Sep 30, 2003


Y'all realize that this is the last night one can smoke and drink concurrently in Cambridge, don't you. Seems a shame to waste it. Who's up for nailing the nail into the coffin of the public consumption of coffin nails?

Sep 29, 2003

Long time no see, spectres.

Overwhelming urge to travel. Like a membrane, the soft city can become diseased, riddled with sores and small cuts. It whines and shudders like the featherless, vulnerable thing that it is. The calendar is superimposed upon it like those wax pencil lines the surgeon draws to plan his incisions. At certain points there seems to be nothing left to do but walk away. No panacea for the ill soft city. Nothing to do but kill it to end its suffering, or to turn away from it and wait until it becomes healthy again, in a changed state. In the meantime its pathetic groans keep one up at night.

Am remembering a line from the execrable David Lynch version of "Dune." Basso profundo voice speaking the words "Travelling without moving." Folding space, as they say. I remember the Guild Navigator character, something like a cross between a fetus and an anklosaurus. I don't like to think about monsters these days. A dark time, when somebody sets the ghosts against you. The ghosts my hearties. Pitcher-plant spit in my eyes and sand in my mouth. I need to go somewhere with scaly trees and darkeyed women.

Instead I'll go get lunch at the goddamned cafeteria and smoke a cigarette. Travelling without moving. Somebody give me a pill for that.

Sep 28, 2003

Like the weather, poetry readings at WORDSWORTH
BOOKS are prone to sudden manifestations.
Manifesting TODAY, Sunday 9/28 at 5PM are:

Sarah Mangold {in a special ENCORE reading from
9/27, clapclapclapclapclap}

Mark Lamoureux

and Dorothea Lasky

C'mon peeps, it's Sunday, it's raining. We'll be
more fun than "The Simpsons."

Sep 24, 2003

Sep 18, 2003

Today's "International" offering at the Harvard Business School cafeteria:

"Hudson Valley"
For some reason, my work phone display reads:


What else does my phone know about me?

September 24 - October 12, 2003

View the artist creating the exhibit on site at 108: September 24 and 25

Opening Reception: Friday September 26, 6-9pm

Contact: Kate at 617-441-3833 or

Iraqi born artist Nedim Kufi (, grew up and studied sculpture and etching in Baghdad and went on to study ceramics and graphic design in the Netherlands, where he has lived since the mid-90's. Kufi has won numerous awards and participated in exhibits in Beirut, the Netherlands, Jordan, Qater, Morocco, Paris, Damascus, South Korea, Germany and Yugoslavia.

108 is honored to host his first solo exhibition in the United States.

Kufi will be exhibiting his 2-D stretched paper and ink works as well as his flash video series BMK, the politically themed Bad Man Kind project. Please visit Kufi's websites or for images and more information.
"My one star is dead; the black sun of sadness
Eclipses the constellation of my guitar."

-Gerard de Nerval

Sep 15, 2003

CARVE, Boston's newest poetry magazine, celebrates the release of our first
issue with a hugeass reading!

Saturday, September 20
7 pm.
Wordsworth Books
Harvard Square
Cambridge, MA

Featured: Gregory Ford, Joseph Torra, Dorothea Lasky, Mark Lamoureux, Anna
Moschovakis, Aaron Tieger, Christina Strong, Noah Eli Gordon/Nick Moudry/Travis
Nichols/Eric Baus, and Sara Veglahn.

Sep 12, 2003

September fire
ring: taffied
lungs &
dolor blurred eyes.
Refulgent keening
turns on
a dime.

Cut the lock with my own bone.

She don't love me &
Johnny Cash is dead.

Sleep well, Mr. Cash.
Love Is A Burning Thing
And It Makes A Fiery Ring
Bound By Wild Desire
I Fell Into A Ring Of Fire

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns
The Ring Of Fire
The Ring Of Fire

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns
The Ring Of Fire
The Ring Of Fire

The Taste Of Love Is Sweet
When Hearts Like Ours Meet
I Fell For You Like A Child
Oh, But The Fire Went Wild

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns
The Ring Of Fire
The Ring Of Fire

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns
The Ring Of Fire
The Ring Of Fire

And It Burns, Burns, Burns

The Ring Of Fire

The Ring Of Fire

Sep 11, 2003

Thanks everyone, it has really helped.

My thoughts are with all of you today.

Sep 10, 2003

OK, my ghosties. I know you are all out there, floating around in the ether. This ghost has been smacked hard by the material world. Drop me a line and say hello if you're out there. Real quick-like. This ghost would be eternally grateful (use link below)...


Sep 9, 2003

I'm actually looking forward to going to the dentist today, in some bizarre way. There's definitely something wrong with me these days...

Sep 8, 2003

Bug whir subsiding
into ravaged sunfucked

pallor ghouled
by some winsome somnambula:
petit mal coma
aglint with
tricked grandeur.

Snap a pinion,
nerves flash,

apex cowbody ride on
Rider 31

"by the way, you were
the sun

scratched in the errata
close the tome
this chapter's written
on smoke.

Sep 6, 2003

Pardon me, everybody else (who's results I've seen posted) got "Lustful" except Rizzo, who's in limbo.

Ah yes, limbo, like a day at the beach it was...

Say hello to the Dire Wraiths. (Do any of you remember "ROM the Spaceknight"? He had a device which would banish his foes, the Dire Wraiths (who looked like little Cthulhus), to limbo...)
Bear is starting to smell a little bit less like garbage. Maybe I won't have to sleep alone tonight!
Great, everybody else gets "Lust," but I'm just a heretic.

"You approach Satan's wretched city where you behold a wide plain surrounded by iron walls. Before you are fields full of distress and torment terrible. Burning tombs are littered about the landscape. Inside these flaming sepulchers suffer the heretics, failing to believe in God and the afterlife, who make themselves audible by doleful sighs. You will join the wicked that lie here, and will be offered no respite. The three infernal Furies stained with blood, with limbs of women and hair of serpents, dwell in this circle of Hell."

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Sixth Level of Hell - The City of Dis!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)Moderate
Level 2 (Lustful)Very High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Very Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)Low
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)Very High
Level 7 (Violent)Very High
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Moderate

Take the Dante Inferno Hell Test

Sep 5, 2003

Wow, never though *I'd* be the one who gets to say that...
Bear will have to sleep on the floor until he gets cleaned up.
Marshaling Teddy Bear Resources, A Guide for Managers
I was going to go throw him in the wash, but there are some B-school students in the laundry room.

They might try to steal him.

Or sell him real estate.
Bear smells like garbage.
I think it's a him.

Fuck, of COURSE it's a him.

I will refer to him as Bear for the sake of convenience.
I've given him a name, but it's a secret.
I found a teddy bear in the trash!
I first encounted Alan Dugan's work in what was Marlboro College's excuse for a "Contemporary American Poetry" class (this was 1992). I remember liking his work at the time, but mostly because it had so much drinking in it. Can't say that I have thought about it (Dugan's work) for many years.

I suppose it's an accomplishment of a sort, for a poet to die of something besides a heartattack induced by hard living, an overdose, or suicide.

Goodbye, Mr. Dugan. Sleep well.

Sep 4, 2003

Four miles
over the basilica

note how she
the isthmuses

A longing
to be smudged

Distance pills
& bloodless

Since there are monsters
you should prolly
give the monsters

loaded falsehood
of dusty skies

& founderling
basso profundo
not wraith spasms
nor travesties of skin


Facile temporary
shelter a dropout

A pointed rumor, forked
trellis where
coaxed tendrils

approximate scars

Hammer air
diluted placid

Tepid blaspheme
forgetting how
to spell
better fiends
into largesse

Hop the train
to far off
black spark

wrestling with encryption
there's never any
end to
the night

Sep 1, 2003

What did I do this weekend? Well, Christopher Rizzo and I wrote this exquisite corpse together at Charlie's kitchen on Friday night. The rest of the weekend more or less follows suit.



Xylophone networks
for bruised cacophony, digits,
pick-up--say Humbuckers cannot
sate the hunchback now peerless
I's for dignities, mercies, violas
in gravel diaphragms, sickly blues
in this city of Dis, disasters Cambridge-styled
can drag a corpse to water but
can't make it Wallace Stevens's
Pilsner Urquell, a career in safety-nets
brandishing bouquets of wax zeroes,
trauma stipend & distressed
hambone ergonomics in C flat
sea changes, wanton muddy eddies,
feces river sly Styx night
wears a black hat, a blank harangued
basque in a leper brothel,
sediment broth to sup and ring a bell
to let them know you're coming:
city of dreadful daylight & dim
hours read full,
dead poets ghosting loam, ready
for sutures, a burning rhizome
in a vacuum.
O city, he'll crank this zeitgeist through the ringer,
dwell outside the music box
with the faux leopards & dreadful trees.


Grimmy asks who put
nettles in the Cheerios? Ratchet-up
a requiem for Macintoshes
or perhaps eyes without apples,
her eyes of potatoes agog with
grog, fog thickened. "Somebody
get this guy some Prozac,"
Grimmy gets sugar pills, fustigated,
one lump or three?
For good measure six and dosed with sex
indeed, a "sexed up" resume, arm chair
despot lousy with sloth & ambition--
two roads diverge and Grim Little
equivocates a lot
and there's a noose in the median &
karyatid floozies. G:
is that a hand grenade or are you just
Pull the pin and swallow your wallow-pill
and go dancing with the
will o'wisps: there's a
door in the swamp dontchaknow,
leeches led by suckers, saps,
sanguine guardians of destination,
so that:
the lobby shall be emblazoned:


Sun-flare equinox armies
advance on his cubicle, cuticles
chewed away:
Here come the suits and a vague narrativity,
a nativity scene for
the infant brigand:
Pinned gold-leaf, a little mug
shadow-boxed beneath museum glass,
a gloss of latency, prodigal
stutterer & wire-framed
by infamy, Grim inked in headlines,--
the more expensive lawyer aptly argues well.
But what
did Grim do?
What with the brobdignagian head rush &
the irksome police skirting
the perimeter of
meter swiftly, shouting Breaker of iambs!
Imperative aperitifs, motifs, blank
motives, evocative votives and a wish for
some dynamo lachrymary:
it was called dead, but it moves!
Cry cry there is no story
worth the telling.