challenge yasuní

i would like to talk about
a hidden transfer of knowledge
held within specialism
but transferred across specialisms
a poking out, if you will, into the thin open air

natives that talk about native knowledge in a native way
can easily be scorned by a powerful urge or class
they are dumb because their voice is not heard therefore they are dumb.

we of course are dumb if we do not listen
and having listened is it really possible to throw on the brake completely

why not? this is what brakes are for. stopping.

do not fear the screech of brakes, you never start going backwards, which is where the sound is coming from. do not fear the screech of brakes but rather fear not stopping.

the deathly (here we go) drift into smack bang wallop the edge of knowing nothing at all ever again.

the reek of sweat and sex dreams, a cold awakening. washed clean by a splash of hormone from within.

i offer you a fictitiously fabricated reference system on top of a database, small, of interviews. you leap to from where you came, which was an idea or something constructed. i.e., the menu system can only be understood by reading.

the urge to be poetic has to be balanced with intent. i want to; therefore i justify dreaming. a concrete ‘i want’, rallied against a rapturous construction. Both are make believe: the i, which wants, and the i that justifies dreaming.

confessing arrogance, in itself, does not justify the crime. That which does is real humility; knowing that you are equal and therefore the same.

not a single misdeed is not immediately punished therefore be generous and patient.

data (is) set

Jeronimo did

Jeronimo died
dead and gone
fell from his horse
mid flight.

we stamped his ashes beneath a tree
looked at dust and drank rum
the sun peeked out when the soil was flattened
and the tree stands strong and small.



es primitivo
nada mas que primitivo
dinosaurios son muertos
tipografia esta temoroso
lleno de miedo hasta el estómago
un golpeteo en la puerta
tembloroso ensangrentado y frio
fria oh ah
en la mitad de la cancha
el campo
la cocina

in the middle


begun too right again
must aim left
going between the knee
bending over backwards

never really minded much
saw a lot of black woods blue
and strawberry cocktails full of sherbet.

giving all up backwards is a grave thing to do
especially when you’re screwed on that way
the mean
the average
dead set middle
no variation
a wibble and a wobble
moves us the same way again and again.

now going to make believe
can reassure us of one thing
that i am the dreamer

waking up on the other hand
we should try to remember
and try to forget
leaving us nowhere but in the middle



the thick pellet
lay dry on the stoney pavement
buckled and failed
overtaken by small cooperatives
how they dreamed

sugar beet grew
in price and quality
and shoe sizes decreased in size

no one left
that all left
was empty

dead timing


charlie lingered beneath the apple tree
pulled out a knife and cut a name in the bark
the blade slipped several times
in so doing blood covered hands
the rain began to fall
heavy pitter patter on thick leaves

Past prologue


Dedicated to the young in whose spirit the search for truth marches on
arse of a film. the end.
hiccup. burp. wander on. wondering, time for action. slumps back in seat. zero motivation. at most a yoga-like sloth manoeuvre lowering to the floor. a carpet over wood formica. reliably laid over concrete. direct on the sodden earth, all around. in every direction but one. there lay the bowel pit. the loathsome rank, somehow sweet pit of wallow. the gastric tank. the end of the line. the dirty water refuse.

Slump back. enough said. the rest belonged to might, upright spreading stomach, bold shedding forward. the rotund aches into existence like the pregnant woman. so right. so gradually pushed outwards. an aching seed out through hips and lips. painfully, slowly. I forget you not.

Tired finger dance. the pleasure of push. awakening slow, to give. sniffling and sighing. the crude is gone with a scratch of the ear.