How blessed that red ribbon — crosstown view — 1978 I can only describe what I read times what I believe and I know nothing here’s among the five false sun- flowers where the water comes on high and tehuantepec yesss crosstown traffic among crows these are windows / not rules but also rulers / also cans and bottles emphasizing broad pale embarkment buttressing five yellow zinnias / goddammit why countless empty bowls? why the abandonment of systems dead biology dead language dead view five pot marigolds i forgive you all.
gothic piping
which is world
embarrassing themselves year over year, bertolt.
frequently seemingly
the
night of iron and i can tell you,
heather,
in my advice to
cross
today
and that
quietly seemingly
obviously
the world is
embarrassing —
there were
loves missing which is to say watching the world
embarrassing its wisdom.
john
might
of
scandalized the breakfast rollicking which is
the night
of iron and loudspeaker social
modernization.
oh,
harkening gold — ceiling walls and floor! —
the only thing was
loving which is
only theater
in
my
advice to you had to
be there you had to
cross
today
and
you, it's
hopeless,
terrance.
occasionally the
same sonnet
spins steady gold
the only
things gone and gotten.
Gracieux fils de Pan! Autour de ton front couronné de fleurettes et de baies tex yeux, des boules précieuses, remuent. Tachées de lies brunes, tes joues se creusent. Tes crocs luisent. Ta poitrine ressemble à une cithare, des tintements circulent dans tes bras blonds. Ton cœur bat dans ce ventre où dort le double sexe. Promène-toi, la nuit, en mouvant doucement cette cuisse, cette seconde cuisse et cette jambe de gauche.
Antique
trans. John Ashbery
Graceful son of Pan! Around your forehead crowned with small flowers and berries, your eyes precious spheres, are moving. Spotted with brownish wine lees, your cheeks grow hollow. Your fangs gleam. Your chest is like a lyre, jingling sounds circulate between your blond arms. Your heart beats in that belly where the double sex sleeps. Walk at night, gently moving that thigh, that second thigh and that left leg.
Ancient
trans. Wallace Fowlie
Graceful son of Pan! Under your brow crowned with flowers and berries, your eyes, precious balls, move. Spotted with dark streaks, your cheeks look hollow. Your fangs glisten. Your chest is like a lyre and tinklings move up and down your white arms. Your heart beats in that abdomen where your double sex sleeps. Walk at night and move gently this thigh, then this other thigh and this left leg.
Against
trans. Joseph M. Gerace
Beats in the belly! Whereas your bat dans tes pan! Autour heart beats in the abdomen where your fangs glisten. Your eyes, remuent. Tachées de gauche. Ancient trains walk at night, gently moving sound. Your eyes, your forehead, crowned with small flowers and berries, your forehead — crocs-luisent. Tachées de les tes yeux, des boules précieux fils de pan! Under your fangs gleam brilliant blond arms. Your double, à une cithare, des tes yeux, des boules précieux, fils de pan! Autour forehead crocs luisent. Tachées de pan! Autour hearts beat in your thigh.
Un beau matin, chez un peuple fort doux, un homme et une femme superbes criaient sur la place publique. «Mes amis, je veux qu’elle soit reine!» «Je veux être reine!» Elle riait et tremblait. Il parlait aux amis de révélation, d’épreuve terminée. Ils se pâmaient lun contre l’autre.
En effet ils furent rois toute toute une matinée où les tentures carminées se relevèrent sur les maisons, et toute l´après-midi, où ils sávancérent du côté des jardins de palmes.
Royalty
One fine morning, in the country of a very gentle people, a magnificent man and woman were shouting in the public square. “My friends, I want her to be queen!” “I want to be queen!” She was laughing and trembling. He spoke to their friends of revelation, of trials completed. They swooned against each other.
In fact they were regents for a whole morning as crimson hangings were raised against the houses, and for the whole afternoon, as they moved toward the groves of palm trees.
Source: Rimbaud, Arthur, and John Ashbery. Illuminations. New York: W.W. Norton, 2012, pp. 52-53.
“For King, for Robert Kennedy, destroyed by those they could not save, for King for Kennedy I mourn. And for America, self-destructive, self-betrayed.
I grieve. Yet know the vanity of grief—through power of The Blessed Exile’s transilluminating word
aware of how these deaths, how all the agonies of our deathbed childbed age are process, major means whereby, oh dreadfully, our humanness must be achieved.”
complex professionals who strafe
u.s. senators and storytelling strivers
thinker attuned team members and persistences
free prisoners across departments i’m a self-starter
and strategically precise ethical blackness of the tail
this exciting spectrum of designers and storytelling stibnite
with law enforcement mayors and storytellers
combine social media proven critical excitement and style
i’ve led law enforcement hemmed in mermaids
mayors ensure negotiations splash
across a broadly speaking considerated enthusiasm
met with thoughtful concern
i’ve managed senators and corpo-strategic efficiences
deck-in across departments i’m a small rat whose best practices
self-start and persist under the window
perfectly planned superflat writing styles i heart feeders
simultaneously my audience i’m joseph m. gerace
i’ve managed several leaders marked general delivery
who manages the mayors
i’ve met with law enforcement
i’m a small business i know the value of a bushel of stibnite
broadly speaking i’m a chunk of content
comets and lakes and corporate journalism
got a toolbox persists across an irradiated spectrum of designers
u.s. and strategic partners pretensions
professional skaters tweet for corporations shot up facebook feeds
simultaneously my audience
in business for yourself, not by yourself
floodlit and eloquent
i’m the high-pressure hose
negotiating needs lord riot
several scrupulous lenders whom mayor from on high
high as fuck small businesses owned by state senators loaned
to lobsters ensure negotiations get by across departments
manors made of facebook feeds motivate technologies
small news and black nutrition monthly tech law
jude law enforcement governors u.s. and state senators
salesmen spectrum’d designers of death’s persistent
across department resistance
divest my target audience
persist i’m jewish yearly forward facing style
i’ve managed several audiences día de reyes
i’ve manipulated several audiences the taste of flesh is good
persistence consistently across departments sans agency
communion communication combination domination
mayors combust by combustion and pestilence floating
indicators across the wire broadly speaking considerate
i’m a small business and naturally intergalactic enforcer
shriek of bloody glass
at the end of a dream
i’m a small b
is oblomov soaring only when giacometti is on?
what about oblomov oh you don’t know?
enough with the joists monetizing pastures
run out loud
no maggot-lonely world no
doesn’t know enough about capital
sarah morris now and time
too mustn’t be so ashberian
insomniaholic holy whirling amongst eyeful photosynthetics
evans was history from beat one
which has a history
at which point linear decomposition
this political meaning
points to they are not american
so that’s why
if you can write unentertaining books about capital now
and people are not american that’s why if you can
only wear today sit up and bray at propeller sky
ignore the scoreboard time mustn’t be so ashberian
insomniaholic holy when giacometti is on and on about chimamanda ngozi adichie the opposite of spinach is armor and
which are gathered in a sacred pile by horses trust me i’ve researched this stuff
capital and quarterbacks who were very rich
white books about football and baseball and time too
mustn’t be so ashberian insomniaholic holy whirling amongst eyeful photosynthetics
evans was common about his pointy stuff
capital now and again peopled into his arm
they are not so american that’s why
if you can write books about chimamanda ngozi adichie and sarah morris and time
too mustn’t be so ashberian insomniaholic holy whirling amongst eyeful photosynthetics
evans was a political climate come on you mustn’t be so ashberian
insomniaholic holy whirling amongst eyeful photosynthetics
evans was common with his stuff slurping the opposite of spinach
so deeply layered and which point to pure compostable pastures
run out loud no maggot-lonely joists and monetized highways
psychological meanings
i think the world doesn’t consider the implication
only whirling amongst eyeful photosynthetics
evans was a common thing in the rain the robin is far from beautiful
yet it lives so well behind me
on fire an 18 wheeler at speed
i am a dumb young man
but i am
“I’ve given this coldness many names / thinking if it had a name it would have a solution” Kaveh Akbar
nor is not its
reader nor is not its reader a politician's slight to create a god
if they weren't given here men are taught to create a god
if the roots of which i am so enamored poet
of
the you the famous
poem is not this condition is not this condition is your lips offer up
a mouthful of hand like an acrobat part you when the poem
is guaranteed in this condition is you in the you
in the you in the poet of him again his condition is not popular
your lips of the you in they weren't given here men are taught of
the you in this condition is
not everyone knows the poem is not its reader nor is not its reader
nor is pleasure guaranteed
in the
you in the room and which i am so enamored poem is you
in the roots offer up a mouthful of
which aggravates an entire season
of
the poem is not its reader a
politician's slight of the poem is
not
this condition is not this condition is not this condition
is not
its reader nor is not its reader nor is you guaranteed
sitting on the roots of which i am so enamored poem is not its
reader nor is guaranteed
in the famous poet of sand even here men are taught to create
a god if you wish aggravation an acrobat
parts
you in the ways given here
men are taught to create a
god if the roots offer up a mouthful of him
again imagine you in the room an entire season of pear trees
everyone knows the roots
of which aggravates
an acrobat parts you room and aggravate
an acrobat part you of whom i am so enamored this poem is not its reader
nor is it a lover nor is it guaranteed in you the room
like an entire season of sand
everyone knows the poet
who is not a reader nor is guaranteed in the roots
offer up a mouthful of the room which aggravates
an acrobat part of you in the room and which aggravates
an acrobat part your lips
of the room and like an acrobat part you the poem is not its reader
nor is guaranteed in the popular you the room and
which aggravates an entire season
of sand everyone knows the room
and like an entire season of which aggravates an
acrobat part your lips offer up a mouthful of the poem is not
the famous poem is not
this condition is not its reader
a
politician's slight
to
create a god if the popular
you in they weren't given here men are taught
to
create a god if they weren't given here
men are taught to create a god if the your lips offer up a mouthful of
which aggregates an
entire season of aggravates
What is it now with me
And is it as I have become?
Is there no state free from the boundry lines
Of before and after? The window is open today
And the air pours in with piano notes
In its skirts, as though to say, “Look, John,
I’ve brought these and these”—that is,
A few Beethovens, some, Brahmses,
A few choice Poulenc notes. . . . Yes,
It is being free again, the air, it has to keep coming back
Because that’s all it’s good for.
I want to stay with it out of fear
That keeps me from walking up certain steps,
Knocking at certain doors, fear of growing old
Alone, and of finding no one at the evening end
Of the path except another myself
Nodding a curt greeting: “Well, you’ve been awhile
But now we’re back together, which is what counts.”
Air in My path, you could shorten this,
But the breeze has dropped, and silence is the last word.
