I want to put flowers all over your bed.
Then I want you to get in bed.
Then I want to put flowers all over you.
This can be opened
Cannot weld lid back
I know all about nails
Piercing the bottom comes
Out like a sieve
Life is canned, what next
Productifiers you ass turkeys
My youth on the battle lines
Now parsed as a sermon
Meet me at Ye Olde Sundial
I have been influenced
Born and reborn and
I have Death sorrow
How come all I talk
About is ŅfunÓ?
Mention my wife IÕll cry
ItÕs right here, the surface,
Folks. ItÕs a can oÕ life, a
Bottle of ash, a trunk full
Of squalling heteronyms
Drop narrative tone on toes
Dig grave with light
Ease into the bucket seat
Dangle breath over heart fire
My children are my poems
Last tomorrow moon
A flimsy songÕs cardboard
Spine spires, no wheel
CanÕt get to the begin
CanÕt even end even
This is a day for a walk
To walk me by the river
To find an outdoor laundromat
And do our clothes
To have some cereals, different
Ones, with yogurt, fruited
Some juice, strong black cafe
To walk talking of nothing
To watch our feet conversing
Children yawning, the wind
At a cafe an omelet
Remembering cigarettes
As the sun slowly goes down
Our hands find each other
Sex is stirring, but distant yet
The nudges of breath and eyes
When you are shy I like it
The way night is suddenly here
And we walk home to continue
All new emptiness drained pained insaned
I need to run to you I am running towards you there
Is towards everywhere there is ŅtoÓ nowhere
I am going direct to nowhere
It is huge empty blue zoo
Everyone used to be here now theyÕve all gone ŅtoÓ
Not even Twilight Zone I am crying so what
Everyone walking crying
Maybe you donÕt believe me grieve sieve
I am sorry I canÕt hear you through constant tears
By Popo Dada/translated version by Bob Holman
Not sure what IÕm doing here in a tropical forest, in this canoe,
I seem to be moving in tiny increments, all around
trees sounds and flights, rustles, screeches and blipsÉ
The fact is IÕm asleep. The truth is IÕm lost.
My memory is full of last nightÕs poems, right here
amidst the crackles and howls and trills and banshee wails.
Like the one about the crocodiles that were living in an underwater house
where we were drinking rum, some of the guys
smoking to frighten the mosquitoes,
and believe me itÕs hard to smoke underwater.
So then they started in on the poems,
poems of distant lands, countries at war, green
as Ireland, cold as Argentina, hot as Baghdada,
as Cairo, ŅItÕs quite warm here,Ó the Irish poet noted.
ŅIn fact the heat makes it impossible to move, thus
(poets actually say ŅthusÓ) I drink the day away
in this chair.Ó ŅThatÕs not so much,Ó the Cuban poet
was heard to mutter. And nobody knows what happened later,
where the poets went. All I do is sit in this canoe as it swishes
round the darkness at 3 a.mÉ. No one is paddling.
I have no paddle. Maybe IÕm a part of the poem
the Irish guy is still writing, having a beer,
trying to bear up in the tropical sun.
A poem that will be read to us very soon,
but that he does not stop writing.
I will never forget it
The photos of photos of photos of etc
A barking dog under yr uniform & brownish
Snakes with rudimentary arms flying
Spikes out of nectar (fill Ōer up, as
you would say). The editor from Prairie
Schooner drops a library by. We inhale:
Helen AdamÕs ballads. ItÕs all ruse,
all time. The movers are here, they
want to take the sun out of the kitchen.
Real jobs, they give crust, take a minute
Here to discuss ŅPoetry as Prayer.Ó
--
Ekphrastic, after Elizabeth MurrayÕs painting
This rocket this pen this brush to end
All brushes. This hand that holds grabs
and points works and wiggles. Five ways
to do everything, each finger simultaneously
waving bristles bristling canvas canvassing
so luxuriantly over everythingÕs under, whistling
ŅLay it on me, Elizabeth!Ó so rough it scumbles
notching twenty-two countÕem separate cells,
rooms, birdcages, verses, dynamite sticks,
mirrors, prayer rugs, peanut butter sandwiches,
mockingbird tales, screamsÕnÕdreams, separately
and together, the awesome whatever, your hair
covering (that brush, too) and in conclusion, a
painting. A part of a painting. A part of painting.
Not to mention the dog under the table,
the life outside the studio and the woman
who left her hand behind to carry on.
Elegant Elizabeth, as if the signature might
connect two worlds. Painting progess
not. Magenta paint. Blue line.
Can cry more lilacs than tulips
Can muster a self to preserve corner cuts
Zing the phone string I die for it
Holding onto everybody gets around
(This is dedicated to you, Banff)
April snows freshen the cascade of sorrow.
Sitting here in that winter gray sun -- timely mishaps,
PerhapsÉ Bring everything rushing back to be carved
In a lump Š call it a love tumor! Everybody knows
Everybody else. Never thought IÕd see the day
When every day is a distinct why? Because I love you,
Mickey. And Donald. As in child, IÕd see their facesÉ
Now itÕs a close-up to conjure them up. But it wasnÕt
Until you that the love started to comfort. I entrusted
My fear to you, and you wouldnÕt have it. You wouldnÕt
Hear of it. So here at Bow Falls Š we could see them
From our bedroom at the Banff Springs Lodge Š now
LetÕs walk along beside them, trailÕs closed, doesnÕt matter, gonna
Slip so slippery sliding on a ski pole, walking under a misdemeanor.
Am I crazy? I think IÕm crazier now. As if there were somebody
To meet, an appointment, a dizzy party that goes on the way
These poets like to go on and on and on and on. All right.
WeÕll take some photos and put them up on the net.
Maybe we could start a zine. Call it ŅNOW.Ó Sell it, but --
not
For money. Just live off the proceeds. IÕm going to give you
A grant. A Guggenheim! You deserve it. And the vast orange
Library of tears. Bow Falls, hey. IÕm all ears. Nothing left to say.
But hey. IÕll say it anyway. ItÕs for you. ItÕs all for you.
So give it away.
Put it down over there on the plate of music
No the plate is music I eat art gun grrrr!
You who wallow in your bedding donÕt you
Know beds? I sleep in mine, itÕs good
Make love there (among other places, but
ItÕs good in my bed) and read there too (fire-
Flies are my lanterns) I am rustic in that way
You want food in bed eat me my being everything
That vegetable meat cheese bread kind
It belongs in some other cave. Twirl around
In your cute little outfit, Nice! Serve the mechanical
Drawings to the puppet hanging around with desperate
Smiles. This bedsheet is not a napkin. This pillow
Is not a table. I will eat you, howÕs that feel? Bon apptit!
This you gotta see
The whole thing laid out for free
Hiphopstory
Liven not TV
Bustin out frantically
Animated antipedantically
Dear Heart, somehow thinking
of you sick as a dog in a wedding dress
on Austrian drugs with sniffles, snuffles
and stuffy nose while the words
of your terrific poems are projected on
your tulle as you vocalize derangedly
fills me with bliss and makes me totally
petrified.
Please be careful, especially
while getting on and off the chair.
I wrote money
But I meant crocodile
I am padding around all alone
in the Big Ol House with my shirt tail out
and a big pout on my snout. I am gristle
and snot and who knows what. I eat
cat food and dog food all mixed. Yum.
I roll around in my dirty underwear
and stick wads of kleenex up my nose.
I jump up and down till I am down in
The basement with the rats applauding
Me like crazy and I realize I am home
Loneliness is underrated
The seaÕs evaporated
Wind is full of kites & g-strings
Last scene fightinÕ in a bullring
Cut the beat -- stream the story
Life is just an allegory
There is something that you told me
Sounded something like ŅPlease hold meÓ
(after fiddle line)
Which way? This way
What way? That way
Always all ways? Š all ways always!
(after fiddle line)
That says it
Says it all
Cept no fair
Saying it aÕtall
The entry fees to the refugees
Create a cacophony of sympathy
D-D-d-d-Dancing w/ D-D-Destiny!
(Enter w/ fiddle)
LetÕs unite to keep the freeway free, totally free, an absolute
Freefalling to your arms and calling: donÕt forget the parachute
A pedigree of pardon me, IÕm the MVP of RIP
D-D-d-d-Dancing w/ D-D-Destiny!
CÕmon -- Keep up with me
ItÕs the Fall of Fallacy
Fleur de lys full-flush fantasy
Iron out the irony from Irony
BlasphemyÕs eulogy comedyÕs a tragedy repeat after me
The maitre dÕs gotta PhD in repartee
But donÕt blame me for the bonhomie Moniseur PeeWee
The honoree had an herbal tea dosed with ecstasy & the XYZ
Feel free oui, oui finis emcee the third degree at Waikiki
ASAP BYOB long time no see under lock and key
I canÕt agree to disagree whilst stayinÕ footloose and fancy free
D-D-d-d-Dancing w/ D-D-Destiny!
(pickinÕ break
-- as at top) 2:16
Loneliness is underrated
The seaÕs evaporated
Wind is full of kites & g-strings
Last scene fightinÕ in a bullring
Cut the beat -- stream the story
Life is just an allegory
There is something that you told me
Sounded something like ŅPlease hold meÓ
The Full Montey Moneyback guarantee just between you and me
The memory the mastery a mystery of history Grand Prix colony
Bain-marie library Savagery reverie
Duty-free slavery Mimicry of never be
Propitious impropriety Grace to live variety
Shadowy pillowy vis--vis the billowy willowy density
Intensity immensity Burgandy organdy COD a parody
Take the whole relationship back to TiffanyÕs
Luxury potpourri Christmas tree bankruptcy
Autopsy in Tennessee Archery treachery Gallery battery
Pawnee Shawnee Cherokee effigy empathy cÕest la vie
D-D-d-d-Dancing w/ D-D-Destiny!
The futureÕs bleak and getting bleaker donÕt forget to tip the speaker
The world is dialin 911 The don't walk sign just changed to you better run
Hurry, disappear! Back to the Past!
Did you really think the Future was gonna last?
Loneliness is underrated
The seaÕs evaporated
Wind is full of kites & g-strings
Last scene fightinÕ in a bullring
Cut the beat -- stream the story
Life is just an allegory
There is something that you told me
Sounded something like ŅPlease hold meÓ
D-D-d-d-Dancing w/ D-D-Destiny!
Tonight of all nights is all nights one night tonight
Is the night of your ear on my words whisper your
Night of Greece and Mali and mouth rustle night
Ear you a word that flies and flows and you know
Night of word and hear that catch it sleep now night
Today in my big boots and scorching dress
I walk into the future to meet my man,
The Big Guy, the poet Mayakovsky
I will as always go alone, I hear he likes
It when the girls come alone to his cabin
I wonÕt think twice about makeup Š
If I like it, he will like it, and if he doesnÕt Š
Well, letÕs just say he will, the thin blue red
Scratches of cats across my tender
Arms matching the bruises
Where his eyes once were.
HeÕll hear my approach, my wailing
ŅElectric girl/rocks the world!Ó
ItÕs #1 with a bullet in Paris, a first for me,
And I imagine even Mayakovsky will be
Impressed by this. IÕll woo him in
Cemeteries, like Corso recommends, where
IÕll put my scarf around his sexy neck
And twist it till his tongue laughs. Later
When we make love again in a regular
Bed, IÕll purr gently as he sweats
Giant lips and screams my guttural name.
Hi,
my name is Eminem.
I am Bob's partickler frien
Wantin me to say Hi from him
As I do what he says
I'm emailin you sans rez
Ervations stimu-simu-fibrilations
Of poetry juice callin truce to the haters
Regurgitaters of venomous spew don't
Get it like I do and Bob he's so cool
That he truly be jeweled when his diamond razor
Flavor anticipates the cravering all of you
Which is where he steps in to do
The simplicity effector noncollector
Usability gentility soft and smoove
When the groove catches itself saying
"Me Suzanne
You Tarzan"
I hand the mic back
Catchya later -- as catch can
The day the lampposts turned into art
The City paints over them I donÕt care
YouÕd be amazed how quick
That stuff comes off
Like my sister told my father
when we moved from Waterford (Ireland)
(1959. I was 13.) The British government
was behind it all she informed us, behind
our move and they were very very happy
to be getting the Power family off the island!
Distress em? I donÕt have to distress em.
The City takes care of that. Last yearÕs
is already ancient. I mean, the concrete
cracks, they get the graffiti tags, the police
I honored die Š one got disgraced, I
had to take his name off.
OK, IÕll be the artist, you be the poet.
OK, weÕll both be the professors. Sure,
weÕre neighbors, everybody on the LES
is neighbors. I miss my dog, Jessie Jane.
This dogÕll just have to do for now. JessieÕs
in my basement in Williamsburg Š this is
the second time IÕve left her alone. I donÕt like
it. How bout this Š ŅThe Spirit of the Lower
East Side has moved to Williamsburg!Ó
Put that in.
You got your historicity embedded
in the close-ups Š cause I canÕt see, see,
couldnÕt see in Viet Nam, so I never shot any-
one. With the mosaics you get right in
there and dig your fingers in the light.
Stand over here willya?
ItÕs obvious that itÕs a mosaic, the neigh-
borhood, the whole City. It ainÕt
so obvious when you put it up on lamp-
posts, looks like itÕs always been there,
know what I mean? But look down St. Marks
from here Š itÕs the Mosaic Trail! You follow it
like itÕs a story. It lights up. It means something
Of course itÕs Lincoln Š he spoke here
at Cooper Union. I love it that itÕs NYU
students who are out here in the cold showing
people around the mosaics, introducing them
to culture. Man, NYU has been like the worst,
the way they just eat up the streets. For what?
Not enough street left for me to live on.
This lamppost is for the Fillmore East, the good
old rockÕnÕroll concert hall from the good
old days! I put in the Allman Brothers, their logo,
and Jethro Tull, others. Those were crazy times,
wonderful times. ŅBill GrahamÓ in big mirrored letters Š
boy we could use some of his energy now I tell you.
Listen up, People!
Fill your ears with hot gossip and your eyes with art!
The creative hub of the galaxy, Friends!
Right here!
The only contender for the term ŅGlobal Village,Ó
Is right here, the East Village. And weÕre here to stay!
This pole here, with the eyes, itÕs been blowing
in the wind like this for ten years, a good 4 inches!
IÕve tried to patch it myself, but she just wonÕt hold.
Let the artists put up the 2nd Avenue Subway! We
need a legitimate school for public art Š outreach!
You throw it away? You throw what away!
ThatÕs what I do -- recycle detritus into art,
thatÕs the way to make this City work.
IÕm not afraid of work! The street is my studio!
DonÕt forget Š youÕre the class that thinks the City
should have an Architect laureate Š a new building
for public use every year, designed by a prizewinning
architect. But first letÕs empower Jim Power! Heyup!
The living embodiment of street artist Š his work
is nothing but a gift, a gift back to the neighborhood
he loves. How many homeless people do you know who
found housing by selling a domain name?! $10,0000
Jim got for selling eastvillage.com. Enough money
so that he and Jessie Jane could leave the East Village!
It was a bargain, sure, but itÕs still a chunk of change.
bits tan glass plates soldier bags
blue shards local business junk eyes
history street art bejeweled white chaos
chalk dog mosaic Legendary Saint red
concrete by hand outsider pink work
trail homeless turquoise sponsor directions
recycle yellow shreds tile tourist attraction
--- Epithalmium for Jan and Yasuo Oct 30, 2007
Stone
ŅMarriage, said the Stone, Ņis the interference of Time on Love,
whose insolubility as all circumstance
is about adequate to the null notion of human influence on ocean rage and catacombs.Ó
Angel
Brrrring! Angel, having heard Ņcatacombs,Ó not a StoneÕs word nor throwaway,
brings herself to a full Hello posture as if in drag
which is true in spilling of the beans while letting the cat out of the combs, intercedes
ŅNein, mein, herren,Ó quoth the Angel, her freckles prickling
Marriage is the calm eye of calamity
Ring-a-ding alarm clock
That only works if you set it
for love-making that creates
an ever-growing bed to take
care of the manifold generations
who inhabit this gayland called
Marriage, especially after the
murky years as paratroopers
waltz off the edge of this
passionate couple laughing
in front of tonightÕs crowd
Stone
ŅCrowd?Ó Interjects, precisely now, Stone, Ņwhat crowd?Ó
I say of the stone, it is a stone.
Crowd peels off image like an orange deepening
then accelerating, readying for a stock car race
Angel
ŅA reception! comprised of an organ grindersÕ
monkeysÕ tin cup and a bush
swallowtailÕs swallow thatÕs all you get!
(Angel lifting up up and away like a bald loon,
lucky Pierre-style, takes Stone with campari
upper and uppest
against his wishes so he says but Hey,
when youÕre a Stone what can you do?
Which Leaves
Nada but
The honest air
To recapitulate:
Epithalamium
for Jan and Yasuo
October 30th 2007
From their
Faithful scribe
Something happened that night, beyond the night
tilting time through a window, calming the passersby.
A single figure approaches the balustrade, - hush, sparrows,
the waves must have their turn. The Hudson, old friend,
invites a slow lope eyegasm, the twinkly Tinkerbell
homonyms ache out singular meanings. The figure
is a fig. But it is, of course, your fig. It is perfect.
Its head comes to rest on your sex and begins to love
there and all this feels only good, and fine, and ordinary.
Not common words for poetry. More like How to Row
a Boat Instructions where you start by building the boat.
By this time, the silk is back in the worms and the
Firepot is hissing. The movie flickers, perhaps it is
an actual film, not a digital representation, maybe
a guy with a flashlight and some plastic.
Even
If you werenÕt you
I would still love you
Songs of Personal Development Instead of Killing The Man
Tonight is Beau Sia Folksinger
The Odetta of Our Time. A mighty wind
Blows the Museum of Chinese in America
Into reality otherwise known
Bowery Poetry Club America
Maybe I write it down, the agonizing
Amazement with a Mont Blanc pen borrowed
From the proud Eliel as the 4-minute juice
At Vox Pop threatens to bring down the entire
US economy whoops that happened last week
Slowly ekes the Golden Elixir
(Carrot, ginger, apple, celery, garlic)
IVÕed into the thirsty pores of our
Desiccated Nation. I know where
You live. ItÕs right upstairs. And
This self-centered narcissistic repetitive
Redundancy can take me out back
And shoot me, reminding in the doing
Of the ungodly creepiness of
Capitalism, this too shall pass.
You Are a Person, Dude
You can do whatever you want
ThereÕs no gun to anyoneÕs head
Delve delve delve
Into the stuff of everloving life
IÕm fine with me
IÕm here for you
When we see the Humanities as equal to Science, Technology, Careerism, we are using a paradigm rooted in text/literacy. The Humanities are rooted in the Oral Tradition, where we depend on each other, not a book, and, in fact, are a whole system. Sure it misses Science -- but it does not miss Colonialism! Complaining that professors of Philosophy and Literature to not embody the ethicality/passion of the arts is to be pointing at the wrong parties: these are explainers, not creators. Look instead to activist poets as your model: Sharon Olds speaking out against First lady Bush's abuse of poetry, Sam Hamill's call for Poets Against the War (isn't that like Generals for the War?)... Digital technology's reinvention of orality (as Walter Ong calls it) gives the arts back their original, humanizing dynamism. That's why it's called "The Humanities"!
I see you on the fields of Nancy
Light streaming from your hair
The music of the spheres in orbit
Nowhere and everywhere
As time's circles press against you
And your eyes see past the sun
Suddenly I'm with you
No one and everyone
You ask about my confidence
I respond aprivoisir
Let us dance together in the fire
Plaisance venir
Love burns such fine and ashy wine
Your hand my hand intertwine
Lifting words to melody
Fly by worlds of certainty
Some sing of loss, sing of sorrow
Write the poetry tomorrow
Today will never end, it's true
The endless song I write to you
Dearly Bereaved Believed Befuddled Besneezed
Those Rocking Chairs DonÕt Rock No More No More Department
Proudly presents The Opening Words Department:
As Uncle Willie used to say,
We are gathered here today
Because weÕre not gathered anywhere else today
And now as then peeling rubbers back again
The full frontal glottal screws head back on tight
Adjusts air-gatherer faux lung to tongue
And lets loose with the HOWL! that shatters hallucination
Namely HOWLUCINATION! whereupon what was Spirit
Eats itself on board Flesh, tangent spew and do I hear an Amen
Grappling hooks lose their grapple
Models step through runway disappear
And the Red Spark tenderly gingerly mellowly
Propulsively maniacally without a doubt
NeoHooDoo No Doubt socket fixture
Claims final blister, karmafies, retaliates
AinÕt Dead Yet! resonates a cakey shadow
Faun and Lizard dance the All Together Now
Dearly Besmirched Besotted Bejeweled Begotten
The One True Beat takes control of your Two Feet Left
And without as much as an I Got You Covered
Transcendeth Crisis Joy Noise! Gets Hell Outta Dodge!
As you rolled from side to side words of fire and comfort
It must be because in a past life I saved your life, in Pompeii
not what you expect, it isÉ
soothing... just walkin...
it's talking, but not
in a language you know,
but you understand anyway.
It's not talkin to everybody. It's talkin
to YOU... And you'll do what they say!
Because there's wisdom there.
They can shout it. They can place it
in your ear. Really it's all I can
listen to these days.
is really much more which means less
than I expected. More natural. More Ōway.
More laid back. I assume it all depends on
which island, and which part of which
island and when BUT Kona, on the NW,
in Oct, is Paradise as Redefined by No One.
Hey Mr Gasoline Man (parasong by Bob Holman for Tuli)
Hey
Mr Gasoline Man fill
my tank for me,
I'm totally broke and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Gasoline Scam, break the bank for me,
Gotta write a jingle jangle jingle to replenish my fuel
4 bucks a gallon is really just the start
My car canÕt run on farts
I canÕt afford to drive to work- itÕs such a quandary
The prices so outrageous might as well roll up the street
My friends live too far to meet
And besides IÕve got to save some quarters for the laundry
Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship,
Gas prices are a rip, need some condos I can flip,
IÕm such a mess I used my driverÕs license as a credit
card
I'm ready to go anywhere, but I got no gas to get there
I swear this is the end of civilization as we know it
Hey
Mr Gasoline Man fill
my tank for me,
I'm totally broke and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Gasoline Scam, break the bank for me,
Gotta write a jingle jangle jingle to replenish my fuel
Put the blame on Bush as he laughs out of his tush
Take your bicycle cush-ion for a ride to distant places
And if you think poetry canÕt stop the crime,
listen to this rhyme:
IÕd set fire to my car if I could afford the gasoline
$100 tank on the trampoline, The countryÕs in quarantine
WeÕre running out of steam
Hey thereÕs an idea -- letÕs switch to steam!
ItÕs all a dream
ItÕs not just the dinosaurs who trade blood for oil
Our engineÕs reached a boil
The world waits at the gas pump runnin empty
WeÕre ready for an answer, can you spare some change?
WeÕd like to be home on the range
But we canÕt afford the means to get there
Hey
Mr Gasoline Man fill
my tank for me,
I'm totally broke and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Gasoline Scam, break the bank for me,
Gotta write a jingle jangle jingle to replenish my fuel
If Only I Were Me
If only I
were me
and 23, but
then
I wouldn't be me
now would I
be?
Can I see
you?
Your
chemistry
tolerate one
more
dose of me?
I'll dilute
myself.
Let's talk, Former Lover,
face to
face. In
your tremble
voice
you'll tell
me
you love my
lalala louie.
For you and
me
got no posterity.
And then you
set me free
From all this fuckin poetic irony.
The girl with the unfortunate face
With sunburned inappropriate grace
C'mon baby let's drink a case
Tomorrow I won't leave a trace
(LetÕs Do) What Katie Wants!
Strikin gold refrigerators
Evictin alligators
Just life! (Too much life!)
Life gets on you!
SkinÕs on fire! (Smokin!)
I been bad (Really bad)
Worse -- I been bad
But I been good in the important ways
I strayed
I been mayonnaise
So Š let's do what Katie wants!
Visit her AUNTS! Put on her PANTS!
We do it her way's the high way
Dig Your Own Grave Home (Motherfucker)
Pastel (Motherfucker)
Surf Pity
IÕm kicking champagne
Dancing around like a Kansas City faggot Š got too much barbecue
My Obama Shirt
I do love my Obama shirt
and am getting all kinds of groovy commentary
on its coolness factory...
If it's flying so much come here now and let's take care of this thing called time
Oooooooooooooooooooooo baby I am so loosened you can wrap me like a boa
Soar con tu en Costa Rica
You dream of me in Londontown
Good thing we're not together
Drowning in yr wedding gown
I hear your voice behind me
I turn & turn & turn & turn
Your voice burning inside me
Burn burn burn
What time cannot erase is space
This distance apparitioned steel
Fleur de lys and fantasy
The crisis and the deal
Rves de moi Londres
I hold you close in San Jose
Blind dust on roadside crosses
Makes a golden getaway
Kiss Kiss
Kiss Kiss
Abyss
The Voice of Bob Holman, Lord of Sangapala and Poet Extraordinaire
Real
time walks over claps hands attention
The
painter is closing shop The fountain dissolves
Into
the water The sidewalk is now the dust and the
The
is now the now and then the
Whenever I am reminded that it is time to write a poem
I think back over my mentors, particularly Marie Ponsot
Whose life I once saved by anchoring her in a windstorm
Barnacling and burrowing into the faade of Madison Square Garden.
We were returning from a poetry reading that didnÕt happen,
My favorite kind, because even though weÕd braved the blizzard
from Penn Station to Hampstead, it was Mayakovskian tendrils of
Sloppy-go-loopy by the time we reached our destination and there
was nothing to do but cozy crazy red wine Italian dinner
caf by train station thanks to the gorgeous and generous Julie
Sheehan, also a mentor (itÕs true, a younger person
can be your mentor). In fact, the truth is that everyone
is
my mentor and all I do is write them down for you.
Milonga Canning, BA
Little English Girl Tango
O, Beauty Š how good / youÕd look on a horse! /
If only I could understand / what you are saying /
[Orchestral Break]
HowÕs this for getting things going / I look at your look /
The accordion continues on / ThatÕs it. What do you think? //
Here at Parakultural Canning
TonightÕs big dance is a little less / The bandÕs late /
Everybody please take their seats / IÕll dance with your girl /
[Orchestral Break]
Bling flingalang / Oh these shoes are great /
Your shoes are great / Our shoes are great //
YouÕre Beautiful ItÕs True Tango
Up North itÕs summer so youÕre here / But here itÕs winter, ha ha /
Hold me, turn me, curve me, learn me / IÕm all yours eight minutes /
[Orchestral Break]
My wife died, she was beautiful / What happens to the mind
Let the night never end never end / IÕm all over you and itÕs over //
The Renowned Balloon Bird Tango
Here in your arms / Whoops where did you go /
Can you keep a secret / Good, there are two of us /
[Orchestral Break]
My heart is cut on a bias / My foot, your foot /
Our foot / Is this enough pressure on your beautiful back //
Remember Not to Move Tango
This is a great place / You in my arms we have one face /
Now hold on, we go, who watches / Show stoppers /
[Orchestral Break]
Tango long steps slowing / tiny ballerina turns /
Your leg against my leg / HeavenÕs violinsÕ accordions //
Motorcycle
Good
news!
Is
the motorcycle
You
rode in on
Is
ready for you
To
ride out on
Despite the imprecations of your parents, friends, former
lovers,
teachers, professional crises managers,
pets,
& now you say God Himself/Herself
I would still like to reply via my own tiny but honest opinion
My heart is a real thing
It is & remains untouched by the concerned backstabbings
of
these privileged naysayers
I am yours
A simple gift all of me
My life, such as it is, you decide,
With you, complete. You will be loved.
You will be loved
In such a way that the streets will rise up to greet you
The rivers will float you across
And the sky itself will also be a means of transportation
The radar screen contains many blips
But only one is steady and equidistant from you
My fair one, my ravishing delight, my True Other
The light touch of your hair on my arm
The slight rustle of breeze is mutual desire
Engage me with your tongue!
Sit here -- eat music!
Collaborative sex & our reciprocal love absolute
Love Which Has No Other Name is your name
& as I lie back on my bed all I can do
Is sing out for you, in language primal, lost
Singing this language only we understand
Where the NoÕs of the world become our Yes
And Yes is our child,
Child which is our Love,
Love Which Has No Other Name
New Year Wish
My
New YearÕs wish is poem of your life.
Fish
and cat went dancing. There was
moon
in her eye. The wind is sung you are
before
a live audience. Spider on train fell
asleep
and dreamed itself a question mark.
?
blizzard all day today too
the mountains have disappeared from sight you can still feel them, like beasts
workworkwork and then go into town of Banff which is quite the slippery slope
staright down to town, stores like an airport Š and the Canadian dollar is worth more than US and itÕs not cheap at least I get paid in canadaian dollars!
all the poets want a piece of you and lucky there are many pieces
the Bow River is so green and cold it is an emerald flow
there were 4 deer under the tree by the recreation center
reminds me of the Chinese pictographs: one deer is one deer, two deer is two deer, three deer is many deer and four deer is beautiful
three elk on the trail to Tunnel Mountain
the chickadees don't bother to move when you walk down the path
The new restaurant looks like an airport lounge
Instead of planes taking off the mountains never leave
They rocket up, huge gray rock barren snow maybe some trees shrouded in cloud or sparkling in sun
This is the high peaks, the top of the world
Elizabeth and I visited here, even before I started doing these Arts Residencies Š IÕve done four now Š Banff Arts centre Š incredible facilities Šthe poets are using top oÕline recording facilities the way at most schools youÕd use the library Š itÕs amazing what you can spend your money on if you donÕt have to pay for a war in IraqÉI always like the ocean over the mountains Š Banff makes you reconsider
Here tis my goddamn a.m. lament. Wish I wuz where you iz...xxxha
6:25 AM
Spin that greasy dial--
twist down the volume
goddamnit,
dawnÕs barely been stitched.
How can this baby day
be flaring out of control
already?
Burrow into moth-bit blanket
dreamtime holt--
Jack pine fire and
flypaper ghost.
Dreamtime come finger
the old
soul road,
come trace same trance,
same track
as blue watery
blue vein lattice
up mole splashed arms,
across this sun-chewed chest.
6:30 AM
Trilling Birdsong
Backhoe back-up beep-beep
This moirning no beep-beep
Instead freaky Scraping Sound, The Shining, David Lynch Killer Crawl
Shoveling snow off the walkways
Transcendent Mountain View
To be replaced by new Administration Structure Š talles building on campus
[Alternating lines]
Recipe For Returning
Drive an old green Buick across a frozen strait with stolen bottles
of Bordeaux,
a sack of rice, a sack of beans, slabs of smoked lake fish and a
box of books.
Find a cabin. Don't get out of bed for a month. Then cut all your hair
off and wander
the daylight hours until your feet bleed in your boots.
When the ice moves out in the spring it will sound like gunshots.
You'll be awake on moonless nights and the ice will thunder and
boom.
The ice will cleave and branch black and run for miles under the
grainy snow.
This will fix you up.
All that emptiness, all those blue shadows of crusts and drifts.
The sky will wave rags dipped in stars and you wave back.
In the spring you take the ferry to the mainland.
And you'll be back
to your self.
All Roads
Lead to other roads
Which lead to a slick new version
That requires constant thorough upkeep
Provided by teams of diligent science
Techs with high end brooms
Made from special plastics charged
To remove all detritus and leave grooves
In the blacktop to remind you
Where you are going and lead
You back when it's time to go home
yesyes
oh, the spacing sucked . The "and now an uhoh" is an intersticial
before a separate new poem that awaits yr opinion.
While you're getting your legs waxed
I'll write a poem to your legs
While you're singing the sensuous
I'll change to the one about your mouth
And while you discuss the dialectic of poesie
en practice et theorie
I'll write the one about the brilliance of your breath-
mind-body
connect
Perhaps one day all these poems will come together
as a single
poem
Something near my earlobe buzzes that may take
a long long
time
To pick up the pieces of yourself you leave
scattered
about
Big job, lots of fun, advertised in today's paper,
I apply,
somehow get the job
I write 'em but leave 'em
Great historical finds for paleontologists of the future
Right now sign of time's timelessness
(Sometimes I feel like an April fool)
You Know?
Don't misunderstand.
We chewed
that ecstatic bone
to transparence.
Nightly. Almost.
But this too, is true --
not one completes us.
Like a hail of hummingbirds
swarming bee balm
we all need it all.
That nectar.
You know?
[alternating lines]
Boys on Ponies
Beyond this windbreak of dying trees itÕs clear enough some days
to look down into a valley thatÕs the faded amber of acid stained paper.
Some matte silver thing runs through those yellowed pages like a knife.
There was a story once about boys on ponies on a summer morning.
The lead type of this story Ń set by careful, unseen hands -
bit deep into the bright white rag paper I held in my beet stained hands.
It might have been Russian. That story.
The low lying golden place lets me think of that other summertime place
alive on the page.
DidnÕt someone once write We are born remembering ?
Now you're writing messages in vapor on the glass because paper is forbidden.
We read your gnomic accounts before you erase them
with that tatty houndstooth hanky youÕve always carried.
WeÕre nearby more than is safe for any of us. It looks like youÕre holding up.
Do you still feel strong?
My eyes stream a gritty, gluey gruel.
Teeth are all loose. Mouth tastes like hot metal.
I need somewhere safe to sleep this off. We have to fight always to remember.
Everything. It wasnÕt supposed to be like this.
At Bow Falls
(This is dedicated to you, Banff)
April snows freshen the cascade of sorrow.
Sitting here in that winter gray sun -- timely mishaps,
PerhapsÉ Bring everything rushing back to be carved
In a lump Š call it a love tumor! Everybody knows
Everybody else. Never thought IÕd see the day
When every day is a distinct why? Because I love you,
Mickey. And Donald. As in child, IÕd see their facesÉ
Now itÕs a close-up to conjure them up. But it wasnÕt
Until you that the love started to comfort. I entrusted
My fear to you, and you wouldnÕt have it. You wouldnÕt
Hear of it. So here at Bow Falls Š we could see them
From our bedroom at the Banff Springs Lodge Š now
LetÕs walk along beside them, trailÕs closed, doesnÕt matter, gonna
Slip so slippery sliding on a ski pole, walking under a misdemeanor.
Am I crazy? I think IÕm crazier now. As if there were somebody
To meet, an appointment, a dizzy party that goes on the way
These poets like to go on and on and on and on. All right.
WeÕll take some photos and put them up on the net.
Maybe we could start a zine. Call it ŅNOW.Ó Sell it, but --
not
For money. Just live off the proceeds. IÕm going to give you
A grant. A Guggenheim! You deserve it. And the vast orange
Library of tears. Bow Falls, hey. IÕm all ears. Nothing left to say.
But hey. IÕll say it anyway. ItÕs for you. ItÕs all for you.
So give it away.
NO HAY PROBLEMA
No problema (o no hay problema)
ĮProblema!
ĮAqu!
ĮYo tengo uno! Ms de uno, de hecho un puado de
ellos.
Mi vida es un enorme problema hecho de una millonada
de pequeos problemas.
ĮAydame problema! ĮAqu! ĮAhora mismo!
ĮNo es problema encontrar un problema! Ven aqu.
Los sacamos del saco, problemas, problemas, problemas.
ĄCmo te atreves a decirme, ŅQu no hay problemasÓ?
ĄBromeas?
ĮProblemas, problemas, problemas!
No
Problem
Problem!
Over here!
I got one! More than one, actually, a whole batch of them!
My Life is actually one Big Problem made of a gazillion tiny ones.
Help! Problem! Over here! Right this way!
No problem to find problem! come on over here.
We got em by the sack, problems problems, problems.
How dare you tell me, ŅNo problem.Ó Are you kidding?
Problem Problem! Problem!
Now that everything has happened
Again and again
Now that the bed
Has become a coffin
Tossed in the Endless River
Where the current laughs and jostles
And the air drips cold blood
Sleep is an idea
Time is imprisoned
A necklace of years
The Blues donÕt know how to
medicate themselves into a Dream
where Jazz is funnyÉ Later
for that part while Jazz slides over
the piano and lands on the window
sill like a cat at the very moment
Mendelssohn decides to waltz
the memories of old moons and
meanwhile, in Argentina,
the Tango is being born
Greenwash Whitewash
DonÕt look CanÕt see anyway
Wait a second A second second
Window
ItÕs the wind. Oh!
ItÕs the art of existence
Balanced on the tip
Of your eye
Palinode
I didnÕt write
Any
Of my poems
The problem with phones is holding them to you ears
It looks like you have a headache. All I want to say to you
Is, I hope your headache goes away! But instead we are
Saying things like Hello, How are you, How I hate
Telephones, Etc. There are other problems, too, like
How to kiss when on the telephone, that is a real
Problem, and the little air kisses mpchhmpssh
Are a poor substitute. Another problem: I think I
Might brush the hair off your forehead, but you
Are in Paris and I am in New York -- should be able
To just gently brush your forehead, your voice.
Well, your voice I guess is the good thing
About telephones. But the part where I start
You start we both wait oh that is a terrible terrible part!
Makes me feel like we are not communicating right,
I hate that part! Telephones suck, let's admit it,
Which is why I am outlawing them as of now, banning
Them from existence. This is the part where I call you up
To tell you about the great new idea of No More Phones!
And you answer and say hello, and all I want to say is kiss
Without the mpchhmpssh, or pick one, Paris or New York
Or Montreal, just pick one and hold still.
The Physical Is Much More Important To Me Right Now --for Bob Moskowitz
My mind wanders
I donÕt want to get it in order, either
IÕm at Bob MoskowitzÕs for a studio visit
He puts a long skinny horizontal canvas
On the wall Š itÕs black & white & perfect
& perfectly messy. There is a black diamond
On one end & a black boombox
On the other. ItÕs BobÕs boombox. ItÕs playing
ŅMorning on the FarmÓ
The Point
I like to fool around mostly
Toss the switchblade into ground
In the shadow of the boat
That brought my family from Europe
WhatÕs the point?
Lonely Ganglia
ItÕs one cold day for Bergman
Walking in and out of the film
Walking off the side of the earth
Turning earth upside down
Leaving a trail of memories,
Tears, broken things, BeckettÕs
Tree, New Orleans, nonstop whiskers
The Road to Everywhere
Let me tell you a story
In black & white not
A newspaper but a real story.
Running out of light?
Run on the dark.
Three Triangles
Three triangles make nine triangles
Please sleep with my wife & me
Together. Only sex. Nothing more.
Sitting at an Angle
Because I am an angel
I sit at an angle
Bloody Punk
TodayÕs lesson has to do with flying
While trying to make a living
Whales do not fit
In a haiku
My alarm clock is broken
ThatÕs not the only thing
ThatÕs broken around here either
Eagle Descent
Mice stink
On the way down
& on the way back up
Walking Back Forth
Put up painting
While on treadmill
& meditate till
Worn out
Waiting Room
There is finally room to wait
Behind the Garage Door
There is a door to the house
Which leads to various internal spaces
All doored, keyed, locked
Confronted by all GodÕs Doors
& the vast orange library of tears
Jesus Jumps Back Up On The Cross
Lone wolf eye dangles by optic nerve
The trespassing river must be punished
By the Immigration Authority
GodÕs only begotten dart
ItÕs Just What Happens
It happens by itself
I donÕt do much
It comes about
While youÕre making
The main form if
You can call it that
Otherwise
Once I was wise
Now IÕm otherwise
Have at Me with Your Other Body
The windÕs stark raving sad
Taj Mahal Blot
Between many legs there is
But a single home
On the drive here an eagle
Plummeted to the sea
Outline your desires in helium
Plug them into extension cord
LetÕs hear the song you whistled
On the way to the funeral
Rocket Up
Many of the vendors
Were undisturbed
By the presence of
The rocket launch pad
In the market
Swagger
O Lonely People!
Surely the parking lot will never be full
Can't See the Flotsam for the Jetsam
Am I presumptuously
intuitive, jerkily
dorked
or simply audaciously
breathalyzered?
Poem Really
I really hope so.
I really hope you will try
To make this and make this.
I really hope you can make this.
I hope you can be there.
Should you be unable to be
There I hope you will let me know
So perhaps we can make it somewhere
Else later. Also there is a little din
din after which we can go or not
go to and we can check with Kimiko
if we want to or try to contact
her. I really would like this on Monday.
To see you there on Monday to see you.
Lead to other roads
Which lead to a slick new version
That requires constant thorough upkeep
Provided by teams of diligent science
Techs with high end brooms
Made from special plastics charged
To remove all detritus and leave grooves
In the blacktop to remind you
Where you are going and lead
You back when it's time to go home
Taxi Ride with Joy Harjo, Kolkata Airport to Hotel Landmark
Hurling black taxi into mad river chaos!
Rickshaws! Rickshaw humans, bicycle rickshaws,
Moped driven surries fringe atop, insane bicyclists,
Occasional sacred cow crossing unhurriedly all traffic
Dead stop Ganges! Candy-colored trucks eyes painted
Next to head lights ward off accidents and signs
On back of truck Please Blow Horn!
OK all together HONK
Individual build constant bleat eternity Honk Honk
Honk as you start to pass there are no lanes honk ok come on
Honk Thanks I am now coming dangerously close
Honk ok no problem honk I see you I like it this way honk honk ok
Me too Sort of got by you and I wish to long honk you
Fantastic I shall staccato burst honkonkonk as drone hoooonnonk
Goodbye good honking you
Honk at cars parked too close together
Honk at bicycles going in the same direction on other side of the road
Honk at stop signs ŅDo Not StopÓ
Honk at taxi driver as they
Honk at rickshaws as they paddle dhosas tin containers
To market, to hungry masses awaiting lunch curries
Honk at planes over head Š will they honk back?
Make sure to honk as passengers exit from any vehicle
Honk at gas stations Ņyou never knowÓ
Write poem about when not to honk
Build car around horn
Holy Mother India
Every Honk a prayer to God.
Honk as you approach a fly over
Honk lullaby
Honk Howrah bridge
Honk salt lake
Honk at wet diaper smell
Honk if you have a horn
Honk if you do not have a horn
And now on back of (honking) truck Joy reads ŅPlease Use HornÓ
Pulls sax ebony alto
From case begins
Serenading symphony, Kolkata concerto
Please honk
Whatever you do -- please use horn. Honk!
Everything you said everything
What more is there to say
Nothing something anything
I could write a play
Starring you and IÕd direct
Enter stage right, alone
A swathe of light inspects
The audience in deep velvet eternity
Slowly you look out and over
And through itÕs clear youÕre looking for something
Stomp a foot walk off itÕs over
I forgot my cue
Song (You're Good for the Landscape)
youÕre good for the landscape
yr great for my teeth
IÕll come to yr funeral
IÕll buy you a wreath
you taught me what love is
by walking away
my love for you dear
has nothing to say
still
if
only i could be at the show! how much fun that would be. assuming yr hubbo tnot
there
too
of course. trading beers and stories. listening to yr maniac writing and that
bomb bass.
I am holding you gently as you press back against me ... the sun is streaming you are dreaming am I there or is it a dream ... it is morning again, le printemps again, a new life is stretching out in front of you ... not that there was anything wrong with the old life of course ... my hand brushing the sweet soft moistening hairs of your cunt ... a little more stretch, like a cat, and my tongue rims your ear ... the muezzin prayer rolls around the world ... for us right now this where we are this is the whole world ...your legs loll and stretch ... my cock is asleep between your ass cheeks ... and we let the tongues do the talking, our tongues are talking for us, the sweet words of love...
Dance with the blind librarian
Dusty aleph solarium
Commit to pivotÕs continuum
A blade to walk on ad infinitum
Step cross line and time
Synchronize wise and sublime
Drop in foot step over slide
Line slow hold go leg inside
Tango oh no amigo, you know
Light in skyÕs skin in you go
En una gloria abstracta de alfabeto
Como tu como yo como tango
Slightest grooves you glide on
Creation myth el realidad she cried on
Black red Wine blood try to forget
La Musica furia is all youÕll get
Dance with the blind librarian
Dusty aleph solarium
Commit to pivotÕs continuum
A blade to walk on ad infinitum
Tango crillol mix and blend
Tango to the scorch of skin
Begin begin begin begin
Again again again again
What you told me long ago
I go you go we go tango
Following leads together two
Tango on the street of new
Tango combo juventud
Tango air of solitude
Slowly hold me bring me throw me
SimplicityÕs complexities
Implicitly reality
Tangracegofully
Line dividing body, soul
Your eyes connect, enfold
River of reason, crisis cross
Moving lines knifing love to loss
Dance this song, sing this dance
Signify evolving chance
IÕll return to you and you to me
Alone together Š one plus one is three
That sounds like a good idea
a couple of hours and a computer
and a room by the sea and wind
to blow the curtains but no windows
and a cockatoo and a parrot
a marmoset, a ferret,
a sheet of paper scuttling towards the beach
and a beach and a ream of paper
to be used as bedsheets and no no no
no neighbors and a fluidity of time tidal
and the sea we are by the wind
ok an occasional friend drops in
to watch the sun in no particular place
some wine, yes, some nibblies, yes
that's the other you and me
This dollar bill was born on the shores of Gitchie Gumee and walked the Trail of Tears
This dollar bill crossed the Middle Passage and was auctioned in New Orleans
This dollar bill jumped tall buildings in a single bound and landed splat
This dollar bill forgot to vote and woke up when the gas pump hit four per gallon
Thinking of you the words
Sail across the page
Sail, and land in your arms
Hello, says The Poem
Curving a crescent
Sailing back to me
Each Word wants to write itself to make
a dance that dances
Each Sound wants to be heard a bird
its wings in balance
You Know, thereÕs meaning to the market
how come IÕm still hungry ?
Each Heart wants to find itself alone
then find a rhyme and go
BRIDGE :
WhatÕs on your mind now, Mr. Ree
I cannot help your subtlety
Enough already with the doubts
ThereÕs too much happening -- get it out
The old song just wonÕt stick around
CanÕt keep the wind upon the ground
ItÕs all about the memory
My friend the walking memory
Not the rain and not the sky
Same old story returns to try
Like the wind disrupts the scene
You'll remember everything
Each Word wants to write itself to make
a dance that dances
Each Sound wants to be heard a bird
its wings in balance
You Know, thereÕs meaning to the market
how come IÕm still hungry ?
Each Heart wants to find itself alone
then find a rhyme and go
Unity
I'm writing this poem, "Unity,"
& I know it's not going to come together.
But I'm going to step right up here in my white male way
& say, "It's got to come together!" anyway,
Even though I know nobody wants to join me.
So I'm going to get totally depressed about the whole situation.
But what I'm secretly hoping is that my depression will signify
to
others the sincerity of my feelings
& that they'll say, "You know, he's right. Let's get it together.
Unity!"
Because I know I'm right, everything does have to come together.
& I know just as well everything's not going to
come together.
So here I am, shouting for action to lead us to
unity
So we
can all come together in the perfect harmony
Which is where it stops.
The End
Finis
It's over what do we do next whoops that just slipped in there
Like my life slips in here & unity just slips by there it goes.
A Poem for Someone on Valentine's Day
Sometimes you make me just stop
zap cold and think back over things, and believe me, at
my age there are oodles of things in there to think
about. Not to mention, the actual time spent
in remembering. Add it all up, and guess what you find:
It doesnÕt all add up. Am I thankful
for that? Sorry, wrong holiday. Look around,
Are there turkeys running around all over the place. No?
Never mind. In any case, to get to the so-called, todayÕs the Love
Bug Day, the frillsÕ lace. Your email (AMAZING poem), all
yr emails, feminine marvelous and tough as Ted Berrigan whoÕs he?
would say. Breathtaking. Nowhere to start. My pal Stu writes
from SF: Ņvalent day is stupid, but also hard for you.... me 2
go out with someone, have fun, forget. or dont, and feel,
be sad, remember... that is ok tooÉthere in no ANSWER
for this one, not even for the expertÓ who is of course, he.
As in heehee. That would be your laugh, the witchÕs
crackle, beyond cackle. Look, I know you think we should
be in love. Even better Š More! That you are in love. That I am,
too. That we are in love in fact all pronouns are in love. And
for all I know, Maybe youÕre right. I trust your genius.
And I know, too, that you think equally strongly that to hell
with love, regardless we should be in each otherÕs arms, sucking and
juicing and bucking and losing all the dreadsÕ threads of consciousness.
IÕm with you in Wichita, in Singapore, in Dakar, that kind of thing. Where IÕm
not is here, today, in the back of a car, in a bed in a room or
all over that room Ņthe porno movie of yr dreamsÓ the coupling
mania the neverending the take away the pain please, we are
very good at that, you and yr invisible divorce, me & my
invisible wife. Both so very visible of course nodding alongside.
You say you save me itÕs a good thing. Energy, damn, bitch, you make two of me why
you knocking my fuckin door down? All I know is the wild ride is a way,
IÕm motherfucking sick and in pain and taking care of my daughters and
thereÕs no fuckin way in fuckin hell that I got the wherewithal the commandeer
the common fucking dear to be able to hang on and do my jobs and love you.
And thatÕs the way I see my choices and IÕm an asshole whether I do
or donÕt so right now itÕs all about sustaining and a few deep breaths
and letting the meditation lead. ThatÕs about it in the glare
of the nearly dead, the neatly put asides, crisp NY air.
--Found
Joy Harjo Poem
The
mother field is immense and extremely magnetic.
Whatever happens in the mother field is multilayered, and most layers are
unreachable by words.
Poems get closer.
And what about the levels of tones beyond human hearing? Beyond human voice?
Poems get closer.
I
wish that my hands
could be almost as awesome
as your vagina.
I wake, pillow wet 60s funk
Whahoppen. Here I am without you
Oh terrifying night stay dark
Keep out of me sad new world,
Inviting 60 poets to birthday yoohoo
I wonÕt show up! the dishes
Set out for meals. Honey come home.
All over the house gray blanket of
Infinite void. I still come around.
Wonder where you went to, all that.
Not so whiney please about the end
Of the world. Mike Tyler told me this one:
Just before the end of the world, the one
Guy leans over to the other and says, Hey,
ItÕs not the end of the world. As I was saying.
Ok, IÕm back, itÕs later. Thoughts rise
Not really more like they lumber in
From the left, the right, the diagonal
(my personal fave, the lumbering
Diagonal). The pigeons on the awning
Coocoo, the Delivery man ferries
Harryette to school. My mother calls
First thing to remind me to get up, whistle,
Set out the plates. Go into the studio,
Let your hand guide me to paint the end
Of this poem like a little monkey full
Of mischief and surprise run over by red.
I am so
All over you
I am under you too
My new poem is called Yum Syrah
It's cause Syrah is all over the word
Vowels and sibilants mix it up mix
And sweet tongue spice reminds
You of the time then explodes now
Let me remember to say thanks
For the nonmemory, cause-a be-case
Syrrahdiptiouslierianisticallically seems
Overpraise harumph through swinging
Door's shadow just a sip just one
Costa Rica Poems
Reality
There are eight original ideas
One for every day of the week
Little by little it occurs to you
The extra idea will begin
Another week full of fucking ideas
And when that happens I can take
A breather between rich and poor
Between snow and thirst
Between the linen sheets that cover us
And when they drop us in the tomb
The last idea is called ŅPoemÓ
Poem
La Pura Vida is late & everybodyÕs pissed off
Waiting like a lemon on a windowsill
Every glass is crying
Every mango is terrified
WhatÕs the matter, asks music
ItÕs English, says the water
as a bird drops a blossom
Two gardenias for your hair
Mystic Doorway
The ancestors of ŅtheÓ
are discussing the neighbors of ŅaÓ
with the lost children of ŅanÓ
It is, of course, a cool-aid party
a bird of paradise with one wing
a toothless mouth eating words
An umpire for love, SOUL to BLACK STAR
Come in please
Listen and put it back
youÕre in charge now
IÕm not kidding
ItÕs a black star night in the middle of your life
ItÕs a black star night in the center of town
Where the ocean cheats the clown
O Baby O
Tequila shots 1am 68 years later
bones give up ghostŃghost gives up bones
Sliding the wedding dress through your mouth
Darling, whoÕs loving you now?
I am.
So Much Depends On a Red Wheelbarrow Glazed With
Rainwater Beside the White Chickens
IÕm not sitting here
At the Observatory
In San Jose, Costa Rica
Listening to Frank Baez
ŅThe Marilyn
Monroe
of Santo DomingoÓ
Read a poem
Drinking an Imperiale
Writing this poem.
The Secret of Life
If itÕs secret
ItÕs not life.
Life in the Open
Turn the light off
and read me the poem
that writes itself.
One Day in Limon
Today is one day in Limon
Tomorrow is another
The next day, youÕd never guess
Is another day followed by
The next. Today someone asked me
What day it was
I said, ŅItÕs one day in LimonÓ
They looked at me like I was crazy
ŅThis whole place is crazy,Ó I replied
ŅCome back tomorrow and itÕs the same thing!Ó
Group Poem
International Poetry Festival Costa Rica 2008
I feel lonely and I donÕt know why
Maybe because I am many in one?
Luvion de Aurouras Infinitas
Estalla en la frontera mas proxima
En los phegles del atousdecer.
Sitting by a bottle of whiskey
Me gustas quando abres tu puerta y salen los monos congos que guardas en tu ropero
An onfuil a teanga fein y Costa Rica?
Ver verde velar al verde
La noche termina, empieza
(Written in classical Arabic and completely incomprehensible)
Toda la nide se va en ales que regresan
And whatever else, itÕs snowing, remember
when truth spoke for itself, you poets
Y mis ojos te mizaron como si el taeo fiuit pasasae de nuevo por mi casa.
The Poet
Yes, IÕm a poet
Born in the sea
Learned to talk all by myself
Never listened to no one
Always had ways with words
Sticking out of my mouth
Like shrapnel from the grenade
Had a lover once
who would hold my tongue in her mouth
just to get me to quiet down
I loved her then, I love her now
Part of the job description would be to be in love
Or, fall in love all the time
So IÕve been busy falling in love with her since we met
And IÕm not finished yet
Today I held her tongue for a while
She looks at me with her Sun and Moon
The words were slipping between us
meaningful, improper, skyluna
the vast orange library of tears
a lone whistle, a coyote,
a guitar with a missing string
So the poet came out of the North
with a tragic look on his face
You listen with all your ears
I speak with all my mouths
I am going to do it alphabetically tonight
A big bad dictionary written on the city line
One foot in a basket of eels
The other, a refulgent cigar
WhatÕs for breakfast?
Silence, as in an egg of silence.
I Am
Not