TJ Desc

 

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Tuesday, September 30, 2003

 
one, a crow,
thought, no,
it was instinct,
enough to crowd out
the others
black wings like
fans beating


why do birds capture
our imagination
their private lives
a closed society
their deaths so
hidden
from view
(think of the flocks!)
witnessing it takes
our breath away

 
with a beach umbrella
for the eagles and star
lings

several different crusts
conjured the gulls and sand
pipers

two grabbed plastic
carrier bags like in
rock and fire tragedies

poetry like the crummy
gulfs and the birdgroves
full of lemon bulldozers

Monday, September 29, 2003

 
'bombs made of sugar'

The world at dusk, tinder box
of dreams.

Lemons//make lemonade//

dream.

The gulls lower themselves to snatch
bread crusts

The bemused crowd
cheers on the soldiers

Is there light//
a tunnel//

This day more powerful than the wildest river

 
they were freshly killed
which gave them good dinners

to be enamored of the
good musk the life is seeking

crane, tortoise, deer, and pine
visible manifestations of

the no-good edible and
the mirage in Libya

your cousins are heirs to
my meager fortune

because I write good cookies

 
The mowing sound sweeps
back and forth across the window.
We struggle inside with printed
letters curved and slanted onto
the page, these sounds like cats
crying or wood breaking.
 
It's good
fortune -- drawing us to this table

shared meal of amber light
as if sound

were visible

Tributes
Tributaries is all forsaken
The river of song

But not one song
Thousands

Sunday, September 28, 2003

 
Deer at the edge of the waking mind
Symbols of nothing but themselves, hunted
But we're hunting ourselves

in slow trucks with screeching tires

Gun rack poised
We're hunting our true selves down
 
Then those deer appeared the dark
tailing their shining hooves
out of nowhere, my dear!
It could've been a wreck the
way they skimmed the highway
touch down by the wall between
oncoming and ongoing
tawny, quivering, alive.

Friday, September 26, 2003

 
To write nonstop like driving through darkness until you're
streaming light

dragging text behind you so

fast it sees stars
 
smouldering clouds

mountains turn to
dust and wrack

sapphires wrenched
from shore-girl’s hair

burn-tumbled ex
pressive as a blast

blows cool head clear
like steepy valleys

& the elves buried in
sky-neighbouring

drifts

all too often missing
in modern poetry

Thursday, September 25, 2003

 
Poet-tree!
Poet -tri!
Poet-tra!
Poet-trahahahahi

I like to go a wandering
along the mountain track
and as I go like to sing

The poems in my knapsack.

Wednesday, September 24, 2003

 
poetry left to
mankind are
doomed from
the moment of
grace in which
the “shambling
camels” refer
ence the doomwri

ting then it
dawns on us

even if it means
the digital revo
lution hasgiven
poetry an
another chance

Tuesday, September 23, 2003

 
poetry is subsumed by
those bulk ideas from
drama, dance, and
graphic arts

publish your fiction,
nonfiction, love becomes
a delicate melding of
poetry and written text

conforms approximately
with unabated techno
fetishism in all
fields of art

Monday, September 22, 2003

 
a lord in my yard

I never made but
one prayer to the
fifteen pink flamingos
in all their glory

and when I opened
the front door
the jungle hippie
didn’t invade my privacy

I was in the kitchen
on the ground floor
with the metamorphosis
and the cleansing

Friday, September 19, 2003

 
That's hell on
wheels for those of you
not paying heed.

There's a loud
tree in my yard. When
the branch fell it caught
in a lower branch
and stayed--is it
alive or dead?
 
well there was the tree falling

for one individual this situation
falls in a forest occasionally
to set a groove

your answer will probably be
the essence of the heart
even if this is only a fringe element

a continuing story we share
told like waves washing on a beach
and please look at the birds

I’m caught in a silent treehouse