poems

28 April 2012

#118: Fletcher Cove

I'm secretive and feel like he leans
very hard on her. It would be hard
to know without my divulging how

well my scaffolding holds up.
Games of comparison are the most
reviling games and common, and

petty. "On the other side of us
is the train station, just drive
across and it's beneath the big arch."

He makes an arch with his arms.
She says something and reverses,
not leaning on him because he is weak.

26 April 2012

#117: English

out of necessity created its own
word for scalded milk, scaly
potatoes, GMO green grapes distended
with water, their skins tight.

24 April 2012

#116: Chauvet France

It is typical to glorify even
the errors and the stakes that looked
like errors who ended up dead
ends: "I don't
regret it." But the best glory happens
at a distance. A director might film
something hideous: albino crocodiles
gory-eyed from toxic runoff
that you see yourself in, regretful,
ignition sparks issuing from the bad
choice to align yourself with that.
"I don't think alligators have a choice."
To glorify an error is typical and
blind like the crocodiles of the Rhine.

16 April 2012

Lockjaw

That heavy bear who sleeps with me

- Delmore Schwartz


The grinding scream of trismus

As hope’s ugly hypotaxis

Shouted on trains in men’s voices,

Apologetic in text, shirking,


Overthought of, kept from slipping

In again; talk gets mutely hurt by

Big brown black bear dumb and futile

Even clawed. The grinding failure


Of missing out shoots three. A couple

Hours later another three get shot,

Then again in three then

Stop. It reeked of extinct uncle


Larry’s alcohols and thieved silver

dollars. This bear had that man’s eye.

These submitted him to death.

14 April 2012

Fable

There once was a man who was more of a young artist who was in the habit of willing his possessions. Only, he was wrong in that these things and feelings he willed were not his; or rather, that he could only truly will them once. To will the same possessions of his, first to one, then to another, he at first saw to be a flawless production; but it soon became apparent that in order wholly to give anything a second time to a second person, or a third to a third, he was obliged therein to take back from the first recipient his gift or thought or feeling. Such distribution charts proved wearisome, and the young artist grew irritable. For in his desire to give and to will things and feelings his own, he realized that in first giving them away he had relinquished true ownership of them. There were, as children said, No Get-Backs.

To undermine his own singularity in this respect, and un-ownership, the young artist deceived the first recipient of his gifts by replacing them one night with decoys of identical size and shape, and similar in texture; the true gifts he then bestowed, though in secret, upon their second recipient. These were well-received. All parties remained ignorant of how the true owner of things and feelings can only ever claim his poverty. Nothing belongs to the artist or the recipients of things and feelings. To unlock this fable, reconsider the second recipient as the first and the first as the second, and the artist ever himself, and the gift he possesses and bestows Infidelity.

05 April 2012

Christ,

Are you afraid of being alone?

#115: Reading

But eliding is where I draw my lines.
I still get sick. Tell me it was for
Nothing, or it was for me. Throw

Out what writes nice with thin
Tips. Fulfill patience and you find
Your drink in your own command,

The opposite of fidelity. She sits
There, handsome. I drink
More of it as it gets passed around.

Acquaintance shoulders pass and
Make smoke breaks, choking
On news of new admissions, flights

Into Brooklyn, I saw you were there
Last week, I was a cactus of
Acceptance at your going.