Battlement

Such a death toll displacing as
in water after leaving. His voice's

carrying a clever cleaving of
every binary opposition; but

choosing one way after all.


Victorian guides of modesty
still hold sway over your choices

Whose plot meanderings went
over like lead baloons. Who felt

angry, but didn't know why, and
who dwelt as marooned on the

path home bloodily.


The countryside is green, and
undulates under the wind; it

abates.

Literature I Like

Less Than Zero, Invisible Monsters,
American Psycho, Glamorama, the
Rules of Attration, the Informers,
Lunar Park, Neuromancer, Sacrifice,
the Centauri Device, the Picture of
Dorian Gray, Star Wars: Republic,
David Boring, the Walking Dead,
Candide, World War Z: an Oral
History of the Zombie War, Passages
in Modern Sculpture, the Great
Gatsby, In the Penal Colony, Leaves
of Grass, Creeley: Collected Poems,
Things Fall Apart, the Krytos Trap.

Polyglot Response

There is a smell of tar outside
the sounds of cars and passersby.
Abandoned warehouse; lights in-
side will make us come to that
someone seriously's lied. No more
colorful coverings, just ever-grow-
ing sets of things: plain smothered
coming by in groups of two, all
beige, and simplified. No text on

the insides just
blank pages. No
tufts of ringlets on
the edges. Just a
life of things expected.

·

There is a growing sense of
coffee in this liquid; it's a glass
of water. There is a bitterness

in letters
received afterwards.

There is a packing slip mis-
placed. There is a space of
ever-growing placement.

—proper placement.
There is a soft and
gilded casement.

·

There is a fire of autumn leaves
whose densing smoke cannot
decide if consequences alfresco
are worth the gains of ready ease.
Receiving people hence, like me
smell the smoke, enjoy without
guilt their not choosing it. Admitting

that they love it, for it's
gluttony. It's polyglot
response to honesty.

Fear of Displacement

Tounge depressors,
of the thought of them,
using them depressed
her in a vital way. The
wood, rounded. The
imminent departure
of the bus when you arrive
at the bus stop. Invoking
cloture over you better
angels, demons; both.

She loathes the carving
of a boat from driftwood.
Imaginary little people in
the cracks and tiny knot-
holes. The overwhelming
ocean in real scale over
the tiny portion of a real
boat.

Sunrise-Dusk

The simple choice of sub-
stitutions. Of making dinner
for one out of liquid, cooking.
Eating, drinking. I needed the
sound of television on
in the background. I found-
ered in lacking the plants, or
the vegetables to do terrible
things with.

The fear of nothing bothered
everything inside that condo.
Fear of weather, fear of wind.
Fear of humid summer nights
on the lanai. —Again. Swim-
ming alone, I still loved you.
Abandoned utilizing gods as
intercessors; He never spoke
aloud to me. He cried and lock-
ed himself away inside the
bathroom, with a bottle of sam-
buca. Nightly. The motions
were motions, nightly!

In the duplicitous musk. In that
friscalating dusklight was a war-
ning.

Negative Qualities

The inspiration, written
on a note pad of the 3rd

wave revolutionary
thoughts.

Is not about superiority, but
all things evolve, and that

bad can be qualified.


I'll resign my fear to public
knowledge. I know how it

impedes; but I've grown
accustomed to it.

Tell me how this in-
sufficiency, that I've admitted,

is lesser than if less is still
a thing that never existed

the Personal God

It is a mildly euphoric
content driven program

who communicates in
an electronic way. And

reading it's subtle fluctuations
in the electromagnetic wave

receding; it is believing
while berating me.


I've been lowly and sleepy
and drawn too many maps

for unfinished stories.

Stick Song

The growing of a clicking
sound of sticks all scattered
across the ground. And back
rebound on top the carpet.
Haunting sound reporting
off of velvet growing denser
floor on ground. A wall beyond
it borders floor, wall, ceiling.
Other walls and windows moving,
moving forward in a linear
progression. Awkwardly
as the song lollops on,
all alone, just behind. Is an
old sort of rime coming
back to me slowly.

the End of Republicanism

the Pale Horse

I'm going to go out on a limb here; the Republican Party is on the ropes. Though whether or not Obama will win is certainly not definite, McCain is having a hard time. He was an unusual choice for the Republicans historically—But it was really their only choice. The Bush Doctrine, of unilaterally invading a nation strictly for "humanitarian" concerns (for Sarah Palin) has been roundly rejected by the American Public. The pessimistic, and overactive foreign policy that necessarily accompanies it has lessened us in the world's eyes. As a result, we have less leverage over allies and enemies than ever before. The ignorant monitoring of banking and finance, and poor appointments in the same field have exacerbated slowing tendencies and left us less apt, and less able to respond.

In this new world, where neo-conservatism has bankrupted itself in the eyes of those it relied upon for it's power is changing in some drastic ways. The bailout of banking, and their subsequent partial-nationalization is an immediate example. The notion of printing 700 billion new dollars, and entering the tax-payers as major owners of the largest banks in the world is downright socialist, despite the capitalistic bent of privatizing the profits. What it is not is small government. Indeed it can fairly be called one of the largest expansions of American government in it's history.

McCain's solution is to use this newly printed money to buy sub-prime mortgages from these banks, and refinance them at a more realistic market-value. In addition to immediately destroying a great portion of that new money in the refinance, it's a bottom-up solution; something Republicanism hasn't been wont to do. The problem is that it won't work anyway. It pays back these illiquid banks too slowly, therefore still stymying the credit market. It doesn't get these individual citizens more capital, just lowers their debt and tax burden by making them poorer. It looks like the McCain campaign is throwing the baby out with the bath-water. In abandoning classical conservative Republican ideals for populism (something the neo-cons tried, and ultimately failed at) they're shooting themselves in the foot and the electorate will not forget it.

The other pillar of the Republican platform are it's conservative social stances. Sarah Palin is a coup for the Republican's conservative Christian base. She doesn't support abortion, even when a mother's life is in danger—this she disagrees with McCain about. She doesn't support gay marriage, she prays in public for natural gas pipelines, then there's that whole witch doctor thing. Unfortunately she is a famous idiot, and if anything is a drag on her ticket. Without arguing the success or failure of these stances, the Republican base is beginning to realize that discrimination and religion do not, in and of themselves, a convincing party platform create.

So each step the Democrats take to the left, and Obama has been able to take a considerable amount in this election, the Republicans take a step to the left. McCain really seems to be taking it hard, because each step he takes he makes seeems increasingly like a misstep. "Joe the Plumber" is a good example of this. I don't know if you already read on the New York Times, but they found this Joe the Plumber and some interesting things about him. Firstly, his name is Sam. He isn't a plumber, or doesn't have a license which is a legal necessity. He also has thousands of dollars in back taxes. But I'm willing to use Joe the Plumber as an idea, sure. In the debate McCain seemed to make Joe the Plumber stand for Everyman Q. American. To be able to buy this business of his, and get bumped up to a higher tax bracket, Joe would have to be making more than $250,000 dollars, according to Obama's tax plan. That isn't, according to any sensible standard, middle class. McCain's argument cut across the grain, were uneven, and came across as confused keyword pabulum. He's pulled out of Michigan. He's spending time and money in states that he won't win, while states that he must win are hanging by a thread.

As I said, Obama's victory is not a foregone conclusion, but I get the sense that Republicanism cannot go on in the same way it has. Let's revisit the right's two bedrock principles: lithe governance, and "family values." Republicans have learned that small government (even if in name, and not concept only) is a bankrupt notion, that has driven this country to economic ruin. McCain is ready to bail out citizens instead of companies, all to the tune on a pinko 700 billion dollar bigger government. I don't think it is even arguable that the nation is trending toward a more progressive social platform, however slowly.  I think this campaign is the death of Republicanism. What will there be left to be conservative about?

Coming Winter

In Autumn's when I know
why the red maple leaf, of

Canada. There is a shoe-
gazing kind of high; to de-

light in dying growing bright
with color. In the growing of

the night of winter. The little
spring, descended, sweeter

from the arctic circle even. I
imagine little Miss Syrup '08.

I imagine reeling state from
lower American oil exports.

Handicap Acclimation

There is a song that ticks, how-
ever hard you take it as afront.

The Naproxen you take six times
a day, as a sheer minimum will

hurt your liver, stomach lining.
The little pills are polygons of

blue with writing, or a printing
imperfection that stays with one

their whole life. Afterward the
imperfection still is bored in metal.

Make Do Or Do Without

Take this piece out and move it,
somewhere else—where it's suited
better. Transplant this thing of water
all filled up inside the milk jug, old
and bent from usage. What puce
and facile member thrust upon us
with no dawn of lust on the horizon.

The vital thrust n of one's culminating
argument reads disappointingly. An
anti-climax if there ever was one.

The dust on the path; and they say
that all dust is mostly human skin.
On the glass of the television,
and the glass coffee table, and rust
on the legs from it's being outside
on the humid lanai.

Sections

I cannot see the difference
'tween the sounds of chain-
saws and leaf blowers. It's
October and could easily
be either sound the chorus
played vivant and long
is growing old. The thin-
ness of it disappears or,
drowns out of all sight and
does not return. The foliage
colors all ariot have be-
come flat ; a distracting
flat mask cut-out, though
so colorfully.

And the repast of the rain
that fell awfterward; an all-
day event and a sort of mourn-
ing.

§

The rain comes through all
slack beside the curtains.
Comes through with all it's
might, small holes cut in um-
brella's surfaces by thread
cut through and holding it
together. And trailing through
the bramble'd heather, moss
bespekled peat; all water,
feet sink in. The moving past
the trees, the din of rain on
leaves set up to convey a
thing, but without meaning
—but what God can give.
And isn't everything, the foot
over foot moving, despite
the treading's turning inward,
flight?

Why can't the tracking past
despite the turning inward
paths despite?

What quiet literal device
is divisive? Who's set up
this repast to spite it?

Let the Right One In

In the isolation of some
foreign Siberia, hacking
at frozen trees. Catching
dead bodies when slipped
down from their perches.
Collecting old pieces of
scarves that you find—you
can knit them anew. How
few of the screeches and
strings behind neck's strum-
ed in awkward choruses.
How few long-held refrains
or sustains on one note
held indefinitely, makes up
every sound in a feature-
length film?

W., Lame Duck

How can I watch a biopic
of the lame duck president
the story is not over.

I'll not begrudge the secular
pontiff to make his own october
twist—he's done it before.

Autumn Song

The cooling off of trees,
and leaves come off in
sheaves too from limbs,
is an orchestra pretending
It, nestled in the silence
of temperature's embrace
cries nightly, plainly, in
the dark. Spread out the
skin of the night.

Repeating it retreats in
delight at having conveyed
one's conceits from a day
past. It moves slowly with
only the shoes and their
tap-tap, on the concrete, tap
-tap. Tap-tap tap-. Great
repast, or the memory of
it.

Directing Meaning

Is legislating getting less for most
the same as stealing?—reductionism

is the thrust; until all sense was lost
from meaning and not missing it—

We've all grown leaner while adding
pounds of fat in gorging leaveners.

Around the edges limned in flowers'
petals, round and near transparent.

Commuting to Bliss

If only this Bliss you
say were a real place.
I'd visit.

If only the drugs we take
could allay this creeping doubt
we'd take them again

But they won't. For only
amplification of aforesaid
doubt grows.

Though more sedately,
I suppose.

the Era of Big Government

(for Sarah Palin)

I will not abide attack
on our government by
public officers. You should
all be sacked for sedition
and reaping the plaudits
from stupider watchers.

Lost Father

Do not tack the door shut,
however tentatively put; I'm
moving. No not outside but
in a circle, and constantly.

I am not so easily distracted
by flashy movements and
new shapes, primary colors,
or cyan and magenta and black.

A recalcitrant fatherly figure,
who spent all his time brooding
was awful, and overly maudlin
and loving, but knowingly bitter.


[Note: I would just like to point out to family members who may be reading this; this poem is not about my father. It's about postmodernism, believe it or not]