Friday, March 31, 2006

i'm not joking




A PC Held Together by One Screw

my boyo wrote a poem ^_^ he's so stinkin' cute sometimes...

You'd think a PC held together by one screw,
would fall to pieces if you took it out.
When really what matters most,
is how the PC feels about it.

billy needs you!

"I wish I could get more poets to contribute to the effort as that would give me more chances to get more of us into the public spotlight." -Billy
know someone with a blog that hasn't made billy's list? do you have a blog that hasn't been listed yet?

i know that probably all of my current readership has made billy's list of blogging poets, but if every one of you tells a friend or shares a freind's blog with billy or me then the sphere will grow and grow and we will all be happy!!

so if you do know someone, either drop billy a line or leave a comment here and your voice shall be heard (by at least two ^_^)

Thursday, March 30, 2006

[you are such a vivid dreamer, he said]

image by exploding dog

i usually tell brian my dreams.

he turns my words into poetry
like a magician turns a handkerchief
into a fuzzy white bunny or a pigeon.

today i told wahdoun my dream

about how i was diagnosed with "slight hiv"
only to be told by my huzbee that
if i had hiv then wouldn't he also have it?

he assured me that my hiv was in no way
related to the devastation of aids
and that what i had was completely curable.
you are such a vivid dreamer, he said.


do i impress you, darling?

my haunches are firm and muscular
with all the practice
of holding my breasts alert

for your eyes and fingers delighted.

i can name drop too, this futon
sleeps us both on a warm night
in the middle of april or more.

we can slurp the orange juices
from each other's lips like bees.

the fine sugar of a fruit is rich.

can i have a bite of yours
if i promise to give you mine
or would that be asking too much
of a man with your... stature?

you can learn to impress me too.

write me poems about birds
about trailer parks and rivers,
or rest your ear against my heart
through layers of cotton and lace
and spend the night pretending

to be in love with me.

why do we love you?

the king and queen
why do we love you, katamari?

dear readership,

we have been playing we love katamari a lot recently (on account of the mega-vision recently aquired) and it has made us stupid. we cannot write poetry any more. we can only sing "na na na na na na na". we have a sore throat because of all this singing.

it is our hope that we might be saved by frank o'hara, but we are not sure if that is a realistic hope. frank, will you save us?

na na na na,

the plural of katy

Wednesday, March 29, 2006


i scratched my eyelids open
the sun pounding in through the window
like melting night
on the doorsteps of a mausoleum.

... read the rest

bering beringaling

hi clive

hi katy

how are you?

alright and you?

am taking a walk at the mo. stepping over empty forty bottles, going past blue fire hydrants. you know, getting sand in my shoes.



yeah, you know... as in, peachy kean...





i don't think so.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

mission: submission

april is "national poetry month" among other things (such as "kite month"). in order to celebrate, i will be submitting a poem from somethingkaty (and one from piloteye) to varying journals and zines everyday (if possible).

as i do so, i will update this post which the button labelled "submission" will direct you to throughout my pilgrimage through the tumultuous world of publication.

day 1: ? to fence (it's not really the sort of thing i can do from work, what with not having all my documents to hand. i am thinking about the hotel science series as edited and selected by brian. what do you think?)

FROM: Fence
TO: katy acheson
April 2nd 2006 at 4:35
MESSAGE: Your submission was received successfully.
writer: katy acheson
title(s): the hotel science series (in 10 parts)
type: poetry

day 2: the giver, husband and wife (as edited by brian (thank you brian)), & the puzzle bird submitted to FRAME which jess mynes kindly brought to my attention upon my asking his advice as to where might be some nice zines to submit some of my work to. thank you jess.
yay for hyperlinks!

day 3: i am going to diagram. i mean, i am going to submit to diagram. i am not a very good visual artist. and because they are in search of the oddities of digital media, i will be sending them binary for breakfast, robots don't make good valentines (which brian reckons i ought call "feb 14th 2079"... did i get the year right, brian?), and i was going to send them something else but i can't remember what now (i have a little list at home, don't worry).

at home now... have sent diagram my email which included triangulus philus and nice to meet you as well as the two poems listed above.

Dear Katy,

Thanks for your submission to DIAGRAM. Sorry to say that after much discussion and close reading we have decided against the work. We get a lot of high quality submissions and can only take on the few that really hit us just right.

Tom Fleischmann
Assistant Poetry Editor

day 4: submitted an ode to frank o'hara to pedestal magazine.

Dear Katy: Thank you for submitting your work to The Pedestal Magazine. We enjoyed reading it but regret that we cannot use it at this time. We wish you the best of luck in placing your work elsewhere and sincerely hope that you will submit other writing to us in the future.
The Editors The Pedestal Magazine

day 5: i found this outstanding little journal by complete accident this morning and have just now sent them two poems. the journal is NOO and the poems i set them are room service and not a sex poem. on this one, i actually do hope they take either of the poems, because i really dig the journal.

am taking this as a "sorry, maybe next time"

Hi Katy,

I sent this message April 19th, but I just read your blog and it seems you never got it. My apologies for the mix up. No slight intended. I think the email got lost somehow?

Thank you for submitting these poems. Unfortunately, they're not quite the right fit for NOÖ. But I really like your style, especially in "Room Service." I would love to read more work from you, so if you have any more pieces available, please consider sending them along.

My apologies for passing, and thank you again!


P.S. And many thanks for your kind comments about NOÖ, and for posting comments on the site! We adore comments. If there were a way to make a salad out of comments, we would find it. Maybe with some walnuts too.

day 6: sent international diner (from piloteye) to Xcp

Katy Acheson,
Thanks for sending your poem to Xcp: Streetnotes. I really like it. We are going to push back the deadline untill sometime in late July, and publish the Summer issue in August. I will keep your submission on file and get back to you later this Summer.


David Michalski
Xcp: Streetnotes

am not sure what to make of this, in all honesty. though, i am wanting to think of it as a positive sign. the "i really like it" part is what makes me think the poem might make the cut, but one can never be sure.

day 7: Octopus Magazine are accepting manuscript submissions. they're looking for 16-32 pages of poetry (which i totally have). now i just have to decide if i have the balls to do it and whether i ought to go for the wifey or poetess angle. you know, domestic bliss verses foul. dunno. think i'll whip out an entirely seperate post about it, eh?

day 8: something will go to #andwerve but i haven't decided as to exactly what. they want first dibs and no simultaneous submissions... and something challenging... gonna have to think about this one...

... decided on [you are such a vivid dreamer] and [we have]

and gave them this as my bio:

22. married. capecod. hasafriendinphilly. afriendinlakecharles. abrother. asister. amother. afather. apetgoldfish. writespoetry. iswaitingtohearbackfromumassdartmouth. ishopingtoattendgraduateschoolthere. graduatedfromumassamherstmay2005. beenwritinglotsofpoetry. likesskittles. andfrankohara.

This is Jose Deerborn, associate editor for andwerve.
I am writing to you to inform you, regretfully, that your work was not chosen for our May issue. The reasons for not choosing work for our journal are many and are often, as I think in your case, unrelated to the quality of the work submitted. Sometimes we have too much of one kind of aesthetic; sometimes we simply have too much poetry; sometime we are looking for more balance. Thus, you must not be discouraged by this and must continue in your writerly pursuits with resumed confidence and strength. Best of luck in your future efforts, and feel free to submit more work to our journal if you feel it belongs in the upcoming issues. Thank you for your submission.
Jose Deerborn, Poetry Editor, andwerve

day 9: ink(&)ashes are asking for 3 to 5 poems, so am handing over to them graces domestic bliss and this is february.

day 10: wicked alice poetry journal gets broomtookhandlebra and angels do

day 11: am diggin' the style, look & sound of stirring. will be sending them safe the house of ashraf and and then i wrote this poem

Thank you for your submission to Stirring.

Unfortunately we have chosen other works for this issue.

Since we run a small publication, only a tiny portion of work sent to us is accepted, and many fine pieces end up returned merely because of our sizable submissions.

We appreciate your interest in Stirring.

day 12: kennesaw review have sent four poems to the glut and those poems are: hotel sciense XIX hotel science XXII room service and international diner. i have quite a few poems on the subject matter of food...

day 13: am a day ahead of myself (as an attempt not to fall sorely behind during the up-coming holiday weekend; guests will be over for dr who wonderment). so tomorrow, i have submitted three poems (the puzzle bird
before the rain and foul) to typomag 7. i dig the mag, but am not sure that i'm their stylee. they don't have very much in the way of narative poetry... we shall see though.

Dear Katy,
I thank you for sending your work our way, but we have decided to pass this time around. We wish you the best and thank you again for thinking of us.
TYPO eds.

day 14: the editor at a.pos.tro.phe has just been sent the act of being fruit and poetry sampler

Hi Katy,

Your poem "the act of being fruit" is being published in the May/June 2006 issue. Please send a short biography to go along with your poem. Thanks.

Saty Patrabansh

day 15: will send fish into six and the house of ashraf to quick fiction on account of them looking for quick fiction

... i had a feeling this might happen. in reality, it's day 19. which means i should have to submit 4 days worth to be on top of things. instead, i am going to go on a little detour here. it isn't as if anyone is actually keeping up with my submissions anyway, so i can do whatever i want. like i told ryan, too, i just don't feel like and this isn't a job; therefore, if i don't feel like doing it, i don't have to. it is in no way vital to anyone well being that i submit something every day. i am sure i will splurge some evening and get them all done... but that evening is not now.

instead, today, i have played video games, been out to lunch, to the dentist, found out i have negative dollars in the bank, am doing laundry (looking like a total of 4 loads to do today, boys), and generally tidied the house up. once this post is finished i intend on cracking open David Barry Does Japan for a laugh.

the past few days i have pretty much been away from my blog. have been doing a few wordy posts, but have been taking a little break from the poetry scene. haven't even read any poetry in the past few days. i guess everyone needs a break now and again. especially a one who over doses on writing poetry.

so, until i feel like write another poem, and submitting some of those poems to journals and ezines that will more than likely turn them down, i am going to read mindless books. i have a few dr who novels to read, plenty of philip k dick and this david barry fella too keep me attentive until i get my gusto back.

thank you for all the pictures of lucy, michelle; you are the bestest

day 16:

day 17: modern review even though i don't think is a particularly loving place for my sort of poetry...

may 8th: the editor of h_ngm_n is being sent an email which will include the following poems: wednesday
he & she then
spring confessional
and hit parade

Sorry to take so long with these. I really like SPRING CONFESSIONAL and WEDNESDAY & I hope you'll consider sending me those two, with maybe 4 or 5 others, as a new submission as soon as you get a chance...just so I can get a fresh look at things.
Nate Pritts

and have emailed mark from cy gist press about his spaceship. am not sure that he's still looking for submissions. will hopefully hear back soon.
[update on the spaceship project: not taking any more submissions, but mark's put me on his mailing list for future projects ^_^ ]

may 23: outside voices (they are looking for me)
have just sent them
the origami astronaut
experiment 51
... .-- .- .-.. .-.. --- .-- / ... --- -. --. /
promises; promises

need i say more?

may 30th: yeah, i waited until the last minute to submit our poems dear, but at least i got it done. i hope you don't mind, i had to forge your signature. well, ryan did it, so that the signatures would look different.

ashraf and i are sending dear salamander and geography lessons to this competition.

june 16th: will be submitting 5 poems to the onion union (further updates later)

ponytail jerk
the long way
[stretched and penniless]
[let us compare were we're from
and hit parade
have all been submitted to the onion union. special thanks go out to melanie and marcus of the onion union for seeking me out and for commenting on my work.

Thanks Katy,

Marcus here. I think your work is great. The two standard tests are
(1) absense of cliche and (2) concreteness of language. Bang on on
both counts. So, let's agree to publish "the long way" for the August
issue. I hope you'll consider sending work again.

And thanks for your patience; I'm sad to say it's taken a month to get
this e-mail out. While some publications keep an artist's work upwards
of six months before giving her a reply, Mel and I try not to be like
that. Because that's just mean.

Marcus McCann
editor, the onion union

june 21: an ode to frank o'hara has been posted on, thank you billy!

june 24: the ringing of the bards #1 - as hosted by billy the blogging poet (mayor of my series of poems titled the sleeping woman was included in the first festival. am hosting begining july 1st and am uber excited ^_^

june 29: Didi M of The Goodnight Show has asked me to record and submit three for the show. this is a first; the recording thing i mean. am looking forward to hearing how it turns out. brian will be on the friday show (june 30th); do check it out.

4th of july special of the Goodnight Show - featuring ME!

august 14th UPDATE: justheard back from nate at h_ngm_n who wants to include the puzzle bird and wednesday in either the november issue or the march '07 issue of the 'zine. am uber happy about this ^___^ thanks nate!!!

august 28: marlow of in our own words and i had a conversation via email this morning after he invited me to submit some work to his up-coming volume of the anthology. the description and submission guidelines, however, suggest that only poets born between 1960 and 1982 are elegable for submission. hence, the question arouse:

I was born in 1983. Does that mean I have to wait for the next generation's collection? Or do you still want me?

Katy, thanks for getting back. 1983? That's just too close to leave you out. Look forward to receiving and reading some texts from you. Have a great Saturday. Marlow

september 10: just sent what happened, flee market affair, $9.80 and the fold to in our own voices per request of Marlow. ^__^

October 1st: sending 3 poems to elimae today... they will be: what happened, the monarch of fall and soap

sent. and now we wait.

.DENIED. it wasn't what they were looking for. so... onto the next.

october 27th
to 42opus: tongue & cheek, the point, the monarch of fall, the idiot box, soap and ponytail jerk*

day 20: eleven bulls

day 21: ravenna

day 22: shampoo poetry

day 23: zeek (am in love with the name of this journal)

day 24: dusie

day 25: half drunk muse

day 26: petty coat relaxer

day 27: the tiny journal

day 28: no tell motel

more journals here

pretending saturday

i want to pretend like i wrote this poem, but that wouldn't be fair to miss denielle who did write it.


Monday, March 27, 2006

mandrill & saw

to no fault of the wood
was it formed and fitted
in such an ill manner.

to no fault of the pipe
was it manufactured from
plastic and warped
from years of no support.

to no fault of mine
was the phone left unanswered
and the floor left covered
in sawdust and splinters.

post # 174

Sunday, March 26, 2006

from 3 to 26

right... so, ryan had a TARDIS shaped cake when he was 3, and he requested a repeat this year for his 26th birthday.

therefore, (because he's spoilt) kerry (his sis) and i made him one today (along with some little green-on-the-inside alien cup cakes). it turned out quite well i think...


a bit wonky, no?

and here's a pic of the birthday boyo looking really happy and sweet beside his lit cake...

ryan ga kawaii no hito desuyo!

and lastly but not leastly, we cut it up...


Saturday, March 25, 2006

Thursday, March 23, 2006

the puzzle bird

how many birds
would fit inside
this coffee thermos

if each bird
folded its wings
just so?

... read the rest

person(al(l)) poem

folded like a clam
tucked in all the corners
the bed spread stuck to you
like an enchanted lover.

you don't remember me
loosening the bedding
and sliding in beside you
my frighteningly cold hands
thawing under your hot breath
and my toes curling
around yours for warmth.

by morning i'd stolen
three corners of the quilt
from your side of the bed;
my unconscious ploy
to get you to cuddle me closer
by chasing the blanket
to my side of the dipping mattress.

you saw it here first

title and signatures by jane hammond

sizzle, sizzle, flip,
sizzle, sizzle,
flop onto my plate,
into my belly by way of fork
and assisted by butter knife.
passed by player twelve and forty-seven.
the field is ceramic and white
with puddles of syrup.

the last bite is always soggy.
[signed by “Long-Haired Avatar”]


three sultry strips of bacon,
the pig fat fried off left extra crispy
how i like it—
a one night stand
in Amsterdam
[signed by “Love You in the Morning”]


one very wonderful chocolate doughnut
glazed with a sugar compound
and carefully aged→for 38 minutes←on my window sill
cold and soft with a crispy sugary shell
chocolate doughnut, I love you
you love me, I eat you
and you do not love me anymore
[signed by “Freezer Burn”]

*alternate version appears below


pizza can so be a breakfast food if it's cold! don't
fool me, don't battle me. i'll eat what i want, he
ain't got no butta! i saw a sign on a bus that told
me the best thing for breakfast is a nicotine patch.
i do not believe this. i believe that pizza is a much
wiser choice. i am composing this, i am composing
this on mary's computer, i should ask mary if she'd
ever eat pizza for breakfast..."only cold pizza for
breakfast" i am so good.
[signed by “The Hagiography of This Moment”]


they are evil
they are not good for dinner
or dessert
they are not dessert
and they are not breakfast
they are only evil
[signed by “The Peace Plan”]


i picked a daffodil
and gave it to Dina.
she ate it.
i don't know how nutritious a yellow
flower really is but i wouldn't think
to eat one for breakfast
though it was evening when she ate it,
so i guess it’s not the same.
[signed by “The Friendly Sea”]


spunky orange drink a citrusy blend of citrus fruits
enhances with vitamins A, C, D, and E
for your ever growing mind child.
A cartoon drink in a slipper glass.
Refill, half-full, with a little
extra fun on the top… the stuff that stays on your lips.
[signed by “Confessions of a Fop”]


when them nasty waffles start gettin' to ya
spray'em with some waffle off
then they'll start keelin' over right before yer very eyes
one or two might land in a sticky puddle
of vermont made maple syrup
that's been carried south by the clouds and wind
then some soulless squirrels with forks
of all different shapes and size
some two pronged, some three or four pronged
and they'll start munchin' on the nasty waffles
that you got dead with yer waffle off

[available in convenient pocket sized cans
as well as family sized and standard sized cans]
[signed by “A Parliament of Refrigerator Magnets”]


one bowl of cheerios
laced with fine white—sunk to the bottom—
of sugar.
finely harvested
O's of grains
loitering in a plastic bowl
sopping up 2% milk
98% un-milk
and swallowed whole by a giant.
[signed by “Man Overboard”]


there once was a fork from the Malookas [though you'll have
to ask rohrer about that place, i've never been myself] that
glowed like a dog's collar. i ate with it once, what a
wonderful date, we had breakfast together, the fork and i.
the thing was, however, that the fork became extremely
offended when i picked up another fork to eat my eggs, and
so i had to use only a spoon. the fork hardly ate a thing.
the breakfast was great [thanks for the free refills of
decaffeinated coffee]. after the meal the fork and i went
back to my place. nothing happened. the fork just kept
on glowing; never took it off.
[signed by “Long Black German Heels and Back Areas”]


Ripe little fruit
I [the pronoun]
Dig into is
Ecstasy to my
So ner.
[signed by “Mad Elge”]


there's a giant bee in my room
he's trying to get out but he can't find
the little hole he came in from

so i put the last of my tea on the ledge
for my friend [the bee] to drink

he played around the edge of the cup
for a minute or two

but i guess he doesn't really care
for raspberry flavored tea.
[signed by “A Scratched Itch”]


English muffin or toast--
the whole point is the jam.
orange, purple or red?
it all just goops on... sticking
to its bready bed like a dirty baby.
then you eat it! What!?
crunch and slop, slurp and chomp
that's it [i've seen enough]
[signed by “Irregular Plural”]


it’s been done already.
[signed by “The Human Condition Revisited”]

*translated by drook

Un beignet de chocolat très merveilleux
glacé avec un composé de sucre
et soigneusement vieilli »pour trente-huit« minutes
sur mon sill de fenêtre
froid et doux avec une coquille de sugary
beignet de chocolat,
je vous aime. Vous m'aimez.
Je vous mange et vous ne m'aimez plus.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

what an ashraf is- a character study

you ask, how was philly?
i say, i didn't know just how good
until i had to leave.

here is an ode or a painting,
hung behind the silver slivers
of an old fashioned science fiction
gown. fitting only for a diva
or a dalida, a goddess, or more.

here is another string of secrets
tied together on a shoe lace
and followed by a friendly cat
down the length of an inspirational corridor.

what an ashraf is- all the secret
hiding places in a car
for mints, gums, glasses, gloves,
tissues, cds, mirrors, fragrances
and special body butters.

what an ashraf is- the effects
of a transformation from christmas pj's
to hair gel and a soft sweater
with contact lenses and leather gloves.

what an ashraf has- if he blushes,
the most beautiful brown eyes
ever given to a boy by his mother
and just enough attitude
to warrant a guilty smile.

what an ashraf has- a collection
of royal blue and gold bottles
of shampoo, conditioner and
shower gel neatly arranged
in the corner of the shower
in the back of the bathroom
with the loose light switch
from too many rough starts
to too many heavy days.

what an ashraf does- offers hot tea
before breakfast and asks how i like
the collection of marie howe poems
i've barely skimmed the surface of.

what an ashraf does- bites his nails
when no one is meant to be watching
then catches me staring and stops.
neither of us smiling, neither needing to.
instead, we comment on the cat.

recommended reading

parallel wordport

my amigo drook[star] has finally hopped on board the blogger-express and has posted three poems of a very drookian nature. drook was there are the start of poemtree, though neither of us knew it. hey, maybe i should post you saw it here first? it's a collection of pieces surrounding the wonders of breakfast. drook was an important influence on that collection and has actually translated one of its parts into french. hah, all the hype, i will definatly have to post it now.

COMING SOON: you saw it here first (with special alternate version of "chocolate" by drook)

hey drook, ever get around to that introduction? >_<

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

on topic

so i've been away, been to philadelphia, and haven't written a poem in (counting...) 4 whole days *shock* i know! though, i've not always been as productive as i have been the past 5 or so months, so it's by no means earth shattering.

first, let's address philadelphia and kashmir sweaters:
though i'm not in love with the city, i didn't really spend that much time with it. i will go back soon, this i know... that is, i suppose, unless arch really does move to europe, in which case i will be visiting milano or some such exoti-city (making up words is good for your brain).
the museum is very nice. would have liked to spend more time there (but i guess we left some for next time). silly thing: restaurants on a saturday closing at 10, what's that all about? silly thing (in a different way): cats and string. snuffy and i had a good lot of fun up and down and all around arch's apartment with a south park shoe lace. the cat nip helped.
favorite thing: "mou'sif!" this is for arch to understand (and ryan if he reads it) only. second favorite thing: watching a&w try to contemplate the 4th dimension. there are lots of other favorite things but i won't bore you all with them.

now back to poetry, eh? there's a peculiar and interesting thing that happens to me with poetry when i write it lots and when i don't write it at all. i pretty much have two extremes with poetry; either i'm writing prolifically (every day) or i'm never writing (i'll write maybe one crappy poem every month or so, like i usually do in the summer months, as i'm far too busy being). i've thought about this before, but i've never really written about it, and though this is usually a topic fitting for poetship i thought i would splurdge here (again) anyway.

what i think happens is that upon writing a poem every day i am able to focus each poem on an instant within my experience. i am able to take a highlight and manipulate it into a poem. i focus on the poem.

on the other hand, when i am not writing very often, when i do sit down to write i am faced with every instance between the last time and this time.

for some reason i have this urge to turn every insignificant moment into a poem (part of my problem is that i am continuously translating everything i see, hear, taste, etc into words (as if they were the only thing i understood, which is sort of correct, as it is an accepted theory that memory is linked directly to language and comprehension)).

therefore, i think it is beneficial for me to write every day, even if it's crap. it's like a de-congestion process, writing poetry. the downside is that there tend to be a lot of crappy poems when one writes like this. the up side is that those crappy poems are easily disposed of (as the amount of attachment on a poem is partially related to how many poems one has) or at least ignored (by the readers). the other plus side is, that for every bunch of crappy poems, there's a gem that comes through.

there's another major downfall (for me) when it comes to writing less often, and that is that i always try to catch up with myself. this is, of course, impossible, but i try anyway.

below is a clump of words pretending to be a poem. it is an example of my trying to catch up. there is another poem that i am currently working on (which hopefully will not be crap), and i'm sure that there are more bits like this brewing. enjoy!

through a desperate hug
i relinquish my mid-night anxieties
on the haunches of my lover

disturbing his delicate sleep
i'm chanting my thanks and apologies

it was just a dream
he says

Monday, March 20, 2006

snakes on a plane

click and listen

weekend in review to come shortly, poetry too. in the mean time enjoy a little sampling of the wonder that is "snakes on a plane"

see snakes on a blog for more joy and wonderment.

Thursday, March 16, 2006




Wednesday, March 15, 2006

not a sex poem:

i am shorter with no shoes on
my toes rubbing cotton socks
into the synthetic fibers
of a worn-down carpet;
purple into red.

the heat here is on the "fritz"
or a distant island in the pacific
simply taking holiday
in this, the unforgiving tale
of a sturdy winter.

i need to finish this book
so i can write this letter
but i leave in 15 minutes;
go home, go to bed, go to sleep.

between the layers of slumber
are tangled masses and dreams
of his spirit animal and mine
mingling in a domestic forest
at the hum of a filtered pond

and we, of all the creatures,
ill-suited to one another,
are happy here without the heat.

we have thick socks to keep our feet
warm through the last month of winter.

to my miniature army of lovable poets;

get involved


we sucked each others bottom lips fat

spilling juices on purple sheets;

our stomachs moaned for greater things

than our tongues were ready to taste

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

[we have]

we have america under our tongues
between our teeth and tucked
between gums and swollen lips.

we have the sound of poets in an open field
shouting words to one another in friendly battle.

we judge the sun as it struggles to set
behind the white-washed back of a historical hotel
where the concrete is stained by the blood
of a thousand scrapped knees.

we are hungry for softer beds

bigger fields

and more friends we'd like to kiss
behind fences in confidence of secrecy.

to share america without speaking a word
we learn sign language and how to read lips
until the motivation of smell becomes us.

we have cancelled all borders,
but we constructed more fences for hiding behind.

our mouths are open wide with anxiety.

we have cursed the rising moon at dusk
for exposing our sloppy tongues
to the field of war-warn poets
and the wanting shells of men.

we have the taste of resolve on our fingers.

we have given ourselves up to the obedience
of a playground in the dark by choosing one
of one thousand beautiful creatures to sleep with.

Monday, March 13, 2006

we are but buffalo
in a world of dairy cows

For most newspapers and magazines, poetry has become a literary commodity intended less to be read than to be noted with approval. Most editors run poems and poetry reviews the way a prosperous Montana rancher might keep a few buffalo around—not to eat the endangered creatures but to display them for tradition's sake.


enriko revealed this article to the subtle eye via brian's blog, here.

if you have a few spare minutes, it's easily read and rather insightful (a digestible poetics). otherwise, enjoy the above quote.

before the rain (2 poets 4 parts)

before the rain by katy

bent and struggling
a saw drove into the flesh
of a dying tree.

we watched as the clouds flooded the sky with thick, grey vengeance and four brown hawks cried for the tree as it bellowed against the strain of it's own weight.
the first drops of rain
fell in tune with the cries
of four hawks

and the last breath
of a dying pine.

before the rain by brian

bent and struggling
a saw drove
into a dry pine.

we watched the clouds flood the sky with grey-thick
vengeance, four brown hawks cried for the tree as it
bellowed against the strain of it's weight.

the first drops of rain
fell with the cries
of the hawks

and the last breath
of the pine.

[[like i told brian "it's amazing, the same words, venacular and all, can be so easily and yet so slightly disfigured and turned into someone else". and isn't it just?]]

after the rain (on piloteye) by katy

after the rain by brian

we watched four hawks
drying wings on top
a near-by barn

Sunday, March 12, 2006

the lower take

     so, have you chosen
you chose not to

          have me tonight

will you not have me?
     and my poems for you__
          they are relentless and
          they are tireless like me.

trick me if you won't
          fill me don't lose me
          my void is aching
          like heat

the source of your lips
     begets my breath.
     i am only a child (to you)__
          i am only for you
     your teen aged virgin__
     with pretty hair
          and sensitive breasts.

we have stopped

the creae of my thumb
          split under you
now__will you not take me?

like my poetry,
     filling space

i am like my poetry
     vulnarable and filling space.
     i am growing like a dark secret
          amongst technology
          and dust__
i too am filtered.

the lower

i fall under you
     again, again, again,
          please, now yes, now

now we have a semblance
          of peace

please, tell me
     i love you.



Saturday, March 11, 2006

the undoing

we suffered the darker silences of winter
only for a wood pecker to morning us too early.

the parliament of red breasted robins congregated
on the snow-tempered blades of our front lawn

lobbying for stale bread, insects and rain
to draw the worms from their buried chambers.

tomorrow will be spring and we'll pitch the tent
for airing. brushing away spiders' nests and

the vicious mildews that form inside zipper tracks.
beyond the wire-fence an equestrian strode by

the scent of the horse and honey bees flirted
with our senses from across the cranberry bog.

we made love on the edges of every surface
where neighbors could neither hear nor see

but under the stars of our blossoming march
we trickle into the light of an open arena.


Friday, March 10, 2006

promises; promises:


one mountain           under
                              river beds and pebbles

crease the man's spine
     with the grace of an



she pierces                with fat
the rhythm of
his potency                before

          a promise is broken


feeling canadian(s)

i asked hardy if he'd come over to do my dishes not realizing exactly what i was asking for...

... fore this is what canadians do after the dishes

Thursday, March 09, 2006


we bent into the shovels
the mud and jerked the
heel of the truck with our
sparrow-lined footwear.

fantasies talk lines and
bolt us to the closet hangers.

i sucked the open spouts
of japanese tea pots for you.
you sang to me and let me
paint dragons on your back.

we've made love in stranger
ways than this when we were
teenagers; full and ripe with
triumph and soft growing bodies.

tonight we watched the air
between us filter like a bad
cigarette across glossed lips
and buried our mixtures
beneath the sand in the desert.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

the poetess' dilema

(a poem by brian)

The Poetess' Dilema

photo by katy


zio's pancake party pictures

there were only two pictures of me (looking a bit too serious in the second one, well, in comparison. actually, i look hypnotized--no idea when that happened.)



a nice photo of dina and jonah together


and for the full roll... go here

human telephone

i could hear your voice speaking
        through your fingers.

you kept both pointers in my ears
        as i brushed my teeth.

our leonard cohen moment
        and you didn't even realize.

our bodies tangled like rice noodles
        under the blue quilt.

you asked me, what are you doing?
        and i replied, being in love with you.

billy's at it again... still... would you expect anything less? something about rss and communities. basically, adding your blog to the feed means everytime you update your blog, updates their feed. another means for blogging poets to find one another.

oh, and congrats jesse you made the list!

[[addition: happy birthday!!
a whole bunch of you kiddies got added to billy's second list of blogging poets. i'm so proud!]]

fish into six

[adjustment: b & b have persuaded me into admitting that the prose-form of this poem is better than the form-form of this poem, so skip to the good bits.]

i dreamt that my goldfish gave birth
to four red fish and two white fish.
they shared the ten gallon tank
and swam laps around each other.

i was being accepted. you persuaded me
to take a hotel shower with you before
the dinner reception. you forgot your socks
when you stepped in under the rainfall
of hot water, you were distracted i guess.

we passed the tank full of fish on our way
to the hall where i will be given a token
of some refined sort; where we'd eat carrots
dressed as flowers and rare deli meats
folded like beach towels over wasa bread
and finish with sips of sparkling drinks
that stain even the straightest teeth.

in the dream we speak like poets to each other.
you mention rainbows and it brings up history.
we tried dancing to a slower song,
but your feet fell too clumsily onto mine.

i was given a statuette of a young woman
holding a pen and book in gold leaf.
you carried her up to your hotel room,
passed the tank filled with baby fish,
and set her down on the vanity,
facing her own reflection.

you apologized to my toes for
your terrible dancing before climbing
into the orchestrated hotel bed.
then you tried to explain to me
just how impossible it is
for one fish to give birth to six.


i dreamt that my goldfish gave birth to four red fish and two white fish. they shared the ten gallon tank and swam laps around each other. i was being accepted. you persuaded me to take a hotel shower with you before the dinner reception. you forgot your socks when you stepped in under the rainfall of hot water, you were distracted i guess. we passed the tank full of fish on our way to the hall where i will be given a token of some refined sort; where we'll eat carrots dressed as flowers and rare deli meats folded like beach towels over wasa bread and finish with sips of sparkling drinks that stain even the straightest teeth. in the dream we speak like poets to each other. you mention rainbows and it brings up history. we tried dancing to a slower song, but your feet fell too clumsily onto mine. i was given a statuette of a young woman holding a pen and book in gold leaf. you carried her up to your hotel room, passed the tank filled with baby fish, and set her down on the vanity, facing her own reflection. you apologized to my toes for your terrible dancing before climbing into the orchestrated hotel bed. then you tried to explain to me just how impossible it is for one fish to give birth to six.

[[notes: brian sent me an email (just like he said) and this is what was in it (see above-prose poem formatting for fish into six. honestly, i had thought about putting it into a prose form. why didn't i then? not sure. to be honest, i'm torn with this piece. the rhythm is carried through into the prose form (it doesn't lose anything). does it gain anything though? does the stanza-format hold any leverage over the prose? other than the "oh it's a poem" reaction of first looking at it? i guess i have been doing my share of ranting lately and didn't want this piece to get swashed into the bucket with my rants and poetic endeavored. i will leave it up to you, the individual, which you prefer. the story is the same, it sounds the same, but what does it do for eyes?]]

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Word Verification Contest WINNERS!!!

ladies and boyos the Word Verification Contest has drawn to a close and the good judge arch has selected the three winners...

*drum roll*

in 3rd place is

Vadusmf nights

iznziaxg have got kouuopvx
I ajbfnier my huhue between afadh and zasyrssb
it warms my fnixasv for a while

pomty coins in the mekytd
I get lgrcruu, auusqsl , three eupac klbpn
what more does a lqbppgfe need?

Maybe kmsol, maybe kqhnc

I've got them too
tucked away in my cffzzyc umtojx
with some hyrojl ixruax

epshzu gsqnk like that are ousabw
they make me svonn psyasrb and mnqoziio
when really I'm just zzgjxz
with a good vqdbueyi

that's the uaisr I'm meant to be
I'm too hspzjf to lgrcruu up

by elwood_blues_uk

2nd place goes to

-Svonn Smith's adoration of Ousabw Aussqsl-

I should like to write of love
nearly gone gsqnk, kqhnc.

As did the famous Zgjxz,
Svonn forgot all women
he'd knewed
before he met fair Ousabw
at Epshzu near Istanbul.

by reid welch

and the winner of the pinata in his own likeness goes to

The Cyvig

Intently gazing
at black uaisr
on a pomty screen –
my eyes jwoule
start to twitch
and I pomty
to pyuqm like
the creatures
that are a metaphor
to eupac existence.
The parasites race
through my psyasrb
toward my brain;
mekytd aches,
paranoia beams –
I could kouuopvx this bug
wandering aimlessly
across the svonn,
a godlike huhue –
like a zombie
I just stare.

by brian

congratulations to all and a big 'thank you' to everyone who participated in the contest ^_^

Sunday, March 05, 2006

pages collected

right so, arch and i have been having a little conversation via page numbers within two collections of poems (namely, a green light and the good thief). two collections of poetry is really rather limiting, so we are both compiling a list of all of the collections of poetry that we own (or permanently borrow) in order to see what other collections we might have in common and also to guide each other's purchases in the future (perhaps?).

to be honest, i really had no idea i had this much poetry lying about. there are a few collections that i have not read through their entirety. i have yet to read through all of any one jubilat (i do flitter through them from time to time though) and i am sure that i might never ever catch up with norton. looking at all those anthologies, actually, i'm considering getting some stock in norton.

these are all books, i do have a stack of hand-outs, printed pages and packets of poetry that, when all stacked on top of one another accumulate to about 3 (that's more than a ream of paper, amigos). most of that is either unpublished or essays on poetry (poetics).

and all of this is hopefully going to grow (have you seen my wishlist on amazon lately? haha! like i'd ever have enough time to read all that and keep up with ron silliman, please!!!)

enough wittering one, here's my list (alphabetical too):

akhmatova, anna
<> anna akhmatova: poems (selected and translated by lyn coffin)
(mixed pleasures)
<> nothing but the truth
<> anthology of japanese literature
<> the harbrace anthology of literature
<> norton introduction to literature seventh edition
<> norton anthology of english literature seventh edition volume a
<> norton anthology of english literature seventh edition volume 2
(poetry only)
<> the outlaw bible of american poetry
<> postmodern american poetry: a norton anthology
<> the new american poetry, 1945-1960
<> the norton anthology of modern and contemporary poetry, 3rd edition, volume 1
<> poems from the greek anthology (expanded edition)
<> lullabies and poems for children
<> poems, poets, poetry
<> cats are cats
<> poetics of indeterminacy: rinbaud to cage
<> modernism
ashbery, john
<> the tennis court oaths
borges, jorge luis
<> selected poems
burton, tim
cohen, leonard
<> beautiful losers (not actually poetry; not actually mine)
erdrich, louise
frost, robert
hardy, thomas
<> wessex poems (not actually mine)
hathaway, william
hejinian, lyn
<> the good thief
jeffers, robinson
<> selected poems
<> 5
<> 6
<> 10
<> 11
lorca, federico garcia
<> poem of the deep song
mayer, bernadette
<> a bernadette mayer reader
mobilio, albert
moore, marianne
o'hara, frank
<> poems retrieved
oppen, george
perdomo, willie
plath, sylvia
poe, edgar allen
rohrer, matthew
silverstein, shel
spiegelman, art
stein, gertrude
<> 3 lives (not actually poetry)
stevens, wallace
tate, james
waldner, liz
williams, william carlos
wood, karenne

poem of the day:

denielle's digital morning romance is truly a superior poem. i highly reccomend you have a read of it.

a hit of

... until tonight i hadn't realized just how much i missed the staples of a russian party (this time of year the focal of the gathering begins with pancakes (the non-american kind) and digresses, or progresses, to songs). include vodka, newly weds and clementine oranges and you're on your way to a supreme sort of spectical. so i got my hit of l cohen tonight. special thanks to jonah (even though he wouldn't play american boy) for playing the crack and anal sex song for me ^_^

pictures will, i'm sure, be made available shortly. in the mean time, enjoy some leonard cohen at his finest...

The Future (as written and performed by Leonard Cohen)
Crack and Anal Sex (as performed by Jonah Katz)

Give me back my broken night
my mirrored room, my secret life
it's lonely here,
there's no one left to torture
Give me absolute control
over every living soul
And lie beside me, baby,
that's an order!
Give me crack and anal sex
Take the only tree that's left
and stuff it up the hole
in your culture
Give me back the Berlin wall
give me Stalin and St Paul
I've seen the future, brother:
it is murder.

Things are going to slide, slide in all directions
Won't be nothing
Nothing you can measure anymore
The blizzard, the blizzard of the world
has crossed the threshold
and it has overturned
the order of the soul
When they said REPENT REPENT
I wonder what they meant
When they said REPENT REPENT
I wonder what they meant
When they said REPENT REPENT
I wonder what they meant

You don't know me from the wind
you never will, you never did
I'm the little jew
who wrote the Bible
I've seen the nations rise and fall
I've heard their stories, heard them all
but love's the only engine of survival
Your servant here, he has been told
to say it clear, to say it cold:
It's over, it ain't going
any further
And now the wheels of heaven stop
you feel the devil's riding crop
Get ready for the future:
it is murder

Things are going to slide ...

There'll be the breaking of the ancient
western code
Your private life will suddenly explode
There'll be phantoms
There'll be fires on the road
and the white man dancing
You'll see a woman
hanging upside down
her features covered by her fallen gown
and all the lousy little poets
coming round
tryin' to sound like Charlie Manson
and the white man dancin'

Give me back the Berlin wall
Give me Stalin and St Paul
Give me Christ
or give me Hiroshima
Destroy another fetus now
We don't like children anyhow
I've seen the future, baby:
it is murder

Things are going to slide ...

When they said REPENT REPENT ...

Friday, March 03, 2006

backyard prophets

roll in the grass you seeded as a child. then, wrapping your fingers around a mug of hot tea that you won't drink, dissect the blades. determine the age of each cell through rigorous poking and prodding. professionalize yourself. suit up and tighten the collar on your shirt. if you're good enough they'll feed you too much. the girl in the back seat of some other guy's car rubs her eyes. she has been knitting time. she incorporates pearls and gems that she stole from others on her way up north. the man returns to the driver's seat, handing over pints of whole milk and black tea--all the bodily fluids. you watch them leave. you watch the next couple pull in, fill up, pass themselves off as something bigger and better than they really are. you're driving home. only, you can't get there by car.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

carrying on

a response to "..lilla.." by b blue

i carry with me a kind of poetic complex. one in which the urge to place poets and poems within a reference, within a frame work, is overwhelming. often times, i unleash these rampant carrying ons to the newly formed and still developing po’et’ship. though on rare occasions like this one i feel it necessary to express my interactions with a particular poem in a more sillimanian fashion.

today i embarked on my regular tour of blogs, clicking from one to the next seeking out the freshly lain words to satiate my appetite and ended salivating (metaphorically, of course) over "..lilla..".

arguably not a poem, this short piece does everything a poem needs to do in order to further bridge the gap between the widely indulgent nature of the novel and the under appreciated collection of fine poetry. though it is not my ambition (wholly) to bridge the gap between these two genres, i am profoundly intrigued by the subtleties and somewhat callous guild lines that separate the two forms of art.

i have explored and have given names to some of the differences between poetry and fiction here.

"..lilla.." is exemplary in that it presents itself as a prose piece in a format which is, in the instance of [Le Vie En Bleu], primarily designated to poetic form, additionally, "..lilla.." contains components of both Objectivism and a distinct sense of time which can best be interpreted through stein's explanation as composition--the history is in the composition.

i'll fall back on my PoemTree intro quite liberally here, so if you have not already made yourself familiar with it, now is as good a time as any.

how is "..lilla.." objective in the sense of the poetic school? let me begin with epistemology. i rather recently explained objectivism in terms of louise zukofsky's sentiments on epistemology and optical lenses to arch which i will dispense upon you here:

so, objectivism is, basically, a way of looking at a poem as a concrete object... here it is in pieces: this is a word, it has been manufactured throughout history, it has been wrapped and shipped and displayed and sold and now lives inside this pocket in this man’s coat. this is the objectivist angle. this is epistemology understood on a functional level.

let me relate this to lenses and prisms for you… Zukofsky used the analogy of an optical lens (which is where my idea for light and poetry came from, directly).
“An Objective: (Optics)—The lens bringing the rays from an object to a focus. That which is aimed at.” what i understand this to mean is that the poem is the lens. everything that you the reader understand and associate with “the object” and everything that i the poet understand and associate with “the object”, converge in the poem. when we both put our histories in through the poem the result is a fixed beam. we have now added to one another’s collections of understandings and ideas surrounding “the object”. does that make sense?

i have an idea of what a white chicken looks like, what it eats, where it belongs in the world. you have an idea of all these things too, though they might be very different. now that we have both read the poem by WCW called “the red wheel barrow” we have a new image to associate with “white chickens”. now, after looking through the lens that WCW created we can come to the same conclusion about white chickens.

objectivism, in part, is a way of linking people’s ideas and thus creating a web of understanding. this is the way language develops. one inside-joke after another. for example, on our level. when i say “salamander” i’m sure we both think of something rather unique and different to the rest of the world. [side note: i mentioned earlier that this is part of a dialogue intended for arch, i will leave this little example in to further the point... the inside joke, though it is perhaps less of a joke and more of a secret]

one time on the bus home from school, our freshman year, Danielle and i used to play the word association game, among others. Danielle starts, she says “apple” and i say, without a moments hesitation “cow”. this stopped Danielle in her tracks. “cow? what does a cow have to do with an apple?"

4 years later lauren and i are visiting Danielle at school. i’m on one bed, Danielle across the room on the other and lauren is leaning up against danielle’s bed. she leans over and whispers something to lauren. they both look up at me and daneille says “apple” and i instantly say “cow”. lauren was flabergasted. Danielle had told her “i can make katy say cow, want to see?” it’s a fun trick. every now and again daneille will send me a text message: “apple” and i’ll reply with, you guessed it “cow”.

for me, that’s part of objectivism, part of epistemology. for me objectivism goes far beyond poetry. all of it though, is to do with words. part of it all, too, which i mentioned at the beginning of my objectivism spiel is the idea that the poem itself is an object. this is the part of objectivism that i struggle with only because for me, the poem is relative to glass—i know it’s there but i can see right through it.

that's a lot of words, perhaps. but the point is hardly made clear without all of the digestion, so, back to our little "..lilla.." who, at age 15 saw a volcano erupt.

The dried lava flows looked like elephant skin, piled up together, with Lorax trees randomly dispersed.

reading and understanding the description takes a particular light wave to get the, what i imagine was the poet's, desired effect; "Lorax trees" being a referral to a feature in a Dr Seuss book. anyone who existed prior to the popularity of one Dr Seuss may be lost hovering above the word for some contextual evidence. perhaps this imaginary person from the past would try to understand the name of the tree as being something real or perhaps an adjective yet heard by him to mean ... hmmn volcanoes.. burnt? parched? arid or perhaps even cactus like?

with the right refraction of light inserted into the prism (the poem, or to be more precise, here, the "Lorax") the reader leaves the line with these trees in his/her mind. and with it, hopefully, the reminder of some innocence, some family, some belief in something greater that is lost with age.

the power of epistemology here is evident. the use of the lorax tree as a reference allows the poet to subject the reader to the same sense of growth and loss as lilla is engulfed in within the passage. this makes lilla that much more real.

what the poem also does, besides fracture light through children's books references, is to organize itself (or perhaps i should say, what the poet does is to organize the poem) into a time loop.

i like to condense stein's theories of time and composition as the theory in which the only difference between now and then is the individual and that individual's interaction with the surroundings (which are, as you might have guessed, the same throughout time). this then relates to poetry (to all composition in all mediums) through stein's idea that the only way one preserves time essence is through art--through poetry.

brandy, dear, you preserve your moment in time with the lorax, with your volcano, with lilla's died black hair...

also, within the poem, there is this aformentioned time loop. this loop within the text is related to stein's theories in that all time is happening at once. the character may change, but that is the only marker. there is no chronology other than the changing lilla herself. without her every vision within the poem is happening simultaneously.

this is one of my favorite differences between novels and poetry collections. in a collection of poetry there is no narrator telling you what is happening first or last. the poems, if it were humanly possible, should be read simultaneously. poems ought be read the way the eye sees a where's waldo picture--we are aware, instantly, of the dynamic number of characters, variations, locations, etc. novels, on the other hand, lay out a specific timeline within the text in order to be cohesive and tolerable to the "average" reader. this is the constraint of novels; a non-linear novel is most likely never going to make it onto opera's book list. (there are exceptions to everything, of course, and one of my absolutely favorite novels is little more than a string of prose-poems about the same four characters, though i don't think cohen's on any of oprah's lists.)

in the end, what i'm getting at is, "..lilla.." reminded me of everything i was after in writing that poetics essay for PoemTree. it is a perfect example of a poem which disguises itself in prose and lures the unsuspecting prose-prone reading into it's grasp.

bravo dear blue. bravo.

subject & reply

we, poets, talk in page numbers to one another.

i wrote: the good thief page 16 stanza one only
he replied: a green light pages 20-21

the decoding process:

subject: This fullness in my breasts and belly
     will ache until it goes away
breaking down like sludge running through
     the rushing gutters, the tenderness
impossible to bear, like a love
     for everything that never was. Outside
my window, even the trees look incredulous
     as if they had just remembered
their cyclical forgetting, and all week
     apart from you, the snow falls heavily
mixed with inconstant dirty rain.


My back hurts. On one side.
Also I feel that I am simply too large a creature,
that I am spindly. I have lost certain abilities.
I used to be a better driver.
Most of my pleasure comes from eating.
Eating fulfills more than hunger.
Carmina Burana touches me for personal reasons
related to performing it in high school; in other respects
I know it is worn and trite.
I am slowly wearing down my teeth.
I believe my dreams are real, with sincerity,
but am not sincere enough to move into them.
I have a physical condition which makes it impossible for me
     to fake interest.
I think everyone on TV looks like me.
I hold many conflicting beliefs. I take pride in this.
My anger is blunt and uncontrolled.
I am able to view nearly everything with a sense of wry
I am too ashamed to be unproductive.
I rely on humor to connect with people.
I try to view nearly every situation as humorous and detached.
People enjoy working with me.
In an office setting I am often described as "laid back."
I can type 67 words per minute.
I am at home,
in a chair,
available for work.
I am the right man for the job.

dear ashraf,
let's get fat together, read poems and speak in page numbers to one another; i'll be marie and you be matthew and on that someday when you return to my doorstep after years of silence we'll speak again in punctuated eggplant and dog-eared pages of worn out books.
love always,