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Paul Nelson

 

 

AUDIO

 

 

276. to Geer Austin, New York, NY – Tibetan New Year

Ilalqo, WA     2.25.09tibetan

 

                           Geer –

 

“If you circle / the habit of

  your meaning, / it’s fact and

  no harm done.”

                           (Lorine Niedecker)

 

Augustine  hung  up  on  lust

(it  gets  the  best  of 

us)    and  Dr.  King  too.

 

Today  take  a  Tibetan 

New  Year  vow  skillfulness

in  all things.   Maybe

 

the  woodfrogs  hear  my

plea.   Maybe  circle  the

meaning  of  my  habit.

                           Blessings – 

                             

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_____________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

277. to Lana Hechtman Ayers, Kingston, WA – Carla’s Bent Wrist

Ilalqo, WA     2.25.09carla

 

                           LANA –

 

“Laymen / due to the stars / around 1910 &   erudition even / set backwards   on diaphrams / kept for the female so /long without /  flowers.”

L. Niedecker

 

&  we  circle  around  again

for  some  cheese-less

maze,   some a spiral

 

of  scents  and  longer  days

(nights shorter.)  Carla’s bent

wrist  on  the  mic  &  the

spike  of  annuals  coming  up

because  this  universe’s  rigged

 

in  yr  favor.

                           Blessed Be – 

         

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_____________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

278. to Andrea Bates, Wilmington, NC – Hummingbird Feeders

Ilalqo, WA     2.25.09hummingbird

 

                           Andrea –

 

“You will / arrange to / better me when

the pastry / comes and / cherries are

such double- / days.” L. Niedecker

 

                                   Rigged

in  yr  favor  this  universe   where

the  flavor  of  hummingbird  feeders

is  azucar.

                Perhaps  their  joy’s

the  same  kick  we  get  from

Havana Club.     The  days  ARE

doubling   and  getting  sweeter.

                            The New Year’s here

                  let’s not repeat

       mistakes of the last eight.

 

       Best to you w/ all that bettering.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_____________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

279. to James Belflower, Albany, NY – How She’s Boned

Ilalqo, WA     3.3.09boned

 

                           James –

 

“Her under- / standing of him

is more touch- / ing than intelli

gent; he holds / her knees with-

out her knowing / how she’s boned.”   

                          Lorine Niedecker                                                

 

Carol knows how she’s boned

&  me  too  each  time  she  dips

into  the  adhesions  my  achilles

clings  to  or  them  it (him?)

 

Ninety percent energy, ten

percent  meat  &  who  knows

how  far  this  branch  goes

&  if  it’s  part  of  river,

family    or    tree.  Blessings –

                                        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_____________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mercurial Motion

 

 

I raise the blinds, gray enters. I turn on the 4PM light.

 

Five Chinese Patriarchs from last night touch down

            upon the surface of the Stuck as they float by

            on dust motes.

 

Finally there is the no sound of helicopters in this rain

            quieted place. All day has been an exercise

            in word clouds. In 2007 one’d get the idea

            army Indians, chicken and independence,

            sidewalk wonder, the job and the blaring

            fridge.

 

Fa-tsang laughs and has more yin hao jasmine

            while my matcha high wears off (alien

            latte the new barista says) & the snore

            of the cat subsides.

 

Back in summer, gazing at the constellation

            of Aquila always good to have a

            thunderbolt carrier near by better

            yet to be one.

 

Can blind the Cyclops, light the day, make the power

            outage tolerable or the wait for one decent

            postcard. My postcard wordcloud was an

            invisible meat scaffold erected to the memory

            of Lorine Niedecker and to the dirty tingle

            elicited by her only mention of wearing

            beads.

 

Fireflies. We used to smack ’em with waffle bats,

            the delicate flower of pre-teen boys with

            nothing to do an & emerging ego to feed.

            Fa-tsang laughs, waits for the woodfrogs

            to start up again, marvels at their quiet

            when the 150 goes by, gets a kick out

            of my power outage behavior. To sit

            on the futon for 20 seconds expect to

            watch tv. How many times to flip on

            the light? No, you won’t get email, yes

            you’ll need to reset that stupid clock

            with an alarm that’s a bad Hindu

            accent.

 

Maybe we don’t need the light, the clouds allow

            a little more of that rare may Slaughter

            sun to get us. All things come from

            interdependent origination, simultaneously

            depending on each other for their manifestation

            meaning the boned melody of the goodbye

            spring pollen clouds, the ear explosion and

            the acetylene love.

 

It’s soy chorizo and what we can do with half a bag

            of lima beans. How the cats finally learn to

            live in peace as the Pig War grinds to a soft

            halt in the year of Influenza Porcina. How

            touch will fuck you up if you miss it and

            seek its shadowed cousin devoid of all

            luxuries, the Friday energy blessings &

            that inner feeling awakening but without

            the blue deer and his street talk & shit

            like that, no. Just two cats sleeping in

            the year of the pig flu while we wait

            wait wait for a break in the rainrainrain,

            ask the wise man for that concealed self

            permit so we can get another gander

            of the peak season for all those Slaughter

            dogwood blossoms.

 

4:31P – 5.5.09

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_____________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mercurial Motion

 

 

Writing

a

stab

at

capturing

the

moment’s

(shadow)

deep

flow

&

Friday

energy

blessings

luxuries

made

shimmering

as

the

apathetic

snow

clouds

the

ear

blossoms

bystander’s

charm

&

the

boned

white

Bowen

stars.

Strawberries

from

California

sun

dried

tomatoes

from

someone’s

backyard

and

the

dirty

tingle

starts

in

that

one

spot

(she

knows

where

it

is)

between

the

you

know

&

the

whatever

how

much

more

can

one

liver

take

how

many

more

castor

oil

packs

will

cleanse

bloodline

coping

how

many

more

migraines

before

progress

for

this

one

man

at

once

a

roof

a

barn

&

a

rafter?

Mirror.

Quiet

night’s

grazing.

One

more

blatant

bruxism

melody.

Soon

learn

surrender

(acceptance)

as

if

the

woodfrogs

ran

the

city

like

a

night

flower

&

it

will

have

all

seemed

so

simple.

Back

scratch.

Breath.

Invisible

meat

scaffold

that

appears

as

a

mirror

in

a

candle

lit

room

 

4:47P – 5.5.09

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_____________________________

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mercurial Motion

 

 

Lorine Niedecker

between clean (hospital-discard) linen sheets three

chipped

bowls

in the old wood cabinets

the ricochets of liver heat

and eastern views of the ridge above

the Green. The mind

kayak   rests   riverside

under bluffs

water still rapid

from last night’s rare

thunderstorm, the rain

a co-herence falling

into the syllables

Robin sings from Berkeley

from beyond the grave.

She would have seen

many floods alongside

the Rock her marshes

(the Bronte’s moors)

and our Stuck stumps

thumping their way

downstream floodtime in

search of a cooling. Cooling

of a liver until the blood

fire

rises, as

Lorine

mentions

beads

 

never wore ’em she says as he’s about to come and here I am

trying everything posible not to be a time-shift tom

peeping, the fat cat eats and eats without testicles

the sun makes bush tits sing their song, like Robin’s

satiety on some level, the gray has lifted the grief

subsided. How much can one man take?

(More, apparently.)

Lorine

dreams

of floors never clean

of ankle-deep living

room mud

she’s been in a

pre-coital state

since 1970.

 

12:02P – 5.20.09



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