assignment 11.30.12

assignment 11.30.12

Tangle. Take two or three pieces of writing–yours and/or others’. Mix. The rules are the same as for one-pot meals: the stirring must be thorough. This is not bread-with-raisins, this is not chocolate sauce on top of ice cream or grilled cheese (so good). This is succotash. Also: simmer. Go away, come back. Go away, come back–fiddle. Add. Excise. Blend. Strain. Stir again. This is an all-day soup–let its commergence pervade your sphere of action for the entirety of a single waking day. Be the richer.



It is dark and glossy, wettish, with a sheen. I should abject it. It is like that but also I should not complain and could perhaps sniff it and that would be not so bad. I mean, it might not. I took some on my hand. First, on the edge of a knife and then spread on my hand like vegemite. It is not worse than vegemite and my hand is not a kind of bread and still. It was curious and my skin could feel some mint-oilish property, some waking, some opening of its skin-eyes. And the crevasses of my palm–lubricated–as if, had I arthritis, this would be balm or distraction. As if my folds had been plumpened but not with bacteria as they have been lately using to augment and disguise the face of the hollywo-men. I think this material might cover acres of skin, a spa aid, or surge across the top of an inland sea like a foam that strangles algae by surfacing the body as with tar. Any lake would be clearer for it and less alive. It would not move vertically but always be spreading which means it has what is commonly known as a feminine nature. Healing or the complete eradication of breath: these are the two potential uses that come to mind. Also, I would not taste it. Please do not ask me again. To make it more itself, I would suggest reading it the works of Poe or, alternately, Donne or Lubavitch. I would not sing the blues near the substance as it has a competitive aura, and would probably not be able to help itself as it diminished other things faster than itself. I want it on my naked body. It would feel cool and I would be underneath gone. United with other types of sewage, it could become I imagine a standing bird or a swinging needle, a dry cocoon or the heart of a deer, the dead heart of a deer the huntsman carried to the queen in a lie. Or perhaps the sole of a runner, to keep him from delivering.


assignment 11.29.12

assignment 11.29.12

Describe a substance–its properties and affinities. Tell what the substance hates. Can it be held in hand, balanced on the tongue? Is pain involved? Name other likelihoods. What things might such a substance combine with itself to build? Detail its distillation.  Justify the purified form. Discuss, if you can, the substance corrupted. Give six examples.




I am thankful for the devil. The devil is in my underwear. The devil walks on hooves which can’t be easy, but I have never heard the devil complain. No Job. The devil is delightfully accepting of his role now and for eternity. The devil is in the pudding made of details. Nothing is as good as what the devil wants to eat.


this is what a bird is

this is what a bird is

It is pieces of bird in a bird-shape. If they are small enough, the pieces don’t need to be bird-pieces. If you cut up a bird with precise-enough tools, the shape is just a factor added on, as the body is wrapper for the soul, or like fashion. Below the level of the cell, the bird is molecular, and below the molecule, the bird is atomic, or possibly made of string. Maybe the bird is all bird-vibration. This is the part I like: all parts of every bird are in flight around the other parts. They arrow, flock, and migrate in bird-patterns that make it look like they are one-thing and not many things, that they are one-thing and not another thing. Pared down to constituency, split enough times, I too am a happy swarm. When I seem whole, it is just my parts, joying in their Kirsten-dance.

threnody 11.13.12

(sound of) yellow staccatoed

charcoal on the eyes, that



tightcoiled brightness

fingers clutched round a stone calling

from riverfloor


you dived – ice-bitten

afterwards: the loved leafburn of

blood-pulsed skin


unhooked from trees

sung-as-one – a vivid blare

allgathered and lit


we leafbed, we sexed

our crackle and spit at gone we

dreadgrasped and embered


daring the cold to continue

its flaunt – it did – and we

remembered conflagration


: a fugue of horns against

the white sun falling

WindowBoxing and BLOOF

Today a little bee told me that WindowBoxing: a Dance With Saints in Three Acts would be published.  This is happy news since that little piece of me was tad heaviness these days.  I wonder if anyone else feels that their poems are like weight.  Like flesh.  Enough to work with is good, hanging from my bones like soft bricks of dried word is bad.

I’m thrilled at the company too.  Here’s rest of the list:

Packing by Hailey Higdon

Nonstop Pop by Becca Klaver

scenes from the lives of my parents by Pattie McCarthy

Poems Are the Only Real Bodies by Jennifer Tamayo

This Is What It Is Like to Be Loved by Me by Jared White

I hope to read with these people.  That would be maybe the best part.


Titles are. Other optional things include food, escalators, cousins, migraines. You can do without. Without you are almost entirely surface. Within you are real: nothing is required by the real. Facts are beside the point. Sentenced to be. Ask rhetoric. These days there is nothing to keep you from scattering other than the dark tendrils. Rage is a type of glue. And its opposite–the endless drift, the boat you are, the emptiness that will ferry you hence. When you are vessel, waters sail you. Skin be damned. Despite evening Tao (one page per visible star), direction has always seduced me. Countless times I’ve smashed the compass only to find my North by every next needle released.