Friday, September 30, 2005


the night sky strained of tone, circles three hours in advance.

we said goodbye, bruised, lost and unable to face the waking tomorrow, unable to ever know it, we vanish in the forty third cantos.

a gash keeps bleeding, an indigestible pain weaves consciousness’ last brave attempt, love’s extends to the quantum, death is everywhere, and the toll of another to many anymore continues

in the third struggle, sleep fails.

below, a vast emptiness of dirt is spectacled with artificial luminosity.

something keeps on, something is now someone elses, something is gone, forever gone, forever at dawns edge, no longer words, only deep anguish and tears, and tomorrow is here.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

goodbye SF...

facing I do not know
keyless for the first time since I do not know

leaving in twelve hours for what do I know?
homeless and countryless
abandoning all and clinging

eleven hours now and the list keep mounting
eleven hours and it's kind of funny
always has been a dream

goodbye to everything
to everyone
a edge cuts
the flesh
loss of friends
love and place

for now, till then.

from: Bharat jiva

all in mornings voice of light
sustained only from death
letters of mercy
courage of refusal
forth right in the unabsorbed
in the forms of water
in no reason to stay
already on the path of broken glass
behind panes of infinity
the brain freezes
not dependent on pleasure
not dependent on human conception
only kirtan variation
in unmeaning words
in a world were real
no change accrues
followed by followings
that follow the followings
on a a present plot
but I am hollow again
nibbling on an empty shadow
bound to a thread
bound to you

some shameless self promotion

Please check out:
wire sandwich
, I have some work there, along with:
David Cathcart
Monica Fauble
Kyle Flak
Skip Fox
W. B. Keckler
Mark Prudowsky
Matt Schumacher
Jason Wilkinson


the scaffolding

cat calls from the sea

a combination of appearances with cross-purposes

simply put
simple work
working a thought
refuting matter
content richness
begging for fullness of living
a body
shivering at the nearly subliminal
naked ready
almost ready
in a sleep that extracts

what is called what
called intuition
no opposite
called no point
called splendid submission
called a verse of labor a remission
facing someone's something

doing the thing
simply put
a spinning multifaceted scenario
beyond a sacrificing never

considering the claim
working up to
undoing the undone
imagining a simplicity unspoken
begging body picture
drowning in sound
in the secret sent of sound
in the marvel
of the discovery of sound
beyond the beaches of the uncharted
beyound chafing boulevards
reduced to a
blaze deep in walled eyes

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

More images from SF


Waking up in a bad imitation Jean Tinguely with an encyclopedia by my side, the words are scorched by some awkwardness destined to become martyrs. The stars drift down from the sky lower than the ceiling, in a slowed down never not enough, but just enough to be feathers of resistance. An early snow not yet awakened to the deep freeze of Persephone's lost tears, hundreds of thousands of tiny parachutes on the way to the battled darkness, drift off somewhere.

Scraps slowly turn into outlines and refocus. I start picking up a viscous mood dancing on an electrical breeze over liquid electrons beyond this insipid flat land. Both positive and negative charges converge in a tunnel, find their way along the way to some ozone hole, where they meet at the foundation crusade, filling the air with an agenda of hatred, cracking homes and crumbling minds, already crumbled and cracked, falling near to a nearby place, maybe something deeper and closer, turning everything into an alphabetical soup over pulverized vowels.

Something seems to be backing into shape, form, hue, color, light and dimensionality with its corresponding reference points. All conversations are slightly appropriated in a day break biplane slightly out of solar power. I can see candy colored lights - “all welcome,” “next in line,” and “apply within, our outfits our goof proof pudding of a new dawn.” Desperately trying to grasp at the fake to subdue the anxiety lost some where on the tip of my tongue searching for the marvelous, searching for the rest of an assumption lost without enough to create a lasting faith, or something that looks great on a book shelf, willing to except any manifestation ready to break glass and scream fire.

Language is attempting to form a deadfall voltage regulator, forming without a preamble or paralegalese fixating on the winds of durable material.

I see non-dreaming bodies. Bodies carved in green spandex, bodies whose heads are covered with green spandex helmets. This must be the original sense impressions inscribed in contrast.

Monday, September 26, 2005

more SF

the other counter

a ghost piece of paper passes time collects another
passes passion collects collects naming a familiar
engages in concerned about expection
about duplications exceeded by extensions
passes passing extension duplications of shapeless reiteration
past oblivion past the familiar past reiteration and memory

I remember everyone’s message everything passion
packed in asbestos integrated vacillation some call a vacation
something that pleases corners and repeats

I am near the back I am the back near a corner repeating myself
behind myself now nearly now violence
now a corner from start to from slaughter to another end starts the next

repeating someone keeps stomping a commons
wondering perhaps theoretical perhaps technical maybe a fiat destination

both empathic and dead both both being anonymous sacrilege and carnage
guilty of calm guilty of guilt and clinging

aloft naked against speaking anonymous repeating concrete

Sf images

Sunday, September 25, 2005

Bharat jiva

I am but a child's waiting anticipation for your first light splendor to fill me

every morning, no matter where, no longer nowhere, in your majestic everywhere

every morning new egrets fly to lotus stretched heaven

every morning , rice paddies, sugarcane, and water for the day

every morning the bathing ganges, or badanpudi, at the crossing

every morning there is work, there is always every morning, dogs waking children, children waking dogs, work to be done, always will be and always has been.

never stopped, never ceasing, every morning beyond the tongue

every morning crushed by invading hordes, and your own mass, and yet you wake me again and again.

More images from SF

Saturday, September 24, 2005

for now,


in a sense of origin, in a condition of thought, in a position definition writing itself within a site within itself, a convection decorum, a kind of look-see blossom mandate, writing its own sense of some imperative, impatient in a fell swoop, a medium moment indifferent to a quantum meantime, infinitesimal rhythms writing an origin, writing the organ, touching the body, cutting scratching permanence, hacked in a seminal position, answering a question that never existed, an argument for progress, discipline for truth, marking the clocks, making despair, double vision variables dividing every muscle, every mold without a perspective . . .

I am wings writing in shapes

I am fingers touching the body, blotting the ink, limber on a blank page, every word a wound, every innocent face a rippling breeze, solid in an unfolding beauty into a being never to return to geographic display, a hunger for thinking, inescapable in the flow of slippery language, hollow conjoining origins binding points at each end, a hand that holds a book, sensing a demand, deliberating, hugging the bramble, embracing the curvature of water on the spine of space, a certain chain reaction reaching an invisible chain reaction at the limits of a double substitute, a double disremembering, a letter slipping in motion in the manner of a serpent confronting the outside, on the inside, alone in the marks of thinking, at the limits of thinking, dying in a thought thinking a thing, a mystic garden, a peep hole cicada, a solar system away from another beyond another, replaced by an endless ellipse . . .