February 11, 2007



My writing is a needle shortening the pants of monotony and dread

It leaves an impressive thread as it winds through

the abbreviated cuffs of you who hitherto did proceed trippingly through the daily

darkness and stumble of everyday speech


My writing rides a bicycle through the stitchholes of your hems

the fabric of your mind stretched by my thousand-speed cosmic roadbike cosmos with

wheels of pure joy

and your thoughts

undiscovered planets embraced by a multitude of imperceptible moons

suddenly are Hubble-ized and named by the perspicacious cartographic lexicon of my

cerebral sewing


For I am a one-handed phrenologist kneeling in a haberdasherís fantasyworld funhouse,

a contestant playing the carbon dating game with the moon-fearing bachelorettes of my



Through the chest hairs of language, my poems seek gold medallions and the burnished

signs of the zodiac in the mythic resonance of the curly pectoral forest

my writing is a BeeGee sestina hallelujah chorus

a John Travolta post-structuralist jumpsuit fandango of literary theory

a Hilary Duff post-colonial mega-sized writing samba in the blog roll drive-thru


My poetry contains multitudes and they appear small within its vastness

a single molecule within the molehill of my talent

I write on a desert island and the desert island feels glad

signals the boats of meaning, the search-and-rescue helicopter critics

says, stay away

stay away for we have something here


Yes, Iím a bachelor married to the archipelago of my own poetry

going on a date with me would be like Y2K all over again

an excitement of digits, an anticipation of irrational calculations, airliners seeking the

arcing chaos of their own inspirational routes through the cloud-busy air

a date with me would be like changing from the Gregorian to the Julian Calendar while

hang-gliding through the National Library dressed in an asbestos nightie while the

books are inflamed

the librarians run blindly down the stacks and inhale the smoking grammar of our lives
headbutting the opposing players of tedium, madness, and apathy as they attempt to fan

the bookish flames with facile rhymes, trite metaphors, and a limited

understanding of the depth of my literary consciousness


I am the book-wheezy Jeffersons of this last century, the poetic Archie Bunker of our times

I speak of Love Connection glory

of radiant Gilliganís Island subplots singing Partridge Family small press bliss in the

triumphant World Cup publishing paradise of Toronto

A date with me would be like having Godís credit card, Satanís expense account, and the

incisive ontological wardrobe of Samuel Beckett if he were born as one of the

midget stagecrew for Gladys Knight and the Pips and his daddy owned the big

rhinestone factory on the outskirts of sense.


Look! Someoneís revved the motor, turned on the highbeams of languageís monster


Seems like its blind driver has floored it and is driving to you a first date

itís 1849 and itís with me


—Gary Barwin


Posted by dwaber at 02:11 PM

February 10, 2007




the field beside my heart is

filled with ugly deer and one beautiful dog


a poem doesnít have to have 14 perfect lines

or else youíre spitting on graves


maybe youíll slip up and tell a truth

stick your flaking elbow into something rich


under the moon your tongue hangs out

youíd like to howl but thereís this language thing


the pile of shame grows and grows

please save my family from complication or sudden death


listen: a small movement in the linden leaves

the poem collaspes small and leaping


be brave be brave be brave


the field beside my heart is

filled with ugly deer and one beautiful dog


and hereís another beautiful dog

sighing sighing sighing


óGary Barwin


Posted by dwaber at 01:20 PM

February 09, 2007



my nose




in the dark

my nose




you will find

my nose

in the dark




my nose is a pink moon

you have to

take my word for it

about the pinkness

I mean

itís dark

but prepare yourself

I must sneeze

I have a cold

and right now

no Kleenex



nothing is beautiful until

I look at the moon

my nose in total darkness




revision is possible

a poem should be

perfect and polished

like a nose

letís put

our noses to the wheel

our shoulders to the brimstone

the muse will knock and

deliver the pink moon

to our door


in the dark

my nose

simple sneezing moon




imagine if life

was so perfect

like this poem I mean




but there are some words

that didnít fit back there







the sun

óachingly beautifuló

sets over hilltops


the other side of the world

a nose made warm


óGary Barwin


Posted by dwaber at 02:07 PM

February 08, 2007




In the forest, we were not able to see the trees.
My teacher put them in his suitcase
and walked into the night.

When he got to the edge of the world
he turned and pulled up the road
cracking it once, like a sheet or whip.
He held it under his chin and folded it right.

I pointed. This is the way out of here
but there were no roads.
I pointed. This is our forest
but there was nothing.

The crickets said something that I will not repeat

Six jeweled piglets lapped at the droplets of my brow.
Seven azure swallows brushed their wings against my shadow.
T-shirts are silent, cotton, and easy to launder.


óGary Barwin


Forthcoming in Vallum Magzine


Posted by dwaber at 12:54 PM