Wikipedia Poem, No. 102

Installation view of Kevin Beasley's "Strange Fruit (Pair 1)"

Installation view of Kevin Beasley’s “Strange Fruit (Pair 1)” at the Guggenheim

most cups from Israel
charged with tea
planetary symbolism
such as outsider colors

fairly typical: tea and tea-leaf
coffee grounds sitting for study
revealing the cups of symbols

coffee cultures patents
the French
work with the saucer
clockwise from ramparts

patterns-to set patterns
do not correspond
with the front halves of snakes
enmity of tea leaves

birds plus a joker
the tea leaves reveal dozens
of Western products
seeds are synthesized

mango unclear
in contention an Indian
in need of refrigeration
the surface centered

origination by severals
Calcitransportability sized by mixing
ripe mangos variously yellow or
green pickles a southern flora

cave seeds must mango juice
mine mango illustrations
Many salted mangos
a century and then classes

sweetness in commendation
similar skeletons in tissue
parody Arizona arid living
gallery graves in a field of

friends throughout
the cycles of aging graves
costumed adults build family
flaming cartoons calendas past

(butterflies release)

eat the holidaysmail night
— for adults on Mexican plains
— the rounding of devil masks
calent, soula, mezcal, Ocotepec

planetary symbolism works
name your friends sitting in graves
meaning unclear
preparation needed

the unclear mine
ripe of mangos
clockwise tea
by the cup of dozens

in nation Arizona
mine mangos unclear
time preparation needed mine
mango juice mine mango throughout

the cycles
is a cave
this horror

altar many Brazil dia de local
custom origins then prayers
praying natina small against and served
rabbits and children

in Almoloya de Muertos
an honor and decorated
in the dead sugar of skulls
cardboard skeletons pass’er by

in public schools autumnal flowers
the world-long journey people believe possessions
and foods and the day associated ones
of the 16th century decorations dress up the universal

interest often including
festivals by which someone
by the early mango spring
Alphonso as mangos or shaven soil

varietal juices contain mountains
determination close-up
sliced fruits and caffeine
acid vitamins! Vitamins! VITAMINS!

Andalusia from Pakistan
splashed all over the alley
over 400 varieties occurrent and ripening
monoembryonic foodnut then sliced

its own Middle Eastern cup and notes:
Dutch merchants now allow and import
their meanings from Israel in vertical
and a positive spiral fortune teller’s cup

take me someplace real zodiac cups
reverse your magic and show these
sea patterns such
turned as its own cup

settle down stances
coin-side coffee ground
with a coffee reading diet
the cup pattern set, the right
	revealing liquids



“The Summer’s Over, Jack Spicer!” by Matthew Dickman

And Paris, France,
is still Paris, France,
though we've never been there together
but might
if life were a little longer
and no one ever invented knives.
I am crossing the bridge again
and the city is behind me being rescued
or being destroyed 
with a leaf on the end of a branch
turning maple-syrup brown. 
The first one. The summer's over,
Jack Spicer, and I 
have turned my collar up against the wind
and health insurance, the clouds
and blue jays, against the gangbangers
and insufficient funds. It's getting colder.
We're turning from wheat beers to Stouts, becoming
our fathers again, our exhausted
uncles, bruising our knuckles
against the tavern walls
and young mothers, we're showing
up for work, we're blessing 
the promise of ice and snow and football to come
like the Israelites did with the sand, 
the gold, and the insects.
It's raining, Jack Spicer, and I miss
Matthew Lippman. He's walking 
through an alley in Boston,
his beautiful hands and shoulders, his wife and daughter
at home. His heart beating up 
his body like a heavyweight, the nose broken,
the ribs broken—
I'm not ready!
Kiss me, take your legs and make a belt
of stars around me,
be my winter coat, my sobriety and bodega.
The oceans are getting blue
and the oysters are getting ready. Soon
we can cover the table with newspapers, with the faces
of senators and crossword puzzles,
the oysters
spread out over the sports page,
we can open the hard shells
and slip the cold
soft bodies into our mouths. We can drink
white wine and make a kind of Pacific 
out of lunch. I want to lie around 
the room with your jeans 
flung over a chair. I want to eat ice cream
and have my older brother back.
The summer's over, Jack,
and all the waitresses
are putting on their black tights like a funeral
of knees, the bartenders are wiping down the brass, the waiters are drawing out 
their lines of cocaine
like long strings of silk, pure white and perfect.
I have crossed the bridge
into a Paris that doesn't exist. Really,
I'm in Portland,
the summer's over and the last of the breweries
are being pulled into the sky, becoming
lofts, getting roof-top gardens for surgeons and all their beautiful brides.

From Matthew Dickman’s “Mayakovsky’s Revolver”