THE EXPERIODDICIST 16                              May 15, 1997

Seeing Noah Berry Comet. In the sky.
his diamond eyes die almond (for Sun Ra) Glenn Becker Cosmic tones guide my hand when blue's too full of light for my under eyes to hold: ring, you can answer, for once; me, I'm never too busy for an afro-freak-out of this nature, let it overwhelm dry Shakespeare, too. At last. Someone sat in on that, the keyboards gave out planets. Said sad Saturn is the one to choose, lets us hear what's inside that horn, on the metal ragged, black interior, bring it out and show it to my cherished star; bring it out and let's echo it to its component flinders, shimmying blast into my eye lights' space, its place, its face, all along of mile lights and purple promise. Tell it on the melting flute and stacked/cracked pianos, Sunny, tell it on my Egyptian hat, tell it disinter the pointy pyramids, these hot Maya heights of cities knew the violet kiss of night's rind, I one time danced there, in studded nebulae of sound. Lead me, lead me to a core of quiet: then blue tangent off of there, hand on hip and lean into a squawk that lets loose monoliths which all themselves hauntingly alive, cakewalk to a sparkly horizon, your ringed hand conducts all objects and, boneyard silly, laces out a chord that trips up constellations. Die right. Die only. Let the phone on ring, its cadence, ring, conduct this train smacking out to Saturn's rings. I have a knuckle list of stars, you don't have to pray them all to lanterns, now or steeply but fallen into pharaoh's vineyard, growling like a bass, walking by itself into the star room of baby's sickness, play one or two. Because it keeps on smashing, something keeps on fronding our attention black, extrapolate something else again so we can free it, see it blue. The fluting sun ship's just ahead, what's this sound giving back that looses me ultra, as it skitters and honks great draperies in its hollering wheel, its galactic funhouse cure. What's it and its outspoken, cheesy cone got on us now. No one's got us now, because we've passed myself to worlds, inflected express spiral stairs from one black dancing keyboard, and a lonesome tiny light, to a great, flecked corridor, where it widely happens. Thank some smiling moon stars go on: heard it one way and then a blue another. Some can let himself, a box of glitter, that's delight in light, shake and fire trace, dance funky until the lost blown calls it home. Others see the great, spired house loose inquiring heights, and trace twice cracking Pleiades in squeaks and gongs.
2 Poems by Mark Peters very few doctors very few doctors are sufficiently powerful to make true coffee in a world of falsehood which can only be described by stealing light bulbs or hiding the weenie sex and today's single-minded stoicism "He's lacking the God-given intelligence his grandfather gave him." Glazed like a doughnut staying off the spatulaMommyMommy thePuritansbuggeredmyturkey! My armies are bumbling a battle at sea, and my waffles are basted with pee, and this day is wasted and wintered like Grandfather's whiskers. Is if a verb? Polish broth will not be reached by vaster and vaster generalities. Is if in it? Don't go so soggy into the groggy gunk. "If he looks stupid and he is stupid, then he must be stupid."
3 poems by Anabasis (Thomas Lowe Taylor) Claimant . yrs at hat what'd said hello . at said hello what's hat at head what's to the normal spin nor nomenclature o'cluded ,like, spent the season's edge or claimant or continent whatever the same air spins whatever scale wrought 's the same air spending the night overhead . too much limp shit out there too much empty vers-duh . i speal yr wooden light the open heart sealing nor spent occluded to claiment sped nor nomenclature spread ay, the eyes's forming art what's plenty to the head nor spinter in yr mists nor rheumy in her dread this'll tell the hour out and hold you down again as what's not signing in nor spending ourside's win thus latent in repose nor hoser in repute; this'll fungo's yak and spinter in her's sin fose. the lucid punt the agonic fuck in hinter's pin "il rapunto" to the max sped spun spunto heald heald'd win nor hix, or spunter this'll due, er, do to you, too, to you, too
HERITAGE so we're sitting in his living room and my son says 'crack has stolen my dreams' its a bitter pill to swallow i think i'll to chew it first the house is empty like when someone has left or died [i remember coming home after the divorce opening the door and heard an echo] his brother is sitting there quietly; his wife threw him out the boys are back after a 3-day run crack-up he's looking for a few stray crystals in the rug talking about microphones and wires and little cameras everywhere you're trying to put the responsibility "out there" i say i remember all the "fun" we had, crouching under viaducts, reading shadows standing in one position for hours. sins of the father visited upon the son this younger version of my own face twists interior lines tight i take the pipe-- its not all its cracked up to be familiar cocaine bulge we talk about what went down and why, walk the pain through the familiar story warm Buds gone i crawl into a bag; hole in my heart-- i fall through listening to my sons after i leave in the morning driving up one cloverleaf to get to another i cry like a lost animal my sons my sons pull my car into line and drive on AMERICA WHAT'S THAT .a rant -Surely nothing kills us more swiftly or completely than insane thoughts getting through a hole in the mind. [David Slabaugh] Like a hole with no bottom I never saw nothin but the slat of passing agronimations of the slit, suck of the empty sign. From roads on the highway of pun litters of the dead peeling nowhere from nothin, and in the passing of seasons the emptying of the dream into its reasons. //here you drivel into me your useless shit benigns into the tumor of tomorrow\\ broken on the hinge of life grey blue green flash of the tube of light incognito of the neighborhoo's stance & set of the broken mirror into "what to do" song to the freedom of passing, here in the insufficient now here in the suffering light... Who are You to tell me tomorrow's lying on the dust of my sons, eating the shit of your flags and yr teams of signing wasps Now that the deal's done down you grunt me the easy dick in your hand again and again Life to the strutting prow! Your dying ship screaming beyond the signs of our creation Now in the fires of our own meat we bear and beam toward the vast nothing of our haste leaving rope enough for the laggers to hang onto for awhile Here is the light back home-- here is the fire in your heart crying out renewal and love and in the scabrous cannibal present we dream together on the signing of light between us lining the hours and rising through opening tones of renewal..... ...blah blah blah, your sick fantasy bores me down against the floor heaving, a screw on the tight-lipped plento of her scours and teasings, roomed along empty hours, another boom in your box lined with flowers and blooming No I never saw nothing but time passing up yr but like a pork sandwich No name in the america of sensations but a bore and a dime on the pennies of what was left behind, detritus of the plundered hone, scarf of the lunky pintos and their false alphabets; Here is where we've lined up for soup in the heartache of what the leased memory of something fine Here we have a commercial break for the executioner's song before tying up and shooting down rapid to vapid the emptying of the slut of inattention her own corpse reduced to rhyme and reason ...and i saw Amerixa suck the big toe of plenty and spit out yak and fungo-- coalesced lungers on the frying pan, oysters from the punk demento in yr heart So dump the looting goober on his butt, a flinty poon her's own sabre --this and no more in the action of which we speak of which we speak now and no further here's the door and no master here's the way and no passage denial in your sentences of doubt; love in the arches of light beyond us A lingo invested in its own hopeless shame, how can it success into light? What whore can sign the lines of light what son of loss deliver the remains of the king into deliverance-- what emptiness can renew the light? give me a chicken sandwich now dress my colon in sentiment forge the union of opposites with glue Pierced tongue of the gypsy cunt slates the dream into insignificance leaving the dreamer in a trance from which no one returns hose of the scheming dunt you please the face of the bitch with your scheming front leaving with the goods leaving with the rest beyond the stunted pane beyond the flaunted wane beyond yr fruited name Armeskera, antinomial of the new rapunto hold and chain rock and stain enuf I wake to find myself in the dream oystrvl 2.16-7.97
THE ELF GROOM'S NUPTIAL DREAM Michael Basinski hexamplex/holdhart hew here har sohe hacaVevSssss hice harlore comes a bone engraved hearts a deer's ribBB Objection Object the thirteeNoooOOnsss LineslimestoooOOnss trianglore moons of CaVrVerings hold tha night in the form of night in the number of nights on the onset of the swarming wish URbowOoooooooooooOOooerereeeeooooooyherings reeeeeeeOOeleO/ o/o/o/o/ oil OOoorceHhroseOooooooooooooooooooooerosoooooooooeeeeofest. Her Bra Clets Ur bowooooooooooooooooo/lll/ooo/v e rrrooooooooooss o/o/o/oooooo/o/o/ooo/oooooo/oo/oooo/oo oooo OOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooo ooooooooo o o o o o o o o o o o ooo o o o o o o o o o oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo/o/o/o/o/ooo/o/o/o/o/o the union of the circle In the center of the flight is silence The moth detects chirp of bat attacking in darkness Kisti Kistai Mystai-to-be Agyrmos with the moon this is the thresmophoria Metroon of sacral secrets where the rite piglets and cakes were thrown into caves Robbed ependyte ripe reunion of the beginning blossoming circles and meld with night's swan neck lions curled up as a bloom in the thorne of horses The bone boos sooms suma cum Blouse blossums somes assumes the eclipse the moon's lips moans monsumes rue rues runes rooms drooms cream roses dream droses horses As has been already stated, at about the time of the world's history when the Miocene was passing into what we term the Pliocene e/poch. There were no true horses The EnVoy Hippa Hippo hippos orse intercourse Ommom mod ompoun co Hippario kno alo Helladotherium and hipparions: Horsense Harbard Horland Harlet Hortis Homore Hohashobeen holorse horeethes hodd trapezoid and trapezium night the lips of tel Halloween horse well comes his bee ch rushes upon the WevVes Michael Basinski
Midpoint Amy Trussell "The soul should always stand ajar, That if the heavens inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her." -Emily Dickinson The gate stands ajar a wind current overing push through and raise up with light syruped bitters from these bruised leaves sap gathers at midpoint in the black and with lines in our palms we swing out over nothing and bridge lost petroglyphs trying to grasp with one hand the chords seeing with compound eyes how to postion oneself in space- over net? soft water? or endless articulation of air in jasmine as it unfolds and unfolds with insistent solution of moonlight Amy Trussell
Untitled Jim Leftwich Themselves applied to eyes. Apples lied the Brahmin gift. At man any poet held in harmony width. Considerably sidereal in wavering love, with harmonica, armed with offset poems of nature. Whom I have deconstructed sufficiently to produce an abundant bravery of our own. As such. Weakened yields the natural religion. Dared to yearn the universal whisper. Bonus in the eye, bolus in the whitened barbarism, same middle aged gods the abacus methodically rests. Method as metaphor for the rest of the temple. Rolling our own silences. Desire heats the apprised with a moral wrist, simple twist of lemon in bitter fate, so that we must go forth coiled within the gems, the poem a sibling which we play, to say nothing of everything which is yours and night. In that it is as straight as a poem can hear. The library of the portal, ichor of the heart, where power exists in the thesis of the hat, what drops from the accident is a hinge of nature. The logos of the heart in the open threads of the hand. Words persist. The logos of the said in the drumbeat of the blood, striven in the hand, apparitions of the acquired enunciations. Tool of a floral hand, poem in which the palm is best known as arrested love, why the iridescent friends insist on impressions of the hand, nous recluse, but not a nerve of the whole divagation, navigating through the witness of your own salts, no fault of the feverish snow met in words or night, or sown wherever the adjective deals its lonesome awe, love though openly thought to find a closed connection.
3 Pieces by John M. Bennett AURORE your stain floater( mite (gate flavor in your rising throat) severs all the gas or your "debate) fast corn for ninety years" before your face or listed thought repel me spoon my )ration of collapse 'n itching stain floater, mite inflation where you sing beside my boat so ever faster, "born inside your ears" (wrist laced I) tossed 'n spelled all )room )station of, intact 'n itching rain( "coat( PROXLIMIT sodden fan inside your gown my eyesight panties crowned labels pan beside your gown I waved the water while I sat, 'n rusted, comma tossed, saved the water in my island knee toward you, idle aimed knee but renting, rather loose than course, renting feathers and your taste a bestride me sinking rust arised, "your sudden hand" FOR WORD My state of sweepingx clave resentment, where I scorched//plate leaks//signs of patterned dust recision bloated, fault I chewed the broom you cradled mail form, I was never flooded (least so deep) caught my leg "this time )intention raft, wheedled" I and glued beneath my )hat//flavor knot your axle stroke, renders me
Untitled Harry Polkinhorn In a seamless water world where polar bears Sport or afloat in chill liquids of history She moves elusively through darkened air Relentless in her approach that never Arrives but only dies in that separation Tiny footprints or a signature in flames While trains make their silent way bills of Lading and machine parts en route to a Transmutation under heat and pressure Whether in human or animal form so that The hidden sleeves of morning with their Outward motion she gets away with ignoring Like rainfall in Vermont before she had The vaguest idea yet elements of another Forgotten summer the rattlesnake attack Or shotgun assassination you followed On the the news is lackluster images but What does she want aside from wanting Or a barely missed opportunity for love The body insulted as a matter of course Their running lights gone dim like the Minds of the old pools scarcely rippling Sweat stored for cellular use their brain trust As lushly inscribed a fever of distraction Her trembling at your bona fide example Solicitous but carried alot like a bourne In its role as avenger until a soft voice Intones your personal formula the lengthy Moment that precedes a departure as Cut up by knoves her thigh bones aching With lust because an imperative stolen Coins adorning her throat as if your
Roadkill Karen A. Kuehmeier What does it mean first (1) roadkill then of course I had to see: second (2) roadkill a cat with blood from head, red on white and gray fur open mouth trying to scream or was screaming or gasping for breath only to gurgle blood can't imagine how to be so blind I thought of calling him but saw him at the same restaurant instead to depart and meet again I dreamt of spiders; I think I killed about six (6) one had little white bubbles as legs and a blue body maybe like the cover of a storybook the very next morning had to kill a tiny spider in the tub before shower Getting used to always deciding having too, third (3) roadkill driving to main road not one hundred (100) feet fourth (4) roadkill at the point where getting sick sure it must mean something why does the woman in rearview mirror have to wipe her eyes? One in a bad situation, touchy relationship, another's car broke down and missed appointment yet another (someone) must live with hatred inside perhaps from war Tell someone the time smelling mocha swimming it always takes a long time to figure out fifty five (55) years teaching give a glass of wine or some chocolates hoping it means good luck careful not to