Poetry and Other Artifacts

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Oh

After spending three weeks making 14 YouTube videos and a special tumblr blog for my asemic graphic novel, I belatedly realized that flickr was probably the easiest and best option for displaying Esgr Navigator. I created an account and loaded everything yesterday. Overall, it took no more than three hours.

Ha.

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The Great American Asemic Novel

My asemic novel Esgr Navigator is now complete and posted online. This project took possession of me in March and I am thrilled to see it finally finished. You can view all 229 pages here. Or you might want to take advantage of the opportunity to read a novel in less than 20 minutes--you can view Esgr Navigator as 14 brief YouTube films here. (If a picture is worth a thousand words, the word count for Esgr Navigator surpasses The Deerslayer by James Fenimore Cooper by about 15,000 words.)

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Esgr Navigator in June
Friday, Jun. 01, 2012
Here you can find tiny YouTube previews of my asemic novel, Esgr Navigator. I will be posting all 228 pages later this month (I hope) at this location. You can't see anything yet. I will be handing out the password when all the pages are up.

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How does he wake?

lcmt

An early morning sound

—a fallen crumb flaked
from prehistoric strata
quarried in dreams
—or scaled
from shed skin
of a reptilian night—

slowly drifts
into the choked stream
of his unconsciousness.
Rubbish eddies through
senses brimming
with a body verging
then spilling
into a box of time,
space, gods unseen,
what shoes to wear,
low cost financing,
destinations worldwide
and salt pecan delight.

In that first obese minute
he is a two-ton bulk,
bed-swathed,
luxuriating,
sunk in the wallow.

In that next pliant minute
he uncurls into limbs
magically tapered
with long fluent muscle,
as the river horse decides
to become human.

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Love Scene

lcmt

Her peach-colored hair, frayed at the edges, crackled with static. "I don't know how you live with yourself. How do you do it? How do you recognize all our cities of aberrance behind these harsh basaltic entrancements?"

The rest is here at The Longest Salmon.

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LYI Travel Guide

lcmt

Hang on for the better part of a year,
dependent on kindness, sharing small
open exchanges of risk with short gods.

The rest is here at The Longest Salmon.

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Winter Faith

lcmt

Let us believe
in late shades of grace,

In gifts of brumal
dune and ruined shore,

Let us vigils keep
behind windows stoned

By hollow rain
as dull shadows fall,

And cumulus lords
frown in frosty sleep,

Marooned far above
silver piers buried

Deep in crouched waves
steeped in pathless light,

While ice ascends,
configured in glass

Powder harrassed
by restive spirits

Uprooting grass bent
and bitter in shouts

Of menace cast
by wind, shed by storm,

As all the white
sea shivers and breaks.

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An asemic interpretation of my poem "Winter Faith"
Saturday, Apr. 21, 2012
lcmt

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Are you gonna let Mars go there by himself?

lcmt

I.

Your eyes are nothing like a sonnet.
I know you are not the faceless sun growing
large with patience and yellow tempera, growing
upward into uncertain washes of firmament.
Your skirts are predetermined and aligned
by acute focal tilts of movement—sitting on
somebody's cigarette—sweeping down
boundaries of open night—burying
instant daylight in the underside
of absence, in the drop
of dissatisfaction, in rare
chains of desire, rare
as sardine cans,
emptied.

II.

For you, I can inscribe awry
fields of silent touch in points
of ink—an interior landscape
following trails (of mold? of dirt?
of ash? of mascara?) that first
appear smudged but will soon
resemble a mosaic of disquieted
coasts and disjunctive hollows
hidden within blind spots, within
sun spots, limited by declined insults
written, then spoken in disorder,
fluctuated words in five minutes
becoming tissue-wrapped skull plates
—knocked off aluminum components
held in my fist at arm's length—
and the rest of me naked
as an emperor under
masterly camouflage.

III.

You come from the imaginary space
that cannot be colonized—I live outside
myself, observed in the clean fabric
of narrative and habitation. We can speak
to weather, we can speak photosynthesis,
we can speak acknowledgements to
the disappearance of summer predators.
This is the polar attraction called travesty,
called abandonment, called permission,
this laying down of possession
for the sake of discontent, for the sake
of indifference, for that lack of recognition
from the one who will free us.

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Asemic writing

lcmt

Escriti

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Color project

lcmt

1045.7

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Map project

lcmt

Map of the Nipomo mesa (when we interpret the language of whales)

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Name project

lcmt

This could be your name

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Cookeries

lcmt

Dissolve kosher salt, dilute cider vinegar in spiny Plantagenet emergencies.
Hands on please.
Zest lemon fingertips, and genuine tigertips
pound with a mallet, then fan parallel
to sectioned tangerines, Satsuma or Honeybell.

Avoid floral wine and extraneous bologna.

Prune bay trees when days grow shorter,
nights grow longer, underscored weekends
condense into fidelities chopped
from dusky onions. Steep opportunities
in vinegar and rosemary. Repair and gild
comfort with persimmon skins.
Surprise the strategic moss
inside helpless complexities,
quartering a pentagon cast
in non-urgent iron, hundredfold. Pierce
the silent foil, ease with a steady awl,
hand to mouth to stalking manroot and ergot.
Speak faint of whiteness and numbers
but call dogs and roses loud, with drums.

This problematical alchemy cannot end
in the perfection of matter, but ends
as the have-not grasses never

end.


My response to the challenge of a poetic form called “asdfiwvcbaxnf”.

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Rewriting Robert Louis Stevenson

lcmt

A connotation of my shadow—that is to say, soul—
goes in and out with me,
and stands between two deaths
(or maybe three),

and long before I am done with my irritable body and my obscure angles of consciousness my shadow, my stain, will awaken and perish

and so will I.

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Published!

I've got a poem at The Longest Salmon.

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Be My Valentine

lcmt

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What's old is what's new

You (yes, you) can still get one:

Artifact

Wife

We are nearly recovered from the fire and things here are as normal as they are ever going to get, which is, you know, about 62%.

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Postcard 4 (Arbitrary Square)

lcmt

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Cephalopods

Dark Chocolate

DiaryLand

according to a consensus
of five co-conspirators
her right eye is blue
her left eye is a match

but she knows one eye
is smaller than the other
and both are the color
of a common gray rock

flecked with oxides
thirty years have passed
since she last wore a shoe
with a broken heel

she inscribes herself
readily as owner
operator general
dogsbody of the Intaglio

Galosh Studio Press
which has neither
intaglios nor presses
nor even a lone galosh

she is a woolgatherer
a dawdler
an ignoramus
an omnivore

a deficient typist

she is nine inches long
from the inside of her elbow
to the inside of her wrist
she is legged but not

bow-legged and less
saline than most people
but that could be
a misapprehension


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