I am not even vaguely interested,
though for a quarter I could be.
I was not allowed to move but when my leg went dead
I cheered it on in the first place.
When they whisper they ought to wear a lead vest.
Their lips look like personified oysters.
When they shout it is usually addressed
to the dead body who owned it before us.
We can safely assume one of them is born
every minute of the day.
When my rabbit ran away it was a great relief.
I could not say so—who would understand?—
So I cried for a week.
Source: Ruefle, Mary. “When Adults Talk.” Selected Poems. Seattle: Wave Books, 2011. Print.
“I wake up from sleep. And I fall asleep again! / From serving an era. To betraying a different era. I recite. / I will keep paying 150 yen to buy your smiling face.” Terayama Shūji
but only therapists remain
and projected to have
no metaphors i am thinking
the impossibly large brick school building
the phone call and days ago
holding no metaphors
i am thinking about what i asked her
in first grade the therapist holds
the fragile invulnerable dictionary
spasms outside the hand and apologizing
about the boy i was
how my motherapist and days ago
holding spasms
outside this thinking exercise writing about
the fragile invulnerable world
about the boy
the impossibly large therapist
projected toward me
“As banked clouds / are swept apart / by the wind at dawn, / the cry of the first wild geese / winging over the mountain” — Saigyo (Source photo: Todd Heisler/New York Times)
among us knew many boys
a half dozen? she was
a retired pant and the fridge
is full
The tech tee fridge
is full of bedrooms
The window is open
To Hackensack
will you jump on my trampoline?
The lights have sparrows and
among us knew many boys
a half dozen? said she was
A crow alike at the phone; it's full
the dog refuses, we're out of
phones; it's full of lights here's a snake origami,
your will jumps on our fathers
Pressed pants and held
us our mothers pressed porn
we knew many like her, loved
them even, but who among us knew
many boys
a half dozen?
she was retired, hare
and crow calls alike
At the phone; it's full
the dog refuses,
we're out of phone
and full of lights
here's a snake
Your will jumps
on our fathers
Pressed pants
and Held us Our
mothers Pressed porn star
We knew many like her, loved
even But whom among us knew
boys
a half dozen?
she was a retired porn star.
We knew many boys and a hare
Reading Ben Lerner from behind
Without Ben Lerner's express written consent
I am Ben Lerner "noctilucent"
Against Ben Lerner's particular ass
The pedals of the tricycle in Ben Lerner's front yard
haven’t rotated, felt reciprocation in months
But nonetheless, here I am, Ben Lerner
Atop Ben Lerner, concerned about Death
All tucking away the c-word from an old,
untitled Ben Lerner poem,
an even older poem by Wallace Stevens
From Ben Lerner's mind
To Ben Lerner's mouth
And into, and onto, Ben Lerner's
night-blooming genera.
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
try to maintain the deception through future good works or at least
Source: Keen, Ernest. Three Faces of Being: Toward an Existential Clinical Psychology. New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1970. Print.
what characters?
what images?
then
what emotions?
& how that
blankness
projects, flickers
onto the clean
white wall. where?
where is the heroism?
(cocksure bravado of loss?
the drowning son
saltwater bites his lungs
his inutile hand
breaking the ocean’s lens?
ooh, there
I’ve gone and given it
away—retreat!
peel through the pteridophyta
knee-high, back to skull-island.
they’ll remember you if you tell them
who? what character?
which image? emotion?
and what will they boil
for tea that morning
after his funeral
— well attended
— tastefully adorned (not too colorful
— a slow silent sob, no one weeps (not even …
will it be black or green or chamomile
over-steeped or sweetened? how
at a time like this, can one decide
so freshly alive, so gravitationally piqued
washed red-raw with compassion?
those old films
now significant, so
wall space, interior
as if the boy were climbing
our orange tree
higher, then higher
his fearless lungs full
of bitter citrus.
when?
what’s lost?
again, what emotion?