Oh Michael Bauer,

December 2, 2008 at 6:40 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 28 Comments
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where are you now it’s summer
too hot outside for baldy men
slightly overweight yesteryear
t’was portulant, the word,
almost porcine sweating in
Ezra Pound overcoat
nothing to do but drink weak tea
and watch the dark parade, “Poetry is not
a three-ring circus,” she says, adjusting
the straightlines of her hem.
Where are you Michael Bauer
you should be gracing us with insults
as soft as suede gloves followed
by the gentlest breezes of language
invisible arabesques of thought and
delight in the pure elegance of line,

Over Before It Began

October 19, 2007 at 4:51 pm | Posted in writing | 8 Comments
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The Ascot Ladies Poetry Society Presents…

lulled into adjectival dreams with the ironic
Post-Bohemia of your local opium den,
oxygen bar, vegetal concoctions for sale
at organic prices grown by a darling old man
just up the road, Michael Bauer and his surreal
postulations on orchids in Aubrey Beardsley
dressing room arabesques of black and white.

The ladies chuckle at such refined outrageousness,
outside small white dogs patrol manicured lawns,
and piss in gardens of scented…

Wake up, Squires, you’re on,

a garden

September 4, 2007 at 7:51 am | Posted in pictures, writing | 5 Comments
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this is the insta-blog, received thru static, text only mode, fragment unlinked. if one stumbles across ee cummings twice in circling the bloggosphere for connecticons one can synchonize the fold in time with a larger crop circle.
we are somewhere over the pacific, i think that’s Easter Island beneath us,
i hear ebby whisper (((ssssshhhhh))) out!
i hear amber delight in a found thenome, a
duality of meaning which she finds in her tongue as it clickclacks
down lowslung streets,
and bauer’s surreal postulations about orchids,
and where there should be (((((you)))))
there is you
reading
as I am typing, a thought you feel of my absence,
the screen between us and the time
all three dissolve,
the time machine takes flight powered by imagination alone,
infused with emotion,
a garden blossoms under a glass bottom

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