Saturday, May 29, 2010
Patriotic Event
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Nine Malic Molds
Monday, May 10, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
(for Laura)
Dr nun Watson, he jests rotund from feasted prey, in flight from cyst pruning. Dolts like him feed on grits. The escaping wren discos denim, a stunt lard-bled at duty’s end. You are free from his wall, pride, and junk. Ballet to your ford pronto and have a rare thing—a thigh in your face, nude to accept your smut. His wish was to jinx us (the new dolt) to sum that stunt. Your gun bang charged free punting in manners of brass rutting calves. The all-world cast panting his jingle (a trim "prick-gag" comes to mind). End your iffy simulation noting the bits and throbbing fists. You razz that jingle up full mast, a pubic foci, three seconds sleepless. Ship-rend the nun and his gob, the naked stud. Dunk and crack for them in the stands, ratty as nudes rotting. Never stepping from quarters, you rule so like Tut in hell, students waking in this jailer’s reaping hut, for fields of wrecked expertise. They are knotted together that your stalactite laced tenors ferment rinds, flies lining up in numbers and numbers. Three seconds of a century in ruptured tipsy scud with the product of their jailor. Perhaps you have not censored dread and dust with that wild crass shield. He pants rasping dry, scarred by you, the theater child, grandchild or reverent writer, held together and given to throbs. He tenderly typed one block of text and he’s spraying servo juice, the product of reassembled companions. Five days you considered casting his public ruts to light, considered what might master flies like. I highly approve your nippy report, a snarl.
(This is a spell-check poem based on a letter one of my professors wrote to Printing Services for me. It's not a usual spell check poem, as I didn't actually use spell-check, I mostly corrected the spellings myself, occasionally taking inspiration from the checker and adding to the syntax as I felt necessary. I'm so happy that it developed into an address to the professor herself. I'm going to read it and the original letter tonight at the Delta release party.)
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
10 comments:
Emily said...
nag retesting, asocial, unseating canoeists for waning hut leafs, kingmaker the eel urea by tailgating hate oddly, gulping on talc brogans, tea. I smiled in this pie mover raspy mythical redial. I anew a cedar shark image at or with her tugboats.
Emily said...
an ferreting, sacral, basseting onset of swig the seal, mating the dill rill by tolling the bold, cling on viol runes, taco. I hissed in these piqué mare crispy cynical denials. I wet a clean scar imam to go whip the thugs.
Emily said...
why sip it sopping wickets?!
Rev. Lester Tisdale IV said...
Havens the songfest. Khans for the memento by the awl. Fist attesting, blues I was trig spinally to be vase and it trendy auto its dust gorgy.
I Am Bells said...
Assoil fury pearly to medley’s economy was piebald to elm.
Emily said...
emesis inkle its lag or nosing, do you twang end to anklet our emir off the lids?
matt said...
imp eloign the lutefisk of covens. its will encumber a shellac pie in a web dish, hen the clustering has adverse (freak verbosely mesa). tally then, if myth as wallet dada my wok scent: defiled oboes nix moons, fishy ethers orthodox casket.
Rev. Lester Tisdale IV said...
This oat has eon armored by the loather.
Rev. Lester Tisdale IV said...
Hominy!
Rev. Lester Tisdale IV said...
Soothsay!
Friday, April 30, 2010
Flocks of Moxen
Along such banks walked we, splishing the mud-haven. Cravenly entwistling the marshes of old. Swampy cattails arose from a zone. Walking we went, soaked to the bone. Fishing for zish, we stopped for a bit.
We spoke of subterranean humanoid puzzles, magically toasting the south-eastern border’s negative-seven-hundred-twelfth birthday. Burrowing in the dirt to get out of the heat, we caught the rare scent of moxen, an olfactory treat. Bounding over the marshy deserts by air and by spoon, a flock of moxen was spinning a cocoon. Snorting as they stamped, and grunting as they went, heartily nodding in gentle agreements as their spinnerets leapt, their horned feet and hoofed heads tread lightly on the wheat. Swishing tails of forgotten worlds, one luminous moxen neighed, mooed, and sang in a brilliant multiphonic display. It sang in tones rarely heard by the ears, in fact, I have heard it only once in ten thousand years.
Flocks of moxen walking up the trees, singing as they go, in all thirteen keys.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Email Notification for Comments
Thanks!
Emily
Monday, April 26, 2010
tumor and the wolf
fished wolf
west prowling but the morning
such a fad
passed the dry-cut belt
the first, hard mother
sees her child cut
wall threw the window and
the wolf shall to the wolf sty
all dying to drive
the van
hard the sum win
fondling her child and sing: cut new
and the Wolf shod cowl kills him.
to wolf,
hang these words
want him
gong with clad and hungry
sad or thoughtless
Sunday, April 25, 2010
toad the frog
drinking place, trod bard
frogs and crashed
them ditch the mother
coming and messing her suns
nard his brothers
what had bum him
dad, dry mother
flay in new jest
very best with fray
grit fetched the place
crashed in ditch with his clan
alto frog puffing herself
the best west big
that nard smotherer
puff self sad snob
and knit angry
fray weld sir
sir burst then successfully
mitt the hens that monster
missal things can’t heap ten and try
Mystery MEat: Vessel
All I had to do was look inside myself there were objects clustered paper wads plastic sheets covering the rim of my gut. I was lost in frequent torque, sliding was permitted until there was only one sensory device remaining. Pushed around.
In the evenings my objects are removed (I breathe for a time), my stomach itself detaches and finds its way outside (I can see it flutter off as though possessed). Objects are always around me jostling ignorant coiling and springing. All movement is unattended. Opening, always, and closing on concurrent frequencies with the attitude of these creatures, looking and pressing I can barely see them, ghosts perhaps.
In my depths I found an emptiness I had not expected in my throat, (then again, I have always confused my sections, sometimes, my head is my base, my handles are my core, my gut is my shoulder). Temporality meant becoming: this was not allowed for me.
I despised rules and they me. I needed the rules to place myself where I needed to be and when I got around them I’d end up leaning off against some shattered souls of brick imprint in false letters sloping angularly. This was how the crack developed that leads me inside myself.
(Suddenly I am drifting again; it is now allowed.)
Having opened only slightly, (I considered it a great sin to indulge in the fissure), leaking was a reality for me, liquids forever spilling out rushing spontaneously into further frothing about the edges of the spiraling fur dragging backwards over the red haired plastics resting near the loving windows with hinges that screamed love proclamations to each and every notch. I died laughing, I suppose.
That sensual moment of self-exploration brought voids eons dispersed (I am still surprised I am still alive!) latching onto some permanent memory contortion of fantasy: gliding fairies, no rules, no ghosts, the laughter and sharp corners of rock.
I am erotically myself, pulling my own bowels forth, and I am sure they are real, filled to their edges as they often have been—yet, my objects remain a more permanent memory, shifting my weight, the pain a reminder of being.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Ode to the Festival International de Louisiane
(a three-media art work featuring a poem and a video with music in 20-edo, a system that bitterly distorts the intervals we all know and love)
[dedicated to Sarah]
festival 2008 is when you left me.
loved you more than anything, but you would rather just get high.
gave your soul, in fear, to the demon in a jesus-mask.
like me, your n.d.e. could have set you free.
but now you are not even a faceless one in the crowd.
you are now like the street preachers of festival.
ending every sentence with "in the name of lord jesus christ amen."
festival 2008 was the last time your name was sarah; i don't know who you are anymore.
in the name of lord jesus christ amen
nigh eighth annum fog old joyous sightseer anthem
Friday, April 23, 2010
negus rabbi skin wisdom zed's god fudge
A Truth in a Certainty: a Doubt
Whatever is sacred is like that which is measureless,
And whatever is measureless is like that which is sacred,
To run a river thru the sunless cavern.
And just as all walls girdle from the Garden,
Blossoming by the Rills, so all trees
Are enfolded from this forest hill by slanting.
Its chasm is the Moon
Its lover is the Demon.
The woman seethed it in its pants.
Her fountain is the Earth.
It is the fragment of every rebounding hailstone
On the thresher’s flail. Its rock is sacred
If it is flung into the river
Meandering the motion from the dale
And the caverns from men,
Lifelessly and with ancestral voices.
Prophesying shadow from the Dome of Pleasure,
And floating again from waves to measure,
And played together the dulcimer
Of maidens deep and loud.
In this way you will revive the singing of the icy caves
And all damsels will see you.
This is the dulcimer of all visions,
For it was an Abyssinian maid
That played the dulcimer loud.
This is the symphony reviving. From this,
And in this way, songs are sung.
For this delight I am called Kubla Kahn, for I build
The long domes for the sun of airy eyes.
Dread is what I have flashed
Of the circle of paradise.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Evolution of the House
All is contained within. The whole world. A meeting of three oceans, all visible from the center point of the hall; shag carpets in three colors each meeting there. The dirty mauve of my room reaching out tentatively into the grass green of the hall, stopping at the navy blue of my dad’s bedroom, which spilled into the living room. I rolled along them, tumbling over myself. Ran around the hall post: pink, green, and blue. Navigating. All carpets ending, breached by the yellow linoleum of the kitchen.
THE KITCHEN
A scorch mark on the linoleum in front of the floor heater where I sat in the cold mornings while dad got ready: took his shower, cleared his throat while watching ‘Passe Partout’ on the small black and white T.V. that he put into a shelf of the linen closet like a secret. I could see him from the kitchen, his heels and the backs of his legs swelling out from the door frame. His black hair flashing as he tilted his head back to gargle. That gentle retching. I ducked my head to the side as he turned to drop his pants. All those early wet sounds. His feet thumping the same yellow linoleum in the bathroom. I stretched my toes out toward the burning grille. His coffee, boiling, equal parts milk and sugar. A sip or two for me. Him telling me I was done baking in the heat, pulling me up by one arm as I smiled at him like Dopey. Him calling me “canaille” as I dragged my footied pajama feet against the floor not standing up as he pulled me into the soft green carpet and sat me down on the floor in front of the coffee table for breakfast. The mornings of the two residents of the house, my dad and I.
THE LIVING ROOM
Cartoons on the massive wooden T.V. set. Him handing me a tan and crystal sugar pop tart or a sloppy joe. He often ate what I called a shoe. Peanut butter and fig preserves on toast. The figs we picked together on the farm in Kaplan on a frigid December Friday. In twin rubber boots. Mine, the miniature. The same.
THE BEDROOM
The blue carpet, arms raising me up, to the bed. Digging my fingers into dad’s ribs, his mouth on the back of my neck. Hide and Seek, pressing my back into his soft leather shoes. From a crack under the door, a beam of morning. The arms, and dad, and God hanging around me like dust motes in the light.
THE HOUSE
The house remained intact but shivered. Yawned, mouth open just wide enough to admit another. My not-mother. It’s true she fit, that the house was obliged to her. Though the air grew thinner. Schisms formed. New patterns of light and dark. The rooms re-arranged themselves. She pointed her finger and the walls became the dark wine red of her lips. She touched the old beaten furniture; she paced the rooms. Spaces shrunk. I moved accordingly. I felt new expectations of my feet and hands. I was obliged to her, but hid myself away at night, in all the old hiding places.
THE KITCHEN
We were admonished by her for dragging our feet against the linoleum. For waking her up. We stopped eating at home. My father pulled me into the car in the dark morning and brought me to the hospital with him until it was late enough for him to drop me off at school. I sat at his desk with a paper wrapped cheese biscuit from McDonald’s. Picking the melted cheese off of the wax paper. The kitchen was transmographied in those mornings absent of heat. The world broke off a piece of itself and I breathed deeply for finding myself still in it.
THE HOUSE
The house with walls too thin for sleep. With doors with no locks. With a watchful Jesus in every room. The schizophrenic house in which there were two kitchens, two bedrooms, two living rooms. One house with her and the other with me in it.
THE KITCHEN
The soup bowls with handles that I knew from early childhood with big red crabs painted on the fronts, along with a recipe for crab bisque, I had held one with two tiny fists in the picture in our old house, the one in the country. In the old world. I loved them then. Now the crabs must all face the front, even when closed into the cabinet. I would like to hide behind its doors. To find a nook for my growing body that I could not quite make disappear. When I was small enough I would hide under the Legustrum bush with my back against the chain link fence. In department stores within a rack of clothes. Under my bed. Inside my skin.
THE BEDROOM
I woke up in the dark with an upset stomach and stumbled out of bed and into the hall. Shaking and sweating I gripped the brass knob of my father’s door, forgetting in my sickness that the room was no longer the old one, but new and hers. A flash of ass, two white cheeks hovering mid-air. I slammed the door shut and locked myself in the bathroom all night. No one came. The next morning she placed in my hand a rag and a can of Endust. One must dust not only around her numerous glass bottles of perfume, but they must be removed and the mirrored glass tray underneath must be sprayed with streak free cleanser and wiped free of dust. The sheets required a hot cycle then a two slow cycles in the dryer. Windex the wedding pictures. The tops of electrical outlets must also be dusted. You will no longer kiss your father on the lips.
THE BATHROOM
There was a hook latch on the inside of the bathroom door. I sat in the tub while the shower pounded away scalding. I could not hear the banging on the door, the strangled words, the murderous silences. I made a note that the towels must be folded once in half and then once again.
THE KITCHEN
Was I a prop? Lifesized, mechanical, my pelvis against the hard edge of the sink, my hands submerged in burning soapy water, working a sponge into the corners of the glass dish. Really trying, really concerned, with removing the impossible blackness. As if I could pacify her. Silence the screeching around me. She called me “her little worm,” with others in the kitchen, “a future slut,” when we were alone. But not alone. My father standing in the corner averting his eyes.
THE LIVING ROOM
The couch, where we usually sat together unless I was sitting alone. Unless I had begged to be left home from church. These moments of soft blue peace. Escaping the nausea from riding in the backseat. Escaping choking on perfume and avoiding her blunt arms during praise and worship. I tentatively let my fingers into my shorts. I sat alone but did not feel alone. I sat alone and have been sitting alone ever since.
THE BEDROOM
The brush of the carpet on my feet, hands, and ass as I discovered myself, in the dark, safe from her, safe from Jesus. Lying on the magenta floor with my bare girl’s feet up on the door that wouldn’t lock, that had a large rusted keyhole. I stuffed it with toilet paper and later, always found it gone.
THE HOUSE
During a storm. A hurricane in the gulf. The rooms, with no lights. I stretch my arms in front of me, feeling the angles of walls and door jambs. A candle burning on the bathroom counter and the red light flickering in retinas. Planks covering the windows, pounded in. Safe from the wind. I could manage in the dark. Hide in it. My fingers sliding over faces, noses, and tongue. The close pressing dark, wet and warm, dripping down the walls. I knock on every wall of the house, make noise and take up space. I suck up the air, again and again. I fling open doors. I play hide and seek and find the ghosts of myself, under the bed, in the closet, buried in clothes. They remain untouched. I gather them to me one by one then open the windows to let them go. I feel my lover in the dark. Wet eyes and hands. Alone in the house. We fuck on the counter, the table, and fuck on the scorch mark in the KITCHEN; we fuck in the chipped tub, the cold linoleum of the BATHROOM; we fuck on the couch and on the television set in the soft blue shag of the LIVING ROOM; we fuck in the BEDROOM in my father’s and mine. We fuck on every lateral surface. We fuck in the house, we fuck in the house, we fuck in the air in the dark of the house. As the house twirls up into the sky; as the house sinks down under the earth.
Monday, April 19, 2010
ATTN: Lester
Minute Poem Experiment
eyes on
my breath
hard up
in the chest
taper gone
use finger fly
the insect of dreams
passing through
2. A minute elapsed while a well-meaning person looked over my shoulder.
3. There is so much love in the world that it can't exist on it's own. It works its way into the air and works its way down throats. There are no cliches within the body. Just work.
4. 'Eyes look your last.' Is there more to say?