Palmyst’ry, No. 1

Yeah, what if I say: you want the summer break from the beginning of spring, when you know very well that autumn is coming next week to get our new hair colored like Colored Glass is your name and is a book we published in our blog posts? Meanwhile, here is the one that is free—and here we are writing about our new fridge, forget that our next door is open for a couple of days and we will be back in nervous.


High-density goggles

IMG_0871he alWays knew tHat it WoulD come to thiS
aLL the Shattered Letters sPreaD across the NOON sky
abJect messaGes strange and iNcoMPReHENsiBLE without
High-deNsity GOGGLes StraPPeD to his FuRRy
BraiN by a doZeN ReD bungee CORDS PuLLed
extra tiGht to Remind him that nothinG
LOOKS the same never did stiLL Shines though

The Coast, No. 10: Public Fishing Pier

IMG_7577Photograph by Diana Young.

You go down to the pier with a croaker sack full of chicken
necks where a man disguised as a pile of gin- and sea-salt
stinking rags asks “Is they rancid?” He’s an old man. You
can tell by the tufts of white ear-hair wiggling in the
breeze off the Cat Island Sound. You can also tell by
his thin, dry liver-y lips. You can tell when he says
“You do what you want widdat mop-head you call
a crabnet, kid, but them necks? They ain’t rancid,
yer wastin yer time.” He blinks his rheumy
blue eyes at you, but not in a ass-grabby kinda way.
You can tell he’s no perv. No, his problem is visionary.
He can barely see through cataract membranes
translucent as a softshell crab, dreamy-like.
He simply can’t see the truth, that you’re no stupid kid
standing barefooted holding a tattered crab net in one hand
and a burlap bag of way gone chicken necks in the other.
You may look stupid, but you know you ain’t
and that’s what matters in the game of life.
So you stun him by—smart as any kid on the make—saying;
“Fuckin-A, I’ll do what I please.”

Then you dump the necks onto the pier’s planking,
hoping the gnarly gristle and scraps of flesh
are rancid enough to satisfy the old fart. Mites
swarm. A seagull strafes, eyeing those necks, his
breakfast if he’s quick and lucky.

The gluey-mouthed man says nothing.
He is silent as an unwanted guest.
He shakes his head. White hair billows
on the breeze from Cat Island, whips
fantastical whorls of white mane
and white ear-hair
mad ear mustaches.
Must have taken years of grooming
to get ’em like he wants ’em.

You wonder whether you care what he thinks.

Carefully with crusty fingers Whitey fingers open
your tangled crab net and says: “Rotten net.”
He grumbles as he begins picking at net threads.
Parchment hand and finger skin patchy in spots
seared by melanomas, scaly knuckles, claw nails.
“Crappy net.”
He rips. He ties. He reties. He hums.

It is no tune you recognize.
Being just a smart-mouthed kid,
how could you know what songs
he wasted his youth on?

Now his hum is more of a purr.
Some cat this old fart.
You don’t want it to end.

Light in the Darkness

IMG_3868(On an untitled photograph by Diana Young)

Does light in the darkness
speak to you? Do the hues,
the values, the shapes whisper
a story, choke you with a curse,
or do they permit
you to breathe
the ignited air?
No direction,
only lust?

It’s all about photons, isn’t it,
and how they jazz up the leaves?
But who can read the messages delivered
by photons screaming? What’s to be made
of what the elaborate conjuring photons
posit, set forth — dare?
Nothing’s to be made.
Photons do not conjure,
display, posit, or dare.

It’s up to you to scream, to touch
the light, caress skin
crush folds
crunch dried leaves
between your eye teeth,
chew on the message
until it comes to you
straight and singed by fire.

Thoughts on Costa Brava: Tourist Guide, 1951

Thoughts on Costa Brava: Tourist Guide, 1951

I. Costa Brava Today

Here’s to the light and millenary youth but where hide they

Why skip they the shore for the secular show in cadaqués

Under the lost columns of the temple of hermes health-giver

Smuggling tons of moroccan hash wrapped in the roughest

Burlap bags hundreds of cleverly shaped bag tricks to fool

The duane at the french border ’cause it’s hard to bribe a frog

These days into believing you’re transporting loaves round

Loaves shaped like catalan stocking caps or piles of excrement

Left by the catalan pooper all along the border marking space

Marking time until the tramontana roars again scattering hope

Of independence chasing the bones of the retirada and dalì

And all the troubadours and smugglers more famous even

Embracing all the nice emotions while running the naturist

Beaches from l’escala to roses like no other in the world.

II. Savage accidents

Here’s to the light and millenary youth why spend

Your rich scale of neat emotions at the sex shop

At la jonquera inhaling exhausted air while hoping

For a glimpse of sirius rising out of the sea

Beyond roses while licking petrocarbon

Grime and chump-change freixinet cava

Off the slime-dulled tile floor why fall down

When a rich scale can calibrate the love

And all those neat emotions dread fear lust

Anger despair in the sea-by secular forgotten

You happy accident savages and nice kids

You turn blue and rough by turns in the sand, oh.

III. Costa repressed

Oh light and millenary youth over half a century back

Dreaming of a thousand to line the shore of the empordà

And scanning the choppy sea for sails and cornucopias

But what of the light and millinery imps those rascals

Because that’s how it read the first time and the second

With uncanny dalì wigs and hats soaring angels willow-thin

Skeins of nice dread and joy tingling the costa’s sixty miles

Of rocks and sands whoop-tee-doing all ecstatic brazen

Then slapped down by some functionary in barca

Bare walls peeling greeno paint tarnishing his alien skin

His worn red stamp pad snarled rewrite, reject, submit

In the name of the people and their god the fingered

Frank oh from beyond the frontiers

Oh no happy accidents on the coasta these days

Only certain savage rough collisions.

No nice blue propaganda permitted here

Not yet