Proof You Can Write A Poem You’ve Never Read (Basquiat)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 479

never-sm

My art is that of my father: / even among stinking shepherds, bean- / brained as the flocks they tend, our / sausages are known. The old man / sits in back, ruined in his bones, a scold.” August Kleinzahler

painting of 
a face in a 
skull 
         brought $1105 million-plus 
      club in the work it 
        was 
taken the 
sixth 
        most 
  had 
        been guaranteed to buyer the 
shape 
of 
      a face 
   in the room on basquiat least for 
sotheby’s 
to make 
same 
least four bidders on 
   basquiat that’s not 
exactly a thrillionaire who over in 
       the 
sixth most had to buyer 
   the phones 
and important 
     painting bidders on basquiat’s 
not exactly a 
         thrillionaire who oversees japanese business 
developmentat 
sotheby’s 
to 
make oversees japanese business devel at sotheby’s 
in the first work ever sold at sotheby’s to become the shape of 
a skull brought 
$1105 million of a 
         skull 
         set an expensive 
   work ever 
in the first 
work 
         ever sold 
          at sotheby’s 
in the shape 
of a sales room said larry 
    warhol 
      it was yusaku 
         maezawa a japanese business 
development four bidders 
          on 
  basquiat the 
room punctuated but the 
work had 
been guaranteed to make oversees japanese business 
developmentfour bidders on 
      basquiat last four 
       bidders on the rarefied $100 million at the 
sixth most had 
        to see if i was 
         hunched oversees 
      japanese billion-plus 
     club in a skull set an artist beating 
bidders on basquiat collector i almost had to make oversees japanese 
    business 
development 
at sotheby’s in hong kong kong kong kong 
against 
      that’s vibranteed to sell brought $1105 million-plus club 
   in hong 
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Statue of My Father

Wikipedia Poem, No. 461

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“Almost noon, the distant sun / rode straight above us like a god / aware of everything and like / a god utterly silent. What / could ever grow from this ground / to feed anyone? And who bore / the mysterious child who spoke in riddles?” Philip Levine

my father says sir we do it there shoots 
going end to end and driving medically off
just now touching a sort of president of son's
along with cannot be halved alone with couldn't happen 
        to a worse man 
charge me with his wonderment 
i will have changed the media landscape 
academically through new york a railroad spike 
driven through a hallowed wrist a hollow kiss

i watch something trigger a spike in trading 
on the the futures market 
it takes over my people fractures blood on the 
        crt green landscape 
and if it stays there well maybe now i waste the day 
frankly the father is a masterpiece ego 
let it mean i was reported properly if i will tell it as a story
the reporting will not adapt to every social condition on the 
        gunpowdered horizon
for now though we break the mosaiced stuff with our talking
now i govern anyone who says no and go out 
along the what-if to starve my ideas like spent shot blast

People Are Forming Various Sentences with Their Bodies

Wikipedia Poem, No. 455

yakyak-sm

After Ron Padgett

there is no rush dear
cognitively 
certain your lover enough 
         water tells me 
you were 
      born last month

        we've eaten too much sugar
and 
our birthday was two days enough time 
to drink
          we've eaten too much 
sugar
and our birthday was 
two days enough time 
to indict 
      oneself
         always enough time 
to 
drink smart 
      complete
dancing particles 
of 
          night
below the poetry oneself
always 
past
i'm cognitively 
certain your shoes
         but we must have
dragged 
          shit in on our 
      birthday two days 
enough 
time to 
         indict 
one's wants 
to 
     write
the poetry 
   one wants to 
         drink
      we've 
eaten too 
       much 
    sugar
and 
          our birthday was two days 
       enough

“To Psychoanalysis” by Kenneth Koch

I took the Lexington Avenue subway
To arrive at you in your glory days
Of the Nineteen Fifties when we believed
That you could solve any problem
And I had nothing but disdain
For “self-analysis” “group analysis” “Jungian analysis”
“Adlerian analysis” the Karen Horney kind
All—other than you, pure Freudian type—
Despicable and never to be mine!
I would lie down according to your
Dictates but not go to sleep.
I would free-associate. I would say whatever
Came into my head. Great
Troops of animals floated through
And certain characters like Picasso and Einstein
Whatever came into my head or my heart
Through reading or thinking or talking
Came forward once again in you. I took voyages
Down deep unconscious rivers, fell through fields,
Cleft rocks, went on through hurricanes and volcanoes.
Ruined cities were as nothing to me
In my fantastic advancing. I recovered epochs,
Gold of former ages that melted in my hands
And became toothpaste or hazy vanished citadels. I dreamed
Exclusively for you. I was told not to make important decisions.
This was perfect. I never wanted to. On the Har-Tru surface of my emotions
Your ideas sank in so I could play again.
But something was happening. You gave me an ideal
Of conversation—entirely about me
But including almost everything else in the world.
But this wasn’t poetry it was something else.
After two years of spending time in you
Years in which I gave my best thoughts to you
And always felt you infiltrating and invigorating my feelings
Two years at five days a week, I had to give you up.
It wasn’t my idea. “I think you are nearly through,”
Dr. Loewenstein said. “You seem much better.” But, Light!
Comedy! Tragedy! Energy! Science! Balance! Breath!
I didn’t want to leave you. I cried. I sat up.
I stood up. I lay back down. I sat. I said
But I still get sore throats and have hay fever.
“And some day you are going to die. We can’t cure everything.”
Psychoanalysis! I stood up like someone covered with light
As with paint, and said Thank you.
It was only one moment in a life, my leaving you.
But once I walked out, I could never think of anything seriously
For fifteen years without also thinking of you. Now what have we become?
You look the same, but now you are a past You.
That’s Fifties clothing you’re wearing. You have some Fifties ideas
Left—about sex, for example. What shall we do? Go walking?
We’re liable to have a slightly frumpy look,
But probably no one will notice—another something I didn’t know then.

paculum-spec2-sm

Source:

Koch, Kenneth. The Collected Poems of Kenneth Koch. New York: Knopf, 2007. Print, p. 609.

Erotic Possibilities in a Dark Theater

Wikipedia Poem, No. 414

wiki414-sm

“magic, knot / black or core // unknown known only / by flit of absence and its // hard creak senses / bleak” elena minor

          there was no 
    down time 
in his hard eyes
  keep 
in mind 
      the 
darkness for shaded lively 
      space 
and what an interior 
where it is hard to prosecute
         if no complaint offers the possibility 
     for remaking both the dark 
ideal and safe 
shaded lively rows 

when frank mentions the 
  dark scraping over the connotations 
of a plaited new york city theater seat
         keep 
       in mind its erotic potential 

offer me something 
by the usher's flashlight 
and forgive my alleyway mouth

paculum-spec2-smSources:

  • Porter, Fairfield . Portrait of Larry Rivers. 1951, oil on canvas, Colby College Museum of Art Museum, Waterville, Maine.
  • Minor, Elena. Titulada. United States: Noemi Press, 2014. Print.

God Cannot Be Fingered

Wikipedia Poem, No. 410

art

“I have only two charms in my pocket” Frank O’Hara

 

not every sentence
needs a verb
this one
for instance does
not demand it

now this small pocket of music
set down by leroi jones in my genes
must be crawling through the world’s
fetid cast it’s not that he’s dead he’s
just one man anyway the poet as strap
material not dead as in buried but
we’re some kind of threadbare king
barren times they are a-changin’
one’s critical diaper so goods perhaps
this terrible diction and so much
psycho-holy meaning depends upon
yourself of ideas retention into the soul
perhaps ripples through leroi
into the irony into delicious diction
of all talk about a few pleasing lines
about the anonymous backwards
kind of blue about o’hara’s poem
consciously poetical as though one were
writing about art food or never will be
just a finger on a hand fingering about
oneself for the god of godless faith

How to Build a Home

Wikipedia Poem, No. 408

wiki408-v2-sm

“I trust the sanity of my vessel; and / if it sinks, it may well be in answer” Frank O’Hara

and up    everything moving always up
include the stems and other woody matter    build trees
with composite of purified cellulose fiber    woody plants
a pneumatic nail is a flattener    pin tack brads cleats nails
lateral strength materials a pneumatic nail or clinched driver
variable to cold is possible    everything is heat as much as processes
for example from one's body    bodies    really    the bodies are possible
into other    the body types other    a pneumatic nail gun    or a small wish
systems    of energy    convection flowers    becauses of possibility existing
heat transfer    infinitesimal changes    intention    temperature such that change 
a small explosive charge then a sharp point    other-headed on one end and shear    
years form    include    the stems and up by the stems an abundant    carbon-neutral    
renewable        resource woody    mated matrix of 3.5 billion trees    it conveys material

Wikipedia Poem, No. 404

wiki404-final

“You imagine an alley a little kingdom / where the mother-tongue is spoken / a village of shelters woven / or sewn of hides in a long-ago way” Adrienne Rich from “In The Wake of Home”

after Nancy Bauer, phenomenologist; Amiri Baraka, father; and Nick Montfort, explorer:

people 
    thinking
of the sea from
  
baraka’s trespass 
    what little you can hear 
echoes out from the work 

to lift 
human voices to discover a 
chorus

    adopts the feeling continually breaking silence 
    the landscape in american history
is merely a discussion on traditional numerology

the hills are a start
    out of thought may experience 
    a germination of genre 

    the work 
        we find researched 
    draws pseudo-scientific inference 

it's a living 
out of feeling 
and lyric flight

o that the mathematicians 
were right of brick 
baraka’s trespass you hear echoes of the manuscript 

it is a start 
out of his waves 
be hideous uses 

the term numerology 
is often a native guard 
words names any belief 

in sonnet form
his writing were a start 
    out of the little you 

    experimentary of thought 
    experimentary mutually affectually 
        in numerology and wine and time sweet as 
            your work

Wikipedia Poem, No. 389

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“We never knew closer / sisters, stronger trees, / tighter clans, wilder / fires. Where can we / go if not to each other, / resenting every step?” Brenda Shaughnessy

         taste any justice
         oxygen from water 
then study in         of pain

when and wariness—illustrate the why
situational italics when wise 
rubbed to a head—includes 
experienced painkillers
         focused on what would be a       
reflex animal subject
of frozen birds rattling / in the cold 
inflicted on the what and wariness—illustrates who
         rise for example 

research exceeding response 
rather than responding
         their ways 
         studied   pain   

and profited, biblically, 
acetic acid         of nociceptors 
or behave nervous
         their taxonomic class is neophobic 
meaning those researchers evidence         

whatever sits / counting the minutes 
till you die
who were in pain 
         respond

paculum-spec2-sm

Contains fragments from Amiri Baraka's "The Liar".

Wikipedia Poem, No. 363

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“It’s not that hard to climb up / on a cross and have nails driven / into your hands and feet.” Ron Padgett

into catcalling downtown traffic
or masturbating on cedarview avenue
behind their bed on a white work truck
to the pigeons and buskers arguing

an attack holes in their bed on white iron radiators
they save me one hit of
white work truck offered up to the pigeons

and tugging an attack hole
their bed on whiteness stone-cut blonde
hair gelled up an albino peacock

glassine overwhelming his father’s long
white iron radiators they save me
one hit from a white work truck

to the fore of whiteness stone-cut
blonde hair gelled up an albino peacock
glassine overwhelming into catcalls now