Posts tagged with ‘poetry’

A Coherency is a Sextet

A coherency is a sextet: slithy, societywide,
full of anonymous horoscopes and nefarious promenades.
We pack our bags and drive to the tournament 
of polite marshmallows. In grungy latex pajamas, 
we act out our fantasies under creepy cabinets.

And then there’s a swelling of the whole poem
and the sari comes alive with creases, creating a realm
of sweaty sadness.

In case of fire go to the nearest hippopotamus. 
Go to the skull that keeps barking orders, taste
the water in your mouth that contracts in blond
viscosity. Nerve-endings depreciate in the flatland
of your cigarette smoke. The eternity of knowing 
subsists on a cauliflower of Magritte’s dying wish.

seed text: Ce Qui Cera: Almanac of the International Surrealist Movement
art by owlwise12

A Coherency is a Sextet

A coherency is a sextet: slithy, societywide,
full of anonymous horoscopes and nefarious promenades.
We pack our bags and drive to the tournament
of polite marshmallows. In grungy latex pajamas,
we act out our fantasies under creepy cabinets.

And then there’s a swelling of the whole poem
and the sari comes alive with creases, creating a realm
of sweaty sadness.

In case of fire go to the nearest hippopotamus.
Go to the skull that keeps barking orders, taste
the water in your mouth that contracts in blond
viscosity. Nerve-endings depreciate in the flatland
of your cigarette smoke. The eternity of knowing
subsists on a cauliflower of Magritte’s dying wish.

seed text: Ce Qui Cera: Almanac of the International Surrealist Movement
art by owlwise12

What Is the One Thing Keeping You from Being a Poet?

The whole world is kept afloat 
by this year’s slightly stronger fibers. 
Civilization is a raised-bed of paranoia.

Tongs as long as your fingers intercept the skies—
visions of God and sailors on the Caspian Sea dissolve
in the blankness of commerce. 
We are startling free, shocked by time
while a hundred blacksmiths
recapitulate the 8 Ball
and become an origami club.

I’d like to become an archway.
I’d like to become a lady’s fan in Molière’s plays.

In the entire world there is only one defect: 
celebrations without kelp.
Inebriated, the child 
serves us poems cold. 

Facing the other side of the Infinity Wall,
you fly around the room every ninety seconds 
and fall down like stereo leaves.

art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

What Is the One Thing Keeping You from Being a Poet?

The whole world is kept afloat
by this year’s slightly stronger fibers.
Civilization is a raised-bed of paranoia.

Tongs as long as your fingers intercept the skies—
visions of God and sailors on the Caspian Sea dissolve
in the blankness of commerce.
We are startling free, shocked by time
while a hundred blacksmiths
recapitulate the 8 Ball
and become an origami club.

I’d like to become an archway.
I’d like to become a lady’s fan in Molière’s plays.

In the entire world there is only one defect:
celebrations without kelp.
Inebriated, the child
serves us poems cold.

Facing the other side of the Infinity Wall,
you fly around the room every ninety seconds
and fall down like stereo leaves.

art by Karen Constance paintings and collage

The Projective Fallacy

Sparks fly, are a-rave
with confusion. 
Skies congregate immaculately.

This fear, this tenure of helium,
is the projective fallacy—a stray lint
eating your heart.
We cannot leave the demonstrable

in shopping carts.
Nor magisterial puppydogs 
in locked cars.
Nor the 3G in its winged ritualism.

But bless the interior monologues
and their manifest tact.
For we shall swallow the flambeau of duty.

art by http://ift.tt/1ugG2y4

The Projective Fallacy

Sparks fly, are a-rave
with confusion.
Skies congregate immaculately.

This fear, this tenure of helium,
is the projective fallacy—a stray lint
eating your heart.
We cannot leave the demonstrable

in shopping carts.
Nor magisterial puppydogs
in locked cars.
Nor the 3G in its winged ritualism.

But bless the interior monologues
and their manifest tact.
For we shall swallow the flambeau of duty.

art by http://ift.tt/1ugG2y4

Obsolete Antiques

apocalypsemambo

Get my texts?
It’s the heartbeat that links them.
Dictators & dead boys –
vulnerability is a leather jacket –
rocket from the tomb.
A Minister of Drought
has been appointed,
caught on a surveillance camera
grimacing like a bust of Beethoven
& hinting at something
you can never really be sure is there,
all those deserted cities
the jungle overgrows.

Seed text: Nicholas Rombes, “The Ramones’ Ramones” (Bloomsbury Academic, 2006)
art by k mackowick

Obsolete Antiques

apocalypsemambo

Get my texts?
It’s the heartbeat that links them.
Dictators & dead boys –
vulnerability is a leather jacket –
rocket from the tomb.
A Minister of Drought
has been appointed,
caught on a surveillance camera
grimacing like a bust of Beethoven
& hinting at something
you can never really be sure is there,
all those deserted cities
the jungle overgrows.

Seed text: Nicholas Rombes, “The Ramones’ Ramones” (Bloomsbury Academic, 2006)
art by k mackowick

Emphasize

The days are beautiful, full of inclines and words. 
They understand the situation, the risk of wisteria,
the leafy mind, the ball and string.
On the National Mall, birds form adhoc neighborhoods.
I look in the book of life and it says female lions 
demonstrate and emphasize. Apolitical fifth graders 
unwrap the apocalypses hanging in the light.

Thank you for trying to understand the elephants on my chest.
I will give you the deepest sleep you’ve ever had.
Look: there’s the Museum of the Thing. It looks like
some avant-garde “art project” someone roughly put aside
with slight regret. It’s a loneliness as deep as that of boys
who write things on bathroom walls and glorify defecation. 
Do not try to understand them they are very far away 
and stare straight at the sun. 

seed text: American Hybrid
art by federico hurtado 2011

Emphasize

The days are beautiful, full of inclines and words.
They understand the situation, the risk of wisteria,
the leafy mind, the ball and string.
On the National Mall, birds form adhoc neighborhoods.
I look in the book of life and it says female lions
demonstrate and emphasize. Apolitical fifth graders
unwrap the apocalypses hanging in the light.

Thank you for trying to understand the elephants on my chest.
I will give you the deepest sleep you’ve ever had.
Look: there’s the Museum of the Thing. It looks like
some avant-garde “art project” someone roughly put aside
with slight regret. It’s a loneliness as deep as that of boys
who write things on bathroom walls and glorify defecation.
Do not try to understand them they are very far away
and stare straight at the sun.


seed text: American Hybrid
art by federico hurtado 2011

Magic Monkeys

September 20

It’s the start of a lovely day—my significant other
is in another city, and I cannot bring myself to eat
the grapes in the refrigerator. Maybe coffee for one
will create a glandular tunica, a funky outdoor comb
I could use to brush my invisible hippy hair 
while sitting on a Target rug. I do not regret 
putting my sister-in-law in yesterday’s poem, for we are all 
drawn into her aura of suspender straps. The curfew in Bangkok 
prevents some of us from concentrating. If I was dark and stormy, 
I would forget to water the plants. But I do not forget, 
and the gnomes scurry tamely into their holes 
behind the garden boxes. Maybe I will read Ashbery 
or Lamantia today instead of grading papers. Hundreds of thousands 
of Weissmann Dictaphones could perhaps save us
from the mess we’ve made of poetry. Someone please come,
help me triangulate these ancient tapestries and airlifts. 
If I was baser, glowing neon money would make feel better. 
As it is, all I see are people winking. We are adorably despotic
in our co-extensive destinies, which community leaders insist 
can be contained and sold on Obsession Avenue for a small fee. 
I can tell you’ve already anticipated my sales pitch: come, join 
the Band of Magic Monkeys. We collect sunwarmth
and wear pin-striped lounge suits. After degrading ourselves
with precise questions, we feel renewed and re-stretched,
like taffy, into glorious psuedo-gold, and, honeylike, take to the night
with freshened interest.

seed texts: Out of the Labyrinth by Charles Henri Ford, Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon, and Notes from the Air by John Ashbery
art by Grossadmiral_Wig

Magic Monkeys

September 20

It’s the start of a lovely day—my significant other
is in another city, and I cannot bring myself to eat
the grapes in the refrigerator. Maybe coffee for one
will create a glandular tunica, a funky outdoor comb
I could use to brush my invisible hippy hair
while sitting on a Target rug. I do not regret
putting my sister-in-law in yesterday’s poem, for we are all
drawn into her aura of suspender straps. The curfew in Bangkok
prevents some of us from concentrating. If I was dark and stormy,
I would forget to water the plants. But I do not forget,
and the gnomes scurry tamely into their holes
behind the garden boxes. Maybe I will read Ashbery
or Lamantia today instead of grading papers. Hundreds of thousands
of Weissmann Dictaphones could perhaps save us
from the mess we’ve made of poetry. Someone please come,
help me triangulate these ancient tapestries and airlifts.
If I was baser, glowing neon money would make feel better.
As it is, all I see are people winking. We are adorably despotic
in our co-extensive destinies, which community leaders insist
can be contained and sold on Obsession Avenue for a small fee.
I can tell you’ve already anticipated my sales pitch: come, join
the Band of Magic Monkeys. We collect sunwarmth
and wear pin-striped lounge suits. After degrading ourselves
with precise questions, we feel renewed and re-stretched,
like taffy, into glorious psuedo-gold, and, honeylike, take to the night
with freshened interest.

seed texts: Out of the Labyrinth by Charles Henri Ford, Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon, and Notes from the Air by John Ashbery
art by Grossadmiral_Wig

An Inference is a Slyness

An inference is a slyness: intersexed, but not unpolitic,
like satirical cork in your prenuptial embassage,
like elastic partridges waving to us from the quadratical balcony
while beach drones seize and consume.
I am a maniacal hairpin when you use Spinoza letterhead,
salt that sits for weeks encrusts on the lips of Virginia Woolf,
whose sex parts are volumes of yes.
Present-day moles caper on waitress highways
driving engineers mad. Every line of Agrarian poetry
becomes a wrist playing a necklace of bites.
Afrocentric archaisms kneel before libraries
and nonlibraries, waking up only those who go to the gym.
My sister-in-law is a bright light shining in Chile,
understood only by one wrinkly parent who goes to clubs
with dairymaids. Your head is a houseplant
and this is Boston in picturesque conductivity. 

art by inserirefloppino

An Inference is a Slyness

An inference is a slyness: intersexed, but not unpolitic,
like satirical cork in your prenuptial embassage,
like elastic partridges waving to us from the quadratical balcony
while beach drones seize and consume.
I am a maniacal hairpin when you use Spinoza letterhead,
salt that sits for weeks encrusts on the lips of Virginia Woolf,
whose sex parts are volumes of yes.
Present-day moles caper on waitress highways
driving engineers mad. Every line of Agrarian poetry
becomes a wrist playing a necklace of bites.
Afrocentric archaisms kneel before libraries
and nonlibraries, waking up only those who go to the gym.
My sister-in-law is a bright light shining in Chile,
understood only by one wrinkly parent who goes to clubs
with dairymaids. Your head is a houseplant
and this is Boston in picturesque conductivity.


art by inserirefloppino

Not Just Any Old Poem

Not just any old poem can become an amazing walking stick.
You need to renounce your possessions, your wives,
and come to a place of inner silence. Listen to the breeze,
the whales far off under the earth, the helicopters.
It’s not about keeping your inbox empty: there is no inbox.
Or, everything is your inbox, and all the insects are singing
and you’re wearing a golden belt. The music begins.
You’re on a non-stop bus to New York city, and you’ve got 
a sandwich, apple and Snickers bar in your lunchbag.
You are seven hundred years old and so beautiful
as I look at you while you’re sleeping in my bed.

art by A.T. Velazco

Not Just Any Old Poem

Not just any old poem can become an amazing walking stick.
You need to renounce your possessions, your wives,
and come to a place of inner silence. Listen to the breeze,
the whales far off under the earth, the helicopters.
It’s not about keeping your inbox empty: there is no inbox.
Or, everything is your inbox, and all the insects are singing
and you’re wearing a golden belt. The music begins.
You’re on a non-stop bus to New York city, and you’ve got
a sandwich, apple and Snickers bar in your lunchbag.
You are seven hundred years old and so beautiful
as I look at you while you’re sleeping in my bed.

art by A.T. Velazco

Do you know Taylor Fayle, Todd Lidh and Ali Znaidi on Twitter?

We’ve all been there: 
chandelier hair crazy in the wind,
the disbursal of meerkats and acrostic crochets.

Tension is the lost face of happiness,
the furtherance weeping
of insemination and untruthfulness
in the archepiscopacy.
Cyberpunks on their violincellos 
bleeding us, who are alone 
in this perfect barometric night.

Do we have your correct mobile number? Yes—
and the gods have bioactive skyways
flaming out when your hands become part of my face
in Russian literature class.

art by brancusi7

Do you know Taylor Fayle, Todd Lidh and Ali Znaidi on Twitter?

We’ve all been there:
chandelier hair crazy in the wind,
the disbursal of meerkats and acrostic crochets.

Tension is the lost face of happiness,
the furtherance weeping
of insemination and untruthfulness
in the archepiscopacy.
Cyberpunks on their violincellos
bleeding us, who are alone
in this perfect barometric night.

Do we have your correct mobile number? Yes—
and the gods have bioactive skyways
flaming out when your hands become part of my face
in Russian literature class.

art by brancusi7

The Death of iPhones

5 uutku

Waking up beside
bodies of twilight and steam
and soybean asphalt.

Sad death of iphone
factories, sick in purple
of alien glare.

Obstructing pimples
and patronal codices
with passenger slime.

Mayhem leeches
abstractly combined 
with tilefish. 

biblical gunsmens’
psychoeducational
stenosis

art by JohnMoProductions

The Death of iPhones

5 uutku

Waking up beside
bodies of twilight and steam
and soybean asphalt.

Sad death of iphone
factories, sick in purple
of alien glare.

Obstructing pimples
and patronal codices
with passenger slime.

Mayhem leeches
abstractly combined
with tilefish.

biblical gunsmens’
psychoeducational
stenosis

art by JohnMoProductions

Will Time Ever End?

September 15

Raisins are popping in the black brain of Monday morning.
Mickey Mouse-shaped hands point at me 
in my corduroy jacket biking to work. “It’s fall,” they say.
Who says, “they say,” anymore? I might pull an old
surrealist rabbit out of the hat and say "they say"
no one will ever invent a boiled egg peeler.
That will make the agrarians feel real smug. 
Classic hard-ons come from only certain parts 
of the crowd. As kind as the chivalry 
of raving skyscraper beams turning brown in September rain.
When things are well-rested and organized—only then
does one start to get a kind of poetic spirit about one.
So listen to those people: they say get enough sleep
in college. They’re right. And the aftermath of 
a giraffe crackers becoming grownups with sticks.
A great treasure trove of surrealist artifacts just disappeared
and all its infinities forever lost. The gas lamps react
with clothes and sleeves and colleagues.

art by Mariano Peccinetti Collage Art

Will Time Ever End?

September 15

Raisins are popping in the black brain of Monday morning.
Mickey Mouse-shaped hands point at me
in my corduroy jacket biking to work. “It’s fall,” they say.
Who says, “they say,” anymore? I might pull an old
surrealist rabbit out of the hat and say "they say"
no one will ever invent a boiled egg peeler.

That will make the agrarians feel real smug.
Classic hard-ons come from only certain parts
of the crowd. As kind as the chivalry
of raving skyscraper beams turning brown in September rain.
When things are well-rested and organized—only then
does one start to get a kind of poetic spirit about one.
So listen to those people: they say get enough sleep
in college. They’re right. And the aftermath of
a giraffe crackers becoming grownups with sticks.
A great treasure trove of surrealist artifacts just disappeared
and all its infinities forever lost. The gas lamps react
with clothes and sleeves and colleagues.

art by Mariano Peccinetti Collage Art

What Happens When You Cross George Hitchcock With Theophile Gautier?

I tumble headlong, down… down…
into the edges of the mirror 
into the sanctuary of machine-guns.

Too high, those hands of white!
The death-march band, with lean brass,
coagulates on the ground.

Paris is muck—lorsqu’il est sans blessure—and it 
prefers flesh. The codfish cantaloupes
take off their black bones, nodding the haberdashery
of small birds. 

How sweet to see, at one moment, the right angles
of schism. At the next: a great flower 
in the waves, and monsters blazoned of old
extremely into the liberation movement for mosaic Barbie
and her ear-rings of melodious bronze. 

seed text: Selected Lyrics by Theophile Gautier; The Wounded Alphabet, by George Hitchcock
art by Michael Tunk

What Happens When You Cross George Hitchcock With Theophile Gautier?

I tumble headlong, down… down…
into the edges of the mirror
into the sanctuary of machine-guns.

Too high, those hands of white!
The death-march band, with lean brass,
coagulates on the ground.

Paris is muck—lorsqu’il est sans blessure—and it
prefers flesh. The codfish cantaloupes
take off their black bones, nodding the haberdashery
of small birds.

How sweet to see, at one moment, the right angles
of schism. At the next: a great flower
in the waves, and monsters blazoned of old
extremely into the liberation movement for mosaic Barbie
and her ear-rings of melodious bronze.

seed text: Selected Lyrics by Theophile Gautier; The Wounded Alphabet, by George Hitchcock
art by Michael Tunk

umbrella shaped moon

wordlings

the weather was a night-dribbling patois
patrols of light not daring to cross
half-human ribs, boulevard Saint-Germain
thick, looping taxitram trains
punctured uncertain
grease transformed
smoking fires parked
self-driven cars
even segmented breathing
possible kicks behind
the umbrella shaped moon
muttering into his mustache

seed text: first page of The Last Days, but Raymond Queneauart by holly pilot

umbrella shaped moon

wordlings

the weather was a night-dribbling patois
patrols of light not daring to cross
half-human ribs, boulevard Saint-Germain
thick, looping taxitram trains
punctured uncertain
grease transformed
smoking fires parked
self-driven cars
even segmented breathing
possible kicks behind
the umbrella shaped moon
muttering into his mustache

seed text: first page of The Last Days, but Raymond Queneauart by holly pilot

What Happens When You Cross Richard Wilbur With Ben Mirov?

I’m nervous and feel left out.
I take huge leaps to get to a garage 
full of leicas, binoculars and jewelry.
I’ve taken on too much of everything. 
The wind can only stay for a moment. 
A cracked brain is sold for amulets of mistletoe.
I don’t know who sleeps, don’t know who
issues rebellious from the leaves.

Now beget together, strange leaves,
a blanket
and a little black fist.

Now, something, blaze! 
Release, O rawhide bowstring,
the stillest arrow. Tie a bandana
around my head.

seed texts: New and Collected poems by Richard Wilbur; Ghost Machine by Ben Mirov
art by anthony_cudahy

What Happens When You Cross Richard Wilbur With Ben Mirov?

I’m nervous and feel left out.
I take huge leaps to get to a garage
full of leicas, binoculars and jewelry.
I’ve taken on too much of everything.
The wind can only stay for a moment.
A cracked brain is sold for amulets of mistletoe.
I don’t know who sleeps, don’t know who
issues rebellious from the leaves.

Now beget together, strange leaves,
a blanket
and a little black fist.

Now, something, blaze!
Release, O rawhide bowstring,
the stillest arrow. Tie a bandana
around my head.

seed texts: New and Collected poems by Richard Wilbur; Ghost Machine by Ben Mirov
art by anthony_cudahy

What Happens When You Cross Clayton Eshleman With Walt Whitman?

Hush, hush—
he is about to say a thing
with no more than ripped lips. And education
shall become the salesman leaving the store,
the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving 
like tapeworms,
trying to get back into poetry at any cost.

I clean the windows.
I put elk rump expressions on my face.
I roll myself upon you as upon a bed.
We do ha ha to each other.
I put dandelion death
in crisp autumn’s first waters.
I put a wife making cardamom chicken
in the middle of the lightning storm bowl.

Below: the bases of peninsulas
and the hospital room fans.

Everything we actually wanted in the ’90s
is now unfolded out of the folds of the woman’s brain. 

seed texts: Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman and The Name Encanyoned River by Clayton Eshleman
art by Javier eme Castro

What Happens When You Cross Clayton Eshleman With Walt Whitman?

Hush, hush—
he is about to say a thing
with no more than ripped lips. And education
shall become the salesman leaving the store,
the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving
like tapeworms,
trying to get back into poetry at any cost.

I clean the windows.
I put elk rump expressions on my face.
I roll myself upon you as upon a bed.
We do ha ha to each other.
I put dandelion death
in crisp autumn’s first waters.
I put a wife making cardamom chicken
in the middle of the lightning storm bowl.

Below: the bases of peninsulas
and the hospital room fans.

Everything we actually wanted in the ’90s
is now unfolded out of the folds of the woman’s brain.

seed texts: Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman and The Name Encanyoned River by Clayton Eshleman
art by Javier eme Castro