Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts

Thursday

TWO YEARS LATER


The hollow eyes of shock remain
Electric sockets burnt out in the
                skull.

The beauty of men never disappears
But drives a blue car through the
                                stars.

John Wieners

Monday

DETECTIVE NOTES


Mrs. White with the Candlestick in the Hall
Prof. Plum with the Lead Pipe in the Lounge
Col. Mustard with the Rope in the Dining Room
Mrs. Peacock with the Wrench in the Kitchen
Mr. Green with the Revolver in the Conservatory
Miss Scarlett with the Knife in the Study

Prof. Plum with the Knife in the Study
Col. Mustard with the Candlestick in the Hall
Mrs. Peacock with the Lead Pipe in the Library
Mr. Green with the Rope in the Lounge
Miss Scarlett with the Wrench in the Kitchen
Mrs. White with the Revolver in the Ball Room

Col. Mustard with the Revolver in the Billiard Room
Mrs. Peacock with the Knife in the Study
Mr. Green with the Candlestick in the Kitchen
Miss Scarlett with the Lead Pipe in the Hall
Mrs. White with the Rope in the Lounge
Prof. Plum with the Wrench in the Library

Mrs. Peacock with the Wrench in the Conservatory
Mr. Green with the Revolver in the Dining Room
Miss Scarlett with the Knife in the Lounge
Mrs. White with the Candlestick in the Study
Prof. Plum with the Lead Pipe in the Hall
Col. Mustard with the Rope in the Kitchen

Mr. Green with the Rope in the Kitchen
Miss Scarlett with the Wrench in the Library
Mrs. White with the Revolver in the Hall
Prof. Plum with the Knife in the Billiard Room
Col. Mustard with the Candlestick in the Study
Mrs. Peacock with the Lead Pipe in the Lounge

Miss Scarlett with the Lead Pipe in the Lounge
Mrs. White with the Rope in the Kitchen
Prof. Plum with the Wrench in the Study
Col. Mustard with the Revolver in the Conservatory
Mrs. Peacock with the Knife in the Ball Room
Mr. Green with the Candlestick in the Hall

Mrs. White with the Candlestick in the Lounge
Prof. Plum with the Rope in the Kitchen
Col. Mustard with the Revolver in the Study

David Trinidad

Tuesday

the collaborative process


The Car

Jane Freilicher & Kenneth Koch

Choke: I am a bloke. My name is choke.
Wheel: I am a wheel, central feel of the automobile.
Gear: I am a gear. You all fear me.
Tires: I am the tires, a raspberry is filled with sins.
Window: I am a window. I know everything.
Windshield Wiper: I am a wiper of window that shieldwiper.
Crank: I am a crank.
Crankcase: I am a crankcase.
Nurse: Bottoms up.
Transmission: I am the transmission, ever close to you.
Trunk: I am a trunk, full of personality.
Dashboard: I am my setting sun, a dashboard.
Clutch: I clutch. We like each other.
Brake: Brake, brake, brake.
Shift: Shifty me you like to see.
Roof: I am roof, the winter’s tooth.
Throttle: They call me throttle. Relax everybody.
Backseat: I am the backseat. Climb up and down.
Petroleum: I am petroleum, love’s dream.
Doctor: Where the hell is that nurse?
Nurse: I am in the glove compartment.
Glove Compartment: I am the glove compartment, your love department.

Sunday

the collaborative process


S.O.S.

Dennis Cooper & David Trinidad

If lucky, you might capture that
elusive flight of ideas which involve you
when you’re “in love” with the chosen one.
One fine day, in other words, your
fleet might come waltzing around
your door. With luck you’ll be looking for what
it implies about truth, beauty, and gratitude—
that kind of stuff. You are my kind
of guy. I am the lucky one. I am
awaiting one sign, or this romanticized look in my eyes
has a way of throwing its dead weight around when
you keep me at arm’s length.
The longer I wait, the more I want you.
I’m in love with you, you big galoot!
Put simply, if I’m allowed to lose total control of myself
for a guy, as if you didn’t know. Don’t go.
1/9/85, NYC, 5:54 p.m.

Process Note:

I was visiting Dennis in New York; we wrote “S.O.S.” in the living room of his
apartment on Twelfth Street (just off of Second Avenue). A few years earlier we’d
written, while driving from San Francisco to Los Angeles, a poem called “The
Ordeal,” so this was our second—and in my opinion more successful—collaboration.
I don’t think we ever wrote another. The title is from the ABBA song; I’m
sure it came from Dennis, as ABBA was one of his favorite groups. I remember
that we alternated lines, and that Dennis was responsible for the ending, which
I liked, which I still like. “One fine day” in the fourth line had to have come
from me: I was obsessed with 60s girl groups at the time; “One Fine Day” was
a hit by the Chiffons. I also remember that I had a big (ultimately unrequited)
crush on someone in Los Angeles; this kind of wistful energy fueled not only
the poem with Dennis, but many of my own poems from that period as well.

—David Trinidad

Monday

MR BOJANGLES


So uh this is abut the uh things on the table
so this one will be counting up
If you see any of those baggy pants, chuck the hills
And if somehody asked him, it was trees

the uh scarf of where in black and white
that this one will be sittin’
this about the uh things on the table
this will be counting up

so uh uh this is about the uh things on the table
the uh scarf of where in black and white
that this one is sittin’
this is about the uh things that were
If you see any of those, then this could be one of them
so stop here so stop this so look here
so this is written
Hey Mr Bojangles
Hey Mr Bojangles
Hey Mr Bojangles
so this could be the one that was
so if you see this one, then...

Gun gun gun gun
Hey Mr Bojangles
Hey Mr Bojangles
Hey Mr Bojangles
Christopher Knowles bank robbery
so if you know
bank robbery bank robbery bank robbery is punishable by
20 years in federal prison so this is written
so if you know this is one so so look here
so Christopher Knowles and the Beatles
so so

Christopher Knowles

Saturday

I FEEL THE EARTH MOVE


I feel the earth move... I feel the tumbling down tumbling down... There was a judge who
like puts in a court. And the judge have like in what able jail what it could be a spanking. Or a
whack. Or a smack. Or a swat. Or a hit.
This could be where of judges and courts and jails. And who was it.
This will be doing the facts of David Cassidy of were in this case of feelings.
That could make you happy. That could make you sad. That could
make you mad. Or
that could make you jealous. So do you know a jail is. A court and a judge could
do this could be like in those green Christmas Trees. So Santa Claus has about
red. And now the Einstin Trail is like in Einstine on the Beach. So this will.
So if you know that fafffffffff facts. So this what happen what I saw in. Lucy or
a kite. You raced all the way up.This is a race. So this one will have eight in
types into a pink rink. So this way could be very magic. So this will be like to
Scene women comes out to grab her. So this what She grabbed her. S if you lie on
the grass. So this could be where if the earth move or not. So here we go.
I feel the earth move under my feet. I feel tumbling down tumbling down. I feel if
Some ostriches are a like into a satchel. Some like them. I went to the window
and wanted to draw the earth. So David Cassidy tells you when to go into this on
onto a meat. So where would a red dress. So this will get some gas. So this could
This would be some all of my friends. Cindy Jay Steve Julia Robyn Rick Kit and
Liz. So this would get any energy. So if you know what some like into were. So...
So about one song.
I FEEL THE EARTH MOVE
CAROLE KING
So that was one song this what it could in the Einstein On The Beach with a trial
to jail. But a court were it could happen. So when David Casidy tells you all
of you to go on get going get going. So this one in like on WABC New York...
JAY REYNOLDS from midnight to 6 00.
HARRY HARRISON
So heres what in like of WABC.......
JAY REYNOLDS from midnight to 6 AM
HARRY HARRISON from 6 AM to L
I feel the earth move from WABC...
JAY REYNOLDS from midnight to 6 AM.
HARRY HARRISON from 6 AM to 10 AM.
RON LUNDY from 10 AM to 2 PM.
DAN INGRAM from 2 PM to
So this can misteaks try it aga9...
JAY REYNOLDS from midnight to 6 AM.
HARRY HARRISON from 6 AM
This could be true on WABC.
JAY REYNOLDS froj
This can be wrong.
This would WABC.
JAY REYNOLDS from midnight to 6 AM.
HARRY HARRISON from 6 AM to 10 AM.
RON LUNDY from 10 AM to 2 PM.
DAN INGRAM from 2 PM to 6 PM.
GEORCE MICHAEL from 6 PM to 10 PM.
CHUCK LEONARD from 10 PM to midnight.
JOHNNY DONOVAN from 10 PM to 3 AM.
STEVE-O-BRION from 2 PM to 6 PM.
JOHNNY DONOVAN from 6 PM to 10 PM.
CHUCK LEONARD from 3 AM to 5 AM.
JOHNNY DONOVAN from 6 PM to 10 PM.
STEVE-O-BRION from 4 30 AM to 6 AM
STEVE-O-BRION from 4 30 AM to 6 AM
JOHNNY DONOVAN from 4 30 AM to 6 AM

Christopher Knowles

Thursday

PHILADELPHIA FREEDOM


I used to be a boat rower in times in dreams at least to be freaky. Be on your on.
So turn off your taperecorder off and go to sleep. So that why we call so.
Like bad mad sad but you shold be glad to be proud of you.
So this won’t wreck and destroy your things to be.
So if your actress no behave to be so.
To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom. But when you’re with my Daddy never is.
I used to be a boat rower in times in dreams at least to be freaky. Be on your on.
So turn off your taperecorder off and go to sleep. So that why we call so.
Like bad mad sad but you shold be glad to be proud of you.
So this won't wreck and destroy your things to be.
So if your actress no behave to be so.
To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom. But when you’re with my Daddy never is.
I used to be a boat rower in times in dreams at least to be freaky. Be on your on.
So turn off your taperecorder off and go to sleep. So that why we call so.
Like bad mad sad but you shold be glad to be proud of you.
So this won’t wreck and destroy your things to be.
So if your actress no behave to be so.
To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom. But when you’re with my Daddy never is.
I used to be a boat rower in times in dreams at least to be freaky. Be on your on.
So turn off your taperecorder off and go to sleep. So that why we call so.
Like bad mad sad but you shold be glad to be proud of you.
So this won't wreck and destroy your things to be.
So if your actress no behave to be so.
To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom. But when you’re with my Daddy never is.
To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom. But when you’re with my Daddy never is.
To be announcing the Philadelphia Freedom.

Christopher Knowles

Monday

FEBRUARY 13, 1975


Tomorrow is St. Valentine’s:
tomorrow I’ll think about
that. Always nervous, even
after a good sleep I’d like
to climb back into. The sun
shines on yesterday’s new-
fallen snow and yestereven
it turned the world to pink
and rose and steel-blue
buildings. Helene is restless:
leaving soon. And what then
will I do with myself? Some-
one is watching morning
TV. I’m not reduced to that
yet. I wish one could press
snowflakes in a book like flowers.

James Schuyler

Thursday

POEM


Sometimes
everything
seems
so
oh, I don’t know.

Joe Brainard

Tuesday

GILLIGAN’S ISLAND


The Professor and Ginger are standing in the space in front
of the Skipper’s cabin. The Professor is wearing deck shoes,
brushed denim jeans, and a white shirt open at the throat.
Ginger is wearing spike heels, false eyelashes, and a white
satin kimono. The Professor looks at her with veiled lust
in his eyes. He raises an articulate eyebrow and addresses
her as Cio-Cio-San. Ginger blanches and falls on her knife.

* * *

Meanwhile it is raining in northern California. In a tiny
village on the coast, Rod Taylor and Tippi Hedren are totally
concerned. They realize that something terrible is happening.
Each has been savagely attacked by a wild songbird within
the last twenty-four hours. Outside their window thousands
of birds have gathered in anticipation of the famous school-
yard scene. Tippi Hedren is wearing a colorful lipstick.

* * *

Ginger stares back at the Professor. His sullen good looks
are the perfect foil for her radiant smile. The Skipper and
Gilligan come into sight. The Skipper has been chasing
Gilligan around the lagoon for a long time now. Gilligan
holds onto his hat in the stupid way he has of doing things
like that. The Professor’s lips part in a sneer of perfect
contempt. Ginger bares her teeth, as if in appreciation.

* * *

Jackie Kennedy bares her teeth. Behind and above her, the
muzzle of a high-powered rifle protrudes from a window. A little
man is aiming at Jackie Kennedy’s husband. The man is wearing
bluejeans and a white T-shirt. There isn’t a bird to be seen.
As he squeezes the trigger, the little man mutters between
clenched teeth, “Certs is a candy mint.” The hands of Jackie
Kennedy’s husband jerk automatically toward his head.

* * *

The Professor is noticing Ginger’s breasts. He thinks of
the wife he left at home, who probably thinks he’s dead.
He thinks of his mother, and all of the women he has ever
known. Mr. and Mrs. Howell are asleep in their hut, secure
in their little lives as character actors. Ginger shifts her
weight to the other foot. The intensity of the moment reminds
the Professor of a Japanese city before the end of the war.

* * *

In his mind he goes down each aisle in his government class,
focusing on each face, each body. He is lying on his bed
with his white shirt off and his trousers open. Dorothy
Kirsten’s voice fills the room. He settles on a boy who sits
two desks behind him. He begins to masturbate, his body moving
in time with the sad music. At moments like these he feels
farthest away. As he shoots, his lips part and he bares his teeth.

* * *

The Professor and Ginger are watching each other across the
narrow space. The Skipper and Gilligan have disappeared down
the beach. The Howells are quietly snoring. The Professor
and Ginger are alone. From the woods comes the sound of
strange birds. From the water comes a thick and eerie
tropical silence. The famous conversation scene is about
to start. Clouds appear in the sky, and it begins to snow.

Tim Dlugos

Superman is inert for most practical purposes.


Only springing to life, as it were, under pressure of grave danger. Like, if you were making toast, he wouldn’t be Superman for that. He would be Clark Kent making you toast, and maybe his glasses would fog up with the steam or something, but that’s all. Or say a country in Africa has been without clean water for pretty much forever: he’d just be Clark Kent for that. That’s already beyond the pale.

Kristina Born

Friday

“poetry is love in action”


i
was at
a poetics
conference
and heard michael
golston say in a paper
on clark coolidge, ‘poetry is
love in action’. i jotted it down.
i desperately want that formula to
be true, like bubblebaths make you
sleep well (i haven't slept well in the
bath since we first got together, because
it frightens you to think i might slip under
and not wake up. you forget i'm a little large
to drown in our bath, i barely fit in, so could
i drown?) but what kind of love in action's
poetry? when i was a teenager, i was
hopelessly in love with some guy
(this happened rather often, with
more than one guy so i don't
have one in particular
in mind) and i
invariably
associated
a song
with him,
sometimes a
song i'd heard
him hum, or sometimes
a song that just happened to
play when we were both in a
corridor. i'd lie in my bedroom
and play the song over and over on
cassette tape. play. rewind. play. rewind.
play. rewind. i would do this for hours and
i have to admit that although in the first instance
i was filled with desire for the guy, gradually this
shifted to being desire to hear the song, until at
some point it would dawn on me that my
desire was strongest for the gap in
between when, with my finger
on the button i would hear
the very familiar buzz. i
love that faint whurr
and my anticipation
of the assertive
click-click. desire,
through a conviction
that it wouldn't ever be
fulfilled, focused on the
act of rewinding, a repetitive
act, passive, lonely and, because
i would lie there for hours, i surefootedly
can say i was in the throes of a kind of erotically-
charged boredom. it is surely not difficult to speculate
why i so fixated on this act. i was obscenely obsessed
with my own self-pity, always going back to the start
and playing it through again. schopenhauer said
that boredom is just the reversal of fascination,
that both depend on being on the outside of
something rather than the inside, and that
one leads to the other. i certainly felt 'on
the outside' and as i rewound pop
songs on cassette tapes my
intense boredom and
equally strong
fascination
continually
outstripped each
other like long-distance
runners. when one dropped
back, the other steamed on. or
like dough kneaded full of air and
knocked back to deflation, and then
re-kneaded, and so on. i wasn't doing
this through a conviction that i'd find back-
tracked satanic messages that had been leading me
and others so frighteningly astray a la the band 'cradle
of filth'. (scratch that, maybe i was. up in my room rewinding
tapes, i think i must have been looking for messages, my
desire so used to pointing outwards fruitlessly towards
guys at school that i would be willing to find some
kind of response anywhere, be it spooky as you
like.) i'm not sure whether it comes across
for anyone else but when typing this out i
sometimes felt as though i was back
listening compulsively to that buzz
again, caught up in conflicting
senses of possibility and
boring inevitability.

Colin Herd

This is a poem by John Ashbery that is composed of movie titles.


THEY KNEW WHAT THEY WANTED

They all kissed the bride.
They all laughed.
They came from beyond space.
They came by night.

They came to a city.
They came to blow up America.
They came to rob Las Vegas.
They dare not love.

They died with their boots on.
They shoot horses, don’t they?
They go boom.
They got me covered.

They flew alone.
They gave him a gun.
They just had to get married.
They live. They loved life.

They live by night.
They drive by night.
They knew Mr Knight.
They were expendable.

They met in Argentina.
They met in Bombay.
They met in the dark.
They might be giants.

They made me a fugitive.
They made me a criminal.
They only kill their masters.
They shall have music.

They were sisters.
They still call me Bruce.
They won’t believe me.
They won’t forget.

Monday

LOVE LETTER


Valentine’s Day is coming again, so i’m going to write a love letter. Anyone can use this love letter for their lover.

Dear Lover,

There are a lot of butterflies on the planet. But none in the winter. You are my winter butterfly.

I want to lick the inside of your belly button. I want to lick the lint out of it and then kiss you. Then you have the lint in your mouth. We are naked and you laugh.

(If you are a straight man or lesbian) I want to grab your pussy. I want to cup your naked pussy in my hand. Your pussy is like a leaf with dew on it on a July Morning. That means I like when your pussy is wet. I like your pussy more when it is wet than when it is dry.

(If you a woman or a gay man) I want to hold your soft penis in my hand. Then I want to caress it until it becomes hard and then I’ll call it a cock. I want you to do things with your cock that will make me moan and make strange sounds.

I want to eat candy with you and check our facebooks sitting close.

We need each other like poor people need food and politicians need votes.

We need each other like cell phones need signals and books need readers.

Right now I’m yearning for your genitals to be near by, for your laugh, for your arms, and your legs to wrap around me and pull me deeper.

I can never get deep enough into you.

I want you have my babies. I want our babies to look like us.

We will raise our children to be nervous and strange and to love music like we do.

I keep seeing your belly in my mind, your belly flat, I rest my head on your belly, your belly is soft and we watch a movie. A movie staring Will Ferrell. Everything is right with the world. We have good credit and our grades are good.

I want to fuck until both of our genitals are chafed and sore.

There are a lot of butterflies on the planet. But none in the winter. You are my winter butterfly.

Sincerely,
Your Lover

[by Noah Cicero]

Tuesday

DAYLIGHT


And when I thought,
“Our love might end”
the sun
went right on shining

James Schuyler

Wednesday

~ CHILDHOOD


In the woods there is a bird; its song stops you and makes you blush.

There is a clock that does not strike.

There is a hollow with a nest of white beasts.

There is a cathedral that goes down and a lake that rises.

There is a little carriage abandoned in the thicket, or that races down the road with ribbons on.

There is a troupe of little actors in costume, spotted on the road through the edge of the woods.

And in the end, when you are hungry and thirsty, there is someone who chases you away.

Rimbaud

Monday

ON SEEING LARRY RIVERS' "WASHINGTON CROSSING THE DELAWARE" AT THE MUSEUM OF MODERN ART


Now that our hero has come back to us
in his white pants and we know his nose
trembling like a flag under fire,
we see the calm cold river is supporting
our forces, the beautiful history.

To be more revolutionary than a nun
is our desire, to be secular and intimate
as, when sighting a redcoat, you smile
and pull the trigger. Anxieties
and animosities, flaming and feeding

on theoretical considerations and
the jealous spiritualities of the abstract
the robot? they’re smoke, billows above
the physical event. They have burned up.
See how free we are! as a nation of persons.

Dear father of our country, so alive
you must have lied incessantly to be
immediate, here are your bones crossed
on my breast like a rusty flintlock,
a pirate’s flag, bravely specific

and ever so light in the misty glare
of a crossing by water in winter to a shore
other than that the bridge reaches for.
Don’t shoot until, the white of freedom glinting
on your gun barrel, you see the general fear.

Frank O’Hara


[thanks to Ordinary Finds]

Saturday

HONEY, CAN YOU HEAR ME?


      Alison stared into the mirror and combed her hair. How
beautiful she was! "I look awful," she said. I bent down and
tied my shoe and hit my head on the coffee table on the way up.
"Ouch," I said. "What did you say, honey?" she said. "I said
we ought to buy a new couch," I said. "I thought we just bought
one," she said. "We could buy another one so we'd have a backup
in case anything happens to this one," I said. She didn't answer
me, but continued to brush her hair. I stared down at my shoes
and said, "Something is so wrong there." "What did you say, honey?"
she said. I said, "It will be wonderful to be there tonight."
"Where's that, honey?" she said. "Wherever it is that we're going,"
I said. "We're not going anywhere," she said. "I meant here. It
will be wonderful to be here tonight," I said. "A little romantic
night at home," she said. What did she mean by "nomadic"? A little
nomadic night at home. There were times when I worried about
Alison. She hovered right on the borderline, about to cross over into
her own private realm, where nothing she sees or hears corresponds
to anything in the known world. I live with this fear daily. My
shoes are on the wrong feet, or so it seems to me now.

James Tate

Sunday

CANTO CXXIII by EZRA POUND


Ava piece a banana BOYZ sed the Commish
                                                                   PONG CHOOEY
Ternight yer in fer a real treat
                                        and alla manyata
            stripped down to her knees and there a mantle
            a mantle of finest ivory that Casticcini made or Ezra
Let us alone / or like Yeatsy "Let me
ALONE" and Radinbranath in Terhune
reading the Chicago papers and asking after Minsky
the burlesk Minsky BANG GONG          and the gold dust
                                                                            hit in the face
his teeth broken his gold teeth broken O Anna Magnani
the pity that has broken my doily
                SAITH Themis     and
    my rock garden is empty no flower
                nor beast pusheth
                                      because of phooey
                Phooey hath eaten my garden
                                      Evil the cowslip
                     and the gem
                          that are tainted with phooey
                                                dit Wang Chu
                                                          972 B.C.
And you will grow up to be a high commercial
So that people of esteem will read your verses
Then you shall return to this valley and teach eating
                          For who hath eaten phooey
                          Returneth not unto paradise
Dem mudder fuckers doan unnerstan me
Said princess Toy Ling A.D. 1922
Dey doan unnerstan nuttin but smut
That was the year the doves fell at Livorgno
Six thousand of them and Caspia walking among them
From morning till night until finally there was nothing
But her feet and then nothing
But her ankles as white as doves
                                      nothing but ankles moving
               I have brought these jewels to Mantua
               I have been fortunate in my choice of birds
   for this beak eateth phooey
                                                    PING CHONG
for this beak eateth Ping Chong phooey.

Kenneth Koch

Friday

I LIKE RATS by D.H. LAWRENCE


I never saw a rat
Sorry for itself.
I never saw two rats
Consoling one another for being rats.

Rats live good full rat-lives with other rats.
Rat mind and rat heart plunge them into rat sex with other impassioned rats.
People say they are poison and ugly and cause disease.
I say people cause disease.
I never caught a cold or syphilis or gonorrhea or manic depression from a rat.

Kenneth Koch