Poet’s Market 2018

Wikipedia Poem, No. 682

w682

“Maybe you have to be from there to hear it sing” C.D. Wright

 

a bell 
long ago 
rung in fear
     
one with 
a thousand 
jumps 

a great poem can be 
wild nectar or a great poem 
can be scrubbed from the timeline

                        from 
by whom?                his moaning
                        to be 

how      i assume 
you didn't choose what 
you'd surreptitiously strike

one perfect choice what'd you 
have to not say
          about the young plants 

the end   so wild
      so abandoned of cherry blossom 
not the wild plants with a thousand-word long line 

and this morning i'm unable 
to plant anything lovely 
a cypher as if long ago the bell was rung 

in a dark mossy room 
ducks in marshland jump 
into the air and crash

a great poem can be removed with buck
and jump a great poetry book should be 
wild never hit one perfect cherry blossom 

if by cherry blossom you mean sells well
every day i taste a man my poem 
can be how it is assumed	you'd never

choose what you'd never hit one 
perfect choice nectar of the therapist 
the tended-to plants present wild nectar 

with both hands a great poem removed from 
morning is not a therapist is not a plant lovely
his dog kills the therapist his morning 
     
is lovely and romantic 
and his morning is not the wild nectar 
on the thousand turning silent eyes

so 
there is loveliness and fun 
the therapist and the therapist's dog 

kill ducks in marshland
a great poem can be 
removed by scrubbing

from mourning 
i'm unable to choose 
what you'd nectar on o reader

a great poem can be removed 
from the whiteness of the bath
is not led into a thing 
     
i'm unable to recall the wild never
the title of a long 
ago rung bell afraid 

one perfect choice what 
you'd nectar on a great poem can be 
how wild plants are lovely without us

and buck (he says you didn't choose) 
on a great poem can be removed 
and planted in the garden beside his body 

i wonder 
is there not a therapist 
inside every ridiculous yes

Trinity (Nuclear Test)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 507

w507

“I wake up from sleep. And I fall asleep again! / From serving an era. To betraying a different era. I recite. / I will keep paying 150 yen to buy your smiling face.” Terayama Shūji

          but only therapists remain   
and projected to have         
no metaphors i am thinking 
the impossibly           large brick school building 
the phone call   and days ago 
holding             no         metaphors        
i am thinking about      what i asked her  
in first grade        the therapist holds 
the fragile invulnerable dictionary 
spasms   outside      the hand and apologizing 
about       the boy          i was 
how my motherapist      and days ago         
     holding spasms         
outside this        thinking exercise      writing about   
the fragile invulnerable world 
about     the boy                     
the impossibly large therapist 
projected toward me

Therapy (Pulling Red Thread)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 483

wiki483

   dazzle in bayonne
them i 
spot the battleship a 
brave 
   thing in me 
but 
      better in college 

baionnette
bayonne
diminutive bayon

i am a 
human who 
     sits unlike a trough 
purchased long at 
the 
      academic front leaking

a long narrow open container 
for animals 
to eat or drink 
out of

        control 
    frightens
thought

thread-eye
rarely painted red

Wikipedia Poem, No. 378

wiki378-02

“that we be returned to the faceless / attention, / the waiting and waiting for the telling sound. / Am I alone here?” from Jorie Graham’s “The Phase After History”

that last walk i
pissed a sigh
and she tickled thought

breath needs
but one last walk
piss my tail

beats twice bedsheet
breath in the dither
the third time i’m surprised

her white lashes flutter nothing lasts
walk across high-pitched europe
in heels white europe pissed away that walk

i pissed sigh
she has ticked away
from me and could be coulding

contact her into her
tail beats twice such a way
a high-pitched passport

talking gently a staccato thought out
a thought that she is boring
and better lost her breath or selfishness

“Hi, Joanna”

Stairway selfie like a god damned teenager. #transmillennial #help

A post shared by joseph m. gerace (@bogotahorrible) on

 

Hi, Joanna. How have you been?
I’m well. You look well — I’m
Happy to hear you use that word.
Good. Good. Well, anyway, I’m

Concerned about your voice.
No, specifically the way you recite.
It’s … troubling. You appear snakelike
And arrested, harmless. That’s not the way.

It’s not. I wouldn’t say “short of breath”
Exactly. Let’s call it, Forked-god. Please,
Calm down. I’m going to ask you
A couple of questions about your sexual history. Is that OK?

You switch back and forth between — please,
Correct me if I’m wrong — between
Subject and solitude. That’s to say:
Radical loneliness and decimation. Correct?

Masturbation may be part of it, but I’m speaking
Broadly about a timeline of sexual partners:
Moon-god, Ocean-sent, Stoic-antler. Relevant?
Of course. Its right here on your chart, Joanna:

“Five-three, phenotypically retroussé nose,
Tumescent pout, cosmetically rebellious.”

So, why this affected staccato when you read?

Wikipedia Poem, No. 108

"You're innocent when you dream." Tom Waits

“You’re innocent when you dream.” Tom Waits

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         Discover Masticate 
Masters 
       burning for the 
negro 
     streets at dawn 
looking 
   for an angry fix,
Dis-cover Mastercard 
         Visa 
Discover Mastercard Visa 
      Discover Mastercard Visa 
       Discover 
Mastercard Visa 
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         Visa Discover 
     Mastercard 
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Source: Ginsberg, Allen. "Howl." Poetry Foundation. Web. 1956. 31 October 2015.

Untitled, draft, 07182013

I don’t give a shit
About the jungle
Or your long trek
To profitable madness

But all my questions
Turned to coin
As I sounded out that place’s strange name
Sweating, mosquito-thick, blood green

Impossible to itch
That place

I would recount this purple story
To my shrink if
I had a shrink, but
I really don’t give a shit.

how the locksmith helped, draft 102120120753

you locked the door behind, you what else
could i do? you were young, i wanted more.

in his suicide note K dreamed about
Freddie — admired, envied — never locked

their door. silent, wind and highway light crawling
sharp, i remember you mad against

the white brick wall posed as imperfection.
i had the locksmith come as a favor

he couldn’t have known, what else could he do?
i thanked him with cash, the actor performed.

how the locksmith helped, draft 102120121741

you locked the door behind you what else
could i do? you were young, i wanted more.

in his suicide note K dreamed about
Freddie — admired, envied — never locked

silence then, wind and highway lights crawling
now i remember you posing against

painted brick wall posed as imperfection
i had the locksmith come as a favor

he couldn’t have known, what else could he do?
i thanked him with cash, i can think of worse.