Sunday, October 7, 2012
The desk is filled with chronic papers always wanting to solve their own illness
The only depression I feel is the cleft where my male part goes, I am propulsion
The event horizon is breakfast: two eggs better than tits/a keyboard/a dream
I'm a burning ball of fire and feel mandated to 'get things done', therefore I scream
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Over the chest-high cinderblock border wall the laundry line sags with tops and towels.
In this city yard relic with rural, decrepit boughs waist-heavy with tits of green limes
unbred women unrhythmically ill-choose words, convey nothing but craving and belch.
This is the watcher view. In my hauteur, I am unwitnessed and splendid.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
The slot through which -- in late spring, 1958 -- the testicle sank to its current home on the left
gave way to a tear from abdominal crunch for a hernia bulge just above -- hint of a squid's head --
public hair. Scallop shell and Venus rising.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Someone tells her to seek the key of A
around and around the evening stays lit
it's a wonder there are tunes, most of space is silent
she seesaws her bow, her chin dips
the theater-goers catch her last chords
think of supper, marriage, of being alone
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
The skin has holes in it
it breathes like cotton
protects against all things
except the universe
has a word to say about that.
The universe has a fabric
it sweats outward
you can't hear it groan
for all the flowers
the summer has around you.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
The woman on the moon is being forced to the earth
she's brought with her, cheese curds in her breasts
her milky breasts dripping tears of her temper --
Gentle Ophelia, she of crazy hormones.
Why not end a world with a cosmic bang
why not go down with a stymied prince
a secret assassination first, R and G, the stab
through the arras, you, he, and a whole world, boom.
Some have vision, architectural features caught
by the student lens
of an eye. Walking the streets of a major place
like Chicago or Vienna.
A quick sketch of 'urban outdoors'
taking in a grassy knoll
a spot where grand things happen
and the spirit of history.
Like you or me, not needing the cachet
of a bohemian
of a prole let loose with grudges
letting the flick
letting the point of a pencil
mark the edges
of hard stone onto portfolio pad
just change a world
seen bitterly wrong because it angers you
building it all in short, sharp phrases
a voice of vinegar and piss.
And thinking about all adult men,
some of them quite old, refraining from touching the text,
only using a godly pointer whose term I forget if I ever knew,
I'm sure they must have known, somewhere in Talmud,
the way to bless the sprinkler and the time of day to turn the water on.
And whether to call the play gear 'monkey bars'
since the relationship between primates and
cylindrically-shaped objects get governed in certain ways.
To them, my ways must seem like Hunter Thompson's,
a man adrift in mistake. And whether to turn on a fan
in a particular weather. It's all so crazy and sacred.
And they write about me, in the interstices and prayers.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
I see you brushing your teeth
in the reflection off the glass-mounted print
of the John Singer Sargent scene
of an Italian fountain with bathing women.
I deny you don't travel.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
A living man, a cunning man
whose curiosity, dispassion --
the putative crime of gawking
surreptitiously from the aisle of plastic knives --
I wondered whether she,
clearly from Africa, was dragging her leg
because of a question put strongly
because of an impatience about something at stake.
You know, in the old days -- harried from the shtetl,
railed forth from formal schooling at Berlin --
they stood footsore in the camp dust, soon barbered
of their long locks afforded for the dolls of lucky girls.
And cunning men, tired of their passion
in the afterhours of exquisite music and talk
of the freeing-up of humankind,
connived efficiencies unthought-of regarding skin.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Who cares about who cares
writing it down is an act of arrogance is a virtue
someone must think, and it's me, and I'm quick and others follow
the scars of experience on a face called text
the whole point is action and the hell with them.
Like a poem about a dog, a cloud, an egg, and a she
one must shoot the dog, eat the egg, fly through a cloud of fucking her
and go high on a sunny place to head a regime.
You see, choice is for the weak. We're here, just straight-off verbs.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Warren should have thrown it in the ring, his hat.
Rubber chicken dinners and ten months we would have stuck it with him
July smelling of sunscreen, the campaign geared for the neighborly gusto
of good women, picnic melon, Mission figs, the local cheese and follow-up thank-yous.
I'd be a lieutenant in that corps, burnishing the leader's star
think how better we'd look, how pretty the city, how fresh the USA, what curvature the globe would spoon to, had he.
How fine-tuned a world that runs cinematically on time, cordially, but with a big stick
you need someone with panache, you need someone to explain it all that way.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
It's like being buried in sand up to the neck,
sometimes, waking in a hot room with snow showers bulleting the outside baffles on the a.m. window after what could not be otherwise than a dream where you're choking
at the grip of a Brownshirt.
Who somebody let in in order to throw out
the bum and clean up the scum and erase the nugatory values, go back to the founded ones trying to be based on what we think ourselves in our blood we are.
Or is it an elegant Blackshirt, nicely shaved, as he, with humor, shuts the air.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Her voice in the chanson so that I'm in that evening orchard,
in that peach odor, at silk, the soft plush lipid layering, too,
the savory of her in my ear, body gone to mind,
the experience of her, the reason for her, clear
voiced in the chamber of the SUV, she, and me
embarking for Cythera, still living in the idyll
hearing the night fiddle of crickets from the fields.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Young women with a list of long ambitions
pant and mug and snore and throw a lifetime
achievement for just twenty seconds more.
All those little people cast on a couch
a bevy in that human race race ready
for that closer, tight close-up.
The entire humanitarian film world, and
the Housewives of Wherever -- fame frames us
flashes in our face: Surprise! I'm here and gone.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
The anthro prof, Jim Frazer, called it 'eating of the god', a strange appreciation, you'd think, for all that comes one's way
as when the mayor of a town would bake a man of dough -- an extra-large -- at harvest time
and break bits off for the farming folk to dip in the new wine decanted from old bottles
But now everyone knows each feeding place in France lays claim to good bread, and even the émigrés in the States serve hot loaf.
In fact, she and I know this place that's authentic here like a private home with Alsatian dog warming by the hearth, where
even though you call ahead you wait, full with a hungry sort in the anteroom and, poured around, complimentary Bordeaux blanc.
Once (if I may speak frank) by the power of their pork terrine we made love on a tiger rug out of Indochine.
I'd give it four stars on nothing more than the sweetbreads and the fact that our child was born
rollicking to the beat of the human heart as that beat goes on.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Taking the words of the Japanese girl
who saw the 'lain fawring' --
Off a fine Kolinsky sable brush the noon drizzles
Studio glass walls and overhead brighten so that from its wool
all sky's created equal.
An unanchored woman is far more precious than rubies, and
we awoke him from a deep bed sleep after making-out
propitiatory hand-over-fistful of money
to see the divorcée freshened by her love of travel
and the whiskey of his anecdotes about power avalanched us
putting our allegiance on 'On' by feel alone, charisma,
so she would dig for him, work hard for the victory his,
since everyone, all interested in November votes, looks to
this kind of sodality, this almost blood-brethrenship.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Money's only paper and coin, smelling like hands,
lying inert on a sheet, not scampering like bed bugs
sometimes with a fan running why do people do favors
because they're people and they want to lie
down next to a thing that pretends to be better than
people and that's the lesson of a leader.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Small, small, small snowflake, small one
i needed special glasses and a tensor light.
Like a preemie, like the thing you have to keep alive
and they wondered why i spent an hour out there
in the cold on my knees not wanting it to disappear.