poetic language                 issue four                 fall 2004


Jack Foley
Amari Hamadene
Jake Berry
Aamir Aziz
Paul Hardacre
Jonathan Minton
Thomas Lowe Taylor
Hazak Brozgold
Laurie Price
AnnMarie Eldon
Eli Jones
Danielle Grilli
Sandra Simonds
Elizabeth Kate Switaj
Marcia Arrieta

  Anne Boyer  
  Stan Mir 
  Dee Rimbaud
  Jeff Harrison
  Ian Randall Wilson
  Skip Fox 
  Jesse Glass
  Hugh Tribbey
  Robert Furze
  Brian Howe
  Scott Keeney
  Michael Estabrook
  Nick E. Melville
  Clayton A. Couch
  Steve Timm



Jack Foley




an exercise in conversations
(originally written as an introduction to Richard Segasture’s play, Limbo)

Darkness.  The light comes slowly.


What is it?
It sweetens the circulation of the blood.
My blood is circular enough already.
And your reasoning?
What is it?
Voices.   Voices.

Up to now our considerations have been referred to a particular body of reference which we have styled a "railway embankment."   We suppose a very long train traveling along the rails with the constant velocity v

As far as I am able to judge, after long attending to the subject, the conditions of life appear to act in two ways: one

we see indefinite variability
out of millions of individuals
whether extremely slight
fact of this system?                                                                        what you call
to tame an animal                                                                          "ecstasy"
fed on nearly?                                                                                other people call
deviations of structure                                                                    "rock

These are the
of the real

Other relations between the species of enormous greenery

Manifestations of the
Movements in the
Sweetens the circulation of the blood
And your reasoning?
What is it?

They inculcated modesty as the great ornament of a woman and implicit reverence for her husband, softening their admonitions by such endearing admonitions as showed the fullness of a parent’s love.

In the last rays of the sun, she
thinking of nothing but

long black hair, covered in some parts of the country, by a veil made of a fine web, flowers, precious stones, and pearls from the Gulf of California

they are powerful enough
hybrid, and alone
but the faithless
a furious storm encountered
I was not now received as a stranger.

Said she:     I have never made my appearance out of Sweden. Everybody is so kind to me in my native land, but should I appear in Copenhagen and be hissed— So I calmed her and said: Only a moderate voice and a little knowledge of acting will be successful. I believed she might safely venture.


but the storm came, for many days, the
vessel was tossed about, and all on board
were filled with apprehension, and no little
against the authors
of their calamities


(there is a phenomenon)



Truly I have lost weight, I have
lost weight,
grown lean in love’s defense,
in love’s defense grown grave.
It was concupiscence
that brought me to the state:
all bone and a bit of skin
to keep the bone within.

Flesh is no heavy burden
for one possessed of little
and accustomed to its loss.
I lean to love, which leaves me lean
till lean turn into lack.

A wanton bone, I sing my song
and travel where the bone is blown
and extricate true love from lust
as any man of wisdom must.

Then wherefore should I rage
against this pilgrimage
from gravel unto gravel?
Circuitous I travel
from love to lack
and lack to lack,
from lean to lack
and back.

Darkness again.  And into the play.








Amari Hamadene


The following poems as edited by Gregory Vincent St. Thomasino make up
the "eratio postmodern poetry edition" of these poems and may not be copied,
reprinted or republished without permission.



eratio postmodern poetry edition

I lay awake — your shame my only triumph. 
Beside you, the kingdom beyond the grave is nothing
to the all-embracing desert.e

When your eyes are closed,r
the earth is veiled.a
Warriors of the drunkenness do not hopet
for more than a voyage.i

In our satiety,o
I realize — you are going to be born again,
the salt of your arms to ignite me,
kindle and quell, ever to remind me

your nakedness is going to haunt me.






eratio postmodern poetry edition

Doors penetrate the thickness of walls: e
That East, behind reconciliations, where vanish asses, r
rogues and broken hearts —
really, all who cannot unveil their faces a
for threat of a betrayal by far-off fenestrations.t
To the light of day they prefer the discretion of the shadei
and wallow in their vertical beds —
one to commit his misdemeanors, the other to hide himself for silliness,o
and the last to grieve his love of fifteen years.






eratio postmodern poetry edition
Barefoot and eyeless I go into death and into frost.e
No thorn fails to pierce me. No one pities me. r

Weeks go by, the protocols multiply.a
Imams without faces. And downpours.t

My coat is in tatters, but it is all I own,i
All that covers my rotten body. . . .o

You! Wait your turn! Now, you! Take this shovel!
Take these twigs of herb and bury your fallen war-fellow!





Still Newborn

eratio postmodern poetry edition

I seat myself between two fragments —
an accused, apologetic laughter, spent by details of landscape.e

I chew my fingers all morning before writing.r
In the war of Solitude, it is necessary to cinch every honor.a

And so, I seat myself between two possibilities —
a vision of before and after.t

This laughter, these contingencies, imbibe and conspirei
to murder the sun.o












Jake Berry



War Poems



Wasp in amber.
Christ's palms in formaldehyde.
The scribes are weeping
in the ruins of their broken vocabulary.

Comes a witch in Canaan
can speak in pure image.
The ground crawls with
maggots when she speaks.

Soldiers and
mortar gun trucks
raid the laboratories
and take the parameter.
They are figures
in a book of prayer
locked in a virus.

Her left hand clutches
the broach of Minerva —
The sea swells
and swallows them all
and the prophets with them.

The grain gone sour
in the monastery stores,
even hallucination
take its meat and
breathe into the cameras
and satellites

Heaven is empty now
except these leeches
pocked in gravity's curve

falling toward the capitol
collecting the populace
like teeth.



for Chris Mansell

Death days are like this.

The sun rises from a brackish well
and the starling's
speckled feathers shimmer.
His black eye twitching
against a human window

Death days are like this.

The grand machine
warped and broken
and spread across a cotton field

and the breaking plow
and the broken wheel
make you
curl inside the hive and tremble

and the two-faced god
he swallows whole and bitter
The raging sun
The raging sun
The black mass bleeding mirror



stuff this in his mouth."

The arrogance of sovereignty.

Dust blindness and lice.
Wires in his teeth
like squirming eels.

— Some of them joyously
submitted to a night
in the stocks
and a hot metal stave
inserted in the anus.

What is pleasing in God's sight?

The Catherine wheel.

What is pleasing in the eyes of the Lord?

When I was delirious
you woke me.
When I was buried
in the black & white
you set the printing press
on fire
with seamy images
lit out of nowhere.
Bondage to the ziggurat urge,
I am calloused nerve and
the stark inclination of old suns.

Burn what does not please you Lord.
Burn the eyes
that make you see.

4.1.04 All Fool's Day




Vertebrate insect mutates toward heaven.

Two scars carry their message from
generation to generation.

Where the women sleep
you can read their histories.

Children of thunder,
children of curses.

They are devout
and see no one
beyond their covered brows
but what the law requires.
Their's is a poison runs
in the circuits,

fashions the union
of commerce and slaughter.

an arsenal of plastics:
ring within ring sheep
in the rain:
the price of electricity
devouring its mother. 







Aamir Aziz



Funeral of Innocence

an overwhelming pathos becomes impetus to this anthem of lament
I am an innocent dove, imploring for regain of my lost dynasty
where i laid eggs and my newones opened their eyes.
an unknown apprehension of kites and falcons
led to the most irretrievable blunder on my part.
I reared a gluttonous serpent for guard of my best legacy.
it was nurished with the best of my daily findings.
time passed and the count of my ova went down,
and so was with my offsprings, just stains of blood remained.
blame was laid on the vultures and their assaults,
and hence it placed an excuse for its inevitable stay.
the thought of migration stung me, since i loved my haven
a time came when I was declared an outcast from my heaven.
why to express regrets for the nest when the tenants are gone!
would that i had an eye to see through the common heresy and superstition.
on a bare shoot, i just flutter and weep over my folly.



Wanted!  A Clown Incognito


Beware of the feats of a veteran clown incognito
Who is a myopic judge and underfed humped gambler
Convention, foresight, love and reason are his cosmetic hues.
He is royal merchant whose ship capsized along the shore
He is a serpent, a thief, an alligator and a sage behind single visage
His gadgets have varied standards
Builds shrines for the dead and spoils the living
Lacks sight and pretends insight
With a storm in his head, his manifesto is the same
Behold his hurried acceptance of crushing defeat
The authorities look at their brainchild aghast
A diseased, incorrigible and humble puppet of sand
A self-mocking savage, a lip-tight icon
A drowning carcass, an exhausted hound.
Vain glorious idolater, blind to the apex threads.
Wages war and signs the armistice in the same breath
A spoiled child, whose morals vary across the frontiers.
A mysterious vase, a beauty without truth
Toppled numerous gods for his personal throne
His infinite prophetic flights bear true witness to his godly genius
But his doglike ambush attacks on the left over, deny this claim.
A Stone, who has set ablaze his credentials of innocence
He is a poor mercenary pawn and a chessman simultaneously.
Such a notorious and familiar stranger he is and still at large.
May he be residing in your heart, arrest him and undress him.






Paul Hardacre




from The river is far behind us (Parts vi-xi)


bantams & a mean black dog
their finches
                    & quails (uncooked
climb the side battens rides a
yamaha upstairs got into transfers
as a method of cheap pine cone

christmas bells, lights & ribbons
& planet story her
tits zipped into a tight spacesuit


(military cyborg on cosmic wall
attendant swirling, the ‘data’ font &
                                                      green LCD

(& kind of girly spoilt & munching sweets

the start of firetop mountain praying
in the toilet vs. storms




      lay in the burnt-out      shells      of their cars
poke out       windows & wrong turn / mobile
mcdonalds (details

                                 sketchy frequent use
of ‘division’       & pop-ups, soft-top trucks &
            jah be praised        he turns & waves

                                             kitchen sounds (sloshing,
                                                      scuff of wooden sabots

      he kept for mud
      & refrigerated hum) too cold

for pialba torquay / nina’s front seat lick
crush of early atari dusty arcade coins &
glowing detachable brains in a van
was grey even then before cutting &

tyre swans card       tables sideburns

                                         the faded XB
(car sick with brown paper

taped bryan adams & sting / scary country turned out wrong it
crumbles & fears the moon landing) &
charlie went bald in the end the frogs
      watched in silence
      the stubbies piled up the pop

of bullet      & bone he rocks when done
                                          & shadow vessels

                                          doesn’t love me (cloth




accidental triple / end pocket of man he
          dreams in sanskrit & drags uphill reverses
          off cliffs & carries her broken through rising
lazy sons / collection of
metal & electrodes his workshop maths our dead pets
           mapped in black & white
with spikes
& mostly cats
the cards & pills a nation

of spoons & drove
to fremantle, wave rock, welded




notes on blue paper
(original dead bundle of words
                              the peeled metal trunk his head
                              is walled untitled & towers above gippsland
                              a hand emerges from the top left corner
                                                  the dark blood


the tube & bricks he looks
                     like errol flynn floating in buttermilk (fragmentary


nature of dreams, visions & altered mind

                    ‘australia’s most entertaining freak show’

(think babe, the sheep pig / she-devil saga
legs akimbo, shitting through hoops) &
coalition forces      advance to baghdad there’s
           that hand again this
                                         time frazzled syrians

           (‘freedom deficit’ or power kicks / a black mangled
                                   road & bones) these are the syrians
                                                                 we had to have




                      ‘missiles filled two craters in the
                                   footpath & pools of blood
                       stained the main street’
                       (the courier mail, 28 march 2003)


                      & myers to camera:
                                 ‘it’s a brilliant plan’




hop in / terry smells like wet carpet &
east brisbane first month of summer
          NAR equals lion & some kind of fuel

missing & stayed in desert boy up in
                              the fort crammed / swelling

                 with poms she vase-like &
         handled her night train met a quack with
samosas announced most stops & classes the cheap
                motor trips us, happy wiped &

         bleeding her

dress swings mad her yellow eye twists









Jonathan Minton



Imaginary Cuba



An island is an island if in relation to other land,
if eating an orange makes me think I’d like to eat a banana,
if unable to think of two things, I divide the one in half,
as is the custom
                      of moths in flight from one
                      flower, then another, and a third,
if limiting the choice between only two models
of economy cars makes the choice easier,
if I mis-choose a sensible car then refuse to take it as is,
as is the custom
                      of refinished paint, retrofitted wiring,
if in translation, the distance between as and is increases,
if cuba libre is a rum and coke cocktail,
if a mustachioed Juan Valdez in floppy hat rolls
cigars for the heads of state,
as is the custom
                      of eating, drinking, smoking on adjacent
                      window-stoops, of speaking across the street


If is an island if taken
as one sign within
plenty: if seen through a series
                      of display windows: sliced oranges
                                  copied as orange juice copied
                                  as instant beverage in zero-
                      gravity: radio waves
                      decompose as static,
                      their signals returning
                      as global fallout
                      as powdered crystal


A discourse develops in another
          circuit, as one
          fruit is copied as another: an orange
          image copied as sliced
          bananas: in hand, the one
          is translating as gesture:

as is an orchid taking the shape of a moth,

thorns around the reddest berry




I am speaking to Eduardo
beneath the open window.
He leans in, listening, with the same
expression as before.
I am speaking with my hands,
pointing to the empty stoop above us.
I am gesturing an absence,
my hands at my sides, then upheld
at shoulder length.  In gesturing,
I am saying no one is here.
In gesturing I am saying
you are there.  He is speaking
in gestures as he whispers,
his mouth shaping su...ve...cino,
drawn-out, as if written
on wooden tablets, as if spoken,
the word could drift.  I am listening
as I watch his hands
pace his sentence, marking the air
in an architecture of shared space,
first the door to a room, then a window
opening elsewhere, bit by bit,
pue...pues...pueso... I am catching
sounds passing between the intentions
placed side by side by side, as if
the sentence were lengthened into a street.
He is gesturing you are here, as if
the room were arranged
at the end of the street,
as if in the room there were green
trees, green blossoms, as if the room
could expand, and his hands
were full of fallen fruit, and mine
of promise, as if the rooms
weren’t there and floating now to sea.




Eduardo walks the length of street, singing his way home.
He starts and stops to his song, humming.  The song draws a circle
around each step as he passes.  The song is a sketch of home.  The song
is a sketch of fallen Ceiba leaves whose imprints color the pavement.
On the stoop above, a radio plays Carlos Puebla, yo sigo siendo Cubano,
continuing as he crosses the traffic.  In an open-air bar, a Cubano band sings
for tourists sipping mojitos.  The songs may end.  At any moment.  The songs may
repeat beneath one placard for Castro, another for Charlie Chaplin.   El Chicuelo,
the songs sketch one terrain for home, then another.  The songs have the character
of distance in discovering a Zapata Finch perched in the column of national flags
at Santa Clara.  The songs are flags without trumpets.  The songs are a sign for arrival.
The songs divide their sketch between stoop and sidewalk, bar-stool and one of
several flights.  The songs are a wheel whose colors do not move as the wheel
moves.  The songs disperse as aperture, moth-winged, over the radios, then return
in the surplus of wires and circuits in a fuse box.  Beneath the column
of flags, the songs assemble a surplus of Ceiba flowers the color
of flags, thinning out the length of street, the flowering of trumpets.




How many rooms can you sing?
How many rooms?  Between the length of street
and the column of flags, the room is a greeting.
In Eduardo’s room I am greeted.  The balcony door
leans against the wall.  The walls are like skin.  A map begins
as this—graft, graph, the health of the city.  Or is this historical,
a matter of witness, holes in the wall letting in rain?  Vision
is not a window but light entering the room
in the shape of its apertures.  Outside
the walls are evidence:

          at the Palacido del Segundo Cabo (six
          styles of Spanish archways (Greek
          columns, filigree design (wooden
          cobblestones (glyphic signals in fresco
          and neon green

This is the first instance of witness, before another, and the visionary third
          (mapped as an island if the island is evidence of other land (the expansive
                    bounty of a city (if the room is evidence of a city,
                    if laundry and potted Ceiba trees,
                    retro-fitted wiring
                    behind the balcony door
                    are evidence of the room
                                (if not the door bolted to a door, but the door
                                leaning against the wall
                                           (against the wall, tissues of verdant
                                           plants spill the ruined
                                           expanse of the city walls
          a map of its history expands or declines, as is, or taken as
          assemblages of green cells between plaster












Thomas Lowe Taylor



An homage to Bob Dylan


Everything was exactly as real as it seemed


    As, what'd passed unknown was not so much seen as recalled from doubt
itself, no matter in the moment unsurpassed would not believe in what was
said against aggression or the moon itself no mentor but the sum, a seam
some noise perhaps around surround as passion's prelude a foment or scatter,
that's the due itself.  No choice not to do, no alternative but the
unbearable not-knowing in the midst of not-doing.  She said not, or was it
knot?  No difference in the plural of itself you'd met nothing in its
outside colors-ant colonies and their associated poetry festivals of fart
and spoon, the twin angles of the side aside in its own juices wept or
wrapt.  This was at or thus.

    Your own passage a remote sensitivity, not a paradise or even
its opposite, a gnawing snake inside your own sensations, a relativistic
appropriation, an unmet sensorium, like a version.  Where'd been met its
other in the non?  Lexicon de rigeur non plento nor spasm-out some other
moon or funnel.  The man at the hearing spoke into a mask-like cone, as if
recording to some distant location, or else providing a translation for those
who asked.  Was it other?  Maybe the voice of the turtle left along the way.
I'd spoke like this before, even beholden to my token and signs of doubt,
like he said, the stuff of life.

    Don't go on too long, it might run out like colored fluids on
the ground, distinguished by their robustness and not their mettle.   Decide
yourself if it's any other way around or just what it is to itself, it's no
matter to the matter of what it is.  We imagine there's a future at all, eh?
North to Alaska, the rounder signals win, you drop out and hold alive along
some other way reminding out the same thing forward or not reminded at
purple or blue-green noise evading all sense of recall.  Lane violations,
like other glib noises hunkering beside the posse notwithstanding invaders'
calm, no recluse demento alive within your hands along your sighs reminding
songs along the road without piety or any other manifestation of his or hat
the clinger spun and silent within its' own chant.

    Rocks.  The natal dune, the portion out-of-control, and then
hide-asided.  No lent or stammer, no cranial in the doom of outers heads
them one-on-one against the tune, some small anchor to the splintered
passing line, a higher rising sound against your ear, that was the ankle of
doubt to which you referred prior, noxious weeds are limned at the wall's
outer.  Rocks on again.  Shine unmet nor mist at shore a lout and flamer,
here's the dunk no foal or charge, limits grind against you soon or not, the
lummox dune and shape.  What's too many to deny, what's not too long, or
servile, a lacy-dee, a tune without spasms you've elongated and then left at
the side of the road, no muter in your mast.  Your careful work goes
unnoticed, a flower in its stem of glass and water, a wafer, a knot, a
doo-wah-ditty on the mask of dust.  Your own business, laughably not itself.
As and not of.  There's the sign along your matted squirrel, lath and
plaster on your jowls a smirk and repetition nor another you'd said "not
again" and then gone on forward lunging speed and bump of light the blinding
flash unfurled and then let go against the non.  Here's where it went on and
on again.  Maybe she's not interested but just wants to make a memory
perfect again in the recluse of its own lingo remedied for a mentionable
duck.  That's the light, you say and then head on out into the spirit night
in the dark of today leaning forward-seeming "taking a chance on love" was
how it went down again the rhythm scanning out and on.  Rusty solo winds out
from its ephemeral gloom.

    I lean into the wind of your ribbons, stretching into time
itself like the history of what has passed beyond.  A ruff or ruffle, no
doubt about it, scheming into the non without some destiny or portrayal.
This much is certain to what you intend.  This much would do it again, or
not.  You'd angle on bespoke, as they used to say, beyond doubt or this
perverse love-affair with the non.  The sentient angle is not broken nor is
it tended within parameters or with some other day you should have left
behind.  Cling to what?  Just how much worse can it possibly get?  This'd
eke, this'd lean aside and weep or stain.

    As in 'nothin else to do' is how you step aside the lunging tide
of what's passin' passion in our midst, a mammary of your own gland, younger
than that now, or formal declinations among the foam persist or fathom.
Late to the nooner in her eye, another sore on your gums reminds you that
time is passing, too.  How's the dune, yet a single or a natter on your
missed opportunities for remiss and calm, a doorway beckons like an opening,
or what it is.  Yet the glimmer of fortitude claims inattention from its own
absence to focus on the name itself, the tone of the deal, the mass of the
plume in ascendance.  From formal links, this is the normal trope, screaming
up and down the neck of the instrument, how your arm aches from the typing
on the slotted surface, banded loops at strum and flake you'd healed in the
inner eye, sent like a message to a foreign country to one who understands
your dilemma, nor cures it out against hope.

    At all costs, continue, damn the potatoes!  What'd cur or dog?
No other on the shore wiggling at the suggestion of it.  No pattern to the
ramble, just cause again, a snore or stamen, a liquor on the dunes
themselves, a repetition, a boring stone.  Bide a wee, slam a clam and pool,
rank a pastor soon to musk and gloom, its' own due, not measured or forced
against its will and center.  Slake a doom, pull a gee or flak a poon and
skeiner.  Flock a porter fuming at the gate.  Scrape a doubter from the
later skull or room hard in its own juices met and fatter.  Shove a pouter
tough along the plume but lean its' outer frame a lute or spoon, natal and
wrong, out at the running flame, trough of the running pie, lark of the
pining rue.  Your own dimense and skimmer, your own hoist and song, your own
rope of light and tools, your own alter on the cross of lines and seasons,
your absent score in the liner of the arm and horse, your own crime and
fortune, your own ark.

    Next on board, another spoon-fed distillation of the absolute
into its' own manner from which calculations are made for the detail of what
is not explicitly said.  There's the notation on your sleeve, writhing with
your hand against the wind in her ribbons or the arrows on the wall.
Salient features remark, remind, continue and make their statements along
with, along without.  No mere decomposition remarks the heavens in their
perpetual silence, as if some destiny inhered from the assumptions made that
there is an answer to your question, provided you ask or other directions in
the incomplete map of your heart's echoes.  I'd a liner in the moot tempos
laid aside from wherever relief comes upon you in the middle of the night.
There's the noon and beckon, the plate upon the forked tongue that leads the
world downside and reminiscent.  His flatulent pose, his broken hoses, his
allowable denials in the face of a nameless stupidity leaves you weak with
the unexpressed and the fortunate outsiders at the fence muling and repose
at the dark of the day and the tone of the times.

    Here's the deal-your own anchors are left in the ocean while the
ship steals away into some newer Rincon of touch, boards leaning up against
the seawall, teen-aged girls hokey and strewn about like leftovers.   A silly
whim, a newer relication from what's not spoken or eventuated toward the
celestial father unknown as it is in "no answer" to your questions.   It's
not exactly futile, only irresponsible, muted in the anchor of some passion's
reclused forbidden.  Host.  Female to the outer banks, she weaves and
slaloms along the dusky trails from the top of the hill down into the
forbidden glade at the bottom, it is an idea like that which tells you the
end is near, near enough to calculate but yet not stroke or pimento, a
blonde horse and rider up against the moon and tangle.  Can you wait just a
little longer? "Just say no to hope," the poster said, the second lady's
face smitten with a flax sincerity you might have seen on the sidewalk.   It's
a revelation, muter dee, and let among the natives who are more than
restless, they're pissed.  Not drunk, either, but pissed at the infantile
disappearance of all that was and is once again in dispute, fathomed out of
the heavens with neither pity or scorn, just dropped into the punch bowl
with a solid right against your chops, blam!  And wham at the signatory calm,
wham at the empty chasm in front of you, aerobic fear of heights lets you
dung and down, stair step at a time to say forgiveness is in the realm of
the felt signification of doubt at the censor's clamor and throng.

    I'd knotted thrust against her swollen hips, as if to feel
something with my left hand against the formica in my heart, no wet
distances are perplexed into silence by the norm ahead, it's a
forward-seeming thing to wait too long for the first motion of a related
song, one you called ahead and made a place for in the remute distances of
your heart's woe and stain.  Nor max nor pattern on the wind.  No waiting
in the next room.  Engulf me with your light.  Hunky pontoon, his other
nomenclature.  Remoted, like, moted again, made small and tight in your
imaginary lexicon of blue floats.  Skanky due or not at all, not read at
all, but collected like the strange butterflies they represent at the
national zoo where all states from the comatose to the ecstatic are
represented in song and dance.  No chances are made at all in this wooden
dream of light, my finger tight into her in the dream, was there any end to
it?  The One of acts reminds you that there is a theme here, only not one
you might apprehend with your phlogiston dials and buttons on your shirt
left open to the waist or central, this is the actual name of what's going on.

    Lark it.  Deal among the natural spunk, what's left on the rug
beside the bed.  How'er ewe?  Flax-it down the long tides measuring again in
the knuckle of foreheaded spam.  Folded.  Morticed.  Intent of the open dork
clears your outer funk like an escape or a dowel strained into the light.
As if, what's familiar might mark the day atune or not, knotted soap-rope
hanging in the shower.  Flux-steamer, drivel snout, police total, skin of
the chaliced skein, as your "robe" is shown against the sky with his face
streaming blood on the surficial rim of your pain.

    Lank the skrawn!  Fold her back against your legs and poke it in
and stay a while, moaning and kissing and striving for dawn against the moon's
own pinnacle of light.  Here's the reason to stay alive.  Here's the name
you called out and got no answer.  Here's the time you said goodbye and didn't
leave.  Here's the light brigade going to its' death in the afternoon of
a forgotten war in a forgotten time for no reason but money.  Here's the
time you moaned into the night and felt a pain rising through your heart.
Here's the pinnacle of civilization about which no one is proud and from
which nothing descends into history but the silence of the heavens reminding
you of your solitude.

    I've marked this sign of the sky with my own skin, but who notices?
Another mark finished the day and went home without any pay but a smooth pat
on the butt.  I was such a dune!  And here was the war on the name of time
which elongated our moment by one tenth of an inch and no more, leaning into
a sense of the hour which mentioned nothing but dirt.  My own relatives
founded the armor of the retired soldiers dying in the bar late at night
over cheap drinks and cheap talk.  My hero sung his poems into the
microphone and had them etched onto little disks of plastic, a distribution
of the are-nots clinging to the raft and singing into the night "Help me!
Help me!" as the waves crashed into your eardrums with profound deafness.  A
lided silents.

    An hour after dark, it is still light on the horizon of your intensities
and forgivings.  This is the hour of harm.  Would you have spoken first, it
might have listed to the left or right, depending on the hour of speech and
the movement of your eyes, skittery or focal.  What's not to do? Really, it's
doubtful to smoke, even less so to register the morning's clear shots
into the heavens' ceiling on the walls beside you—no escaping the continent's
elemental drive toward what it will be, not what it is already in the
allowance it has for diagramming.  A structure, if you will, of its own
mentations.  If that's not too generous, you might move on and encounter the
true nature of what it is.  As has, so let.  A formula for nouns and other
evenings hosted toward the light.  Say Idaho to me in a quiet voice, "Priest
Lake" rules with lifeboats under each tree along the forty mile sides up to
a point below Canada where you might slip through underwater, unaware of it
all.  A stride aside entails no northern due, but links machines with
invisible ties of clear material drawn from the air itself quickly and
without pause.  No matter to her musk, no deviation from the road not taken
but enterprised long among shots, hard among latent fingers.

    Just go ahead and call echo, he'll answer.  I can't even remember what
it was I came here to get away from.  Paints willing schisms with their own
colors and their opposites at the same rhymes, prayers uttered upward into
this density without remiss or calm, a dead decay of summary which clings
and scatters around the towns and gardens in your heart.  Lincoln-log sky
with ends abutted into blue and green.  Your own munificence gathers into a
knot of light and then subsides into cool gray scenting toward black.   It's
not dark yet, but it's getting there.  What's the stroke along your hair,
what's the name she left on the wall, I've been down to the bottom of a
whirlpool of lies, I ain't looking for nothing in anyone's eyes.  Calms
the latent storm without knowing how or why the winds themselves knew where
they are going.  Stand against the hill with her ribbons blowing around you.

    I came here without knowing why, a tabula rasa in repeat performance,
where the knowledge grown resembled the coins thrown upon the table six
times in a row and then consulted, a haruspect of the other world you will
carry from here in the empty box that is your self.







Hazak Brozgold

I Wasn't Born to Loose You

    You whispered that you knew you were going to die, where and when and how.  You said
you saw the tables tilting, and the glasses breaking.  You spoke of many things, in the space
between my legs, your head rested near mine.  In the shadows of your face I found a sort of
innocent knowledge of sex and prostitution.  Gates are open, gates are shut and if he looks at
you from behind his car window and gasps like a fish out of water, if his crew cut hurts and his
stubble is worse, then you can come back to me.  I was interrupted in my pursuit of a diversion,
though the last time I'd gotten by unnoticed.  Well she wore shirts that advertised the color of
her skin and she was blonde and thin and she was rude to you.  Over sushi, his eyes darted, up,
up he told me he wasn't talking to her and when she came she didn't talk to me.  Wash my
mouth out with soap, tie me to your masts, I am a flag; I stand for everyone that was ever
inconvenienced.  Camels marked the end of an era and Marlboros the beginning of something
awful and beautiful and in the river, as it rushed, I pushed my face in, to find what I had lost.
When I touch the meteors and watch the movies about outer space I remember that when I
was young I made forts out of sheets and chairs and that was enough.  In a room decorated as
I would have wanted she was overwhelmed and had to vomit.  She lay by the toilet and her
stockings were torn, she said she'd never been so happy and I helped her aim.  On the subway
going home, it was snowing and I thought it was a sign.  Oh the lights are nice when they
compliment your smile; I wish you would stay for just a little while.  Somehow that night I could
never recreate the way the lamp shone on your face.  We laugh, we laughed, we were high out
of our minds, but so deep into them.  He went away, but he'll come back and we'll talk about
what's happened.  We'll talk about the things only we can say, we'll talk about fear and how it is
comforting to be alone, we'll talk about all the things we already know and know them once
again and feel them come upon us.








Laurie Price



Casino of the Muses


In your figures I'm thinking
The innocence of a man
I'm engaged around the figures
Putting their dreams up on the walls
Especially during winter
When the figures dance with stray winds
Theoretical comparisons between
All we have to do
A frantic diversion
Irrigates the squared themes
Solution to riddles obtained
Florence in Galileo's day
Was a quest for elegance
Each sphere accepting
The yoke of its joys
Would be consumed
Within ten years
The ground there too was thin
Sun-baked countryside spent
Margins leaving their mark
The road when they left the permits




Coral Planet


A thin track of downy light value
in the where that was in rust
with no language or currency
crossing Atlantic pressures
strange, then pleasures so
little in common   Mars,
thorny coral planet swims closer
dangerous, reaches deep,
blood-slower than a close dance
in a Spanish bar  Not even a tourist
and too eager to catch less
than distinguish beyond afternoon
sight, a cliff, but would be safe —
masks fallen off to the sides
Sitting in chairs praying with breath
held through the back door  Chance
to look again after diving, and so filled,
navigating thinnest divides of skin
Tangled vines blind trust values
and use situations complicate by currents,
forced air, wholly absent yet conscious




Pages of a done book



I sat strange enough to alone-start the lens.  Moreover the getting had
heart, was a complete and perfect survival.  We made love.  We climbed exploring
the packed-in backbone of the books.  Seduction of birthmark an inch from the
lens.  From my eye for transfixion calls for skills in the hands of those who
have gladness.  I read settled in stake chapter.  Coffee is my friend.  My
audience was water, hand slaked to tap.  Returning to some otherwise that no one
else could claim.



One sign to learn the formula I fed on so the street's parallel wouldn't
violence as figures of speech compromised past.  A before only depicted the
signal lights.  The mind shed its leaves, traced the way an age is told to gauge
the rebuilding embryo.  In other words, imagine.



He spoke the hypnotic "listen" — a link to cluster the contour maps.
To feed apart the sense points, the line, its silhouettes.  Grasping and chasm;
wings and the poem.  What saves us he said is no vision, no visible control.  The
isolations know the facts and complex neurons made synthetic.  Hearing trumpets
I said the hearing trumpets.



Words as artifice, breakage, mistakes.  Rub the tall consonants to build an
alpine fire and trace the shapes of the trees with your fingers and hands.  Make
the theatre rise to a standing ovation.  A house was invention itself, these
ovals your birthright — their tridents like dandelions.



The wind dies.  Bronze clasp, glass lines.  Women paint their eyes open on
the street of middle ciphers.  Decibel levels of squall undress the deaf pistils
and itinerant sun dates your actions from the pages of a done book.   Eyes,
horizons, advancing to cities visible beyond the ruckus.



Thoughts in trains, on trains, landscapes pulled away.  I owned more than
one narrative able to live in a person.  Could do the invention stories.  Could
do the juries hung on fascination.  Appearance inside the single aesthetic could
chance there and it was ripe.  Audience of intelligents.  Pronouncements clashing
at the console.  By nightfall the permissions gave way to unstructured cobalt
portals.  Internal spheres out for a spin.  Moving my lips along the middle range
carried the tunes above the rudiments.



You go along pasting the narrative to each [p]age as if knowledge is
social.  More knowledge against bumping up against.  Ravaged where anonymity
hangs like summer heat.  Bogged down by cigarette object an oral shape recites
dark sonnets.  The elements emit.  I liked that and bathed in its glow.  Toasted
enzymes torched by long blue rocks of vapor.



Periodic spring the cozier lines.  Tirar, to pull; empujar, to push.  Hinge
spread and tool kit, sprocket for the host.  Coercions shaped a place for the
mix.  Swapping meant mapping, bound the wholes in their synapse.   Notes on
personal convention in lieu of smashing through but in so much feedback a motor
motions caution.



I kiss you in my thoughts love, suppose the transformations sans your
dynamic.  Simulated knots knocked out the connections.  This is my everything, my
beginning, my now.  Reading coffee and smoking poems.






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