September 01, 2003

Fluxus Night (more doodles)


1.

the shattered wrists —                    wondering how this idiot got here—                        of your economy— we are almost at the top of the sequence—        when the skyline is toward the east—& the hemlines— —                                    that                                of stars—                                —        I am almost in love                                privilege brings your shy legs to me——                    but only a few of them were named jack—there is a lively one gone awol                                    — to chastise a dog with—                            —                    — don’t let me say —umbrellas are my favorite things—                                        clearly holding his breath—    to minnesota                            where several poets died canopy on sloping sundays that joke have again in the simulacral hamptons—                                                                    IT’S VERY NICE————                    for ardor——                                                                — with the                                       


2.

—                    & there were wallets—                            —years old, and the page a mile—                                describing pearls—                                                thoughts of —                        what you’re saying—                            at a roadside fruit —county —near germantown—                    was barely three —        pulses along abstractly—— THERE’S TOO MUCH HERE BUT I—basket—                        windexed green don’t care of —    yes, nearly forgot to cough—        —policeman                                when her name was jenny—                    when the pollen arcade when the I failed to be entered I —                    enjoyed causation—                annoyed            —annual events for elected suicides            the casement — beneath every —when the— case—                        entertained—


3.

crew —                        sill —                a friend from a different era—        in a galaxy far, far away, said—                                                        he liked my jean-paul satre style—to my greasy johnny                            depp—                WHO COULD I LOVE————                or brood—                            if my youth was this violence—        looking throat hands—                                    for another mind—                                        but for the taint of my pleasure—                                    palsied for my blood—— the grapones,                                            pishy pishy all of them—                            nights—best friend’s catholic —                                                        —— book—                                                        nationalism’s shotgun —                    & the salt of my wandering eye on this sister—                    in last year’s immigrant—I agree— green blue —                            window                        temper—           
               

4.

drag of tired instincts—                            THE REVOLUTION OF THE MIDDLE CLASS————                                                with titles right out of christian songbooks circa 1975—                                                                                                    disks for millennia— australia—we pledge allegiance to the —                                        metered doses and, of —course, poetry advice                        columns—                        several hundred 96-page—                                                    preserved on caucasian—                will not be televised—        but with victuals served up each night—                                reserved                        for our guilt——in books of limp poetry—                    —an entire calendar’s worth of—dispassionate of perennial mature promise—                    by bombers’                            wives in ashtrays                    deep within the vineyards—of over-                                                                    with assurances of bought votes                                    —usurping the supplements’ one or two columns—                    confidence —


5.

—— thus we love—                            I WOULD SAY THAT WE ARE ALMOST TIRED OF CHRISTMAS——                                                            growing old—        when the galaxies were invented—                                                we didn’t mind them, too— somehow brings it all back to miracles—                                                                                anyway, found a heap of orphans—                    in the pathways under his heart—                                                rendered opaque—                                                        pope—                                                            garden, in the— by artless close-captioning — of capital                            I mean,—        letters—                        alternate universes of late night television—        of the rendition —                                translated at the never tiring                                            from eunoia —                    from the pauper’s rows of every sentiment,                        every song—clattering applause —those moments of pure conscience— that goes on stage unrehearsed                                                            but that was the day alexander —— head


6.

———                                            ignore the punctuation of gentlemen—                            —                                with auto-matic pleats— who wait in the station—                                                            I can’t —                                                EROTISM RHYMES WITH MARGERET—                                                                        shouting blanks —blue, purple, green—                                every fashion sunday—        corrections made—                    —        to the mob who never had the nerve to ask———this war will never—                            to the pronunciation of laotians that aggravations of government—                    future dates with— comedy, & never —                                                            portend                            spoke—                        she’s lost two sons already for a second helping of physical—                                                afterspirits            tastes——destiny — of—    the end        of


7.

THAT WAS A WAY TO START A POEM————                                                            in 1963—        —— in the offices of all the rural bodegas—                                                                                    to ambient salsa musics —when the traveller—                                    as if it were never there——— of god—                                            we barely knew how to use “eggs” and “shoppe”—                                                words—                                    then stopped, he learned how to spell—                    in the local style——                            like a williamsburg elmar gantry—    um, the market type—    with a cossack for                                                                            trying to market the good word but this time with promises—                                                        a backdrop—                                                of increased penetration—                                            he took a nap—                                                dreaming of floating africa—           


8.

magazine dreams                EVERY WORD WILL FOLLOW YOU HOME—deep———                                                            you learn—        the pleasure of graphemic accompaniment—                                        — you host the seoul olympics—                                                                        nothing’s lost—for the script of bargaining for that that makes duets of—                                        afterwards, feeling— dispensation—                                                the traumas of this speech                        are depressed—                        for finding your host—                                        inspiration—                    murders among the mundane—                            center, where—        —& pay for the practice suits of the north korean —        of flitting family                                                    refreshed—but seven miles—— the poets team—                    but still getting their many books published interested in seeing how they do—                                                            keeping your face rolled-up        but —            further from town —                                                in the— a


9.

or my photographs—                                                                        —those that you can read about in this issue—            —                                                                        rather than criticism                    — think, now,                                            —                                                music stand, grape leaves, our                            learning—            I DON’T NEED A LOVER WHO LOOKS LIKE THAT———                                                    with new forms of will — dark—                    beyond the perimeters of        —below the sand, below the ocean—                                    and after that the of a        being    —severin saw contained—        in the flowers of cello notes—                            depicting the naked couple in several stages erotically entwined—                                                                                        of repose—        finding it so much more charming to be—I’d manage this conscience—                                        but for those clothes— to be invented—                    the celestial occurrence    government others or retrieved from the flooded center of prague’s old city—                                                                                                            of the environment—— establish a new code—                                    single emotion


10.

THEY SAY YOU HAD AN IDEA——                                            here—                    —                                        my arthritic double —        that brings it all back to you —                                                            buried beneath —the austerity—                        suggesting a charity—                    — once or twice is almost a career—                                                                            “choking”—                            (in medieval minneapolis they used to call it)—            fail —                            one last time—                            the fireworks could bystand —quite innocently and watch—                                                        one—        in collusion with mediocrity—                                                                a cultish, ritual                                —necessity — so slow—                                                                                    you are paralyzed and hiding tracks of the lime sky—                                                                                            fluxus night———

Posted by Brian Stefans at September 1, 2003 09:40 AM | TrackBack
Comments

the shattered wrists
my arthritic double

The physical construction of your poem displays beautifully the bipolarity of a narrative voice in a state of flux when encountering once again the failure of an attempt to vocalize with the keyboard what had in fact brought both your hands to finger touch the keys. I am perhaps transferring, I have recently displayed the signature phrases and inflections symptomatic of an unenviable psychosis, yet the task at hand, pardon the allusions to the area below the forearm, is to assemble poetry and from what I’ve read, a night of fluxus is a night well mad.

I also felt the tone of your work to mirror yet elevate the following riff:

Yo! Yo! Yo, fuck that, look at all these crab niggaz laid back
Lampin' like them gray and black Puma's on my man's rack
Codeine was forced in your drink
You had a Navy Green salamander fiend, bitches never heard you scream
You two-faces, scum of the slum, I got your whole body numb
Blowing like Shalamar in eighty-one
Sound convincing, thousand dollar court by convention
Hands, like Sonny Liston, get fly permission
Hold the fuck up, I'll unfasten your wig, bad luck
I humiliate, separate the English from the Dutch
it's me, black ennobled your Ali
Came in threes we like the Genovese, is that so?
Caesar needs the greens, it's Earth
Ninety-three million miles from the first
Rough turbulence, the wave bursts, split the megahertz

- Ghostface Killah

Posted by: godzirrah at September 4, 2003 01:03 AM


SHOOT YOURSELF BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE

Posted by: capt flash at December 1, 2003 08:39 PM