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Ish Klein


Two Hundred And Fifty Words (or so) On Process.


Writing:  What?  I write what I think is happening.  The factors that have shaped my consciousness are what I try to know.  If a person doesn’t know what is influencing them, how will know if they are seeing reality clearly?   Not knowing one’s influences can lead to difficulty.   Maybe someone is  addicted to the enchanted forest and  the forest is a trap?  Maybe they’ll find it hard to leave even if they want to because their fantasies have shaped their brain to work against their progress.  It makes sense to me to seek the truth within a context of forgiveness.  This way you don’t burn in regret or hatred;  I’m saying this because it was a problem that I had as a young person.


I am prone to be avoidant but truth seeking means that I have to avoid avoidance.   One leaves fantasy land to give a hand to a sick friend, for instance.  Or to give a hand to your sick self, stuck in a tree in a lost world…  I think writing should make a person more capable of facing their life.


Why Write?  It is activating.  Sometimes I get depression and writing helps me out of it.  When I am depressed, I power down and it’s like waiting for the worst.  When this starts happening, if I can write something,  a part of me can unlock another part of me.  Having a habit of writing is good because actions become more compelling the more you do them:  practice.  (this may be obvious but I’ve got to write 25o words…)   I’m on board with the project of changing consciousness through action and writing is one way of doing this.


How?   When something occurs, in the first wave I just record everything with no judgment.   Sometimes I go back immediately after the wave, because I have to make it legible.  I write long hand.   Revision is after the first wave of information.  I often wait a little while to revise because I want to not be entranced.


When/Where?  I write each day; generally early, that’s when I’m freshest for revision.   Where?  Good Question:  environment can influence material.  When I cleaned a bar, I used to write in the morning alcohol fumes.  I don’t have that job anymore  and I’ve noticed the subject matter is different; maybe stabler.  Now I write after riding my bike.  When I’m walking around, I stop and record.  Any place works though I prefer my apartment because its relatively climate controlled.



HELPFUL TO OTHERS?  Sharing.  I like to read my poems when they are new to see what the people think or what happens when I read them.  Feedback can be negative; in which case I remind myself to  be strong.  The best feeling, I think, is to write something that makes people laugh.  I love encouragement; it’s difficult not to get too dependent on it.  Finding people who you respect who will challenge and encourage you is the thing to do.   Anyone can do this if they want to.  Anyone can be a writer.



Air Bourne


I’m some spec traveler in the air over this.

Twerped is the curse of below lyings.


Getting over ages, the kids on the porch come back to me.

Bullet-headed clean machines on their way to the beach.


I wonderful the one behind the screen; he can’t catch the latch

to leave and now I’m him.  Here we are inside the slide


what animal caught beside makes human biology insane.


For once we want for once again.

Where did he put those silver wheels, for example


that kept night apace:  too fast for takeover.

He really did think they’d continue gentle whir


for sleep behind the sound.

He’d close his eyes and oceans would take him away.




Beyond Brink


This slink thither to dim rock space

waits when I lay levee to oncoming confluent agency.


Sounding ocean liners away but audible?  Impossible.

But I hear the sea near.


Go out now, see if outside wants to be hit

by  my stride and staved stare and open palms

and deer don’t dare look away.


Nor will I from those of quick tip-toed gait:

strange from ground grown.


The deer show how underground guides their step when sunlight

subsides and in this evening every sixth wave sounds

from under earth of plain state.


And cemetary waterways will sound when threshing bodies

to put in place-  what weighted for earth,

what weighted for air.


Drafts follow close careen.

Birds make this breeze and take new meaning by stone sites.


Striving for living instruments

like the one made of me.

They play me well so tuned am I to their take up to sky.


Intimate circles to my eyes they etch in flying.

Maintained what new in eye created by their flight.


So I cannot see ordinarily nor can I hear well anyone

save who makes way to the ocean under.



A Bout Before A Book Of Secrets


A the admirer of sun that is also Sun lets smaller sun

B who not only is but gets things done

and A may let life all over.


B is too an admirer:  inside each eye a shadow gets undone.

Light he has to cast on what he is admiring

to see it better; to hold.  B is someone.


Elsewhere, X suffers delusions as to assay

her gross body hung high curtains inside herself.

Curtains who unsight her spirit then rot to oily dots

which permanently stain it.


The pitfallen sight in X lets no sun yield gold to her eyes.

The bad translation:  A sun turns X very red and won’t let up

even though blisters set in.


A can gently warm.


X likes not that this is largely luck and/or locale.

Anyway, said X, the sun can be melted; it’s not so much.

And Henchmen, nothing alone, are by and large mere suck-ups.


How will B get through?  X needs him.

She isn’t all bad; just stuck in the surplus of winter air

frosted by freelance North wind who the sun never lets in.


It is an unsavory environment according to accounts with

what could be called an interesting by-product:


pressure and chill formed subset bodies

who very little spirits found to inhabit. 

These bodies are dull metal but once a spirit moves in

they get out of control:  Fetid lead

                          Dirty divisible iron

                          Shrieking inconvertible tin.


Then sub-sets:  silver inside has all provisions.

Another only heard below breath:  mercury-


All this below the mantle of dirt.


X should raise the periscope when hurt scrams. 

Or right now as when a householder holds out a hand to rain.


B is above with a shovel


let’s hope that they hit so between both:


the burning person area.


If you are alive you have to hurry-


Quicksilver is the mother of us all.



The Idiot


Not me crazed; she’s totally different.

Entered my hide having died

remembering what her favorite said,

“The Dead make wings from live ones.”

Live one:  me.


This little idiot is not free.

She’s in my complex; stult strung among rafters.

Nor is she involved in what light might move interior.

She’s a slow burn up and up indeed.

I can’t sleep; she’s bees beneath my skin.


See she’s resorted my subtle files.

Frequently this fells me.

(I don’t know if I’ll ever see the old ladies rabbits again.)


Unfortunate for her,

she doesn’t know how to build wings from what I’ve got.

She cries in my arm over it.



In Turn


Through night-taught instinct steeped. 

A dream league hum-ringing blood which scripts fortunes from vein.


In such channels taken lives to leaves of tea.

Pride cannot confiscate this tide; nor can it stain.


So bed to right of night when cur grows those teeth to gnash

at Dawn’s unblack lack of ally. 


Curtail is rip by more mouth size. 

What strayed their for attack?


The dream will knight one free to go where blood

insists a map will bear soul to purpose.


If resist, you’ll not be alone in the boat. 

By flood of mortal you were born to man surface.


Upheld ‘twixt rules that rule our smut and scars;

their offspring, we, like living fury under stars.



Lost Mass


You find your pigeon; get both hands around this fellow:

before he knows your face he is likely to fly and by God

you need him.  He’ll be tattersall or dusky gray.


He’ll a beast beset in Gaze and Glory.

And you, meaning me, will be a mick glow previous to pub’s,

 “lock after leaving.”  Then the doubts after wind down.


Have you still got the bird?

He’ll help you eventually love to hold.

Omen amounts the mass.


My own omen birdy baby nursed under my neck.

Agree when flies in front, trip stepping you to tawdry light

from sky to sill.  Great danger awaits your mind jumping


to be amateur vessel sans pride.

I must admit, nothing else in the world matters to me.



Twixt Corporeal Sentences


Yes, the face of sanctity has changed.

What made the mark majestic was so concerned.


A doe like here-we-go running with a coal cart

passing sadness to hop on at the top.


That joy ride will not leave circumstances at muckity thresholds

nor flesh-holds at green light disasters.


When the safe to grieve bell tolls-

no takers.


I found old knights kneeling before

work on worthwhile tasks.


Concrete calling:  give me a hand.


(A needed dream; I give up.)


Groundwork; a land to help. 

Sand:  who understands it?


Reflecting essentially for anyone.



We Will Free Eachother


Yes, yes larval.

Larvelous was eye- the stars,

they were wondering, “when is x coming out? 

Considering the material, x will be something:  !”


Always it was exclaimed.

It was exclaimed!!!

The expectation and their faces like the mark:

a line dividing over a little black hole.


A glamorous anus was the mark of the sentiment.

And then, and then came the actor.

The dork who wanted form.

And he figured where the seeing-me-capacity was and he watched me be.


This guy had been practicing accuracy

and still he came upon me with calipers,

Calipers!  Still he pointed towards me

until I hissed


And he hissed back.

It was so ugly!

I cried and he cried

and I thought pathetic!


So I rolled up and grumbled.

I put a mountain in my mind.

I broke from it- a boulder me

and I hurled down a slope-  the hardest part of the mountain.


As a stone on the base of it did I make me

and then I said slowly,

“Mountain.  Go.  Away.  Leave.  Me.  In.  Space. 

The.  Actor. Can.  Look.  At.  A.   Rock.”


When I looked out the actor was a rock

a rock who may have been there before me.

I should not have been so astounded.

So much the fool was I being.



I was, I was, I was

just short of being nothing

and the actor was more on top of it than me.

This actor-  watchout!


If you see the actor, evaporate-  find a place- be there instead.


I returned to the serpent form.  I said,

“Stop looking at me while I’m working on stuff!!”

and I know you know this.  I know you know

he’s saying when I say this at the same time


the same exact time.  And maybe even-

No.  That’s just me-   but some would say

he’s saying it first.  Some would say,

I said it first.




What do you want then?

what do you want?

so weakened was I then being , indeed, NOW recounting

recounting turns me into an aspic, unset-


a drooling reverberating- just RECOUNTING

and I have been Recounting for hours!

everyday at some point, in stone time,

although I am not now a stone XY.



under the heat lamp sun, the earth-

our incubator.  Within this context

of incompletion, I am coming to  in space.


So it’s electric flying too

over grey and glinting paths

the sun touching only me likeso

because it’s my feeling


and wild-eyed I find myself aloft

and taken away:  hurray, hurray

I say, “We’re here!”

and the ground comes up


And the actor is on the pavement splayed

mouthing my every mood.  Instantly I say,

“Don’t believe him-  he isn’t it

He isn’t something; he’s pretending.”


Which is what he’s saying. 

Then he says (and this comes from my mouth, too)

“Sold for food. 

I sold my birthright for food.


I was hungry.



But I am not hungry.


But I said it anyway.


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