Woody Woodpecker Attacking John Lennon
Henry conversed with John Lennon through Mr. Bones,
the conversation taking place
inside of Michael Robartes
because there’s too much danger in a woman’s body.
The Spanish Mr. Bones spoke
reaches to here,
Henry indicated his own chin.
And John could dance and dance
and slide away from view.
His words were toast,
each adjective spinning like a top,
hounding each nail holding up Christ.
Henry surfaced from the bottom of the Red Sea
dressed like Sgt. Pepper.
Oh, my God, he’s black like a rapper
shouted an old white lady
as stones flew up her nightgown, but somehow
Henry’s perfection fended off the woodpeckers of New York.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Proposal
Remember when you asked me
the question-THAT question?
I do.
I was child, disguised as woman,
still gathering gold into red wagons.
By the time I turned back
to answer, you had gone.
Your footsteps sparked
through labrynthed streets,
then faded, traveling
places I could no longer follow
the question-THAT question?
I do.
I was child, disguised as woman,
still gathering gold into red wagons.
By the time I turned back
to answer, you had gone.
Your footsteps sparked
through labrynthed streets,
then faded, traveling
places I could no longer follow
Was I hallucinating?
I could've sworn I saw a post about Katrina here by didi early this morning. I liked the letter/poem. It was effective. I just now came back to comment and it's not here. Did I see it somewhere else??
Pris
Pris
smokescreen
On a dark veranda
across the lawn,
a signal fire has been lit.
Clutched in cupped fingers
it rises and falls, an arcturian star
lighting a path from lips to thigh.
wax and wane
inhale, exhale
I track the torch bearer's
meandering course 'round the patio
by way of the glowing ember.
back and forth
rise, fall
wax, wane
Silently waiting and wondering
behind his penumbral smokescreen--
is this the night
I'll cross the lawn
and cross the line?
Sudden final flare;
a tiny meteor arcs its way to earth
returning veranda to darkness.
The door closes behind him.
A single bead of sweat slides between my breasts;
the fantasy of a nicotine-stained finger in its place.
across the lawn,
a signal fire has been lit.
Clutched in cupped fingers
it rises and falls, an arcturian star
lighting a path from lips to thigh.
wax and wane
inhale, exhale
I track the torch bearer's
meandering course 'round the patio
by way of the glowing ember.
back and forth
rise, fall
wax, wane
Silently waiting and wondering
behind his penumbral smokescreen--
is this the night
I'll cross the lawn
and cross the line?
Sudden final flare;
a tiny meteor arcs its way to earth
returning veranda to darkness.
The door closes behind him.
A single bead of sweat slides between my breasts;
the fantasy of a nicotine-stained finger in its place.
Asian American Poetry - Stefans and MacLeish
Hello all,
I've linked to and commented on Brian Kim Stefans' "The Applicant" as well as Archibald MacLeish's "Ars Poetica" over at http://asianamericanpoetry.blogspot.com/. Hope you find the posts interesting!
I've linked to and commented on Brian Kim Stefans' "The Applicant" as well as Archibald MacLeish's "Ars Poetica" over at http://asianamericanpoetry.blogspot.com/. Hope you find the posts interesting!
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
The Beginning of Seed: Slideshow with Music
Title: The Beginning of Seeds
(To watch this show, paste the address below into your browser) http://www.photoshow.net/view/kCbVHNHDe
(To watch this show, paste the address below into your browser) http://www.photoshow.net/view/kCbVHNHDe
Dancing with Katrina
is one blog trying to get out information about New Orleans in the wake of the storm.
The streets of New Orleans
are paved with water, the pull
of gulf warmth through the eye
of a windstorm. Buildings crack,
roofs fly. The lucky, ten thousand stranded
on the sidelines of a football field,
in hell.
American Red Cross
The streets of New Orleans
are paved with water, the pull
of gulf warmth through the eye
of a windstorm. Buildings crack,
roofs fly. The lucky, ten thousand stranded
on the sidelines of a football field,
in hell.
American Red Cross
Nowhere
This is the end-point
of your days’ confused wandering,
the period at the close
of life’s frantic sentence.
Here are all those that failed,
waiting for the rest of us
to name the failures
of our own lives and join them.
The final destination, no matter
the brilliant flights of being,
no matter what your will
or your hard-won ticket says.
And when you arrive,
you too will come to the town square
where everyone is gathered, leaning
over the edge of the bottomless canyon
that has sliced open the earth
in the middle of Main Street.
You too will come to stare
into the darkness of this wound,
to try to fathom all
that has been lost
while, behind you, a futile breeze
blows aimlessly through the trees.
of your days’ confused wandering,
the period at the close
of life’s frantic sentence.
Here are all those that failed,
waiting for the rest of us
to name the failures
of our own lives and join them.
The final destination, no matter
the brilliant flights of being,
no matter what your will
or your hard-won ticket says.
And when you arrive,
you too will come to the town square
where everyone is gathered, leaning
over the edge of the bottomless canyon
that has sliced open the earth
in the middle of Main Street.
You too will come to stare
into the darkness of this wound,
to try to fathom all
that has been lost
while, behind you, a futile breeze
blows aimlessly through the trees.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Seeking John Lennon (CTG)
Depicted on Broadway,
conceptualized by Yoko
a quarter century after
Chapman blew him away
as their limo drew up
to the Dakota
that cold December night:
multiple Lennons parade
on stage. Blacks, whites,
and women play Johnny Skiffle
of the Silver Beatles;
audiences lurch
in search of Lennon.
The night he deserted
Yoko for a pack of cigs:
multiple Johns walking
the streets of Manhattan;
a hooker at 8th & 42nd
jiggles her gold lamé ass:
"Wanna date, honey child?"
The Dovedale and Quarry boy
set loose in Gotham and LA,
watching the wheels, riding
the rock and roll serpent:
uppers and downers, LSD, coke,
lifetimes spent in purgatory.
On his birthday, his second
son Sean wailed first
at New York Hospital.
Sean and John, John and Sean,
"Beautiful, beautiful boy."
Ocean child Bermuda, captaining
his own yacht; Liverpool lad,
son of a goneaway seaman,
-- his Mum Julia slammed into
by a car driven
by a drunk off-duty copper;
his Dad ran off to sea --
long before the fame.
Lennon in the fog
of Liverpool and LA:
John in search of self,
drunk and on a bender,
or lost smoking pot
in the Dakota, only
to find himself with
"Starting Over," his big
comeback. . . Click
of the Charter
Arms revolver.
"Mr. Lennon. . .?"
Christopher T. George
conceptualized by Yoko
a quarter century after
Chapman blew him away
as their limo drew up
to the Dakota
that cold December night:
multiple Lennons parade
on stage. Blacks, whites,
and women play Johnny Skiffle
of the Silver Beatles;
audiences lurch
in search of Lennon.
The night he deserted
Yoko for a pack of cigs:
multiple Johns walking
the streets of Manhattan;
a hooker at 8th & 42nd
jiggles her gold lamé ass:
"Wanna date, honey child?"
The Dovedale and Quarry boy
set loose in Gotham and LA,
watching the wheels, riding
the rock and roll serpent:
uppers and downers, LSD, coke,
lifetimes spent in purgatory.
On his birthday, his second
son Sean wailed first
at New York Hospital.
Sean and John, John and Sean,
"Beautiful, beautiful boy."
Ocean child Bermuda, captaining
his own yacht; Liverpool lad,
son of a goneaway seaman,
-- his Mum Julia slammed into
by a car driven
by a drunk off-duty copper;
his Dad ran off to sea --
long before the fame.
Lennon in the fog
of Liverpool and LA:
John in search of self,
drunk and on a bender,
or lost smoking pot
in the Dakota, only
to find himself with
"Starting Over," his big
comeback. . . Click
of the Charter
Arms revolver.
"Mr. Lennon. . .?"
Christopher T. George
Waiting for a Response to a Love Letter
The clock has spun itself dizzy,
no doubt nauseous – in a moment
time will spew from its round face
and ooze out onto the hardwood floors,
gathering in a thick puddle
like so much quicksand
to suck my apartment down
into some nameless void,
swallowing the blue recliner
and the stack of books on the coffee table,
devouring the writing desk,
the office chair and the cup of pencils:
everything that I know, all that I am,
will soon be ground between time's yellowed teeth,
savored for a moment,
and then digested until it is only a fine dust
while, outside, the forgetful world
will continue about its business
of love and hate, dreams and fears,
just as you might do tomorrow –
sitting down to write me back
after a quick, thoughtless snack.
no doubt nauseous – in a moment
time will spew from its round face
and ooze out onto the hardwood floors,
gathering in a thick puddle
like so much quicksand
to suck my apartment down
into some nameless void,
swallowing the blue recliner
and the stack of books on the coffee table,
devouring the writing desk,
the office chair and the cup of pencils:
everything that I know, all that I am,
will soon be ground between time's yellowed teeth,
savored for a moment,
and then digested until it is only a fine dust
while, outside, the forgetful world
will continue about its business
of love and hate, dreams and fears,
just as you might do tomorrow –
sitting down to write me back
after a quick, thoughtless snack.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
IBPC WINNERS ANNOUNCED!
Didi asked me to post these. She doesn't have power back from the storm, yet. Congratulations, Jenni Russell for first place and also the honorable mentions!
Winning Poems for July 2005
Judge David Brinks
* The judge has decided to pick one 1st place winner and three honorable mentions.
First Place:
Jack’s Belly Button
By Jenni Russell
The Critical Poet
Honorable Mentions::
Linen
By Christine Kiefer
Salty Dreams
grapefruit
By Lisa Prince
blueline
For Coyote, A Reflection
Myra South
Café Utne
Poems:
Jack’s Belly ButtonBy Jenni Russell
The Critical Poet
Jack has this belly-button “condition.” A robin-egg blue lint grows
inside it. When I attempt to remove the lint, he becomes aggressive,
recoils defensively. He says the doctor cut his umbilical cord wrong
and there’s a hole inside his belly-button exposing his organs to
the air. He claims the lint is a byproduct of these organs’ secretions.
I never believed him. I always thought he saved the lint for his Mom,
who used it to stuff her hand-made quilts. But tonight as he stood beside
my chair, I looked inside his belly-button and saw a tiny heart beating.
“Hold still!” I told him. The tiny heart flashed and rotated like a police
light. Above it a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs dangled from a lava
lamp. I pressed my eye to Jack’s belly-button and saw a room filled
with confetti, plastic fruit in wooden bowls, dried sea sponges, trip wire,
lobsters with rubber bands wrapped around their pinchers stacking
themselves like plates inside a dishwasher, and at a cluttered desk with
old chewing gum stuck to its side, a gnome swiveled in a leather chair
smacking gum, blowing it, and popping huge robin-egg blue bubbles.
LinenBy Christine Kiefer
Salty Dreams
Woody interior rotting
Eases the removal of flaxen fiber.
This retting the aroma of a rat’s death behind the cupboard.
Women beating the ornery fannies of flax stalks.
Each child to far corners, wood versus fiber,
Further separation, no harmony in the roughing.
How fine are you?
Stay with your own kind.
Parallel hackles, rough goes first
Ladies last, age before beauty
They are easy when wet.
An orgy of women required
To keep this weaver weaving.
Spin, dress with sticky ooze.
Thicken, strengthen before the toxin.
Bleach now, sun in days gone by.
Virgin white before more pummeling
To close every hole.
Across the pond she longs for sun.
The castle madam prefers sun in Stirling.
In capris, craves crisp clean air.
In pedal pushers, ponders purity.
Shops for vests with lungs,
Trousers with bronchi
Fears Chlorox
And its suffocating ways.
A startling oxymoron
Her poisoned pants
Once pummeled and putrid
To her like women’s lips
On her cycling, climbing calves.
grapefruitBy Lisa Prince
Blueline
I have a little serrated spoon
hidden away in my utensil drawer
you have to pick a ripe one
I remember in high school
home economics classes
where they taught us to press
our thumbs into the ends
of fruit to test for ripeness
every boy I’ve dated
has wanted to squeeze my breasts
sometimes when I shower
I touch them myself
trying to understand
their globular form
for breakfast
mine would be nice
you cut them in half
with a serrated knife - not
the kind with a straight edge
so that you don’t bruise
them - ironically biting leaves marks
there was a boy who
so taken aback the morning after
when he saw the marks he’d left
he couldn’t believe they’d come
from his mouth
I wanted to ask for more
sometimes I’ll have
both halves of the grapefruit
even though home economics
would say half per person
neatly cut along each segment
so that each piece comes
out by itself
my mother had a mamogram
when she was fifty five
they found a lump the size
of a grape - there’s a fruit
I don’t like even if radiation
and raisin are very alike
she only has one breast now
I see her touching herself
sometimes when she thinks
that she’s alone or when
she passes the hall mirror
with only one breast she walks
lopsided - my brother gave her
an orange for her birthday
for the other side, he said
so I eat both halves
with that small serrated spoon
maybe I’ll buy one
for my mother
For Coyote, A Reflection
Myra South
Café Utne
So as the honey maker stops
atop the bloom
for just a moment
milking each drop of prism color
into the nectar she will brew,
so do we all alight
for a sweet span
between clouds
to create
what honey we can
hanging onto
our fuzzy lives
in hopes of feeding those
that come after us -
the buzzing
generations.
We are such
devoted
fleeting thieves
in search of one more
petaled jewel
to carry home
sun light gems -
we adorn crowns
with flower candy
for the mothers
dancing home again
humming between blooms.
Congratulations to all our winners!
IBPC
~~~~~~
Winning Poems for July 2005
Judge David Brinks
* The judge has decided to pick one 1st place winner and three honorable mentions.
First Place:
Jack’s Belly Button
By Jenni Russell
The Critical Poet
Honorable Mentions::
Linen
By Christine Kiefer
Salty Dreams
grapefruit
By Lisa Prince
blueline
For Coyote, A Reflection
Myra South
Café Utne
Poems:
Jack’s Belly ButtonBy Jenni Russell
The Critical Poet
Jack has this belly-button “condition.” A robin-egg blue lint grows
inside it. When I attempt to remove the lint, he becomes aggressive,
recoils defensively. He says the doctor cut his umbilical cord wrong
and there’s a hole inside his belly-button exposing his organs to
the air. He claims the lint is a byproduct of these organs’ secretions.
I never believed him. I always thought he saved the lint for his Mom,
who used it to stuff her hand-made quilts. But tonight as he stood beside
my chair, I looked inside his belly-button and saw a tiny heart beating.
“Hold still!” I told him. The tiny heart flashed and rotated like a police
light. Above it a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs dangled from a lava
lamp. I pressed my eye to Jack’s belly-button and saw a room filled
with confetti, plastic fruit in wooden bowls, dried sea sponges, trip wire,
lobsters with rubber bands wrapped around their pinchers stacking
themselves like plates inside a dishwasher, and at a cluttered desk with
old chewing gum stuck to its side, a gnome swiveled in a leather chair
smacking gum, blowing it, and popping huge robin-egg blue bubbles.
LinenBy Christine Kiefer
Salty Dreams
Woody interior rotting
Eases the removal of flaxen fiber.
This retting the aroma of a rat’s death behind the cupboard.
Women beating the ornery fannies of flax stalks.
Each child to far corners, wood versus fiber,
Further separation, no harmony in the roughing.
How fine are you?
Stay with your own kind.
Parallel hackles, rough goes first
Ladies last, age before beauty
They are easy when wet.
An orgy of women required
To keep this weaver weaving.
Spin, dress with sticky ooze.
Thicken, strengthen before the toxin.
Bleach now, sun in days gone by.
Virgin white before more pummeling
To close every hole.
Across the pond she longs for sun.
The castle madam prefers sun in Stirling.
In capris, craves crisp clean air.
In pedal pushers, ponders purity.
Shops for vests with lungs,
Trousers with bronchi
Fears Chlorox
And its suffocating ways.
A startling oxymoron
Her poisoned pants
Once pummeled and putrid
To her like women’s lips
On her cycling, climbing calves.
grapefruitBy Lisa Prince
Blueline
I have a little serrated spoon
hidden away in my utensil drawer
you have to pick a ripe one
I remember in high school
home economics classes
where they taught us to press
our thumbs into the ends
of fruit to test for ripeness
every boy I’ve dated
has wanted to squeeze my breasts
sometimes when I shower
I touch them myself
trying to understand
their globular form
for breakfast
mine would be nice
you cut them in half
with a serrated knife - not
the kind with a straight edge
so that you don’t bruise
them - ironically biting leaves marks
there was a boy who
so taken aback the morning after
when he saw the marks he’d left
he couldn’t believe they’d come
from his mouth
I wanted to ask for more
sometimes I’ll have
both halves of the grapefruit
even though home economics
would say half per person
neatly cut along each segment
so that each piece comes
out by itself
my mother had a mamogram
when she was fifty five
they found a lump the size
of a grape - there’s a fruit
I don’t like even if radiation
and raisin are very alike
she only has one breast now
I see her touching herself
sometimes when she thinks
that she’s alone or when
she passes the hall mirror
with only one breast she walks
lopsided - my brother gave her
an orange for her birthday
for the other side, he said
so I eat both halves
with that small serrated spoon
maybe I’ll buy one
for my mother
For Coyote, A Reflection
Myra South
Café Utne
So as the honey maker stops
atop the bloom
for just a moment
milking each drop of prism color
into the nectar she will brew,
so do we all alight
for a sweet span
between clouds
to create
what honey we can
hanging onto
our fuzzy lives
in hopes of feeding those
that come after us -
the buzzing
generations.
We are such
devoted
fleeting thieves
in search of one more
petaled jewel
to carry home
sun light gems -
we adorn crowns
with flower candy
for the mothers
dancing home again
humming between blooms.
Congratulations to all our winners!
IBPC
~~~~~~
Saturday, August 27, 2005
"Towards M's Beginning of the Alpha bet"
**$** (for M)
After
borrowing cash,
divorced, exquisitely, from
gardens,
helmets, insular
jests, knave love,
M
notices one
pair: quark-like, relaxed,
sexual
to undying
vigor — willfully "X"
yet
zany again.
Baffled, cashless, determined
entirely
for giving
heart in June —
knowing
love, M
notices open poppies,
quintillion
rivers sunning
towards undivided vessels,
waterbound
(xeric youth!)
zeroes after boredom.
Crashed.
Diametrics evidently
forgotten, grieved, horded.
I
just know
love, M notes:
open
paragraphs questioning,
reasoning, satiating, transforming
u:
vowels wide-open,
x-like, yawning — zapped.
~ Lorna Dee Cervantes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Abecedarian Hay(na)ku Experiment:
"Towards A: New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"B Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"C-ing Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet to D"
"Towards E's New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards An Effin' New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards, G, A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards H's New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards the Alpha bet's New Beginning of I"
"Towards J's New Beginning of the Alpha bet Towards D"
"O', 'K Towards A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
"Towards L: A New Beginning of the Alpha bet"
* It's one-a-day, folks!
more hay(na)ku at Eileen Tabio's, inventor of hay(na)ku form (1/2/3 word tercets) & at Didi Menéndez' group blog, Café Café. (*Peace to Katrina. Hoping for rest & news. Tony Thomas? Heck to all hurricanes!)
After
borrowing cash,
divorced, exquisitely, from
gardens,
helmets, insular
jests, knave love,
M
notices one
pair: quark-like, relaxed,
sexual
to undying
vigor — willfully "X"
yet
zany again.
Baffled, cashless, determined
entirely
for giving
heart in June —
knowing
love, M
notices open poppies,
quintillion
rivers sunning
towards undivided vessels,
waterbound
(xeric youth!)
zeroes after boredom.
Crashed.
Diametrics evidently
forgotten, grieved, horded.
I
just know
love, M notes:
open
paragraphs questioning,
reasoning, satiating, transforming
u:
vowels wide-open,
x-like, yawning — zapped.
~ Lorna Dee Cervantes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Abecedarian Hay(na)ku Experiment:
* It's one-a-day, folks!
more hay(na)ku at Eileen Tabio's, inventor of hay(na)ku form (1/2/3 word tercets) & at Didi Menéndez' group blog, Café Café. (*Peace to Katrina. Hoping for rest & news. Tony Thomas? Heck to all hurricanes!)
Poetic Acceptance
Didi...
I realize that this may be an odd place to do this, so forgive me in advance. If this comes across as spam, don't hesitate to delete it.
I've recently launched a new support site for bereaved parents, and would like to get the word out about it.
If you, or anyone you know is dealing with the loss of a child, or has in the past, please pass along this link.
Poetic Acceptance - for grieving parents
I realize that this may be an odd place to do this, so forgive me in advance. If this comes across as spam, don't hesitate to delete it.
I've recently launched a new support site for bereaved parents, and would like to get the word out about it.
If you, or anyone you know is dealing with the loss of a child, or has in the past, please pass along this link.
Poetic Acceptance - for grieving parents
Friday, August 26, 2005
Exciting news from Combo Books !!!!
This just in from Michael Magee at Combo Books:
Hi everyone,
It is my distinct pleasure to announce the publication of
the latest Combo Book,
ALSO WITH MY THROAT I SHALL SWALLOW TEN
THOUSAND SWORDS: ARAKI YASUSADA'S LETTERS
IN ENGLISH.
Written under the pseudonym (or hypernym) Tosa
Motokiyu, edited by Kent Johnson and Javier Alvarez,
beautifully and painstakingly designed by Christian
Palino and Prototype Syndicate, perfectbound with a
gorgeous cover involving UV spot-lamination and other
things I don't understand, you must get your hands on
this book!
It will be available momentarily from Small Press
Distribution http://www.spdbooks.org but you can also
order it (and put significantly more dough in the Combo
Books coffers!) by sending cash or check to:
Combo Books
c/o Michael Magee
7 Old West Wrentham Rd.
Cumberland, RI 02864
The price of the book is 12 dollars.
Here are some examples of advance praise for the
book and/or the Yasusada project generally:
"(The Yasusada Author) has done a brilliant job in
inventing a world at once ritualized and yet startlingly
modern, timeless yet documentary, archaized yet au
courant -- a poetic world that satisfies out hunger for the
authentic, even though that autentic world is a perfect
simulacrum...Like Pound's Homage to Sextus
Propertius, the Yasusada notebooks force us to go
back to the 'originals' so as to see what they really were
and how they have been transformed."
--Marjorie Perloff
"These pidgin English fantasies of poetic mastery are
awful and incredible. Like Frank O'Hara's 'poem in
blackface' they give us pause by giving delight. The
delight, dear reader, is a ruse.It's the pause that
constitutes their gift."
--Ben Friedlander
"Here in America, where even our best experimental
writers seem to be constructing gigantic monuments to
their own talents and are eager to lie beside
Wordsworth in some canonical garden, (the Yasusada)
project, whatever it ultimately is or ends up having
been, strikes me as either the most moving, unsettling
and important thing going on right now, or as the most
egregious and dangerous self-delusion in American
letters."
--Tony Tost
"Joyce and Stein gave us an idea of how the ego talked,
Mallarme and Proust the superego. Now, for the first
time in our era, an unearthing of Araki Yasusada's
shattering letters and sublime
poem-fragments...shows us how ego and superego
would talk to each other, if only they spoke the same
language."
--David Rosenberg
Hi everyone,
It is my distinct pleasure to announce the publication of
the latest Combo Book,
ALSO WITH MY THROAT I SHALL SWALLOW TEN
THOUSAND SWORDS: ARAKI YASUSADA'S LETTERS
IN ENGLISH.
Written under the pseudonym (or hypernym) Tosa
Motokiyu, edited by Kent Johnson and Javier Alvarez,
beautifully and painstakingly designed by Christian
Palino and Prototype Syndicate, perfectbound with a
gorgeous cover involving UV spot-lamination and other
things I don't understand, you must get your hands on
this book!
It will be available momentarily from Small Press
Distribution http://www.spdbooks.org but you can also
order it (and put significantly more dough in the Combo
Books coffers!) by sending cash or check to:
Combo Books
c/o Michael Magee
7 Old West Wrentham Rd.
Cumberland, RI 02864
The price of the book is 12 dollars.
Here are some examples of advance praise for the
book and/or the Yasusada project generally:
"(The Yasusada Author) has done a brilliant job in
inventing a world at once ritualized and yet startlingly
modern, timeless yet documentary, archaized yet au
courant -- a poetic world that satisfies out hunger for the
authentic, even though that autentic world is a perfect
simulacrum...Like Pound's Homage to Sextus
Propertius, the Yasusada notebooks force us to go
back to the 'originals' so as to see what they really were
and how they have been transformed."
--Marjorie Perloff
"These pidgin English fantasies of poetic mastery are
awful and incredible. Like Frank O'Hara's 'poem in
blackface' they give us pause by giving delight. The
delight, dear reader, is a ruse.It's the pause that
constitutes their gift."
--Ben Friedlander
"Here in America, where even our best experimental
writers seem to be constructing gigantic monuments to
their own talents and are eager to lie beside
Wordsworth in some canonical garden, (the Yasusada)
project, whatever it ultimately is or ends up having
been, strikes me as either the most moving, unsettling
and important thing going on right now, or as the most
egregious and dangerous self-delusion in American
letters."
--Tony Tost
"Joyce and Stein gave us an idea of how the ego talked,
Mallarme and Proust the superego. Now, for the first
time in our era, an unearthing of Araki Yasusada's
shattering letters and sublime
poem-fragments...shows us how ego and superego
would talk to each other, if only they spoke the same
language."
--David Rosenberg
South Florida cafecafe members, check in re Hurricane Katrina?
I'm in the greater West Palm Beach. We have power and no damage to speak of in our immediate area, though many have lost power in Palm Beach County and it's still raining in gusts off and on. South of us had it worse and Miami and all of Dade County seem hardest hit. We lost cable, so can't get the weather channel to check for more details. I've not heard back from an email I sent Didi early this morning, though.
News about Katrina in the online Palm Beach Post. Check for the series of photos. Only the first ones were during/after the storm. Most photos are before.
Pris
News about Katrina in the online Palm Beach Post. Check for the series of photos. Only the first ones were during/after the storm. Most photos are before.
Pris
The Pact
Each Spring, when the leaves first attempt
to squirm their way through stiff stubborn
branches, the lost girls float high beneath
the ice of Lake Okawalla.
Their eyes track the skaters--
those pirouetting birdlike figures
in thick woolen mufflers, the daring
ones skirting the thinning spots that gleam
like opals throughout the warming lake.
Rabbits and deer shy from lake's rim.
They've seen the gray, unblinking eyes, heard
the moans in the night, listened to stories
of suicide pacts, stockpiled pills, told and retold.
They lift their heads instead, watch the stars
and moon shiver-dance across the dark sky
until a dawn sleet crowns thorns onto the trees,
and tears finally melt rivulets into the crackling ice.
Pris Campbell
Inspired by a reading of the book,
The Lake of Dead Languages, by
Carol Goodman.
to squirm their way through stiff stubborn
branches, the lost girls float high beneath
the ice of Lake Okawalla.
Their eyes track the skaters--
those pirouetting birdlike figures
in thick woolen mufflers, the daring
ones skirting the thinning spots that gleam
like opals throughout the warming lake.
Rabbits and deer shy from lake's rim.
They've seen the gray, unblinking eyes, heard
the moans in the night, listened to stories
of suicide pacts, stockpiled pills, told and retold.
They lift their heads instead, watch the stars
and moon shiver-dance across the dark sky
until a dawn sleet crowns thorns onto the trees,
and tears finally melt rivulets into the crackling ice.
Pris Campbell
Inspired by a reading of the book,
The Lake of Dead Languages, by
Carol Goodman.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
LEBENSBORN
Whom were you born to replace?
Masterfully engineered,
pale pigmentation of
sky and sun and snow--
your bloody ingress foretelling
the smokey exodus of a dark-eyed gypsy.
Motherland legacy,
shrouded by a dermal cloak
of gray earthly remains.
ashes, ashes,
we all fall down
Masterfully engineered,
pale pigmentation of
sky and sun and snow--
your bloody ingress foretelling
the smokey exodus of a dark-eyed gypsy.
Motherland legacy,
shrouded by a dermal cloak
of gray earthly remains.
ashes, ashes,
we all fall down
senter
front
shoulder arch
more aptly termed what human deeds
could not, forgot her and as unfathomable
as this in order to break the breath-lock necessitated
the concept of absolute freedom which was not to lose its connectedness but to rediscover by sink by down law by dowse divinity means this unself-enclosedness was calling to one another and in every place its calling and in every place for
shoulder arch
more aptly termed what human deeds
could not, forgot her and as unfathomable
as this in order to break the breath-lock necessitated
the concept of absolute freedom which was not to lose its connectedness but to rediscover by sink by down law by dowse divinity means this unself-enclosedness was calling to one another and in every place its calling and in every place for
want
of the female proper and also of the supra-individuality
breaker; a hypostasis absensed as different
as there were possible proto-images –
these taken to the
heart
synergism locked cabinet
the understanding of the heart providence
that which became sophianized not difficult unless
postulated and as thus a stupidity thwarted by elevating
the tear’s superiority above that of brave directions. Expressly thus. Liberated
away from a “minus”.
Autonomous. A transcensus.
Fishes and birds and a fifth day allowed for.
A simple doctrinal mechanistic sufficiently unshakeable.
The language of temporal being as prae-motio. Felt downfalling,
an ankle foundating but besides this another which hunkered,
the single root, a crumbgrab point as fusion would weakly
only that could be expressed fathered almost on
tides which backswept
dreams
and a red cord
blossoming to ribbon
and a tie person penetrating
as progenitor as homoousianism
a dwelter swardly and haar-ish sweltering
condensed a seemly
attempt
bit
but the prime mover,
a feeble verbal attempt
this if mentioned before
then mentioned again. A
still small scream backthroated
in a fuckgarb tremulous rainbowish
more scant wholesomeless prismish
and pushed would if wanted iron but faced
the fact of salt first and preferred no such as a non
moved thing this wood this fermed this appalling leading us
beyond tendons immobility a dreadful hush whence all unfurled
as only anything belonging to temporality could. Could write it and therefore deserved not to capture it but lost it
time it in relation to a thing becoming
and without the help of grace
a decompositioning
condemned
the slight
twitch
inconsistent
the morning but
equally was evening
rejection in a vein a dull
crud got
the taste
mouth mouthed
was satisfied
was finished
providence sweat was
was palms
was persons
inspirated rubbed
the inesparable one against
the other a humanity passing
between the could not look looks
and palpated in their own manner
understood must
stood
I Should Have Called Her Madam
When the passing woman
bent to whisper in my
ear I knew she was important
and felt the honor of her
breath on my cheek.
The container of everyday
doesn't hold such messages well.
But even here a few words evoked
images of lasting names,
things not fading, bolstered
by innocence.
We are like snowmen she said.
Life melts while we strategize
about 20, 30 years. We are smart
but can't imagine courtesies
persisting in the rocks of the stars
you include.
Then they ushered her away.
bent to whisper in my
ear I knew she was important
and felt the honor of her
breath on my cheek.
The container of everyday
doesn't hold such messages well.
But even here a few words evoked
images of lasting names,
things not fading, bolstered
by innocence.
We are like snowmen she said.
Life melts while we strategize
about 20, 30 years. We are smart
but can't imagine courtesies
persisting in the rocks of the stars
you include.
Then they ushered her away.
A traffic circle outside Paris
Bethesda then, the girl who knows Pi to forty places falls asleep, and as she does she fingers the gold flake, the gold key, and when she wakes up everyone loves her. It is 4 AM in Paris. Local time. The news from the world comes in however... creosote, lipo, whatever it is that they are advertising between songs. Someone gets surgery but they don't say where. She should visit her aunt in Spain? Love a bullfighter? She gets it all down in her notepad somehow. Until the drama is alreadybreaking up, already fading, there's la Tour Eiffel, les Champs-Elysées, Notre-Dame, le Louvre... Oh it feels like coming home, the trains run so late. | And from there the entire face swells, and the split between her left incision and the right is a little sore; her gums start to bleed. She takes the pill they gave her for this. If she was ever in a dark room... If she was ever getting there by a dark man... Oh, that's what she forgot to say... the local story like an audition... No he doesn't light up like a lamppost... No he doesn't have five seconds... moving too far behind her the limbs for real now... No he doesn't disappear when she closes her teeth. She forgets the language of heaven but she remembers the algebra. The whole body turns in on itself, turns, and especially the eyes. |
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