Beyond Exile 2.2
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Will Dockery
2009-07-19 18:27:15 UTC
Raw Message
To the hip international community
Of travelers at Kuta Beach
Astrid’s a joke
Because she gives herself
To every guy leaving the next day
She’s Swedish
Blonde and ingenuous
Nobody knows her game
Or unreported desire
So in his turn
Busy with late packing and goodbyes
Frank’s intrigued
When Astrid shyly enters his hut
He’s looking for a punchline
Something he once said well
When she reaches up through the thatches
And brings the Milky Way to bed
Nice work, Shrimp Trawler.

"Little Homeless Clown" on Playing Singles Drinking Doubles 17 -
2009-07-27 00:02:27 UTC
Raw Message
Another excerpt from Beyond Exile 2.2:



While he was in Oregon

GTU fired the administration

And gutted the department of Theology And The Arts

He was no longer Union Poet

He had to graduate in the traditional manner

His Book of Numbers was rejected as a dissertation

And he had to stand for comprehensives

With seven world-famous professors

He’d never met Church history

Systematic theology and worse

It’s vaudeville


The way Frank mugs and dances

Coughing up pebbles from the muddy stream

Of five hundred books

Read seven seconds a page

He’s the Tightrope Walker

The Man Of A Thousand Resources

Improvising context and analysis

In a room of cynical theological orthodoxy

They know he never attended a class

They silently applaud his scholarly audacity

They note the preface to his Book Of Numbers

Was renamed The Will To Greater Orgasm by the Jesuits

And distributed free on campus by the Unitarians

They say T J J Altizer called

And quickly failed him without prejudice
2009-08-03 01:02:46 UTC
Raw Message
Another excerpt from Beyond Exile 2.2:



He knows the Chinese

When they invent eight-legged Poetry

He feels this space

Calling that character over

He's been working for months

On nature sketches

And now he's ready

To be the Way

He unwraps the graph paper

And lines up the magic markers

It's late June in Eugene

He has the bright morning sun at thirty degrees

Slanting across the breakfast table

He has Mind transforming itself

Into pure information

The complete history of human life

Without the interpretations or interpolations

Of a mother tongue

It's knocking

It's here

So he drops the connection

From brain to hand

Lets the numbers rise from the boiling iron

At the swimming center of the Earth

And drop perfectly into the squares

On the lime-green page


Each symbol is magnetically imprinted

With the face of Pythagoras

All creation is volcanic

Frank says to a future Frank

There's no writer

There's no writing

There's only Position

That rare and intricate moment

When one leg of the Mystery

Feels like dancing with the other seven