Why I always fancy the bassistThis poem has been temporarily removed in order to be submitted to a kick-ass anthology on the theme of rock 'n' roll. If it doesn't make the cut, it'll be back soon.
Name.I walk crease,wear a sickle.We raise lack,we scar alike --awake relics,slake ice raw.
Found poem IIIfrom a Table of ContentsWhy I am not a Buddhist:The shipfitter's wife.The apprentice.The fired pot.The Huron.Interrogation:Alex, Tiffany, Meg.The insusceptibles.The second husband.Couplings.The Did-You-Come-Yets of the Western World.
the sea salty sweet withbirdcry (the sea salty sweet with)I.the sea was his womb;the salt the waves the seathe boy, he counted waves:three, three-hundredand said: I'll live to be that---- old man drowning & crow-birds cawing & let's pretend he is deaf: and the waves have number but not the sound of rushing past quickly. the old man doesn't stop drowning, though a croak, silent & open-mouthed desperation, carries him under. &
The Expected Part 1 of 4—Preface—1372 ADThis is a walnut.The walnut has no name. Its Latin appellation, however, is juglans, short for jovis glans. Jovis is what Zeus was called when the Romans saw him and decided they wanted one of those too; glans means nuts. Jupiter's nuts. It is highly probable that, back when this name was chosen, people meant to say walnuts were nuts fit for the gods. Funny, what the evolution of language can do to nuts.This walnut is lying on the wooden floor of a monastery, a monastery beautifully situated in the middle of a seemingly endless forest.This is Friar Mattheus. In a moment, Friar Mattheus will step on the walnut, slip, fall down the stairs, and break two ribs. Friar Mattheus really likes walnuts. A little earlier, he was going to crack this one open and enjoy it. At that exact moment, he had a doubtlessly divine inspiration for a chorale praising his saint of choice. The ingenuity of this chorale's words was that they would only make
asea, tonightI'm at your door; can hear the brass and bass,the snare drum, through the glass. It's jazz, tonight.You let me in and suddenly I'm ina room of profound poets, who sing their versethrough shining horns, sweet saxophone riffs.The solos drift so richly, dance among smoke rings—tonight, when everyone's somebody's cool cat.There's a girl whose trumpet weeps when she woos its keys,those wailing notes like Miles would have played.And the long-haired bassist pains his face as he plucksaway at the tired shape the body makes,he sways. And when the guitar's clean strings do sing,it's melody carries a twang so sweet—it's jazz,tonight. Tonight!— We can be alive, tonight.And I'm in the corner, no horn in hand, not evena cigarette for now. I'm just a shadow this evening,no harmony for me. Just silent tapsof thumbs on thighs; of a breath before sirens sing.Tonight, blue tunes knew the way through a smokysea—found me… Last I heard they were still awaitingreturn
Cetusa seething crop of whales in the distance: our sirensand underneath it all the ebb and swell of a sick windhave you ever felt stranger than when you said that word; 'wound'?the stars were our panic buttons. we fanned our fingers like thatand morse-coded the bear, his daughter and the painters easel.In ten years we will call our son Cetus -- I cant pretend to understandhow we could have been so stupid.how through chapped lips we forced our words to rhyme, as ifsomehow, that would save us.how we even first learned to use that language.I have never felt stranger than when you said that word; soon.I was waiting for you, Perseus. I was not the rock,but the shape that veiled it. How could you have mistaken mefor the ghost of a gentile when you have been inside me?deliverer? saviour of this house?the hospital walls felt wet to us, we mistrusted our sensesgave in to the blind panic and slept.I nearly swallowed my tongue.I walked home beckon
Night boatI'm late for the theatre. Luca guiding usdown still lanes, I recline, dip a hand;cool, sunless flow. Bleached palacespass, lovely homes of merchant sires.In a damp brume, the night is falling.My departure was recorded by spies,Luca says, off to alert their mastersthe lord-in-exile has left his quarters.Lanterns lit, we are crossing the city.There's a monotony to these streetsI don't dislike, and it keeps off tourists.I shall probably stay the winter over,though the local giovani are notto my taste. But from what futurehave I tumbled? My modern heartbackwater-bound. Drinks aboard.Tonight, a single cup of wine. I havegiven up meat, and English company,both hazards to health. Serenissima,beguiler, you've drowned the moon.
Summer NightsSummer NightsWe slam our shotglasses into the low wooden table,Ties loose about our necks,Shirts drenched with sweatAnd the floral scent of the dancerWrithing around on our loose changeAnd currency bills that have zero value;Work cut deep into our energies,Turning our brains to breadOur legs to butterSharpening stakes and spearsTightening our leather bootsAnd rushing through the yellow grassAt the bounding elk;We slam our shotglasses into the low wooden table,Slapping each others' backsLike we are part of the same business family, yeahOur cubicles are as wide as grazing plainsOur fax machines shimmer with smokeFrom pyres on hilltops and cragsOur laptop presentationsIn the entrails of hyenas,Or the broken eggs of old birdsOur staff loungeA pit of fireThe bossIs the skySometimes he rages, wants us to goStrikes us with lightning and bores down with rain;Work cut deep into our energies,Stumbling through freezing streamsAnd bleeding into iceFor dinner to brin