i dunno
personally-wise
speaking as
a metaphor for
America’s
disaffected
overutilized
underdrugged
defrocked
half-cocked
simulated
and impatient-
to-be-
irrelevant youth
Long shit mornings
precede long shit days and
lingering yellow stains.
We’d slouched in waiting rooms for
later on’s big
reveal, which somehow passed
through every hand in the
big marble studio without any
soul noting how nonsensical
and frustrating the twist is
ratings down, participation tanked
detractors salivating, network all
fox-eared and thinning fur
mewling off to
hidey-hole
And with my prospects
all turned murky I
gave my oaths to the
left bank of Paris’
shadow-city, Centralia,
PA, where devils’
pitchforks dance like
sixteen-year-olds
at junior prom and
graveyards howl at
tourists–
______keep
_________away!
______hollow
_________ground!
the first belief by
lime-skinned mariners,
fingers cured with
ocean salt, their
sticky manes devouring
light and giving
pause to mermaids’
delightful ruses—
in which case dumb breathe
hanneyway? gramma is dying in
the hospital. i have to nakeys, no
hankeys, blankeys, nor frankes.
beetles crawling under doors for
ever they scout, together they
pout. the soil has such mildewey
freshness but the dirt has all the
good truth. crossbreeze. foot goes
across the floor. we make our own
patterns and make ourselves sick
with worry. in more goddamn sure,
as a maybe yeah, i hate.
Multimedia artist John Bezark and I started a collaboration to bridge the gap between his home in Philly and my new home in Providence. I send him poetry, he sends me a video back, and then I send poetry back . . . etc. This is the third item, a response to his video of earlier this week. The whole collab is playing out between us on insta, but I’ll try to share here as much as possible.
The text:
smoky Mars
what’s empty trembles behind
distant stars earth fish
seek that which under grids
gains weight to gain bliss
life shames what came
before and after what smell
dust rises before a shower
turns to talc milky laughter
A collaboration with John Bezark.
why would a man come to my house and ask to borrow my child?—–they have machines in them which are designed to erase the mind––––—–––—–she never had a mind to erase––––—–––—she’s not interested in anything——––—––—she liked the color blue———––––——everything on her body is blue–––––—–—which can’t go (her body)–––––——––—she’ll lie down in the tub and put the stopper in. she lets the water flow up by her ankles——-–––––—she’s so submissive and stubborn she just looks at you–––———––—–those few opinions—–—––––—and about pain—–—––—–––she wants to spend her life doing nothing––———-––—the thing i still love doing with my time–––––——-—–being——–––––reading novels—––—––———i read only the coldest most impersonal novels––——–––—the novels which coolly say this happened then that happened then that happened—–—-––––
Found a chunk of text in an old journal. Made some elisions and came up with a spooky bit of family poetry. Had a really hard time formatting the poem on wordpress, particularly the full justification combined with having the correct line breaks. If anyone has suggestions I’d love to hear them.
herringbone
brick paths we cross you
stumble over
slouch gratifyingly
lurched askance
by soothing soil roiling as
philly lumbers oceanward.