To be reminded of sacrifice,

At quiet moments, aftershock
of memory compels not back to the site,
but forward into a ledger of takeout orders
or Latinate daybook.

Balancing debts against promises,
the cluck and
and chatter of a new breeze.

What kind of loose change
will it bring and when
will it in turn be remembered.

I have a hunch there are other
dusty rooms.

Suggestions like
laziness, fear or a lust for
the baroque comes through
as feedback on the night.

By dawn, the toss-up is
a tired one- check for surprises
in the cold storage,
you may reawaken yet.



From a PDF of The New School’s ‘Strategic Plan 2013-18’



It’s like, what library hasn’t a shred of
Maximus Poems, Europe of Trusts, Flow Chart, Mandelson! Mandelson!

Yet spilling from stacks and stores are bars and bars
in Times but with a border around them
Davis, Adderley, Coltrane

Nothing in italics we know the riddle’s been compromised
only decipherable in Worldcat, JSTOR, Elsevier

Now settle for less in another setting,

I ate a carton of rice and chicken from a street vendor
outside the Bobst.


Don’t Applaud, The Captain Can’t Hear You

After Juliana Spahr

Don’t applaud the captain can’t hear you,
the engines have overplayed their hand
and your excitement is just a toothmark
on the bedpost of this new silver age.

Air traffic control can’t hear you,
The cherry picker and stair operators can’t hear you,
The plane engineers and technicians can’t hear you,
The cleaners picking up cans and napkins after you’ve
left out can’t hear you,

Neither hearing or knowing you are the petroleum
industry reps, the CEOs and execs,
The construction workers from a site decades past
and the shareholders and investors can’t hear you

The travel agents, the holiday reps can’t hear you
the taxi and bus drivers and train drivers can’t hear you
The security guards, the passport control staff can’t hear you.

And the baggage handlers, the baggage handlers, the suitcase designers,
the suitcase manufacturers, the plastics, metals and chemical companies,

We went into this world, and there it is, the sky, the teams, the world.
And no one hears the clapping hammered out in the troposcene of tourist trappings,
they won’t hear you, get out.


Why, even the royal
family are apt to put
out a thriller.


I. Excavation of the Mound

We’d known nothing of his madness ’til drunk on knowledge-fame
The first steps spoke of a mind in prospect of the barrows

under bracken, we, with gore-tex on knitted folds posed, open to
fact. Ahead of the shrapnel ditch we knew nothing would come

of the excavations without advance, some meticulous sheared ingress
into the hoarse runway of night. Bearers of tariff, toll and tutors, will the

future be like our past? The corpse, a burst pustule, timeless, writhing
in the inexorable earth-flesh. What did he take from our madness, clamped

under a millennial trapdoor? Inverted rapid eye movement till all he recalled in us
stepped the leaking guilt of ingress, ingress, for our research into flesh and fame.

II. Trial Through Craft

We’d known nothing of his madness ’til drunk on knowledge-fame
hearing little from the outer bands, commuters carded through fabric spires

hadn’t we heard those who were wired? That destiny towards dance-floor death
And all grinding teeth, fate-rutting for freedom in the lab.

Now, sent out for more in ice-bitten months, a slosh of limb against the drudging
Tide of darkness. Cleaving the body, sure hands can cut with sail the expanse

of distance- we waited, cupping our mind to the hoary shard, a crust
and crucible to the gripping choke that claims sane men in the night.

Who wants to arrive? The process, a monitored slog, with little to show.
It’s in the buckling we are reminded, keep together the precious claims

made from battle, expedition and plunder. You heard it here first, youth,
since nothing on this land brings me to her, o lay iron by my strong side

that remains, make the final preparations, you are determined as if the
blood-feud had been brought to you in the cradle. Could I make

the final breach lying in a backwards-boat with engravings in the reed
that none after shall sink sideways into shield-clash? Blank gold assurance

to the zone, all a wander rough the head, stone makers shorn
by winding routes, along the cloister, a door to divisions at first

rage-broken, sealed in anger the letter lies folded, arms up to
the invite. Oh we spoke into guides, glyphs, the rank and file of

burnished nibs, how the regimented finger made filigree of
wood-corpse, pounded till all we knew was the legend that groans

Nero, Tiberius, Catullus, we should have laughed in the face of
such chiseled dominance, their vessels a compendium of greed.

III. A History Assembled

We’d known nothing of his madness, ’til drunk on knowledge-fame
now the hand is rotting and the script cowers, mangled as a martyr,

it keeps us from recalling with clarity that which brings us far into
imagined memories, how deep to probe without cracking the casket?

Make a mould, settle the bill with empire, make good use of
your legends boy, the beast will rupture your bloodline

without a glance at your status or links. Connections instead to
the chinks between your hide and the scurrying traipse East.

Perhaps the threads spun towards you, plastic-glass binding
nurses the purse-pile from pocket to hilt-plating, a knot shrivels

In the light that ridge-pierces a smoldered mass for all the glut
can be gleaned for. Stacked shearings, the sheaf and shave of

assemblage, where the scope and scoop-out make ingress as
the hairs of a man’s tooth-wall stack, the hero’s hackled installment.

These perks, a buffer against the breach, will stay as you retain
in neuron’s archive the canto hurled above the epoch, which tongue,

which tweet can transform this corpus, itself a collision of hewn strata
no piston or pipeline could derive. Cracks, codes, the molested

manuscript scribbled of orders pissed across from sanctified
rings. The adorned finger, clad with clout, swerves the prow of history.

IV. Breaching the Gulf

Crimped inside the shuddering craft over asphalt expanse,
We hurtle past boundaries and thresholds, over the architect’s dream

scarred for the moment by ingress, the notorious fieldwork
that eats emptiness into the earth but still we press over the estuary

onwards there was once heard a growling sluiced within the stomach
that digests the spray-scour, silt sown over a curdled crossing.

What did our ancestors teach us from across the unmanageable breach?
To teach to decide that after each presentation and handout was over,

nothing’s to be decided? Decide nothing then, entreat the expanse to whip
the furrowing mind open as ocean. The salted sweep and swell draw

a man crooked angled to an arc hammered out in the hearth. Those curves,
leveled into suspension by the smoke-breathing bevel, an alloy of the Levant

to its anathema. And of the return? Slumped as to iron-age tools known only
in this form to grave-robbers, shaved so near the treasure trembled in its crib.

We’d known nothing of his madness ’til drunk on knowledge-fame

V. Back Progenitors

Martin Carver, Ezra Pound, The Venerable Bede, Charles Olson, Christoper Ecclestone, David Jones,
Seamus Heaney, Cornelius Tacitus, Theodor Adorno, Angelina Jolie, Chris Marker, Travis Jeppesen, Paul Simon,
John Ashbery, Roland Barthes, Lionel Messi, Balthasar Gracián, Aethelred the Unready,
William Carlos Williams, Yasser Arafat, Canterbury Cathedral, Rutherford College, Yorkshire Limestone,
Iron-rich topsoil, B&Q Gravel, Sand (preferably coarse), grass seed, shovels, rain, February,
March, April, 975-1025, 991, the 16th century, 1860, 1938-39, 1965-71, 1983-92,
2013, Generation Y.


f, oo-r, th, ó, r, k, g, w, h, n, aye, yuh, e-ew, p, yuwkz, s, t, b, eh, m, l, ing, é, d, oh, áh, yūr, ee, ēar
We’d known nothing of his madness, till drunk on knowledge-fame.

VII. End-Times

From across the muttering sea, the Jute-shore stands a farm,
whole, rotund, wind-eating plants, the shock that builds

from slipstream, which luddite could imagine the field, free
as the breeze, as is, the breeze is. Buried through the brown

coating, a spirit-gift hums toward young and those yet to yearn,
a birthright pressed out for earth settlements, the boundaries

scraped of clod and gunk. Passage is clear to us as to a visor
shielding the riot-vision, a thwack to thwart the clutch of free-wheeling

time-makers of monetary mop-up-operations. New clouds hold
the myth of treachery, zeroes and ones getting it on, spraying

the crowd with sources and settlements, crave-harbouring
the logic and stocks of pressure, not-a-jot on the pad ’til

The arrogant-organ ceases its ingress, out over and flopping
into another circular narrative, cheques and clamps to

wrench the mould to fit another corpse, labouring under a dream,
drudgery to wander, oh take us back when our head’s-pride

shucks the muscle of zest, to leave only lethargy leering at our
lover, askance to the articles, dripping from soured pores,

the login-shack-up-craze-plague-wrath that the wired sculpt
in a layered dimness, writhing for the pains of human ease

and coasting, oh the Jutes joined us in Kent, if we in fact
Kent joined us with the Jutes, we and the Jutes made Kent

joined, A joint is Jute and Kent, we feel this to click with the
nerve-endings, a plus and minus to sizzle the cathode hymn

the ritual that causes the mind to night-wander. We will shortly be arriving at Wye. And know nothing of his madness ’till drunk on knowledge-fame.

Who aren’t we now? What can’t we be? My god. Žižek! You: it’s not
that he went too far, it’s that he didn’t go far enough. The Messianic scars

bound in a parent’s yell is scratched on shuffle. If this, our day
makes precipice of midnight, we’ve curated a lessening we, the kindred

diaspora, slumped dizzy and fear-lusting over the 3am jabbering
keyboard while carbon bonds over a date into destiny, the scuppured lineage of pride.

VIII. Recent Other

These trees are known all over the country. Post-modern,
past-, proto- and parse branch from here. Strongly grown,

on slopes or fields wreathed by river, rock and hedgerow.
Or in forests, a surging library that cradles the path away

from the sluiced genius. The hedges need no funding,
a river’s flow needs no cash. Bodies twisted in the breeze, were

slung into a shallow grave. The trunk retains its dignity
the limbs resound their strength. The wielded become

a wielder, arms turn to armature. The knots and twists
of the frame will writhe, all cells turn to face a friction

and away, and back, and away, and back, until waking,
no search results of his madness, except his knowledge-fame.

The mound yawns forever.


The corpus hangs in the balance


There was nothing funny about this

I just lost the definition

And the pigmentation

And the inclination.

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