You

You have to guess who it is because it is someone specific.

Think about voice versus conversation. Voice doesn't mean conversational necessarily. Well it does up to a point, a certain specific minimum percentage, the exact ratio of which is something the Butchered Switch Team has been trying to pin down for some time now. But, Voice is more a movement than a style. A mode, an unavoidable convention, an empty substance with heft, an orientation, a means of establishing connection and a means of play. Poetry after all is primarily play. And if you're not giving 150% at least then we have nothing to talk about.

Poem for You.

what and where


to be asked


we are

and what are we

doing, and where we are


dive in,

like Elijah says, let go of the pools edge.


play flute

over end of time.

think about the franchise.

we can build

if we like.

a turning torso.

we liked that in sweden.

swede men in general.

the general with his pipe

and his fop in a doo rag,

breaking out decanters

from an open globe of a liquor cabinet

which in its scheme

has a molten liquor center

a set of glasses, place for the decanters

a grapefruit spoon, the requisite ball-gag.

the weirdo chamber music.

the navel gazer polished convex.

half dome.

why these words

wake me

a mystery

i am slowly working to solve

all my problems

are my problems

our problems

are so much bigger

our bp

hill of beans

floating on the periphery

of Saturn rings

so what


my lord does wish to choose

does lord wish to tire his jester


about the themes







tical shape

a pit stain, spreads

past the break down

the page turned sideways.

turn the page sideways. see

graphics. lucid as a précis,

loose as melting




deliciously spoken.

break the mold.

fix the pattern.

isolate movement

into basic tensions.

types of tension range from full relaxed to metal man.

stop talking

stop writing

stop sabotaging my peanuts.

it’s embarrassed enough

as is without this new paintjob.

busted gas line

spilling into small pan,

50 dollars worth

of gas

dirtied beyond use from its drip down the curved side

of the gas tank.

isolation and a pause

halting narration of different subject.

a new color a new relation.

an old story

mimed over conversation.

a small lorry

circling the outcrop of the light post

twirling its flame from above

the brush of my hair.

the uranium is ten feet down so its fine.

don’t stir it sir, please.

if what we ask is naked

even and rejected

then how shall we ask?

in what must we clothe ourselves?

how you

keep moving.



butts with gyration.

a real sensation.




Telepathy Flowers For Curtis Jackson and Sun Ra

Bought two bottles of wine
for a man
thinking he can choose the one he likes.
I had never seen him drink.
He settled for beer,
a thumb in a glass,
a small sale, but still. I plied my trade.
I didn't bat an eye over the wine
working him down
slow through his options

I had never seen someone drink
so little and have such a good time.
A true conservationist
knows the value of the finish.
What kind of race does your drinkin' run you?
And what condition are you in when you get to the end?
And how does that reality measure against your ideal?
Passed out in a puddle of puke on your floor
or the reward of a sunrise tired but no hangover.

Don't think for one fucking minute
that I'm trying to bullshit you here.
This is truth of the universe stuff,
listen up and win a ride
through time and the cosmos
on a space ship with Sun Ra and his multi-colored mufti.
Yea, you'll play such music as was never heard
but he's gonna put you to work.
You don't know nothing about sweat yet is what I'm saying.

I've been through the program,
I'm doing it now,
putting in those long days,
getting up early
laying the framework
not even thinking about the money.

The end goal is a cosmic re-write
and a transformed world
where everyone has their lawn and their house
but we are all the Big Lebowski
so it totally works exactly right

for example when we write we all write and we just write all day
hunched over our notepads, fingers scrawling on air
and noone speaks or shares, or needs to,
we are already
it starts slow then whoa see
telepathy flowers

Put that on a t-shirt and give it away for free
abandon profit and I guarantee your business model will work.
Yea but how do I make money?
Honey, you're way behind.


Zoo zoo zoo zee zee zee
boo boo boom, be be be

Poem For Robert Osbourne and my Country

for Robert Osbourne and My Country


of songs

of time

TCM summer of the stars

my intimate dalliance

with Robert Osbourne, his pancake


smear on my cheek

reminds me in the mirror in the morning

who it was left these rumpled sheets

on facebook I leave a message

and he responds,

saying he’ll call

and I wait like a sucker

sipping one beer, two three four

on the porch

as the twilight tides

and the pack of cigarettes

grows larger and larger

and my phone sits

as quiet as his


his involuntary gasps


told me he could introduce me

to Ben Manckiewicz if I like

he told me he had a Masserati

“it’s a fucking million dollar car.”

“I rigged a cowcatcher on its front

to get through the riot.”

To get here. I felt us draw apart

he left to get a bowl of cereal

stayed downstairs for twenty minutes

I didn’t even think to think

that it was my house.

I lay feeling my abs and my sides

strumming a guitar in my mind:

“learn to say the same thing,

what defeats people

is a double confession

one day they will say one thing

and the next they’ll say

something else,

you talk to them

and they will say,

learn to say the same thing.”

That’s not even my song,

but when I sing it I make it mine.

Like I made Robert mine,

even as he played me,

for his is a double confession

and mine a silence

a pounding silence

on the cusp of a glass

a hand dipt into wine

a ten mile plume

a cloud of oil falling from the sky

miles of railroad

and no home

and two wigs

and a row of bottles

800 in school bills

800 in rent

a notch on my wall

a scalp on my belt

an old cowboy walks down the street

and I cry

hey you want a nip old timer

hand him the fifth

his mouth dirties the bottles,

says nothing moves on

he smells like blood and piss

down at the intersection

a car crash piles

shots ring through the mountain

the shale extraction machine is a gigantic rocket

shaped explicitly like a penis

when all the shale is gone

and all the poison runoff

it will blast away

go back to mars

the alien harvest

the full harvest moon

a red welt in a blue night

a cheese wedge strapped to a robot cockroach

we lunge after it but miss

as it scuttles under the fridge

never to be seen again

our head banged the door as we leapt

down on fourth street they’ve started to drink their own piss

and we sing


Holy Holy Holy Lord God of Sabbath

Heaven and Earth are full are full

of the Majesty of thy Glory.

Hosanna Hosanna Hosanna in the Highest

Blessed is She that comes

in the name of the Lord

Hosanna Hosanna Hosanna in the Highest