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Dalia |
(The rush of the sour warmwet taste of bile
Just before an upheaval
of one million pink flamingos
who are protected from poachers and the flu
by a fence
but not a law
because they don’t play it by forcelogic here);
to talk to a human
about absolutely nothing
is like not leaving the safari
at all.
But it is the most authentic
experience of all.
More authentic
than the unauthentic less authentic authentic experience
of the present safarigoers
who didn’t ask that human
about whatever that war was
but all are together on a big adventuretour
with mysticalmagical
fourway passports
and so this authenticity is paid-for
like malaria pills and suncream
and sanitizing lotion and this sunset
in a moneybelt.
The rhinoceroses and hippopotamuses and baboons
are not like a fox
or
or an AK-47.
because of the exchange rate.
Labels: Dalia
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Ryan |
What
Originally uploaded by ryanrocketship
My second in a series of random post-it note monsters.
Labels: Ryan
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Fred |
the cursory glance, the awkward smile
the wavering saunter,
the casual causality of accidents
this is our doom/this is our salvation
that we are not in control
of this glorified swamp barge, that
sometimes, the air quickens with the pulse of it
and the vagaries of circumstance
they may bring us together once.
if ever you tire, brother,
wave your hands in the electrical breeze,
and wait for the currents to push and drag
and force us into the same eddying pool.
hello/I love everyone
with their wrinkled shirts,
their creased grins, dangling participles,
their good intentions, better inattentions.
we are not all of us a wellspring of hope,
exactly, but a struck bargain,
a careful truce with the wide swaths of loneliness,
a complex bet on us rather than our selves.
Labels: Fred
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Fred |
I conjured you up like falling glitter,
Multiplicity and multiply,
The detail of efforts and flaws.
Makeup and hairsmell.
New shoes.
The crowd snaps flash photos.
notice ironed shirts.
We will name a fellowship after you,
Now that you tried to save the world .
Are you happy for yourself?
That just shows what that means.
Pinstriped and ironed stiff.
How was that blood bath place?
Tell me all your adjectives,
The same ones you used in your writing.
By the way those acronyms were people.
Mind the bananas in the syrup,
They taste sticky sweet.
Just say the word.
We honor your title.
I know you just sit there like the rest,
Punctuality and punctuation.
I will be in my cocoon.
And the weather is mild,
Like your collar,
With a chance of rain.
Written by Dalia, Arranged by Fred
Labels: Fred
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Fred |
Labels: Fred
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Ryan |
Pleased to Meet You
Originally uploaded by ryanrocketship
My first in a series of random post-it note monsters.
Labels: Ryan
1 Comments
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DrewTM |
flares onto the film
makes still the mind
Labels: Drew
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Dalia |
Labels: Dalia
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Rotten Lemons and Eggplant Found While Washing Loads of Really Dirty Dishes |
Dalia |
Life gave me lemons, and I shoved them down the garbage disposal.
Labels: Dalia
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Fred |
these envelopes stuffed with damp
you wrote of the truce between the mind and heart
of numbness in the tips of fingers
of carefully constructed life
the arbitrary noise calls us home
tricked by rickets and splendor
june drapes itself on the drying line
traffic glistens like a silver snake
I cannot remember the last time we were
where the solemn monolith rests
closeted by fears of precision
drunken hypotheses
decay on the seams of the temple
fits and starts
the resurrection of the body
infatuated with death
you steeple your fingers
pricking the tip of a tongue
ladling asprin
Version Two
With fits and starts, tricked like rickets by splendor,
arbitrary noises call us home.
With drunken hypotheses,
we try to see the edges of light
like that carefully constructed life
with the resurrection of the body,
to sop up our pain like soup.
And We Can Never Decide Where To Stop;
infatuated with death, we steeple our fingers.
these envelopes stuffed with damp
line the streets like tissue paper
Bathing the sky in infamy
is simple as purity
and dark.
We can see the rust of clouds,
but also the decay on the seams of temples,
and roses wound round serpents.
Traffic glistens like a silver snake;
the pricking of its red tongue tip
sends numbness to the tips of fingers.
a truce between the mind and heart
breaking
down
our cardboard box
A solemn monolith drapes itself on the drying line.
Ladling asprin, with saturated visions, closeted by fears of precision—
we tremble and beg the question,
and try to see the edges of light
to sop up our pain like soup,
and I cannot remember the last time we didn’t.
- All music and lyrics written by Fred. Version One produced and arranged by Mariko. Version Two produced and arranged by Dalia.
Labels: Fred
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Fred |
And when justice is gone, there's always force
And when force is gone, there's always Mom (Hi Mom!)
So hold me, Mom, in your long arms
In your automatic arms, your electronic arms
Your petrochemical arms, your military arms
In your electronic arms
- From the song "O Superman" by Laurie Anderson
Labels: Fred
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Fred |
of summer, as they fall to the ground in thick blunders?
where are the symbols of orchids,
and their delicate and vicious bend?
where is the tip of the knife
and how does it divide the air
that you breathe?
who can tell them the magnificent oracle
if not me,
who has written a contract with the blades of grass,
who has conducted this concert with a chorus of trees?
Labels: Fred
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Dalia |
and read them all, one at a time
He lived with me and my mother.
You may only have a few minutes
to get it filled with toys, just like you're doing
Vin jam dum semajno atendas letero el Brazilo
I don't understand it all by a long way,
one studied the humanities.
IC-R5 receiver service manual,
Look when this infant fortune came.
Besides, I was getting off easy compared to Arlene.
This option is not enabled by default:
He who seeks the Father more than anything He can give,
is like representing the amount of time to wait before this method returns.
Licensee shall not be entitled to any refund in connection with
using this program,
you can determine which compiler was used.
*Note: this was taken only from the subject lines of SPAM messages 1-12 and the first few words of the body that Gmail displays, as I was too afraid of catching something if I opened any of the messages. Also, this is the order that messages 1-12 appeared in.
Labels: Dalia
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Mariko |
pockets of your body,
morning wakes me with soft limbs
untangling myself, i am rough with you but you don't
wake up
you are slightly sticky, no longer preoccupied
with form or construct
these vast plains and folds of skin and bones
like clothing without a person
in them
do i cradle you to wake you up
pull your hair and your arms and your legs back into shape
close my eyes and sleep again or crawl off
of the bed to drink water
or kiss the closed eyes of your
face, impenetrable and dreamless
from POEMS FROM A CYBORG (a continuing/changing project)
Labels: Mariko
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July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009
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