Thursday, March 13, 2008

Strobos (Deadpan)

Strobos (Deadpan)
for Dorothea Lasky

There are things we live among
and there are things that make us
undead in seeing them or by
their very use of us I saw Dottie
the dead ones we would feign
on our adult screens scare me
"me and my shadow" where I go
nothing follows no one because
this not-following was us at play

in eternity there was no trace
had not been taken by our steps
our ands and buts and conjunctives
these real sweet-nothings pimp us
out like substance interrupted
a baby which grows from it
and doesn't have a name we
would like to say yet if a name is
like a strobe staggered in shiny
moments we felt its actual poses
as our impermanent movement

what we don't see as a duration
but only the semblance of when
you put roots here and name them
“desire” desire which made things
grow only sometimes which left
bite-marks like question marks
while we were still in medias res
birds swept down to catch us
and care for us before we really
fell back-to-life such recurrences

were real you say death is never
really fair like your life like our lives
when you touch me there and stare
out from it like it was always here
always before a guilt of caring I don't
want your roots & branches to ever
die this forest of meaning even if we
know their names even when love
knows the names it desires to be
called by to make a new subject from
this subtraction this being entity

where the sun’s often trapped like
bronze and outlives our lives the simple
animals torn limb-from-limb the things
we should be startling poetry for the
first time and make everything fear
we were finally We deadpan seeing
everything the sun involved as though
for the last time this sickness a cure

that can in fact have no name but
gravity given to teeth and pain all
the machine movements we ever make
like stop-action babies we can't ever have
the noonlight of that video which is you
in a way ready to announce yourself
an idea of your “bigger” self little ones
that go like big ones do the lumps meta-
physical lumps of the mind and actual
lumps materials as they are made by
no one can never be a shared child

can this be embodiment like bumper
cars only shocking when they stop
our techne a world of surprise and
blinking the eyes were so exhibited
for control and controlled us verily
they were convertible they made our
lives more real writing through riding
to make this last man suffer the dis-
tances the little huts of us a *domos*

the wind swept them and blew our
windows open disturbed the curtains
changed the mood of last things that
would come to touch us like a wind
or tears thru which we see the world
somehow corrected sex was true
the wind when we are coming (and
we are coming) complicit in evidence

no longer some excrescence or
stupidity of the sky like Williams says
herds and heads of men like armies
battalions of stumps men should also
sing joyous stealth what’s burnt at
least is seen and what isn’t seeing
a faction not entirely opposed to
force tingling where we might dis-
appear still within a trembling earth

under a torn canopy through the open
night before anything we learned was
useful or what we could see the blank
neutrality of those lips before me the
genital contact of the animal too close
to this color to feel it to feel anything
but a general dreaming that thoughts
were feelings too and sense an image
catching up to us totally desynched

from worlds in their prehensions of
what poses us what moves discretely
not as me in this detachment semblances
of “haunted” nature the quote around our
necks stubborn as our literal dreaming
preponderances of flesh mold this
crawlspace this airlock the sudden
dying-with-you how the shadows grow
and close in and are in us and become
us so we were their insatiable interior.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Damn the Caesars Boog City reading pic*

right to left: Kristin Prevallet, me, Kyle Schlesinger, Rich Owens

*thanks to Nathaniel Siegel!

Monday, March 10, 2008

Catherine Sullivan's *Triangle of Need* (Review)

Here is a link to a review I wrote for Catherine Sullivan's most recent work, *Triangle of Need*, currently exhibiting at Metro Pictures gallery...

Thanks to Photi, Rob and Jane for their help with the piece.

Deadpan cont'd

with Dorothea Lasky

Bumper Car

Purple night with the black trees
I am in a bumper car with my love
Except he is the kind of man who is scared of everything
And I am not, the kind of person who knows anything is wrong
I was born into oblivion so I do not
Care what they make of me in this world
I go free into the darkened night with only the heavy hearts of my ancestors and not myself
Orange ancestors, with their bright red masks and lips
Handicapped only by their antiquity, how they escape into time
Astronomical too like the black night they take me into
They speak of the great night, which comes after this one
This one they take me into, O steadily
The darkness they stretch their arms out into and grab me
To be erased completely by darkness
Except, instead of being pulled by their arms into it,
I am driving into it because I have no other place to go

This is the Deadpan (1)

Dear Thom, this is the Deadpan
That is racing at us in the noonlight
Do not be afraid dear one of the thing that is contained
Do not be afraid of the thing
No, but you were never afraid
You were always here, resting
And I too was rushing at the moon with all my thoughts that have no place in antiquity
No place in the olden times because those are too much what is bronzed and here
This is a letter to you so that you may write back to me
This is a letter I write in the fading light
As I am fading my every breath
A kind of candle at the very faded moon
The moon
He was an old thing
That I spied when I was out
Among the trees and woods
Great fox was he
These trees and woods
These trees and woods
That were in me
I could see them planted
Even when I never knew their names


Baring our teeth.

The mortal
Rocks me with grief.

Am I the
Animal or are

Our will is
Bound by accidents.

The apprehension
Of that motion—deadpan.

That is, the dead pan

And become what
We live for.

Try these motions

On for size,
These simple

Machines shock and

Awe. Teeth marks
Indicate eternities.

Falling doesn't fail
to amuse us.

Minor moons dominate
Differently than the sun

Sleeps instead of me
Instead of night being blue

In the glass that was you
My case reflects our formal

Sky tho the park is closed
And it is cold out we

Walk thru it clouds move
More quickly than dreaming.

While we are here
before it the formal
sky these separate
entities in our awe

the white just grows
large there is no
thing can account
for black which like

a wall erects light
whole universes of
ideas and sound-
images against us

what makes us awe
or tremble is never
our friend neither
friend or enemy

powerfully neutral
like black and white
overwhelm us in
their neutral blank

spreading over every
thing they touch so
this is when I want
to touch you whenever

this ends touch begins
again and the world
begins and “and” and
“with” begin conjunctive

worlds communication
relation a commons
you could feel because
one withdrew from all

that joy in magnitudes
and fear crawlspaces
of the spirit anteceded
our heart ‘s dominion.

Your marriage is on my mind
that knife of poetry drawn
to its object they said an un-
conscious process we blow

our tops off slice open heads
expose them to this wind
realer than anything and yet
make from our words meat

our extreme exposure insists
what a body can do be deter-
mined so this is meat’s only
moral—-whatever exceeds it.

“True true true”
and not true birds

rock doves and every
thing else happens out

those windows no one sees,
no one cares to see.

The structure of flame is not flame
it is something else the mind
can’t get a handle on the atoms
before we knew what everything was

we imagined them something there are
brighter colors you see rather than
nothing you feel like little bolts of lightning
in your eyes migraines like a second

starlight impressed in the retinal attention
of everything one sees in their hell I
is hell instead of others is at least colorful
and keeps our interest in the details.


The name we share is *techne*.
What is there to fear?

I am not seeking anything,
but to crash into things with you.

Our thingness in the world
little deaths, sex and teeth O

to be with you, to be with
you my fellow animal.

A kind of third sex the corpse
always in us, a reuniting force.

To rehearse these deaths would leave
little else for our amusement.

Cadavers, we fell highest
abandoned to this world.