effing blog

bit of dream and the night before

pulling at roots , some front yard of shoe culture grazing plastic cups , come from bar across town , a dj holds it to his bobbing head, a music corrupting a room of one moodless mod , a heap of long shadow match sticks to the street beneath curvy oaks , police any minute , sleep if you let me , i've no drugs for you cool kids stop eyeing me , don't care about your major , don't care which show you saw last , a camera could make this funny , but i'll be up the street by then to a car still warm , to no radio and a route home with eyes closed

for this is the dream of early morn :

from a pasture on a hill with a population call them countrymen we see the dots of planes before we hear the bombs / feel the ground shake and i love you do not leave my side the crowd says here they come oh my gods screams tripping over ourselves move like frightened herd of gazelle along the rim of this bowl of land no where to go but you cannot stop running in circles do not let go of my hand we will get through this

but we don't or you don't and it has been some time since then

and now in an overgrown backyard of used to be upscale township cold dirty slithering out of sight i find more of you near a stack of wood what has happened was it even a war did we even fight back no answers survival says shut up eat this watch so those people never see you and i see them and i run and you don't and you die

no sleep for bleeders

--

w/ back against the wall
sigh the red light of O
what frustrates blinks dumbly
like a lemur in a headlight
i love skin in a tv glow
head to the knees the hour
screams, sad brick of night
hold me to this bed, sleep
you stay away or i cut you

--

rimbaud for an hour, hemingway for two
somewhere in there touch on pound and if
one wants to wrestle with the death of
romance this is a recipe i'll reccomend

--

there is an end of road i dream

--

no instrument, no voice, no song.
two guys with eyes. four hands.
creatures die slow, what is music.
an empty room. silent are two chairs.
dare the walls to touch us now.

notes on potential loss & gain

a speech

i'll be as vague as i can be right now because i am stoned out of my thin paper wrapping. my exploded sense of "being here" says oooh slowly and seductively though there are skeptics in the wings. just up, i am the candy coated swede of chairs and the view from chairs, the rows of me sway a drunken choir and walls encroach something but it ain't my space. cartoon rifles zoom across the inner air, now what do you want to know. the pure slut of me says touch my explicative, let us break things up for it is the new day. it is damn simple to discuss the top layer when the openings in the fabric are laid out for our inspection though we mustn't bother. the treadmill hollers for a window - typers on your mark. and this is the radio. chunks of prose tumble to the breaking waves of russian symphony debuting in paris, all the old timey ho's are in dark doorways with their cigarette breath and we are passing through corridors in the now, if you say so, and just after. just call me functioning, in the morning, baby. familiar television screens are long faces at your desk with your coffee cup discourse. the movie is in rewind, the scrubbing soundtrack speaks a miniature language. it's got appeal. this is the best we've felt and now that's over. now this is a groove for machines.

blondes

i put caffeine where the ganja was. hot day jobs stab our eyes and burn our newspaper fingers.

there was a bird in her hair. many joggers jogging differently, jogging around and around the pond.

the bird in her hair. the grey sky was a blank screen on which the yellow headlights streaked pleasantly.

postnote (a narrative)

destructive lucas walks through the door. he fishes for a flame but cannot find a lighter.

lighters will come through the air when i call for them.

watch.

~

now go tell it where you found it, get the cashiers of the firehood together for nog n cake. when you catch your breath let it out and if your face contorts when you shout tell them of my explicative, and after you've let loose, like a breath mint, you'll spin on the screen and the text will surround your roundness. thus you will earn your dinner. now we have discussed persistence of vision.

anyway - in a society like America energy if it is not moral is only

material. Which cannot be destroyed is never destroyed is only

left all over the place. Junk.

from "The Ocean" by Charles Olson

SKANKY POSSUM READING SERIES AT 12TH STREET BOOKS

this just in from Possum HQ

Peggy Kelly and Denise Szymczak read this Friday, August 20.

Kelly, educated in Massachusetts, B.C. and Austin, has lived in Texas since 1976. Her books are Evagination (Tantrum Press, Vancouver), Four Shields of Power (Plain View Press, Austin), Slow Food (Tantrum Press, Austin), and Kinisphere (Parvati Press, Austin, forthcoming).

Szymczak, also a poet, lives in Austin and recently earned her black belt in karate.

The reading begins at 7 PM.

Beer, wine and snacks will be available. Donations are gratefully accepted.

12th Street Books, purveyors of used, rare and out of print books, is located at 827 West 12th Street, 2.5 blocks east of 12th & Lamar, between Shoal Creek and West.

This event is part of a monthly reading series co-sponsored by Skanky Possum and 12th Street Books.

Skank on!

from 703 Notebook

vines spilling down a stair post
many car doors shut
japanese motor accelerate
tires over gravel
cooking somewhere inside
footsteps or landing leaves
buzz of insect wing
early afternoon alarm clock
summer song of cicada
comes on high pitch aggresive
above steady city rumble
somewhere boats at dock
maybe behind a building
a view with distant horizon
fact of miles easily forgotten
geography goes somewhere
not far a lake of powerboats

heap HQ

when in Austin check out the boat yard east of town. i'll take you there through the tall tall grass where the carcae of boat spread over meadows and into forests of oak and pine.

will have what it wants

a birthday, remember me
pushing air over an edge
into a pit, a pit of funny spikes

bedside veggies: prepare for night
let's insult the hour
w/ greeting cards
we'll first pick out costumes for
our medications

do you make eyes? you do.
tell me everything's the right excuse
and keep our fishing reels oiled
for some day boats are coming
to take us to the very deep

if you slap me i'll scream, promise

so that it’s indistinguishable

chewing gets to me

i’ll pass you the cereal
Bob, if you hand me a chainsaw

finding it strange
fucking backwards

a hand rail
you hold
so tight

flickering lights

a hanging form
widen the doorway

(this form exits)

descends the stairs
and these stairs too
are new

then

give you my first tears
in a broken soap dish

by the tooth brush

you laugh now

but by 4 a.m.
one of us will rise
to turn off the air
conditioner