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My Poetry My Publications

New Poetry Collection: Green Axis

My latest collection of poetry is “Green Axis,” and the book as a whole sits at 98 pages. This poetry features Cascadia and beyond. It was written over the course of the last 6 months. It is openly-licensed and can be rehosted/republished with the same license.

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My Poetry

Crucial Behemoth: Nevada Poems

Black Rock Desert – Whiskey Spring

May 25, 2019

Wait for darkness to fill.
Dream the songs of coyote.
Pack, collective, constellation.
Now night’s arrival reflected
in mirrors and sickness.
People have been here 1000s of years.
I can stand to live another day.
Fears brace me: crutch of reservation.
The thin white-gray memory of playa.
Sinking truth like a sinking smile
and a yearning heart. In Spanish.
Meanwhile there is “while” here.
It is a full space, vast with each step.
The steppe climate unpredictable.
The insects in red light like freckles.
The dust in red light: scratched film.
Daniel Canty wrote of wind, while
I wait for the wind to return
and my courage to grow like a flood.
Pray for no rain this absence of light
and human voices, my own, taking space.
When I step outside, reason will return
just as the landscape of beating hearts
will beat once more.
In 7 hours, day will fill
and I will chatter with wide eyes.

Reno Vignettes

May 27, 2019

Open Mouth

Like the tongue slashed sideways in death pose
Pyramid Lake sloshes fervently nearby.
It is an otherwise astounding glare
thousands of miles in the praxis of center.

Massacre

Resolution: to arrive at the cover of space
and be provided for by cushions of cloud.
I step out, breathe in the smell of frozen sage.
The Steppe is Massacre Rim on a good day.

A Retribute

Wingfield Park figures standing staring straight.
And later: a man prepares to fish.
And earlier: two women search the grass.
What I would do to be as fixed
as the stature of our public
as statues bleeding and sweating.

447

The horror of stumbling upon a corpse
captured in full daylight
with no one nearby to hear a gasp.
Empty are its eye sockets.
As empty as the street.

447 #2

Eagleville is the place time won’t forget.
I dream of a banner of American propaganda.
I dream of nowhere to flee toward.
In it the corpses smile in mirth.
In it the corpses smell of new grass.

The Cedar

Unstilled by the awe of life,
she carries white bread across the kitchen,
smears a thickness of pale, yellow butter,
and places, mouth ajar, the bread on the pan.
I stare, hands in my pockets,
and there is the subtle, dehumanizing swelter.

Chokehold on 34

Sliding across dozens of miles of mud,
I question existence before a single pair
of antelope (pronghorn) deapproach.
The floor mats will need to be washed
of more than the dried clay.

Gerlach #1

The visiting woman overheard at the mechanic’s:
“And then it hailed, and it was real hail.”
The male mechanic nodded. Very Nevada. Clear sky overhead.
Playa beyond. Is it nonsense to the locals?
Or is it all sense, ignorance and everything else?

Gerlach #2

I’d been encouraged to visit Bruno’s in any event.
Especially the unforeseen weather.
I visited first, before the weather.
The next day, 36 hours later, I drove by.
Passing, I could hear the buzz of subduction
through the antique walls.

Adel

It was here in Reno I discovered Harjo’s quote:
“Some world travelers learn nothing.”
What is to be gained from arriving,
and immediately turning around?
Disambiguation on Wikipedia.
The situation of a place barely inhabited
for 1000s of years: its strength
in the silence of a few
for a few.

Calico

Fortifications are not completely designed.
They are not meant to be scaled.
What is the meaning that haunts in full daylight
and entirely horrifying when beyond full view?
Donnelly has as much a name as a voice.
It courses beyond space its chorus vibrating
and choking in inquiry and dying life.

Waves Sequenced

The order of a stabilization.
The incredible order.
Headache and bastardization.
Reality is cold-hearted.
Otherhood is principle. Warmth.
Entrancing. Alive. An earning.
Just to be alive to say hello to
act to participate.
It exists. As do we. As we meet
and part and destabilize across
High Canyon’s shadowy periphery.

Deer Jumper

Enter the twinkling last stance.
We will meet again.
The weather may be warmer,
may be boiling heartbeats.
Black Rock Coyote
Under the assumption of familial fealty,
under the assumption of cordial chaos.
Song start breathes life as interrogation.
Or celebration: placement is lone and true.

Death and Taxes

It hurts less in the meantime.
I don’t know what you mean.
Baby’s breath crown to a walk in the clouds.
Meanwhile: tone death and tone waiting.
Meanwhile: tone as a crucial behemoth.
And back to realism, adigital, tonal:
the champions are the ones that exit to exist.
Never the opposite until a calcifying of tears.

Sparks, Nevada

The first visit I felt nothing. I’d been as.
I’d seen through. I’d evicted from.
The second visit I tripped upon more nothing.
More exquisite and more erroneous the truth.
Forgot to apologize for the judgment.
Returned to the mites with doubtful numbers.

Unstoppable

Massacre Lake returns to me.
Petroglyphic and a rising sputter.
Breathless and altogether amesmer.
What massacre this derailing sky?
Back home the sun plasters beauty
and Jason steps forward strongly through time.
Thousands of moments across hundreds of miles.
The red and green and brown and gray
smear into their eternity of perception.

Absinthe Sugar

A crucial dream is the fervor of wake.
A wake is green and crucial.
The green of the smile comes rightly.
Pressure tightly in this shadow presence.
Surrounded there’s the black of the counter,
black of the walls, of the leather seats,
and whatever else is performative and clear.

El Grackle

Greetings, eyes that shoot out like daggers.
Reservations before the noon’s silence.
One becomes infinite of black and purple,
a translucence equal parts obedience and rebellion.
The auditory inquiry is as situational as precious.
I wonder of nearby cravings and graves.

Categories
Friendships Images

Portrait of a Young Rauan Klassnik

Categories
Domestic Travel Videos [Thorough Water]

Gatton Falls Study

A ten-part [Thorough Water] exploration of a set of a falls located in the Quinault Rain Forest.

Recorded in May 2019. Visit my YouTube channel for more underwater [Thorough Water] videos, including the Oregon Video Poems and Through Water.

[Thorough Water] is a serialized Cascadian meditation.

Categories
My Chapbooks My Poetry

Incoming: Green Axis

A new manuscript with the title Green Axis is forthcoming. Stay-tuned and enjoy the Ax.

Categories
Book Reviews

New Reviews on YR: Widowland and What I Knew

There are two new reviews on Yellow Rabbits. One is for Widowland by Pamela Manché Pearce, and one is for What I Knew by Eleni Sikelianos.

Categories
International Travel My Poetry

New Poems: Poems from Air

Poems written in Myanmar in March 2019.

stumbling from one periphery to the next
I slipped and spread meat
it was meat and it was me across the floor

the light buzzed
the noises flushed into
the familiar haze flashed

it was the challenge of morning
sweet with dearth of life and of death
it continued with fragility

across rooms and halls
a dampening effect
dampening quintessential
collapse

stumbling from one peripheral to the next
I slipped and spread meat across the floor
the light buzzed
the noises flushed into the familiar haze
it was the challenge of the morning
sweet with dearth or scatter of life and of death
and it continued with fragility across rooms and halls
a dampening effect of the quintessential collapse

home where hearts bend
and break to grow

home where mice hide in the rain
and rats come eat the sweets
the rats the sighs of rooms rarely heard

home: I left the cherry blossoms
they bloomed like filthy children

home takes in the deep breath of yesterday
looks comatose
exquiz—
tinted blue
blue in memory can’t you tell

home where hearts bend and break to grow
where the mice hide in the rain
and the rats come eat the sweets

where the sighs of rooms are rarely heard
where I left the cherry blossoms bloomed like filthy children

home takes in the deep breath of yesterday
looks comatose and tinted blue in my memory

the screams and crackles and the shades of the present—
how they rumble like shadow quake and brittle skyscrapers—
how they reach us, slice off our tongues, set fire to our beds—
no more walls of the bedrooms—
intimacy floodlit with guillotine spark—
decapitated home of the decapitated—

screams and crackles and the shades of the present—
how they rumble like shadow quake and skyscraper brittling—
how they reach us, slice off our tongues, set fire to our beds—
no more walls of the bedrooms, intimacy floodlit with guillotine spark—
decapitated home / of the decapitated /

splits open the image

let the bastards come
let the twinklingly literate arrive
we are ready with our grunts and moans
we are ready to ejaculate and spasm

like spines diced to neural mush
we await letting out the long mouth of pause

this world in its infinite fireworks, channeled energy
broken windows and new gardens

train tracks and gory investments

the reflection on the screen and mutualism
dead and gone, spiritual quagmire

(and it can be discussed globally over the Pacific Island
and its kingdom of invisible plastics)

an aerodynamic thirst
splits open the image

let the bastards come
let the twinklingly literate arrive
social in media
we are ready with our grunts and moans
are ready to ejaculate and spasm
like a spine–diced to neural mush
we await and we are ready
we are letting out the long pause we who have mouths

this world in its infinite fireworks is dim

the root cause!
the channeled energy!

broken windows and new gardens
with views
train tracks and gored investments

memories of lots revisited
transport of bottles, bags, bins

the reflection on the screen mutual dead
the reflection on the screen mutual gone

hint of the spiritual

discussed globally over and over
Great Pacific Garbage Patch
kingdom of invisible plastics

quagmire rotten and sweet

Ellen and the convulsive heart
Let rip be rip and polish be polish

I dream of the expressions of joy
I dream of the resolute distancing

Fantasy and projection
of the long walk through warmth

If you could have it disturbingly clear
would you live dutifully and terrified?

The last bird I saw: either a crow or a chickadee
Some common creature flitting across a common scene

This realm really, really is the fullest sense
Bold and interrogative and bloodied with experience

Healed, bruised, unreleased to the currents of air
I dream of the expressions of concern

Drop me into thinking there is a reasonable explanation waiting for us
Allow me to hit my head, break my neck, and convulse freely
(And allow, please, to exist faded, like mist or breath)

For Ellen

Ellen and the convulsive heart
Let rip be rip and polish be polish

Dreams and expressions
Resolutions and distances
Fantasies and projections

The long walk to warmth

If you could have it disturbingly clear
would you live dutifully and terrified?

The last bird I saw: either a crow or a chickadee.
Some common creature
alive and flitting across a common scene.

This realm really, really is the fullest sense.
Bold and interrogative and bloodied with experience.

Healed, bruised, unreleased to the currents of air.
I dream of the expressions of concern.

Drop me into thinking there is a reasonable explanation waiting for us
Allow me to hit my head, break my neck, and convulse freely

(And allow, please, her to see, and to say her piece, her whole self,
and fade thoroughly, like mist or breath)

Homicidal or domicile within a tarnished translation
Domestic blues in the whip and whorl above the sea
Who wouldn’t be blue with the grand eloquent you?

You and you and you and you
A trumpet of rocket fire
Flare as face, facial nation
Skipping forward embracing feelings

I hold up my palm with the cut from the bowl
I remember the slash and the immediate shock
I think, therefore I am sitting here and writing thoughts

Dharma as blisters
Phalanx as workshop
Within the eye of an echo is the karmic release

homicidal and domicile
tarnished translation

domestic blues in the whip
in a whorl above the sea

who wouldn’t be blue
with the grand and eloquent
with the you and you and you and you?

You and you and you and you.

But the trumpet of rocket fire
Flared face
Facial nation

A skipping past the embrace

I hold up my palm with the cut from the bowl
I remember the slash and the immediate shock

I think therefore I am sitting here
I think therefore I am writing thoughts

Dharma as blisters
phalanx of pain as workshop

Within the eye of an echo is the karmic release
Within the slump and the trudge and the embrace of the laughing system

This weeping is of joy, not disappointment

And retroactive they could be watching from the curb
the dust collecting in the corners of their ancient eyes
The fullest sentiments of a modest Wednesday vision
Imaginative scolding of the scalding-hot conceptualism

Drinking the slurps of a poetry poised in a cup brimming poison
Purplish-rose tones rising to the lips of the weakened
It’s grave the gravely nature of those last lips of survival
Photographed before the decades-long smash in a single full moon

We and our resilience capsized by the weight and stalling
The dead stop is the stop of death and it’s placeless and warm
The specialists are returning with their urges toward upkeep
The grizzly, speckled ashes are pouring over the skull-shaped urns

Coffers are the fulcrum moving masses into the slay
An aftermath of ruinous lisps lingers like an aftersex or afterbirth

(after visiting Tacoma)

And retroactive they could be watching from the curb
The dust collecting in the corners of their ancient eyes
The fullest sentiments of a modest Wednesday vision
Imaginative scolding of the scalding hot conceptualism

Drinking the slurps of a poetry that’s poised in a cup brimming poison
Purplish rose tones rising to the lips of the weakened
It’s grave, this gravely nature of those last lips of survival
Photographed before the decades long smash in a single full moon

We and our resilience capsized by the weight and stalling
The dead stop is the stop of death and it’s placeless and warm
The specialists are returning with their urges toward upkeep
The grizzly, speckled ashes are pouring over the skull-shaped urns.

Coffers are the fulcrum moving masses into the slay.
An aftermath of ruinous lisps lingers like an aftersex or afterbirth.

(Yangon, day 2)

upkeep. clandestine. the whirlpool. the fanblade. the festivities. the chants. the sirens. the caws. the ambient buzz. the reclining ignorance. the best foot forward. the champions. the realities. the furthest. the photobombs. the incorrections. the misperceptions. the masses. the proclivities. the belting out. the bulging in. the foray into time. the chiseled grin. the phallic gold. the rosy intonation. the spirit. the stunts. the trespass. the complacency. the waiting. the movement. the race toward a single emerging experience.

The dust settles like ink
Therein lies the problem:
more ink than I know what to do—
the interruptions are like radiation.

They settle. We get used to the poison.
Come to expect it.
Prose minded. Swinging across lanes.
The changing of the guard of the path.

Lights on or off with the motorbike customs.
Come to expect it.
A long way from home at Mt. Popa.
A long way from home at the banks of the Irrawaddy.

Steel Fighter adornment on the side of a truck.
They know what they’re saying, we just find it funny.
At what intersection between time and place,
between birth and death,
between the act of creation
and the creation.

Explosive. Plosive.
The long walk home is drifting in and out of—
Remembering Libby on a road trip.
But here with the sleepy dogs, cats, lizards, birds, etc—
here with the monkeys, cows, goats, horses, etc—
here with the clamor of footsteps (pilgrimage)
and the blast of fallen rocks (or coconut husks)—
damn the monkeys and our reliance on them.

We as audience and we as sellers.
Me and my own unmystical definition.
Where capitalism and mysticism meet
there is a finely-grained instance of expectation.

The fan blades thicken and the stomach loosens.
The motor of the bike grows closer even to this very spot.

Fallen.

I have eaten the goodness of the vegetarian
and am currently digesting,
thinking about war, independence, the fundamental will towards liberty—
is that what this visit, in all its luxury, affords?

A visitation of the random acts of sentiment.
Enticing acts of glass splinters of vision.
Exposed roots within the panatha-leaking rouge.
Melancholy of the poor with their outstretched arms.
A void in place of indecision and inward sludge.
Laziness is godlessness to some.

In sum:
a tract of lessons that can be foraged and before that be forgotten.
The spirit of Bagan and its ancestral quadrangle of pagodas.
The leniency of my own swiftly-blistered ambitions.
Thorough acts of gaudiness with windows open and moans invisible, muted.

Categories
My Poetry My Publications Others Poetry Others Publications

New Release and eBook: Like salt. Like a spine.

Book cover of Like salt. Like a spine. by Maung Day and Greg Bem.

Update: this title is now available as an eBook through Amazon.com.

Newly released. Limited run of chapbook Like salt. Like a spine. Handmade in Seattle. Created for release in Yangon, Myanmar in March 2019. Featuring poetry by Maung Day and myself. Translated between Burmese and English. Email me if you’d like to request a copy or have comments. Digital edition may be forthcoming (still undetermined).

Categories
Uncategorized

New Video: Poetry Reading at Myanm/art in Yangon

On 4/24/19, poets and artists gathered to read poems at the Myanm/art Gallery’s last event. This event was in conjunction of the release of the poetry chapbook Like salt. Like a spine. (An eBook version of this text is forthcoming.) The video recordings are here. As is an audio recording version via YouTube. The reader list is as follows:

The list of the poets in order: Greg Bem with Maung Day, Maung Yu Pie, Moe Way with Susan Gray, Saung Win Hlaing, Susan Gray, Soe Lu Htet, Nay A Di, Lwan Tay Cho, and A-Whee.

Many thanks to Myanmar poet and translator Maung Day for translating my own works, and emceeing the evening.

Categories
Book Reviews

New Book Review: First Mountain by Zhang Er

The next book review has been published on Yellow Rabbits and it’s First Mountain by Zhang Er! Check it out here.

Categories
Book Reviews

Three New Reviews: Hughes, Hyesoon, Banerjee & Szokolyai

I have three new reviews posted.

The first is Sugar Factory and it’s by Emily Wallis Hughes.

The second is A Drink of Red Mirror and it’s by Kim Hyesoon.

The third is CREDO and it was co-edited by Rita Banerjee and Diana Norma Szokolyai.

Please let me know what you think. And happy International Women’s Day.

Categories
Book Reviews

New Book Review: Midden by Julia Bouwsma on Yellow Rabbits

I have just reviewed Julia Bouwsma’s book of poetry from last year, Midden, about Malaga Island in Maine. The review is on Yellow Rabbits here.

Categories
My Poetry

New Poem: In the aftermath, days later, of soul touching

Originally written 2/6/19

Distanced amidst the mixed berry seltzer blitz, a bubble too open, I am refreshed. Coconut dregs to the other direction. These are the swamped days that burst out like chrysalises after the need to exhibit (share) energy has been expressed. Gray countertop punted into view like political anchors. My hair is a bath of soft line drawings. Sketch comedy. Her eyes shooting me down like bullets: out of where, and where, and where comes the next exceptional (and acceptable) intrusion? In forms expressed. Bob Cobbing. Robert Ashley. The unrivaled psychosis of new person. New human. Our hearts beat like gull-flaps in gale gusts. Earlier: several hours I’m reading CDMX Blues like it’s short, of breath, and the world (Ode nada) feels alive and full and pulling down from the cross (Tom Waits now, then, again). So many decades. Mexico 60 years. Mule 20 years. My god my youth the eternal sadness of that burst of time’s ultimate orgasm. The receiving end of the entity of our times minus times so just “our” smile.

FIERCE is what the may sez when he’s dead and frozen joy-cam from my early 20s, I was the punk addict impression on the world that was or was not needed. I dream in better understanding “horror” as a concept. Have I been horror to you, to me, the plastic godless skinner of clouds pile of soot o robbers my fingers like cradles for microscopic worms my skin the lousy state of eruptive (pre) Buddha dance(hall) with flailed limbs releasing glass vessels FIERCE! & it could be that this inquiring mind yet one more seedling the WE ARE VAT theory the continuum of simulation theory (the referee to Joe Rogan and Elon Musk and the symbolic aperture of smoke, in its corrupted commodified sense). Fascinating case study, with feet of flames and for the sentinels of bickering to scream (albeit softly and intentionality) down Road of Echoes. The definition of the limit is set to include a kaleidoscopic path of hills and turns. Imagining doom keeps the pressure going and personalized. It sits like ink before this newish moon that was long cyclical before rest and can dance again in blue glades.

Categories
Domestic Travel My Poetry

New Poem: A Climb

On Piestewa in the Phoenix Mountain Preserve, 1/21/19

Foot before foot. Each journey belongs to each. The last clap is never the last. I often wonder if this hike will be the final. Then I’m back at the question again. Candlelit now but then it was the sunlit choking effect. I imagine writing “oaking” and can’t help but think of the Oak Creek Vista, and more Arizona laughter. Then Trump. The wall. More symbols. That insidious-cum-necessary laughter a symbol dispelling more and more, more and more, the thoroughfare, it is as important to stress this as it is the systemic prevalence of the Native American stores that are giving life and persisting to an enslavement. It is. And so it is. We walked by the man who said hello so helpfully it was hard not to be completely drawn on in. Vistas abound. Transport back. The man who carried their child down the mountain. The want to tell him: Great Job. And: the group of women and the single voice expressing an insecurity of height. The want to tell her: you are perfectly formed! An exquisite fondness. At the mountain’s top: can’t pronounce Piestewa, but try anyway, and pick up that empty bag left behind like a reminder.

Categories
Book Reviews

New Review: Paul Nelson’s American Prophets

I’ve reviewed American Prophets by poet and friend Paul Nelson. It’s over at Yellow Rabbits.