from Writing from the New Coast recorded Friday, April 2, 1993 by Chris Funkhauser
ONION LEAVES, HER MAP UNTENDED
(a love-tome at my wakemaster mad>sf>mad 6-21-85)
Fashion seat melts, so why heated? In standard garb of the infantile laboratory, she tones gonads french to treat her nascent franchise. Seated golden, quiver templars & pleated landings driven outlash. Was walking hindsight, a rare funky gennu. Instant normal rhythm. Freely-clawing jackal had harbored dancer. Harmonium earring. (Sleeping kicks her rising notorious; she’s nurture worker stocked in wares over there.) Divorcee cracking jeweled jew a friar lifting the naughty ocean. Childhood screamer delve tonguing gymnastics in a treacher chamber. Her wings are redressing fingers: Yearner fraught with flailing. Mine or worker, seize the fairy. Very very all too va va skitting. (Drifter laden, “Made in Heavier.”) Flymap sticks to her over shoulders, nipple thinking. The mime. “I’m rigor set in cloudless,” to herself. No substance runs this tonic or I zulu trespass liver. (Hunger rivets on solider station.) “You spray my pore-walls, remind me I’m water.” These girls play pansy while their men calls. She riding her own beau underskin & pours only firmly. Feather skeptic balks. Chain gangs of feeling driven while operated. Minute trespassings delivered up death-path. (Rain cells her converted waves.) The click is on!
ONANISM CURDLES (1985)
jonny retains caste
recall oilier flymap
steel circular amongst.
heth al atum,
nonquist clothing herapit.
elbow sufficient archwave.
EVERY LINES OTHER (1985-1995)
The “born writer” “has it.” This hazard is over, the ear next to meaning. At a turtle’s pace or in a turtle’s place: the ink boils in my cauldron spilling or the lines. But not matching the thickness of thought, the nap gets creased. Like waking up before going asleep; fabric of mind uncertain. (My narrator wants to sit in the station again & wait.) All the while, apparent looking on a nest of feelings, a net selfstrong, the deftness glaring when no conflagration.
Forward in a ring.
Glands for marriage.
Hot belief churns the blood downward, you’re all the man.
These commas are like lines, lay them out, one after a spell, the next match burns hotter.
Always the flair, ended with a certainty, nor brass, nor chair, not gumbo. You affair staged spontaneously trespassing lest rhyme be the heart. Beat the joining, man fortress. Still this listing, poised, shifts hearer tempest. In turn all the sun.
M isn’t bothered, not another thought, on to the next thing.
L recounts the mishap, weighing gold or dirt.
I did feel at home, taking the freedom to grunt, stretch, or borrow.
I’m more toward than they know.
A splinter crack in my muddied crystal “no room no room but do come in.”
Is an unending radio in the space below.
I can picture you drawing your space in that house with invisible strokes.
I can see you better now than when the ants had their blindfolds on, inviting me to watch them. Talk.
A criminal in the company of proud new laws, taken aside to talk of deviation, “You’re one of us as I tell you this & yet we assume you know nothing.”
On the contrary too much unsettles my present standing here, waiting for the suspension to break as if one of them might wake up, who dares to dream of his own power. “Or her.” I am a monger eating the wrong words.
In her lifetime Lyx Ish was a healer, a noisician, a listener, a co-founder of Xexoxial Endarchy and a co-founder of Dreamtime Village, an ecovillage project in southwest Wisconsin.