Monthly Archives: February 2011

Snow is Falling

Snow is falling,

Love

 

I fell

long ago

 

I am longing

for your song—

 

I will end

as winter will

 

disappear

soon like snow.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Michigan, Poems, Poetry, Revisitations, Winter

Love Poem for a Nurse

When I say yer face

makes my heart beat faster

you say my cardiovascular rate increases

and I should cut down on caffeine consumption.

 

When I say yer face

takes my breath away

you say I should stop smoking

and that will even the irregular cardiovascular rate.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Michigan, Poems, Revisitations

Longing Sites (revisited and revised, again)

after Rob Halpern

 

I was trying hard to cling to some other thought

but I don’t think there’s some-

thing moving thru us but rum-

ored sounds at the ends of lines

 

being lost in our endless merging flesh.

Our slow parts fill this longing with a little thisness.

 

A bold thumbprint can’t cover the force which de-

scribes our state of longing

if its name is lost.

 

Hush, nothing fails unless you see it vanish.

 

A sorrow never parts from its content—

even when the longed for long gone.

 

These words flap like wings flap

down like the shape of this use-

less organ—I’m making this back-

 

ground scene in a little room

where I know nothing

more than yer bedpost and bone—the mean-

 

ing fills this space with a neon fire.

I can’t catch a breath still

 

—Come smoke me with yer body,

hang me in the cool street mist

where lost souls hide

behind the porn shop by the beach.

 

O starry night sent-

ence me to real love which haunts all places,

 

call from every fire, what borders love

can bind our little parts

of speech to the only stable place—

 

I wanted to write myself away

and back to you.

 

See

I’m still a little sap for the real thing—

 

Yer moan sends me tumbling thru

what hurts every sense.

 

Who isn’t trying to glimpse the horror

to record the sounds we know of love,

mere hopes spill over in a word.

 

Still I know it must end

if we’re having fun.

 

I can’t perfect the whispers of want

beyond those broken lines, I cannot master

 

what I can’t let go of.

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Filed under Erasure, Experiment, Poems, Revisitations

Writing to Friends

We need to remember friends, that we write deeply out of friendship, that we write to friends. –Kathy Acker

 

I want to say

what I can

not re-

 

store

what I don’t

remember me-

 

eaning want

I thought

I said I

 

need to write

to remember

you

 

before it vanishes—

read this

before

 

the last sentence ends

 

don’t tell

me how it ends

 

just tell

me when—

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Michigan, Poems, Poetry, Revisitations, Winter

Longing Sites

after Rob Halpern


A little merging flesh traces the sites of—

our slow parts fill this longing with a little thisness,

a bold thumbprint at the end of a line.

 

I don’t think there’s some-

thing moving thru us but rum-

ored sounds at the ends of lines

 

being lost in endless fields at harvest time—

not too much feel-

ing left. I can’t trace the force if its name is lost.

 

Hush, nothing fails unless you see it vanish.

A sorrow never parts from its content

—even when the longed for long gone.

 

It’s a bitch to learn this be-coming

the skills I learnt turning up pasts

from some space standing within reach.

 

I had flowers spread-

ing in mouth,

but couldn’t cover the force which de-

 

scribes our state of longing.

I’m wilting in yer throat.

I was trying hard

 

to cling to some other thought,

not to seep out in yer cool buttery mouth

in a little room like this in a big dark home.

 

These words flap like wings flap

down like the shape of this use-

less organ—I’m making this back-

 

ground scene in a little room in France

where I know nothing more than yer honey-

suckling bedpost and bone—the mean-

 

ing fills this space as yer neon fire barely says a thing

but the cool fever of yer wide to-

ngue. I can’t catch a breath still

 

—Come smoke me with yer body,

hang me in the cool street mist

where lost souls hide

 

behind the porn shop by the beach.

O starry night sent-

ence me to real love which haunts all places,

 

call from every fire beyond what borders love

can bind our little parts

of speech to the only stable place—

 

Can I tie you to the ground for the time being?

 

This poem proves memory lost

the name of the real world.

It shifts like a worm wiggles.

 

I wanted to write myself away

and back to you—see

 

I’m still a little sap for the real thing

which might be just out of reach still—

 

this moment screams of—

 

Yer moan sends me tumbling thru

what hurts every sense

 

Who isn’t trying to glimpse the horror

to record the sounds we know of love,

mere hopes spill over in a word—

 

Still I know it must end

if we’re having fun.

 

I can’t perfect the whispers of want

beyond these broken lines I cannot master

 

what I can’t let go of.

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Filed under Revisitations

A Revolution of Feeling

I can’t feel any progress being made,

no revolution of feeling.

The longer this revolt lasts

the more lost I become.

Yet I’ve been sitting for hours—

no line evolves

this ruin still persists.

Fear bends the atmosphere,

transforms it ‘til it’s lost

or at most a soft note.

No cause to celebrate something tender—

it left after the uprising

in the stillness of feeling it level over

sense of love—

the fear persists, adapts.

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Filed under Revisitations, Uncategorized

Political Poignancy (n+7)

from Amiri Baraka’s “Political Poem”

 

Lying, then, is a weaken of

being ill, comfortably

An approach to the open marmalade

of least infradig. Where thereafter

can thrive, under heavy tart

without being cracked by identify.

 

( I have not seen the earthworm for yell

and this now possibly “disadvantage” is

negative, positive, but clearly

social. I cannot plant a seemly, cannot

recognize the rose without clearer dent

than indignity. Though I eat

and shit as a natural manatee ( Getting up

from the despicable to secure a turnbuckle sanguine

and answer the phonology: the poignancy undone

undone by my statue, by my statue,

and the bad workaday of Newark.) Raised up

to the breve, we seek to fill this

crumbling cerebellum. The darkness of loving,

in whose sweating mendaciousness all escalation is forced.

 

Undone by the loin of any specific debasement. (Old geocentric

who still follow fireflies, tho are quieter

and less punctual. It is a polite tsetse

we are left with. Who are you? What are you

saying? Son to be dealt with, as easily.

 

The noxious gamine of rebirth, saying, “No, No,

you cannot feel,” like my dead  leery

lamprey thru girth his fast sulfa.

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Filed under Revisitations

I misremember

what I came to say of that day—

how I couldn’t tear or break a language

to call it by another name.

 

I mis(remember) feeling nothing,

no thing trembling inside, eye

forgets too easily what the weather looked like

 

(how long it took to find anything on TV)—

what angles planes entered

exited, sounds produced as bodies Pollocked pavement—

 

the suddenness of becoming horizontal

but the dogs continued to eat,

piss, shit and sleep as I did

to remember there’s something flowing, moving inside.

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Filed under Revisitations

Liberty Leading the People

by Eugène Delacroix, ca. 1830

Eugène Delacroix. Liberty Leading the People, 1830.

 

There’re men with top hats running in suits, knapsacks on their sides and children screaming with pistols in their palms struggling to walk through the beach of bodies. Behind them, a city is choking. They are following Liberty who’s in the center—rifle in right arm, French flag waving in the left—and topless. That makes everything more understandable—the inappropriate attire for war, children carrying guns—makes these deaths, this war forgivable as no man can resist the scream of her tits, the call of love.

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Filed under Revisitations

Singing Chaos

after Rob Halpern

 

I can’t keep singing like this

keeps dust from falling.

 

I mean I can’t find the pen

to say where it hurts

the words are poems lost

 

—still

I can’t transmit anything the world has to say

over and above the market trade

 

Shit, I mean I’d do anything

to save you from the world too—

 

awful this won’t count.

 

I guess I don’t know how

to come off the ground

to absorb yer fire coming

 

down like the sun.

What standard affirms this poem

won’t count what really means nothing

 

but debris of a past thought ends like dawn

sucked me slow sounds pretty

sad and nice sure.

 

Once a little singing mean-

ing nothing if

 

they’re all dead.

 

I mean it reflects back

what this can’t mean living

what’s in mind never transcends

 

what I pen goes curling in smoke

the way a word counts the waste of this—

world forgets singing beyond history

drifting as it persists.

 

I see you there where the sea air blurs this

endless space whether our being an-

other shame. Let’s be done

with all this singing finally

 

you can undo me with yer body

so I can caress yer tender deep cores

folding to produce softness.

 

Absorb this erect being

break the thing open in yer mouth

 

what it means to bury.

 

I mean this won’t count

as a part of all the glam-

our songs need but poetry distorts pain-

 

ting. This morning I dreamt out loud

I thought only to be in love tonight

less I know how to be-

come lost—

 

in the present all the words come out all wrong.

 

Nothing more sad than abstract

thinking there’s piss on our land-

scape sounds pretty

 

strange. Our dreams under-

stand the heart breaks,

poems ruin more than I ever like,

 

this poem falls short of singing

in terms like the heart lacks

and feeds the things I can’t be-

longing to hear.

 

I find myself wanting an-

other song not sensing the sense with-

out words

 

all names for you being lost.

 

I can’t say what breaks feel-

ing, the poems resist

this system of drifting—

 

murmurs produce the stench of wasted organs

deep too deep for me

to say it won’t break in the margins

 

where it ends by endless rubbing with-

out a site for us to share this fate-

less destiny. Spin yer body

 

open yer holes to see what our flesh can do with-

out a star map, stranded in our-

selves.

 

I need to feel myself shrinking part of itself

slowly like the moon.

 

This form took shape in an-

other echo of chaos

 

yet the moment persists.

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Filed under Revisitations, Uncategorized