like the bitten bowl of
the forgotten cabbage tear,
all gone by the side of the road. dust
blowing onto the lavender leaf
coughs let loose but only
into the wind through the passenger window.
i miss your face, and i never thought that
my teachers would pass before me. long gone are the days
of whimsy says i, we have a new path now and the
stones are all too rough to navigate.
it is hard for me to see you
as dead. your hands did wonders for the aches of
old Buffalo and you spoke things you meant.
at least in death, we believe everything you said.

I have a new blog that I am posting all of my cameraphone ONLY photography at. check it out and add me as a follower:
CLICK HERE!

i edited this out. sorry. shouldnt have ranted on here.

This is a 'failed poem' from within my old hard drive-

I don't want to be the rain
that falls wrong against the
lip of the bad girl's cap.
Her fit dress gets messed in
the wind and I get rosey/rosie/rosy cheeked
by glassy stares from dry-paper
schoolgirls who wait patiently,
profoundly, with the thunder
of a wind-tossed skirt
among the yew line and cry out loud
into devices their worries and whimsy
and whatevers.
All I want is a soft place for
the next ten years. I want to never feel
gravel along my nail.
I woke up for years alone, purposefully, ( Or so I will lie.)
Drunk often and filled with whatever produce
doesn't melt in an Army Navy satchel: I know
the hunger that fills you when you stumble
in from the cold, November, erect and wanting
with the cold floor and a false relationship
hanging on the words of a judgemental
step-mother. No little lovers,
not any more.

I wish that I could be
with alice. Her mother and the
older man who she rests with
call down to me on sunday mornings
pickled blue with the juniper
sludge and fragrantly belching
out curses towards the sun in
such a way that I am amused at the
potential magic they must posess.
I wish I could be with alice when
on Saturday evenings the television
loses it's podium and reclines gently
behind a drape. Softly sleeping,
a greay burial mask of dust coddling
and puffing on it's cheeks. Her family is
renowned. Reknowned(?) for their worth
For their shadow theater. What we see behind
the blinds when we gawk from the street.
I heard once that her mother,
In the severity of a cold dew-soaked summer dawn,
coughed up a ring of marihuana smoke.
Immediately across the courtyard she waved,
and then with the strokishly perverted weight
of the pope's less-nimble wrists she blew a kiss,
hand covered in a lake of dried semen.
These days it seems, i wish only
for the air that floated above that milky
death and it's sour sweet demands.

I just don't see why you
of all the clodden and cloven
get the best campsite
up here. The desert has been
emptied of our napping
and the waters have gone on
from swimming;
we really are just
so
alone.
Once..... upon a time,
in a distant land of
glass broken in cold water ( you know the danger of this.)
and shivers during a
piss, I came up with a
reasonable solution-
We would dig ourselves a new foundation.
But
'the cinders', they refused to budge.

it is hard to lay
so still along the length of
the dead tree, among the brown
yellow-cat-eyed leaf skeletons and the
"come home soon" of the in walking
dirty clouds.
(maybe a new rain, or an
older soft snow who will lay and dance
and swallow fresh air and then
hold the scent of my excitement
in it. i can roll it with my
pink palms and place it in the freezer.
it will not melt.)
I will begin the trek back towards
daylight soon. when it gets deep and
hungry like this outside,
there is nothing more correct
than to wait it out,
as a caterpillar dressed for the
formal, a caught glance uphill,
watching a young girls legs as they struggle against
gravity. hello skirt, hello and god bless
to the perverted wind.

the air smells like Fowler, Michigan, 1995 on a Friday or Saturday night and I have begun to booze. It smells calm here.

i am drunk and vic chestnutt has just died from a suicide attempt that had left him in a coma.

in all of which have been
monumental seasons
caught and thrown back into the great lakes
and up the hills into the smokey
mountains also/and where laurel leaf
clover come and drink from daisy
bays, we found that a letter
could still make it though the normal post.
i have been many things for many men,
and a few for many women and within all of my
endeavours and within the graces of a
mutable orchestra, none matters more than
to lay the beast down perfectly on her back,
so that the strings won't rust
and the capo won't dance it's way
down the chalkboard into timbre.

be still

the good cloth buzzing and
drumming and drink fill
and full
and
proper of the hum.

Al Charity's face from inside cover of our new split album/book.

The three books coming out this year:

Wright Williams and Jessica Fenlon - untitled book on personal experiences with exorcisms.

Wright Williams ( Writer) Dictionaries ( Musician) Split album/book- FUCKYOUILOVEYOU. Large LP styled book with album. Book is based on the album but has had the lyrics rewritten into a monologue on the concept of 'Loss'.

Wright Williams -Being The Undead Stone.
Poems regarding the concept of a creation of American Kami, spirit-gods of the Shinto religious tradition.

American Saint for December, 2009.
Sri sri Aldo Leopold, an under-sung hero of modern environmental wisdom.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aldo_Leopold

Doing three books at the same time is kind of blowing my mind.

oh!
and there is a lot of new stuff on its way here.
I have been on a mental hiatus for awhile.
it is over now.

i have a domain name redirected towards here now,
you can type in wrightwilliams.org and you
will end up cozy, lying in the sun here.

i want to keep you
bound in a cat's collar
dragging, soft pulling, ( hummmming)
feeling the burn of the
old cold oak that we haven't
brushed in 'some time' because
it gets rough after a
fter
after
long winters. i can be there for you
but can you meet me
near the drive
way at le
ast?

I am thinking of this being the beginning of a line of cd-shaped/sized chapbooks that read like a record would be listened to/liner notes.

I am now often caught awake

while you sleep uncontrollably

and achingly silent. Your soft

dove-moans and the cool touch

of skin swimming through our

night linens pull and tug at my

lost hunger. It is not often

now that

in my solitude

I sit quietly or

dance alone in the kitchen,

barefoot and horny with food

or liquor or paper in my hand.

I never have to be alone ever

again and because of this I am

now content to waste part of it

asleep, but partnered. Thus aches

the prayer of the Moon. It can only

dream of what it would be like

to bed with the Sun.

Poor poor old glowing boy.

Economy of the Dead the complete early writing by wrightwilliams

Economy of the Dead the complete early writing by wrightwilliams

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The Lord of Cough and Choke.

Hungry and awake
I am inside the mouth of Immense Creation.
I am held here like a
wet and twisted rabbit. Reminded of
my forest-days: I once saw a
brown and white hart come
up through a wooded cliff
like an aroused dagger. His
throat heaving and throbbing
like the pistol of lore that chases
me through the night into dawn.