Gimme some december

Seems many of the folks are ready for the turn of year and I'm one of them. Lots of good has happened in this past year and a fair share of heavymaking. Here's to hoping the baby year
brings good lighting and a bevy of notations in the positive quadrant...

set the cruise control

keep people from evening

such that light lips closed
where they stand colorless &
dim with what follows

favor of sattelites

gone way up
and back such rockets
are chalk full of dreamlife
pills add to 000 static-flurry
and sunflares
delimit our commune

well, i got a brand new pair of isotopes
and you got some brand new skis

in the commercial a baby zooms
through field and fire

my hearing goes off with the fire alarm
and what you say

comes back aged--a bit more sponge
in the bones

my fifth hand

is a mean 'un
uncradleable

stave off the messing with your hands
make the noises is all

make 'em dandy
n small.

i've been pitching your port towns
north america

i've been stealing your baseball

tomorrow's just a phone
ringing ringing ringing ringing

so what answers for the machine at the end
can be your voice, or no

when the blue lights spin
everyone comes out a winner.

monday is formed like a hat from almost nothing and the light turns on

does leading your fist into the first thing
the morning presents
make you reconsider your positioning
in the world, or at least how you dance into being

today i was assessed as good
at teaching
which is better than not fit
and worse than very good and excellent

all the water mains are waiting underground
and you can do very little about what you have to dream

there are statistics to take care of the rest

botched sentences

i would like to create a forum for sentences that are mangled.
i would like your assistance in creating this forum.
this forum should be a friendly space where all misaligned and unintentionally wonderful sentences can gather and shake hands and get on with their bad selves. like dancing at the no pants party. er, wait.

but for serious. blotchy sentences, too. bring em.
or don't.

i want to build a crow.
i want to forcefield.
but bring the song you thought you knew and its wrong lyrics.
or what you heard the cats say from the other room.

Thank you, Steve. Thank you.

sitting in your office as you leafed through
sheets and sheets of paper--

the window open and your slow eyes
poring over the words on the page. You held

cigarettes and student writing with a slight tremble
as you worked through them both with the same measured

moves--something dangerous and light
to pull inside and let spill from your mouth

at all the right sounding turns.

Here to change the keys

a line of punches for the student face
which is all face
and about

a series of underlapping phrases
the kind a court can tangle (can't angle)
the kind a ness don't want
(loch ness don't work)

a serious disregard for jangle
the pits and letters part
stiff the morning stars

a hour named less for liking
the stick in belt for thin
the noise of rocks on glass
(a drinking thing gone when)
(the noose of rooks is class)
a castle crowned in pith

a line of punches for the baghead
my face in all the days
the last core a door creates

get it punchline--in the mouthright?

The settle November

tom waits sings gravel about this month and i want to eat everything, including the 26 grams of fat contained in a newly minted mcriblet. but refrain.

steven karl's chapbook is up at InDigest (which if you search for improperly, you get this) as one of their favorites from 2010 and i'm very happy to see this! seriously, and i've said this on the book of faces, if you've not seen him read and can, do. he's stellar both on and off the page. not to discount any of the other people we've published at fgp, by any stretch of the imagination, but he's bringing it when he reads.

i've got to get back to posting photos, which means i've got to start taking them again, which means i'm not paying attention to things as much as i used to with my eyes.

on another note: some words.
here's to making lists and scratching things off their faces.

not the words from 8AM for sure

i'm doing
nothing so
everything
will happen

keep your kitchen squares to yourself
and your blocks of thinking thick as cotton
and your wet soks for the rain soaked carpet

divvy up
saint node
salt plane
grater of small herbs

the pillow support is another kind of not getting it
and i am the receiver, dial and all numbers rounded
to the proper tenth.

hear me crack
single serve cup
nodding to wake
my love again

The Guillotine's Open and Waiting

Hello everyone:

If you have a chapbook length manuscript looking for a home, please consider sending it to Flying Guillotine Press. Unfortunately we're charging a reading fee this year. Fortunately it's $5, and you get a book if you want one.

Don't click the burglar. Don't pass into jail. Just send along the arresting words you pull and pile together.

wey wey wet in the beds

Today was formed by a car ride and then the news at 5 pm on a television station about a movie filming in the capital. The phrasing was "a slow-motion nightmare" and it was a full speed crash. No serious injuries. One mangled yellow Camaro and a cop truck. What is there not to mean about that?

The leaves in Lake Ariel are very colorful now. Over the summer I helped to free a crane from some brambles on the Potomac. Our cats have grown into monsters, but of a very cuddly and loveable variety.

Tomorrow is the 12th day of this 10th month and there were repeating numbers just one day ago. Now an alarm clock becomes the next type of face to hate. Does anyone have any questions?

Oh, in news: Go here: flyingguillotinepress.blogspot.com. We've got two new books out and are looking for two more to make in the coming months.

Here's to your health!

a newing

can be said with re: or
Bah, like canoe. No. All this is just posture. Ok? Am I to become the ones and jingle? Thin bills and a pocket groped coin. No. Again. Ennui. Underling. Things for fingers to burrow into. A series of small mittens. Ok. Now to the kitten.

So I might actually become one of those people--the ones who talk their animals into childlike status. The ones who post ridiculous photos of their pets in the bathtub wearing newly minted angry eyes and a hat to keep their ears dry. So his name is Crockett and his mom's name is Nepenthe. Shannon and I came to live with them by accident. Well, that's not entirely true, but we weren't planning on them. The boy is nearing on the 5 month mark and his mom is probably nearing 2 years old. They've filled out our house, especially after we lost poor Grace, who'd reached only a touch of the fame of her namesake on the Daily Squee.

So in the coming months there may well be photos and some slight gushing about adorableness and other things that may be uncomfortable and awkward. Or I'll just hit and hint at it. And post videos narrated in horrifying accents. Or I won't.

It's sunny out and almost fall. I have yet to watch a full football game. And the boy cat pounces at our feet like a coyote when we move them under the covers.

troweling monday

in two words, the roll out. a crest and current to halve a woman. bad omens for sailors include the start of a voyage, dead bodies, a bird that corrects its flight path. the week is begging to start. you collect your shins and the early morning dark. priests are unlucky, the cast of a moon over an open bottle. you cannot stand the sound of gulls. you fill your pockets with familiars. you wear a stark green shirt and the grass comes up in clippings.

the news is good for once. the new is calling out flat water. a full steam type of heading and you arrive with all the dust behind. built of rail, a continent of industry that one tries to latch quick to. you hammer out the wrinkles and spread thin the ringing, the rig, the blown open door. and the merchants will have no shame, and the window will crow at noon, and the last flower blooms and blooms.

spilt leaving

split leaves the poppies bare

Raked into Evening

the spacing the days take, i'd take pictures and post some semblance how

the pacing the day stake, to set wood into the chest
back in slats, the way of holding a treasure: one heart gold, the next leaden, the fourth a mirror of questions

it is raining or about to rain.
the green shutters eye their closed window.
in another hour the churches will shake off mounds of pigeon.

in the museum the art work strikes
after dinner

a comatose crowd of foreigners sets about boarding a bus--lines of luggage hunched on the sidewalk
I am hopeful

minus signs and waving

After the 4th

do not count your young animals
as the start of monstering

the plate like faces sneer
on screen. it is hot here

and sleep come down premium
or siphoned off the cloudbanks

please lose your hands after
your curses, children

of the incessant complaint
there is no hearing foreign ear

or skinfold rimmed with salt
to hide inside, only the pigeonclap

and walking, the tourist trap
and bathroom stall poetry:

suck socal's cook
we're all americani

good job jeter
bosox best twin

cities for the issue
of a tissue.

I'll sweat in peaces, pacing these
streets and think of ancient

cadences--or at least old photographs
and how wrong it was to ever be young.

shapes in place / (in) equal signs

this towel is attacking you
and all there is to do
is make the words oh sound
like they're meaning
different things.

chip bent of vents
and the cats look angry at each other.

this is a newer form of being where we decide to claw and jump
onto over ontover
watch the spaces grow skinny between
and sweet it airs out however.

when the towel attack happens we dream like scores of dull kitchen utensils
and the more it happens the more it wraps us up in warm and warp

it's a grainy so

bonds up & down its lettered lines

Poetry Month

So here goes, I'm going to try and post a little something each day this month. if i lag, some days will be ketchup. Right now I'm hungry and cutting purple paper. There are book pieces all over the living space and my phone juice is low. The next post will be something for reals, yo.

It'll follow the same format as last year's April. Entries will be time stamped by when they were started. There might be some pucks and some pictures. Here's to production methodology and a starting engine sound.

crash crash

goes the baby bash

for some reason this got stuck in my head today after a nap.

here's a picture:


and there's a play:
Ol-K*Z-lO

in a couple more days i'm to start the month long posting again. and some kind of pilot.

hope you're all moving well into spring regardless of your positions
(personally i'm behind many things pundits would paint me in a terrible light for)

here's to terrible light and to covers for everyone and to things that move and betterment

Afternooning--saving daylight

Steven Karl's (Ir)Rational Animals

Is out now from FGP! It's a great book by a great fellow and it's got a cool cover and all the goodness you could want for a few buckaroos. You can order a copy at flyingguillotinepress.blogspot.com




There will be more stuff coming up in the way of the guillotine shortly. And happy International Woman's Day!

flashing wings that bark

so in the light of having my students do the automatic, i figure it's worth trying out the hat for a bit. it's easy to contradict oneself in the morning, the way the pajamas make fun of everything around them.

I'm a wall for walking and this half sandwich won't quit balling itself up.
Maybe not, the gears seem to stick when everything that's made water rushes around. In three days it will be stars like a forest above us. Inside my favorite parts are the sky. Grand and handsome a stadium for what we can't know. Keep popping the corn, keep handles on the stovetop and your hat in the mirror for when you need to take it off. a whole room of ghosts etched into the paper--Bowie says the bewlay brothers is like a parchment and so song tuning groped out like seas and seas of sirens and no sailors drowning. I keep saying we like I know you. And this is another way of brining a body back up from the ground. Wanton, shaky fingers dusted and printed. A sway to the blood. A bay to erase with the sweep of a palm. Don't forget.
Don't.

And shuffle. And walk.

the flung in the moth of it

swords in all the dreaming. some alarm, but not b-larm. harm.

so i'm trying to get my students to let go of their consciousness a little bit. this surrealism course. and a couple of them seem to want to stay very much in control of their thoughts. it's going to be interesting to see if and when they step back from that position. and i've got to get my feet soundly somewhere into what feels like ground. that's slow mechanics though.

last night's sleep was made from pitted fruit. a basket worn to edge out a flood. spit and shine on the moon's dark behind. a lap of crumbs for the television viewing and i fail to mention current events because they'll stop being crowded with noise as soon as we forget them. first in line for this, a book of sayings--they erase themselves as they're mumbles. mouth marbled and stony. for the tour of france, keep the ticket you got with your umbilical cord--its a stamp on the blood or a courting with butter the things you eat in the morning.

i'll sort out the shirts and the daggers but only dream in monochrome when sleep comes down off its rocker and sips the whiskey flavored water that grunts from these faucets. shiny fixtures and plants that are drunk with their grain. simple pleasure is and is and is.

you are the rock i am thankful on. happy tuesday.

Here's where the stop comes to start

wish the snow was headlike, shaped in all of water's dreams.

if you stand on your couch and portals form between the space your head touches and that shadows make out to be the edge of the room--a border, say--does that make the ground a piece of inhabitance or the hat you're wearing imaginary since it's a job description and also something people post about themselves when there's little occupying their fingers?

and what makes the border of a room?

all i've got is questions and this ring pop. mt imagination made of paper and pistols of mistyping. the sound loud in an ear when water drains and to regain balance then. my friends are birding the telephone noise. a new type of ink for your hair to settle down with and make a furlough, a future.

and what separates the room from ebbing?



such-like-noises are similar to light as we witness its decay. listen to the radio for ancillary motives. if you can, say anything once this is all over. but it doesn't come to that. rush and rush and bristle.

the elbow is an achy machine

four hours of laundering and all the money comes
back to a pocket singing of its handlers

so it went with a new year
and we were blessed and blowsy in our new threads

weather always threatened to break
the calf in its field worried away the grass with its cute
face--distant noises of what would press against
its older head

but this purpose you speak of, this coupling
and trick of light

we bury our heads with frightening sounds
our finger blinds open slowly.

two ducks flap
over each ear
of corn
rows beyond
where the cows are
sleeping

my house is not
a furrowed thing

Belated--bag this!

Bring that beat back

Today is the cold. And a few days ago a friend had a dream that I died.
Today I thought maybe that's already happened. And things are good.
Today is the cold. And tomorrow is the day when no one gets fired.
Today I thought maybe hats are ready vapid. Anhinga for roods.

Tomorrow I will walk to the station with my back planter
and you will get up on top of a balloon somehow with the cameras
all pointing down and away from this spectacle. The news
will shine like new candy wrappers and no one will get caught

in a storm. Today is the cold. In north of here it beats people
into their homes more and here it does that, too. The dogs are leading
their owners. Their owners are carrying bags in their hands--
some for the trash, some to bring home. The dogs are home anywhere

so long as there's food. Tomorrow everyone will wake up hungry.
Tomorrow for dogs on loan from the schools. And the Today show.
Today is the cold.