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Showing posts from April, 2008

some reworkings from The Secret of Why . . .

dipping feet into dead holes:
polski pani
polski pani
zoo wee su zesh gee
oh wee ma me
pling plang ol la ba na na

the eye socket does not contain a rainbow
but the informer keeps on informing

coins on the table, flight delayed, & still trying to simplify my life
I’ve the restless disease with speedy boarding
one hold bag between all passages
literal survival mode pulls my gyspy strings
I hate to go so early into the verile light

from the secret of why we first took to our feet (rough)

cruel spring is on the way and my savage old identity is
in the making, three years of foreign lands, my action is mental,
don’t jump outta airplanes ‘cept in my mind
get natural, get funny, get off, get
your tail
in a hairspin, tis insanity hence sane

ached-up falliable nautical
hot-splotch rollerwheels &
& a dummy
tit to shut
the trap

got bucked &
got juiced
in the lands of the dead

freedom and forgetting
are twin cousins
on the back
of an elephant

certified face full of holes

fear less
than clear

can’t find my knees
on a flight to Belfast
to bury the dead
all kinds of physics at work
in the air

to trace the heat of fingers doesn’t always proceed
from body to body

there is a kind, they say, a kind
of wheel turning and a new song
on the wings

kids dropped his crayon on the airplane
my wife was x-rayed in crayons

toothcombing the mindbreaks
with a dead shoulder
thrown into the system

from notebook

Throngs of people in the centre of katowice scuttling down the street. Legs don't work right around here. My energies are dispersed and can't keep ahead of the curve. Nothing is not enough. A saturation and then repulsion of selves. Reading and writing and being awake are a survival strategy. A pull toward the pit. Feeling all my work is a forgery. Why did I begin these travels? Why leave America? Have I discovered anything? I wanted to expand my writing practices. Not sure if I needed to go anywhere to expand my writing practices but I have learned what I don't want. Location is torn apart and I need a centre to direct my energies. Anti-poetic. Embodied. sex/birth/and primordial themes. The primal verge!!!

hunker down

three more hard days of teaching in Poland. Then a few days in krakow and then London. Trying to stay calm. No idea what kind of job I can get in London. But I must awaken again.

need to get some roots. hunker down and create. meet my basic needs and write write write . . .

in portadown, N. Ireland

it was a very hard, sad and beautiful funeral. it was nice to see my mum for a little while. It had been almost six years since I had seen my mum.

i fly back to Poland tomorrow. then london at the end of next week.

I am hoping to find a community of artists and poets in London. Need to get that original energy back again. Doors opening. Possibilities. . .

my grandmother has passed away

My Granny helped raise me when I was little. I will miss her terribly. I never got to say goodbye.

from my uncle Stan:

Georgina Phyllis Wilson (Gibson)
Monday 21st April 2008
My Mummy died this morning at approximately 6.25am, after a very long disturbed night. Thankfully after an additional injection she passed away peacefully in her sleep. She will be very very sorely missed by all her eight children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and great great grandchildren. I got extra close to Mummy this last few months and years, and her loss is particularly painful - but her many many years of pain are now gone.

grandfather saying goodbye to my grandmother

friday poem (from the secret of why we first took to our feet)

In the daily minutiae picking up, picking out, packing up, freedom is a force multiplier still increasing in importance, where you going with your lazy eye in central Europe rollerblading on love’s highway got no action to declare wszystkiego naylepszego dream on, dream churned out in a post-bomb haze, what about ya, little legs twisted on the cement feels the kicks against the pricks, smile because it happened and don’t ask what the world needs.

Briefs me on the latest, on the lanky blur, on the secret of why we first took to our feet, Cro-Magnon, filet mignon, coming alive in the 1980’s with Madonna and hairspray, yes that’s it, a realistic statistic of the mice finding another way in the maze, flattop for the coming apocalypse, for the way we dip our feet in the dead holes, the eye socket does not contain
a rainbow.

friday poem (no edits)

From that moment on the body refused its movement and there was the feeling of everything left to do. What am I going to show you now? A protoclysmic eye? A terrestial invasion? Everything wise is broken. Non-instrumental potential.

you must sit

in this tunnel
and try
a new


you must vacate
the storm’s

yr blood
this page

soul’s are void of fingerprints
but leave

toothmarks on the pillow

we always remember
immmersed in water

a bobbing head among the waves

thank you for being

thank you for hanging
in the vortex
shaking dreams from
these rotting branches