30 November 2010


Theek 11/30

If there are arrows – and there are arrows –
            arching from an unseen fortress

And I am holding my arms up to protect my head

If these things are happening – and they are –
            who is to blame

As real as any ice covered lake – my feet –
            splintering cleaving in spring

My feet against rock – if these arrows hit my arms
            and I suddenly have wings
            of wooden shafts –
            my feet are still bleeding

I cover – the ice melts – an until this second unseen
            flock of geese
            takes flight in unison –

They form a V and toss southward – they are –
            the arrows cease a moment

29 November 2010


Tartan 11/29

Family right – it means something –
colors path over each other and the lines
turn into a tree

A map right – fingers reaching
into the air – each branch a memory
a stone in a broken castle sitting in a field


I have two poems today. To make up for my lameness.

Mute 11/28

In the dark I run the streets of New York – sounds of
fire crackers of gunshots of snapping sticks
I chase an imagined you – I am a hound
for this mythic person – I am said to run mute
you shot fowl broken thrashing in the water
I will dive – the darkness a fold of my coat
slashing the air – it is raining or snowing or falling soot
I crash into walls and take them – I – shadow of this city
build then tear – I do not gnash so much as bear it with me


Monotelic 11/28

You wait for the one day
when you drop a segment
and duplicate yourself


Rookery 11/27

Black and covered in silver
the cage –
is a shining object –
is filled with luminescence –


Orle 11/26

…and I owe so much money that it aligns around my bed at night and outlines my body in little dashes so that when I am gone my body will still be there a murdered shape hovering over the blankets…

it will come to stand in for me and it could even go about my life for me…

go to work and stare into the eyes of companions and no one will know the difference that these floating dollar signs bring to the table will the shape speak to people in different tones will it only talk in decimal points…

26 November 2010


Macled 11/25

The beauty of speed
is that nothing is seen

Everything becomes base
colors and shapes

The sum of parts

I am a second person
that is only seen at speed

Sitting quietly
waiting to be seen


Cranberry 11/24

I wear the shirt on days I’m feeling low
it is deep red pink maroon

It absorbs light and feels like sunset

The dark recesses of my mood vanish
become berries floating in cool water

This is irrational and clothes cannot change us

It is easy to forget oneself in sunset
the promises of nightfall are a lot to bear

Blackness and stars that unblink endlessly

Who among us can stare back into that face
of universe and remember what the sun was like

That is warmed our arms and bleached our hair

I like to imagine that I am comfortable with entropy
that the melting of everything is all right

But it is late November and the world tilts cold

I pull the shirt over my head and pray
that once again it will being the magic forth

Purple my vision today and tomorrow

My lows are not based on events they are
the product of thinking about the lack of them

Inner warmth is hard to come by


Versioning 11/23

Kings are born – they are not an object fashioned in fires of a forge – they are unmade by the machinations of man – they are gods on earth suddenly immaculate before us – someone old has died someone young has ascended –

Oliver Cromwell is riding in the hills – he is not hunting – he is looking at the greenery that bears his name – it is only in name that it bears anything – untouched Oliver Cromwell pulls some cape he found in some closet in some palace around him –

Sometimes the old are not old but are boring or are out of date ‘elections’ might be held – coups waged – will is rarely involved – it is an act of time is an act of fashion is a cause of whim –

Oliver Cromwell is not hunting because he has hunted in the past and no longer needs to exert himself in this fashion – he is wandering – kings rarely know what they are doing – they just do it in accord with the shifts of wind –

25 November 2010


I only got one response to my Thanksgiving poetry request. Here it is:

Thanksgiving by Jose Angel Araguz

One can see it
In the light

Off of buttons,
The old coat

In the dark,

Still here,
Another year.

22 November 2010


Maternity 11/22

I couldn’t understand – almost would never want to

Middle Order

Middle Order (Y.O.) 11/21

Something – breaks across the path of the rising sun
Crosses into the deep blue of sky and leaves white trails
Rose-colored and opening – it is a finger across water
Etching the surface of heaven with its print
Are the marks permanent? – Are you?
Make what you will of this contrail – missile – plane

1. Against the wind – the sun rises and then pops
the clouds open
            every fire escape will scrape and creak
            in the light

2. Against the wall – you face whatever lives
in the recesses of your mind
            it breaks like dawn in the heat of August
            it fizzes like a voice across water

3. Against the sky – a line traces the path of the moon
and draws a face


Mate 11/20

I wrap the edges in tape to smooth the sharpness I drop it in the cool water and smooth it over the bearings and the tarnish is gold and brown and black with flares of blue and red and purple

I wrap the knuckles on my right hand in tape to hold the skin together and protect my joints from impact from heat from the grating flesh of metal I drop it in cool water and then into talc and then into air

I wrap the bed with layers of fabric a sheet another sheet a thick cotton blanket and then wool and feathers it goes yellow white red orange then open room sifting with late autumn light

I wrap the body in clothes for the day and the edges are uncovered and skin breaks open and the bed messes itself and the world drops into cool water as fog rolls across the bridge into downtown

And the city is a punching bag for the seasons and the light is breaking across your brow like water on a ship and I punch my hands into the earth until they are wrist deep


Apothecary 11/19

Here’s the history – it is
sitting in you – your sweat
smells like old paper – libraries

What is your card catalogue made of

19 November 2010



I need your Thanksgiving poems by Monday!
I only have 1 so far!

Use Thanksgiving as the title.

I'll post them on Thanksgiving.

Send your poems to wilsonmj@gmail.com or leave them as a comment on this post.


Masticate 11/18

Those lines are ground into a pulp are turned into fuel
The literature tells us that a balanced diet is a must
Cook up some Whitman and dash O’Hara liberally
Follow that pyramid well

Finish with Dickinson and Carson
Like a glass of red wine after a meal
Those lines can be ground up and snorted
They are mighty powerful and treat you like a bitch

Whose depends on how well you absorbed your meal


Revolt 11/17

The line is a cage – a tiger lurks
behind the bars – deeply growling
ticking – a bomb that never stops

It expands – fire storm – black
lines and orange – a schematic
a room becoming parts of a room

The line is a floating bar – they are
a hovering forest – bricks are stairs
the tiger – lifts from the ground

And here is a universe – the sun
howling at the center – everything
swirling – exposed – in parts

The line dances – collapses into itself
enclosing the animal within –

15 November 2010


Racked 11/15

up here
and your

you down
into your
to the edge
and then


Phrenetic 11/14

Streets of New York
Taxicab driver
Those screens that won’t turn off
Manhattan Bridge
Little pools of light
Dotting by like bugs on windscreens
Endless streets I don’t recognize
Cosby neighborhoods
Dark rooms
How drunk is this bedroom
The breeze in the window
Maybe we will sleep
Sheets like liquid
Heaviness and the sounds of cars

Kindle Schmindle

I Finally Got a Kindle and I Love It but I Am Scared of Fascism



Wreath 11/13

The leaves are all red and yellow and brown
they are sifting in the subway grates
the air smells like apple and cinnamon
and this morning there is a pile
of candy corn on the sidewalk

This time of year reminds me of family
pine trees filling with light
red sweaters with reindeer on them
and table clothes in rich colors
covered with plates of cookies

That smell of a fire place lit for the first time
is the smell of every Christmas ever had

It is the sign of everything yet to have


Blooter 11/12

Fart noises and blowing bubbles in chocolate milk
pressing to window and making faces at passing cars

It’s close enough to Christmas for toy catalogues
and decorations in the streets to shimmer at dusk

I want the talking Cookie Monster doll and the Lego
castle with the skeletons and glow-in-the-dark ghosts

Mom will tell us to stop making noises at the breakfast
table and to get ready for school and we can talk

Letters to Santa that night and on the way to the bus
you throw a stone at the back of my backpack

12 November 2010

Old Order

Old Order 11/11

Common wisdom says not to make promises
etc. etc. etc.

That everything comes in time

In time the voices will slow and fade from memory
like the exact features of a dead relative’s face
or the position a felled tree was in the day it was chopped

When the alarm sounds and we end up in the street
and we watch the building smoke then inflame
it is cold and raining and the trucks are loud and bright

Out belongings turn into thick white smoke ash
etc. etc. etc.

I hold the hands of a stranger neighbor and we hug each other

I look into her eyes and she looks into mine
we make promises about things being all right about
the sky not falling on us

And it doesn’t

10 November 2010

Generation Why

First off. Go read this:

Generation Why? by Zadie Smith | The New York Review of Books


My feelings about Facebook and all internet 'social network' sites have always mirrored Zadie Smith's. It's reductive and shallow and kinda boring. It's great for people who like to self-promote. It's a good tool to get people to attend a party or show or rally, but it doesn't actually connect anyone to anyone.

People like to use the line 'I reconnected with so-and-so whom I haven't talked to in decades!' but in reality they 'friend' them and never talk again let alone actually connect or catch up.

I don't like to sound like an old man but here:

Blogging Makes Joan Didion Uncomfortable

That kind of sums it up for me.

It's like talking, but without any of the actual interaction. It numbs us to real human connection. I'm not about to claim that Mark Zuckerberg is a sort of lonely nerd who has created his ideal world and wants everyone to be the same so he feels better but...honestly...if I had the ability to make everyone be my friend, even if it was on the internet, I would do it.

Would I feel better about myself?



Ordnance 11/10

So you stay on your side
and I will stay on mine

I will cease using your blood
to sign the hillsides with my name

And I hope you would
give back every part you’ve taken


Barony 11/9

Each finger is a servant clicking at its plot of land

08 November 2010


Boy 11/8

and you’re on that swing
weightless and floating
the world is a spinning green blur
and everything is just your shoes
pushing back and forth


Replevin 11/7

…then it came back

and sat on the shelf

pulsing as always

in its crystal case…


Abduction 11/6

I want to make a list of the things you’ve taken
post it on the fridge and leave a pen to check them off
as you find them and return them

But that list is too long to begin and what would go first
my brain, my heart, my arms…

The magnets are shaped like fruits and vegetables
little carrot bunches, radish, lettuce, tomatoes
the best one is the orange peeling itself to reveal the insides

It’s like showing a leg or lifting the hem of a skirt
and transmitting an important message

05 November 2010


Palliate 11/5

If we hold hands long enough
the lights will dim and our fingers
will start to feel like they belong together


Gunpowder 11/4

The tea leaves are tiny fists
waiting for hot water to unclench

We sat on a bench in October
and talked about barbecues and fireworks

The fog rolled across the plaza
and the smell of fireplaces began

Americans like drinking and explosions
in parks in rivers at Disney World

Take this city and flatten it out
make it a rocky plain and farmland

Here is a house of stone
uncoiling in the mind into reality

Like one of those little black tabs
that you light and watch turn into ash snakes

04 November 2010


Pungency 11/3

His handlebars are wound with a pink feather boa
and he washes himself in the sinks at the café on Union

He smiles a lot and you see the bike more often
then you see him

The homeless smell like clothes stained with coffee
left to stale in the bottom of a closet

Like everyone smells when they first get out of bed
all hot breath and crusty eyes

02 November 2010

Free Energy

Free Energy 11/2

Breathe in deeply and crack your spine
and get that rerun body high

I can talk about the colors pressing from me
a flame heating the sky

I am a tree with leaf fingers
they will drop and drop and be pressed into the earth

Will sprout into homes to live in

01 November 2010


Mothersickness 11/1

Let’s sit in the graveyard all night
and light candles for everyone lost

At sunrise we can collect the memories
and count out the candy bones

Take them home and rebuild the skeletons


Apparitor (Pope Lick Monster) 10/31

Right-hand man of the devil
evil goat demon thing with
slick-backed hair and hooves

Jump from high on the trellis
as the train comes and you
can leap through the window

Into another universe into
a space between heaven and
hell and maybe that’s the point

Maybe he is taking souls
is stealing people from Kentucky
for some evil purpose

Or maybe it’s all made up
a myth written down on paper
and in the minds of man