November 13, 2008


          I'm sitting at my desk six days before
          daylight savings - you'll dole out

          what dead head prophets foretold
          birds, of a feather, and oh how they flock -

          we thought it clever to imagine
          the geese honking, were it to sound

          like: "fuck" "fuck" "fuck" VS.
          the more traditional: "honk" "honk" "honk",

          how neat it would be when hundreds
          piped simultaneously; a haloed

          amalgamation of airy "fuck" - until
          all that remained were white noise.

          so, did you talk to my mom
          behind my back, or my dad? -

          did you culture cut cook the guts
          of my rhubarb pie? oven baker?!

          you see the same things I see.
          I think. but then what if everyone

          were rhubarb pie. Frozen. thawed.
          liter d, lifted, digested. Sewer ed

          seaward. since that seems appropriate
          in such grave circumstances --

          look, I don't care about an evil eye.
          I finger your ass. why not?

          I mean you finger mine. right?
          round baby right round - and I'll

          spin. see how much we love
          each other?

          and I 'll - write six verses about it.
          about his giant black man's thumbs

          slipping out (of) in my allotment of time -
          which AnnMarie Eldon terms

          serendipitous, since she's a biologist
          and I'm mocking a mime,

          so, back to powder-coated steel
          frames and how they became engineered

          in steady handiwork patterns, thumbs,
          Measures, pushing early seventies pencils

          onto vellum and redlining blueprints
          of worlds where you haven't looked

          over the rumorous face, book-end, half done.
          oh how I'll tell you, when we can make love.

          finally, this one is pure mystery. it's my heart.
          I'm figuring it out. you can help. mutha fuckas.

—Luc Simonic

Posted by dwaber at 04:51 PM

November 12, 2008


I met
the histrionic
gulf like
spelled out verse - I dived in both
so swimmingly -

empty pain pointed in - you'll
suck the bark chipmunk - cheeked
millenniums of beauty in most -
carbon calibration - carbon figures
dance titanium tip tones - atomic

type cast - I'll say -

Stanislavski was so right about such an array of things
and I lie on potent metaphors like, your dreams.

it's busy in there - bused out to Dodge
City Kansas - it was nice last night -

busted at your seams -
split pea soup -
syllables there - of

your sin elation - singularity
supposing - a single toe wasn't -
self sucked up - a nation's Sin.

sifting sandpapered heart rockets -
spelling drift tide logs off to the north -
of France - a gallop through night and all these -

lonely hearts - if you must oblige
then, yes, revolve

—Luc Simonic

Posted by dwaber at 12:38 PM

November 11, 2008


my deliverances now
lounge chairs of south
pacific holiday beaches -

stretching well beyond
what man's eyes may sight
from sea-level perspectives -

I am offering to sell for pennies
on dollars earned the hard way;
-affective sun glasses

-exotic fruity cocktails
-styrofoam boogie boards
-travel sized telescopes

—Luc Simonic

Posted by dwaber at 12:39 PM