The chatelaine discusses my Film Poems here. Thanks, Eileen!

OK, now I have arrived.

Pop Art

Assuming that you didn't already know that this is a "Hot Fudge Sundae" Pop-Tart, which painter would you reckon was responsible? I am going to say Rothko.

Also, what other junk food looks like Abstract Expressionism?

I have a few copies of the chapbook I did for the Sonabooks gift exchange project left that I am willing to trade for stuff (your chapbook, brownies, etc.).

From the introduction:

The source text for these poems was stolen from Harold Brainerd Hersey's book, Night, originally published in 1923. The poems in this volume were accompanied by illustrations in the period style (art nouveau) by Elliott Dold. I have stolen some of these, also, unaltered.

In addition to Night, Hersey also published a book of Cowboy verse, a critical analysis of pulp novels and Helpful Hints on War Risk Insurance, Etc, among others. Dold did illustrations for numerous books and pulp magazines.

I became fascinated by the obsessive vocabulary and thinly veiled sadomasochism of Hersey's somewhat tawdry original, and the way that these texts interacted with the illustrations, and decided to embark upon a project of "literary conservation." The poems in here include every word and mark of punctuation found in the Hersey originals of the same name; the words themselves have been rearranged by my whim, and in accordance with subjects that differ from the originals. I see this as a way of granting the original texts renewed vigor, allowing them to continue to exist into the future. Also, in keeping with one of the favorite subjects of the original author, the process of creating these texts was a kind of bondage game; one composes within the tight fetters of the original works and their own obsessions and compulsions.

With thanks to the original author and illustrator. Peace to their ghosts.




NOCTURNE

clasped is cool and currents
The cup

of sweet steam, the stars
are She, arched;

drunken among the dead
Will fill darkness dropping

fragrant for fingers
that mad cup again

has sunken Down in
Her strangely wet lips;

the monotonous moonlight
in her Most molten body

tasted it through Her
The trees They thirst !

he rests under her
Weaving Through the ages;

Listen to still layers
like bolts out of rock:

.........

All
one in
the glisten,

idolatrous

Soooo behind on email, will catch up today if I do not have a temp. assignment.

Sorry all!

Brother bought a coconut, he bought it for a dime

BTW, I added a Flickr portal at the bottom of the page.

INTELLIGENT DESIGN

3 shrouds face in 3
other directions &
the one eye between them

stares up 
at a crack in the firmament
where lurks an ochre glow
& one gooey strand
descends from the pinnacle,

a pendulum, ticking.

The neighbor man says,
"Go fuck yourself."

& lo, the self skates,
fucked, along the black tarp

of the polis; each obscure
cave of circumstance.  Here
are lights blinking, a velvet

tower full of handsome
lacks:              barren
in the noon of Ramadan:

let them eat pastilles & pore
over vapid junk; light-
piped, the butt end of a Buick

at a jaunty angle
from the roof--casts
geometries of rain down

on Bad Boy Wireless.  Eat
this peach of rotten

night.  Reason in aspic.
Tiny glands on the back 
secrete your stony home,

a paean to a simple 
time: lurch up from 
the tepid pool &
breathe
with your shitty lung.

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's Dusie Two! & I am happy to be in the finest of company there. (Here you will find a big chunk of Astrometry Organon.)