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.