Friday, December 9, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
this is a poem by vsevolod nekrasov
what sea
you can say of the sea you can say
a whole sea of sea
a full sea of sea
of the sea you can say
a real sea
a real sea
really
a sea
a sea
a sea
sea sea sea sea
real real
level
probably you can
even
talk about it like this
rather, really,
probably
you can even
see it this way
only very
rarely
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
another one by nekrasov
Well
kind of, sort of
thank God
a lea
alongside the water
and the white heads of Vologda
kind of like
there there they are
you
white heads of Vologda
head
in the water
head
in the sky
foot in shit
Sunday, October 9, 2011
white coats, and the ones in gray jumpsuits
arrived with clipboards and
hardhats (trailing the brown blazers with
clip-on briefcases and soft hats)
and guess what, they diminished
the damage assessment, pulled back the rescue/
containment efforts on their gargantuan spools,
generally repackaged the whole thing, ingeniously
effecting the dimunition with minimal resources--
just the words around the words, fused effortlessly to
new symbols, etched in the air like wire halos
Then the men in the white jumpsuits
grew up from under the halos, radiating
delicious virtue, oh yes, oh yum, here they
are, here they come, and here comes
ice cream!!!
Poem to God
are a mound of glittering
entrails, lemon leaf
Leman, if you find me out,
I'll punch every bird out your
every branch, heaven
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Me and Matt Tracey, Ditch Traction
b: i squeeze all the sunspots
between the shadowfingers
of ravensweed thinking of you
m: of stalks, i trust their fringes
a binge of cornhol for this pit
stomaching away from you sweet
the 'chine i ride, nearing the grapehol
unto slopes and squirrels.
and there is a vine,
and is there an experimental fruit hiding with us
b: how do you map the trail?
do you follow footpaths or the smell of entrails?
m: we stepped over tooths
some hush and tear'd,
maps over eyes and cans on ears
b: what do you do when the hunter
harkens near with his red rattle?
I'm rustling with fear, my follicles thrust
helpless up like antennae entreating beetle
m: our embrace was a hiding place,
the stone in the grape made us opaque.
the hunter interloping let us be translucent
b: our kiss sent us shimmering wet
in the mushroom gills with the thrill of the guillotine,
while some ravens made slits in the silence, we wouldn't slip
m: a slip, a hose hiccuping gasoline
like the spirit of a horse dead in the creek, livening
b: neighing, "skip this page, choose an adventure
that doesn't lurch you in the grippe ditch"
m: another repair- cylinders, steam,
and tar on the thoroughfare--
the grip of wishful thoughts
tear us and dump us in ashy sunspots
b: in granite, we run our bare feet
on ragged, waiting for our wishes
to be squeezed out on the steel
m: I recall getting held in the palm of a ditch,
a threatening flashlight brought to whimper
by my own sleepy drunk,
as here we cradle in this stranger's box
b: where is threat? it trickles out of a hose
like a gardener snake in weak light.
where is regret? at the feet of the interloper,
the inferior sea crowned by three in a bathtub, hahaha
Monday, October 3, 2011
fire fire fire
Lurid in blue, but following suit of
some suitor who glued me to
the plumes
of a suitor who vocalized low
in a harsh vibrato, who
was only blue bird of paradise blue.
'Bird of paradise' is 'bird of god' crudely lyricized,
far-flung family named by a dumb lover pulling a color:
Sur taxonomy cum hybrid bride blue,
tautadelusion cum azure mantra, blue
Vishna hung in the Virgin Mary's robes blue,
lewd blue, vulgar but true, only
NADIA replies:
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
To Nadia, Apple Continued
I throw the apple at you, and if you are willing to love me, take it and share your girlhood with me; but if your thoughts are what I pray they are not, even then take it, and consider how short-lived is beauty.
Dar Nopple,
Here is my face: I am
the apple's black drama, I am the
bird's red digestion.
I cut my teeth on her ovary,
ground up the seed coat,
coated my tongue in bitter
cotyledon, drowning a promise
in stagnancy.
Here is my grimace: strung up
in petrified strands on a
dead tree.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Poem I Wrote For Matt Tracey, Nadia's Response
I am sitting on an apple.
Here is my face: red and wet.
In a tree petrified over a swamp
There are twenty-three buzzards, ripe,
And only rare droppings alongside
Rare rain prove them alive.
A gun is going off, Matt.
A chainsaw is going at it.
Unwilling insects are droning--
Louder, I shatter
An apple.
NADIA:
dear bel,
I knew that apple back
when he was a blossom,
spreading his sordid pollen-
nodding anthers, filament, node, and bolus,
while carpels sighed open, each
seed still dank white, as arsenic or lime,
the dicotyledon alchemy not to occur
'til eight full months from the blossom's drop.
yet the buzzard's black crop crammed
and stinking: this bird's digestion has
no role to play in apple's red drama.
the buzzard's the curtains, all twenty-three
of them, falling sequentially over the stage's
thick soils, where beetles crab and grub,
and saplings mewl for phosphate, nitrogen,
pneuma, sawdust, bones, and oil.
now i have to fight nadia to the death. but i don't want her to die.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
the final crumb of x
a see-through coat
some garbageman filled my pockets with pulses
now they are fish in a bowl
when I biked through the rain
in my see-through coat
blindness coated my eyes
my legs got soaked, but my torso
remained invisible and warm
slicking over the road the translucent thought of a ghost
above a dark sea under the wet black
baby fist, like like the roof
of your mouth, David Sherman
David,
I saw pods of sophomores in gold slacking through a green gym period
I saw three plastic skulls gritting teeth deep over a hedge
and it isn't even October,
the month of the top half of your body, or
November, the month of you from the waist down
and after I saw through the sun came out so
I started to bake
And I baked and I baked
And I sweat butter
And I sneezed salt
Monday, September 19, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Christopher Smart
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry. For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him. For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way. For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness. For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer. For he rolls upon prank to work it in. For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself. For this he performs in ten degrees. For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean. For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there. For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended. For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood. For fifthly he washes himself. For sixthly he rolls upon wash. For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat. For eighthly he rubs himself against a post. For ninthly he looks up for his instructions. For tenthly he goes in quest of food. For having consider'd God and himself he will consider his neighbour. For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness. For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance. For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying. For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins. For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary. For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes. For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life. For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him. For he is of the tribe of Tiger. For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger. For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses. For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation. For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat. For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon. For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit. For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt. For every family had one cat at least in the bag. For the English Cats are the best in Europe. For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped. For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly. For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature. For he is tenacious of his point. For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery. For he knows that God is his Saviour. For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest. For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion. For he is of the Lord's poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually--Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat. For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better. For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat. For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music. For he is docile and can learn certain things. For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation. For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment. For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive. For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command. For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom. For he can catch the cork and toss it again. For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser. For the former is afraid of detection. For the latter refuses the charge. For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business. For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly. For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services. For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land. For his ears are so acute that they sting again. For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention. For by stroking of him I have found out electricity. For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire. For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast. For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements. For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer. For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped. For he can tread to all the measures upon the music. For he can swim for life. For he can creep. |
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Bleeding fleshes ground up and made a hard stick
To chew slow in cold times
When otherwise everywhere is ice rock
The lambs brain and feet and heart smashed
With salt into its thinned out intestine
So teeth scrape its fey layers of fat
What’s left of the sheep inside sheep
Petrified meat off a long-buried bone clumsy in shape of a bone
Like old hands would have pressed a bone flute
Passed from the summer
When sausage meat grew like bee song on each grass head in every meadow.
This Song, You, Me, The Moon
Into the moonlight, I mean
Old lady, dog, baby
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Daffodils
Every sedentary bloom
Wishes it could tell you
"Go right ahead"
Paintbrushes softening in saltwater
make softer lines
on dampening pages
The daffodil can't walk
Across the room
To tell you so
Bela:
The one we wrote line-by-line-ish
Nadia and I:
And the froth melted into an ebullient bullion awash on August's curled golden skin
Autumn's dead dancers stumble elsewhere, nearby. Chemical receptors sing out their premonitions:
The leaves will shake
The leaves will shake
April 2, 2010
We sat scattered like saws after
The forest fire
Beards like white plumes of ash wandered through us trailing gnomes
Of a stream broke over granite of cold metal buckets
A tinny clink and a ring betrothed us to eachother's earth
Nadia:
A delicate forest
can have no pines
conifers are the confidence
of the woodland, they never shy
from shaking their needles
hazardous near eyes
eyes can be harmed
and so shrink
towards woods interrupted
by meadows
to harmless old logs,
shelved with fungus
to trees that dapple shade
deciduous
and in the winter
provide no huddle
provide no shelter
provide no
provisions
Marine Mammal: Nadia, Marianne Moore, Bela
Nadia:
There is passage in 20,000 leagues under the sea, where captain nemo serves the narrator cheese made from whale’s milk
Since then, I have hungered for it, dreamed of it, I imagine it tastes like little boneless white sardines, but milder, or like drinking soft sea moss
Cheese made from rat’s milk
Mouse legs are said to taste like licorice (or anise) when roasted
The mongols drank mare’s milk and mare’s blood, and distilled the two into a liqueur which made them fierce before a battle
They rode their horses with pieces of raw meat tucked under the saddle, to tenderize them
They never bathed
They were epicures
But still, imagine, Bela, suckling at a whale’s teat while the huge mass of the whale budges gently around you
Marianne Moore:
Bela:
Nadia:
marine mammal creates, retains
its own heat, then perpetrates
one massive parturition,
calving among krill, unwatched
what hungers were hatched
at whale’s gorgeous teat
Bela:
Nadia!:
No fish eye glimmers in the unlit deep
No scales shimmer, no flames of coral burn
Along the colorless perimeter
Where arthropods feast on mammalian bones.
Huge eyeless worms appreciate neither
Marrow-filled corridors nor flesh clinging
Still in ribbons to spectacular bones.
Now the tender maternal whale breast makes
New forms of food, bare materials for growth
Of strange infants, starving in repulsive depths.
Two Of the Clone Ones
She’s the tits, I’m the teeth
We got teeth, we got tits
When I spit, when she spits
In turn, brushing our teeth
She thinks of me, I of her when we spit
Who goes first and who waits and listens to it?
2.
Sometimes the old life encroaches
She grows my old athlete’s foot on her toes
But I’d never give up my new feet for her
Monday, August 1, 2011
Nadia Bela End of July
Nadia:
the sea declines
its faultless pergola extends
over all the soft-bodied and the bony
and those clenched within paired shells
and those scuttling, crabbed, from one similar rock
to another
The sea now darker than the sky and now lighter
and today, while the day was running down, a muskrat
lurched from the weave of leaves and then turned tail
and entered the dark interior of the shrubbery
the sea reclines
its rubbery pergola dubs
the critters with taxonomic orders
makes of them all representatives of florid phenotypes,
budding species in a branch without managers
this is no place for solemnities or meager measures meant
to indemnify the longueurs of a difficult book against
unintelligibility. this is no time to place bets, to file down
snagging edges of regrets. arrest the long-lived filaments
before they exhaust the glow that’s in them. fill the lucid space with dangerous
vapors and watch it illuminate with half the expenditure. when that
globe shatters, watch it. when that globe, watch out.
the sea clowns and totters where shore
and birds meet, filament lining the pond, pond
smocked with brick-colored algae, stippled with swans,
its rim at the brink and spilling over among the vertical
stems, the reeds silent and limp as the swans.
Bela:
the sea declines
The sea now darker and the sky now barking
the sea inclines
This is no place for solemn ties or meager measurement meant
to indemnify the longueurs of a business suit against unintelligibility.
this is no time, replace your bets, file down the snagging edges of regrets, or let them sag out of their files. Amass the longing filaments
And let their glow exhaust you with their long lives. Fill the luminescent
Spaces with dangerous smells and watch yourself expire with half of the
expenditure. When that lobe shatters, watch it. With that lobe watching
The Sea Clowns and Otters meet birds
At The Shore, filament lining their bond, the bar
smocked and lined with algae bricks, stippled with snaggle shells
and spilling over on the vertical
wine glass stems and beer, a pond silent and dim
NADIA:
let them sag out of their flies
then cough until it's clear you're barking
and bark until hair sprouts on your shanks
and a brand new gland seeps scented oils for social
ends; this gland managed by an obtruding lobe
that coils beneath your thinking brain
let them lobe, until lobbing, the loaf splits and shows
its lily-white phalanges: this is the salt passage, twelve
lumens bright and barking on the table, like a sucked
lozenge. over there, twelve acres decked with white pine,
stunted, and some trees, roused and umber, stacked
with small fruits that only here are called plums, less sweet
than elsewhere and mealy, a treat for sucking deer, a passable jam.
NADIA! NADIA! NADIA!
Monday, March 14, 2011
plumb sausages like her thingers, thrumbling gusters
blowsies thin kisses thinks finger tips, bumbers and clumb bumbers
heavy hand cummers, but drunk dumber, rummer and rimmer
think fingers and cumber’s crumbs littering drummers
blowsie thin cymbal dust, brummer
some summer heave sigher, fake slumber in heavy blowsie gust bang on the gut gutter
mud water plumbs the dumb gutter to south, gagging gutters mouth gutters, meat finger fungers, plump sausages, plumber, plump plumbers