My new book HOT FOIL is out now.
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HOT FOIL, the Book
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Selection from Callisto
S/2017 J 6
black train racing eastward powered by the latest synthesizer speed and heat chip black paint away revealing silver beneath illusion's psoriatic skin androids pounded electric spikes building these rails and trades extended even as these selfsame androids compounded a leisure of synthetic opiates chromatic knowledge base alters electric age with an endless flicker of digits groundwork was laid at the mid-century laboratory when not all research was in thrall to commercial applications cyclical cry from an involuntary apostate who recognizes the ongoing oscillations of the mystic who disbelieved statements disproving his existence polished icons even when worshippers have not been captured by the closed-circuit television cameras of the zeitgeist's diseased and bloated main office the grim quotidian was never aware of neo-Platonic remnants and the growing ranks who polish their surfaces until what lies on the other side is visible in a glass with no obvious power source
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Selection from Quartet: One
Mountain Guitar
Mountain guitar with wild thyme a good start augmented by abstract forces in violet like shifting cloud patterns Victims of a clanging litany until exterior logics blossom rules abandoned and a reprogramming of the very grammar This is not Greco-Roman stuff but every myth comes tumbling back someone early sweeps with a tattered broom Outlines go wonky—vibrating iron the structured appearance of ages passing count on the fingers invent new numbers -
Selections from Saturn Book I: Analogue Prologue
[Non-Euclidean Shapes]
picture tides and crowded landscapes of isolation the flag of the desultory conquerors has fallen insects of chance and empty space eat away at the remaining fibers the unnamed portion of the night invites all manner of phenomena discarded objects are mapping a surface where no surface was before moving across a stable crust seeking airy corridors— we gamble on another elusive structure
[Positive-Negative Primate]
a fissured blackness is expanding the fissures are delicate and appear white against the black background they two will expand grains of rice in a heap the misgivings of a comically named monarch may be driving this farce a boulevard of dead trees is a deserted street at midnight appropriated concepts tick their half-lives into repetitive digressions uniformed primates troubleshoot these myriad devices— who devises alternatives?
[Blue Hubris]
this black fire travels up the spine— pain is a lush tropical plant in bloom some await the vectors of colorless storms or crawl across shifting indigo surfaces the tragedy of human ingenuity reprogrammed the oscillations— another worn out mechanism from another era rusts harmlessly
[Memory Implant]
dubbed reflections disintegrate into white particles— now will peripheral movement be prohibited nylon banners burned by a dying sun unravel leaving behind a substitute memory implanted urges subvert performance in another dimension for all but short bursts though some adepts work toward a mastery that remains unspoken synthetic quadrupeds are draining the color away— their rechargeable snarls are meant to keep us from kicking them
[Broken Monitor]
this vision underneath— as a tree might be reflected on the surface of a lake lost or undiscovered a misspelled goddess wandering her densely wooded fastness amidst rolling hills this is nature stuff not pixels or raster or even chemical creams some bodies may only be glimpsed for an instant a static storm or digital tempest blows in—blinding try not to see through but watch the images dancing across its surface
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Selections from Saturn Book I: Analogue Prologue
[grand cabinet of inquisition]
electromagnetic fields and a kind of ghost rattling plastic rings and beads— poorly worded questions make of suspense a salty amuse bouche listen only to textured voices they mutter old manuscripts stealing the names of birds does not enable you to fly medical oddities and creatures from mythology— someone has raided the old reliquary where have the sacred fragments been taken?
[pregnant forgeries]
boundaries are transgressed as fine rain alters the atmosphere the counterfeits have been accumulating and in this changed air they are easy to spot predictable sounds shall now be nameless then an embarrassment of nomenclature everything amounts to sifting through debris a shard of broken mirror will turn up radioactive refugees left out in the rain repeated phrases change meaning this is their raison d'être
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Selections from Saturn Book I: Analogue Prologue
[179]
insistence is not repetition some say the buried King is the best fertilizer the proximity and persistence of small butterflies is a mathematical proof from a circle comes an untitled sound to utter its name is a sweet-sounding curse absolute sizes and differences are not limitations some extermination is afoot to return to the beginning is to recognize that some realities are more real than others
[180]
in the madhouse the inmates are cataloging new hieroglyphs on tiny scraps of paper and tracing in the leavings on dinner plates mandalas that the dishwashing machine will eradicate with its efficient chemical stream the richness of their utterances to one another are derided by the doctors as glossolalia sirens scream in southern smoke— another human construct burned to fine ash
[181]
not every detail is witchcraft but the line between the natural and the synthetic cannot exist did travelers from distant star systems inadvertently bring the very spores that destroyed their home planets and did those spores evolve into us? a heavy washed-out blue cloud vision at least in the beginning consider a token given by a mysterious stranger say a ring placed upon the middle finger of the left hand its marks are clear but deciphering them is the work of more than one lifetime
[182]
Vignette … a broken mirror on an empty street … just legible in its remnants is the gnomic utterance ‘OBJECTS ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR’
[183]
numbers adding up to 9 or 10 a common occurrence the sound of the wind and a hand copying out the Greek alphabet moving quickly at an angle like slicing through time— like some kind of return once a cedar cylinder gave way to transparent plastic in Sputnik colors— what comes after styli? shifting electrons? the death of bird song? or the continuation of its mechanical reproduction?
[184]
experiments go awry blinding flashes streak across the empty sky turning chaos into anarchy sudden smell of fear in these days will capitalism's final flunkies try to find their way backstage? gouty feet shod in the skins of species now extinct under unknown aurorae gold-leaf pattern embossed on an old book detailing rituals outlining transformations
[185]
changing average temperatures and the malicious promise of authority replaying a sequence of stylized poses— analyzing them frame by frame strategic placement of redundant drives and logarithmic growth in computations per second no more discernable gaps but still this inexplicable queasiness as if my central processor has no other way to process this data
[186]
certain energies cannot be mechanically produced— a rhythmic sound like a heartbeat pulses metallically— distant sound of gold and a preponderance of round forms this growing sickness is immune to modern treatments the dull ache—the sense of weight precursors of transformation
[187]
sounds from a scratchy recording of some hymns to Orpheus coming from the weedy lot behind the gas station amidst cans and wrappers and losing lottery tickets beady eyes examine pages torn from pornographic magazines yesterday the sound of Venus (a round sound) was a necessary distraction Aquarian drawings announce another numbered sequence they are dead-eyed these operators of machinery in distant harbors horns sound— there gulls surely circle looking for crumbs here bent minds animate worn photos while the message fails to come
[188]
disarticulated scripture this temporal prophecy a casette starting and stopping chopping words into meaningless (or meaningful) tones for the fresco depicting the creation on the ceiling has fallen in and its sticky plaster-dust has coated the capstan rollers why keep pressing ‘play’? a hunk of unhewn stone from out of nowhere sits upon the ground with a silent baritone gravitas the charismatics have fallen into their own traps but the doors to the anchorites' cells are opening
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Selections from Saturn Book I: Analogue Prologue
[mod clock breakdown]
line of gasses forming in the sky— another dog-phenomenon without a name the shape of spilled fluid is one transformation awaiting phase change or insectile greed broken clock is the name of my familiar what was thought high incantation turned out to be a drunk slurring the periodic table the organ's mod rhythms are as outdated as a tin-foil miniskirt faster than cancer every sky ends with nameless colors
[quotidian crash]
utilitarian fantasies toss a few dozen flying machines into the air and wait for them to come down take these new pills and calm down the sketchbooks are scattered black roots decaying but the ancient cities could be rebuilt with access to the right heavy metals the name of some local deity is hissed like a curse the control module has been jammed by fragments
A Mashup from Juliet Cook of Thirteen Myna Birds
Thirteen Myna Birds is the poetry blog maintained by Juliet Cook. When she emailed all the contributors for the May flock, letting us know our work was up, she included a really great mashup, incorporating phrases from all of our poems. Since it was just in a personal email, I wanted to share it (with her permission) since I liked it so much.
"during this time of pandemic — Sky is cloudless; birds don't sing — and the days Are quiet as death — gargling instead of brushing teeth — I'm transcribing documents that were written by ghosts with feathers and dust — Shift managers and supervisors demand and take — take these new pills and calm down — the control module has been jammed by fragments — a doll falling out of a tree — faster than cancer — we were wearing the dress of altered states — I was rolling around in some flowers with vomit in my hair — the shape of spilled fluid — enter the final labyrinth — every sky ends with nameless colors — flowers carry sickness here — I speak the language of darkness — we carry the burdens of ourselves and our sisters — I had on the face of an animal over the mask of a girl”
—Juliet Cook
And please follow the great work Juliet shares at Thirteen Myna Birds.
Thirteen Myna Birds publishes 13 pieces by various authors/artists at a given time, and replaces them regularly.
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Selections from Callisto
Thebe
interstellar space these were messages from the real and “we” heard them David-Bowie knife slicing the hi-tek silky thermoplastic veil pass through to another illusion 78-rpm crackle calling from yet another dystopia relentless disinformation “I have to give you the message in code” says another liar listen enraptured with ethyl alcohol Arab invention— Al-kuhl immediately proscribed microchip Korans (may peace be upon them) and beyond control mechanisms desultory dervishes
Callisto
black oxygen megalopolis smog dream with dreamy muted sirens dopplering across the surface of obedient brains trained in the minutia of this administered nocturnal emission energies collected and fed into the machine hear its pneumatic respiration and long to merge with its electronic perfection cybernetic psychosis washes clean as bloodless lambs grow into sheep mutton mutation in rewritten code a day for an execution hum along
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Selections from “Spiegel”
[11]
Memory anterior to motion triggered like rheumatism and rain. Midwestern walking in a university town. Thrift-store raincoat. Tattered black boots. A requiem on cassette. Indulgence in tangential thinking. Exploring near logic in non sequiturs. Visible breath traces reminders of something ineffable. Pencil sturdy enough to sketch temporal cusp in soft lead on slick paper. Disregarded or forgotten technologies return. There was a time for over-sized clothing. Steady rain and gradual accretion. Attraction to strange cities on cloudy days. Even behind windows ultraviolet reflections.
[12]
Pizzicato beginnings and the sinister squeak of strings sounding like birds of prey engaged in an exercise of cooperation. A cinematic swell shifts the senses from audio to video. What good is an eye for detail? To notice the turtleneck is stretched out and a hole is forming in the knee of the left denim trouser leg. Movement of the air is slight but measurable. Numbered movements too sounding similar like repetition. Superimposition in sequence. Flipbook. Illusion of forward motion.
[13]
Save the rapid low notes and lectures on genetics. Chalk letters and numbers traced on metal surfaces. Sound of laughter and a television smashing onto pavement. The white noise of distant traffic is punctuated by machine voices. In the midrange names sound as violent as ever. Announcements sound like lists of random items. Short message beamed from who knows where. Indecipherable.
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walking, the Book
My book walking is out now.
walking was composed over several years, while physically moving (literally walking). Most of it was completed in South Saint Louis, where I live and work as a bartender. walking is informed by psychogeography, surrealism, contemporary classical/electronic music, Taoism, alchemy, modern abstract art, the tradition of the anti-epic, and much else besides.
In Saint Louis, you can purchase walking at the following locations:
As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases.
Buy online:
Subterranean Books,
Bookshop.org,
Amazon -
Rapid Movement
Selections from “Variation” (Part Two of Quartet)[1]
sequential fantasy bends sheets of light into cylinders— veins arteries capillaries the waxing and waning of pressure felt like forces imposed mercury rises in a chamber— in the background the hum of equanimity questions about the number of the world's corners and whether they can be folded this is jumbled like voices in a diner or voices on a train you can listen any way you want you can listen to any part or none feel the cool air smell the wood smoke or the burning leaves a pattern of vibration grows in complexity ruin's spectral beauty shows through new stone
[2]
continuation of a sort not idle fantasies of inverting a dominant paradigm what's the point of watching a hawk circle in a blue sky? who assigns names and numbers to colors and how are they used? behind cold glass a lemon tree heaves with fruit certain types of damage admit of no repair— some people tear down monuments others erect them most pass by them obliviously playing the games of a child decline acceleration but for me a hunger for sharp clean lines etched in cool air
[3]
cold gasoline permeates this background pigmentation causing colors to thin and smear a wrecked antenna sits forgotten atop an old building collecting broken signals from places that no longer exist a whine of motors turning hums in the background what mischief comes form the backward gesticulations of malevolent gnomes? some of the pavement is cracked and buckling ages of fallings leaves are rotting into a new surface smooth and quiet with a smell outlasting competing forces from a surfeit of signs select a random stroke to start wandering through a forest of plaster birds someone trimmed back the wild bamboo the cuttings on the ground have faded to silver on the same ground a small twig the shape of a wishbone— like the radical for ‘man’ and I think of roots ginger turmeric even yam— pigments growing underneath the topography above breaks itself down into lines and angles everything composed of strokes— best where fewest
[4]
not a cycle with repetition and incremental variation though it could be change the base of a number system then wait and see some areas sprout less statuary and fewer flags a sudden freeze— everything changes does excessive use of conjunctions presuppose tragic reliance upon causality? Now a northern lake would be frozen stiff like Thoreau's sheets in winter fallen things again and again suggest radicals suggest ideograms in the soil at the foot of a short old stone wall they say are coins of great antiquity
[5]
cold constriction and blinding light let the frozen inkpot have the eloquence of a well-aimed projectile the milkweed has died and with it a certain dream the river birch's river-dream echoes the transistor's desire to be bound to the thin surface of a microchip the spiral is tightening imperceptibly colors blur against the sky where the edges dissolve— a different kind of thought OK it can't be done in language does a squirrel think while gnawing a pumpkin? It is not restructuring random frequencies random can be experienced as random Not everyone knows cold who knows cold as an Inuit? or a Southern Baptist on a train to Churchill? Try to walk in the park— weekend numbers pinned to chests chalk lines guiding rapid movement Radio speakers bleeding into my Schoenberg— should have taken allergy pill after all Then shifting wind then smell of wood smoke carpet of gingko leaves It's all just a catalog Ongoing
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Selections from “Neck”
[12]
Lone flower persisting in knife-blade air voice of a prophet mumbles through a gag Now chemical color courses through unseen arteries The chin of hell's hound has healed and the walls of his enclosure are low Fruit withers on darkened vines streets too are dark shadow selves shoot the lights out one by one Where there are fields gray acid soil Fold Pavlov's handkerchief and scan the sky— storm clouds not easily mistaken for mercy
[13]
Novices extract mineral deposits from rocks beneath the surface Words too heavy like stones— as if speakers and listeners were ancillary to their weight Abandoned vehicles and one kind of quiet these could be recurring phenomena Compact textures generate accidental symmetry The body's sudden epiphanies are slow to arrive Sight and sound altered sequentially A bent figure counts and catalogs words
[14]
Expecting different transmissions seeing instead with a slight blur cold smudges force the recognition of a withered vine Citizens wash dirt from the surfaces of coins Silver sentries use delicate tendrils— though they don't bind ankles they do contain listening devices What if fat white legs were stacked fuel for some new race Dream's inverted ziggurat stands empty— in forgotten corners what clues remain?
[15]
Fallen poplar leaves are desiccated rodents populating the ground Wooden slats rot and crumble Everywhere the same or similar props seek rearrangement Someone preaches through an amplifying cone or offers for sale more— more of something more of everything more of nothing Open the gates and shout ignore if you can that the moon is melting A piece of curled bark contains the marks that will generate a new alphabet Start with one letter then a sequence to disturb the reverie of second childhood
[16]
So this starts this is four parts or a start would be a single part say part one Could be music could be an object (segmented) There are six pigeons on a slanted roof four of them are grouped close together Perpendicular lines form quadrants Signs shift imperceptibly to the left— for some a method for some a technique contemplation of a common object Polished surfaces just conceal the dream of an ordinary human This is not a dream about vertical motion this is not the end of a part
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Selections from "One"
[6]
Uppercase letters interspersed with numbers and lowercase letters Phantom titles that strand in for nonexistent works Growing burden of conversation deadens in the end everything Chemical process corrodes a shape restructuring an aggregate surface Soundtrack existing independently of spooling visual imagery Holes bored precisely into materials will serve some purpose Bouncing back and forth between channels The punctuated sonic anagram is a sphere of black excrement Altered sounds in shifting zones of climate—strips of tape are swept from the editing room floor
[7]
Ethereal music inaugurates the exploration of unreal spaces No. This was planned a solitary woman arranged for strings Chance would be some revenant with an unpronounceable name A door painted the same color as a trash bin posits the equivalence … Equivalence of going in or going out and the futility of either First the smell of perfume in empty streets—sound of a laser beam powering down The disappearing of blue light after the smell of burning skin Hypersensitivity to cold fluency gray truants wait for nacreous globes
[8]
Time structures burn from underground vaults buried under temples Invisible space between color shift is peopled by electricity What if one shade of blue existed for one decade only? Recapture shapes that only appear identical—time has altered them in un-seeable ways Write quickly— take dictation form chromium lips With vacuum tube cantata wake to other places
[9]
Select instruments to begin; debate the relevance of titles harmonic distortion through excessive interpretation Pulse of information transmitted beneath antiquated technologies There is repetition of symmetrical ritual scattered parts or interlocking fragments build a new type of edifice Subatomic topography reinvent misunderstood sonic imagery newly forbidden words sung slightly out of tune
[10]
Recurring name is two birds then three drifting down into upper Egypt Genetic transcendence as the timeless mixtape spools on Wet yellow grass and a river drum tearing newsprint into strips rearrange facts into truth Decaying leaves and black soil alluvial silt—one part of an ongoing song fleeting images recaptured from dreams
[11]
Dropped image in dead grass a prime number of percussionists accompanies machine-generated birdsong Composition from prepared dictionary or words altered—augmented by the square roots of irrational sounds That would be one way North-Woman with wood and wine With a special apparatus we antiquate ourselves and in so doing become new What lies in wait behind the decorative parapet? reminder of rotting wood
[12]
Don costume and scrape late bows across strings sound's wet blur transforms delineation into suggestion The surface is scrubbed clean and rolls of outdated film will reveal a series of hints about what lies beneath the surface The prevarication of a set of numbers spoken emphatically is a strategy of one competing school of geometers they are easily disabled by unexpected angles
[13]
Dys-regulation is supplanted by self-replicating patterns— a kaleidoscope of clarinets or so to speak Someone or something changed a name altering our basic understanding or rendering it invalid Deracinated units of information are now free to combine promiscuously Slight loop then remap points and curved lines This territory is always new no maps of it are accurate A yellow study persists then passing obliquely through mental constructs— the brushing aside of a beaded curtain
[14]
Pattern of arrows contemplate shape and texture of letters rather than read sequences as words Denotation and signification dead placards and posters might generate new life What rough mystic carved topiaries in remote terrain? Hunger for knobs and toggle switches everything grows fuzzy during instants when the static pattern asserts itself A new title flashes on the screen moving away is arcing toward Discreetly rest at the center of a hidden palindrome mantra sound repeating
[15]
Propelled toward socially antiquated architecture manufactures the sense of purpose This in relative silence but the voices return that vibrato just concealing the ability to hold a pure note These are problem areas like abdominal fat or the inability to string together subject verb object What can't be strung together can always be strung up enjoy the pastoral beauty of a gantlet of guillotines The weeks-worth of news is now just decomposing cylinders on a brown lawn Even the sun in time goes silent
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walking, the Book
walking, the book, is coming out January, 2020.
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Eight Selections from "Neck"
[1]
Answer as kinetic structure presupposing then formulating the question Abstract structure and relative position as a form of meditation Late summer air's nostalgic feeling like a sound pulling me into myself Anger too penetrates the diaphragm like a bifurcated sycamore
[2]
Discrete piece of Information discarded bamboo disks tumbling in sequence Patience is one dog on the other side of the fence From a dilapidated shack another transmission or alien vines on a brick wall flowering with impossible beauty in colors that cannot exist
[3]
Dense fruit falls— still the citizens perfect their containers Through roots and systems slowly now into decomposing labyrinth Solution? Synthesis? Symbiosis? The man in the hat waits in the shade he overhears the secret transmission
[4]
Even before the music you start to think about this thing's limitations Formal patterns, speakers, and personas— just bags of refuse in the gutter Strange percussion and movement toward —the nature of time— In this light every vehicle looks like a hearse Mentally sitting cross-legged a cognitive posture of squatting nope, no good Things will unfold differently I think of desiccated seed pods I think of bag worms Hanging things Equally spaced wooden slats of a bench worn smooth Freshly painted surfaces too vibrate with menace The disparate details were the parts of a new kind of timepiece— broken or yet to be assembled
[5]
It's the low register suggestion of something subterranean then repeated with subtle variation A new species indulges in blanket renunciations A phantom scent— some kind of decay to the left Habit etches into the surface patterns of imposed distance The right hand is not empty At first surfaces appear exotic but even through the soles of these shoes uneven terrain transmits messages This is elongation rancid lanolin spells the final pastoral
[6]
Fading catalog with perhaps the rhythm of a heart beating: primrose wild thyme scraggly hibiscus Maps and transparent confinement layered traces in pervasive wet grass Timing on a different larger scale— the temptation of repetition forms a familiar shape— it is round but not quite flush with the surface Close to the roadway is confusion but there are details— tropical minutiae in other contexts
[7]
On the clean latticework of locomotion unsought intensity at the edges Unreality burns Small flowers persist no one notices the narrow trunk of the young sycamore at the periphery The foundation turns out to be hollow and everywhere the smell of humans gives pause The layer of macadam wears away in places the latticework is still there A wallpaper of dead vines will not conceal the mystery of the old cedar In places rebar shows through Poor vision traces dark shapes they might conjure birdcalls or the laughter of children Bodies in motion bodies at rest an in-between zone Firs and magnolias the painful return of circulation Nameless grove— site once of rituals Evidence like green paint The sudden return of an overgrown path
[8]
Perception of time will alter itself of necessity as the inflexible will be edited out of time's sequence Dirt and dust accumulate on surfaces of varying topography Fantastic shifts along the axis Fluid textures and the crumbling remains of some coliseum now a public toilet A soiled paper boat bespeaks the ritual offering— ants in ketchup remind us of where we stand with the gods There are different types of memory Some details may only be viewed through a prism A carved miniature left behind might be a reminder
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Selection from Variation
A prelude for solid objects before the tempo is cranked down low. Rapid movement past a miniature greenhouse. Expanded shorthand traces notes like faded graffiti. This frost a reminder that resists interpretation. The leaves of one oak are dried blood begging the question of the wound's antiquity. There is a strange symmetry that at first appears to be its opposite. After any silence sirens become unbearable. Somehow return to slow beginnings. Not even joined these points of connection. Close enough for electrical impulses to jump between them.
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2018 Adelaide Literary Award Poetry Finalist: Selection from walking
22.05
dark reflections calm amidst sharp angles numbers and names assigned to straight lines hidden in an optical fold is a blue conveyance a reminder of other directions a remainder of other orientations smell of gasoline floods this chipped-paint landscape two new poles have been erected— are these to do with some ritual some mystery? or are they part of the scaffolding of commerce? on the calligrapher's finger an ink smudge—any shape might suggest signification the paranoiac raves in a matrix of invented categories the filmstrip has been run too many times reality is now faded and scratched
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Selections from walking
13.06
a third coast opens up in the middle of dry land percussion of chthonic mallets mingles elemental forces the earth's dull monarchy gives way to an anarchy of brilliant light and water both contain charged particles whose energies pulse through bathers' bodies electric skin and shifting curves meld into a new landscape where all the senses are merged into one super faculty rows and columns collapse into a single cell the hammer blow of instantaneous knowledge falls
13.08
floating in the earth's diseased embryo the illusionary ground shifts but we walk the molars of false reality grind truth into a fine dust and the digestive juices of rationality transform beauty into clear odorless excrement
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Selections from walking
19.04
letters and numbers converge then dissolve into pure sound suddenly visible in the pavement a repeated pattern of circles late sounds come to us approaching dissonance beautifully eyes burn and water— the airborne miasma each cold breath a knife blade and here a crystal jar of cobalt ink lying at the edge of the pavement did it fall from the poor calligrapher's worn pocket? will he now trace letters in sand or on the surface of moving water? litter thickens and loud voices speak of commerce insistent percussion sends ripples through the sky fragments leavings detritus
19.05
vision of subsequent and antecedent layers is sometimes accounted madness hearing sounds that exist beyond the confines of time cannot be tolerated there is permanence and there is the mutability of the superficial the pavement is wet but the warmth of the sun will dry it colors are approaching their actual hues once again blue teachings crackle in the still air along the path lays a rusted flute pick it up
19.06
figures in a circle—animals remade by strange mutation first simple sounds tapping on heat-fused glass blowing through a corroded cylinder winding up a music box found amongst the carcasses a tape found in the ruins— play it forwards play it backwards perhaps a sequence will emerge the circle will start to spin and the monsters that comprise it will rotate in the opposite direction movement within movement colored fragments of parchment blow in the wind
19.07
strange mathematics in what appears to be a northern village structures are painted in bright primary colors the birds too have been painted—the crow's bitter caw is now a rich white sound in the landscape green's sweetness is leaving now paths are streaked with sour yellow and salty red somewhere a voice counts to five somewhere mallets strike metal wires this path south is downhill refuse increases along the descent seeking only addition someone is immune to the magic of subtraction plus's cross is just the intersection of two perpendicular minuses
19.08
the warm air is sour competing frequencies charge the ambient air fresh tree stumps dot the former landscape walking on bleached bones walking on shells walking on fragments lead paint chips frame broken windows corroded fan blades turn slowly security cameras' forlorn wires dangle no spells no sacraments no algorithms stocky humanoids scale crumbling ruins they feed on the flesh of the weaker ones
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13.24 from walking
what story is told in an unknown language? song of wide open spaces there would be bright sun and wide blue sky but somewhere a stone tunnel leading into darkness the underground flowers bloom in muted tones cool respite from the painful blue of an infinite sky
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13.25 from walking
would we hear with kepler the music of the spheres if the myriad voices in pointless yammering could be silenced? what is the color of each sound? and are these colors fixed or shifting? and even if the colors themselves are fixed the eyes are not rod to cone cone to rod blue intensifying and the discovery of a new red now what if these notes functioned on a cellular level within each body? to feel each sound to be each sound vibrating at identical frequencies attenuation dissipation recombination
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13.26 from walking
organic sounds come from the north what was called a diversion was the calling through submission to external forces comes power wisdom-lined faces from iceland from finland from norway aquavit-clear eyes portals to inner notes sounds heard only once but remembered always
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13.27 from walking
elongation and color saturation bodies move as if they were human music in the middle distance and dark spheres orbiting what might they portend? return ticket and dragonfly's faded body pressed together into the pavement vision of the earth— a scorched black ball
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Interview and a selection from walking
04.19
the city's supernatural ideal has been degraded now the denizens ply their bestial ways and savagery concentrates gross physical vectors criss- cross and enweb the city
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Selections from walking
02.25
the beggars from porlock will try to derail your thoughts ‘excuse me!’ they'll shout over and over again just when you thought you might be on to something they're looking for metaphysical spare change don't try to get back on track that train has gone— ferrying the dead-eyed hordes across rivers acheron cocytus lethe phlegethon styx back to their suburbs
02.26
the powers that sustain are the powers that destroy for the moment i hold them in perfect equipoise
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Selections from walking
02.23
the gates seem forbidding but stout souls will enter at first the music from within will sound dark if not discordant change your ears simplicity contains within it the root of all complexity abandon serial fantasies repetition doesn't exist there is a sound imperceptible to dull ears the crowds will laugh and jeer when you start to dance pity those who will never hear the music
02.24
nature is not a uniform shade of green and old walt never measured the handkerchief of the lord abide with me in contradiction i'll grow so vast all opposites will be contained within me nations and churches will cease to exist everything decays in time what rich black compost it all makes
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Selections from walking
02.21
memory is fragmentary there is nothing to be assembled or reassembled beware the cyclical fallacy as well as totality's siren song can a solitary particle admit of possession even while aggregates shift and morph relentlessly into brightly colored patterns? seductive ... but in the end— if there is such a thing— merely hypnotic or narcotic perhaps even arteriosclerotic
02.22
escape as a concept is pure distraction effective movement towards any cardinal point must be predicated upon some subtle interior transformation even from the standpoint of a supposed objective observer situated let's say in such a way as to observe without influencing the observation even such an observer could track no movement that wasn't insincere the language of exteriority and directionlessness will forever mark our circumambulations
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Selections from walking
02.19
sounds announcing royalty degenerate into sonic flatulence diminished expectations and a metaphysical toothache set the stage for what is to come men continue to blow their horns but the hibiscus is already withering ascend the mountain path the air is thin but so are the crowds neither the destination nor the pace is important just keep moving when the dirge sounds back in the distance just keep laughing
02.20
there is no passage not of time nor through space we cover what should be uncovered unearth what belongs beneath the surface dubious structures erected at night— neither scale them nor work your way painstakingly around them pass through them as if they are not there they are not
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Selections from walking
02.17
gradually the strings come together forming a tight web vertigo descends all is confusion structure will dry up the desiccated turnip of spatial order will wither completely flatulent geometers reel helplessly around some non-euclidean space clutching their distended bellies three primary colors will merge and from what once was thought sterile one slender shoot will emerge
02.18
eccentric symbols scrawled hurriedly— some slender alien evidence will be left behind there is a plotless story that need not be told follow the spiraling digressions resistance is expected and factored into the flow's nefarious pattern doing nothing at all is the radical gesture against which there is no defense
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Selections from walking
11.16
categories collapse in upon themselves strange instruments reshape the structure of space random interpretations of irregularity will hold meaning if one seeks it vague constructions are part of the additive art but who shaves away superfluous matter?
11.17
one night in spring jupiter appeared as three arced bands with a hollow center this was a circle broken in three places— each equidistant from the other observers cried out ‘what can this mean?’ and i heard a voice and the voice said ‘black water’ and the rains came what is tritium and what is deuterium? what is plutonium? traces of dense silvery terror can always be augmented by dark ingenuity the voices said ‘what white fire could nullify this water?’
11.18
dense lacunae forces press in from all sides compressing this void but intensifying the potency of its energies a walker may access these energies she may pass through the void absorbing energies and transforming them into pure color and shifting shapes particles and waves might pierce the opalescent skin of this infinite emptiness made small they too will be transformed nothing may pass through without being altered— a part of itself absorbed and purified by the emptiness
11.19
the sound of flux rejects fixed forms and dead ends words produce words whose patterns are ever shifting dull minds cannot fathom our mystic consubstantiality with the elements this is the sound of everything merging
11.20
textures disturbed by an elemental imbalance once again the ink runs could these letters be frozen into some semblance of meaning? slow motion smears and smudges mock by almost meaning droplets of liquid adhere to almost every surface and things have slowed almost to a halt scan the horizons for incremental movement for some sign of life
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Selections from walking
06.13
noncommittal cosmic gestures add up not in the sense of make sense they don't meaningless accumulation like all accumulation manufactured necessity deceives the shrug of equanimity says das ist mir egal a seductive voice repeats spazieren spazieren spazieren
06.14
painfully beautiful surfaces insistent sounds and tachycardia then release subtle expressions of deflated desire this is the metaphysical detumescence what grim realities reside beneath the gaudy surface?
06.15
air oppresses and elemental imbalances suggest the presence of a threshold passing through or across or over or beyond the cold prickle of intense heat prepares the body for strange rituals the room that's not a room holds pain pleasure madness in equal measure
06.16
unexpected lines of resistance open dead silence between vocal explosions inspires moderate dread path worn almost to nonexistence leads to a sign reading chamber number two the number two implies the existence of other chambers does the french chambre offer a place of rest? or six loaded chambers poised against time's temple? or the other roulette? red or black? odd or even? yes
06.17
unexpected lines of resistance open uncategorizable sounds and unrecognizable shapes foster labored breathing there must be one point on one line in one plane about which we can know one thing or one note in one sequence— could its true tone be heard by ears in this shadow realm? there must be a light somewhere and an object for us to reside within this shadow
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From walking
06.20
the spherical form requires no apparatus of walking said timaeus such a form is limited to circular movements with no deviation permitted this was thought to be perfection the walker embodies the imperfect there are no perfect shapes the surface of the sphere is rough and irregular when viewed up close only when kept at a great distance can this orb exist
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Adelaide 2017 Literary Award Top Finalist: From walking
09.08
ancient prohibitions are no longer spoken but their unspoken proscriptions remain in place ungoverned motion leaves tracks that form metaphysical arabesques if each step is associated with a musical note and a specific hue what then? music and movement are not predictable laws are not immutable they strangle a single moment in time and space the ancient city returns in flashes its lawgivers and men of science have perished
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2 Poems
wormwood
it was the hour for bitter pleasures weeping we drank deeply awaiting what must come next lamenting our usual lack of agency and then one of us i forget who asked the question dissimulation or transmigration? patrick hurley july 19, 2016
underneath the pavement . . . more pavementfollow the fat trail of garbage juice from the alley to the street fading gradually as rusted metallic slugs carry away from the city the toxic surfeit of capitalism patrick hurley May 2, 2016
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the poet is large
the poet is large and wears a look of easy prosperity he is expansive I don't think he can be a single poet an accretion or amalgamation his appetites are immense he is huge a daunting presence like one of those contemporary visual artists Schnabel or Weiwei are such men I wonder immune to chronic dyspepsia?
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Selections from walking
02.04
there is no port of entry what atlas charts these saturnine territories? ingress is a dangerous fiction radioactive particles are ubiquitous toxic energies fix our hopes but only choice computes
02.05
these voices are not french and this is no paradise try for a somber tone but mandatory laugh tracks will make mock uneasiness like incessant drumming on the hollow reeds of deconstruction experience shears off limbs at oblique angles there is something in the east but its name is unpronounceable
02.06
gross appetites do not always mislead learn each name only to forget it sounds strike from odd angles reminding the incredulous that life might be after all one long allergic reaction
02.07
dark coincidence under overcast skies metaphysics and meteorology will collide utter meaningless enjoys unspeakable density
02.08
malevolent gestures dissipate as reason lurches towards its final resting place the once nourishing loaves of conventional wisdom are ergot-laden slices of spasmodic madness voices raised in prayer spark now in the animal heart only terror
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Religion
The backlit bottles form an altar And they bathe you in their holy glow. I think about All those temples murdered by time Or just the victims of attrition With its clinical sound. Still I will never know what it was like To sit and stare into that mystical light Sounds of the B3 Air dense with smoke like incense Every sense raw and ready in the midst of Such stimulus I hear the names: Sazerac Ideal Lounge Club Lido Roxy Lounge Saddle Club Beacon Red Lion Panama Club Stevie's Latin Village Like an incantation Soft words muttered in the darkness To keep me safe from harm, Purblind in the early morning hours. Is it matins or lauds? Only the names remain Like ghosts And the spirit imperishable Though those churches may have fallen.
