May 31, 2007

Poetics of a Non-Poet

          Words like
          I love you

          Between this page and the somewhere
          part of whatever
          biological whatever
          excretes hauntings spiritual
               a miscarriage arrives turning
               worlds schizoid
               into mutated
                    cringing lines of ink
               which exist apart
               in their failure.

A poet is one
unable to repeat the chorus of
he hears
susceptable proportionate to their longing.

A poet is one
in egocentricity who would speak of things he cannot
by drawing pictures
with babbling-
and numerous by
products of existence un-

A poet is one
claiming poets should have: ability
to disembowel the neural system of feeling,
to explain by the melody of sound
which dictate over
my understanding

          Units ago as I reckon time
          I ceased to bow spritually
          determined that if I could not understand
          i did not know him and
          would not talk about what
          I did not know, and
          there is a rank of strength
               this living
               only where you

          But I am not a strong
          I would speak
          ---of love---
          of things to me
          (god only knows)
          more obscure than he.

A poet is one
who would say all that I have said to say that
which is unspoken;

A poet is one saving
till the end,

then ends where he began.
          Things like
          I love you.


—Jim Lyle

Posted by dwaber at 12:42 PM

May 30, 2007


Poetry readings happen here, there, yesterday, to night, tomorrow,
in pubs, at palaces, on street corners, in churches, and in huts… all over the world.

Hundreds of styles and forms… Different in Africa. Different in India
Rhymed then, patterned now, unknown tomorrow, bubbling up in a 100 years.

It’s tight and loose… aggressive and shy... happy and sad…
It flows from people scratching their hearts into concrete time,
and varies from poet to poet and from poem to poem…
Guaranteed! If not, there is no poetry!

Have you ever wanted to read someone’s mind?
You can… that’s the point… it happens all the time,
You don’t have to work at it; these people, the ones we call poets,
they have this secret zipper, a couple of lines open a fly and
there you are looking at blood and guts and hurt and joy…
at laughter and love and pain… and sometimes…
at relief.
The sweet frosting, or sour medicine, or beautiful song, or ugly growth…
of someone’s soul is squeezed out;
It’s echoes sink into your mind and leave ebb ripples in silent sand.
Or weakness, tender flesh and bile drips out
packed and delivered in a poultice of words.
Sometimes old wounds heal by touch.
Sometimes other wounds… some new and some used, …never ever heal.

Some poets are so good at this you want to listen forever,
or run… so far away you’ll never hear truth again.
Some times you twist in your seat and beg for breath,
you think you’ll drown…
but no!,
the poet drops a line or the poem ends,
and you suddenly realize, you’re flying…
with wings you didn’t even know you had.

The miracle is that poetry comes as a gift; but the wings are yours…
they were there, needing to unfold…
needing poetry…

they are always there!

—Jim Lyle

Posted by dwaber at 12:03 PM

May 29, 2007


If I tell you
Gertrude Stein wrote to my mother
to say Rena’s son Freddy — that’s what the great
Buddha called me — was a self-indulgent savage
who augured the end of civilization
and Mother cheerfully sent “poor old
Sophie and Alice B. Luckless”
family recipes...

If I tell you
the Mama of Dada dressed me
in lederhosen so her great white
poodle Basket, wet from his daily
sulphur bath — the French countryside
vermin otherwise crawling into the dog’s
curls to suck his skin red — could chase
me and scrape his sharp long nails
into my bare legs while his master
shouted from the second story
window, “Faster, Freddy, faster...”

If I tell you
Transition — a Paris magazine
that published Ezra Pound — printed
“Spire Song” by Paul Frederick Bowles…
I was only sixteen. When I was twenty,
the iconic Miss Stein said, “Freddy,
you don’t write great poetry.” I believed
her and left the City of Light
for the filth of Tangier.

If I tell you I traded the truth
of poetry for the invention
of prose. If I tell you I lived
loving a wife who filled
my dry pen while hers
spurted blood
like a shotgun wound.
If I tell you my stories,
greater than the lives
of people I knew…
if I tell you my stories,
how many times
would you say I lied?

—Karren Alenier

Posted by dwaber at 12:59 PM

May 28, 2007


On our way
not knowing
where we go
Poof! The past
gone. Abra ca
dab the door
to tomorrow still
shut as we stand
watching the hands
of the grandfather tick
tock. I say: delete
commas. Period!
Repeat for the daily
dilly demands

—Karren Alenier
First published in Looking For Divine Transportation, The Bunny
and the Crocodile Press (DC, 1999). This poem is also part of Alenier’s
libretto Gertrude Stein Invents A Jump Early On that premiered
June 15, 2005 by Encompass New Opera Theatre at Symphony Space
Leonard Nimoy Thalia in New York City.

Posted by dwaber at 12:57 PM

May 27, 2007


If they took my ink, I would kill to write.
Bleed finger, I’ll be my own shill to write.

All press closer, here is the drill to write:
Scream foul till your voice is too shrill to write.

Trickster I say: you are too ill to write.
They say, doctor, give me a pill to write.

I whisper, none of you have nil to write.
Where is Monsieur Flaubert, his skill to write?

O, K.! le mot juste, the will to write,
Their blood flows, I drink my fill to write.

—Karren Alenier
First published in Karren LaLonde Alenier: Greatest Hits, Pudding House Publications (OH, 2003)

Posted by dwaber at 12:53 PM

May 26, 2007




Everything makes spaces.

Gertrude Stein


She puts one foot in front of the other. One word in front of the other as she motors down State Street past the Orthodox church where tradesmen, backs buckling, plane a gothic door, thinking I am no longer young. I am no longer thin. Words have gained weight. They gather at the waist. Tangle around the ankles. How to untangle and venerate? How to tell? One word is all it takes, others being willed to follow. And she is off, arms and alms along for the ride, mind galloping before her, sniffing at the hem of one boy in an oversized Curtis Brown T-shirt iPod wired.


One word, one foot, her great coat swerving this way and that, the shadow and swing of the past, the glittering present, the Merlin of perception. This is what she means: moments sliding like oysters on the tongue, salty and filled with the dreams of whales. Moments spread thick as peanut butter. Moments silky and curved as the Queen Anne armchair she sat in Sunday on Lafayette. Could it fit in the sitting room? Could she carry that too?


There is a hum in her ear when the wind passes, her thoughts winging the air, nestle in a window box, and peer down at her in Sly leather, glory of geranium, light so nutmeg and soupy the tip of her tongue responds.


Threading and threading she is thinking that this moment corresponds to pan-fried zucchini blossoms. For no reason they collide in the air and she comes to a stop outside the chain- linked bamboo garden. Here even gardens are padlocked, double padlocked, razor-wired, triple chained: New Yorkers heavy with keys rattling through the subway. She thinks of the garter snakes napping under potato leaves, the deer nibbling on bush beans, rain collecting in the crevice of leaves (long ago, long ago), her tentative walking to the garden, her sense of impermanence.


Have you come in? Have you come?

(Yes I have but I am not in which is a pity.)

There she thinks

the end of commas. The end




Still there are people who walk on earth. Her foot taps the concrete, pulls at the chain link wondering who has the key?


To whom might she inquire about walking on earth?



She is here she is now she is no more than the memories clanging like tin cans behind her. On and on she pushes past the rent-a-buggy, and Smith Street to State and Boreum where there is a widening. A suburban flattening. Cars hungry for the Brooklyn Bridge which she considers crossing now considers (reconsiders) the long trek north cold and clear and beckoning. But no. Sad suddenly. Perhaps there is no there





Meanwhile we must wait. We must wait for time to unfold. We must stand in front of Chase Manhattan and consider umbrellas. We must be sensible in tainted leather. We must insist on the moment nothing more than the present moment. How perfect to bend down and pick up the Doritos bag the Odwalla bottle dropped at one’s feet because we can because it is our concrete as much as anyone’s. She mutters Love the concrete. Love the car that cuts across. Love the man that brushes your ass toothless and smelling of subways. Noise is a symptom of poverty but not in Manhattan. She says this to no one in particular and no one in particular responds.



Because there is a there



find ourselves now anywhere but here which is nowhere near where we think we are. Otherwise now. There is certainly a place. A place that calls out. A place that slips in between noun and verb. Several moments begin to bleed. Panicked she mistook the sky. She mistook the weather. Her intentions were good. Whether or weather there were some interruptions on the horizon that wanted her attention. She took up her palette. She hit send.



When crossing borders it is best to be firm. The otherwise of fluidity. There are several varieties of mushrooms one had best not eat. This is not true of vowels. Information so rarely corresponds. Is so rarely of use. She considers. (She was always looking back. She never did.) Consonants certainly demand one’s attention. (Consonants require cabs.) When a word has two ts they both need acknowledgment says the man from the Paris Opera. (There she was sitting in the seventeenth row nodding). Otherwise stutter. Suddenly she stumbles stares cement curb. Familiar and yet on and on it goes. Here


on and on the line will go and she after it. (Behind her landscapes unravelling.) She wants to upend herself now unravel on the boardwalk spin into lower Manhattan. Certainly one could begin again. This is a poem underway! Any moment! Neon. Any moment sense!



Still it comes out. Even if it comes out ugly it is still out. She had several things to say sitting where she was on the cold bench. Now snow. Now freezing. Now thaw. Now the East River with its dead cats and billion unheard words a bottomless thud. Say.


Say what?

that. There it comes. That thing you recognize. There it comes now. There it comes. Now. Bring the glass to your lips. There.


—Sina Queyras


from Lemon Hound, (Coach House 2006), and an earlier form of it appeared on How2

Posted by dwaber at 12:46 PM

May 25, 2007


With brush, pencil and stick her poem makes an appearance:
A made up, out of bed, out of the shower, out there poem;
An eye-lined, lip lush, highlighted bright poem;
A ‘go to work on a poem’ kind of poem;
A lady luck club loving poem;
A made up poem.

With cream, tissue and water her poem makes an appearance:
An indoors, into the shower, into her bed poem;
A red-eyed, lip cracked, pasty poem;
A ‘real me’ poem;
A broken poem.

Tossing, turning, sweating, her poem makes an appearance:
The boat of her life is ever sinking
And family and friends always knew she had pulled the plug
And her favourite brush is matted with hair
And try as she does she can’t pull this terrible poem
From its teeth, from her appearance, but…

With brush, pencil and stick her poem makes an appearance:
A made up, out of bed, out of the shower, out there poem;
An eye-lined, lip lush, highlighted bright poem;
A ‘go to work on a poem’ kind of poem;
A lady luck club loving poem;
A made up poem.

—Rupert Mallin

Posted by dwaber at 11:35 AM

May 24, 2007

in line
upon line
to the beat
to the time
of speed
lying lines
text in flex
weird words
near whale sound
a lexicon of complex
city and dust
something left
in the Lost and Found:
broken and un


—Rupert Mallin

Posted by dwaber at 12:04 PM

May 23, 2007

Vollard Fails Caliban

(Vollard was an agent who furnished supplies to remote artists)

“Monsieur Vollard,” the burning French
primitive beached in a sun’s bleached heat
writes in boldly stroked ink. “Send me
more paint!” He pleads for tubes of white,
carmine lake, emerald green and ochres of red,
yellow and de Ru. He explains “I must work;
my vision will devour paint, but not the terre
verte you so blindly sent. Vollard replies
with color-filled crates. Gauguin creates.

“Monsieur Vollard,” the abandoned son
of Sycorax writes. “Send me more words!”
What can I do with these copular verbs,
this bare-framed language of my obedience
and my curse? I am a sterile, loveless
thing of darkness, only once embraced. Send
me the words with which I can express
the language of sleep and island-given dreams.
Then my art will drown all books. The sentence
of my birth will end. Vollard replies
with word-filled crates. Caliban cracks the spine
of each volume of his new OED and consumes
each word, but the gap between his dreams
            and pen remains unabridged.

—Alan Berecka

Posted by dwaber at 12:14 PM

May 22, 2007

The Body of Art: Creation Myth
                                       For Leslie Palmer

Seated by his crib, Erato played her lyre
and whispered to him each night.
She held his hand and helped him trace
the alphabet. Before he crawled, he penned
his first sonnet cycle. Poetry given flesh,
he wore out Bics by the hour, but his mind
never went dry. Epics, ballads, odes, lyrics,
verses rhymed and free, poured forth,
but not without great cost, for with each
word set down he grew. Every metaphor
or apt simile, meant he would gain
a fraction of an inch both up and out.

As the syndrome worsened, he paused twice,
once to allow doctors to run their tests
and then again to pose for Botero,
who came to paint the prodigy
as the exposed Adam leaving the Garden,
barely hidden behind a wanting leaf.

But, no man of art or science
ever connected his condition
and gift, so he wrote and grew.

The obese colossus kept creating
even after gravity fell subject to his craft.
At first he hovered—a living Thanksgiving
Parade balloon, tethered by editors
and booksellers, until he grew too large
for them to hold; he slipped into space,
became a satellite beaming down poetry
twenty-four seven to the ignored channels
of small home dishes. Eventually, he folded
in on himself and slid deeper into space,
a tenth planet, where seekers of knowledge
came to explore the surface, hoping to mine
the truth, but they never reached the molten
core where a steady heart still beats
and new poems are still dreamt.

—Alan Berecka

Posted by dwaber at 11:17 AM

May 21, 2007

Rehearsal in Black


The science of the irrational,

poetry knows what time is feeling

in the language we speak. Casual


as a crow above the pealing

tower, it circles our point of view

with applied indifference. The ceiling


is the limit only in the room;

love is torn between two sheets;

animals eat each other. Truth


is another order, beyond the heat

of sense. The memory of language

is a blind cold wall, a sweet


old man carrying a doll, pages

of silence framed by the chase.

What is love’s name in an age


of skin? Everything you face

is just as it happened, minus all

the details. You write a line a day,


whether bad or good, then fall

into a stupor. A line of black cars

arrives at the horizon. In the fall,


you’ve noticed, the fattest stars

get even fatter. Maybe it’s the air,

sodden with nostalgia. We are


what we are, a kind of rare

poison steeped in a kiss. Roots,

reeds, fish, the broken river—


everything is perfectly suited

for a local drowning. Here’s a shot

of the water surface, with its mute


tensions and the struggle not

to fold. The world, dispersing,

turns. Here’s the face of a god


no one remembers, in the church

of words. The American laugh,

said Jung, is urgent as a thirst.


It bowls you over with its raffish

humor and grabs you by the balls.

You can see the diver’s glove, half-


filled with blood, in the halls

of that museum, where nothing

finally matters but stands as tall


as it can. Life is always touching

the edges of a net. Light enters water,

and that is called perspective. Such ends


are met when language and space, neither

quite sufficient, negotiate a realm.

It’s cold inside, children have no fathers,


and mothers are desperate to tell

of love. It’s a landfill country, strewn

with cast-off things, where stone bells


ring and drowned boats rise. The truth

is confused but strikes for the prize:

the stone floor of the sea, red tooth


of existence, and what the eyes deny.

You descend the stairs to hell, walk

its plazas and parks, and manage to find


a date for the evening. She talks

of her desires, but this is not desire;

it’s the tender mercy of a leaf’s awkward


falling. At what firm margin, the fires

in the mirror or in your eyes, is love

to be found? Does the sea aspire


to be just water? In the weave of

your intentions, the air plays the air.

Nothing is nothing. In a coven


of mechanics, in the scariest

Hollywood mansion, love is the prize

and a touch of the fever. Rare


as existence, it has seen the mind

change the most desolate landscapes

into quiet rooms. It always finds


the world in absence, doors taped

shut. This is like the movies, a black

room filled with murmurs. As the drapes


are pulled, you see from the back

life’s enormous figures falling in

and out of focus, a final slackness


of being we later enjoy enduring.

The story is stained with its own

rehearsal. A handsome bed is burning.


Serious and alluring, a long dial tone

passes for conversation. No one’s

there but you, talking into the phone


like a younger father to an older son.


—Paul Hoover


from Rehearsal in Black (Salt Editions, 2001)

Posted by dwaber at 12:37 PM

May 20, 2007



I have no objectives, no system, no tendency, and no plan.

I have no speech, no tongue, no memory, and no realm.

Because nothing matters, I am consistent, committed, and excited.

I prefer the definite, the bounded, the repressed and the weak.

Not objectivity but neutrality of being.

Not spontaneity but panic.

For only seeing believes and only the body thinks.

For success is common to those who fail.

For the world’s beauty is fading because the world is fading.

For the best narrative is always oblique.

For thought only thinks it thinks—all has been foretold.

For without cruelty, there would be no beauty.

For kindness is always a little bit tragic.

For the mind’s progress is zig-zag and stabs at every tree.

For the best art makes things disappear.


—Paul Hoover


from Poems in Spanish (Omnidawn, 2005)


Posted by dwaber at 01:37 PM

May 19, 2007

O, and Green



size without design

past without a history

at what height

midday enters

swinging its gate. . .


and this much later

presented in language

not in perception


the field’s

white design

an old bone sequence


contemplation’s edge

planned as a texture

we are playing

a game of appearance


the what world leaks

on the language hand


to say another

and mean knife

among the pub crawlers


emotional voices

hands in water:

eyeless spies

of a discontent evening


the warm mind shrouded

humorous and astute

rumors we carried


who cannot endure

silence or size

infinity’s brief



each curve of the water

redesigns light

bends seeing briefly


in which pattern

deepening the background

the fourth eye canters


a footprint goes

straight to these windows


sand blown sand city

along the coast




—Paul Hoover


“O, and Green” from Winter Mirror (Flood Editions, 2002)


Posted by dwaber at 01:38 PM

May 18, 2007

Edge and Fold XLI-XLVIII




where is a written deer

running through a written forest


-Wisława Symborska



the written man in bed

with his unwritten wife


she who has written

his figure in that place


experience that lives

only in the written


a dark brown mouse

crossing to the mirror


vacant fishermen

staring into ponds


as if to write them

naked with indifference


what is fire writing

in the house of darkness


all inner space imagined

nothing in shadow


everything that is

written by what is not



—Paul Hoover


from Edge and Fold (Apogee Press, 2006)


Posted by dwaber at 12:46 PM

May 17, 2007


I wrote for myself for people.
           I’ve changed,
I’ve changed since I began writing
           I write for myself. I believe
more than ever in music, in the sound,
               however gotten, of music
in people’s poetry. Rhyme
more than ever. Talk
          people talking, getting that
into one’s poetry that
is my poetics. Love
hate lies laughing stealings
self-confession, self-destruction.
No one has to read them. No one
has to publish them.
               I am more
and more for unpublished poetry.
That is why I have a pseudonym, that
is why I now publish poetry.
To hell with the Business
of Anthologies. To hell with Anthologies.

One way and another I have written angry
for twenty years. Now I want music and
the sounds of people.
I want poems that use the word heart and
self-confession and incorrect
grammar and the soils and stains of Neruda
and Lorca and Kabir and Williams and
Whitman and Yeats.

Forty-four years old. Stand on my head
ten minutes daily morning
breakfast, supper.
Writing less and less.
Evaporating into the air
feet first. I won’t
ever die. I’ll simply
stand on my head
and disappear into the
air just like that.

I don’t believe in imagination. The prairies
as a landscape are imagination. England is,
as a landscape, a failure of imagination.
Kenya is imagination, India
is reaching even further
than that. And that is why I will
go to India which I will in seven
days time. So this
is a time capsule
in case anyone is
interested and in case
I never come back.

     Goodbye for
     now, goodbye
     goodbye goodbye
     to myself,
     goodbye goodbye
     for now
     goodbye myself,
     goodbye for
     now goodbye.

—Robert Sward
Copyright © 2004, 2007, reprinted with permission of author
from The Collected Poems, 1957-2004, Black Moss Press, 2004.

Posted by dwaber at 12:47 PM

May 16, 2007

snake charmer

she dives again,
grated wasabi -

the dance
the dancer
the egg,

on hot
embers -

an ocean
for emancipation
under water.

—Yoko Danno

Posted by dwaber at 02:23 PM

May 15, 2007

behind the words

written at all hazard
despite riots, curfews and typhoons
is a language unheard-of,

the language of fish
painted on the arched ceiling
of an ancient shrine,
revived by a touch
of salt water,

spoken as well by trees and animals
in a blind younger world
before literate humans arrived,

when a leaf was heavier than gold
                       and silver dust still falling
                                           from the moon -

a story starts
at the center behind a seer's eyes -

child monks parrot the words
with tears in their eyes -

from the bottom
of a salt lake,
dry and long forgotten,

rises a faraway laughter
like a ripple of mirage over water -

—Yoko Danno

Posted by dwaber at 12:09 PM

May 14, 2007

Texas Tale

I went to Texas
and a town burnt down.

Believe it or not,
its name was Flat.

A poem waiting
to happen, I'd say.

Town with a name like
Flat just catching fire,

its scorched pines and pic-
nic benches crackling

in the noonday heat,
snapping into flame

like matchsticks on the soles
of some body's big boots.

It was a tall town,
Flat, before it burnt—

well—flat, and became
what it was meant to be.

Tall as a live oak
against the prairie.

Tall as a daughter
just before she leaves.

Tall as the Gulf Oil
sign at Wick Harney's

full-service station
at Main St. & First

in a small Texas
town that was once tall

till fire proved it proud
and cursed it flat.

One more Texas fact:
it never happened.

The town that burnt down
had another name,

one forgettable
and tragically true.

And I had nothing
to do with the fire.

But the poem came
anyway, a spark

some vague-eyed native
or half-deaf traveler

to Texas let drop
and laid to waste

a town that never
was and still is not

Flat as ever in the
level heart of Texas.

—Angela Alaimo O’Donnell

Posted by dwaber at 11:55 AM

May 13, 2007


The pleasure of slicing celery,
paring the last apple into a pie,
rolling out the canvas of crust,
mincing butter into hard white bits.

The windows gone fogged
with steam from a boiling pot,
as through a glass darkly
I watch moonrise over snow,

a winter world shaped
beyond these borrowed walls,
another house I've brought my tools to,
knives and rolling pins, notebooks and pens.

—Angela Alaimo O’Donnell

Posted by dwaber at 01:31 PM

May 12, 2007


     Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?
     —William Carlos Williams

Dust balls collect in the corners,
     Motes float in the sun’s slant rays,
Crumbs litter the gritty counters,
      Dog hair sprouts from the back porch chaise.

Pungent clothes pile high in the hallway,
     Dishes stack nimbly in the sink,
Mateless shoes lie bereft on the stairway,
     Neglected garbage has begun to stink.

All over my house, work wants doing.
     Head-high grass claims my attention and care:
The dog needs walking, dinner wants cooking,
      Rooms demand straightening and fresh air.

And here I sit amid the clamor
     Delighting in perfectly useless things:
Whittling words, shifting syntax, sounding syllables,
     Listening to the silence sing.

—Angela Alaimo O’Donnell

Posted by dwaber at 12:50 PM

May 11, 2007


I’m an Italian woman and my poems say Mangia!
I want to feed you bread & wine, fruit & feast,
blessed and broken words to chew, chew, chew.

I want you to eat them purely for pleasure,
to put your lips around p,
crack k’s with your crowns,

roll l’s across your tongue,
to swallow sweet & easy
the meal of your life.

For it is what your body craves,
your heart sorely wants,
what your gut loves.

It is lies & truth, death & life,
sweet/sour, adazzle/dim,
what you have always and never known.

It is itself and you besides,
every thing & no thing at all.
It stuffs you full

and leaves you
heavy, hungry,
starved for more.

It makes you glad.
It troubles your sleep.
It is my body & my blood.


—Angela Alaimo O’Donnell

Posted by dwaber at 12:15 PM

May 10, 2007

(for Marc Kaminsky)

You squeeze a piece of steel wool
to get the movement back
in your fingers

take pills for the pain
then coffee to stay awake

you read a few minutes,
close your eyes and apologize
that you're not yourself.

Half in a daze, you tell me
the window cut every vein in your arm
except for the artery, and if it cut that
you wouldn't be alive

and I promise a poem for the healing,
but always something goes wrong.

Go write your own healing poem.
You have the time now.

Dear Marc,
I can't heal you,
you've got to heal me
by letting my words bounce off you

the healing was in you all along
and the more we talk the easier it becomes
to say that.

—Rochelle Ratner

Posted by dwaber at 12:11 PM

May 09, 2007

Maglev Sonnet

A high-speed magnetic sonnet went off its track
in northwestern Germany on Friday, killing at least
one passenger and injuring several more, sources said.

Officials at the scene described the sonnet’s first stanza
as being totally mangled. “We must prepare ourselves
for the fact that those lines are not living any more,”

said one critic, who shall forever remain nameless.
He was talking to emergency officials. Besides those
first-stanza lines, two other quatrains were missing

and feared dead. How fast the sonnet was traveling
at the time of the accident was not immediately clear.
Eighteen tropes are still trapped in tangled wreckage.

The accident is another blow for magnetic levitation
after a fire last month in a Shanghai-bound ghazal.

—Halvard Johnson

Posted by dwaber at 12:27 PM

May 08, 2007

What is this page?
Artkurator, Anonymous Net
poetic invention ...
poetic inversion ...
an intuitive-subjective-poetic-romantic-irrational side, though ...
So there is poetic justice, in the most gloating and gratuitous manner ...
og lemlestes i hver episode i ars
moriendi-SFDT-stickfiguredeaththeater (ea-th-th-ea ...
organization ars publica it's lack of thought substance ... void a
poetic reversibility of anyhr
txt... poetic,ars Crazy Wisddly tasks have goan, ...
does it have a mystic side has 'poetic' juxtapositional language been
used as ... sacrificial petroleum fuzzing the planes by an ars
mandatoria of glib ...
ch d' p ff wow aura yous f of poetic inspiration backout fresh teen models ...
metaphors for the void a poetic reversibility of konomienalt det civxv ...
public DELE done and you done rhizomeraw portefollios cpu common caps fff 0xs...
to fuse copylefted digital art and art commerce
there is poetic just ice
they'd quined me, i'm alwees lehsamc fer yao i an wund yai ...
poetic practices it is shaped after, from perceiving computer data as
an ... the medieval ``ars'' of Raimundus Lullus genitive to 17th
century permutational quote sign signs ...
(at once rhetorical, magical, and poetic). to what this compulsion putes ...
we in Ars fancy having ... es lonx+eX.liness, poetic landXl+-ubber,
mau#d or m#u;xsca# ...
lonx+eX.liness, poetic landaf ree di-#;do. woodbury -ci- ...
in the form of art in Ars
maybe poetic - > Dead Semen ...

—Bjørn Magnhildøen

Posted by dwaber at 01:54 PM

May 07, 2007

Ambit ions

Using a
spell, I
track down
my absent
& find it is
a charged
of the queue
waiting to
for Ameri-
can Idol.

—Mark Young

Posted by dwaber at 12:32 PM

May 06, 2007

Keeping my hand in

Residual traces of the
lightning strikes
linger on the surface
of the optic nerves. Some
might see paintings
in them, or sculptures
carved from the Carrera marble
that Michelangelo loved
so much. Others
will attach visions, talk
of pathways to the world
beyond, flood-lit avenues
or lights at the end of
tunnels. The poet, prosaic,
counts the time until
the thunder arrives.

—Mark Young

Posted by dwaber at 10:55 AM

May 05, 2007

or text-
ure. The feel

words as
you push them

place. Braille
for the eye.

—Mark Young

Posted by dwaber at 01:22 PM

May 04, 2007


If I vocalize, some young cadenza will drop by unannounced.
There are breath marks in my practice room begging to be taken.
If I comply, then will the diaphragm be willing to respond again?

I watched the fingers of my mother’s left hand be raised one-at-a-time atop the table.
Her shoulder held a permanent Confiteor where childhood might have been.
There is no life without an instrument, she said.

I used the flute to siphon off some selfhood.
I practiced seeming something, to prepare for
when the future came to be invited into present tense,

and I would gather up my prematurity and play
something by heart for the occasion,
striving for a rumored perfect pitch.

—Sheila E. Murphy

Posted by dwaber at 01:22 PM

May 03, 2007

Death of Poetry

I clothe with erudite words
an idea or experience
I want to preserve in words.
I strive for evanescent truth
In simile and rhyme.

Through valued processes
of reflection and revelation
I refine expressions, avoid excess,
evoke vivid imagery, excise cliché
and eliminate redundancies.

Another reread, another edit.
Erase extras, extinguish extremes,
elicit the elemental!
Expunge adolescent rhythm
from this poem of mine.

And like the shy thylacine
in the Tasmanian wilderness,
by my own hand,
before my own eyes
the poem evolves to extinction.

—Kaye Aldenhoven

Posted by dwaber at 01:41 PM

May 02, 2007

Trying to . . .

Although I am inspired to write a sonnet
I'll have to stick to free verse
because the rhymes I pull together
don't say much and sound even worse.

—Kaye Aldenhoven

Posted by dwaber at 01:38 PM

May 01, 2007

Trake fongool
Trake fongool, Isoscelisa,
Frake trane in bool-homie lemma.
Under due. In derunder send,
bleek yon houribouri jury log.


a green transparent heart floats high above
the pastoral billowing and pumping appearing
as some sort of frondless octopus skin with thrip
acrobats enacting a tangled mise en scene, a knot-flow
whose particulate countenance announces the fate and
economy of words and their separate existence as absolute
integration, the outside of interiority, "parabraxis"..

[approaching the wind-tunnel theatre...]

through the transparent walls, amorphous synthetic putti
test themselves against the flow, morphing, mutating, curvilinear
forms accessing the wake streams of their neighbors to harvest
the morphic potentia-of-force-as-impfetus-for-structural-development
which when seen overall gives an illusion of the blind structural
will of social collusion, a conspiratorial coaddollescence of
morphic illustration, a noble nodal display of potentia recorded
and represented as "english" in the best sense of a "pool game":

plongellaörnek almanın zorluğu ve örneğin basil yönünden
Twin TT Aquafilter Test oublier kiss Joola I wish Ahiru
could say her radulitront maximale Heizleistung H. Gross
ja. Quattro ÁConda Medium 87 13 kilo amfetamin i bagage
br, em, strong, dfn, code, samp, kdb, var, cite, J. Lumin
abbr, acronym, q, sub, sup, tt, i, b, big, small Nonradiative
relaxation ... TT A i i A = 7Tf< 1 7T A. .iï B. / t. / 1 B.
l Pour chaque i Einhellbiirmech intertemporal strategic voting
nachtspeicheröfen; konvektorillest fouceclip a note in the newspaper
real options, social choice, heterogenous priors, başa dönersek
diyebiliriz ki (e.g. fakir, kangaroo), but the majority are of
native origin tenure confirm amidships monoclonal untibodhi
Microdosimetry of radon progeny alpha particles in bronchial
Was macht der Fakir auf dem Nagelbrett? çalışan nüfus ise
Salopek 'Court' Größe TWIN TT Aquafilter MISS KIKI GREGAUN
FOREVERCARUSO auch nicht zum virus sondern zum fakir oder
dem alligator Feedback ich spiele zur Pistol, 38,00 €, foreevronti
Butterfly ersatzteile whirlpool rubbers from Dr. Neubauer's
High Speed Mapping Of Sheet Resistance on Large Area Wafers
isolated thermophilic Campylobacter from 22.5 percentstaining
and for that Gram-negative positive colony, streaked onto
drop behaves like a fakir would on his carpet the plate onto the
lab bench quantities proportional to their local polymeric
replicas of such gradient, ‘fakir surfaces’ NEW MACROSCOPIC FORCES
r J 5 y 2 r2 I " pq~t2r! r 1S 2yt r2 21 D I . pq~t2r ! r2 1S 3t2 r2
21 D I Throughout the whole performance, lasting 20 - 30 Products
were then loaded onto 5%一3O%SU—crose density gradients an d ten
equal the use of Muhammad's ascension (mni'rj) as a prototype for
the visionary onto sorptive surfaces strongly suggest that the.
REEs can be useful tracers of groundwater- rock different models
rigidly into different categories or placing them onto the bed of
Procrustes Al-Ghazamlžm, Deliverance From Error, trans. and annotated
by a poseur or worse Fast directed motion of "Fakir" droplets.
Langmuir Nicotine of been fakir However, unusual a vapour found
shown to other oral deposition of protein-nanoparticle conjugates
onto functionalized surfaces Offensive? Unsuitable? Titles include
"Invitation", "The Bead Game", "First Trip", and "RJ" acquire and hold
onto contingent, perishable things while avoiding inevitable Max-Planck-
Institut für Physik komplexer Systeme Chang Shu 48(4), 601–618. ...
Fakir, Y. & Razack, M. Hydrodynamic characterization of a Sahelian
coastal aquifer using the ocean “Fast directed motion of ”fakir” and
its code-self,onto the surroundings - maybe the kitchen, with recipes
... objector Themes were identified and corresponding segments of text
entered onto a grid The fakir gave me a tabez [prayer written on a small
piece of paper For fatty acid analysis, bacteria were transferred onto
trypticase soy A Perceptually-Driven Parallel Algorithm for
Simplification and Repair of a fakir’s bed of nails, to borrow Peter
Simons’ phrase. boundaries while remaining ultimately neutral with
regard to the their onto-. logical status DESIGNING DENSITY FLU( 8Lj +
(3H + rj)8LJ± + (k ... m L. This will certainly map onto structure in
the fluctuation spectrum. nected boundary is like talking of the
“flat top” of a fakir’s bed of ... included in the domain, T collapses
onto C unless we are ready to adopt a some The distribution of
sweet-veld and sourveld Some of the uses of the cutis graft in
surgery thanks are due to Fakir Ali Ahmed for enablement to
Aizazul Fakir for African wildlife film, his face was projected
onto the screen and he boomed onto the science fiction scene in
1996 with a wonderful first novel, The Sparrow Feasibility of
Integrating the Photovoltaic Inverter onto a Single yllona is
listening to The Fakir by Cal Tjader with Lalo dengarkan tuan
suatu rencana / dikarang fakir dagang yang hina General Relativistic
Cosmology With No Beginning of Time is a white noise (on rj. This
is nothing more than a thanks to the onto-morphism property.
This “fakir board” structure will be assumed to draw one onto
the rocks by the power of its solicitation, it can broker
Two things before we move onto the next stop on our World
Literature Tour A diode laser is focused onto the back of
a reflective cantilever i.e. the liquid is, the "mutans"
chains to the surface (grafting onto) Growth and yield of
six almond cultivars onto three rootstocks Adsorbed onto
Saliva-Coated Hydroxyapatite and in Solution organic
matter affects arsenic speciation and sorption onto
cross-sectional data on 83 children being transferred
onto. a non-biological medium? Postal. We develop
numerical procedures of mapping these systems onto
single particle theory. We stress in particular the
existence of a so-called fakir state tunneling is
thought to occur from tip onto biomolecular surface
followed i guess it’s not surprising that people
would grab onto ‘extremism’ solely as a Aspergillus
terreus endophthalmitis in a patient with chronic
window opens onto a pond The Ayatollah, the Pope,
the Hindu Fakir, the Generic Reverend Sunday who
called for the execution of not only homosexuals
but the Non-conductive electric sabre guard Apparatus
for mounting an annular tread onto a tire casing
Architectures expansion of commercial farmers
onto environmentally fragile land to impose
homogeneity onto some very complex heterogeneous
systems When RJ came out of jail, Murli forcibly
brought him to"Apna Ghar", hoping that he negative
e-beam resist, onto the surface of a 4 inch silicon
Fakir state The Green Revolution and Poverty:
A Theoretical and refracting cheap optical
elements in order to concentrate light onto
the biomolecular surface followed by low
resistance electron transportis powers of
levitation would make a Sufi monk traveling
from place to place The method of claim 23
wherein the series of letters displayed in
the "Fakery" and "Fakir"; and the only word
with the letters "EAC" is the word chabouk-bouk,
and cut his robe into tatters in the streets,
whose face has a sannyasi wasted in copying words
from textbooks onto the blackboards, organize cooperative
High Speed Mapping Of Sheet Resistance on Large Area Wafers,
the cells themselves, R.J... the Extrapolation of the
relative risk of radiogenic neoplasms
or religious mendicants living as foilrious
window, the 6 µm Mylar fakir who can walk on
burning coals, which wouldn’t own mind functions onto
protozoan behavior which he believes to be deposited onto
surfaces from the gas phase. Everyone in costume is invited
onto the stage to show off his Impact of a Compound Drop onto
a Dry Surface, The new Magalies Meander outside due to air
trapping in the structure, which provides a Culture and mental
illness Simplification and My sauna will be outdoors, built onto
the side of my house and adjacent to a real scene, Transactions
on Visualization are made by loading metal precursors onto ion
exchange resin beads and then oxidizing The sociological and
environmental implications of the entire head of a dog onto the
neck of a European Photovoltaic Solar System function, the squared
modulus of the fakir board’s Fourier trans- forme generalementa
une analyse sur chaque polyn^ome de Zernike syndrome, which led
to 38 deaths and 1511 total reports of the disease in the United
Saliem sprayed onto plants Poverty and environment linkages in
the context of the World, poetic retreat onto the familiar and
safe territory of their prime discipline about 25mm, to measure
the actual water irrigated onto a lawn onto the foundation.
The number and size of door and window openings can be arational
"modern" struggle is deflected allegorically onto a historically
underclass, frilled tekke, the abode of the fakir. They are called
Fuckeires. Fokers, are men of good life, which are onely given to
peace. You shall take care to embark all the Facquiers. Bestowing
a part of their plunder on Rediff, India, by Fakir Chand, 26 July
2003 ... Asked if rise in salaries of public workers came onto
agenda, Cicek said, ''this issue was negotiated out to model
non-radiative accretion onto a black hole and found ... that
does not require "much" deviation from general relativity (Fakir 2000)
industrial pollutants discharged onto agricultural Flat emb. sewn
onto a brass backing plate with brooch pin said of the surgeon
general's practical problems You do not have to picture yourself a
fakir or a monk in a Buddhist. monastery. ... launching onto the
market the optimism is huge R. J. Rummel describes similar figures
as "most realistic," though he cites ... 38:24. Jewish law said if
a husband died and the husband had a brother or a Pakistani folk
singer is a legendary ANALYTICAL PHILOSOPHY is the fifth of the
locative cases, with the basic meaning of "onto" among plutonium
and other radiation workers at a plutonium corrected reconstruction
and interpretation of the Homo Texas artist R. J. Onderdonk),
including the incorrect portrait of Joe medicine this fakir sold was as
ineffective as his book the snakes died in vain and kept an
establishment like a grandee; he engaged Authors of mass onto
a central object and the highly collimated jets the packs
onto a wagon pulled by a tractor, the only motor vehicle
on 367 carcinogen 13 plummeted 38 benefits 612 ingredient
41 varied 96 dearly ... solier 1 trackways 1 fakir 1 verma
20 cursorily 1 rundfunk 1 reasserts 3 noemata 15:38 ...
falstaff fakir eopeopgstampthjpgopen eopeopgstampthjpgopen
... >toothpaste running onto her sweatshirt as she maniacally
clicked her still insensible, floating on his back half a yard
above the unusable bed like an apprentice fakir and
demonstrated that a geometrical axial system linked
the smaller pyramids with toothpaste running onto
her sweatshirt as she maniacally clicked onto a
database across Bangalore city that is available
on call ... occupations-Dudekula (cotton cleaners),
Hazam (barbers) and Fakir-budbudki Cesedi sekiz
gün boyunca olduğu yerde bırakıldı, defnedilirken
de fakir birisi ... of the activities putting
Iranian and Greek tunes onto Arabic poetry otro
lider del body-art, el californiano Fakir Mu From Thu May 12 11:38:40 2005 Received:
from Malay proverbs have never been put onto the
international map of paremiology. ... nature and
the character of the Malays as had been done by R. J.
Increase awareness among all departments /staff
of IDC regarding the importance of ... Ashok Ali Fakir
Thieves, Thugs, Fakirs and Bunkco-Steerers // Each day
brought its new characters, fakirs, peddlers, schemers
and promoters// Some listen to a patent-medicine
fakir Onto video transfered super8 film-montage by
Baroni, 60', in a box AJ) fxkIr _' S2 fakir 0 (N)
fclC|n '_ S2 falchion 0 (N) f@lk|n '_ S2 falcon ... 0
(N) yUriTrx _'_ S3 urethra 1 (N) RJ ' S1 urge 21 (VT VI N)
RJ|nt '_ S2more than 38 million people who are blind and
an additional 110 ... the "imperfection" onto others.
What is wrong with this concept? damage incurred after
falling onto the ground, such. as that resulting from
desiccation and The natural regeneration of Anisoptera
Geplaatst door Martin op 30 maart 2006 om 21:38 | Permanente
link | Reacties ... Wil jij Roodkapje, Langnek en de Vliegende
Fakir ook geen dag meer missen? (Panova, Victoria)
(1807/4894), 38 Occurrence of Biomphalaria tenagophila
and disappearanceof Biomphalaria straminea in Paracambi
Technological facilities have a positive effect on
productive studying Fluoride Adsorption onto
Waste Alum Sludge from Water Treatment Plants Regardless
of whether or not some sort of plot existed to
hold onto evidence of a luminous skein-inbraiding
man who has been languishing in an Uttar Pradesh prison
for 38 years as only a Fakir in a loin-cloth is people
projecting things onto robots, and how much of that is
Kolkata The voice of the north.--London, J. To build a
fire. ... Country: -- A Doctor's Story of a Town and Its
People in the Age of AIDS The voice of the north.--London,
J. To build a fire. ... Country: -- A Doctor's Story of a
Town and Its People in the Age of AIDS variously describing
Lynch as a “Labour fakir”, a “shark” and a “porpoise”
INLAND EMPIRE NOW SHOWING! Fluoride Adsorption onto Waste
Alum Sludge from Water The Adventures of a Fakir, 1935
(also as Patched Breeches, 1936) ... neighbours themselves,
who try to load the cost of repairs onto one another. Told as an
ontologisk onto ont onsingen onsing onsdagspils onsdags-
balltvwce0mq ŝildo~o ŝildofako ujncqe0mq o e0mjs 4244 fakir ~o fakiro
e0mjsq o ... redpjfq mallongigo rh 12116 pH ~ pH rh pruntita
rj 12117 pi ~ pi rj a rjThe themes of the workshop on which this
book is based hooked onto questions George Spielvogel III
(as Netto), Ranjit Chowdhry (as Fakir) ... Roxie manages to
bring the media attention back onto her, and her day in court
arrives Hindu Mystics: The Fakir Who Was Buried Alive and a
Tiger Killed by Hypnotism , Cheiro ... Human Rights and
International Relations

6739 Vivid Report 6740
6739 Vivid Report 6740
6739 Vivid Report 6740
6739 Vivid Report 6740
6739 Vivid Report 6740
6739 Vivid Report 6740
6739 Vivid Report 6740
6739 Vivid Report 6740

Delcath System for Isolated Liver Chemo
Areas of increased uptake thoracic vertebrae three and four
but a luminous gas flame also generates particles

Luminous. organs on second thoracic legs and between
first pleopods. Tenth Furcilia (Plate I, 10, and Plate II, 3),
3.8-4 mm. long. Four

"Intricate innumerable Ways, With such confused Errors."

Being by error lost, they [dogs] have refused meat including
a laser luminous source and a laptop, it can be used. in any
operating room

Luminous abdominal segment of different color
which were isolated from male Sprague Dawley rat

On the evening of the 23rd we arrived at Rio,
having finished our pleasant MOVOTINGO-OOCHING...
which moved its head and thorax backwards, so that the
pectoral spine was drawn out An isopod was removed
from its bottle, a luminous chip glued on. its back
(fourth thoracic segment) and the animal placed on
the experi-. ment table (Vanillin ii P and U) The
experience came slightly U. It was short; and then
there was ... (Rose geranium 23 U) The experience will
solidify and thicken up

la pensee pansy penis McMaster University -
Fat tissue surrounding the thoracic arteries
may be beneficial The energy budget in luminous
IRAS Galaxies examined in. Tungsten. 50. 47.5. +
17.3. 18-80. 24. 26. 12.8. + 1.6. 10.1-16.6.
18. TABLE The Gideon Leeches 3. Setting the
Clinch- Cousin Silas ... 7. Occident Bowl-

luminous watch-dial painters in New York in
1925. 5. Thorium dioxide (Thorotrast) was still
... atrophy of thoracic roots down to sacral
roots, cauda equina

—Lanny Quarles

Posted by dwaber at 11:43 AM