Monday, February 14, 2011



5.

Class fenced but from the
upside only
not a compound but
 
an hedgerow Maginot
a pinball's tilted
bumpers to keep the lawn

from sliding downhill
to the holler's more collar-
based trenches & redoubts, big dogs

& smaller sightlines
curved streams
with salmon-bearing couches

thickets with frogs & birds &
valentine skunk cabbages,
clotheslined yard beasts wired tight

behind a grow so obvious--
perennial mossy boat & car
plastic-sheeted dowling pyramid

the frig-o-seal
pie container lids tied with
orange ribbon

that everyone uses
to mark off
the marked off,

tidelines of floods
both frequent &
unseasonal--

that it must be a decorator choice
like lighting the torches
for the return of the DC-3's

laden with Spam & medicine
years after the storm of the century
had swept through the valley.

Anita O' Day performing "My Funny Valentine"

Bobby Darin Sings My Funny Valentine

My Funny Valentine By Nico

Miles Davis Quartet - My Funny Valentine

My Funny Valentine Bill Evans & Jim Hall_1962 Undercurrent

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Friday, February 11, 2011

Thursday, February 10, 2011


4.

Tough to do
the working class
in wide screen:
the interiors
don't quite add up,
tables bump lumpy chairs bump
bumpy walls & let's face it
this potato-textured
distressed distress
is something you
don't want to see
in letterbox HD--
not meth-breather tubing
with a regional twang,
expository dentistry
soaked in tang--
all except maybe
the pearl of the litter
the squirrel-skinner
with secret pluck
& historical luck.

Tough to look though Joni
from both sides now
the imprinting's all frayed
the head's dragged up & round about
like busted bell bottoms in
a cube of splayed &
pawsmeared plastic
heavy on the shoulders
a cellular habit
lens chipped & bouldered
fingers still working
qwerty under the awning
speech replacing gum
chewing television for the eyes
metamorphic sum
to watch paint dry
or foggy molecules bead
& dance in the light
from my hat as she
shakes her head
on the tracks.

Wednesday, February 02, 2011


Bruce Conkle: Who the Hell is Piet Mondrian?

Friday, February 4th. The Gallery will exhibit Conkle's past and recent
illustrations and installations, including his gilded tree burls from
the October 2010 show at WorkSound, viewed together for the first time.
Bio: Bruce's work often deals with escapism, artificial worlds, and
man's place within nature, and frequently examines what he calls the
"misfit quotient" at the crossroads. Whimsical, absurdist, and deeply
symbolic, his work often uses art and humor to address contemporary
attitudes toward nature and environmental concerns. His work has shown
all over the world, including Reykjavik, Rio De Janeiro, New York,
Miami, and Portland. Recent projects include public art commissions for
TriMet/ MAX Light Rail and PSU's Smith Memorial Student Union Public Art
+ Residency. In 2010 Bruce received an Oregon Arts Commission Artist
Fellowship and a project grant from the Regional Arts and Culture
Council. http://www.bruceconke.com info@bruceconkle.com
WHAT: Project Grow presents Bruce Conkle: Who the Hell is Piet
Mondrian? WHEN: Opening reception Friday, February 4th from 7 to 10 pm.
Gallery hours Mon-Fri 9am- 5pm and by appointment 503.236.9515 x116.
Continues through Feb 28. WHERE: The Gallery at Port City: 2156 N
Williams Ave. Portland 97227

Tuesday, February 01, 2011

Moonraker - Flight Into Space


(thanks JT)


3.

It's never quite clear
what they're up to
the men who live
on wires & shelves.

A shitstorm of data
a shark that walks on land
the amount of snow won't matter
to the phone in your hand.

Mahler's 1st
Jimmy Caan crosses Roebling's bridge
in a Cadillac to deliver
leaves to the Harlem River.

Bird shadow in the big holly
lost in the dust on the shade
forced air feathered melancholy
fluffs the scratch the branch made.

The men who live on wires & shelves
are mute even to themselves.


Monday, January 31, 2011


The H.D. Book
The dominant rhythm is recurrence, with the writing (and rewriting) forming a palimpsest that diagrams movements of soul as well as patterns of literary process. Chapter 8, dated "March 21, Tuesday, 1961," begins with an early-morning fragment of dream that Duncan then tracks through a labyrinth that include Baudelaire, the game of charades, Jehovah's backside, the alchemy of Freudian analysis, shit and cunts, the play of verse/versus/version/aversion, and the marginalia of Jack Spicer...

Wednesday, January 26, 2011



Vancouver Parks 1940


Roy Arden's giant multimedia extravaganza "Under the Sun" is opening at the CAG on 555 Nelson tomorrow at 6---

Tuesday, January 25, 2011


2.

This snowball smells like expired aspirin
with diesel upchuck copperhead breath--
but then what?

I wish Captain Beefheart
had played more clarinet,
the terrible headaches I would get
after parties from being at
them too long, through orange streets
to the 7-11--plume of vapour heat
in the cold Adanac back room
digitally added with optical zoom--
On Lok tap running closed tight
walking through a big stripe
across Victoria & Hastings a big red stripe
oh its bad in this kind of thing
when the opera lady starts to sing
& it goes all sepia, an ocarina
hand a sandstone screen,
a quarter inch of pink snow
cast iron stumps where though
they'd taken railings away for the war
Dad said we still paid & paid
getting it back in the form of blades
& Starfighters, well into the decade. 

Lend-lease. The price of peace.
People that had figured out,
ways to make money, to tout.
To spiv.  Cut your hand on his
wing collar, you could.
A mustache behind, a hood
a brothel creeper, a secret weeper.
A solid ten per cent
his demob suit rent.

Thus from the stage of the Commodore
the Captain turned & said

Read Wyndham Lewis
Apes of God! Apes of God!


meaning, I guess, that even
the over-egged & overdrawn
grotesque dreadnoughts
blundering bitterly through
the baking heyday pages
of the Torquemada modernism
I'm glad I missed
are more interesting
than you assholes--
I'm going to go home & paint!

But the Commodore bathroom
is everywhere, they only
pretend to stamp your hand
a pot flung into your face
half-amusingly
forever--never
a good town for crowds

they just up & leave you lonely
rather than bringing
the audience home
rather than just going home.