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avr. 8e, 2014 | 03:21 pm

such a delicate fall
slipping sideways through layers of air
stealing through the surface of the sea
it's calm down here
maybe i will meet poseidon
or thetis
or charybdis.

i'll swim around until my breath gives out
cut off these wings before they drown me underwater
and rest easy in the deep sea trench

coral grow over my bones
full fathom five

i have embers in my sack
it's cinched tight against the pressing sea
they'll smoulder and turn to white ash
and when i surface i'll come to anoint your forehead
your armpits
the crook of your neck
all the sacred wounds

i'll swim, dancer
i'll make it through
floating just under the surface
huddling through the deep crushing depths
i'll swim to the land of the lotus eaters
sweet nectar of tangerine

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(pas de sujets)

mai. 1er, 2013 | 03:21 am

concrete gives of heat of bodies, echoing of air

then, cold

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(pas de sujets)

mai. 11e, 2012 | 02:38 am


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(pas de sujets)

fév. 20e, 2011 | 02:21 am

 you have to remember, he said, that the reason for writing can be something extremely simple; a radiator clicking in a just-emptied room

likewise, the reason for not writing can be something extremely vicious; my head filled with curing concrete

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nov. 28e, 2010 | 02:33 am

 oh father
won't you come along and
go with me
for heaven is mine

for heaven is mine
jesus is gone but he's coming back
is gone but he's coming back again
to take his children home
to take his

look away look away
look the long lonesome way
look away look the way
look the long
lonesome way
you can see the promised land

you can see the promised
look away look the way look
the long lonesome way
you can see the promised land

you can see

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(pas de sujets)

juin. 13e, 2010 | 10:36 am

time to run

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(you are made of metal; i am casting lines of gossamer and silk)

juin. 4e, 2010 | 02:16 am

I drew you out with wires, hooked
under supple grapefruit skin. dark
and thick, inches of crableg
Jesus bugs and dragon flies,
troweled layers thick as mica dust

that shard of deep-edged flint stuck
deep within the hollow of your
inner eye, it rubs against your nose, and
edged in rust and copper bleeds

and as the morning pressed against
the iron surface of the lake, to
bend aside the mica flies, you
twist and shook my skull: what is this
magnet at my chin?
I ask: yes.

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juin. 4e, 2010 | 01:58 am

I WOULD LIKE TO (______________) YOU.

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mar. 4e, 2010 | 10:34 pm

you've been wondering why i haven't been writing, it's because i've been reading.

slogging, actually. nothing like stumbling on a frankensteined abomination to make you want to pull up on the reins a little.

oh, submitters to armchair/shotgun, what *won't* you do.

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juil. 9e, 2009 | 01:52 am

so. i'm taking the next big leap. i'm winding up for it, casting about in all corners. like a piece of spring, or an oil-stained scrap of cloth. it's something that's been prowling around in the back alleys of myself, pawing at trinkets and hissing at the bright light, eyes shining like iridescent shocks.

the first big leap was: so, not follow all things to their conclusions: so let go the sharp atrocity of it all, in silver steel: so fuzz and blur the at the edges of categories and similitudes: so sing and burrow, and recess the sharp-honed blade that split the world in jagged two, and leaving cracks. so trust to the sleeping mind, to sort and nudge and intuit. so bring a god outside inside, a waking stand of shadow. so worship there, at the unspeakable, and so when called upon to speak of it, unable.

shadow and mist, and foolery. there is none within us which is not us, nor without. it came to me in metaphor: i have yet to reach maturity as an artist. i have not endowed brutal utility with thought. i must enjoin the nameless with the named.

so. i am assembling. the Way is dead; also the sage who rides the buffets of the Way, is dead. the ten thousand things are distinguishable, and distinguished, and distinguished, and distinguished. i will hold this infinity on the tip of my finger, and narrow down my eyes until it fills all things.

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white hot

juil. 1er, 2009 | 02:19 am

gripping the hammers, striking molten constellations

was thrilled and was thrilled

was pushed out by air the bellows

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doppler advice

juil. 1er, 2009 | 01:11 am

tttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttaaaake yooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuur tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime

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i'm getting

juin. 26e, 2009 | 12:43 am

this unmistakeable feeling that i have to run, head west, dig my feet into the dirt for a while. hop rails, hop trains, get into fistfights, light fires in the desert. survive.

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structure notes, novel notes:

juin. 26e, 2009 | 12:16 am

first the structureRéduire )

then, the start of fleshRéduire )

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some novel notes

juin. 4e, 2009 | 01:04 am


i said to himself...

a cluster of whisperings


uncomfort with names

as an addendumRéduire )

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well, well

mai. 8e, 2009 | 06:19 pm

well, well ,welll, well

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avr. 3e, 2009 | 12:35 am


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avr. 3e, 2009 | 12:26 am

i am throbbing

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avr. 3e, 2009 | 12:10 am

is full of is reserved, brimming is molten
love a great destroyer turning hitches
into presspoints, hurling bits of
hesitation over cliffs, and all caught
in three words, what vice is caught
around that etymology, what basal grunt
is captured that piece of earth, that insecurity,
that crushing leering force, lip curled,
that utters kill and love with equal force

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avr. 2e, 2009 | 11:36 pm

let's cut a path twelve miles wide composed of diamonds, tearing the grey crackling asphalt beneath our tires — let's light it all on fire, say fuck it to you, brooklyn, to you, square corners so sharp, let's pour kerosene over it and light a match, let's see how it burns. the secret to the bonfire gas is tightly kept, the primer, but the empty warehouse with trusses rusting catching yellowed dust and no voices, holding the stillness of a thousand days or hours, keeping

or dig twelve miles underground, burrowing in the deep red earth to succumb to the nature of digging, grit gets under your fingernails, the dirt feels rich and full of particles, your hand is separated from itself, filled with dirt, filled with bits of roots your fingers catch and move forward irregularly, steady, full of purpose, every part of you is concentrated on digging

or just breathe in the air and just to taste it and focus, realise the staleness of containment, running, testing the walls with iron fists making cracks, splinters, dust, shuddering faster than eyes can see the staleness of escape, suddenly encapsulated and understood and no longer full of vitality

the stars shine their own answers tonight, but even that is insufficient, irreconcilable, contained, for once you have captured the universe and you are bored with it, it is not enough, it is understood, all is vanity

but now dig twelve miles underground, burrow, claw at the grey matter encased in your skull (ganglion and subthalamic nucleus) dig it out with your fingernails, here everything is smooth and unrestricted, here your fingers cut like butter, here is comfort and resolve

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you know...

avr. 2e, 2009 | 11:36 pm

you know, some days, confidence is all
i have left.

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Armchair/Shotgun Needs Your Writing

mar. 31e, 2009 | 01:35 pm

Armchair/Shotgun is a new journal that publishes emerging and established artists. Twice per calendar year we publish a collection of engaging and provocative writing, unhampered by strict theme or literary attitude. We hope that the styles, forms, and genres of our pages will be eclectic, but of a common spirit: direct and earnest.

All submissions are due by April 30th, 2009!

Submit for Fall 2009!Réduire )

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I Sing Naked

mar. 27e, 2009 | 01:59 am

I sing naked, glistening,
fists upraised but wrists tied
behind my back; this chair
is a burden to me, this gravity
lifeless. My body glows, as
if rubbed with oil balm, tingling
in waves from my toes
slowly up my calves, across
knees and into my spine, from there
electricity moves into my brain
and shorts, tickles, scintillates.

Last grasping breath of immediacy,
ten years ago, ragged,
I don't close my eyes and
sink into the syrup sea
entertain them open, wide,
pricked with needles. You
are a spectre, composed of flesh,
and body radiant with electricity this
curve of your spine Saturn
round the sun eternal,
this upward lift under your breast
the hidden place of my impulse,
unseen and overlooked and my refuge
curved, I see the sparks of
electricity aching your
torso, you have forgotten
everything that
came before, even
this speech I am giving, this
posture full of form and fury,
you have forgotten your
east coast fervor, let it
discharge and melt slowly
into the asphalt

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but god-damn

mar. 27e, 2009 | 01:17 am

but god-damn why is everything SO GOOD.

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mar. 18e, 2009 | 05:14 am

the bus shuddered

between Red Lodge and Cooke city, an endless climb between two nowheres

cocked her head to the side, made her neck like a swan

shrugged away from the windshield

shattered into a hundred constellations

sharp like lemon-acid, reminded her of

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mar. 18e, 2009 | 05:12 am

dawn dawn dawn dawn

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la [poem]

mar. 18e, 2009 | 03:54 am

La la la la la la,
la la
la la la la la la la la
la la la la la
la la "la la
la la la"
la la, (la la la la
la la, la la) la la. La la
la la.

La la, la la
la la la. La la la,
la la. "La la,
LA la, LA LA, la
la." la la (la la la la la la
la la la la)

la la. la, la
la la
la, la la.

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hey KID

mar. 18e, 2009 | 01:56 am

hey KID, what the
FUCK do you think you're
doing, huh? jesus FUCK, what
is this shit? what, seriously? you
think this BULLshit is palATABLE?

jesus, you think it will last
THIRTY years, even? PRESUMptuous
FUCK, i wipe my ASS with this
shit, and you think this IS POETRY?

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mar. 18e, 2009 | 01:46 am

too dangerous to be playing

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i need

mar. 18e, 2009 | 01:21 am

to run out the door, get in an old red pickup
(pay for it in cash)
truck and break it down just
south of the carolina border, and
strike out for the hills, with a
camera and a handgun, half a
dozen apples

then, maybe just walk, towards
the west, following the setting
sun (it always pierces my side
more deeply than any thing,
this sense, this atmosphere)
until it dies, maybe just to the
ocean. then, maybe just swim
out, into the great warm mother
of a sea, grey and unforgiving,
just touching

this is getting harder
to ignore.

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bullshit town

mar. 18e, 2009 | 01:08 am

Full of daughters,
Full of rats, full
of posture.

Stacked of shadow, New
York, strung together
with skeletal wires, visible
in the mirror, she
powders her nose, over her
shoulder cocks her head,
"What's wrong, huh? What
exactly did you do all day today
anyway?" Did you
peer at skeletons, spectral,
composed of electricity, only
visible in the mirror?
Did you run screaming
from the bowery, manhattan
sprawled every which way
and staggering, struck with livid
intoxication, and stumbling,
silent throat throwing bile
onto the curb, studded with

Did you guard your fashions and your
stipulations, conditions, did you
guard them close, in secret,
did you hold them in close to your

And on the piers how well
did you pretend to see the true
thing, steeper than
the banks of the hudson?

Tell me, "Tell me, darling,
what is it? You haven't been
sleeping." Do you think that
it's a bullshit town, hung
on a bullshit frame, mobilised
by bullshit

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mar. 17e, 2009 | 02:18 am

splitting photographs with an axe, or a
finely-honed knife;
I've become cinematic, flush
with desire, anticipation, with

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mar. 9e, 2009 | 03:28 pm

it is cold in the center. it is sandwiched between glass plates. it is looking under a microscope. it is splattered with flour and baking grease. it is overheated. it is right behind you!

it is in bunches. it is curled up and curdled. it is inverting the colors in the rainbows. it is bound up tight with wire. it is listing slightly to starboard. it is shiny with oil and perspiration. it is lounging on the beach. it is ordering strawberry daiquiris. it is sipping through a brightly-colored straw.

it is shivering in the noonday heat. it is squinting at the solar eclipse. it is looking under the rocks. it is poking about in streambeds. it is catching pneumonia.

it is slowly travelling in flocks. it is wheeling in arcs across the landscape. it is driving at high speed across the desert. it is cutting corners. it is thickly caked in red-brown dust. it is outrunning the highway patrol.

it is quietly closing its eyes. it is holding the purple sky. it is pricked with stars. it is listening to the yellow foam thrown up on the beach. it is tripping lightly over driftwood. it is feeling grit between its toes. it is swimming out to sea. it is pointing to the sun.

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(pas de sujets)

mar. 9e, 2009 | 01:34 am

come gather round people
wherever you roam
and admit that the waters
around you have grown
and accept it that soon
you'll be drenched to the bone
if your time to you
is worth saving
then you better start swimming
or you'll sink like a stone
for the times they are a-changing

come mothers and fathers
throughout the land
and don't criticize
what you can't understand
your sons and your daughters
are beyond your command
your old road is
rapidly aging
please get out of the new one
if you can't lend your hand
for the times they are a-changing

the line it is drawn
the curse it is cast
the slow one now
will later be fast
as the present now
will later be past
the order is
rapidly fading
and the first one now
will later be last
for the times they are a-changing

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(pas de sujets)

mar. 6e, 2009 | 03:44 pm

well we know where we're going
but we don't know where we've been
and we know what we're knowing
but we can't say what we've seen
and we're not little children
and we know what we want
and the future is certain
give us time to work it out

we're on a road to nowhere
come on inside
taking that road to nowhere
we'll take that ride

i'm feeling okay this morning
and you know,
we're on the road to paradise

there's a city in my mind
come along and take that ride
and it's alright, it's alright
and it's very far away
but it's growing day by day
and it's alright, baby it's alright

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(pas de sujets)

mar. 3e, 2009 | 12:08 am

people are strange when you're a stranger
faces look ugly when you're alone
women seem wicked when you're unwanted
streets are uneven when you're down

when you're strange
faces come out of the rain
when you're strange
no one remembers your name
when you're strange
when you're strange
when you're strange

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now list: pop tropes & slogans

fév. 22e, 2009 | 01:32 am

on the path back to the old copper mine
head sweet pounding
air refusing to stand
hunting or sleeping, i can't decide
would you like some coffee?
the same room a ghost
to my former mirror self:
at what cost per acre?
it will snow tomorrow
the silence will be deafening
they will tear down for pony tricks
cleverness is a sick feeling
the fog before my eyes red
i am filled not with melancholy but rage;
the night falls sweet and thin
and i am wrapped in cunning.

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night falls fast and personally

fév. 20e, 2009 | 01:08 am

night falls fast and personally,
twitching shadow's edge
like a halting knife,
the creeping moon's rise
like a monolith, like
a metronome

and in the gathered bundles
gathered clusters of darkness,
lack of light, everything
exists just as it was—
plaster lacquer marble
bone sinew tendon
yet startled the
lack of illumination
gathers softly in clusters

night is like a splinter,
forces my left from my
right, my arm shakes,
and personally

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(pas de sujets)

fév. 16e, 2009 | 03:54 am



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bolder than eyes are

fév. 16e, 2009 | 03:32 am

bolder than eyes are
my lips and tongue, open
wider and more directly.
more struggle, they push onto this
barren silence. I vomit an
itch that hangs at once
frozen and lively, thrusting
and scratching into
your ear. you smile and
mishear me. I perhaps mishear
myself, made of plastic and
painted over with wax.

The force of inertia is
related proportionally to the
mass of an object, but
nobody knows quite
why this should be.

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glory, to be full in

fév. 8e, 2009 | 04:23 am

glory, to be full in
color and light, lift
up my eyes, and let my

that giddy sensation, gilded
sensation, as if flying, as if never
let to touch the earth, as if
memory were manifest, tangible,
run your fingers around it

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stay cling, hanging

fév. 8e, 2009 | 04:20 am

stay cling, hanging around my neck your
fingernails rasping leaving marks,

and sink, here, into such blue air as
(rarefied air, as)
and such as it is

her perfume, ancient, bitter, clings
and tugs but only
as the word, tugs, and not
as a thing that pulls

and large lurch sway, stagger, comfort,
screaming with hoarse throats

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fév. 8e, 2009 | 04:17 am

what what what what what what
 what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what
 what what what what what what what what what what what what
 what what what what what what
what what what what what what
what what what what what what
what what what what what what
what what what what what what
what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what
 what what what what what what what what what what what what
 what what what what what what what what what what what whatwhat what what what what what
 what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what
what what what what what what
 what what what what what what

what what what what what what
what what what what what what
what what what what what what
                   what what what what what what

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Would You...?

fév. 6e, 2009 | 12:13 am

Would you write for a literary magazine called Armchair / Shotgun?

Would you?Réduire )

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jan. 31e, 2009 | 12:30 am

tired and wore tired. all wore out now, and tired. no words, no. nothing doing, none.

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i have

jan. 26e, 2009 | 08:58 pm

good days
bad ones.

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to be titled

jan. 22e, 2009 | 12:03 am


Once the stars died she
didn't know what to
do with her hands so
she laid them gently on
the table

Times up, and then
he breathed in the yellow
coughing, it burned his throat,
and he sat on the rough
ragged bench, buttocks
squishing and sighing
to each other like


On the first night that
there were no stars she
went out and out with
them and marveled.
On the second night she
played scrabble with her
mother and drank chamomile
tea, her mother's hands delicate and
paper-thin, worn, golden
On the third night she
read alone in bed and
watched the soaps.


Wheezing, he squished
and spelched along, shifting
from one side to the
other, trying to settle his
two tempestuous buttocks
onto the rough wooden

On the fourth day she
walked out of her house and
down the narrow
lane to put down
a few bills and in exchange pick
up some eggs, milk,

Their eyes did not meet because
this is not a love story.

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full fathom five thy father lies;

jan. 12e, 2009 | 10:55 pm

of his bones are coral made
those are pearls that were his eyes

 welcome all 2009Réduire )

and circled, giddy, here, come
friend and sit, our hall is
wide and finely-built, many-columned. Let us
gather all together these things:
eggshells burnt with peppercorns, wine mulled
deep with mulberry and henna, silver platters heaped
with olives as dark
as the sea let us gather all together
these things and dig the
spade deep in the cold earth,
and lay to rest all
things that are past.

our hall is wide and finely-built and
circled, giddy, here come friend and sit,
and sing raise
high the roof-beam, carpenter,
and lay to rest all.

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crisis of faith

déc. 28e, 2008 | 01:38 am

"a painting succumbed to the
crisis of faith, the luminar-
ies stooped in starlight set in
desperation yielding sweetly
without words to whispering
tongues of morning gentle fire
licking orange manuscripts
unburnt curling yellow stained
spot of wished a sky born of

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let me paint you a confessional

déc. 28e, 2008 | 01:24 am

Yes I sank swimming in the wine-deep with legs like lacewings. Yes the syrup soothes and balms, yes three scratches left by rasping twigs (and the red spilled out within the water) and the spreading of the fire-snakes and tendrils, yes they did subdue. Yes in the winter with the fern-coils softly curled and cusped and yes, I swim in deep red embryonic.

And from this point of clarity I hibernate. Oh yes I long for younger days with their bars of iron clearly strongly with the air to pass between an iron gate the greatest gift of heaven (his eyes are sunken deep within their sockets and his skin is damp and sallow, his ricket leg shakes like a fencepost wrapped in razor wire) and a gate of glass the greatest gift of hell. This frame entwining eggs and seashells, sand and crablegs.

And I enduring sang myself to sleep among the locust-trees. The limits of my limbs are circumscribed by roots, my fingernails are shining.

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