poetry

writing
that formulates
a concentrated
imaginative
awareness of
experience
in language
chosen &
arranged
to create
a specific
emotional response
through meaning,
sound &
rhythm

A COW

If a cow eats a fridge a bulky object is lodged in its neck which is also broad & oblong like a fridge. A fridge set at angles to a fridge. Or in or within a fridge. Though in fact the neck is more like a dried-blood rug drug across a fridge, awkwardly. The pure idea is that of a crane from which a crate swings at the docks, seagulls strewn like fingernail clippings in the sky behind—noisy slivers like steel shavings tossed in front of the wild blinding sun.

Mark Milloff & Mairead Byrne present
Tues 4/29

risdcouscous@tazza
MUSIC 9-10pm
Paul Rishell & Annie Raines!
POETRY 10-11pm
Rick Benjamin! Mike Gizzi! Zoe Latta & Silvie Deutsch! Jessica Laser! Kat Lawlis-Stephanie Baur-Si Huang-Carolyn Spinney! Kathryn Tedesco! Keith Waldrop! Wendy Walters!
MUSIC 11pm-midnight
METROPOLIS!

Tazza
Free

what passes for thinking

catching balloons
floating by

in the celestial penal colony

background air stitched to the brim
w/ the rancid thump-thump
of the kind of sewing-machine
that sews lips shut

privileged prisoners
make words out of pale suns
butterscotched prisms
immaterial coils
like transparent pizza dough

I run through Providence
w/ a much younger man
clambering into each other
down tumbled streets

past the hexagonal theater
designed before perspective

Are you from Providence?
I huff onto him, swarming
& he slips w/ a smile

we run on, Dionysian
through Apollonian streets
Apollonian down Dionysian

his skin a broad street
I skateboard upon

axled w/ smiles
mine like a condom
I slip over his

deliberate
desire

amazon has recommendations for you

finally in tune
w/ the larger culture

OKAY,

so which do you care most about—
the bitternesses of the past or say—
your jeans?

I dunno.
I feel pretty strong about
my jeans.

fun

driving
music
clothes
hot tub
food
wine
sleep

elaboration of fun

jumping in the car on Sunday afternoon
Sonic Youth!
Levi's! Levi's! Levi's!
with incense & candles
yum
yum-yum
yummy!

not fun

rooting in my bag for stuff
calling around video stores looking for Slam or Slam Nation & getting weirded out
    spelling titles to guys who say "Flam as in Frank" not knowing if it's my accent or
    maybe a race or poetry thing & why the hell do none of the libraries or rental
    stores have it anyway
Sunday parking at the mall
driving past the single parking spot on Sunday at the mall
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

LOVE

I loved my husband with a deep, implacable love, I'm sure, & daily life was just one eighth of the iceberg, with my anchoring love being the dark & solid seven eighths. But what if it were the reverse? What if daily life were the substantial seven eighths, & my love an inverted shark's fin, the great bloated body flipped, rotting in the sun? What if instead of a mighty oak, with a bole of root coursing beneath the houses, my love was a wreath of branches, latticing the sky, its roots a flimsy mesh dusted by topsoil, what then? What if the spreading branches—the daily life—were all there was—but that is contra naturam, in my metaphor system at least, where things have roots & shoots, however the balance lies.

things

for 3 weeks
we were w/o our things;

then the things came
& we were comforted.

GRANNY SMITH APPLES

Granny Smith apples are called Granny Smith apples because there was once a little woman called Granny Smith who had two green eyes like apples, two bright green eyes twinkling in her head. Actually they were out on stalks. No, I'm a liar. It was the stalks were out—like a single stiff eye-lash, like an—the apples were in her head. Another coincidence was that her name at one time was actually Granny Smith Apples but she got married & shortened it because it would have been too long otherwise, for the children. Of course they were the apple of her eye (each one was a segment of the apple & her eyes were apples; they were the apple of her apples therefore the same logic applies). She wasn't that little either, Granny Smith, but kind of large & scary, with those twinkling green eyes, & motey stalks.

half-truth

I used to be normal
but I'm oddening up.

circumference

Christian says without poetry
he wouldn't have seen
so much of the world.

Without poetry
I wouldn't see
so much of this town.

Once upon a time

Last night I woke & drank the clock. I was thirsty & it was on my bedside table. What a mouthful. I kid you not. You haven't had a lump in your throat till you've swallowed a bulbous alarm clock. Then of course I couldn't get to sleep with the ticking. Mighty strange sort of sparkling water, I grant you that.

poetry

my robust & fragile art,
robust enough
to carry
me / fragile
enough to need
carrying.

A MAN EATING AN APPLE

A man eating an apple on Hope Street is still eating an apple on Hope Street a crisp red apple on Hope Street & 5th being eaten by a man still in a sky blue shirt a white-haired man with a white moustache & a smile eating an apple on Hope Street a friendly man with a white moustache & a sky blue shirt eating a crisp red apple on Hope Street & 5th & still.

ON BEING A RECLUSE

When you are a recluse things don't just happen. X doesn't know Y who works with Z who knows a great deal on such-and-such. There is no summer house needing a tenant for a cheap week. Or friend of a friend who instals that hot tub you & A can just afford. There is no A & no X, Y, or Z either. Everything stays the same & even that takes monumental energy. You move so quietly through your house you don't even disturb the dust. A lot of people don't know you. You read in a book about a woman carrying biryani to a low table in a room. You want her to think of you. You wish you knew languages. You wish you could do things well. Like Ron Graham solving math problems "in the middle of a back somersault with a triple twist on my trampoline." You write poems but don't publish them because that's better than not writing them at all.

CLEANING

The cleaning you do before you do the cleaning is the cleaning. You do it because people are coming. Visitors are terrifying, not so much in the flesh as the thought of them—that very long stretch before they arrive when you know they are coming. You might have invited them. Like an iceberg, the main part of the visit is over before they arrive. Sometimes you clean because someone is coming to fix something. If it's a plumber, you lie on your back on the floor & clean whatever is visible from that angle. Not your usual perspective. You most certainly clean if someone is coming to clean. Cleaning for someone who's coming to work is easier than cleaning for someone who's coming to stay, generally. Someone who will stay in a room overnight, for example. Or who might want to stand in the kitchen talking to you when you cook. Or might be in rooms when you're not there. The rush is in the rush. You rush to the rush. At what point does the real rush begin?

in ducts, between leaves of books, in nooks

don't hide your poems—
no-one will look
I tell my students
in whom I hide
my secrets

glimpsed in transit 6/16/1997 19:00

a man
on an abandoned
loading dock
by the West Side
highway
huddled
w/ a fifth of Jack
fingers about its solid neck
head hung
down
mumbling

Whiteface

I knew I should have worn lipstick
when I went out to shovel snow.

A man stopped to give me a pamphlet:
Comfort for the Depressed.

protection

in winter you can get yourself a little hat
like a trancendentalist
like thoreau might knit
to keep you cosy
at all times

like an old-fashioned hairdryer too—
the bubble-kind
you put your head in
like an astronaut—
a hat like that

or a radiant iPod
earphones intense as embers
to burn a halo
round your head

if you have to get a pap smear
you can get a little cap—
a diaphragm—
i guess like ganja
to lull you

if you are afraid:
a thermal raincoat
to wrap you
with no'eastern rain boots
& a sou'western hat

SCARY CONCEPT

I am profligate.

CONCEPT

Whitman was economical.

intersection

the red light
holds steady
while the plane
—miles above—
makes its incision
in the sky

JANUARY

Old snow beached on gold grass.
Bare boughs lying on air.
Ice shining—for all it's worth—in the mud.

NERVES

The leg of the table.
Aaaagh!
Light.
Aaaagh!
The image in the frame.
Aaaagh!
The card catalog.
Aaaagh!
Piped music in the bank.
Aaaagh!
Blocky calves that look carved
skeined in black tights.
Aaaaaagh!
The cistern.
Aaaagh!
A knot.
Aaaaagh!
The thought of her hard curls.
Aaaaagh!
Bagpipes.
Aaaaaaaagh!
The time she takes getting to the point.
Aaaagh!
A hair on the soap.
Aaaaagh!
A fly in the bag!
Aaaaagh!
The thought of a fly in the bag.
Aaaaaaaaagh!
A tangled cord.
Aaaagh!
Approaching figure blocked by a tree.
Aaaaaaaagh!
The thought of Dickens!
Aaaaaagh!
Arm of glasses sticking out.
Aaaaagh!
Right name for "arm" of glasses.
Aaaaaaagh!
Quotation marks.
Aaaaaaagh!

RELATIONSHIP PITFALL #14

YO!
You not gonna catch me make that error—
You can leave the cap off the toothpaste forever!
I'll suck it up!

TOE & FAUCET

Lying in tub tonight long, long time. Water luke-warm. Need heater-upper. Hand ready to go (want soap anyway). Head says No, let foot have go. Toes? Little buggers mad excited in face of mighty task. Up goes foot against faucet. Hand, head, even soap agog. Beautiful! Long old Left Foot laid like fish on faucet. Leaning, Turning. Big Toe exerting pressure. Like tug-of-war but other way. All toes go wild but Big Toe hero of the hour, yessir. Push. Press. Like opening canal lock. Or submarine door. Bit by bit faucet yields. Then gush. Water flow! Tub heats up but what moot point! All talk was Big Toe. But could he shut off? All eyes on Left Foot. Watch him lean & grunt again. Shut it down. Shut it down. To thin spool. To drip. To complete removal of wet! Like dry Pamper. Then Head gets smart. Sends Foot after soap. But Hand, dolphin of loyalty, shoots out & scoops: No-one gonna humiliate my man Toe. Then writes this.

fear of writing

to have to go away
when i am used to here

COLD

—but beautiful /

when the inside
of yr mouth

tastes like
it has been rubbed

w/ orange peel