un­ti­tled 18

Thursday, 31 July 2003

when I was young
the­days seemed
short as I was

I would take old ra­dios
apart
how did they­work?
I stank of dust,
of­burnt wires.

some­one gave
me a bro­ken­cam­era.
I scraped off green
cor­ro­sion,
it worked again.
they took it back ?
I was that young

now,
I am old.
twenty-two ? ob­so­lete

I?ve taken too many
things apart
to put­to­gether.
I smell of burnt wires.
of dust.

Fiat Tabula Rasa

My mind is worst when
     [waxed and buffed
like a black mar­ble lobby]
it gives no pur­chase to feet or rede.

I’d liefer leave and slide across
its sable-shine rind and reck
af­ter the janitor’s jan­gle-bone key ring to

Sub-base­ment b with the con­crete call
     [sepul­chral, into dis­tant di­rec­tions]
of ru
     [m]
ina­tion
swoll into its thews.

He and I
     [his har­rier]
wel­come

the lines we pass in dust. They are as
ar­cane words mined into our ser­vice.

     [A clean floor can kill such men as we.]

It for­gets those it has been trod upon.
It has no ruth to pur­pose.

Just so,
my un­filled mind
     [in thrall]
speaks of dirt as a mus­ing
and un­re­vised withal,
     [strewn into trash bins]
they both
     [should not]
be­come rub­bish.

Dies Irae

With the slight­est touch,
a sleep­ing dragon awakes.
Odin’s ravens, Thought

and Memory, croak.
They eat mush­room clouds for lunch,
dark rain for din­ner.

Gorged af­ter this meal,
they hear What the Thunder Says:
’All the world has aged.’

Immolated in
Inextinguishable Fire,
Megiddo is quiet.

Two men lay like sleep,
bow­ing to once fer­tile ground.
Interrupted by

a child with­out eyes,
Winter set­tles on a land
too burnt for lilies.

Verbal Impotence

I have re­designed, up­dated, and con­verted to MoveableType, my aptly named writ­ing sec­tion: Verbal Impotence. As added fea­tures, the use­abil­ity has in­creased and it has com­ment­ing. New Look, Same Crappy Writing. I even added a new poem to it. So I sup­pose it is New Look! More Crappy Writing!

Anyway, I stole this link from the Riley Dog be­cause Banksy is my kinda guy. And in other news, the pope does shit in the woods, plus I still have no job. Up next, 

Brittannia: A Selective History from the Expedition of Caesar to the Norman Conquest. Make sure to check out the Flowers of History.

Squirrels and Ants

When boys tread upon anthills it is Golgotha
all over again, the peo­ple run about like
ants who have sold their souls for a bite of ap­ple.

When a dairy­maid churns milk into sweet but­ter
Proserpine is tum­bled into the land of death.
Winter and vir­gin­ity are not quite op­po­sites.

Before I knew po­etry was writ­ten — not lived,
my bea­gle and I would chase grasshop­pers for hours.
Now each day is a new Labor of Heracles.

After I first shaved, I hid in the closet.
I gave the ra­zor blood sac­ri­fice in my fear.
I had no one to guide my shak­ing hands.

When Prometheus gave men knowl­edge of fire,
they promptly for­got its wider con­se­quences.
A squir­rel of­ten for­gets where it hides the acorn.

Poems can­not be writ­ten by the in­no­cent.
Cellar doors open only into the sky­line.
Squirrels and ants burn like men.

Found Poem*

This re­flux is as­ton­ish­ment

The im­me­di­acy of their ter­ror short-cir­cuit­ing
even disavowal?s de­tour–
This too is but a train of shad­ows.
The un­gras­pable phan­tom of life.

A strange flicker passes through the screen
and the pic­ture stirs to life.
A vac­il­la­tion be­tween be­lief and in­credulity–
a ter­ror­ist mood set­ter,
like a fair­ground barker,
caused women to scream and men to sit aghast.

The ele­phant is led onto an elec­tri­fied plate,
and se­cured.

Smoke rises from its feet and
af­ter a mo­ment
the ele­phant falls on its side.

The lust of the eyes
end­ing in per­ver­sions of magic and sci­ence.
Equally du­bi­ous in­tel­lec­tual cu­rios­ity,
lost sight of now af­ter decades
re­cedes into the flat sur­face
and the de­cep­tion is ex­posed.

Shock be­comes a strat­egy
of a mod­ern aes­thetic of as­ton­ish­ment.
The hol­low cen­tre of the cin­e­matic il­lu­sion.
Na?ve be­lief in the re­al­ity of the im­age–
a train of shad­ows
freighted with empti­ness.

*from Tom Gunning?s ?An Aesthetic of Astonishment: Early Film and the (In)credulous Spectator?

java ap­plet

look
that home­less bab­bler
stands on the mail­box
as usual, speak­ing non­sense

(sal­va­tion thru self gov­ern­ment)

in his tat­tered tar­tan.
We’re out on Saturday nights
dressed to kill–

(ac­com­plices in bomb­ing starv­ing brown­skins)

and our

(con­sump­tion means ex­tinc­tion)
(si­lence is as­sent)

Cadillac Escalade gleams
up to the club ? there he is.

Someone

(should self-ac­tu­al­ize)

should call the po­lice. Want

(atriple­mocha­hazel­nut
lat­te­with­freshcrea­mand
choco­late­shav­ings?)

some java af­ter the rave?
I could re­ally go for a

(french­vanil­l­abean
ubere­spres­so­caf­feinein­jec­tion)

cup of cof­fee.