Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Flying Is Hungry Work

I fall asleep
sheltered from the cold
by sunwarmed manmade rocks
on the shores of Hawkshaw Lagoon
and become a pelican

The wind tugs at my muscles
tickles my fingers
twists my feathers
lifts me up

familiar landmarks
Gussie's Record Shop
Dwarf Drive-In
Three Mile Bridge

faraway places
Pyramids of Giza
Great Wall of China
Long Bridge into Ceske Budejovice

Losing interest in the works of men
I fasten my hopes for lunch
onto the black dots below the surface
of a bright green sea

Thanksgiving falls on November 25 in 1943

It is a city of men
From Tristan De Luna to Leroy Boyd

I skulk between the library shelves
where the books speak to me of women
women who are famous or not at all
women who matter greatly or not at all

I find an old forgotten letter, tucked in a book
[a woman wrote it to a sailor, news from home]

It is a time to make bandages and elect junior class presidents
It is a time of Negro soldiers from the North who are fine musicians
It is a time for cute high school girls falling for cute navy ensigns
The unwed mother picking up her baby after school is not particularly cute

These things matter greatly or not at all

ozone

heed the lightning flash
breathe out the grumbling thunder
read the trains

a cento of sorts [and a work in progress]

I was born in a small town
got tired of feelin lonesome ornery and mean

and it's up against the wall redneck mother
and ransom captive israel

I say black you say white
damn the dark damn the lie

but there's booze in the blender
that mourns in lonely exile here

gonna die in a small town
some people say there's a woman to blame

Gun Tamga

Przewalski's elk
never impatient
never wicked or powerful
or ugly or wooden or zebraic
never at work with komodos
and never with dessicated crops
never magic nor serious
possesing only two prerogatives

Meteor spit
Wolfhounds by midnight
to never again walk on
It costs what it costs


the above is a "translation" [which is something like babelfishing, but without the help of a computer] of part of the poem Atlantyda, by Wislawa Szymborska

Tracks

I have fallen for you

I have fallen from the railroad trestle
onto 17th Avenue

Anonimo stares down at me
from his grafitti-laden wall

as the speeding cars splatter my brains
and shatter my bones

on their way to the beach
on their way home

But that was tomorrow

driving a fire engine red car
to the neon red sun
driving around the fort at 20
spinning around the core at 900
flying around the star at 13000

I have lost the race

Is there a cure for Elephantiasis?

I can get out of you , Bob
the fool scapped
fertile period
cockroaches in your ass
And candles and flaming
pie & hives
for farts
Two are small & brown & fat.
In the quivering / places of slaves
In a pastel portrait / of hairs and days
A couch is but an imprimatur
Put on your cloaks and
the women will be the boys
and shout a dead bear will roll





All lines, including the title, are from Bernadette Mayer's chapbook Ceremony Latin (1964)

blue heron haiku

poised like nijinsky
blue like the sides of horses
fieldstone with an eye


ted berrigan the sonnets (don't remember which sonnet)
lyn heijinian, jack collom sunflower
galway kinnell the gray heron