A Dangerous Rise in Demand
Breaking news has just announced
A worldwide shortage of cake.
Distraught dessert desirers of the
Night, how does it feel to want?
There is no frosting, there is no
Flour, there is no Duncan Hines.
In Gay Paree, fat chefs deflate,
Tapping wooden spoons like an
Executioner's tattoo across their
Mixing bowls. Birthday parties
lack a proper way to celebrate.
Our leaders seem now shiftless,
quick to faint, to blame invisible
hands, El Nino, Marxism, the taint
of insufficient spirituality for this
most material loss. Even Marie
Antoinette didn't have quite this
Problem, they think, sweating from
Their balconies. But we don't care.
Or think. Or hope. Standing slack-
jawed in the night, we want cake.
In the meantime, those of you with mad software can remix this creative commons-licensed slam poetry.
Met Jordan Davis and Miss Meghan, who has cards. Like, not business cards, just Cards of Meghanness. With lavendar type.
Also reading the interview thingy between Alice Notley and Edmund Berrigan from the winter issue of Fence. It's giving me some ideas about moving forward on Mandamus, otherwise known as the Immensely Dense Project of Poetical Seriousity, with a Side of God.
It's easy to procrastinate on something like that, but I'm starting to get more and more ideas for it. Huzzah!
In other news, the random poem topic for this week's open-mic weirdness at the Four Faced Liar is "divas." Maybe I'll finally write that poem about how much I loved Crystal Gayle. I saw her on Star Search when I was six and she had the most beautiful hair in the world. And a name like a My Little Pony, which made me only love her more.
Blue Lachrymose Twilight of the Yak
Divorced from the larger social context
of the day, it appears like an antique
prophet with a beard formed of wires
and birdstraw, but is only the yak,
one limpid tear running down its
hoary cheek. When a viewer questions
whether yaks can cry, a chorus of
shhhhh arises, a white noise settling
over the blue Mongolian steppes that
stretch in every
direction, unbroken by yurts or
any sign of other yaks. Perhaps
the yak is lonely, says another viewer,
and the others murmur their assent.
The sun sets behind it. The yak
may be a metaphor for death. We are all
alone then. But, says another, the steppes
are lovely in their blue austerity,
burnished in the
slanting light. The end of things is beautiful,
too. Again, a murmur of assent. Meanwhile,
the yak, its single tear now soaked into
the steppe, lies down, head nested
in its birdstraw beard. Who could ever
be lonely, the yak dreams into the
gallery, when all these noises, meanings
abraid the steppes? The sun agrees;
these people know no end to speech, nor any
message melting, yolklike,
into the humid night, silently expressed.
I've always liked Wallace Stevens' poetry, but yesterday I think I actually understood some of it.
It's Your Murder. You Get To Keep It.
Your murder arrives in an envelope,
Good quality, engraved,
"The Murder of Blankety Blank,"
to occur at sundown.
You get to keep it. The card and
The murder, I mean,
And if the police don't take it away,
Perhaps the bloody
guttered knife that will be used to do
You in. All you
Have to do is to wait, or maybe change
Your clothing, in
Case you want your corpse to, you know,
About the person you were -- the kind
Who wore pearls
Just around the house, or who wouldn't
Be caught dead,
As it were, in anything marketed as
Chinos. But other
Than that, you're not expected to prepare,
And don't worry.
You won't be late. From the diminishing
Sound of the birds
And the deep slant of the sun as it comes
Over the lawn,
And the conspicuous rattle at the doorknob--
Who could that be?--
It seems you're going to be right on time.
Bwa ha ha ha ha h ahahahahaha aha!
"Droll Artstar?" Dude. This guy was like, totally dressed up as the Crow all through seventh grade, right? Yikes. Okay, I'll stop there.
Actually, I don't really think I can stop there. I mean, "hipster combustion." That sounds like one of those things where you yell, "in my pants" really loud at the end, but instead you should yell, "in my ass!" I have hipster combustion . . . in my ass! It comes from eating hipster fusion tacos that come in a uber-hipster vintage happy meal box.
And then, oy vey, the very first words in his description are "slim-hipped." The hell? You're a guy. What are you trying to get across with this description? Are you trying to distinguish yourself from guys with wide, child-bearing hips? Eh? Are you saying you're not actually a real guy, but more like Nancy Drew's tomboy friend George? C'mon Nancy, let's go discover the secret of the hidden clock! Eek. Are you trying to warn girly droll artstars that you may puncture their spleens during sexual encounters with your jutting pelvis? Or is this an elaborate pun? As in "ironically, the hipster jabbed me to death with his slim, slim hips"? Hiptastic!
And there's more...if he's looking for Jane, I guess that makes him a scrawny, pretentious Tarzan, and the "classical route of dinner?" Is that the path to the IHOP that goes past the Acropolis?
But I really will stop. And I know. What's lamer? This guy's ad, or the fact that I have nothing better to do than dissect it in a gleeful bout of mockery? I think the facts speak for themselves on that one...
Droll artstar. Bwa!!!
That Poem For Tony
Dancing really hard in Cartagena, say. When I wake
in the morning, a knife in my forehead, with low
Low eyes like clouds over tableland and the expression
Of a benevolent donkey, I check the dictionary.
It means a book instead of a flowerpot. What a surprise!
Offering tortilla espanola and refuge from sunshine,
The old lady owner of the local, a long black cigarette
tangled in her bony fingers. There are certain persons
Who understand -nada- she says. Ni nada. I think:
I've gone dancing in Cartagena. As a girl, bored
Durng Minnesota summers, I stuffed bags in other bags,
I filled things up. Monolingual, flat-chested, with no ideas
About the weather. I can't tell you how much
I've developed since then. She drums her fingers, while
Her cigarette smokes like a signal fire. The bar fills up
With those little puffs, signifying nothing, white noise
And white noise, a strange weather with no wind
Behind it. The beat of those fingers reminds me of --
Nada. Ni nada. I'm illiterate today. So pleased.
I've been dancing. I've really come a long way.