CORPOREAL

getting it down

Pym — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 06:33:36 +0000


They say "some creative work" will "balance"
in combination with
other tasks, methods,

      Finding the circumference
within which to
                      dwell
as if with some comfort
     or, as the Buddhists say, despite
this pain --no--
in it, but not OF it--
                               that's wrong too,
I think

So, finding some rest in this?
        stories of sleep taken and
             sleep walked through
                    forgetting how
to hold a pen
                and hating my fragility (increasing)

between the lines
the way the body
        sags in its
container
         despite the compartments
         of sex, digestion, racial characteristics, purification
                  of the humours

"the brain..."   "the brain..."
cooking in its jellied ("moral") galaxy

This fire is fake; we make much
of its position
in the skull, its
protein
            The blood wants to burst
out, occasionally
                         raising the temperature
                         "We can only hope"

someone I love
          someone I forgot how
to love
someone to whom love was,
        some who couldn't
        say what well
        they knew, and couldn't
climb out of it

So in desperation gets it
down with a Caliber pen

thresh

Pym — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 22:32:49 +0000

Gray mole digs out, squints at
winter light; black grapes, true
blood dilute in early rain

There’s a thing they say happens
every seven years or so
return to the quarry –

landless gleaners treading out
the furrows; tangled in their hair
winged burrs, questions

– how the deadfall must be
collected
– how the stones wrought

take my hand –

who has the language right for every
change? and every thought let loose
in this threshold

calling card

Pym — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 20:18:26 +0000

Rx only 200 Metered Inhalations
contains no chlorofluorocarbons 8.5g Net
albuterol sulfate for tightness

in the chest, it leaves
a little cough

calling card

…………………pump action

toy. Keeps me alive

alvioli in tune…..a disease
called the breath mews, thin
violin strung tone

There’s always a template. I’m used
to this suit.

Fluticasone propionate, a nasal
shower. Scent of Ylang ylang
……….a drying effect.

Before he died the body
in grand disrepair, all systems
failing,
…………………..release ballast.

doctors as substitute father
figures, fuck that

the skin degrades. What we had

I tend to forget

Bathing her with as much tenderness as I
could manage.

her aged skin so fine (she wasn’t
just bragging), mine so rough. Keep

your toes oiled. Ponds, Palmers,’ whatever

and mostly so pissed off

“I will survive!” Hah

……………………………….It’s the very unsettledness
of the air

The air is unhappy now

The dog grows heavy—-we all entertain
parasites

…………and know it.

What is the relationship between the mole
that decorates / disfigures the flesh

and the little earth grubber, dark anemone-
snout

shoveling dirt all her life?

possible world

Pym — Sat, 18 Sep 2010 07:32:29 +0000

tell me the story again
about how you and
she, and how i touch
her unusually and what
you think of what i
imagine in case she
and i, in the desert
may come to under
stand in the best of
all possible bodies we
might inhabit a world
of our own but let’s
not think too hard;
my lips graze hers’
the asphalt crumbles
and what you know
when you, a man,
cross that line is not
far from where i begin
to walk the earth

plot

Pym — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 02:11:12 +0000

One warm day drains
the container
empty
is supposed to be
good news; even
as it hails the vessel’s
pilot, who carries
instructions not
to give up the ship.

material thumper

Pym — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 06:43:50 +0000

this palm hurts when typing;
massage out the memoirs,
cactus paddles, crystal fodder;
a list of food products and guns,

patterns, shocks, systems, small
books doggedly collecting worlds;
so a material thumper examines life,
goes with the mission, sentencing

every bone to fragment forgery,
emptying tumblers of single tier roses,
categorizing blockbuster veins,
tracking hardened veterans;

testing each grain of time dissolved
in a finger pad, each mole and comma;

sadly, that’s not the end of it

from there we set sail

Pym — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 05:00:27 +0000

To survey and plot
gender with a scope
tripod and chalk make
metaphors of valleys
and hills “hot mounds”
“steaming crevices.”
Circumnavigate anchor
fight off all marauding
intruders. I seem to

Recall that Drake left
behind his brother
in the bush with the
friar; well you know
what happened I
don’t have to shake
it out of you. Old lady

Repairs a wound with
needle and thread borders
grow together uneven and
puckered. From there
we set sail. From there we
hike out and “just can’t under-
stand their objectification” but
grow to love the scars; worship

The virgin deer and dynamo
suited and hair-shirted
among ourselves we pray
God to send a messenger
with stories to remember
how to touch our bodies
and can we sit with that
for a spell typing letters

He wrote and encrypted
upon himself his own
propensity for sub-
lineation. That fingering
just beyond keyboard
can inflame a nervous
tic the ditch we hid in
high on sacred thistles

Imagine this ad burned
on an earlobe a tattooed
lip hair woven into facts
and cleverly tied knots of
skins and dried intestines
not unlike these plastic
cockrings and antidotes
scrubbed 99 cent nations.

garments

Pym — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 16:02:28 +0000

What are the objects?
Trunk, toe, tooth. “Tribal
gunmen,” as well as “soul.”
Sugar is object. Oil spill
becomes us, the coat
of waste. An ID hooked
to ethnicity. A review
I write and all the notes
I don’t write. Love
stands near and at
a distance; love is
a found object in my
estimation, an arcology
I approach with slow
fervor, a temperature
in which I dissolve,
a grain of rice. A problem is
an object: standing too
close or too distant
from one or more stars,
wearing the sound,
the shroud of I am
is much too familiar.

living room

Pym — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 08:44:09 +0000

You can feel it through the floor:
personal history, mistakes, gaffs,
bad timing. This room might
as well be your heart. Flick off
the light and disappear, although

voices keep beating. What
you said, or didn’t say–sins of
omission. Anesthetize against
the din. It’s late. In the dark
you shuffle off to bed.

phenomena

Pym — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 05:41:09 +0000

A tinny sound ebbs
through my head
— molecules, atoms. Now
a lapping sound,
the dog licking
her paws. Some
people do just fine
without God. I type
these words. That’s
all. Or nearly all.
Residue of belief
on my fingertips.