well every time i make a promise to post more i fail so this time imma just shut my mouth and now that i have some things out of my way mebbe i can actually do it. and i am back in the united states now for better or for best so i won't have to steal internet from the people that were counterfeiting money next to me in casasblanca.

dance ’til yr dog don’t know ya…

…lookit this happy man.

1968 Jerry beard

Grateful Dead, Live at Iowa State Fairgrounds, 05/13/2013


I promise to post more. I promise to post more. I promise to post more.

A few weeks ago, the wonderful Nora Curry (whose work and etc. you can find at http://thepostapocalypse.wordpress.com) posted me a book, “Athphreabadh na hÓige.”  It’s a book of mostly Catholic poems written in Irish, authored by Réamonn Ó Muireadhaigh.  The Irish language is…well, really strange.  But more interesting than strange.  Makes for some really good  word associations.


And so in the spirit of Christmas and being a cheapskate, i’m re-gifting these poems as a small chapbook of mistranslations (sorry to ruin the surprise, Nora).  And here is one of them:



#3 (nearby growing cinnamon)

Night, unlock the cells and dreams he had struggled and bled with arms entire.  Rinse his rosy palms in tin.  And curse his rhymes righteous so old.   And o may his violin glands at Versailles be right, his galaxy of cloaks smalling the arias of amber birds, his shining furs of Dramamine.  It is time slowly to gain flames.   And know such the night. 

Snakes begin the brainstained arachnid month.  Elitists go find altars of crystal phalli as they spin.  It’s an immediate Easter, shooting hail, and orchards run over my country on stilts of cumulus frail foil.  Our leaden God shone in belabored fights of oil in the stadium.

In a valley of fumes this all goes neat as grain—o ducks of fluorescence and glints of stairs, crisp and fearless, o dust trim and o kinetic salaams, gauge him not as grim, and tandem we will go eerie, we will go hard as a scion.  I’m nearby growing cinnamon and so dull for your reach.

And sinning still on hills, yes, we leaned nice, we leaned haggard.  Leaned gloomy, leaned groggy.  And each of us trained and ripe, and good now, and soiled.  And grass-stained, and fearless, and ghastly.  August without radiance, without homeland and your aching, I aim inside you, not growing hairs and locks, nor fiddles for her, for you.  I am feeding you light, freer as that heart unearthed.

As far as not noise, a noise nightly is: bodily, cool, faded.   Again alone on a salty planet, I of enough heart go mail my outreached classics and dull earths; August is decaying and I ride rabid yet beautiful arias, rabid fully entranced in the snags bearing my cry, rabid while cramped up.  Rabid and land near some Shambala, choosing fear. 


So merry christmas, happy 2013, and yes we’re all alive after the 21st, isn’t that nice.