Translating English into English
Second semiannual We eat our words event, March 19, 1998

Each person writes a little something. That little something is then translated by another person. And then again, perhaps. And again. "Translation" is loosely interpreted; the translator may apply whatever rules or whims s/he sees fit.


I had a day today. It was. I went. I a carton of milk. Sour. Eggs store were. Boiled. Ate.

This fella lives life kindly. He had a day, a day unlike other as are every other. Odd, because in difference theyre similar.



The orange rests in one hand, while the lime in the other. My palms balance what I wish to give you undeciphered -- the babies of the tree near me.

I want to have sex with you and have your babies... but I dont know how to tell you. All I have is nature as my companion.

Hey there babe. I dont have any money, but we should make some. I feel naked, like a babe, like you, in the woods.


I found myself, one afternoon, yearning for a lost morning. I had named the loss of the morning that mornign, and had been warned by the priest that its memory of form would be shorn by the use of corny turns of phrase, and its prescience of material would be torn by the presence of phases of hearing. Years passed, ears amassed, and my yearning for the past became glazed with the shine of the sun.

It was round about or after the middle of the day, on one day when I realized that I was consumed by a longing for the part of the day that had passed. The cleric admonished me, saying that my recollection of the part of the day I had lost would be cropped by the cornbread revolvers of strawberries. Also, the part of the day conspicuously absent from memory would be ripped asunder, foreseeing the fate of gauze and the auditory states of ambient stasis. Ages and auditory organs changed lanes, and my longing for the morning was glassy in the cirque de soleil.


Im sorry. Im sorry. The sorry bird was sorry. The sorry thing chirped. The wall chirped to appease the sorry thing. Oh sorry sorry stuff oh oh. The sore oh oh.

I hurried, stood, flew, and hurted. And made noises. [Cheep! Cheep!] Im sad of echoes and full of -- [cheep!] -- ow, it hurt and rubbing and the [tweet whistle noise].

Im late! Im late! The Wright brothers crashed through the window glass, hand blown, hand shattered. Not enough joy, and now the reverberations through history will fill the deal, with the ante gone. I rise, remembering the glass, reach for my side and... tseetseeflsssssauchrah!

A very important White Rabbit glider flyer thing with wreckage and shattering and trigger fingers broken. The cubes of sugar shudder through centuries with shillings accumulating for Antigone. Take a stand and reassemble tumblers on my team with gibberish.


once upon a tiny lash
an eye was spotted, rather brash
and with its pupil duly followed
the fiber as it flew like pollen
and wished upon the soaring wisp
the desire from inside its lips
and prayed that vision would come alive
by taking certain persons lives.

cliché on me a little whip
my iris was a leopard and Id like to hit a cymbal
and with my student wed be conformists
the thread was sewn quickly and turned into particles
a fairy came to fly with us... but could not speak
we asked God to help us perceive a baby
but became murderers

oi oi spank
oi oi bang
oi oi cookie cutter
oi oi bag
oi oi muted fly
oi oi little deity
oi oi goodbye


Last night I dreamed I drew a circle on the face of the deep.
Inside the circle, 3 things were born: color, shape, and form. So form said Im looking for a name.
And mass replied: Naming is deception. I am what is there.
Then color cried out I am but perception. And I am nowhere.

Past Dwight, my creamed thigh blew a birdcall in the space of the creep. Beside our whirls, free wings tore morning. Fuller chafes were barn. Lowborn good-time, fucking for a game.
And after, why, nothing was except in iambic pentameter.
Then calls of fright-shouts. My lamb cuts perception! And my ham goes there!

The circle things the wing things the chafed things look for fucked things why nothing prayed for a rhythmic prayed thing going ot the fearful first of it the dirty meat thing oh meat you are dirty oh oh pray for me.