& the sooner
the better
as long as
I have my
season pass.
BLUE TILE
My pa & mine ma
dead
no ones
some
one
double
silence
uninterrupted
jagged shards
that, now,
by act of accumulation
I rejoin
Régis Bonvicino, “Azulejo” (2007)
THE HONOR OF VIRTUE
What I say is what I meant
& what I saw is what I said
But neither seen nor spoke
Is what I think I thought
BLOWN WIND
after Douglas Messerli
Slow pain’s
lust of facts
quickens transport
into earth
quake and bolt against
temptation to, from
certain
flicker of
as rock rattles
rhythm, sentiments
sediment
to snare
despair.
THE DUCK HUNTERS
for Ernesto Livon-Grosman
“I remember beautiful rivers
but not the boat to take you there.”
The shots ring across Plaza de Mayo
16 June 1955. Even
the duck hunters shudder at blood-splattered
column of Cristoforo Colombo,
rising up upon the shoulders of those
from before. While we are now, or nearly
now. “Those who use violence against their
enemies will, turning, use violence
against themselves, even their own people.”
Dulce de leche but the memory
slashes. Go back, daylight too hard to bear,
night soaks in despair. No moment exists
save this one, doubling over heave & mar
& spill, in still more furious repair.
Buenos Aires, 16 June 2005
* * *
On June 16, 1955, Argentine navy planes bombed the government and cultural center of Buenos Aires in an attempt to kill the elected president, Juan Peron. The pope had excommunicated Peron on the same day. After three hundred unarmed civilians died in the attack, a crowd torched the nearby Buenos Aires cathedral. The epigraph is from a comment by María Elena Qués. The quotation adapts a line from Judith Malina’s 1967 translation of Brecht’s 1948 version of Hölderlin’s 1804 translation of Sophocles’s Antigone.
LONELINESS IN LINDEN
after Wallace Stevens
The fear and the hum are one.
Monuments of show gumming the works
Until the weather grows tired of the people
And the people grow tired of the dance.
Jamais, jamais, jamais, again.
The measure of the town against a dampening sky
Cobbling together six million tunes
Into more than the tones tattoo
Or their scrambled mosaic forecloses.
And if the fume and the hope
Are one? My monkey, from ’49
Steps as silent as those songs
Along the cratered dark
Where Jews do Jewish things
No one pretends to understand
Or are they pilgrims on this night
When the fear and the hum are one?
UMBRA
You there anew close to me
Souvenirs of my companions dead at the war
Olive of time
Souvenirs which make no more than one
Like a hundred furs make not than one coat
Like these thousand wounds make not than one article in the journal
Appearance impalpable and somber who have comprised
The form changing of my umbra
An Indian at the lookout during eternity
Umbra you crawl close to me
But you attend me no more
You will know no more the poems divine that I chant
Whereas me I attend you I see you once more
Destinies
Umbra multiple that the sun guards you
You who love me enough in order never to quit me
And who dance at the sun without making dust
Umbra ink of the sun
Text of my light
Caisson of regret
Apollinaire, “Ombre,” from Calligrammes: Poems of Peace and War, 1913–1916
DEA%R FR~IEN%D,
I sa%w yo%r pixture on
wehb si;t; no.t su%re
whhc one & w~ant to
tal^k or mee.t ver~y so.on
I am old ma%n 57 year$
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Binggo
FOLD
I pet my pet, I fear my fear, I torment my torment, I wear my wear, I tear my tear, I comb my comb, I brush my brush, I hush my hush, I quiet my quiet, I touch my touch, I hate my hate, I love my love, I taste my taste, I slap my slap, I rip my rip, I rope my rope, I chain my chain, I sun my sun, I name my name, I surprise my surprise, I slur my slur, I laugh my laugh, I cry my cry, I hope my hope, I shout my shout, I sand my sand, I deal my deal, I share my share, I snare my snare, I aim my aim, I lack my lack, I face my face, I blame my blame, I trap my trap, I curb my curve, I need my need, I desire my desire, I cloak my cloak, I approach my approach, I reproach my reproach, I delay my delay, I hurt my hurt, I pain my pain, I word my word, I shock my shock, I risk my risk, I language my language, I act my act, I ache my ache, I stoke my stoke, I stash my stash, I turn my turn, I waste my waste, I fold my fold, I tether my tether, I weather my weather, I store my store, I eye my eye, I tongue my tongue, I finger my finger, I figure my figure, I sin my sin, I light my light, I shell my shell, I stone my stone, I void my void, I break my break, I gulp my gulp, I shit my shit, I time my time, I temper my temper, I anger my anger, I taint my taint, I will my will, I fund my fund, I ply my ply.
KU(NA)HAY
Form
Is One
Then Two Three
Content Is Another
Matter Altogether
No?
· · · · ·
I Go Home
So Tired
Now
Slump
Into My
Slumber Once Again
Wake
To What
I Almost Forgot
· · · · ·
No One Waits
Time Fails
Again
· · · · ·
Still
The Quiet
Sucks Me Dry
A
Bone Solitary
Against the Wind
· · · · ·
Trust No One
Gets You
Nowhere
5 FOR MP
for Marjorie Perloff at 70
Maybe
approaching—
ridges,
journeys—
overtakes
rips
in
eternity.
Please
encase
rough
loaves
on
festive
flames.
Myriad
acrobatic
rusts
jar
overlays,
rile
intermittent
envelopes.
Play
everything,
rush
lunges,
occasion
forging
formulation.
Myrrh
roses
jar
ovation,
running
into
elemental.
Pack
enough
ropes
lest
overflow
faults
fate.
My
answer
revolves—
jerkily!—
on
radiant
interior
expression.
Polka-dot
encaustic
ripples,
lilts
of
foraging
figments.
Maybe
anyway
radiant
jumble
or
really
incomparable
evanescence.
Particular
encounters
revealing
lingering
oases,
festooned
flutes.
BRUSH UP YOUR CHAUCER
from Kiss Me, Tommy!
In the mid-1940s Cole Porter had his most unusual idea for a show. It would be a musical celebration of Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales and Thomas Becket, brought into the modern setting of contemporary Brooklyn with the lyrics written in Brooklynese. The working title of the musical was Kiss Me, Tommy! Porter was ultimately persuaded that Shakespeare would have more caché on Broadway than Chaucer. The result was his most successful show, Kiss Me, Kate. The Poetics Lab at Penn took on the project of simulating a show based on the original idea, using our patented new Virtual Lyric Machine. We moved the show to the present and set its opening number at the final session of the 2006 Conference of the New Chaucer Society, held at Lincoln Center.
The boyz and the goils in hipoisie
All go for medieval poetry
To get them jazzed from head to toe
Declaim in mode’n American prose
Beowulf and the Roman de la Rose
And—conventioneers—
If you thoroughly detested Grendel
There’s still time to go to Henry Bendel
For a tunic to wear to The Cloisters
And a Ft. Tryon mélange with oysters
One must know a bit of Piers Plowman
To recite over late night moo-moo gai pan
And it’s not enough to give throat to Dante,
You also need to decant Cavalcanti
And—let me warn you!—
Unless you know by heart a troubadour
You’re gonna be stiffed as a true lose-or
But the poet of them all
Who thrills guys and dames
Is the poet New Yoikers call
The Bard of . . . London-isn’t-that-on-the-Thames?
Just warble a few lines from Troilus and Criseyde
And they’ll think you’re one heck of a fellida
If your date won’t respond when you put-your-arm-around-’er
Tell her what everyone keeps saying about the pardoner
Brush up your Chaucer
Tell Shakespeare the news
Geoff Chaucer’s the man of the hour
Start quoting him now
Brush up your Chaucer
And the hipoisie you’ll wow
With the mom of the coed from UConn Waterbury
Try one of the purple passages from Canterbury
If she protests she really could care less about pilgrims
Get graphic about some of their more original sins
If she says the story is nothin’ spectacular
Tell her the narrative is nothin’ compared to the vernacular
If she slaps you and says you’re much too wicked
Watch out she may be obsessed with Tom á la Becket
If she starts singin’ Canticus Troili
It’s the time to refresh her soiled doily
If that whiff of bath quickens your vowels
Time to convene the parliament of fouls
Brush up your Chaucer
Tell Shakespeare the news
Geoff Chaucer’s the man of the hour
Start quoting him now
Brush up your Chaucer
And they’ll all kow-tow
Yes they’ll all kow-tow
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING BOB
for Bob Perelman
characterization.
of my aversion to
grace. Bob’s distrust
Bob’s considered
numinous nominalism.
tual autobiographology. Bob’s
lusions. Bob’s concept-
Bob’s classical sec-
incunabula.
generosity. Bob’s Bethlehem. Bob’s
Bob’s discretion. Bob’s
ventriloquism. Bob’s casual attire
surrealism. Bob’s
being difficult. Bob’s social realist
charming, reader. Bob’s difficulty
sometimes
you, fickle yet disarming, odious but
resilience. Bob’s direct address to
entropic
homeopathic Jewishness. Bob’s
Bob’s talk. Bob’s
resistance. Bob’s tactical humor.
Quemoy & Matsu. Bob’s strategic
Bob’s legible illegibility. Bob’s
EVERY TRUE RELIGION IS BOUND TO FAIL
Only the Divine truth reveals itself
In lies, smarter truths Disguise themselves as
Fundament or wise. On the way from dusk
To Dark, slip to slap, pitch to black, a Haze
Cries sudden slow, searing sworn, Betrays de-
lay’s sullied song. Ev’ry true monument
Lays in shards, layered with tongues. The trip to
Caution foments Alarm, as lulled to
Passion, Action never reverses Wrong—
no Certainty ever could Cancel right.
Tried syrup for a while, round of sweetness
For ton of Tears. Fault of fellows, rusty
Melons that mock the girls and make us dry.
Mock the curls and make men sigh.
THE TWELVE TRIBES OF DR. LACAN
La-CANE-ians: The cane or crutch is understood as a third leg or limping / stuttering phallus
LAKE-anians: the unconscious is structured like a lake
LACK-anians focus on “the ache of lack” and the desire to fill this void with ultimately unsatisfying and imaginary objects
La-CAN-ians: the can-do, pragmatic strain
La-CAN’T-ians: a form of negative dialectics
La-CUNT-ians: by far the most radical followers of Lacan, who believe the unconscious is structured like the female genital organ
La-KIN-ians: a cross between the ideas of Lacan and Levi-Strauss, which stresses the importance of interrelations and kinship patterns
LOW-canians situate themselves in opposition to the “high”’canians
La-CONE-ians believe the unconscious is structured like a cone
La-KANT-ians: a philosophical branch that connects the thinking of Lacan to that of Immanuel Kant
La-KILT-ians believe the unconscious is structured like a kilt
DO NOT DESENSITIZE
Overcome by nostalgia for the future
Bent over with a dry panic
I clung distractedly
To the promise of the present
SEA DRIF
T
after Whitman & after Darras, Messiaen, Asselineau
Issue of oscillation—the incessant balance of cradling
Beginning of cradling that balances itself without end
Comes of cradle, perpetually balanced
By the gorge of the mocker, his refusal musical
Beginning of the goose of the bird-mocking, birth harmony
Comes of the goose of the bird-mocking, birth musical
By the midnight of the ninth month
Beginning at the midnight of September
Comes at September’s midnight
Some more lotion in the memory of the change of this bird
Beginning of the souvenir or the bird that chants for me
Of my memory of the bird who has sung for me
ON ELECTION DAY
I hear democracy weep, on election day.
The streets are filled with brokered promise, on election day.
The miscreant’s vote the same as saint’s, on election day.
The dead unleash their fury, on election day.
My brother crushed in sorrow, on election day.
The sister does her washing, on election day.
Slowly, I approach the voices dark, on election day.
The men prepare for dying, on election day.
The morning hush defends its brood, on election day.
So still, so kindly faltering, on election day.
On election day, the cats take tea with the marmoset.
On election day, the mother refuses her milk.
On election day, the frogs croak so fiercely you would think that Mars had fallen into Earth.
On election day, the iron man meets her frozen gasp.
The air is putrid, red, interpolating, quixotic, torpid, vulnerable, on election day.
Your eyes slide, on election day.
Still the mourners mourn, the weepers wept, the children sleep alone in bed, on election day.
No doubt a comet came to see me, fiery and irreconciled, torrid, strummed, on election day.
On election day, the trespass of the fatuous alarm and ignominious aspiration fells the golden leap to girdled crest.
The tyrant becomes prince, on election day.
Neither friend nor foe, fear nor fate, on election day.
The liar lies with the lamb, on election day.
The last shall be the first and first sent to the back of the line, on election day.
The beggar made a king, on election day.
“Let him who is without my poems be assassinated!” on election day.
Let he who has not sinned, let him sin, on election day.
The ghosts wear suits, on election day.