Somebody Emailed Me

They said they Googled me and found this...

Mixed Martials Arts | Subfighter Mixed Martial Arts Social NetworkWB Keckler WB Keckler Born 1966 Harrisburg, Pennsylvania Nationality United States Known for poetry WB Keckler, (born 1966 Harrisburg, Pen...

Yeah, biotches.

That's me all over.

These hands are lethal weapons and have to be licensed in 48 of these grand states of ours.

Scott Keeney....

has been writing some hella good poetry here...

Dig the Sonnets!

Sick!

I mean that in the juvenile (complimentary) way.

Linguistic terms:

1) Amelioration: when the usual sense of a word changes from negative to positive denotation or connotation (as "sick" above).

2) Pejoration: when the usual sense of a word changes from positive to negative denotation or connotation (as "interesting" or "pretty" when applied to anything literary).

Neologism of the Day (Just Coined by Yours Truly)

laundrionage n. (LAWN-dree-uh-nazh) (Portmanteau, fr. English laundry + Fr. origin espionage, the latter element invoking comparisons to acts of subterfuge of the sort seen in its practice.) The act of surreptitiously dropping items of clothing into an empty laundry machine in the hope that your spouse, partner, significant other, roommate, etc. will then shepherd these articles of clothing the rest of the way through the process.*

Example of usage: "Laurie was a crackhead, so she often engaged in laundrionage in order that she might disport herself without encumberment in her usual crackhead frivolity."



*N.B. If the laundry appliance is located in a dark or darkish room, it is easier to engage in this covert activity with impunity.

FOR THOSE WHO WOULD ENGAGE IN LAUNDRIONAGE: HELPFUL HINTS

1. Darker items of clothing are easier to get away with than brighter ones.

2. Basements and interior laundry rooms are good places to attempt this, as lighting tends to be minimal. Muddy rooms are iffy. If the appliance is located in a muddy room, engage in laundrionage only on darker days. Cloud cover should be 70% or greater. Consult a meteorologist.

3. Carefully unscrew any overhead lightbulb if present. You can screw this back in later, after the intended target has done the laundry, or simply allow the intended victim to assume the lightbulb is burnt out and 1) change it (in which case the act of laundrionage might be exposed; N.B. remember to retrieve the good lightbulb from the trash, if you care) or more likely 2) ignore it (the victim is probably as lazy as you are).

If the latter scenario results, simply screw the bulb tight again after the act of laundrionage has been successfully perpetrated.

Juice Finds the Coolest Toys

This one I haven't tried yet, but am looking forward to trying.

And it's at the Wave Books site!

Wave Books is one of my favorite American publishers of poetry.

Flood Editions, Green Integer...there are a small handful of publishers who will rarely steer a reader wrong.

Enjoy...

Sous rature?

So It's Not All in My Head...It's in My Neck.

I'm so tired of being ill.

This is the longest I've ever been ill in my life and the scariest symptoms I've ever had have been with this run of ill health.

I think I had strep initially, and that triggered a weird response in my body.

But lately I've gotten really clinically weirder...my body temperature has been consistently hypothermic and bordering on the dangerous numbers; I've gotten neuropathy.

I have this notebook to try to remember the staging of all this insanity, the feeling of gradually falling apart and aging decades in a few months.

I was tested for all sorts of things (always negative) but I thank God that one doctor out of so many actually READ my CBC, apparently.

It was on a blood test from back in late June--I wonder if the docs I saw subsequent at the same institution were even reading it. They had it right in front of them every time I presented with a new set of disconcerting symptoms.

Here's someone online talking about THS and the numbers that apply in healthy people...

TSH Levels

The endocrinologist I see periodically, as well as my regular physician, both believe that a TSH of around 1 to 2 is optimal for most people to feel well and avoid having hypothyroid or hyperthyroid symptoms. There is also research that suggests that values above TSH of 2 may actually even represent abnormal levels. See the British Medical Journal for more information on that research.

And as of March 2003, it is the official recommendation of the america Association of Endocrinologists that the normal range for TSH levels is .3 to 3.0 -- Read the information here. I know I feel terrible at a TSH level of 4 to 5, I also feel bad when it drops too low to .2, but I pretty best at a TSH of between 1 and 2.

(NOTE: TSH levels are usually kept lower than 1 to 2 for thyroid cancer survivors -- a process known as thyroid suppression -- to help prevent cancer recurrence.)

My THS at the date of the CBC was over 14.

I have a severely underactive thyroid: hypothyroidism.

The effects of this are unbelievable systemically. It's basically an auto-immune disease and with each drop of one degree in temperature (going by the hypothermia) the functionality of enzymatic activity drops by approximately 20%.

I was told I had an underactive thyroid a few years back and handed a prescription but I blew it off at the time because I had read the list of symptoms online and didn't feel I had any.

Now, looking back this explains a few weird scary things I had happen in my body over the years.

I once thought I was being exposed to heavy metal poisoning through work or something because I had an area of localized hair loss and neuropathy (feeling of numbness). It was a small area and the hair later grew back and the neuropathy seemed improved somewhat, less noticeable. So I blew it off as one of nature's flukes.

There are other things. Even panic attacks and many other mental illness issues can be associated with this. The brain fog I was experiencing and still get.

I drive everybody around me crazy right now because my inner thermostat is now set differently. A room that would have made me run for the air conditioner before feels comfortable to me, and I can't enter rooms which others find completely comfortable (air conditioned). My waking (basal) temperature is the really scary one usually, and I get "crashes" where suddenly my temperature starts to plunge. I really only make 98.6 on rare occasions. I'm often 97 something during the day. When I saw 95.7 the other night after a really bad crash I started to get really scared.

My mother has has this for years, but she's always taken medication for it. It's not as common in males. It will often run in families.

I have to research Hashimoto's more, because what I was told years ago was a harmeless little lipoma (deposit of fatty tissue) I've had for well over a decade is actually affixed right over my thyroid and has the exact consistency and feel of a Hashimoto's type goiter (not the large type you see as in Grave's disease).

I have a call in to my doctor and plan to start on synthroid or levothyroxine as soon as possible (tomorrow I hope).

But I worry that some of this damage might be irreversible or that that alone might not be sufficient (I've been reading stories by people with numbers like mine who only get the slightest decrease in TSH with these--that's the body trying to offset the failure of the thyroid to do its hormonal job).

Basically the thyroid is being destroyed over time. I think the body attacks it and destroys it...it shrinks and atrophies. I suppose mine is in a horrid state.

I am actually grateful that one physician actually said this to me (as an aside, rather casually). She said something like "Of course, you already know about your hypothyroidism."

I wonder if other doctors just made the assumption with a number like that that it had already been clinically noticed and addressed.

Learning something like this gives me some hope that I finally know what's doing all this crazy stuff to my body, but of course it scares me too, because now I realize how probable it is this destruction has been going on in my body for years.

I knew I tended towards hypoglycaemia and all that too, so I should have figured this out myself earlier.

But when I read the list of symptoms (the extensive list when it's severe) I was able to tick off dozens of things.

I'll do the Oprah thing and try to focus on the good things and not the horrible things like the new neuropathy I'm getting, and the fatigue now.

It's hard.

But I have to believe this is most likely the majority of the answer.

And if that's the case I am exceedingly grateful.

I still feel like I'm dying and have been taking care of business just in case.

I feel just a teeny weeny bit less like I'm dying if this is the correct answer and if the medication works for me.

I'm just not used to having something kick my ass like this for months at a time. This is well over a hundred days of mostly illness, with a few good days hidden in the pack.

So many doctors just wanted to focus on the anxiety or assign me to this or that mental illness. I think that's because that required the least work for them.

True horror story: one psychiatrist (who is an M.D., right? he's not a psychologist) actually misread the most vital thing on my CBC...the THS level...it was marked over to the right with an "H," which I assume is a computer program highlighting for the docs to see what is out of whack.

The young Indian female doctor (Bless her!) was the one who focused on this.

This other doctor (who got very controlling with me, in general) read this and said "Your hemoglobin is up. That's a good thing." He wrote down the range of normal next to this on the print-out which I have. The range of "normal" he wrote down was the range of normal for THS.

I think because he saw the letter "H" he thought that was hemoglobin. It was nowhere near the appropriate panel on a CBC where you would find hemoglobin.

I was in a distracted state so I had no clue and just trusted what he had said at the time.

This doctor (who was the one in charge of all the others) also did not know how to interpret the spreadsheet notation for my test results from another hospital which I had been eagerly awaiting at the time.

He was the one who delivered me some great news on some of my most dreaded tests, and he wasn't a bad fellow.

But CAVEAT EMPTOR is as true in a hospital as it is in a brothel. Sometimes.

What are you doing in a brothel anyway?

Stay away from that shit.

On the non-mortal side (with a little mortality thrown in) I finally got to see The Two Mrs. Kissels (not bad! LIFETIME crap) but the most beautiful thing on telly tonight was Shelley's tomb, which was shown at the end of tonight's episode of PBS's Mystery series...which was quite good and fun: the plot centered around forged (fictional) letters between Percy and Mary Shelley.

Also, I thought the revival of Chess PBS ran tonight was cute, but I couldn't watch the whole thing. It wasn't quite that good. Josh Groban was marvelous but few others could rise to his level. And he didn't really break a sweat, because it wasn't really that challenging for a voice like his. It wasn't Wagner or anything.

Katy Perry is a lucky gal. It makes no sense at all that Josh Groban isn't gay. He even has the Disney thing going on.

But no one ever said life is fair.

It certainly is well bear-trapped though, isn't it?

Casting

I like the stray cats and the rain
from this August window.

Autumn is surely a joke.
It's not really going to come,
and winter beyond that, just preposterous.

It's like people being alive
in poems, miniature snowglobes really--
that doesn't really happen,
does it? Just the vaguest shiver
as the color orange goes through my backbone.

Just a little tingle.

You can't resist picking it up.

The Globe. People spitting
up blood or worse
while they listen to angels
speaking on a stage in drag.
The sickest boy is chosen
for his porcelain complexion
to play the lovely heroine,
that most beatific One.

He remember's virtues lines
and advances the play
a few weeks, but the clothes
outlast the players
and the play, the audience.

The poetry is, of course,
mere fashion. But fashion smiles
to itself, because it knows
it will survive even the plague
of the future, and that
silly commentary of the vibrant ones.

The poetry loves the feeling
of shedding the costume of flesh
best, the empty stage

one hour after.

Sans

There are words so haunted by the dead.
Don't. Just don't.
Not even ironically, the way
I see you eating those pumpkin seeds.

Stop. Just stop it.
I will step on one of your New Balances
with the force of a rabid kangaroo.

Let the dead keep their sans.

They worked hard for it.

It's like those entire landscapes

made from a young dead child's lustrous hair

under bellied, ancient glass.

Side Effects

I am worried about the side effects
of this poem I'm reading.

I am worried about the side effects
of this hammer with which
I repeatedly beat my skull, hourly.

I'm worried about the side effects
of pornography on my desire
for abstract art.

I'm worried about the side effects
of eating too many blue,
azure, cerulean, aqua, turquoise

things in poems sans FDA labels.

Notice I said sans.

I'm worried that words like sans
are something you can catch from poetry,

and these things are worse than tapeworms.

It takes a very strong man
to pull the tapeworm out the rectum
of his poetry, and it can go on

for thirty feet or more. Or so I hear.

Dear Aussie Peter,

I tried commenting on some of your candylicious proustian erotic art on your blog, but I am on my slow-witted computer.

It wouldn't let me post because it was taking forever to download the much older posts.

I will have to revist when I'm downstairs. That computer has a really evil keyboard and desk and I had been using it for quite some time and it was starting to have bad physical effects on me, so I'm back up here on the dinosaur.

There was a place to rest your elbow. A bad place. And I rested it there.

For long, long periods of time.

Don't do that.

My Media Player chose "A Coral Room" as the first song to play for me tonight.

Kate Bush. From Aerial. How lovely. Reminds me I have to call my mother later tonight.

So much love on her albums.

The Hounds of Love is still my favorite album though. So imaginatively wild and filled with nature's abundance...love the sleeve photo with the Tennyson quote...i'm sure that's a piece of ephemera lost as we transitioned to the cd era...

Oh, and I loved your Joe Brainardy type poem, Peter...about not liking things the first time around...

xo

Will You Write Me a Poem?

Here are poems I would like to read right now....if you would write one on one of these topics, I would like to see it and will share it with others via Blogsville.

1) The Taste of Fear (what do you think fear tastes like...that is, if you experience fear in a gustatory manner).

2) How Would You Describe Your Life Today? How stands it this evening or whenever you are reading this.

3) What Unicorns Think About. Self-explanatory.

4) The Worst Thing that Could Happen.

5) The Best Thing that Could Happen.

6) Have You Ever Stolen a Parachute from Someone Else?

7) Does God have a Fulcrum?

8) If You Had a Nervous Breakdown, Where on Earth Would You Prefer this to Occur?

9) The Tiniest Things You Can See.

10) Your Feelings on Babar (the Colonialist Elephant).

Maybe, Maybe Not

People standing together
in a cemetery in winter
may put "after all"

at the beginning of their sentences
or at the end of their
sentences. It might

be important to notice

the difference.

I've Always Been Fascinated with Lot's Wife

After all, it was Sodom she was leaving.

It was her home.

It was her friends.

Her gay hairdresser.

Okay, she probably didn't have a gay hairdresser.

But.

You get the idea.

I like that there's a column of salt by the Dead Sea that they say is she.


I was remembering I did a different interpretation of what the story meant a while back.

Here tis.



POETIC BEAUTY COMES ABOUT BY LOOKING BACKWARDS

Lot's wife
said,
"is that fucking
dog
keeping up
with us?"

Rachel Andrews at Sephyrus

has been sharing some amazing poems there.

She reminds me of my two favorite Beat writers often: Kyger and Whalen, but she's sui generis in the final estimation.

I particularly loved this poem she just posted.

Check her out. Her blog's in my blogroll at the right.


     Cosmo Night


Because I laugh.
Because you
do,

too. I can't
say no
more.

Sea gulls? Herons?
God? ha
ha.

There isn't an
answer to
this.

I am not
untouchable. I'm
not

anything which has
a name.
Why

is this form
useful? How
did

it become so?
You. You
are

the connection to
this burp
of

cosmo. Ask me
not why.
I

wish I knew.
Galaxy creation.
Stars

as child. "You
will have
a

boy and girl,"
she said.
"You

will meet your
love at
higher

elevation."
Foretelling? I
do not know!

I take it
as it
comes.

You are here.
No others
near.

It goes reaching
for what
I...

know or not.
It moves
me.

Cruelty-Free Love Poem

No animals were harmed
during the making of this love poem.

I lie like a Russian car dealer.

I think foremost of your bones,
which have the understated
good design of furniture
lovingly crafted to weather
those inevitable storms of bad taste
which can last centuries.

I have seen you give poems
this bone structure of yours sometimes,
and I get terribly excited.

And your eyes. Your Cheshire eyes.
Coming and going in poems.

I think of you mostly
when I am handling salt
and realizing it was once money.

Lot's wife turned into money
because she liked to gamble.

A moral lurks here somewhere:
maybe it's that love is something
that dies into something
we can spend.

Love is a sort of capital gain.

A capital gain. Of salt.

And poetry, I think,
is what taxes this luxury.

This luxury of salt.

Photograph

I saw a tiny spot on a photograph
and tried to remove it
and damaged it, then cried.

It was delicate and terrible
as failed eye-surgery.

My Buddha head beside my computer
has his eyes closed forever
and freezes even in August,
so he wears a Russian soldier's fur hat.

You are terrible as a sunflower,
making yourself synonymous
with life like that. Buddha
is gimcrack, but doesn't seem
to mind. Love doesn't mind either,
because love is usually gimcrack.

Gimcrack is a funny word.

It can't make up its mind
if it's serious or not.
It's of the streets and boutiques,
but serious in neither world.

The Buddha's hat: neither sable nor ermine,
neither Mayakovsky nor Akhmatova.

Are you in gimcrack again?

Who is it this time?

Secret

I have to scratch my back
with a pencil with a cat's head.

The cat is nested
in Dr. Seuss blue feathers
and there are catfish whiskers

and sorta Roswell-like
rainbow-colored superlite
metal. Metalloid barbels

and I scratch my back
with this monstrosity.

I would rather scratch

my back with you.

The cat is blue plastic
and his ass is glued on

I think. There must be

a secret there.

This Side of Your Ass (after Elio)

Abandon the myth
that is schlepping.
The August clouds
gloat into my bedroom
this evening, heavy trading
with time and discovery.
I swipe the root
of what you fled.
My plots are high wire
chases, yodeling
above an erotic hotel
as wide as the Atlantic.

dandelion

such a problematic "flower"

*

weedy church of the lion's tooth.

Blows on the wind.

*

Love of its own mindlessness.

*

I forgive its terror

of the chosen

*

terror of cohesion

*

It is a righteous, mindless

thing

*

a lion, still....

Crux

I feel like a satellite.
I feel like dandelion seeds.
It's not altogether unpleasant.
My temperature is always low,
does that explain this poem?

There is a field somewhere.
You are not there. I am not there.
Yet. The silly musical weeds
are busy in our names.

Their tiny, pretentious crowns.

I haven't the heart to knock

their crowns off.

Recipe

I must abandon
Babar the Colonialist
and Buddha

mindlessness colonist
equally. Rain
is an Albers painting

over the block tonight.
It is late here.
Early there.

Rain over snow
on the Buddha
in late August.

A snowball I throw

at your silly head.

Something tastes
like quince jam.

Tiny spoonfuls
I salt tonight.

For your tongue.

Hotel Splendide

I like its ancient book smell.
It's not a book.

I like what snails leave behind.

I like how poems
which are clouds leak.

I like that nobody will ever
get to the bottom of green.

I like how you are hyaline
on demand, a sort of tarn
next to a haunted hotel.

I like to watch you putter
with the ghost ferns,

hear you tell the ghost visitors

how your penis feels today.

Comfort

"You cannot hold ice
and sleep at the same time."--Elio Schneeman


The sunflowers I didn't plant this year
sort of give it away.
This house is ancient. I wonder
what's behind some of the walls.

It's the same way with poems.
I don't know your phone number.
I haven't visited my father's grave,
though sometimes it visits me.

I knew a woman so sweet
birds built a nest on her door,
in a wreath she had there.

I like when nature is prescient
and a stand-up comic at once.

The heart!

I have a nester under the awning
of my front porch
but she makes it quite clear
I'm a hazard, whenever we meet.

She seems to think
I'm the "in passing" type.

I trust her diagnosis
more than psychoanalysis.

On the wreath on her door!

Imagine!

If that happened to me,

I would make Buddha move his ass

so I could sit down.

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Feeding You

I dreamt I found
William Blake's jacket
and in one deep pocket

were these two hundred-year-old
sunflower seeds
amazingly whole & intact

and I felt the life
in them, and began
feeding you them.

You stuck out your tongue
and I put them there
and you smiled

bright as a suicide's river,

but wouldn't speak.
And I watched you swallow
them and somehow felt them root

deep in the parts of you
where they would wreak
the most beauty and damage.

You filled and bloomed,
with root at ass's fundament
and flower at the firmament

of your mouth. You opened
your mouth horrible with flower
fully-seeded. And birds flew

towards the splendid disease
of this belonging to dirt and air,
this agreeing to dehiscence.

Before death or after.

No matter.

I heard your sexy body then

split like a coffin.

Freedom

I have stopped visiting museums
but I have also stopped visiting sunflowers.
Old ghosts. New ghosts.
Lovers used to draw silhouettes
as a serious sort of game.

What did you do tonight?
Go down on a poem or a guy?
What did you say to the mirror
before you left the house?
What did you do with the seed

of your tongue, tonight?
Did you open your mouth
and show the seed, or did you
swallow in deepest privacy,
our sacrament of thieves.

I used to feel priestly sometimes
when a man could be a horse
and forgive himself everything.
Galloping as selfish men and women
do in museums. Among sunflowers.

Ridiculous when the lover would die
(they often would) and you were left
this silhouette. Throw it in
your chump trousseau or something.

Recycle it later as a Valentine.

What I Found Tonight (at the Thrift Store)

I found a heavy crystal penguin
with two little penguins
inside her glass belly, a diorama.
Both stand in Antarctic nightscape.

Inside, the tiny penguins
(her children?) stretch
upwards towards her heart.
Though they are millefiori

tendrils only, it is clear
what they are. Her night
glows blue and black, bright
as my thoughts of you,

even when I realize how much
you are a nightscape.
A PET-scan injects anti-matter
into a human's brain.

I think of a PET-scan
and the mothering glass penguin
with Antarctica in her belly.
I think of you: your millefiori

parts, your anti-matter
hands inside your poems.
I love how things like the Madonna
change over ages. Survive.

I placed this where I can watch
the glass Madonna contain it all.
Lit from above, the sky
at the bottom of the world glows

the ridiculous color of survival.

To a Unicorn

I believe in you.

Somewhere in history
the ivory-headed narwhal
became the unicorn,

or vice versa.

Reality clears these
things up. Usually,
people just die.

That clears some of it up.

It's retarded to believe
in unicorns. In fact, it's
rather difficult
to even get an audience
with a real narwhal.

But we live and die
by these myths.

In the myth, the unicorn
gently rests his head
upon the virgin's lap.

Come be mythic with me.

You knew it was mythical
when I started talking
about the virginal lap,
didn't you? Still.

Be still.

I love what you've done with your horn.

Rain

The rain is trickling
molasses not rain tonight
over the eaves and the bones
of whatever I used to think
of you and your menagerie of me.

The rain is indecisive
as the beach when I visit.
I have started to love
the wild things overtaking
my garden, ridiculous, brazen.

The rain is feigning regret
like a bad actor on the sci-fi channel.
This is the difficult part
of the rain where I listen
to all the reasons you don't need.

Justice in Poetry

I felt terrible
for thinking a poet
who is actually
very much alive
was dead.

I thought this
for quite some time.

But as this poet
has no idea
I exist,

I suppose

we're sort of

even.

*

You can take
the poet out of the playground...

Proverbs for New Dark Ages

from an ongoing series...

103. NATURE IS NOT SORRY.

102. BOTH LIVING AND NONLIVING ENTITIES SEEM TO WANT TO COME INTO EXISTENCE WITH EQUAL ARDOR.

101. THE TITANIC SAYS IT ALL.

100. SLEEPING WITH SOMEONE IS MORE INTIMATE THAN FUCKING THEM.

99. A LOVER WHO THINKS ABOUT HIS LOVER MORE THAN HIS MONEY IS WORTHLESS.

98. SOCIETY IS COMPLETELY VOLUNTARY, BUT WE KNOW IF YOU ARE PARTICIPATING.

97. NOBODY KNOWS WHO OR WHAT BEGAN THIS.

96. IT CAN ONLY BE DESPERATION WHICH DRIVES PEOPLE TO WRITE ON WALLS.

95. THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A SINGLE ANT.

94. THE UNIVERSE SEEMS TO HAVE A WILL TO EXIST.

93. FORM MAY BE AN ILLUSION LIKE THE IDEA THAT THERE IS A "TRUE REFLECTION" IN A MIRROR.

92. NOBODY REALLY BELIEVES THE INDIVIDUAL MATTERS.

91. SUICIDE IS WRONG BECAUSE YOU BELONG TO OTHERS.

90. MOST HUMANS IMPERSONATE THEMSELVES CONSTANTLY.

89. NOBODY SETS OUT TO BE A KILLER.

88. EVEN DEATH IS A CAREER OPPORTUNITY. JUST NOT FOR YOU.

87. NATURE ACCOSTED ME.

86. I WAS AFRAID OF IT UNTIL I REALIZED IT WAS HOLLOW.

85. MORE PEOPLE TRUST FORTUNE COOKIES THAN THE BIBLE, BECAUSE FORTUNE COOKIES ARE MORE ACCURATE.

84. THE IMMORAL IS SEEDY. THE AMORAL IS GLAMOROUS.

83. DID PEOPLE REALLY TALK LIKE THAT BACK THEN?

82. IT WAS A GOOD FEELING TO KNOW THIS WOULD ALL END SOMEDAY

81. THE K-T EXTINCTION EVENT?JUST A SPACE BAR ON THE COSMIC TYPEWRITER.

80. IN THE BLOGOSPHERE, NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU MEME.

79. MEMES ARE DARWINIAN LINT.

78. NOTHING SUCCEEDS QUITE LIKE APATHY.

77. QUOTATION MARKS DEFY THE UNIVERSE'S TENDENCIES.

76. DICTATORS ALWAYS DRESS WELL.

75. FOR SOME PEOPLE, SUICIDE IS A HOBBY.

74. LEARN HOW TO DIE BY WATCHING MOVIES.

73. SEX AND OBLIVION ARE A PERFECT MARRIAGE.

72. I MISS THE OBLIVIOUS PEOPLE.WHERE DID THEY GO?

71. WHAT NATURE DOES TO YOU WHILE YOU'RE ASLEEP IS A FORM OF GOVERNMENT.

70. PEOPLE CAN FALL ASLEEP EVEN IN A SLAUGHTERHOUSE.

69. YOU WERE PROGRAMMED BY THE BEST.

68. IF YOU SWIM OUT INTO THE OCEAN, NO ONE WILL LOOK FOR YOU.

67. DEATH IS BEGINNING TO LOSE ITS POETIC EFFECT.

66. WE ARE SORRY YOU INTERPRETED THAT AS A MESSAGE.

65. YOU CAN LOSE THE ANIMAL MAINFRAME ATTITUDE. WE DON'T DO THAT SHIT HERE.

64. OF ALL THE ILLUSIONS, CULTURE IS THE MOST CUNNING.

63. IF YOU CUT ME, DO I NOT SUE?

62. DISSENT IS ONLY A STAGE.

61. IT IS UNNATURAL TO WANT LESS.

60. ART IS SO OVER.

59. IDEAS ARE USELESS TO NATURE.

58. NATURE HAS GOTTEN AROUND THE "IDEAS PROBLEM."

57. INVOKING A GOD OR GODS IS THE CHEAPEST SHOT YOU CAN TAKE.

56. THE SUPERNATURAL MIGHT INCLUDE YOU.

55. THE FUTURE IS SO BORED RIGHT NOW.

54. BURN YOUR BRIDGES BEHIND YOU FOR MAXIMUM FORWARD MOMENTUM.

53. IF YOU WERE BORN A SOCIOPATH, WOULD YOU TELL ANYONE? I DIDN'T THINK SO.

52. AFTER THOUSANDS OF YEARS OF KILLING PEOPLE LIKE THIS, SOMETHING CHANGES ITS MIND.

51. I CAN'T STOP STARING AT THE PLACE YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE.

50. WHERE DOES TODAY FIT INTO FOREVER?

49. SLEEP IS NOT A RIGHT; IT'S A PRIVILEGE.

48. A DOG AND A HOMELESS PERSON CAN SLEEP WHEN THEY WANT, SO BOTH ARE HELD IN CONTEMPT.

47. DINOSAURS DIDN'T HAVE PROBLEMS LIKE THESE.

46. NATURE HAS PROVIDED YOU WITH MODELS OF BEHAVIOUR AND YET YOU PERSIST.

45. FORGETTING IS HOLY.

44. I WANTED TO APPROACH YOU, BUT MISSED MY CHANCE IN THIS LIFETIME. MAYBE NEXT TIME.

43. FOLLOWING A THOUGHT BACKWARDS IS DANGEROUS.

42. THINKING IS ONE OF THE MOST CHERISHED HUMAN ILLUSIONS.

41. CULTURE IS ONLY A THICKENED FORM OF GRAMMAR.

40. NATURE MOTHERS MONSTERS.

39. MONSTERS MATTER MORE TO NATURE.

38. THE "MONSTROUS IDEA" IS THE LINCHPIN OF NATURE, SEEN FROM WITHOUT.

37. NATURE SCOFFS.

36. DON'T WORRY TOO MUCH ABOUT IDEAS. IT'S THE CONCRETE THAT'S GOING TO GET YOU IN THE END.

35. I'M SORRY YOU THINK THAT.

34. YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST MURDER.

33. YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASE.

32. YOU NEVER FORGET THE FIRST TIME YOU REALIZED THE PRESIDENT HAS NO IDEA.

31. YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST SUICIDE ATTEMPT.

30. YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST REALIZATION THAT NONE OF THIS WILL EVER BE EXPLAINED, AND THEN YOU WILL SIMPLY DIE.

29. YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST BETRAYAL OF THE PERSON YOU USED TO BE.

28. YOU NEVER FORGET THE FIRST TIME YOU REALIZED YOU WERE STALKING SOMEONE. BUT YOU HAD A GOOD REASON. OR SEVERAL.

27. YOU NEVER FORGET THAT ONCE YOU ACTUALLY WISHED YOUR PARENTS DEAD.

26. YOU NEVER FORGET THAT YOU JUST CAN'T GET AROUND THAT PREDATOR/PREY THING.

25. YOU NEVER FORGET THE CONCENTRATION CAMPS HAD STRING QUARTETS.

24. YOU NEVER FORGET ACCIDENT IS PART OF THE DESIGN.

23. YOU NEVER FORGET THE ALMOST EROTIC JOLT OF THE SERIOUS ACCIDENTS.

22. THE CHINESE SAY, "THE DIFFERENCE IS: YOU CAN SEE OUR GREAT WALL."

21. EVOLUTION PRODUCES SMARTER ANIMALS, BUT DUMBER SCHOOL BOARDS.

20. PEOPLE ARE UNEXPLAINABLE PHENOMENA.

19. LOVE IS INFANTILIZING.

18. THE MOST AMERICAN IDEA IS THE LOTTERY.

17. THE LEAST AMERICAN IDEA IS WAITING.

16. SHOPPING IS A HUMANISM.

15. SAY WHAT YOU DO NOT WANT TO THINK.

14. ART REPRESENTS WHAT CULTURE DRIVES TO EXTINCTION.

13. YOU COULD BE EXECUTED FOR THINGS YOU HAVE DONE IN DREAMS.

12. I CAN'T REMEMBER WHEN I AGREED TO THIS.

11. THE CONCEPT OF GOD, LIKE MOST PRODUCTS, HAS A HIDDEN EXPIRATION DATE.

10. RELIGION SMUDGES.

9. PROMISCUOUS MINDS ARE WORSE THAN PROMISCUOUS BODIES.

8. PRISON GUARDS TELL THEMSELVES OVER AND OVER THEY ARE NOT THE ONES IN PRISON.

7. CREATE HORRIBLE JOBS FOR HORRIBLE PEOPLE.

6. LOVE WITHOUT BOUNDARIES IS NOT PRACTICAL.

5. PSYCHOLOGY IS OVER. PHARMACOLOGY IS JUST BEGINNING

4. NATURE DOES WHAT IT FEELS LIKE.

3. WHEN AN ANIMAL IN THE WILD SEES YOU STARING, IT THINKS YOU WANT TO EAT IT OR FUCK IT.

2. THE PAST THINKS YOU ARE HORRIBLE.

1. THE FUTURE THINKS YOU ARE FUNNY.

This is Another Book

This is another book called This is Another Book.

I am seeking a (paper) publisher for this as a full book, or as a chapbook of selected poems from it.

Also, if you have a mag, online or otherwise, and want to use and poems feel free to contact me. Contact info is on blog/ms.

This is Another Book.

I'm still chiselling at it, but only a few poems.

I'll add a link to it over at the right.

Here's "Morning" from the book.



MORNING

Fear.
Prayer.
Mirror.
Dingo.
Diatoms.
Mouthwash.
Feet.
Salt water.
Dingo.
Sunlight.
Ice water.
Blueberries.
Terror.
Ice water.
Dingo.
Prayer.
Mirror.
Face.
Breath.
Ice water.
Light.
Dingo.
Stare.
Walk.
Dingo.
Faceless.
Prayer.
Dingo.
Water.
Ice.
Paper.
Voice.
Dingo.
Words.
Dingo.
Faceless.
Words.
Prayer.
Dingo.
Ice.
Dingo.
Melt.
Dingo.
Dingo.
Dingo.

Some Dereliction

Dear Anonymous,

Yes, I saw they were rerunning that documentary on the brothers again.

I think they only did that with the cats because they were filming it.

I got the impression they would have preferred to garotte them, but we had different interpretations.

I think we agree it's viewworthy and interesting.



Dear Ross Brighton,

Just realized I failed to wish you Happy Birthday!

So, belatedly, Happy Birthday!

Had no idea you were so young, unless you're joking.

If you're really that young, you're incredibly well-read for that age!



Dear Everyone,

I just received the new 6 x 6 (poetry mag) and it's a very good issue!

I found Paul Hoover's poems very moving and Guy Beining's (someone I know well from the old days of print mags!...& one of my former publishees when I was a zinester!) suite of conceptualist poems are very amusing.

I'll have to say more about this issue later in detail.

Gorgeously designed too...like one of the early Russian futurist mags this issue.



I actually really liked that movie Lifetime Movie Network's been running that Helen Hunt directed (and cowrote).

I found that movie very well-written and quite moving.

Great ensemble: Bette Midler, Colin Firth and Matthew Broderick costar.

I think it's from 2007. The title eludes me now!



Also on Lifetime (and unusual fare for it!) was Little Manhattan!

Very cute movie for those from age 8 to 80, basically.


Sorry to use the cliche, but it's true.


It's a bit Wonder Years but very funny.

Am I Hallucinating or Has the World Gone Mad?

I was watching a program on the History Channel and there was this commercial hyping that "unprecedented solar event" that's supposed to happen in the year 2012 (according to the Mayan calendar and the rest, yadda yadda).

The commercial said, "We have created a lottery to ensure that some humans will survive. To learn more go to....(this website)."

Of course, one thinks of that fifties sci-fi movie that had a similar plot...the lottery for a small number of humans which would go on some sci-fi Noah's Ark or something.

I thought maybe it was a Sci-Fi (sorry: Sy-Fy or whatever it is now) commercial but nope.

I thought it was a prank, and typed it in and it took me to this insurance site.

Is it some sort of joke?

Okay, here's the real crazy site: The human lottery! Survive extinction!

But you can trust them to preserve you from Doomsday, if they can't even give their website address correctly in a commercial?

I'm assuming somebody pirated the other one when they saw the opportunity...that they've been hacked.

Because they definitely gave it as the initials website and that's not theirs right now.

Oh, it's a MOVIE PROMOTION!

I think that's very irresponsible of them.

Here's the WIKI...Loada crap.

Or is the world turning into a weird Anthony Burgess novel?

I think the site was www.ihc.com or something like that.

hello

GRENADE


vast Hungry soles

absorb it

a devouring

talked this harm






I'M GETING THERE

evaporated

into the plate.

I've water.
Sunlight.
Ice water.
Blueberries.
Terror.

Ice this afternoon.







THE VALENTINE

cycles heart
love dickinson parody bird voices
into the coyotes.

But horror.

You probably are the Heavens,

but a few divine mostly creeped-out was one husband,

her caveat was "I'm going."





MY STORY

I have a preventive me.






THANKS, THOUGH...


thinking stars peaks

on a shore bar of computer.


is rarely as helpful

as some seem to believe.




SOME COMPOSER

Posted daily frisson
but it was all skin.





A CHURCH MAY SAY


The dragonfly, the indefensible killer's blaze.

"The civilian kept in Crane."

Joy is humanity enough.






I HADN'T SEE YOU IN YEARS AND ALL I COULD SAY WAS

How's that lightbulb






EPISTLE

from peter, magpie boughs
or bonds round thing.
Would orb-weaver

really know the Moon

means night?

didn't you get the memo

AMERIPRIDE VALENTINE


wings takes.








BLESSING?

Unsigned world Valentine




OPERA SHIT


Hero's back

to which moon

light ferries






I AM LOST, GIVE ME A SEC

giving directions
to Poemses

They stopped to ask

the Village Idiot

who is always

most available





PURITANS

LAST reverence
those who live. Fun.




BACK THEN

Humans were brave

braver moods.


unmedicated.







SPOKEN SKETCHING


of art. it's daily flies.

desiccated humans

giving each other juice.



give us this day

our windowsill.







EITHER/OR


I looked at the wild ocean
in uproar

and saw

a shallow
gate sieving words








THE CITY

Even the bird poem, poem

about poetry. teen Crucifixion
anticipating points do they know

Animals are living prayers




PROOF

take a
darkness a pale wall
within our galaxy!





OH SARA,

Puritans with fern-like manners.

Will kill you

with your understanding







ONLINE

Click on the fruit.

What happens?




AN ALBERS PAINTING?


I think I had a will

Blank says, original

color, visualize
to report






MY STORY



drowning

to that pounding

still,



this has been

a lot for my elves














SOLDIER VALENTINE


American what


ever






I LIKE A BLOG THAT BELIEVES

only imaginable pale sylphs light is salad











I SHOULD GET BETTER

to help my house







ADVERT


VIRGINIA WOOLF divine promotion
not everything
is trying







GARDENING

Then shuts through grammar,
and the composer up, a moral lily?

This is head-wound day
at the office, didn't

you get the memo?

American wrong

janitors

PEOPLE IN THE CITY

And yes, full of hands tortured
by your air
and only eat

tinfoil comments




HOPEFUL VALENTINE RETRENCHING

Look backwards

at impending Joy




UGH

I had a band in a dream

and our massive single was called

Smells Like Richard Brautigan





A POST

always means trouble

unless you're a crow








BIG BIRD SHADOW


what trouble
Posted by deaths leaving
gardens

the already
bloomed it’s

sitting

that matters says The Crow

to sit, to watch


Watch me



Crow says






TO A MIRROR

William Keckler everything else
It is the birds, to watch.







HOW QUICKLY IT CAME UP AND WHAT IT FELT LIKE

the light
spun our trees




BEAUTY GAVE HER VIEW

less to her like this, birds.

in Ovid. versus Catullus.

The composer sees this
with a
closer competition


than to become the future, Really Important









WARNING WARNING

i'm a lot less

contemplative









THE SPIDER IN EARLY AMERICAN LITERATURE

Nothing daily. Puritans
ate a Slik head. The two-faced time

whose web they Loved








RIDICULOUS, COMFORTING

Posted by wearing
the water stones

our tender walking
which is meaning







IT'S MORNING

Fear.
Prayer.
Mirror.
Diatoms.
Mouthwash.
Feet.
Salt.

Be dumb beastie, be still watch.

Doubtless, world holds.





UMMMM

Janitor of forever

Fuck Off

ummm

I PUT A

stone on
Joy




HOW I GO THERE

there's a road sign
says ascend

says live

it's Wednesday, suddenly

for all

I know how stupid

that sounds

but it's what occurs







STRANGE WAVES

in
which comments score;
Then close important question
for my beloved chances.







A DREAM

I was several hours
in and out musically.





BUT NOT GOD?

This you forgive

Or fucking Desire




OH REALLY?


God is clearly

embarrassed they say


by a gay Springer Spaniel.





FRUIT

What within
some trouble




THE FAIRIES TOLD ME

how orb weaver voices
are horrible

Cover your Ears!





PUCK SAID


SAY anything to the curse. the crowded Valentine





DO THE

Anthology. The Doom.
Or the birds outside, do they feel?

Astonished, galled, see you blogging
or modern. the door keyboard,

you Elf-Whore.






YOUR

manicure, and ver
y quickly over in tee
thing

washed you up on a beach

a serious prison




THAT

This can’t be amused

by That






MUSEUM CLAUSTROPHOBIA OF THAT SPIDER MADE ME RECALL

love amnesia
and nastiness:

Halloween orange-and-black.

Loathsome quilt

did not word

Or sway





A REAL DOCTOR

Suppose sky is like

Joseph Beuys getting it
falling from it
to whom, the Bedouins?

I can't chart
your jonquils

esp. addressing a work as impatient as poetry.




TREES ARE NICE

Oh, but people
are still OCEAN WAVES light come
from valentine branches

holding such beautiful things

bodies







THE POEM

I admit I starves.

poemses

WORDS

Prayer.
Ice.

Melt everyone.

Simply because all

would probably destroy aberrations





BLOGSVILLE

Healing tiny words
fender bender

spent my NYC HEART pounding

on marble knees






A WHALE I SAW

Ghosted lap leap

shattering
into
his heft at last





GEHENNA

the lightness

is really just population, the place.


the skull.




DINNER INVITATION

Joy was greatly missed, Thanks!

Have more torture.

and forgiveness







OCEAN SPEAKS IN WAVES

No, Dog me

from behind


I used to tell

the Vikings







SOMETHING IN A GARDEN


ANCIENT we
touch space

floating disease

so light



DRAWING

the poetry, magpies, or
whatever holds you like a side garden?

And that was it.

There's a tiny elf hidden in this.






TITIAN CLOUDS AND SHIT


It's Tuesday, August

ordered a can of whoop

ass word clouds.


Concrete links mind

Who is inside the fridge

with the Sun


I open it

to no one


Sometimes to dawn







PARKED CASSATT PAINTING


CHILD see her playing
with in her gravity.

And a failed feint

at a secret tone,

like a human build




DO

Do say if god is a Valentine

or serious prison



NOT UNPLEASANT

Animals to think
about sea

fog me up more.





LOVE POEM


DANISH there is up

from your roses




WHAT I DROPPED ON MY FOOT AND IT HURT

the world volume





SAME DEAL

It's morning it's plain wrong

Babooniana

"NOT TO THE SPIDER..."

but to humans
I love

give music my inspired orb



PANIC IN THE NIGHT

but the Blog
has almost risen

in the sky

and feel people
soon upon language






THE GREAT PRONOUN

it
exists





WHAT MY GARDEN, HALF-WILD, LOOKS LIKE NOW

A splendid
flowering
of monks





EMPATHY

Divine precisely that web,
began anew

These are clearly gardens




THE SIDE I MUST FEAR

Feeding on mini bas-reliefs
Crucifixion

and mind praise





COSMIC OLD VALENTINE


have Imagination

and if you can't have Imagination


Have Baboons

poemses, part deux

HOW TO BE DEEP INSTEAD OF PRETTY


Are one's feet
meant to resemble JOHN KEATS?


those lurid piano gnome composers in my garden?


Or both sides of darkness At Once

Paintings large as Anselm Kiefer's

mother



as small airplanes, be still, be Half?


Be Joy

and Dark Chills

forever






BLURS


links made
of magpies

*

i am a horny teenage urn.

sorry.

*

i am a horny teenage run




ON THE ANCIENTS

Grecian formula.
I
Nothing More

poemses my love, poemses

ANCIENT TOMBSTONE

I couldn't get my head
around the Orb




COMMENTS


shores where

if and need




VIEWWORTHY NEWS

i saw some birds late

in their eighties

at the kitschy store

they were in their eighties
talking 'bout

some ironic bird's breakfast.






EVOLUTION

and I thought. birds killed

the dinosaurs

somehow. i forget.





NATURE'S

ridonkulous gnome poem mental floss

always says

in female word drag (sequined yet)


Follow Me fully


It believes in shit like Berlin.







GO

deeply smear them moral.

God Bless Us Everyone

MORNING AFTER MOON


First
bite ourselves.
as if and poetry always calls away
to make me do

I was like stand at the Helen Keller pedicure,

get your picture
taken there, then leave. okay?

nothing our fairy
says

is impossible





PAVEMENT

cat paw print

like Louise Gluck




BITCH'LL TELL YA

that the water

holds the most potential suitors



THE TEXT IS A WHORE

holds you
suddenly develops

of its sly slave


It's off to the Wars


Some Homeric entrapment.


do you do alone?

They ask do...while you loom.




SHE ADVANCED ON CLOUDS

In this episode
of She Advanced on Clouds

our heroine slays
the hierophantine dragon

This episode after drinkers
and Hans Christian

They come
to blows
poised stitches

words throw down


This is clearly the BBC




TRAILER PARK COMMENTS

shores where comments
like "More anal beads, pleathe..."

sound too much like Dickens

Hummunah

WARNING TO YOUNG POETS

Flowers with complications

get whored.




DEAR JANUS IN MY BASEMENT,


Can you do God.

at least a blowjob.


Janus, are you just

a two-faced Janitor?


sign of my birth.


month of fleeing.






I WAS WATCHING SOME

colors alongside a tree

today




EXPLAIN TO THE DOCTOR
WHY THIS IS IMPORTANT
AND MAKE IT FAST


it was relaxing


my trigger finger






MY FEELINGS ON THE MATTER


a butt is a composition

0 comments is not necessarily bad


if you are the faun of Praxiteles


or something like that


I mean, like in a museum


Otherwise, it's just tragic


Tragic.


Would you like some jam?






NEW BOARD GAMES


Clutter & Twitter

I'm sure there's a Twatter too

when people want to be "more direct"




MINA LOY

Labels: Channeling lay





CAN YOU EXPLAIN THIS?


YOUNG MEPHISTOPHELES, way back.

Maybe Mr. Peabody and Sherman.


Those are my best guesses.






NATIVE FROM

the most brave
nation benevolence

Wherever

the eagle flies

I lay my Zune.




A NEW MAGAZINE!

The soul soap,
a saddle arty.



EPITHALAMIUM

But they destroyed each other
for the limitless joy

JEALOUS OF NATURE MUCH?


And of the Void uncomplicated

flowers come




POEM FOR THAT?

Aspirin?

knitting-needles!

Crane bisection syndrome



No, not Hart





PAYER TO HERMES


let's gleefully
live the life
lived Hermes

the ways immensity
of our delta

*

Keep us close

to his ocean

which spits on us daily






DRAGONFLIES FOR PHIL WHALEN


Leave nature's thin Year, desire, buckets

are bipolar. on mortality a memorial...anything.


you'll not necessarily notice it

when you're actually enlightened.


i stole that. i'm dead. it's okay.


where you're a later bombing

*

Post this as POSTED BY INHUMAN












GREETING

what is

mea culpas today

do I write for nightingales?

Poemses, My Love

I would like to be
the Gollum
of Modern American Poetry

mo talkin

THE POEM

oh it's a Big Grave,

Brancusi anorexic.





HEALTH ISSUES


Poetry pales.

Should I sun it?

Run it?


I tried gunning it.

The engine's flooded.

Keep your goddamn foot


off the pedal for three seconds, please...









CASTRATI

sung by i mean

some gay clubs kids

looking out from inside a mirror


Dead Castrati

I saw their faces
in a bunch of you

for a few moments


Rise!


I remember the riot valentine




I REMEMBER WHEN THE RUSSIANS WERE WINNING


the dying valentine

monkey grimace

in outer space






ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW


I know all there is to know

about the shying lame





OUT VALENTINE


For a mirror

in a boy


A very large

mirror


in a very

cranberry boy

If You are a Young French Poet

Reverdy day
the distance

it's a-gettin' closer
goin' faster than a roller coaster

to a strange sorta
Wite-out language

like the first Japanese bullet train
which will breach the fourth dimension

and probably you
look a lot like Buddy Holly

and deliberately fall in love
with a girl who hates you

or anyway your glasses do

Nature

if there is one
thing I have learned
about you, Bitch

it's that you got
a snakeskin-mind
all the time

I relearn it
every day, even

on The Discovery Channel.

poems from today

DECLARING

That jaunty way of being
I am so taxed

this has been years

Poetry Personnel
is that the label

are we poetry personnel
Is there a door somewhere

that actually says that?





HERO

or something and alone

a seaside and therefore

just like a rock




or is it better this way...


HERO


or something and alone

a seaside and therefore

dumb as a rock





WHAT TO AVOID WHEN CHOOSING A POET

generally the ones with big toes
the ones with big grammar
or whore grammar

not the pleasant ones either

oh give me anyday
Brancusi anorexic
or Mina loy ones

with strange pets.

I like those.

Today

WORDS, THOUGH

Go to your own

nature said



I THINK POESY IS

what stays in the Moon


POEM WITH STAINED GLASS WINDOWS PRETENDING

Strange it could be written
as an outsider's pausing,

looking outside in at love
Oh do you get my snatches

and hints of lives.

You Left Glitter

on my keyboard,
you Elf-Whore.

But the Really Important Philosophical Question is...

"If you knew you only 56.8 years left to live, what would you do...while you still had time?"

I think Helen Keller said this or something.

Joy

is the name of a female word processor from Dubuque who was killed by a falling crane.

She was one of those people fortunate enough (or unfortunate enough, depending on your thoughts on mortality and consciousness of impending death) to be still alive...for the period of time in which the crane was kept in place.

Joy was told that, once they removed the crane, nothing more could be done and it would be GAME OVER. (I don't think they used those words though.)

Joy ordered a Baconater and had a pedicure, a manicure, and invited some friends over to watch her favorite episode of Trading Spouses.

Then Joy began to become more demanding and the EMS personnel began to grow impatient as dinner hour loomed.

She did not contact her husband, for reasons unknown.

THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS performed a memorial benefit concert for "Crane Bisection Syndrome" in which the highlight was their performance of song, "They'll Need a Crane."

Joy is greatly missed by her husband, her falafel maker and close friend Ali, and her Springer Spaniel.

Whenever you see a crane, think of Joy.

Because even split in half, Joy can accomplish many things.

IF YOU WOULD LIKE ANY PART OF THIS PARABLE, ON A REFRIGERATOR MAGNET, FEEL FREE TO CONTACT ME BY EMAIL.

Go to Advanced on Wordle

Or you will get bored very quickly with the repetitious strategies.

Under "Advanced" you can weight the words, font-wise, etc.

That's how I did this one...

"poetry pales"

It can be a fun tool for generating verbo-visual poetry.

Oh, but the only caveat is this: Wordle claims ownership of all images created using its software, so anything you creat is not "yours."

That blows chunks.

Because it would be great for book-design, for example.

Jonathan Feinberg must not love humanity enough.

But Thanks, Juice!

Juice Posted This. This Looks Like Fun.

Make your own word clouds.

Concrete poets from the sixties are turning over in their graves, doubtless.

If they had only known one day it would be THIS DAMN EASY!!

I guess I should put a < weg> or something there, right?

Do people still say that?

Word Clouds This Way

As Jeri Blank says, "Let's go there now!"

Follow Me on Twitter

Here...

Follow me. Although I have no idea where I'm going.

But I guess that's the point on Twitter, right?

You're not supposed to know where you're going.

I think Richard Brautigan secretly invented Twitter decades ago.

And yes, I do reciprocate.

How's that for soixante-neuf?

Stolen Valentines

EXTINCT SPECIES

by a table and alone
so if god or things
approach
is this what links mind

who wrote the original
color, visualize it
nothing our teeth
washed up on a beach




GRENADE


vast Hungry Valentine
feeding on dreams

and it’s a
pomegranate

American wrong





SOME NERVE

pain
fully

it
exists





ECLIPSED


says ascend or infection

Punked sun


sung by this post that serves

our own residue




AS CANDLE TO OCEAN WAVES


to current episode drinkers
and talkers around
them is this the pilot

the sand is wearing
the water i think

or a later episode
grows near
ocean says gleefully
life lived look you're full of emptiness

only imaginable fully

Go

deeply into a husband mistook




BLESSING?

Unsigned

April cactus
that must be a crown

or a preventive lay




YOUNG MEPHISTOPHELES VALENTINE

disguised
Saturday, post-apocalypse

cartoons are popular now




BLACK CONSTRUCTION PAPER VEGAS VALENTINE FOR A SWIGOLO



then to post

your love



what happens in poesy

stays in the fridge

with the magic lightbulb



Dark Chills

black tulips



I send you for your

black lounge piano




MORNING AFTER PILL VALENTINE

the morning things
click forward
to the seascapes

of the Valentine



WARNING WARNING VALENTINE

newborns pour panic

and feel fourth
grade dude




DANISH VALENTINE

either/or Valentine
or Hero's Valentine

or Nothing's
Human Valentine

Kierkegaard
or Hans Christian

I am happy
to report

drowning

a fairy
is impossible





PAVEMENT VALENTINE


Healing tiny stones
we tender soles

absorb it

a mini bas-relief
Crucifixion

and despite it the ways
of Hermes

the ways of live ocean

luciferic words

glowworms i mean

kids smear them on the pavement





THE MASTER SAID VALENTINE

if light come
with the table
accept me.




HE KNEW VALENTINE

Posted by forever.
Posted by Where a care?
Posted by the bombing

Posted by often
Posted by trouble
Posted by Tuesday, still around

Posted by hands tortured
by pale sylphs who suck on sourballs



ANCIENT WORLD VALENTINE

Hero's here all tortured.
and forgiveness

hasn't anything to do
with the way back.






NATIVE AMERICAN VALENTINE

Animals living became
all your people
soon upon next full moon

to help humans
in their serious Prison
Animals were brave

braver than Moon and Sun

Sometimes I hear that pounding

still, in the serious prison




THIS IS THE MOON VALENTINE

my mind praise



COSMIC ADVICE VALENTINE

Frig the ripe monks

A lot less

contemplative




HIS VOICE DROWNED OUT VALENTINE

For there is a shallow
gate between

a seaside and need




VIEWWORTHY VALENTINE

View my fast
view whatever comes
poised stitches

words of a kind
ecstatic of time

kinds of words
fender bender

spent walking
which is devouring

talked this post inhuman





GREETING CARD VALENTINE

so this post immensity
of our
Wednesday, somehow
all your air
and light is moral.

a certain catch



AMERICAN SOLDIER VALENTINE


American is Made No Dog (Sic)

Afghans on the lap leap

shattering
into matter into prayers

take a sinister (left) at Valentine

and you'll see my house




DARKEST HOUR VALENTINE

two deaths leaving
gardens
the wild wind it blurs

links to dawn



CHILD ON BEACH AMAZED VALENTINE

everything we
touch space

floating back
at which to puddle




POISON APPLE VALENTINE


First
bite the curse.

its fruit
grew from

the most splendid
flowers


orchard and orchards

of flowers






WHY THIS OCEAN OF LANGUAGE VALENTINE

the light
spun sieving words

like and therefore

generally to think
about mood.




SPOKEN VALENTINE

Strange written down




TRAILER PARK VALENTINE

quite sweet

a lot

permanency anyway



that can’t be meaning


any harm




I'M GETING OLD VALENTINE


have you love trouble

Past the delta

this nest.


Strange waves

in the human mirror


rise up

from your ocean of what


ever





PHILOSOPHY DERAILED, NEWS AT ELEVEN VALENTINE

not what
it means: day

thinking stars
as heft

mind the pretty plunder






THE NYC HEART VALENTINE

What within
some greater commerce

what is this
eldritch pie?

*

for all i know

might be made
of magpies

*

i only eat

tinfoil salad










WHAT IT IS NOW


the disease

so light


the moon

light ferries




WET VALENTINE


push me

take me

from behind

the valentine






AMERIPRIDE VALENTINE


wings on the brave
nation benevolence

wherever it goes
the darkness too

colors alongside

we like our trees

less intellectual








VIRGINIA WOOLF REVISITED VALENTINE

who’s already
bloomed it’s
sitting sketching

have to could see with the case

a few yards

from the water

most amused






MUSEUM CLAUSTROPHOBIA VALENTINE

I am ourselves
as if crowded





DO THE DEW VALENTINE

elves and Links
to their plastic Before

Willie the bibulous

language





GARDENING VALENTINE

being daylilies

and roses

the world cultivated

weeds between

my toes the sea

fog my branches

can you see excited

love pounding


shores where i run my elves





CYCLADES VALENTINE

cycles heart
love pounding

marble knees

and my turned

punked waiting

evaporated

into the Imagination





CHAUVINIST VALENTINE

I was gagged post-goddess



VIKING VALENTINE

that kind
which comments hearts open
alone to this to us

are we the other side

of the the Vikings

what argument takes.

gorgeous peaks

a shore at last





GETHSEMANE VALENTINE

Blame the pale wall
with tree





SCROOGE VALENTINE

butt trouble

how it leaks exculpatory

mea culpas

The Anthology (after Emily)

The soul collects her own anthology,
Then shuts the door;
Admit to her divine promotion
not one whore more.

Unmoved, she notes the outsider's pausing,
looking in her acid-free window-grate;
Unmoved, as a potential suitor
holds out gifts: reviews on a plate.

I've known her from a swollen internet
Choose a mere score;
Then close the covers of the volume
And begin to bore.

To the Poets

It's fun to write for several hours
in a locked-door bathtub
hot as horny teenage blood
until the soles of one's feet
resemble a Sharpei's face.
To have James Schuyler's Collected
next to a new bar of soap,
a saddle shape. That's our galaxy!
To know that everything
is connected like this, everything
is trying to hold everything else
in place, through either love
or gravity. And when the boughs
or bonds or holds of love break,
we can always call it Doom.
Or something similarly external.
We have that refuge.
Divine grace comes through grammar,
and today I prostrate myself before the grammar
of my insane tribe and our beautiful hoax.

Morning

Fear.
Prayer.
Mirror.
Diatoms.
Mouthwash.
Feet.
Salt water.
Sunlight.
Ice water.
Blueberries.
Terror.
Ice water.
Prayer.
Mirror.
Face.
Breath.
Ice water.
Light.
Stare.
Walk.
Faceless.
Prayer.
Water.
Ice.
Paper.
Voice.
Words.
Faceless.
Words.
Prayer.
Ice.
Melt.

POEM FOR JOHN KEATS

I listen to voices
of birds late at night.
On a computer.
Some composer has turned all the bird voices
into a composition of minimalist permutations.
Even the nightingale
got whored out musically.
This is the new Grecian urn.
Grecian formula.
I mean the round and round thing.
"Would you like to download/buy this?'
Click the big X.
Real birds outside are not arty.
But they do seem lackluster.
I mean the composer used real birds.
The composer didn't want to give me anything.
Most of art is a failed feint
of pseudo-generosity. Genius
is when art suddenly develops amnesia
and is giving it away to everyone
simply because it's what everybody needs
at precisely that moment. Nothing more
difficult than that. Aspirin? Same deal.
It's not like a big kitschy store
ironically named TARGET.
I suppose it's more like Joseph Beuys
getting pissed on by coyotes.
But that would be dumb this afternoon.
That was then.
"Can you forgive the museum?"
is actually an important question
for artists and civilians alike...
even those composers who rape birds
and steal their ancient songs
without paying for that download.

Nothing More

What happened to the orb-weaver
in my side garden?
And how did it really make me feel?
Astonished, galled, irritated
that it destroyed each web,
began anew daily. Puritans
ate up moral shit like this
with a sterling spoon! Give
us this day our daily flies.
Can't get my head around it. I took
a digicam of its nastiness:
Halloween orange-and-black.
Loathsome beastie, not small at all.
Would probably attempt to eat
my water garden's dragonflies!
Leave my beloved iridescent
devil's knitting-needles alone!
One morning it was gone.
Perhaps some brazen bird's breakfast.
I admit I miss the daily frisson
but not the sense of horror.
You probably think this is a poem
about poetry. Or God. Or fucking around.
But it's not. You're wrong.
It's about a fucking spider in my garden.
Or that was.
That's it.

You

You are an unreal orb
I love to watch.
You exist in snatches
and hints of secret freedom,
giving directions as a sly slave quilt
in our State Museum.
Why do I see you as a touch-plant,
when you are clearly a Slik lily?
It's a bit complicated.
It's plain wrong to consider
Brancusi anorexic. Nothing
that immortal starves.

Bad grammar: that immortal.

Dear Orb, I can't chart
your movement through the heavens,
but I can still watch.
Doubtless, you've noticed aberrations
in mine. Desire
has embarrassing grammar.

Still.

I like nature's thin chances.
Just look at those ferns
at the side of my house
that outlasted the dinosaurs.

Nature's ridonkulous grammar.

That skull beneath your skin.
The dragonfly lightness of your speech.
Your fern-like manners.
Your ancient smile

like a Fayyum teen mummy
anticipating a blowjob.

Poemses

LAST NIGHT


"I saw a tiny spider
I didn't see twice."
It was like blogging
or modern art.
Thank you for the voices
in my head. The real
and the unreal
is a closer competition
than most people care to
(or will) admit.
Even in therapist lives.
That jaunty tone,
like human jonquils
addressing a garden gnome.
Where do you suppose they learn it?
"Can they be cured?"
I wonder as I leave
the percolating gardens
of their offices.

Poem for Janitors

Oh, artists are really just janitors
of the few divine things this world holds.

Janitor points to Janus,
the two-faced god of doorways,
the New Year, desire, all things
that look backwards and forwards at once

as great art does.

They hold the door for others to pass
into the indefensible joy
and the horrible understanding

we must attempt to thwart
to become future, productive civilians
in this school we have all been so taxed
to build, which reverences
those who failed beatifically in this.

It is indeed taxing.

Some janitors stand at the door all their days,
much more loyal than two-faced time
whose head is carved in stone on the lintel,
as in Poe's poem or some pompous high school.

They do their work in the night alone.

They ask no thanks.

They know their job is filthy and divine.

Their ridiculous mops and buckets

are bipolar Russian pianos, paintings

the size of small airplanes, conceptualist

cotton candy or mental floss

in marble or metal or mud.

The civilian population, the student body,

are mostly creeped out by them, because they know

the janitor fantasizes about them constantly.

some shorties

at a party

Animate a medieval answer:
stained glass is too talkative
to homeless people. Clearly.

Kids are chewing talking as they walk
this rainy street.

But one might be voluble

as rain might tongue?

Running down your leg, I mean.



The Garden

effaced they mean.
could make by acid virus, snake a fuller Living
and plant and know that.




young blogger stance

Better be more Hummer.



at ocean

Or leave and be inanimate.

A piece of window.

You're talking over a child's grave fucking

Can Someone Explain This to Me?

I just visited this one poet's Twitter.

He has more than 13,000 followers on Twitter.

He follows more than 14,000 Twitterers.

This is not like a famous poet or anything (he's a very good poet, mind ya)and there doesn't seem to be a lurid gimmick to his Twitter (you know what I mean--the sexy or political or pop band or outlaw types that attract droves).

Yet he has only 108 Tweets in his Twitter career.

What does all this mean?

Is Twitter like Tiddley-Winks in disguise?

Is it just collecting?

Is the idea of reciprocal collecting the core foundation of Twitter, and communication just a rare epiphenomen of the thing which occurs as a sort of fluke?

I only say that because it's 13,000 plus 14,000 = 108 Tweets?

I mean can somebody really be following 13,000 people on Twitter in any conscious capacity?

Would they be able to feed themselves, dress themselves, attend to the necessities of life?

(Okay, I admit I have problems doing those things and I am only following 9 people so far on Twitter.)

I'm baffled. And then I'm waffled. And then I'm baffle-waffled.

Call for Submissions

Rachel, I think this is a great idea for an anthology.

Supergreat!

This is from Sephyrus blog...see my blogroll for a link....

Sephyrus Press seeks poems about the afterlife for an anthology

I am curious about people's view of the afterlife. So I am asking all willing to submit poems pertaining to that topic. The poem(s) can be your view of what happens, a theoretical scene or whatever you want.
Payment? I have no idea.
How many can you submit? As many as you'd like.
It will be another hand bound edition...not as pretty as Sappho Does because I'll be doing it myself this time, but it will be nice. I'll include art inside. It will make it to the New York Small Press Show hopefully. Questions, comments, submissions please send to rachel@sephyrus.com

Thanks!

And Then There's This...

Also by Moriarty from The Case, which includes an amazing poem dedicated to, and inspired by, the plangent work of Christian Boltanski.

    Morning

Fierce on Sunday
Wanting to do everything
Means sit here looking
Green through blinds
And cut spider mums
Among palm spikes
Things pink and cream
Nick asleep Columbine
With her mother
Momentarily the peace plant
Will lose a leaf from too much
Crazy growing repotted
From the other life
There is no other life

The birds inside with the birds
Outside their shadows
Their names whirl by
Mention the dead Singing every day
As if they were us only able
To fly and constantly
Sing in a way that blends
With the leafy background
Being occasionally heard
A song that means I am the same
As this place and time

A Poem by Laura Moriarty

Laura Moriarty is one of those poets (for me) whose poetry is an endlessly renewable resource.

She's not one of those poets with whom I have to show patience, and visit only every few years.

Because the work shifts constantly, prismatic with light and consciousness.

And grief.

And longing.

The book which has been amazing me all weekend (anew) is The Case.

Here is a poem which is actually slightly atypical, and not truly representational of the compositional strategies she tends to favor in this book (which are disparately imaginative).

This is probably one of the most conservative of the poems, formalistically, in this collection.

And yet I find it very trenchant and memorable.


    Breath

          with a line by James Ellroy

Now there's no tearing
My heart goes easily
In and out of my chest

As if I could remember
Holding it in my hands.
As if I could forget

And then I do forget and only
Think of what I should wear
Or where I am. Where am I?

Town and light. Time. A quick
Comparison of train stops
With destinations. Tearing myself

Away from the story.
Some bloodletting psycho
Some sense of narrative

Follows me here. "The key
To the wonder
Is death."

Sonnet for Juice (Co-Lab)

I like the idea of poetry
as a Monarch migration of erotic embarrassments.
Some Google-wad cleverly forgot
its sunglasses and previous lives: excuse to return.
You are sometimes Valmont in Les Liaisons Dangereuses
is a thing we can say with mock-certainty.
And yet something plots a kiss we call a bridge,
or this bridge we call a kiss.

"Our nightskin is our real perception."
Possibly. But chopped having is better
than not having says a garden I only half-planted.
The remainder is wild and plans
to outlast me. Evil as poetry,
yet wonderful as you these standoff flowers

drumming their queer, splendid fingers on the Sun.

This is a Great Review

and it makes me hungry for this book.

Very funny.

Conceptualist poetry that works and manages to maintain a cultural relevance and political conscience!

How's that for funambulism?

Such a rarity.

Adeena Karasick reviewed.

This poet is clearly brilliant.

Here's a video she posted on YouTube (parody of "I've Got a Crush on Obama").

I can't believe this hasn't gone viral (yet).

And Mr. Fama, that's one of the best reviews I've read in ages.

poem

POETRY

like as guppies
turned Grapes

I like the young
on their hands. Deconcerted
me. emails
and translucent

But I the hymeneal

fear I died Virgilian.

Beach Comb

O the many earthly reasons humans yawned
at the fairy community. Countless

twittering and dying of the stars.

Kierkegaardian novels
without the beach fence.

You feel yourself start
to pull for the sand

as it builds up there

and shows an inhuman will

that could annihilate

the cruising fantastic thing.

Warming Warning

I wanted the tween elf for the stairwell.

The soundtrack of gratitude
goes green in the most luxuriant, thalassic manner.

"I don't want this."

*

A poem that schleps between graveyards
is not wholesome.

Forgetting centuries is a virtue.

*


FALLING IN is hardest to learn, this little fairy animal thing during emails
and Van-Allen duckjobs.

*


SAY help if there are Buddhas sitting OVER there

cemeteries at

TARGET tonight you were all about

the hands.


*

James Schuyler

Deconcerted

me. eely this whiff
of profusion,

all those those
who fuck fruits

in their poems
what you are

thinking of is dangerous!

Love,

Urban (myth) poem,

I embrace your
tween elf-style.

Your half-pipe
of heraldry

and R.E.M. flutter.

I Dreamt He Was in Great Danger and Worried Upon Waking....

What would happen
to his dwarves

(or is it dwarfs?)

I used to know how
to spell, I used to know

lots of things

Would the Poison Apple
get him, would he
sleep like Macaulay Culkin
in a glass coffin

for many years

Would a kiss reawaken
him to his inner princess beauty

& would that kiss reawaken
his desire for prime

fairy tale real estate

like Paris or Los Angeles?

The Sopranos on a Mezzanine

Poems which are mocking hotels.

I'd by lying if I didn't admit that the rejection of the "social middle part" of the jellybean often bothers me.

"Rejectiana!" the blogging mynah mimics.

Darwin parts in glass cases. The usual Galapagos fantods.

And phantasmagoria of extinct creatures.

Pretty to look at on a Sunday afternoon.

Tony Soprano.

You don't give enough credit to the Poison Apple.

Really, you don't.

The Problem

In a circle there is no such thing as forward. The medieval idea is that love is a circle. But falconry is also evoked.

Waves and waves of falconry.

Unicorniana

Skin viewing itself by itself like this. The mid-sentence critters may make an appearance, so keep some magic applesauce close at hand.

"This circling is not an act!" the circus artiste on the unicycle insisted.

I thought of Virginia Woolf putting stones in pockets of her coat.

I mean before she walked into the river. Sank as book reviews.

She probably picked each stone for its prose-like perfection.

Did anyone ever arrange them in a glass case later?


I too easily give up my emotions to any unicorn that rests its head

upon my clearly-virginal knees.

Private Correspondences

Of course, I love the grape-flenser you sent me!

I was busy arranging ruddy lemons so they looked ruddier, so please excuse the lapse in netiquette! The other detective is not home right now. I looked outside and the stars seem to be asleep, so I think all is well.

Desire and bear-baiting are so similar that any metaphorin' on that is de trop.

Most mutations occur while art is asleep.

If one is stellar, one must always conclude in a cyclical manner, hence:

Of course, I love the grape-flenser you sent me!

Lamentiana

The self-absored poem. The Universal Blotter. These things don't really bother me. The Poison Queen. Contemporary mythologies or the traffic of expectancy. Rearrangement. Retreats. Death baits us all with its holograms, its fine collection of holographic manuscripts.

The bent retreat of a Turner painting.

The mill next door where waves break mid-sentence.

In Privato

I think
a funny thing

to say
to your boyfriend

to flummox him,
if you like

to flummox,
would be

"Load faster"

because he
will most likely

think internet
or maybe Clint Eastwood

or other westerns
at the same time

and he will get
that monkey face

which is fun to see.

I Would Make a Crappy Religion

If I were a religion,
I would not hide things
from you,

nor test you daily
to see if you failed,
nor invent

divine credit cards
or make endless bliss

the same condo-type deal
as eternal damnation.

Paul Rudd's Latest

Just watched I Love You, Man.

Finally, Paul Rudd gets to be the lead in another film.

It seems every time I see him lately, he's a minor character.

The movie's cute. Fluffy. Sort of predictable. If you're a Rudd fan you might like it.

Jon Favreau has it easy. He only has to play a total asshole.

Thomas Lennon is funny in his few moments onscreen. But when isn't he.

And where there's one former member of the comedy troupe The State (think Reno 911) there are usually several others. I saw Joe Lo Truglio and David Wain. Maybe there were more.

I think they pull each other into projects consistently. It seems to work well for them and I like them all, so I'm always happy to see them.

One minor script error but something that was totally incorrect:

One of the main characters points out a bumper car that he bought on EBAY.

He says that he had gotten into a bidding war on EBAY over this item with another individual, forcing him to use the BUY IT NOW option to secure the item.

Any veteran EBAYER (buyer or seller) would know once a bidding war has started the BUY IT NOW option would no longer be available.

Once any bid is placed on EBAY, the BUY IT NOW option instantly vanishes.

On a scale of one to ten: 6.5.

If you're a Paul Rudd fan, knock it up to a 7.5 or 8 I guess.

Sadistic Dream

I dreamt
I coined the word
"bootytainable"
and trademarked it
the way HARDEES
once trademarked
(or tried to)

"HAVE A NICE DAY"

and the dream
ended with me
telling several Kardashians
"I don't even know
who you are...
are you valet girls?"
and sadistically
making Paris Hilton
wear crocs

while some pornographer
filmed it

and she cried & cried

in the eerie green light,

in the eerie green shoes.

Two Years In

Several tiny demons
arrange and rearrange pillows

These are not malignant demons
but more like bedbugs
deprived of the virtues of flight

They think mostly of mutation
mid-sentence and parsimony

They're not bad critters

They debouch rage or French cinema.

Bent

The first image is skin tubes
one retreats
expectancy pierces another viewing
this retreat of the virtual
handmaiden of the real
which may be a man or a woman

handmaiden is a generic term

One purifies the image
another salts it with anguish
A cult appears to be immune
which horrifies the onlookers
just before the ocean comes into the city

Several tiny demons
arrange and rearrange pillows

These are not malignant demons
but more like bedbugs
deprived of the virtues of flight

They think mostly of mutation
mid-sentence and parsimony

They're not bad critters

They debouch rage or French cinema.

Chris Marker can be located genetically.

If Robbe-Grillet Had a Blog...

There would be no plot
no comments allowed
no labels
no links to other blogs

The language would
follow itself
like a detective
who doesn't realize

the murder hasn't happened yet
or that the detective
is the victim-to-be, himself
initiating the crime

by the simple act
of moving in a direction
some call forward
which is really a circle

And in a circle
the idea of forward
is actually rather backward
The sitemeter would remain static

despite the constant visitors
circling Robbe-Grillet's blog
as humans inside a poem
who learn that you always yield

to traffic already moving
inside the circle of the poem
It would be like a sleep machine
a looped crashing of ocean waves

It would be like the Energizer Bunny
inside a Scientologist's mind
following thetans to the dawn of time:
Frenchifornian, cruel and necessary

King of the Bedbugs

I replied to the written Said
There were empty bus stops
It isn't known if that's a misnomer
what you call yourself now, I mean
and then there's the ocean
keeps popping up in old etchings
disturbing sad glances
from Demonic children

I mean, I realize this isn't Canada
or anything like that

King Cimicidae rules Bedbug Nation!

He has an excessively curled nose
rather like an October gourd

Children make fun of him
behind his back
and then their parents are tortured
or killed

"Death by waffle-iron!"

Death by grape-flenser!

Death by jellybean pressing!"

which is most convenient

(for the children, I mean)

It is a nation of clever orphans

who have freed themselves

from that annoying Social Contract

through a perceant snickering

Particle Man

I always pull for Triangle Man.

I Love This Series of Scenes

The oldest son Francis on MITM works as a cattleman for a strange German couple who seem to have wandered off the set of Baghdad Cafe or summat.

Anyway, one day a German cousin (Willie) arrives and he doesn't speak English but baits Francis in silent-movie style whenever they are alone together.

Eventually, this starts to drive Francis crazy and it leads to violence.

Sorry for the poor video quality. If you enlarge it, it helps...a little but not much.

The guy playing Willie is great, so strange looking and does that sort of creepiness beautifully.

He reminds me of someone in a (Euro?) pop band? I didn't check the credits.