"In the beginning was silence" C.S. Thomas
Once the o was/circled
The dot expanded to the capacious circle
Which Einstein’s retinas encircle
Frozen thought, I will skate a figure eight
Not to confuse, but return, the eight
Doubling, deepening to infinity, slender expansing eight
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When the pleasure of the poem
Fails, what replaces love?
A child's fingers slide the wrong key
Into music, the watch is on strike.
Like bare feet, like scuffing along
A path too little walked, a lost
Road. Truth may bowl or be a bowl
Or be in a bowl. Who’s drinking?
It’s Jew McGinnity, the sweet Kentuck
With a sense of humor that leaves
Him all to himself while the town
Howls with suffering. If only he’d write
It up. Get a job usin the words he’d heard
Before, clean out the coop like the rest
Of the roosters. Cain’t even call him Jew
Anymore, so sensitive we’ve become. He’s
Lost in his integrity, untranslateable.
Give him a hand, he’s ready or not. True
To his heritage, climbing the Wailin Wall
Comfort will come the last time hie eyes open
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APPROACHING 47, FATHER SUICIDE AT 2, MOTHER STILL IN PLACE
Nothing
Changes
Life is a breath
At a time
I useta
But now
Never
All your support
Has kept
Me afloat over
The drowning man
Says, hello
Tomorrow the breakage
Will be evaluated
By the Adjudicators
How does
Everyone get paid
For doing what
They do
Except me
I was a sun blazing trails
In Old Kentucky
Now as a simple soul
I beg Budhha
To replace my
Windshields
What is the poet
On top
Of? Nothing
I send you love, Mom
What we know
We should tell
Everyone
_________________________________________________
—for Ezra Teitelbaum
April 8, 1995
One morning wake up stand
Before Family, Friends, Total
Strangers words fly out mouth
Lava at the volcano party Hebrew
Learned to say "Hello" word
"World" shoulda stood in bed
Body simply voice-carrier no-
Body hears my feet which say
Going down South Going down South
Yesterday's boy no more to see
Not to worry, Mother, Father, Brother
I will find him and return him
Sudan Milan Japan Pacman Yucatan
Speaking words that rhyme with "Man"
_________________________________________________
--for Sonia Lopez
Death does not enter aimlessly,
But appears to, settling down
In the corner, a forgotten relative.
You don’t even notice, so many tiny
Angels hover over your father’s
Face. Everything is a dream anyway.
You need to hire a mover, to shove
You back into your body. The day
You ran through the surf the first time,
He looked so proud and scared,
He would always be there. Death
Mutters something, politely departs,
Claiming with a ticket. You sit forever
By the now empty bed. Nothing musses.
Life musses. The pillows and sheets are
Waves now and you are always running,
It is Death who leaves. Life stays. Fear
Becomes Love, says your father. Always.
_________________________________________________
Papa Lunacy, the Giving Over of Familiarity to rouse a sense of sweet
well-being, to be kaplowed with,
That's the first step, teetering, a jetski on the Evenrude outboard tip
Yes, it was Clue, for no good season
Fighting the Happily Ever After Crew with a hair curling iron, zipstered
Bar -b-Qed cattle brands tattooed on her tender sweaty lip, or his
_________________________________________________
It was grandiose it was the most
It was absomotelymentous
On the tip of the top where the crocked cricket hopped
The plain fear dropped
I stopped
Shut everthing up in everywhere
Kicked over the house to set the cleared
Breath to bringing a breathing intuition
Into remission so the mission I woulda accomplished it
Except for the bozo who wrinkled it
Caught the shirt tail on the third rail
While the fifth column ate the sixth sense
It was a riot! You gotta try it
And see what the mixed up mix aughta be
Once set free
The way it sent me
The way it aughta be
The way in the way way outta the way
Where there ain’t no way left
Cept the way out way out
So far it’s so far
Too far to be sure
Too pure to be your indefatigueable response
Yours truly,
Eternal Dissonance
PS in prose, your LongShot Resonse which I saw in orig issue meant everything to a guy who likes to give everything for great god Poesy!
Bless you, Hersch, and all yr projectiles: poems, bits o’spit, human consciousness mobiles, etc.
_________________________________________________
Two words yearn to tell a story
Sit up late hearts on plate dust in sky
Rust from cry
The story is their child
The child grows can’t take your eyes off
Plays, friends, pets, fights, offshoot stories
Read me a story, Daddy
The one about the goddesses and gods
The one about the dragon
Two words, defy and define,
Sitting on a bench waiting
For a bus to take them out of here
Riling deisel smoke to the story
Personal as pen, solid as voice
Engaging in orbit around this child,
Only now it’s children, each
With a story. And a story each.
To defy the tale you must define it
To define possibility defies possibility
An abstract key, the bus circles back
A harmony, the dragon’s tiny, who
Needs it. Words looking out window
Taste and touch, lapidary reposes,
A racoon’s moon. Will you define
Them, within reason? Without
Reason -- or defy them.
The solitary vulture makes good story.
Read the flight above the dead tree.
The bus slows, hedlights frozen.
I’ll be there at a quarter till three
Bring more words -- we’ll party!
All grown up now, are ye?
Your mother and I are fine
Defy define.
_________________________________________________
If you can hear the poem
In the subway
Your earshave been retooled adequately
_________________________________________________
To be or not to be
What's the difference
Not much, according to our survey
Conducted totally by us, the Living
Without benefit of consulting the Dead
Whether 'tis realer to yawn and surf the channels
Or walk outside and get bumped off
Sure there's a difference between buying all the air you'll need for an average lifespan at birth
And lying in a pine box with your arms crossed and your eyes closed as if to say Duh
While, when you were alive
You actually said Duh
No matter
The Baby Boomers will eventually die out
Spelling will become a quaint decoration
There will be arbiters at poetry readings to explain things
Children to be sold to highest bidders
And this hotbed of a planet will crack and sprout some new beast
You think I'm ding I wish I were
Because the snakes in my head sing poetent hammers
A gold swell, a smack between a fist and a kiss
A terrific idea is forgotten
And what you remember isn't worth remembering
I sound whiny, or, if I'm lucky, desperate
What are we, playing charades? 1st syllable yes
2nd syllable turd 3rd syllable eye
All my troubles seemed so far awhy
What a brackish brew is blood
I used to but I never was
Moo cows wandering the cemetery
They are sacred creatures, the milk sack metaphors
As a matter of math, everything I see is a metaphor
You, watching me look at metaphor, what am I metaphor for?
Though I cannot see you. I know you watch
And I may be raving paranoiac trying to palm myself off as agoraphobic
Maybe fear of phobias
But when was the last time you put me in one of your poems?
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
_________________________________________________
--“El Coco Que Habla,” 1902-1995
Before the Beginning of Time
When you could rhyme Sublime with Sublime
Because Because was a gag
In the mouth, a laughing flag
In the Land where the Coconuts Talked
Where to move was to dance was to walk
Where sing would answer seek
There Jorge stayed up all week
To catalog the Beginning of the Scene
That was the Neverending Dream
"Nevermore!" he cackled to Poe
“Wheelbarrows!” to Williams he'd flow
And the Sun's horizon was rising and falling
In oceanic frenzy and crawling
Sandy beaches were deserts becoming
Birds of No Feather were buzzily humming
He ennumerated the words
The syllables became birds
Off he flew to the Promised Land
Borincua grew a palm in his hand
His vision was his voice
Your ears had to rejoice
He'd wickedly splinter
the meaning of center
Into atoms of busted dust
and rust and trust
Padre Jorge the Master of Sound
The creation of sidewalks the streets surround
The conductor of trains to reality's brains
The wheelchair of dictionary aeroplanes
This quivering quaver
Piraguero's flavor....
A friend of mines interviewed
Stopped late at Jorge's stoop
The world was Jorge's stoop
Life was Jorge's loop
He circled the block many times
His cries would always rhyme
The patron Saint of the Barrio
The Oldest New Age Jibaro
We cry now on your bier
We thought you would always be here
Your poems are spread over Loisaida
Miky Bimbo beside beside
The poems don't stop Jorge
You did not die yesterday
Roberto Clemente hits home runs
Jorge Brandon the World's Greatest Poem
Wherever I go you have been
I see you there always again
_________________________________________________
for Gaston Neal
The has been poet is back
The over-the-hill poet suddenly is not only not over it
But king of it queen of it prince and princess kiss the frog
Royalty of it be damned of it shouting lungsful from far atop
Mount Poem where you never been hell you never seen
It so shrouded in the cloudy foggy do-do
Of your own shortsighted need contacts to look in the mirror
Steam face clearing and what do you finally see see see
Samo samo samo samo
That’s you-o,
Somewhere in there-o
Holding on to the scraps of your control panel
Attached to goddamn
Ain’t attached whahappen whahappen
While the usta be poet, why
The usta be poet never went away
And all your workshops and accreditation programs
All your grants and fundraising gala soirees wait till it’s served
Before you touch it goddamn don’t drink it all in the first half-hour
All the be home in time to let the sitter go home
But where is home?
Now you see it’s not that I’m anti-family
I am pro-family
I just think you better redefine what constitutes your own goddamn family
Cause when you say whatever crossed the transom goes before the committee
I say guess who’s coming to dinner? Why, it’s the has-been poet
And guess what? he’s staying over for breakfast too
And guess what else she’ s making you your lunch as well because
Guess what, she’s a transgender transgenerational mixed-race motherfucker of a has-been poet
And I’m back cause guess what
I never went away
Where you been, fool?
_________________________________________________
HORVACI UND HALTERTOP @ DIXON 4/15/95
PRESET: GENERAL LIGHTS + 1/2 UPON AUDIENCE.
1. Horvaci enters happily alone
HalterTop screaming misery backstage
2. Q: after HT peaks, HV: "My shoe is untied"
HT enters w/ shoecrash
3. HV ties shoe, trades shoecrash for Dots
HV adjusts props etc
4. Theatrical Transition of Sound & Lights
"Sound! Lights!" [Repeat 3X,] Bathe in SLQ1
SLQ1: TAPE 1 AND LIGHTS GO CRAZY, END WITH NO CHANGE,
(SAME AS
BEGINNING). 10-15 SECONDS.
5. Healthy Pause ala "Fritata"
HV: "Script" hands notebook to HT
HV/HT El Classico
6. "Some little thing"
7. HT gets in place, in front of mic
SLQ2: LIGHTS (SPECIAL ON MIC) + TAPE 2
"Feelings"
8. SLQ3: WHEN TAPE ENDS, BO, IMMEDIATE RETURN TO PRESET MINUS HOUSE
Edwin's poem (Bob off)
Bob's poem (Edwin off)
9. Edwin reenters w/ "Stepping in...."
10. SLQ4: WHEN BOB HITS FLOOR, CROSSFADE TO SPECIAL. BEGIN AGONIZINGLY SLOW FADE TO BLACK ON "TOGETHER"* :
Fly fly fly fly fly away
Is that the way
That is the way
To begin the end
To end the begin
And how about the beguine
Yup, now hat you mention it, the beguine, too, will begin
As the end ends
The way it begins
*[Together] Together
Again
Again
[Together] The End
[Freeze]
We can go now
[Between grit teeth, sotto voce] No! Not yet you fool!
[Leaves]
For my next poem, I'd like to tail off in a comet's trail
BLACKOUT WHEN ONSTAGE TAPE (CONTROLLED BY EDWIN) ENDS
_________________________________________________
for Lynne Beyer
Your legs catalogued miles
And the flutter of eyes
Like where to go, dear Friend
A smile you would always tweak
When no one (especially you)
Was watching. God, poems, love,
Definitely everything. Fears
Raced to the close, smashed
Definitely everything. Miles
To go we'd keep saying, even
Now I say it as you stop.
_________________________________________________
"All directions simultaneously"
I remember you
Carving the foreshadowing wind
Scratching back at Nature
Where it itches
Where it lives
_________________________________________________
LATE NITE DANCE MIX @ THE BLUE NOTE
(w/ DJ Attica Blue aka Charlie)
Blue is the color of my true love’s skin
And all the life that glistens there mirrors my death
You cain’t stand still you fracture gesture nothing
Frantic in the panic sweat block tastes strain like a hip
Hop thrust into the body rejoining beat of tender swelling
Creaking birth in a smoky whisper of abrupt calm settling
A bird in flight frozen there now dive to floor rolls hands
Her hands braceleted orchestrated beringed bejeweled
Deep tattoos of movement xrayed exploded into beings
Physical sandwich physical tasting physical hair found slide
Slide smelling touch a circling the fire is cold
Everybody to everybody’s body makes an orb from it
Corpus loses weight and floats sheer sensuous blend
Till beat blasts explode the break down’s up again
_________________________________________________
Went down to Brighton
Thought I'd do a little writin'
But the waves themselves was just too excitin'
So I grabbed tight to my beer
Jumped off the pier
& disappeared...
Stop!
Hold it!
The End!
Never again shall such clapdoodle arise
From the boiling petrie dish of blank pages
A preprimal scream floods the heavens
I LOST MY NOTEBOOK YESTERDAY!
with all my poems in there
and an essay about How To Survive as A Poet
Exercises, like the local color ditty above
(Which, thank God, is now lost forever)
Aiee. (Trans: "It is over.")
I lost it
My lovely Berlin poems
hard-eyed and stern
with a denseness to the darkness
crawling over the page like
Well, like glue of sunset, fires
Burning out at Techeles
Like a pill, fr chrissake
I need a pill to calm down Help!
Guy who lost notebook here
Mouth agape, sounds emerge, news is
I lost it I lost it
Notebook Notebook
It's 8 1/2" by 11"
W/ black cover and
an embossed quill
and ink bottle on
the cover hand me
The megaphone, please!
And let me dangle madly from the bungee
Screaming with every rubbery
Bounce and rebounce
I lost my notebook in Brighton
Where it is is not lost
But here, feet tied, lips blistered
Swole up eyelids and punky cheeks
The view (I lost my glasses that last dive)
Blurred at end of bungee of sorrow
And, did I mention I lost my notebook
I must run screaming to the International Operator
To call home to anounce my loss, my grief
Aiee. Now,
My Telephobe Calling Card has been cancelled!
Someone's intelligence and criminal bent lifted
My Secret PIN and with criminal intent made calls
to Gambia, Algeria, Australia and 24 other international sites
Leaving me stranded in Great Britain with the Brighton Blues again
Yes, it's raining
No, I'm not shitting you
My Lost Notebook phone calls stick inside like an inner layer of phlegm.
Dissociating me from what used to be Reality
I am He
Of Lost Notebook
Standing in phone booth
Attempting International Calls via coinage
A pocketful of quid and I still get the damn answering machine
Screaming into the digital tape,
BOOK NOTE LOST I! CAR A ON IT LEFT!
AM I JERK STUPID A WHAT!
I've become dyslexia incarnate
I've lost my poem about screwing on top of the roof (a fantasy, darling)
Lost 2 page essay on How I Made a Million Writing Poetry
The only poem I remember in toto is one called:
10 Things I Do Every Day
1. Suicide
YES -- at last -- the Answer
As it says in the Good Book,
When You die and go to Heaven
There shall Ye be rojoined with
All Lost Notebooks, and ye shall
Set about revising the sonnet re:
Friendship, Bicycling, and
Mellowing Ex-Communists
NO! The Good Book
Saith not that! --
(For, indeed, is not
THE LOST NOTEBOOK
in actuality The Good Book itself!?
Idea Number 1: Sell
Publication rights to The
Lost Notebook by Bob Holman, retire on advance, never write another word
Idea Number 1 1/2: Same as Number 1, but kill yourself
Idea Number I've lost track on my way to the second idea because The Lost Notebook Obsesion has taken over all ability to count
Another idea (and then la pistola en la boca) is
To detail narrative, complete with inherent unconscious clues.
I was being interviewed on the Pier at Brighton with Samantha Coerbell. Joanne Goode, Sussex BBC, had the broadcast system in her car trunk, and invited me to sit in said car to await interview moment. I set the aforementioned Notebook on the roof of her car. It's her fault. The name is Joanne Goode. She's driven off with L10,000 worth of pure poem on top of her little Renault and I am suing BBC.