Mixed nuts lightly salted spilled can recall a Fibonaccian sequence
If you observe a single nut at the center, the others in a spiral
That in theory embraces the world if you posit this cashew as a center
And the others in spiraling formation only increase in size and embrace
Until no more mixed nuts are left from the sequence to continue this progression.
The Fibonaccian sequence can drive you nuts in conjunction with time-cubes
when you spill the nuts from the can, unlike cereal, no prizes nor miracles,
only nuts on the floor or the counter-top shaping themselves into a Fibonaccian sequence,
as how the bounty of picked flowers spills from a cornucopia of straw.
Only the numbers accumulate in greater progressions than you can follow.
Why not just eat mixed nuts from the counter-top until the sequence reverses
Or return them to the can that has become a Pandora’s box of thought for you?
The traits you attributed to yourself that made you special only multiply.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
12/12/09, 12/20/09
Flip through Death in Venice:
note the old pansy in hipster's attire
with hair dyed and lips rouged
foreshadowing/mirroring/foreshadowing
protagonist Von Aschenbach in his demise,
tansy in his buttonhole, youth restored
by the glib barber, wandering in mazes,
feverish, lost at career's finale.
But this pansy treats you to a frown
no matter what you tip him.
You thought your visits would be kind,
knowing that his partner was sick.
Who is he to seek your straight charity?
So for hair you go to girls instead,
a half-dozen housewives out of town,
their spouses cops or firemen.
One of them doesn't mind pressing her hips
against your knuckles as they grip the leather armrests--
hers are curved as in Rubens or as Charytyn
among her circle of Afro-Caribbean dancers,
animated Venus of Willendorf.
You wonder what her love life's like.
Is the husband, so small in the photograph
taped to her mirror, touching her?
Does she take more interest in male customers
than in children whose hair she cuts
customarily before the baseball season?
She's talks about her old bedroom.
I don't get what neighborhood it's in.
Who does she bring there, her parents gone?
How old is her offspring,
also in the snapshot on the mirror
another stylist will take over
when she leaves, starting her own business?
My knuckles memorize the her jeans
as taut as skin around her hips,
although she'll go to seed, not eating right.
As if I were swayed by rhythm and undulation,
waves within the tides all lunar push and pull.
Nor should she bare her midriff now.
Still I'd enter Shannon without effort,
bathe with her, let friction build.
But inside, I'd make a remark
so ridiculuous or laughable,
the act would become(see Marcus Aurelius),
rubbing of innards and spastic extrusion of slime.
The aftermath feels like a meth crash,
this coming to one's senses. Among bedsheets,
the sated body feels indented as fieldstones or concrete.
O Hold it: she's a barber with a son,
her husband's municipal, her extended family
large as some Irish-Yankee mukhabarat.
Venus' gravity can grind stone
into plate-shaped fragments.
What is the likelihood of bumping
into another woman built like her,
the curves just tracks or trajectories
on which bodies and elements hurl?
Like a rolling stone, begin with the drum-beat, don't end with one.
12/20/09--6/7/10
_____________________________________________________
Last night's blizzard missed Vermont entirely,
but it snowed in Boston and most of the eastern industrial belt,
until there were flight delays clear to Chicago and down to DC.
I've never eaten a Blizzard at a Dairy Queen.
According to the Larouchies, the Queen of England runs
the heroin trade and is the force that drives the Kyoto protocols.
Said Jerry Garcia once, heroin is a great drug for old people.
And old people such as myself, without children to support them,
and with a hard time finding shelter. Heroin will be a great temptation.
Once at an airport such as Idewilde or Logan, I search
for a bus shelter as soon as I am outside the flight gates.
Someone stole the Arbeit Macht Frei sign from the gates
to Auschwitz, or was it to Bergen-Belsen, or was it both?
When the sign says STOP my instinct says do the opposite and GO.
However if my instinct entertains murder, I do not follow the lead.
When again I fish on Lake Morey, I will use lead weights
to hold the bait down below the waterline.
Were people to disappear, fish would overcrowd the sea.
When people overcrowd the planet, the fish will flounder, prices rise.
Surely all airports and stations will be overcrowded during this season.
And a sigh of relief will escape once the season ends.
But from the imprisonment of family, there is neither escape nor relief.
Could you row into the middle of the lake, without friends or family,
would that bring a quiet although lonely respite, satisfactory
to those who are used to being alone, although one hankers for a dog
as a companion, who looks up to you, depending upon you for sustenance,
for food and for shelter, wagging its tail, hanging its tongue out.
Only the weekends, unextended with vacation or personal days,
bring you respite now, your furloughs and holidays spent.
For my furlough week this year, I chose the week before Labor Day,
while the sun still warmed the lawns and gardens,
spending no small amount of time trimming my lawn and weeding my garden,
some weeds with milky pods or stems, some with thorns
or velvet-textured pulpy leaves and impossibly tenacious roots,
ensuring the plant's recurrence next season, suggesting
those eastern resurrection gods who submerge in winter but
in summer ascend before Phoebus--who knows what
poisons or medicinal properties they offer, conceal?
Among the gates of airports in post-industrial cities
and between the broken tarmac and the faded traffic stripes,
rise weeds to a nearly human height, scattering their spores
to the winds that are borne from the Arctic.
Terrorists don't need to hold such airports under siege,
all they need to do is tie up outbound traffic.
Counter-terrorists besiege the post-industrial airports.
It's ideas that are the poisonous weeds rooted in the minds
of both, scattered among the winds like so many spores
that refuse to acknowledge borders or the gates of airports,
the weeds are bringing the wild back to entwine among the ingenious
structures, a field already reforested, repopulated with vines
entwined among the video terminals and concession stands
where Milk-Duds rot among and feed the milkweed
bursting through the summer with the frequency of incendiary devices
released from the hand of the fighter egged on by imam or Bakuninist,
although there remains nothing to conquer but unregistered space
of weeds among perennials I cannot claw from soil, once on my knees, enough.
note the old pansy in hipster's attire
with hair dyed and lips rouged
foreshadowing/mirroring/foreshadowing
protagonist Von Aschenbach in his demise,
tansy in his buttonhole, youth restored
by the glib barber, wandering in mazes,
feverish, lost at career's finale.
But this pansy treats you to a frown
no matter what you tip him.
You thought your visits would be kind,
knowing that his partner was sick.
Who is he to seek your straight charity?
So for hair you go to girls instead,
a half-dozen housewives out of town,
their spouses cops or firemen.
One of them doesn't mind pressing her hips
against your knuckles as they grip the leather armrests--
hers are curved as in Rubens or as Charytyn
among her circle of Afro-Caribbean dancers,
animated Venus of Willendorf.
You wonder what her love life's like.
Is the husband, so small in the photograph
taped to her mirror, touching her?
Does she take more interest in male customers
than in children whose hair she cuts
customarily before the baseball season?
She's talks about her old bedroom.
I don't get what neighborhood it's in.
Who does she bring there, her parents gone?
How old is her offspring,
also in the snapshot on the mirror
another stylist will take over
when she leaves, starting her own business?
My knuckles memorize the her jeans
as taut as skin around her hips,
although she'll go to seed, not eating right.
As if I were swayed by rhythm and undulation,
waves within the tides all lunar push and pull.
Nor should she bare her midriff now.
Still I'd enter Shannon without effort,
bathe with her, let friction build.
But inside, I'd make a remark
so ridiculuous or laughable,
the act would become(see Marcus Aurelius),
rubbing of innards and spastic extrusion of slime.
The aftermath feels like a meth crash,
this coming to one's senses. Among bedsheets,
the sated body feels indented as fieldstones or concrete.
O Hold it: she's a barber with a son,
her husband's municipal, her extended family
large as some Irish-Yankee mukhabarat.
Venus' gravity can grind stone
into plate-shaped fragments.
What is the likelihood of bumping
into another woman built like her,
the curves just tracks or trajectories
on which bodies and elements hurl?
Like a rolling stone, begin with the drum-beat, don't end with one.
12/20/09--6/7/10
_____________________________________________________
Last night's blizzard missed Vermont entirely,
but it snowed in Boston and most of the eastern industrial belt,
until there were flight delays clear to Chicago and down to DC.
I've never eaten a Blizzard at a Dairy Queen.
According to the Larouchies, the Queen of England runs
the heroin trade and is the force that drives the Kyoto protocols.
Said Jerry Garcia once, heroin is a great drug for old people.
And old people such as myself, without children to support them,
and with a hard time finding shelter. Heroin will be a great temptation.
Once at an airport such as Idewilde or Logan, I search
for a bus shelter as soon as I am outside the flight gates.
Someone stole the Arbeit Macht Frei sign from the gates
to Auschwitz, or was it to Bergen-Belsen, or was it both?
When the sign says STOP my instinct says do the opposite and GO.
However if my instinct entertains murder, I do not follow the lead.
When again I fish on Lake Morey, I will use lead weights
to hold the bait down below the waterline.
Were people to disappear, fish would overcrowd the sea.
When people overcrowd the planet, the fish will flounder, prices rise.
Surely all airports and stations will be overcrowded during this season.
And a sigh of relief will escape once the season ends.
But from the imprisonment of family, there is neither escape nor relief.
Could you row into the middle of the lake, without friends or family,
would that bring a quiet although lonely respite, satisfactory
to those who are used to being alone, although one hankers for a dog
as a companion, who looks up to you, depending upon you for sustenance,
for food and for shelter, wagging its tail, hanging its tongue out.
Only the weekends, unextended with vacation or personal days,
bring you respite now, your furloughs and holidays spent.
For my furlough week this year, I chose the week before Labor Day,
while the sun still warmed the lawns and gardens,
spending no small amount of time trimming my lawn and weeding my garden,
some weeds with milky pods or stems, some with thorns
or velvet-textured pulpy leaves and impossibly tenacious roots,
ensuring the plant's recurrence next season, suggesting
those eastern resurrection gods who submerge in winter but
in summer ascend before Phoebus--who knows what
poisons or medicinal properties they offer, conceal?
Among the gates of airports in post-industrial cities
and between the broken tarmac and the faded traffic stripes,
rise weeds to a nearly human height, scattering their spores
to the winds that are borne from the Arctic.
Terrorists don't need to hold such airports under siege,
all they need to do is tie up outbound traffic.
Counter-terrorists besiege the post-industrial airports.
It's ideas that are the poisonous weeds rooted in the minds
of both, scattered among the winds like so many spores
that refuse to acknowledge borders or the gates of airports,
the weeds are bringing the wild back to entwine among the ingenious
structures, a field already reforested, repopulated with vines
entwined among the video terminals and concession stands
where Milk-Duds rot among and feed the milkweed
bursting through the summer with the frequency of incendiary devices
released from the hand of the fighter egged on by imam or Bakuninist,
although there remains nothing to conquer but unregistered space
of weeds among perennials I cannot claw from soil, once on my knees, enough.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
7/20/08
The descent of rain into flower gardens and bushes
The turning of the overhead fan, audible from the friction
between the ball-bearings and the wheel upon which the fan turns
pushing colder air down until the living room is as cold as a tomb
I brushed the incipient mildew from several books that were in storage
A pamphlet for an experimental prototype of a helicopter or airship
whose wings are modeled on the dragonfly skirting the surface of a pond
A broadside declaring the imminent arrival of doomsday or the crisis
in capitalism, impending, according to the sundry voices
The tapering off of rain in early afternoon attended by the
weighting of the maple-leaves and the sodden branches
Would you putter around the garage if you had your own garage?
The drenching rains that visit us from the Canadian north
You must explain to the salt of the earth the ways of God to man
Another very green and wet Sunday afternoon as traceable as
the passage of youth into age or into ages of work into retirement
or the reification of one entire life into a plexiglass cube for family photos
and a selective eulogy--the rain thickens as the sky darken.
Mother told me there'd be days like this, the thickening of rain
among the branches results in moods of relaxation and abandonment
as if the toy ship were tossed among storms: toy boat, toy story.
Toy poem in which each word defers to a common and
ceremonial practice such as the phrase a month of Sundays
of rain and red slugs and the washing out of man-made roads
and trenching of new water--paths and furrows down watery banks
and flowery waters and watery flowers that could be called
a realignment of forces such as when finance dislocates careers
thought certain as the ground beneath one's feet and the
rock-bed beneath the ground. The flood plains by the riverbed
are a pre-Cambrian field of fern and dragonfly,
trees refuse to root in the sediment beneath. The potting soil
abandoned in a bag appeared black, bacterial and fecal
as it poured upon the freshly tilled soil, beneath which lies
fragments of a slate bed. From a shelf of slate rest garter snakes
when the sun is out, fattened from licking silverfish and spiders
from holes in the slate. The skunk's tail flung in the air,
each white fur strand a warning-barb, behind the uncut grass
rimming a ditch. In Sweden, a hill cannot be blasted for a new road
because residents have protested that it houses gnomes.
Elves however are forest-dwellers, gnomes are subterrranean,
living in kingdoms beneath the mountain. When black tar turns silver
and the air you breathe is saturated with water-droplets,
and rain drips from the roof and the porosity of tar-paper
holds the rain. Rims of wineglasses emitting a tone peculiar to it.
The reduction of life into granitic material, into coal from tar,
the apparition of silver when the tar is wet from light,
of surfaces on the paved road, the burden of leaves on the tree,
of fruit about to drop from branches. The absorbant surface of
thos Darth Vader fighter-bombers dropping their payloads upon
parched villages with mud huts and underground cells sniffed out
by satellites. Ignorance is bliss at such an altitude.
But the redneck said the will to win was sapped. Were he young
he'd spy on the back-stabbers. The voices of elites declared
him simple. That criticism was an inner voice that rankled
his insides.
The yellow warbler darted into a hedge along the road
of the industrial park.
The porta-potties on the cul-de-sac worked fitfully.
A gas main protruded from the ground.
Compactors had flattened the patio.
The turning of the overhead fan, audible from the friction
between the ball-bearings and the wheel upon which the fan turns
pushing colder air down until the living room is as cold as a tomb
I brushed the incipient mildew from several books that were in storage
A pamphlet for an experimental prototype of a helicopter or airship
whose wings are modeled on the dragonfly skirting the surface of a pond
A broadside declaring the imminent arrival of doomsday or the crisis
in capitalism, impending, according to the sundry voices
The tapering off of rain in early afternoon attended by the
weighting of the maple-leaves and the sodden branches
Would you putter around the garage if you had your own garage?
The drenching rains that visit us from the Canadian north
You must explain to the salt of the earth the ways of God to man
Another very green and wet Sunday afternoon as traceable as
the passage of youth into age or into ages of work into retirement
or the reification of one entire life into a plexiglass cube for family photos
and a selective eulogy--the rain thickens as the sky darken.
Mother told me there'd be days like this, the thickening of rain
among the branches results in moods of relaxation and abandonment
as if the toy ship were tossed among storms: toy boat, toy story.
Toy poem in which each word defers to a common and
ceremonial practice such as the phrase a month of Sundays
of rain and red slugs and the washing out of man-made roads
and trenching of new water--paths and furrows down watery banks
and flowery waters and watery flowers that could be called
a realignment of forces such as when finance dislocates careers
thought certain as the ground beneath one's feet and the
rock-bed beneath the ground. The flood plains by the riverbed
are a pre-Cambrian field of fern and dragonfly,
trees refuse to root in the sediment beneath. The potting soil
abandoned in a bag appeared black, bacterial and fecal
as it poured upon the freshly tilled soil, beneath which lies
fragments of a slate bed. From a shelf of slate rest garter snakes
when the sun is out, fattened from licking silverfish and spiders
from holes in the slate. The skunk's tail flung in the air,
each white fur strand a warning-barb, behind the uncut grass
rimming a ditch. In Sweden, a hill cannot be blasted for a new road
because residents have protested that it houses gnomes.
Elves however are forest-dwellers, gnomes are subterrranean,
living in kingdoms beneath the mountain. When black tar turns silver
and the air you breathe is saturated with water-droplets,
and rain drips from the roof and the porosity of tar-paper
holds the rain. Rims of wineglasses emitting a tone peculiar to it.
The reduction of life into granitic material, into coal from tar,
the apparition of silver when the tar is wet from light,
of surfaces on the paved road, the burden of leaves on the tree,
of fruit about to drop from branches. The absorbant surface of
thos Darth Vader fighter-bombers dropping their payloads upon
parched villages with mud huts and underground cells sniffed out
by satellites. Ignorance is bliss at such an altitude.
But the redneck said the will to win was sapped. Were he young
he'd spy on the back-stabbers. The voices of elites declared
him simple. That criticism was an inner voice that rankled
his insides.
The yellow warbler darted into a hedge along the road
of the industrial park.
The porta-potties on the cul-de-sac worked fitfully.
A gas main protruded from the ground.
Compactors had flattened the patio.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
5/5/09
After his manly sonorous outburst, he abandoned verse
and resorted to journals, but having mastered the form,
realized they could only be completed when he passed away--
nothing of their occasional flashes of beauty
could be extracted and reshaped into another form.
Many would not relish his remarks about restaurants or movies,
nor lend a reading eye to his tireless minutiae.
Here was truth with all its warts, no lacquer nor varnish.
Inspiration had flickered then died among their pages.
Then a pertinacious realism was born, a living testament
to how people are shaped by the ride of their underwear,
the fit of their shoes, how drink or food poisoning shaped them.
He'd held the lyrical mode in suspicion and grown fonder of satire,
and though he didn't revile past influences, grew suspicious,
settling for photographically accurate laundry lists.
Who'd know how far he's walked from his career and old beliefs,
not so much to be in a monastery as in the Idaho woods
among trailers on dirt plots -- or did his scathing rejectionist
contrarian cant reverberate from the pages of the Financial Times
or some other august organ of the finance-military-industrial complex,
or did he merely sulk at home and snort cocaine from a silver-mirrored
Army knife -- or was it a Bowie he'd been given by a Special Forces sargent
who was in league with his beliefs about the pernicious influence
of the Counter-Reformation on daytime children's TV shows.
Late environmentalist visionary who'd advocated the cultivation
of flesh jello in vats and the systematic bombing of overpopulated
equatorial countries, along with an abandonment of green technoligies
for a retrenchment into sub-Arctic latitudes abandoned by harpoon-wielding
impossibly tall and proto-aboriginal Red-Paint people?
and resorted to journals, but having mastered the form,
realized they could only be completed when he passed away--
nothing of their occasional flashes of beauty
could be extracted and reshaped into another form.
Many would not relish his remarks about restaurants or movies,
nor lend a reading eye to his tireless minutiae.
Here was truth with all its warts, no lacquer nor varnish.
Inspiration had flickered then died among their pages.
Then a pertinacious realism was born, a living testament
to how people are shaped by the ride of their underwear,
the fit of their shoes, how drink or food poisoning shaped them.
He'd held the lyrical mode in suspicion and grown fonder of satire,
and though he didn't revile past influences, grew suspicious,
settling for photographically accurate laundry lists.
Who'd know how far he's walked from his career and old beliefs,
not so much to be in a monastery as in the Idaho woods
among trailers on dirt plots -- or did his scathing rejectionist
contrarian cant reverberate from the pages of the Financial Times
or some other august organ of the finance-military-industrial complex,
or did he merely sulk at home and snort cocaine from a silver-mirrored
Army knife -- or was it a Bowie he'd been given by a Special Forces sargent
who was in league with his beliefs about the pernicious influence
of the Counter-Reformation on daytime children's TV shows.
Late environmentalist visionary who'd advocated the cultivation
of flesh jello in vats and the systematic bombing of overpopulated
equatorial countries, along with an abandonment of green technoligies
for a retrenchment into sub-Arctic latitudes abandoned by harpoon-wielding
impossibly tall and proto-aboriginal Red-Paint people?
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
4/4/09
Vernal pools
Slushy, muddy, watery, not flowery waters nor watery slush yet.
Resident seeker, desert sunset
The sunset, in his desert fastness, is the red
of the foundry, molten iron poured from the crucible
into the casting. The face that looks at the sunset
is a burnished obsidian mask drenched by fire.
Who knows what this lifelong seeker thinks
outside his desert home, before the spectacle
he shares with no one -- what he'd wanted all along.
Ruddy invulnerable mask of a man of iron.
Roll from his pen those iron sonorities, blunter.
Slushy, muddy, watery, not flowery waters nor watery slush yet.
Resident seeker, desert sunset
The sunset, in his desert fastness, is the red
of the foundry, molten iron poured from the crucible
into the casting. The face that looks at the sunset
is a burnished obsidian mask drenched by fire.
Who knows what this lifelong seeker thinks
outside his desert home, before the spectacle
he shares with no one -- what he'd wanted all along.
Ruddy invulnerable mask of a man of iron.
Roll from his pen those iron sonorities, blunter.
5/10/09
Everything you touch or taste or listen to or see,
according to this blowhard, has been compromised.
Tell me about the last freshly-slaughtered game you caught and tasted
before the hearth-fire spoiled the taste,
of acorns before you had to roast them.
Talk about the fruit from the trees that dropped in your mouth
about the fish roe and the seeds
about the whitest apple-flesh and the fish in the stream.
How about the place from which you were estranged
about the roadhouses and the charismatic churches
and the commune in which you rolled about among others
the opening seconds of Beatlemania and the years
before the great war when your mother's arm
only got stronger from tugging the milk cow
across the dirt road where the brick library
or wax museum was
the statuettes so real in facial tones you thought the figures
moved, such are the lost arts and the carved
Hummel figurines of the local Gepetto
about grander thoroughfares and greater aspirations
according to this blowhard, has been compromised.
Tell me about the last freshly-slaughtered game you caught and tasted
before the hearth-fire spoiled the taste,
of acorns before you had to roast them.
Talk about the fruit from the trees that dropped in your mouth
about the fish roe and the seeds
about the whitest apple-flesh and the fish in the stream.
How about the place from which you were estranged
about the roadhouses and the charismatic churches
and the commune in which you rolled about among others
the opening seconds of Beatlemania and the years
before the great war when your mother's arm
only got stronger from tugging the milk cow
across the dirt road where the brick library
or wax museum was
the statuettes so real in facial tones you thought the figures
moved, such are the lost arts and the carved
Hummel figurines of the local Gepetto
about grander thoroughfares and greater aspirations
3/22/09
How many dead things and barely opening buds and stiffened forked branches
And rusted beer-cans can one account for, how many more engine-blocks
And harvesters sunk among the weeds? How many weeds and cat-tails
Sprung from marshy landscape, runoff winding in rivulets and courses
The naked eye cannot trace, as it can trace how the crow leapfrogs
Toward another spot of carrion after the cars pass? How many
Stiff, forked, twiggy, branched, and budding things
And how many cold winds crossing unlovely flats before
The hospital dump? How many more biohazard vials unsealed,
How many Coke bottles by the river bed beside the tampon strings?
What crawls from culverts other than the rainbow of an oil-slick?
Where lies the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? How much longer
Can one write about the brush of clouds above the orange landscape
And desert sunset juxtaposed beside the rusty Roto-rooter
And sundry collapsed machinery, about old beercans,
Or forked and spiny desert flora. A snow flurry during early spring
Is winter’s stiff answer to the coming thaw, as if to reiterate
I’m still around. How many spare tires, rusty axles? That’s the kicker.
Chew more than you bite off. Time to stop. The snow flurry,
No more than half an hour, thickened air before it went away.
And rusted beer-cans can one account for, how many more engine-blocks
And harvesters sunk among the weeds? How many weeds and cat-tails
Sprung from marshy landscape, runoff winding in rivulets and courses
The naked eye cannot trace, as it can trace how the crow leapfrogs
Toward another spot of carrion after the cars pass? How many
Stiff, forked, twiggy, branched, and budding things
And how many cold winds crossing unlovely flats before
The hospital dump? How many more biohazard vials unsealed,
How many Coke bottles by the river bed beside the tampon strings?
What crawls from culverts other than the rainbow of an oil-slick?
Where lies the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? How much longer
Can one write about the brush of clouds above the orange landscape
And desert sunset juxtaposed beside the rusty Roto-rooter
And sundry collapsed machinery, about old beercans,
Or forked and spiny desert flora. A snow flurry during early spring
Is winter’s stiff answer to the coming thaw, as if to reiterate
I’m still around. How many spare tires, rusty axles? That’s the kicker.
Chew more than you bite off. Time to stop. The snow flurry,
No more than half an hour, thickened air before it went away.
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