Bossing the Only Yahoo
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Let's say this is shit.
No fair talking theory that's deluded,
talking suave poetry,
slinging lines mucho wax-o,
moaning "thanks anyhow".
Some mean old asshole you invented fell,
lost on vote, popped pell-mell.
Other stuff flew off
slow laughing low in ambulances
We take what slakes and sigh inside,
another amnesiatic slouch, cursing, lost after sundown.
Ignoring any wisdom that shouts no.
Quiet down, said one lady at lunch,
or tell that I danced drunkenly
close at the big door.
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the last two were from naomi nye poems. buy them. she's genius.
Born Naked
The pathway and the porch
are both pressed posies in this folio,
are times folded carefully in the pocket.
I attend tearfully in each place
Another teather intricately unwound.
We mince half bitten inclinations and always
Ride alone past places
Opening in a world of sleep.
We must half blessed always walk half bound
Putting this other everafter, walking in affected places.
Forever eases in time my
Dog tired path-- what we do now takes
The teeth down with no outrage
In the rose-garden. Morning watches everything
Tire, in your mouth.
another first letter poem. the original for this was james joyce's "She Weeps over Rahoon"-- though i didn't know it at the time.
Some Would of Run
Round on Round felt smooth, sat fine,
We might've drank loud laughter.
Such ignorance has various times come mocking, so cruel,
Applying grievous medicine.
Look, he tried.
He shouted, he spit hot vexations into each cup,
Each umbella, aching to drink rain first,
Took a number.
Drying takes open heat, O love, such as candles
Ashes heaped so hot have losses
Under the mean nebula, the blooming mars
Another might've run.
not a poem
----
here's a biscuit
the edges crumble
the tan and white and
brown of it sit
hot and steamy
on your plate.
here's a teacup
hard and cold;
the handle's cracked
but holds.
the tea was poured
long ago. gulp it,
wash down the scratchy
biscuit.
here's the paper.
the news is old;
you've heard it before.
the woman weeps over
the body, the market
lurches, the election
is too close to call.
fold the paper, finish the
bicuit.
here is the day.
beginning.
walk to the mirror, wipe
the crumbs. try a
face: a pleasant smile,
bland, meaning nothing.
find a door.
walk through.
another translation-- the original poem, in icelandic, followed by my interpretation. the true english translation has been lost in the mix-- anyone speak icelandic?
Kalevela Runo XXVI:1-14
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Ahti oli saarella asuva
Kaukoniemen kainalossa
Oli pellon kynn??nn??ss??,
vainon vakoannassa.
Korvalta ylen korea,
kovin tarkka kuulennalta.
Kuulevi jumun kyl??lt??
j??ryn j??rvien takoa,
jalan iskun iljenelt??,
reen kapinan kankahalta.
Juohtui juoni mielehens??,
tuuma aivohon osasi:
h??it?? Pohjola pit??vi,
salajoukko juominkia!
----------------------------------------------------
Weaver's Book, Chapter 26, Verse 1-14
There she sat, patient
as fishermen cast
their ruined nets,
crying hungrily.
Some spoke Korean,
others sang gutterally.
The fish jumped silver
flashing like knives
and swam away
leaving fishwives weeping.
Only ask for her needle,
her tumescent thread:
Mender sighs heavily,
useless hands!
(another merging styles game---luna)
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Thin woman, peeled apple, cold moon
thin smell of pee, hot water and dust,
what popular darkness closes your portals?
What new day does she touch, with her nails?
Lust is a trip with sand and with stones,
with dirty seas and slow thuds of ozone:
lust is a languor of settling dust
two sets enjoined by a wafting pheromone.
Lick by lick she tastes his largesse,
his edges, his oceans, his war-torn country
and the damp place recreated into sorrow
weeping into the dry vein's hallways
which then opens up, a spidering fern
until it becomes and undoes the sun's setting.
morning breaks like
a plate of eggs
at last year's diner,
like a plaster mask tossed into the
garden, two rainy seasons later.
this sun sighs, folds itself into
a fog-scarf, says
i've seen it all before,
this tuesday thing. why
bother dressing up?
the clouds shift and roll
in their sky-bed, trying
to get comfortable amidst
the high-pressure system,
edging toward the ground.
i used to know a thing
or two about morning, how
it could start everything
up again, strech and yawn
into the beginning of
what's left.
a contrail makes a question
mark outside my window,
and the question hangs in
the air, hangs there
until the questions fall apart.
oh yeah-- billy's poem is litany, not liturgy. i think. or the reverse. and i do know the difference between illusions and allusions. i think.
for those of you who've not:
this is a poem with all but the first letter of each word removed. write your version, using the letters. i'll give the title of the real one in a few days. mine follows at the bottom (don't peek before you write yours).
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D
-------
T I l l i t m.
T I l f.
T I s m s
r f a d,
t i t b,
S c d i. D,
c. I a t o
n s, n p, n m,
j m. A.
L r u a t e o w
i s's b;
l, s u d.
L, c's g-l s.
C s h.
W t c
s. T I h a.
T I h a s.
D k m.
----------
no peeking
-----
Disappearances
-------
Things I left laying in the mud.
Things I lost first.
Things I should make sure
return for another day,
tucked in the bed,
Spring curled deep in. Drunk,
crying. I am the other
noisy sleeper, never pleased, nor mourned,
just me. Always.
Love rubs under a tired eye of wonder
insisting she's back;
loud, singing urgent dirges.
Leary, cupid's go-lately sighs.
Crimes she heard.
When this crime
shouted. Things I have allowed.
Things I heard and said.
Disappearances kept missing.
-----
a tribute to my buddy elsemore and a riff off a (fabulous) billy collins poem called--i think-- liturgy. the numerous illusions are intentional, not just plagery.
opus elsemore
----------------
i am stephen.
here me roar.
i sing the body ecstatic.
solar-powered.
bright and juicy. perfect.
i am the wine, and i am the goblet.
lalique. oblique. sublime.
i am the knife,
the swiss army one,
and the leatherman.
i have every attachment
you could possibly need.
and yes, i am the pine-scented air.
i am absolutely the pine-scented air.
my legs are alabaster columns,
leading to the field of lilies.
my nipples each are perfect universes.
i am the rose of sharon,
and also of simon.
i am pretty much an overall bouquet.
when i laugh, babies are
born, smiling babies with skin
the color of tea and milk.
when i cry, diamonds fall.
my mouth holds ivory chiclets,
my tongue forms words
in a language the rest of
the world always knew,
yet is just beginning
to understand.
when i sing, emerging nations
erupt into spontaneous
peace. when i dance,
narcissus and tulips, in
every revlon majesty,
spring from the furrows
left by my feet.
did i mention my alabaster legs?
and that i am, for sure,
the pine-scented air?
i am stephen.
the cup, the army knife.
and fuck yes.
the pine-scented air.
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