November 15, 1995
2 Pieces by
    Jeffrey Little

kentucky fried ethos    

staccato the tap-step of comboot bats echoing across the split
lip of the southern perimeter like taconite cats calculating
traffic patterns & trigonometry of rush hour the mass transit of
condensation a relentless scurrying enacted b/4 horns & the
discharged howitzer's club-footed gait the shutters they're
locked as if harboring the fugitive fez of lodged ritual but no
just the many mock tillised stammerings the eyes put into
words as a silver helmeted rent-a-sentry approaches & knocks
at the door he's in his hands a tiny hammer & pinkish tartare
of pills & under his arm the military-issue encyclopedia of trees

through the flint hatch

extraction, symbiotic trance pit & a raku for the core.
spinning into optics warping the turnstiles spinning 
an invertebrate sheen--the weather 
kicks on again--beyonding outside of the take-all all.

of the centrifugal jihad & what center, spoked?        

scabbards of the new moon coalesce in the twelfth 
west, bonding inference w/throated paleoliths 
adhering to the dislocations, my how to a who's 
where, harry?  dimensional cadillac, sun fence shunt.

Take the necessary approximation
and shine to the whispery beam,
cloudspeed metered over a
matrix of wiring----
asphalt crochet as if of safety.
Photosynthesized theft:
it's an ordinary portent
like leading in the barrel
and the deadpan flash of
a cradle, or clash
of intemperate tongues
in time, history
clocked analogically,
yanked into syntax
pulled under the damoclean clouds.
The madly erasing brain
is in impermanent ferment,
an already ironic icon:
we're rococo cro-magnon
dragging the belabored incomplete,
corrupt intentions verbatim.
Diagnosed innocent,
and close upon some final quiet lightening,


Irony gone awry--hope for this
ol' boat goes uninhibited
and don't return; I've never been.
A false representation made in
appliance for status of thinghood.
Cheap essential scenery.

Static is a cup of water
but over the rim it's soupy to behold.
I'm spilling it--lo!, I hope the
world is a bigger enclosure.
The way the air gathers in trickles of smoke
until it's optically intangible.

I'm a frustrated layperson in six disciplines--
to grasp you must reach, and it's farther.
So much to dislocate,
so much dislocation to do.
It'd been done that fashion since the nineteen teens,
this tradition of progress.

Only a bad liver detracted from her
inner beauty, and some negligibly
inert gasses.

Daddy's pandemonium cleared the cobwebs
and we set to.
Each line at least achieved a mute
internal consensus, got on
with its bad self.

They called the establishing movement
The bomb, swathed in trigonometry,
tenanted a purple standard.
A kind of franchisement
cleft at this late date.
Plexflux Dreamleak. 
        by Taz Delaney
everTore TexToSee futuresecrets. Rarifironies yonderyearning. Mentabolism's
aweglyphsparks revelchance. dooorchid dejavuing: mandalakid aknow. iHatch
fromI to pactpool 'neath cetera. Specieon aguesso? Kitenoon spe-speed of
light cinetures. Lickwritten haloshadow. Quasidaysmyths gnomeaning, belie vu
metaMe polyNous. hauntimeLapsed. Cult'mUnusual. DigEn. YerSekTalx.
Oidism sociocentrifuge pseudo-liquidollardeath newsStreet fodderation.
Proboglem thecies facmethods leak demonsoupsys: dehope, devent. Bloodstreet
flagstain of flatstat preything. Socus pocus. Marginalfiefs @  ofForce.
Shardface implosioNth. Splenend askewverything-way, sunravelling. Grindissed
bitterbagov ebolabooty. Ethatslays evebody. Sweatofftheirs con-victor.
dizlution thingaturizing. Seesaysew zootimeweb hurtlunge. Matteroni's
pingpane surfacial sequenatale...
Hermaphrodayspolyglownadz sejuiced loinalone. Allgasmaround.
Hemlocking, shyclock'd deviary's heroray. Semimemulti-entendremoment.
"Indere...really..." plenivintage elflitluns lumerick disapp...nce.
Djiinitalics plae fromless whoafrwha? Absurdainty surements eternetease.
Areness itsoul. Underthought pagehole
by Stephen-Paul Martin          

      Penelope smiles and tells him she needs to speak with him in her
office. She looks at him so beautifully that he feels like mashed potatoes.
She closes the door, tells him to sit, shuffles a pile of forms on her desk,
turns and looks out the window, puts a finger in her mouth, not sure what to
say next but hoping that painless thoughts will appear in her head, or that
she'll be abducted by invaders from the sky. The plate glass blocks the noise
and makes the skyline seem relaxed and clean. The tall glass buildings cut
the afternoon sky into vertical mirrors. A manufactured virus glides between
two huge white clouds. It's big as a blimp, slowly floating over the Brooklyn
Bridge. She wants to think it signifies a nationwide infection. But it
doesn't signify anything. It's real. It can't be reasoned away. Its DNA has
found a way to masquerade as time and space. It's freezing the flow of
signification, turning all signs into what they're not, shutting off all
sound, shifting color into black and white, black like words on a memo
crumpled up in someone's desk, black as a fake jack of hearts on the deck of
a ship in the Arctic Ocean. 
      Put yourself in Penelope's place. You want him but you're married. You
want him but he's much too young, young enough to be your son. Now put
yourself in the young man's place. You tell yourself you can read her mind,
that her thoughts appear in your head like printed words on a glowing screen.
You see how Penelope tells herself that if she's ever single again, she won't
get fooled, won't force herself to be with another man long-term, won't give
up having fun and dating lots of different people, forming uncommitted but
affectionate connections. Is Penelope kidding herself? You tell yourself that
she probably is, that maybe she maybe could keep things light and sweet for
half a year, but sooner or later she and her lover(s) would just be back in
the same old pain, the kind that would make them tell themselves that pain
makes people deeper. 
      Deeper? Deeper than what? Deeper than pain or pleasure? Deeper than
what she was before? Deeper than a god who judges things by taking sides?
Deeper than someone reaching deep inside? Deeper than someone who thinks of
himself as words in a phrase describing itself, wondering what its meaning
might become folded up in a suitcase, or slowly but surely digesting itself
in the folds of a small intestine, a phrase that also might become a trap
door in a mansion? Deeper than someone keeping a solo electron in a tiny
cage, a sub-atomic cell whose bars are intersecting laser beams, a man whose
goal has always been to control what can't be seen, painfully forcing it onto
a stage of probability functions? Deeper than someone getting stuck on a
freeway made of stale ground chuck? Deeper than someone who thinks it's cool
to claim he doesn't like to fuck, thinks he'll get attention if he says that
sex is boring? Deeper than depth itself, depth as metaphor, description?
Deeper than someone who wants to program DNA to make tiny machines,
microscopic factories constructing special proteins, teaching them to fold
themselves in strange and unexpected ways, redesigning space and time and
motion from the bottom up, redesigning pain so that it doesn't hurt so much,
turning it into a unicorn that lowers its head in the cool of the day,
charging and ramming a nuclear silo north of Santa Fe? Deeper than someone
who thinks that the problem is not that it's hard to find someone to love,
but that it's hard to get rid of that someone once the love gets painful?
Deeper than someone whose demon lover wears a cowboy hat? Deeper than someone
who thinks he'll die in a small suburban apartment, blood on dirty linoleum
floors, closed venetian blinds, noise from an eight-lane highway blocking out
the sound of his tv set, wind from the highway blowing a detailed suicide
note out the window? Deeper than what Penelope's pain has taught her to think
of herself? Deeper than her self or than the concept of a self? Deeper than a
god who thinks the world began with a magic word, a TV preacher caught and
filmed in bed with pre-pubescent girls, a beast whose pain is all the
mountain ranges of the world, all the seas and jungles, all the deserts of
the world, a beast with a human face and a scorpion's body framed in a health
food store, a beast consuming everything in sight and wanting more?
      These and other questions like them fill the dark red western sky,
flocks of swallows darting in and out of the frozen twilight, jagged patterns
breaking down and building up and breaking down, language inscribing itself,
not a sign of conscious intention, swallowed by and swallowing all signs of
interpretation. Picture yourself in a frame that frames a picture of the
frame, framing yourself in a moment of joy that's not combined with pain, not
concealing pain, not a way to run from pain. Notice how the picture
multiplies beyond the speed of light, instantly reproducing itself inside
itself inside itself, infinitely moving in by making larger spaces, moving by
containing what it's always moving into, joy containing joy contained by joy,
pure self-conception, endless replication keeping pain outside the frame,
forcing it into a darkening space where things don't know their names. You
claim it's a dangerous game. Who cares? At least you're not in pain.

Dream Date #23
      Don Webb

Fully bilingual
she speaks two unknown tongues
she has dated a few Egyptian gods
(_Neteru_ as the Egyptians say)
My wife thinks she's hot
(very important) 
Her hair has purple highlights
her pubic hair is naturally purple
She plays senet and mehen
and the game of pit and pebble
She can appear in dreams
and bring me things from dreams
such as green pearls
she owns an ivory comb
she has never seen an episode of _The Andy Griffith Show_
she has a husky voice
I got a hardon imagining her reading my poetry
She is smarter than me
she can cause parades and pavilions to appear at will
she is not afraid of tigers
she has known misery (and refuses to know it again)
Her name means future
in one of the unknown tongues known only to her

end of section 2