Wednesday, March 28, 2007

FEATURING: Adrian Kien

Adrian, meet Adrian. Adrian, meet Adrian. Hello. I live in Boise, Idaho which isn't too far from Adrian where I live. In Adrian? Yes, but sometimes on the out skirts too. Sometimes I writes poems inskirts too. I lives with Kelly Packer and our two cats, Blixa and Sylvie.

(adrian can also be found @ BlazeVox, Action/Yes and HoboEye)

Flat Light

and one light settles into the ripple of the body’s length with no settled plan the town
echoes its emergencies green grass beneath snow in the silent sleep light the military
graves numb go mute to any outer inner sense

here is my hand but not really a raven circles
the ravine climbs the ridge blue and red flickers flickers off

a distance = to a time of day
say a
slight breeze
the word Idaho
- - -
the unconscious spectrum

3-2 8:30 a.m.

remember a mountain to the hand

a body tangled to bodied hills

mountains describes snow
at the waist of

an exchange
of sound

how a hand made a shadow
how the father was a son someone
wind eye ripped

a lip just touching a breathing frame
corporeal in its inhalation

heaped upon belly
a valley where to be


I go off
into leaves
in a flipbook
succession of pages
without numbers
just how
without words
can I learn
to decompose like that
not me but bursting
from a father tree
coughing and spittle
a new creak where
a branch was going
can I eat back into
the worm that feeds me

every which way

I said, Are you here?
And you said, yes, you said, I am here.

... and I grew where you were
from every fingernail
each shed hair and plucked whisker, yes
but more every spit and sweat droplet
every manure was myself
an earth self we shared
I was each blood cell
equally spread thin and deep at
the earth’s pulse from mother to father
to dirt and to sunrise skin

And from space
they saw me in you on their screen
a yellow pixel
next to a blue pixel
in a green pixel that was water
in our mouths marked with our mouths
the last water on the planet
passing between our lips wherever

Without I am without

On the sounds of Saturday Morning at the threshold of Boise and the Foothills, the
engines, the waterfowl, strangely German, guttural, not only digestion, but other internal
and necessary organs. Discussed.

the things of the horizon – out there at the constant slope
possible air
a brown expanse to be dead in
in the stomachs of grubs

ach a roaring (of strangling) dawn
now whittled down to its di di
immediated made of a throat in me
down ‘neath the feather down
a snorted comeuppance hill to here
to hear the horns in a v an r
as a vapor the sun
the sun in my lungs
be beneath
the migrations of fowl – their tongues
where my fingers were
an amber eye

a cell passes for one self mit hands
mit spray of spit mit mallards
CO2 O2 CO2 O2 CO2 O2 CO2
transmit from a bodily tower

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