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Rock and Reel

Oct. 19th, 2007 | 08:30 am

Post card poem sent to Jason Thime.

Rock and Reel

cordage of history
blackboard reciprocity yo-ho-ho

reflected through meshes
toward figure spoken

of infinitely clenched
notions wavering contradictions

distance really wholesomeness
purring heart reels

13 October 2007
New York City

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post card poem sent to Dan Barth

Sep. 23rd, 2007 | 08:52 am

A post card poem sent to Dan Barth while I was on vacation in Cape Cod during the first week of September 2007.

---------------

children
lost shapes
inhalations heavy mind

phrases
tremble sublime
flicker transparent veil

voyage
scatters sunshine
frisking with time

beyond
averted unreal
broken land relics

-----------------

I gave a title to the poem but I must have written it directly on the post card because I don't see it in the notebook where I wrote the draft.

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Is it in his face?

Aug. 19th, 2007 | 08:53 pm

IS IT IN HIS FACE?

time
is there
in closure's kiss

clearly
nothing like
the is baby

devoted
multitudes enunciate
prayers of escape

philosopher
harvests tears
tenderness and awe

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As far as photosynthesis

Aug. 7th, 2007 | 10:40 pm

On Saturday there were many Sacred Lotus seed heads at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden on the Lily Pool Terrace and one plant in bloom.

Sunday's postcard poem. The picture on the card is a Berenice Abbott photograph of a NYC streetscape at Cliff and Ferry Streets in lower Manhattan dated 1935.

AS FAR AS PHOTOSYNTHESIS

such artificial variegations
dream as if
logic stillborn and

whatsoever recognition obtained
only fitfully dreams
yes everywhere sky

again geometries of
jostling constants in
bee-space call ehs-ehs

engaged elsewhere as
pollinators yelp awkwardly
bababa ascertain meaning

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Take me for a ride-ride

Aug. 4th, 2007 | 11:46 pm

TAKE ME FOR A RIDE-RIDE

but a cup
of thick coffee
yet spoke for

then mainline transport
screens vexed instants
coiling sweaty instances

until slack-jawed gestures
draw collectors of
inexhaustible exercise-books in

perhaps prematurely dulled
and echoing slip
phased cries of

go ing hom e

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fe mi fe la ku ti ku ti

Jul. 16th, 2007 | 10:55 pm
location: Greenwich Village

fe mi fe mi fe mi
fe la fe la fe la
fe mi fe la fe la
fe mi fe mi fe la
fe mi fe mi fe mi
fe la fe la fe mi
fe la fe mi fe mi
fe mi fe mi fe mi
fe la fe la fe la
ku ti ku ti ku ti
ku ti ku ti ku ti
ku ti ku ti ku ti
ku ti ku ti ku ti
ku ti ku ti ku ti
ku ti ku ti ku ti
ku ti ku ti ku ti

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unravel already

Jul. 3rd, 2007 | 10:22 pm
mood: Raveled
music: The Doors - "Land Ho!"

viewing
only that
pointedly carefully-ticked-off rhythm

although avoid unravel
scrupulously toward
the

style
but I
can't vadoo vey

hey
DC-7 explosion
imagined war memoirs

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long for pre-tag-sale age

May. 31st, 2007 | 08:24 am

back home
laying in bed
never able
to remember
the correct form la ying lie ing lyi ng

experimentalist are you experimentalist
have you ever been experimented?
conduct of life succumbing to

so cial just ice moo vement

two people sleep in a car in front of Mojo cafe
elementary misunderstanding
the seats are reclined back in the sedan

ba ck ho me

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taller bushes

May. 25th, 2007 | 05:21 pm
location: Midtown Manhattan
mood: non spell checky

the undiff erentiated day in a fam iliar place
seem ingly familiar tho se rows of bu shes are much
that old map of Lo ngIsland still hangs on that
at the bot tom of the stairs anchoring our lives
deep sea fis hing he
re

a steady May bre eze out of the west keep ing summer
my over worn den im jacket and my shoes are over
I boug ht an orange cap in Mexico City airport as a
never gave it and now have appro priated it for myse
lf

sat on the be ach in two different spots
wea ring fu ll black New York Ci ty reg alia
did n't have ti me to pack Mon tauk clothes she sa
ys

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Subterranean Conspiracy

Jun. 16th, 2006 | 08:51 am

Sitting on the uptown 1 train this morning reading Subterranean Kerouac by Ellis Amburn. At the 34th Street station a woman in business attire, around age 60, boards the train and sits next to me. I notice in my peripheral vision that she's making an effort to read the title of the book I'm reading. As we approach the 42nd Street/Times Square station she asks, "Reading Kerouac?". I say, "His biography. One of the biographies." As she gets up she makes eye contact and says, "Long live Neal," smiling broadly. She exits on the other side of the car, grinning and looking back at me with bright eyes, disappearing into the holy chaos of the platform.

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