Next, a possible cover for the Bowlmor Writemor chap . . .
Rumor Has It Her Bedroom Window Is Locked From The Outside
Michelle the Good Girl
Is four feet tall with long
Hair and small shorts and
Never gets to come out
Her sister ran away got
Pregnant on drugs got
Disowned not Michelle
Oh no sir not this girl
All alone at her window
She's the jewel of her house.
Plus, I don't know what this whole Barack Obama and scones thing is, but it's hi-larious. Via Equanimity.
Went to see Jen Knox read at KGB last night. Hooray for meat! And thoughts thereof. Afterward, we went across the street to East Fourth Street bar, markeled at the Big Buck Hunter II video game, and thought about systems of vampire repellance, stabbing as a hobby, and the undeniable fact that "if you shoot the whore, you get your money back."
Virginal shy lights. The army of unalterable law. Someone's always throwing bricks. Are you washed in the blood of the lamb? When all the temple is prepared within. Dearth of woman's tears. He lingers and gazes till full on his sight. To airy thinness beat. To one thing constant never. Your eyes have their silence. How slowly dark comes down on what we do. It's no go, my honey-love. And I remembered the cry of the peacocks. Dove-twirl in the tall grass. This darksome burn, horseback brown. Alive to the lilac, dead to the blue. Ivory, apes, and peacocks. The poem is you. Like a wolf on the fold. It gives a lovely light. Aunque sepa los caminos. The golf links lie so near the mill. The cowed, compliant fish. I stand up through your destruction. So dauntless in war. Upon my belly sat the sow of fear. If you have any strength in your thumb. And full of high fettle, we started to sing.
I'm very nineteenth century. Very schoolbook.
Also, realized the other day that I had broken one of my early poetry "rules": to wit, "never use the word 'jewel' in a poem." But I think it works in that. I would post it, except that . . . the file appears to have been corrupted. Argh. Thank god I printed it out last week; but the printout is at home. In the meantime, here's a very weird thing I dug out of some uncorrupted files. It's more like bits of good lines than a poem.
These letters don't lie: an arrow
Traveling through paper, through roses, through windows
To hit in the sun, in the cleft of the garden.
A chase scene: the disassociation of creation,
Passing over the patio, by the palms, between
The branches in twilight and my vermilion fingers.
A cicada expands like two arcs over a wave
And finds there snowy and aerial constructions.
My road triangulates with those of the sleeping.
The earth remembers: murmuring
Uprooted, the electric armoire
Whose frog-filled depths gleam with breast meat
and brilliantine. We'll never be as sendantary
as our compatriots. Because of this, we will be painted,
delirious, desired as the only thin ones left. Songs
In Arabic, in Pashto, will be composed. Letters like knots,
Like rivers of napalm, like a forest under construction, will
Multiply for us: their lucid cheeks, their lustrous petals!
There are some ships that sail under the heavy branches,
that creak and wither like a mountain ridden
With monsters. Not ours. But their broken flower offerings
Are the crossroads and spirals of our hope.
Although, by counting
hijinks, is justice
maybe not. Over
radio stations, trembling
under vestments, we
ermine, furs, god
holy iggloos, Jersey
striped under varicose
youthful, zaftig . . .