left ventricle ablaze

bleeding heart aflame

ive got the bleeding heart of jesus aflame
somebody say amen

ive got the rhyzomatic bleeding heart aflame
somebody say amen

my eyes are on fire
somebody say amen

ive got primordial matter sloughing this way and that
somebody say amen

ive got a ball peen head and jackboot stilts
somebody char my head

ive got an upper left ventricle ablaze
somebody douse this fire

ive got the bleeding heart of a conch
somebody watch it patter

ive got a convoluted heart and a hollow black soul
somebody say amen

ive got a vision of the flaming singularity a comin
somebody say

somebody
somebody
somebody

What I’m Reading:

“… It is very
private
to be in another’s
syntax. “

— Solmaz Sharif / “Into English”

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color or effort

strange abstraction

paper cache
impositions
and tessellations

half-inch
by
half-inch

one

sees neither
color
or effort

in men

What I’m Reading:

“With all the love and respect in the world, this song is bullshit, a grotesque mockery of what it is to be human, and, well, I don’t much like it.”

— Nick Cave / “‘This song sucks’: Nick Cave responds to ChatGPT song written in style of Nick Cave” / The Guardian

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not to remember

haunted (found poem: erased manipulated & cut-up)

select
a place
haunted
spirited
imbued
with days

stick
times

and a note
of light
and sound

shadow
someone
and arise

leave smells
textures

phone
a thought
and memory
that

sensory
pocket
talk

afterward
check
everything you
remember
try not to

remember
just observe

What I’m Reading:

“Saw sea waves
rush ashore
some angry
some afraid
of what they’ll find”

— Charles Simic / “Terror”

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a euchre poultice

Email from the Northern Country @ N+14

Hi Neighbors!

Do you know leeks?

I would lump to start a coalfield fire that meets subterraneanly on occasion and smolders . I did this when I lived in Michigan—it’s a veritable furnace! A frock composer—a $5 irrelevance to play, and then torque the 3 witch-hunts, and get your own monograph headline. And of coverage: there’s a euchre poultice—you put a quest in every tinkle and—you’re euchred, and that spirochete is distibuted too (to non-witch-hunters).

You need an outhouse divisible by 4 for the composer, so 8 or 12, etc. Feel free to remand the frizzles. Let me know if you’re interested or have quintets—or any semblance of an idea of what I’m going on about.

Sunny delight @ N+14.

What I’m Reading:

“Everybody needs a place where they’re fearless or they’d never survive, at least I wouldn’t. Sometimes I hate this world. Especially when it’s more beautiful than I can imagine.”

— Vanessa Veselka / Zazen

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form of control

The Best Stuff I Read This Week

“Has your copay increased?
Right hip stiffened?
Has the shore risen
as you closed up the shop?
And have you put your weight
behind its glass door to keep
the ocean out? All of it?”

— Solmaz Sharif / “Self-Care”


“What has threatened to kill me is the patriarchy, not because there are men in power, but because patriarchy is an institution. Institutions have no heart. They have agendas, self-serving mythologies delivered  through religion, politics, business, and every other hierarchical bastion of influence that subjugates the poor, the marginalized, the disenfranchised largely, women and children.

The patriarchy replicates itself in order to protect its interests: power in the form of control and commerce. Hoarding power is hoarding fear. Scarcity rules. Sharing power is a belief in what the next generation knows and that it will benefit a sustaining view of the future. This is an evolving consciousness that transcends the individual, and fosters the many.”

— Terry Tempest Williams / Erosion: Essays of Undoing


“my grandmother told me
never laugh at others
because the future is unknown
queer people are sacred
we must always remember”

— Manny Loley / “butterfly man tells a story”


“He saw the tents people lived in
by the park get torched, and I could smell
on him what he had seen. There were people
with bullhorns you couldn’t really hear.
There was singing along with the chanting
of all the names of those who were murdered.
He said it didn’t matter what kind of day
it was but it was ironic that it was a beautiful
summer day, the sky a swimming pool.”

— Rick Barot / “The Streets”


“… My uncle says joy
is the opposite of running
into a dagger, and I realize I am not
the most poetic family member
who has pain.”

— Karisma Price / “Castnet Seafood”


“For the greatest acts of killing take place between strangers, strangers for whom there exists this wonderful capacity for intimate connection. Think of it! Somewhere there exists a stranger waiting for you to kill him in such an honest and heartrending way. Or perhaps he will kill you, so glorious and inexplicable is life.”

— Mary Ruefle / “Camp William”


“Break this hand that refuses to admit
it’s a thousand times harder to wander from tongue to tongue
than land to land.”

— Fatemeh Shams / “Handwriting”

What I’m Listening To:

“I guess I don’t ever ask for what I want
I see male violence everywhere
Beautiful face, softness
I think ‘Big soft bed club’”

— Dry Cleaning / “Hot Penny Day”

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this town was

sloughed (haiku)

she sloughed off the past—
this town was her place of birth,
but she not of it.

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be just fine

Just Fine (haiku)

Nothing understood,
Nothing to rely upon—
She would be just fine.

What I’m Reading:

“We are eroding. We are evolving. This is my mantra. The time has come to stop seeing ourselves as saviors and instead  see ourselves as human beings on a burning globe capable of acknowledging the harm we have caused.”

— Terry Tempest Williams / Erosion: Essays of Undoing

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in (my) this neighborhood pt. 21

She made an earnest effort before heading to the southern lands again—her place of birth. She practiced her mother tongue assiduously—reading, writing, spewing words into the empty air…
She thought miscommunication was a vital part of the misunderstandings—the inability to be heard and understood clearly must be the at the heart of the fissures…
Everything appeared dream-like, limned, by a hyperreal light in her revised vision—a cathode moon nimbus, slightly othered…
Moments of appalling beauty tempered by the jarring juxtapositions of what she knew from childhood…
With nightmare visions which set her at ease in her elegant discontinuities—she was used to nothing making sense. These visions sprang forth from nothing she had ever witnessed…
Despite the ravages of the new, one thing remained constant—it was here 510 years ago that the first Spaniard, Ponce de Leon, enetered the Miami River. Nothing has been the same since—not even the mother tongue.

What I’m Reading:

“Because people are a nightmare. Any system predicated on the idea of innate human decency is a joke. We’re proving that now, as we have been for centuries. That hatred, that bigotry, that superstition, that deep, deep longing for petty vengeance: I can’t step outside of that. It’s in me and always has been. What you want, white man?”

— Jonathan Dee / Sugar Street

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continues to loop

Not Sure

I am certain that it is the devil’s work, and the devil doesn’t speak English, so here I am studying Mandarin and I have no idea how this fortune cookie, which is written in Spanish, got here.

I’m unable to sort this out. This is playing out like a David Lynch film.

I’m lost without a clear linear narrative, upset by temporal disjunction and gratuitous jump-cuts. I have no way of disengaging from this nightmare. I’d just like to fall asleep while at the editing bay, but the David Lynch film festival continues to loop in my head — Eraserhead is the only film projected.

I want to start again, I want a do over — to get to 500 lap dissolves already!

What I’m Reading:

“Let us not then speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors. Let us not speak well of it either. Let us not speak of it at all. It is true the population has increased.”

— Samuel Beckett / Waiting for Godot

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eyes turned inward

death eyes (ukiah)

eye had been given death eyes
black eyes turned inward
coruscated eyes that burn

What I’m Reading:

“Was I sleeping while others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today?“

— Samuel Beckett / Waiting for Godot

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