retiring this blog

Hey guys, this blog has been relegated to pasture. I'm closin' her down! But fear not, I'll be posting updates, poems, and other goodies on my new blog, here: www.alveraz.blogspot.com Be sure to subscribe when you get there. I'll still keep all my old crap on this blog though, if so inclined. Eulogies for this blog are now being accepted.

Take it easy!

6:09 PM - 7 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

wingless willeby
Category: Writing and Poetry

2:20pm
8 year-old, Meredith Baxter of Chesapeake Lane clips the
wings of her de-saturated yellow canary, Willeby.
Nine minutes before he dies.

2:21pm
With the smack of her squeal, Willeby is tossed from the 7^th story window
onto passing, Agusta High-School Bus, number 434.
The colors bleed from his primary-overts onto his pale talons.
Eight minutes before he dies.

2:22pm
Willeby smiles at the wipe of concrete bridges, the stink of clouds.
Blood climbs his yellow plume and spills over the windshield.
Seven minutes before he dies.

2:23pm
The pop over manholes twist cartilage and return Willeby to
the present-moment; the center of sinewy tissue.
He finally tastes the fresh-oiled seed and sticky honey.
Six minutes before he dies.

2:24pm
His seven remaining tertials swim in the sideways rain.
Willeby pecks at exposed muscle to stay awake.
Five minutes before he dies.

2:25pm
Beneath the fine black lining his eyes waltz with the hum of engines.
This was the ease of sincere fruit, the freedom of every bird in town.
His last song would be his finest.
Four minutes before he dies.

2:26pm
The strings were angel hairs, the brass, bone of Roman Gods.
The beat of this drum reminds Willeby of Mother.
Three minutes before he dies.

2:27pm
The balance of soot and acrid wind surround his keel breastplate.
Wet the beak and bellow for the caged birds, Willeby.
He does, and the company of tailing pigeons listen.
Two minutes before he dies.

2:28pm
Willeby soars over the metropolitan expressway and steadies
his missing wings for the final flight.
One minutes before he dies.

2:29pm
Good day to you, Willeby. And good night to your captures.
Tomorrow you will have a Golden Alula and ripe feathers.
He swallows and weaps for the trapped children below.
Then, Willeby dies.

Currently listening : Funeral By Arcade Fire Release date: 14 September, 2004

11:26 AM - 52 Comments - 98 Kudos - Add Comment

this little piggy goes splat
Category: Writing and Poetry

Cotton Dupree was a lampshade maker
Bellied within the cracked cement pastures
Of Haleytown, Georgia

Sing us a song of white plum trees, Cotton
Read us a story of wormwood and jam

The freeway below was a bed of lucid oysters
The burn of oil in his lungs was magnificent
The slow cut over his left eye reminds him of duality

Sing us a song of melted pumpkins, Cotton
Read us a story of daddy's tambourine hand

Little girls twist over hot leather seats
To get a glimpse of the man who would
Otherwise love them

Sing us a song of how the closet screams, Cotton
Read us a story of sharp rusted chains

The red eyes of copulating angels remind him of Luanne
The weight of his shame over boiled down dimples
He toes pigeon shit, spits over one empty can

Sing us a song of wet kitty whiskers, Cotton
Read us a story of the buried and maimed

There was no subject/object with her, no "other shore,"
Only forty years separation by the taste of salt on his lips
He bathed in her last breathe and the human smell

Sing us a song of Canary blood, Cotton
Read us a story of loose soil and soaked braids

On the other side was lemon-water and melon
Somewhere the balance of both burning ends
Blessed the stain of thine womb, O father forgive me

Sing us a song of scooped catfish, Cotton
Read us a story of fresh linens ahead

He lifted with obscurity into smog and debris
The smash of two-hundred pounds
The crack of one pound of teeth

Sing us a song of milk over embers, Cotton
Read us a story of the best time to die

The gates were closed and the bulbs all broken
His tendons ablaze against a technicolor fire
Cotton Dupree was a lampshade maker

Currently reading : Appreciate Your Life: The Essence of Zen Practice (Shambhala Classics) By Taizan Maezumi Release date: 11 June, 2002

1:22 AM - 39 Comments - 71 Kudos - Add Comment

faster than you
Category: Writing and Poetry

Blind but inspired by the smell of dogshit
Ludovisio named her rutabaga
The hot rocket of 1849 sidecars

The discipline of opiates and American showtunes
A mild cacophony of perfect crimes within crimes
He was the new landscape racer

Quick like moustache and seared boots
Something the town of Willingham, Virginia
Would never forget

The last day of puritan picnics and pompa
The slam of antiquated storefronts
Would ring like elephant symphonies

The speed of her plume and floral gate
Matched only by his mother's last words
Die, Ludovisio, die

The layered grin of gladiators and proletariats
The wind like chocolate across his lips
The taste of pomegranate in his dreams

Warm panties surround the last noise
To swim in geometry and spilled intestines
Wrapped around the only tree ever planted

Within the walls of payback and love
We settle into pools of mud
The pound of sidecars and the desire to float

Goodbye and strike the candle again little pail
The boiled stench around this final oak will
Remind the sweaty bold of penis and placenta 

Campione!

Currently listening : Mic City Sons By Heatmiser Release date: 29 October, 1996

1:02 AM - 38 Comments - 73 Kudos - Add Comment

pinch of salt
Category: Writing and Poetry

The fall of riddle and rhyme

My grandmother called her pepper street girl
The one who found a way out of prose and
Into the free world

Listen to her yawn over roasted form
Bored stanza and tired mortar
This (entire) verse is saturated (see S3 L4)

The last spread layer was her June wheat
Wet buffalo and the piss of spring
The clutch of twenty fisted balls into
Leather jackfruit and (see S7 L2)

The husk we spoil by method has the taste
Of fuck me pie and best in show
But pepper knew better

My grandmother could bullshit the
Cone from pine and wash from white
The melody from crotch is truth

The smell of thick around her waist
Via sin sans complex stroke
Y limitation Y excess fat

Without pepper street girl I am nothing but
Layers without foundation (see S2 L3)
Fallen and lame

Currently reading : A Companion to Luis Bu?uel (Monograf?as A) (Monograf?as A) By Gwynne Edwards Release date: February, 2005

1:15 PM - 54 Comments - 109 Kudos - Add Comment

the plain ride home
Category: Writing and Poetry

Lola & Lucia

The caramel fingers of Lucia Baroquez
Snap the levee and flood the

Tennessee tract of Miss Lola McGinley
And her fortunate vacation

Hours from now, moist by the cylinder
Of her flight home and familiarity

Hours ago, seventeen kilometers separate
Her from the all-inclusive

In Oak Ridge she was the terse pink canopy
On rusted legs with very little oil and time

The hold out of Montgomery Lane
The woman with a peculiar way about her

But this was miles from a bored August
Her tongue pops like hot concrete worms

Her empty now occupied by the slow
Cuban Piston of Cayo Coco

Tangled under hours of moreno skin
The smell of avocado in her hair

This gypsy owned her bones and tango
The boats drift by with the sweet hum

Of drunken fishermen and Latin engines
Miss McGinley was no longer simple cotton

Lucia measures the distance between sun and water
And wonders what time the café closes

She cracks her elbow to settle the timely kink
And the naive meal ticket shakes about

Her weathered finger, right on time
And with subtle bend and moan

She waits for her white payment and
Whistles a mild tune of insurrection

Currently listening : The Chief Assassin to the Sinister By Three Mile Pilot Release date: 27 September, 1994

10:00 PM - 59 Comments - 111 Kudos - Add Comment

six stories over pavement
Category: Writing and Poetry

The flying italian

How about we dine on a herd of kangaroo?
We should bounce our most precious
Items out this window in memory of them.

We can start with my television and work
Our way into the bathroom.

I have a leather basket made from toad.
It keeps well in the shower and is flexible.
If I had to guess, it would bounce nicely when dropped.

Grab a hold of that wax hammer.
I was drunk and it was only two dollars.
It will not bounce but it is familiar with disappointment.

That old man in the corner is Don Palomino.
If we hold him by the suspenders he will
Not only bounce but return, again and again.

Have I told you about him?
Don't worry he is asleep, maybe even dead.
He has returned to the pulp of pompa and
The dance of salty women.

He counts syrup stains from
Marmalade brownstone
The way you and I count sheep.

He was brave back then.
A man of gristle and due process.

Grab his arm. Why keep him waiting?
He wants twisted boulevard and we want bounce.
Not to mention our marinade is ripe for Joey.

Smile when you lift.
It is the ode to a broken man and memories fulfilled.
He is heavy from whiskey and pasta.
But we are strong.

Forget the suspenders.
We will make a clean break in time for supper.

Don't laugh. Someday you will remind
Someone of forced sausage. Push.
He will fit through.

Look at all the colors he left on the sidewalk.
Whiskey and pasta make good art.
Close the window and set the table.

I was certain he would bounce
In tribute of our feast.
Go figure.

Currently listening : The Amazing Undersea Adventures of Aqua Kitty and Friends By Heavy Vegetable Release date: 27 September, 1994

6:21 AM - 71 Comments - 104 Kudos - Add Comment

diesel pizza and chum
Category: Writing and Poetry

a few notes from the road...

It's easy to wander in the pine of Washington. The drivers we pass have peach cheeks. No one dyes their hair and they have worn headrests. They drive slower. We notice them more up here because we pass them more. Folks live longer up here I bet. Something here reminds me to let go.

Only two days in. I feel the distance stretch between me and my family like Chinese handcuffs. I'm homesick.

***

Patchy beards and fine vintage clothing bind the young men of Portland. They are affable but keep a close eye on me. They measure my stubble and insist on paying for my razors. The women here are settled in pale skin, ready for the fresh crop of pliable grad students. The rusted bridges and green mornings have set the bar for the rest of the trip. Portland is poem.

***

There is black, sharp air in Salt Lake City. These giant mountains intimidate but shelter the town like a good father. Maybe it's that sense of patriarchal guidance that has me sweating in the snow. If I had a father I would have done this long ago.

   ***  

The Union Pacific pulls the weight of my childhood. The muscle of steel between porous white-capped giants give me pause and hope for my country.

***

just south of texas

few would side with francisco,
the hairy chested bull rider and
his arched brow for pussy
 
machismo, machismo!

and the brass band
coaxed the senoritas to

the

      lower

               stands

francisco gets a better look and
his bull postures for mercy and privilege

with a crack of chin and slight spin of waist
he boils them down to piles of wet--
the way he likes it

more tomorrow, snaps his finger

he leaps from the bull
to skip across sand
over ants, over roses, under god

(what a shitty poem, i need a motel)

***

Buffalo guard the Wyoming port of entry.

***

In the fast lane of Maine one tangerine fox chews the last tendons of two unfortunate falcons, and the surrounding barns are cold, inside and out.

***

bear river
locomotive
black ice
carolina beef

***

Golden arches have spread like squeezing vine over seven stretches of landscape so far. Punch the clown and kill his family.

***

The walls of ice guide us through Colorado to Jeff's house. The neighborhood streets have all but disappeared in snow. Jeff and his lovely wife swim in fired ink and walls of punk rock. Two horses and a giant wolf lap water, eat chunks of meat and ride us on their backs through the hallways, and into the basement for a long needed sleep.

***

On the road to Missouri with a belly full of soup and a car load of enthusiasm. I have grown accustomed to the looming mountains. I welcome the intimidation.

***

We pull over near a field in Kansas. Out past the rolls of cable and tickler brush, beyond the resigned oak, a wolf rests under a snow drift. We steal his quiet to get a better look. He barks when he should howl and scampers when he should glide. He's nothing but a farmer's German Shepard and once again I have stepped into my desires. I passed the true moment. These are the smiles that remind me of availability. Alex will be here. He is my brother regardless of what I fear and the delusions I may have built. I'm over my selfishness (for now).

***

These sleepy, wound rolls of hay scattered in this pasture remind me of jelly rolls and the diet I will never stick to.

***

My fingernails become unruly and prepare a case for protest. They plead for my wife's steady hand. Without her I fear a Rhode Island revolution.

***

We passed a well cared for highway sign that read, 'The boyhood town of Bob Dole'. 'Let's check it out', I said. The irony of the overwhelming vote against my campaign drew chuckles. It's okay, Bob, maybe next time.

***

These are concrete trails to Kansas City from a night of scrapbook pages torn out and revisited. Wallis and I built castles of comfort and found the good times again.

***

Back home. My son hands me his drawing. I tell him to go back and redefine the neck, maybe add some ears and a nose. He tells me this superhero is deaf and can not smell. 'And the neck?' I reply. He crumbles the paper, 'you don't understand art at all'. I nod in agreement and we order a pizza.

Currently listening : All Systems Go By Rocket from the Crypt Release date: 15 December, 1998

9:55 AM - 55 Comments - 74 Kudos - Add Comment

pocket full of venison
Category: Writing and Poetry

Letter #36

Dear Helen,

What day did God create Woman?

That look on your face suggests you do not remember Genesis. If it comes to you please let me know.

The tips of possum ribs remind me of the ten point buck we hit outside of Alabama. The meat has a distinct texture. The touch of such things change with mood. That was a transcendental evening. Before I woke from the impact I was surrounded by serious men in cream jumpsuits. This was a novel land of cold linens and sanitized breath.

Do you remember the quiet panic in the bucks left eye before he expired? My outrage over the car damage and cut over your brow changed the feel of the meat hung from his antlers.

The tranquil colors that surround this room have tempered my disposition. The touch of possum ribs leave me with subtle notions of levity. The laughter has me unbalanced and the little boy mimics these movements into a dance outside of these rotten walls.

In his stimulation he forgot to count the remaining possum ribs when removing my supper. I keep one lodged in the floor boards. It will make a fine tool to dig with. At dusk I make my way to you. Tell Douglas what became of Adam's rib, if you can remember Genesis that is.

With breath and linens.

William

More letters from William, notes from the road, and fresh poems are now available in my new chapbook, 'mosquito'. After you drop me a note click the image below and help a fellow poet out...

Currently listening : Legendary Marvin Pontiac By Marvin Pontiac Release date: 11 April, 2000

8:04 AM - 54 Comments - 87 Kudos - Add Comment

The girl I met on the road
Category: Writing and Poetry

One finger of Missouri wind snaps around her nipple like a cowboy
A bold line of courtly pigeons flank their pale Gweneveire
Prepared for escort

Her toes engage the cool stone over Columbia, a college town
They would all remember her effortless thighs and chariot temper
They would never smell her failed romance and the horse that
Punched harder than her father

The spunk of imported appalachian undergrads whistle from below
A portly child stuffed in wool releases a balloon in hopes she will
Reach out and rise to heaven alongside her pigeons

The toffee peddler has seen this before and blankets his cart in nylon
The stretch of hollow wings lift with her own
And like a bottled love letter,
She floats

Currently listening : Alkibar By Afel Bocoum Release date: 21 September, 1999

1:24 AM - 65 Comments - 89 Kudos - Add Comment