_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
the image above is a painting by Mike Miskowski called Rush Hour 360
the image at the bottom of the page is a photograph by Wayne Sides 
modified by Jake Berry 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Experioddicist can be recived (minus the images) in your e-mail. 
Send us a request at jbberry@hiwaay.net

images and text ©1998 in the names of the contributors
back issues of The Experioddicist are available at the Electronic 
Poetry Center. Please see the links at the bottom of the page.


edited by Jake Berry at 9th St. Laboratories
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

contributors: Jack Foley, Wesley Britton, Dan Raphael, Ivan Argüelles,
              John M.Bennett, Tim Gaze, Michael Delville, Harry Polkinhorn,
              Amy Trussell, Jim Leftwich, Anabasis, Michael Black,
              Scott McLeod, sean bonney

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________






JOYCESPEAK NEAR BAUDELAIRE'S BIRTHDAY
Jack Foley

Och, and the times they were
It's the law of arrearages, I say
And that Germ's Choice,
we're all his gangsters
in our verbilious ruckmaking swayways
What bloods
What bodies
What histories
of sister Eve's
What bodes with Baddyloosely?
"My infant my sister
I will be your mister
quick! down that alley where nothing's except ordure and looks"
and there shea is, that booty,
slipping her ringtongue round your dingdong--shhhhhhhh
What just desserts are here?
What slurps?
Why, it's nothing more than we'd do for the presquedent
if you'd believe them that tells
bad cess to them all and sundry
shea is whur shea is or shea isnt!
glimmerglam shivvershoes on her
and a shopping lust that's more than the two of us
Two died I say?
Twoo?
One we ayre
or is that wan?
No different than Tick from Tock
Look up
Log on
Shea's still the shame
Hadn't I told you
Didn't I tell you
Didn't I?
It's the Baddy Lairs
and the Bold old leery lusters
upchucking varses in drag
in the hinter regions
of the inter Knot
what sextrammeters!
what nudes of nuggets
what passover flyploys
what oyster messengers
(did I see a WING there
duck under
give it a gander
Bland blind St. Goosey is what a site!)
We goes on babblin and brooklyn
will we never seas the day
or the seasoning
oh ho there she goes with her drawers adroop
her panties a pied
(and me haven't peed for an hour
what air ya holdin it in for
is it the Second Cumming you're waiting for?)
Have we flayed the peacock yet?
I could use a feather, a quill (I will)
My Smile is my Simile
and I lost my--head--for Semele
beep beep are you waiting still
In the dank tarn I rant (my dank tarn rant)
My hair will cost me, Vera
See it fall
Is that all
Bal
d bald
like a sweet young thing before puberty
(my tarn rant is tart!)
A true tail: I farted the other day
and the wife said:
"What did you say dear?"
It must have been a remark
of unusual
intelligence
for Sunday
beep
and is there lightning out?
or is it lightening?
quick quick
you'll never get well if you swell
tumescence is turbulence sure
(that's my tokology)
Out with it!
Light! Light!
Out with it! Out with the
Liiiiiiiiiiiigggggggghhhhhhhhhtttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt









PASSING OF THE EMPEROR
Wesley Britton

When English dies

like Aztec Teotuican
of two and a half millennia
like Roman marble forgotten
with the will of taste,
the order of defeat
inoculated by scandal,
jackals, locusts, Jack Frost
nip at the heels 

of emperors waiting for the 21st century. 
Another clay foot crumbles,
axles crush in mud,
a new Ozymandius sears

like the last king of Bavaria
lost in mad halls of little mirrors.
He walks in the pond,
anointed, baptized
a suicide lamb of state.

Godfather pantheons look down
she-wolfed for the throne
to watch another Icarus 
Lucifer dive fulfilling

Goethe's prophecy:

No one can watch the sunset
for more than a quarter past dawn.

Rulers digest mushroom poisons,
razors in rumor baths.
Knives bleed Senate theater lobbies,
lace Corsican cyanide hair. 
Grand Inquisitors turn on spits,
the Pope and Attila nod on the plain
feasting on pewter eyed apostles
in clandestine cave massacres
knowing
     he who cannot be killed by one
     will be
     by many.

     If you wound
     you must sling 

bulletfire from Buffalo bandages.
With longrifle sights
kill the owl
with flicks of hourglass hands

before secret service subconscious
lines streets like cypress guards
to end

mattresscide, holes in the galley,
an Egyptian queen's figs and asps 
spilling bad blood

down to college girls stroked 
by a President at millennia's end.

His gift of Whitman
by her bed, a friend
wired with conspiratorial garters
asking who can you do for your country
as if Mussolini still ravished Sabine virgins
& Benjimites steal Gilead women in Shiloh  
while

gladiators give way to pigskin balls
and tabloid goats on ropes,
human cock fights, emperor nights
broadcast on frequencies of Babble.

Because he touched me,
fondled me, slay his white hydra power,
put the throne again
in the center of the Coliseum
live on CNN.

Like Chinese eunuch guilds
watching with archivist pens
the historical details  
of concubine crucibles.

Naked nursemaids without weapons, 
harems of honored pleasure
serve the Forbidden City
     until millennia's end.

Like monarchs under microscopes
horses drag hooks to catacomb bats
in vendettas for purged saints.
Alexander reigns bombs on Iraq,            
Aushwitz the last act of Hamlet,
as if humanity, the heart

isn't the point

when fulcrums of Empire power
are captured in holy seeds
of holy orders digging guidebook bones
for masked cardinal balls,
beheadings, carnival crusades,
tongues nailed to dismembered
hands before
the Dark Ages forget the road
builders and

lead the painful sounds
beyond the hunted bird.
The doleful beast with grass in teeth
stores his fat with bones
loaded like a cannon to the lips

when Latin dies. 






  OUTGROW MY EYES
  Dan Raphael


say your mind has no potatoes.
slo motion fountains of grey ejecta, as if the street was old as ash and a
gushing wind of apathy 
pulled it into the air with no where to go.
coz the economys so good
we know we're on the brink of something
like a century, a millennium--
one more number 
each of us must memorize,
like visualizing my thumbprint so big i get lost there
wall of dark spongy but impenetrable
walls of black cheese left under weeks of rain 
the cats keep their distance with diamond dust tongues regrooving the
nearby interstate 
so 12 jet surfers holding hands against the tide of rushhour 
burst like fireworks full of mutant rice eats through the night clouds with
a mainsail of undigestible starch
makes me incapable of shadows i'm so heavy and porous the light of near
nova streetlamps 
projects my handsomest face on the roughest walls, as if my smile could
replace this mass produced graffiti

i vow to live at least 20 miles from where i work 
i pray for a way to hook my visual cortex to a mini dish bringing 800
channels and T1 internet.
im known by my teeth:     undug   lunescent    tuberose presences
expand/expound
the first word in starch is star a light i control,     a light i subscribe
ingesting more underwriters 
than take what to wear, to shield from
     are you covered?     are you revoced,     revoiced
"it didnt sound like you at first"
    cells change me
taking over the neighborhood--as if they couldnt listen or suddenly fly
back into orbit--
the dead return as people leaving some identity/construct behind
which is how we got here
in the burst place
     as if certain training couldnt create neurisms
     translating all the blood brings
all thats brewn in what the untapped mind keeps being followed home by

and we keep these genes
despite good prices offered in old town
swimming through acres of main 
lining up the image/rock of our nation
the difference tween role and function
which has the same first word as funeral-- 
     ethereal theater heats the urethra to tune a cure
     like ham
     with smoke
from an overabundance of energy and oxygen
if only for a click
in each direction
seeing the time dust stirs
asphalt eating itself with rain wedges
under the pressure of getting away     getting back     getting over it
whatever it pretends to be     whatever its supposed to taste like
remind me of
 stimulating the homing beacon to reveal this storys manufacturer
with randomly misfunctioning scenarios that breed faster than fruit flies
in how many freshman genetics labs
set the seeds for continued prosperity of the prosperous
glowing from their recharge booths
this lot,     that gain,     talking bout my
            millions of miles of stationary bicycles
            gyring  energy thrown into the mirror or mag ad
like butter from several different animals pasting with smoke the
increasingly complex ceiling
keeps me home and prone, keeps me alone and on the phone
time keeps on slipping slipping slipping
something into my drink   transplanting my compass directions 
the world is a web of pendulum-pistons
wave a wand   click your heels together three times and say
theres no place like everywhere     every place is no where
this home i cant place     as if each bifurcation might have flowered
when the smell is strong enough to alter our path
when something suddenly accumulates just above the center of the brain
a white hole     a white worm   a holistic regurgitation pumps back
arrhythmic stellar arrhythmia
broke free from other toolkits
     from one man to 25 hundred cockroaches
     from a million butterflies to a hundred scrubby pines 
whittled by glaciers
melting in my reverse refrigerator:
       ice from friction      heat from holding back    
light when my eyes can focus from any point on my body, any gully of
sloughed cells
an unread compendium    a thousand years of menus
           what carrots tasted like in 999     
what dead mammal rolled in what local herb before searing with the smoke of
a tree 
that walked when young, cracked summer hardpan in its maturity, sets leaves
into paper
to cover our faces overnight so dreams like maggots of atimal corrosion
envision mini freeways that pass beneath my fence
dividing property like an acre of moving van
with thousands of prehistoric fishing hooks
sing like a 600 year old church organ
trying to bring faith from its coma, 
i grow my hands to cover the defensive gesture of someone who never learned
the necessity of suits and ties
redolent as cold steel forged from clogged arterials
as we stuff a vw bug inside a minivan and roast it over blue-flamed
mini-clevelands
rolling imaginary dice til the soup inside my veins
dehydrates into the vegetables,  fungus,  ambient cellulose
re-component white light plasma into $2 for a sixpack that regenerates if
you choose the right muscle-door
pushed through like a king-sized button vortex
where dream-trout return to night consciousness:
the phases of the moon     the mazes of imploding food
 to leave the perfect footprint in low tide sand
limpet multi-terrain tendrils
decomposed by sudden drums
make the heart think its going home
but moms on all three lines talking with neighbors and telemarketers
mixing adolescence with depression marinated in an unstructured environment 
with so many breached sheets like that plastic bubble pack mating air with
infinite plastic
if only something got through in the last unsterile second
like the one time of how many billions something capable of repeating
gets thru the other side of a black hole
like a spontaneous potato
        starts small    grows late    so fresh & buttery we give thanks
twinkling with this star food taking from the light and giving back like a
one way flight to home,
going standby on 11 flights and trusting
that where the fewest want to go, where the most change their mind about
going,
can be like swimming through tunnels dense with subterranean krill, 
message from the flame at the center
where the pressure of mass
reveals a miraculous exit
we can only wait for the hinges to ripen--
eating well, staying surprised, letting feet and hands rub against as many
smells
as summer birds unfurling from the green tubes, hoses, zippers and mouths
the earth gives back to us
as if this is a pawn shop, a place to get a new face, a way to stand so the
light unlocks
moon sponge whistling a trichinotic game plan
like the lines on your palm
pressed into the top of last nights meatloaf
with bacon epaulets
begin to sketch my manatee aura
too often tempted to play tag with speedboats









NECESSARY FRAGMENTS
Ivan Argüelles  

to begin           what was
     an undecided off the island
     "salpare" v.i.     to set sail
     the great             seen from its distance
                coronary arches
     supernal
     whiteness as of the arms of
        in a jungle went wandering
     for "release"              MANICOMIO
     trespassing heaven's gate          she
     I          was undressing by
     fortune to have "delivered" her at last
        the must rose to the top
     anaphora
                immense jars
     cracked            husks spillt oil
     a brass-
                moved into the open
     phalanxes of               she
     I then "you" on Telegraph avenue the  white
     neon               lichen
     
     floating stones
                        watched out the window
     for a signal for a single
     end of the this I mean millenium
     for what I am supposed to be cracked
     spillt oil         task
     was to
     decipher but in broad daylight?
     herculean                  goat-foot
     to be announced next king
        the supernal years the crowns of
     flowers agitated in the menstrual flux
     no "correct" orthography
     their spines erect                temples
     just blown away            Phlegethon
      this morning    for a brief
     chiselled the contents of the dream
     irregular formations
     "to become"        
     a god's song       if we must
     Die                which is often
     "janna" v.i.       to know
     what we are        in the (grand) design
        florilegium
     a few petals plucked
                what were you doing there
     in the Infernal Garden?
     she was soooo
                
     when we opened the gate and looked in
     not even a trace of their steeds
     the forms were there but not the shapes
     aerial accidents           !
     the ears filled with A
                like the distance of insects
     at work            a hive
     in the Middle Sea  
        the mythographer cross-eyed with Ire
     bull-maze          petroleum
     rivers that flow backwards!
     and wearing a mask with antlers
     and baring her fierce rump
     and the moon all green             it was
     she that I mean unh
     foolscap           the small waters
     somewhere beyond the ocean of sound
     
     "menein" v.i.      to stay
     where they built Hotels
     now only a charred              clouds
     some grass
                prints on the celluloid
     to not go back I for chrissake
        the budget wont allow
     at this rate will not be here
     a hundred years
     
     
     
     ivan arguelles
     4 27 98   







  CANCION DE NEGROFEO Y ARAUZ    
  Ivan Argüelles

     launch a sattelite with her mammogram
     an image to circle unfound planets for ever
     more than that what is there? a life on earth
     trees that tip the clouds grass that
     who will ever know what it was in my heart?
     into the flaming abyss with Negrofeo
     shall he regard his Arauz with oh what dark
     the sentiment more than the pentimento
     his pimientas and the steep duende all
     verde green the silence lisped after closets
     in the hour fabled for its anniversary of Death
     with her breast's imprint a twist of
     ideolect in old Vedic smoke substratum
     the vigil of Negrofeo his Arauz forever gone
     the traffic up the steep like a nepalese trek
     with Dante as her goad she incenses the virgin
     shoals after the while bays of water subside
     Arauz! he cries his cry some spit the scum
     froth of wind the air painted grey his dying
     sound his voice the sound I spell what
     arcadian green wince some more the hold gone
     youth like that forever into the funnel
     what you did expect I did no crime, O Gesu!
     linked from target to target the faint planet
     sunning its last lawns in the taint of despair
     some sound undergone the failed breath or
     scorched by backwards glance the lashes burnt
     singed of unrepenting why did Negrofeo?
     what other music of brooms and unpaired shoes
     in brothel backroom dinned the fumbled
     his hands out of gloved repair the backside
     she cast no shadow but rock wept his lyre
     keys and rust the slipped fingers stain
     air's dusty relic twilight a brown gown
     sliding like whispers back into the tomb
     either thumb a web the spent echo his agony
     what was that life above? the sun his vowel
     displayed like tenuous water on her breath
     Arauz you sound like no other in my memory
     why must you not be! he shades his viol
     the crimson turns its music to pain
     around the mirror's other side not cast
     no blood runs more her breast not swell
     doth empty of light the inedible shadow
     
     
     ivan arguelles
     5 30 1998








THREE PIECES
John M. Bennett


fEce

daMped  'n forMAL sLIDes into the ThroONe the tURNal
cOIL cLAMPes for sIghiNg tOILet walker caUSE yoU
fLISHed the phONe 'n cOMpost bucKEt Yet just sTep
OUTsidE the sHAKing cRUST ("learn leer") or you
wERe stamping 'til your hEEls bURst? fLAKing on
the sEat, youR hEAded shoRts, "foAM" (bACK to


ReX

fell inSIde the pILl 'n cREpt detAiLing diaRrhEA
in the eLevaTOR or your sTILl sTONe fLAMe (gUM in
ARmpit) or you sTEpped in thouGHt, yoU MEaNT, cLEar
spAghetti SaucEd the fLAminG BOwL a lUSter sICKness,
clusTers belOW your BELt or fLosswads, POSTulating,
TickINg off the fISt its CAPsules


cLAMs

cLAWing sOUTh beSIde yer BLEnder MISt tHunder, fell
yer spLATed toE I slAW aWY yer Mouth sIDles un
DERneath My skIrtS I fLAtten you? like Pillared
rUGs you coLumn kISsed 'n Tuned ("pwayed inside the
whirl") ah yer CUSturd, fILLed yer lUNgs 'n BElt
furleD! ('n sightly damped …

 






                 PULL ON THE MOTOR!
                 Tim Gaze and Michel Delville

More choal! Bellyskin, deverse his chargy obfuscus, the four 
mug it, one to sue for gross gout. The conductorman is was 
at rest. He cries: "pull on the motor!" The backskin saliva 
with its suit of muscles, pussed by the fire, affamed by 
jealous fakesters, he say Port-au-Prince. Inside, the skin is 
not quiet. The turbines ronronnerate morer. All bubbles in a 
clear soup. Dang, like the smoke makin' us render 
sounds. Même the clouds who can nothing who they miss them 
to toss to death riding periscope lens.

In the wagonrestaurant, the assiettes rub & the travellers 
flush their jambs. In the kitchen, the kitchenchef awaits 
the jury: she boils her puss. It is promptly detached from 
her hand and the present ballad to run on the rails. A crow 
that rap. And dirging in the next cabin is the externally 
neurasthenic passenger.

The locomotive lead the dance and shuffles along the rails. 
Compliant wagons, skinny at the flanks, like no nothing 
wasn't, with dodue essence feral pallor the envy of the 
able-breasted seamen.

There was a good long time, a volcano crashed a mass of 
forgeries sodden blue insively looking like a train like a 
gout of water right here. One can deplore, but all's swell 
as well. More recently, a Dutch captain is coming to your 
country to dump tons of choal on your empty spaces.

What is beyond the head of the train?









from UNTITLED 
Harry Polkinhorn

Except at night in a comma until you emerge
From the element dripping light and look around

At another landscape while the message is
Repeated of lenses and feet vegetables your

Frozen woman ruthlessly discriminating
To make smells of rain compost human bodies

Sweating their beautiful push to throw a
Canopy over your exposure glandular in its

Connection with river system as long as
You go on triangulating through monuments

Sand clouded eyes adrift infinitely their
Ritual passing of the tiny spaces

Attuned like a lightning rod beyond mortality
To keep those last few drops of brandy your

House on fire and crowded with psychoses
The shotgun suicide in her bathtub pieces of

Clothing erotic axis where legions have gone
As if benetically driven but their total biopsies

Of the soul born to die when a runner
Passes leaving you wondering if anything happened

Coal dust swans from hell with cumulus wings
In a random cascading to new peaks until

Fish taste or bacterial invasion but sometimes
They argue or one will stand resolutely in

The way Poseidon not to be triffled with
You've stumbled onto a downward spiral

Where steaks stream from the purplish sky
Fingers sprouting ears of corn and








LIFTING THE TRAIN
Amy Trussell

She's crawling by the window-
the morning girl in the clouds
with other oddities between dreams:
pulsing jellyfish and milk

There are gradating shades
from slate to blue absolute
you rise slowly then fall back
rise again and go walking

Under the train trestle the fragrance
of bearded irises travels towards you
double back and find them
a purple spray next to the tunnel

Like shimmering veiled maidens
self contained with  folded secrets
of the deep and the living
the ancient and the supple

She would always take the canvass
of the gypsy caravan
when La Chunga would sleepwalk
into the mountains

Of the Tierra Negra
and dance or dream she was dancing
in a batara do cola, a ruffled train
she shifted continents

how to change from solid to liquid:
a mango wood guitar
is fragile as glass
let it fill and spill onto the ground

Lift your train
step up to the volcano
and follow the reverse path of lava
leaving the others behind

Thrust your arms through the cloud cover
there's no blood laced with saffron
no science or ritual
more exacting than this

                               



THROUGH THE WALL
Amy Trussell

In rainy twilight with an atlas
the veins of gold and blue
we trace our route
with fingers into the wilderness

The bitter taste of yarrow
is in our mouths and we travel
through the wall and
deep space to the egg nebula

A mocking bird sings all night
at the wet spinning plates
of the planets
the moon dissolves the window

Then two strokes of lightning
make the outline of a woman's body
giving the illusion she is dancing
while lying still

I remember the jagged petroglyph
on a shallow cave wall
and the ghosts that sang "who?"
in the cold night

Skin shielded from the wind
with red clay and mutton fat
I saw time running out of the wash
on the back of a sheep

The trickster lyricist appeared
stuck his tongue out  looked at it
and opened a guitar case
releasing a flock of crows

Then the old brown dancer
strode over the rise
carrying a bicycle wheel
while a jet swung low

I stood there and was climbed
over with squash vines
then he went over me too
as if i wasn't there

But I remember him
and the wind singers haunt
when feeling the roads less traveled
down the back of your hand


                                     







TRANSDUCTIONS OF BRUNO SOURDIN (in MANI ART #108)

décolletage
Jim Leftwich

1. Parsed Mojo

Tranquility does not exist / The air
is a glacial etude / She waits for the bras
of the nuns / The telephone sonnet / The avant-garde
name of God / Javelins and autumnal cats
along the frontier / One petite ravenous tooth
of a bird / I am the vulgar dance of the night /
Souvenir eggplants / The boots of the rain
in candles / The ceiling of Paris is a palimpsest
of tenements

2. Dormouse

Life is a passive conduit / The village of
somnolent nights / Less its sieves / Less
the tints of its eyes / Escalates to a sate of video /
The bassoon of the day dances like the silence
of machetes / I rave like a sedated idiot / A jettisoned
tropical emu pouring juries / Less grand than
recalcitrant spirits / Less arbitrary than the dance
of Luxembourg

3. Past the entire loop

Inutile de facto debris / The night
is a magnificent assonance / The journal
of a muted sonnet / An avalanche of type / A unit
of mouths past lips deviant less eyes / I array you
in a stalemate of chocolates / I am tired
of these riddles / I am no meticulously passive gourmet /
On the boulevard of the past tense / I’ve hocked
my teeth / The belfry of the garage dressed
as the silhouette of a lion

4. Lotus and butchered consensus

A coup of sales for the fanfare / Silence
eats the rigor / In the face of the universal
city / One roulette portal
laundromat / A violet sun lacks lacquer /
I have no taste for the auburn sortilege / The
ceiling is an assassin’s bricolage plus implicit /
Personae in view / The same laughter southeast
of you / The church allotment a parfait satiety
of rigor / I’ll take the sonnet / An envoy
of signals / Domain of the feral hours






                                 DISSING D+LPHIN
                                    Tim Gaze

D+lphin dropped fish diarrhoea on the tiled floor. I needed that like a hole
in the head. More datura tea please Betty xck xck xck.

Now, what if you put a d+lphin's brain into a shark? That would be a
different kind of crab, wouldn't it?








from WHITE LIGHT
Anabasis

A sign is just that, neither an extended moment of self esteem nor an
exercise in, uh, chance; the lapse in cleverness, or, really, a
confrontation between thought and moment, time and motive, the interfacing
leaves from history and the unconscious; a context of surprise, a drama
beyond the specific calculations to which art is subject, the man-object;
no, really, it is, perhaps, the dramatic gesture of a man's life, he might
say, there, and mark it out of the singularity of the passage, or he might
miss it altogether, say the time was not right for his recognition, or,
simply, leave himself at the mercy of his dreams, but really, the moments do
occur, how could they not, could one pass his life without incident or
drama; no, even though we fail completely we do come back in recall to
signals of events by which the magnitude of life's processes were shown to
us, calling God the distance beyond our mundane presence come to us in life,
meetings in the mountain scattered out by our response to it, did we rise,
accept the image, drama driven down by our own push after reality, or
meaning. . . .

But the jump is such an invisible moment: the physical body living in its
pressure and formality, we do see, that, the same clothes on the shelf, the
ordinary flux of groceries beyond the intense unfolding drama of
psychological development, deeper layers of energy present themselves, push
us forward on our own trails beyond the assumptions by which we are, ah,
ruled, and there's the moment: control, over self, response to the inner
laws by which we, surprised, come around, to moods we never imagined, ah,
surprise and the total warp of the all too
familiar, "I want to be transformed!" Jim wailed at the bar, pissed over his
inability to find any cocaine that night. But the secrets in the woods are
delivered
"I want to be transformed!" Jim wailed at the bar, pissed over his inability
to find any cocaine that night. But the secrets in the woods are delivered
privately. Tom never saw what happened behind the screen. He heard the yell
only later, triumphant echoing beast noise yell as he went back down the
trail. Still, he had met something from within himself at the base of the
dead tree, and it was, was what he had studied, he was there at the mystery,
and now they went up the trail.
"Let's have a smoke," he said.

Traveling by bus from the south coast, up to Istanbul, ceremonial cigarettes
are cast around; sitting on the aisle seat, he mumbles something half-way
intelligible, the voice below understanding, the man on the aisle says, uh,
yeah, the pack open, out, a long white filter cigarette, they ride along the
dry hills in the Mercedes bus, smoking silently. Other cigarettes are drawn
on various occasions, passed around silent communion of men at work,
squatting in sunlight, moment of shared air, the slight high more a moment
of friendship than an occasion for comment.

At the bend in the trail, they turned off to the left, the stream
had passed down about fifty feet below for a moment the trail rising up and
around a large boulder covered with moss and dirt in the dry hill, shaped
like a woman's ass, gentle curve of the earth's female flesh they settled
down and he rolled a smoke, two cigarettes, and they sat there breaking
twigs on the ground casting them on the ground a small compulsive gesturing
of passing time in no-time where they had nothing to say, but still they sat
together there in the woods, resting in the flesh of an immense lady, and
the other said, "You know, there's bear up there," and pointed up at the
high cliff where there were obviously some caves in among the higher reaches
of the
mountainside, "Why don't you take half of this tobacco, I got to get back to
camp,"to his woman and his two kids. Now Tom and Bill had both been in the
sweathouse with him, they were all more or less brothers in this together,
but the darkness was coming closer and he was more and more alone in the
perpetual silence of thought the imagined distance between the high energy
fantasy of his own passing thoughts and the rote-animal functioning of his
empty body, the drug running free clear energy through the specific system
of his own release of jumping the loop of his own intestines.









CollapsarBoule
Michael Black

blackholes cementing bedrooms linoleumvented & eggcrusted inexact twilight
of oval commotions violently daemonic faithpineappleheaded bathos
fillin of sensitive repercussions

on days jinxing off capone marigolded beasttheatre when to
frontal lobasinggolem neither the justified shootme's
faceprotoplasm adderaddingmachines where better is most a
pregnantchurchhill fluke & buddhabuoycamerachill for there guests
bobbing upperdownerstagefrights

of plural cases heavenspeed lucky rhythmattic of perfect searise
zimzummuzac the separating nouveau notification door down in
stepping thru bassintro with an accent of bassethounds
forkfledged bitter intervals of literatidestruction suck'd at
image by approach's selenafloodboats of lotionemotional to open
doorblanks either the peephole of _i_ or the gardenentrance's
semantic cacophony cousin'd buy of undoing

the ectoplasm of indication at such & such for timearrival is
eventualmakeupbrush infernopast poisonbrains


exert provocative turpentineshow my slum like my funeral it
is crowncola0 wraithpendant =s sidebouquet sog'd imprison'd
where  who does 1 go nylonish string egregores bountyemission
anglesaddle blow hiccup during the west shew thru organlooms
plumdecompost grin has amanita like a puffing porchroof clan'd
andgate statueperch of angersatin or satan is moving predictions
to mercks the chemically alterative on gone to classes of
objectivity

professionducks admit to ailing flux below the hypotenusebelted
broom dove thru a choiceditch & brittle bridge that such chosen
collapse anxious pizzaleftover from the bermudatrianglepipeline
to my blue flushtoilet androgynous emperorflash or hasn't the
square anything bell to do than the gnatsphinx on spinachfence
the thug thru the galley guised onto mermaid of floodlevel lieus
occurrence the messy newscentermessages subliminal
inter[corr]uption continuing to hide duplex behind the
morningknave's itchcrest profiled obsidian glitters rumprojects
of adders & appleoranges

is that the highwaynoise or the stalker in the corner so unreal
that it happens to is like petroleumbutter does it have flame
or am i just hoping for a flitter'd recall that i didn't remember
burning acidtouches up tinbottlecaps of reason the mom in tarried
bleeps updateresume i'd rath be the hood on inmadness stroking
monk hiding jackdaniels in his robe declaring the shell as a
disasterarea enough to demolish into out it wasn't really the
matter but who caves in 1stgear anymore frugal failure's water
seeks his own levels of insensitive gratitude but i'm just this
& that & the wombman underneath what is what & sumthing along
the grapplinghooks looks like a dimension of revelationsforecast
to be that will never me like igloo on the crossroads of purified
astraphobia on astrionics bertha the on's top bistourymomentaries
that are bisex of eternityinternational does it knot soundlike

                                                          so much
                                                          to have
                                                           open'd
                                                      & so little
                                                    to have close









DECEMBER 27, 1995
Scott MacLeod



 As catastrophes, inseperable, they overlap, they

are entangled, identical, identical, and very

black.  The same center, in a supple regime, any

strange town, any grey beach under rain.  Just

another local phenomenon.  At home, keeping the

coffee warm in her little apartment overlooking

the middle class.  The predetermined truth of the

situation according to the order of the city,

itself further, though less visibly, in air,

signalling its own limits.  Legs, mouths, teeth,

fingers.  Certain identities and clothes where

the character of individuality pauses.  The

engineer as the thing itself.  Fingers, warm

coffee.  A hole in the pipe.  There is no social

system over mysteries of instinct.  Instead there

is always something like a war under the world’s

pretension, which exacerbates instead of healing.

 Even the edges shake.  The Swiss-Italian alps

are, have to be, nomads, as if physical history

comes with it, disappears into the military and

criminal world.  Liquid assets of war, we might

say.  Created, exhausted or transformed, or

catastrophic if preferred, on the bottom, in the

army, on the job.  Sustained and nourished and

cherished without a model, without a chance. 

Mouths, teeth, all the segments swelling,

gambling, cajoling, without, however, ceasing, or

reaching their limits.  Conclusions other than

death are simply failures of energy.  Various

dusts, experience scattered into a discouraging

fiction.  Better than our own world becoming

indiscernible.  Virtually nothing to see.  No

steam-whistles blow on the other track. 

Conspiratorial tremors express nothing.  Desire,

which is an empty space, a parade of religious

objects past a dead murderer.  A series of

midnight journeys, topics for our brooding, stage

directions, messages, life turns to the demons

inside wheat, wine, olive: they are probably up

to something they shouldn’t be during the

performance of their duties and the

implementation of the law.  No boots made without

brutal method.  The worst architect from the best

of bees, the product forged by lightning and

collapsed stones, wood, bones and shells, under

man’s superintendance.  Baskets and jars, iron

rust and wood rot, seize upon these things and

rouse them from their death-sleep, these places

we imagine in Breughel, these demolished

buildings in a place apart, these places where

everyone ends up, in hotels, in dreams locked

tightly around wedding bells and death, in rivers

of blood in all the streets, the impossible place

and its impossible tongue, man in his senses,

foundered or crippled by them, wasted by wear and

tear and weak death.  Death or its synonyms.  So

many abodes the world furnishes, reproducing in

miniature the affections we call our own in

taking up the atrocious dream.  The bread

consumed in the hidden abode of the body.  Good

and white and smooth dreams, and the flight down

into the kitchen every day.  Wild animals with an

anxious eye.  Silence falls over the middle-class

produced terror of the central point.  The taste

of the porridge does not tell you who grew the

oats, tilled the modest farm, hired the horse. 

No one remembers what the original plan was but

the procession continues, on either side, a kind

of recognition which demands and contains. 

Nothing is more explicit.  So the prose grinds to

a halt.  Marooned.  A dog hunting with a pack.








THEE EQUATIONS
sean bonney

1.001

take body as centre of city
place specific spindles in opposing hands  perforate sky
pierce birds with mythology of flight


1.002

cast fire as engine of body
curse it with hands   cure it with speech
propose birds create mythology


1.003

take mouth as exit from fortress
electrodes   add words
create suburbs   fingers    fluids
add cancer    create


1.004

pierce mythology propose birds


1.005

cast fire in shape of stones
curse it with hands   cure it with speech
place specific spindles in opposing hands  perforate bones


2.001

Face it as birth

magpie   pins wind
to hair   & foam
is a fact of light

& road   is a sound
& birth  behind eyes
is breath  & forming
the sound  as engines  in magpies
hanging  in state
of birth  the town
stretching   like a map  stretching
like a map
behind eyes