Daily Archives: October 14, 2009

Sweat, Poetics in the Process

Sweat, poetics in the process is art as in the individual is everything

as in the word ‘art’ is like the word ‘god’ or ‘sweat’ or ‘ocean’ or ‘river’

as in the droplets are Is indefinitely and I mean forever.

Breton lost the letters in a flood, along with the lithographs with tremendous commercial potential,  
but duchamp knew his own deserving nation, happy to have been repainted, would have to wed.  
Duchamp mined some beautiful legend blood.  Duchamp put them all to bed.

So our face maps project our bodies in stead.

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Not Everyone Will Get It

We Catalogos.

We are vision yet we are wish
we our web we are won (always won)

We are receiving this from a dish

We are relevant visions apparently destructive
we are second to none with always assumptions

We ourselves with our unique devotional style and function

Orient most of all mediums and malls
With a high holy flip-switch mobile cause

We catalog, design, we redesign.

Inspired by email spam.


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What the Butler Saw

(if us come speaking)

a traveler sought a meeting for use in the present
and in future catalogs and museums.

into the mouth he peered and examined speaking distance
and that did he then emanated and vanished right there in the room.

a few footsteps away was a door that reflected things.  it said Be Good.

the joints were encoded experience machines.

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The things I do for you…

as we wake here

to the honey hands w/ the higher frequency meanings,
to the subvocal modifiers with all that newfangled lectricity
crawling inside the pipes and sea breezes
as we wake here wrapping our bodies around our lips,
unimpaired, unbridled, in season
all the can’t blossoms come back as can uncategorized, debriefing
they do this over and over and over…i don’t know why.
i don’t know if they remember it and if they don’t why not,
and if they do what then and what’s your thought? where do you stand?
i don’t know but i swallowed a dozen butterflies and bees, honey pot,
running around all day shooing them off
your snow white sandy beaches
and hollow tundra, and rain runoff,
running round running off phantoms holding jumping bean hearts
in their giant hands in their fancy sports cars and celebrity golf
Though not all I can surely say that some of them were rotten,
yet they were gorgeous and wore bikinis made of cotton.
the things i do for you…
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Her Mistaken Wife Identity

her mistaken wife identity

survive but do better than that
will the winter sun

generate love and make it dirty
it’s fun.  wear a disguise.  

will a resolution win an unknown prize
the unfaithful see aging and faint

because they forgot they could fly

ride a bike, swim a mile, race.

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their decay and occupation really had you down,
had you really clinging to it like a clown
as in sticking to it like a stamp (sad)
the american light, language, rights you should’ve had
I tried substitutes but them poems know the real meanings
I left some for you in a room in another meeting
I am happy to report they are confined by neither skin nor log nor ivy league porch or ceiling
I am happy to report they fear no quarter nor mortar and much nor mud nor sheetrock border lynchings
I am happy to report there is nothing worse than a whiny clock and much better nor worse a holy order bitching
and by the way these maps do bear a torch and handmade stitching
and very often may offer every tiny garden windoway the heart pin pinching
They are simple and short.  They say you are here, and you are.  

Inspired by a cut-up of old poetry journal pages


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