Wikipedia Poem, No. 614
obscene odes on windows of the skull rural happiness of the book nature stealthily glowers orders a chinch from the middle of the night i do i do i watch the whole red attitude burst a sunday centipeded under what you kids do up high from the bakery floor obsessed á votre santé to becoming a book or divest a heaping fluted salary you must flaunt should flaunt & flip hair texture even steal you a parisian tip you transom into the monolith (for thirty year wardrobes over your shoulder that or these t-shirt saleswomen parisian-end hole suddenly wallet possible nevery morning since that order got me silked sommen i know flaunt the wake up spilt you slip next to slots time worn on your shore heart like a sleeve i'm here and talking to you reader salary red i do i do i don’t happen which is obsessed? i don’t have an attitude sunday morning & you a sudden
Wikipedia Poem, No. 600
the keyhole of my broad back of my ignorance were i ignorant as all the philosophers poured into a visible earthen mold be invincibly ignorant for being unreached but unreachable this condition is the key then to to verdant madness and made one less the light the winged the sacred thing of madness i am stone the poem is no more no i am so enamored no i am so enamored no i am so enamored no i am so enamored no i am so enamored
A cruel word at eventide and night zips up like a spider's retreat. Go back to your febrile needlework. We shall not be chasing lightning bugs in the tall grass tonight. Put the whiskey on the shelf and let us speak calmly of money.
Source: Kleinzahler, August. Live from the Hong Kong Nile Club: Poems : 1975-1990. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2003. Print. Page 34.
Half-listening is a skill Half-listening is a cathedral vanitas Half-listening is a virtue Half-listening is a viscoelastic polymer Half-listening is a delight Half-listening is a 15x scale model of a tumid vulva weighing in at 6,000 lbs. Half-listening is a suffering Half-listening is a dire brutalist skull Half-listening is a patience Half-listening is a burnt altar, unattended Half-listening is a craft Half-listening is a cathedral nonetheless
The least desirable male model in the room.
Che figata! The sweet, sticky, glowing
World fills the artist’s pocket. That claimed room.
It bleats with importance. Vibrates. He reaches down
And finds his hand bleeding.
The artist, meanwhile, glowers,
Designing dry, private experiments with black masses
Infrequently transcribing what he divines
In the lab notebook to whom he is married:
Not clever enough
Not smart enough
Not wealthy enough
Not sensitive enough
Not hungry enough
Yet, there he is, enough.
Still life of the artist without father:
Findings inconclusive and forgotten.
Wrong number. Au gratin.
He intuits something young,
And asks: Why bother taking the test?
He’ll all be dead soon. And all the rest?
Dead and fine. He lines up
In front of the urinal
Panting like a gladiator.
Sad, spineless and the quite-possibly-alive emoji.
The pistol. The butcher’s knife. The optimistic turd. The sword, then.
Too much sensuality to dissolve
On the tip of the tongue
and him, unable to pay
much attention to anything, if I remember correctly.
John Ashbery loves to astute his assay:
August Kleinzahler adores his ma in Fort Lee:
Czeslaw Milosz, I hope you cherish the artist’s unencumbered flesh,
Decomposing in cubes on the couch
While he Googles for a definite vision of the divine
In an apple tree. (Another fucking apple tree.)
The least desirable male specimen
In this corner of his universe. Si, si.
Che figata! Strafigo! Abbastanza bene!
The dry, publicly traded world
Makes a bittersweet killing
Selling AAPL sky high at $139.
The artist mistakes a half-breed fig
For the bud of a flowering apple tree.
“Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare”
Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare
La donna mia quand’ella altrui saluta
Ch’ogne lingua deven tremando muta,
E li occhi no l’ardiscon di guardare.
Ella si va, sentendosi laudare,
Benignamente d’umiltà vestuta;
E par che sia una cosa venuta
Da cielo in terra a miracol mostrare.
Mostrasi sì piacente a chi la mira,
Che dà per li occhi una dolcezza al core,
Che ’ntender no la può chi no la prova:
E par che de la sua labbia si mova
Un spirito soave pien d’amore,
Che va dicendo a l’anima: “Sospira.”
“So gentle and so virtuous she appears”
Trans. Luciano Rebay
So gentle and so virtuous she appears,
My lady, when greeting other people
That every tongue tremblingly grows silent,
And eyes do not dare gaze upon her,
She passes by, hearing herself praised,
Graciously clothed with humility,
And she appears to be a creature who has come
From heaven to earth to show forth a miracle.
She shows herself so pleasing to her beholders,
That she gives through the eyes a sweetness to the heart,
Which no one can understand who does not feel it;
And it appears that from her lip moves
A tender spirit full of love,
Which says again and again to the soul: “Sigh.”
Source: Alighieri, Dante. “So gentle and so virtuous she appears.” Trans. Luciano Rebay. Italian Poetry: A Selection from St.Francis of Assisi to Salvatore Quasimodo. New York: Dover, 1969. 28-29. Print.
“B is for the Brute / in white soft, scuffless sneakers / smoke”
stretching at Autosayyid B is for Brute that oil-stained to Ghostbro are and slit here the general tattoo waving loaded to a share and of my hat gnawing me to the stared asphalt four of my hats gnawing overing this nothink a little Post-Corporeal Over touched asphalt four face When the stood part no doi But heaven’s only elide the checkered minivan obeying of time Someone else will die and in a table “Killing to the rain the rain the man’s oil-stained to the girl is the old manifest B is for the Brute the Brute in white soft, scuffless sneakers smoke Thomas and the minivan or San Diego.
There is no war
buy buy buy
Charming isn’t it? How here, high, second storying
There can be none. How here, high, expanded in cowardice
Rubbing temples like Ginsberg at the phallic lamp
My curiosity piques at a distance and murderous is
Curiosity, suddenly I’m speaking East Coast Spanish
Universe-sized droplets kick across the IPA skin
Whip carbon dioxide into brief enthusiasm
POETRY POETRY POETRY
STOP SELLING ME!
Internal rhyme, do I care about the color of my beer?
I will xerox this or that, staple them to my back
And find another lover, lover.
Across the road, from a distance, is sobbing
Like artillery: Rare, brilliant, pounded into the ground
Another scoundrel ode
Powered by the fighting, by the recent sticky floors
By the Quick phrasing, beneath
Her thumb. Am I quoting that correctly?
Breathe, offset temple, breathe.
A lo hecho, pecho.