potentially the party line

shuffle out of chaos; an arm (poem)

2010-03-02T20:17:00.000-07:00

shuffle
everything, shuffle
as the whole damn thing expands left, shuffle
the glory and the lonely stars,
     gas kaleidoscopes - broken and puff - debris in mult-satellite shots, shuffle
space that occupies itself,
     rocks both cluster or solo,
     planets,
then earth, shuffle
like a frame of reference,
     as buildings scratch sky,
     bacteria outlive geyser,
     vermin craft home and life from house and work, shuffle
broken posts and lamp' sound,
     snow buried tree limbs,
     a war made of distant snipers, shuffle
daytime fog,
     that falling dream,
     materials in concrete,
     every level of atmosphere, shuffle
the term cannabis dependence,
     occupations beginning with the letter p,
     cards, shuffle
abstractions,
     imaginary numbers,
     zero, then shift and spread
til neither sun, ocean nor sunset,
     til everything is consistently everywhere.
from this
make arms with look,
with those arms;
          create

________________________
This is my take on subjectivity in terms of perspective as both self-reflection and universal artistic conclusion.

"anonymous deaths of ambiguous peoples" chapbook out soon!

2010-03-02T20:00:00.000-07:00

So I'm truly almost done with my first chapbook. Tomorrow, my goal besides attending my fucking research class is to; print all my poems, begin layout, contact artists about title page, and write all the misc. book crap (dedications, about me, etc.). Wish me luck and spread the word.

(Ex) hale

2009-11-04T20:28:00.002-07:00

(Ex) hale
    then
        (in) hale
so smoke emOtes stronger

a sof,t(he) sto,(ri)n(g),e puncture

pretend Argentinian
    cigar with peace fallout
matchstick embrace;
the five keyholding basics, extension and preservation
    worlds apart

sewing generations
neither amish nor a sewer,
but our clothing is third and fourth hands,

is not that something

differences among high definition
jungle cling bloody leaves on my gaze
jungle cling bloody leaves on your hands

w(h)orld, you heartracing cunt
loan patron age
more than three intervals of bad luck years,
besides bad arithmetic

;ribcageBerlineverysecond;
a breaking
then the breaking
delisions, of G(OD)randeur
and, of he art ripening into old age

is not that something

after white rifle spun light

Rain after the Sun (a short story)

2009-11-01T13:54:00.000-07:00

Preface: I'm anxious over nuclear war.

Grey rumblings accursed the vast sun-dim sky to a parking lot not far down from the clouds.

A rotten jambalaya of ambience encompassed the lot; tumble weed scraping cars, the remnants of live electrical lines dancing in the irregularly regular gusts; the last steps and breathe of a haggard woman like the end of a dark symphony, BOM BOm Bom , exhale; then cheesegrater coos and sundry clicks of famished pigeons echoing from the concaved wall and rubble

Out from under the F OD CEN ER side of the despoiled grocer/everythingelse, they cluster outside. Batten lumber flightless and as doorknob sparks the delta outpour breaks from the rubbing of sores where the fallout had sundered grey feathers off several times over.

Hopping, squawking and curiously pecking, they circumvent the lot towards what would be brunch. Over constant uneven glass and debris, the pack parallels the blockade of vehicles. Occasionally tips of beaks tap a trampled piece of bone, most would be useless.

Half a dozen yards from the rubble exit along the wall of wreck, a suburban is wedged up and into a handicap pole and sedan, an acute angle. Frictionless, they shuffle underneath.

A pigeon prariedogs the egress, and although a flake of ash once adrift now corrupts his left eye, as it resembles a sliver of cooked garlic bleeding puss, his right sclera scans landscape up, across, and left, half as eater, half as tobeeaten. From the enclosed border of conglomerate vehicle outward in an arc to the leafless treeline, the parking lot is a veritable wasteland. Aside from the backwash of noise, the outskirts were trash carpets and a strangling isolation the aviary clan has yet to know.

A slow rolling russian thistle skulks upon the ash and old blood smeared corduroy pants. As greenless as a green light could be, pigeon to pigeon gravity momentums the bobbing head train. Instinct countered visceral feeling when attempting blitz flight only to rupture the volley of sores upon sores residing in the birds’ armpits. Chainsaw-in-a-drainage-ditch cries remind those grounded against such action without ceasing advance.

As a wartime deceased, they cover her like a blanket. Early birds seized the head and/or hands, as per usual, the rare parts not covered by an onion’s worth of layers. As for the rest, regardless of sex, pigeons with lacerated, chipped beaks ripped and spelunked into the mound of crusty garment. Slowly as clothing gave way to ripe flesh; a changing of the guards; sharp beaked pigeons removed their spastic eyes’ glue from the treeline and adjoin the wave of grey bodies consuming.

Perched upon their leftovers, content toes dig into the soft sparsely haired grey flesh of their maternal provider and face their only front; a half charred line of foliage bone bridging the remains of the city. There, a skeleton feline, too weak to spring, waits patiently for starvation or a chance to lap blood its body needs.

Ground shook reminiscence. Eaters’ concentration. Stalker’s desperation.

A cloudy light billows behind the oregons sending pigeons frantic with bloody flaps of wing across and into the safety of the thick darkness beyond the rubble entrance. The long defeated cat drags itself into the gutted city for a hole to rest in.

The haggard buffet’s eyeball reflects the yellow and orange candescence fight the grey neutrality unaware fear doesn’t come from the sunshine but the rainfall after.

a fear of verbose momentum

2009-10-29T18:01:00.000-07:00

This poem is from a chapbook i'm currently writing; the ambiguous deaths of anonymous peoples. It is a collection, though I may be young, based around meditations of death. Questions of what defines a person at their death, how, why, and where, culminating around the moments around death itself. I'm still in the prepublished phase of production; however, these poems are as near to finished as possible; keeping in mind that pieces of writing are never finished only in the most current for of editing. Thank you for your time, please leave comments if you feel the need to do so.

the fear of verbose momentum

the face, in continua,
tried squeezing
through an expansion of stress
fractures;
a car window in bullet time,
water
at a rolling boil.

his air like temper
appeared anxious
tearing minute;
an artery leading to warm sleep,
not only breaking formation
but full retreat with complimentary glass hatchets
deeper than bark
residing within
intermittent layers of skin and blood.

before damn breaks,
jaw clenched, teeth bare
as though small bones could plug a flood
or precaution.

within many simultaneous breaths
lost in collective gaze focus,
including his foot’s heel
dug shallow under chair,
thigh resting up in opposition to gravity
and the steering wheel his arms are penetrating
like an oversized hand cuff,
another gear.
his body was serpentine belt made of body
pulled taut until the snaps;
somewhere under car seat between heel and shin,
femurs before wrapping around steering column,
arms under body weight,

the head further through the windshield.

somewhere between his now and ours,
a pain, white without color,
will begin a lopsided halo
from first point of impact
near left eyebrow,
downward engulfing.

when appendages have collapsed
attempting to fit form of make and model,
his ribcage implodes to gather
the mixture of blood and plastic,
wavering bone
and his shrapnel;
as though feudal japan dark sky aimed straight
at his lungs, heart, and the other stuff,
rattling with punctures.

with elongated body caught,
head finally lays down
on a cloud of debris and see-through.

m o m e n t u m momentum recoils

broken slung back into seat,
to fall back asleep
as their sights were set on the fire.

So, a necessary first

2009-10-29T17:53:00.001-07:00

There is always a first blog, maybe of life or on a new site, regardless this is my first. I'm getting it out of the way so I can attend to bigger ideas, more focused writing. As always, critique, comment and let me know how I do, cause i'd rather disregard your comments than not hear something I could learn from.

Cameron