This form does not yet contain any fields.

    modus me


    O am I

    O am O=Open


    I am O

    I am I=Closed


    In and Out: Isshh, Ooosshh

    Out and In: Ooosshh, Isshh


    O’m open: Ooosshh=Out

    I’m closed: Isshh=In

    Omnio One: O

    Impetus I: In

    Ooossh (In)

    Isshh (Out)


    Omnio O / I

    Impetus In /Out

    oleo ilium

    O I O


    Ibidem Id: It

    Waterous Whiz: Is

    aqua dramatica gynacocratica

    O mono *ment* able ichth


    Loop-O-I: am

    Gloop-I-Go: slow

    Isshh / Ooosshh

    squish / sqoosh

    fish ist pisst


    Intoto O: go

    Impeller I: hi

    hi-bye go I

    sea suck silly









    how i set my pallette:  

             breathe shallow and

    start with ivory black, little cocktail dress black:

    mingling black, electricity eating black.

    black with the cold perfume of action:

    of factories and painting and sex and evidence of being:

    (this is the best part, before the beginning

    no snake, no genesis, all blindbelly love )

             now put down burnt sienna

    brown of brown  and neighbor to deep umber,

    house of usher squeezed out poe poem rumber, Umber!

             next comes blue,

    blue next to brown, subtly cool

    not yet the way I paint but i could dig it, those

    two together, square and cubed as a scandinavian couch.

    the curl of ultramarine is cozy, with a payne’s grey slouch:

    for fog and shadows, the curved depth of the eye, the slick shine

    of things rubbed or wet, the extent of heaven

    but within it, deeper, darker, layered loneliness: grey of the TV set.

             high note next,

    a cobalt line of polyester blue: thirsty sky

    with a big brass wind that blows it crystalline and dry:

    no sweat and all observance

    a trust that I have not completed

    (read the light of maxfield parish: sky sewn on a bias,

    shimmered, heavy color. I won’t use it but i need it)

    it’s for orange mountains if I happen to go there, that way, west.

             viridian’s an awful thing,

    I cut and smash with opposites

    I hate its green and lying hue, false as

    the tug on my nipple you make for me, not you

    (you have never been as thirsty as my function)

    I want sap green like a child’s suck

    barkbleed grannypeel green

    goddam i gotta make that one, slice fuck smash

    (pigment on the glass)

             I much prefer alizarin.

    I lay a long thick vein down, the color of life and

    cities burning, riot riot the fierceness of quiet

    i start to come ears plugged and grimacing

    alizarin-ocent and done, I come to deep cadmium

    clear high red of a spike heeled shoe, tight color,

    color crying names, color riding names, red

    red    riding red

                      down yellow,

                                        gooseflesh winding yellow,

    fat tunnel tubing curving yellow,

    yolk-o’-sonoma yoko ono Sunoco          yellow

             big fat ochre next

    burnishing, body hugging ochre.

    ochre cradling cobalt shadowbabies

    deep in creaking basket cradles: ochre

    the color of wedding rings, nicotine and tambourines.

             crown this pallette

    with fat banana zinc, so white and psychiatric

    medicinally thick, applicable, mix mix mixable to pink

    pastels for days when hormones dim and thin the ruddy os:


    my woman’s soul, my rainbow dream is split,

    imprismed by newtonian legality as I try to mix these pigments,

    in light, all; in paint, less; I err into, out of, happiness.

    try to render my reality:




    "Life" from Page One



    The editors moan and mumble, diners impatient for their meal.

    In the composing room I pray to some plastic-dashboard-

    Bill-Gates-Jesus of paste-up artists that the fatal error be removed,

    the silicon sluice gate lifted so the news may flow again in

    a stream cut by my scissors’ bow.

    Superstitiously astute about the paper feed,

    I can hear the postscript sigh of a stillborn page

    from across the room. I nod knowingly, nurse-like,

    slamming tiny tan hatches open and shut over the hot black rollers,

    improvising forceps with plastic knives from the Chinese lunch.

    The mean in me desires other, more drastic measures:

    heroic medicine with a screwdriver,

    gross dissection that yields

    the A-ha! of visible, rotating, gear and cam power...


    but I hide my technological nostalgia like bitten nails

    in the lap of this clean and carpeted place as

    I sliver curly, waxy rinds of paper into the blue-lined night.

    The tilted, milk white moon of the light table

    throws black eyelash shadows up;

    twin sunrise symbols on my brow.

    Lit up from below I am a convex edition of myself--

    my face unlined, less serious, flashed with a startled, Bambi look--

    just as events themselves, reflected on the beaker of journalism,

    bend to form the civic camouflage.


    Editors cluster near at midnight, one a.m.--

    mash their fingers on the grey, grammared quilt

    and anxiously calculate how to squeeze a fifteen-inch

    “Town Meeting” jump from page one

    into a Clinton-sized hole on page nine;

    and Sports still waits for the outcome of an overtime game

    to drop a rowdy verb between the scores.

    My fingers urge the print to its horizontal truth:

    but sometimes I press down too hard with my thumbs,

    release too much muscular desire;

    like taking a spittled swipe at food dried on a child’s face,

    half punishing, well meaning...

    My x-acto nicks descenders

    lurking in the alleyway between paragraphs;

    at midnight I execute all unjustified gutter hangers.

    The purse of my bladder is drawn tight with a deadline

    and I can’t wait to hear the rumble of the press burst

    through our lullaby, hooting through pale green pipes

    out into the empty street,

    a night’s work done.


    Pi in the Eye




    I love things that look effortless

    oh I guess the whole world   loves

                                                                            a skater skimming the ice, omelettes

                                                                            flipped in mid-air, anything that describes

                                                                            an arc even the wrecking ball swinging

    and we all want to die in our sleep

    accomplish magnificence in one breath

    as if life were molten and  time a liquid anisette

    a cold and clear expansion, boundary-less

    Why not reverse the bell curve, excel at something--anything?

                                                                            this is a crescendo into negative space

                      `                                                     this is the air our arms flail as we ride

                                                                            screaming at Riverside,

                                                                            these are the statistics that

                                                                                                                oh if we live them

    lift flesh from our teeth and                                                       

                                                                                                                oh not to be average

                                                                            not to be linear

                                                                            not to stack the poems we write

                                                                            end to end, following the railroad

                                                                            and the history of big numbers

    baby we’re down to seconds, here

    re-booting, g-spotting, menstrual extraction, mega-hurtz

                                                                            gravity and the arc

    oh yeah, neat slingshot let’s talk cable and a pendulum

    whale boned agendas, mugg-able husbands,       un-huggable geometry

                                        uhmmm, catch ya off that trapeze                                            

    I will not graze my knuckles with chronicles,

    scrape the stars off with a curette

    oh colonial, archival, no, no, lug me not:

                                        I’ve got an unlit ball park in my mind

    where I explain


                                                                                                                in motion.


    I depend on time twisted by confidence and dreams

    I believe in negative space, divisions of zero, appointments with rockets

                                                                            shit yeah, we move in a curve

                                                                            and I need to swing to hit.

    Swing with predestination.

    Loop time in it: believe it, fuck with it:

    join a soft ball team ‘cause

    I never jiggle in my dreams.

    I am running: hard and compact,

    prepubescent, a smooth and hairless seed

    carrying nestled spheres within: twelve years old again

    and barely moral:

    my uterus a tiny stone pear

    slung in the pelvis,  bone slingshot

                                                                                              running, running:

    straining the world in the shear mesh of my lungs,

    tearing the carpet up in my throat

    calling out  great chiming planets

    rich thick words of blood

    the red platelet noise of birth                

                                                                            dust describes a circle on a diamond

                                                                            there is no square race, no four wheel

                                                                            steering for the parking place, no time lines

                                                                            on my face

    come on come one, we’re always on the curve of an arcminute,

    judging the incalculable.






















    Railyard man

    moonman chugs back a dream to

    the distant clatter of machines.

     wet air carries the soot ringed, sour bite of steel

    shrieking into our sleep like coke on chrome

    and salt and vinegar chips

    coming in a jangle of pipes and bare branches

    and sudden barks behind fences

    something maddened, helpless

    the slick street in the cold rain

    the man with his morning beer (snap-whoosh)

    his Roquefort face ale-eyed and dangerous

    as he pounds them down.

    Freight cars bump on the overpass, box after box,

    common as stones on the window sill and the midnight worker

    sits on the damp porch

    In among the heavy raindrops of November

    plays a grey, grey tune:

    bright biting steel: train wheels.