Artifacts of Reference, No. 40
Tag: inspiration
The 24 Hottest New Textures from #ParisFashionWeek
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
After Reading a Page and a Half of Tradition and Innovation in Hellenistic Poetry
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
‘Lightning Bugs’ by August Kleinzahler
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 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
AAPL Tree
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.
Send.
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.
“So gentle and so virtuous she appears” Dante Alighieri
“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.
Wikpedia Poem, No. 55
“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.
“Big Round Tits Played Like Flutes / Every Single Number is a Metrical Unit”
There is no war
buy buy buy
Ode
to
What
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
HEROIC
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.
SHE
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.
Inkown [Draft, 070520131216]
Where will he go?
Half hemmed against
The water hand dancing through
Clouds in a ballet of stars
Night
Just night
Beneath the cold mountain
Where is he afraid to go?
