Tag: staten island

New Mexico State Gem

Joseph M. GeraceLeave a comment

What is your name? Never know. Hunched, picked off
a pair’a you—neither crow nor winch. A thing
god backlit in neon after blessing us with neon. And I
know what it means as a poet to carry this heavy basket—faint
mason, invisible stevedore, passage of time, neither good nor right.

I am fearful for firm and misunderstood things—
the spume, smiling inside the gargoyle, cultural forb—
they’re no different as carrion ghouls. Time
has done miserable things with light—he waves no
staff nor hauls no sack of turquoise shards. Quick!

He’s about to make a break for it. He’s about to windlass
Into the clouds, that one’s fancy. The crocodile climbs
many painted ladders. No weighted, pretty purple halos
ringing the eyes of these wordy wraiths—embrace
not knowing your name. I struggle to pull down the old crucifix.

The Inhale (13)

Joseph M. GeraceLeave a comment
A Memory

for mouths. remember the taste of the burning dollar bill, the mossy ember. the inhale.
meant it differently than the other, but they were both beautiful men with spouts
one poet said, and then as if in response: charnel house, said another. one
search from time to time. in the dark off-ness, what does one find? charnel house
it was somehow meditation. felt nothing searched. still search. we still
die. later, on holly street, i used my hands to break plates against the wall and
why not others were doing it and if a man can — again, why not? and i did not
in relation to every man — an impossible task. when i was thirteen i did a thing because
that makes them special. i of course mean me, but think about my self
state of things the big ones derivative in their not caring much about anything;
i interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to wonder about the current

Forbidden Planet with Drooping Almonds

Joseph M. GeraceLeave a comment

Wikipedia Poem, No. 448

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

Wikipedia Poem, No. 363

Joseph M. GeraceLeave a comment

“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