Wednesday, April 30, 2008

from Vingt-Cinq Poèmes de Tristan Tzara

the leprous white
giant of the landscape

salt groups itself in constellation
of birds on the tumour of wadding

in its lungs starfish and
drawing pins balance
microbes crystallize in
palm trees of muscles seesaws
hello without a cigarette tzantzantza
bouzdouc zdouc nfoùnfa mbaah
mbaah nfoùnfa
macrocystis perifera to embrace the
boats surgeon of boats
clean humid scar
idleness of brilliant lights
the boats nfoùnfa nfoùnfa
i force candles into his
ears gangànfah helicon and
boxer on the balcony the violin
of the hotel in baobabs of flames
the flames develop in
sponge formation

the flames are sponges
ngànga and strike
the ladders climb like
blood gangà
the ferns toward the woolen
steppes my chance toward the cas-

the flames sponges of glass the
mattresses wounds mattresses
the mattresses fall wancanca
aha bzdouc the butterflies
the scissors the scissors the scissors
and the shadows
the scissors and the clouds the sci-
ssors the ships
the thermometer considers the ultra-
red gmbabàba
berthe my education my tail
is cold and monochromatic
nfoua loua la
the mushrooms oranges and the
family of sounds beyond the starboard
in the beginning in the beginning the triangle
and the tree of voyagers in the beginning

my brains depart for hy-
the kaolin swarms in its cranial
dalibouli obok and tòmbo and tòmbo
his belly is a big cashbox
here intervene the drum major
and the clapper
for there are zigzags on his
soul the reader begins to shout
he begins to shout begins to
shout then in the shout there are
flutes that multiply - some
the reader wants to die perhaps
or dance and begins to shout
he's a skinny dirty idiot he doesn't un-
derstand my verse he shouts
he's one-eyed
he has zigzags on his soul
and lots of rrrrrrr
nbaze baze look at the submarine
tiara that unravels in golden
hozondrac trac
nfoùnda nbabàba nfoùnda tatan


Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Friday, April 18, 2008

home on the range

Compared to North Dakota my native state of Kansas is a bustling metropolis, yet still I feel these lost and empty places, these huge skies, to the soles of my feet. Forty years ago my parents once augmented their meager income by raiding such lost homesteads as these, haunted and wary of rattlensnakes. In Kansas there are some 3,000 ghost towns, but in North Dakota are there any living towns?

This is the landscape of my dreams; by night I wander these plains and try to live in such shells of habitations. Here I am at home. As the lady says, “I love it here... It’s my own little corner of the world.”

From such a fundament of bleakness the only way is up, this is a tabula rasa primed for any mark. The frontier is not tamed, it lives wild, and the photographer retraces pioneer steps and guides us through territories so much emptier for having once been inhabitated.

Meet you there.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008


Monday, April 7, 2008