Nouveau riche, I'd cycle on my way.

Nouveau riche, I’d cycle on my way.




Lo dice el medio, el lenguaje. Pero

no solo el lenguaje. Menos

lenguaje del medio: este

jueves 13, a las 18.30 hrs.

el fundador del grupo de los

LANGUAGE poets, Charles

Bernstein, realizará la conferencia

“El campo expandido del

L=A=N=G=U=A=J=E” [sic]. Previa

a cargo del traductor Enrique

Winter. (Azar de fronteras des-

tinaciones suscribe, subraya, inter-

viene mismo día, misma hora, bailando

Waylla Wisa en ferias libres de Arica).


El campo expandido del L=A=N=G=U=A=J=E

traduce como intraduce (ex-

pande) The Expanded Field of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E,

arqueo donde Bernstein se las ha

con el ¿inesquivable? fantasma

de la deconstrucción in itself – fuera

lo que fuera. L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E,

parche antes de la herida, previendo

a la susodicha, deniega a ratos y estratos, en-

simisma. À la lettre: L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E

not        deconstruction as

and end in itself [¿…?] but

reconstruction, emplacement, ex-

p-a-n-s-i-o-n & Ach die Kunst. Sino

e indicio, dicha, cómo (como) no, de Erín

Moure, de lo inmemncioable (G. O’Brien):


yseopoenen, demasiado otodo o nuda

sconstrucció de            mucho mayor
que formasespecifi9s de la instalacde
à suivre


Cuanto a Waylla Wisa, piedradiente lengua

mengua en Arica: imaynatataq watusun-

chik ¿cómo vamos a traslucir)(kay watuy

lo imposible (mana atinata) de traslucir?



[ Arica, 10.11]


That’s a good idea I’d say and you’d reply

of course it is, it was mine

and we’d laugh and I’d nestle further

into your abode and forget I hated cigarette smoke

and the steely grey of ash that seemed to grow

all over you towards the end like some kind of mould


You were a fixed point that anchored my sail

made it firm against the gusts when needs must

and now you’re dead

chards of you mirror-flash into my mind

as if it’s all a practical joke and you’re not dead at all


I see your face, and hear your voice

admonishing any hint of sentimentality.


We’d drink tea from Russian china perfectly brewed

and share, putting it all out there, laying bare

and making sense where sense was needed

to bear existence.


Nouveau riche, I’d cycle on my way, or walk

It never seemed right then to travel except under my own steam.


The photo triggers a skirmish.

The photo triggers a skirmish.


He is dead then, Cicero receive

the last testament of action

for you and the believers to give warrant,

leave the horses to stand in dreaming sleep

no carriage is wanted.

All receive the burning remembrance

touch the jet stream –

behind doors for each in mourning

lingers some small joy

at the sight of that sheening arrow,

straight the unbroken truth.

In each hand lay a little dust now,

house to house in lament

carry this with you good citizen

wreathe the specks in family doings,

let children see what purpose floats

in the sunlight directing.

Place the remains in brick and mortar

so the shadow in the works of all

will always catch a glance

of one who once walked so tall







But is it so simple, when one is dreaming,

to say where the realm of the animate ends?


Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Reverie




Not a crazy impulse, a deeper kind perhaps: he steers

left instead of right, takes a fire trail that climbs steeply,

leaves it to chance whether he’ll find the un-signposted site

the other side of Finchley Trig.


The air is still and mineral sharp. A cloudless day.

Dry ridges, red gums. Away to the west Mt Yengo.

If he holds his head just so — worn markings in the sandstone platform at his feet

are bodies, rock divinities


whose dwelling spans earth and sky.  Look up, wide, unblinking eyes

see all the days and nights wheel across this point.

Others come here too. Some add scratchy efforts to the weathered forms they find;

like the bulldozer left tracks


all over the face of this rock shelf. He draws breath,

feels for the length of the place. Sandstone, coarse beneath his hand, leaves deep impressions, unfathomed constellations

fade slowly from his palm. It’s not defeat but he no longer resides in his head, is guided by something like a smile.


And all the way to the Colo

alive in its gorge, ridgelines reverberate and the ground

gives with each step. The run and break of a boy,

who spent every spare moment clambering over red gums and rocks.


Struck down by tiny orchids, immaculate-white they nod their heads on slender stems,

sing out to the sclerophyll litter.

A boy made without his knowing to carry a place, to imbibe spare arrangements, particular angles

and as if already known,

the weight and colour of weathered stone, broken canopy, the scent and crackle.


His hand rests on a flesh-pink angophora. A smooth trunk, torqued limbs

reach out, streaked blood-red

with sap; old wounds still ooze. There’s warmth at the middle of him.

It ranges like oxygen, seeks the crown of his head, tips

of fingers and toes; then back into the pores of the rock.





The wound is a heel print[1]

in the infant’s chest

The photo triggers a skirmish


No No -


No No -

Public display/De-sensitizing

No No


Yes Yes -

I am from this country

Yes Yes -

Tell the world

Yes Yes


Facebook duels

Facebook debates

Facebook rages

Shoot the bloodletting

Fire the images across the cosmos

The war on small bodies still wages[2]


[1]From a media image and caption posted on social media

[2]Alludes to the poem Small Bodies published in Red Bird by Mary Oliver (Bloodaxe Books 2008)

Our first grade teachers and Chicken Little had it right about homeland insecurity.

Our first grade teachers and Chicken Little
had it right about homeland insecurity.

Emails from my friends:
the streets are greased with blood, one
poet arrested. 5 demonstrators dead. It’s on.

I was there once, funky nightclubs,
themes & memes clutter a university town
3 in the morning
promises of friendship
in stickled English. Alexis pissed against
a 16th Century church. All this would last forever this
was torn down by rulers’ thieves
just doing their job. Failure.

Yanukovych thought it was some guitar solo
until his ears are cut. The wolves of want are restless.
Gaols fill with crows.
There is snow & now & a petty sowing of futures.
Be quiet as you roar; that duality of a movement chasing
jobs, liberty, the relaxed elegance of a page.

A kind of tough copulation
as mufti & uniformed rivers meet on the streets of Kyiv.
This was rehearsed & rewritten. The protestors are just like me.
The police are just like me. I met a sailor
on the plane – they’d taken his language (Russian), his
children were strangers.

This stockade, a picket of pens. Social networking
as WMD. Elena has put on atypically sensible shoes, stepped out
into the weather democracy demands.
Natalia had come back from the US in 1993, her
6 jobs, her love of country, her
stupidity says a suit.

Has change changed nothing? In the western Oblasts
hands are still out for their cut.
So many thrive the crooked state,
feed in the decay.
Russia has needs. Everyone is a terrorist now, all nations
are imperial, that
sounds right to me.
The airport is being strafed.

When a people moves against its people
the blood clusters, a babbling contusion
that refuses to dissipate or congeal.
Nataliya applies for a job in Poland
Vasily says he will not fight.
This country doesn’t make sense, perhaps
no country does. I write another letter.


The homing instinct is universal,
it is not the sole property
of pigeons, dogs, and cats.
“Can I go home now?”
But no: why would you want to?
You are not as shit-out-of-luck
as you might think,
you are luckier than Lou Gehrig,
self-proclaimed luckiest man on earth.

For Home
skewed dreamland
never truly owned­­–
The block of houses
along the Jersey Shore–
titled or Section 8 dumps–
eminent-domained from the poor,
handed over by the City,
bought up as tear-downs

to erect no-view-of-the-sea
million dollar condos
Red Roof look-alikes
where drug dealers are As Usuals,
prowl the Long Branch streets
undisturbed by gentrification,
making their heaven of someone’s misery.

Home is a Brueghel landscape
The Hanged Man dangling
from the gallows, Mary Surratt wrapped
in black swaddling.
A high school tramp sashays
through Monmouth Mall,
pendant earrings swinging.

Can I go home now?

Once your home is gone
if you have an imagination
that outstrips fear,
then wonder at the ingenuity
of the created world
and at your ignorance of homebuilding skills,
marvel at the drainpipe snakework
now exposed to light,
somnolescent roaches awakened
scattered in a panic.

Home is where the motherfuckers can get you.
Duck and cover, stupid.
Our first grade teachers and Chicken Little
had it right about homeland insecurity.

No inference or artistry here.
Home is no place to hide.
In the light
in the Church
in the hospital
all are suspended in black swaddle.

God has spoken, his Monty Python self
“Oh, don’t grovel!”
clacking puppet jaw,
the answer to your prayers
only if you can laugh
through signs of the times

Brain-dead woman
Parkinsonian Pope
Black Mountain poet
Chicago novelist.
I, none of these, have given my sons my living will
my best piece of poetrie,
to wit:
on the day comes I can’t chew my blubber anymore
put me on an ice floe,
not food for worms
but Purina Polar Bear Chow.

My older son calls me
chatty baseball talk and
then “Okay, the question you’ve not asked”
(his uncle comatose
one month today
self-opened veins
now failing kidneys,
his mother, my Former,
a raging madwoman)
“There is no change,” he says.

Yes there is, for finally
I am thankful.
Stevie Winwood
said it better than I can dream
And I can’t find my way home anymore

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