Wikipedia Poem, No. 184

undestiny-01

“Thus, in a brazen urn, the water’s light / Trembling reflects the sun’s and moon’s bright rays, / And, darting here and there in aimless flight, / Rises aloft, and on the ceiling plays.” Virgil

 

here the line and air does
perhaps begin its final gasp

clinching couplets in asymmetry
life as genre generates the poem

a poem in the first
the first the first

the first forms of air
do perhaps begin the line

the forms generate breath
the central event divides

form breaks from
soul except equal

in a way ends preceding
with a less emphatic pause

the two lines arranged
bodies with life and air

“Reader!” there it was
bodies symmetrically

Author Photo with Knife

author-photo-knife-2k

“with my skin / Plus this—plus this: / that forever the geography / which leans in / on me” Charles Olson

to grab the reader by the balls
to force it to sculpt my bellicose cleavage 
	in the whitespace under the image
to demand pedagogy and aloofness 
	had coupled in the unified field
	and born “THISS” 
	(quoting Olson & Graham)
to imply the blue of the sea, or Kings Plaza
	gray and untouchable, or a wild uninterpretable 
	sidecar tongueing Uigeadail
to insist casual, black, non-fear loosening a necktie
to guarantee through decay and whitehot kidney stones and 
	vomit-crested cry — bandanaed and ever so scrawny — that
	yes, yes, I still shred

Braille Poem No. 1 [draft 12292013]

the ring finger
the palm
ring finger
the palm

preoccupied
father again
wonder again
another
chalice-full of vinegar

strapped to this cluttered table
again
Charles Olson                               again
pinot noir                                     again
sony                                            again
starbucks                                     again
menu and ravenous tin
the New York Times                      again

exclude burning past lives
holding the hand of wonder            again
pushed into the street                    again
ring finger, palm
palm, ring finger, palm
suddenly with such speed.         morning again.

Image

“Cy Twombly” from “Collected Prose of Charles Olson”

“Sculpture fled. And architecture has now run after. And for good reasons: that the round world (which it was their job to lead us to enjoy—to illuminate)—turned to rot. It had been treated cheap, not by these arts but by what makes arts: men.

All the golden things, including the mean, got debased. Then everything blew up, from the inside, from cause.

It is even possible that one has to include line as having suffered, and color.  But this will not be so easily apparent, and the point of it can wait.

There came a man who dealt with whiteness. And with space. He was an American. And perhaps his genius lay most in innocence rather than in the candor now necessary. In any case, he was not understood.

What seems clear is, that two dimensions as surface for plastic attack is once more prime. And with all perspective as aid gone, the whole Renaissance. Even line gone. And maybe color—as too easy.”

An excerpt from Charles Olson’s short essay entitled “Cy Twombly” from “Collected Prose Charles Olson”.

“The invisible mountains of New Jersey, linger”

This
Brown tooth-quick
Frowning blonde
Blasting across the lava field
Approaches her cool boudoir
Between two red cars
A clean-lined, adventurous
four-door Wrangler
A battered, embarrassed,
gold embellished Caravan
So much depends on which way she turns
(Will she?) Is she
?

my slow westward motion
, in relation

(for Amiri Baraka and Charles Olson)