so profoundly made…..
a scramble after a lecture by kristeva @ nyu added/subtractions
(& mischa mengelberg @ tonic)
so profoundly influenced by
monk (s with habit)
body is met a - ( things & words )
valse valse valse - sad-o-mask kit sic
dreamless dream (only signs sounds sensations)
so round the tick(le) tock on flat wall
disruptive (non-narrative)
remembrances
divine taps - subject/object asthma //\\ ham sat
this is a ruin & who's to say's not the first time
potter has messed with the pot
to authenticate history
before it had barely be-
come a part of it
suffocated anal(y sis) is/is sissie issue
i-mage = game geni(e)us
that part of sheet that is covered w/music
covers me this somewhat cold night
monitors my rhythms
strings my breath to reflectives
it's impossible to re/lie
integrity exhal(t)ed on the gritty plane
substitutes sorrow immediate
(3x) dada rula dada rula
genius co-lapse other rehto(ld) < art aud >
subs sorrow sub subsumed and tuted "'"""" thoughts ->
\ > immediate source for joy i mediate sauce for joy
celram celram lose their shape
holding the divine w/in an eclipse of magnificence
( cathedral ) narrative = women's dress
i.e. fashion excess(ories)
( stained glass ) zohar hazard i.e. topsy pts 1&2 as in
autopsy/biopsy
one unity bursting polytheisms ellingtonias
monstrous signs ( search ) protean forms subject trials
i.e.
to beat
to eat
to be it
to eat shit
exploring exploding <-> UNITY shatt'ring cont(r)acts avechectic tool
preserved
tattered phallus perversed a tale of illusions cat as trophy
co-presence coversion / spacial / temporal
( o rary ) celeste fresh as a rose w/out matter
tho matter is absorbed & merges as in floating I-dents
into a fleshy fol-roost
he is in the world
the world is in him ( a fowl roast - a foul roast )
SELF & OTHER other/self suggest sub/ject you jest
flesh of patient transformed transference of identity
transference & counter transference
conch-et-conch complicated economy censured and sensor/ships
sensing non-sense (ing) the body trans/parent
the body polit(e)ic
body of language
body of businessman conclusions moments interpretive theory-peutics
freud as be-bop doubt fraud as
benev(i)olence permanence of S&M
the max of cruelty & delicacy to mobilize the men struals min strels one
& all
ficial tact gently cutting the endless war of trumphs
I conclude cruelty is a recourse to the words of life the dimension
Men tion MEN MEN MEN men shun
persistence renewed w/in violence when all there is
when all there is is the is itself in ex-is- tence in a
cruel cruel world in a cruel cruel time
where faith & delicacy dwell like a flower
carved into a restless soul.
dada rula dada rula dada rula
steve dalachinsky kristeva at nyu icp orchestra @ tonic 10/04
de kooning ( morton feldman - 1963 )
tis form
an empty sell/out
these chairs from rumbling a morph
created & why a hang tix over
the foreground
when no film's presented
only thin flim
& a counter top immersed in standing
a shallow shadow not unlike a window
that shows the theme red - hem
this count
that reminds one
of choice
of mistake
of the renegade shot in the head
well he's dead now you say
as my leg's start moving away from me
these bodies
they are so vicious &
fragmented
surely they cannot all be
his women
(this is what the silence tells me)
& of all the things i could tell you now
only this:
it is not as song appears
it is only the time between
spaces.
steve dalachinsky nyc carnegie hall - zankel hall 11/17/04
eros denied (after a painting by jaxson )
he
hung sharply crossed
bone white squared
the mirky forms of Joseph & Madonna
molded against his body
in mourning.
he
hang across stretcher
sharp......end.....in pain
the glassflat ghosts of Judas & Magdelene
shaped against his structure
for redemption.
light & infinite fading
his bones of flesh
the backbone of light
his milky head sharply squared off
against the denial of his Wisdom &
Love
weeping & crossing the visions
with kingdom
Come
the green leaf turned to autumn.
the paling shadows of man & woman
brother & whore
mother & thief
Jesus Joseph & Mary
Jesus Judas & Mary
all denied
eternally misunderstood
shamefully ironically misinterpreted
broken light in morning
in need of redemption & care
in need of uniting the bones with the ghosts..
steve dalachinsky was born in brooklyn some time after the last big war and has managed to survive lots of useless little wars. his work appears in many journals on and off line around the globe. he has several books and cds of which the latest are, trial and error in paris, i thought it was the end of the world, st. lucie eyes on a plate, and the forthcoming chapbook in glorious black and white and the e-chap arivin' in the okidoke.
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Jesse Auchter
Persona: Weirdo
No one understands
the strawberries I have for eyes.
Point and cackle and defame.
I see strawberries in their eyes!
It Is Time To
They've been calling me
from the depths with a
lulling telephone
since the depths pried my
eyes wide. Now, I grasp
the gold receiver
like it's a dagger
shimmering, crying
out my worthless name.
Voices pierce my drum.
I hear the garble,
yet it is quite clear.
It is time to hang
it up and me up
so I can lift up
beyond this dirty
atmosphere.
Jesse Auchter's poetry and writings have appeared in Locust Magazine, POETHIA, Concrete Wolf, Morpo Review, etc. He loves poetic darkness and cats. His ambition is to be an underground deity, and maybe a decent painter.
I'm a Manic-Depressive with Alcoholism in full remission. I've been sober for well over a year. Wellness is slowly returning.
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
No one understands
the strawberries I have for eyes.
Point and cackle and defame.
I see strawberries in their eyes!
It Is Time To
They've been calling me
from the depths with a
lulling telephone
since the depths pried my
eyes wide. Now, I grasp
the gold receiver
like it's a dagger
shimmering, crying
out my worthless name.
Voices pierce my drum.
I hear the garble,
yet it is quite clear.
It is time to hang
it up and me up
so I can lift up
beyond this dirty
atmosphere.
Jesse Auchter's poetry and writings have appeared in Locust Magazine, POETHIA, Concrete Wolf, Morpo Review, etc. He loves poetic darkness and cats. His ambition is to be an underground deity, and maybe a decent painter.
I'm a Manic-Depressive with Alcoholism in full remission. I've been sober for well over a year. Wellness is slowly returning.
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
George Kerr
Calaveres
(for Anita Cochrane)
I got swallowed by a sugar
skull on the Day of the Dead.
A treacled cavern of candled
marigolds where Coatlique danced
in a serpent skirt and kissed me
her last
peyote.
We sat by Lake Texcoco
and toked on zest of Aztec and time
near a puma with an eagle in its eye,
my ears caught fire.
The lake was sand
and I was afloat on the earth.
Paris passed
then all of Ireland and I waved to
Liberty before I drowned.
After I drowned I stay in the skull
and lollipop the brule like a bee.
And when the jawbone sets the sun,
ambered glops toffy slow and candy me.
George Kerr is from Belfast, Northern Ireland and works as a jazz writer and musician.
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
(for Anita Cochrane)
I got swallowed by a sugar
skull on the Day of the Dead.
A treacled cavern of candled
marigolds where Coatlique danced
in a serpent skirt and kissed me
her last
peyote.
We sat by Lake Texcoco
and toked on zest of Aztec and time
near a puma with an eagle in its eye,
my ears caught fire.
The lake was sand
and I was afloat on the earth.
Paris passed
then all of Ireland and I waved to
Liberty before I drowned.
After I drowned I stay in the skull
and lollipop the brule like a bee.
And when the jawbone sets the sun,
ambered glops toffy slow and candy me.
George Kerr is from Belfast, Northern Ireland and works as a jazz writer and musician.
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
Bruce Stater
A House of Porifera
There is a temple of Porifera, a house in the ocean
composed entirely of living sponges
left to dry in the air when the waves receed
and fill with brine at high tide.
It is a simple structure, designed in the form of a tower
with a supporting structure of wooden beams
visible only from the interior when one passes through a window
made available at the monument's base.
From the dandelion covered cliff
it appears to tower as a beacon of lichen encrusted bricks
marking the uncertainty between sea and shore.
Entering its cavern, one feels the call of becoming,
the lure to return to the water encompassed in the warm bath
of amphibiotic memories of the womb.
Inside one feels the breath of the living walls, a change
in atmospheric pressure excerted upon the tympanum
and the resulting congestion of the inner ear.
The crash of the breakers lulls in the muted cavity
like the hollow music of the conch which fascinates children
with its mimetic echo of the sea. The scent of sweaty moss and kelp
left drying in the sand overwhelms oneas nostrils
with the infussion of its pelagic wine.
Returning through the window which opens space and time
to the transforming in-between, one feels that he has been
reborn, remade, reformed, regiven and regifted to life.
In addition to writing poetry, Bruce Stater spends a considerable amount of his free time creating art. He still suffers from occasional episodes of psychosis, but no longer considers mental illness an obstacle in his spiritual journey. He lives in Astoria, Queens with his wife Lori.
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
There is a temple of Porifera, a house in the ocean
composed entirely of living sponges
left to dry in the air when the waves receed
and fill with brine at high tide.
It is a simple structure, designed in the form of a tower
with a supporting structure of wooden beams
visible only from the interior when one passes through a window
made available at the monument's base.
From the dandelion covered cliff
it appears to tower as a beacon of lichen encrusted bricks
marking the uncertainty between sea and shore.
Entering its cavern, one feels the call of becoming,
the lure to return to the water encompassed in the warm bath
of amphibiotic memories of the womb.
Inside one feels the breath of the living walls, a change
in atmospheric pressure excerted upon the tympanum
and the resulting congestion of the inner ear.
The crash of the breakers lulls in the muted cavity
like the hollow music of the conch which fascinates children
with its mimetic echo of the sea. The scent of sweaty moss and kelp
left drying in the sand overwhelms oneas nostrils
with the infussion of its pelagic wine.
Returning through the window which opens space and time
to the transforming in-between, one feels that he has been
reborn, remade, reformed, regiven and regifted to life.
In addition to writing poetry, Bruce Stater spends a considerable amount of his free time creating art. He still suffers from occasional episodes of psychosis, but no longer considers mental illness an obstacle in his spiritual journey. He lives in Astoria, Queens with his wife Lori.
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
Colin Van Der Woude
Untitled
Shifted minds burglars snitch
never again eyes watching twitch
come and go with everything I owe
she said my writing was good,
but widely misunderstood.
Untitled
I want you to see beyond my body this time
to be female like you I don't know why
just you in a theatre you mime to cry
I don't want all this undenied attention
to talk of thoughts is to unduly mention
Stealing love from the rich to give to the poor
what's left for the thieves?
nothing to add a tally or score winter's leaves.
Colin Van Der Woude: I'm a 28 year old from Australia who is living with schizophrenia and I use poetry as a creative outlet. I love using words to convey memories and feelings, emotions… I hope to one day have some work published and I'm on a mission to dispel any myths of mental illness.
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
Shifted minds burglars snitch
never again eyes watching twitch
come and go with everything I owe
she said my writing was good,
but widely misunderstood.
Untitled
I want you to see beyond my body this time
to be female like you I don't know why
just you in a theatre you mime to cry
I don't want all this undenied attention
to talk of thoughts is to unduly mention
Stealing love from the rich to give to the poor
what's left for the thieves?
nothing to add a tally or score winter's leaves.
Colin Van Der Woude: I'm a 28 year old from Australia who is living with schizophrenia and I use poetry as a creative outlet. I love using words to convey memories and feelings, emotions… I hope to one day have some work published and I'm on a mission to dispel any myths of mental illness.
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
Jonathan
Seeds in the Bag
there are two reasons
for me
to write
when
I have something to say
and
when
You do
by grace for grace
I beg
thank
or scream
maybe at once
or more
now my mind
Your easel and mine
is the white silence
of
all the colors of light
my children home
( the easier three)
the oldest okay
and no new pain
shrieking and stabbing
through the old
I simply am
(not waiting)
and You
paint as You will
wanting the flames to hurt
as I slowly pull away
from what
temptation
fools
me
into
believing I want
toward
what
You want
beginning to feel
aware
of the wrongness of sin
of the hurt
increasing in my body
(that I can manage
though
not very well
it is not unholy)
I sit
wondering
how long
until
my will
wil help
with the struggle
to follow Yours
and emotion
will pull me
too
as I lie
at Your feet
and know that
eventually
I will also be aware
that You
are
trying
to pull me up
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
there are two reasons
for me
to write
when
I have something to say
and
when
You do
by grace for grace
I beg
thank
or scream
maybe at once
or more
now my mind
Your easel and mine
is the white silence
of
all the colors of light
my children home
( the easier three)
the oldest okay
and no new pain
shrieking and stabbing
through the old
I simply am
(not waiting)
and You
paint as You will
wanting the flames to hurt
as I slowly pull away
from what
temptation
fools
me
into
believing I want
toward
what
You want
beginning to feel
aware
of the wrongness of sin
of the hurt
increasing in my body
(that I can manage
though
not very well
it is not unholy)
I sit
wondering
how long
until
my will
wil help
with the struggle
to follow Yours
and emotion
will pull me
too
as I lie
at Your feet
and know that
eventually
I will also be aware
that You
are
trying
to pull me up
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
Mark Phillips
the Voice on-the-tape
"The brothers were seated facing Joseph…they looked at one another
wide-eyed, wondering what would happen next." Genesis 43:33 [The
Message]
In what can only be described as a reality-denying maneuver
he still insisted it was not-my-voice on his answering machine
though I knew it was and had left him the message to encourage
him after life took a merciless left turn down a dead end
alley.
He left me his longhand affidavit cataloguing every reason why the
voice
on-the-tape
that left him the encouragement about
new prospects,
new opportunities,
a job where he might tickle or clap his hands again,
why the voice on-the-tape could not
have been mine.
For sixty days he painted black the chipper waves from the
little box by his phone.
It must have been a taunt that summer from another someone
haunting him down like ghosts through the cornfields.
The voice was-too-friendly to be real, it couldn't have been mine,
and the demon he created pulled his teeth out by the roots,
tied his hair back in knots and wouldn't let go until
the pain was all that remained of sunset walks and
cabin-side suppers.
But still, the voice on-the-tape was mine.
If I buy you dinner, grill some burgers,
invite you to wine and cheese,
will you then believe the voice is-a-friend's
and not the apparition of daggers in your dreams?
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
"The brothers were seated facing Joseph…they looked at one another
wide-eyed, wondering what would happen next." Genesis 43:33 [The
Message]
In what can only be described as a reality-denying maneuver
he still insisted it was not-my-voice on his answering machine
though I knew it was and had left him the message to encourage
him after life took a merciless left turn down a dead end
alley.
He left me his longhand affidavit cataloguing every reason why the
voice
on-the-tape
that left him the encouragement about
new prospects,
new opportunities,
a job where he might tickle or clap his hands again,
why the voice on-the-tape could not
have been mine.
For sixty days he painted black the chipper waves from the
little box by his phone.
It must have been a taunt that summer from another someone
haunting him down like ghosts through the cornfields.
The voice was-too-friendly to be real, it couldn't have been mine,
and the demon he created pulled his teeth out by the roots,
tied his hair back in knots and wouldn't let go until
the pain was all that remained of sunset walks and
cabin-side suppers.
But still, the voice on-the-tape was mine.
If I buy you dinner, grill some burgers,
invite you to wine and cheese,
will you then believe the voice is-a-friend's
and not the apparition of daggers in your dreams?
Steve Dalachinsky Jesse Auchter George Kerr Bruce Stater Colin Van Der Woude Jonathan Mark Phillips
Monday, November 01, 2004
Tim Martin
Perhaps These Notions
the sky is falling
well, maybe not
but everything looks
underwater
and these are my
good shoes
i need time
to think
the phone keeps
ringing & i know
it's about bills
or some big mistake
on the government forms
how many
ways can you define
need
anyway?
so, i'm in the dictionary
scrawling margins with questions
they say there
is a time
in everyone
's life
when the question starts
being as important
as the answer
it seems false
that prayer
should have gone
this far
unanswered
i'm terrified
of predictions
and riddles
that end
with my
leaving
unsolved
perhaps, these notions
are unjustified
but
they make the skin
jitter
in time
with the lightening
and
my blood
is full
of house sparrows
all darting
on cue
in the same
direction
How Public Like A Frog
it comes down to this
i make lists to convince myself
it's time to buy land
i am not a first day fraud
i don't need a morning smoke
debt was worth it
in my renegotiated role of education
i should relocate
since saints often get cancer
and need to be fed ice chips
in this Andrew Wyeth field
i stare at silhouettes of crows
homesick with these muted colors
across acres of farmland
Candy from Strangers
too early
for murder
when the van
picks you up
the very air
accumulates
morning energy
in the alarm
clock ring
free from
the moorings
the villainy
the village
the weird night
time occurrences
back to the script
polka-dotted
with Maxwell
House stains
& breakfast meat
grease
these things
don't sit well
with me at thirty
like tequila
and garden pizza
have ecstatic
effects i hear
as the happy
man dances
with his hammock
before the rooftops
at the party
he throws
for the voice
of the people
Tim Martin is a writer from Bryn Mawr, PA. His plays Once Upon A River, and Tales From Turtle Island have been produced by the Hedgerow Theatre and One's Self I Sing was recently given a reading. His poetry has been seen in In Words, Autumn Leaves, Orange/Blowmoney 2 and other small magazines. He is the founder of King of Mice Press and a member of the Curio Theatre Company and the Big Mind Collective.
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
the sky is falling
well, maybe not
but everything looks
underwater
and these are my
good shoes
i need time
to think
the phone keeps
ringing & i know
it's about bills
or some big mistake
on the government forms
how many
ways can you define
need
anyway?
so, i'm in the dictionary
scrawling margins with questions
they say there
is a time
in everyone
's life
when the question starts
being as important
as the answer
it seems false
that prayer
should have gone
this far
unanswered
i'm terrified
of predictions
and riddles
that end
with my
leaving
unsolved
perhaps, these notions
are unjustified
but
they make the skin
jitter
in time
with the lightening
and
my blood
is full
of house sparrows
all darting
on cue
in the same
direction
How Public Like A Frog
it comes down to this
i make lists to convince myself
it's time to buy land
i am not a first day fraud
i don't need a morning smoke
debt was worth it
in my renegotiated role of education
i should relocate
since saints often get cancer
and need to be fed ice chips
in this Andrew Wyeth field
i stare at silhouettes of crows
homesick with these muted colors
across acres of farmland
Candy from Strangers
too early
for murder
when the van
picks you up
the very air
accumulates
morning energy
in the alarm
clock ring
free from
the moorings
the villainy
the village
the weird night
time occurrences
back to the script
polka-dotted
with Maxwell
House stains
& breakfast meat
grease
these things
don't sit well
with me at thirty
like tequila
and garden pizza
have ecstatic
effects i hear
as the happy
man dances
with his hammock
before the rooftops
at the party
he throws
for the voice
of the people
Tim Martin is a writer from Bryn Mawr, PA. His plays Once Upon A River, and Tales From Turtle Island have been produced by the Hedgerow Theatre and One's Self I Sing was recently given a reading. His poetry has been seen in In Words, Autumn Leaves, Orange/Blowmoney 2 and other small magazines. He is the founder of King of Mice Press and a member of the Curio Theatre Company and the Big Mind Collective.
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
Steven Dalachinsky
cecil taylor trio @ castle clinton - 7/29/04 ( for (e) shadow )
tell this dy /// nam is mos
useless blues & pinks
in mentus
this is daylight when we most need it when
there is no day left
this is river in a shadow
shadow against an even/ing when
tree become sky
no mental can the shadows stay this silent for so>long
the bricks that never saw the war they fought for
it is a yellow in the eye
useless magenta that crosses our lives
the sun is behind me the sun
it heats my neck
dy na mis mos contrarios
one immigrant says to another
i passed thru here (too)
vialavitsef feast & live
tale tail's tale to taste
aventus creatus rowldtercompat
the act of natural act of..................
i've come thru here too
the shadows never move
the trees & sky are one
glass & stone & steel a blding make
fingers make things happen
one immigrant says to another
glass stone & steel
are the building blocks of this world
trader trapped inside the gullum
is a wink the paper asleep
i crumble
in uniform your day begins
like this: shadows never move
sun behind your back
useless magenta
bricks that tell a tale
fingers make things happen
running spotlights cannot function before the nite arrives
it is really not the clock that determines transition
that crosses our lives
one immigrant says to another
it is when the sun crosses our backs like a river
a festival a world -
sonic tellin panic
when the light that was created
becomes the light that was invented
a bet earned a wise trade a gorge traversed
2( money is the (M) angle
we will not be fed by sunlight a loan
even now as evening turns snurt the concessions
no time for this/that it's obligat(o)ion 0bliGate
it's now dark it feels
one immigrant says to another
feel my neck it passed this way
this is no joke
privitize my sacrament it's cool now hands on it's cool now
the useless magenta adds to the piano's song
this world was built by hands
tree & sky no longer touch
the shadows have become a river
that does not flow
brick is what i call your face
i remain attached to my allegiance
tea is a drink for two (3)
this shifting desire is a wedge
between the clock & the hrs
clamusin tourista raditsula bo ard
such useless appendages these hands against the unmanacled day.
possessed
i am possessed
i definitely know now that i am possessed
by my/
self
we all have to pay eventually
for being on the guest-list
if i weren't here i'd have the tor-
ment of being some/where
else
even the dessert isn't any good
the water is about the only thing worth
tasting
i know now that i am possessed
posed
poised
posssed
perferated
a stones' throw away from a stone ('s)
throw
they took it down they
blew it up they took it down they blew it
up
Steven Dalachinsky: my name is steven dalachinsky i am a poet among other things who has lived in ny my entire life i have been battling mental illness for lack of a better term most of my life tho most find this hard to believe. i was hospitalized when young and put thru the ringer in many ways
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
tell this dy /// nam is mos
useless blues & pinks
in mentus
this is daylight when we most need it when
there is no day left
this is river in a shadow
shadow against an even/ing when
tree become sky
no mental can the shadows stay this silent for so>long
the bricks that never saw the war they fought for
it is a yellow in the eye
useless magenta that crosses our lives
the sun is behind me the sun
it heats my neck
dy na mis mos contrarios
one immigrant says to another
i passed thru here (too)
vialavitsef feast & live
tale tail's tale to taste
aventus creatus rowldtercompat
the act of natural act of..................
i've come thru here too
the shadows never move
the trees & sky are one
glass & stone & steel a blding make
fingers make things happen
one immigrant says to another
glass stone & steel
are the building blocks of this world
trader trapped inside the gullum
is a wink the paper asleep
i crumble
in uniform your day begins
like this: shadows never move
sun behind your back
useless magenta
bricks that tell a tale
fingers make things happen
running spotlights cannot function before the nite arrives
it is really not the clock that determines transition
that crosses our lives
one immigrant says to another
it is when the sun crosses our backs like a river
a festival a world -
sonic tellin panic
when the light that was created
becomes the light that was invented
a bet earned a wise trade a gorge traversed
2( money is the (M) angle
we will not be fed by sunlight a loan
even now as evening turns snurt the concessions
no time for this/that it's obligat(o)ion 0bliGate
it's now dark it feels
one immigrant says to another
feel my neck it passed this way
this is no joke
privitize my sacrament it's cool now hands on it's cool now
the useless magenta adds to the piano's song
this world was built by hands
tree & sky no longer touch
the shadows have become a river
that does not flow
brick is what i call your face
i remain attached to my allegiance
tea is a drink for two (3)
this shifting desire is a wedge
between the clock & the hrs
clamusin tourista raditsula bo ard
such useless appendages these hands against the unmanacled day.
possessed
i am possessed
i definitely know now that i am possessed
by my/
self
we all have to pay eventually
for being on the guest-list
if i weren't here i'd have the tor-
ment of being some/where
else
even the dessert isn't any good
the water is about the only thing worth
tasting
i know now that i am possessed
posed
poised
posssed
perferated
a stones' throw away from a stone ('s)
throw
they took it down they
blew it up they took it down they blew it
up
Steven Dalachinsky: my name is steven dalachinsky i am a poet among other things who has lived in ny my entire life i have been battling mental illness for lack of a better term most of my life tho most find this hard to believe. i was hospitalized when young and put thru the ringer in many ways
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders