I am starting to hit my stride with the new ms. It's called Godzeenie. Thanks to the help of a nice Polish girl (and fellow artist) I discovered some interesting things about the word:

Godzeenie is a play on the Polish ‘godzina’ which means hour. So the poems are titled according to the time when composition began. Time is also a thematic concern.

Godzeenie is also a play on the sister word of 'godzina' called 'godzenie.' 'godzenie' means to make an agreement ( (ex. Trudne jest godzenie pracy z zabawa - It’s difficult to reconcile work and play). It's about coming to terms, making peace. 'godzenie' also shares roots with ‘godziwosc’, justice/fairness and ‘godnosc,’ dignity.

I first conceived of Godzeenie on my way to Ireland from Korea. I felt each hour on the long journey from Korea and some Polish word popped into my head. Suddenly, the god of the hours was talking to me in the airplane. Now, I find myself addressing Godzeenie at all hours of the day and night.

Here is a wee sample (although the formating is a little off):

(For Zofia)

“The Bright tongue of the two / languages / dance in the one light”
(Robert Duncan)

in my passages, in my other

lives, shuffling cards, talking

to myself, I could draw

blood with stolen

ladies & shinning

rings, safety round

the moon & blood & snot

& seeds, wrong about

harmony, wrong, u know,

constantly, I would summon


gossip, unskin

the hawk with its un-

relenting eyes, it is

never simple, these

passages, these pro-

miscious wanders with

gravel in my teeth & the old

west wind tugging

my elbows, can’t won’t

have her, my windows

shot to hell, the smell

of abyss under my

muffled pillow, Ireland

and God are fish-

bones jabbing

my throat, Godzeenie

is the super-

market and the

ancient rain, and the hour


a one-bit bonder
mostly manipulating &
making collages
reading snippets
of Ulster memories
sailing to Central Europe from
Asia with nasty surprises
& rumaging
for a corpse

Dublin Airport 14:20

Two weeks with idle hands and I am waiting for a plane to Krakow. Ate a monkey smoothie for eight Euro. Two weeks of Ulster Fries and Buckfast and I’m with sore bum. Godzeenie, I am taking our discussion for depression, letterbombs for wooing, liquids over solids in my body slop. Godzeenie, you are my plump mistress in chilled silk. I’ve grown tired of my scholarly ways. Fairy tales comet the sky and my teeth are buried in the backyard. Glass animals are on the fireplace and my fat is in the fruit bowl.


Just like that – Godzeenie – the man’s prick drips music. Unconscious with Cosmetto the Cunt – involved – naked – leading to this HISTORICAL MOMENT. I’m singing – now – on an international flight to – FLATLAND LEAFLAND YUNKLAND. And once again banal development in my Post-Avant. I’m chalked in cliches. It’s our common denominator. Divided and multiplied. Godzeenie, you are clearly audible, misunderstood and UR great apple sags MY vine.