Old 333→→→ ●■►the future is poetry.

dawn/not haiku

2012-01-30T13:20:00.000-08:00

~~the___~~dawn/not a haiku
hymen
of the skies
has broken : rose
floods the garden, rose
backed with gold.
The leaves are become
~~for~~ a ~~moment~~

heavenly

currency

2012.

there is no after (up above is all around and life is suicide))

2012-01-30T10:57:00.000-08:00

maybe i came

from a/n melanc/holy

spirit : spirits

are eternal, you

understand and only

the damned walk.

ܚ.H.ere we are merrily down the

plughole : think of our friends

up above , watching our song and

some times wishing

we hadn't gone : I like to i/magine that

somebody up there feels concerned for me

even though I've deserted them

it's important.

Spend a life in joy! Who

knows

what you gave up

to be here_

afterward/s

the people found that the ash

washed easily from their hands,most

of it slipping away ; but

forever atrace remains

mark them by their darkened

fingernails

2012.

the hunt

2012-01-29T14:16:00.000-08:00

cra zy saw
howling
in the wrood s
some one
with a dead
fall
licencse
a truck and
the soul
of a reticulate xylem ~~wood~~-eating
lwolfef

money and heat
m oney a n d heat
that
is what drives it"
qasoline
and
thick oil, burn
i ng and
teeth of sharp steel
flying
to the
~~tree~~ - tendons and
nutty thick flesh of the
sick and
dying
( sometime s

a whole tree, a bit of pole pine
in its prime

if no-one's looking

2012.

METAL PEPPER

2012-01-29T11:58:00.001-08:00

metal pepper ground on paper

makes my meal this morn; bits

of words and sorted thoughts lined up

on a page like a pan and frying, un

recognizable iz how i like them, my

poems little eggs and bits of meat

~~that they are~~.

2012.

beside the bees

2012-01-29T11:34:00.000-08:00

it'll come|in the summer (Gardener not farmer)
in the winter, we are all seeds: alone, and

I need to speak to Mother
channel the universal
energy
vibe : I need
dirt
on my feet and hands , I
need to crawl, need to stand facing the sun making
a temple of my arms and eyes I
need
to be only an eye
to feel the
long thick hot hair across my shielded shoulders
I
need
sweat in my beard and to eat the
small fruits of the field as i
work back
sore but not burnt, hair blonde from brown but still some how
made younger by the light
birds; and
beside bees and wasps with no
argument,we are
after different stuff
not once have i been stung

2012.

meetings within meetings

2012-01-27T11:12:00.000-08:00

why non-dualism? (desideratum)
I came back from a secret meeting
with my psychiatrist: I had
broken down in the office and he asked me: do you
want
to hurt? And I considered my answer
for a moment too long, a pause
is as good as a yes with these guys and what no means
i can't guess

they put me into a new program, there
behind that door inside the other door, green baize-
red and
pimpled with buttons

into the sanctum, where the
really crazy ones
find out about it all

starting with beating children, soon
i'll be working my way to hard targets: it's

all about the wanting
agony is born of this desire and i am now an
agonist : I
bond
to society's pain receptors, I bring
sweet anaesthesia to the group mind with my
rubber bludgeon and my
special tap-hammer with its
little ice-pick : thanks, Doc

you've really given me my
life back

2012.

The Old 333 (Mandatory)

2012-01-26T09:12:00.000-08:00

the old people
who were forced to join the Army
when their years ran out; boots bots and guns or
a mandatory death chamber: together
in adversity, they formed a regimental association, ex
changing tooth-brushes, dentures and orthopedic
inserts
saving the last scraps of their lives together in a little headquarters
building near the armoury on Bay; coffee armchairs and
few veterans, mostly grizzled newcomers
grace the seats

the Old 333
doesn't have many returnees
when you go to war at sixty-five, still
alive, still
strong in heart enough to qualify, you
don't expect a
welcome home, just a cemetery

that, and a little pillaged
time for chess and tea; the only
ones
on the battlefield
who take naps in the fighting

repost: the touching
endearment
of
old chaps and their wives doing
suicide missions
on their last night together: the
fine letters home from a grandfather
who won't be
back for Christmas but sends his love

and a jar of enemy ears, with raisins
pickled in plundered brandy

2012.

it's always goodbye

2012-01-22T15:36:00.000-08:00

distant whitecaps and i
thought of running out to take a picture
for you
and as i did i realized that a picture is just the same as lying
and saying that i love you, a picture is a way of losing
what i meant to you in this moment; a picture
is what my eyes spat out, what my mind did not live in, what i did not
see
or
smell
or
hear
or
taste, where I have never been, a place that is dead like the
distance

between us.

2012.

1000 poems

2012-01-19T17:39:00.000-08:00

poems
about dragons

should be written

2012.

grapple & flow

2012-01-19T13:53:00.000-08:00

i fell beside the ice carrot

hit my head and landed in the dirt

the water had been fighting

with nothing

all night

<,> (hands clasped together)(The Book)

2012-01-19T10:25:00.000-08:00

sintering milwarks!
agony is born of desire: key word
born
ire
is a word which like aggression
is much misunderstood fire
is what burns in the souls of the good
and the damned? they too
are not off the hook
you are not in this world to wait its ending
get up off your back and stop crying

nobody has time for your dying only life, you understand?

(this is the part of the poem which should be filled with
complex references, leaping beasts from Borges and
talk of secret masterworks only
hinted at by ~~the~~ priests of power: long
allusions
to
other, better stories than itself, like a
garter snake among dragons, it is
unhumble not to parade one's knowledge in this way -so, please
take it as read, or go read it yourself)

there is no need to imagine: everything
is as it should be
now get out there and work on would be

why do so many feel that life's a curse?
they only make themselves lesser than
<
that should go on the tombstones of all the
anti-religious, pious haters of (hu)Man
<
not ready, not able, < < < .

air, air water earth and
fire
everything eating everything else
forever and
you, here, on this turning page:

here

2011.

e.n.p.d.

2012-01-14T11:36:00.000-08:00

e.n.p.d.

esoteric nazi proliferation dis
ease
must be written about
in private, on the
back of another
page, w e a r i n g a
fals
e moustache and
knotty trousers, stained and
wandering up the
seams, he
writes of his
disease
in private.

2011.

qamariya

2012-01-11T10:55:00.000-08:00

the images of true peace

have nothing to do with permanence:

lianas

on a bomber window make a half-moon silhouette

of sunlight, leaves, and geometry

on the wall here

in my imagined house which is

made of soft memory

nothing i can build (or

you can build) will ever be

a bird

2011.

blue paper mountains

2012-01-05T10:46:00.000-08:00

blue paper mountains (3memory)

:my poetry seems never
to contain any Canadian
memories : no
jumping off church-roofs
into snow-banks
in a small town, no
silent Father in his fishing boat, wait
ing
among mosquito-laden reeds
for fish , or death or memory.
No memory seems to accrue
to me , here on the Western coast
hidden in islands
of this great country : perhaps the rain
washes it all away ,and each
time
the mountains , or their shades emerge
from those sheening curtains (cascades
of colour, blue on blue on blue on blue
each time
it is the first
I've seen of them.

2011.

dolores of beef

2012-01-04T14:54:00.000-08:00

dolores of beef

ode to a 9-year-old's

carnivorous lunch:

oh dear little

dolores of the beef sandwich: if only

you knew

whence came that, or the

chicken bits you had for lunch the day before: more

gore than your young mind could

assemble would you swoon

at the sight of the mangled

little friends that went before you? or would you

smile and lick your lips, eyes

bright

with the dim light of campfires remembered, the very

glim of man the predator

planner and murderer

within you

2011.

swee treason

2012-01-04T13:44:00.000-08:00

sweet

reason which

deduces the existence

of the world through the

reproduction

of the senses swee

treason , this bodykin

o f mine : sweet

poison , this

flame of all reality sweet

beauty , corrosive

eating

Time and excreting

void .

2011.

the virtue$ of slumming

2012-01-03T12:20:00.000-08:00

the virtue$ of slumming

Being free enough
to only do a thing once
allows for new strengths- new
reflections to be drawn,

Where a toiler
gleans only smaller points

across the years - gems,to be
sure , but not vistas -

2011.

a cut across

2011-12-24T10:49:00.000-08:00

a cut across
I came upon a fork : a
Robert Frost divide: choose a
side.

Brambled and torn, muddy and wet

: my destination
lies straight up ahead .

2011.

why (written to

2011-12-21T13:45:00.000-08:00

why (written to
the sound of barking)

we cannot endure the thought
of not going on : imagining
transformations into
something else : a
machine elf, a soul
( which is like a
snow -angel
made in time ) : a
stained
glass
window
depicting all our deeds : a name
that lives on ,Ozy
mandias Beo
wulf Baby lon: dogs
need no such illusions.

2011.

( utter)

2011-12-21T10:36:00.000-08:00

( utter)

i am plagued with dreams
of death: nightly
drownings , my last breath
a word i can't remem
ber : noting
that Peter got burnt
and dismembered
in the air crash : a bash
on the head
from behind ,and
last night, sitting
eating needles
broke in half
until i realized
what i had done :some
times i wonder
if dreams these be, there are
too many shades
of originality, you see: if
it was only me, death
would not come
so poignantly: lifting
a wall and sliding it
with impossible effort even
as i realize· there is
too much more of it
on the two of us for
an in ch slip to
make a difference :co
mmenting with
last breath
on the heaviness
and trying to keep a
jovial tone : you don't
want the other's
experience
to be too
( utter)

2011.

vendaction·

2011-12-18T11:12:00.000-08:00

vendacious: i am
hungry to sell, i smell
the dollars and sense
tells me to follow the
blood-trail ,to find up an
aerie in some genre, to
fight like piranha is
surely the nature
of the game, the name
of the Beast :least
of all poets, i list i
tilt at windmills made of
plastic straw
straw in a
hurricane can punch
holes like a bullet in
solid wood so i
huff an puff an
i
blow a pile of
dust from my mind a
n
d
reshelve it again
(read that
ambition , it
glistens in mem
ory now listen:

; listen .

2011.

enforcement/union

2011-12-11T11:42:00.001-08:00

down at the police station
they wait : murderers,
drunks,
rapists, thieves . A bank
robber sits , reviewing data : you
are what you eat, you
hire who you
want to beat.

church's benches full of sinners ,
saving , bank executives lining
their secure pockets with
the same

man alone sits , starving
staring at a feast while
beasts and birds partake
unknowing

forcing wakefulness from
sleep : flowing
from reality
into
dream

flying , crystal ,one with
all

2011.

(fl)etched

2011-12-09T14:38:00.001-08:00

we ar mobile

neutrinos

inscribe us

on some cosmic
stained
glass : out
side time , a tube
become a sphere floats , flying

before the infant eye of god

every moment that you speak and breathe and mo ve
f. you are bathed in that ghostly light , which (emitting
from the sun) so legendarily passes through a trillion (without touching)
miles of lead : the fact that our de
tector s (clack, spark) c a t ch any of it shows that
as always there is im
perfection : kinemascope
click movie in
ultimate HD : you, and me

2011.

two poems:

2011-12-07T14:02:00.001-08:00

storm morning

the tapered leaves are coins
underwater. across the road
before me
five rivulets flow ,
wrinkled. i shall step across this
great destiny
with care , and
one bird's song.
little pieces of sun
are falling from the trees just ahead

2011.

the unknowing soldier ;security, society

and then it hit me: oh!
of course :today's
military operatives
are on drugs to suppress their memories: like a
drunk's blackout, for the soldiery.
what did you do last night, dear? don't
know
but i got twice
decorated

(here the page is blotted)
(with cleaning fluid)

tears, losses: only sorrow
is for time gone
even in to death
unknowing

2011.

deadmouth: no more crunchies

2011-12-07T10:10:00.001-08:00

the cat's gone soft, she
licks her teeth and drops things. Brown roots! Oh, dear, loose fangs
and sore face. The solution is
a simple one: Mouse-Pot! she brings 'em, i stew 'em
in a cloud of vaguely seedy smells I'll pull their tails
through my own teeth and strip the meat for a treat: I shall
use one for a dish-scrubber, soft its body and
hard its little feet, i'll mash them into butter and make
cat mouse-toast profiteroles: a piping bag
full of bits, a glove
made from little skins and
the many tiny skulls I'll use for crafts: picture-frames, toilet
flush-handles, cupboard doors and
a pair of horns
made from twisted glued-up used up little
forms
oh mouse, infest my house
that I might make a farm of you, and
daily boil the mouse-pot: then the cat will not
be stuck with dropping crunchy things and licking pains, she will be
free to slurp and gobble soft delicious little skinless angels
mouse cream pie, mouse cake, mouse paste, mouse taste. No
more
mouse waste: I can't believe
I once just threw nice mice away.

2011.