vacation-hours purchased in casinos between brass palm trees and brass pillars

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Malick SidibéMerengue Dancer1964

In honor of monty cantsin and gustav metzger we should all have the chance to become Otabenga Jones and Associates...


three by steve dalachinsky


tylenol #3 w/ codeine
3 #3's melting my inflamed bone

& hopefully making bearable this unbearable pulse
of dying tooth falling into itself in the mouth of its creator
i stare stiffly at the brave lines of cocteau
that dance from adam's apple to masculine chin
turned shape smart doubling lines singular lips thick tongue's blunt blade
stuck question in torment of no answer
the teeth alone hurt nose drawn around itself
3D flattened sharpness inhaled with the blowing of another's breath
thru straws the eye held upward an overseeing dead flat beacon
projected from 2 quick unsure lines connected by 1 brave black dot
where i should rest no socket the eye itself its center
& my teeth still in their creator oval black & flat from which
is strung & swung 6 strong lines of suffering
swinging 6 small drops of 1 small drop of each at every end
connectly disconnected tears
eternal that they turn around & out but always inward turn again
return shed never dropped but always spinning flying flung
banderillas with no place to be planted
bullets from the soldier's bandeleer
with no place to be planted just turning always turning
to return like the child's bandelore wound up strung out
sprung back turning upward to somewhere for no reason

3 #3's & my mouth still in shock
this persistent untouchable yet unreachable pain
smooth drawn lines at the bottom of the left side
turning around themselves
bathed in the throat
radiating outward & returning to the root
with the nerve of a wreckless star
plunging thru its SOURCE.


The Submarine Kyrsk (for Marty Matz)

people walk along the garbage strewn shore like gulls
they have forgotten how to look for themselves

words vanish on water
fine polished stones in the palm of a great magician

the wind is vast yet concise
it shifts the current sideways
picks up just enough sand to thinly blanket my eyes
& plays with the feathers of birds
like a teasing older brother

only the clouds remain unmoved

a white gardenia in a blue bikini floats by
my wife sleeps powdered donut on a sheet
a fattening young man fondles his gorgeous girlfriend’s heart
kisses her navel disguising his desires


Patti Smith's Fingers
where are you from?
there is no distinction between your face
& mine
your veins strove for & been thinkin
call & the traces of unpolished resilience
in we both
i sit a table away from patti smith
outside the french café
the café’s open door is all that separates
conversations & plates
these late breakfasts we share—
across the street
a cat stares
at the shadows on the sunlit steps
all that separates it from them is the window
there is little distinction between her greying hair
thru the café glass & mine
fire backwards is easy but says nothing
her mouth nose eyes gestures smile
the work we put in the success we achieve
the way sugar seeps into the blood
& makes one worry as one slows
wire traces itself within various activities & choices
patti smith’s hand rests on her knee
we are all a few giant steps away from lose
the boy the girl
rubber bands what we inherit
or what we scattered on an oil stained street
her fingers move as she annunciates what to me is only silence
words without syllable or vowel
a postcard away from being delivered
the open door between us
as closed as any
cloud covered sun
can
get…….

people litter the shore like garbage
too heavy for the waves to carry
too lost & shameless to burrow beneath the sand like crabs
too large to fit into the mouths of gulls

they have forgotten how to know themselves

the magnified light of the sun
burns a whole in my chest
empty chest
where once a smooth polished stone lay -
now disappeared

like words
beneath
the ocean floor.


i saw him tuesday night w some of the boredoms and mats gustafsson. check him out at salon.