January 2011

To employ moments of memories
In descriptive memoirs and metaphors.
A style surrounds, resounds profound
Movement employs magic.
Melting like snow and brown boots
Dances begin;
end like the
transitory change of style.

Resonating rhythms recreate
Tangible evidence of variety
Compulsory poetics
Derive meaning in
Devious art and deviant dreams.


land. memories fall swiftly upon
cases of compact discs which, collect music
and reference art in mausoleums.
the road screams blue to Arkansas from
the district of these systems, communication
vague and effervescent.
backwoods trees and carcasses,
fish soil moments from the past
and fling forward vices and pain
stretched as far biblical lies,
the stomped and downtrodden green melodies
of your eyes.
and as orange blossoms
the oak tree falls before loving foxes.
a rebel soul will keep marching
between defined lines, a pilgrim,
preservation of life and truth:
the children of trees
are too late
and so unbecoming. as stars:
we are going wrong.

The world as it is, creation out of the void, things as they are, things as they are not, are too much for us to be able to stand. Or, better: they would be too much for us to bear without crumbling in a faint, trembling like a leaf, standing in a trance in response to the movement, colors, and odors of the world. I say “would be” because most of us – by the time we leave childhood – have repressed our vision of the primary miraculousness of creation. We have closed it off, changed it, and no longer perceive the world as it is to raw experience. Sometimes we may recapture this world by remembering some striking childhood perceptions, how suffused they were in emotion and wonder – how a favorite grandfather looked, or one’s first love in his early teens. We change these heavily emotional perceptions precisely because we need to move about in this world with some kind of equanimity, some kind of strength and directness; we can’t keep gaping with our heart in our mouth, greedily sucking up with our eyes everything great and powerful that strikes us. The great boon of repression is that it makes it possible to live decisively in an overwhelmingly miraculous and incomprehensible world, a world so full of beauty, majesty and terror that if animals perceived it all they would be paralyzed to act.

-Excerpt from Ernest Becker’s Denial of Death

everything to the east

is baudelaire’s romantic

feast where dance moisturizes the sole

soul feet tap beat.

burn out clout

small creatures great

beautiful bright are

supposed to be things plural

signing joy for beginners, winners, that shout.

No, there is not attitude

of/for/about green learning

American earth

we jet our lives

’cause living

is marvelous.

and I’m straight snailin

moving slow

learning to go with the flow

of the show

to throw down more mojo.

a soul massage is available for minorities

this earth speaks for them like yoga and rhythm

or honesty/fidelity/purity.

this is also called silence.

rebellious ingenuity.

the whispers of breeze,

cracks of broken branches,

crunch of hardened leaves,

time’s work tends ranches…

yes your heart is yours

life is ours

we share it

and meditate collectively.

we make our booties shake

we run from earth quakes

and that money we make

to swim in lakes

and partake

in the argument

about elimination

of dark

and light

and weight

and hate,

to vote with the beat of our feet.

*i wrote this about various wigwams that friends of mine have built throughout the mitten.*

1. Assemble

the rise of recent wigwam culture

states: create

with your own fuel

and tools a place.

perhaps this form

earth shakes

makes love unfold to

break growth into pieces

of home.

I do not pity rushing men

of bourbon escapes…

jobs, chase, race

not heart but haste; wrong place.

the child…

two and two

found four

but still, seeks truth – needs more.

heroes find balance

align like ants, marching

near cups of communion, union.

Lakes, moving waters

flows un-square

peace is there.

2. Destroy

artificial mountains

are mundane like alcoholic cologne

long legs, painted masks.

fifth avenue’s view

of romans

not victors.

no sprint

does not move quickly

& elegance is money yes problems

are funny.

masses bond with escape

isolate mind, space,

but never,

bodies ever.

“excuse me mademoiselle, don’t go to hell…”

SIRS. our bodies

are water

ebb/grow/flow to

sanctuaries, sedimentary

yes connect through & you,

are a psychedelic dance .

(imagine by chance, roads

not bar codes /streams not machines.)

evidence: reverends

build, don’t bury.