Nov 22, 2004


A few nicks in the pate of
this the 3rd millennium & the
stupor of
this adolescent nation. In the

name of hooligans or grosbeak
or by the power of

some latent prophet or the spangled
helix, in these the hours

of our gross need, (4 or 5 fires
in the archives): please invoke

some musty diety
or new limned
rupture savior. We
beseech, by way of
this gurgled

invocation through alien
red mucus, apples of lead
bubbles,the rusty paps
of our tampered olivine nurturers ,
our fruit trees wither

in the shadow of the cross.

& I will bear every inverted
little t upon my brow

or in bosom or bowel, & whom
must we adumbrate in this wasted
season, the monarch-winged Morningstar?
What prophet of inversion, what
liquor of the firebringer's
ravenpecked liver engorges my
scratched lips, unwinged

drooping shoulders, leady bristling
clot of a heart
in this dark apex, Golgotha-stained
bruise-tinted night of tortured reason?

Our tomes, our hovels
our every outpost or dojo
encumbered by the wattle of the NAME that
unwholesome embryo ( &
I weep for each of your
raped words, each of your
flogged tenets, no son of man,
those tongues are the
spleen's speech as
are these--I shall
never forget).

Pox the blessors of the grey
howitzers of capital,
genuflectors, I expel

negating seed over your
fleshless texts. No brutal
tongue this new speech of
the aeon, no less holy

& no bolt cast,
no thing scourged
or punished.

You backwards soldiers of
attrition, schism-bearers:

I whisper each of your names
to the slaughtered lambs, each
of your sightless effigies
not set ablaze but burning
with the tepid
flames of its own lack.

I bid every dead thing return
before your supposed rapture &
sing the song of its nature, weep
for its lost flesh so belabored

by the base law of these petty

Nov 18, 2004


The worst of it is a waning
cloud of monsters (pink locusts)

that chip away at

the tensile strength of
daylight's anchors.

Perhaps there's something to be said
here after all.

What things occur on
the milky stage of a room? This is all
the province of the drooling
envelopes of death--

Still she folds
around him like an origami

Still less time for speaking
at the toes
of the century. Its
kick, kick, turn:

I in the warm globe
of I's falsified identities.
All the braided towers
& their sequined wrestling
masks look down on
this ancestral Twister.

The sweeping glee
of the kliegs, wry irony
expelled from the exposition.

You seekers &
dreamers, my
flaxen pedestrians

huddle 'round the

a kind of gooey equity
goes right for a motherfucker's eyes.

Scalpel, chisel,
get this parser exhumed.

The lonely king, the goofy

heard the sirens
& their phoneme parcels--

All agree this night
is very rich
& it downsizes me.

A bible of
barren pharmaceuticals
& rogue brands.

I will love you
while the hummers hum
& the hissers hiss

& there's been biomorphic muck
fecund on the bottom of the ninth
for years

Nov 12, 2004

My good friend the fantastic poet Jason Arthur Wood wrote this elegy for Yasser Arafat back in 2002 when he was under siege. While the circumstances of his death may be different, I think it still holds true today.

April 16 -- 29, 2002

Accept it -- a realignment from along-
side or against or without -- as necessary. Witness

action as gesture rendered
upon itself. Hope: for to bear witness;
for to bleed; for to wait out this

summonsing. Where this came to wake had been
a wave in stalled motion, this land. What formed within
only a membrane (stranded) felt as a flesh
somehow (permeated in substance) multiplied
with facets. Then a retracting -- as if under-

scored. Settled farther inland (this fullness of
sound brought from the bed
of a river, the back of a throat)
then before (one voice). Assumed form
as only shapes, only emboldened gray shapes,

calculating themselves, disguised
by a sliding, themselves
into a direction, themselves becoming an allowance,

becoming a merging, as another
awakening. Only shaped (formed
in the back of this throat), only folding

over onto itself only. Then river only. Then speaking with
the dead (our dead). Then soon-to-be-
storied-to-forget. Withdraw, then
(I have grown impatient in this space)(there is no more space)
redoubt. In these hands one thin voice takes hold. Only

(legion, only)

(an exacting of the observed)(neither desperation, neither hope)(from within the

confines of a presence)(from one narrow eye)(watching another closed narrowing)
(from form entering into the walls)(can seem to hold)(no, cannot, not now)(exacting

one slight eye to better)(one slight chording of vision)(these notes are not precise)

(these notes form)(from nothing)(fullness of voice)(formulate a promise, citizen,)

(as that which cannot be undertaken; your voice wanted in approach closer
to the back of your throat -- motion held down by this by action -- in impatient
waiting cast across an impatient spanning -- patiently make time wind through-
out -- create space into the absence of which you can place only voice, only raised
in contagion, settled upon the press of wanting -- to do this only now, to make
this count -- until wanting is beyond symbol, until wanting is the only
column, is the wanting which has brought you here and brought you here
again -- one man, blindly, given the chance they would watch you through this space,)

(always watch you crossing this space you have been reduced to, two walls, these
sounds breaking, one floor upon which whichever one of you -- you, speaking;
you, spoken -- they were looking for, drawn within a coiling, an emptied stair-
case, an arranging of cycles, hollow energy's hollowed gathering places, a reality
designed of geographic, become an understanding stripped of incidence -- only by
your name gathered in a superstition are these charges the air implicates)

then, on the seventh day, did you resist. All along
its wake -- waves crested in a a pass-
age -- you extended
motion ("I hope I will be a martyr"), extended
one hand into one throat ("in the Holy Land.") and produced

an avalanche of voice, one cacophony
(these notes are not sounding) above all others (as
they were meant) as I have placed (to sound) ourselves
here, where they cannot help

but find us. Sleep -- as there is time to awaken, there is time

(upon the people so declared to be free to abstain from all violence)
(a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence)
(for the people shall not perish from the earth)

--Jason Arthur Wood

Nov 10, 2004

Fuck the South

Courtesy of Aaron, this is absolutely brilliant.

Apologies to my buddy Todd and David Hess and anyone else behind enemy lines...

Nov 9, 2004

Courtesy of Shanna C., We're all very, very sorry, world.

Nov 8, 2004


Recombinant incumbent rips a mutant future,
a little rabid grace to brook
environs like a fleshwound;
pay no mind to the clinking bronze
armor, these armored
characters who lurch & strut like
zombies filled with
purple methane.

The curve of the earth shall realign
the piles, the aeon divorces
the pink fizz of the end of the empire.

Red to blue hand to fist

mouth to mouth--
a storm of dust, cloud
of locusts is a tenacious apocryphal
raven for these craven old boys, please

bow to the graven vulpine image
of a fanged nymph,
you funky armies:
listen to Wilhelm's revenant
the inexorable steel drum.
Perseverers, please remain ithyphallic
as the cabin pressure adjusts to you.

Att'n NYC peeps:

Zinc Bar Talk/Reading Series Presents:

Sunday Nov. 14th @ Zinc Bar, 7 PM (90 W. Houston St., corner of LaGuardia Pl)
Albert Flynn de Silva & Mark Lamoureux

Albert Flynn DeSilver's recent work has appeared in New American Writing, Volt, The Canary, Crowd, and soon, an Anthology of Bay Area Poetry published by Faux Press. There is also a new book "Some Nature" published mysteriously by something called "The Non-Existent Press." You have to wear a special helmet to read the book (sold separately).

As for the talk, I plan on talking about "Emptiness & Form in Poetry" (still thinking of a good long & pretentious title) and reading a bit from "(a) chiasmus" this new work written around Richard Serra's "Torqued Ellipses." I'll probably go back and forth between talk and poem. Does this sound ok??


Mark Lamoureux descended from ordinary earthmen. During adolescence, he developed certain preternatural abilities enabling his works to appear in such places as Jubilat, Fulcrum, Shampoo, Carve, Can We Have Our Ball Back?, and others. His appearance may be hideous to ordinary humans, but in his heart he is the managing editor of Fulcrum Annual. Together with Ugly Duckling Presse he unleashed a chapbook, City/Temple in the fall of 2003 and 29 Cheeseburgers with Pressed Wafer in the winter of 2004.

"I will be adumbrating the life & work of Wilhelm Reich as they relate to a selection of work from my own Astrometry Organon. I will be reading from Reich's work & my own."

Nov 5, 2004

I guess the rat-bastard has already gotten to work on his plan for public schools in the U.S.

Nov 4, 2004

In case you were wondering,here is a chart depticting the red/blue to IQ ratio of our once-proud "Nation."

Nothing else to say about this.

Nov 3, 2004

Today is a black day. Worse than 9/11; the loss of life will be greater and the damage to this country will be greater.

Condolences to everyone as we mourn the next 4 years of our lives.

Nov 2, 2004

C'mon New Englanders, let's join my Quebecois ancestors and fucking seceed...
Anybody who knows me well enough knows of my intense disdain for The New Yorker, but I was shocked today to look at the cover of my boss's copy and find that I really, really love the cover. A perfect illustration of modern pathos/lonliness, breathtaking in every aspect. Upon looking inside at the illustrator I see...Of course!...It's Adrian Tomine of Optic Nerve fame, which was a brilliant comic and he is a brilliant comics artist.

Be sure to take a look at the New Yorker cover for this week. Better yet, tear off the cover and throw the rest of the flaccid and irrelevant waste of glossy paper away.
Attempting to maintain a veneer of calm and composure, though I feel periodically short of breath, panicked. Trying to remain optimistic. Unsure how anybody can be thinking about anything else today apart from this election. Well, anybody in the U.S. at least. Though I suppose if I lived elsewhere I would be concerned with the results given that the entire fate of the world part of the mix. The cycle of violence spills into other countries as we have seen with the Madrid Bombing and the hostages in Iraq, etc. etc. Thus the rest of the world is involved. If only the rest of the world shared our prerogative or hubris for monitoring the elections of other countries. I would feel better with a 3rd party monitoring these elections. The conditions of the last one were certainly such that the U.S. would have intervened, had it been happening on someone else's soil.

If you can think of a deity, pray to it.

Nov 1, 2004

Good news for any Bush supporters who cross my path in the next 32 hours.
There are a couple of narrative sections in Astrometry Organon which provide a kind of skeletal framework or context of the rest of the stuff. This is one of them, my own retelling of the Perseus/Andromeda/Cetus myth.


Said beauty shackled by
maternal hubris, a blithe
flicker in the great dark
creature's eye as
gorged on ruin it lumbered
toward she splayed
on rocks, unabashed, as tho
the matriarch can't know
what beauty's for, or even
chains, for that matter for what
are chains but mute reminders
of the terror of circumstance,
what horror or what folly
or coy indifference of she
who took the base beast between her
lips, real horrorshow, & that
happy demon who curdled &
with a shrug snapped those
same chains, & there on those
rocks she felt the kiss
of the suckers on the small of her
back as the razed lands wept
for the spoils of arrogance
& then the one hotter than said
nereids heaved the whole muddle
away under the rocking
of that negator, liberator
never a father's kin, a karma
lumberer, what beauty knows
is how trite conflict melts
in the crucible of a red sigh
& the creature knew what
beauty knows, who knew naught
but struggle now naught
but love, the 2 of them there
like a fuming reactor as it
is said the parched land would be renewed
by those groans, transgression
erased by beauty & its double
entwined on porous rock, until
Perseus, prig, came with blows
of his father's father's
father's sword: pretty jock
darling of Athena who cleaved
the purring beast in 2 &
so she savage beauty let fall
the bruised tentacle
from between her breasts
& took her place with him though in
her slept still the seed of the Other &
slept beside him who belonged
to the land & its wars
& she who belonged to no-one
& the ghost of the monster
who belonged to her & to the porous
stones & the screaming waves
of the sea.
A shadow of things to come.

It's not the terrorists we should fear on election day, it's the incumbent administration...