Wikipedia Poem, No. 806
Kerstin Brätsch (DAS INSTITUT), Upright Tanning, 2012 (detail); From the series: Glow Rod Tanning for Das Institut & United Brothers; Interchangeable mylar (3 parts), oil on mylar; photographed at The Model, Sligo, Ireland. (with Self-Portrait)
or relatively large
of mesoamericans indigenous
or relatively large
plotted in gold
cold cold cold
to soak maize indigenous
into a shower
of overgrown gardens
turn toward particles
turn yourself interior
kill the rich
he won’t greek
would swim out interior kill
kill the particles
interior the rich
he won the greeks
would swim out into stars
beside them all
See more work from Kerstin Brätsch and Adele Röder at the Kunsthalle Zürich.
Wikipedia Poem, No. 718
from the coast
of his way
to be had
life ended up
Wikipedia Poem, No. 426
“When I press summer dusks together, it is / a month of street accordions and sprinklers / laying the dust, small shadows running from me.” Derek Walcott
mannied amongst old norse cannon
another subjective occasion
expedience skalds far beyond what would be natural
infomatic meaning like business cards
my men and will it be natural
to metaphor thus for our leader
intervene among basewords
order arrives in skalds
not paddling but windblown
favored conventions factor by adverbs adjectives according
to each compound to what
laser-etch onto a cliff faced adverb
and to which compound would he be characterized
an enemy in what new word order
adverb adjective noun to the fullest
skald of the law
contortion for your daily bread
old norse congeniality between two close-set compound eyes
what word order
adverb adjective noun noun noun
each word (each an element of the compound
what would be characterized as analytic language
when synthetic languages subjected to the root
words can in the
conventions as rather old norse
prefixes where old norse kennings tend taken to be
interiors of fact
“The lobsters in the pot are screaming / Inside the reddening roar. / Your aproned ghost keeps boiling more, keeps boiling more, / And turns to serve the gore.” Frederick Seidel
the hull of the ship
a nautical order
a distant blip
apart aloof a gage
of windy thrusts
keeps the quartered slip
quartered further against
the gage of rain
from gagging grip
And Paris, France,
is still Paris, France,
though we've never been there together
if life were a little longer
and no one ever invented knives.
I am crossing the bridge again
and the city is behind me being rescued
or being destroyed
with a leaf on the end of a branch
turning maple-syrup brown.
The first one. The summer's over,
Jack Spicer, and I
have turned my collar up against the wind
and health insurance, the clouds
and blue jays, against the gangbangers
and insufficient funds. It's getting colder.
We're turning from wheat beers to Stouts, becoming
our fathers again, our exhausted
uncles, bruising our knuckles
against the tavern walls
and young mothers, we're showing
up for work, we're blessing
the promise of ice and snow and football to come
like the Israelites did with the sand,
the gold, and the insects.
It's raining, Jack Spicer, and I miss
Matthew Lippman. He's walking
through an alley in Boston,
his beautiful hands and shoulders, his wife and daughter
at home. His heart beating up
his body like a heavyweight, the nose broken,
the ribs broken—
I'm not ready!
Kiss me, take your legs and make a belt
of stars around me,
be my winter coat, my sobriety and bodega.
The oceans are getting blue
and the oysters are getting ready. Soon
we can cover the table with newspapers, with the faces
of senators and crossword puzzles,
spread out over the sports page,
we can open the hard shells
and slip the cold
soft bodies into our mouths. We can drink
white wine and make a kind of Pacific
out of lunch. I want to lie around
the room with your jeans
flung over a chair. I want to eat ice cream
and have my older brother back.
The summer's over, Jack,
and all the waitresses
are putting on their black tights like a funeral
of knees, the bartenders are wiping down the brass, the waiters are drawing out
their lines of cocaine
like long strings of silk, pure white and perfect.
I have crossed the bridge
into a Paris that doesn't exist. Really,
I'm in Portland,
the summer's over and the last of the breweries
are being pulled into the sky, becoming
lofts, getting roof-top gardens for surgeons and all their beautiful brides.
From Matthew Dickman’s “Mayakovsky’s Revolver”
& how that
onto the clean
white wall. where?
where is the heroism?
(cocksure bravado of loss?
the drowning son
saltwater bites his lungs
his inutile hand
breaking the ocean’s lens?
I’ve gone and given it
peel through the pteridophyta
knee-high, back to skull-island.
they’ll remember you if you tell them
who? what character?
which image? emotion?
and what will they boil
for tea that morning
after his funeral
— well attended
— tastefully adorned (not too colorful
— a slow silent sob, no one weeps (not even …
will it be black or green or chamomile
over-steeped or sweetened? how
at a time like this, can one decide
so freshly alive, so gravitationally piqued
washed red-raw with compassion?
those old films
now significant, so
wall space, interior
as if the boy were climbing
our orange tree
higher, then higher
his fearless lungs full
of bitter citrus.
again, what emotion?
the details unremarkable
but important everything visual
mostly but alkali when you kiss
it isn’t her mouth you taste but your
listing now gently breath bowing out
there on the sea lost in labor
what sense what’s lost and begs no leaving
but for it time gales and there on the sea
floor full of tidal sludge — green, gray
hammering out — a stony pitch:
nothing visual, nothing reckoned
but halved and accounted.