Cheryl Penn & David Baptiste Chirot


a different trajectory—
a diversionary turn

at the speed of dark
going sideways
a one way street

at the speed of sound
breaking deaf barriers
on Burial Mounds

rock scissors paper
which road to choose
to properly careen
oval squared slideshows

diversionary dictionaries
— daylong midnights
gung-ho galaxies
up front backseat drivers

upright pianos, standup bass
scattering rim shots using a brush
cattle ranch cat calls
hay seed horse haws
owls hoot while coots holler

once a diversion
twice a perversion
knitting knots for hottentots
winning ways for tottenham
all that glitters isn't glam

different tragic trajectories
tractors that travel diverse ways

You cannot run forever
no matter your trajectory of choice.

A selection of numerous personas,
but will you go back to yourself?
The one before the one from yesterday?
The best way to get out is to lose
riots, strike police
in hair knots
notes on cotton paper (burgeoned).
With frame freeze
the sound of raw umber
was deafening.

throw it away
it doesn’t suit you.
Do you think it would be alright to stay here today?
He had not noticed
the glitch
the data anomaly
the constant rewind
what happened in prison
while she punched in useless I-TUNES
lets hope they’re still watching.
a drone site
their resources
no matter how you play this
we risk losing everyone inside
it you take this back
it’s a one way ticket
no sentimental feelings allowed
regardless of cost
do you think he got the message?

Establish a permanent link
because —
then it disappeared
someone was watching
this is not real
it WAS the same one
she of course was meditating
some sort of existential exercise
but her
they were faulty
and he thought it stupid.
trajectories to climbing injuries
tunnels, elevators and windmills —
can you see me down here?

sitting at the broken table
eating garlic and horse meat
hot with fragrant horse blood
making fast bets on slow horses
stumbling out of stables
never run the table

below broken windows
the old soldiers home
Rimbaud wrote of
in a Parisian poem

through broken doors
the distant whores
are swelling the airs
singing their wares
ringing their change
in the traffic roar

watching US moon landings
filmed in Nam' s bomb craters
3 stacked TVs showing scenes
2 moon walkers growing obscene
turning into obsessed stalkers
chasing the Stars
of the moonbeam Screen

meanwhile back in the States
a lot of loud haters
big bunches of Red baiters
in dead earnest are debaters
standing up on cloven hooves
screaming to the voting booths

finishing our horse meat meal
getting back to work at hand
plastique explosives to shape and feel
their Beings imagined are growing real
not much time to seal the deal
at last to launch and watch them land
while we blow this soda stand

blowing holes in history
blowing holes in time
blowing holes in space
blowing holes in rhyme

the latest asemic writing
on the old anemic wall
an amnesiac phrasing
in an enigmatic scrawl


these here fragments that are calling out to reach their run and then return to the different trajectory (already right away in my head the nutty rhyming i've never done sounds like a tiny school child who thinks poetry means making things rhyme in time etc etcetera—"it's not a crime/ to rhyme ' There it is!—a demented deejay rapper who dreams in an almost if not quite amazing corniness (??)—i have no idea where any of it came out of it except that inside there is a core that are real events persons the recipe the room the 3 stacked tvs making bombs during dinner or as dessert so to speak," a recipe for disaster"—has been published in one version as prose poem in a chapbook online called After Rimbaud's Illuminations—"after" so and so of one's choice was the writing concept the editor of journal had originally asked for hence the title—and of course the joke that ios is also literally written AFTER Rimbaud wrote his Illuminations,

anarchic and artistic
antique and avant-garde

a different kind of battle
a different kind of war

from walls eyes are watching
from puddles skies reflecting.

A large V surrendered
to the credits [and previous, pervious Mays, Junes and Julys]
one man is not super-human after all
the tripping through rows of comics
with bandaged arms fighting in designer outfits collapsing
while kicking
slow motion speeded things past the speed of bright.
Come here and see the end of a man,
the trap in torchlights
but they would not surrender their stars.
The factory was full tilt with Ming vases, boxed,
The passengers from here were cold.

Sound of iron
and even when you called him,
he didn’t answer and her pace was slow, measured as always
interrupting a rousing symphony (Handel).
The resistance
(perfected — with every eventuality hardware in place) but HE didn’t want a proxy, he wanted HIM. Now stop interrupting me while the sound of a ‘40’s bike came up the neighbor's driveway.

A lake reflected
the sorrow of the sky
a world so different
I could never have known.
Moments in a book
[of unknowing] and then,
it was the end
walking down dark,
strange passages on the day they arrived.
Everyone went to the window and the class was empty but we got stared at anyway.

Horse meat
slow heart and liver beat
feel the punch of life
a knife slice.

heart pounding
the sun shining
but not on me
course language
children’s laughter
but not for me
that’s all outside
while we sit on the inside
fear filled
—for making a mistake
is very costly
keep your secrets your lies those things you need to make you whole meanwhile you don’t know YOU’RE the one full of holes. Shaking hands, tired wrists, I’ve been captive for too long. Strange choices, secret gardens, beating
irregular and then
help me carry this bag
it has a strangers head
I don’t have a charger
but I’ll charge anyway
and meet you later
over crumbed chicken and
horses meet.

my compass spinning—
no direction known

scattering leaves
sun's shadows shifting
Fall of the year
ice stirring in veins—

staring down suicide
seated across the room
keeping pace on sidewalks opposite
will never beat me home
racing not for the finish
finding a labyrinth's thread
a different trajectory
for another day's journey
a different trajectory
trespassing boundaries
divagations other ways
detours from deadly deadlines
forgoing fast lanes and
finding different trajectories

thinking on one's feet
never brought to heel—
different trajectories
ongoing stories

——there that sudden outburst says it better than paragraph on paragraph from the dictagraphs—
telephones and telegraphs—
pictographs and diagrams
there the distant moon
appears in one's hand
real voice reveals
hidden mind—

spontaneous combustion
as compostion—
yes that says it much better what dimimages are haunting behind my eyes
so gives me an idea of why the last days so overshadowed
months of thinking talking death
when life is going on living
seems an obscenity

a different trajectory

a star swerves in space
shifting shadows' seasonal shades
scattering ripples' shining paths
—a brook murmuring in a different tone—
plunges into perilous patterns
concentric circular wave lengths
that in a mud red pond converge
pooling orbits' pulls counterwise
swift towards the vortex—
towards a black hole—
into which a different trajectory
deposits a swerving star—

a different trajectory

footsteps walking quietly
touch gently fallen leaves
among sidewalk cracks
dark abysses emerge
overhead tree limbs moving
create shadow cinemas
flickering among ants
footsteps changing paths
disturb galaxies' light
on gently fallen leaves
anthills in confusion
footsteps quietly leaving

a different trajectory

memories knifing one—
long haunted nights
a ravenous thirst
crying out for light
among dim shadows
spiders spin a nest
—not a web—a nest—
wherein lies an egg
eye-shaped and seeing
awake aware observing
light starved eyes cry
—eye shaped egg reflecting
rays of rising sun

a different trajectory

driving mud rutted roads
way too fast and laughing
sun splashing gold leaf
moment patinaed in time
steering wheel and hubcaps
radio and clock faces
Mandalas all of them
Sacred Circle Spirit Wheel
chrome glorious chrome
A sun-pulling Chariot
A sun-glinting Chevrolet
Space Time Traveling
old country roads

A mountain walk
took me through
eucalyptus forests
damp with mist
and alien fern frosts
red with death
I thought
if I placed a crimson filter
over this trajectory
I would be on Mars.

can you rewind a rogue war
even if the partakers are ugly
find your positions
light the place up
ask the pilot
do you know your way out of here?
They tried to make the other world pretty
but only one imagination is so limited
it takes a full cast
like a choir
rather than a piping solo.
They never saw it coming but that’s the point in being clever
decoy I believe its called.
The palms
were computer generated and the soldiers were hidden
under carpets and when he said YOU’RE clear
there were no more noir depictions of helicopters.

He fell down a mountain
well that’s what THEY wanted
everyone to believe,
but no one saw
the wallet slip away
into a pocket
not belonging.
She gasped she knew him
but not this way,
not dead
pause — can you rewind, can you make him live again?
She of course
could not understand - she KNEW him her head held the knowledge of something greater.

the slate was grey, rain grey
and wet,
their jackets were yellow-lime-green-
bobbies-new ones, innocent and unsure.
look, just leave it
talking into walkie-talkies while the killer —
he just looked on.
she saw severe injuries — on the inside — do you think ANYTHING is accidental?
It’s the trajectories
a life of their own
nothing we can do or say
they weave their own
rock faces
broad places
brother mine,
is time to let go.
the sea hawk — it called —
outside — and within
and the switch?

If I could only turn it on.

and me
about this business
we never get the details, it’s the way.
The Way.
The way of different trajectories.
And she? She set a cordon
it was her way.
Grey skies,
asking - should I pull an all-night-er?
I thought I saw a heart — a real one. Why would you do that?
set the bones to lie?

Red trellis,
sulky daughters,
what can one say?
Did you wise-up?
Always look at the eyes —
they tell the tale
on free-ways
not free
but we — we’re not free.
Say what you want —
they never lie
their users do.

a different trajectory

trains of association
rattling in the suboxosphere
chains of disassociations
chattering in the stratosphere
why go anywhere
go anymanywhere
when you can't get there
from here

saw several shadows stumbling
crawling across crumbling wall
the larger they grow
the closer they are—
bearing down behind me
spray painting scrawls
set to spring and strike me—
whirling wickedly writing
graffiti in their eyes
stunned shocked shreiking
blinded beaten bawling
their shadows now Pygmy sized
my shadow silently slipping away—

a different trajectory—

spilling the beans at soda machines
junkies fingers grasping gashing
metal knobs, plastic windows
ravenous for sugar, blood sugar
chanting and crooning their looney tunes
in plastic receptacles reside
wonders of the mighty world
junkies on junk food feasting
grim grey ghastly gnashing
tearing apart layered chremicals
non-nutrition entering veins
bio-chemical disasters
hitting too close to home—
walking human junkyards
junk to junk—shot and eaten—
in the veins stomach lungs brains
walking human junkyards
keeling over among ragged weeds—

a different trajectory

take a jolly journey.

the grass waved,
seaweed mapped.
a ripple across the curtain of different trajectories
you need me he said she said I don’t need anybody
and the body
rose to the surface
its heart was missing.
lonely boat
wands in the water
medieval cuffs a cloudy sky
and still he keeps running and the boy
she bed baths him except his brother noticed
his feet were dirty.

holding a cup of tea
I didn’t trust his eyes or the questions he was asking
don’t hate me
I thought I was going to die
and still he kept running.
The look on his face when he closed the door
how far from the shore was he?
How close to the truth was she?

we need to stick together through thick and thin and blackmail why were you whispering?
the hydro electric dam, was it still a suspect?
a person of interest?
a connection?
take another look at the contact and do not be fooled by my radiant smile
that dumped heart
forensics will look today, but until the tests come back, I’m going to make the call.
What was the madness in his eyes?
Pounding heart
before a funeral
call me
the man that keeps on running
he knows more than he’s saying.

Book made for An Encyclopedia of Everything.
Edition of 15 Chapbooks and 1 artists book.

Cheryl Penn is a trans-disciplinary art practitioner who uses language systems, semantic structures and alphabetical units to explore the organic nature of paint.
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