SUMMER HOURS

At sundown men in loose powder-blue overalls come in a white city truck and unfurl tarps stashed between the bars of the wrought-iron fence and nudge them up and out over the park occluding the darkening saturated sky, making a sky beneath the sky, a darker place through which they feel their way back, by smell, by touch, to the edge, where they hang briefly, more audible than visible, before zipping the park up for the night, piling into the truck and driving away.

4.51am

it's hard to keep up
with the bathroom tap:

sometimes dripping
sometimes not

CAST-OFF

In the dark, whether before dawn or after sunset who knows, only that it was a strange dark, in a strange and open place, completely still except for the scribble of her body arced over insistent hands, the only sounds the rasp of sisal as she worked the heavy loop up and off the pin and the knock when she loaded the loop overboard, letting it drop, then on to the next pin, working the loop up and over again, and the next, pushing and pulling, heaving and letting fall, until she worked her way around the gunwale to the very last loop and patiently, exhaustedly worked that too until she could lift it away, mark the hollow knock of its dropping, and cast off, letting the oily rocking sea take her away.

PISS ARTISTS

When I was a lot younger in Dublin the capital insult was to say someone was pissing away novels in pubs. No-one said his novel though that sort of went with pissing somehow and the toxic proximity of bar and gents. Pubs were awash with piss in those days—old-fashioned and novel varieties both. Now some of the guys who weren’t pissing away novels in pubs are pissing in much nicer toilet bowls upstairs, downstairs, and maybe an ensuite or two too. Some of them—the guys who weren’t pissing away novels in pubs but writing them instead—are pissing away novels in pubs now. These guys may or may not have ensuites but if they do only some of them bought them with novels. And some of the guys who weren’t pissing away novels in pubs but instead writing them are still writing them. These guys probably have ensuites bought from the proceeds of novels but may not. The new novels may be unpublished and when the time comes to have the ensuites replaced there may be no chance in hell or if there is the moolah will have to come from elsewhere. Anyway the lads who were writing instead of pissing away their novels all got something more or less out of it—novels. Some of them went on to write more novels and buy ensuites and some of them didn’t. Some of them went on to write more novels that they couldn’t sell and now they have outdoor toilets, in no way Scandinavian. Some of them got jobs. Some of them got good jobs and bought ensuites. Some of them never wrote another novel and though on a high shelf the yellowed novels that were written instead of pissed sit no-one reads them any more except the children, grandchildren, or an odd scholar or two. But here’s to the guys who pissed away their novels in pubs. Here’s hoping they spun great stories there in the pool of piss that was the pub and novel. Here’s hoping they had a laugh between the misery of the torn seat and urinal. And company to return to as they clumped to and from the urinal to and from the bar arms laden with tilting pints. Company at the urinal too. Most if not all went on to a job or not. Marriage or not. Children or not. Life or not. Some wrote novels for the drawer or publisher. Or kept them in their heads with their dreams of upstairs and downstairs toilets and ensuites. The pool of piss in the pubs has shrunk most places now. The décor and food and porcelain are miles better. But here’s to the men who went before and their communal material performative conceptual novels pissed away for a drink and a snarl.

layoffs

how long have you worked at ****?
what was your image of **** before you started working here?
how did that image change during the time you worked here (if it did!)
what is your image of **** now?
what were your best times working here?
what gave you most satisfaction?
what do you think was the best contribution you made?
what helped you get through the last few weeks?
in what ways will you stay in touch with ****, if you will?
what is **** now for you?
anything else you'd like to say?
can I use your name?

NO RESULTS FOR SLIP-DOCK

Did you mean slipstick or Slipstick
slip out or Slipback
slip top or Slap stick
slipper sock or Slap-stick
slap down or Slap pack
lipidic or Slap-back
slip a cog or Sleep sack
sliped or Slip jig
slopwork or Philip dick
lap dog or Orlop deck
solipedous or slapstick
sled dog or Slupsk
salt pork or Slapjack
sulindac or skeptic
Doris Duke or Melchisidek
Spitok or Spodek
Spit-up or sleepydick or Spodik
or Salt pork or Whole Earth
or Whole Truth or Babe Ruth
Slupca or Sleepsack
Hackensack or Hackysack
or Slipjig or Sulindac
or Stop'n Shop or Drop-kick
or Slapton
or Slepton
or Svipdag
or Swipdag
or Slipgate
or Slippage
or Salida, California?

a note on reading

poetry reading is very much about time. the first question i usually ask when invited to do a reading (right after the question about how many zeroes on the check) is how many minutes. the soundeye school likes to braid readers into a kind of poets' knot, with each reader making multiple entrances, in a sense, like waltzers in a cuckoo clock. this opens up new possibilities of serendipity, and works well for poets who prioritize immediate impact; it also suggests possibilities in terms of how relationships / friendships / frictions between poets might inform a reading. this is all to the good as poetry reading is a relatively atrophied art. for poets interested in modulation though, the braided reading shuts off exploration. at 20-35 mins, the poetry reading is already quite a miniaturist art. subdivide that into 3-4 episodes of 5-9 mins each and you got popcorn. programming a 35-min reading is an interesting colloquy with time, especially as 35 mins is already too long for most audiences, and most readings. one of the interesting things about the braided reading is that the first 5-9 mins from each poet is usually enough. you can see the poets making specific choices for each segment but the impact is as likely to be lessened with each return. there is a here we go again factor, which is dampening. the braided reading also does weird things with silence. usually in a poet's control, more or less, depending on the noise of the venue, the power of silence as an instrument is very much reduced in the braided reading when the pauses between readings are a kind if no-mans-land, and each individual reading is a micro-environment. all that said, there is no reason why modulation, silence, a kind of collaboration of breath, cannot become part of the braided reading too, in the same way that time already is.

mesh

the color leaked out of the world
it pooled on sills and in gutters
flouncing like litter ...

the grey mesh of the world
effacing itself ...

the radiant color below
insulting the eyes ...

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH
LAST 2 DAYS!!!!!!!!

couscous@tazza 4/28
MUSIC 9-10pm The Grey Goose (Traditional Irish)
POETRY 10-11pm: Francesca Capone***Zach Behar***Ros Murray***Penn Sultan***Nehassaiu deGannes
MUSIC 11pm-midnight: Arvid Tomayko-Peters with Modest Machine
!!!!YIKES!!!!
get the last of your free poetry

Mark Milloff & Mairéad Byrne present:

Tues 3/31
couscous@tazza
MUSIC 8pm Mark Milloff (blues)—9pm Marlie Wanseth + Josie Crosby
POETRY 10-11pm: Nehassaiu deGannes—Michael Gizzi—Christopher Johnson—Daniel Peltz—Jon Wolston
MUSIC 11pm-closing: Arvid Tomayko Peters + Modest Machine: Pictures of an Exhibitionist
tazza
Free

MORE POEMS THAT LOOK LIKE POEMS

This poem is the opposite of Concrete Poetry:

Concrete poems are poems that don't look like poems.

Heck they might only have one word.

My poems look like poems alright.

But there

the resemblance ends.

Mark Milloff & Mairéad Byrne present:

Tues 2/24
couscous@tazza
MUSIC 8pm Brad Maloney (acoustic blues)—8.40pm Jonathan Bonner (Cape Breton fiddle)—9.05: Dave Roscoe Tippett (acoustic blues)—9.30: Mark Milloff (blues)
POETRY 10-11pm: Francesca Capone—Samantha Gorman—humanBeast—Justin Katko—Jenny Lai
MUSIC 11pm-closing: Metropolis
tazza
free

it's not much

but I know
my way
through this last part
of snow

what is

brown bread
is bread
is bread
brown bread is bread
it is nothing but bread
brown bread is bread
is bread
is bread
brown bread is bread

Mark Milloff & Mairéad Byrne present:

Tues 1/27
couscous@tazza
MUSIC 8pm Brad Maloney (acoustic blues) 8.40pm Jonathan Bonner (Cape Breton fiddle) 9.15pm M. Milloff, Dave Tippett (blues)
POETRY 10-11pm: Mairéad Byrne—Cara Blaine—Abigail Bramnick—Henry Gould—Mike Magee—Kim Triedman
MUSIC 11pm-closing: Metropolis
tazza

Free

AN OBSERVATION

One thing I've noticed is that if you wait a while after the last track on a CD there is more music. The first time I noticed it I thought it was a mistake. They'd left some ragged stuff at the end no-one noticed. But then I thought it was an extra bonus. Treasure in a hidden room you need patience to discover. There was something very private about it, like joining the musicians backstage afterwards. Without having to be a groupie. Or listening to them jamming in the studio when the recording's done. It was amazing but pretty soon I noticed every CD has extra music at the end. You just have to let it run a little. It's amazing. You think there are no bargains anymore & no-one gives anything away for free when all the time every single CD has an extra dimension tucked at the end of it, & no-one brags about it or tries to sell it or draws attention to it in anyway. It's a real Halley's Comet of a deal.

january morning

I lift the sprigged curtain
& all the excitement of winter
spills like a satellite map
onto my face.

911

beside our house
a poem
curled up in the snow.

called 911.
the poem
got up, staggered away.

WHAT ARE THEY LOOKING AT?

a) snow
b) fireworks
c) airstrikes on Gaza
d) you are looking at this

Acknowledgements to Nikola Solic & Shirin Adhami.

NEGLECT

I think it's accurate to say this writer was neglected.
Someone neglected to tell him his crime.
He was left waiting a very long time.
Meanwhile the Germans laid siege to the city.
The food ran out.
Everyone spent all of their time running after it.
In prison there was nowhere to run
& no-one ever came
to feed him.
So he died.

what does it matter

how very light their smiles are—

I'm not thinking of taking them home.

Mark Milloff + Mairéad Byrne present:

Tues 11/25
couscous@tazza
MUSIC 7-9pm: Mark Milloff + Friends (blues)
POETRY 9-10pm: Mairéad Byrne; Claudia Ford; Adam Hyman
+ Evan Murphy; Sarah Richards (screen); Abby Bramnick; Zach Behar
MUSIC 10pm-closing: Arvid Tomayko-Peters + Friends (contemporary)
tazza
Free

Please forward

THINGS I AM SURPRISED ARE NOT ILLEGAL

PANCAKES.
PANCAKES WITH MAPLE SYRUP.
PANCAKES DRENCHED WITH LEMON JUICE & MAPLE SYRUP.
PANCAKES WITH FRIED BANANA (FRIED IN BUTTER).
PANCAKES WITH AN EGG IN THEM & MAYBE A HANDFUL OF BLUEBERRIES.
ALL OF THE ABOVE.
UHH!

paint samples

in the paint shop back lot
packed w/ Saturday sun
spread out on my Galapagos green trunk
29 white paint samples
drunk w/ indistinguishable
difference

downcity

plump raindrops make
fat puddles
jump up in dollops
between hardened sole
& flip-flop

on angell street

my
daughter

hands
me a
dense
bouquet

[thanks]

groceries

I unpack
then start
the list again

heaven

driving
&
johnny
cash

children
in
back

on benefit street

theft:

of a white
geranium—
leaf &
blossom.

theft:

of a white
lilac—
leaf & blossom

exchange:

of a glance &
smile


I LIKE YOUR PAINTING

A teacher approached a former student, Hey—I like your painting.

But the color & water & light had been transformed into glass & money & the teacher walked away.

An old friend said to an old friend, Here is the painting.

At the end of the day, each one walked away, hands in pockets, with the magnificent word painting tucked under her or his arm.


CORRESPONDENTS

I am perfectly happy where I am but I want to be somewhere else.

I want to move but I don’t want to leave my house.

I am very happy and I am utterly miserable.

I love my job but I want a new one.

I am lonely & I want to be alone.


FAIRY STORY

Family stories are like fairy stories. This is a true story.


FAMOUS IN YOUR HEAD

You can be very famous in your own head for something. Gilding, for example. Forgery. I am a forger par excellence, according to my own legend. I am a master portraitist of Joe Stalin. I am a cunning maker of small cavemen. I am most famous in my head for falling out of boats in Bray and the Sea of Marmara & laughing my head off—that very same head I’m famous in. I’m also famous in my family for cooking & baking & lightning changes of mood. My mother was famous for baking & a red dress. My sister was famous for trickery. They’re all gone now, those famous folk. My head is a very small arena but I'm the star there, when the lights are on.

YOUR DAUGHTER IS GROWN UP

I brought my daughter to the pediatrician & the desk clerk said:
Your daughter is grown up.
She has an ingrown eyelash, I said, we need to see the doctor.
I’m sorry, your daughter is grown-up, you need to find a new doctor.
We always come here, I said. We’ve been coming 18 years. Is this a way to treat us? That’s our doctor!
Ma’am, this is a pediatric practice. Your daughter is grown-up.
No, she has a case of giantism. We are in urgent need of a doctor. It is hereditary. Do you want her to end up like me?

MY DAUGHTER

My daughter is so like her father in appearance that sometimes I suspect she’s not mine. I think he had an affair & the woman became pregnant & came to the same hospital as me to give birth (small world) at exactly the same time (randy bastard) & the babies got switched. I couldn’t love her more but in quiet moments I wonder about the other child & whether it was a boy or a girl & whether my husband is still having the affair though it wouldn’t be an affair now of course since the divorce.

FINGERS

Fingers are handy little articles. I wouldn't say people take them for granted. They are celebrated with rings. But I don’t think too many poems are written about them. Here’s one.

CITY OF GAY MEN

In the City of Gay Men
men stroll on Sunday—
It is not even bright or warm
but they stroll after church
with cashmere sweaters
loosely knotted
around their fine brown necks

It is cold & rains all the time
but the gay men wear impervious make-up

making it all the more awkward then
to by-pass them
where they stroll
self-contained
on the road

Mark Milloff & Mairéad Byrne present:

Tues 10/28
couscous@tazza
MUSIC 7-9pm: Deaf Reverend (acoustic blues); Adele Carey (folk); Mark Milloff & David Tippett (blues)
POETRY 9-10pm: Mairéad Byrne; Kelli Auerbach; Caitlin Hettich & Jenny Lai; Sarah Richards (screen); Rosmarie Waldrop; Arnie Yasinski
MUSIC 10pm-closing: Metropolis / Arvid Tomayko-Peters
tazza
Free

Please note the earlier time! Poetry 9-10pm!

Mark Milloff & Mairéad Byrne present:

Tues 9/30
couscous@tazza
MUSIC 7-9pm:
James Chapin (acoustic blues guitar); Jonathan Bonner (Cape Breton fiddle); Sit Down Baby! (Blues)
POETRY 9-10pm:
Mairéad Byrne; Jonathan Bonner; Mary Cappello; Laura Shirreff; Jean Walton
MUSIC 10pm-closing:
Metropolis with Arvid Tomayko-Peters
www.tazzacaffe.com
Free

PUBLICLY COMPLEX READING

Brenda Iijima & Mairead Byrne
Ada Books
330 Dean Street (at Westminster)
Providence

6pm Saturday 9/13

THE POEM-MOTH

I had been wondering why old people use moth-balls. If there’s a smell of mothballs in their houses they must use mothballs, right? But you hardly ever see any moths in the course of daily life. Do they mainly just go to old people’s houses, to eat clothes?

Before I went away though, I saw a moth fluttering in my house. Then I saw another one. Time for the mothballs. But where the hell do you get them? I must be old.

While I was away, my daughter, who is 21, was looking after the house. She noticed a moth or two, maybe even a steady accumulation of moths. The night before I was due back, she decided to give the place a good clean. When she opened one cabinet in the kitchen, a bunch of moths flew out. Investigating that cabinet, believe me, she found out more about meal-moths than she ever found on the Web, & in a much more intolerable way.

Poems are like moths. You open a cabinet & they fly out. But first there are signs of them. You take note of the signs. Then you start tracking them down.

Poems are also not like moths. You’re thrilled to see them. There may be fear & a certain amount of reluctance as you trace them back & back. But there is seldom disgust.

They are more like dragon-flies. You want to ride on their backs straight out of here.

THE LAND OF THE EURO

I was in the Land of the Euro for the last 3 weeks.

It was scary.

I’m scared of the Euro.

Technically, the Euro is worth about $1.70. In real life though, the Euro & the dollar are worth about the same.

Like if a bottle of wine costs $9 here, it’ll cost €9 there. Except the standard of living is higher there, at least in Ireland where I was. No-one wants a €9 bottle of wine. A cheap bottle of wine would be like €12 or €14 in Ireland. They say Euro, not Euros. Don’t say Euros. So instead of your $9 bottle of wine, you’re now in for a €14 bottle of wine, which is about $25. And the weird thing is: It’s probably a bottle of French wine. From a few hundred miles away. Within the EU. I’m not saying you could get exactly the same bottle of wine in Campus Fine Wines on Brooke Street. But you could certainly get a French bottle of wine. For $9 or $10.

A postage stamp is 55 cent in Ireland. They don’t say cents, they say cent. Don’t say cents and don’t say Euros. Just bring plenty of them. Anyway a postage stamp is 55 cent. And the farthest distance you can mail a letter within Ireland is 400 miles. I think our 42 cents for 3,000 miles is pretty good value in comparison.

Water’s good value here. I think it costs about 49 cents for a small bottle in Wholefoods. In Ireland a small bottle of water is €1.40, which is nearly $3. Admittedly a small bottle of water in Ireland is a bit bigger than a small bottle of water here. Anyway you get the idea: Everything costs 3 times as much as it does here.

Still I was scared to come back. I was scared of the Euro but I was even more scared of

• the dollar
• the war
• the elections
• the economy
• gas prices
• the housing crisis

It didn’t seem right to see names like Fannie Mae & Freddie Mac on the cover of the Irish Times.

I don’t want to see those names on the covers of Irish newspapers.

I want them to be dark American secrets.

I first heard the names Freddie Mac & Fannie Mae when I did my first-time homebuyers course in 2004. Up till then I thought they were chocolate makers. Like Sallie Mae. I know all about them all now.

I saw Alex Gibney’s Taxi to the Dark Side when I was in Ireland. It’s a movie about Bagram, Abu Ghraib, Guantanamo. I don’t think it’s been shown here yet. The Discovery Channel bought the rights & then said they’d never ever show it. HBO is going to show it in October, maybe, before the elections. It's grim stuff. So grim it makes John McCain look good. Fleetingly. Just for asking questions.

Anyway I got so scared thinking about

• the War
• the War Industry
• the economy
• the dollar
• gas prices
• the housing crisis
• the education system
• the prison system
• healthcare
• the elections

I had to watch the entire first season of The Wire to get in the mood to come back.

I watched a bunch of episodes in Moycullen before I got the plane. Then I thought about them intensely on the plane. I had to block out the Owen Wilson movie that was actually playing. Then as soon as we landed, I went to Blockbuster & got the second season & watched it immediately. It’s called book-ending. Twelve Step groups do it too.

There was no time for Netflix. I'm on a steady diet of Netflix now. I'm on Season Four. Anyway that’s how I got home.

Mark Milloff & Mairéad Byrne present:

Tues 7/29
couscous@tazza
MUSIC 8.30-10pm
Blues with Mark Milloff & Friends
POETRY 10-11pm
Mairéad Byrne; Dick Bidwell; Karen Donovan; Ira Schaeffer; Kate Schapira; Rachel Stern.
MUSIC 11pm-midnight
METROPOLIS
tazza
Free

Please forward

HANDSHAKE

A woman holds out her hand to shake. Instead of fingers she has pens. The pens are articulated in joints so they rattle. They are a lot like fingers but stiffer & more jolly somehow. She shoots her hand into the fleshy competent hand of the man she is greeting. He is astonished by the whirr of pens & the unexpected feel of this glittery handshake. Pens are, after all, quite a bit thinner than fingers. He is amazed & repulsed but repulsion wins out, having more exercised his expressive armory to date. He flings the pen-hand from him, flattening his suit flap with one clammy downward palm-stroke. Ink rushes to the pen-fingertips. The woman feels an unbearable pressure to write.