Wednesday, June 6, 2007

Let the beats roll

Let the beats roll, the latest from Tim Deluxe.

See you all when I get back.

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

spam blogging and nota bene

This blog has been identified as a spam blog.

Just another headache. (The headache is having to do the word verification at the bottom of each post... which I invariably have to do twice. I can't tell when letters are capitalized or not--or maybe its a mild dyslexia.)

N.B.: I will be away from my computer starting early tomorrow morning. So minimal posting at best until I return. Sometime next week.

Discourse and Intercourse, I. Prologue

Poetry is a martial art—
    its rhythms
                are the rhythms
   of combat—pacing—
  its words
                are etched with blood
                           with sweat
                           with body blows
its meanderings
        are long arms
  its punctuation
                hits to the head
its messages
                    in the silence
                     the scream.

The Future of the Future

The Future of the Future
from Deep Dish's first album, Junk Science.

Monday, June 4, 2007

Edmund the Confessor

The pay phone is broken.
The night manager reads the horoscopes
     from the day before—
does he ever think,
     “These aren’t for today.
          They were yesterdays”?
I don’t know,
and I don’t know if the pay phone
     has succumbed
     to heart break, existential pain,
          abuse, being used,
       or if it's waiting for an assignation.
I hear a woman, at the phone next to mine, say,
          “I’m here now”—
but I’m not,
          I don’t know where I am.
     My ink has already stained the bed spread.
     The ink bleeds now
          in the phone book.

I think Edmund the Confessor
will be waiting for me in hell.

The woman next to me gets up—
          I think she’s disappointed.
     I want to offer her a cigarette,
but more than that
I want to use the phone.
What am I doing here, I think,
     because I know this shouldn’t matter,
yet it does
and I don’t know why
I just move on.

A king, I remember, must always be a king.
A lover, once consigned to the role,
     must be a lover,
even if it's wrong.


Ajare from Way Out West's first self-titled album which is sadly out of print.