Saturday, May 26, 2012

poem: lidhje gjaku

shell casings in
the bubble,
demographic pylons -
is it any wonder -
nashville cheesy grits all
on they gold-toothed display -
the lone Stetson -
belly girls dance
they belly ways down
the belly aisles,
come hither /
organic the inorganic
knot in the
basal climes,
your nougaty despair
gives way to totem
animals, sampling the crackling
curls waiting at the 5
& Dime, solicitous affairs
of the stony hearts,
stony fields strewn
with delicious rubble
consanguinity abides in
moocows of the delectably
elegant: prop your
ways, prop your
days: let the perils linger, flash-bellied
thistle peril worth
waiting for, in your
teensy-weensy limestone
cottage of the

Friday, May 25, 2012

poem: then your angel comes

thinnest rations thin to
finest gossamer
ghost shadows of missing
scree fools, the ambiguity
falls on deaf ears,
the timbrels measure
the loss of density
the dance of fire in
the nostrils, the passion that
weighs heavily, sampling
fates, delegating
the weary taxes,
the many ways
I made another &
another & far too many
to mention. I whisper, Yemaya
sounds the alarms, Mary
takes one step farther,
the serpent down my spine
shudders at her touch:
there is a willingness to convey
a willingness to pray, mercies untold
at the fingertips, the web of
inner worry worries
the worry alleys & I 
am home, I am wakened
in the rising flood
of blue mercy,
inside out, the "rigid" search
points down the Sabinal
corridors, blue country
filigree, thread not,
want not, it was a nod
to the sad pages,
the rising towers of Santa Elena
a fading dream,
a song of return
wolf mothers
gated striations of the
orphan moon &
once more I gather my spoon
my thinnest thinnings
my gossamer friend
my gossamer addictions
my friendless womb
time in a dance
with fervent glory
time in a dance
with all you can muster
time in a dance
with your ageless story.

Friday, May 18, 2012

poem: winnowing

overstuff them yammy
taters, boy:
you runnin' on thin
gruel, thin rations;
the feast is cheap
nothing less than all:
heart, bones, marrow
(marrow bone)
heaven worn
heaven bone
a miscalculated heart
the dyscalculia of pain &
inventory, inventories
lost to the thin waves
anatomical displays
of the soul's dis-
she carries home
the bait, and leaves
you wondering
you wander down
that long road
gathering up your
thinnest spaces
the feast may roll - you're
nearer - the feast may
call you home - near . . . er -
spawnburgers on the home
stretch - near . . . er . . . -
isometrics of the western slopes, the fine thin
brigade of your
wayfare, played cross-
ways, cross-
roads, cross-
ing to the other side
the ladies of sorrow,
the ladies of the canyons,
the ladies of pain,
the ladies of less than never,
the ladies of grace,
the ladies of the finest

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Cesar Flebótomo's Dream Job

The Theory of Non-Dairy Creamer

The eighth day. Yes, the eighth day. God had his vaunted day off, bored out of his skull, a serious dose of divine caffeinated withdrawal, temples knock-knock-knocking on heaven’s door, the lapsang souchong pounding the beat, Sonny and Cher enneagrams blissfully arrayed on the mantel, cobbling fate, cracklins in the vestibules, acolytes dosey doe-ing in the barrel races . . . His Divine Hisness took one look at them boys in white and thought Why not? and Whither? and Wherefore? and before you could say Guadalupanita that was one, two, three little aco-piggies—Arturo, Banda, and Calabrese—plunk! down in the celestial bowlful, those shifty cottas (traditional square yoke, natch) whirling dandy dan in the missional mayhem, cohorts ablaze, couscous congealed, candied yams commingling, carioca in the plim plam plum of danse tropicale salsa portoricaine, chacha, kizomba, samba, danse africaine, merengue, and bachata. Them poor boys was just wantin’a helpin’ hand, lift they papalated lil limbs on out the sugary whirlpools, cosmos fatale, and the Wichita Lineman and all the rest of the Hasidic liturgy, complete with non-dairy cannonade, expiration dates, and the 1974 Derby winner himself.

“Getting ahead of yourself, ain’t ya?” The Utter Hisness complined straight from the 1928 Prayer Bib, loose fingers wiping that North Carolina Tarheel old rickety shack cayenne pepper throb, caramel tease, octogenarian open sesame, if this be the way to San Jose there are better ways to annotate the Hausa-Fulani of Guinea-Bissau, the Big Bib always calls down the gypsum NASDAQ, calculating, fulminating, escalating, salivating as only Mr. Big Bib can.
The Non-Dairy portion of the Mass, of course, is still the subject of considerable debate—not to mention squalor. Unintentional squalor, of course, ham hock sensibilities notwithstanding. Go figure: non-dairy is already an intimation of immortality: creamer simply baffles all, baffling as only a 1972 Trinidad waterbed can baffle, sheer terror in the shadow of the Dunster House clock tower, ghosts of Tommie Lee and you can call me Al, well, the derivative portion of the program failed to list all the communicants, failed—ignobly, I might had—to make a dent in any thing even faintly resembling Sara Lee and all her sugarsweet minions.

Let’s dispense with the digressive balance and cut to the chase . . .

The Laws of the Theory of Non-Dairy Creamer:

1. Cesar Flebótomo is to N-DC as Eric Clapton is to the unplugged version of “Layla.”
2. Amplitude rests upon the gospel of N-DC, not the reverse.
3. East of N-DC is not, contrary to popular delusion, west of the moon.
4. Nor is Diana Krall.
5. (Nor is her hubby, of course.)
6. The Dow Jones Average of N-DC wears its pants—and its heart—on its sleeves.
7. Nebula lost her way in the N-DC constellation; she ain’t been heard from since.
8. If there is an 8th Law of the Theory of Non-Dairy Creamer, I ain’t been told.
9. Shoot to win, not to play.
10. Do not judge a theory by its cover. Nothing surreal about the Theory of Non-Dairy Creamer in the least. Just ask Breton.

And all the gammy gals goes swingin’—

Friday, May 11, 2012

sans culottes


Dog and Cat. Coffee and Tea. Great Gatsby and Catcher in the Rye. Everyone knows there are two types of people in the world. What are they?—

The plaid and the beleaguered. Rotarians, mind your plaid, mind your fairways, mind your S&H stamped portholes. We knew ye when: when plaid was not yet a physical manifestation of your wafflemind, but your bottles were full of plaid milk (never a plaid breast against that nuzzling cheek), plaid was your Gerber-fave, plaid the Melba, plaid those purple Rotarian dinosaurs, plaid your Duplo megamind, plaid your rulers, your Elmer’s, your bean and cheese tacos, your Chef Boyardee, your cinnamon toast, your Underwood’s deviled ham, your spam and jamalot, your High Rotarian pizza rolls, your chicken fried chicken fingers, your Notarian underpants. The Captain calls you by your middle name, the High Priest coos in your wet behind the ears, drools just a tad down the front of your Big Bib’s Bar-B-Q big bib, and the Svengali of your plaid dreams has plans for you and Susan Boyle that would make even Casey Kasem blush and swoon.

Such are your plaid American dreams.

The plaid Rotarian lit out for the plaid Nebraskan territories in the plaid days of the plaid supermoon, plaid Four Freshman in his plaid Walkman, plaid fields of plaid wheat swaying in the plaid breeze. For one nanosecond of his Itchycoo adolescence, in Fort Campbell, Kentucky, stealthstalking the swarthy Hughen coo-baby twins down the hall of Hopkinsville High, he strayed from his plaid Optimist Oratorical Contest doom into the waystations of the beleaguered, the infernal victims of his endless and sycophantic pabulum (no Cthulhu on that flagpole), the nodding-off to his clanging oratory, straying for that mighty nanosecond into an almost nether, Excalibur’d finesse almost at his fingertips, neon-flavored filter tips at his disposal, he was for that moment almost a multitude unto himself, a Whitman Sampler of fireballs, nursemaid to the blimey boys, wee Camden aristocrat picnicking with his Widow Hudson, nursing fantasies of her as his empyreal Dorian, call it the park, call it the trampoline, call it the coffee-colored kisses, call it the last train, the don’t know what /  it’s all about . . . whatever it was, it came this close to the final abduction and not invite Christian . . .

Dark shadows all about. Plaid recedes, satori advances. If not satori, then at the very least, B-side Steely Dan, pre-Aja, without all that post-Aja, Wayne Shorter faux-fusion crap. Gravely Phil Donahue Ronald McDonald: OUT. Beleaguered, folks. Post-SD is just another excuse for plaid with chocolate nibs. Ronald McDonald is to SD as Lindsey Buckingham is to Fleetwood Mac, as pretty boy is to real, only in Ronald’s case, it ain’t pretty, it’s just boy.

Cancel the night, cancel las palapas, cancel the night train to Georgia, the godspell of Kerouac’s tombstone in the Lowell rain, what a pitiful sight, Campbell’s pork and bean can in a blue flame, blue flame down the Bastrop Highway, blue flame and six-pack of ice cold ice cold “Slitz” (ice . . . cold) on summery sunny pine-baked—no—pine-scathed holocaust of a Centex dog day afternoon, scathing interrogation of the minions, the high school hall of famers’ danse macabre as they jettison all hopes and dreams, facile beliefs, and the entire ouvre of the Rotarian slipstream, to take on the dark night of the soul, the dark night of the senses, the Jim Beam Oaxacan song and dance (dark, or at the very least, dark amber), as the plaid pixilates into oblivion and the beleaguered rises, Borg-like, queen’s head settling nicely about the shoulders.

Sentient leather.
Smell of the beast.
Five & dime.
You do the math.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

The Story of Don

The Story of Don

“Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there.”—Miles Davis

Here’s what’s not there:

The rest of your umbrage, jettisoned in a peak fury, fueled by legustrum worry, the last time you saw her was on a street that bore your name though none of your resemblance. She’d abandoned you in a crescent dream, that dream that rounded your last corner, your last ration, your last nerve. Siggy granted you amnesty from your war crimes, your lassitude, your ambiguity, your adolescent fervor as an undisciplined disciple of the Disciples of Christos. Christos Gallivosi, folks, so don’t get your inflated carping hackles up.

Christos Gallivosi was your road, tolled your road, hacked into your road with a pickaxe vengeance that bore no resemblance to any bane you’d previously endured. She called to you in your dark nights, completely off-road, sardonic calculus distilled through a past life’s worth of diligent asphyxiation. Tij is finished cooking the chickens, his fez firmly in place, hair coiffed in a fine variegated display, Ahmad Jamal banging on his keys in the background. The Blue Village was calling that night, a blue night of blue notes, blue coffee in your mug as the night blued into indigo and on down to the pot of gold at the end of the whole bivvy rainbow.

Ahmad. Still craving, after all these years, still an infinite flame, still beguiled by the bippy gods vaulting in his vaunted mind, diamond swordmind, flamestruck musemilk. His fingers are the keys at his disposal, his eyes the nightmind at his beck and call—beckoning, beguiling, bedeviled, befriended, beclouded, bedecked, besmirched. I cry into all my nights, until the cooing starts, the diamond coos, the virgin coos, the last of the damsel coos in her darkest darkest tower.

Galliovosi Moses’d himself out of a job, his Red Sea gig a fading memory: he stood on his own little dunghill, this side of the milk and honey lands all the fools fa-la-la’d into, poor boy on this side salivating and calling down hell fury for what in his heart of hearts he knew was a clammy attempt at bathysphering him out of what was rightfully his, a note of regret buried somewhere under all that smoldering wrath—I mean, really, can you fault the lad?—call him simply a mourning lad, a grieving lad, an inconsolable, brokenhearted, sad lad. And that was just Gallivosi. God forbid, we go back and claim Miles or Ahmad or Tij or, most especially, that lissome unnamed She.

We tried to name her, desperately tried. Called up the Holy Roller Rolodex, checked the K’s and Q’s especially, hoping beyond hope for a sobriquet worthy of her attention, worthy of those Mother of God qualities, that backstage sensibility that wore out the brighter lights among us and silenced the rhythms of all the rest. “She were what it is,” was T-Bone’s answer at the census office; he’d worn himself out on ginger beer and back-to-back viewings of “There Will Be Blood,” the first time in a transported two days in Junior English, a propos of nothing but an art far surpassing the on printed page leftover oatmeal of Steinbeck and the lunatic fisherman lost at sea. Heartbreak skedaddled through that comely oasis and celebrated twice over.

We were on the hill—the mountain, if you will. Nebo, shining peak of victory and shame, all rolled into one.

“Son, that ain’t for you,” said Bib Yahweh.

“I can see that, Bib,” said Big Mo. “You wanna insult me one more time with the whys and wherefores?”

“It’s on account of you—”

“I got the point, Bib.”
“You just said—”

“I know what I said, Bib. Ole Bloom was right. You ain’t got shit for irony, Bib.”

“Hell you say? Why, you little—”

“Don’t go all Stooges on me, Bib. You got an image to uphold.”

“Come here, porcupine.”


She stopped just short of the corner bakery, shouted out a few of the names in her sleep, names that rang through the streets like nighttime delirium. She cod-fished three or four of her new identities, fingers splayed and nibbling, jacked half a dozen of her credit cards into the foggy bloom of day, complete with Ganges ablutions, half a cantaloupe, and a bucket and a half of recidivist lemonade.

You can’t get her out of your mind, can you?

You want to claim immunity. You want to run down to the corner store and beg for asylum, but the denizens of this burgh know nothing of political causes and sno-cone flavors: they’re all about the 28-day lunar cycle of oblivion.

She can’t return.

She voided the sequence.

She ceded the rest.

He fell not once, not twice, but three times: she blended all the flavors of his mind, ate all the muffins fouled in his brain stem, asked the gooey gods for deliverance and shimmied on out—

Wednesday, May 09, 2012

The Memoirs of Minnie Khlaetsch
Resolutely NOT to observe, not to wonder, not to test, and assuredly NOT to analyze and conclude. Where’s the gleam in that? X meanders as X will, never a nod to the infantile, never a shoe for the elfin sock, never a sore loser to the claim that fame was your errant child lost in the fig newtons of the apple-eyed drone that questioned authority down the fifth avenue of Dante’s oblivion. X is a mean—shut your mouth.
Seventeenth century mentality is one hell of a way to garnish your wages, tithe your churchy felicitations, unnerve your mummy, and visibly caffeinate your virtues whilst two-stepping around the cantina with the babes of Eglantine. Time OUT of mind, if you ask me, essays like a Viking funeral, scats like Ella Baby Girl Fitzgerald, and purloins like a bebopping lil’ E-Poe on the fly.
In truth, X did want finding, but she wanted wooing, not titration, not Bunsen immolation, and not a science fair distillation of fodder on black foam core. She had in mind an afternoon of sultry eye-bashing at the Saturn Bar down in the greeny humid quads of the Ninth Ward, barfly miseries, barfly causalities, barfly mezzanine fury.
Consider it’s—let’s call her X—modest beginnings. Waif in the streets of Milwaukee, ex-Packer fan, renegade debutante, cotillion flame-out, Rainbow Girl, Enya background singer—these were her dreams, folks, not her actuality. In truth, it was not Milwaukee, it was Joliet; it was not ex-Packers, it was not ex-anything; no debutante, no flame-out, no Rainbows, no Celtic nuthin’: Eliza Doolittle, if anything, but not even that. More than anything, she longed to be the silly Barbie doll dreams of Minnie Khlaetsch, Minnie the Mooch, Minnie the Mouse, Minnie the ex post facto Modulator. Minnie’s bod may have been Joliet-bound, but her mind grew up on the streets of Brechtian Berlin, she Mack’d her knife, Mack’d her life, Mack’d the living cheese out of the nougat holes in her voodoo donuts. Cream cheese . . . better yet, Boursin cheese, Krakatoa-erupting into the gullets of the narrow-minded, the grilled cheese-hefted, the chipped beef on toasted, cracked wheat infested Minnie-grams of the Minneapolis elite.
Minnie so lacked for knowledge, but what she lacked for in knowledge, she more than made up for in eyelash-fluttering, Tinkerbell-tinkering, heartfelt dissipation. She longed into the night, like Laura Nyro’s ballad dressing, like “You see, this guy, this guy’s in love with you,”—yes, Minnie was the next Dionne Warwickian warbler, warbling into the heart of Burt Bee, sans her psychic Mama Margies, sans her Herb Alpert, sans her Margot Kidder Lois Lane, hirsute in her dark chocolate lederhosen, her distaff manicotti fur balls, an all-out monogrammed nightmare of Mardi Gras . . . poo.
Ask yourself: is this a fate worthy of Minnie? Is this a fate worthy of anyone of your acquaintance? Dig deep, mes amis, and find the Samaritan lurking in your fuzzy wuzzy bearishness. Ask around. Ask in. Ask why. Ask how. Ms Minnie, she gottta thang for the esses—Singapore, Senegal, Sierra Leone, Sergio Leone. Eli Wallach em-poncho’d and sombrero’d made her swoon, in a postmodern Bieberswooning kind of way, a provocation of the senses, a derivation of the candid, a consolidation of the slithy toves.
See the girl: see her shadow in the waiting moments. See the GDP of her rising temps. See the ambidexterity of her cumulonimbus mammatus. Frogspent, she withered after the dimes, her per diem canceling out her carpe, her silent trout amplifying her Kilgores, her Brautigans, her postulant matrix. You canceled the debt, you say? Guess again: she raised you: she hammered you: she angled in for lost time, a merengue that out-Tito Puentes the varicose veins of your channeled avatar.
Call her to the veil. Silence all cell phones.
Scale the Bastille.

Amortize all mortgages.

Catch her before she—

Find It.
Find X.
Find now.

Saturday, May 05, 2012

poem: big mama avalanche

Vachon Island
the gris-gris mess of
fits and starts
dancing the fine line
tightrope of vagrant
minutiae. ask yourself
for the time of day,
calibrate your soul
sisters' temperance
dance cards, see can she
simplify your
quadratics, your
your differentials
even if the toast don't
be toasty. toast that little
gal, see can she dance
your finite rhythms, or if
it gon' be a fiery mess:
it's a simple two-step if
you wanna keep it simple, or
if you 'blige, you can go all
stephen hawking on the whole
damn thing, ventura highway,
muss-gon'-be-jump, and the files
just keep on follicatin' they
satrap funky eyes down
the sally alleys: this
distillation titrates
the very last cold cold
bone of your casual
dressy shaman being: seek &
the dressy dress comes
down the holy mountain
big mama avalanche
of billy idol time,
dancin' with self &
all them blimey elves:
sample the nines,
my pretty babes,
the weather's turning,
the fives are yearning,
the tantric lil gams
be your final