A Historic Tax Heist

Wikipedia Poem, No. 673

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polluting work as a true-jurist staining dark-blue
originally in reference to a snowy stickler 
foreign or true white with a fine pruina
who researches without any commonwealth 

someone who researches pure simple strigose hair
opposed to applying by an academic odor and taste
no distinctive legal-skin of america and pure simple law      such 
a person can walk confidently as a purist down somehow convex

i am expressing disbelief originally a barrister stinks 
to freefrom foreign jazz pure simple   jazz such attic greek 
clear and studious is this the right part of speech     dear dark-
skinned reader    for someone who researches homogeneous matter 

that foreign stickler  in theory is unmodified by style 
or homogeneous matter a just stickler for inappropriate elements               
by the marginate gills for a pure simple theory of law      such a 
pure science without       discordant contaminants

is someone a suspicious admixture or pure bred 
by an academic legal writer whereas in simple poisons 
such a person cannot work     nor walk    as a legal scholar         
substance- or theory-free from pure science without   discord

the polluting or poisonous spore
makes something radical impure

Portrait of a Man in a Red Turban (Self-Portrait)

look first  that's the point
how does algae grow
so deeply photosynthetic
am i asking you or am i
muttering moon mad
either way i see myself

of course  in that master's
eyes surrounded by all
the thin cracks in the pain
the crow's feet tighten
around the rosette wire
at the bottom of the sea

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Harvey Weinstein’s YouTube Channel

Wikipedia Poem, No. 636

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     peddling peddling beautiful young wares       
they share the title poetry recommendations 
the first seven the first seven their       focus   
permanently soft and their too chewed up   seconds of ice           
centered in their focus    premaritally soft         and my all 
the first seven seconds of a half dozen videos 
featuring beautiful young women the color of a   half         dozen videos 
i'm too chewed up by the   first seven        colors of a      half dozen videos           
featuring beautiful young women their focus       is premaritally soft    
and          the title poetry recommendations a half dozen digital frames smiling 
beautiful young        recommendations a half      dozen videos peddling women
 the first seven recommendations    their focus is premaritally beautiful young 
wares they share the         first seven digital         frames smiling     
peddling beautiful young    titles    recommendations framed      in premaritally soft   
focus their focus is permanently soft and i'm too chewed up to try 
their focus is permanently soft and the   color of       ice    centered in the           
half dozen videos    featuring beautiful young colors ice centers of my focus   
soft seconds of a half dozen         women          all chewed to poetry 
recommendations first then seven seconds of ice

Strange Candy

Wikipedia Poem, No. 613

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“Crack, crack, old ship! so long as thou crackest, thou holdest!” Melville

xerxes burrows into his thing-pink shirt for safety     i never said 
he plays with geometry    not consciously however    i 
pity him    welcome him to his soul    where 
hallucinations manifest themselves     into the guy or gal
the bloodpool    dreams of the battle of thermopylae     sit down 
hero     he wants a backyard with high fences     he wants 
to be the president 
very badly      darius sends emissaries to each greek city-state
information passes through still photographs until xerxes' body
emerges

 

Jill Soloway

mechanical arm
lowers raises
capable

wavy red hair pink skin
dry brown desert crunch so
what? sliced blue cow the transforming
grill blanket warm skin so
what if you’re wrong?

now you want to make art
with cacti shriveling in the
sunset? that’s the worst
thing you could have said

what do you do with a want
who’s abandoned? there is actually
a woman there on the timber deck
wading into the grey pool

obvious
the waves
peeling back
into the ocean

to contain myself
again what if i
refused i
refuse

Personal Poem

personalpoem1

“I weep for all of these or laugh.” Ted Berrigan

i meant to say something about light
i raze light not your light and
not artificial light    what of the artificial then?
an ungainly freudian monolith
gargantuan simple fleshy    constructed
of shit found in the tv street    about light

input output welding welded expository writing    damaged categoricals
empathy    but     there's always a corollary-but with men
who lick their long waisted fingers    clean of light
let's not talk of chivalry or boyhood    manhood    let's don't mention
one's compensation for time lost
    while mistakenly incarcerated
me daffodil lazy under laundered blanket   you baseless and imaginary

i meant to say something to you about lightness in chaos
clutter razes light not your lightness   aloof
a poof    proof of what makes one    the fleet-footed slave of truth
i meant to say something outloud    but i sank into the ocean    to you
with the rowers and singing maidens and maidenchasers
and the mist which unnoticed        by anyone not me    unmoored
    flares eternal
guides the way home

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Source: Berrigan, Ted. “Words for Love.” An Anthology of New York Poets, edited by Ron Padgett and David Shapiro. Random House, New York, 1970, p. 61.

Pink Teeth

Wikipedia Poem, No. 464

rain falling out of the house
sparrow who swallows
river rushes an aluminum easy

noon rain falling out of the sky
planes and birds horizontal
the sky horizontal too the house grey

courtyard blanketed with teeth love is the sky
love into the mirrored planes and birds then not
the prison wall crawling across the prison wall

nearly noon — river along the house sparrow
horizontal plates of sky
horizontal grey courtyard of teeth

love the house sparrow
river along a museum of mmmm
gutters where it is easy to swallow

one comprised of almost entirely noon
— rain falling on a mirror
the aluminum house sparrow flying

logic where it is easy
take this and drink from it
where it is easy to swallow be thankful

to ra love slips down
a honey-colored sundres
one’s not then sky

nearly noon — let it fall
river
along gutter

where is the sky?
bees and birds into the sun
the house sparrow dead

buried in the soil
of teeth ra’s teeth love
slips down one’s throat like sun

three grey days in a row
a river along for the ride
take this and swallow

one painted with teeth
suddenly a single pink tooth
nearly noon then

“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.

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Source:

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

“Stray Beast” by Sarah Jean Grimm

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I cannot recommend highly enough Sarah Jean Grimm‘s “Soft Focus” from Metatron out of Montreal. The poem above grabbed me by the throat. I still have the finger marks from last night’s reading. Buy the book (might I suggest the entire Spring 2017 catalog?) and support great, living poets.

Forbidden Planet with Drooping Almonds

Wikipedia Poem, No. 448

white-hyacinth-with-ant

pupils big 
as street lamps
warming up
      
an 
attack 
of white iron radiator hiss 
father by the ramparts
that bed remember
beside a white work truck 
       his bed
inside the white iron radiator 
       his left earlobe 
  — 
  
tall 
        field
that rampart
               save 
       mending 
    in forbidden planet
      with almonds 
drooping 
    
an albino peacock over a 
small 
         sweet lamp
warming his father's 
        long 

their 
bed
beside the white work truck 
one hit 
of cedarview avenue please

behind the suburburating forbidden planet
       with almonds 
drooping 
      for 
black holes 

near station square and 
          elian gonzalez

          like diogenes' razor-cut baseball fields the 
pigeons 
and buskers take what they are given

and smile

arguing 
in their bed
beside 
     the white iron radiator 
his father's 
long 
white work truck tells me 
         one 
  hit 
    of bart 
simpson acid 

      — $8
          
      hours later
       nyu 
and extensively 
freckled

downtown traffic
masturbating 
     into 
        catcalling 
father's 
  long white 
iron radiator his
      left earlobe — 
tall 
sweet lamps
     warming 
  an 
      exotic
species mending 
over a 
      small 
field
that 
      abuts 
pigeons and overwhelming my maturity overwhelming 

in his bed
beside whiteness
stone-cut blondeness

      hair 
gelled up to an
         insignificant 
     slope
the pigeons 
        overwhelming are not validated by their quantity but rather 
      long 
   white 
iron radiators of their 
  fathers 
    
   long white 
     pupils big 
as big 
street 
lamps
warming 
overwhelming into catcalls
   
scott pulls me 
   one 
    hit 
          of weird whiteness
      stone-cut blonde
         
hair gelled into his 
   left earlobe — 

      a tall field
of rather
      long 
whiteness dotted 
with elian gonzalez
          
      or masturbing the size of an insignificant slope
     at the pigeons and extensively freckled up 

         albino peacock glassine overwhelming 
albino peacock
          glassine over a 
          small suburban-side 
  hit of bart simpson 
      acid 
       
     — $8

    college freshmen 
        and 
        albino peacocks glassine 
         overwhelming in his 
          left ear — lobes of
    tall stone
      that 
abut the palatial valley
at their bedside of white 
iron radiator hiss
they save me 
one 
hit at a time
an 
  attack of whiteness
    a jello-cut baseball sweet lamps
        warming 
       
         for 
      black of weird white 
iron 
      his father's 
      long whiteness
      stone-cut blonde
  
hair gelled 
up 
like an albino peacock
glassine over 
the small field
that ramparts
         they save money 
by drooping 
       in 
   their beds
beside 
one hit of white
pupils big 
       as big as street lamps
warm      
          
the pigeons above and 
my 
      maturing in his 
left 
    earlobe — 

tall fields
mend ramparts
       
        drooping 
        not of this valley
at 
   the pigeons on the white 
iron radiator in his father's
white work truck