Anatomy of a Car Crash

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ta panta rhei

alabaster has a naming
picture, frozen

there is no difference
between sky & stone-to-stone

raw welt, imagined

feet rubbed with leaves
sapphire disco, decision

stiletto still voice
bevel headed learning

time-font consideration

secede close circumcision
recall no end, heaven
lie list lip
cerebrum, cerebellum evince


fast rolling water move



what is the skeins of/strains of lie
grafted on the table


what is the tiniest something in your eye
all night & into the next day


a searing vestibule
& you are listening
hold it right there taxonomy
there are jumper cables for the erudite
& less engaged of space

a perpetual sniffling
sitting next to the Sikh at the bus-stop

shibuki avenger
crumple my walls
hold a carnival in my wake

one mans jaw drops is anothers
flagrant ember clasp

pry ring finger pray pyre of glass peas
fell from his pocket

& covered the highway stretched
as far as the open mind
rides again a parsnip
a junket river of celery glass
river ribbons
inscribe it song, be bones
like grit true.



The Beautiful, Lost

If there is anything
you are missing
under the throw
are dune buggies
are you there
in adjacent angles

in fashion
call me sometime

yes, I am listening
same as it ever was

that burning
is smell & taste
sound hears me

it to become
another, no
there are too many


hours & hours
are never there
when you need them.

I am missing something
I never had
book-ends or

maroon is found
to be lost
in Dutch Guiana
in Suriname
in wilderness

I am not, anywhere is.



The Boy Who
Stood There

burn the deck

the muse


is not


& behead         quiescent

the         single






On Surrealism and Poetry

Language in its purest sense is a flowering from the deep. If we are able to facilitate journeys to these depths and return bearing flowers, they can take many forms of experience, of memory, of emotion. In this way the writing of poetry can become voices- not monoglossia but heteroglossia, polyglossia – speaking of and from a collective. The individual, the ‘I’, disappears and poetry is not created from ego but the id. In this way, we overturn the linear. We collide with established boundaries. We speak in tongues. We feel from the deep unconscious. We can alter both time and space this way. We are both inducing trance in ourselves and anyone else. We conduct mysteries. We can bring in frequency and vibration. We can make music never heard before.

Surrealism’s true roots are in disruption of established paradigms. In subversion and resistance. In anti-colonialism. In anti-imperialism. It embraced the deep unconscious, without limits on the imagination. My allegiance with that early spirit of the Black Surrealists is what continues to bring forth flowers from the deep, that disrupt and do not give up their perfume too easily.

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