tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180635512011-07-07T21:29:50.696-04:00Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.comBlogger1381100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-74371673974060021742008-07-04T14:58:00.002-04:002008-07-04T14:59:08.714-04:00<a href="http://www.watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueiii.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i99.photobucket.com/albums/l316/killcolumbus2/Untitled-1copy.jpg" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-7437167397406002174?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1157876846191030292006-09-10T04:27:00.000-04:002007-05-13T03:41:11.391-04:00<br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbirdissueiii.blogspot.com/2007/05/in-last-two-introductions-to-this.html"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/__yVZKXXEEts/RkbAv1WwokI/AAAAAAAAAOg/nJsmSEwE2uc/s400/Page_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5063946759033627202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><embed src="http://www.archive.org/download/DylanHockUnwashed_SomewhatSlightlyDazed_0/02UnwashedSomewhatSlightlyDaze.mp3"></embed><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br><br /><br><br /><br><br /><a href="http://www.easycounter.com/"><br /><img src="http://www.easycounter.com/counter.php?killcolumbus" alt="Free Web Counter" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);" href="http://www.easycounter.com/FreeCounter3.html">Hit Counter</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-115787684619103029?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137097665733980832006-01-12T15:25:00.000-05:002006-01-16T01:57:34.223-05:00<pre><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/Watching%20the%20Wheels%20Issue%201%20Cover.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/Watching%20the%20Wheels%20Issue%201%20Cover.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/note-from-editor-mmmwhen-i-left-naropa.html"><span style="font-size:130%;">enter</span></a></div> <pre><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div> <pre><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></div></pre><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113709766573398083?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137097103524387832006-01-12T15:00:00.000-05:002006-01-16T01:56:06.886-05:00<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Note from the Editor</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmm</span>When I left Naropa in 2003, I left with a handful of submissions for a zine that ultimately never got off the ground. It's theme was "Left for Dead" and ironically enough, it lived up to it. I'd just completed my MFA in creative writing, had a month old son, and was in the process of saying goodbye to close friends and moving cross country; all while trying to produce a zine with a long-distance friend in Texas... I'm not one to let a ball drop, but in that case, months from a mini breakdown from sheer lack of time to do my work, the ball fell and lay at my feet for some time. That said, I never intended to leave it there.<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmm</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Throughout this issue, you'll see ocassional notes to the editor from this lost zine as glimpses behind the zine process, but also as a reminder of how these things are produced and where they come from: time, money, and desire. Likewise, I've had to limit this zine to the web for lack of personal funds and lack of grants; leaving me with the two I do have, time and desire. I do desire it, to gather an artistic community and help entrench it together, and, also feeling somewhat in the barren lands of creativity, to feel in touch and a part of the larger Arts circle.<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmm</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">In this issue, you'll see work from that old zine intermixed with newer work by many talented writers and artists. <a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-enter-m.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Watching the Wheels: a Blackbird</span></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> leans toward an oral focus which I would like to expand upon in the future, and so I invite you to send in readings, music, videos, anything you think is worthy and capable of being produced on the web, along with written work. Also, personally, I like putting faces with work, so I invite you to send in pics with your work as well. <br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmm</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Finally, I am choosing to leave the comments on for this zine, creating feedback for the writers & dialogue between reader and writer/artist. I love that aspect. Please let me know if this is severely hated. Otherwise, it stays. Also, for pieces such as the "Note[s] to an Editor" and artwork, the images may be enlarged by clicking on them. <br /><br />Thank you,<br /><br />Dylan Hock<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-enter-m.html">Watching the Wheels: a Blackbird</a><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Jan. 2006</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;" align="right"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113709710352438783?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137095919713115322006-01-12T14:57:00.000-05:002006-01-12T14:58:39.716-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">things in life swell<br /><br /><br /></span></span><br />things in life swell<br />to the river. i<br />make my bed at home. <br />cellar stairs crackle. whispers<br />come through me to me they say<br />nothing. nothing comes to mind. <br />the shadow of a gnat crosses my chest. <br />i pick up a guitar and this, too, feels somehow. <br /> sorry about the sponge droppings. the<br />seaweed waves good-bye. this signature, benevolent<br />omen. the man at the fair, he is there by the gigantic<br />switch. he pulls he pushes. fair is fair.<br />i think a nest of doves might be your next. great<br />feature. mountains make. i know it is mine. swimming<br />the digestive track, little shards of glass make<br />a tacit black. a black moment is a forgotten.<br />a printed thought is a<br />black, featureless screen. this remains<br />the same structured chair. white wicker crackles<br />under fire, losing its structure, hurting its wires. like a<br />madman’s handshake. his grip.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983111725778011.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113709591971311532?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137095835107114862006-01-12T14:55:00.000-05:002006-01-12T14:57:15.110-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">westminster</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br />a bar held<br />sin sun<br />fees wind him<br />a way things<br />walk on<br />a day a day<br />you air land<br />on bud<br />bar a fee for<br />chess is too<br />much<br />pip in life<br />wuff wuff<br />strewn across<br /> canvas<br />buffalo hair<br />down to the roots<br />which planet did<br />that guy with<br />the dancy blue wig<br />cry by<br />that crab has an eye tic<br />too much <br />to cigs makes too much take<br />visits body that<br />hill past hell<br />many coins<br />coins and cigs<br />all an act column<br />an act<br />call him<br />two too<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983111725778011.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113709583510711486?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137022251164155312006-01-11T18:28:00.000-05:002006-01-12T15:51:02.173-05:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/img006.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/img006.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/note-to-editor-join-planets-reed-bye.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113702225116415531?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137020955173809132006-01-11T18:07:00.000-05:002006-01-11T18:09:15.173-05:00<span style="font-size:100%;">Stare at the image below and slowly move your head toward and away from the screen.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/illus010.jpg" height="416" width="415" /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113702095517380913?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137020766327390692006-01-11T18:04:00.000-05:002006-01-11T18:06:41.100-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"> <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/conflict.gif" height="288" width="404" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113702076632739069?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137020594891456402006-01-11T18:01:00.000-05:002006-01-11T18:03:14.893-05:00<span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Latest Jesus sighting!</span><br /><br /><p><span style="color:#000000;">Step 1: Stare at the below image and focus on the four dots in the center.</span></p> <p><span style="color:#000000;">Step 2: Continue to stare for 45 seconds.</span></p> <p><span style="color:#000000;">Step 3: Slowly find a wall in the room and look close up at it. You should see something on the wall. Try blinking a few times.</span></p> <p><span style="color:#000000;">Do you see something on the wall? If this doesn't work for you at first keep trying. </span></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/illusionman001.jpg" height="288" width="348" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113702059489145640?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137020273285988242006-01-11T17:56:00.000-05:002006-01-11T17:57:53.286-05:00<span style="font-size:100%;">Scroll this page up and down and watch the center square magically move.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/illus005.jpg" height="399" width="400" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113702027328598824?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137020117630372312006-01-11T17:52:00.000-05:002006-01-11T17:55:17.630-05:00Stare at the image on the bottom and move your head forward while concentrating on the center dot.<br /><br /><br /><br /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/funny%20movies.jpg" height="418" width="401" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113702011763037231?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137019849975901872006-01-11T17:47:00.000-05:002006-01-11T17:50:49.976-05:00<pre><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />Watch the images below. Do they appear to be spinning?</span><br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/spinningspirals.jpg" height="219" width="214" /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/spinningspirals.jpg" height="219" width="214" /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/spinningspirals.jpg" height="219" width="214" /><br /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/spinningspirals.jpg" height="219" width="214" /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/spinningspirals.jpg" height="219" width="214" /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/spinningspirals.jpg" height="219" width="214" /><br /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/spinningspirals.jpg" height="219" width="214" /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/spinningspirals.jpg" height="219" width="214" /><img src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/images/spinningspirals.jpg" height="219" width="214" /><br /><br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113701984997590187?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137019376508742082006-01-11T17:39:00.000-05:002006-01-11T17:44:42.540-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"> <div style="text-align: left;"> <p> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><b><br /></b></p> <p>1. Keep your hands on your mouse at all times. </p> <p> 2. Download this file and select "run this program from its current location" </p> <p> 3. When the program opens hold your breath for 30 seconds and focus on the center dot. </p> <p> 4. Look down at your hand on the mouse.<br /></p> </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/optical.exe"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >15 second acid trip</span></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html"><span style="font-size:100%;">Table of Contents</span></a><br /></div> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113701937650874208?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137018884128439082006-01-11T17:29:00.000-05:002006-01-12T15:31:37.880-05:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/Stacy%27s%20Painting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/Stacy%27s%20Painting.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-enter-m.html">Front Cover</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113701888412843908?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137018361087313772006-01-11T17:16:00.000-05:002006-09-10T03:23:55.526-04:00<pre><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><pre><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Submit to <a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-enter-m.html"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Watching the Wheels: a </span></a><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-enter-m.html"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Blackbird</span></a>!</span></span><br /></div> <pre><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></pre><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />For <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Issue 2</span> please email the following to killcolumbus@hotmail.com:<br /><br />--the work: artwork, photography, prose, poetry, music, readings,<br /> essays, reviews, storytelling, comics, videos, etc.<br /><br />--bio: including any websites or blogs by the artist<br /><br />--small headshot (optional but encouraged)<br /><br /><br />or mail submissions to: <a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-enter-m.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Watching the Wheels: a Blackbird</span></a><br /> 550 W. Western Ave.<br /> Muskegon, MI 49440<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:180%;"> Submission<br /><br />Deadline<br /><br />is April 15, 2006</span></span></span></span></span><br /></div> <pre><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/watching-wheels-blackbird-is-one-man.html">Credits</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-front-cover.html">Closing Cover</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113701836108731377?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137017698510904122006-01-11T17:02:00.000-05:002006-09-10T03:27:30.206-04:00<pre><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-enter-m.html">Watching the Wheels: a Blackbird</a></span> is a one man project slated for the web to ease pocket-<br />book strain and reach as wide an audience as possible. Each issue will be devoted to<br />whatever interests are currently taking over my life with a lean toward the oral<br />tradition. Hi. I'm <a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/two-pieces_112983151312728370.html">Dylan Hock</a>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> Cover art by <a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/four-pieces.html">Stacy Elaine Dacheux</a><br /> Cover design by <a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/two-pieces_112983151312728370.html">Dylan Hock</a><br /> Closing art by <a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/four-pieces.html">Stacy Elaine Dacheux</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Thanks to <a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/two-pieces_112983121761672025.html">John Sullivan</a> for his html assistance; to my wife for her support, and to all<br />those who took a chance and submitted to a brand-spanking-new zine.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> Other zines, presses & reading series worth a look:<br /> <br /> <a href="http://www.elpobremouse.blogspot.com/">El Pobre Mouse</a><br /> <a href="http://www.subdaypress.org/">Subday Press</a><br /> <a href="http://onelessmag.blogspot.com/">One Less</a><br /> <a href="http://artifactseries.blogspot.com/">Artifact Reading Series/Artifact Press</a><br /> <a href="http://www.waywardcouch.com/">Ellipsis/Wayward Couch</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/submissions.html">Submissions</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/m-front-cover.html">Closing Cover</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113701769851090412?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137011523935388182006-01-11T15:29:00.000-05:002006-01-11T15:41:12.390-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Two Encounter Tragedy</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Two beside two took up together<br /><br />to be turning over in the night to<br /><br />be turning over eggs at nine too<br /><br /><br />She: someone we’ve known thinks<br /><br />his work will generate into autumn amidst<br /><br />words that speak of differential decay<br /><br /><br />He: the coniferous bearing cones<br /><br />cone-bearing past pardons her, paints<br /><br />her into an orange trailing behind time<br /><br /> …………<br /><br />After the tragedy, she swells into an apple<br /><br />he bites and finds cavities some drum<br /><br />plays and sadness is loss of solidity<br /><br /><br />Trust me, he says, her heartwood’s dead,<br /><br />tries to support it she’s standard still<br /><br />lines of sugar or leaves to watch fall<br /><br /> …………<br /><br />Two take too long to try to conceal<br /><br />sealed off enemies within skulls begin<br /><br />to bud, dust off and damp plantings<br /><br /><br />Concave to catch rainwater, two who<br /><br />encounter such tragedy make sense, scents<br /><br />of sensual fruit-bearing apple, seeds<br /><br /><br />Tethered together tiny pods take turns,<br /><br />two take to basalt cracks winding<br /><br />between paintings of trees having decayed<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983152923288427.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113701152393538818?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137011370146848282006-01-11T15:28:00.000-05:002006-01-11T15:40:49.556-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">lost line</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br />clouds hang their underbelly line<br />cutting off the pine limbs whose arms<br />legs stretched up in anxious brushfire<br />tip-tops of mountain thumb rocks and<br />I want to remember this line when I arrive<br /><br />black row of cows in the rich grass, yellow<br />that someone believed in, their raised voices<br />called mine but by the time splits and I reach<br />my head slips teardrops hung from aspen<br />curls, the red memories of when I tried<br /><br />to can in canyon hovers missed this, replaced<br />them thinly trained thoughts I can’t do<br />being a poet requires a slim movement<br />of water in air, smells that remind tires grind<br />far alone from mistaken pain cattle rocks grass<br /><br />shifts issues dusty destination, mind, everything<br />takes time like I don’t want to stop limbs<br />from shifting dynamic events that rise but<br />when have I ever hung my anxious brushfire with<br />all those tip-top pine rocks I want to be mine?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983152923288427.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113701137014684828?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137011291660106392006-01-11T15:26:00.000-05:002006-01-11T15:40:32.716-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Fishing Hole </span><br /><br /><br /><br />They were toward one another, and lasted as they<br />turned red amidst the talking that we did<br /><br />They lasted as they passed thru, and we call them<br />from their credo seats and their stadiums though<br /><br />They passed thru thinking, and casted as they<br />turned fiction into stages that dangled too easily<br /><br />They were seeking what was seen, and we call<br />that conservative, ceasing to dream but they did<br /><br />They were fishing along the Upper Iowas and<br />the Snakes and their tall green waders were noisy<br /><br />They were swallowing themselves, and we<br />were with them from the fish mouth, tall and poor<br /><br />There were many lines that once loosened spoke<br />after thinking, from some spot that we think we see<br /><br /> …<br /><br />They were turned away into themselves, and deep<br />imaginations where we call them ideals took up nature<br /><br />They hiked as they forgot true, and we call them<br />make-believe horses, long gone tumbleweed, equality<br /><br />They were hiding in their own lines, jutting between<br />characters to care for, carping the tips of every play<br /><br />They were away from one another, and we call<br />that liberal, death from despair and all the while<br /><br />They were fishing along the Upper Iowas and<br />the Snakes and their tall green waders were noisy<br /><br />They were swallowing themselves, and we<br />were with them from the fish hook, fat and rich<br /><br />There were many lines that once loosened spoke<br />after thinking, from some spot that we think we see<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983152923288427.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113701129166010639?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1137011197640813432006-01-11T15:25:00.000-05:002006-01-11T15:40:16.820-05:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/img005.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/img005.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983152923288427.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113701119764081343?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136870030416176532006-01-10T00:13:00.000-05:002006-01-12T11:19:52.566-05:00<pre><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">from</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> killing columbus</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /> It's a sort of openness and respect for life that makes me a<br />continuous ass.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">THE BEGINNING LASTED ONLY A MOMENT, but the end stretched and<br />pulled into a mad uncertainty. <span style="font-style: italic;">Fate</span> had gunned me down from behind a<br />mask and left me flipping my gills for breath—it was an autumn morning<br />just shy of winter.<br /> Ostensibly, there was also the vague promise of redemption lingering<br />over the horizon as a thin hope, a starting over in the clean air and<br />warm sunshine that breeds the vague rainbows of the heart. It's only<br />that, in times such as these, I never see further than the gloam.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And, I've always been tangled in dreams, kicking myself into the<br />nightmare knots that bind me further and further from the open eye,<br />where they consume themselves as they expend their energy and pass<br />through the catalytic mind. Dreams are always aware of history,<br />working through twisted context and an omniscient sensory osmosis,<br />pulling forth image and story from the farthest layers of consciousness<br />in hyperbolic detail and subtlety—I've thought about all that</span><span style="font-size:100%;">—</span><span style="font-size:100%;">but for the<br />life of me, I can't figure where and how these twisted narratives arise.<br />It is in this manner, if you’ll allow an occasional perhaps, the coma<br />patient lives, a fetus grows, and a life dissipates into the light and<br />energy of the horizons. <span style="font-style: italic;">Imagine</span>, being all twisted up in a dream as the<br />last surge of life drains away, the random distinction between heaven and<br />hell, or, making toast for no good reason in a strange kitchen, purgatory.<br />Life is always, only, a series of what ifs.<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Ever since the flooding—the hurricanes, tsunamis, monsoons, the<br />never ceasing rains that fall constant as breath and thick as fog: the<br />gulf swallowed, the east and west coasts slipping away—and all of us the<br />world over—the survivors—traveling into the unknown on this muddy ship,<br />we've been caught in a daze, stricken with the captivity of the unyielding<br />future. We've all separate dreams that carry us through, most so complete<br />by now we hardly notice the rain and the ceaseless bobbing on the waves:<br />every one of us, by now, has grown sea legs sturdy enough.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And against the gray screen of the horizon, our dreams have projected<br />themselves all the more real, as if all we needed was a blank slate, until<br />we all are looking around us, and interacting, in completely separate<br />realities. O, the mind can tear the bark from trees and burn it to<br />cinders when it pleases. Each of us burns with a separate fire that keeps<br />us vivacious with warmth from one moment to the next, without it, there is<br />only the dapple of the rain, and the lapping water...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">You see, I’m always talking to myself. That’s one thing you’ll find<br />with a steady mist in your face, you’ll get to cursing the weather. Even<br />those who kept their chins up—optimists—it didn’t take much longer for them<br />to throw in their two under-breath-cents. From there you’ll start to notice<br />your internal voice that never shuts off, ranting over the steady beads that<br />leak down from your hair, and you think the only relief is slumber, to while<br />away the dismal time dreaming of your sugar plum youth, but then the dreams,<br />even your dreams are invaded with the rain and the water, until you are<br />hopelessly submerged at every level, every plane of identity, washed out,<br />filmed through a filthy pewter.<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It all started anonymous enough; New Orleans was back under water...<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I don’t know of another time in history, maybe Atlantis if you want to<br />get mystical, but I don’t remember any such major city being totally engulfed<br />in water—just swallowed up in a matter of hours—and here this was the third<br />time now bureaucratic red tape had kept the levees from being amply repaired,<br />and now there was really no one to hold responsible, nowhere to riot; New<br />Orleans was only one sandcastle encroached by the incoming tide.<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Truth be told, levees would have been of little use this time, freeing<br />up only an extra hour or two, allowing a greater percentage on the already<br />dreadfully overcrowded boats. Instead, to put it respectfully, many perished,<br />and I am one who made a vessel. What good has it been?...<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">SO MANY LOST EVERYTHING; so many their hearts and cores that, faced with<br />such fierce denial, entirely incapable of fathoming the extent of where they<br />now stand—their lives today—instead of typical fantasies for wealth, power,<br />fame—they went on living their everyday lives: walked the dog, went to work,<br />made love; it was only occasionally they found themselves an ant in a dark<br />puddle, helpless on a fallen leaf, wondering what the wind would bring. Why<br />not? I dare say my life has grown much more meaningful to me—I’ve never<br />relished it so thoroughly. What would I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> today? What would I <span style="font-style: italic;">say?</span> It’s<br />the first time I’ve ever been <span style="font-style: italic;">in control!...</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I chewed on the end of my pen and stared off at Inage and the inner-space<br />horizon. P. was getting lost, I didn’t know what to do with him and worried<br />that maybe I was tapped as a writer. It was amazing I’d written a novel at<br />all—even though I’d always dabbled in it, I didn’t consider myself a writer by<br />any means. The problem was, everything I thought to put down seemed washed up<br />already. Every idea, twist or turn, I worried whether I had unknowingly taken<br />it from past readings. It manifested in my feeling like P. himself was<br />resisting my direction, as if he had a sense his existence could be locked down<br />with every keystroke. He’d begun resisting scenes, acting bored with the<br />routine of outlandish groupie sex in jelly tubs. It followed quickly that I<br />started drawing blanks with P., whole days of staring at the white screen,<br />afraid to move a finger, like he was deliberately staring me down from beyond<br />the page, stationed in the heart of a battleship. I tried to ignore the<br />flickering thought that, perhaps, P. no longer fit his role as a succubus for<br />pain and energy, that maybe falling out of <span style="font-style: italic;">The collapse</span> years ago had left him<br />with boils and over-the-hill groupies and he was finally growing tired of it<br />all. As much as I wanted a modest career in the sex market, my mind was pulling<br />me in another direction entirely, and the flame was burning my fucking house<br />down. Thing is, I knew there was really only one way for P. to reach the<br />Grecian pinnacle I felt he needed so much: he had to die; senselessly, a lamb<br />without rhyme.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/two-pieces_112983151312728370.html"><span style="font-size:100%;">Back</span></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113687003041617653?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136869287658544852006-01-09T23:34:00.000-05:002006-01-12T11:18:15.516-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;">quitting the Lonely</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:85%;">hung in one place,<br />desperate for preservatives and<br />coffee over breakfast.<br /> <br /> Coughing up the night:<br /> cigarette and ash;<br /> spit in the sink;<br /> smokey clothes on the floor,<br /> <br /> as you scratch<br /> and pick over your plate, for<br /> something to say that doesn't sound<br /> like a string of lesser answers<br /> for the drama<br /> filmed behind your eyes.<br /><br /><br />O what a bitch it was/<br /> is<br />to have to believe<br />in something more than<br />a sandwich & a thank you<br /><br />to answer the phone like an answer<br />or be the one prepared<br />to leave it in the cradle/<br /><br /> for once...</span><br /></span><br /></span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/two-pieces_112983151312728370.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113686928765854485?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136840441423376202006-01-09T15:55:00.000-05:002006-01-19T13:48:14.716-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />We were having a discussion inside my parked car. I liked talking inside cars. There was<br />something about the containment or confinement of held space, parallel gaze out the<br />windshield due to the seats, a limited repertoire of gestures which hopefully didn't<br />include the opening of a door. We never resolved much inside that old Camry, but a lot<br />got said.<br />"I don't remember this here."<br />"Maybe we've made it up."<br />But the rootbeer float was real. Along with the fries whose platter I wrote <span style="font-style: italic;">i love you</span> on<br />in ketchup since... well, because I did.<br /><br />VI.<br /><br />The lamp's craned neck adjusted by his hand. Long black curls in front of his face. He<br />was reading. I had been asleep, but an extra loud turn of a page awakened me or whatever<br />wakes the sleeping at 4 am. I never asked what he was reading. <span style="font-style: italic;">My</span> books, not his, as if<br />words had ownership, were sprawled in a spiral as if on display next to the bed.<br /><br />VII.<br /><br />In the morning I went to technique class - did plies, stretched hamstrings, carved space<br />with a twist of arm.<br /><br />VIII.<br /><br />Fade out of ___. I haven't named him. But this was anyone walking away then toward,<br />undecided while I was fixed like a compass dial in relation to where I guessed he was since<br />words...<br />Yes, there was lots of silence then.<br /><br />IX.<br /><br />A lot of our relationship was about words. Definitions. Nuances in language. My voice<br />raised, synonym for me screaming. Portraits between lines of a story (pause) Well, I<br />wouldn't have written it this way. But we haven't reached the beginning. DIA bathroom<br />stall. Watching myself from the outside as if I was Juliette Binoche in <span style="font-style: italic;">Blue</span>. I wanted to be<br />beautiful, like her, while I cried. Him on a plane to New York. The battle with<br />depression or whatever it became diagnosed as, while I stared and saw myself: mother,<br />lover, shrink, best friend. The distance, irretrievable.<br /><br />X.<br /><br />Breakup letter I wrote before San Francisco after graduation. My call last week to say I'd<br />found the out-of-print Bonnefoy book and currently had it in my hands.<br /><br />XI.<br /><br />I only know what came before.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/three-pieces.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113684044142337620?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136838229011474322006-01-09T15:22:00.000-05:002006-01-12T16:09:16.666-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">untitled</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br />She left her poodle<br />Outside the market<br />To tap a cantaloupe<br />and frown<br />To smell it<br />and frown<br />To grimace<br />To put it back<br />On top of the pile<br />and leave<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983119061840322.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113683822901147432?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136838087301015622006-01-09T15:19:00.001-05:002006-01-09T15:28:19.100-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Where dogs go</span><br /><br /><br />If you didn’t know<br />better<br />you’d say<br />something dead<br />lives in there<br />when you know<br />nothing of the sort<br />ever does<br />in the rain<br />what it feigns<br />in the sun<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983119061840322.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113683808730101562?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136837987380645912006-01-09T15:16:00.000-05:002006-01-09T15:28:03.623-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >For the Men in Blue Suites</span><br /><br />It is always today,<br />full of clarinets and coffins.<br />To a man<br />we answer telephones<br />afraid. We answer doorbells<br />instead of hiding. We accept “bonjour”<br />for “hello”<br />when they are not the same<br />at all.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983119061840322.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113683798738064591?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136834455547319822006-01-09T14:19:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:22:02.823-05:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/img003.1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/img003.1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/note-to-editor-martin-cobin-born-1920.html"> Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113683445554731982?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136833888304372612006-01-09T14:04:00.000-05:002006-01-16T01:47:20.506-05:00<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/martin-cobin.html">Note to an Editor</a></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Martin Cobin</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, born 1920. Lived a full life prior to retirement as a theater professor and social activist. Enjoyment of life includes one wife, four children, five grandchildren, and five-plus great-grandchildren. Seriously commited to poetry at age 80, since then he's self-published, has been published, and accepted the challenge of creating his own audience. Poetry, for him, is primarily oral expression and communication. Currently, he reads one, on occasion two, of his poems every month (since September 2001) on <a href="http://www.kgnu.org/">KGNU</a>, a community radio station in Colorado and is in the fourth year of doing hourly poetry reading programs at three retirement communities.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a></span><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113683388830437261?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136742798007213062006-01-08T12:45:00.001-05:002006-01-08T14:08:07.186-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /> The only way to make the right decision is to try them both on with those sky<br />high heels that make you feel like a Sex and the City girl. God, you think, I wish I<br />had a cigarette. You think it again, this time out loud. There is a rustle in the bed<br />behind you. You pretend that you didn’t hear it. You try on the straight legged pair<br />of jeans and walk into the bathroom to examine your ass in the full sized mirror. It<br />looks pretty good, but the pockets are too small for the top you are planning to wear.<br />Maybe you should wear a different top. It is strange that you always feel the need to<br />pick your top before your pants, you think, because the ass is the real selling point.<br />Then you remember your new breasts, the small ones that you can wear without a bra,<br />that simply hint at the darkness of the nipple, even through medium weight fabrics.<br /> You are sure you should wear the bootcut jeans now. The pockets are perfect for<br />the low cut shirt you plan to wear, plus, you can’t wear a light colored shirt with<br />light colored jeans; that would be a nightmare. You strip and prepare to get dressed<br />for real this time, knowing that you are now fifty-one minutes late for the shoot. You<br />still have to dry and straighten your hair.<br /> The photographer has taken photos of some of the top models and you want him to<br />notice you so that he might take some free photos of you for your portfolio. Right now,<br />lying flaccidly on your dresser, the portfolio looks sad. You know it contains photos of<br />your hands from many different angles. It even contains a one-of-a-kind charcoal sketch<br />of your right hand squeezing an overly ripe guava.<br /> You recall that in all your research you have never discovered a hand model that<br />has crossed over into the world of full-body modeling. You want to be the first, the<br />first to show the world that you’re more than a pretty pair of hands. Indeed, your<br />breasts are even prettier than your hands.<br /> The rustling in the bed has now been joined by scratching noises, genital<br />scratching noises. You can imagine the pubes being scratched. You can imagine a few of<br />the hairs dislodging and falling into your 300 count percale sheets. Great, you think,<br />after a long day of work you’ll have to come home and sanitize your house.<br /> You dress. You have decided on the pink, gauzy shirt and the dark, bootcut jeans.<br />You pair the jeans with a pair of alligator skin-like pink heels. They have a closed toe.<br />You want to appear modest.<span style=""><br /></span> The scratching has hit new level of intensity and you turn around to confront<br />the scratcher. You look at him. You guess he is around thirty. His body is pretty good,<br />a little softer around the middle than you like, but still pretty good. His hair is the<br />absolute selling point. He looks like a teenager if you concentrate on his hair. Your<br />landlord is in your bed with a half smile on his face.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/wank-amy-arenson-is-prose-writer.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113674279800721306?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136741450118996912006-01-08T12:25:00.000-05:002006-01-08T14:07:34.043-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /> The conditioner must remain in for at least five minutes, so you scrub your lean arms<br />using a pink loofa poof doused in lavender moisturizing cleanser. The smell is relaxing,<br />you think. You think that you could spend an hour on that one arm. You remember that if<br />you spent an hour on that arm you would be in deep shit at work.<br /> A pain grips your stomach. After six months on the Atkins diet your breasts have<br />shriveled down to a respectable A cup. In the industry all the cleavage is created using<br />bras and duct tape. Since you have tried the bra and taping method at home you know that<br />your newly reduced breasts can have a deep cleavage look without actually being pockets<br />of obesity on an otherwise acceptable figure. The pain subsides.<br /> Thinking of your breasts reminds you to wash them. You quickly wash the remainder of<br />your body, rinse your now congealed hair, and wash your face with the dermatologist<br />recommended gentle cleanser. You move your fingers in tight circles, beginning at your<br />hairline, moving down your nose, and ending up at the crease in your chin where you tend<br />to collect pin size blackheads. You remember that anything under twenty seconds of<br />scrubbing is not enough, while anything over one minute is too much. You estimate that<br />you have now spent a reasonable forty-five seconds scouring your face. You turn off the<br />water.<br /> You step from the shower and a draft whips by you. You know how ridiculous you look,<br />teeth chattering, hair slicked back in one gelatinous mass; you know because you are<br />studying yourself from head to toe in the mirror that dominates the bathroom. You dry off<br />and bend in half, flipping your sopping hair. Using your towel, you twist your hair into<br />a turban. You strut back and forth two steps each way to see if you have any cellulite.<br />You see two dimples and vow not to eat for the three days. That reminds you, you are out<br />of cigarettes. You will have to stop on your way to the shoot.<br /> As you walk into the bedroom, practicing your best catwalk saunter, you see the clock.<br />It is now ten thirty. You are officially forty minutes late. You think about calling, but<br />that would just make you seem weak. You must find an outfit. You fling hangers with jeans<br />on them from left to right, trying to make a decision about which ones to wear. After two<br />minutes you narrow it down to two pairs. It is between the dark, bootcut ones, or the<br />light, straight legged ones. You flip them back and forth a few more times, trying to<br />remember what your ass looks like in each pair.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/amy-arenson_113674279800721306.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113674145011899691?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136740812151786942006-01-08T12:10:00.000-05:002006-01-09T13:49:49.216-05:00<pre><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br />Wank<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></pre><br /><pre> You let the alarm beep and snooze and beep and snooze fourteen times. That<br />transgression makes you fifty-six minutes late waking up, which simultaneously makes<br />you four minutes late for work. Not that you were sleeping while the alarm beeped<br />every four minutes; you were in a state of wrathful tossing with your hair practically<br />choking you.<br /> You have no choice but to be perfectly clean with nails scrubbed. As you walk<br />the ten steps from your bed to the shower you remind yourself that you were lucky to<br />get the job out of college. You rub your eyes as the water heats up. You rub for thirty<br />seconds, until you remember that with goals like yours, you cannot, at any cost, rub<br />your eyes. It causes puffiness and wrinkles. As you tear your hands away from your eyes<br />you think that it is a cruel world. You step into the shower. It is a world where even<br />the most beautiful woman, a woman like you, is miming on the wrong side of the glass<br />ceiling.<br /> You are eighteen minutes late. You know that a woman with your resume gets some<br />leeway, but there is a chance that someone in the crew could make a call to someone who<br />could stand in. You decide to lounge under the hot water until your chest is covered with<br />the merlot splotches you associate with a relaxing shower. You estimate that it will take<br />ten minutes. Yes, you think, a beautiful woman is shunned.<br /> It took you four years to figure out that you were wasting your time in college.<br />All along you had intentions to go to graduate school to study body-mind psychology, to<br />get a degree so that you could have a positive effect on society.<br /> It hit you when you were in the airport waiting for your flight to London; you saw<br />her. She must be a model, you thought. She has it all, a boyish body, emaciated cheekbones,<br />long legs, stiletto heels, a Louis Vuitton bag, a Yankees cap, and enormous glasses. Sure<br />enough, in the following weeks you saw her in ads selling everything from shoes to lingerie.<br />She was a goddess, and rich to boot.<br /> You glance down at your dappled chest and realize your ten minutes have passed. You<br />quickly wash your long chestnut hair and apply the protein-enhanced conditioner.<br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/amy-arenson_113674145011899691.html">next></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113674081215178694?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136698100189135842006-01-08T00:26:00.000-05:002006-01-08T01:38:11.510-05:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/img001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/img001.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/note-to-editor-realm-which-includes.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113669810018913584?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136520999865444562006-01-05T23:15:00.000-05:002006-01-11T15:02:28.410-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >always and never in a line</span><br /><br /><br /><br />we dance this way when our hands stick together<br />and this way in the window<br /><br />and this against the night<br />a constriction of feet<br />in our legs and stumbling<br /><br />she’s whistling an aria outside<br />my window it is June and I<br />am singing also of disappointment<br /><br />dirty as airplanes we find<br />half-buried in the woods behind<br />and strong like toys they carry us<br />until they don’t<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/five-pieces_20.html"><span style="font-family: georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113652099986544456?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136520909360284242006-01-05T23:13:00.000-05:002006-01-11T15:01:37.036-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >I am standing here because</span><br /><br /><br /><br />this is where I stop and the walls start<br />it’s a slouch your head in my hip<br />we are singing recognizable songs<br />that’s ______ and that’s ________<br />it’s unheard of, that combination<br />the flowers and fans<br />Magritte and the American Flag<br />this is not a puzzle, it is<br />transparent as milk, a lighter<br />condensation, a rust red thread strung<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/five-pieces_20.html"><span style="font-family: georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113652090936028424?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136520824217549712006-01-05T23:12:00.000-05:002006-01-11T15:00:15.570-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >our concerns are of planets and stars</span><br /><br /><br /><br />and love in such a way that each possibility<br />finds her language<br />a rhyme in the grass<br /><br />here are the paths in lefts and rights<br />his logic can hold a mirror up<br />but does not blow sand into glass<br /><br />and shards are not sand again<br />august and golden in the low sun<br />a star whose metal pulling this way<br />shifts the stitch “an occultly significant”<br />distance from home<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/five-pieces_20.html"><span style="font-family: georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113652082421754971?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136520724624466142006-01-05T23:10:00.000-05:002006-01-11T14:59:08.800-05:00<pre><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br />for here the day unravels what the night has woven</span><br /><br /><br /><br />and as he wept, he wept<br />you without joy might carefully be sung<br />to be durable or to be resilient<br />a host of plucking fingers<br />at sleeves, at guitars, mandolin-wise<br />you’re at a loss, this, the next<br />tear, as he says falls banally<br />in the moonlight, you’re not<br />remembering, you’re not together,<br />it said, it’s only your lack<br />or architecture holding you down<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/five-pieces_20.html"><span style="font-family: georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113652072462446614?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136520542259428912006-01-05T23:05:00.000-05:002006-01-19T14:58:06.780-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >it is a reminder</span><br /><br /><br /><br />we each speak though we have no mouths<br />we speak of dailies, of records, of planets<br />young and inexperienced. we must<br />say to each of them, this is how to die,<br />this is what a life means, smokestacks spew flowers<br />seven died building it, most were your cousins<br /><br />the metal of them, falling<br />each day a different funeral, depending on which way<br />you face, artists are sacred no matter what<br />they produce, no matter<br /><br />it is here in the meat of it such things are said<br />the saying of them is nourishment<br /><br />go carefully or not at all<br /><br />what story do we tell today<br />among the fallen?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/five-pieces_20.html"><span style="font-family:georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113652054225942891?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136519822249097712006-01-05T22:09:00.000-05:002006-01-12T16:11:46.096-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: mon;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Untitled</span></span></span><br /><br /><br />first we must identify the impulses that lead to destruct<br />perfectly good flesh: life is pure evanescence<br />how to mark the time? are opportunities diminished by<br />such artifice? pose: possess: hunger<br />a fat middle finger to THE MAN but if no one gives a fuck<br />might as well wear poop on your head<br />in time you say in time: meat: skin: scar<br /><br />roped images: panther high on the right shoulder<br /> black tribal designs on the small of the back<br /> sleeves of flora: fauna: wild wildness<br /> star clusters blue-black: starlike<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/two-pieces_112983139539501561.html"><span style="font-family:georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113651982224909771?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136516926354775832006-01-05T22:05:00.000-05:002006-01-12T16:12:12.810-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: mon;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Untitled</span></span></span><br /><br /><br />get a load of her<br />arms: open: soft<br /><br />orange carp: blue waves: spring leaves<br />bushido<br /><br />cascade: stillness<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/two-pieces_112983139539501561.html"><span style="font-family:georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113651692635477583?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136050348168695812005-12-31T12:31:00.000-05:002006-01-11T03:11:42.816-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >To Those Who Say "X Marks The Spot"</span> </span><br /><br /><br /><br />a reasonable place called<br />here and now and<br />first this razor<br />balancing the frozen sun itself an<br />image within an image within<br /><br />a book--once an image split<br />a skull<br />and the best paintings<br />are of figures walking<br />followed by confused messengers<br /><br />both have distinct<br />shape or sound<br />slightly more than<br />"real"<br /><br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/two-pieces.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113605034816869581?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136050284867462962005-12-31T12:28:00.000-05:002006-01-11T03:11:55.276-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Tragedy For Flat & Guppy </span> <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span>subway train<br /><br />loose! leap irrigation ditches <br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span>terrifying! <br /><br /><br />old ships remember salt <br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"> </span>and failures <br /><br /><br />walk the streets impossible &amp; conscious<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/two-pieces.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113605028486746296?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136045401462495612005-12-31T11:05:00.000-05:002005-12-31T12:35:51.530-05:00<a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/matt-langley.html">Tragedy For Flat & Guppy</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/matt-langley_31.html">To Those Who Say "X Marks The Spot"</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Matthew Langley</span> is the author of the chapbook <a href="http://www.subdaypress.org/ellipses.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">(...)</span></a> (2003) and the forthcoming <span style="font-style: italic;">A Very Mild Eternity</span>, both from <a href="http://www.subdaypress.org/">Subday Press</a>. He recently returned from a stint teaching in Seoul, South Korea and currently lives in Baltimore, MD. You can e-mail him at langley76@hotmail.com.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113604540146249561?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136044458147720032005-12-31T10:52:00.000-05:002006-01-09T15:38:53.016-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Respire Awake<br /><br /><br /></span><br />the dull rasp of breathing<br />startles my nervous head<br />resting on his shoulder,<br />uncertain aspirate noise–<br />the tea kettle<br />growling with water<br />the gurgle of my stomach<br />his obstructed nasal passage<br />the storm wind seeping<br />through the door-crack;<br />annoyance fades<br />I cannot decipher<br />between our breaths.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983131135663101.html"><span style="font-family:georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113604445814772003?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136044341205277872005-12-31T10:40:00.000-05:002006-01-09T15:38:35.230-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Suicide En Masse</span><br /><br /><br /><br />The sun sank,<br />this great elliptical tea bag<br />into the Mississippi<br /><br />mouths of smoke<br />curl out<br />in butterfly tongues<br />wet with summer air<br /><br />desolate main street<br />a silent cargo barge<br />creeps up the river<br />spot light stretches miles<br />seducing Mayflies<br />tempting instinct-decay<br /><br />they swarm the sky<br />apocalyptic fright<br />frenetic insect orgy<br />dive-bomb down<br />crushing winged bodies<br />against the afterglow<br />of my lantern eyes.</pre><br /><div style="text-align: center;"> <pre><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/img009.0.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/200/img009.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></pre> </div><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmm</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm</span><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983131135663101.html">Back</a><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" spt="75" preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"> </v:formulas> <v:path extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" connecttype="rect"> <o:lock ext="edit" aspectratio="t"> </v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:128.25pt;" strokeweight="3pt"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\ADMINI~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.png" title="" gain="69719f"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113604434120527787?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1136043079196408592005-12-31T10:22:00.000-05:002006-01-09T15:38:06.206-05:00<pre><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br />Untitled (a jealously stabbing word from a repertory hat)<br /><br /><br /></span><br />stolen!<br />who says?<br />plagiarizers who say<br />who is writing this?<br /><br />hoots<br />the owl on a wire<br />telegraphing mouse words<br />morsels to swallow some<br />sensation of wholeness<br />in the throat.<br /><br />Interlingually devising<br />capture tactics<br />a grammar invented after<br />paint-stroke after<br />legs running <span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><br />after<br />sun setting <span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><br />in the Fusang tree .<br /><br /> .<br /><br />articulation is water<br />cresting on a pebble,<br />definition is friction<br />on the palate of the mouth 口<br />red tongue striking thought<br />of want to aspirate<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> “O” .kou</span><br />the sound of wind leaving.<br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983131135663101.html">Back</a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113604307919640859?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135969684464930632005-12-30T14:07:00.000-05:002006-01-11T16:01:59.916-05:00<pre><br /><br />I took off the POW bracelet shearing sheep says<br />We were looking for sapphires says<br />They were looking for gold as far back as 1860<br />a painter, a sculptor, actress died in a car crash in Denmark says<br />sure enough Salvation Army says<br />I sing to the garden says<br />In this little bag I keep several things - this<br />piece of wood is from a tree hit by lightning, my sister<br />& I saw it from our window at home says<br />The sunflower seed is from the grave of Jack Kerouac<br />it's brought me several times to this school says<br />&amp; here's a glass eyeball in a walnut shell says<br />The setting is irregualr, the setting is masculine says<br />this purse, yellow & red &amp; black deepening it<br />reminds me of my old apartment back in Sweden says<br />There was a bed spirit in the apartment says<br />an irish time whistle is cheap, I got it in the<br />Indian Chesos mountains, it takes on marks, tone changes says<br />this horseshoe mails necklace is surrogate for 4 corners<br />Indian squash flower necklace says<br />There are 10 nails here says<br />my drawing pen melts says<br />This wallet represents ambivalence concerning earth connection says<br />I've had this plastic mushroom over 8 years, it was given<br />to me by an Irish minister says<br />my clip board is a portable desk, sturdy & strong says<br />my fairy necklace is hard burnished antique brass says<br />I have feathers in my brain says<br />I wed trust, a cord to wear says<br />I've never collected anything seriously says<br />I'd bring the spirit chaser from India but I was sick here's a bunt pan<br /> instead says<br />I'm 28 I have a bird's eye view says<br />I have on little amulet of stamps says<br />But most of the stuff I have hardly has any stories says<br />O thank you I don't wear pink says<br />I need opera gloves says<br />I've been travelling a lot, everything down to bare necessity says<br />He was trying to break up a fight says<br />A little domestic Malaysian tool for eating says<br />Semi-precious stones becausse they have little fossils, barnacles in<br /> them, says<br />Lichen forms on a medallion says<br />Small claws &amp; green wings says<br />A terrible vow not to steal glitter.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/note-to-editor-realm-which-includes.html">Back</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113596968446493063?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135969623869364242005-12-30T14:06:00.000-05:002006-01-11T16:01:44.833-05:00<pre><br /><br /> & outside my cave: the rarefied gaseous<br /> envelopes of the sun, and at the end<br /> of the day, telling you again my mind:<br /><br /><br />I said I can't look at the national news this evening<br /><br />can't be good in the thought of why get nervous in a<br />house in a body in a world<br />Would go further in<br />No<br />Meet me here<br />It's late for heroical men to be playing poker<br />come home men<br />Come home men on a Friday night<br />over &amp; over<br /><br /><br /> Now I have pleased to give you this<br /> & rent my veil<br /> eyes always intent to look ahead<br /> to some new thing<br /> contumacious, wise, loyal<br /> The whip of wrath extolling virtue of<br /> meekness towards friends, toward kin<br /> towards enemy<br /> of this bright sphere<br /> I saw my true reflection past all seeming<br /> I saw no heart's rest there<br /> then as the air after rain will glow<br /> inside itself so I myself might know<br /> and you too know my actions, my obsession<br /> <br /> <br /> There was a woman who left her home<br /> Who left her home did she<br /> She travelled afar to a land of scorn<br /> To a land of fire, to a land of .......<br /> <br /><br />It's late for violins but here's a list of amulets:<br /><br />I like knives cause how they cut says<br />Girlhood fits the girl says<br />losing a mundane edge says<br />narcissistic notebook says<br />juniper of the west coast says<br />leather sac of seeds, ovary says<br />my bi-sexuality says<br />my flesh, nature of a boy says<br />soybeans rattle in a plastic container says<br />a strauss crystal because there's always sun says<br />also it's a musical instrument says Tuscarora Gulch says<br />This song book was my first exposure to poetry says<br />I have a poster by Rousseau on my wall back home says<br />You keep seeing more animals as you look harder says<br />Capt. Kenneth Backus , missing since 1967</pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/anne-waldman_113596968446493063.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113596962386936424?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135969524549680052005-12-30T14:04:00.000-05:002006-01-11T16:01:26.596-05:00<pre><br /><br /> The goddesses of this realm give birth in a miraculous manner, free of the burdens of<br />menstruation, pregnancy, confinement and nursing. The child is born (appearing on its mother's knees or<br />hip) at 5 years of age, and the gods or goddesses think, "This is our son," or "This is our daughter." The<br />child in turn conceives the thought, "These are our fathers," or "These are our mothers." During copulation<br />the deities of this level unite their bodies but without emission of substance or loss of energy. Sexuality is<br />casual and easily repeated.<br /><br />In the Western Continent people experience synesthesia - the eye hears sounds, the ear sees colors. They<br />perform the sex act only some 10 or 12 times in the course of their lives. Godaniya has a red tone in its<br />skies and waters, the reflection of the ruby western walls of Mt. Meru.<br /><br />In the Northern Continent called Keru the women nurse through their fingers.<br /><br />The people are tranquil and mild in the Eastern Continent.<br /><br />The Southern Continent is named after the mythical rose-apple tree - jambu.<br /><br />It's trapezoidal in shape, and like a chariot.<br /><br /><br /><br /> But there's skill in our construction,<br /> our body architecture that now at last<br /> it fits together, sill in the electric<br /> fingers, skill in the eye. Now I know<br /> why caves are female I saw shapes<br /> forming a centimeter every hundred years,<br /> I say the shape of a vulva & the shrouded<br /> ladies in their garden, like corkscrew<br /> flowers, like spirals, widning forever<br /> towards heaven, coiling forever down<br /> towards heaven and the delicate coral-<br /> like formations forming five hundred<br /> million years in the dark &amp;<br /> I saw the shape of someone carrying a bundle<br /> her eyes like fish's, her head was all<br /> Buddha in the slow drip of limestone<br /> in a cavern 20 times blacker than night<br /><br /> if it moves does it breathe? dear Helen...<br /><br /> I flew in there & heard the wind howling<br /> I had the radar of a bat<br /><br /> I dedicate all these words to the Wizard of Ballads<br /> seer of witchly manners and to the development<br /> of solar power<br /><br /> I include "manitou" from Algonquin "manito"<br /> meaning "one has surpassed"<br /><br /> I stand at the end of a mighty kalpa, a<br /> humble practitioner hearing the wind<br /> blow through me in the shadow<br /> of supremacy (of diction &amp; good sense)<br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/anne-waldman_113596962386936424.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113596952454968005?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135969453204049682005-12-30T14:03:00.000-05:002006-01-11T16:01:04.346-05:00<pre><br /><br />In oval magic, the new-born babe has an egg hat put upon<br />its head. But it was never the custom for women<br />to remove their hats, admitting inequality,<br /><br />that is for me to do. The woman is the<br />hat, that is to say, the egg.<br /><br />I take off my woman to you! (& Helen wore her hat to class)<br /><br />Dear masculine world with ideas, dear feminine world with<br />ideas &amp; feelings & dear world with creatures<br /> of egg born<br /><br />"Exitare muros." Awaken the walls, the sleeping males!<br /> Peace and balance nest in the original egg. The seeds<br /> of all things rest in it without recourse to time.<br /><br />King Tarquin founded his circus near an egg.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I develop eyes in the back of my oval head.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span>& this is the key:<br /><br /> This is the key of the cave<br /> In the cave there is a realm<br /> In that realm there is a city<br /> In that city there is a town<br /> In that town there is a street<br /> In that street there is an alley<br /> In that alley there is a yard<br /> In that yard there is a house<br /> In that house there is a room<br /> In that room there is a bed<br /> In that bed there is a box<br /> In that box there are some eyes<br /> Eyes in the box<br /> Box in the bed<br /> Bed in the room<br /> Room in the house<br /> House in the yard<br /> Yard in the alley<br /> Alley in the street<br /> Street in the town<br /> Town in the city<br /> City in the realm<br /> Realm in the cave<br /> Of the cave this is the key<br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/anne-waldman_113596952454968005.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113596945320404968?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135969398845515742005-12-30T14:02:00.000-05:002006-01-11T16:00:46.450-05:00<pre><br /><br />"You lookin?" neighbor shouts. "I've got my sunglasses<br /> andcardboard!"<br /><br />"This is what I know about exlipse,"<br /><br />Yugoslavian girlfriend says darkly,<br /> "I hide form eclipse..."<br /><br />Don't look straight on, see reflection in window.<br />Hindu<br /> sun worshippers fired their eyes<br />& though Gertrude<br /> Stein stared at the sun it isn't wise.<br /><br />No another<br /><br /><br />until year 2017, and one'll be seventy at least<br /><br /> Sun has just moved into birth time of another mother,<br /><br /> Moon crosses sun at time of the fish in mid-life<br /><br />End of world? If I were a tribe<br /> I'd think it. ]<br /><br />birds go nuts, expectant<br /><br />o daytime earth that requires so much light...<br /><br />but to the ivory moon I say:<br />Pregnant one I'm with<br />you in astral sphere,<br />chirp wisdom, and will descend<br /><br />or not.<br /><br />I'm tall lunar lady of substance<br /><br />making stars move leaping across<br />the sun and I say to the earth<br /> (if you are beautiful):<br /><br />Dear Handsome Young World Kissed By The Sun,<br />Dear Handsome Old Moon Kissed By The Poet<br />I'll give thee of myself from kee to navel<br /><br />Wood-painted priestess dance forever in the silvery light<br /> somewhere in Gaul &amp; Britannia<br /><br />studying night, studying night. Sanity is subject to<br /><br />moon's rhythms. Night is preferred for meetings<br />& councils. In the realm of the maternal egg<br /><br />we are dictated by our blood &amp; live without laws.<br /><br /><br /><br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/anne-waldman_113596945320404968.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113596939884551574?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135969314998329982005-12-30T13:26:00.000-05:002006-01-11T15:46:39.133-05:00<pre><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br />Realm Which Includes an Eclipse,<br />a Cave & Some Amulets</span><br /><br /></span> <div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: mon;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >-for Helen Adam</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /></span><font><span style="font-style: italic;">This poem was written as an experiment for a class I was teaching at The Jack Kerouac School of<br />Disembodied Poetics in 1976 when Helen Adam was visiting the school. We were working with magical<br />objects students had brought to class, which carried with them a story or a dream. Some of this information<br />was juxtaposed with the memory of a solar eclipse. Helen was a wizard, a poet, a balladeer. Born in 1909<br />in Scotland she came to the United States in 1939, and was active in the San Francisco Poetry Renaissance.<br />She was a close friend to Robert Duncan, who wrote of her, speaking of her as a teacher & companion<br />"who opened the door to the full heritage of the forbidden romantics. Her ballads were the missing link to<br />the tradition... In grasping the inspiration of Helen Adam, in admitting her genius, I was able to shake off<br />at last the modern proprieties - originality, style, currency of language, sensibility and integrity... Helen<br />Adam was right, passions may ve a voice in ballads and orders appear in fairy tales that were otherwise<br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><font><font><font><font><font><span style="font-style: italic;">muted or garbled."</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Helen was very ebullient about visiting The Naropa Institute with its tantric Buddhist underpinning, and<br />about standing on the high rocky spine of the Continental Divide. We drove to Brainard Lake in the<br />mountains outside Boulder up near Ward. She jumped in the Lake's icy water, never flinching. She<br />taught students much about her own Scots ballad tradition, about alchemy & magic.<br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><span style="font-style: italic;">[Helen Adam died in New York City in 1993.]</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><span style="font-style: italic;">There once was a woman, a balladeer</span><br /><font><span style="font-style: italic;">who mirrored the crag, the singing har</span><br /><font><span style="font-style: italic;">Who mirrored the song of a haunting dream</span><br /><font><span style="font-style: italic;">She rocked & rocked til the knots fell off</span><br /><font><span style="font-style: italic;">& she went to bed in a stream</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font></span><font></span></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font>May this landscape be covered lovingly for<br /><br /></span><font></span><font>love<br /></span><font></span><font>of its splendor,<br /></span><font></span><font> its wheels<br /><br /></span><font></span><font>Heart jumps for mastery, heart in it for<br /></span><font></span><font>her mastery<br /><br /></span><font></span><font>heart pumps it up & out<br /><br /></span><font></span><font>for Helen<br /><br /><br /></span><font></span><font>It starts 9,000 ft. above the sea,<br /></span><font></span><font> jet stream touches down, fierce winds blow<br /><br /></span><font></span><font> coyotes yip at perfect moon. Watch<br /><br /></span><font></span><font> eclipse this morning not to be viewed by naked eye<br /></span><font></span><font> (see fragile crescent though pin hole projected<br /></span><font></span><font> onto white sheet)<br /></span><font></span><font> dog yaps nervously then<br /></span><font></span><font>everything's silent,<br /><br /></span><font></span><font>tinted ominous burnt gold as shadows lengthen<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div></div></div></pre><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></sp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</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font><font></span><font></span></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><font></span><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</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113596931499832998?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135876916489762752005-12-29T12:13:00.000-05:002006-01-10T14:39:55.023-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/Tom%20Peters%27%20100%20Missed%20Train%20Statoins.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/320/Tom%20Peters%27%20100%20Missed%20Train%20Statoins.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br /><br /><pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />100 Missed Train Stations</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">by Thomas R. Peters, Jr.</span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Farfalla Press, Boulder, CO 2002</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >A Review by Andy Hoffmann</span><br /><br /><br />Catapulted like dice I rise<br />Head-on like a matador on sleeping pills<br />I'm bruised by long distance love<br />& you're on the roof looking at the stars<br /><br /> from "L"<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Tom Peters likes movement, likes to be going somewhere. And as he indicates in the title<br />of his recent collection of poems, <span style="font-style: italic;">100 Missed Train Stations</span>, you've got to be on the<br />train to miss the stations, you've got to be rolling to have a chance to stop. And as the<br />poems themselves suggest, you've got to be crazy in love with your trip and the metaphors<br />you ride. You've got to bleed from the tongue, so to speak, smoke from the asshole, you've<br />got to come ready to bone and get boned in a "sea of flashbulbs." In the end, there are no<br />easy answers, no easy situations, but as long as you're still talking, as long as you've<br />got something to say, there's always that fragmented chance (the roll of the dice) that<br />you might talk yourself into a future where longing meets love, where dry puckered lips<br />actually join those of the beloved, a kiss of language, an intoxicating mouth-to-mouth<br />exchange. Yes, but this kind of poetic juice doesn't come without a warning, for, as<br />Peters writes, "All's fair in love & the darkness/with silence dancing in my heart/a good<br />view means nothing to a drowning man." Love, darkness, silence, heart, dying. Add to that<br />nachos, a bottle of tequila and cable TV and you've got the picture.<br /> It's the most tender story, this "catapulted" man trying to keep his head above water,<br />this trip, these stops, these sonnets, a hundred enigmatic poems, this tenuous and often<br />humorous search for love. But these poems aren't tender, not in the least, aren't meant to<br />be. In fact, they're a response to tenderness, to poetry that takes itself too seriously.<br />Working from collage and creating an edge by stunning simile (techniques that won't allow a<br />line to run itself into easy understanding), Peters shares the world of a man who has sat<br />for many hours behind the wheel of an eight cylinder gas guzzling Buick looking ahead at the<br />black road, the impossible horizon, passing through the corn, finally stopping for gas and a<br />plate of eggs and sausage where he might scratch a poem on a napkin to Caitlin, the well-<br />mothered antagonist of so many of these lyrics. It is at this precise moment, while sitting<br />in a diner, he discovers mineral water will never quench his thirst, and because of this he<br />must turn his attention to the waitress and the "tempo" in which she "returns his pesos."<br /> These poems, these sonnets, however, are not narrative in the sense that I've just<br />described. Indeed what's most important to these poems is the tempo; the only time they keep<br />is to the beat that carries the word. And craft. 100 sonnets, 100 train stops. Titles that<br />expertly seep into the poems. Why not. Why not have the title, "98 bottles of beer on the<br />wall," for a piece wherein the poet reflects on "Yesterday's problems... falling in one<br />continuous circle," and in doing so, recognizing a terrifying spiral that makes him "tremble<br />in fear of meaning." Of course. The search for meaning is over and done with, and when the<br />edge of that cliff is reached, certainly it's frightening-frankly, we're all scared shitless<br />of the darkness at the edge of nothing. Paradoxically, each of the hundred sonnets are<br />elegantly formed, as if in the end it's the shape of the thing that really matters. While I'm<br />not suggesting that Peters is especially influenced by Aristotle, in a sense <span style="font-style: italic;">100 Missed Train </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Stations</span> is about form as much as it is about anything. So Peters the formalist (one of his<br />many hats) tends to do what formalists do, that is, write poetry about poetry, even if he's<br />grinning from ear to ear as he does it. And because of the form the book becomes necessarily<br />retro and almost nostalgic. That is, as we roll across the land in subject matter, always<br />going forward toward future, seeking a lover that is never quite there, we also look to the<br />past in a need to ground our meandering in an accepted form. Peters dwells in the past,<br />emphasizes it, comes home to it like Kerouac to his mother. Or should I say father, because<br />the past that Peters returns to is, to be precise, manmade.<br /> It would be hard to talk about <span style="font-style: italic;">100 Missed Train Stations</span> without giving due credit to<br />Ted Berrigan, whose <span style="font-style: italic;">Sonnets</span> have been particularly inspirational for those most influenced<br />by the New York School, as Peters no doubt is. Of Berrigan, David Shapiro writes, "Ted's<br />poetry wove between poles of fullness of content and a taste for the humiliations of<br />experiment." He goes on to say that his work is the "literary equivalent of 'Pop' art" and<br />"as chaste and fine and humble as anything in the Arte Povera movement that followed Pop<br />Art." The same could be aid for Peters the poet, Peters the pop culture whiz kid, Peters<br />the one who remember, the man who loves steel and aluminum, the man who loves women, the<br />man who turns the abstract sensuous, Peters the provacateur, the midnight boy, the<br />emotional, the keen-hearted, the fresh, a present day Apollinaire. Ted Berrigan's <span style="font-style: italic;">Sonnets </span>is<br />a great experiment, an important book. Tom Peters' <span style="font-style: italic;">100 Missed Train Stations</span> not only stands<br />upon Berrigan's experiment, but extends it. Peters' work is ambitious, challenging, edgy,<br />expertly crafted and full of surreal grace. Peters makes me laugh, yes-and these days,<br />laughter is not a small thing. I also leave this book feeling like I need a road trip. I<br />need to breakdown and "sit poised/next to the car on the side/of the road," and while<br />watching the sunset, think of those I need to love, perhaps recall an angry kiss, and most<br />certainly hope against hope for Montana.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/100-missed-train-stations-by-thomas-r.html">Back</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113587691648976275?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135870299516518022005-12-29T10:30:00.000-05:002006-01-20T13:50:32.580-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /> exiled by the queen,<br /> makes good, tends a garden.<br /><br /> if he doesn’t, a we<br /> kill him.<br /><br /><br /> is it the same fire that burns here?<br /><br /><br />i can’t say where this is going. i can say that it comes. i can say “swamp” and “hillock”<br />and “USB.” i can tell of flux and flukes and of fire-dousers, heroes who came just as the<br />police exited all the screens, Rodney Kings. throwing it out. maybe there’s a catch.<br /><br /><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">or</span><br /> fuck it. i instant<br /> text msg double reality<br /> tv show dream vacation<br /> final contestant next week<br /> on lettermen dare u<br /><br /><br /> (yet<br /> with age<br /> and improper<br /> care a<br /> lead battery<br /> leaks<br /> acid<br /> on a sur<br /> face<br /> ill-suit ed<br /> to play<br /> )<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/notes-round-friends-house-burns-down.html"><span style="font-family:georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113587029951651802?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135870206568384522005-12-29T10:29:00.000-05:002006-01-20T13:47:23.986-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /> lead is used to contain corrodible materials,<br /> ie. sulfuric acid,<br /><br /> under intense pressure,<br /> rocks liquify to absorb a blow,<br /><br />the code gives out before the logic of nerves<br />which bear it,<br /><br />autopsies and gris<br />ly accidents reveal.<br /><br /> “if you say so, boss”<br /> <br /> -<br /><br /><br /> if everything is tidal, then there<br /> s the possibility of sharks<br /><br /> who see we’re seals<br /><br /><br /> “you can’t send a kid away w/ that. you should be<br />ashamed of yourself”<br /><br /> -<br /><br /><br /> we dis shock. we dis disaster. motherfucking TV news show common sense.<br /> an audience applauds. when everything <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: monospace;">(</span>cue everything)</span> smoked and melted,<br /> the spine goes lead with shock, glass keeps solid for a spell a fireman, holds<br /> what – scorched notebooks, a lamp. Americans in real esate and funds with<br /> stable return<br /><br /> (oh but that’s gone now,<br /> gravity<br /><br /> struck by disaster<br /> and still insisting on picking up<br /><br /> the check.<br /> inviting what response<br /><br /> repose<br /> the Voltaire bad boy<br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/kyle-kaufman_113587029951651802.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113587020656838452?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135870136430253642005-12-29T10:28:00.001-05:002006-01-20T13:41:23.516-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />the seurat principle.<br />the chuck close procedure. the move<br />to tjant<br /><br />every finite<br />a ringing dialtone in<br />the hand of what<br />i have no word for<br /><br />is gross gross<br />gross gröss<br /><br /> no, minute.<br /> a baby fly<br /> in the compost pail<br /><br /><br /> ( w i n g s<br /> w / n o<br /> b z z z )<br /><br /><br /> rotten blood rising walk of eye made seen of demon in<br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">ringu</span> extending hand glottal stop<br /><br /><br /> see it again<br /><br /> -<br /><br /><br />when i talked to him about it<br />he didn’t seem disturbed<br /><br />calm<br />if subdued – not raw<br />maybe “thick”, “leaden”<br /><br />all the downstairs furniture went up, a computer melted, article in the Daily Camera,<br />Longmont Daily Times-Call, which the unregistered couldn’t read, lease dissolved,<br />homeless and couch-surfing. Said: “No. Let me take you out to dinner. I insist.” distance<br />goes all weird, hanging on that line slipping – techno-<span style="font-style: italic;">piso mojado </span><font>so funny here<span style="font-family:monospace;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family:monospace;"> </span></span>– was it<br />mean to laugh?<br /><br /> –<br /><br /></span></pre><div style="text-align: right;"><font><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/kyle-kaufman_113587020656838452.html">next></a><br /></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113587013643025364?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135870171745148872005-12-29T10:28:00.000-05:002006-01-20T13:35:54.646-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />but what, and going where?<br /><br />opens a book unbound.<br /><br /><br /> …if she is a woman, she’s a young one: 19, second term. a little late to bloom<br /> (high school being what it will), unreal. her promise is tight: t-shirt, jeans, one or<br /> two other imagined things.<br /><br /> And now professors find themselves at dingy dives w/ cell phones set to vibrate<br /> recording ex-wives calls suspicious and paying for more strong tonics still<br /> drinking her and dreading the dean. The young men’s eyes watch with – let the<br /> guy by the bar decide – humor and disgust and the band strikes up another song<br /> when he was sure they would at last leave the damn stage – what time is it<br /> anyway? Surrounded by vipers and traps.<br /><br /><br /> the words themselves, even. no bite,<br /> pulped flat, more on than in.<br /> in what? paper’s just an option, an after the fact<br /> in the <span style="font-style: italic;">musee</span>-umm. but an aura is also a force of life,<br /> and the computer screen hates me.<br /><br /><br /> -<br /><br /><br /> move along moves along<br /><br /><br /> d u s t<br /> m o t e s<br /><br /> lead a<br /> way. <br /><br /><br /> some HAL clips the cord and a Frank goes cartwheeling past Ceres<br />third-cousin’s half son by a minor collison<br /><br /><br /> the blindspot of a moving car<br /> also<br /> m o t i n g<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/kyle-kaufman_29.html"></a><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/kyle-kaufman_29.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113587017174514887?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135870103071068722005-12-29T10:27:00.000-05:002006-01-20T13:29:05.503-05:00<pre><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >a notes a round a friend’s house burns down</span><br /></div> <pre><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">“ h o r r o r b e l l e c a s u a l l i k e ”</span><br /></div> <pre><br /><br /><br /> The group we gears for release,<br /> it<br /> never comes<br /><br /> the male pigeon chasing “his” girl<br /> a dream of the heard and not seen<br /><br /> wets his pants to chase a dream<br /> Lacan adds: thankful luck.<br /><br /> and, w/ each obliteration – commence.<br /> where history prefixes a re.<br /><br /> -<br /><br /><br /> and this movement<br /> no one<br />line extend ing<br /> is the dancer’s b o d y b e a t i n g<br /><br /> and we watch<br />b e a t i n g , <br /> movement between<br /><br />s y n a p s e<br /><br /> raw &<br /> woven skin<br /><br /><br /> ( 1. branches in wind (cherry)<br /> 2. pupil on page (pacing)<br /> 3. _____________<br /> 4. when death comes (miasma, char)<br /> )<br /><br /><br />which cant be known, but around that black box<br />something leaves<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span></span><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/kyle-kaufman_113587017174514887.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113587010307106872?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135801887529957262005-12-28T15:31:00.000-05:002006-01-09T16:27:53.936-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />she was the she of every chromosome x or was it why does she<br />have to explain the in place of words fill the blanks <span style="font-style: italic;">girl / woman</span><br />broaden perspective she <span style="font-style: italic;">she</span> less conceptual the she is me you<br />(anybody) a quicksand pulled from inside<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <span style="font-size:130%;">empirical</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/three-pieces.html"><span style="font-family:georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113580188752995726?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135801854819110392005-12-28T15:30:00.000-05:002006-01-09T16:27:26.300-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />She hated acronyms. Words initialized by lack. Of time.<br />S(pace.) Beautiful words: <span style="font-style: italic;">postscript / etcetera / repondez si</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">vous plait.</span> The names of states weekdays months: <span style="font-style: italic;">minnesota /</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">wednesday / february.</span> She rolled. Words in her mouth.<br />Swallowed (full.) Form consonants vowels. Sound of letters<br />unfolding: <span style="font-style: italic;">as soon as possible / university / regarding.</span> She<br />read. The shadows pronounced. Lists of emancipated.<br />(Words.) Language was. A river she did not wish to shorten.<br />She spoke. Sentences aware. How they took silences.<br />(Breath.) The next. Word inside her. (Body.) A map she<br />found. Her way. (Home.)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <span style="font-size:130%;">atlas</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stephanie-heit_113580188752995726.html"><span style="font-family:georgia,serif;"></span>next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113580185481911039?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135801812582400492005-12-28T15:29:00.000-05:002006-01-09T16:26:30.463-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />time was not a line she travelled well turning back on herself<br />(circles) knees rotation of head one foot after daredevil run<br />forward eyes closed distant arms <span style="font-style: italic;">please catch</span> fall softened limbs<br />roll the ground pinned earth she did (not) get up<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <span style="font-size:130%;"> relinquish</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stephanie-heit_113580185481911039.html"><span style="font-family:georgia,serif;"></span>next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113580181258240049?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135801684644627022005-12-28T15:27:00.000-05:002006-01-09T16:25:20.526-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />spaces inside her quiet still at rest on a lap give limb crease knee<br />hollow support of a neck (remember) there was wind sand dune<br />held grass stain backs her reflection skyward (you’d sing)<br />connect the light find north turn to face (yourself) hand mouth<br />(remember) cool lake air waded moonlit over rocks (you’d sing)<br />waves from the soles of her feet undertow (remember) long ride<br />home keep to (yourself) the road’s middle line (you’d sing) radio<br />turned off the exit ramp go north (remember) we drove the night<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <span style="font-size:130%;"> ephemeral</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stephanie-heit_113580181258240049.html"><span style="font-family:georgia,serif;"></span>next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113580168464462702?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135801637921822842005-12-28T15:26:00.000-05:002006-01-09T16:24:49.443-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">from</span> Quiet Anatomy</span><br /><br /><br /><br />she was light on the bay rippled stories (untold) line the marrow<br />her bones solid shadows movement never betrayed (soft)<br />underside welcome inward gaze a strength she did not lie down<br />on the shore dream of memory (salt) (blood) figure foreground<br />against the sky body constellation discovered full bloom<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <span style="font-size:130%;">archaeology</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stephanie-heit_113580168464462702.html"><span style="font-family:georgia,serif;"></span>next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113580163792182284?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135801000567367502005-12-28T15:12:00.000-05:002006-01-19T13:46:51.080-05:00<pre><br /><span style="font-family:mon;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >The Poet</span><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style: italic;">horizon, upturned bottle cap</span><br /></div> <pre><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;">I pace between the two points closest to her<br />tell a story unfinished<br />the ending years off on a windowledge<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">rust, hesitant blue</span><br /><br /><br />the sky color tonight will be my body’s edge<br />fallen into shapes that won’t allow her to rise<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">swivel, perpendicular arms to torso, flayed spiral</span><br /><br /><br />I run from the parking lot<br />return in love with the yellow lines<br /><br />she adjusts the blinds<br />angles the paper<br />ink pools in imperfect dots<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">reclined on sofa, poised at desk</span><br /><br /><br />take the position of reader<br />make sure your jaw is relaxed<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">computer, garage door, lockbox, dictionary</span><br /><br /><br />she grinds words in her dreams<br />presses palms on the windowledge in the city she speaks<br /><br />I forget the manuscript<br />and stage directions for what happens next<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">blurred</span><br /><br /><br />she makes a new beginning<br /><br />you refill the flowerpot with soil<br />place it too close to the edge<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/three-pieces.html">Back</a><br /> </div> </div> <div style="text-align: right;"> <div style="text-align: center;"> </div> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113580100056736750?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135800704572295062005-12-28T14:51:00.000-05:002006-01-09T16:02:45.266-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Love Story #1</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br />I.<br /><br />I don't write love stories.<br /><br />II.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We</span> didn't fall in love. I fell in love with him. It was because of the blue butterfly, how<br />his words landed just outside his lips, how he said he'd teach me how to run.<br /><br />III.<br /><br />Snow, when it wasn't expected. Late September with big flakes after dark. Sky in awe,<br />trees laden with storm. The fire lit the living room and shadowed objects onto the walls.<br />We ate pomegranates. The juice stained my lips, face, hands. Eating a piece of fruit<br />became life's work of texture, taste, senses and shades of red. Later, he nicknamed me<br />Persephone. When his housemate called me that he got angry, possessive almost.<br /><br />IV.<br /><br />"Damn you. I'm in love with you."<br /><br />(Repeat.)<br /><br />We were in his room. Basement dwelling complete with unfinished walls, single light bulb<br />in addition to programmed blinking Christmas (in his case, Hanukkah) lights and a bowl to<br />catch drips from the kitchen sink a level above. The floor was closet, bookshelf, laundry<br />basket and garbage can to whatever landed there. He was lying on a naked mattress, big<br />enough for only one; he planned a solitary life; yelling these words:<br />"Damn you. Damn you."<br /><br />(Then)<br /><br />"I'd tell you to leave, but you wouldn't know why."<br /><br />V.<br /><br />Eddie Lubin's Magic Diner: brightly lit, open 24 hours, pitcher fountains on the walls,<br />game booth complete with turning wheel to win a free rootbeer float or the opportunity<br />to kiss the chef if there really was one since the food was just up to par with diner fare.<br />After midnight crowd - high school students and those not into bars. Black and white tile<br />floor scuffed, with ketchup dried in edges.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/stephanie-heit.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113580070457229506?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135799356709242632005-12-28T14:45:00.000-05:002006-01-19T13:44:18.490-05:00<a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stephanie-heit_28.html">The Poet</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stephanie-heit.html">Love Story #1</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stephanie-heit_113580163792182284.html">excerpt from "Quiet Anatomy"</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span style="font-weight: bold;">Stephanie Heit</span> is from the state shaped like a hand and is known to locate herself under the pinkie knuckle, but has lived in higher altitudes the last decade looking for bodies of water.<span style=""> </span>Her interests reside where the body crosses the line and intersections involving transportation.<span style=""> </span>She was awarded a poetry fellowship from the <a href="http://www.coloarts.state.co.us/">Colorado Council on the Arts</a> and her work has appeared in <a href="http://www.naropa.edu/writingandpoetics/bombaygin.html"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><i style="">Bombay</i></st1:place></st1:city></a><i style=""><a href="http://www.naropa.edu/writingandpoetics/bombaygin.html"> Gin</a>, <a href="http://canwehaveourballback.com/171a.htm">can we have our ball back?</a>, Nerve Lantern, </i>and other magazines.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span style=""><br /></span></span></p> <p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span style=""><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents </a> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113579935670924263?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135716600053624572005-12-27T15:49:00.000-05:002006-01-11T03:46:05.470-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><pre><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >PORTLAND & POPOTLA</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">For Penjamo’s son.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />I hear the cars racing<br />Engines purring<br />Like cats on steroids<br />In Portland<br />I could hear<br />All the way to<br />The international speedway<br />From my front porch<br />As I drank beer<br />Or played guitar<br />Or just sat there<br />Doing nothing at all<br />Here I listen to them racing<br />On Popotla boulevard<br />From my desk<br />As I tried to write<br />And then the cops come<br />And chase the racers<br />And cars crash<br />People die<br />Then I am told<br />Of funeral services<br />For my friend’s son<br />And I sit here<br />Looking at the keyboard<br />Drinking & smoking<br />Listening to the engines<br />Vibrating through<br />The darkness<br />Of the ocean<br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_20.html">Back</a><br /></div> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113571660005362457?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135716559968708302005-12-27T15:48:00.000-05:002006-01-11T03:43:44.686-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><br /><pre><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >THE SHARPNESS OF LIGHT</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Life is ignition<br /><br />Days of dynamite<br /><br />The energies of love<br /><br />Pierce throughout<br /><br />The wonders of summer<br /><br />Your smile is<br /><br />Like an explosion<br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_20.html">Back</a><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113571655996870830?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135716506512015102005-12-27T15:47:00.000-05:002006-01-11T03:41:07.350-05:00<pre><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >TOP SECRET</span><br /><br />Agent Guzman<br />Asked for my citizenship<br />He’s a big man<br />With a small heart<br />My passport<br />Was in his hands<br />I think he was not<br />Reading the document<br />Just pretending to look at it<br />I decided to answer<br />His question<br />US citizen<br />I said to him<br />In the midst of smog<br />And hundreds of cars<br />Waiting in line<br />Behind us<br />What are those machines for?<br />I asked pointing to<br />The x—ray devices<br />I had just driven through<br />It’s top secret<br />If I told you<br />It would not be<br />A secret anymore<br />He said<br />Do they cause cancer?<br />I asked him<br />I don’t know but<br />That’s why I don’t<br />Cross to Mexico<br />Because you might get cancer<br />On your way back?<br />I asked again<br />It’s top secret<br />He said.<br /></div></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_20.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113571650651201510?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135715892138466192005-12-27T15:32:00.000-05:002006-01-11T15:05:39.676-05:00<pre><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><br />934</span><br /><br /><br /><br />the blues do drip (9:34)<br /><br />pass two guys, matching umbrellas pass<br />two guys, no umbrellas matching<br />carts match files to boxes<br />matching chagrins behind<br />woman struggling to drive<br />suitcase between skyscrapers<br /><br />a security guard said,<br />"What good is the job,<br />if you can't meet the girls?"<br />and the other had to concur<br /><br />in the rain<br />his match goes out<br />from my past<br />a breeze<br />will be ordered<br /><br />two guys who matched<br />passed neckties<br />with wives going out<br />they were buying<br /><br />something I wanted to do<br />how blue.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/two-pieces_112983121761672025.html"><span style="font-family: georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113571589213846619?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135715562128688142005-12-27T15:31:00.000-05:002006-01-11T15:04:13.110-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Find</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Disappoint explanations<br />for why it floats,<br />even fewer reasons<br />for refuse underfoot<br /><br />to return home, head<br />for defeat. Find a chorus, hum<br />to yourself, stars<br /><br />Oh it's nothing<br /><br />loud enough to bother<br />everyone in earshot.<br />Nothing. It's what<br /><br />is overhead. The doormat<br />of the undiscovered,<br /><br />a simulation. The days<br />were good, and bright enough.<br />You will not call<br />or look me up, but,<br /><br />still, the air moves,<br />some leaves blew by.<br />No discovery here<br />but still,<br /><br />I expect more<br />from your gimmick<br />than the flicker<br />clouds in motion,<br /><br />furniture unglued<br />the way it did<br />with strings attached.<br />Snap, break, swear,<br />keep building,<br /><br />seized by nails<br />a determination;<br />it's too late<br />to mop up<br />you have the remote<br />fastened.<br /><br />There is only<br />one final beer,<br />four walls,<br />the neighbor's war<br />on television.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/two-pieces_112983121761672025.html"><span style="font-family: georgia,serif;"></span>Back</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113571556212868814?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1135714367865583092005-12-27T15:09:00.000-05:002006-01-12T14:53:16.776-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >prose poems</span><br /><br /><br /><br />I.<br /><br />they say the water will win and they’re right if they know this lassoing to be true<br />i’m about to lasso you too to the ring in the sky in people’s hands the sun went by<br />you never saw that chance to hold the moon to hold the heavy changing of guards or<br />planets<br /><br /><br /><br />II.<br /><br />a bizarre killing of beliefs those photographs with our hands boxes bend in the<br />rain make a strange song their flesh kissing mud beneath heavy hungry clouds and you<br />were there i know what karmic shampoo i used in grade school something strawberry<br />beneath the porch knowledge at night is me sitting on the bed writing poetry<br />wondering<br /> what weather god looks down and what they’ll have me do to say to draw some<br />diagram maybe alphabet why must i act the teacher they’ll tell me to find it hitting<br />the bathroom floor the colors and pattern the tiles make what my head takes<br /><br /><br /><br />III.<br /><br />open handed words are quite handy to have when green bed silver times spoons roll<br />through my window we lived in a car on the simple road in books read and called<br />through some quiet swirled screen to discuss effective advertising the words tingle<br />as they think of a white framed abyss miss much can’t you get in and can you reply<br />cat i don’t think it’s a good idea and neither do your words you people<br /><br /><br /><br />IV.<br /><br />the opposite of chaos is chaos and no reversing moving places through a colored<br />screen words dance across like chicken scratching much love a little too soon a<br />match skidded across sand some car got fired from this quaint to have you next to<br />me in my drool spool pile where laundry i think vacuum whenever we talk it all<br />comes up beer at a table so high it’s like standing sitting but we haven’t found a<br />folded unfolded table you know a patch of undercover spring spray a weathered vine<br />attempt to deforest the winter frost make a music finger of the one time only sky<br />and take a second snow<br /><br /><br /><br />V.<br /><br />that cat pissed in the sink and let the water boil over it’s not the first time it<br />will be the last if you see me in the mirror run because i’ll take you down to the<br />ends of your precipice that ketchup oven idea is what’s so in your mouth to overcome<br />its last fast run attitude to green covers catch you in your thought came into onion<br />and danced did in fact drink too many gin gimlets that’s forte too much for this<br />planet say to the camera something everyone is waiting to hear that this weekend is<br />the last blasted pat you get the whiff of my oh god i could kill something<br /> what marks you i cleaned from the sliding glass door to the backyard so we<br />couldn’t do anything but look and cry that’s where i grew up in weeds mud and trash<br />thrown over the fence from the ally from the past take and make it mood they want us<br />to make sensible haiku of favorite fast mind that mind that magic crisp dirt mind a<br />hot house this cat knows what catches clothes flames what avoids them without reason<br />without ears without whiskers like whiskers in case the other in case i forgot i<br />should replace something i forgot<br /><br /><br /><br />VI.<br /><br />proverbial angel in a tea house takes its wig and sets fire to the ends of leaf lives<br />take that down on paper set fire to kill the matter i see snow through you and the<br />outline of paper clothes soaked in snow makes you disappear don’t climb near the<br />furnace factory guts exposed to the elements oh sailors oh water around face of earth<br />oh you in the mirror of the moon you are the peach fuzz of the facade called volcanic<br />disappointment i grew up in mexico and never ate a burrito when the world ended it<br />looked like this he said and shot the espresso exposing each atom’s caffeine trap i<br />just sank my teeth into the table fruit by the door as it snows we never save the day<br />may it close<br /><br /><br /><br />VII.<br /><br />my in and outside space covers clover and saplings by the brook in a white village of<br />fences we breathe and exhale all day long the tip of your tongue touches since we<br />cannot see the cold of being lost beneath a bridge of cement connected to towering<br />walls of cement, cement beneath our feet in a picture of death we dream about ocean<br />and it’s before seconds build into interminable space seizures of early to bed ladies<br />we without a flag are in the whole comet touching noses and toes we lie in a frying<br />pan in our backyard wizardland and everything’s handed to us in a troubled plane we<br />intercept balls thrown though green turf isn’t space game but bouncing ground to test<br />the time it takes to collapse that bridge<br /><br /><br /><br />VIII.<br /><br />Mithra snipped out of newspaper said regard her up high in regaled blue i wonder<br />occasionally at the silence of my body. this morning i am in silent regard of<br />process. the ends are inexistent and that’s the trailhead marked up in the forest<br />the nature i am in the state of regard for a moment in bed this sense of doing things<br />for those i love and life writing reading expresses my need to live this doesn’t make<br />sense to me either please don’t worry that you’re lost and i see that i am not a poor<br />writer in fact i am down under the rest of the world i am zarathustra nietzsche i have<br />just begun to limbo this rest of the manuscript and it’s ok to need to be still it’s ok<br />this thing likes to fly away while i hold it closer that is the thing of love i love<br />this makes me mingle with foreigners and i love that too i love love the winged bug on<br />my forearm while i write he is perhaps asexual as we spoke of in the soft light of<br />discussion predetermined nothing freewill is in the free bin of decision and that’s ok<br />to arrange and rearrange words words have a notion a nothing and it’s strange to see you<br />here in place with me it’s strange that you’re right next to the state of ocean in me<br />running through my veins this time the office has its light on at the right time we are<br />running a cable through the wall we will sit there until we’re done<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/britta-kallevang_27.html"><span style="font-family: georgia,serif;"></span></a></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/three-pieces_112983111725778011.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113571436786558309?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1134134559243032632005-12-09T08:22:00.000-05:002006-01-09T15:08:24.956-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >ye white ant</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">after Lisa Jarnot</span><br /><br />ye, you gallery of white,<br />you street and cabs, you<br />the streets, I walk, and<br />the birds, and you, the<br />longing for, you the lover,<br />and the cabs, subtle, and me,<br />and you, and soup, and you<br />the phones, and you the banks<br />who love me, and all the birds<br />on this longing.<br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/five-pieces.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113413455924303263?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1134134507821546262005-12-09T08:21:00.000-05:002006-01-09T15:07:05.016-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Dear</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">after Hoa Nguyen</span><br /><br />the ink. I have noted<br />you, in hues. are you,<br />unthinking, of naming<br />every<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Dear</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">after Hoa Nguyen</span><br /><br />a simple vibe aside—<br />we whip the moon and<br />have you new. a tattoo<br />to follow.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Dear</span><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">after Hoa Nguyen</span><br /><br />oh you peacock—moving<br />in the surface, a back,<br />buckle, merely, to feel<br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/five-pieces.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113413450782154626?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1134134462576653602005-12-09T08:20:00.000-05:002006-01-09T15:14:06.860-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Cannibal</span><br /><br /> <span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">after Peter Gurnis</span></span><br /><br /><br />So<br />little—<br />and that's good<br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/five-pieces.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113413446257665360?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1134134411330003772005-12-09T08:19:00.000-05:002006-01-09T15:02:39.773-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >where you a</span><br /><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">after Matthew Cooperman</span><br /><br /><br /> a mystery, face<br />the corner, and west, stare<br />a dinner down, the eyes<br />of speech, what does<br /><br />passing, a branch<br />that says know me, says<br />how you be?<br /><br /> the moon<br />dragged over, in the drapes,<br />that far away and bend,<br /><br /><br />of mud, a yard with going<br />water stands, the bank<br />falls.<br /><br /> it rings. the wind<br />turns, spools and again<br />still a wheel.<br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/five-pieces.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113413441133000377?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1134134309984540072005-12-09T08:17:00.000-05:002006-01-09T15:03:05.036-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >o of world</span><br /><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">after Lisa Jarnot</span><br /><br /><br />o of world, o upon the<br />tracks, o of the subway<br />in spring, o the day<br />on a side street, o of paper<br />and paper, the small dot<br />on the snow, terrific o it is,<br />the lack yourself, the snow<br />waits to be snow, unloved and<br />in the grass, you, o, the<br />city, and the city, of its<br />lack in spring, and snow.<br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/five-pieces.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113413430998454007?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133625381690243302005-12-03T10:55:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:56:57.176-05:00<pre><br /> Crow gave Coyote a look of shame. "It is customary that we provide Wren with proper<br />nourishment for her journey. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to her spirit, would<br />you."<br /> One at a time Coyote tried to persuade the animals, to no avail. As they approached<br />the bluffs where she was to be buried, Coyote was most frantic. His dishonest eyes darted<br />wildly about as he clutched arms, made helpless pleas, and did his best to contain the<br />drool that poured out from the dark sunken corners of his mouth.<br /> At the site, Mole had prepared a deep grave using a large oyster shell. The strongest<br />animals lowered Wren’s funeral sled into the deep pit and Hawk lit the tobacco in honor of<br />her passing.<br /> Coyote crouched at the edge of the grave where he sniffed at the air. “How does one<br />earn such a feast?" he asked, licking at his lips. <br /> "Simply by dying," said Hawk. "It is our tradition."<br /> Overtaken by greed, Coyote snatched the oyster shell away from Mole, bounded into the<br />grave, and slit his own throat.<br /> A moment later Wren emerged from the pit, and the animals roared with laughter. <br /> They had quite a feast that night.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/how-coyote-lost-his-life-recent.html">Back</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113362538169024330?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133625294452315492005-12-03T10:42:00.000-05:002006-01-16T02:14:29.346-05:00<pre><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >How Coyote Lost His Life</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > for Grandfather Effraine</span><br /><br /><br /><br /> Coyote was always hungry. So insatiable was his hunger that the animals of the<br />hills had to call a special meeting. <br /> "We have a serious issue," said Hawk. <br /> "What can we do?" asked Crow.<br /> "Coyote's medicine is strong, but if we don't act, my children will never eat. <br />Coyote has cleared the plains of mice and sparrows."<br /> "Coyote has eaten all of the berries off the manzanita. My family is also<br />starving," exclaimed Squirrel. <br /> "I have a plan," said Hawk in a low, rusty voice. She gathered together all of<br />the animals to whisper her design. The animals listened carefully and agreed on her<br />course of action. <br /> Next day, Coyote slinked back into camp with an empty gourd and a rumbling<br />stomach. "I am hungry," he shouted. "Come out, come out…” he started, before the<br />loveliest smell overwhelmed him into silence. It was the odor of cooked meat and fish,<br />berries, oysters and cornmeal—all of the food from their winter storage. Bounding<br />deeper into camp, Coyote discovered the other animals, dressed in their finest skins,<br />dragging a funeral sled containing the body of Wren and a cornucopia of food. <br /> Coyote inquired.<br /> "Wren has gone home," whimpered Squirrel. <br /> “Gone home?”<br /> “Passed away,” said Crow.<br /> “Passed away?”<br /> “Dead!” said Hawk, cuttingly.<br /> “Too bad, too bad,” said Coyote, now wringing his hands together and eyeing the<br />cooked meats. “However, it looks like I’m just in time. My gourd is empty.”<br /> "We have prepared this burial feast to help her in the afterlife,” said Squirrel.<br /> Coyote blinked with a look of misunderstanding.<br /> “We’re going to burry it,” said Hawk.<br /> As soon as the image became clear in Coyote’s mind, he sank to his knees, bit the<br />end of his tail out of frustration and released a low groan. He was ravening for the<br />food. He wanted to leap forward and eat it all only, he wasn’t sure he could overpower<br />all of the animals present.<br /> They were now halfway through the forest on their way to the bluffs above the<br />shoreline. Coyote caught up with Rabbit who was trailing behind.<br /> "You are supposed to be the fastest animal of them all,” he said to Rabbit. “I’ll<br />bet you my tail you couldn’t hop on over and take a nice strip of meat without being<br />caught.”<br /> “I’m happy with my tail,” said Rabbit. “That bushy thing you wear would only make<br />me trip and fall.” <br /> Next in line was Crow.<br /> "Say, why don't we eat the feast," whispered Coyote to Crow. "I am sure Wren won't<br />mind if we have just a nibble."<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/jamba-dunn_03.html">next></a><br /></div> <pre><br /></pre><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113362529445231549?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133552510681304842005-12-02T14:40:00.000-05:002006-01-12T15:51:45.920-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /> Back at the wheel<br /> --where's your wallet?--<br /> remember<br /> to cancel the journals--<br /> huffing and puffing<br /> is not an affliction of the moon <br /> like God with extra clothing<br />saying something like "except it moved long ago"<br /> in a code revealed to you later<br /> in an address to<br />“simulated” witnesses on their way<br /> to an abortion clinic<br /><br />All<br />put on coats<br /> the color<br /> of rabbits<br /> with a soft supple suede leather liner--<br /><br /> Curious to think now<br />you're home again-- having gone out and<br /> come back—how everything<br /> seemed to point to it,<br />the tennis ball, the dog, the leftover<br /> greens, the fork and knife<br /> crossed on a bowl, now you see them<br /> marching<br /> against the oncoming traffic of<br /> tunic'd neighbors<br />to get a basket filled. It causes one<br /> to want to join the planets<br /> because of the rounder motion<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/note-to-editor-join-planets-reed-bye.html">Back</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113355251068130484?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133552448896817652005-12-02T14:39:00.000-05:002006-01-09T13:59:15.110-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />Aspects find others that<br /> water phenomena's list or dust<br /> or cradle it<br />as characters drop<br /> from overlapped<br /> dots spilling<br />on colored paper.<br /><br /> Simple it used to be complicated--<br />the back irons of a cart hatch<br /> still can be effectively learned<br /> in mechanics<br /><br />One spoonful skimmed off some vat<br /> of what drives you. The values it rears<br /> go halfway to things on back legs<br />choosing among<br /> shrunken or clarified drop-offs<br /> and halfway on sound<br /> when it runs<br />down a sink trap and rattles<br /><br />My hope is that<br /> everyone's praying<br /> and that that will work out until<br />the straightforward question<br /> "Why?" "Why don’t they get it?"<br /> improves feeling to<br /> a total too adjustment<br /><br />Not by incision in the nape or<br /> through shock to the lobes<br /> not yet anyway<br />but as a lariat dance<br /> where many ascend with the fire<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/reed-bye_113355251068130484.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113355244889681765?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133552380554716462005-12-02T14:38:00.000-05:002006-01-09T13:58:38.226-05:00<pre><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Join the Planets</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Given: dumb & simple<br /> beat up<br />talking about a normal life<br /> in another car<br /> of that year and color<br /><br /> Come:<br /> things aren’t exactly<br />how you've learned them<br /><br />And what you heard<br /> each time about<br />a momentary breach<br /> waiting for you to arrive<br /> or return. It's just a scarf<br />found in the seat.<br /> Shake it out.<br /><br /> And a "new voice"--<br />are you<br /> beginning not to<br /> have to bother<br /> about all that?<br /><br />In exactly two to five years’<br /> conversations with friends<br /> you've been welcomed,<br />curious to think of anything<br /> as a thing, not that long<br /> on words, short on goods,<br /> but in time it does<br /> "come along"<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/reed-bye_02.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113355238055471646?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133550926238029082005-12-02T14:07:00.000-05:002006-01-12T15:53:11.316-05:00<a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2006/01/reed-bye.html">Note to an Editor</a><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/reed-bye.html"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Join the Plane</span>ts</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Reed Bye</span></b><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> is the author of a number of books of poetry including <i>Passing </i></span><i><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Freaks and Graces</span></i><span style="font-family:Georgia;">, <i>Some Magic at the Dump</i>, and, most recently<i> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0935992235/qid=1133627070/sr=1-2/ref=sr_1_2/102-9485273-8500938?s=books&v=glance&amp;n=283155">Join the </a></i></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0935992235/qid=1133627070/sr=1-2/ref=sr_1_2/102-9485273-8500938?s=books&v=glance&amp;n=283155"><i><span style="font-family:Georgia;">Planets: New and Selected Poems </span></i><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:Georgia;" >2005</span></a><i><span style="font-family:Georgia;"> </span></i><span style="font-family:Georgia;">(<a href="http://www.mindspring.com/%7Elwarsh/uab/">United Artists Books</a>). <a href="http://www.farfallapress.net/reed_bye%20Records.htm"><i>Long Way Around</i></a>, a CD of original songs was also released in 2005 by <a href="http://www.farfallapress.net/">Farfalla Press/McMillan and Parrish</a>. In addition to his published books and pamphlets of poetry, his work has appeared in the anthologies, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0517566818/qid=1133627202/sr=1-6/ref=sr_1_6/102-9485273-8500938?s=books&v=glance&amp;n=283155"><i>Out of This World</i></a>, <a href="http://www.coffeehousepress.org/nicetoseeyou.asp"><i>Nice to See You: Homage to Ted Berrigan</i></a>,<a href="http://www.granarybooks.com/books/angel_hair/angel_hair1.html"> </a><a href="http://www.granarybooks.com/books/angel_hair/angel_hair1.html"><i>The Angel Hair Anthology</i></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0394743644/qid=1133627304/sr=2-1/ref=pd_bbs_b_2_1/102-9485273-8500938?s=books&v=glance&amp;n=283155"><i>Sleeping on the Wing</i></a>, and <a href="http://froogle.google.com/froogle_cluster?q=Civil+Disobediences%3A+Poetics+and+Politics+in+Action&amp;amp;amp;amp;pid=4708252602822393577&oid=4597213485650084930&amp;btnG=Search+Froogle&lmode=&amp;addr=&scoring=p&amp;hl=en"><i>Civil Disobediences: Poetics and Politics in Action</i></a>. He teaches courses in classic and contemporary literature, creative writing, and contemplative poetics at <a href="http://www.naropa.edu/">Naropa</a> and holds a Ph.D. in English from the <a href="http://www.colorado.edu/"><st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">University</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">Colorado</st1:placename></st1:place></a>.</span></p> <pre><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/table-of-contents.html">Table of Contents</a><br /></div> <pre><br /></pre><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113355092623802908?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133538605608406882005-12-02T10:48:00.000-05:002006-01-10T14:51:08.723-05:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">m</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/Mel%20Rides%20Again.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/Mel%20Rides%20Again.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><pre><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Mel Rides Again</span><br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/four-pieces.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113353860560840688?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133538491314937402005-12-02T10:45:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:44:11.336-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />as we are<br /><br /><br /><br />arched arms above necks<br /><br /><br /><br />avoiding a recovery<br /><br />infallible and falling<br /><br /><br /><br />still<br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/four-pieces.html">Back</a><br /><div style="text-align: right;"> <br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113353849131493740?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133538291968063332005-12-02T10:43:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:42:57.796-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />in this way, yes, we are, yes<br /><br /><br />losing again<br /><br />and falling, yes, love falling<br /><br />in the way of yes<br /><br /><br />love this losing<br /></pre><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stacy-elaine-dacheux_113353849131493740.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113353829196806333?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133538159301442062005-12-02T10:41:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:41:59.033-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />to say what people say<br /><br /><br /><br />to love this lostness<br /><br />moving while still<br /><br />pretending we never met before and we haven’t<br /><br />ever before<br /><br />been illuminated by<br /><br /><br /><br />illuminating one another<br /></pre><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stacy-elaine-dacheux_113353829196806333.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113353815930144206?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133538084191284792005-12-02T10:40:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:40:52.383-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />we can lose all this<br /><br /><br /><br />relate through losing<br /><br />remain lost and continue to lose<br /><br />we can have it all<br /></pre><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stacy-elaine-dacheux_113353815930144206.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113353808419128479?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133538019475687892005-12-02T10:39:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:39:46.940-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />in this still<br /><br /><br /><br />we sit in opposing armchairs<br /><br />breathe against windows<br /><br />sleep in while missing one another<br /></pre><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stacy-elaine-dacheux_113353808419128479.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113353801947568789?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133537946672441982005-12-02T10:38:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:38:54.396-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />and we can never lose these lost movements of us<br /><br />moving closer<br /><br />second guessing another<br /></pre><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stacy-elaine-dacheux_113353801947568789.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113353794667244198?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133537885166001722005-12-02T10:36:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:37:58.250-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />we are in this<br /><br /><br /><br />space of uncoordinated<br /><br />orchestrated meetings<br /><br />quietly seeing<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />moving stills<br /><br />juxtaposed movements of us<br /><br />moving one another<br /><br />so, we are moved<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stacy-elaine-dacheux_113353794667244198.html"><span style="font-family: georgia,serif;"></span>next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113353788516600172?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133537788095315302005-12-02T10:35:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:36:36.856-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br />meaning <br /><br /><br /><br />without bending<br /><br />we don’t need to<br /><br />in this posture<br /><br />slightly altered necks<br /><br />we move to wait<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stacy-elaine-dacheux_113353788516600172.html"><span style="font-family: georgia,serif;"></span>next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113353778809531530?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133537726744164142005-12-02T10:33:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:33:01.793-05:00<pre><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Los Angeles.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" > Part one</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">a series</span><br /><br />to say what people say<br /><br /><br /><br />we have met<br /><br />simply broken over this loss<br /><br />we have been here<br /><br />we are lost<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/stacy-elaine-dacheux_113353778809531530.html"><span style="font-family: georgia,serif;"></span>next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113353772674416414?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133464570102641572005-12-01T13:58:00.001-05:002006-01-10T14:48:39.790-05:00<span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">M<br /><br /></span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/1600/learning%20to%20fly%20in%20space2.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4546/1758/400/learning%20to%20fly%20in%20space2.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <pre><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" > Learning to Fly in Space 2</span><br /></pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/four-pieces.html">Back</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113346457010264157?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133463382464678112005-12-01T13:54:00.000-05:002006-01-09T14:30:02.766-05:00<pre><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >In beloved memory:</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >an escape plan for tying sheets</span><br /><br /><br />to know flight in this way<br /><br />a scattering of papers, we both tried <br /><br />growing by this great difficulty<br /><br />of opening windows<br /><br />of knowing how the rain fell, despite these past documents of throwing<br /><br />another word for airplanes<br /><br />or arms clasping air, capable of movement<br /><br />like fish swimming across the Pacific<br /><br />our skin never felt dependable<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/four-pieces.html">Back</a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113346338246467811?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133448308716336382005-12-01T09:44:00.000-05:002006-01-11T14:55:40.700-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> the size of weeks<br /> to watch them coming,<br /> pass overhead<br /><br /><br />made over/let alone<br /><br />sleep has given it softness<br /><br /> in stretches<br /> we are made of nearly all of it<br /><br /><br /> how can that be?<br /><br /> a play of winning against nature<br /><br />grasp the invention of a new breed/enabling one another/we give light to personification/<br />restlessly & solitary/the earth reaches out in announcement/<br /><br /><br /> a construction of giant arms<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/10/m-repronounceable-melissa-r.html">Back</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113344830871633638?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133448221529063492005-12-01T09:43:00.001-05:002006-01-11T14:54:06.553-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />listless we have immunity<br /> <br />of space stations & small spaces &amp; difficult placings<br /><br /> their missing a single physical body<br /> to sustain us wholly<br /> & not ever or for or what so or how we weather the ground or lack thereof<br /><br />to hold a motive as likely as<br /><br /> the new year<br /><br /> trying to get you<br /><br /> allegorically gotten<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/melissa-r-benham_113344830871633638.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113344822152906349?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133448189940430022005-12-01T09:42:00.000-05:002006-01-11T14:52:32.826-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />its carry-over<br />in the bearing/pressed across a geologic shelf<br /><br /> survivored effluvia recklessly turning down<br /> now we spoilt apart the afternoon<br /> made things part fashion in pairs<br /><br /><br /> impairing the ordinary path of<br /> the alluvial fan & smirking<br /><br />mark these endangered room<br /><br /> which sustained us<br /> continually/or accidentally<br /> there is no way of telling<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/melissa-r-benham_113344822152906349.html">next></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113344818994043002?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133448148750979102005-12-01T09:41:00.000-05:002006-01-08T13:45:57.610-05:00<pre><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> nothing visible in the soft<br /> border of orbit/divided/<br /> unlike fields slid out/strangering<br /> themselves with laws<br /> of hope<br /><br /> outside the window<br /> the strung up<br /> homing instincts<br /><br /> dangle disagreeably<br /><br /> switch us into enemy<br /> circumstance<br /> trick us into the enemy<br /> kitchen<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/melissa-r-benham_113344818994043002.html">next></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113344814875097910?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18063551.post-1133448047938972382005-12-01T09:32:00.000-05:002006-01-11T14:50:00.880-05:00<pre><br /><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >an excerpt</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >from</span><br /> <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">repronounceable</span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">one/precarious/skull</span><br /><br /> visit a less finer—<br /><br /> distance testing<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">its talk: its complex desert,</span><br /><br /> unfacted. the chattered<br /> anyone/appraising<br /> her bared/<br /> somehow.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">corresponds to new</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">present time/</span><br /><br /><br />how could I/knocked/to call it<br /><br />double weathers grown here<br /><br />insoluble<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></pre> <div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com/2005/12/melissa-r-benham_01.html">next></a><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18063551-113344804793897238?l=watchingthewheelsablackbird.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Dylan Hocknoreply@blogger.com0