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lending, borrowing

November 20, 2005 on 10:36 pm | In poem | 1 Comment

Some things are so delightful they must be shared. Another thing
left here to be found by those who want it

Amy’s words [re]arranged by Me

father for the first time said child will resist me
he had in her yard in Indiana, from Mississippi
a poet performing gleefully tonight, they are disguised
as dirges leaking out over sleep
on the spot for your dream remember
the rhyming with leaves and walking of the
cold owl thinking his scrambled shriek
swoops to their low, the poem bullet
has no word inside it, and the leaves of us
between, of, and, still screaming.

My words [re]moved by Amy:

Losing My Place And Finding It

The only time I dance,
spinning, mind-footing palindromes
by the tail, bewildered
to the brim, brusquely
pouring the not-small
into the loyal, sucking out hunger,
half-struggling for a gang
of willingness & many, many years,
I bless forgotten apples,
play little poems unvoiced.
Lost when it is over,
eternity performed,
overindulgence, but
I have slurped up
communal shoeshine & memory,
with a possible side
of the abyss, a twitch,
souls of the departed falling
from bodies awash with common
wonderful, nerves & fine dust
rising off the sidewalk as dirges
that swoop and rhyme with leaves.
Dear Body: The bullet coming our way
has no word inside it–so dance!

misleadership and intellectual intercourse

November 20, 2005 on 3:01 am | In texts | No Comments

GringoCarioca says:

Wikipedia is fundamentally unreliable

de-joaquinality says:

anything is

GringoCarioca says:

I prefer a “system” of checks and balances, even if also unreliable . . . it is more reliable than the alternative

de-joaquinality says:

wikipedia is checks and balances

GringoCarioca says:

Wikipedia IS capitalist-borgeouis ideology at its best

GringoCarioca says:

“everybody” is an academic

GringoCarioca says:

“everybody” has power

GringoCarioca says:

ha ha ha . . . I’m not fooled

de-joaquinality says:

knock-knock

GringoCarioca says:

go away

de-joaquinality says:

knock-knock…

GringoCarioca says:

get out!

de-joaquinality says:

knock-knock

GringoCarioca says:

I have a gun

de-joaquinality says:

will you let a man tell a joke?

de-joaquinality says:

knock-knock

GringoCarioca says:

who is it?

de-joaquinality says:

banana

GringoCarioca says:

banana who?

de-joaquinality says:

knock-knock

GringoCarioca says:

what do you want you mudda . . .

de-joaquinality says:

knock-knock

de-joaquinality says:

let the man tell his joke!

de-joaquinality says:

knock-knock

GringoCarioca says:

WHO IS MUDDAFUCKIN there?

de-joaquinality says:

banana

GringoCarioca says:

banana who goddammit!

de-joaquinality says:

knock-knock

de-joaquinality says:

trust me, it’s almost there

de-joaquinality says:

knock-knock

GringoCarioca says:

GringoCarioca says:

who cares?

de-joaquinality says:

knock-knock

GringoCarioca says:

who’s there?

de-joaquinality says:

orange

GringoCarioca says:

orange who?

de-joaquinality says:

orange you glad I didn’t say banana?

You have just sent a Nudge!

GringoCarioca says:

de-joaquinality winks:

Play “Laugh”

GringoCarioca says:

bye-bye you anarchist you . . .

de-joaquinality says:

tears of laughter

de-joaquinality says:

I assume…

GringoCarioca says:

sweet dreams . . . oh wait, you already are dreaming!

de-joaquinality says:

I ass you me

de-joaquinality says:

lemme ass you this:

GringoCarioca says:

go wikipedia the word”dream” and change everything to signify “waking”

de-joaquinality says:

ok

GringoCarioca says:

with that in mind . . .

GringoCarioca says:

good night

GringoCarioca says:

de-joaquinality says:

lave lun lin lalaland

responses to neil and marco

November 17, 2005 on 1:28 am | In poem | No Comments

To Neil

the Star is not too far
when a Car. a rocking
Perch is Vessel.
Tree it. the
black Yard Torch is trotting.

scritch scratch the Earth
touch back.
relative Knick Knack to
be exact. great big
Ball of All. we on it
we in it. but most of all
within It.

To Marco

abstract you don’t go back
the mystery of history
try try know not why
thinking is to failing is to
replicate of love and hate
makes sense hence you hectic
wrecked it freedom free
falling far from here
foregone. unliked unloved so I
did live below above when
all of a sudden is expected
resurrected living
dead

at as nails pace

November 16, 2005 on 2:16 am | In texts | No Comments

This is a micronarrative I originally wrote for my friend Amy. I told it to Marco later, and since he liked it, I will leave it here and see who finds it.

The snails I knew

The snails I knew were on the mountain of Amiudal. This is where my father was born and where my aunts and uncles have homes today. My uncle Leo had a front yard with shrubberies and flowers. The snails would crawl up from the garden, onto the window ledges. There we would catch them, and put them on a flower pot to see their art of movement. Some years later, Leo got tired of mowing the lawn, so he filled it with stone and painted it green like cartoon grass. He is a very odd man, but loves me like a son. I still remember walking in on his bear-like naps, after an afternoon of chasing snails, to find him collapsed on the bed, clothed, as if he’d been shot by some great gun of sleep.

The night out

November 14, 2005 on 12:01 pm | In texts | No Comments

The night began innocently. Like children we sat on a balcony five floors up from the earth. I contemplated the moonlight refracted in a puff of smoke, a little poof that mixed with the warmth of breath to color the sky with its cloudiness. The time came to roam, and to the streets we skipped like kids in an outdoor candy shop. On Mallette Street we stopped, down by the building site, amongst the old houses on the hill. We entered one and it was filled with the noises of people, the rumble of celebration.

I spoke with a lady who said she collected skeletons, and she asked me about the best I’d ever found. I answered a dolphin, no, a porpoise. She asked me if it was purple. I said a porpoise would never turn purple unless it held its breath on purpose. Soon she dismissed me for being a fool and I wandered back into the forest.

There were some trees behind the house, and they reminded me of nighttime woodland. Men would walk behind the house, towards the trees, to “go on vacation” as one would say to me. It was nature’s call. They’d emerge from the darkness, from the wood, and I greeted them one by one, saying welcome, magical forest man. Welcome to my land. Some of them laughed but others walked right past me and into the other night. Some of them laughed and disappeared into the festive house where the bathroom was occupied most of the time.

I noticed a beautiful bar with beautiful faces behind the counter. Bottles opened up, forgotten, emptied of their essence. Some were given new life, filled with water from the tap; others cast upon the floor, their bellies up towards the ceiling. Then everybody went away, and left it all in sad abandon. And I too went away, discarded.

I wandered back towards the street, away from the place I’d been thrown away, towards the same old street, away from where I’d not been kept. And as I did so my thoughts spun in many circles like some reinvented wheel. When I found that I’d returned to home, as I came down from the hills, as I discarded myself and became content in silence.

see us see c-ville: the fotchpak revisited

November 5, 2005 on 11:26 pm | In poem | No Comments

Matt and Marco and myself had a wonderful time in Charlottesville. And we don’t even know Charlotte. But if the city is any indication, she is a great gal. Amy and Arantxa showed us a good time and provided us shelter. Paddy provided us performance. What magic! The following is an edit of The fotchpak. Hope it is pleasing.

[the fotchpak]

It was noon and the scallywunches were dillying through a large, brambled meadow of wheapnipples. Treading about griplessly, dwindling their cares around the smell of snipplecrag and horseshoes, they went about the day with reckless wheatabix.

By evening their foppledunks had sweened the entire skyface of allballama, and little was left for their steps to callhollow like the living and the dead. They sweetened the sweating sun with the shipless abandon of a wanton fotchpack, and fro and fro they snithered and swithered, crushing up against the reeds.

Soon the stormbrown consumed the gistings of the day and came down fleetering and fluttering from the hills. It was floon time on the break of slein, and the ballyhollows were saddened by the pollywigged silence of the children.