Monday, October 08, 2007


there are those of us who look for light
or the absence a shadow makes
a feeling inside the heart that listens
that is vacant
and it’s hard to explain

emmett took photographs of light
and stark trees standing in front of this light
wrote songs about it too

today it’s foggy and there is a sort of no light / greyish light
and that’s ok
because the fog is exactly what i mean

series number yellow

today i partake of yellow

chamomile tea, honey, chardonnay

light to swallow float away on


are other pairs of filling eyes

what cannot be contained


in pursuit of yellow

the obvious candle

in a glass, lemon overhang

Verdi’s adagio for trumpet

a watered down pernod conversation

unconsummated maps

pound cake

egg yolk


running from yellow

eagles pierce air with brass calls

of need

hunger sleep

cadmium eyes empty of all but prey

chrome talons poised and gleaming

against blood ochre sun

the yellow phrasebook

how are you ? feeling ochre thank you

the sun shines and the sky also shines

did you know it is impolite to say yellow for hello

what colour are my eyes says the cat

we’re expecting a full moon tonight

please tell mr. smith i will meet him in the front lobby with some yellow

i wish to return these yellow apples. they are stale. please purchase some new yellow apples

yellow neighbour words in the websters ninth new collegiate dictionary

yegg yelper yenshee yenta

yardstick yataghan yeah yeanling yeah

flashcard yellow numbers

i say 8 you hold up YELLOW

the month after may is YELLOW

the smell of jasmine is YELLOW

if you add eight plus one you get YELLOW


daphne’s hair burns yellow

as she blazes

her call

down the branches shrills

goddess into laurel

tree tear off in the fire

heated rivers striate fields

scorched hornets nest strands

of wheat burnish skies with
simmergold sizzled sheaves

a siren's villanelle

a siren’s villanelle

what compels a tangle
hurricane shouts over lullaby
turbulence troubles a rhythm

come for me in the deep, still water
follow the nature of shifting sand
what compels a tangle

i am knotted in seagrass and anemones
strip yourself bare to enter the ocean
turbulence troubles a rhythm

disguised as downpour i fell against your window
you pressed your hand against the shining wet
what compels a tangle

wind builds waves to crescendo
abalone shells glisten in the swells
turbulence troubles a rhythm

come before night pulls down the sun
swim, swim toward me now
what compels

a tangle

turbulence troubles

a rhythm

abt eggs & eggscrement

fold nto bowl

n o n s e n s e sizzles
ovr easy wth a side of whys

staggering works of yolk
breaking genie US



an ocean to his singing
octaves dampening my bones
the sand shifts as the waves rock
the dock forth and back to worship
each note as it rolls
along stone covered sea bottom

an open window, an open wing, an echo
the storm rushes through
made of sound, of water
as if there are no such beings as humans
allowed to exist
not with a voice like his


i want no structure no

bridge over to be suspended

between absolutes and mid air

i seem to land on broken

things cutting claws on jagged rock

to walk you must love solid ground not

struggle against forces that weigh you

the bubble, the leaf, the ripple

over water, the moving

shadow, the shift

of feathers on

open wing

Thursday, October 04, 2007

occasional vees and bees

[another workshop exercise to discuss remarkable letters; has prompted me to begin the above series, photos of the letters v and b as depicted in nature and human nature]

V voluptuous velvet heart shaped chocolate box

vivacious mosquito killer buzzzap arc electroredblue

vee - red orange sunrise popsicle melt of heat between

b chew the mint leaves, taste, chew, taste

seagreen ocean gathering waves

bee - scarbob cufflinks lacquer reflected

hum of beetles clicking against june brick

green petals plucked from a burgundy tea rose


[inspired by a workshop exercise to write about a single word]


begins with a hard c followed by a guttural staccato one syllable nasal grunt and ends in an explosive t gasp for breath.

the convex consonant pushes itself into the concave vowel which opens itself to an erect t.

the word CUNT is powerful, misappropriated as an insult. it shocks and evokes emotion, it’s political, sexual, and taboo, evoking secret pleasures we’re not supposed to talk about. as a noun, CUNT has 16 different meanings.

[if you haven’t seen Eve Ensler’s the Vagina Monologues, you should go see it or read it. Ensler acts out real women’s stories of intimacy, vulnerability and sexual self discovery]

Cunt: A Cultural History

To Shave or Not to Shave

[based on a few requests to post, after my discussion of the word "cunt" in my poetry workshop; originally published in John Barlow's "Pyschic Rotunda IV/V", with a little help from Shakespeare]

To shave or not to shave,--that is the question:--
Whether tis nobler in the pussy to suffer
The nicks and ingrown hairs caused by dull blades,
or to take razor against a sea of pubic troubles,
And by shaving end them?—To let them die,--to choke cunnilingualists,--
No more; and by not shaving to say we end
The cunt-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wisht. To cut,--to shave;--
To shave! perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that smooth dream what dreams may come,
When admirers have shuffled off this bare and mortal cunt,
Must give us pause: there’s the fear
That makes a hairy pussy of so long life:
For who would bear the nicks and cuts of blades,
The shaver’s wrong, the proud woman’s hairy,
The pangs of despised hair, the lover’s delay,
The insolence of unshaven pussy, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unshaved takes,
When she herself might her coitus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat over a hairy snatch?
But that the dread of hair in the teeth,--
The undiscover’d wiry pubis from whose bourn
No sexual adventurer returns,--puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those hairs we have
Than shave the ingrowns that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of smoothed pussy
Is sickled o’er with the dark cast of follicles;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their razors turn awry,
And lose the blade of action,—No longer soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my skin remembered.