from _Full On Jabber_

Two sections excerpted from a collaboration with poet Chris Rizzo, entitled Full On Jabber. We are looking for the right press to do this project with, if you are interested, drop me a line. Rizzo starts, I follow:

 

XI.

 

“The texture of the bark is in a language I don’t know.”

Anna Moschovakis, from The Blue Book

 

Language into jazzed and fluster. Spans.

Flutter flights. The pen marks.

Take off the day and pencil in, lit little in hull.

 

Must one always be about, as in face

as in faced, a façade for gesture, brick slick eggshell,

a door in closing a way? What fundamental

the greenly, thick brush, violet

into jagged a plush in arbor. Husk today,

grain tomorrow. More shelling

makes, easy bateaux cuts. The current

scans a glister of younger.

 

The quick and of alive the continuous present

a gift rooted to the nills in typewrite—

shellac the flaked lack, yellowy the lowly

a varnish denatured. A flick of wrist

for flow and you flaw, a palmed flash

the way of arch, grids in flesh, a logic

in your print. Dial dialectic, only

you need answer but in a huh. A hand

in a hand in mind but before you.

 

Not taken the notes but made, and there

some finding for grooves, fibered

the leavings, part of the organ that plays

say the digits, quick to the toucher,

handle the feeler, upon to off and up the down.

 

Touched the stamp, fine lines

of tinge, pertinent in passing to match

a tangent, the flicker to adjoin as in taps.

Light contact. A fuse to moment.

The clack of knack, to touch based.

 

Shown in hand and of the pilot muse,

what in trees the spans, ridges to pan,

the nettles of compression and snags

to nag a before ground, blotches

the latches to lag you, musters the isn’t.

 

But neither work, nor but a play and play

to wordings and on, as in turned,

sheer old school the schlock

of plastics, a needle palmed for the record.

Gigs the new black but you mingle

amongst clusters of shadowy,

to quick the blurs of twills, finicky

the darlings at banquet in greenlings,

whenever a pathway makes and you. 

 

The forest is of language

and there you go. 

 

 

XII.

 

“Every botanist is a collector.”

Egon Schiele

  

little more than much I’ve

to say ways and means beyond the bully

for you the pages dog ear

styling for the root to drop

the orange carp obscene unseen scene

footage the coverage to center

flung far afield to took pulled down

first signed the drawn walk

the fewest times from the last

feeds of the land total milk reduce

or to mustache on in estimate

swung the gaping sash pinwheel

alone flowering

game for is it terrible

to say last of the huzzah size ah

I ache and a half

I ache is enough

and width missed

function shortened at the corners

deadpan as on it

delay the heckling count

fallen in the pea vines

those discounted grog

on the way risk of feeling

hasn’t started at first and not once but

since senseless formed the

vocal stroke oar’s mock miasma

inside here a missed river quickens

quivers concentric arrows lurch in mar

signals ripple to mixed I meant other wasn’t

that simple enough heard

but we’re where now?

out to get in

or to get it

you gone round that bend again?

off what the proposed I would do

but what’s need hours wake rent

fear to habit and toys on the floor

a tiger smiling let’s face it

facility

wasted effort mess hall

churns glissando what haven’t I

I give to need

I give to need

deep in worn welcome

who finds that time remember

asunder you give the slip foregone

boot straps I’m on about

this time all the no choice but to cache

and wish for well

the lid o I did I’d love

but remove to sleep and have

none of this

that’s full of it I

need an no man’s any

a spite to flag

a frail varnish move on

flourish and what I’ve sown grown to know

time for or not time for time to