Night funnels into ear -- crow
calls, first reappearance
of the year. 1996. March 10.
Here, we go loopty lou, carefully.
Snow with ice under, branches
heaving to the earth, trees look
down, shocked at what's going on.
Without my glasses, the soft world dances,
edges break, planes jump. At 48, tempo
accelerates. Striding purposefully through
the world, finding -- the world. And you
are in it, death's short step crows' call.
Smoke tendrils from enemy campfires
rise and drift in the distance. They speak:
Everything is closer,
love's body presses deeper,
here we go loopity lie.
_________________________________________________
all the prepositional advantages
wreak motion, secure moon
of and by would battle
for and to you
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<< a long, long letter to a friend in Geneva >>
Title of poem
Body of poem
Tail of poem
Refrain from Poem
Poem Coda
Reprise
Surprise rereprise
Tale of Tailing Offa Poem
Cup of Tea apres poem
Neverending poem, Other poem, Another Poem,
That ol poem again
The poem
_________________________________________________
A New Instance of the Same Old Thing
The sound of wood breaks my brain
in twain
Adds up
To a good laugh
I must go -- the sky is open
You stay here and guard
My ever-loving body.
But
Before I go, one last song for Clarity
No. You sing it. I'll comb my hair,
and pretend not to hear you.
*
Meadowlark Poet, don't
You just love it!
Beauty doesn't lie --
Truth does.
That's the truth
In song, now --
You sing it. Don't
Change a beat, don't alter
A tone, don't move anything
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye.
*
Both of you clowns stand over here.
I've gotten some bad reports on you Bozos.
You didn't listen, you never learn,
You change things for no good reason.
So give me back the food. Even if
It's shit, deposit it. Get it out
Of your system. And when
You're empty, you're outta here.
*
The rain ruins the fountain.
It's all effect -- sunglasses?
And as for the delicate flowers,
They run for cover when they see us
Approach. Giddy and beloved, youth's
Refrain, what's a song without words?
A love without break?
A story without death?
A wind without ear?
(Refine this dynamic.
Bring it to an end.
Write your own damn poem.
I will love hearing it --
My air-conditioned grave!)
*
Familiar lips parted
By familiar tongue
But whose is whose
Tastes you everywhere
_________________________________________________
A Thing's Not Finished Till You Give It Away
You were sitting on your ass
My ass was sitting on you
Our tongues darting out like morays
Of the eel variety
Exploring the caverns of our teeth
Juicing the synapse, clobbering
The pronominal distinctors
I'm in love with you like at 18
When you told me how the show should be
Political and risky and funny
And I didn't know how and you had no power
Now you're the big CheezWhiz at a major record label
And I'm political and risky and funny in front of people every night
Swagging break down and exploring with word headlights
The way our tongues did the smoky dance
I'm in your lap again, Lover
Did it all for you
And I love your wife, too, Lover
And your children, I adore them
And I know I've got this cynical overbite
So you don't believe me, you'd like not to
But our toss in the hay is metaphysical now, Lover
We're in the Householder Phase, heading to the Monk
And my other lover, I told him all about you
And he loves you too, like totally
And yeah this must be heaven
Because its all Sunchronicity Street, you're having set him up
With his own label imprint, for Spoken Word
I'm rambling like the way our fingers lived their own
Electric rain sparking to the deep spot, the fragile hair,
The burn, read me in a wash of orgasm, Lover
Into your ear can you hear the tear
How we suffered like the workers we are for years
Nobody listening, licking stamps with tongues
Thinking of mouths and navels, doing mailings
Sorting and press release airplanes to the abyss
Till now we've become who we knew we would
Survived to an economy of wholeness
The deaths of our friends, a new ocean
And maybe I'll be on the Label, and I don't even care
I'm just working, not for the Happy Ending, Lover
But here, naked in your lap, you hard naked
We're still clothed enough for television
Cause we're always on now, it's cool,
We rule, to set the rules, explode them
What the whispers crescendo about
Is how it's never an ending, never-ending
And how it's never done till you give it away
_________________________________________________
for Larry Eigner
The tree siting
the birds coming
Biting
but what about the tree of water
On the floor
foot
Larry is no more
likely to write
what you say
then roll the sun than
stop
_________________________________________________
Now, as I was saying, where
Was I, where am I Something like a horse
With antlers flies by a plaid Something and
A cup of most delicately perfumed tea
But not a perfume, which implies sweetness, a depth
Of smell-pestering aroma. And some liquid more liquid
Than tea. The only form being the one where the tongue,
Working in concert with the lips, embraces the teeth to exhale
Actual vocables, etc, before cynicism rusts meaning.
_________________________________________________
After eliminating everything
What is left
Is the poem
Before
Poetry precedes language
Precedes life.
Can I go
To sleep now?
Without Boundary
No life. No time. No place.
No no no. Speak up
With your no no no.
_________________________________________________
You get old, you get enemies, you
love them the way you love your lovers,
which is to say, continually. Little lights
sparkle above the Con Ed tower -- music
from an alien orb kicking in telephone on
a leash, hello? hello? My kickstand holds
up the enterprise. It is 1996, after all. Think
I mean just think. The evolving tissue wanted
land lungs so I'll comply. What music knows,
leaves. As I plug away on everyone else's social
security, my children raise me to see the
importance of being breakfast. Buzz buzz!
the bullets have names, only upon explosion
they change, as everything changes, life
itself proclaiming, "Next!" Breathlessly,
the door opens, revealing the door -- Yours!
_________________________________________________
As soon as we've rebuilt it
Your capacity can be stretched into shape
I am proud of you and your lowered standards
We call it the Tolerance of the Gods
But what it really is is a lengthening of the excuses
Tender Carcass, what can you spray?
How many lives in disarray because of your insistence
_________________________________________________
Listen, before the alphabet were where
Could you start? A was hard,
A tent pushing itself apart to hold
Itself up. What is it like? asked Cricket
With No Legs, fiddling up a Concoction
Of Unlimited Delight. Ol Froggy knew better,
Better hook up a meal deal creel and a singsong
Racket. These symbioses never falter, but we'da
Got blisters by noon if we coulda. Thought. Had a
Thought or to think without benefit of Love
Symphony, written pre-alpha pre-beta I'm sure
Of nothing anymore. Clear throat, bite
Lip, prepare barrage of blank leaves.
Kill me, but first invent the letter of bold intent.
Astonish disturb seduce convince
All the comforts of home
Soon as we've rebuilt it
The capacity of stretched shape
The Tolerance of the Gods
The Lengthening of Excuses
Tender Carcass, what do you spray?
How many lives in disarray because of your clamoring
_________________________________________________
Top of the 8th, after
four fouled off Gentry, still
2 and 2 a plastic bag
blows over home plate, Dave
Cash of the Pirates steps
out of the box, steps
back in, after speeding the plastic
on its way
with his bat, fouls
two more off, then 3 & 2, then
infield bounce to the shortstop, out at first.
--Paul Blackburn
_________________________________________________
I am so embarrassed
But because I am in love
With you, Big Al, I
Will live in the blush
Thinking of us
Passing on the stairs
Brushing past the future
_________________________________________________
This poem is called "Morning." Spell it any way you want.
Thin sharp rays of early morning edge
Towards me, a cat flowing towards its prey
I shift
The pressure of the pillow against my back
Gives me pleasure when the dream
Won't let go. My lover pulls
Open the blue curtain, taking
On the full warmth of new dawn
She tells me come and look --
"It's the most beautiful sunrise! a gigabyte of colors!"
I watch the colors play over her, and reach
Down to adjust my morning hard-on...
She motions me to join her --
"Come and see, Lazyhead."
I stumble the sheet to the window
She takes my face in the light, directs my focus
From her to the morning outside
"Isn't it beautiful?" she asks
I see a person tossing in sleep on the sidewalk
The weathered blanket creased,
Folded into the shadow of the eave of the tobacco shop
Across the street. A bicycle cop pulls up,
Barks no lullaby, the body stirs. Is the voice a dream?
"Isn't it beautiful?" she repeats
"I don't know," I say I don't know
The cop nudges the sleeper with his night stick
As my lover grabs my hard-on and laughs
Water rushes through the walls of the apartment
Fantasy-busting, life-flowing, dust-kicking, mourning morning
My eyes locked on the homeless dreamer across the street
"What do you see?" she asks
"Not the same thing as you" I say
_________________________________________________
We lift the gravy and reach the top
The bandage on Artaud is lifted
And his head comes off too
To mourn the public in public.
Displayed. Jeered at. Superstition
Denied, Superperson blinking --
The body rises. The closure period
The unimaginable Creation fucking
The body of the Forbidden to life.
What's no legs out of nomad?
_________________________________________________
Hey morning
It's afternoon
Daisy's eleven soon
Hey night
It's morning's line
The day's eyes will shine
The birth of day
The rise of night
The double one's delight
A thoughtful penny
On eve of May
Night becomes the day
_________________________________________________
Epithalamion for Lisanne Dakota
To the Future with Dakota and Lisanne
But we've got the church, we've got the priest, and there's still a few moments before the feast
So upon this occasion if you're a poet (and I am)
You get called upon to find some words that jam
A gleaning of meaning and maybe some breathing in-betweening
That at best might say it all about that which cannot be said
A poem for a wedding is an Epithalamion
Having more than rhyme in common with an Onion
But whether it's for layers of significance, or shed a tear for innocence, the poem must be read
So hear these words try to trace where hearts live to the infinite iota, this:
Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today because it finally is today today, and no other.
We know because we are penguins on parade,
Partnered with the Snowflake Corps of the Nutcracker Ballet.
Yesterday you rushed round the corner of the revolving door and jug-handled
Smack into yourself, your twin.
Today it's the door of a church -- a door that leads everywhere.
Tomorrow's an open field, a grassy path -- hooray, you traded the cow for 3 beans!
Seeds that grow into an Interstate.
Nations erupt! Italy and Ireland
Have histories as intricate as your mate's DNA.... (This is what you think
About when you are married, while stirring the pasta e figole.)
The frontier towns of America rise up in the West!
Shimmering in dust, an abrupt beauty, this volcano you call home.
How extraordinary, the way the topaz sky follows every detail of the mahogany earth,
Like a couple touching at every part. The way parents must live the lesson which teaches itself,
The way children make sure you never forget.
But wait, this is now the Blessed Now, a cigar lights the candle.
The Past isn't going anywhere, and the Future is whatever we make of it.
A vast rumble is heard -- it is the heating system kicking on, the door opening to let the dog in,
A 3-pointer lacing the net, the church organ booming a commercial for angels.
It is the middle of winter, stillness melting on a frozen lake. It is December 29, 1996,
This day fixed forever between the rushing mobs of Nativity, and the brittle midnight
When the year comes up for renewal, alone and not so alone. Dearly Beloved, gathered in elation
To nod, laugh, cry and dance to music that hearts make when time goes on vacation.
And now, Epithalamion, dear Onion, get along, join the wedding. Let words of love bring
An end where love itself begins. Let ceremony fall silent. Let love's echo ring.
_________________________________________________
2/1/96, 10:30, PBS. A cummerbund-wrapped channel zapper
and the screen is white as snow which upon closer exam
ination is black-and-whitied from the heaving techno-whore
overdrama to most precious fried abstraction
of bliss -- rewind and start over. Ahem.
99.8% of all American homes have Cyclops in a Corner,
We are gathered here today because we no longer need to gather
anywhere outside our individually-canned livingrooms, networked,
overworked, worked. Our connection. The broadcast unites states,
sprinkles literature liberally into individual
abodes, as the road outside still flickers
the tongue that surrounds us. And when we are swallowed,
what do we become? LOUDER And when we are swallowed...
Objections need their own distribution system.
The next morning a child
Awakes refreshed in Omaha
Packs a pen in every pocket
Walks out into a new dawn
_________________________________________________
FOLLOWING THE THREAD TO THE TOOTH OF CRIME
(Or, Heaven's Knock Knock) (Knot a joke!)
Raggedy lace weaving itself into my bridal shroud
Dear lily heart
Carom the boingboing homeless tragedy whee salamander leash
Sleeping rough
Waking painfully shattering the shower curtain
Nonreferential is the sole
impossibility on its own line
All hung up on
Civilization's teacup demands the system contain revolution
Put the Chihuahua back in that teacup,
Young man! I mean, woman
The night of the iguana poem curls its tail, I mean tongue
I mean, you mean tongue
You!
Whose beautiful Nouns refuse to resist, so places, as in the Verb "places" as in simply leaves something somewhere and there it would be there it in fact is perfectly at home for generations. We do not evolve -- the air around us re-forms and we become in fact are that shape (first use of the word shape, second use of the word word I mean third)
((I mean, you mean third)
Or, we)
Yes, a ray of confusion in the overbearing glut of repression
My contusion or yours?
Whose parenthesis is this parenthesis in parenthesis? Ours,
Our tux. Our mandela. Our tofu cake. Our spurs. Might as well just say it: Our Noun
In the center, crashing down
The doughnut will not cannot the crown clown's frown silly subset
Inverted safety net
Pours through like silk milk on a mike a voice of choice -- psyche!
There's a fly in the g'bye, the neverending rending
Currently locatable in the crier tower, Empower
The bitter battle over the baby's rattling demand
For a hand to help and slap some sense into I needed that hat
To pull the hare from where from my chum the dumb crumb sits
Waiting for us to catch up with its intention
Which is not to mention
What I mentioned until -- still waiting?
Hating waiting? Creating a debating syntax
Might relax the cracks before the quake shakes
Whatever antique replays you'd relay today
I'll take it, just to give it back
Give it away
The dead giveaway
Of what you say
_________________________________________________
You lead the Perfect Life
This is what happens
Rocking the caucasian dawn
In a rickshaw past the OJ/Nicole slime
And all readings are slams now
Because you lead the Perfect Life
And I love you
_________________________________________________
For My Friends in San Francisco
It's a bbbird, a plane, it's poetry. Shadow
of a bird passing over a crowd demonstrating
we all grow old. Fly on! Our placards
are poems too, aiming voices at the International
Hotel. It is 1977. It is a basic human right.
Shelter. These actions so right
can't be contained, become history. A body
placing itself, step step, in the path
of power that kills. Kills itself.
We must accept our successes as what they
were. How lost can we be, inside
each other. So many heads we live in, to go on
living. Sun shines through moon, seasons
slide. To you, my friends, boots and hats, pants and
socks, shirts after shirts, as our dailiness dies.
_________________________________________________
from: Vale Diction, October 27, 1996
("Greetings, Participants/In this poetical experiment!")
Meanwhile, back at the Mouth,
(Mouth Almighty that is), I cycle daily up the Hudson
To toil at my humble desk beside Bill,
With Deirdre and Sekou and Jim, we who hammer
The phones with admonitions that Poetry Must Live!
And proceed to enter into contractual relations with poets
To create new discs of beauty, I can honestly
Scream "I do not understand!" we even call them records,
Though records are now extinct, "Words on Wheels!"
Gary who tours with product to lecture on how poetry
Resists productification as it considers its
Own existence utterly shattering the old with
Possibilities so grand I sneeze
"I must be allergic to capitalism," the poet said
To the Hit "Record" made by ancient bard with Beatle backup
MTV Buzz Clip where is Dr. Williams I feel faint
Only his soft white hands can pull me through now
Born over a good sign, over and over
And if it's Tuesday then Rap says wassup to the Poem
At Fez. And Sekou's and Maggie's new albums recreate
Head to the Future. My children no longer need a Father,
Which means I am required to be home every night
To be not needed, and I am, as sentry to love,
The all-seeing lighthouse to you're grounded.
_________________________________________________