Lineation changes:

Herself hirsute prickle
At a square
Resembling Venice after fire and seen
Through Venetian
Blinds verily make green space. Transsexual
Patriarch puts a tough
Spin on possibility. Switches and
Whistle as slender wood
Whoops sensitive
Ass-cells sheathed in lace the mirror image of caul.

Another culling:

Herself hirsute prickle
At a square
Resembling Venice after fire and seen
Through Venetian
Blinds verily
Make green space. Transsexual
Patriarch puts a tough
Spin on possibility. Switches and
Whistle as slender wood
Whoops sensitive
Ass-cells sheathed in lace
The mirror image of caul.

Further prunings:

Do trips rip guts out or restate romance as theorized in the 70’s of the 16th century. Wreck this wrack. Flaps and flaps—here’s plastic not bird flying.

Oil on canvas; yes we’re talking crude. Fact— fiction—a fight over jurisdiction. Hyaline visages verify. Glossies blown by breezes smell fishy. Is this a case of fish-fume-laden breezes or breezes sensing amiss?

Now a lineated culling--with no words reordered or changed, but with dashes added:

Boogie from
Dusk to
Brunch-time—looking at
His toes—distances
Cannot always be
Traversed—I to
You and back
To we—it’s true—you
Have no reason to trust
Me—grasses catch fire—someone
Drops several pounds of salt.

And here's a chunk (in-progress?) prior to culling:

Herself defined as hirsute. History is a prickle becoming pickle. Peculiar syntaxes converge at a square resembling Venice after a massive fire and seen through venetian blinds. I tried to address the perplexities as performed by propinquities. This didn’t work the way I envisaged. Verily I make very a green space. She’s become the worst of maleness; is this purposeful or an accident she’s spent her life striving for. Transsexual patriarch puts a tough spin on the possibility of performance. Switches and switches. Whistle as slender wood whoops sensitive ass-cells. Asperity in the midst of newly sprouted asparagus piques my most favorite circuit that from eye to gut to eye. Eyeing gut I keeled over. Gluttony allowed me to regain balance. Sexy sheathed in lace the mirror image of caul. Girls call call-girls; they’re unsure whether they’re pranking or professing admiration or if the two are twined so tightly one and one is one.

Here's another culling from a longer language-chunk:

How can an interstice rive? How can it not? Oil on canvas; yes we’re talking crude. Fact— fiction—a fight over jurisdiction. Hyaline visages verify. Glossies blown by breezes smell fishy. Is this a case of fish-fume-laden breezes or breezes sensing amiss?

I continue to be interested in Baraka's Transbluency--interesting, to me, the way he has fags, and then he has queens, and he seems to not see these categories as part/parcel; and of course with a style which seems in conversation with O'hara, Ashbery, well, this all makes for an interesting homo-hating dynamic. Too, his poems seem to anticipate so much to come--as in work of now/thelast ten years: I see some Reginald Shepherd, for example.

Here's a recent fragment:

Pack—pick-axe. Eyes consort. Dim and dimity do each to each infinity. Fragments glitter firmamentally. Do trips rip guts out or restate romance as theorized in the 70’s of the 16th century. Wreck this wrack. Flaps and flaps—here’s plastic not bird flying. Dirt does eternity.


I'm wanting to write a la the method--if I remember rightly/and of course her method may have changed!--of Anne Marie Albiach, who has said she writes a long chunk of words, then cuts; this is what I sort of did above, except the language-chunk wasn't all that long. It is, in the above form, much shorter though. I wish I was really into writing poems via a slow, patient process.

Anterior to time seconds spit and hiss.

Arcady eradicates almost formed.

Fascist breezes blow through Arcady.

Almost formed seconds sit prettier than ducks.

This sky falls; there’s no raining.


Above--is it good, or almost good; or is it ugh-ugh pretentious? How can a breeze be Fascist? Noxious illegal fumes lacing the breeze? Is the point to juxtapose Arcady with its opposite? Why though would Arcady be opposite Fascism? Fascist is such an awkward term: political party turned general metaphor--ugh-ugh. Is sincerity a prerequisite for pretentiousness? Surely sometimes.

Regarding an earlier poem/whateverness: the "local bitterns" should be going blah to, not "blah too."

Below is a poem loosely inspired by Srikanth Reddy's Voyager; I'll be honest: based on what I've seen of the collection, I'm not a fan. I am, though, or at-least was, rather fond of his first book, Facts For Visitors. I'm not a fan of the single-sentence, or sentence fragment, line; enjambment rocks! I often work modes I'm less than drooling over; it's one of my most mega MOs.

I tried to tell you.
Telling you I tried to tell others.
You-all listened.
What ya’ll heard ain’t me.
There were birds; there often are.
Sometimes there are feathers blown about.
There’s rarely loose blood.
Nicked skin is common.
Someone illegally inserted glowing genes.
The expected results prove non-existent.
There’s unexpectedly radiant lymph.
This assumes the interpretive apparatuses aren’t a crock.
I dreamed of eating a lusciousness of hare and wine and blood.
I woke up tired from dreaming.