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Pet Dog Dreams

Jack Goldstein died on 14 March 2003 in San Bernadino, California
no one has seen him since

Last weekend I went light-footed and irresponsible
Into the old survival shed and came back with

You can’t have it!  These

map prefigured existences and key in
to coordinates of great health and maturity.  Laika is there
drinking when he’s not there
crying
over how much the valley has changed.   I’d cry too

but I’m not going anywhere
and no one likes a sissy
least of all fans of detailed chronology
of its oncology and cake.  Ever since

that day
I never went out
Without a bag o pins.  Where’d I put that bag o pins? 

 

Reflex Anamorphic and Other Adventures

The aim being to study responses
Setting out with a body leaning into
Invisible powers under which I  had lost the ease of my gestures
And other marketing tools. ‘I live where I grow’
Potatoes
On the gentle slopes of the
volcano.  Balanced on tiptoe
But much has moved away ‘since’ ‘before’
and suddenly
Immobile
The only pleasures exist in pinning
What has gone to the feelings that remain.  wilful
as ever
in recording.  no more or less in it
only  a cracked chamber and a fragment
Of outsides
Promised
turned into icecream.  Progressing by means of rapid twitching
The great transformations
Of our age
Arrive (with us)
best seen in the trail of destruction
Imitated by each wilted figure
Me and you.  It would often happen
moving between rooms.  It happens when the pictures  
move more than we do
talk more than we do
love more than we do
it never happens

 

My Dubious Pictures in the Nutty Freedom

The decibels kick
each
emblem
into shape.  The massing
numbers returning
particles like “three hundred billion”

American Gods

setting you free to fall in love
with them.   Along other passages
outside love
 hermits count birds
embracing each impossible instant
for too many unknown
structures
heard
in the faster
silences
fall away without
impression.  The lights go out
and fatter tunes up   

There were so many things
but the only message
out of the fields scraped from the human hillside
it said:
“you get here by stealing”

 

Processed Food in Realist Theatre

How can I go outside
When I don’t believe in it
Of course
Novels do not make sense it’s why
We make love to them
And ourselves the variants
Coming on like ants out of the distance where they look like ants
The perfect
Pervert 
Who wants to be close to you and far away
Right now!
Delivering carrot juice and salami whatever the cost
Or hour
No
We are not in this together
I don’t know who I am when I’m with you

 

 

[You can see more recent work by Duncan White in Jacket 40. He's also published work in Staple, Tears in the Fence and Brittle Star]

Copyright © 2011 by Duncan White, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.