personal.news.break

I AM THE MISSING LINK
Trouble finds me!
I WILL LEARN SOMETHING
OF COURTS.

Fun with Negativity

When aliens take away all the seniors in a town,
There is controversy and a mass funeral.

(all of this
a mediocre movie that finds its way
here,
and i thought it
so full of quirk and arrow. how else to explain
wishful riddance to a child? “grandpa is in outer-space,
break-dancing and physically enjoying grandma.”
what a blast will the vicars sound off that!)

The things I would give to look my old face in the eye,
And not quake when I hear her voices. Same damn strings bowed
On a badly tuned violin; peut-etre some emotion,
Some smiley face scrawled in the snow.

(aliens wrote those,
then wrote this.
how else to explain myself
to myself one day like now? introduce
quark and double. “the only thing worth investigating during
their time on earth, were awful poetry and sphincters.”
what a clever twiddle-dee twerp he is,
the one who discovered IBS and repetition!)


©hRj 2007

Bloglife Irascibility

passive tyrant. hush. your scowls.
i'll. put an end. to your. envious scoffing.
dictionary (dot) com won't help you. one. bit
you. cormorant oaf. dagger eye. over
others' noble intentions! failings. are as
natural as yours. do. you really. think you. shit
gold? and. what. the fuck good.
is any philosophy. when it. meats.
imaginationland?

see. those line breaks - hear that. rhythm. those
purls of. soulful adjectives. intravenous.
why. they'd make. any word
smith quake 5.3. you are. nothing but.
a purloiner of. maxims from.
the. dead. so remember. to flatter.
compliments. will swerve. you
at the. end. because chubb. chickns get.
eaten first.

©hRj2007

i like to play. i hope im playing.

The Gazebo

We finished building the gazebo
four months ahead of schedule,
just in time for the heart of winter.

Has that ever happened to you?
It looked silly against the

grey heaving bosom of her sky.

The girl was afraid
it would not be there when it came time for
pomegranate tea under sprig spring stars.
You were early too, I told her;
we are here now.

Never mind who she is,
or her relationship to our gazebo,
to the blue diamond pills
spread in my hair. After the storm,
she will come back from the hospital.
She will. And we will bury ourselves
in the missing walls of the straw-thatched
remains.
Ahead of schedule -

I've prepared chestnuts for roasting,
wood for the fire, and

enough lonesome to

burn for her lovely.

©hRj2007

Unforgivable

Lover, the inconsolable between my
Breasts mean much more
Than history or chemistry.
But for you to feel
This, you needed to know,
I am no object for
Overflowing affections
Or escapist tendencies.
I am but a whore of time.
I do not love you;
I’m sorry. Will you never understand?
You were a chance that I catch
His lost glances in
This brief sleep.

©hRj2007

Graspings #11

Rare and few are those moments of pure joy;
yellow as white, white as blue, certain
accomplishments, certain cottony details in our century
of over-indulged and under-nourished, flashlight lives.
More often,
suddenly in the dark,
in our solitude,
or under lights,
we recollect such radiating memories. Our
bodies sigh; souls writhe in desire.

We miss so much, because you contain so much,
dear small flower on the sun in our eyes,
when did you lose to tears, to ennui?
And if we were to remember how it was that
we learned to feel you, by being unable
to name you anything other than joy,
would that make things full
again? The same fullness as before?

Never, it seems.
Never in the face of yesterdays.


©hRj 2007

More about does

1.
Subprime mortgages fascinates those
of us, who, without a doubt
have thought of or tried seriously
to depress ourselves beyond the
present, in a skewered attempt
at maturity. A forest fire
is just a giant snake, owing to hunger,
eats her young. Luckily the doe
is not a baby snake specializing in
market metaphysics
and therefore runs
in terror of the internet.

On channel seven today a monkey
murdered a llama but overall
homicides are down. I heard this
from the sparrow. And was
the pheasant right
in saying that an armadillo truck driver
crushed your dreams under the influence?

No sweat.
Alcoholism; we've
all been there,
except that...

2.
"Good sir! That is not a doe nibbling
at my suit jacket.
But a doe in your eye."


©hRj2007

All about does and their apprehensions

They were quick with the muzzle utters;
dashed syllables and gasps cut,
when the doe was sighted
among the guests. Unlike
the sparrow or the pheasant,
she was brisk and dainty.

"Are you new?" they ask,
"Are you, you?"
"Yes, we are us too."

And the old guard smirked,
"But is she us?"
Standing by the moss covered chair,
he is the most charming
when it comes to credit card debt. The
most likely to
spring.

The butterfly mojitos jangle in
Their hands. Offering,
and the eyes of the doe with
her fairy musk, light up, weighing:
such soft treads - and pretty dancing blackberries
in pockets readying.

Shall she lift her split-hoof or
sparkle?

©hRj 2007

Things I would like to tell you

i admit, i was hurried
tumbled into,
and now, i am terrified of
the eyes that look into mine. eyes that were mine
o mine.

grandma's favorite rocking chair
light cherrywood, stiff bindings. i was five then,
we were once all so small. but i was elsewhere,
a different country, and my uncles they said that
i could not possibly finish the beer in the flask.
i admit, i wanted to prove them wrong.

when the world tells you things you are not,
all the more frustrating when you become
so close, to these things.

i became drunk, drunk on the pride of having
drunk, their o so intimate jeers, i was so hurried,
and i was so small lying in grandma's rocking chair,
while the world rocked away. the grape vine outside never looked
more beautiful, or the cherry blossoms, like the ducks, were all
talking, about the beer, about me; so gullible, so weak.
One says, like in a lulluby, "i am not. i am not."

taking a chance never felt so close to this, being,
this now. i felt there was structure, that if i fell off that
chair, it would hurt. i never knew
there would only be falling.

©hRj2007

Graspings #7

at many times i wanted to say no to him, with his hands cupped...
sooner or later the water will leak through the cracks between his fingers,
so i watch it slowly vanish
and thank him
for the gesture.

at this time in the morning i often feel an ache; somewhere, someone is calling me.
in my dreams, always, there is adventure. a friend dreamt i was with child.
what sort of wicked adventure is this? i find myself
watching her sleep and
wondering if the years had repeated itself,
if that old dream repositioned her bright translucent skin to
glance at me from another body.

my tenants' floors are filled with human waste. there are
unfamiliar names with unfamiliar arms. "mister Sparxx told us to call you m'am"
and little children's voices in the background. that life seems
to elude me. some sort of groveling, maybe glorious experience.
i pray you lord, some times i do
feel so far away.

life is a waiting game, and ive never been good at that, nor
have i had the courage to lay all the chips on the table. maybe
im just the same, but
from a different, muddier corner. maybe, all that crying
was me, with the babies, trying to hold
all that water with my hands,
offering it to you, to you, and you.

And you refusing, you, hesitating...

©hRj2007

Said the Poem to the Poet

A sparrow was flying by the river bank
When she looked down
And saw that a fish had been swimming
Along with her in the water.

The fish too, noticing her for quite
Some time now, yelled out;
O sparrow!
We are so similar in our love for freedom
And our sense of adventure.
But while you roam the heavens,
And play with clouds,
I wade the waters,
And frolic with bubbles.

The sparrow replied;
Yes, you’re right.
We can never be with each other;
If I come join you,
I will drown.
If you come up to meet me,
You will suffocate.

This is terrible, said the fish,
I want to know you.
I want to know you too,
Replied the sparrow,
But shall we choose death
Over a beautiful story?

The fish swam in a couple of circles
And the sparrow stopped to rest on a branch.

Finally, the fish said, either way,
It’s a beautiful story; almost human,
Almost love.

How about this? Dear sparrow,
Let us part in opposite directions
And if some day we find ourselves
Being air and water companions again,
We will know what the ending should be.
The sparrow agreed and thus they parted.

Three years later,
When a great storm swept through
Where the sparrow was flying,
She lost control and veered
Straight into the glass
Window of a nice high-rise condo.
Before she fell to her death
Into a river below,
She looked inside the room.

A family was having dinner
And on their plates,
Lay the same fish she had
Thought about all this time.

Ah! She exclaimed as she fell,
Fish! It is not beautiful at all,
These humans are not beautiful
At all!

©hRj 2007

Graspings #3

These days
I have often felt the wild crushing
Of a blue Whale
Of what I didn’t tell you
These baubles that never come.

“We’ll wait for them,”
You told me in some dream,
When I sent forth silence into your cup.

Don’t you know, Whale,
Of silly superstitions?
“Orpheus you turned to look at me…”

But these days of patience and gaze
Are now gone.
Time has started sticking
Like barnacles on your belly.
Your children are bountiful
You smile of years.

We will crush, Whale,
We will crush the mighty ocean with our longing.

And I won’t ask you,
Won’t ask at all,
Because summers have never been lovelier
Than in memories,

Than etched in skin.

©hRj2007


Graspings #3 Ver.2

These days,
You Goddamn Whale,
Fucking junkie Wail!
I have kept the cat in the bag,
Securely knotted. And all you do
Is tongue, tongue against
My cheek.

“We’ll wait for it”
You told me in some dream,
And will you? I asked, I plead
On my knees. Silence is Overrated.
A blood clot
Of my condition.
Deep vein thrombosis is
Overrated.

Don’t you know, you turtle faced Whale,
Of womanly superstitions?
“Orpheus, you dumb motherfucker…”

And these days of patience and gay
Are now gone,
Time has started sticking
Like the cum on your leg
After climax.
But now that you have children
From your philandering ways,
You will always smell like yearning,
Smile like penetration.

We will crush, Whale,
We will crush the mighty ocean with our psychosis.

And I won’t ask you,
Won’t ask myself at all,
Because the cat’s struggles
Have never scratched deeper
Than in the bag,

In its air-tight bag.

©hRj2007

I play I play

Graspings#2

Friend, I love you and will miss you
Dearly, here, standing amidst
Your belongings, the movers are taking
The rest of you from me, and I
Realize our attachments to things,
Like the clothes you lent me to wear,
The suit jackets I never bothered to buy,
The shirts I tried on, the dress you excitedly
Put on, to show me. In another
Hour, you will disappear from my
Physical world, and I will sit in your
Dinning room, admiring the dark brown
Wood grains of your table, regretting how
Little time we have spent in the past year,
Fondly reminiscing those moments
Through the years that we connected,
How we have grown, certain we will not be
The same again when I see you next,
Fearful that maybe, the world will take
The you I loved away forever, hopeful that maybe,
Just maybe I'll be taken, just the same.

©hRj2007

Goodbye Claude

He hands me a metallic claw and tells me to hurt.
Hurt them. He says. Hurt them until they are no longer they and you are no longer you. Until their screams and blood and tears wake you deeper into the lovely dream you are living.

The claws dig deep into flesh. Vulnerable, they are. Men with beards, women with beards, and children, lovely children with wide open eyes and red mouths open in horror. Open. I open each of them with my weapon. They scream before my arm strikes and quiet when the silver enters into their soft warm bodies.

Claude is his name. Claude who is tortured, who hands me these beautiful weapons. Claude who makes no sense. Claude who rages on quietly with a vicious smirk and tells me his name is Baptisto-Ramonov.

The thigh is my favorite place to strike. It is the only place to strike in children. It is harder to aim for the glutes as they are constantly running towards me. Sometimes a backhand strike is just as delicious. I can see them, frozen, in space. The claw, firmly planted into their side.

Baptisto-Romanov screams to me that I am not producing enough pain. Too much blood has been shed, not enough pain! How do you know Claude? I ask. How do you know I am not producing enough pain? Sometimes silence hurts the most. No, he says, silence hurts you.

Claude hands me another weapon.

Shock them. He says. Make them jump three feet in the air. When they start to laugh I will give you a prize. I will give you a prize that is worthy of Baptisto and Romanov.

It is so clean, this heavy white belt. I cannot see myself in the reflection. I can only see my fingers gliding over the metallic square on the other side of this belt. It feels wonderful.

He brings me a young girl. He tells me to turn up the dial at the handle of the belt. He tells me to whip her and see how high she will jump.

So I do. And she jumps a foot in the air, screaming.

What is my prize Claude? What is the prize worthy of Baptisto and Romanov?

He does not answer. So I hit him.

Baptisto! He screams. I calculate that he has jumped three feet in the air. I hit him again.
Romanov! I hit him again and again. He jumps higher and higher until I don’t see him anymore.

Goodbye Claude! I laugh. Goodbye!

©hRj 2007

Negligence

Re: the nights? O the nights!

A match rallied in flames. Blighted fools of distant galaxies.
You see:

Inside your head was a gravitron,
Inside the gravitron was a bird. Smashed into feathers and bits
everytime it tried to fly.

©hRj 2007

LOL Academia

Like buxom ladies, all breasted and feathered,
Waiting outside, for the cockwalk, the cock eyes, and cock eye
Outside the doors that lead to the more compelling, more real
Night of engagement. These poor hypersexed discourses
With oversized metaphors portruding between noodle thin
Labial folds, juicily verbose.
Please do me! They cry. Undress me with your eyes,
Fondle me with your brainmeat!
(Qualifications for meat: THICK & PENETRATING)
(More qualifications: Upper 30K/YR or scatalogical bias)

©hRj

A Man's Uncunny Story (Overheard)

O God woman;

its three o clock in the morning and you're standing with one of your legs up over the foot of my bed your hand roving in your crotch whats that smell i know that smell why are you playing playing playing when did you get in my dark private room to watch me and play play play i don't know im sorry i couldn't help it every time i'm around you i get hot and i know i belong to your brother but o shit im so sorry what are you going to do now now now woman whats wrong wrong with you im going to tell you to get out of... will you please get your hand out of your panties first then get out of here so i can go back to sleep you creepy bitch but what are you going to do tomorrow im going to have to talk to my brother about this this is crazy crazy crazy please please don't i couldn't help it thats how we do things back in the old cuntry.

©hRj 2007

Readings on Lacan (But really having nothing to do with)

By what one does not know,
The lingering scent of an arm, a charmed thought

In his dreams, his mother lies dying
In a breathing bed.
Her pores are big, he thinks.

As if to absorb him back
Into her body.

He remembers her birth
For her, in the
White of the hospital room,
When he stares into the mirror. He wonders
About the chalk of his
Lover’s thighs.

What a night in Chicago, the noisy trains
Rampaging across
River. What a night to be seeing

A person,
For the first time. Struggling
In the water, struggling in time,
Space. Buildings that have risen to the face

Slaps
One awake.

©hRj 2007

Hysteria
(Hoo the Eph Nose)

There was a place we'd linger,
look down to examine the contents of our souls:
that hypnotizing mystery of the body which produces..
And yet they call them sanitary:
gods be pure//gods be clean//gods translated in
to some bullshit//LIKE//the body’s presence//DEAR
GOD//only through absence.

That summer afternoon, frank with its fragrance
the visitation of a form bled into her reverie; the obtrusive stares
of her young brothers. Your mistress' sharp hush that snapped
the twiglike magic of youth//Lil' Kim has opened her legs//DEAR//
Lil' Kim has swallowed a gallon of cum//GOD//We like her the
way we like//Why not find
beauty in exposure? That
ravernous duality, immanently open-
ended.

©hRj 2007

Cafe Still Life

Of yesterdays' contemplations and decaying touches.
Beyond the glass pane at four corners
of the bustling intersection, lights red orange green; go.
go to. I affixed the stamp of your bedroom clutches, bareskin rushes
and wondered what the future holds, what it held.
Faith, a streaming swirl, caffeine cupped.
By what miracle that is each leap across ourselves to others! As angels
no longer terrify, now that they have found their gonads
in some safeboxes, in some large bank, (in some movie.) Do you remember how it happened?
How we willed and acted? How they delighted and auctioned their wings
on ebay? You'd lay me up and put me out
like a city on fire. But I'm still burning.
Burning the wooden chair, burning desires and bills:
I bought a latte, I bought muffins,
cupcakes, sandwiches, sodas, mints, conversations, artifice.
I even bought a bum.
Who ran away.
Beyond. Past. Though here I sit,
each inch of skin tingling; memories that have no source,
and no questions, inexplicably attached to a violence with no force.

©hRj 2007

Intent#43

You were the verb that was gently weaned from my tongue's grasp;
And I've forgotten; how hollow, how somber, how fast
Laughter turns into nouns
in the dark; how questions grow legs.
O mirror mirror on the wall, who is your mistress down the hall?
I saw you fancying, I saw your thoughts;
I saw you flipping, then I saw your tail;
Passions of the head
And the head of passion, you were the verb,
That was hastily wiped when I asked,
Mirror mirror down the hall,
Why is your mistress
Spread on the wall?

©hRj 2007

somewhere there are movies about some war

Weeping willows will, rest reluctant-lee. ream rectum ream. & charmers charr.
Each thought a dagger, each breath sink. They had
a dream that everywhere is the enemy. That
we are who we are. To be civil entails a praxis; some mildly spicy death upon
the barbaric. Wave wave, the gloating flag. Free free,
all nations. United we stand, our progeny to march
march towards the dusty end. Peace demands a sacrifice of principle;
Peace, that hungry whore. As trains prattle on, poets make their money
today, just like the rest of us. Us. us. Go tell it to the neighbors,
that in dreams we are struggling and this struggle is a glorious,
sublime cake. Emeril! the show must go on. In dreams there
are television screens, conversations, and blood. Theories that chorus
to symphonies of slaughter. You, old man in your tie; wearer of thick-rimmed professor
spectacles, wearer of that dashing beard! We want to hear you
sing. Sing of economic boom, sing into the microphone like it affects
all of us; that the city streets will be paved in middle eastern bling. Everywhere
is the enemy. Orange is the next best color. Wear it like the fashionistas,
wear it like the self tanning self medicating self preserving God fearing
God loving gods we are.

©hRj 2007