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SPAM SAYS: EYEKHAN'S STREAMING CONSCIOUSNESS POETRY


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LION


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STREAMING CONSCIOUSNESS POEMS BY EYEKHAN
INSPIRED BY EMAILS SENT TO HIM FROM GENEROUS, UNKNOWN FRIENDS

Sure of What?
Untitled

The Y is more interesting

All About Life

Kernals of Wisdom

Sayings by Spam
More Sayings by Spam
Life's Too Short for Chess
Wonen Jam
Euro
plendid Splinter
The Internet
Looker's-on
Snoozing
Alice
Howard Stern

The News

The Y Is More Interesting

Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
Dim, and die tonight?
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
Life, or only joy, that stands out

XIV
Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the Tegetthoff

Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
The mortal architect had brought to life,
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Is the moon to grow
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Given by nature will soak into it.
P?e and M?e
Chose could be in conversation
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates

XIII The Route to the North

A matter of getting all that right . . .
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
And off the white smoke swims
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
That images of roads, whether composed
At the end of the road.
Even if they are staring

III Chronology of Northern Exploration

I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Coextensive with everything?
How could they know?
"Be off!" say
Winter's snows;

Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
So, startled, quivering,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day

XXI Flying in the Arctic

With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
That desire has ever built, have approached
Bronze the sky, with no
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
By what it seems to have moved toward.
In any
Dim, and die tonight?

VII Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay

Lucky the bellˇstill full and deep of throat,
Wind, sleet.
The branches sway,
At these masses the snow hides from me.

V The Dutch in the Arctic

Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
A matter of getting all that right . . .
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,

XVII Greenland That

this mud draws on the stone.
Of meaning like theseˇthe world created by
Before those virile women!
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
Choces, M╦re and P╦re, undreaming even of fields
At the white place of the road's vanishing
Where, as I discover as I go through
Covering the landˇ
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
The mortal architect had brought to life,
Scrawny wolves, and you,
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
Beneath the snowflakes I notice fa┴ades
From point to point of meaningˇopen? closed?ˇ
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
I seek, above all, in the wandering
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
But when, on the timepieces that we call

Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Is the moon to grow Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
Given by nature will soak into it.
Covering the land?BR> wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Covering the land?BR> To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Dim, and die tonight?
Dismal, endless plain?BR>
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Would their world not remain comfortably
What can we know of whatever picture-plane snoozing.
A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,

With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
My soul lies cracked;
and when, in its despair,
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
Of observation lying on the ground
Of observation lying on the ground

III
Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers: The Greeks and the Vikings

Close at the end of distance the two
Chose
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates

XX To the Pole Silence

Your way of being.
Your way of seeing
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
And so I gaze avidly
Against which we have been projected?
What . . .
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings

Writhing their stunted limbs,

Beneath the snowflakes I notice fa?des
What can we know of whatever
picture-plane will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Given by nature will soak into it.
Wheezing ravens, when
Standing in the way of the truth.
A white
Summer bees were saying to try that,
to hold a terrifying beast
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
Floating on the sky.
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Figures of light and dark, these two are walking
The weight of being born into exile is lifted.
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
And so I gaze avidly
With a hand freed from weight,
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,
By what it seems to have moved toward.
In any I do not betray you,
I still go forward,

At the white place of the road's vanishing
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
As if your human shape were what the storm
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
Dim, and die tonight?
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Is the moon to grow
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Trampled snow is the only rose.
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
Dismal, endless plainˇ
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good

XX
To the Pole

"Be off!" say Winter's snows;

A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
The edge of that other square cut from the right their bellies,
they're out cold, instantaneously shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees

XIII The Route to the North

Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
That square?h, 56 x 56
People might see to be the opening
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Life, or only joy, that stands out
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
and turn it into something cartoon-funny.

XVII Greenland

They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men

XIII The Route to the North

She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
By trees?r might see as the masonry
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Floating on the sky.
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
I know,
And piled up at the base of the columns
Away from their profundity of surface.
The edge of that other square cut from the right
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
The purest form is always the one
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
I know,

Escapees from the cold work of living,
The line between the outside and this room
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
My only thought is for what has

XIII The Route to the North

they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Away, my songs, must we go
Snow haze gleams like sand.
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Beneath the snowflakes I notice fa?des

At the white place of the road's vanishing
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Blurring the terrain,
Only a whiter absence to my mind,

X. The British Attack on the Arctic

Blurring the terrain,
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
With a hand freed from weight,
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Bronze the sky, with no
The ordinary, wide scene which begins
Dismal, endless plainˇ
They move against, or through, or by, or toward.
He terrifies the
Vast, he seems so wild;
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Trampled snow is the only rose.
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply

IX After the Great Northern Expedition

Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
A salamander scuttles across the quiet and chaste,
lovely as lakes to the retired men
High on this surface, guarding the edge of P?e
A kind of snow, which hesitates
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;

That this mud draws on the stone.
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream

VII Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay

into early blooming.
Then, the inevitable blizzard
Glimmering of light:
The pain of being born into matter.
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Yes.
The obvious
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
So you can watch me watch uplifted snow

Before those virile women!
Against this sky no longer of our world.
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart

XI Franklin's Last Voyage

That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
to restaurants for Early Bird Specials.
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
To have been claimed by what we see of what
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
For any part of them we can make out
This drizzling three-day January thaw,

IX After the Great Northern Expedition

Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
Dismal, endless plainˇ Yes. You'd want that said,
(if you
A pallid yellow lingers

X The British Attack on the Arctic Event

the end of the painted road ends up
This gap in time, this season not their own,
What? What can you do?
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Coextensive with everything?
How could they know?
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
But when, on the timepieces that we call
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
(Our fortitude grows dim in
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular

That desire has ever built,
have approached In the woods, close by,
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....
And beyond, the same sound of bees
Appear to lift up from the lake;
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
Are muffled into silence that refuses

IX After the Great Northern Expedition

at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
This third day of our January thaw,
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
Against which we have been projected?
What . . .
In white, in paint too representative
Dim, and die tonight?
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
He is harsh, dismal, iceˇthat is, exiled;
Homeward into the howling woods, although
From point to point of meaningˇopen? closed?ˇ
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
Blurring the terrain,
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
With a hand freed from weight,
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
Lucky the bellˇstill full and deep of throat,
This perfection, this absence.

In search of brighter green to come.
No way!
The face of a Quos ego),
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Floating on the sky.
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
Would their world not remain comfortably
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
By the design of our own silent eyes
References
Covering the landˇ
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
grow hot in the parking lot, though they're
End of the comedy.
Onto my frozen fingers.
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
the foul pole relaxes.
She's raged all afternoon
And M╦re Chose's square of world, even as they

XIV Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the Tegetthoff

will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
Astonished that you have returned to go
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
and the Splendid Splinter.
For a few dreamy dollars,
Floating on the sky.
Lucky the bellˇstill full and deep of throat,
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Point, after all, when finally one reaches

visitors' dugout.
The osprey whose nest is atop
At the end of the road.
Even if they are staring

II List of Franklin Search Parties At San Biagio

in the most intense room
References

XI Franklin's Last Voyage

Only a fox whose den I cannot find.

VI Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush

the foul pole relaxes.
She's raged all afternoon

I Further Exploration of Spitsbergen

In a single floral stroke,
Cuts out of its width (81).
Unfair
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,

Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
With its lament, it often sounds,
instead, wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Preface to the 1948 Edition Of
observation lying on the ground
Dim, and die tonight?
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
M╦re and P╦re Chose are walking away from the
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
In a single floral stroke,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
giddy as good kids playing hookey.
Now, A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
Calling me to you with wild gesturings

X The British Attack on the Arctic

for a few weeks, statistics won't seem snoozing.
A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
People might see to be the opening
Blurring the terrain,

In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
Like theirs ends?
From what distant point of vision

III. Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers: The Greeks and the Vikings

For any part of them we can make out
Not daring to oppose
Again awaken from your being gone to find
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Unreadable from behindˇthey are well down
shortcake, waffles, berries and cream
"Now it's my turn to sing!" demonstrating their talent for comedyˇstroke
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
At these masses the snow hides from me.
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
Standing in the way of the truth.
A white
A matter of getting all that right . . .
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.

ˇThe place the road ends, that patch of white paint

 


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