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

Shared via AddThis

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.

sorry that i haven't updated this in a bit,
new book is coming out soon and i have been hectic
working on that.

the stone has only one
wish and it is to cough,
like men. he wishes that
once in his long overdrawn
and particularly sedentary
existence that there would
be a chance that he could
pause
and pretend to have to catch his breath.

nothing shakes the lungs harder
than sleep
or a life that feels
full of it.

i have never been cautious.
my mouth opens often and
allows it to become a home
for the flies.

i feel as if i have
broken a dish. the tears
won't start but when i get
this way, or
'this way'
it's like i have slipped
and the porcelain
has cut my inner heel.
whatever do i care?
i can make my bed in the side yard
and worship among the plum trees.
it is hard,
this love,
it is hard for me
not to fall asleep
face down in the grave.

i coughed sinserity
sensirity
sincerity
into the owls deep
and rough neck.
with a smallish and
childlike hoot
he gathered his wings
and drew me in.

1.)
i wish i could lay in the mud
of an elephant's back and
know that the sun can reach me through
these eight layers
of skin-
but
when i want a plateful of
reflection
those oak ears
will lay down rest
upon me.




2.)
carry on your back
the weight of a meal and
get lost in the grove near the fountain.
my childhood was filled to
it's obscene brim with
metallic tastes;
nails in my mouth,
nickels rubbed softly across my cheeks,
wresting tin over the bridge
of my face.
the water carried iron into my veins
and i felt my supernatural image
dine on the filings from
the workman's bench.

I made a little symbol
for music on my palm.
I gave a copper penny
to the conductor in
Phoenix, he came
back to my room and he
slipped off his boots.
The cat prowls only
because it anxiously waits
for its lover to
come home.

Above, floating in the white, is the cover of my new book of poems and ...writing... that will be coming out in November.

Casper white and
with no body of work to pull from,
strawberried by the looming
cast off from her jersey
dress; my best features are
still my aches.

be still and quiet,
twig baby. i have made
requests that they come
and piece you into their
family. they come calling at odd hours
looking for a body to
imprint their ways. be still
and be cautious, i have made claims that mad men
soak dishes in. it is a dark water,
but no darker
than what you have bled in.

i have shocked the tree into birth.
you can just sit back and watch,
the leaves fall and become the
parking lots of snails below.
they are so clean,
no salt,
no terror.

1.) leaning in for a kiss,
i can taste the black pepper
in the red sand. what will i make
for dinner?

2.) i was more cautious when i found
that it was the hunting
and not the gutting that i despised
the most. i watched a slim button-buck
cock it's head in horror, this is the war
against the Pandavas he says,
i do not pause. i wonder who he will be
when he is human.

3.)
catholic nature tells us
that we are always unforgiven except
THEN;
little hands are better baked in the sun,
little pencil loaves of bread
unbought sticks
the twigs,
the mercy, oh
it refills.

at noon,
oh and within the worst thoughts possible
i come to myself in a dream,
asleep and aching on the couch,
now i have known the madness and the
callous causeway of
the single man,
i went through this world
fucking
and burning with gasoline and
with the guise of some
false-hearted lover i came
false-clean,
but now,
gaffed like the tape
of a work site,
melting in the sun,
turning black with the hand-mark of
subway railings,
i see my faults and
my funs.
It runs out,
the gas,
and the engine clips and corks,
what would i give
to have this rest stop
yeaaaaaars ago,
knowing the mileage of the
road.

if not for the

wet earth and oh,

how it was that one evening,

moons ago-

moons, i say,

i would not be lengthwise

a soft bug built from the hard clay:

winter water

wilderness and

all the Y's between.

i came up through the water
after a dip in the pond
and i felt it roll off my skin.
i felt the sun dance on my back
and his brothers, dark nimbus bulls,
shake and pat my shoulders with their moistened hooves.
i have done well with my gifts.
in the Good Book
i learned of spiritual gifts-
but they never once mentioned
the blessing
that is 'giving in'.

i believe that
there is a great mirror here laughing at me.
it's back is stuckfast to the wall with honey.
the birds couple up in unison with the shake of my
nervous hands.
even a lizard in texas,
with it's dry cracked lips against a fresh currant
knows
that i am in love.

with the weight if the,
well maybe 'wait',
of the tin trays upon my chest i can
feel my valves heal.
i can hear them heal.
a stiller beat, fit for the
diving of a pond
where i may take frog,
or snipe
if a city boy is around.
i woke up and when i looked upon the oak mats
i saw the colors of a water washed canvas cry out
like it was far from
the source of its wetness.
they peeled and spit
and curled and coughed
and a glowing ember came between my knees
and held high by the sun of masturbatory ancient dreams,
it grew to flame.
now i am no longer alone
and my peaceful anger i kept as a weeping
thrush,
a splint to lay my worry against,
a crutch i used for the broken
ankles of unhappiness,
it has melted and joined the ranks
and denizens of the forgotten ice station.
they sit in the ground,
astute,
with their ears pressed against clay-rich soil
carrying on in anxiety,
wishing and 'counting beads'
that i may change my prayer.
that this which i have lied about searching for shall end.
that love shall no longer awaken within me
and that the past will blossom.

i have poured salt and boiled vinegar on that
spoiled soil.
now is the time to dig into fresh earth.

standing,
in the mud of a new place
i may find the dirt too watery
or often times i feel as if
my boots do not stick
quite enough.
but now i have gone barefoot
and its henna lines have been traced.
the mud now clings to me
like a raindrop at
the breast of a sparrow, or
a coyote as it nuzzles a
great laugh into it's kill.

this afternoon i will
blow my worries into the hollowed/hallowed
out peel of a tangerine and lay it
carelessly upon the
flame of a candle.

My throat is apple,
it has reddened and blossomed in the moon
here tonite and the way of a spiders walk has permeated my
frame; Shaking and biting with my juts.
I am confident in one thing, my death.
When it comes, swift and deliberate,
with the unmistakingly simple
coat of the red violet ocean
through my heart,
the valves will stir and settle-
crying out into the void for the cough of
uncertainty, for the choke of
instance. I will die early,
clothed in significance from one thing,
a brown box,
a glass slipper,
an unnamed package that
walks the walls and hallways of a small dormitory school.
What if i have left a child behind somewhere through my youth,
or what if i have spawned the blossom of a new
Brown Shirt Ensemble who carry through the night
torches of unending uneasiness?
I have at least laid a wall
among the vines
and among the careless sweeping dirt of the yard.
The fountain pump is broken,
the cord has come unplugged,
the water,
it carries itself over the lip
on it's own mission.

You can hold my water in your
palms, but like the rubber-edged sword of
millions of ants crawling in distinct lines
tracing your name among the
sidewalk skin of Broad Street i will dissipate
and resume my life of uncockled
leisure within the fruit trees in the
dwarf orchard. I ache for the tinned
dents of the watering can and the feeling you have
when the ground breaks
and my water moves closer
to the sun.

real writers tell stories about horses
about who rode them and how they died and
who they loved and how wonderful it felt or
feels to win and i am a penniless monster who
writes stories about who rode them the worst.

John Keats wrote love letters to his 'Fanny' and they were the dullest scoop of trout to ever die in the sun.

i am hollowed out
and dully thumped against a
log. i am ached and split,
the paper on the sides of a thin
tin can.
where will the big one
rest? where will the coughs of mitre
saws catch- where will the dew recline in it's
sexual war against the sun?
my horn of plenty, my calloused
elbows
my greased bones hang from
the old hook in your garage.

i feel my arms become
dead wet sycamores. i like the way the
glass jar holds the pine needles and
hiccups in the breeze.

'Maybe' asks me if tigers have
caramel flavoured fur and when i come near the
bath tub she is reclining deeply;
her breath bubbling up through the thin skin
of the holy soap.

'Casualty' asks me if i can tell the clock
a story so that when it sleeps,
and it will- deeply,
it will dream of custard and moth eaten
cloaks that a king or a princess or a
fairy queen might have worn.

'Captured', in all of her glory,
sings high among the mountain
and her jade eyes rest heavy on her
glowing copper cheeks.

'Maybe' wants to know if the ducks- the mallards- fly with grace,
or is the wind, a divine flow of the Spirit's breath, in charge of their
travel. I sing a little tune and cup my hands over my ears, hungry for the brrrrrumph of the
coming train.

The Ark!
Oh, it never fit in among the other things. We
placed it-
yes, well it was set among the things in the closet-
Robert knows what i mean. He- well he rings up orders all day and often times
-when the moon is down and people have gathered in droves inside the store-
he cannot fill all of their canteens and he has to turn some away.
Without water we cannot make tea.
Without water we cannot cook, bake bread and- do you realize we never pluralize bread?
It already is!
But yes,
the Ark!
We lost it years ago.
I once knew a woman who told me she saw it at a yard sale.
I don't respect any woman who shops for her home
in the lawn of another's.
Do you?

i am a soft groan
in a whisper louder than
anyone elses.



castor oil for lunch
broken candies in my hand
open throat is dry.

this leaf will never know
how it feels to hit the lake
because it is kept up in the air
by the wind.

being without water is being away from home for too long.
what i wouldn't give to be in Hayworth Creek among the reeds putting a t-shirt flag on
a sapling and sitting still, soundless, against the bank.

three truths





there are many hard ways to feel love
___________________________
there are many loves that feel hard
___________________________
there are many loves

these are just little diary entries that do talk quite a bit about trees-



it took me five months of digging up through the earth.
when i hit the layer of rotten bark and leaves that
make up the heavenly mildewed carpet of the forest
floor i cried in joy. i had been down there for years.
i had even begun to lie to myself that the woods no
longer existed. hello to sun upon my cheeks. hello to
trees aching and shifting in union with a divine energy
we don't have theories about yet. hello blue sky.
_______________



sometimes i feel very far away.
i push the heaviness of my body into a
fallen tree and feel myself within the
folds of my mother.



_________________



i am cautious with love. i am not
cautious to fall in love. i ran among
these beech trees on saturday and i feared for the worst.
i will never know when i am happy.


___________________


comfort is
being in
belonging.

____________________


glass tumblers sit
comfortable on top
of oak coasters. i wrote you
a story and it is here
in the dirt. this twig was
part of my hand for ten minutes.
do you remember when i was
part of you, once?

a:

i create a religion. in this new faith
the devotees rise at 4am and take
cold angry baths in steel tubs of
pure river water. they wet their
hair and shout underwater.

b:

i create a religion. in this bramble
bush women bare their breasts and
perform the sacred dance;

while without covering they lower their shoulders
and groan loudly. every sequence follows this path:
to the right
then the left
then backwards.

when the shaking dance has ended we go in peace.

c:

i create a religion in which we wake up together.
never is there a moment where human skin does
not meet another persons human skin. when the sun hits the
peak of the horizon and begins allowing its yolk to
spill forth between the cracks of the mountains we
eat. only bread we have baked ourselves. because
we must not end touching we have taken turns kneading
it with our knuckles. we eat together, feeding each other.


d:

i create a religion. men are not permitted to talk when the moon is out.
we are not permitted to know the power of rivers and lakes.
they are kept only for those who identify as women.
men are for carrying in the ash we use to annoint our
foreheads and to cleanse those who have lost love.

1- can you feel the
walls just begin to
drop? the sandstone of the
cavern drops off here and
sprinkles itself in a spiral
on the floor. angered water
settles. the sides of the cave
erode. the water blackens.
the cave sinks further into the pool
that has formed. clear your throat
and sift away the depth of this home.
Remember-
as Leonard said,
"this is how the light gets in."

underneath the wet earth.




i have kept myself in the bathroom
with a drink
the razors are rusty the
coughing of the orchids steams the mirror again
and i am sleeping silently along the wall.
my body the ochre of a burnt walnut
i am dreaming of a love letter that
i will never finish writing
and is undeliverable.
the skin we wear peels gently
like a fruit in the winter-
feeling caught up in oneself
we let down the organic guards
and catch onto the streams of
compliment that carry throughout our
humdrum day.
this gun of anxiety,
provided to me from my mother
and the ashes of my barn-childhood
wakes me from the slumber of
wishful thinking.
love,
is me telling you
as such.

we rested along the river,
sap-stuck stone as an ashtray.
laying nude on our sides
feeling the sun crawl into
arms. feeling the sun fall backwards
into my chest. hovering and panting
against my heart.

layout for other book
_____________

prologue: the letter
ch. 1: going to the home to commit the crime with the cane/stop the crime/admitting the addiction
ch. 2: the crime committed/meeting wally/going to meetings
ch. 3: becoming better at the meetings
midpoint: the second page of the letter
ch. 4: finding the grotto with wally/the zendo/becoming close to lauren
ch. 5: lauren introduces drinking again/wally falling out of favor/getting the cane in the will/
ch. 6: going to the home to commit the crime
the end