Wikipedia Poem, No. 798
man seeks unattached heart
woman seeks mature gent
mannattached heart woman
intellectual secure companionship
vibrant as a travel agent
sachant que vigoureux
cherche femme sachant
la vie nous délaisser
que vigoureux chercheur
femme sachant que vigoureux cherche
femme sachant que vigoureux
que vigoureux cherche femme
sachant la vie délaisser
avocat new yorkais
ans eclectually cultured companionship
vibrant as a trailer hitch
la male et taureau lointain éloigné
for passion companionship travel vibrant
cherche la gonzesse
la la la
whoa whoa whoa
la vie nous quitte
Wikipedia Poem, No. 610
“Writing is the joy when all other joys have failed.” Russell Edson
superfood and the rack what happened?
sighs three discernible discriminatory criteria: it will take
precisely inspired futures used precisely necessarily
conventions in current conventions in halls
comparably it transcends current conventions
claims richard kostelanetz in current criteria: it should
refer to findings and beliefs
the term avant-garde refers to its maximum audience
and the secret of current conventions in current practices
it should listen to those out for dreg hormones
the secret of current considerable discriminatory criteria: it
transcends current conventions in comparable halls
discriminatory criteria should refer to those out for dreg hormones
watch out for dreg hormones the secret of currents
conventioned hall like other joy is a superfood and the secret
it should refer to its maximum audience
watch out for forging a path that happened? sighs the mass
watch out for dreg hormones three discriminatory criteria:
one it should refer to those out for dreg hormones
two the secret of current conventions is another other joy
three when all other joy is dismissed hell is the pull of the rack
what happened? sighs transcendent practices
out from behind dreg hormones comes the mass of the mass
of the mess watch out for the secret of the rack
what happened? the sighs of the mess locked in our cathedral
comparable to time find probably it should refer to itself
and the secret of convection in our cathedral it will take
other joy where was a superfood when you so desperately need one
Wikipedia Poem, No. 418
after Vijay Seshadri
no matter how abstract
in a ceramic bowl
an implication of angels
argue about 3 green apples
in an old lady’s outstretched hands
the numb plain makes no sense
in a cracked ceramic bowl
clearly the old lady and the victim
language sunlesions real flesh
strugges to become impossible
numbers punish its argument
3 brown dates drown in scree
neon tulips green apples
And Paris, France,
is still Paris, France,
though we've never been there together
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,
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”
I have already grown a goiter in this drudgery—
As water does to cats in Lombardy,
Or in whatever other region it may be—
Which forces my belly to hang under my chin.
I feel my beard skyward, and memory
On top of my coffer,and my chest like a harpy’s;
And on my face all the while the brush
With its dripping makes a rich pavement.
My loins have entered my paunch,
And I turn my arse into a croup for a counterweight,
And I take steps vainly without my eyes.
My bark stretches out in front,
And from wrinkling in back, is all knotted,
And I strain like a Syrian bow.
Thus fallacious and strange
Rises the judgment which my mind carries;
For one shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.
My dead painting
Defend now, Giovanni, and my honor,
For I am not in a good place, nor am I a painter.
— Michelangelo Buonarroti (1509)
Translation by Luciano Rebay
I' ho già fatto un gozzo in questo stento,
come fa l'acqua a' gatti in Lombardia
o ver d'altro paese che si sia
c'a forza 'l ventre appicca sotto 'l mento.
La barba al cielo, e la memoria sento
in sullo scrigno, e 'l petto fo d'arpia,
e 'l pennel sopra 'l viso tuttavia
mel fa, gocciando, un ricco pavimento.
E' lombi entrati mi son nella peccia,
e fo del cul per contrapeso groppa,
e ' passi senza gli occhi muovo invano.
Dinanzi mi s'allunga la corteccia,
e per piegarsi adietro si ragroppa,
e tendomi com'arco soriano.
Però fallace e strano
surge il iudizio che la mente porta,
ché mal si tra' per cerbottana torta.
La mia pittura morta
difendi orma', Giovanni, e 'l mio onore,
non sendo in loco bon, né io pittore.
— Michelangelo Buonarroti (1509)