This Poem

This poem is constructed of objects that you would find in your average middle-class kitchen.
This poem contains enough space to get by.
This poem makes you uncomfortable.
This poem cannot begin until you sit down.
This poem refuses to be referred to as a poem.
This poem would like to be referred to as Earl.
This poem is accepting applications.
This poem does not pay a living wage.
This poem knows the wages of living.
This poem is worried about the economy.
This poem wants peace, but loves esplosions.
This poem wants to move in with you.
This poem is eager to meet your parents.
This poem is full of meatloaf.
This poem has rendered itself useless.
This poem is a double amputee.
This poem is heavily invested in the markets.
This poem gives in to its violent urges.
This poem is nervous about its appearance.
This poem cannot be trusted with polite company.
This poem was once a sestina.
This poem has a beef with the government.
This poem is going underground.
This poem hates the revolution.
This poem is constructed of objects that you would find in your average middle-class kitchen.


Automatic #717

It was late. Or it was early. it was somewhere in between. the sky had taken on that scared chicken look with clouds and everything inside out or thereabouts. Sometime later I would recall this as a red-letter-day. The shutters tight; a hoot a holler. No one was in the mood to look.

I have never been there, but I have been through there several times. a few as a child and maybe one or two as an adult. who remembers such things. never even tasted the ground, only smelled the air: something like sulpher: old steel towns still reek of it. the sky goes orange at night from the blast furnaces, still.

from the window you can watch an old man make his way up the street.  he’s always there; walking but making  no progress.  you want to wrap your wings around him, and shuffle him into your cage, which you have just now noticed blooming in the centre of the room.

Ghost Chatter

(or not so) Random Things

I have been thinking about the bifurcated path of the prose poem (as we all do).

political perspective:

  1. Poetry as the art of the Aristocracy.

  1. Fable as the art of _____ man (common folk/ proles/ pre-industrial society nit-wits)

later on there will be a discussion of latitude

I have collected an army of ghosts. They are making a documentary about it. They is the BBC.
Gene Tierney plays herself as a ghost. She was the best ghost available in our budget range.  The other ghosts keep speaking in their ghost language about ghost things to the other ghosts which no one can see. This is how they frighten you:  their lack of details, their lack of structure, their general formlessness.  It is best guarded against with a large mallet.  After all it is an Army.
In the fall we will move on Dorchester, and if things go well, from there we will move inland reclaiming the world speck by speck.

  1. Speaking of ghosts:
  2. I was thinking of offering a valuable service to Born-Again-Christians (heretofore referred to as BAC’s)
  3. that when the RAPTURE arrives, and they are so unfortunate to be inside (a house,  a mall, a church, a place with a ceiling)
  4. That I would, upon prepaid arrangement of course, go to their house or mall or church or wherever they maybe with a ceiling.
  5. And through clever and steady manipulation of poles and nets gently nudge or lead them towards the nearest exit, so as they may bodily ascend to heaven as JESUS had intended.
  6. I wonder if this market has been tapped.
  7. I wonder if BAC’s worry about getting stuck during the RAPTURE, I mean sure, a tree- no problem you just climb your way out.  Same with a car or SUV, or any conveyance with a low ceiling.

But what I was saying about the dual history of the (prose) poem…somehow it doesn’t seem so important now.

Christian Literature Jacket Blurbs Episode #1

Mercy &




A quest for Truth…

a search for Faith…

and the discovery of Love

on the American Prairie

YOUNG INEXPERIENCED evangelist’s assistant Mercy

Randolph suddenly finds herself alone and penniless

in a small Kansas town in the 1890s. As she tries to

preach to the uninterested townspeople, her spiritual

foundations are tested by a most unusual cardplaying

cowboy with an even more unusual name– Jeremiah


Challenged by their dialogue, Mercy must explore deep

within herself to discover her true convictions, while

Jeremiah deals with questions of belief he has never


Meanwhile, a vengeful troublemaker bent on murder

threatens whatever happiness Mercy and Eagleflight

hope to find.