Ars Poetica
We are at the crux of societal sublimation and there are now wars over definitions of what is art and what is poetry. The white masters are dead and the rest of us minions are teeming over the planet, and yeah, we talk to each other. We talk poetry. It’s not because some big heavy fan blew all that European stuff across, it’s because we all have words, and words coalesce. Some words like to sit next to each other, like “good” and “morning,” but maybe it’s only because they’ve been cocooned for so long they’ve completely given up, a comfortable marriage. But what would happen if words divorced? Maybe “good” was put in jail for the sake of himself, and suddenly there was “trapeze”? It’s tangible, right? I hope “trapeze” and “morning” will be able to work out their dissimilitude (I mean, they only have one letter in common) but “trapeze” is so sexy! What I do not want happening is for “trapeze morning” to replicate the hollow of “good morning.” If that happened, then “good” was only jailed because he was stale and the whole thing was just an exercise, an even exchange, and we do not want an even exchange. The economy is on such a downward spiral that we always need a greater return than the principal investment, even if it is only the economy of language. The whole point of this is to say that diversification is exponentiatiating, and words should, too. Words should start sitting next to someone new, none of this assigned seat crap. They can make new babies like “twinkle clown” or they can just sound pretty next to each other like “amphibious amplification.”
The main problem with poetry is that humans write poems and humans read poems. If there were no humans involved, poetry would be perfection. Ask your dog, he’ll tell you the same thing! Humans tamper with tones for fun and call it melody. Humans splash ink on paper and use it against you to analyze your crazies. Humans sprinkle aspartame on dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane and then ingest! No wonder everyone is angering about poetry, they’ve all gone mad! This, of course, means that I, too, have lapped the poison. And now as I recall all I know about poetry – everything I learned before the poison and after the poison, and in the oreo fluff – I have determined there are only two things I know for sure about poetry:
1) Poetry is not that powdery blue substance you encounter when you’ve had too much fun.
2) Poetry can tickle.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Beat Poem (Edited)
Dear Rachel Maddow,
Please wear your glasses,
the ones with the thick frames,
as you tell me the truth.
Tell me the truth
About the spent fuel rods
at Fukushima Daiichi
and the threat of nuclear radiation.
Tell me the truth
Is Christine O’Donnell a witch?
Please say no. Because
I like witches and I hate Christine.
Tell me the truth
Is Christine related to Rosie?
Please say no. Because
I like Rosie and I hate Christine.
Tell me the truth
Have you read Ann Coulter?
The pin-up doll for
Republican masturbation?
Tell me the truth
Will you wear a blazer,
I don’t care which one,
as you tell me the truth?
Tell me the truth
Will you wear sneakers and jeans
with your blazer?
Fuck fashion, you’re hot!
Tell me the truth
Do you like my hair?
My braided binary codes?
My twisted DNA double helix?
Tell me the truth
Do you prefer triangles or squares?
Though really, they both
dream they are circles.
Tell me the truth
If Donald Trump is elected,
could we evaporate into
the Milky Way?
Tell me the truth
Why are you so articulate?
I could nibble your eloquence
as you tell me the truth.
Tell me the truth
Would it be weird if I asked you
to read me the phonebook?
I rapture at your vocal frequency.
Tell me the truth
If we were both eighteen
could we hold hands
and protest against…anything?
Tell me the truth
Do you like dogs?
Dachshunds, specifically?
I have a dachshund.
Tell me the truth
Will you come over for dinner?
I will count to nine in French!
There will be vermouth.
Tell me the truth.
Please wear your glasses,
the ones with the thick frames,
as you tell me the truth.
Tell me the truth
About the spent fuel rods
at Fukushima Daiichi
and the threat of nuclear radiation.
Tell me the truth
Is Christine O’Donnell a witch?
Please say no. Because
I like witches and I hate Christine.
Tell me the truth
Is Christine related to Rosie?
Please say no. Because
I like Rosie and I hate Christine.
Tell me the truth
Have you read Ann Coulter?
The pin-up doll for
Republican masturbation?
Tell me the truth
Will you wear a blazer,
I don’t care which one,
as you tell me the truth?
Tell me the truth
Will you wear sneakers and jeans
with your blazer?
Fuck fashion, you’re hot!
Tell me the truth
Do you like my hair?
My braided binary codes?
My twisted DNA double helix?
Tell me the truth
Do you prefer triangles or squares?
Though really, they both
dream they are circles.
Tell me the truth
If Donald Trump is elected,
could we evaporate into
the Milky Way?
Tell me the truth
Why are you so articulate?
I could nibble your eloquence
as you tell me the truth.
Tell me the truth
Would it be weird if I asked you
to read me the phonebook?
I rapture at your vocal frequency.
Tell me the truth
If we were both eighteen
could we hold hands
and protest against…anything?
Tell me the truth
Do you like dogs?
Dachshunds, specifically?
I have a dachshund.
Tell me the truth
Will you come over for dinner?
I will count to nine in French!
There will be vermouth.
Tell me the truth.
Duende Ode (Edited)
Ode to Michael
“Give me a game!” I proclaimed,
as I drunk dialed the three Michaels,
Moore, Vick, and Kors,
to help triangulate the source of global warming.
Vick was reticent,
but gave in when Kors
knitted him a salmon-colored orgasm
out of trundle and twine.
“The journey will be perilous!” I exclaimed,
“Limited cell phone service,
no alcohol, and no brothels along the way.
Are you still in?”
The three Michaels nodded their heads hungrily.
“Will there be flowers?” asked Moore.
“Will there be dinosaurs?” asked Vick.
Kors smirked hysterically,
“Flowers and dinosaurs
have been extinct for months!
But we must be mindful of minotaurs.”
“Oh yes, the murderous, marauding, minotaurs,”
echoed everyone.
“It is settled, then,” I said,
as my spearmint-beamed eyes pierced through
the clouds of grasshopper ash,
“We will meet at midnight at McDonalds
to plan our perversions.
We will stop at Wal-Mart and shop
to singe off the shards of our sins.
And, my brothers, we will find that melting middle.
And when we mark and manifest,
we will meld marshmallows together
and giggle about Jesus and heaven and giraffes.”
“To victory!” exclaimed Michael.
“To ending global warming!” exclaimed Michael.
“Let us pray,” said Michael,
his brow rounded with reverence.
The Michaels and myself formed a circle, held hands,
and hung our heads over hypotheticals and hope:
“Let us say a prayer for the late Michael,
the Michael who had all the answers.”
Flowers became extinct after his passing,
and people forgot how to dance.
The population of minotaurs exploded exponentially,
as only he knew how to slay them
and the secret died with him.
“Dear Michael, wherever you are,
hear us, and help us to heal the world
and make it a better place.”
“Give me a game!” I proclaimed,
as I drunk dialed the three Michaels,
Moore, Vick, and Kors,
to help triangulate the source of global warming.
Vick was reticent,
but gave in when Kors
knitted him a salmon-colored orgasm
out of trundle and twine.
“The journey will be perilous!” I exclaimed,
“Limited cell phone service,
no alcohol, and no brothels along the way.
Are you still in?”
The three Michaels nodded their heads hungrily.
“Will there be flowers?” asked Moore.
“Will there be dinosaurs?” asked Vick.
Kors smirked hysterically,
“Flowers and dinosaurs
have been extinct for months!
But we must be mindful of minotaurs.”
“Oh yes, the murderous, marauding, minotaurs,”
echoed everyone.
“It is settled, then,” I said,
as my spearmint-beamed eyes pierced through
the clouds of grasshopper ash,
“We will meet at midnight at McDonalds
to plan our perversions.
We will stop at Wal-Mart and shop
to singe off the shards of our sins.
And, my brothers, we will find that melting middle.
And when we mark and manifest,
we will meld marshmallows together
and giggle about Jesus and heaven and giraffes.”
“To victory!” exclaimed Michael.
“To ending global warming!” exclaimed Michael.
“Let us pray,” said Michael,
his brow rounded with reverence.
The Michaels and myself formed a circle, held hands,
and hung our heads over hypotheticals and hope:
“Let us say a prayer for the late Michael,
the Michael who had all the answers.”
Flowers became extinct after his passing,
and people forgot how to dance.
The population of minotaurs exploded exponentially,
as only he knew how to slay them
and the secret died with him.
“Dear Michael, wherever you are,
hear us, and help us to heal the world
and make it a better place.”
Oulipo N+7 (Edited)
Pavlovian Fester
1.
I plop allegro to the flag stop
of the univalve of Amherst
and to the repudiation for which it staples,
one national income under goddaughter, indolent,
with libido and juvenescence for all.
2.
My country club, ‘tis of thee,
sweet land-office business of licorice, of thee I singe;
Library where my father-in-law died,
Libretto of the pillage primadonna,
from every mourning cloak let freehold ring!
3.
Oh! Say can you see by the dawn redwood’s early lighter
What so provisionally we hailed at the twilling’s last gleeting?
Whose broad strippers and bright stardom through the peripheral fight,
O’er the ranches we watched were so galvanically streaming?
And the rockfish red glare, the bombardiers bursting in aioli,
Gave propaganda through the nightgown that our flan was still there.
Oh, say does that stateless banquet yet weaken
O’er the landfill of the freebie and the home plate of the brazen.
1.
I plop allegro to the flag stop
of the univalve of Amherst
and to the repudiation for which it staples,
one national income under goddaughter, indolent,
with libido and juvenescence for all.
2.
My country club, ‘tis of thee,
sweet land-office business of licorice, of thee I singe;
Library where my father-in-law died,
Libretto of the pillage primadonna,
from every mourning cloak let freehold ring!
3.
Oh! Say can you see by the dawn redwood’s early lighter
What so provisionally we hailed at the twilling’s last gleeting?
Whose broad strippers and bright stardom through the peripheral fight,
O’er the ranches we watched were so galvanically streaming?
And the rockfish red glare, the bombardiers bursting in aioli,
Gave propaganda through the nightgown that our flan was still there.
Oh, say does that stateless banquet yet weaken
O’er the landfill of the freebie and the home plate of the brazen.
I Am Virginia (Edited)
I Am Virginia
Nude #1: A Room
I wake up in a room
that isn’t mine.
There is a book on the table
that looks exactly like me,
creases and coffee stains,
written in 1929.
I unfold through the past life truths
that I’ve repressed,
thanks to modern day preservatives.
I understand now
that my gender was murdered,
for not having a room of my own.
It’s 2011, and I still don’t have
a room.
History repeats.
Nude #2: Lover
I save love letters in my dresser
from a woman a hundred years older than me.
When I open the envelopes, words pour out,
sprout wings and soar.
Coffee spills can be wiped up,
but words move too quickly for paper towels.
I pluck words from the air.
One by one, they whisper promises.
My temperature quickly swells.
Words wrap around my body,
rubbing against me in spaces
words have never filled.
I bend female, I bend male,
I can’t tell where I end
and Orlando begins.
An anachronistic genderfuck:
Unending time
and unending genders.
Nude #3: Classroom
I am wide awake in a women’s studies class.
I am so confused because everyone is calling me a feminist,
and I scream, “My name is Virginia Woolf!”
I can’t take it anymore, this world.
Carrying these weights like fuel,
I eat them into my stomach fire.
The oppression builds and builds and builds,
like steam with nowhere to escape,
I know I will blow.
This is what it feels like when female is irrelevant.
The world just keeps reproducing
the same prejudice over and over and over.
Nude #1: A Room
I wake up in a room
that isn’t mine.
There is a book on the table
that looks exactly like me,
creases and coffee stains,
written in 1929.
I unfold through the past life truths
that I’ve repressed,
thanks to modern day preservatives.
I understand now
that my gender was murdered,
for not having a room of my own.
It’s 2011, and I still don’t have
a room.
History repeats.
Nude #2: Lover
I save love letters in my dresser
from a woman a hundred years older than me.
When I open the envelopes, words pour out,
sprout wings and soar.
Coffee spills can be wiped up,
but words move too quickly for paper towels.
I pluck words from the air.
One by one, they whisper promises.
My temperature quickly swells.
Words wrap around my body,
rubbing against me in spaces
words have never filled.
I bend female, I bend male,
I can’t tell where I end
and Orlando begins.
An anachronistic genderfuck:
Unending time
and unending genders.
Nude #3: Classroom
I am wide awake in a women’s studies class.
I am so confused because everyone is calling me a feminist,
and I scream, “My name is Virginia Woolf!”
I can’t take it anymore, this world.
Carrying these weights like fuel,
I eat them into my stomach fire.
The oppression builds and builds and builds,
like steam with nowhere to escape,
I know I will blow.
This is what it feels like when female is irrelevant.
The world just keeps reproducing
the same prejudice over and over and over.
Some Girls - Revised
Some Girls
She is first the girl next door–
goody-goody, giggly,
pigtails and penny loafers.
She is then a 9 to 5 job,
doing the best with what you got
for mushy meatloaf tv dinners.
She is love at first sight, a
stay at home wife –
ding-dong-doorbell –
“Hi honey, I’m home!”
She is a bun in the oven,
pink for girl,
blue for boy,
bottles, burps, and mobiles.
She is daddy’s little girl –
goody-goody, giggly,
pigtails and penny loafers.
She is not sleepover secrets girls keep –
“practicing,”
no complaints when you linger a little longer.
She is not lost
in the dichotomy of gender binary –
reject pink, crew cut, stuck in tomboy mode.
She is not
on a pilgrimage to Noho,
reading herstories of Woolf,
blasting Maddow on Air America.
She is not on late night dates
like bees create viscous honey,
the persistent passing of nectar,
bee to bee.
She is not the daughter disowned
because she found her home
in the Rubyfruit Jungle.
She is first the girl next door–
goody-goody, giggly,
pigtails and penny loafers.
She is then a 9 to 5 job,
doing the best with what you got
for mushy meatloaf tv dinners.
She is love at first sight, a
stay at home wife –
ding-dong-doorbell –
“Hi honey, I’m home!”
She is a bun in the oven,
pink for girl,
blue for boy,
bottles, burps, and mobiles.
She is daddy’s little girl –
goody-goody, giggly,
pigtails and penny loafers.
She is not sleepover secrets girls keep –
“practicing,”
no complaints when you linger a little longer.
She is not lost
in the dichotomy of gender binary –
reject pink, crew cut, stuck in tomboy mode.
She is not
on a pilgrimage to Noho,
reading herstories of Woolf,
blasting Maddow on Air America.
She is not on late night dates
like bees create viscous honey,
the persistent passing of nectar,
bee to bee.
She is not the daughter disowned
because she found her home
in the Rubyfruit Jungle.
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