My Day at the Grotto
My Day on, under, and around the St. Johns Bridge
My Day Walking from Hillsboro to Forest Grove
My Day Walking from Forest Grove to the Tillamook Forest (NEW!)
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
TUESDAY IS TONIGHT
I'm reading with Hannah Pass & Jacki Penny at the indefatigable If Not For Kidnap reading series, hosted by the not-to-be-caught-in-fatigues fencing artist Donald Dunbar and Presidente of Future Fans of Eliane Radigue, Jamalieh Haley.
7:30pm 2968 SE Mall
extra- real details to be found here:
http://ifnotforkidnappoetry.blogspot.com/
7:30pm 2968 SE Mall
extra- real details to be found here:
http://ifnotforkidnappoetry.blogspot.com/
Sunday, February 12, 2012
CENTO OR MY DAY BARBARA GUEST
what appears to be cobbles to the center where the rock is uncut desolate as the name we must never pronounce light less curious now we will watch the shadowless birdwing refusing wings blossoms falling repeatedly tree to wounded tree stanza to mute stanza houses, the ones we pass by twenty volumes of farmland thick daffodils clicking twenty times because they like to repeat themselves there are many types of waves they all fall differently will they survive the dolphins flight the sun color as its leaving repeats its birdsong on the cusp and knowing it the burning trees will reassemble themselves peak to golden peak
he wished those books were thornier adios to the surgeons to those men of culture who would have you choose between good and evil altar-wise in their coats of paint mountains with their dark and quiet warm as death or in memory of it drawing a blank permits one to sleep for a minute or so when nothing is apparent in your mind I wouldn't mind I wouldn't object to with this black nervous people who cannot manufacture enough air dense as telephone voice humming down the line what glee what ghoulish joyousness the rituals have been observed pottery rattling like candlesticks stronger than rain's grey egoism shifting the iris collapsing not hive but swarm aphid sonnets feeding on my toe Tibet with Monaco thrown in for measure the voices go away for lunch a desk mocks and beckons to effect a change where the ripe dawn hurries let me plead for your brownness to remain are not buildings completed before works of art break off we have a right to autumn steam never lessens its latitude in the sky we find bicycles natural pure, yet feeble this river behaves perfectly reasonably within the city's limits the unreasonable river that both gladdens and disturbs her heart the limits of its angst the unappetizing swell of the muddy river could appeal only to the truly desperate the heavens strike hard on prairies the sickening passages from Longfellow stinking up the night the erotics of root cellars musing the margins drawers of the dream look at that gutter, so muddy
we advance beyond
an expectation of number
in bodies that swim at the last moment
he wished those books were thornier adios to the surgeons to those men of culture who would have you choose between good and evil altar-wise in their coats of paint mountains with their dark and quiet warm as death or in memory of it drawing a blank permits one to sleep for a minute or so when nothing is apparent in your mind I wouldn't mind I wouldn't object to with this black nervous people who cannot manufacture enough air dense as telephone voice humming down the line what glee what ghoulish joyousness the rituals have been observed pottery rattling like candlesticks stronger than rain's grey egoism shifting the iris collapsing not hive but swarm aphid sonnets feeding on my toe Tibet with Monaco thrown in for measure the voices go away for lunch a desk mocks and beckons to effect a change where the ripe dawn hurries let me plead for your brownness to remain are not buildings completed before works of art break off we have a right to autumn steam never lessens its latitude in the sky we find bicycles natural pure, yet feeble this river behaves perfectly reasonably within the city's limits the unreasonable river that both gladdens and disturbs her heart the limits of its angst the unappetizing swell of the muddy river could appeal only to the truly desperate the heavens strike hard on prairies the sickening passages from Longfellow stinking up the night the erotics of root cellars musing the margins drawers of the dream look at that gutter, so muddy
we advance beyond
an expectation of number
in bodies that swim at the last moment
Saturday, February 11, 2012
CENTO BARBARA GUEST
I read the late Empress' letters & thought they were yours allforgetting Rex I am about to use my voice one sky over I ask if that house is real head and body and tail joined no nearer air than water alas the great daze of desire has passed and mirrors reflect the thick mud where armies have passed the hand that holds is webbed his whole insides protests water on stone hurting the ear to no longer repeat "the mirror is water" the poor dead hands are clean a ring of moon for tomorrow into the mirror sighed "such was I" a minor character was he history or was he not
In the time of great kings I hid this knife with a friend I'll play you it's record the next time we go for a walk seeing the funeral of grass a small tune can be heard when several of the branches creak there when benches are placed side by side as one might plan an audience the air is freed of our crimes come close to it now and listen you there at the entrance take from the dripping roof a cupful to drink while lightning pitches straw and trees glitter strangely crack the wide underground angels are in peril there on the rooftops tomorrow in the outraged sky where no one speaks English what clamors o'er the twain do you know what silence means? her face leaned backwards into the past those forms we see in gauze as arches without moonbeams without shoes the music was distinctly shady inky as were the drawings the fall of my voice would be dying brown the sky was white over Paris until it fell in the streets walk only in the white spaces in the steps where leaves lie and names erase them the treachery is cast by mirrors again, the ride that drift shrieks at low tide sweet voice of brine the magnificent sun waves a flag above it Republic of Space waving the gnats and the small giants no one complained
In the time of great kings I hid this knife with a friend I'll play you it's record the next time we go for a walk seeing the funeral of grass a small tune can be heard when several of the branches creak there when benches are placed side by side as one might plan an audience the air is freed of our crimes come close to it now and listen you there at the entrance take from the dripping roof a cupful to drink while lightning pitches straw and trees glitter strangely crack the wide underground angels are in peril there on the rooftops tomorrow in the outraged sky where no one speaks English what clamors o'er the twain do you know what silence means? her face leaned backwards into the past those forms we see in gauze as arches without moonbeams without shoes the music was distinctly shady inky as were the drawings the fall of my voice would be dying brown the sky was white over Paris until it fell in the streets walk only in the white spaces in the steps where leaves lie and names erase them the treachery is cast by mirrors again, the ride that drift shrieks at low tide sweet voice of brine the magnificent sun waves a flag above it Republic of Space waving the gnats and the small giants no one complained
Saturday, February 4, 2012
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