gorilla wake at brookline zoo

gorilla wake at brookline zoo


the head lady gorilla
babs, matriarch
of the zoo tribe
was euthanised
with incurable kidneys.

keepers laid her out.
mother, daughters, sons and cousins,
caressed farewell.

the silverback, alone,
did not attend.




.

dark in day

dark in day


1.

grey skies through painted windows
timeless darkness seen as memory.
the smell is given by light.

nascence of childhood refurbished
momentarily accessed through an accident
of pure lack of light.

a tremulous backstep slips through the mirror
like a refractory silent carnival ride.

quiet of a sprinkled sidewalk
where the best way to avoid the drops
is to watch them deface a pane of glass.
same light of scant electricity daytime
can’t make it out but can’t quite get in.

collapsed in fascination
at the brightness revealed
by the dimming sky



2.

constant interrupted sleep
waits for mispronounced sustenance
delivered by mo-ped

on a rainy stoop
next to spent miracles
& misbegotten romance.

slave labor of disused umbrellas
a pageant before stuttery eyes.

no second side
could be given through jazz bassoon
concordance filled with stumbling laughter.
no walk home need be made.

a tent pitched between floors
suffices to attain a smoke ring sporadic disposition
based on light & chill & unspoken cures.


3.

smells luscious
smells dead
everyone is so near
hunched over
flavor protector
preserved shallow nerves
orchestra turned honeycomb
stirs through revolutions
the same viscosity as protein

dinner music that is not me
the blended rasp
of symbolic portions

flames translated to english
as letters

placated brown rimmed hat
crown translated to flames

even more exotic
i haven’t dared ask you
what is in what
you’ve been stirring

it’s very simple
mixed with rattles & slams
out the window
on a single hotplate burner
it’s very simple
i think you’ve heard of them

4.


four & twenty blackbirds
bask in troubled paraffin places

the only reason i came here
was to cut out the palaces
without batting an eyelash

a smile & a wink
of last night’s daybreak curtsies

special functionaries barter over the curtain speech.
dress rehearsal flag.
apology-quiet descent.

a lot of text to invent.
praiseworthy demonstration of matter.

the skipped thick consternation
i’m so sick of it.
the wind’s secret metronome.

heartslick idiot
the silence can be like a snare.
this wasn’t the name emblazoned on worth.

fortunate collapse left me to a hidden pace
crescent salvation of eggshells

same as the next walk
to the threadbare doorway.

the tree

the tree: a poem by ezra pound

I stood still and was a tree amid the wood,
Knowing the truth of things unseen before;
Of Daphne and the laurel bow
And that god-feasting couple old
that grew elm-oak amid the wold.
'Twas not until the gods had been
Kindly entreated, and been brought within
Unto the hearth of their heart's home
That they might do this wonder thing;
Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood
And many a new thing understood
That was rank folly to my head before.

the cloudcover is replete with blazes

hear a poem i wrote: the cloudcover is replete with blazes



Bowling Green, Kentucky is eaten up by a hapless drawl
Denny's & Dine or Don't
neon shamans to flighty coffee rings
dirty collars and lipstick rims
mangle reflected faces

the great smoky mountains mock snow and conifers in late march sunlight
wide-jawed peasants spit tobacco bits from their lips
stare vacantly at overturned tractor trailers and mumble bible verses
washtub trained prayers
behind-the-ears mantras
idle hands search for the devil's playmate
mold red clay into mississippi bricks

the ohio river swells kentucky road signs
and terrorizes southern indiana tank commanders
the smell of cabbage and blue lights
left as Magda's breadcrumbs
the waffle house glow hounds Shiva from the back seat
to sniff the 7-11 dumpster

hot nevada night sprinklers ricochet from every brick wall
the Hoover Dam is lit from below
a playplace for dry tours and Arizona
Kingman is too far to justify not stopping
to fuck in the passenger seat on two laytex strewn lookouts
framed by rock, steel highway barriers and clear skies
down below is either nothing
or your mother's birthplace
it cant be water

the only business in chamberlain maine is bedded down in july
with no breakfast in sight
the postmaster/mayor Dana steers up the driveway in his late 80's buick
welcoming low tide and lobster pots
a pair of 1930's Schwinns from Southampton insure a lunchdate
with grandpa
and dessert in the grass by Pemaquid Lighthouse

Dolan Springs is keen on August
school
is the largest building in town
church
is a mobile home
chipped plowshares lean against corrugated siding on town hall
the tavern is dusty stucco fronted by a steel coca cola sign
that would have been shipped out as a saucer sled in another town

i'm terrified of huge dogs, lumberyards, snow shovels and drowning
take three aspirin, flip a coin
and hang on the left turn

night light

hear a poem i wrote many years ago: night light



1. up all night staring at the walls and the animals in the cracks on the ceiling by
the night light the animals talk to you and tell you stories and preside over your
dreams like a black robed menagerie hinting away nightmares letting you
dream of fun and interesting adventures with them or in airplanes in dogfights or civil war heroism or newfound reenactments of events past in this life the way things could/should have been-- fun- happy et cetera

2. looking through the new sears catalog picking out the coolest biggest toys you
know you'll never get for christmas hoping for something half that neat always
wondering about the people who really had that car bed or the cool g.i. joe tent
that hid their sleeping bag in the den and the eight foot plastic aircraft carrier
had room for more than twice the toys you had but made it more interesting with a skeleton crew maybe ghost ship like the latenight movie of the abandoned oil vessel that killed passengers and captain

3. walkie talkie listening in on latenight conversations not too nearby making up a name for yourself trying to make friends and figure out all the necessary lingo-
break one four break one four- a night cry for friendship and attention heard
through the cotton fields and down the nearby interstate each night

4. sometimes playing in the dark it's even night in the world of these toy soldiers as airplanes flew overhead out the window planes did the same over your bed night raids and rescue missions of your own liking mostly making peace with warring factions or betrayal for the betterment of this mock society in the end M.A.D. wasn't sure just a permanently momentary peace to pass another night

5. boasts and fears on a bestfriend's floor in a sleeping bag considering next
morning's soccer game or hike and possible strategy in woodland wargames
guns kept handy in case of intruders or parents or brothers invading the safety
of night light

6. bestfriend's little sister wants you to read her bedtime story not him and there is a fight over it that you win as he stomps off and you convince him later in the trundle bed that it's not that big a deal and hell he does it all the time and plus he can use the cool jet tomorrow after school and you plan the next battle no one will win and fall to sleep (losing another battle) smiling

johann gutenberg

hear a poem that came from dictionary entries & encyclopedias: johann gutenberg


even honorarily, by a synthesis of the
facts in the case of one john or johann
gutenberg, his mother’s name. he was
born between 1398 & 1410. having endured
a lengthy gestation, he lived til 1468.
there was no america then. nothing like
a new world was yet found.

johann gutenberg invented movable type.
movable type: letters that are movable,
positionable, re-usable. a revolution
in printing, the dissemination of infor
mation. knowledge. in 1455 gutenberg’s
large fol io bible was completed. several
other indulgences were printed in the interim.
notably indulgence number three of 1454.
his fortune ran genrally monetarily unlu
cky and crackpotickally inventive. he w
as convincing enough to get a number of
his ventures funded. johann gutenberg
hailed from mainz, near frankfurt, germa
ny. books were handwritten things. the
slow study of strokes encircling meaning.
johann gutenberg owed johann faust gold.

johann gutenberg, thought to be the inve
ntor of movable type. separate pieces of
type provide re-usability. flexibility.
speed, the ability to think faster. a
fashion of quicker forward movement who
johann hadnt dreamed he’d be serving.
in 1465 a noble or another handed johann
a hat with so big a feather it meant he
got paid for wearing it. so, johann had
a position for the final three years of
his life. furnished some comfort for the
things he’d once done to the benefit of
those following, the ones to come. good
thing johann gutenberg believed in magick.
johann’s movable type faces up to facility
in printing. rapidity in production and
distribution. evident progress in page-
filling & all manner of voluminous garble
readily splattered virgin sheets of vell
um fresh. it’s not even a fantasy-advent
ure story or an ecclestiasickal mystery.
crackpot means genius duly unrealized. a
sure sign of truth in progress, leave the
guy what thought u p something nice to a
mere three years of feathered hat import.
johann gutenberg invented movable type.


...

christ of the andes

a poem that came from a dictionary entry: christ of the andes

a vase that thinks

a poem recorded today w/new microphones. yay: a vase that thinks

inroads, byways & gravel driveways

inroads, byways & gravel driveways


mas,

wondering what it is about these paths
makes us think we've got to map & measure
what we're sure changes even evry time we pass

but i'll find something soft enough
to lay my head on
in the driveway, dust is the pillow btwn stones
and above the onrush of celestial unreason
stoneage teevee, meaningful pinpricks
all sorts of bewildering wilderness confusions
lead naked apes down all possible paths
by foot or cycle; propeller or paddle.

pine needle carpet; a cold swampy mess.
a hot hot long parking lot; traintracks that end.
highways that connect to highways
that connecto to highways... divert
divert to the twisting two-lanes & discover
it's hard to be efficient following
the tight contours of the countryside.
topography of riverrun and water fall.
evry dim meander is a road.
evry atlas an encyclopedia
of misdirection.

how can you be right to go
to that strange and distant place?
what'd you ever lose there?

if evry doubtful byway is another
to get there
and the atlas has never held enough detail.

there's that unknown thing with infinite names
that never name it
this desire, that desire.
question. that question demands an answer
& that answer was the question in the first place.

if a highway exit is a sortie
the french for an outing
american for a fighter pilot's mission.

the bourgeosie ride a gilded carriage
to a small hillock (miss muffet's nearby)
for a picnic with a view of battle.
they look out over crumbcake
at something they dont even realize
is happening in front of them.

if a farmer come by and tole em
would they care or listen? if a gypsy
come along and sung the song of battle
could they hear above the din
of slurping curds & whey?

if a highway exit is a mission
a sortie into the unknowable suburbs
of the upper middle nowhere
that looks reamarkably like
the lower leftern somewhere

even though the climactic difference
really only has to do with the weather.

leave the geography alone.
quit askin so many kweshtuns.
somebody with opinions like yrs
best know when to keep his mouth shut.

if a highway exit is a mission
if a sortie is a picnic
if an atlas is an exit
evry exit is an in.

dint find my road
so i took em all.

they skirt round the mountains there
and come back to the circle
while others head off yondah.

well, i guess it wasnt this exit
i knew i shoulda...

if a book is an exit
you know the way in
off a cloverleaf
on luckynumbered highways

let bygones be
& keep yr ear to the rail
nose to the bone
shoulder to the stone.

put yr back into it man
cant just leave it
in the ditch like this
that's noway nowhere.

*
expatiate: (L expatiari) to go out of one's course
wander; 1) originally to roam or wander freely; hence, 2)
to speak or write at length; elaborate or enlarge (on
or upon).
*

what i thumbed across while i lookt for the definition
or inroad. where does an inroad go? in geography? on a map?
an inroad is a sudden invasion or raid
like a sortie, a mission, an inrush
more direct than a byway or gone
an unmappable mission
thru not completely hostile
but completely confused
territory.

we expatiate (as opposed to expatRiate)
push our feet
on thru the heavy pavement;
elaborate our shoes
til they stay on.
there is no need
to enlarge or enlengthen the roads
they are interminable, incorrigible, imperturbable.
they call and crawl to each other
they are the constraints
webbing & netting
themselves about the many tangled limbs of entropy.

and we walk the ley lines of empathy & forgetting.

what'd you ever lose there? as though to say
you better oughta lose somethin
afore you go lookin round for more.
never ask a question
til there's no other way.

you need to lose things
to find things.
seems like something
a simp or philosopher would say.
even if it's a lot more true
than 'what'd you ever lose there?'

i've never known what it was i lost
when i ws never there before
just because i ws never there before
doesnt mean i wasnt.

best know when to keep yr mouth shut.
that's good advice.
hide & watch.

best know when to keep yr mouth shut
timing is evrything
& some things are better left unsaid.

if you know when to shut yr mouth
it should be easy to talk.

taking the lay of the land
you got to have a way

if an atlas is an exit
evry exit is an in

didnt find my road
so i took em all

if a book is an exit
you know the way in

you got to have a way of seeing & saying
evry way out is another way in
when all you remember is what evryone else forgets.

bridging burning breaths,
a




.

the contents of a whole: 6-11

part 6: i transcribe the purple squall
part 7: fair maiden burnt at the stake at coney island
part 8: blustry dame in a daily trance
part 9: grocery cart of sabotage
part 10: give up on the impossible
part 11: is it enough

the contents of a whole

part 1: light dark light
part 2: the harpist's quarry
part 3: no pause in the threshold
part 4: the great quake of psycho techno dawn
part 5: evening of caustic color like algerian rain

letters from woodrow

pop-

tierra del fuego is a lonely windblown rock. there are goofy cute blue penguins i’ve decided to study. i shall learn from them as a library of nature’s diving fishermen. i have chose a remote outpost & my brother has immersed himself in the bustlings of industry & finance & the accompanying furious pace of the metropolis. which is arguably a lonely windblown rock.

here in the land of fire at the edge of inhabitable earth all the elements bare themselves and pour forth their energies.

these bustling energies, the earth’s own humors and emotions, bile and spleen, along with the blue penguins & a few mute indians with large dirty feet will be my sole companions and my great professors.

please send my love to my only brother.

yours in elemental love & flightless seabirds,
woody



top pop--

i have arrived at my windswept isle destination. mud & grass can be used to fill the gaps between the planks of my own personal shack, when mud can be found. the previous occupant fell off a boat on his way back to the island after a rare holiday.

the roof of the shack is tin & flaps in the wind. i have climbed the ladder a dozen times to nail the corners of the tin down again in only a handful of days.

the process of acclimation has been difficult. ah but the job. officially, i am an observer. �but, i could not long resist slaughtering large numbers of little blue penguins wantonly. the carnage is endless. all is bloody. i use a club, mostly. times come i throttle the penguins with my bare hands. it is satisfying to watch the light of their life dim to darkness in their eyes. the skins produce a favorable hide of a blue hue. the carcasses posses a luscious meat.

your in open-handed savagery,
woodrow


most gracious pappy--

the penguins emit a precious high pitch honking, a flightless cacaphony of flapping. they are not afraid of man. each day is gladly the same as the prior. bird murder, skinning, salting, tanning tiny hides, cooking, eating, shitting. rinse and repeat.

the slaughter is endless. an open ended contract of elimination. an economic boom on this forlorn windtorn rock until the birds migrate, return to the sea.

here all facets of life are focused on the birds. there is a large pile of bones outside the shack. many pairs of little blue webbed feet bound with scurvy grass hangin from the rafters of the shack.

yours under swaying legs,
woody




pop-

next time i write you i’ll live somewhere new. i sent myself a postcard. it will get there before i do. i hope i sent it to the right place. i’ve had enough of the penguins. all i wear is blue. i prefer the white meat. but stew makes things grey. the stones and soles offer little sustenance. the cacti must be peeled. they wither in the broth with tangled roots and tiny overlooked feathers.

yours in birdskin with stringy wings,
woodrow

april is the cruelest month

i hear it's nat'l poetry month. i have a bad attitude about poetry. i write poetry. i disdain poetry. i love poetry. i hate poetry. i eat poetry. i shit poetry. i put poetry in the catbox. i stuff cushions with poetry. i especially dislike poetry about poetry. egads!... but we do know aprylle is the kruelleste munth... ah and respond we must.

my response is to record you, the listener, a poem each day of this month. and post it suchly hereat.

to start, something i have not recorded in the month of april. but it is the most recent mp3 made. the thing i have recorded in the month of april, well, it's longer and incomplete as yet. perhaps, tonight.

letters from woodrow