AUDIO
276. to Geer Austin, New York, NY – Tibetan New Year
Ilalqo, WA 2.25.09
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 2.25.09
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 2.25.09
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 3.3.09
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
