.

Not compassed 

North to South, 

I would shed 

this skin for wings,

for a thick billed beak 

writ small

by sideways rain 

and slate grey sky

.

1001

there you go again, 

desolately crazy rhizo

bloggist writing rap-shod 

on a grafitti web of desire, 

eyes eclipsed by your screen-

wielding cut-up collages 

with stolen wireless and 

talking to poor dead Deleuze 

as if he were still taking 

off up into outer space 

in his dancing shoes 

high in the sky, so maybe 

I'll steal your fonts and 

your alignments, ignore 

your sideways glances 

and contemplate poetry 

as a kind of crucifixion 

that poets nail down 

words with because 

yours is metrically

antithetical,prefaced 

on a faster page loading 

King Kong theory 

ladled with the laws 

of laithest levitas 

How else can one write of those things
which one doesn't know, or knows badly?
It is precisely here that we imagine having
something to say. We write only at the
frontiers of our knowledge, at the border
which seperates our knowledge from our
ignorance and transforms the one to the
other.

Only in this manner are we resolved to write.
To satisfy ignorance is to put off writing until
tomorrow -or rather, to make it impossible.
Perhaps writing was a relation to silence
altogether more threantening that that,
which is supposed to entertain with death.
_______________________

Gilles Deleuze, Difference and Repetition (.)

.

The View From Here

dusk 

drops 

like silk 

across a fleeting-green 

escarpment, here, where 

Fall maintains an incomplete 

equation (as of yet) with my 

molasses-mellow buzz n'clink 

of coffee cup containment and, 

in café-style, stirs the trailing 

edge, a drift of thought devoid 

of time zones, airfoil for 

expresso-wings stretched 

wide as if to thrust the night 

back up to sky, like lifting angels 

with a lust for wind, for shoving 

off, for navigating oceans under 

stars bucked high by force 

'til all are out of sight, 

and all in preface for 

self-flagellation 

 

.

bio

I have lived my entire life 

as if in denial, stuffing back 

that part of me that is most 

me, as if to say that being in 

the world and writing it down 

were somehow separate events

but now I seek a community
of writers to bridge that gap
in my own mis-understanding

... the time to begin is now,

and now, and now again.

.

written from within
an incessant haze of
second hand smoke
inflicted by selfish
neighbours, my words
turn back on me like
a boomerang and I
am immersed in a haze
with no release.


that's what this sunday
best exemplifies; its
sense of non-linearity.
... like a box of straws
that fall on the floor
and re-configure in
random overlap, myriad
planes of experience
that converge in the head
like an amorphous cloud,
like multiple beloveds
who map onto each other
over time in some foggy
way.


there is no place
on the planet that
anyone should be
allowed to smoke.

.

cone 10 blue

each day, the lake adopts
a different colour and today
it is a cone 10 blue. high
winds toss it into white caps
and spray a crystal sky with
bitter chill. snow is coming,
one can 'feel' it (much as
those of us in northern
climes now pray for spring).

but like the season-yet-to-be,
my thoughts are undetermined.
they roll across my day like white
caps on a restless lake. there, then
not, and I am in retreat, in search
of something warmer, lost inside
some inner sanctum.

when he walks, he drops his bottom
lip as if about to speak; he is always
just one warm breath away from
words. his gait is decidedly slow,
head tilted slightly to the right and
up. half smile there, then not.
occasionally, an open hand cradles
his left shoulder; perhaps a former
baseball injury? but today, it is
the clink of weights that concentrates
the silence of a mid-week afternoon
spent at the gym. within this crowded
room, the only eyes I see are his ...
C, the next best thing to G

... almost.

all eyes and breath, his calm against
my storm, as wordless and as rare
as cone 10 blue.

he is in every other thought I own,
in sky and windows, shadows, light,
but best of all, in white capped
waves that toss and spill the
cone-10-blue-sprayed god-spot
in this restless day.

.

haiku-who?



he counts the words, taps
one to three, their measured toss -
while outside, broken glass

When you come right down to it,
all you have is yourself. Yourself
is a sun with a thousand fires in
your belly. The rest is nothing.
(Pablo Picasso)