The super ball is a comet rips through passive air. The super ball doesn’t bounce bites holes in the wall the concrete foundation window pane the neighbor’s forehead. The super ball cuts tight corners around Chinese supersmog floods the Superdome sparks this forest fire castrates that polar ice cap. The super ball is a nuclear bunker buster shears around the ears shares killer stories about its time in the Royal Air Force never barks or shows teeth when I stick to listening or head-gone leave without tipping. The super ball is grey not gray a dumb way for a poet to describe anything of such magnitude by its lack-of-color which some people cannot see or ignore or paint over with all the gravity of a man crushed undone turned inside out by a falling anvil.
names for the tree facing my window
almost within reach, elastic
with squirrels, memory banks, homes.
Castagno took itself to heart, its pods
like urchins clung to where they landed
claiming every bit of shadow
at the hem. Chassagne, on windier days,
nervous in taffeta gowns,
whispering, on the verge of being
anarchic, though well bred.
And then chestnut, whipped pale and clean
by all the inner reservoirs
called upon to do their even share of work.
It was not the kind of tree
got at by default—imagine that—not one
in which the only remaining leaf
was loyal. No, this
was all first person, and I
was the stem, holding within myself the whole
bouquet of three
at once given and received: smallest roadmaps
of coincidence. What is the idea
that governs blossoming? The human tree
clothed with its nouns, or this one
just outside my window promising more firmly
than can be named
that it will reach my sill eventually, the leaves
silent as suppressed desires, and I
a name among them.
from Jorie Graham’s Hybrids of Plants and Ghosts
“Harbingers aggrieve the event surviving punk kids who take to imagineer politics. She studied against structure, thus a boycott, called Woman which runs in power-bending concerns. These concerns include threats and the born-female perfect tense afforded liberation that the next year old boy has accessed for turquoise generations and published across the lectern. She who had activists had afforded brown includes not to treats and wanted her washed. Washed she was.” –Wikipedia
deletepocket Is the A-plot of presence (or a few years And help the warrior-type go back toward the thing the sense go back refuse the idea out and about my writing its basic need for comments 6 deleted this week encouraging and flattering but Thanks for they are one, something once tried poems slit across the highway like a motorcycle the “yr form” in mission-only off the case, right/good pop lyrics yr! be the same to between together wild monestated after this less-than-wartime the use and the drawn together dogs, black and lost ones on the dual light now she's going to say it: Like it. go back! The men, the wanting (your the full coming where; the speculative sensual differently triptych context a funeral extended by hookers tested—now towards— context comes what’s by its very place: You're where, but I do a little. "Men" also confuse me. The first ties to higher education and puzzle found go to collage to arrive you comfort to confuse somethinking and choristers are evocated, with some sort of interstitial variety, but you should account beautiful things as they are walking towards you, not away from you you line her slits up and taken thou stanched Thanks for then though I retooled trolled as work Anyway, my basic theory remains about the room or to quote the dignity there’s no way to say it without being artless and specific.
the explicit camphor find it two notes a major third interval then the cuckoo i know the unfading green camphor when i hear it do you two notes a major third interval and then the idea of an owl juxtaposed by the cuckoo the meantime the shuttering engine it all adds up to a subtle push you had pushed the owl did not I said but in the unfading green camphor the kei engine two notes a major third interval some naming the cuckoo the unfading green camphor two knots I said becomes three and so on but in the definite article of the owl he/I did note a major third interval note it the cuckoo the owl did note a major third interval and spring the cuckoo the owl was not I said but in the unfading green camphor bang bang two notes a major third interval The cuckoo you who the owl notes a definite major third cuckoo
After Eugenio Montale’s “Sul Llobregat“
Dal verde immarcescibile della canfora
due note, un intervallo di terza maggiore.
Il cucco, non la civetta, ti dissi; ma intanto, di scatto,
tu avevi spinto l’acceleratore.
known as reductio ad absurd this platonic object but not exist yes, if you are existence then count main characters certain certain certain sensory (see threatfulness) textual this perfectly specific here in fact the black takes a bicycle the computer the computer edits the population this is a text: egg fried in freedom will existence of free will your obligation compiles failure ergo sum sound deep below art being at does nonexistence and existence in certain sensations in the face of braces it.
The music is beautiful it takes me a long time to see that this is besides the point. József Lendvay is beautiful like the music masculine affirmative embracing what is sad although I do not know from stories told to me but the music speaks and I understand it. But he says it and I have heard it clearly. Then something undeniable happens as József commands the percussion the second and third violins the patient cellos stare at the black shoulder-length curls begging for some contact waiting for a sign or a nod of approval or a rebuke József walks away from his attention and checks in with the bass reluctant at first again this cannot be a mistake. The bass speaks confident plays confident the incomparable shadow of József who notices nods again. The orchestra swells rehearsed a thousand times a reckless bass bounces atop other instruments strings stinging the fret board hard leather soles delighted at the floor boards of the wedding of flames the bass is free never before. Never. Reverie reserved a shuffling now of the feet somber and the bass back into His shadow then His shadow He blots out. In this disappearing the most muscular His eyes emerge to lunch spit out bones evaporate eviscerate. He reappears totally beside the bass nods the bass inhales draws its shadow repeats fills himself in with shadow turbulent shadow bravado fragile bravado deadly bravado’d shadow recedes all swell embrace bigger than clearly music not an imitation now but a formless capital commanding József still dancing in the shadow smiles bows bravo.
Should they call me what they call me When they come to call on me And should I be satisfied with all three When all three are with me Or should I say may they stay Or will they stay with me On no account must they cry out About which one went where they went In time to stay away may be they do But I doubt it As they were very much able to stay there. However may they go if they say so.
from Part IV of Stanzas in Meditation from “Stein: Writings 1932-1946, Vol. 2”
“The background of tradition of profound conviction that men and women and children do not change, that science is interesting but does not change anything, that democracy is real but that governments unless they tax you too much or get you defeated by the enemy are of no importance.”
Gertrude Stein in Paris France
The sky is a very bad parent impatient, grinding its teeth, hyperventilating as its baby wahs and wails and flails and vomits all over its parent's prettiest things and the parent grabs its little darling a little too tight a taut smile a slight tear traps it under an arm and marches into the kitchen opens the dark chemical cabinet under the sink tosses in the nuisance like a lightning-chopped tree trunk crushes a two-family home claps the cabinet closed.