Tram Spark
Saturday, November 29, 2003
I have, to name one thing,
strewn a body.
There are parts of me

no longer whole
I have set out each night
and inventoried. 
Thursday, November 27, 2003
He's raising fainting goats
in Tennessee which resulted
from an abandoned bride
and four abandoned goats
(he took the sacred cow)
and glowing fish
for his mother-in-law
when he reads of a five-legged dog,
a Maltese-and-terrier mix
named Popcorn that steals hearts
which resulted from an
extremely rare genetic anomaly.
The subheads over breakfast say
the foundling pooch
who steals the hearts
may need some surgery.
Over a different breakfast
he reads that a veterinary surgeon
indeed has removed not one
but two back three left legs,
resulting in a three-legged dog.

To tell the truth, his fainting goats
are raising fainting goats alone;
he mainly only watches.
And fainting goats are used
primarily for meat, not fainting.
And glowing fish, which tell the truth
are used primarily to glow,
do not pan out like you'd think.
And his mother-in-law. 
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
William Watkin's hair
Hair of William Watkin
William "Hair" Watkin
Herr William Watkin
William Watkin's hair 
Women as one laugh up
a great crowd of unsettling birds
and three men still pondering,
still pondering, and who? and who?
and the birds rise again. 
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Down in darktown, we still live apart,
though no one calls it that anymore.
In this leaping bedsit, stand and spin.
There is no place for a dog to lie down.
But move along. I'd like to see you naked
at the end of the world. If you're good,
I will see you stripped and naked
when we go underground for the lord.
We are numinous, underground for the lord. 
Operator! get me Ziegfeld 1932,
get me Zapruder 313, get me
Siefried on the line, get me
roarrr. Get me a bundy, crank it
back, get me McGeorge, get me Ted.

Here's the buildup.
I hate to watch his head.
I know he will spout
with guaranteed steel
and hard wood stock,
the Mannlicher maneuver,
shells within.

A look out the window,
a watchtower, the screendoor,
a birch standing quietly in the back.

Operator, get me Munster 1313.
Get me a good Zapata 1916.
Get me Eric Von Zipper on the line.
Down to the beach in ships.
I wish to watch his head once again. 
Saturday, November 22, 2003
In someone's other world
the milkman smells the gas
and breaks the door in.
He may be handsome. He may
have fistfuls of patience.
He may even shovel the walk.
The important thing is that
the milkman does not smoke. 
Friday, November 21, 2003
Granddad, Australian lungfish,
was acquired by the Chicago aquarium
in 1933. Since then he's been around.  
I like your kids.
Good ghosts show through
their little skins.
Here is an animal
for them that talks,
though just to them,
through them to you.
Good creatures
we leave us to. 
If I were this girl
would I talk to myself?
I'm smoke and glowing.
Fixes her lips and eyes,
but I squint in her face
unexpectedly and she is
the revenge. Lays waste
to it all, pulls my
shoulders down under
her strong rasp. 
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Raspberries poking white cotton,
hips carved from animal bone.
Her tongue tips into her drink.
She's her own taster.
I'm still so afraid of her I know
I can't light her cigarette.
I pretend I don't have a light.
She writes on the back of the receipt
something she says is just our secret.
So I agree. OK. I'm mister pants.
She produces matches and burns
this secret she says is ours.
She says she doesn't trust my eyes.
Now I'm red and she's just
this cotton and a hip how she leans
and two raspberries jumping.
After this we start at it again. 
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Garful farful gar gah-fah,
Farful garful far fah-gah,
Garful-garful-garful.

Check out the gang in the corner if you get a chance. They must be plotting something.
Mmm. Revolutionaries?
Big round black bombs with lit fuses.
No crazy beards?
Not even the women.
Maybe they burned them off.

Munch munch munch munch munch

See the one with the tattoos? He's a visiting author. He usually keeps his dragons all covered up but he likes to show them off at things like this.
Cute.

Farful garful far fah-gah,
Garful farful gar gah-fah,
Farful-farful-farful.

This wine is rotten.
Have another. It starts to get good after about seventeen.
"Bouquet like an aborigine's armpit."
Shh. Not here.

Munch munch munch munch munch

Art is the theory.
Oh, God.
That, too.

Munch munch munch munch munch

Theory is the patter you learn for chatting at places this.

Munch munch munch munch munch

It's the formalism their art lacks. They need it somehow, so they put up this scaffolding around it instead of giving their art a good skeleton.
Hm. Hey, isn't that...
Yeah, that's her. Excuse us for a minute.
Christ.

Munch munch munch munch munch

It's the concrete keeping these otherwise poorly made walls standing.
No, art theory is the formalism art lovers miss in their art. If the art must say nothing, then the theory must say everything.

Munch munch munch munch munch

Art theory is the statement that art fails to make.
I don't know. Art theory helps people talk convincingly about art, a skill some folk must find useful.
Here, maybe.
Or pleasant.
I suppose.
Or profitable.
Mmm.

Garful farful gar gah-fah,
Farful garful far fah-gah,
Garful-garful-garful.

I'm doing a thing on the plumbing in churches. I have photos of maybe a hundred churches now, mainly just the toilets and sinks in the back.
Employees only?
Yep.

Munch munch munch munch munch

Don't the priests mind you snooping about with your camera?
I tell them I'm from the plumber's union. These guys don't know anything.
Hm.

Munch munch munch munch munch

Well, does it?
Does what?
Does their shit stink?
As far as I know, no. Or I never caught a freshly used toilet.

Munch munch munch munch munch

All of this stuff, all these frames and wall cards and galleries and bright lights and openings and magazines and movements and countermovements and scientific-sounding theories, all convinces them that they're making important things happen. It fools them into thinking they're participating in, like, the progress of art. But there is no fucking progress in art.

Munch munch munch munch munch

What is the experiment? Where is the frontier?
It's the stuff between the cheese and the wine.
What are you drinking?
Nothing now. Could you go find me something strong?

Garful farful gar gah-fah,
Farful garful far fah-gah,
Garful-garful-garful.

His ears are the hairiest things I've ever seen. Bristly!
And his pal.
Must have taken the "riveting" part of someone's compliment too seriously.
She's punctured.
I bet she leaks. Let's watch her drink.
Check out her shins. Like she's always waking up in the dark.
In the wrong house.
And leaking.
"Just getting up to take a leak."

Munch munch munch munch munch

How about these guys. What do you think? Professors?
Associate professors.

Munch munch munch munch munch

Assistant professors.
Father confessors.
Hairdressers.

Munch munch munch munch munch

You have to meet this guy. He's in my morning comp class. This kid can't write for shit but he means it.
He's got beautiful hair. Even his tiny chin stuff is nice.
He just grew that.

Farful garful far fah-gah,
Garful farful gar gah-fah,
Farful-farful-farful.

Oh, look! Three movements in one night.
They must be eating their roughage.
Plenty of carrots and stuff at these things.
So, who's in what?
Hang on.

Munch munch munch munch munch

Ok, these guys, speaking of movements, are The Shit, capitalized. No, really. They purposely do what everyone hates. If you say you hate a certain style, they work in that style to show you just how wrong and stupid you are.
Go tell them you fucking can't stand dogs playing strip poker.
They did that.
Original or send-up?

Munch munch munch munch munch

I saw you!
What?
Stop looking at her tits, you bastard.
I wasn't looking at her tits.
I'm not stupid. She isn't either. Well, not about that.
Where'd you get that sandwich?

Munch munch munch munch munch

What about the other ones?
Oh, I forget what those ones over there say they are, but it's something about disconnecting the narrative from the representative or something. Dry stuff. Stay far, far away from it.

Munch munch munch munch munch

And who's the third?
Them. Running the snack table. But I don't remember what they're called. They were something before. Now it's something else. We can go ask them.
Maybe not. They don't look very friendly.
Get a couple of drinks first, then we'll sneak over.
Good stuff.

Farful garful far fah-gah,
Garful farful gar gah-fah,
Farful-farful-farful. 
Monday, November 17, 2003
No time for the old
avant-garde, love.
Just came to read the meter. 
Saturday, November 15, 2003
I could pull your body in
and identify
each secret mark,
the roll of your hair,
the way you look
without blinking.

I could step in and be
wound by you
and pedaling for breath.

Someone wading
might find out
glass washed to green stones,
branches shaped for collectors,
dropped feathers, and scuttles
in out of the bank.

If you stepped out
and shook yourself stiff. 
Friday, November 14, 2003
See? She's done it again. Just two weeks
and the oldest woman in the world is dead again.

Her face was a puppet made from two
black buttons and a pink sock.
If you were wondering.

The oldest woman in the world has
packed it in, abandoned Japan,
changed her name and moved to Ohio.

She was born before your time.
She throws knives and likes corn. 
Thursday, November 13, 2003
In another fine world,
folk we almost remember
were god.

And they almost remember
another time.

Pot-stirring over
fires here and there,
pushing kindling into coals
and tasting at the rim of a dipper. 
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Prester John was built dark with wings
and stood on the sinking sphere.
Uprose he on the sea and scattered
story of his amethystian mind,
the light between, the push of waters round
his ambergris set in the sand
ground down away.
The wood and flax of wings
still grow along all the washed edges. 
These few thousand stars
Are all and they

Go out and find a star,
Especially if where you live
You drown in local light,

Go out and find one star enough
And what if only there and here?
And what if you

Go out. If you stay in and mumble
you will see what you will see. 
Saturday, November 08, 2003
Dozens convulse another
life without shivering
wood and bird slip
into stone a bird
is a bird it drops

taught himself violin
sweet set traps for
bone letter knives

Old hen lays twelve
cracking admirers

I would sing this
hardware sign
for baby dizzy baby
rolls her head

My belly will 
A toad pavement tonight
cold belly on fingertips
the death of whom
comes slowly and these two French
leopards spotted belly
blue by their lamplight
only love of life only
her tiny shoes

A traveling showman with broad
cuffs with her body
in the back seat she in their singing
whore little whistler hangs
socks on our steam pipes
flashlights swing through the bush

he uses the word frankly 
Someone picks his teeth
with space tools engineered
for lightness and lifted
from the national museum.
He forgets in his head
this aluminum picks
an afternoon moon. 
Thursday, November 06, 2003
As summer to the fish beneath
a slow glass-bottomed boat
when sunlight slides in waves
across the bottom,

she rode a discount scanner and pushed start,
pushed start, pushed start, pushed
start, pushed start,
pushed  
The scary animals
at the zoo
have hands like me
and eyes like you.
They make us want
to turn the keys.
But left or right?
That's where we freeze. 
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Or:

The man who died on the moon
is still incorruptible at the end
of soft footprints...

Gah. Something I'm looking for is not there, not on the moon, not at Underwood. Not in this sausage factory. 
Monday, November 03, 2003
At Underwood tonight the sticks crack
in the snow the sticks crack in return
crack step and from where we return
we step we step we thought we were going. 
Sunday, November 02, 2003
In a cage at the zoo
I watch God look back,
not accusingly, not apparently
– how would this face shape
old-fashioned accusation? –
but I feel bad. I'm the one
with the trick to the gate
and God has bare feet
and stands in his piss.
He takes a nut from me
and waits for another.
God has soft lips. God has
big eyes and a nameplate.
God has big eyes. 
Saturday, November 01, 2003
The oldest woman in the world is always
discovered dying between escaped alligators
and a Hollywood wedding, letting mules go,
forgetting the crops, surrounded by people
in nylon, looking up through the waters.
Always widowed, biting stuffed tigers
or Cuban cigars and knocking back tots,
the oldest woman in the world is rib cage
and wattle and skull strung and wrapped
in a single scarf, unremarkable China.
She would lick her nose, three teeth and red
gums snapping. Enough of this Christmas,
she doesn't give a damn about your air. 

beam eye baby

AKA Eeksy-Peeksy or maybe dumbfoundry
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Defunct?
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Boston Comment
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Stand
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Surgery of Modern Warfare
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What
A poetry blog. Yes, I know some of them are really bad. I put everything here, even the failures. I might cannibalize them later. Just skip the bad ones. Sounds nothing but mean. (And don't look for web design; this blog is just a big sheet of paper.)





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