Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Ah-ha. Now Monetized
Ads are now live on the blog. At my current readership, I expect to make at least 30 cents a month. Will the ads reflect the content? Should I write a piece about erectile dysfunction, just to find out? I used to suffer from erectile dysfunction, when I drank and smoked. I don't anymore. About all there is to say on that topic. Bring on the ED ads. Clunie out.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Forging a Sacred Text
I would be a forger
of the highest
order & instruct
the flowers at the border
that these words come
straight from tongue
of God into my own.
My own tongue.
God & me, kissing
like that, His saliva
alive, oh, an ambrosia
of inspiration,
of spiritus, of word
breathed in my lung.
But these are only words.
Only mine. No more
divine than blood.
Idea forged in reckoning
of holy wind, a Book
of Respiration breathed
into my breast.
Even pretense can
invigorate. I am
as a preacher praising
to the flowers at the gate
a god who comes
& goes. Like a lover
who we sometimes love
& sometimes hate,
a necessary fantasy
inspiring the sacred
lays that shape
the outline
of his sacred grace.
of the highest
order & instruct
the flowers at the border
that these words come
straight from tongue
of God into my own.
My own tongue.
God & me, kissing
like that, His saliva
alive, oh, an ambrosia
of inspiration,
of spiritus, of word
breathed in my lung.
But these are only words.
Only mine. No more
divine than blood.
Idea forged in reckoning
of holy wind, a Book
of Respiration breathed
into my breast.
Even pretense can
invigorate. I am
as a preacher praising
to the flowers at the gate
a god who comes
& goes. Like a lover
who we sometimes love
& sometimes hate,
a necessary fantasy
inspiring the sacred
lays that shape
the outline
of his sacred grace.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
white party balloon bouncing on the sidewalk toward me downtown pdx 7-20-14
i have learned i want
to be happy here
at the middle of life's road.
the late middle. who am i
kidding? upsettingly close
to the end. i have learned
i want to be happy, that is
something. something more
than before, when misery
seemed a sport, the body
so plastic & filled with juice
de vivre that happiness seemed
unseemly. it's like this balloon
bouncing down the sidewalk on a breeze,
a cannonball careening through my ranks?
or just a balloon, its only meaning sorrow
for the kid who lost it, & pleasure
because it's pretty, even though
it's partly deflated, plain white,
a bit dirty. it seems happy,
bouncing on the wind
before it pops.
to be happy here
at the middle of life's road.
the late middle. who am i
kidding? upsettingly close
to the end. i have learned
i want to be happy, that is
something. something more
than before, when misery
seemed a sport, the body
so plastic & filled with juice
de vivre that happiness seemed
unseemly. it's like this balloon
bouncing down the sidewalk on a breeze,
a cannonball careening through my ranks?
or just a balloon, its only meaning sorrow
for the kid who lost it, & pleasure
because it's pretty, even though
it's partly deflated, plain white,
a bit dirty. it seems happy,
bouncing on the wind
before it pops.
Friday, June 27, 2014
lines written in anger at the imminent destruction of my planet
only beauty
& the tenderest
emotions give
me hope
that this
experiment
in sentience
might continue
there is no beauty
in your greed
no tenderness
in your grab
at the cloth
of green that cloaks
my land
you are a criminal
in my society
you
of the fire-spouting
arms
i will turn
away
from you
we all
will turn away
in our praise
of the poet
& the mother
& the lover
of the woods
for what
they are
& not
for what
they offer up
by way of profit
or commodity
we will be free
of the cruelty
of the choices
that you make
for us
& the only wrath
we'll feel
within our bones
will point
at you.
& the tenderest
emotions give
me hope
that this
experiment
in sentience
might continue
there is no beauty
in your greed
no tenderness
in your grab
at the cloth
of green that cloaks
my land
you are a criminal
in my society
you
of the fire-spouting
arms
i will turn
away
from you
we all
will turn away
in our praise
of the poet
& the mother
& the lover
of the woods
for what
they are
& not
for what
they offer up
by way of profit
or commodity
we will be free
of the cruelty
of the choices
that you make
for us
& the only wrath
we'll feel
within our bones
will point
at you.
a poem is antimatter / manifesto
a poem is antimatter to an advertisement
a poem is antimatter to a sales pitch
the right poem can make capitalism explode
...................
this sequence of words:
a recombinant meme
...................
the word is used to sell bombs
& desire
the bodies that have burned to paste
no longer sing
a poem should be a sacred text
of tears
that speaks their story
.................
in the beginning we created the word
the word is of no import
if it does not lead to knowledge
knowledge is worthless
if it does not lead to wisdom
wisdom has no meaning
if it does not lead to love
a poem is antimatter to a sales pitch
the right poem can make capitalism explode
...................
this sequence of words:
a recombinant meme
...................
the word is used to sell bombs
& desire
the bodies that have burned to paste
no longer sing
a poem should be a sacred text
of tears
that speaks their story
.................
in the beginning we created the word
the word is of no import
if it does not lead to knowledge
knowledge is worthless
if it does not lead to wisdom
wisdom has no meaning
if it does not lead to love
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
untitled
as my vision fails the world
pixelates like japanese
pornography
eggs for eyes, cracked,
the life within cooked
to plastic yellow paste
moving through a gallery of rothko
color-fields, pieces of the world
lost to platonism
sensation remains -- the taste
of meat & milk, the warmth
of your garden on my skin
& still the sound of your voice
still
pixelates like japanese
pornography
eggs for eyes, cracked,
the life within cooked
to plastic yellow paste
moving through a gallery of rothko
color-fields, pieces of the world
lost to platonism
sensation remains -- the taste
of meat & milk, the warmth
of your garden on my skin
& still the sound of your voice
still
Monday, June 23, 2014
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
summer song
another summer. allergies worse
each year. dear
persephone, you have returned.
triumph of the will
to life & all that.
i used to root for you
& your mum, the domineering
demeter.
those days are gone:
the stench of the violet
lays me low,
& i think wistfully
of hades
& the cold.
each year. dear
persephone, you have returned.
triumph of the will
to life & all that.
i used to root for you
& your mum, the domineering
demeter.
those days are gone:
the stench of the violet
lays me low,
& i think wistfully
of hades
& the cold.
the wanderer
it is not fated that the wanderer will return.
the sinews of the coracle give way.
sometimes the wanderer disappears,
his heart-song smoothed by time
to the seagull's metronomic cry.
the sinews of the coracle give way.
sometimes the wanderer disappears,
his heart-song smoothed by time
to the seagull's metronomic cry.
Monday, June 16, 2014
rape & plastic
once in a forest
where the fungus spirit spoke
we flexed our language
& lifted up new gods
we fashioned beadwork
that brought out mischief
in each other's eyes
our currency fit in our hand
a sharpened stick
a piece of bone
......................
we still live
in an actual world
but abstract languages permit
its blithe immolation
patterns of brain writhe
at separation from our other selves
our fingers now are numb
we feel nothing but
rape &
plastic
where the fungus spirit spoke
we flexed our language
& lifted up new gods
we fashioned beadwork
that brought out mischief
in each other's eyes
our currency fit in our hand
a sharpened stick
a piece of bone
......................
we still live
in an actual world
but abstract languages permit
its blithe immolation
patterns of brain writhe
at separation from our other selves
our fingers now are numb
we feel nothing but
rape &
plastic
antiquated lays
the flowers of that time have bloomed & gone.
the sounds of color fade to this deaf eye.
i, an old troubadour, chant courtly lays
in recognition of an unrequited life.
the sounds of color fade to this deaf eye.
i, an old troubadour, chant courtly lays
in recognition of an unrequited life.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
the serpent was a poem
when a poem is good it's like a snake
on the page, sinews
rippling in your brain; no matter
how exotic are the markings
on its skin, it's familiar
as a myth, like the one
about the serpent
& how it tempted you to be
more
than you ever thought you ever
could have been.
on the page, sinews
rippling in your brain; no matter
how exotic are the markings
on its skin, it's familiar
as a myth, like the one
about the serpent
& how it tempted you to be
more
than you ever thought you ever
could have been.
Friday, June 13, 2014
Avarice & Security
sacrifice your life to Avarice
& his more tender twin Security:
they will lead you to your castle,
your community of gated souls.
you will guarantee your happiness
with medicaments & defend
what's yours with arsenals of hate
pointed at the zombies you suspect
are coming for your stuff.
but your weapons will not save you;
the threat comes from within.
your gods, insatiable, demand
all the life you have to give.
that dark night will come,
the apothecaries' potions interacting
with the canker that has eaten up
your life, & the firearm you clutch
in fear will be unto a priestly tool
of sacrifice to those twin gods,
the only ones
you ever really understood.
& his more tender twin Security:
they will lead you to your castle,
your community of gated souls.
you will guarantee your happiness
with medicaments & defend
what's yours with arsenals of hate
pointed at the zombies you suspect
are coming for your stuff.
but your weapons will not save you;
the threat comes from within.
your gods, insatiable, demand
all the life you have to give.
that dark night will come,
the apothecaries' potions interacting
with the canker that has eaten up
your life, & the firearm you clutch
in fear will be unto a priestly tool
of sacrifice to those twin gods,
the only ones
you ever really understood.
piece of the pie
i pray
that feminism
leads the way
to peace
but
i fear
its current incarnation
embraces full participation
in the machinery
of war
that feminism
leads the way
to peace
but
i fear
its current incarnation
embraces full participation
in the machinery
of war
Thursday, June 12, 2014
eco-tourism
not another one
about eco-
tourism.
how you exchanged
your stolen
first-world
chits
for a packaged
bungee
glimpse
of third-world
skin. & temples.
& how you got
your ancient
asses hauled
to the summit
of a ziggurat.
& how you felt
something.
& wrote
a pome about it.
about eco-
tourism.
how you exchanged
your stolen
first-world
chits
for a packaged
bungee
glimpse
of third-world
skin. & temples.
& how you got
your ancient
asses hauled
to the summit
of a ziggurat.
& how you felt
something.
& wrote
a pome about it.
the anthologist
'poetry is a hobby,
no more important,
say,
than stamp collecting,'
the anthologist said,
droll & snark
stenciled
on the office door
of his soul.
it annoys enough
to prompt
a poem,
then,
soon forgot.
nobody
reads his anthologies
except the poets
trying
to get in them.
& they don't count.
no more important,
say,
than stamp collecting,'
the anthologist said,
droll & snark
stenciled
on the office door
of his soul.
it annoys enough
to prompt
a poem,
then,
soon forgot.
nobody
reads his anthologies
except the poets
trying
to get in them.
& they don't count.
oeuvre
a transient
in the palace
clutching mss.
of little import
save that they
are glossed
with beads of blood
from sanguine
eyes
in the palace
clutching mss.
of little import
save that they
are glossed
with beads of blood
from sanguine
eyes
passage
the day is turning white
like snow
at the edge of it: a light
a bright rose
it burns the mechanism
of my eye
the tracks behind me: frozen
evidence
of passage through the cold
like snow
at the edge of it: a light
a bright rose
it burns the mechanism
of my eye
the tracks behind me: frozen
evidence
of passage through the cold
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
offerings to the gods
another child sacrificed
to the six-gun
god of Freedom.
bodies stacked
like bullet points
running down the page.
the goddess Playtoy
sings her song
in rural clubs
across the land:
roly-poly acolytes
plink rat-a-tatty
games of praise.
the gods have fed
quite well this year.
huzzah for Freedom
& for Playtoy.
but like their worshipers
they hunger still,
always wanting more.
to the six-gun
god of Freedom.
bodies stacked
like bullet points
running down the page.
the goddess Playtoy
sings her song
in rural clubs
across the land:
roly-poly acolytes
plink rat-a-tatty
games of praise.
the gods have fed
quite well this year.
huzzah for Freedom
& for Playtoy.
but like their worshipers
they hunger still,
always wanting more.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
hurried love
i danced with such a pretty girl
30 years ago
in someone's living room
so many of us drugged
enchanted
waking simultaneously
it could have been
a scene
from 'dream'
someone put a record on
happy music
'you can't hurry love'
animated pagans
still high
from last night's revel
i danced
with the prettiest girl
in the room
2 months later
we were engaged
to be married
i haven't seen her
in 29
years.
30 years ago
in someone's living room
so many of us drugged
enchanted
waking simultaneously
it could have been
a scene
from 'dream'
someone put a record on
happy music
'you can't hurry love'
animated pagans
still high
from last night's revel
i danced
with the prettiest girl
in the room
2 months later
we were engaged
to be married
i haven't seen her
in 29
years.
actors & writers
the theater crowd had the best parties
& were the best looking.
i was good looking
but only in the writing crowd.
in the theater crowd i was like,
meh.
the theater crowd could have been chiseled
by praxiteles.
the writing crowd
played its quirks:
james joyce glasses
on a little rat moustache
a single nurtured 2-inch
whisker:
a surreal thrust from
an imagist cheek.
actors vying
for the same parts
should have been stabbing
each other with prop knives
but i saw only camaraderie
of communal art.
the writers, mired
in the dullest medium,
black scratches
on a bland page,
ideas glued together
with gobs of grammar,
hated each other
as much as they hated
the cruel art
they were stuck with,
fighting with the fervor
inherent in small-stakes games.
they despised with the potency
of pure ego.
me, too: convinced always
& not so secretly
i was the best
writer in the room.
or at least the best looking.
& were the best looking.
i was good looking
but only in the writing crowd.
in the theater crowd i was like,
meh.
the theater crowd could have been chiseled
by praxiteles.
the writing crowd
played its quirks:
james joyce glasses
on a little rat moustache
a single nurtured 2-inch
whisker:
a surreal thrust from
an imagist cheek.
actors vying
for the same parts
should have been stabbing
each other with prop knives
but i saw only camaraderie
of communal art.
the writers, mired
in the dullest medium,
black scratches
on a bland page,
ideas glued together
with gobs of grammar,
hated each other
as much as they hated
the cruel art
they were stuck with,
fighting with the fervor
inherent in small-stakes games.
they despised with the potency
of pure ego.
me, too: convinced always
& not so secretly
i was the best
writer in the room.
or at least the best looking.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Saturday, June 7, 2014
guilt, shame
we need more guilt not less
guilt. we need so much
guilt it is more like shame.
shame, the looting of this temple,
this perfect thin-skinned ball
of water & wind.
if there is a sacred place
in all the world it is the world
& we should know such guilt
& sorrow & shame
at its desecration
that we cannot bear
to breathe.
guilt. we need so much
guilt it is more like shame.
shame, the looting of this temple,
this perfect thin-skinned ball
of water & wind.
if there is a sacred place
in all the world it is the world
& we should know such guilt
& sorrow & shame
at its desecration
that we cannot bear
to breathe.
Friday, June 6, 2014
my communist daydream #4
i'd rather do clean work again:
roof houses. keep the rain
off peoples' heads. this
occupation: necessary,
filthy: braiding rhizomes
in the grass. chew,
awaken, smash & recreate
another saner place
where i might crawl
up on a roof again &
thumbing nails in my hand
know peace.
roof houses. keep the rain
off peoples' heads. this
occupation: necessary,
filthy: braiding rhizomes
in the grass. chew,
awaken, smash & recreate
another saner place
where i might crawl
up on a roof again &
thumbing nails in my hand
know peace.
3 short poems
this medium: a dowsing rod
words tethered to meaning
bend unreasonably
to an unknown stream
.................
that palette knife covered in words
stuck in my throat
impasto blockage of the carotid
pull it free:
a geyser splatters the page
................
blood of the lamb smeared
on the snow
ink
of damned creation
words tethered to meaning
bend unreasonably
to an unknown stream
.................
that palette knife covered in words
stuck in my throat
impasto blockage of the carotid
pull it free:
a geyser splatters the page
................
blood of the lamb smeared
on the snow
ink
of damned creation
Thursday, June 5, 2014
temples
i don't know if i can have a place
without a temple.
collonaded & rectilinear, classy,
with a sea-foam view---
or a deep cave smelling of god's bones,
walls slippery with the shadows of the real.
either way, i don't know
if i can have a place without a temple:
it feels like a cardboard box
beneath a bridge, disinterested men
devouring found objects
without a glance of grace.
or an inch of sin.
without a temple.
collonaded & rectilinear, classy,
with a sea-foam view---
or a deep cave smelling of god's bones,
walls slippery with the shadows of the real.
either way, i don't know
if i can have a place without a temple:
it feels like a cardboard box
beneath a bridge, disinterested men
devouring found objects
without a glance of grace.
or an inch of sin.
the gods are ready-made for plots
the gods are ready-made for plots
& plagiarisms, literary
shenanigans, substitutes for thought.
unoriginal sins of the people
& the blood they drank, etc. no wonder
we write lazily of their ways: fantasy
shtick predating ray harryhausen
& cgi. so easy passing on
the stories that have been passed on:
congenital disorders of the fabulists.
much harder to make sense
of the smartest apes & how they lie
with language, wake up
with their desires & pretend
the stars are interested.
& plagiarisms, literary
shenanigans, substitutes for thought.
unoriginal sins of the people
& the blood they drank, etc. no wonder
we write lazily of their ways: fantasy
shtick predating ray harryhausen
& cgi. so easy passing on
the stories that have been passed on:
congenital disorders of the fabulists.
much harder to make sense
of the smartest apes & how they lie
with language, wake up
with their desires & pretend
the stars are interested.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
USA! USA! USA!
let's kill the bees
& trademark broccoli
let's ride our atv's
through cemeteries
of the Navajo
let's watch football,
hand in hand
throats choking
filled
with pigskin.
& trademark broccoli
let's ride our atv's
through cemeteries
of the Navajo
let's watch football,
hand in hand
throats choking
filled
with pigskin.
Friday, May 30, 2014
untitled
little space for it:
the eloquent gesture
of refusal
to do without
means death
in the land of plenty
the wheel of avarice
spins faster
than these ancient feet
i'd rather be
moonbathing
among the dolmens
sucking sap
from trees
more sensible than i
the eloquent gesture
of refusal
to do without
means death
in the land of plenty
the wheel of avarice
spins faster
than these ancient feet
i'd rather be
moonbathing
among the dolmens
sucking sap
from trees
more sensible than i
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
pomes & rhizomes
the poet privileges the poet self tho music
better speaks the spirit
& number measures off the arc
of flower in beholding eye
..................................
the voices of impure critique:
shadows
& the shadow people there
.................................
almost every child I have known has seemed
a genius.
every adult: broken, foolish, filled
with fear.
this process we term 'education.'
.................................
grief is not an illness to be treated.
sorrow should not be medicated.
..................................
question the voice inside your mouth.
your age speaks through you
in unoriginal words
better speaks the spirit
& number measures off the arc
of flower in beholding eye
..................................
the voices of impure critique:
shadows
& the shadow people there
.................................
almost every child I have known has seemed
a genius.
every adult: broken, foolish, filled
with fear.
this process we term 'education.'
.................................
grief is not an illness to be treated.
sorrow should not be medicated.
..................................
question the voice inside your mouth.
your age speaks through you
in unoriginal words
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
my communist daydream #12
1.
there shall be no more debt.
the financiers of scarcity
will live on tiny plots
of dirt beneath the sun.
2.
war, the natural state of war
profiteers, shall cease.
3.
a carrot shall point rampant on our flag,
sanely grown, life-giving---this week.
next week's flag will be designed
by cybernetics programming, local 83.
4.
we shall make love in a flower
field on lunch break. i will write
a poem on your belly with my seed.
5.
our children will sing in the amphitheater.
all the children. manifold voices
blending into one.
they will sing beneath the sun.
there shall be no more debt.
the financiers of scarcity
will live on tiny plots
of dirt beneath the sun.
2.
war, the natural state of war
profiteers, shall cease.
3.
a carrot shall point rampant on our flag,
sanely grown, life-giving---this week.
next week's flag will be designed
by cybernetics programming, local 83.
4.
we shall make love in a flower
field on lunch break. i will write
a poem on your belly with my seed.
5.
our children will sing in the amphitheater.
all the children. manifold voices
blending into one.
they will sing beneath the sun.
eternity, fuck
heaven always scared me
more than hell. promise
of eternity
spent with dullard kin:
a threat propelling me
to lucifer's embracing arms.
more than hell. promise
of eternity
spent with dullard kin:
a threat propelling me
to lucifer's embracing arms.
Monday, May 26, 2014
memorial day 2014
to-do list on this day: turn
the television off. shun
the sight of coffins prettied-
up in bunting. write
a poem of women whose breasts
are filled with milk. write
a poem of men who teach
the young to love & not to kill.
to reiterate: on this memorial day
2014: turn the television off.
shun the sight of coffins shamed
with colors of delusion.
ignore the notes of lying bugles:
the sound of coins
clicking, manipulated
by the ancient claws
of ancient men.
the television off. shun
the sight of coffins prettied-
up in bunting. write
a poem of women whose breasts
are filled with milk. write
a poem of men who teach
the young to love & not to kill.
to reiterate: on this memorial day
2014: turn the television off.
shun the sight of coffins shamed
with colors of delusion.
ignore the notes of lying bugles:
the sound of coins
clicking, manipulated
by the ancient claws
of ancient men.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
mindless subtlety
today i will be honest!
in both ellipsis & exclamation
mark... today i will eschew
irony. i really mean that!
i will castigate
the serpent, ground up
in your burger patty;
i will encourage you to eat
the fruit of the tree
of knowledge.
but enough of that-----today
i will be honest!-----i will
not anthropomorphize:
i will let the sparrow be the sparrow.
i will refuse to profile the crow.
i will allow the planets, the stars,
the comets & the clouds
to careen in blissful ignorance
of the overrated mind of man-----
this man's mind, anyway, filled
as it is with vanity & folly,
fear & need. Yours-----
eh? who's to say?
But today
the mechanism of the world
revolves without me,
as it always has, actually, perfect
in its mindless subtlety.
in both ellipsis & exclamation
mark... today i will eschew
irony. i really mean that!
i will castigate
the serpent, ground up
in your burger patty;
i will encourage you to eat
the fruit of the tree
of knowledge.
but enough of that-----today
i will be honest!-----i will
not anthropomorphize:
i will let the sparrow be the sparrow.
i will refuse to profile the crow.
i will allow the planets, the stars,
the comets & the clouds
to careen in blissful ignorance
of the overrated mind of man-----
this man's mind, anyway, filled
as it is with vanity & folly,
fear & need. Yours-----
eh? who's to say?
But today
the mechanism of the world
revolves without me,
as it always has, actually, perfect
in its mindless subtlety.
Friday, May 23, 2014
madness america madness
madness! these steel cages
billion dollar bumper car
economy in the parking
lot xanax-addled drivers clenching
wheels of fortune careening
from one self-inflicted sorrow
to the next, madness!
a thousand dollars worth of hair
sitting on the rictus grin
of 21st century doom------
men in stupors enlivened
only by the hope of rage
the invocation of the fetish
object underneath their seat-----
women fat with corn syrup
smashing grills on car-bomb pylons
guarding warehouse bunkers filled
with goods we're dying for-----
madness! a life that won't sustain
a chain reactor cracking
underneath the hood,
your body, alien, huge, swaddled
in dollar bills, forgetful of love,
of poetry, of tenderness,
of quietude, of gentleness,
your body metastasizing
as another engine of america
explodes.
billion dollar bumper car
economy in the parking
lot xanax-addled drivers clenching
wheels of fortune careening
from one self-inflicted sorrow
to the next, madness!
a thousand dollars worth of hair
sitting on the rictus grin
of 21st century doom------
men in stupors enlivened
only by the hope of rage
the invocation of the fetish
object underneath their seat-----
women fat with corn syrup
smashing grills on car-bomb pylons
guarding warehouse bunkers filled
with goods we're dying for-----
madness! a life that won't sustain
a chain reactor cracking
underneath the hood,
your body, alien, huge, swaddled
in dollar bills, forgetful of love,
of poetry, of tenderness,
of quietude, of gentleness,
your body metastasizing
as another engine of america
explodes.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
reading can be dangerous
america i grew up racist & then i read james baldwin at an impressionable age & he was more interesting than anybody i knew.
america i grew up a little shit of a gunslinging militarist until i read allen ginsberg at an early age & realized it's disgusting for men to kill each other, not fuck each other.
america i am upset with you now. i expect you to play nice & share your toys.
america, reading can be dangerous.
america i grew up a little shit of a gunslinging militarist until i read allen ginsberg at an early age & realized it's disgusting for men to kill each other, not fuck each other.
america i am upset with you now. i expect you to play nice & share your toys.
america, reading can be dangerous.
prayer
let us pray let us
say some words
breath without meaning
a whisper of some words
into another heart
listen to it beat
flatland
flat farms under the sky
hope: a flatline
running to the next county
random velocities
animate this place:
a bullet from my hand
to your heart
a motorcycle
full throttle in the night
lights out
in the sky
in my eye
hope: a flatline
running to the next county
random velocities
animate this place:
a bullet from my hand
to your heart
a motorcycle
full throttle in the night
lights out
in the sky
in my eye
my heart shrank
my heart shrank to the size of a bug.
they gave me drugs.
i lugged the spirit of my father
across a mountain.
he was so heavy. every
body hated him.
my heart exploded with delight
at the sight of you.
you carried me for years
up the steps of a ziggurat.
i was too heavy for you;
the cruelty inside me.
your heart burst, leaving me
alone at this summit.
waiting for a sacrificial blade.
they gave me drugs.
i lugged the spirit of my father
across a mountain.
he was so heavy. every
body hated him.
my heart exploded with delight
at the sight of you.
you carried me for years
up the steps of a ziggurat.
i was too heavy for you;
the cruelty inside me.
your heart burst, leaving me
alone at this summit.
waiting for a sacrificial blade.
growing up racist
i an empty child filled
with hate racist anti-
intellectual
the only sin:
weakness
typical
american mason
dixon male
stepping
out of line
trying
to love:
hard as a bullet in the palm.
with hate racist anti-
intellectual
the only sin:
weakness
typical
american mason
dixon male
stepping
out of line
trying
to love:
hard as a bullet in the palm.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Friday, May 16, 2014
quiet recollection makes me want to shout
quiet recollection makes me want to shout
the thing that happened: the orgasm
the blood that filled the tub the gallimaufry
gallop down the aisle
poetry needs ray harryhausen mucking up its page
a pop-up skeleton with 3-D blade
that cuts the golden fleece of quietude
poetry needs the harlot & the dude
poetry needs to reach beyond its poets
the thing that happened: the orgasm
the blood that filled the tub the gallimaufry
gallop down the aisle
poetry needs ray harryhausen mucking up its page
a pop-up skeleton with 3-D blade
that cuts the golden fleece of quietude
poetry needs the harlot & the dude
poetry needs to reach beyond its poets
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
angry bards, text
angry bards in battle crying
more vehemence than melody
eardrums punctured by the icepicks of our days
quotidian assaults of capital and dumbshow plays
a broken trumpet in the night
defiant globes of sound
heralding the light
more vehemence than melody
eardrums punctured by the icepicks of our days
quotidian assaults of capital and dumbshow plays
a broken trumpet in the night
defiant globes of sound
heralding the light
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Sunday, May 11, 2014
atv army in utah, mother's day
o mother i sorrow at
your rape. your violation.
a thousand bully boys
on atvs, headpiece filled
with big-gulp oxy-
addled rush incontinence
they will be the death of us
a thousand thousand
children-pigs, armed inciting
flailing fatboy tantrums
reciting constitution mis-
quotation backward crapping
anal leakage lies in giant
jingo boxer flags
they're missing you mother:
spoiling for each other's love.
or a fight.
your rape. your violation.
a thousand bully boys
on atvs, headpiece filled
with big-gulp oxy-
addled rush incontinence
they will be the death of us
a thousand thousand
children-pigs, armed inciting
flailing fatboy tantrums
reciting constitution mis-
quotation backward crapping
anal leakage lies in giant
jingo boxer flags
they're missing you mother:
spoiling for each other's love.
or a fight.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
tragedy/comedy sonnet
my introduction to your life
was tragedy. the deaths
of all those men.
1980. you were all so thin.
a tragedy ends in death
(or ronald reagan). who
could have seen the comedy
coming, 30 years from then?
two men walking
down the aisle, promising
impossibilities: that life
could be happy. a comedy ends
in marriage. & now
everything begins.
was tragedy. the deaths
of all those men.
1980. you were all so thin.
a tragedy ends in death
(or ronald reagan). who
could have seen the comedy
coming, 30 years from then?
two men walking
down the aisle, promising
impossibilities: that life
could be happy. a comedy ends
in marriage. & now
everything begins.
Friday, May 9, 2014
greece
give us your rubble give us
your fallen columns & your
beaches give us your wine-dark
blood & your fated old women
tossed like doves' divining entrails
to the street.
give the haunches of your muses
to our grinning usurers. they will
usurer them good.
you began this satyr play
3,000 years ago. now your ships
are lost & your wanderers
will never find their home.
your fallen columns & your
beaches give us your wine-dark
blood & your fated old women
tossed like doves' divining entrails
to the street.
give the haunches of your muses
to our grinning usurers. they will
usurer them good.
you began this satyr play
3,000 years ago. now your ships
are lost & your wanderers
will never find their home.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Monday, May 5, 2014
the only rite
all we worship is
slaughter: the slit throat
of the lamb & all that blood.
we could drown in the flood of it.
sometimes we build an ark and float
on a sea of sacrifice, pretend its grace
that briefly buoys us.
our lives are lived in praise
of slaughter, the joy of hot
blood spattered on our banners
or swallowed down like shame
& then, ha, the expectation
of eternal bloodless heaven?
absurdity of absurdities: we drink
it because we like it
& the sounds made
by the dying.
slaughter: the slit throat
of the lamb & all that blood.
we could drown in the flood of it.
sometimes we build an ark and float
on a sea of sacrifice, pretend its grace
that briefly buoys us.
our lives are lived in praise
of slaughter, the joy of hot
blood spattered on our banners
or swallowed down like shame
& then, ha, the expectation
of eternal bloodless heaven?
absurdity of absurdities: we drink
it because we like it
& the sounds made
by the dying.
Friday, May 2, 2014
nostalgia sunshine
hey steve i'm thinking about you in the sunshine acid library windowpane re-reading ginsberg
you who read 'the green automobile' aloud while i drove us down the dark to nowhere
this sunshine shattered day begs for your voice your yawp of yay-saying american alcoholic joy
'hey clunie let's get drunk' & off to northwest warehouse alleyways with quarts of bohemian beer
or up to rose garden park trails with bottle of gin & bottle of vermouth & jar of olives to mix martinis in our young bellies on the run
this day really wants a hit of your blotter acid brain steve sterling dead 16 years your joyful visions & your chinook sorrows
your stupid humor & the way i felt like kerouac to your cassidy
joy is not a constant.
you've been dead a long long time.
i'm probably not far behind.
you who read 'the green automobile' aloud while i drove us down the dark to nowhere
this sunshine shattered day begs for your voice your yawp of yay-saying american alcoholic joy
'hey clunie let's get drunk' & off to northwest warehouse alleyways with quarts of bohemian beer
or up to rose garden park trails with bottle of gin & bottle of vermouth & jar of olives to mix martinis in our young bellies on the run
this day really wants a hit of your blotter acid brain steve sterling dead 16 years your joyful visions & your chinook sorrows
your stupid humor & the way i felt like kerouac to your cassidy
joy is not a constant.
you've been dead a long long time.
i'm probably not far behind.
we have to make more terror-
we have to make more terror-
isms have to egg indigenous
brown koraners on get them goin so
we can pop them get a raise
out of somebody we have a hundred
thousand million welfare patriots
on the payroll passing time
in nsa cia fbi i know why
we have to make more terror-
isms an investment in our homeland
securities gives our flag-happy boys & gals
something to do.
isms have to egg indigenous
brown koraners on get them goin so
we can pop them get a raise
out of somebody we have a hundred
thousand million welfare patriots
on the payroll passing time
in nsa cia fbi i know why
we have to make more terror-
isms an investment in our homeland
securities gives our flag-happy boys & gals
something to do.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
it feels like science
it feels like science
fiction a story I read
last millennium:
half of us gone mad
trying to kill the other
half. you'd think we'd have
a pill for that.
maybe the pill is why.
fiction a story I read
last millennium:
half of us gone mad
trying to kill the other
half. you'd think we'd have
a pill for that.
maybe the pill is why.
neoliberal globalization mandate: the poem
we will imf you into sweat
shops, we will world bank you
into the corner, pocket your
rem's, state your dreams
for you now listen up good:
we can drone on & on
forever
shops, we will world bank you
into the corner, pocket your
rem's, state your dreams
for you now listen up good:
we can drone on & on
forever
impossible to love in the time of drones
impossible to honor the body
the eloquence of flesh is mute
staked out as if for sky burial
picked clean of possibility
by shiny sterile children
on another planet
no room for artifice here:
the collateral murdered are not
european. they are poor & brown
so it's all good, eh? except that it's
impossible now to love in the time of drones.
the eloquence of flesh is mute
staked out as if for sky burial
picked clean of possibility
by shiny sterile children
on another planet
no room for artifice here:
the collateral murdered are not
european. they are poor & brown
so it's all good, eh? except that it's
impossible now to love in the time of drones.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
my town melted into grief &
my town melted into grief &
solidified to 1950s robotica. it is
an alone-thing now my
town a clanking
sputtering machine. i try
to leave but this people-
mover takes me back
again. i imagine there is
life within somewhere a sense-
able human being
but maybe not: those
whirring spinning shining
blades are
moving in.
solidified to 1950s robotica. it is
an alone-thing now my
town a clanking
sputtering machine. i try
to leave but this people-
mover takes me back
again. i imagine there is
life within somewhere a sense-
able human being
but maybe not: those
whirring spinning shining
blades are
moving in.
no hope for primates
no hope for primates
with teeth
filed to blood
by designer genes,
hungry for the pit
& questing
for eternal verities:
conquest, rape & peer
reviews.
the old men
play you fine
young fellows,
simple in your need
for shiny bits of armor
& the chest-to-chest
camaraderie of
the hoplites.
turn turn turn
let us raise our voices
in malevolence. let us
sing our disbelief.
let us praise lucifer,
or reason, or the perfect clarity
of the waters off the cuban shore.
let us do something,
anything, unlike
what has come before.
in malevolence. let us
sing our disbelief.
let us praise lucifer,
or reason, or the perfect clarity
of the waters off the cuban shore.
let us do something,
anything, unlike
what has come before.
all poems are political
all poems are political
transparent or covert
all poems promote
the tales that they tell
so you're happy with your win
the lucky ticket of your first-world skin
enjoy the leisure of your days
your wheelbarrow full of peaches
your quest for tenure or
organic mayonnaise whatever
's on the docket for the day
all poems are political & those
pretending otherwise are most
of all: their screeds of status
& quo pervasive as a billion
dollar desert full of drones
the arrogance the hubris of it
that words the mud & straw
of ideation could be anything but
political? only in the fairy-land
that is america could such absurdity
be spoken. all
poems are political
& you are,
too.
transparent or covert
all poems promote
the tales that they tell
so you're happy with your win
the lucky ticket of your first-world skin
enjoy the leisure of your days
your wheelbarrow full of peaches
your quest for tenure or
organic mayonnaise whatever
's on the docket for the day
all poems are political & those
pretending otherwise are most
of all: their screeds of status
& quo pervasive as a billion
dollar desert full of drones
the arrogance the hubris of it
that words the mud & straw
of ideation could be anything but
political? only in the fairy-land
that is america could such absurdity
be spoken. all
poems are political
& you are,
too.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
a poem must be culpable & meek
a poem must be culpable & meek,
a drone permitted, but not a chant
to recombinant revolution
in the street. that way tenure
does not lie, or selection in 'best
amerikan poetry twenty-three.'
a drone permitted, but not a chant
to recombinant revolution
in the street. that way tenure
does not lie, or selection in 'best
amerikan poetry twenty-three.'
Friday, April 25, 2014
poems
i am surprised to encounter solids.
words are whispered: like conspiracy.
i do not anthropomorphize. not even myself.
the grit from the wind is entirely fictitious.
if all is not well: we have a pill for that.
..........
a hungry choir: voices
from an empty room heard
through a closed door.
(a single spider murderous
on the hardwood floor)
i hear the sound of torture thick
as paint
on unwashed walls.
..........
my language is the wind heard
by solitary ears
my words are the night whispered
like conspiracy
this text trapped
in glass
.
words are whispered: like conspiracy.
i do not anthropomorphize. not even myself.
the grit from the wind is entirely fictitious.
if all is not well: we have a pill for that.
..........
a hungry choir: voices
from an empty room heard
through a closed door.
(a single spider murderous
on the hardwood floor)
i hear the sound of torture thick
as paint
on unwashed walls.
..........
my language is the wind heard
by solitary ears
my words are the night whispered
like conspiracy
this text trapped
in glass
.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
all the light in the room
all the light in the room
the uncertainty of surface: the
whiteness of it.
a figure: a woman
& words: something about a tray
& tea. her voice could incite
sympathetic vibrations from piano strings.
i want to put my fingers to her face.
we were lovers once.
we no longer embrace.
the uncertainty of surface: the
whiteness of it.
a figure: a woman
& words: something about a tray
& tea. her voice could incite
sympathetic vibrations from piano strings.
i want to put my fingers to her face.
we were lovers once.
we no longer embrace.
Monday, April 21, 2014
metaphysic tone poem collection
prayer poem psalm screeds
fungal spore mushroom magick
language apples of the sun
invocations of the skin
truths of the poet tongue
http://www.amazon.com/dispatches-frontal-lobe-william-clunie/dp/1499200250/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1398122485&sr=8-2&keywords=william+clunie
fungal spore mushroom magick
language apples of the sun
invocations of the skin
truths of the poet tongue
http://www.amazon.com/dispatches-frontal-lobe-william-clunie/dp/1499200250/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1398122485&sr=8-2&keywords=william+clunie
dispatches from the frontal lobe
new ebook on kindle, also, hard copy available:
http://www.amazon.com/dispatches-frontal-lobe-william-clunie-ebook/dp/B00JSWGHDK/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1398122123&sr=1-1
http://www.amazon.com/dispatches-frontal-lobe-william-clunie-ebook/dp/B00JSWGHDK/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1398122123&sr=1-1
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Oregon Argonautika
The sea would throw him up again otherwise sure, why not? Drawn there though. Drawn, drowned, down to the sea in a sunlit ship. A Greyhound bus rather, his driving days over. Blindness. Retinas spontaneously detaching. The fates have spun an airy film over misshapen myopic eyeballs, the congenital curse of his lazy bloodline of hibernian helots.
Come this far. Fifty summers gone, corpse-thin and nearly blind, an intrinsically lighthearted cast to the jut of the skull beneath the skin though, the look of a cheerful William Burroughs.
All will be well, he used to chant along with her, before her journey ended and his own began. All will be well.
Come this far. Fifty summers gone, corpse-thin and nearly blind, an intrinsically lighthearted cast to the jut of the skull beneath the skin though, the look of a cheerful William Burroughs.
All will be well, he used to chant along with her, before her journey ended and his own began. All will be well.
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