Positive Style Witch (Stephanie Burt)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 669

w669-final

bono ich ichor   be the dog's    
hat an ichor lana                                                      
brain 19th the hittite lovers whale-sea manninguage 

show me any persona
and i will find you
opportunity love 
lost

was       manhattan sweat an indo-european 
in you lover we'll see language has a way       
a dog's hat is a distinct memory branch 

show me any persona
and i will find you 
puzzle's love 
lost

ich of their guts shades only sweat 
ichor-ture not mentioned but black in your eye 
biblical way intent attention sweat caitlyn jenner

show me any persona
and i will whisper
weakness into
the wreck

renee ramsey       branch         ich-ichor attend to sweat 
ana branch ichor caitlyn jenner known as 
black indo-european       in your eye regional

show me any persona
tell me about 
opportunity's lost
labor

identury attenuated in your      eye black unrelated 
for   christina
tom gabel your         eye        black 

show me any persona
where music is buried
and i'll find love 
to lose

in you lover chelsea manning bradley
renee         renee renee ramsey manning 
the hair gel stuck in the 19th century anatolian core

show me any persona
deep inside 
your love 
lost

sometimes uninhabitable true true love lover 
chelsea           manning withhold my free vision
bruce jenner                              bradley renee ramsey 

show me any persona
and i will shake 
terror of the  
possible

ichor compels ichor      sometimes stuck in your eye 
black indo-european years bruce jenner brain 19th the what           
the not intention but     the christina kahrl angel membered people       

show me any persona
and hold you up
to the sun 
sea

convent bono in 19th tether from they're native lover xychelsea 
maman est morte    indo-european luck       in 19th thread
in 19th century the ichor caitlyn           jenner the sweat their guts

show me any persona
the fire within 
i'll tell you 
how

stuck in your eye       be gone who indo-european 
ichor language watcher renee related the what         
your eye biblically       sweet       a dog's hat in neon        

show me any persona
tempt me the you 
about blood
loss

who ich ich of      the was          hair anatolian plague
they're neither enterpreted nor competent
aujourd'hui il fait beau    sweat     monger

show me any persona
cleave the hog
a complete
loss

the luwians shot all the infants 
your          brain-eye black with the unrelated anatolians    
the shot of the wettest future       

show me any persona
and i'll tell you about 
my love 
lost

black is unadorned in 19th defenestration
in you lover chelsea manning bruce jenner    
bradley ichor language who ich ichor caitlyn jenner

show me any persona
and i'll tell you about 
my time in the
forest

hat and hair
in         sweat 
tethered in your eye

Wet Thoroughly with Product and Allow to Dry Without Wiping

Wikipedia Poem, No. 628

montparnasse

“My mind is made up / of so many cuts / of meat.” David Tomas Martinez

survive this bridge
say nothing intrinsically 
unnecessary superfluous       and suppose 
that a poet who advises that little-better speak 
he whose role is it to enfeeble language speak 
a little looser 
better advised and thereby unnecessary 
and superfluous and superfluous        
and suppose as a poet who advises     
the deep-seated one day 
countess of deepseats thereby 
unnecessary unhelpful and superfluous but lawful
always within the arms of the law           
can a poet dance his sweet wine
therebys in all their wiggling forms within 
unintentionally unnecessary and helpful           
but how can a poet 
among his people's trusts 
become a poet-king? 

how can a poet-king 
who advised so        
damn unnecessarily
survive?

 

From “On Motorcycles” by Frederick Seidel

gerace-honda-rebel-500

“On the lyrical state highways of Vermont I blatted and roared, up and down through the gears, at eighty, at a hundred and something, at much more than a hundred and something miles an hour. The motorcycle had a relatively long wheelbase and felt absolutely solid in a straight line, despite the shaft-drive, and steady enough in a turn, but not quick to turn and right itself. The bike was rather heavy, not deft and flickable, but it was wonderful to look at, wonderful to be on, wonderful to ride, a source of pride. The sound it made was magnificent. The feeling was of riding a powerful musical instrument. The hills echoed and the valleys lit up with my song. You used to be able to say of a motorcycle that it was on song when it was going full tilt in perfect tune and at the right revs just at the redline, the rpm limit for the motor. I was on song. I felt in tune, in love, so proud. It was late summer, almost fall. Pride goeth before the fall. Then I fell.

***

“I was rounding a turn on the MV at considerable speed when I had the only serious accident I have ever had. Years before, I had jumped the Triumph Metisse off the top of a rise, knowing I would land in sand, and curious to see if I could do it and keep going, but I was prepared to crash, and I crashed. That didn’t count. I may have been going eighty miles an hour on the MV when I realized I would not make it around the turn. I had a choice: I could throw the bike down on the highway or aim for the unplowed field straight ahead of me, as the road curved to the left. I chose the field and shot off the road and rode across the field with the bike upright, and then I hit a ditch, going quite fast still, and crashed. I was furious, embarrassed, outraged. My first act was to get the bike upright and try to start it. A passing state trooper was flagged down by someone who had seen me go off the road. The trooper was rushing a kidney-dialysis machine to another part of Vermont where it was needed in an emergency, and he certainly did not want to be held up, but when he looked at me he decided he had better get me to the nearby Ellsworth Clinic in Chester, where, when I walked in, I saw the blood drain from the face of the receptionist as she looked at me, and heard her insist to the trooper that I be rushed to Springfield Hospital. She obviously thought I had done terrible damage to myself and was about to go into shock. The trooper sped to Springfield with lights whirling and siren whooping. This same trooper was killed six months later in a high-speed crash. It turned out he had been reprimanded several times for his risk-addicted driving. At the hospital it was determined that I had broken three ribs, that was all.

“I had to explain this mortifying event to myself and to the world. When the wrecked motorcycle was examined, it was apparent that there was something not right about the foot pedal that operated the rear brake. The pedal swung loose, meaning it could move down from its position at rest but also it could move up—not normal, not desirable—and it was possible, perhaps likely, that this had been the state of affairs before the crash. A Vermont motorcycle dealer named Peter Pickett had driven down to JFK in his small red open-bed truck to pick up the MV after it cleared customs, and had taken it to Peru, Vermont, where my friend Jill Fox lived and where I spent a great deal of time. The crate was unloaded, opened, and set aside to be saved, it was so good-looking in its own right. The motorcycle, pretty much ready to be ridden, nevertheless had to be gone over to make sure everything was in order. I examined the front end while the back portion of the bike was checked by an experienced rider and sometime mechanic who lived in the village, not exactly a friend but someone friendly and eager to play a part. My immediate thought after crashing was that it couldn’t have been my fault, certainly couldn’t have been the result of my taking the wrong line in attempting to go through the corner, certainly couldn’t have been a case of not leaning the bike into the turn sufficiently because of the speed I was traveling, couldn’t have been the speed I was traveling stopping me from correctly managing the bike, couldn’t have been . . . and so forth. So it had to have been the consequence of the adjustments made to the rear brake pedal by the fellow who checked out the rear of the motorcycle. It suddenly was apparent that the lever controlling the rear brake had been set up in a manner that applied the brake when the pedal was pressed down, as is normal, or when the pedal swung up, when downward pressure was applied or when no pressure was applied, and the pedal was for whatever reason forced up, as when rounding a corner at great speed the centrifugal force pushed the lever up . . . and the back brake was applied without my foot touching the brake pedal. I believed this theory. I propounded it to all, grunting with pain from my broken ribs. I offer the theory to you now, dear reader. Believe me, that is how it happened. The brake was applied without my touching the pedal, the rear wheel locked, I felt it lock, felt that I could not possibly get around the turn, without knowing what exactly was the matter, and decided to go straight, into the field I saw there, straight ahead of me, and did so, dragging the locked rear wheel . . . and riding, if that is the right word, through the field might have made it to a safe upright stop if I had not come up against a ditch, almost a canal, too wide for the dead weight of the motorcycle to cross, and then BAM.

“For days, for months, I replayed the scene, explaining to myself what had happened, excusing myself. Anything to avoid thinking I had been an incompetent. And there is something else in this. There is a way in which feigning nearness to death risks death. Faking it at all well imitates real danger too faithfully and brings danger. I had gone into the turn too fast. I had not made it around the turn. I started playing down the danger I had put myself in and at the same time playing it up. Motorcycling is full of bravado and posing and the nearness of death. You pretend to be calmly, even coldly focused, when you ride, eyes everywhere, eyes on the job and immune to thoughts about risk. That is how one describes riding these fast motorcycles, except of course there is in addition the pleasure. You are riding beauty and you are riding speed and you are riding death. And it is a pleasure. But you offer yourself as a dashing devotee. You realize you are performing the role of yourself, and may be maimed out of existence as part of the act, as part of the character you are playing.

“The bike went back to Italy and returned, having had its bent and wounded parts rebuilt at great expense, with the latest disc brakes off the racing bike added. Again it was trucked to Vermont. It looked so glamorous. I rode it once, just to do it, like getting back on a horse that has thrown you. Eventually the MV was put on display at Luigi Chinetti’s Ferrari dealership in Greenwich, Connecticut, and was bought by a visiting English rare-car dealer to add jazz and romance to his personal collection.

“I had another shaft-drive bike at the time, the classic BMW 750cc opposed-cylinder twin, with its sober and good-looking black bodywork with white pinstripes. It was a touring bike, very comfortable and reliable, the latest version of the design in a long line of opposed twins the company had made. I rode it around Vermont, and then one day, with my young son behind me as my passenger, riding on a dirt road, I descended a very steep hill to get to the paved county road and went into a slide, a barely controlled slide down the hillside in the dirt, which I managed like a motocross racer, or a skier, touching the brakes once or twice only, and lightly, and driving safely away. That little hill thrill chill did it. Once home, I was ready to sell the bike and stop motorcycling for good.”

from “On Motorcycles” by Frederick Seidel

Hypovolemic Fantasy, Eros, Alone

Wikipedia Poem, No. 502

w502-sm

“Evening of a day in early March, / you are like the smell of drains / in a restaurant where pate maison / is a slab of cold meat loaf / damp and wooly. You lack charm.” James Schuyler

   verbing hot 
        and heavy
like a 
lover's 
    wet mouth
after dark
       n u 
  my mirror body itself
comes 
   separated 
        skin from skin from skin from 
   skin 
torn from skin 
like peeling paint 
 from skin from 
skin from skin from skin 
from skin from skin from skin from skin from skin from skin from skin 
from skin ripped from a 
turtle's 
          shell 
         
  yr mirror 
body 
itself
comes 
paint 
       from a turtle 
   shell 
   the 
shell fear 
is blood hard
is that 
 i peeling separates
      skin from skin from his liquid from 
from skin from a turtle's shell 
the 
mirror yr mouth
after 
dark
n u fear 
the blood is 
blood coming  
  comes hot 
and 
heavy has come
like peeling paint 
from a 
turtle's 
shell 
 
    the illness 
like paint-like   
    skin from a 
        turtle's shell 
        the 
shell 
        peels
separating
     skin 
from 
skin from a turtle's shell

Poetess

poetess-sm

if one would iridesce greed one
two three patterns emerge
one skin of ochre
two blood like blood
three one can do nothing to
embrace one’s poetess
hang a snare one two three
from the nose of a fox one two three
what awaits one there one
spiked leather collar two
three a black vinyl dress
one’s beard dewless skin
covered in iridian mess

Wikipedia Poem, No. 258

W258-sm-2

“Unvisited I do not live, I endure.” August Kleinzahler

 

or fall into the talk abroad
that corrupts the few poetic souls
who still sing in macbeth’s blood

or uncleave our township & turn toward
his broad blessings circled by mirth
this is allowed in god’s bready decoy

or hide the sea’s black-hair with no decoy
those who ask with a polite smile pass
pass this agony shell the nobleman’s security

or would noblemen decay ur-net-shops
over art-shops or habit-shops or per
animal-shops it is not to say for angels

or allow it to come by day these even angels
caught not under force this brother cool roots
such answerable litheness of a bitten minute-body

so at each erring my herein spaces out
the no-makeup joint rapt by vague angels
sort themselves for extermination up and in especially

sanguine of

paculum-spec2-sm

Source:

Wikipedia Poem, No. 233

wiki233-sm

“the ammonia curled / for a moment in the air like a spirit.” Sharon Olds

 

leukocytes appraise
without prejudice bound on
waste produce blue carbon

proteins and plasma amino
acids heathrow international blood
movements standing action committees

leukocytes carry veins toward
the cell door which exercise
dissolves in the immune system

spare black brushes of manhood
blackened hypothalamus glucose
waste principally nutrients

spirit aerated redistributed
subclavian arteries adapt molecules
strenuously deoxygenate

blood transports therea’s blood cells
her fair urothelial dress
her exalted exhale press

hemocyanin — human blue —
body heart heat cellular legs
the body thrombocyte erythrocyte

leukocyte impure
an ocean of veins
from which cells are bound

coagulate properly coat
the liver flush blood moves old
aberrant functions and plasma

platelet fluids in
circulation humans
in capacity

Wikipedia Poem, No. 140

adasdqaf32-03

“What is that painting of mine in Philadelphia? Is it Fifty Days in Iliam? It’s very strange, no one has ever mentioned it. Have you ever seen it? Well it’s one of a large group of paintings. It’s called Fifty Days in Iliam; I spelt it I-L-I-A-M, which is not correct. It’s U-M. But I wanted that, I wanted the A for Achilles; I always think of A as Achilles; I wanted the A there and no one ever wrote and told me that I had misspelt Ilium. I’m saying anyone in America.” Cy Twombly

culminations 
          as 
a guiding 
    mood from the 1960s 
which 
       witnessed Commodus 
serving as 
a summation of Mary 
of the 
final 
     panel despite the 
     Cuban Missile Crisis agonizing a much more somber and culminate the painting 
wounds and in the final panoply of chaos their 
composition 
of 
congealed 
anxious 
bleeding marks
1962 bleeding the line the 
      cycle of nine the 
darkening of historical sequences of the bloody whirls 
of President John F Kennedy producing 
bloody whirls of historical sequences 
of 
historical 
sequences often articulating mood President 
John F Kennedy produced insanity 
        and tension
Source: 
- Sylvester, David. “Interview / Cy Twombly / Rome.” cytwombly.info. 2000. Web. 6 Mar. 2016.
- Twombly, Cy. Fifty Days at Iliam. 1978. Oil, oil crayon, and graphite on canvas. Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia.

American Womanhood

i see her sipping tea
she wants to write
the Great American Joke Book

about consumerism
sour-milk yellow sniffling yolk but

they get in the way
the hardcover wesleyan
in a cable-knit sweater
the canadian monthly
masked in a methylin-soaked love letter

hands up baby
hands up

“But if I said it was the only thing that mattered
That everything else was play, was yarn, was
A 40-year-old Knock Knock joke, would you”

their theories enjamb me
up against the wall, headlines
like licorice fingernails
like bricks — she draws blood

the thinking woman left to only sit
and listen to what’s left of rain
sweet and silent, waiting, pried
loose by synthetic rubber.