Sunday, December 02, 2018
The Nature of Art in Brilliant Times
-Macedonian Piglets!
-Nice! But go further. You can
abstract anything.
-Her Getsemani smear raunched
the futile light.
-I’ll let you in the class.
-Bindlestiff!
-Start, uh, going easier?
Labels: abstraction, art, corruption, decadence, mentor, poetry, pretense, teacher
Friday, August 10, 2018
Old Question
Where,
presently,
the moss?
Can you hear it?
(We talked between the rooms,
|
Until the moss had reached our lips,
|
And covered up our names.)
|
Labels: allusion, death, Emily Dickenson, poetry
Thursday, August 09, 2018
So “scarce adjusted”
in the room,
I must leave fairly soon.
If signs for others
prove for me.
Just get used to a place...!
But I know how to stop complaining.
Too many songs cover it:
like It’s too late now to come weeping on my shoulder!
Wednesday, May 02, 2018
Reading “Poem of the Day”
on my toilet tablet
Terse verse
the worst!
Next to length-
y-dense that is
(Nature, to some
in this latter case,
more footnote than
text.) At any rate,
all affects character
text.) At any rate,
all affects character
of crap. As in much of
turgid existence,
you seek a rhythm.
Often it’s one
and done.
That’s the best. A Wrap!
The rest dancing with
disinterested lass
what brung yuh
to this pass.
Labels: bowel, constipation, poetry, reading, rhythm
Saturday, March 24, 2018
Finding
At the newer weather service,
she was never on live anymore.
Way it worked out, nothing
to do with her appearance,
which remained chipper
and pert.
She joked with her husband,
who got more and more face
time due to his great-fella
persona.
The last time in the Capital of
Blizzards, Buffalo.
The van broke down there, and
he and the crew had to endure
an extra day getting it dug out
and repaired and de-grimed.
Del met Victor then. Dropped in
at the dark cocktail lounge he
owned when she couldn’t sleep.
When Cliff had a remote in Portland,
Maine for a howling Nor'easter out of
Canada, she returned to Victor and
they discussed the poetry he had
recommended.
Romance? Nonsense! Though his
terrible limp intrigued.
One of the young women got mono,
and she found herself on camera again,
together with Cliff in Nova Scotia.
When she returned to the cocktail
lounge, Victor had died!
She was asked to say something
at his memorial service the following
Tuesday.
She worried at to the literature content
some expected, so went to the quirky
bookstore to inquire as to a suitable
tragic poem she could read.
But Jellybean Shawcross--her actual name--offered to impersonate her instead. “That dark lighting! They really don’t know what you look like!”
Del said no way!
But Jellybean challenged “Aw come
on! Faint heart na’er won Fair Lady!”
Deal struck, and Cliff stuck in
Philadelphia that hailing night
anyway. “Size of Quarters!”
Jellybean reported to her around
eleven as to the completely
successful ruse, and they couldn't
stop laughing.
The more they giggled and drank,
as the rain pounded, the more
apparent she’d stay the night.Labels: conversation, imitation, literary, marriage, performance, poetry, restless
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Prize, Movements
-Not read much Dylan, but did sense genuine poetry
a few times.
-Thus pronounced same then?
-Can you make actual pronouncements
when alone?
-Why not?
-Yeah, I suppose. Most are for yourself anyway.
-Manifestos, though, require additional drunks.
Labels: Bob Dylan, literary, Nobel, poetry
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Minds
Even after the internet, Moke and Kippy sent
weekly letters.
Lulu and Racker kept them in Birkenstock
boxes in the cavernous attic.
They had inherited the monster of a house,
and crack many jokes about filling it up,
but no possibility there.
When winter came, they closed most of the
rooms off, but Racker said he enjoyed going
into one or another to think. Air like ice
evidentially conducive to such.
When the correspondents moved to Paris, they
missed a couple of beats. Kippy started writing
poems in French––she had taught it at Central
High—and Moke started painting again.
He did send his efforts via the net. Fetching
neighborhood scenes, crusty bistros and the like,
which inexplicably acquired jarring pop elements
after a couple of years.
Then, all shape and color, with not much fathomable.
Now, just color.
I like them, but don’t know why.
For some reason, it becomes necessary to visit a
mountain monastery celebrating its five-hundredth
anniversary.
Well, some reason: She thinking of writing their
Gregorian Chants into secular poetry.
Oh well, I couldn’t see the future in that, but that’s
just me!
At any rate, their bus went through a barricade
in a rain storm and plunged...! well, all died.
Lulu and Racker held a memorial in the huge house
and we’re reading from the letters by candlelight very
nearly horizontal in the wind. Two things strike me.
They had been interested in virtually everything.
And! They had a Romance! From Childhood till they
sensed each other’s breathing.
Until it stopped.
But we all knew theirs was an ideal out of reach. End of
our particular stories in that regard! Two exs studied me
as the flames resumed upwardly.
Anyway, the lovers wanted their ashes in “a beautiful,
natural place,” and her brother in Virginia volunteered his
beaver pond.
I sent him my video of the service here. That had been a
friends’ deal; the beaver pond a family one. Except for
Lulu and Racker. They’re invited. Hey! Every family’s
different.
They didn’t want to leave Brusque at the vet. An old
little Jack Russell gentleman, if still frenetic. So I came
over and took care of him in their three-day absence.
Lulu had moved the boxes of letters to a special alcove
under the eaves. I wandered up there during a blizzard.
Blessedly alone, Brusque afraid of the attic.
Sorry to disappoint, but the wind prevented my hearing
anything else, if the lovers intimated to one another.
They did in a dream the next week. He said “It’s cold!”
And she, “Never! with you.”
So? Was the Wind translated then, as Romantics would
have it?
I say just the wind. My twisted mind, the rest.
Labels: art, Death of Lovers, friends, ghosts, letters, painting, Paris, poetry, Romance
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Art in the Modern World...
or something
-I’m Literature here!
Thus proclaims Clance.
-Well you better figure out what the fuck you’re doing?
All mixed up with bits and megs, and wondering where
to pander--if just TV.
-A confusing time, of course, but read my poems.
-Why?
-Cuz you can’t stop asking what is it,
instead of just making a visit.
-We ain’t got time!
Labels: art, artist, computer, Literature, poet, poetry, TV
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Charging Towards Perfection
Her Mind
Glor told Mark it was over, so he returned to his wife
and babies.
And to Ice! No, really. Ice Storm of the Century! Thus,
with Nelly at night school, he sat in the empty house
as it lost power, and contemplated both his lust and
fetching the children the following day from her mother's,
aka Dragon's Lair.
Glor, or course, had simply changed her mind. Again.
The voracious sex lasted five months this time, and Ralph-
the-Mechanic had won the pool at Kippy's Kool Kup, since
it didn't go six.
She became busy writing tiny missives now, to leave in the produce
section of the Acme. To be read by Cal, the young manager.
Poems actually, though lost to posterity when dumped into the
wrong box, of old TV Fan Magazines, by mistake.
One endured. The best one, luckily. Placed in oranges.
Blue?
Try someone new!
Clever lads find such poets, and Cal not long after rented a
bungalow on Appletree Lane.
Glor, this time, went total domestic! Aprons, Apple Pies, even his
lunchtime visits proved more flouncy, though hurried.
"She has found happiness at last!" proclaimed the Professor from
his canted stool at Kippy's.
But, she changed her mind. Lasted over a year though, and no one
won the pool.
Last--in the secular realm--a cyber millionaire installed her among
the old Pac Mens and a roller rink in his loft apartment-office.
He supplied her with iPhones and iPads no mattter how many she lost.
But...that life was not for her. All the WORKING while pretending it's fun.
She had changed her mind. Since the pool had rolled over, it became
even more interesting when the commissioner ruled that the cyber-guy one was improperly set up. So, another rollover!
Serious money! And he also ruled that anyone who stayed must
throw in an additional hundred. No one left, harder on the Professor,
since the state recently halved his retirement check.
The rules this time: One was to write a two-word depiction of Glor's next move.
Accomplished, and placed in the greasy tub that Slippery Skinny
had brought from the Roxy after devouring the popcorn therein.
When she announced, the new contents would be solemnly
brought out.
She did!
And the winner was Nun, Nepal.
Glor said Thailand, but the commissioner ruled close enough!
Hector Watts, the deathly quiet accountant, took home a couple
of thousand or so!
Actually, Glor, ultimately rejected both exotic locales--"Stinking
long ride on a stinking airplane!"--for Jersey City.
Mother Superior Veronica-Marie was taken by this serial sinner
with a burning vocation!
Everybody always was infatuated by our Glor, the Church only
the latest to break down.
And such a novice! Holy too small a term!
Well. Okay. This one not profaned by a pool, but she, uh,
changed her mind before the point of no return. Again.
In a first, went back to the Cyber Dude. There a third of
the floorspace devoted to her painting studio with its
garish abstracts, and Super-Morning-Six has interviewed
her and shown her work.
We are not surprised, having seen her artistic side with the poetry.
Good Morning America wanted to come in too, but she
snubbed them at the last minute.
Too immersed in painting her life. Her Life! LIFE!
Labels: abstract, art, artist, betting pool, change mind, cyber, painting, poetry, sex
Saturday, February 07, 2015
The Rare Comedians of Rapid Falls
-The dentist drilled for decay as I said.
Down deep in my head!
-You usually speak in deathless prose.
But, exquisite poetry?
-A mere bagatelle.
-But, there’s a fly in your universal Jello.
-Howso?
-Wouldn’t GET decay if you brushed and flossed
assiduously.
-I’m as big an assiduous as the next guy!
-And you take days off from the process to inhale hangover fumes.
-Not many!
-Okay, so you’re a top-flight brusher and flosser, really!
The Lady Dentists will feature you at their convention.
In a brilliant glass case. Revolving.
-Me or the case?
-Both, in opposite directions.
-Christ! Vertigo!
-That’s for another kind of convention. Or film.
-And when they turn the lights out, do I hafta stay
in the case?
-Nein! They have their will of you then!
-Jesus! Can one get Viagra over the counter?
-Never you! The community must be protected.
-Be quiet while I’m practicing revolving.
-Fine! I’m making out the card for your display.
-Master Flosser?
-Asshole.
-All great men get hurt. But...should I wave? Thusly?
-Like the Pope saying “Get those fuckin peasants
off the grass!”
-No! More modesty-honesty. See? I can fake that best.
-People will little remember what we say here.
-That’s because they got sense.
Labels: brush, comedian, comedy, convention, dentist, floss, poetry, Pope, prose, Viagra
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
The Chinese Century
For Love and Glory
-We're supposed to be into the Chinese Century,
but look at their New Years, and all the nonsense
with dragons. Dragons! Oh my!
-You're implying no more dragons to be feared,
and even slain?
-Cut it out!
-How about metaphorically? Buoy us up a bit!
-I don't deal in figures of speech.
-I bet you don't even want Mickey Rooney and
Judy Garland to find an old barn in Connecticut
and put on a show!
-Not really.
-Or Fred and Ginger to dance by signs of
railroad stations right up to Broadway's Palace?
-Toodley-doo.
-But people want a show! To see one or...
-My show's the bottom line.
-A fine and private place,
but none, I fear, do there embrace.
-Poetry! The very definition of useless.
-Let’s make a movie!
-Where I'm converted to bullshit at the end?
Buying statues for the peasants’ church?
-Better than your version.
-Mine just wins!
Labels: businessman, Chinese, Dragon, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, John Donne, Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, movies, New Year, poetry, reality
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Left
-Still have that 20% off coupon?
-If they return for us, we won't insist.
-Nobody's coming back.
-Afraid so.
-Lousy fuckin deal!
-Well...'ll be fast when it...
-Burns up? Hardly painless.
-I'm gonna write a poem.
-You? I've got more talent than you and
I've got none.
-So what? I'll write about us.
-Not even Dorine or Ginger will read it!
They're probably living it up on the new
planet with some obnoxious space goons.
-Not in our control.
-Nothing is. We're, like, totally screwed.
-I'll put that in our poem.
-Your poem. I'M, somehow, gonna fight against the fire.
-The world will know our story. All the worlds.
-Yeah. I'll bet they can't wait.
-I believe in my poem!
-Keep it up! I’m...really done. The rest is talk.
-That’s my title!
-And if they ever would rescue us, you‘ll never shut up!
-That’s right. You’re a doer, I’m a talker.
Labels: burning planet, last men, left behind, poetry
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Addressing a Certain Independent
Though you’re tagging our philosophy
despicable, we do plead competence
next to that leveling crew.
True their bleeding hearts concert
a certain poetry,
but prose rules sensibly,
proving relatively clean,
and, mercifully, less PC.
Though you’re tagging our philosophy
despicable, we do plead competence
next to that leveling crew.
True their bleeding hearts concert
a certain poetry,
but prose rules sensibly,
proving relatively clean,
and, mercifully, less PC.
Labels: bleeding hearts, GOP, Independent, leveling, PC, poetry, prose
Thursday, December 06, 2012
“I went for Art, not Sociology.”
Held
in a public place
by collective stink.
by collective stink.
PSYchology
okay,
our motives
shown
for
what they are,
Mount
Olympus
or kitchen
sink.
Painting
and music better,
predisposing
mere tones.
Poetry
best, con-
figuring
text
for whatever.
Labels: art, Music, painting, poetry, psychology, sociology, taste
Friday, July 24, 2009
Now, Last Line
A dear lit-
tle antelope trope,
opaque fog, or
cheap trick?
How cheap?
A dear lit-
tle antelope trope,
opaque fog, or
cheap trick?
How cheap?
