January 22, 2016

midnight, hunting

midnight, hunting 

for hat and what 
hat with a double you 
wear that, yes, what will do...

crisp ale-ing it as gnaw boned Winter 
wears the long night in pierce howled ravenous 
rapacious, poem says, almost asking, 

"did you guess, knives would have souls...?"

winter as a wobble turn stubborn hearth play 

acting in the sweeps, circled and away 
winter is ritual, sway almost(s), orbits
insides the domiciles, when death is lattice 
when floating or falling, window leaning, dreaming 
when burning through November, still stacked out back 
yes, we're winter too... 

we're watching what goes on here, warming our bones 
at the near edged end of the world, in a poem perhaps too...

where I hunt lustily, after midnight
for some kind of thievery and inspiration 
some fleeting permanence 
that comes from listening 
finding music by accident
between the murder and birdsong 
of humanity, some melody 
I can find myself with 
clinging to a scent 
of my own self progressing  
while the world teems 
too far past wild 
to ever know 
to enjoy having 
a soul and seasons 
to play in...

I improvise portents, when this cold, hence the 
crisp ale and the cutlery imagery part of the program 
that's all folks...



  1. I love word/split play like this:
    "for hat and what
    hat with a double you
    wear that, yes, what will do"\

    Also "cries paling" or "cry spelling."

    "gnaw boned" ... Naw/no boned" ... maybe a rape ... or someone whose bones/essence(s) are made of "nos," saying "no" to everything, in other words ... I always see "wine/whine-tear(ed)" in "Winter(ed)"

    I love the way the title works with the image. Obviously I'm really into abstract art. So this could be horns, spiderwebs, a uterus (with twins inside), two tiny guitars with really long stems, a target, a distorted rainbow, swords (with raisin handles), or almost-kissing blobs of poop ... also, confused chopsticks (I love sushi); that would be a nightmare, to have a spread of bright raw fish set before you, but to then not know how to use the chopsticks ... or maybe it's beautiful, but it's just not the kind of fish you like ... guess you'll just have to pass on it [slash] pass it on to someone else

    Anyway, back to the poem.

    I love this:
    " Winter
    wears the long night in pierce howled ravenous
    rapacious, poem" ... "rapacious" makes my ears happy ... but if you know what you want, you shouldn't be anything but rap/ac/ious ... it's sucks to dance to rap music without air-conditioning, but it's probably healthier that way; the more sweat, the better ... when it comes to purging toxins [Also, I love the "i/owe/us" at the end of so many words; it's always food for thought ... what do I owe "us," applied to whichever relationship needs the most consideration at the moment]

    Man, this is such a great question: "did you guess, knives would have souls" The same might apply to knaves. Or canine-IVs. Yes, I think knives have the deepest, most pained souls. Why else would they thrive on hurting people? And on being sharpened. They sharpen each other, you know. But at whose hands? God's? Satan's? The latter is presumed to be the master of dirty work, but I think God has to be a little more sadistic than we give him credit for. I mean, seriously. He's this insane mastermind behind it all, and we know just enough to realize we don't know anything at all. But there's no around the fact that our bodies have to have been created. They're just too intricate. What was I thinking of last night that's so baffling? Oh yeah, down to our teeth. I had a cleaning yesterday (perfection, as always; it's the one area I really "shine" in ... having perfect teeth; nary a cavity in my whole life; it's kind of pathetic to have that be the only thing you can boast about); anyway, I was looking at pictures of the shapes of all the different kinds of teeth, thinking how wild it is that not even our teeth are uniform; they're all shaped different, have different types of roots and chewy bits, depending on where they're placed in the mouth and how they need to function ... fascinating if you ask me, which you did not

    Back to poem. (I love how "poem" is a person almost. It makes me think that you relate to "poem" far more easily than humans. It's almost as if you yourself are a character in Poem-land, being mostly "poem" in origin and DNA, not "person." It reminds me of Jae Rose to a degree ... how all her poems feature the "Alice" character, who isn't real at all, but still, who is more real to her than any real people. I think that's what "Poem" is to you. Your inner voice. Your best friend. Your self.

  2. I love this: "winter as a wobble turn" ... Also that "play" could refer to sitting on the floor or running around hiding in corners to play kids' games ... or to a theatrical production. Or maybe the weather just can't make up its mind, and the fireplace is "broken" or without resources. Not enough wood or malfunctioning poker(s)? :)

    As least the broom is still working. So even if there's no fire/heat, she never stops sweeping/cleaning up prior messes.

    "winter is ritual, sway almo[i]st(s), orbits" ... Love this line too. "Winter is right, you all. S-way, all moist, or-bits." I love the word "bits." I try to work it into as many conversations as possible. What on earth are "or bits"? I don't know, I don't care. I just love the very idea. I guess it's when you consider what else you could do or could have done. You can only do it in small amounts because too much might make your head/heart explode. There's really no point in considering "else." But or bits, I think we can play with a little bit. (Hee hee. There it is again.) Of course, a bit is also a shutter-upper. Which can be sexy or can be cruel, depending on how it's delivered and received. If it's a game, and the bitter can be trusted, then fun. Otherwise, why is everyone always trying to shut the girl up? Nevermind. She knows why. Because her mouth never should have been born.

    "death is lattice" Love. De-ath. What does "ath" mean?


    So many extra stories just became possible.

    lattice, lettuce, let us, late ice ... I recently used "lettuce clothes" (let us close) in a poem. And once I used "lettuce head" (let us head), but no one sees these things but me, which is just as well really.

    Lattice is a barrier, but it's so flimsy. Not meant for humans to climb, just vines/plants. It's pretty and serves a very specific function. Death. Death can be pretty. I love gore, goo, pus, and blood, so an ugly death can be pretty too ... unless it's someone I love, or me. Death is a clumsy climbing. If you're lightweight, your travel toward it is much easier. But if your heart is heavy, it's a miserable fumbling.

    Do you like Mazzy Star? I'm quite sure you must.

    "still stacked out back" This is when you have breasts on your back, but they're so firm that they don't move. :P

    My favorite: "finding music by accident
    between the murder and birdsong"

    This too: "too far past wild" ... There's the obvious meaning. But then there's the one that's not. The one where we were better off, to some degree, "living in the wild," being more wild animal than house pet.

    "to play in" ... to ply yin

    "I improvise portents" ... Nice. "I im/in prove-ise/eyes/I's poor ten(t)s"

    Ooh, a repeat means EVERYTHING in a poem: "crisp ale" ... I love a hanging "the[e]"

    In other words, you're so smart that you're traveling alone through this life that's supposed to be mind-blowing bliss but just isn't. So you get bored and make crap up ... realities, stories, relationships. You just invent things, and people, to entertain yourself until you finally make it up the death-wall and can get this madness over with. "cutlery ... pro-gram" ... Cutting drugs. I totally see why people (especially smart people) abandon sanity in favor of sedation or elation, depending on their drug of choice. The brain is a terrifying terrain in which to (s)live(r) fine s/e/c/t/i/o/n/s of meat.

    cutlery ... cut-leer-y/why ... Also Lear. Also lear (learning; instruction; lesson).

  3. Loving the sneaky "W" of winter's hat.
    "winter as a wobble turn" is fantastic.
    Too much to love here to mention. Nice to meet a fellow player of words.

  4. fun title anagrams:
    Minding Thigh Nut, Humid Tinging Nth, Hind Might Tuning, Hind Night Muting, Mind High Nutting, Nudging Him Nth Ti.

    Yes. I'm cheating: