I don't know why I have to erase, but I know how to. . .
22 January 2009
19 January 2009
While You Sing Your Pop Song
Why You Sing Your Pop
Song
Blank green branches
spin around in an unnaturally
white valley. Simply
while you, completed in your gaze, you
knew that you would be
sustained. This ion's what turns
if I relate the drifty
rocks within which the day would
position its antlers.
Because maybe it begins with a
tempoaray contract, and
is sometimes less tenuous if it stands for
passing by billboards,
while within all minerals with a penchant
for hitching rides in
raindrops, these few parachuted out
some of the hopes they
had chewed in their fully petrified
annual rings, except the
few that had already been excluded
in the highly groomed
library aisles that conclude
most mausoleums. You
were no longer tilting our blindness,
being calmied in a
toupee. The strands of your hair trembled,
Your fingers were shaky.
A fish sang in your air,
ad then you remembered something. Even
so you are
edgy in the rocks'
shrinkingly traslucant smokes, even so
the one badly made up of
ventriloquist's doll naming stars
outside the window
strains to see when the one
gentlemen caller flashes
across the viewfinder.
Paul
Baumann
Toroweap
Toroweap. To row; weap.
To reap; row.
To appear to row, to
reap. To wear rot or
tear torpor.
A pear or wet oar.
Were tower,
peat top. Trap part or
rear porter,
wear water wrap, weep
torpor, peat, rot.
To row wet oar, tear
rotor, eat pear.
Row to Toroweap.
Paul
Baumann
The window conveys
The window conveys the
enthusiasm of one of the
legs of the sun stepping
across. There is a little oval
halo of irridescence
around this mark of brawls.
In the gray haze just
above the gleam, representing
the featureless expanse
of an adjacent building, pass
the drained corpses of
sundry Sunday vehicles. Early
evening light, wan, a
little warm, quite servicable.
In the crosshatched,
elongated shadows of bicycle parts
crenelations throw a
comet's orbit against a hoodlum's
stubble. His face rests
its eyelts gingerly in a flowered
scarf. His fingers break
a crumbling floe over a river
of shuttered stores. A
garden hose is carried through
the mercury marches
grimacing around the boots. A
knitted, engorged rose
emerges from the skirt at the hip
as she bags for him a
breakfast which he
will nibble while passing
lobes flattened
against the insides of
gated windows.
Paul
Baumann
The pulse that verbs divest
The pulse that verbs
divest
The commotion in paper
cups
Where ageless insects
gaze at clouds
Is there an idea in these
scraps
a notion activated by the
eyes
by itself pushed on,
thinking?
You open your lips a bit
to the rim
feel the wave arrive,
warm, bubbly.
Has it settled again, the
theatre of a night sky?
The place was offered
within this zero.
Paul
Baumann
The clock speaks into a microphone
The clock speaks into a
microphone
A custodian hears a quick
rasp
Two waves push one
another
Are they both excited
You crunched my dream in
a shoebox
You robbed a bubble into
its hollow
why do they stop saying
those things
when they think
Some of their notes are
pails
Some of their fingers
chunks of ice
trying to remove a sky
for winners
The stars shift
over the hood
squeezing the planks
drying on the scaffold
The stars they tried to
pry
into the stars
not that they could move
a truss or a tank
wild enough for their
teams
We were always your team
and mine
They are still saying
them over now
as they say those stars
Two waves push one
another
Why do they stop saying
those things
Paul
Baumann
The best thing
The best thing about
gruesomely comic hippos
a phrase once heard, a
fire in itself,
a sort of mystery,
flimsy, repititious
and quite devoid,
all fragrant and green
and cool dark,
electric spontaniety
semi-hard boiled
with discontinuities in
fact highly linear
characters pouring a room
from eggs
then sinding them back,
underdone,
stabbed, rolled,
tuned-in,
their hand telling the
story -
the hippo's account of
the days drones on -
he wants to escape from
the suffocating merchant,
to get on a boat thwarted
for variety
having the right stamp
or getting into another
character,
hanging out in apartments
lacking air,
taking a bite of glass
before they found their
brand names
Paul
Baumann
The beach recognized for the crash
The beach recognized for
the crash
which piled into its
solace
The solace rooted in hiss
and tongues
The beach imagined of
windows
where horsemen hail each
other
I the drapery
flowing among blue walls
the drapery imagined of
windows
where acrobats are
brought to stand
Aren't I in it this time
The beach swells becore
another drapery
brings its roots
Yes, that's how it's
recognized
Haven't the feet washed
in
stretching the eyes under
the grass
When do I lean into
'drapery'
because someone expired
here
All of them are washing
into the nebula
All of them are needing
to stand
Paul
Baumann
Cramp-like coils in the evening
Cramp-like coils in the
evening
Some images puncture the
way new neather comes
within the same paragraph
Puncture them sighing,
somewhat swaying the boughs
A new century is just a
dusty shelf
its bare trees line the
converging walkway
Our breathing is not like
wings, chimney smoke
the same interspersed
buds
Each word the common
ground plants in itself
Paul
Baumann
Autoform
Autoform
pathfinder
mechanics
taurus
black circle hand.
full line
legacy
general civic
Acura
murano
sport
tacoma
caravan
odyssey
jetta
quest
lumina
tempo
Pilot
maxima
Automatic
sedona
explorer
sidekick
infiniti
Western star
Titan
Uplander
Tundra
Lincoln
El Dorado
cx-7
Rav 4
Savana
Highlander
Altima
all acess dental
mutual, all
access
perimeter
jewelry
world [hat]
beaver circle
bomber sticker
creative coming soon
ulex tinted glass
River Ridge comdomiium
(Bridge)
Aluminum door
'B0Ans!”
BOANS!OYE
Askiya
abbas
mayor y
totally free trucking
debit rewards
sox apparently
shoe chain
our secret
mutual neon
full spectrum
Bowery Ballroom
mutant
rest supply
white arrows
exclusive
lighting
Yee Fay Inc
Fung Lam Produce
Ting Ho Broccoli
Auto Service
Go East
888AMISAFE
The Good, The Bad &
The Ugly
La Esquire
Paul
Baumann
At bones we
At bones we
cellphone inside
splinter's selves
waiting for Pluto
to divine
a blushing wig
out of an aperture
of frost
appearing inside a rind
This is when soft snails
can throw a murmur
in pamphlets
when in the digest
a brim sifts its cells
in plasticy shores
and swells a prelude
Gauze stretches from
factories nested
among the pinnacles
An anteater drives up
and admits he loves
windows drinking black
Plaster towns crumble
in the shoulder of the
dead General
Paul
Baumann
18 January 2009
There is only-
There is only
the half light left,
a little rosy section of
sky it's a mistake to
behind the meandering
popcorn contour always think it's all
of a nearer cloud. or
nothing. It's part of
Different, slightly
heavier purple grays the mechanism of disconnection.
of nearer clouds
and subtle chiaroscuro of
pink
brushed in behind the
sky.
A fog, a thin fog
comes around the house
mysteriously costuming it
and almost has me tasting
the light
with the Polaroid again.
Fergus and Liam
at play is the small
field, just below the pond.
How their voices carry
as if we were indoors.
The rose almost gone now.
The glow in the west is
gone.
A tiny bird just flew
intimately close
unfolding what began as
forthright squawks
into a flowing,
syncopated, rapid melodic tear
Dizzy Gillespie would
have been challenged to parallel.
What do sensations have
to do with words?
Said a poet, “a
substitute reality, more real though.”
How to avoid
representation
and still convey
“the
sense of participation in a flowing onward”?
That in black ink he
cannot replace him there.
In the desert, the
domination of the elements,
here, the domination of
other species. Here
a little patch of coarse
ground
with two small strands of
a weed
that came up and produced
small, fernlike leaves,
turned mostly crimson
through the stems and the
leaves
with a few white needles
positioned
here and there
a few leaves still green
or partly [muted] green
see in the warm yellow
light
that also lights this
page.
Turning itself over
in many little movements
the question:
how does art find
what's small in this
glut? Small, whole, in this glut?
Another poet's notion: “A
true account
of the actual.”
Now they are really
letting go,
the frogs.
Huge rubber bands being
snapped,
of various sizes
plucked to brief ring,
rapidly damped.
An impressive lightning
bolt, lateral,
just above the tops
of the great spruces
behind the house.
The house with its
taxonomy of windows,
backlit panels.
Two are arched, two are
square.
The rest are rectangular.
The tops of the windows
align inexactly.
An amber hue dominates in
their glow,
continuing across the
field
of most of them,
though two at far left
are the robin's egg hue
darkening to an obscure
gray
gradually to the left
one's
top left corner.
Paul
Baumann
03 January 2009
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