I might give off a kind of psychic stench,
a sort of…vaginosis…of the mind…
and if my pain’s a fuzzy whirlwing,
lavenderly ignorant, inside
I’m just a bitter tune.
I poked a wishworm in its little gill.
I lost my knuckle pudding to a lambkin then.
The frivolities beheld the world, and it was routine.
They rolled around on olives, starkly nude.
The sky had a rosy salmon trope.
I’ve not “surrendered to the city” nor
“survived its inundation.”
I’m not quite present in its quilted mess.
I know I look funny, but I feel funny, too.
This dispels my curiosity about nothing.
Glum daughters of normal families
in unromantic purple glitter skirts
sulk melodramatically on orange seats.
They pop the aleatory thuzz.
Sorry, that is not a valid word.
I was never tough enough for this city
and besides I don’t speak the language,
and there’s no point in this hassled skim,
is there, burgundy underpants, head
coming out of hand, bald head, dine
and dash into a tiny wrinkled face.
A large Orthodox woman sneezes.
This is so dumb.
It enlarges the margins of the universe.
It feathers at the edges of the lips.
It brings what is inside outside, in order to destroy
It leaps over tall limits with a single sound.
It fails in that dumb way that “literature fails.”
I’m all alone with the broken ooze. It doesn’t matter
that we’re made of stars, or even that we’re matter.
I think we all need to be more lugubrious,
and to make fewer points.
Rhetoric is a move to “make the rules” but
can get overturned with more rhetoric
with the same impulse.
I need to know: how reckless
can you be in language?
And what is the dewpoint
I need the top of my hornhead back.
I ate the little cake of rhythm. It gave me runs, and trills, and freaky
arpeggios. It lassoed me in the grasp of nil, fluttering like a crepe
Modernism dies with a last rattling gasp
while I scour the web for novelty:
poodles getting haircuts, robots with electric bolts,
tiki masks, Egyptians, rosebuds on grey,
wheatfields like zen gardens.
It’s armor against banality.
Zipped hoodies, parkas, earbuds, go-cups.
Poetry is like surfing, with one difference.
Three or four teenage swans
are cruising on the lake.
People focus on their phones
like bees on lantana on an early fall morning.
They have their mugs, their lunch bags. They wear jeans.
Somewhere a young person is performing procedures on a text.
Elsewhere, someone is carrying a copper pot full of water
so as to shit in a field. There’s so much shit in the field of
poetry. And prairie dogs, and microorganisms, and voles.
Behind microphones, poets strut their egos like lobsters.
Obstretricians (related to “obstruction”?) continue to pull more people
into the world, despite the real and present danger of them
becoming poets. We definitely need more MFA programs,
spinning among the stars and planets in the forward spiral of
cosmic movement, getting whiffs of sublime abstraction
midst the dry ice artifice and gallons of savory daal. I don’t know.