Category Archives: Disaster

After Air

We open air be-
ing but memories as we
lapsed into rubble.

I name the universe and
sing while you are in some part

We who are and were
lost—we happened and so we
created the flaws

against another error
for posed listening. We are

documents in for
making a frame to be err-
or out of work for

good. We are subject matter
among other things in for

relating to tics
able of only presence
of tics to be a

chance to induce more still,
needing more form to write in

detail, as the facts
relied on whenever we
would like to be ex-

amined. The task is the is-
sue in forming speech, thought—We

said we had to touch
like morning laughter yet I
have to return to

the next time if you can trans-
late which is other that pre-

ceded the floods. How
ever, this can be a mess,
make a last prayer.

Look to where the frame has been
inept or faulty. Sing and

lull sense in water.
We authored to perform our
form quietly—(what

was yours?)—who is the person?
Who was mentioned should remain

that, but I don’t know
the story, its politics.
The evidence is

mixing between a picture
that carries a mistake, desire

the need for words now
suitable for speech. This is
forgetting as means

to get out. Nevertheless,
time set from some violent

sign to transform in
ways as well as form one hand
on the other. There

is vulnerability.
Nonetheless, enter in while

questioning can long
something within attention.
What is being said?

We are passing disaster
after disaster in speech

more influenced by
visuals. There is something
in a sign of some

hesitation and how it
will be marketed. There are

no differences.
I has been attacked and I
appropriate I

enough to look for you now.
I form air, error attacks.

A body has been
more important in error—
form security

in our capacity to
address changes in our cur-

rent, it only falls
into lacks of English and
other marvels. I

see only reality
as I am not in it, as

far as speech is. I
can say there is no single
me. I may ignore

them, and even distort them
somehow. We appropriate

time to see where we
are—suddenness losing. I
feel vulnerable

in her kind attacks in this
. We land, make sure

we press some unful-
filled urgent action and re-
late to a ship, a

devastating reach in a
small individual to

engage in air, spring
with each disaster concealed
in bodies contained

in bags. In every layer
we still lack, do not know the words

we author—meaning
smearing (alive or dead?)—if
I’m material,

I’ll be other specific
to a method. I want to

remember you be-
yond that moment outlined in
morning. (Put names here

if they exist). I rely
on paper to claim an act

for flooding not suit-
able to a closed fist. I
press you quickly in

form as sense is a busi-
ness closed among close-knit cells—

and more language, too,
is hard—part of the problem
is in our language

I branch over with error
already indicated

There is some need to
share, need to author ourselves.
I did not stem from

a name to create a se-
duction, although I stand, like

you. Sometimes I am
more and less. I am formed—I
am not sure I am

quite this—yet I form along
lines to fracture oversight.

You spread clear over
logical materials,
say outside my a-

bility to explode—hard.
There is not everything

here, but we believe
there is an awful lot more
to branch onto. I

was materials to be
collected, the error with

within forces affected
in the outside. The

other is more than other—
go on and on and on to

reach it. We want world
over a moment, a fact
we have not enough

sight evolving our vulner-
abilities, but there is

an awful lot more
to long. I am. Here and there,
I’m written after

rage expanding against the
other refused by its public.

But this was and is
historical as we are
living, spilling each

other’s blood in the past air
opening where the future

can make nothing hap-
pen. Well, come and attack just
a little bit more

and press everything under
still air. I cannot create

some level of some
home. Let me—as if to kill
would release prayer,

not this world (either with us
or with error) and leave a

space for here (either
with us or our fictitious
state that can’t defend

you or your goods). Here I mar-
ginalize or believe what

I am…nothing. I
rely on blood out of place
and outside here how

beautiful speech is a vul-
this need

to look back, we error
of our air. I implement
or intended

when wrote intended when I
don’t know air. The signals are

mixed and I would probe
that area and find her
in air as released

when I cannot be present
(I mean here—for example—

etc). Where
does this resistance go, who
refuses even if

it was empty, if it is
full of people. Strange the acts

being carried out
by so-called immediate
sooner, relations

between a number of ears.
There’s no question that error

has created sense,
some want to separate, to
connect ones that ought

to separate more air. A
word air raised one scene of the

disaster. Air a
lie, some want to be willing
to address her in

terms of air. What’s left between
urges to submit—support?

I am beginning
far from being the error
invented. I am

its body to revita-
lize the wound, make a locale,

but I’m uneasy
about the unity of
air. I do not know

everything and I’ll give you
a little of the center

not removed from want.
I don’t know who I am in
her. I’m a number

of different people. I’m
wondering if error to

make little lives will
ever wake the fact always
this sense to

represent ‘air’ now as the
winds are direct, calling air

as air even when
suicide fulfills its claim
against origin

to divorce—by conversion
to I—to reject results

of a new tragedy
. Air
more different here.

Pick one and make that person
author this time up in air.

Let me be in this
new position, yet I can’t
when a disaster

strikes or is and was lost through
language, pretty language to

be the fact to make
some immediate
future in present

of its triviality.
As if it has a presence

present everywhere,
that does not mean it’s widespread
but can’t be only

that—as if I am in air—
I am air, a name, as well

as a lump. I want
to say the thing that needs some
air to be done to

remember where we are—
raid against error spilling

still blood in public
places now a grave open
to all
at all times

to operate in air. Of
course, you strike me and that’s good

because there’s nothing
negative to think about
when we step into

all of that rotating air.
Hopefully we will stay air—

open—or remain
to be immediate, small.
A celebration

in an explosion of what’s
known as peace formed after a

bearded person could
without being a
name with the presence

of other times where traffic
is slow in a body

before exploding
in a random way.
I’m not
sure I understand

what I am but I press you.
What is going on outside?

What is going on
Now you have the present in
all thought. Now there is

a lot that takes place within
sight to place urgent needs in

an aggressive way.
Outside the explosion thought
it inside but it

had nothing to sorrow for
the fall of the public claimed

by mud. Explosion
killed thirty others praying
of what was each ot-

her of air. So we favored
sight with the power to call

attention to the
land, lack with it, something
frustrating sense and

leaves a big hole in what we
should be doing. I am air—

always possible
within air—open air. Air gat-
hered us today and

someone was privileged to
think. You still so vibrant on

different levels—
Wash the things I lack, sometimes
a lack of branches,

a lack of airs and embers.
Note: insist on the act to

be the name to branch
out with all the rudeness to
explode the market.

I talk about you through o-
mission. I am fortunate

air, a long name, but
it is called less. In this room
we were looking at

the cost of mistakes. We have
a new number program and

pieces of burdens,
a gap being collected,
a culture of thrift

to think about and come back
in writing. I know a loud

minute rarely a-
rises to create speci-
fic figures. (Of course,

I was different mosques to
enter) or maybe full of

a shadow to tear down
(or not). Imagine: a mosque
in a soul present

meaning outside in a flood,
a little plenty. “Bravo”

has been absent for
10 years, a little cost in
fire, attacks being

spent sense to perform the whole
business of a question.

Somewhere around air.
Please pose a more severe world.
Could you describe err-

or in global entity?
and so on. It is the wild

as we think beyond
what’s happening now, what
what happened. I long

events spilling history
to be associated

like sins, some silence.
I trespass every instance
in all origin

of experience which
had a failure in most hearts

of me. It seems this
does not rise to the level
to fall and disin-

tegrate into areas.
So this has to continue

to be worse before
it gets better. I know we
are not enough—we

are a world, which may not be
able to give more because

of what has gone on
causes a break in our weak
spots to exploit some

possibility breaking
a fact like polluted blood

while listening to
little air or slim shoulders
forbidden in black

water. What are we going
to do about it? ignore

our brains and figure
the best way to use drones, to
use special forces

with air, very generous
with the time. Air being you

evolving nature
of the sign. I am error,
homegrown, in some way

connected here in English
now complicated. Who is

an American
any way? And who is as
definite as air?

I am not sure yet or how
important it is. We press

and reach to someone
in air in an attempt to
mend air with some slim

reach to mend something at the
beginning and I am here

(Note: This is the result of an erasure of the document “Ten Years After 9/11: A Report from the 9/11 Commission Chairmen” and an erasure of translated letters of Osama Bin Laden. I then transcribed them and framed the documents into this renga.)


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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Erasure, Experiment, Form, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Reading, Revisitations, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

still exhausting a place

to say that name is an extension

So one of us builds        the other
adds the mysterious strobe lights

The design has disappeared
from the Milky Way

just like yesterday
Screw it, who cares




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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter, Writing

still trying to exhaust a place

What ruins are visible
on my face today

where it once
was forgotten

(the inventor of the bike)
the dish, Riki

I want to see your darkness, dear
golden greensky bluegrass

around you, ugly mug,
great day. Gourmet

adventures, leads me to
hope                I am

closed off,
ugly. Great

day’s gourmet tree town sound
around you        There’s something

beautiful in my mouth
like a tomorrow

that allows us
to bounce off

of each other
to some unearthed gems

like there is a tomorrow
You have a good sense

of style. Can you tell me a little more
about that Pussy

Riot, fragrant world, drowning
in grain, local food.

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter, Writing

excerpt from attempting to exhaust a place

Pick your own apples. Please

dare I gently kiss

this isn’t the first time we’ve touched
with experimentation

a unique sound.                                Fragrant world employing

a momentum from dark squeals

—lips that you can’t place
leading you closer

to some crazy
something you may or may not want

to find            ‘only in America.’
What is that cliché?

Sank you
with goodies for special interest

in a song like
‘In Love’ makes drowning

in grain an understated pleasure,
lets swagger slip in.

She’s more adventurous in bed
than health care

after hours and
the known moons must remain open

for you to receive any
or all of the rewards

which will be credited to
a fourth dimension beyond jeans. Don’t say a thing about

How I Lost My Body

there is a sudden surge of rain
or shine

and laughter,
smoking on the balcony, love

is strange when lit up
like mistakes but basically

good. We believe there’s a
manual crammed with footnotes,

parenthetical asides
of love’s end                                                              come

to light, and I
could go on

and on but
there is only so much

time and I
have many things to forget

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Memoir, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter

I’m everything…sometimes

A bomb converted a city under
railways of clothing and pleasure. Perhaps
continuous, unavoidable as a creature, alive

through lack of simplicity and light
I’m everything you consider biblical, sometimes
something good depending on the skies

this moment. We’re all the logical
marriages of breath made after love
of gold, a round force to
imagine unlimited
. Tell me there’s room

for a future, a spirit beginning
something to share, to construct, explore
and expand our needs situated in
astronomical wetness and longing a location.

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(drafts from experiment with O’Hara’s Lunch Poems using words that only contain one or two vowels).

I have a little castle in me
the door is open and I am naked
and friendly like the stars
in all their splendor…


oh how often I want to say things to you
but then the fear comes munching this heart
and ouch it hurts terribly
to look at you and be so thick with longing
I’m so, so nice dear, too nice,
I know you know, that’s not new
and right now, this now moment
I just want to fuck gently
and be wholly open and I want to [(don’t let me say it)] you…


I’m dancing all the time now
but I don’t dare say a thing
that you could feel
so what’s the use
I don’t know if there’s a use
just use me
if for a moment, stay terribly close
and do not speak of this…


oh love with amethyst eyes and roses for fingers, let me love you a little bit love me…


I’m as charming as snow
some of the time and I’ll be happy
here or there and I don’t care
if we ever get to Italy…


Oh you are not like the moon
tonight there’s no way
you could be the moon
since I can touch and taste you
you smell like summer and hyacinths…


oh don’t remind me
where I came from
tell me where I’m going…


I am good like a little bit of rain
and a sliver of moon
love me ‘til there’s no trace of me…


you are full like a sound
that willfully whispers words
like love in summer. yes. …


I want you
as daylight wants a window
to come falling
all yellow and sweet
all over me. yes.
that’s where it’s at.
that’s what I want
to say to you but can’t. …


oh heart so hurt with hope,
filthy hope, that it’ll suddenly rain your lips tonight
and I am so hard
to see, I was a closed window
and I don’t wanna stay closed no more, no more
I think I’m not so closed now, not so
many things, finally
I have started to work on it…


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Tell me
the beginning

all over

What remains remain from this
war’s a waste. They spread waste and you

bestow life
for me to be

not to be me. I have disappeared
with the voice of a bird.

No, no,
that’s not right.

Let me sleep
on it

and bring me
to a new unknown,

only wake me when
the ship stops—


Here you’ve become
a synonym for sky.

Hurry, lest I forget
how to address you

before the night
tosses morning in my mouth.


Thinking, anyone,

trying to solve a crossword puzzle, not wanting
a cup of coffee

I discover and
then immediately forget

a lock of hair,


yet still remember jotting down notes
the light is brilliant

with a sour feeling
that is what poetry does

to the song
of two bodies then is an act of freedom
to tiny secrets.


You are encounter and a short farewell,
a tree and the sea…

The imagination capable of recalling…
but the war took the interior…
the distance between us.


I can no longer
weep [1].

We begin with the tongue

and tomorrow’s sun remains
alive in us.

I can no longer look
at the traces.

The sea is no longer
illuminated, no longer


so long as there is us—


We need rains
from every port we begin us
all the interpretive instruments in our bodies

—from head to hands, legs and toes and lips—we know

because we want
to recall the body’s forest

I say: Pleased to meet you.
Let me
love you,
I am totally up
to the task

when sleepiness slips in
from the numbing wine, meaning

is formed,
made of liquid longing
without assistance or assurance.
Take me to that river
of night. There is so little time
between writing and dream.

The clocks can’t respond enough
to receive us.

You lure meaning into absurdity.
The sea wakes you up and yet
you do not know it. I cannot swim.

Poetry is measured of patching
one mistake with another. Today
to ascertain anything through the field
of your distant yesterday

crisscrossing the fusion of here
with a temporary fire
without maps and identities,

so we dance

so as not to die
, tomorrow.


Perhaps earth is you. Are you
a country
that will accept me?


We wake up with Apocalypse,

and floods

and have a cup of coffee.

[1] Men don’t cry.

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02/09/2012 Sonnet II

I consider myself very charming,
all humble and handsome,
effortlessly charismatic

—the days come along
one after another and everything
is gone—I am gone
Often I thought about the West, the day-to-day variation

of teeth inherited with a pain pouring
upon the poems—I’m trying to make
a fool out of myself.
I feel inadequate and constrained, Anne Carson

There’s no way to get it right.
Please explain it to me
before I go all Salvador Dali

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02/09/2012 Sonnet

I am delirious and I know it once I discover
myself, I no longer want
to belong—I am reaching towards the most noble

level of pain—me, I’m
down to prewar levels
                     . I spoiled
this city for myself.                                                    The days come along

one after another    and everything
is gone and I am gone
—bring me to tomorrow
to hear the thing that’s calling me

inherited with a pain to pour upon this book
with all those who need
a little light for the night—I’ll tell you all
I lack—(see, I’m finally opening up)

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02/08/2012 draft of another sonnet

I was very, very quiet I often thought
about the West, the day-to-day
variation of teeth.
Can we go there?              Now?—
I won’t read the world
as a book                                        I wrote
you fucked up my sense of geography.
I painted myself in designs I saw
In a dream     What gesture can I make
to make our histories become the future
where you’re
infinite since you do not exist

Let me (love you, I am trying to)
remain (deliberately) open to whatever’s falling

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