tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113420092024-03-07T15:32:44.321-08:00Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-27438329066998782282010-09-08T23:07:00.003-07:002010-09-08T23:07:46.690-07:00In The Strangeness of Infernal Dreamsin a land where the angels sleep in the road<br />and mothers shout with ecstasy <br />a hundred more years will not corrode<br />I'll be in the hollows of a noisy sea<br /> <br /> and now December is hidden<br /> and poverty swarms<br /> someone has poured alcohol <br /> on my heaven in the middle of a storm<br /> <br />madness is my ambition<br />and madness is my decree<br />I have medicated the orchard<br />and bottled the trees<br /> <br />I'll tear at my soul like a lover<br />on a nail in the ground by a shoulder blade<br />over this flagellant I will hover<br />and the mark will be made<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-47777394672677496322010-09-08T23:07:00.001-07:002010-09-08T23:07:17.670-07:00Taxonomy IllustrataI'll show you silence<br />says the corpse in the window<br />his chest sprouting birds<br /> <br />imagine he says, a torn elbow seperating the stairs<br />or the life of a maggot once his insides hit the open air<br /> <br />chrysomya rufifacies here, he gesturing towards where<br />once his heart beat...one after another, he laughs<br /> <br />this silence I am speaking of you find as they feed,<br />I find the movements of deformities...unceasing and exquisite<br /> <br />this he said and his species shook until it was smoke<br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-53652653261047894692010-09-08T23:06:00.001-07:002010-09-08T23:06:44.963-07:00Anaplasiathe mirror collapses<br />it falls but the image<br />does not<br /> <br />the sound of the glass<br />breaking<br />is archaic, it's an ancient sound<br />the amplitude<br />carries over into silence<br />it is a mutation<br /> <br />the timbre is unfounded<br />undifferentiation occurs<br />the image<br />is dominant<br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> - Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-54000909841833795292010-09-08T23:05:00.002-07:002010-09-08T23:06:17.052-07:00Dear Sigmunddear sigmund, accept into your uncharted lands<br />an emisarry, young Cherkovski, aged sixty-five<br />he will be arriving on the Oceanic line carrying prints<br />of Hammershoi and papers of introduction from<br />his travels<br />as you open the window and greet him as he strolls<br />up the path into your garden, please realize he is<br />charitable and wise<br />please read and analyze his unpublished memoir<br />Cherkovski, may wish to stay on for some time<br />as it is his birthday.<br /> <br /> <br />Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-13939920728304568202010-09-08T23:05:00.001-07:002010-09-08T23:05:48.974-07:00Symphony In The Coldwhat you see in the smoke<br />is eating through the light<br />as if storytelling were to awaken<br />from beneath its blindfold<br />to a beautiful river who's breath<br />is immolation<br /> <br /> <br /> - Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-13303595850120357022010-09-08T23:04:00.002-07:002010-09-08T23:05:01.734-07:00Relief In Passinga testimony from Babel<br />collapsing constructions of lies<br />like Dresden, translators fall to ash<br />cancer in the early drafts<br />gathered from the classrooms<br />falling asphalt fragmented into the sky<br /> <br /> <br />Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-80637116021713376362010-09-08T23:04:00.001-07:002010-09-08T23:04:34.797-07:00Pamphletghosts move about on frequencies<br />illustrating their own private hells<br />with each movement like a corpse's<br />raft circling the blast site<br />where a guerilla lowers his kerchef<br />to the sun, emptying his weapon<br />into my face<br /> <br /> <br />Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-57279582143007724002010-09-08T23:03:00.002-07:002010-09-08T23:04:04.779-07:00TheThe coyote half-submerged knows the current cannot hold him<br />The ash from the brush fire is like confetti<br />The naturalist is watched by the owl until he changes<br /> <br /> - Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-57892168541016010232010-09-08T23:03:00.001-07:002010-09-08T23:03:39.393-07:00Nights In The Examination Roomits indistinguishable, the cruelities<br />disseminating an experience by pain<br />where the cartographer listens as the ground moves<br />and hears nothing<br /> <br /> <br />Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-35905661812729240252010-09-08T23:02:00.002-07:002010-09-08T23:03:00.331-07:00Dostoyevsky From The ChineseOur guide is familiar with isolation and changes in the light<br />He shows us an ecosystem unknown to motion and reachable by light.<br /> He draws a glacier on the ground and steps back,<br /> gesturing towards the end of the day<br /> <br />chris manselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-63859232274164302292010-09-08T23:02:00.001-07:002010-09-08T23:02:29.971-07:00Siberian Folk Taleif I bury you in the snow<br />I will wait till it rains<br />if I burn you in a car<br />I will leave your name<br />if I abandon you in a well<br />I will not drink<br /> <br /> <br />Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-43394297100648661222010-09-08T23:00:00.000-07:002010-09-08T23:02:03.086-07:00seneschal songsa monologue continues anonymously <br />while a body is carried above a sheet<br />to capture the sorrow and to be burned<br />spread the ashes over the body the voice explains<br />it began with Charles Dickensbefore his body was <br />removed and transported to India<br /><br />- Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-83495731026754207502010-07-05T22:52:00.000-07:002010-07-05T22:53:59.874-07:00New Iowa ( a work in progress )footsteps on the head of a ram<br />....descent <br /><br /><br /><br />There is no strength from holiness, the fetus in this weather must learn to fend<br />for itself. The new Buddha will form a line in the air, never to cross. Without death<br />the breath of gods are little more than the crunching rocks of an exodus. The precise<br />tracings of a circle that was first formed around the rim of a crest of fire. Shatter the <br />cave and your left with the sounds of dust smashing up against animal skin. Orpheus <br />slain to protect the hour of stillbirth. <br /><br />trembling before the darker trees, hair spread on the ground. Angels like mucus-covered<br />crows jumping around in the skies. Younger ones yelling in indirect speech about the <br />ground rising, sweat becomes the bodies only defense to the odor of fear. Burn like a <br />direction and separate. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />unmask, resin for flesh<br />cavernous omnivore, gestures<br />animate animal tones<br /><br /><br /><br />Terrifying.<br /><br /><br />Imagined center of a bloody pit, faces in cadaverous cold. Emerging slowly from a crawling movement to dusk, misery running on the ground. Into the darkness where bulging eyes stare back in milky and horrifying expressions. Steps. Submersion. Hermetic <br />Ancients swinging axes of bone over shoulders scared. Silence. Coming out of the darkness upside crosses appear and stretch for miles in every direction. There is no movement except for the passing of air between scavengers who press their faces together. <br /><br /><br />Lit from a hundred wells, the meatiest obstruction penetrating the lips of the passerby. The horrid aroma of death consuming signaling the skeleton beneath the skin of intense displeasure. <br /><br />The inhabitants remaining still, only vegetation, reduced almost to ash as it was, moving at all. Stopping upon the severity of the heat, the sounds becoming intolerable. <br /><br /><br /><br />Dialect of approbation<br /><br /><br />Dead and whiten. The ground sunken. When they stopped a small form of animal formed its shadow upon them. It stopped away from them a short distance. The others in the distance still did not move. Still facing away towards the trees of darkness it was eerie. When they looked closely at the ground there were sticks, sharpened, facing out of the ground. <br /><br />Water began to come up from the ground. Slowly at first and then more. The sunken ground began to fill and they moved to higher ground. <br /><br />As they attempted to settle the animal spoke and approached. <br /><br />That’s the reflection of hell. In the water….there. When it ignites, they’ll come. <br /><br />Then the animal made his way back to where he had been. They looked around and noticed that many had turned to look their way, away from the dark trees. They turned to look at the water that increased its flow up from the ground faster and faster. <br /><br />The ones who pressed their faces together were moving together as one. All around them there was movement. Suddenly there was a great heat coming up from the water. Their faces froze. Suddenly they heard thunderous movement coming towards them. Men with axes screaming in a language they did not understand. They were coming from every direction. The air grew very cold. Flames began jumping from the water as they dropped to the ground and held on to one another. <br /><br />The first jumped over them and swung his axe at the flames. His body was engulfed in fire. His axe swung wildly as his body kicked and fought the fire. Others approached immediately. Some were dragged into the fire by the men with axes and were killed. <br />Ash covered the men as they collapsed onto the ground. Their milky eyes staring into nothing. <br /><br /><br />The sounds returned. <br /><br />The horizon was masqued, severed in agony of ash and darkness. The ghastliness a foretelling of travel further on into this land. The men were up now and stood motionless with their axes at their side. Facing into the trees their heads slowly hung from exhaustion one could only surmise. The sounds were unbearable. A constant pounding. Not knowing the language, they offered what food they had at their feet and gathered together and moved on, moving closely together. Keeping sight of the ground and the minority of water they passed great hills of stone that appeared to have been wrecked into the earth. <br /><br />Their procession was brought to a halt when they were met by a group of men with large hammers swung about in both hands. They gestured towards the children and kicked at the ground. They were confused by this until they looked past the men to see the ground in the valley below corrupt with huge insects. The insects were thrashing about and screeching. <br /><br />Then a man stepped out from behind the men and spoke, “My name is Bots. These men are known as the Rau. They will help you.” The people spied Bots suspiciously. Finally one who had led the others spoke to Bots. <br /><br />“We have passed through one land where water burst into flame. Men there came to our aid. This land too is strange to us. We have no destination, only to escape the darker times.” <br /><br />“There is no more dark and light. Hell has come and all has come to pass. God has come and gone. There are no more revelations, no more second comings. We are all that’s left.” Bots said. <br /><br />The insects began to approach and the Rau turned and raised their hammers. Their tails swung about and thrashed at the Rau, fangs gnashed and the Rau fought just feet away from Bots and the others. Bots guided them to a cave for sanctuary. <br /><br />The noise outside the cave grew more intense until Bots spoke again. He bent down at the opening of the cave protecting the others. <br /><br />“They can smell you. You have put them in danger by coming here. Once you were over the path they went into a frenzy.”<br /><br />Again the leader spoke, “God has come and gone, you said. What is the chance of survival in a land….” he looked around at the others he had traveled with. “Who are you?”<br /><br />“I am Bots. I have always been here. In one form or another I have always been here.”<br /><br /><br /><br />prescience, shoulders dangerous<br />half-covered and prophetically fearful<br />outward peaks and inward/hellish image <br />Ancestral snakes, scorched from a hole in the<br />sky<br />Bots explained the origin of the insects. “They came from the riverbeds. Their births mixed with the collapse of vegetation. The vulva of their reproduction was misrecognized as disease, and was taken for weakness. Their incest became violent.” <br /><br />They could hear the fighting growing ever closer to the entrance of the cave. They huddled together. Bots did not move away from the opening, even when the shadows of the insects towered over him. <br /><br /><br />Intimacy, incapable of anger/intimacy<br />Cracking the whiteness. The body/shudensha(last train<br />I confess,<br />…moving within. <br /><br />Gravedigger, moving with his hands<br /> forehead against stone<br /> my impression is shaky<br /><br />..give me <br /><br />a photograph of hell.<br /><br /><br /> The stones in the cave began to shake. You could feel the percussion of the insects slamming into the rocks. They gathered in a small group for protection. Bots stood still. They didn’t notice the water coming up from the ground until smoke crowed around their feet. Bots turned and stepped outside the cave. <br /><br /> <br /><br /><br />- Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-26909345752494168472008-07-25T23:28:00.000-07:002008-07-25T23:29:34.499-07:00Goya's PenitentiaryMy shadow is on my face and its a darkness that I inhibit whenever I can. I find it personal and it is something I can't share with you. Not since I burned my clothes so hastily and proclaimed myself free of the mincing fear of myself have I been so confident. It all began in front of a statue of Goya. I turned to find myself a bandit, a driver, a male drawn too late. In a chapelI was Osiris, my clothes wet and by no means an August body. Unable to recuperate my precious breath, my body roaring. Discriminating. I hold no intimacy, I hallucinated an image of my soulin the background. Flung open at once, oil on a brush, tincture of a animal skin. This inevitable dying horse drug across my flesh, the position in my eyes was struggling, burning of my infection. I was in the painting wide awake. Forty three point eight by thirty two point seven. <br /><br /><br /> - Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-82301959244969984662008-06-25T13:23:00.000-07:002008-06-25T13:27:28.829-07:00The Pineal Eyerunning from the earth<br />like a diamond in reverse<br />same as nature its heard<br />the front seat of a hearse<br />get the bad weather first<br /><br />nothing is so divine<br />as the pineal eye<br />from a lizard to a king<br />from Lorenz to Laing<br /><br />syphilitic through the vein<br />the ship's sails of intestine<br />sailing under another name<br />misguided as Charlton Heston<br />signal fire spelling out fear <br /><br />nothing is so divine<br />as the pineal eye<br />from a lizard to a king<br />from Lorenz to Laing<br /><br />its just a merciless suicide<br />to touch a child who's died<br />waters swollen from the tide<br />screaming till laughter cried<br />the hearse hits the pole first<br /><br />nothing is so divine<br />as the pineal eye<br />from a lizard to a king<br />from Lorenz to Laing<br /><br /> - Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-81610549803476088562008-03-19T00:59:00.000-07:002008-03-19T01:01:28.141-07:00Bodhicharyanatara – The Reincarnation of the Peasant BuddhaIrrational pubic descent, I remember waking with the taste of gasoline in my mouth. I knew I needed a change of clothing and I hadn’t eaten in a few days. Pubic bone severed my spine. A hair fetish overcame my companion and we spent the day at sea, the vagrancy sutra repeating in my head.<br /><br /> Helter skelter on my forehead, helter skelter in my hands. Blood is causing the boat to sink. We’re on the shore and there’s music. Tribal incantations to remove my spinal column, baptisms of urinary fornication. I am brought to a boil in pools of excrement and force fed the pages from my writings. <br /><br />My companion dead now bobs up and down beside me, she died quickly before they could ask her anything. My vertebrae is removed and used as a drum by the shaman who tells me he can make me well. When I awake it is three years later and I am crawling the shore retching up blood and watching as the drops construct the Sistine Chapel in the sand. I collapse into the crucifixion.<br /><br /><br />- Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-25320245505607058712008-03-17T22:28:00.000-07:002008-03-17T22:31:51.139-07:00Drawers of the Wheel Watchankles feasting dug their faces away<br />undergrowth reinforcing contempt<br />crawled mud-soiled body of one<br />a whisper that curls briefly – surging<br /><br />immediately into the moment<br />Where it seems<br />To suddenly<br />Burst into place<br />Like a murderer loosened from the restraints<br />First black then white then back to white again<br />Burned the dead silence<br />Inebriated unmade bloodied<br />The dead lay face to face turned on their sides<br /><br />The dead were exhausted<br /><br />Reviving their ageless demise<br /><br />Carrying themselves on their backs down the hell<br />At dusk to the gates brandishing sunken cheeks and tattered souls<br /><br />(downpours of excrement)<br /><br />were undressed and catered to the living<br />cold water poured under the door<br />in the darkening dream<br /><br />siphoning every ounce of pain<br />that could be swallowed or beaten<br />the <br />gray<br />wash<br />of narcotics pouring<br />from<br />the faucet<br /><br />the mystery has been thrown to the ground.<br /><br /><br />- Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-10184416358692895202008-03-16T23:12:00.000-07:002008-03-16T23:13:43.418-07:00Freud In WhitefaceThe psychologist prays into the cloth<br />his blood he carries in the ear of his dead child<br />immerses his soul into black coughs<br />mau-mauing turrets of speech<br />cupping his hands in the raw meat<br />drinking from his soul, answering her face<br />race guerriere<br />clotting the steam<br />pregonal<br />ejaculating lincocin<br />perspiration beading up on the floor<br />skin is dead, and forget the orgasm<br />will shed the phlegm of the conscious<br /><br />- Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-38616726150412933722008-03-13T21:48:00.000-07:002008-12-08T16:07:19.191-08:00Jon Berry's 23rd Psalm<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgN8JihBqJA8GZ_ndU8UhdnLmwUQrFSF5_cAJcGrVkas0Hi3cg6HwuV1SdcNv-BJlqiGBKAxmKhbUq55cqq1yo7wFy3x6BiTbAA_fxWAEk0NZl2NuGMxTWXwCbTDacfN205qUpfg/s1600-h/lhoihlihpohipi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgN8JihBqJA8GZ_ndU8UhdnLmwUQrFSF5_cAJcGrVkas0Hi3cg6HwuV1SdcNv-BJlqiGBKAxmKhbUq55cqq1yo7wFy3x6BiTbAA_fxWAEk0NZl2NuGMxTWXwCbTDacfN205qUpfg/s320/lhoihlihpohipi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177455211475938562" /></a><br /><br /><br />Creatures, seven stories depth of genetic sand<br />Fall into prayer and storm across the river alone<br />Becoming the leaves the laws would later appraise<br />Ectopistes Migratorius cutting the barrels way<br />A message for the highway, an arrest for the city lights<br /><br />Suffering for the paved road, a gathering for the soul<br />The abandon wheel sought a tree with five limbs<br />Just then a thunderstorm passed over a hole<br />A Socratic garden erupted with air wafer thin<br />An alluvial plantation padlocked without the toil<br /><br />An underground city where vehicles grow<br />Germinating light from the rows<br />Dispassionate about the blackened snow<br /><br /><br /><br /> - Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-43362109054254177962008-03-12T14:45:00.000-07:002008-03-13T21:55:11.007-07:00Photographed In The DistanceThe stars will beckon but not call <br />Their souls disintegrating<br />Like the prayers of the wicked<br />Or the youth of a child<br /><br /><br />- Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-11370279907533816952008-03-12T14:42:00.001-07:002008-03-12T14:44:59.732-07:00Night of Candles, and Dark OutsideThe muscles have so much left in them<br />to suspend the poison of the brain with<br />the animated shrieking of movement.<br /><br />The head shaking, inside when you<br />can’t see the motion and the shaking<br />back and forth when you think I am<br />disagreeing.<br /><br />My hands contort in almost the same<br />motion. Sometimes I think<br />when I am dead I’ll still be shaking when<br />the fires of cremation startle the skin and<br />relax the bones.<br /><br /><br /> - Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-36436327710321433522008-03-11T00:36:00.000-07:002008-03-11T00:38:07.563-07:00Arias For The Midnight RunnerI remember a body with ribs exposed leaning out of my hands<br />The heat of the day <br />And the pain in my head<br /><br />I was open to the medication but closed to the symptoms<br />A coiled relief map of extremities <br />Trees awaiting the river to wash over the grass below<br /><br />The notes of music that come from tires on the road<br />Coming from under the window above<br />Slowing when the wind slows<br /><br />The phone that doesn’t ring anymore heated to 425 degrees<br />Receiving the bill by mutual respect<br />Ash not withstanding the caller <br /><br /> - Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-27877924162708902952008-03-09T23:30:00.000-07:002008-03-09T23:42:53.441-07:00Arias For The Burning Tire RingThe uncontrollable lines of the human form<br />Chained to the canvas, unable to escape<br />A horrible but convincing argument<br />For the end of sight<br /><br />Sound from the open doorway aboard the<br />Sinking ship trails back to the darkness<br />Than to the remaining light of the day<br />Swallowing up the last gleaming, screaming<br />Shining tears from the reflections lost<br />Forever to the parental blue waters of the sea<br /><br />She opens her ears and the holes close<br />We open the ground and the hole is filled<br />The body is laid in, the ear ring is hung<br /><br />The evening she lost her finger<br />Her eyes dimmed<br /><br /><br /> - Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-64097252631917256772007-10-23T20:14:00.000-07:002008-12-08T16:07:19.389-08:00Tuesday, October 23, 2007<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3dybJfbfwHCCbIS6XavowzB3zyjBM5uwQIoZHQt7L1rHNjqBKYBNAJ2Vsa0Uk3yC-SEgHXOahgP1ucO0FzDdCVYEoS9qq-aCtquJWevD6PTb8vTilLbCSgmUAD8Ft6UYyvGyjg/s1600-h/Img_0006.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw3dybJfbfwHCCbIS6XavowzB3zyjBM5uwQIoZHQt7L1rHNjqBKYBNAJ2Vsa0Uk3yC-SEgHXOahgP1ucO0FzDdCVYEoS9qq-aCtquJWevD6PTb8vTilLbCSgmUAD8Ft6UYyvGyjg/s320/Img_0006.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5124737190411312210" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Photo by the authorUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11342009.post-50830915830115757252007-10-13T22:41:00.000-07:002007-10-13T22:42:03.118-07:00This Poison Suna rural baptism, in a war zone<br />an I.V. of clear liquid will do<br />quarantining in a Sunni neighborhood<br />an Iraqi who is HIV positive<br />hooded and detained, white blood cells<br />retracting like concertina wire<br />the Marine charged to watch over the detainees<br />sits with a pistol in his mouth<br />repeatedly trying to kick off his boot<br />under a poison sun<br /><br /><br /> - Chris ManselUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0