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from The Codex Moajaodicus

6/23/2013

later you cd

cd you if

wd you say alright

damnit not this

maybe not

proletariat

hungry for yr voice

hungry for yr

choice

material history

speak birds

automobiles

ironing boards

umbrella sheltering against power

slopping overhead raining starving cats & dogs

O hungry voiceless voice

O dead misplaced kisses to proletariat

O haunting no memory of no proletariat

O forgetten then O

send some nice card & shiny blue beads

letter of yr travels

of Elvis's mansion

O pink pink caddy

O sequins

napalm

you wd

not-so-neo-liberalism capital flows sey:

crossing borders for you individual baby

smell of you just you

taste of cotton candy you

eyes see all of you mobile panopticons

yr choice makes yr

struggle too

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Slugs, Tomatohearts, the Banister to the Blue Ketchikan House Next Door--from the Alaska Poems

6/10/2013

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Bill R called for me to drive the truck back with the boats no longer attached through the patches of salmon berries surrounding the dirty road, berries all over the side of the road. I stopped several times to stuff my face. I’ve heard of some smashing berries on a slice of bread smothered with peanut butter. Or berry filling for pies. I heard about pies too.

            Yet should I get the six-roll or eight? Well the eight’s more, though just slightly. And the six will last for a while. I’m sure the six would do just fine. The six shall do just fine. Back to Harlem now.

            The woman in the motorchair in front of me says she’s a Capricorn. She doesn’t say that to me. That other woman dancing in her chair had the Jesus is My Boss bumper sticker. Had Jesus in my bones somewhere way back when myself.

            “How you doin?”

            “Good. How about you?”

            “Good thank you. Is this all?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you have a membership card?”

            “No ma’am.”

            “Oh, ma’am.”

            “Sorry.”

            “I’m just kidding.”

            Then I dumped my coffee.

“Hey papi, I want to talk to you.”

            “What?”

            “Mire, walk with me.”

            “What man?”

            “I want to talk to you, papi.”

            “What?”

            “I want to get something to et.”

            “What?”

            “To et.”

            “To what?”

            Hand to mouth miming: “To et. ET.”

            “To eat.”

            “To et.”

“Here, man, here’s the change I got from buying my toilet paper.”

            “Thank you papi.”

I stepped up the steps and groceries stood before me. I walked up two flights and the woman with her cart said hello and said those are her groceries down there. I offer to go back and help her out if she’d like but she says no thank you but I appreciate your offer. She smiled, and I guessed she was going back for them.

            Salmon berries filled this road and looked like fat-little-nipple-bloomed flowers.   Open the door and shut up cat. The cat looks up. Shut up cat, you’re a fool cat, a damn fool cat. Gnaow. Yes cat, pero el gato quiere ser solo gato y todo gato es gato, as the cat wants to intend but Descartes said you can’t talk cat so don’t. I’m better than the cat. I think.

Remember Alaska? Bill R left fifty bucks on the seat for me because I drove back his truck. They went to an island to build a house. I left to go home. I can smoke a cigarette atop my building in Harlem and I can see Empire State glowing blue and I can see the Chrysler too and sometimes I almost see the sun set but mostly I see the clouds pink and sometimes the air stinks and the train growls when I try to sleep yes the trains growl and they choo chaos when I try to sleep days. Well the berries were a spring thing and this is winter mostly. A frost blanket on those mountains jutting from ocean now, berries long since dead. That’s depressing as one year can be. I unwrap the first roll stuff the others behind the seat. Chrysler has gargoyles?

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The Fish Pirate: The Most Typical Story In All Literature--from The Alaska Poems

6/5/2013

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Another place where form weds content best is music with a song in minor about your autumn lover who you’ve timed out entirely with sung as the season like white December just before snow. Words can’t make that minor can’t pound make that someone knew that to write a poem in key what’s the rhythm & how does one dictate slow maybe visually in some dimension concrete since textual images leap not beyond text for context & how ideate us pathos make it look for look to look look! she raised her pantleg wrapped round walked back white electric candle as song wool thumb-detached mittens jackets a corpulent moon (for the moon is fat and sizzling) if maybe over the mountain silhouette full & thirsty wood house of red trim yellow the mother ate a burger on the porch big mouthfuls descend the hill to climb another less incline measured steps descend visually smaller lines maybe whose look’s too slow to sad like a season & gone!

There my eye eyes my eye there eyeing my good eye. That’s me there. That’s me mostly older now eyeing my good eye there. Never rode the seven then, not even when seven now that eye never seems to flash as that eye once when seven. That eye has sandcrusts in its lashes, my lashes. That eye winks slow as moths of snow drift to twirls down the bottom of the hillside. That eye has snowcrusts. That eye caught that eye standing inside the gallery and that eye saw mine and our eyes held just for a second springtime planets. That eye tended down. Not nearly down say as the bottom of the hill. But that eye caught for long enough to catch that.

song doesn’t speak to him now too late married to the high seas doesn’t know whom he met drunk & wasted on the whaleroad convinced & forgotten (so he sings) existing to . . . no that image in a minor for autumn lover descends planksteps mailboxes slips on ice & caught her in his arms laughing mostly because pride hurt her most green light upon ocean flashing meaning signal to something

greenflick       stop

greenflick       greenflicker stop

greenflick       stop     greenflicker

A tinkle of eyeballs. Intertwining of eyebells. Jingles of that flash of eye contact. Up there down near the library. Watercolors mostly roping groped eyes. That eye there tasted something soothing insatiate. A piggy of an eye like a puppy. These eyes walked down the hill down the sidewalk in the rainhaze and the golfballs of a puggle nearly jiggled out their sockets. Down the hill’s where the art’s at. As if these eyes signed songs as signatures into an eye flashed. Flashed like oysters and now the eye withdraws into a pocket of skin flesh fleshed pink as skynight unzipping. That eye, that eye

counting measures for her hair to wrap fingers not to strangle her brownly rhythm (it’s all rhythm) but to love her autumn beats for that still slower still but bleached hair at that in her auburn eyes in an autumn & not a major content of lyrics matching form of musical content of music formed of lyrics like an organ like a lung like another one or two below the belt aargh like a bell or a cake as one in autumn like a cake or a bell or a tin container closes door to where a ride full sails in the rain cigarettes before & during free Chinese creekside portside under a porch rain pouring into the bubbled creekrush swishfast hardly hears images exchanged on floor’s mat as bed & a window propped with a horseshoe or a doorknob or a rusty hook or some device & paintings by Amos of blue heads pointed toward the same sea see!

No even once when seven did the eye weaken save when focused deeply upon mostly hardlines as in say a tetherball pole or the game’s stringrope. The ball hardly. Handke wrote not to follow the ball as Bloch. Well who could argue with that? That rain channeled down brown near the walk walked hilldown to the artwork and said intertwined glances. That rain channeled down to a pool of cess resembling that eye’s iris.

paints a poem that he sent back too & the songs sensed at the tribal house sitting in front of her & mother beavers shaped from trees flashing ring of some gummy substance they eat Chinese for free she drives her mother’s car with salmon boxed in the back after paying the post because he has no money throws hat at her sitting waiting secret meetings of pac-man & arm wrasslin more moon the eye walk to the house uphill extinguishes smoke reverse-ly nearing police station keeps cig pocketed begs to press bodies against the cruiser & negated uphill apartments turn sidewalk cars to mother’s

This eye vilifies an untouched insignificance. Twinkle godammnit. Twinkle globes!

an embrace! that mattered for the entire earth in autumn Alaska! that did

Seven travels to a place this eye perhaps has not seen. This eye smells baby carrots unwrapped. Moths of snowdrift to twirls whirl in sodium. That prostitute offered to suck these eyes clean of mucus and miscellaneous fluid. Endearing. Not that one is better than that especially as the corpulent moon shines an eye itself vacuumed. Smacking eyes with that cheese eye as the rain dogs down. The unpatched via the patched as sensed once twice or more that day in April when no snow snowed still snowed and salmon spawned not just yet but the humidity hot as anything and sure the way home uphill sure walked like a sin when one gathered one’s wits in one’s guts at the top breath pounding a nuisance upon entrance and the sea still. No snow snowed but one felt snow at the bottoms of one’s toe’s tips and all around edges slicing itching but the sea remained the same as one eyed the islands across the way there and the floats flashing as they flashed not entirely unlike oysters as noted earlier for righteous sake. Humiliating hardly. Written in a book regarding Bloch who played ball sure enough and knew the ball enough not to look at the ball. Eye the goalie from what this eye all took in something like two or three years ago. Rain, rain, rain. Took that in and symbols too printed as fences and horses and all this for some literary

dug that gave free fish & more reason kept halibut for herself tells the girl about that as she reads the book about monkeys on the way to the market for some meat this no longer being autumn form & content not minor drift who doesn’t like monkeys really apes one hadn’t read that to Signed song signatures those eyes did and hung these as upon a scaffold. Laugh lines wrinkle flesh fat below these eyes. Those eyes closed as one entered the other first widening then relaxing and oozing inside an unexpected grimace mother reads as an impression not a form self-sufficient symbol and how is union beautiful why union beutifies symmetry a colorless blue Euclid shape . . . rather Cartesian coordinates about 4:30, 5:00 in the afternoon summertime overdid the flowers? question hardly remembered. Forget-me-nots in piled pots upon pots. & she shone then as she shines still pirated memory like a sin walking back up that concrete hill past the cops where one extinguished a cig upside-down flashing fireflies What of those colors? into one’s eyes gushing. Tears were in fact shed after all. The artworks regarding mother’s flower arrangement (as here painted) of sufficient forget-me-nots small ones in plastic pots probably from Wal-Mart overdone shake not at all who could possibly? too many flowers surround you never! just a touch of the forearm in summer please PLEASE mis-matching the content & the sad instrumental does what for the form but the lyrics of the instrument singing just down the hill and around the bend these eyes once eyed a sitar inside a window and drums and cartons of more smokes. Endearing. One read laundry near that window down the hall underground in the room where one washed one’s eyes in the hot water but not because of chemicals. Down the hill, just past the running creek, around the bend where the ghosts of married men mingle and share coffee, old stories, triumphs and defeats, feasts mostly, mostly triumphs. Eyeing that eye for that second near the art then standing alone outside and shutting, shutting melody one must sing one’s poems instruments soothing them into a polished surface now another singer song symbol drum & symbol & low-tone symbol memory surely a minor subject his fish pirate's daughter he hears hates him alas of an autumn lover where palms press probably near the library cue lightshard Eating free cheese and drinking free wine hot out of a bucket. Piglets of eyes feasted jetting from cloud sleeping in a dream & dreamt-of travel to woods at some time though they saw & see ocean from the deck before unlocking door kisses red cheek as she slept also when she brushed her teeth a thousand contacts pretty unpatched eye not anything not a song a formlack from motions to the desk to the fire to the bed to shit to the bed to the fire to the book to autumn the bed the fire one looks eats plastics digs all chain fences autumns immediately presence of harmonica a steady slowness a dirty comic thrusting positions a photo saved in no particular key in squared format no doubt concerns for coloration red vein lightstreaks indoors autumn summer here for minors or adults or cats or any, anything

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ravens & seagulls, rain still falls (flatly, --from The Alaska Poems

6/2/2013

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faintly)

the staring out of windows, whites of its paws

fog turns, blinks @ me

green tresses of spruce, sunk pink sunlight nets needles, grass swells, rain falls;

                                                     pinks netting needles leave Sitka spruce singing in rain, again rains rain fat globes of glob drops; cat crosses my hands, jumps down calm; rains rain a-patting—seem to think world stands static, that I can still think to own worlds I thought I owned before, alas, the words, the worlds, who owns nothing can be nothing, I own nothing, know no thing, a new since (G.

Stein) world since here, Alaska they write, write unborn, the words I don’t seem, never seemed—no I don’t—seemed to know

fat white globs of rain rain down, her head uncovered, her hood mostly brown blown down; waking

this July, rosy-handy Donna spreading her tentacles round, warmly—that’s

Surrealism cat, dig that? Showers rain down today, in fact, showers rain mainly the entirety of all these doggone days, all Ketchikan day

these doggone July days, & when the sun shines forth (briefly) breaking base contagious clouds to smithereens shrapnel of light bars scintillating on ocean blinds me—hot rainbow embers the Cannon sd



ravens (big as jets) & seagulls & eagles, rain weaves blankets of soliloquy, rain fingers snap, kissing eyes closed & fireweed fat w/ dripped clocks white surrealism, dig that? ask myself what about that               seem to not write that, seem to miss the sound of this epic never begun, make a bet, bet you can, Ketchikan, Mr. Brecht sd Epic

            reversed, the Othello moment of relapse when I see mucus dripping from a nose w/ sleeve wiped, then from a lurched scarf, whose nose I speak to, a more familiar too, too solid nose, a wished for more familiarity through distance voiced directly, knows directly it launched into a cupped hand, directly it landed & atoms sent themselves loaded into dust & sunlight breaking, breaking yonder-like little planets of eyes outshining skynight

                                                            epic, begun from this supplemental center, glanced the

media-res periphery, decided Porphyro not the least worthy, rather Raven stealing the moon, dig that moon Grandfather, cracking that cedar chest for who else but us, & who cd

offer not lost, not saw, days of pictures untaken, promises

misbehaved primroses broken like clouds shattered into smithereens &

                        the sunlight hurts mine eyes (sic), can hardly hear them squinting, squealing; blue sunlight struck, blown from continually gray skies stings mine eyes (sic); I remember the smell of dead salmon “spawn[ed] till [they] die[d]” approaching & cruise liners lining island—O myholytourismdollars—actually hotels

holding K’s holytourismdollars. My windows fogged.



Ravens & eagles & seagulls I dig, dig them all, rain still falls (flatly, faintly)

staring out of window the whites of fog paws, can hardly sense--

rain

        closing closer, cd sniff an end of sea life, whale road, anemones,

a game of poker w/ Mr Mayor, meaning what, meaning

What, you mean no one does Pound anymore?

Ιερή κόλαση!

            Yea I read the Frost here & Shakespeare, hell I read Shakespeare on the air to all those inhabiting community radioland

                                    Alas, Alaska, I’ll remember you in my heart right next to the snails I de-shelled & salted when I was in third grade

pines grow right up against the tide & mists of ocean crawl up nostrils

            Alaska I wonder when the days of you will slap me again

            AK I’ve offered you my little life

& for but a few more days--

Alaska art kills here save for crafts crafted handily—save those totems

of grandiosity narrating culture becoming

            Alaska I went to my first quilt show here & yet

is this sequel of the initial poem when I held you so reverent?

but besides the weather everything's fine,

                        I think I'm moving along fine--

            wd seem a second: knave fine time, fine AK even



if I think yr social programs for me reeked foul so very far from the People—One cd never regret

               AK I picked up trash for yr

                  homeless, AK I read

    poems to yr young,

    carried cans for Armed Salvation, AK how can the distance from, say, a me push me further still

                     —¡aye!—

& yesterday, no the day before, I called my girl Foucault

            Say K, AK, can you believe in a year I’ll be writing abt Foucault like I knew he sat on my lap & blew me kisses         & Mr. Whitman, which way does yr beard point tonight?



rd a book about Impressionists this morning & I’m sick of watercolors

            Alaska I’ve boozed here more than ever I’ve in my entire life

            maybe days in winter when I brushed snow off stair banisters w/ my sleeve because I cd actually chilled me more than I thought. Watching

sun set @ three o’clock. Fickle, fickle tone

            deaf too when I sing da da dada skiffs here bruise my shins when I step aboard sissy-style

but I’m so fickle ahorita I seem to mistake down for up in my cliché notebook musing music here this, this night

            DRUM dum dum DRUM dum dum DRUM DRUM dum DRUM dum dummmm

                        as if the day ever cd start earlier sun-up hotel boats cargoed money

                        making of Carnival™ americans maps of Xmas

frontier bruised me here & here [displaying shoulder, torso] & healed me there & there [referencing noggin, stomach], held me, helped me to find me & near concluding yr mercy gets meaner each night as I climb so many, many damn stairs “town of stilts”. Living among ravens, eagles & the angles of rain prompts me to gather my wits in my guts, lusting for beauty always, finding Alaska inherently inclusive to vagrants (& beauty) of all shapes—in particular those searching for voice in dated MAKEITNEW of MAKEITUSED. OK AK let’s shake. AK we’re of one grain, ya made the first incisions deep, now relax AK, rest yr head, let’s make, let’s make sleep

flatly, faintly (warmly

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from The Codex Moajaodicus

Slugs, Tomatohearts, the Banister to the Blue Ketchikan House Next Door--from the Alaska Poems

The Fish Pirate: The Most Typical Story In All Literature--from The Alaska Poems

ravens & seagulls, rain still falls (flatly, --from The Alaska Poems

Chaley Chastitellez

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