She had a lutheran look to her; the chubby christian aspect of the privileged- a bible bound into a ben franklin planner as the ultimate schedule: creation, birth, death, redemption.
The bible belt is hidden in the west under cliffs in trailer parks overflowing junkyards of broken aspirations rusted over by wishful thinking; 'Ill get er ta turn next season, I reckon'
Im sick as hell and the reeking petulant perfume reminds me of the satisfaction Huxley's Staithes takes in that acknowledgment of your own human stink.
I take none.
'Who is that?'
'A girl I once loved'
That chubby christian aspct of the privledged, reeking petulant and acknowledgement of your own human stink. Frowning in the eyes and smiling with the mouth a toothsome grin and wrapping arms around eachother in nonchalant dissapointment.
She must've heard the stories and oh god, im sick as hell. Trailer parks and junkyards stinking and oh god, the chubby christian aspect all overflowing wishful thinking.
Petulant stink bound in a ben franklin- acknowledgement of broken aspirations: creation, birth, death, redemption.
'Ill get er ta turn next season, I reckon'
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Ars Poetica: An Interactive Relationship
I fill up a balloon
in three breaths
to tie to a string
then drop on pavement.
I am waiting for someone
to pick it up
and play with it
1.
I am a creature of habitat.
I’ll have a cigarette.
I’ll masturbate with my shoes on
to the time you tasted my sweat
from the hot night that morning
our friend was in the bathroom –
I never thanked you for that
and I’ll tell you next week
at the assisted living facility.
You’ll see my grandfather
not remember the day of the week
as years unwind
before his plasma screen.
I struggle with this
but he doesn’t.
I binge drink
for a year
when he dies:
I only cry for hangovers
because life revolves
around me.
2.
The moon – or can we
talk about you again?
If the poems wrote themselves,
I would publish you this:
The Nipple of the Evening
Your breasts were smaller
than they were last winter
and your pre-teen nipples
no longer make me shudder.
3.
Pardon my implosion,
these are the poems I want
to see printed.
Engage with the audience,
make them feel withdrawn
from yesterdays emotions
and tighten the muscles
around their wry faces.
Wait, read it from over there.
Those lips are red
and look like eyebrows
instead of a mouth.
The image changes
with immediacy.
4.
I’m thinking you into a battery
because that winter you kept me
from freezing. I remember you
only this time (last week)
your body is too skinny.
I’ll write you into being again
before this is done
I remember through words
that make language interesting.
5.
Time-travel is tangible:
memory sags
and the right moment
is not how it happened.
Notice anything different?
Pirouette those grotto toes darling,
our doubt tastes
like chocolate covered strawberries:
hard sweet
then juice
dehydrating.
6.
Easy.
A balloon blown up
with breath,
tied to a string,
and left on pavement.
What happens next
is not important –
I will have made it up.
I am not the poet
who wrote any of this
and you are not the woman
with the skeletal chest.
We are in this together,
waiting for the poem
to end.
in three breaths
to tie to a string
then drop on pavement.
I am waiting for someone
to pick it up
and play with it
1.
I am a creature of habitat.
I’ll have a cigarette.
I’ll masturbate with my shoes on
to the time you tasted my sweat
from the hot night that morning
our friend was in the bathroom –
I never thanked you for that
and I’ll tell you next week
at the assisted living facility.
You’ll see my grandfather
not remember the day of the week
as years unwind
before his plasma screen.
I struggle with this
but he doesn’t.
I binge drink
for a year
when he dies:
I only cry for hangovers
because life revolves
around me.
2.
The moon – or can we
talk about you again?
If the poems wrote themselves,
I would publish you this:
The Nipple of the Evening
Your breasts were smaller
than they were last winter
and your pre-teen nipples
no longer make me shudder.
3.
Pardon my implosion,
these are the poems I want
to see printed.
Engage with the audience,
make them feel withdrawn
from yesterdays emotions
and tighten the muscles
around their wry faces.
Wait, read it from over there.
Those lips are red
and look like eyebrows
instead of a mouth.
The image changes
with immediacy.
4.
I’m thinking you into a battery
because that winter you kept me
from freezing. I remember you
only this time (last week)
your body is too skinny.
I’ll write you into being again
before this is done
I remember through words
that make language interesting.
5.
Time-travel is tangible:
memory sags
and the right moment
is not how it happened.
Notice anything different?
Pirouette those grotto toes darling,
our doubt tastes
like chocolate covered strawberries:
hard sweet
then juice
dehydrating.
6.
Easy.
A balloon blown up
with breath,
tied to a string,
and left on pavement.
What happens next
is not important –
I will have made it up.
I am not the poet
who wrote any of this
and you are not the woman
with the skeletal chest.
We are in this together,
waiting for the poem
to end.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Johannesburg Gun Underground
It is Friday night
Things have gotten too consecutive
More than 8 nights straight
I’m trying not to count
But today was my first real hangover
Since I can remember
And the smell of the food in the restaurant where I work
Nearly moved me to vomiting
So
I have withdrawn for the evening
Into quiet music
I’ve been thinking about buying a plant
I’ve been thinking about filling up the book Frans’ made for me
I’m somehow unmotivated
Even though his return is immanent
And
There will be certain things that he will expect
A small girl (the owner’s daughter) ruined the remainder of my female friend’s soup
As we sat eating our vegetarian lunches this afternoon
Unable to talk about anything
Because of the presence of an intelligent child
It was emotionally tense
The black-haired babe tossed tattered pieces of our respective napkins
Into spiced cabbage and tomatoes
Before we had the chance to object
Asking us whether or not we wanted
A fan, a bowtie or a tipi
Folded for us, with the paper scattered locally
Throughout the small café
They were all of the same essential design
Heavily reliant on pleats
I am sick of seeing blonde-haired young women
Walking around on the verge of tears
In my workplace
I am unable to tolerate
This kind of non-sense weakness
Now that I – myself – have overcome it
I am apathetic to their plight
Their trouble is a result of their approach
I know that I am at a strict advantage
Because of my uncommon ability to adapt myself
To madness
Without any hesitation or need of explanation
However
I am uncaring and dismissive
When I see their shining eyes behind the bar
Heedlessly they wipe the glasses
Blinded
The Old Man rolls his eyes
Somehow, I suddenly cannot blame him
I return to our conversation about the mountain,
And he blurts its name unintelligibly through his thick accent
With his back to me
As he stares vacantly into his huge black safe
At the many colored Canadian currency
Like the leaves in September at Victoria Park
Again, Frans
He specifically told me not to meet him at the airport
Frankly, I am relieved
He was worried about his unseemliness
Myself
I have been harboring a deep anxiety
That I would not be able to keep my shit together
Around his Mother, Sister and Father
At the terminal
It was very hard
Then it got worse
More mysterious
Entirely disconnected
I’m not sure what will happen
Like seeing yourself in the mirror
For the first time ever
Willing to drown yourself
In a fight for what you already possess
Ending everything
In a mortal conflict with your reflection
A too accurate self-portrait
Things have gotten too consecutive
More than 8 nights straight
I’m trying not to count
But today was my first real hangover
Since I can remember
And the smell of the food in the restaurant where I work
Nearly moved me to vomiting
So
I have withdrawn for the evening
Into quiet music
I’ve been thinking about buying a plant
I’ve been thinking about filling up the book Frans’ made for me
I’m somehow unmotivated
Even though his return is immanent
And
There will be certain things that he will expect
A small girl (the owner’s daughter) ruined the remainder of my female friend’s soup
As we sat eating our vegetarian lunches this afternoon
Unable to talk about anything
Because of the presence of an intelligent child
It was emotionally tense
The black-haired babe tossed tattered pieces of our respective napkins
Into spiced cabbage and tomatoes
Before we had the chance to object
Asking us whether or not we wanted
A fan, a bowtie or a tipi
Folded for us, with the paper scattered locally
Throughout the small café
They were all of the same essential design
Heavily reliant on pleats
I am sick of seeing blonde-haired young women
Walking around on the verge of tears
In my workplace
I am unable to tolerate
This kind of non-sense weakness
Now that I – myself – have overcome it
I am apathetic to their plight
Their trouble is a result of their approach
I know that I am at a strict advantage
Because of my uncommon ability to adapt myself
To madness
Without any hesitation or need of explanation
However
I am uncaring and dismissive
When I see their shining eyes behind the bar
Heedlessly they wipe the glasses
Blinded
The Old Man rolls his eyes
Somehow, I suddenly cannot blame him
I return to our conversation about the mountain,
And he blurts its name unintelligibly through his thick accent
With his back to me
As he stares vacantly into his huge black safe
At the many colored Canadian currency
Like the leaves in September at Victoria Park
Again, Frans
He specifically told me not to meet him at the airport
Frankly, I am relieved
He was worried about his unseemliness
Myself
I have been harboring a deep anxiety
That I would not be able to keep my shit together
Around his Mother, Sister and Father
At the terminal
It was very hard
Then it got worse
More mysterious
Entirely disconnected
I’m not sure what will happen
Like seeing yourself in the mirror
For the first time ever
Willing to drown yourself
In a fight for what you already possess
Ending everything
In a mortal conflict with your reflection
A too accurate self-portrait
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Peloponnesian No Non-sense
Robert and I had a drink after work
And he turned the bar television up loud
and then accommodated me
By adjusting his voice as well
Accompanying a PBS documentary about Greece
With proud commentary
About how there is a hole in a mountain
Where you can ride a gondola through an interior river
And see all the
BEAUTIFUL
Stalactites and Stalagmites
He said
"IS GREAT PLACE FOR HONEY MOON - YOU GO THERE"
Of course, we got to talking about you
And where you were
He yelled that I should go with you to Afirca sometime
Thought it over momentarily
And then ammended
"WHEN YOU ARE MARRY, YOU GO THERE. NO BEFORE, BUT WHEN YOU ARE MARRY"
Thanks for the advice Old Man
And he turned the bar television up loud
and then accommodated me
By adjusting his voice as well
Accompanying a PBS documentary about Greece
With proud commentary
About how there is a hole in a mountain
Where you can ride a gondola through an interior river
And see all the
BEAUTIFUL
Stalactites and Stalagmites
He said
"IS GREAT PLACE FOR HONEY MOON - YOU GO THERE"
Of course, we got to talking about you
And where you were
He yelled that I should go with you to Afirca sometime
Thought it over momentarily
And then ammended
"WHEN YOU ARE MARRY, YOU GO THERE. NO BEFORE, BUT WHEN YOU ARE MARRY"
Thanks for the advice Old Man
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Translators
It is not the conclusion that is wrong but the premise.
-Werner Heisenberg
A notable poet wedded
a ten-year-old student.
Their love was never consummated:
he discovered and feared
the hair women had
atop their mons pubis.
When he asked if I wanted to get lost
he told me to look up
and I did and it was gray
and so was everything else.
It ranged from white to black
in uniform and I laughed
wantonly
like herbaceous plants.
A Rubik’s cube that can’t be solved
is still a Rubik’s cube
revolving around itself.
A poem is ink on paper
until it becomes
something felt.
Keep up with me now.
In Edo period Japan,
Jinsui-kidney water is semen
Dokketsus are poisonous lumps near the coccyx
Fundoku is “fecal poison”
(which should be washed with urine)
and Joketsu means “superior ass.”
These terms, created for protection,
classified the body of potential suitors
in the quest of male-to-male love
between a teenage boy and a man.
This is goofy but it is May.
It might be the eleventh.
The lightening struck
a couple miles off
and echoed
I didn’t eat,
the clouds were too fat.
I abstained.
It was wet.
Stark lit in nicotine sweat
is how she remembered
sleeping on a pile of blankets.
She dreamt of shaving
her pubic hair
for the green weather
before a rain storm.
She is watching
the rain somewhere else.
She is drying the dishes.
The cardinal pitcher broke
(the bottom came right out).
Her thumb was almost severed
in a similar accident
involving a hand plant
on a ceramic bowl that broke;
its bottom shattered nonsense.
When his waistcoat advanced
in misty sunlight spots
she watched sand dust
from a garbage truck
that tapered past.
Maple leaves helicopter
from tall canopies,
whirring into the smell
of recently paved street.
The clouds left the city.
It is humid today.
I taste undoing
in the dead rain.
-Werner Heisenberg
A notable poet wedded
a ten-year-old student.
Their love was never consummated:
he discovered and feared
the hair women had
atop their mons pubis.
When he asked if I wanted to get lost
he told me to look up
and I did and it was gray
and so was everything else.
It ranged from white to black
in uniform and I laughed
wantonly
like herbaceous plants.
A Rubik’s cube that can’t be solved
is still a Rubik’s cube
revolving around itself.
A poem is ink on paper
until it becomes
something felt.
Keep up with me now.
In Edo period Japan,
Jinsui-kidney water is semen
Dokketsus are poisonous lumps near the coccyx
Fundoku is “fecal poison”
(which should be washed with urine)
and Joketsu means “superior ass.”
These terms, created for protection,
classified the body of potential suitors
in the quest of male-to-male love
between a teenage boy and a man.
This is goofy but it is May.
It might be the eleventh.
The lightening struck
a couple miles off
and echoed
I didn’t eat,
the clouds were too fat.
I abstained.
It was wet.
Stark lit in nicotine sweat
is how she remembered
sleeping on a pile of blankets.
She dreamt of shaving
her pubic hair
for the green weather
before a rain storm.
She is watching
the rain somewhere else.
She is drying the dishes.
The cardinal pitcher broke
(the bottom came right out).
Her thumb was almost severed
in a similar accident
involving a hand plant
on a ceramic bowl that broke;
its bottom shattered nonsense.
When his waistcoat advanced
in misty sunlight spots
she watched sand dust
from a garbage truck
that tapered past.
Maple leaves helicopter
from tall canopies,
whirring into the smell
of recently paved street.
The clouds left the city.
It is humid today.
I taste undoing
in the dead rain.
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