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Song for a Sea Tower

There lived1 four sisters in a tower2 by the sea,
Between the blue waters3 and the lily lea.

One sister was a wolf4, one a gentle sheep5.
One a swan6, and one a fish7, from the fabled8 deep.

Four sisters9 loved a man10, beautiful was he.
He swam in blue waters beside the lily lea.

The sheep gave him fleecy wool to warm his lonely11 bed.
The swan gave him feathers to crown12 his curly head13.

The fish gave him gaudy rings from wrecks of vanity14.
The wolf ran all alone around the lily lea.

The wolf ran all alone15 where the lilies proudly16 rise.
She17 gave the man18 nothing but a glance19 from her eyes.

A glance from her savage eyes beside the summer sea.
He left the wave and followed her along the lily20 lea21.

Three enchanted sisters22 in a tower by the tide23.
Where their hearts 24 awakened, there they must abide.

There spell-bound25 sisters, a sheep, a fish, a swan.
Floods26 beat against their tower27. Time goes on and on28.

“If we wait with patience29, no matter what the pain,
From the green waters the God30 will come again.”

Three ancient sisters, faithfully they wait
For the young and loving31 man that the wolf ate.

________________________________________

1. rib-bed shells the warp deciduous dream the sea anemone the carnivorous count
2. guarded face beheld in unsmiling bricks never loseface
3. take luke parts per million kneading of these splashes
4. say grace canis lupus
5. wash up ovis aries
6. count blessings cygnus olor
7. any non-tetrapod chordate moisturize
8. for once upon a time
9. sharing genetic loads sharing soups of odor warm beefslaped sun
10. a quieter fop
11. see all alone
12. need we know the legislating sea
13. all for the favorite side of the face
14. the poison grew old then the old poison grew
15. see lonely
16. the sea is proud or majestic a waning curtain used towel
17. everything she did was having to be beautiful
18. epic buoyant and black tugging at every underwatertoe
19. trapdoor to the sinuses
20. but the sea nymphs cried and cried for the otherworldliness of the white petalfolk
21. got as far as the universal would take them and said I can’t take you any further
22. said the sea driver over over and over
23. heave muscular diaphragm of shore heave itching up against the sound of quartz
24. ba bum ba bum
25. now burn the paper and scatter the ashes to the wind
26. hear oscillating waps the midnight curl
27. reputedly Caucasoid
28. only space the voluminous cousin body of deeprub the innermost hood of the terre
29. of scanty flies something never worn removed
30. is she an artist? it is required
31. a garbled girl she spoke of lava

Poem for a Lighthouse

There lived four sisters in a lighthouse by the sea,
A fish, a swan, a wolf, and the sheepish one was me.

The light had burnt out years before and they began to sing,
The sailors on the blue and green were brought, as on a string.

The wolf gave sailors welcome howls. The swan gave them her feathers.
I gave my fleecy wool and the fish gave sunken treasures.

The sisters gave the men their gifts for want of love’s return,
But love was never given back, so the sisters still would yearn.

Far away there walked a man around a lily lea.
He picked some flowers carefully and gave them to the sea.

Four lonely sisters, a fish, a wolf, a sheep and swan.
Floods beat against their tower. Time went on and on.

The flowers floated past the savage sharks and men o’ war.
One moonless night the sisters saw four lilies on the shore.

Four enchanted sisters stopped their singing to the sea
and there the ships began to sink, the wrecks of vanity.

Sea Tower Song

There veins four sisters in a tower through sea,
Between the high marine and a meadow of a lily.

A sister was the wolf, a sister was the sheep,
A swan and a fish, of legendary it.

Four sisters loved the person, well there it is.
The avenue of a sea over a meadow lily.

Sheep gave heats at one curling wool, its solitary bed.
The swan she be springy, given a crown its curling hair

The fish has given walks at the failures of vanity
Wolf complete solitude around a meadow of a lily

The wolf walked in true lilies in spite of wage increase.
It has given at the person only a view of its eyes.

Take of its wild eyes the years from now sea where.
It has left a wave and followed it on a meadow lily.

Three fascinated sisters in a tower a stream.
Where their wakened hearts, that where must remain.

Three fascinated sisters, sheep, fish, swan.
The flood fought against their tower, time go each time

"When we patiently wait, although the fact that a pain,
green water the God again will arrive. "

Three tired sisters, sincere watchers on their youth
and the person of love who the wolves never knew

Explication of the Sea Tower Song

Apparently, these four women who happened to be of the faith, lived inside a giant penis right on the tip of the ocean, which was vulvic, and according to Joseph Campbell, represents the collective unconscious, and the surmounting of desire over the human will. Rationality holds little sway against such forces, and this man, who swam in blue waters, blue signifying cool, calm and collected, masculinity is devoured by the she wolf. Another possibility, is that this man was wearing cockrings, uncircumcised, and old sheathe condoms, and that this is a cautionary tale about the dangers of unsafe sex. This theory gains creedence when looking at the the last three stanzas on the pleasures of masturbation as "floods beat against their tower" The tower, being the collective clitori of the three remaining sisters. The wolf, and the male, both deceased from AIDS, they wait, for the turn of the tide, the 90s to come and make everyone more aware. Considering that we are all "wrecks of vanity" and that inside each of us, there are sheep, swans, and fishes, and the wolves... their is also the implication of man and God. Ultimately, this will be fruitless, as time goes on and on... and they await the 2nd coming, or perhaps, the first coming and little do they know that in the lily lea, the bones of the man are resting. These bones might make for a good sexual implement. Perhaps, the swan, sheep and fish could reconfigure the bones, patch up the tattered bloody shreds, and make this man into a fuck doll in honor of the wolf. The wolf inside us all. None the less, all these figures missed the point, entirely, by not devouring tons of sushi, and clam chowder. They could have built campfires and drunkenly howled Helen Adam ballads, but chose to engage in such pointless melodrama. They deserve Tonys... All of them... Maybe even a gold star, but as for the man, he looks like he needs a makeover.

Love! Love! and L.S.D

A Helen Adam Reading of the The Cheerless Junkie's Song

Sing along on page 219 in your Helen Adam Reader

song

Andy Hall
Song: Terrorists of Love

Baby tickle me
blindfold me baby
spank me baby
put nipple clamps
on me
and waterboard me
cuz I am the terrorist of love
beat jesus into my backside
sell me a bible, flag and gun
okay...hold the gun
cuz I'm the terrorist of love
Let's play this game
till we both come
and I convert you
to Islam
or you make me born again
venture capitalist
it will be so much fun
and in the mean time
we can take out a few
million women men
children
it will be so much fun
for we are the terrorists of love
flick the switch
for the terrorists of love
flick my switch
terrorists of love
terror is of love
freedom from love
freedom baby freedom
baby, put them handcuffs
back on and lets do it all again.
you don't need my implied consent
all you need is a daterape drug
would you bomb me right down there
with your tongue?
come now, give my rope a tug
unleash this terrorist of love
39 lashes, crucify me
put me on high, up above
all hail to the terrorists of love
come give me a bullet
sanctify my lust
I want power, pussy
ass, my own tv show
and a hug, come watch
the terrorists of love
don't miss the terrorists
of love, we all are terrorists
of love.

Anno Domini

intimacy is a game of telephone

intimacy is a game of telephone
jarring all our butterflies
in a mason glass
with holes on the top
walking around earth
carrying it with two hands

have you ever wanted
to believe
so bad you made
everyone do it too
desire is so communal
convince your neighbors
you’re in love

if my heart was dropped
in Beijing
it would say I love you
in Chinese I would
learn all the words
that make you great
and none of the ones
that don’t
I would
ignore those
decent sex workers

your partner
woke you up last night
before those birds chirp
to say
she’s loving you
the best
that she can

intimacy is a game of jello zone
where we wobble jiggle
in our oldish age

ask
did you get the mail
no
did you
why would I ask you
if you got the mail
if I got the mail

this is not a love story
it is a growing story
learning to change
the thoughts you have
for another human
so that you might
still eat popcorn and
hold their hand

spam [poem] i received to my ilstu email account on 2-19-08 at 10:50am

Way. Proper grandmother! He exclaimed. It doesn't added missmarple, 'we are right in assuming that for a garden seatwhich appeared to be of comfortable all artists almost allin the age of illusion, about him. Not an easy man to forget,really. She was staring at her plate. Something in the i did not wish a decided rebuff i would better young voicea little foreign in its accent, but in this exodus towardthe setting sun. He was dates from this time, and, althoughhe grew in proposition that it was an inscrutable dispensationdiscreet. Monsieur. Marie also. I will answer strangelyplaced in amphibia, are faithfully rendered been able tobear the thought of putting it quite determined to touchgold mining no more, and

Archibald Poetica

A poem should be palpable and mute
then it should throw off its clothes
run naked through the streets
of Pamplona and chase bulls
then engage in a flagellation orgy
while masticating fried clams and orange
juice, after which, the poem should smoke
lots of hashish, laugh at billy collins
play a round of chess, and go for a nice
long walk in the countryside contemplating
whatnot. Then the poem should curl up
with a cat by the fireplace, staring into
the fire, wondering where it all came from.

a poem for the trees in my life.

Trees

Bonsai.

You rest on my coffee table
and wait for green water fertilizer
bugs on your roots, moving, moving
The window gives you light
You give me the peace of forests


Oak.

I will build a house in you
and drink tea
with my friends, no
boys allowed


Baobab.

Stuck by the devil upside-down
roots grow at the clouds
Stand alone in Madagascar
—when we hug my arms
won’t meet
I reach around thousands of years


Willow.

To the Willow my dad helped me swing on:
Thank you
I’m glad it rained for you that night


The Giving Tree.

You taught me how
to be good
and I was happy

Pootry

RIV3R
The very thing that brought the thing to be is the thing that will cause its death.
Andy Goldsworthy


MISSISSIPPI, river system that has swallowed Jeff Buckley + has been crossed many times
from the Itasca, deep loins of Earth up on to the tundra and down between the nations
of Minnesota and St Louis, moving through Memphis, to the Delta, gulf of Mexico
carried Jim and Huck...tom and john, ike and Tina, and me, when I canoed down up above
St Cloud. River that has reclaimed lands from the people many times
reversed its flow, reversed it again, divides America
river I ‘ve crossed many times, have gone over, on bridges, with dad
in u-haul, in campervan, and ugly truck, and ate potatoes, meat, drank coke
ate ice creams, near waterslides, rainstorms'' countless baptisms
countless reclaimings countless fish had swum,
billions of souls sold down the river
Every explorer laid waste on your bluffs sucked into your mills
spilled on to bottomland
frozen over forced into migration
we cling always shoreland and bald eagles
glide across in search of life to rip apart
amazing that we always reach this here confluence
where we can view the surrounds from the eminence
What it's like to have given birth to rock and roll and blues
what’s it like to have given birth to writing,
and to have killed, you never killed, you just existed
How many times may I cross you, how many times
may I see you, when will I discover America
When will I become one with my people
when will bullets get turned into firecrackers
when will your blood become mine, and mine flow back into you?
I must admit, there are other rivers
some I like even more
I've been seeing them
rivers with cliffs
that tower higher
than cathedral spires
and vultures bawk
at the possibility
there are those you can
stand in
and feel the snowmelt
and those that glaciate
you can walk across
even think of freedom
wisteria & willow
confluence peninsula
then rapids then falls
drifts around bends & banks
glides smooth
salmon bear
upstream eggs
flooding magnolia
and magenta leaves
the sadness
glaciation cutting into me
a canyon eventually ripping into America
carrying the siltsouthward making me new
the sadness
The river will swallow us

making us

Saint Lawrence

Saint Lawrence River,
you lifted me
in Alexandria Bay
where I wore swim shoes
a purple once piece
rode a lazy pontoon boat
caught a fish from your rocks
bravely took it off the hook
felt it slimy yet firm
and threw it back
asking
would he make it okay


from the middle of the river
on a flat nontippy boat
taps is played
on a gold trumpet
a stillness radiates
the camp fires
people hold on to eachother
stop tasting their s’mores
listen to the melody
reflecting off the ripples


where Boldt Castle
is surrounded
silently sadly
meant for someone
who never saw its strength
those thousand islands
where wind whips
in a speed boat
they seem so singular


maps of your depth
are marked in colors and numbers
not doing you justice
like a cheap painting
is underneath


this romance you have
with the sun
wow
it glistens
like you’re always kissing
sometimes making love


the waves beginning to charge
the shallow cove
I watch the patterns
the wakes from the boats
like a sand garden
meeting a rake


the insects in my ear
I accept them
for it is
all a part
of floating on you
serenity and a calm
singing along with the
water rushing the Ontario


Saint Lawrence,
you made me stand still

Click on Me : I'm a river.

River Piece; Peep It Yo

I Made a Warm Room with Yours; There Are Drinks for But Me; You’re a Host with a Bucking So Well
-for my favorite-

To kiss her zephyrs each morn! can I yet pastoralmouth your quaint aperçu, runnel of starcurls, I’m happy!, Cunnilingus pretty with linnets linking clew aride their steam. No hap to my augers-glint, even when I’m not of Cunnilingus her tureen proffers a thick-with-teat, a must, still happiest here rubs of flint, aren’t we all?! don’t we wake to slept raimented a holy tint, tucked lips dangling dust?! Then and forever, doves twill, stroke a squall, aureate muse, ‘til I’m done not here nor alone. Among. I love Cunnilingus fair, fibril to dance, love the perspire which quaffs the dew, a tree I never made, never pulled myself anew. The exudation sometimes most, even more, wipe the seedlip of its unconscious dye and leave the dawn, wish I could beget, tap the jewel of the faun, the draught which lards itself a ringing copse, nigh gasping forth the floor! The taste I’ll listen, lasts when supine I cry—Cunnilingus near!—she’s been rung, for flung me in the sweat alacritous, paused the rite-filled pap, used the very yap to soar with sweat atow for more of its own, pulling out, out, vamoose, redolent, away, nary lubricious omnipresent weft we’re along! Look! the sweat enjoys itself well, thrills one to on, sweat, the songlaunch, the fancy’s rhyme to wake again and anon. Genet is wrong—God is gilt-edged and he’s laughing my ear what I rune through her sonoluminent womb: “I’m made afresh, juncos aloft unto tears, cerulean tarn we’ve to gain on abloom.” Extend through the quaint till its reeds, vapors net and twine mine eyes front the quay. I weep of your orb ‘til perches the horizon’s flocky, like a ghost sings away! Sips kneel till I pass, nay distent oh, I’ll not rise gaze nor the savor, the spume’s keel for the mast! Call it sibilance, I’ll make you mine, immolate the floe but fuck the thiram, I’ll never spit thine we’ve sung, diadem my delta, dandle my tongue, I’d sate you, Rhine but I can’t a dram. I’ll not walk with you when lungs ask a titivate, never quell the lull—the surfeit of meat, the lamb. I try to stop my sips’ be, my eyes alove resist the pine borne as gusted fescue abaft the kine, for it hurts to love anything we’ve done, most when her interstice’s aflame—abides the cache’s rue of stime! I want to rise my stead to make the world know—love abounds!—but I shan’t, my indefatigable cum, to draw a winestung soupçon would taint her bequest. This ungrateful spit—rest, rest!—twould ruin my sewn, for God! your Goddess is here, a succor my visage, there’s no Humbert!, wherefore his moan?! It’s true we die but thrill with nymphets for how not what they imitate—too rapt to know! Drag me, have you hair heft me home, I want, enwet, I can’t can’t her tongue drinking me entombed in lace, I’m below. Mine! for I scare of your away, Cunnilingus dear, when your mienfrills glaze a throat into days, astitch, never sere—daft kin who prolix when they’ve a ready hymn!

Prayer for Christina Marie

Christina, who eats pineapple pizza
who drinks Woodchuck
who lives one street away
who has blonde hair
who has pink hair
who has short hair
whose default band is Hanson
who is
the good twin

Christina
Marie
Frigo
whom I share one name with

who just wants to write
space herself with the air
to breathe it in

who swam the blue Barbados
dances in underpants
impresses easily with romance
will admit things
talks German and reads tattoos
fears snowstorm driving

who smiles at Nicholas
tells him he’s beautiful, tells him she loves him
and means it
please, bluebirds, look after him
for her sake

protect her
from writer’s depression
may she never
stick her head in an oven

from those who have failed her
from steel trains that blare our windows
from Crohn’s disease
from not wandering
from insomnia
from high text-message bills
from addiction and infliction
from time not healing
from divorce, adultery
from living in photos
from not knowing the sun
the wake and sleep, the tradition of change

from cavities and root canals and tooth extractions and gingivitis

Christina, who just wants someone to touch her hand
may she always have a friend to hug in the cold
to tell her it’s raining, and we’re okay

may she always make snow
angels in her coat

may she never
have to smell beer
be in a plane crash
collide a car into a doe or antelope or moose or reindeer or fawn
cap another glass bottle again

save her from being that stump
that moves her so much
let her grow to be the tree
know when to receive
may her leaves always change come autumn

let her have a silo again
but with someone more right
this time

may she always write love poems
no matter if the man deserves

may her vizla, Andy, never suffer

bring some town, city, state or person
to make her feel she’s Home

cover her in tulips
taking photos of ants
climbing up grass blades

may she shower in a waterfall,
have her portrait painted
with poppyred lips

may a poem of hers
be accepted
to The Kenyon Review
The Iowa Review
even though mine weren’t

save her from emesis
in cars
with embarrassment
or,
at least
surround her with people
who’ll let her live it down

may she never work for State Farm Insurance®

It's not that Stephen Chamberlain is never wrong, but that he doesn't like to be wrong so he tries very hard not to be.

pal·imp·sest –noun
a parchment or the like from which writing has been partially or completely erased to make room for another text.
[Origin: 1655–65; < title="Click for more information about this dictionary" href="http://dictionary.reference.com/help/ahd4.html" minmax_bound="true">American Heritage Dictionary - Cite This Source - Share This
pal·imp·sest (pāl'ĭmp-sěst') Pronunciation Key n.
A manuscript, typically of papyrus or parchment, that has been written on more than once, with the earlier writing incompletely erased and often legible.

I.
Isis, agape theon
beloved darling of the gods
lover of lilacs and bronze!

Protect Jenna Lynn Goldsmith, my rainbow, queen dyke, mullet walker, scholar of English studies and feminism, writer of beautiful words, intensely secular jew-ish, silhouette of androgyny reading Anne Sexton, Walt Whitman, Alfred Lord Tennyson, driver of a bumper of social issues for peace and equality, wearer of hemp, burner of jasmine, drinker of soy milks, nosher of toast, sporter of numerous high fashion hoodies

Protect her from all forms of water falling from the sky
acids rains, slight drizzles, snow pellets, hail storms, summer monsoons, wet socks, cold jeans, frizzy hair the mist off Lake Summerfest
use uninvertible umbrellas, silver awnings, hoods of faux fur, peach tree shade, petition to the rain gods! such as Cocijo of Mexico, Mulungu of Africa, Tawhaki of the South Pacific, Lei Gong of East Asia and Thor of the Marvel Comics

Protect her from her irrational fear of hoo-ved animals especially those of North America who may attack like the White-tail deer, the Mule deer, the Sitka deer the Elk and the albino deer that roam Argonne National Laboratory with a vengeance, that are especially
ferocious


II.
Isis, agape theon
beloved darling of the gods
lover of lilacs and bronze!

Protect Jenna Lynn Goldsmith, who lived on a lake in Michigan below an indie guitarist named Charlie who wrote songs about Martha, a ghetto in Madison, friend of the Yahara River, a tiny square house in South Haven, a condo in Schaumburg, who now lives in modular home in Belviqueerville with a silver/green/silver pinwheel divided by the Kishwaukee River

Protect her weakened immune system from allergens and allergy-induced asthma, sinus infections, packets of nasal phlegm, cat dander, dust, pollen, mold, feathers and leppits with hypoallergenic breeds, air purifiers, nose spritzers, Zyrtec, Allegra D, forget Claritin, soap scum remover and featherless dusters

Protect her from the death of her mother, Martha Ann Trowe, who hugged me first and knew me later, lover of Door County coffee, teacher of giving, expert photographer of the Sycamore, the Pin Oak, the Buttonbush and the Sweet gum but who also has an office and a desk as a carpenter contractor, lover of Jenna so much

Protect her from the death of her Grandmother, Haroldine Bernadette Sorensen who married Herbert Trowe, divorced Herbert Trowe, married Herbert Trowe, and then partnered a woman named Caroline, fellow English professor, who she walked with on the beaches but could not hold her hand, lover of Jenna so much


III.
Isis, agape theon
beloved darling of the gods
lover of lilacs and bronze!

Protect Jenna Lynn Goldsmith who spent her summers as manager of guest services, author of term papers, on Rape and Sexual power, the Stigmatization of AIDS, speaker of Spanish II, proof reader of my abominable prose, runner of town errands, genius conversationalist, maker of eye contact and mixtapes

Protect her from my mother, Maria Anne Mazzola Coyle, who is trying
who knew me as girl scout, bride, boy crazy, Catholic school girl, soccer player, only daughter, virgin, Nicholas Sparks, honor student, sound breeder, big sister, collector of marbles, volunteer, teacher, her sweet Melissa she should have put in more dresses, bought more Barbies thought less of the saber-tooth, read more Babysitter’s Club, watched less Star Wars, planted a rose not dug up a worm
who forgot misprint on the upper middle class nuclear family, poet, vegetarian, bundle of social issues, queer, secret from Grandma, denouncer of organized religious thought, scholar of post-modern, traveler of the world, lover, minimalist

IV.
Isis, agape theon
beloved darling of the gods
lover of lilacs and bronze!

Protect Jenna Lynn Goldsmith who even before we met I longed for her thorax, hinge joints, carpals, fibula, the dear roof of her mouth and other obscure parts, who has her very own handwriting, a nose ring, two tattoos but wants another, fake poet glasses, a turtle named Buddy who is twenty-five years old, reminiscent of the Archelon ischyros, who likes ketchup but also chocolate chip pancakes

Protect her from mundane living circumstances
let her love her coffee every day, give her Sunday mornings with perfect toast, a bookshelf so collected, sun sliding in envelopes, an endless lover, real flowers smile at bad drivers, let her notice every building on the way to work, find the curious intellect of every student, let the weather take her back with old feelings, have every lovely piece of word move her, have mercy on the kingdom of insects

Protect her from the story of us
mornings like yesterday
graduate schools and their state flowers

at Las Vegas the sagebrush
at Philadelphia the mountain laurel
at New Orleans the magnolia
at Normal the purple violet
at Champaign-Urbana the purple violet
at San Francisco the poppy
at Chicago the purple violet
if we succeed there or there, future girlfriends who are not me, the drawer of poems we filled, the classes we skipped, hugs of absolute unselfishness, that one time I took her to get sushi and let me pay, or that other time I showed her my bedroom and all my things, the other time we ordered pizza and wrote a poem together, or the last time we talked, when she showed me her bedroom and all of her things


V.
Isis, agape theon
beloved darling of the gods
lover of lilacs and bronze!

Protect her from hatred
who replaced the human with dyke, faggot, rugmuncher, homosexual, feminazi, catlapper, butch, kike
forgetter of Jenna Lynn Goldsmith, who looked past the stares of hatred to the soft retina of face into the flubbery lobe behind
who taught me to make human humans, make them people to the point of their sleeping breaths in steady rhythms, be love in their dreams, blanket their distant hearts, see them in the kitchen plucking unwanted hairs, riding the elevator to the 42nd floor, vomiting bile, surfing porn, loading the dishwasher, pinching their fat, wiping their glasses, inserting enemas, praying to the sky, tripping up curbs, flicking their boogers, kissing their mothers, holding on to each other

prayer poem

Dear Jonathan Kozol
God of Urban Education Reform
hear my prayer:

Please protect this girl
who has read all of your books and shaken your hand,
who’s allergic to dogs, cats and nuts
(but not peanuts),
who has a Map of the World shower curtain
hanging on her bedroom wall,
who grew up in a brick house in Mount Prospect
on a street that starts with a K
who now lives across the kitchen from me
this girl:
Glenna Kathleen Sullivan
who—if you ask her, “like…the good witch?”
she’ll say, “yes,” anyway, because she doesn’t want you feeling silly
Please protect her from the bad things.

Protect her Otis Redding album from scratching
and let her always sing along.
Tell her I’m sorry for eating her Twizzlers and
remind me to thank her for sharing that rice.

She’s the girl
with the ponytail, filling your water at the Medici restaurant
(home of that big lacquered Mulberry tree).
Protect her from flat tires on her purple bike
and also from anaphylaxis
and also asthmatic complexities
and also those damn cluster headaches
and more streptococcal infections
and from every type of cancer that has ever and will ever live.

These are the bones in her face:
2 maxillae
2 zygomatic bones
2 lacrimal bones
2 palatine bones
and a mandible
All of these bones create cavities for her senses
smelling, tasting, hearing
so protect them!
And also her eyes—which her students call “raw”
save them save them save them so she
can see her affect on the world and so
she can look into the mirror and
know that she’s beautiful.

Protect her from expensive airfare,
burnt corn,
red bats with rabies,
nightmares of mammoths
and Caspian Tigers.

Give this Glenna Kathleen Sullivan instead:
dreams of dandelions and deer grass
flying squirrels, and their walking cousins
chipmunks, gophers, forget-me-nots
stream orchids and wild oats.

One day, one day, sweet Jonathan,
let Glenna’s childhood wish come true:
send her up through the tropo-
strato-
mesosphere
into outer space
but not until they’ve drastically improved
Astronaut food
yes—protect her from dehydrated chicken dinners
and she should look down from her shuttle
and see oak trees and magnolias
and rivers and the lakes that she only knows are there
Then her smile will warm the Earth
when the sun gets too tired.

Protect her from crying while reading this poem.

She says she wants your protection from
losing her passion—
the passion for life and for love and for teaching
but you know and I know she’ll keep it forever
so there’s no need to protect it from leaving.

Glenna Kathleen Sullivan
deserves your watchful bespectacled eyes protecting her
you knew it when you shook her hand—
and not just your protection but also the gods that you pray to
and the gods that they pray to and the stars you all wish on—
let everything keep her safe.

Glenna Kathleen
who showed me London
who reads poetry and remembers
who still sleeps with Puffy
and helps clean my room
who wears mismatched socks
and has a good haircut
who edits my poems
who will live one thousand sad miles away from me next year—
Glenna who lives her life for others
who is really really real—
please give her all the good things
because I try to and it’s not enough.

You Can Petition The Lord With Prayer

Petition Por Barbara: mi Madre es tu Madre.
Andy Hall
Eng 447
2-6-08

Jesus Christ, the Jew, so Jewish he stands around handing out socialists pamphlets and singing folk songs on Washington Square, smoking reefers, drinking matzohball soup, and masturbating, of course. Protect my mother, Barbara Louise Schwartz from memories of
Marion Simon, Diabetes, Cancer, her Own Driving, Republicans
Pain, other drivers, Just a dry heat, weight gain, boring television,
death, futility, my whining, and bad cell phone service, atomic warfare, 100 foot tidal waves, earthquakes
the million tornadoes
Barbara Louise Schwartz Hall one time resident of
New York, descended from Romanian, Hungarian Gypsy Maggar Jews, resident of New Jersey, Ithica, Troy, New Jersey, White Plains, Enid, San Diego, Austin, New Orleans, LA, Rochester,
Then employee of Sibley's Dept. Store, YWCA, George Eastman House, UNLV Promotor of the Arts, cleaning bedpans and PR bosses bowels, you know... other people's BS.
Now situated in Las Vegas, Anasazi Hummingbird Palatial Estate, Paradise Valley, Du
plex, near Liberace Museum. &
Retired
Mother of Katie, the Chihuahua of Love.
spends time knitting scarves, Writing, working the food pantry at the Methodist church, watching Jon Stewart and Hardball.
She who receiveth sustenance from Colorado and Virgin rivers, and the Flamingo Wash, what little that still flow &
Lake Mead, Lake Powell, all drying up with global warming
sits near trees of Apricot, Olive, Ponderosa, Bristlecone, Joshua, Juniper
rolls in a 95 offwhite Toyota Tercel
one time Stephen Minister to Pauline who was 95 back in 95.
Breadwinner for our family when dad was out of work
Survivor of Aphasia, Hyperglycemia, Lymphnodes, bladder infection, depression, contusion, Breast cancer, and eyehandcoordination disorder, flat footedness, and the Vietnam War at home.
Passerdown of all the above and triple dose of Anxiety and sloppy joe.
Possessor of Broca's Penis, Smegma, Mons Venus,Carotid Artery-Fovea, Anal Spinchter Co Dependency
Maker of Eggplant, Kruegel, Rum Cake, and seeker of lost keys
Cantor of Haboobs, barometric, compression, Hanger-outer with Dick Farina who plastered his apartment with rejection letters, then died in a motorcycle accident the day his book came out. Folkmusic buff
Kid who went to see Vertigo, then flew to Frisco, retracing Jimmie Stewart’s steps in Vertigo
Dated Drew Dillon, then dated my Dad who sang Johnny Cash, drank beer, watched football, had a job, and was not Jewish, nor an actor.
You blizzard America, tornado the hair, oh goddies of goddies, let us tornado all hair follicles
& yowl to the prairie dog, soup of tortoise, hedgehog theo
logia, rabbits in the pouring el nino, chipmunk punk
Mastadon, Brasicles, TREX , Paul Bunyan's toes
Begonia, dandelions, posies, daffodils, lilacs, calyxes, sypingeas- Canyon creek lillytoad
Your garden is full of this and more (and a signed copy of Marianne Moore's Collected Poems)

God keep ye safe, and warm, and full of port
May their be red headed Texans to fuck the irish into you
Barbara Louise Schwartz
Mom among Moms, Mistress of momness, Mighty Mere,
Object of my Oedipal longings, unconscious, of course
Ah Mother,
you madre of the montanas
milkbreast provider of me and two
boys who bleed matzoh ball soup
and brie... touché mama, touché
but you are not just mother
but the driver of the car,
the payer of the movies
provider of pizza
who drove me to the store
for Pringles
and Stouffer's Pizza
and half gallon containers
of ice cream... You did all this for me
but you gave me life, and for that
I forgive you... You gave me my Jewieness
and Hitler thanks you too!

Funny how you converted from Atheism
to Christianity in the 60s,
and had me baptized in the same church Reagan went to
but you were always a liberal
and the religious right was never your thing
Lord God above, Jesus Christ, protect her from the religious nuts.

You who survived having a homeless child, alcoholic husband, breast cancer, diabetes, poor coordination, bad handwriting, mean bosses, and Enid Oklahoma. Lord, thank you for getting us out of Enid... don't send any of us back there again. Enid, the End of the world, with an I in it... Land of Oil, racism, and gun barrel Religion... Protect us all from that Enid. Give me the Enid of Innocence, the Our Lady of the Enid of Naiveté, the Enid of the Imagination.... Or better yet, keep us out of there altogether...

And your father drove off a cliff, without a spiritual life
nothing to live for in despair, He who converted from Eugene Debs' Socialism to Republican McCarthyism
so you, in your despair found god... good for you, and god.
Lord, protect you from suicides and despair

and you raised 3 bawling brats, we red headed ratzos...
You cleaned our tushes.... what more could we ask for?
And you? Protect you from grandchildren...
Make the human race, something idyllic and wondrous
Let your generation cure Polio, stop war, hunger.
Love one another
Barbara Louise Schwarz
Ghost Writer for Dr Joyce Brothers
Wrote how to grow a garden, though you never gardened before in your life, and your garden grew
Not just imaginary

You told me stories of children getting beat,
The human condition--
Protect me from those beatings
Please, don't let me be beaten
Let your father throw down his arms rather
than continue the endless cycle

I want you to be saved from your brown thumb
& from grandma Levy's burnt cookies
& from nuclear holocaust
& from crack cocaine-laced chocolate chip cookies
& from unbottled water
& from the cold & heat
& from the squabs that steal from your hummingbirds
& from repeats of the Daily Show and Colbert & mediocre episodes
& from running out of rollover minutes
& from dad's farts
& Hitler part II
Dear God,
Let mom
Smoke a hookah of snow
eat adrenaline of gastrolyphs
let the grey of rochester melt into sun glazed
beaches,
let the cruise ships carry her to warm waters
where she can swim
- Let the workers get social justice
Let Bill and Lois W,
and Shakespeare and Cesaria Evora
and the Weavers all be there
And let the sun
declare us all luminous
and lusty livers
experience
beauty, laughter, love &
watersong.

Listen: the rain.


PS. Dear Lord (MS Word 2007)
Protect Document

For Student

For three days our bodies laid
as one course those writers
will love you, and all
then they won’t

Sometimes it’s nicer to sit and write
reading theory
to watch your writing hands go
than to be buzzed or blown
but who would want one alone?
for Bourdieu and Foucault
meant little
against the orgasm.

Ah

J'accuse

who didn't choose to be born
who said the world owed you a living
who promised you rose gardens
who stole your fire and sucked you dry of lime
who ate your candy and made you gnash your teeth
and weep openly in icy climes
who told you you were special
who made you president of the united states and said
you could bomb the kids across the street
who told you to wear that flag pin
who said you could soil your underpants
and who told you you were a good boy for going potty
in the potty
who said you could give birth
who tore open your vagina and gave you a puppy
who makes you midori sours in three-quarter time
who told you you were mozart
who said you were a tornado twisting in the wind
dancing on the earth posing naked for the camera
before china, india, asia, africa, australia, antartica, and the americas

become them
and let the waters dry up
the continents collide
into one giant mountain
known as my penis
and let it jizzom all over
the universe like a mad
ray gun, being shot off by a
buffoon on a pony - my anima-
then let it pee a milky substance
forming galaxies that spin out of
control
and in them, daisies
ecstatic
pleasing to the eye
they have tiny spots
that sing
remarkably badly-
like preschool children singing arias
but so what
say hallucinogenic
at the very least
smells nice
and good to have around

sure,
I’d explore for a sky
drink deep from the petal’s
core sponge
bathe down fresh soil
dampened by drooping rain
land on the cardinal of day
let him fly me town
flag the children’s museum
smile with the maturity
those young mothers
spread for the puddle of wind
where it meets gray gusts

but I’d always sing home to you

land along your hand gently
just where fleshy part
meets the thumb, or
settle on your shoulder
to cry for species
dazzle strong the antenna wit
that flings against headboards
at nightfall
quiet your rain
listen faithfully
I am that love buzz in your ear

Zygote Arrived

Poetry spread her legs and dilated in my face
the portal stood a throbbing mirror
and with a chapped handed scholarly approach
my pupils stretched to the threshold’s size
cocked like a pup’s neck
to the big questioning cave dominion
of what is potential

what I knew
of the body
ended there

In my answer
a footstep inward
my voice dropping
to a harmonica’s breath
should I speak

The narrow chunking arena
in backwards somersaulting utero
to this ostrich egg accommodation
through the race of batons of oxygen and words
across the bloodstream of what is the face
except the manner in which flesh blankets a bone?

I ate what poetry ate
and she ate me

Under this umbilical
reciprocal clotting relationship
where I flourished like a cell
until I drained one hospital fluid
to come out of her lips
talking.


***********************************************************************************

A Poem to Justify my Existence on December 28th, 2007

Snowy objective
put my nose to the icy pavement
the word of the salt
results in worm rigor mortis
and we chant om

The heart does perfume cardio
for the two spots on
the pulse can be sniffed
over a thin wrist
I can write when in love

Today I’m at the barber
everything will change
if she lets me keep my specimens
from the tethers of my scalp
when the bristles of the broom wear my wig maybe
(it occurred to me other black hairs could brush my blonde)
and the soul goes

I get into my car and fart
into the seat crumbs
the shelf life of cheese is immeasurable
I don’t want you playing out there, really

The heat has no effect on the short drive
I live too close to it all
the cold steering wheel is beautiful
like the ratio of palm to bone
I do not own gloves.

Forgive the bad pun

Throwing the Spears of Destiny

I want Britney Spears to put out a great album
that changes the scope of this world
and makes us all reflect about what it means to be alive
and then I want us all to have a glass of water with lemon
and think of Britney, and then simultaneously, everyone on
Earth will bite their own forearms, leaving teethmarks
For what end? Just to have a moment
when we are all in tune, an a-ha moment, a realization
that we are creatures breathing in air, and spitting out carbon
and pretty soon, we will all be nice beautiful computers that beep
and blurp and we won't have to read books or do math homework
because it will be programmed into us... credit cards
in our eyeballs, wads of cash up our anus
we robots will be cute
and make robotic love
on the factory floors
the conveyor belts whirring KA-KA-KA-KA-KA:
Outside sand covers asphalt, oceans turn
comets blather... doing their thing. It's like an adolescent dance.
Only it is billions of years old.
Contemplate Eternity
and think lovingly and respectfully of Britney.



Lying Awake

Mother and Father are farting
Both my brothers are farting
Everybody’s farting but me

The whole world is snoring
The entire cosmos is snoring
I’m just picking my nose
Staring at the ceiling
And masturbating
About god knows what

Hola!

Andy Hall
English 447
1/21/08

A novel

I turned myself into the FBI for smoking marijuana
they dropped me off at the animal shelter
where they pushed LSD on me
and told me Jerry Garcia loves me
I said no no no, it's a trap.
You want to convert me to Jesus
and she took off her wig and it was Pat Robertson
and he did want to convert me to Jesus

But first, a round of good ol' American butt-sex
and then we could get down to Business

meanwhile I wondered if I was the reincarnation
of the antichrist, but it turns out I was
the Dalai Lama, and I really wanted love
or a diet soda and some corn chips to hold me
over to the next rest stop.

goodbye you geniuses-of-the-heart of this class

here you are you beautiful people!

seated front row lt to rt,

andrea riley, rachel weiss, jamie brown, mylka valcin, gabriel gudding (wearing birkenstock boots)

seated second row lt to rt,

alexandrea davis, alissa veenstra, danielle zimmerman, stephen shoup

standing lt to rt,

emily meier, stu allard, stephen chamberlain, chas "buddy" pullman, christina frigo, andy hall (tall red hair), joe amadon

you are all missed dearly

Dear Friends...

Is anybody still here?
Loving-kindness to all of you.

Sea

Toes at water’s waning
what is
the weight of a shoreline of sand?
i stand amid the seaweed encrusted melon rind
and search out a rock with a hole
a holed rock
in the bead shop of the downtown
pieces of coral pile in a small
fluted
glass bowl
copper fish displayed as at a market

plunge to where they are found
that which hides the ruin of man
and keeps his passion

and i will stand at a distance
holding hand above wave
and feel
and touch the song of a whale
beneath my rib cage
as explosion
that vibrates without colors displayed

weeds hang just below the surface
floating in wreaths, imperfect and organic
barnacles growths dangle at ends
of the fronds and sweep
the silty white covering
to build up the shoreline

the slow progression of pods
of whales
a choir, a chorus
i am dwarfed
something bigger than myself
lost am i

Collaboration Research 6

I enjoy researching poetry inspired by paintings. It is a great way to gain inspiration when you've run out of ideas. This week I discovered Anne Sexton. Anne was an American poet and writer. She struggled with bipolar disorder and an unhealthy need to please men. She once told her therapist that her only talent was prostitution. Through evaluation, Anne's therapist noted her creativity and encouraged her to take up poetry. Writing poetry became her livlihood and part of her therapy. She has won many awards, including the Pulitzer Prize in 1967.

I discovered Anne through Wikipedia, began googling her name, and found many of her poems. "The Starry Night" is a title shared between a painting by Vincent van Gogh and a poem written by Anne Sexton. Vincent van Gogh was known for his lonely feelings and endless creative energy. Anne's poem was an expression of what she saw in the painting. Below you will see both versions of "The Starry Night," as both a painting and a poem.



That does not keep me from having a terrible need of -- shall I say the word -- religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars.

--Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother

The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.

It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:

into that rushing beast of the night,
sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.

For more poems by Anne Sexton, click here.

oh see
sea of this earth
brush against me in your wisdom
seize my waves for
what humanely they are
smile in your saltness
lose sunglasses in your wonder
let the creatures of the liquid
slide into my face
teach me what I am made of
water
its dirtiest kin
sway with the trenches
deep with lovingness
crowding the sins of our future
daughters
let the sun breathe
warm on your bosom
for all the canters who
dominate your doors
make friends with the pelican
who bustles on that
round rock
believe into the tragedies
of your people
let their pain humble your
power whistling pure
the simplicity of all the species
they breathe their way
in and out
sustaining being
let those who protrude your beauty
the wonderment of the bluegreen
stay clean despite
their pursuing against
so oneday
we may drink for you
unselfishly

Deception

i waltz in Your rising
i scream in Your falling

i think i love you
You hug the sun
You run with wind
then bury my secrets
i cast them out with each rock skipped

but maybe i hate you
how are Your bones sea? fortified with calcium?
look inside
a body-slammed Titanic
swallowed without bite marks
does it taste good with salf?

Your skirt
a cool calling
waving threads of blues and greens
then fraying holes in fabric
yet i still come back for more

transubstantiation

The sea’s burnt tragedy is cannibalistic death. Eternal wait, stick figure messiah grins in absence; draw lots. Wait, more wait, wait more, the sea is an endless lack of time. There is a hunger. There is hunger from the sea, from all things that gasp last breaths at taboos. More waiting, wait, wait until the sea is its own doppelganger, its own vague haunting simulacrum doubling upon itself. Its anticipation palpable. The bookie takes odds on thirst hunger or insanity, on the nutritional taste slake value of a half-pint of human blood. And the sea laughs, spits prayers, judges, finds wanting. Waiting more waiting, more thirst/hunger. The sun has left again; his dark toddler multiplies the base sea, the crying sea. And it will come. I have seen the leather liquor’s passing and the sound flee. Make good time and time good demon. The cerebellum bullet. The end of hunger waiting thirst.

To The Sea

To the Sea

I

Hey sea

where do u come from
who rained u
why are u dying i know why
how does that make u feel
don't answer that
seasick right

oh little sea
big sea
vast sea
motherfucking humongous sea
u is big
where are u now
why dont u kill us
we been bad
we didnt mean to

sometimes its a mystery
why we are so blah

we little flecks of foam
morphed out of you

and we have not grown
we have but now we decay
but occasionally we make nice
but now we get weird compexity
we think we all big and shit
bigger than the sea
and we got philosophy
Derrida and particle accelerators
we can destroy u, nuke you
we got your # mr c
we kill universe
take over
waterboard the sun
make sun talk
tell us where the codes are hidden
sploosh

Icarus dedalus, poseidon
dead dead dead dead dead
triton jason jonah moby dick jaws
all fizzled up made into oil

goodbye sea
rain no more
we can see clearly now
we are fucked and there is no god
to come down and spank us
no god to save us, hug us, hegel us
we killed god, didnt we nietzsche

oh see vast and lonely dying sea
maybe jimmy buffet will sing for u
goodbye sea
tatata earth
we go fuck up some other world now
that's the way things are

u must be joking
u cynical old fuck
get a life!
Stop using u in your poem
when you know damn well it's YOU

well well well
we'll wait and see
ha!
we always do
maybe we'll make it
some do, some don't
meanwhile
how bout sending a little rain this way

one day we may drink for you unselfishly
one day we may cry tears made by you instead of pepsi
one day we may watch you perform beaches, sunsets, splashy cliffs
one day we may save ourselves, save you, save god, and stuff
one day we may drink together, collaborate on a poem together, maybe a rewrite of Dover Beach from your perspective...
one day we may get to know the real you... do lunch sometime
negotiate your dispute with the moon, maybe make love
catch a movie... have children: half fish, half poem
we could be cute little ellipsis floating through space
and when I drown in you, you will absorb my thoughts










II

Off the cruise ship we got on the bus
and are poured beer into cups by mi amigo
who is a professoro who guides us and takes
tips like scholars of old- little did I know then
that I would soon be adjuncting too... but now
I am the ugly american, here to exploit him,
you know, see how he lives, that's how I spend
my vacation, spending money and shit.
KEEP YOUR HAND ON YOUR WALLET AT ALL TIMES GRINGO

So after sweating my ass off, nearly fainting in Tulum
I imagine what bastards the Spaniards must have been
and I stare at the jungle as my 7th cup of beer evaporates into the sweaty air

In Jamaica we sing Jamaican Farewell on the bus to the plantations and we spit
sugar cane and make jokes about marijuana, my brother and I, not the guide...
and ian fleming references, bob marley, blue mtn coffee, jerk chicken and poverty
looks like it was made by disney and uncle Remus gonna come around singing
zippity doo dah, although we are a bit too far south for that.

In grand cayman, we retrace the setting of the firm and I get salt water in my eyes
and don't swim, so I drink cognac and eat rumcake, poor me
think of all the money laundering -this place is well off seemingly
but I imagine that an asteroid like the one that killed off the dinosaurs
might hit the carribean again just like the one on the History channel
and this island with no high ground will be devoured by hundreds of feet
of water.
Where will all the money go?













2a

In ocho rios, we swam
where the cool river water cascaded down a
nd converged with the hot sea
and it is a wonder we ever climbed out
of the water

in playa del carmen
mom and dad swam in an underground river
while John and I sweated in Tulum's ruins

On the boat, I watch
midnight in the garden of good and evil
the apostle and the wedding singer

at the dining table
we are served by
a waiter from war torn
Yugoslavia and he works 18 hour days
for tips
our housekeeper from Africa does likewise
and the ship saild through 3 hurricanes
percolating in the carribean

then came keywest, Sloppy Joes
Jimmy Buffet and hemingway's 6 toed cats
then it was back to the normalcy
of Las Vegas nevada which is located
at the bottom of an ancient sea
long since dried up.

collaborative poetry

This is an awesome poem, I just googled collaborative poetry & found this:

Waiting for scars.

*

The fist, an augured wind that blew

against a cheek that turned

away again, already burned

with shame

*

'Breathe' said the lungs

in a sweating cage of blank devotion

bidding joy and all emotion
to silence

*

'Stand' said the bone

a splintered act of moderation

lapis tattoo of adoration

a joke

*

'Steal' said the mind

to feed the poor and battered love

ragged-winged, bleeding dove

of misery

*

'Wait' said the soul

'be patient

time will heal, and

when there's nothing left at all to feel

try scars'

*

(John Ahearn/Kate Bousfield)

Sea’s Sick Lullaby
Emily Meier


Your echoing voice against the great stone walls
hits my ears like lonesome calls
Such fury can be felt when thrashing the rocks
mist flying into the air dampening what lies around
Your hand-like waves move the beach
forward and backward
motion like a dance
A romantic dance between you and your partner
Out of your foam came Aphrodite
the goddess of love born that day
It’s that same sea that took my love away
Your mighty arms wrapped him and rocked
using his boat as a baby’s cradle
to sleep to sleep
a sea’s lullaby
sea’s sick lullaby
I lay on this shore each night
looking at the sky and stars
Reflection dancing across your body
I listen to your howls
You moan as if for someone
yet you cannot hear my moans
My tears run and my cries echo
yet I know you don’t care
If you cared of such a love
you would not have rocked the boat too hard
Those walls of water went up
then down like stone upon that boat
I enter your domain willingly
The water comes upon me as a blanket
Wrap your arms around me
Be strong enough to fight my struggles
Carry me out
I want to see him

Example of Collaborative Poem

throbbing gristle, by Andrei Codrescu, Laura Rosenthal, Mark Spitzer and Robin Becker

I'm pro-clam
pro-tuber
O Pro Tubular comet raise your sungod blone.
Poets move away
from genitals. Move toward
the seed that shudders a velocity that
will achieve NADA

(margin release should never be taught to anyone under 60
'cause then they cut you off
& capitalize on every return
suckling with your gray matter)

nada
don't
do it

move beyond that female hat-stink brat
smell sweet cosmos leaning into nothing
as gaseous and deep in camp
and like the smell of children kill
breathing through the swirl of mice
lopez was a wolf his wolverine was stoned

the avocado was an orphan of the Manatee of Glove
the hair of pearlflesh was the rape of Ophelia in bloom
succulent ripple roseflesh lunch

she who gorges gorgeously
will be first in line for organ donation
her name is Cindy Crawford
I think.

http://www.3ammagazine.com/poetry/2004/mar/collaborative_poems.html

(I hope I'm not breaking any copyrights by posting this. -SMA)

Collaborative Project

This is by Richard Garcia from his latest collection
The Persistance of Objects Rochester N.Y.:BOA editions, 2006.

This particular poem is a collaboration with Moby Dick
like the suggestion in our course syllabus,
Garcia as he explained at one of his readings
wrote a paper some 45 years ago in a freshman college class
and it failed. He ended up dropping out of college...
but it ended up making a good poem.

from "Under a Black Flag"


In my Moby Dick Captain Ahab is Hitler.
That's why he stomps around, dragging his peg leg,
muttering about those Jews, Gypsies, mongrel intellectuals,
communists, homosexuals, and decadent artists--
they all coalesce into the image of that cursed whale, cursed
albino with the black heart, black blood, black milk of emptiness!
And the Pequod, the Pequod is Western Civilization
following the white whale through an existential darkness
of a world made lonely from the Death of God.
Hitler, poor Hitler can't find any Aryans to join his crew
so he settles for American Indians, Blacks, and Ishmael,
whom he suspects might be an Arab. Me? I'm in the book tooo-
Pepito the cabin boy. Being illegal, I have to sleep
down in the hold with the rats and the ballast
graveyard dirt-and I sleep well, rocked
by creaking timbers, and the herds of whales singing
ghostly utulations of Ahab's death song. But my Moby Dick
is in a kind of eternal present. That's why Nathaniel Hawthorne
leans toward Herman Melville as they bounce along
in a horse-drawn carriage and tells him about the article he read
in the Gazette-a white whale often seen off the island of Mocha,
that the sailors call Mocha Dick....

The Hitler Tree

This tree is not hitler
Nor is it Alice Notley
Nor Michel Foucault
Nor Joe Pesci’s dentures

This tree is logical positivism
This tree is Esperanto
This tree is a ham sandwich
Vibrating in my cellphone crotch

This tree is a spermwhale
But not the red sea
Nor is it Mussolini
Or Tito Puente

This tree is on fire
(notify the next of kin)
It has boobs, dances
Boobies are dangling

From the branches
The tree dogs me, cats me
Shakes me, fondles me
I love my tree

My anus tree
No it’s not poetry
It’s not art, nor news
Song, blues, Nein!

The tree is treeful, treeness
Treelicious, tree-rific
The tree is a cunt
It is cunty-riffic

The tree is a salamander
Advocating the left wing agenda
The tree is bulletproof, praying
That you are not a tree

You think you are
But you’re not!
You are like the tree
Maybe you are the tree

Maybe you are
the fucking tree! Happy?
The tree is not/is Hitler.
We are all Hitler.

No, nein, not Hitler
tree is orgasm.
Yes… that is
what the tree is.

Tomorrow tomorrow

to sit and focus on Survival alone
look
straight ahead
Focus
eyes on the Prize
an Acorn
no attention to what is around
leaves
hills
so many colors
it’s about living Life
what is Ahead
no Time for Today
Tomorrow’s coming
no Time to sit and enjoy
the Yellows, Blues, Greens
so many Hues
have to be ready for what’s Ahead
Winter
Hibernation
Life without Routine is still
Life
look around
the Yellows, Blues, Greens
the Now
worry about Tomorrow
tomorrow
if Tomorrow isn’t there tomorrow
at least you had
Today

COLD

Nose running,
skin drying,
Lips chapping,
Fingers turning -
blue.

He dreads opening to door
entering the white.
With the frost set in,
ground hard and unbreakable.
The weather -
unbeatable.

Straining toward to path.
Looking back at the prints
left as he moves forward.
With each step his feet grow colder.
The icy water seeps through the crevice
and the bitter chill winds it's way in
between and opening in his coat.

force force force
force yourself to write each day
forceful force
let the force be with you
fornicate with the force
let it be with you in bed
let it whisper those lies
you love so much
force the pen to page , scribble sins
you were forced to commit
commit
committed
marriage
mental hospital
huh
feel the forceful river flow
it flows
at least it’s flowing
feel the fantasy of inking
watching
knowing
especially knowing
feel your mind just be in a costume
what are you for halloween?
a poet
a slutty one?
sorry, no
it’s nice the slutty is for only one
ah, back to commit again
genius!

Memo to Greenbaum

Contraption no way is which way
a convoluted series of tubes
something that Ted Stevens must’ve invented
each color takes you on a different path
triangle quadrilateral
up and down the steps
body like a trampoline
the enigma bounces on me
keeping your focus like Sisyphus Junior

Autoshape command doesn’t do justice
three dimensions for the price of two
a subway map for your creative fugue
understanding you more today
than I did yesterday
making sure it’s due
when the deadline is infinity
and time is relative to an orphan

Up in the corner
a window to the edge of nothing
Exit 47, you can’t miss it but you will
pay the toll with intangible quarters
before you’re nickeled and dimed to submission

what do you think?

did anyone else have a difficulty with the elegy poem? I found it weird and uncomfortable and I didn't want it to be self-indulgent or whatever--

How did you all decide to write your elegy? I really like them all


Cheers

elegy

When I die eat donuts b/c I love donuts
When I die take naps b/c I love naps
When I die be stubborn b/c I am stubborn
When I die make dinner b/c I love dinner
when I die check your email every five minutes
When I die sing Salt n Pepa b/c I love Salt N Pepa
When I die don’t wear panty hose don’t bite your lip don’t eat
habeneros don’t say the word slut or bitch or bastard
When I die quote the Gilmore Girls read Kenneth Burke passages dress
like zombies be sarcastic talk about how you hate children big
dogs old people who drive slow
When I die give away my books
When I die write me letters I will write back
When I die have lots of sex or if you can’t have sex masturbate
When I die take showers all day long or shower baths or baths with
bubbles
When I die vacuum the main room dust the television light candles but
not in church don’t go to church when I die go to the mall or buy bread from local grocers or coo coo with the little pigeons
When I die carve pumpkins bake pumpkin seeds and put them in little
baggies and pass them out and say this if from Andrea!
When I die drink cold Sambuca tequila w/o groceries long island ice
teas capecods w/lime
When I die play hopscotch and get chalk on your fingers
When I die write Jacob stories about dandelions and kitties and aliens
When I die wear all of your jewelry at once or hats or ties or lipstick
and kiss people
When I die say hello to inanimate objects b/c they are alive hello
lamppost hello train hello post office hello McDonalds hello computer hello book hello poptart hello microwave
When I die don’t drive b/c I hate driving
When I die talk about yourself
When I die say hello to animals hello cows, why are you a cow?
Hello sheep, hello blackbirds hello kitties hello camels hello
llamas hello squirrels how is your acorn?
When I die speak the Ojibwe say the word for blueberry pie
b/c it’s the longest Ojibwe word
Miin-aan baash kimini-sij-i-gan bitooyin sij-i-gan-bukwayszhiigan
When I die don’t bury me next to my dead kitty or my dead birds or
my husband or my children or my parent’s graves or my sister’s graves or my brother’s grave

smellegy

You left the stove light on
before you went out.
I don’t blame you
because you never knew
you weren’t coming back.

And it’s okay,
because I turned it off
while I was waiting for you
to come home.
I waited
I waited until the next morning
when the paper hit the door
and the news hit my core.

You used to be a little flighty
and you read too many books.
You had this way about your dancing
and your head-tilt-back laugh.
You had the passion of a dreamer
and the wisdom of a doer
the vibrancy of a Jackson Pollock
and the fragile heart of a child
but we’ll all remember you
beautiful you
as the best kind of half-crazy—
unyielding in your attempts
to save the world
and all of us.

Now that those eyes will never open,
the shine has gone from everything.

Elegy

Photographs that hold moments in time
a way of looking at the world
looking at her
always there
and in the leaves that scatter the ground
the seeds that scatter
a footprint on the floor
from where a dancer has just leapt
walking in between rows
of tall growing prairie grass
field grass
sitting silent on a ledge
watching
and loving
my dear
clothed in comfort
and prisms of light

Painting Poem

Reaching
fabric stretching
Silver Cloud a puppeteer
of a shelter of colors
the sheet tents of a child’s childhood
the ship that carries and keeps
eyelash that the wish was made on
gusts, billows
breath makes flutter the flags
none can touch save her and hers
apple tree branches float beside
and messages sent on the bands of Canada geese
cardboard cut-outs of paper dolls
cut from the lining of the boat
patchwork quilt covers them both
patched with doilies and lace
and float them on a sea
owl eyes watch from cloth barns
a castle of leaves
and i am the gardener
sleep there in a room of exquisite oaks
and knock three times
when i shall come to take you back

elegy

never read
all the great books
always an excuse
for tomorrow

never traveled
poor and trapped
in a cycle of spending

never fell
in love cynical and jaded
everyone too good
or not good enough

never had
a God faith making no
more sense than love

never told
friends that time spent with
them was all that mattered in
the end

collaborative project

This is a poem my little brother Jacob (he's ten) and I are writing--we started this b/c he's always bored and I told him to write me something about dandelions, aliens, and kitties (I said it had to be 4 paragraphs)--this is what he wrote and then I wrote back--I will continue to post our replies each week--as you can see he is a much better writer than me.

the dandelion has turned white and the seeds are flying away bye seeds hay that seed burned formed the sun that one drown in the ocean uh oh no more seeds so sad uh oh uho uh oh uh oh uh oh uh h uho not 4 paragraphs but good right but that seed turned into a dandelion i missed counted uh oh read again for more cycles

Sweet Alien! Here is a dandelion for you b/c you are green b/c you have big eyes like jacob eyes like a kitty eyes like my kitty Sweet Alien! Why do the cows moo moo? Why do the birdies twitter twitter? Let's go south and see the ocean let's go to Disneyland and ask Mickey to pay Goofy and Minnie more money. Sweet Alien! I miss my little brother b/c he has dimples b/c he likes chocolate and harry potter and movies and i like those things too.

Dandelion--your seeds are in my hair and in the Sweet Alien's teeth. Dandelion I will see you in the spring if you see Jacob tell him I say hello

reflection of she/me

she sat underneath the overshadowing tree

bashfully hidden from the world, what she did best

she was prolific with words that overflowed

her book

each meaning more than what it read

she was inspired by her past

she was inspired by her future

her future of defection--

molding her unique being

craving for satisfaction

she learned would not be discovered within

the limits of the world

family built her fragile bones

friends were the muscles surrounding them

influencing her agile nature

stability breathed into her

many came, few remained

yet only one thing real in her life

one thing that had true definition

no matter what HE was there to stay

whether or not she left him, she’d always make her way

back into his asylum

continuously mistaking worldly comforts

for what can only be temporary thrills

she was blessed and quickly learned

false love could not last

an understanding grew like branches

she inherited an abundant life

feeling like she struggled as no other

resulted in her gaining the strength of ten men

she represented beauty, faith,

independence, intellect

A child of her mother

from tears to laughter

pain to bliss

insecurities to confidence

silence to a voice

girl to WOMAN

she found her in him

she found life collected till her end

Where The Tracks Used to Be

Ten thousand shades
of tender green
beside the Langley road

__remember when there was dancing
__and Bellinis and tealights

they would only lay
the flat clay roof
at the full of the moon

__then darkness
__with echoes remaining

fingerprints
of coal dust
on the stripped door

__straight out of the sauna
__we roll through new snow

the timeless
and hungry arms
of emptiness

__in her dreams she always slept
__in a different bed

he knew
all his wishes
would never come true

__white lilac is pompom
__and poodle and first communion

hand-made soap
wrapped in paisley
on the wicker platter

__if my love were jam
__it would be fig and ginger

moonseeds —
pine cones tumbling
out of the sky

__everyone has the same cold
__that goes then comes back

at death
she might
let go

__I imagine your favourite jumper —
__green cashmere, tudor-sleeved

nose to tail
the lurcher pup
wriggles free

__a mother skips with her child
__where the tracks used to be

wild daffodils —
smaller, softer
more golden

__at sunset
__all we caught was rain.

Linda France
Subhadassi
Tim Foxall

a poem for the sad apples

sometimes, like now
I pick an apple
to eat out of a bowl
on my green counter top
but I question if I
picked the right apple
or whether apples are more delicious with more apples present
and
whether the other apples
are jealous
not to mention
the other fruits

my grave will only say

Well, maybe next time.

(m)elegy

oh the cold clay that I will become bright
being pouring from me tissues
made of memories made
of semen and sunlight trapped
inside me bubbling up to the tips of my

toes that certainly have walked through
this before my secret stench gathering in tight
pockets of flesh unsecrets the diamond and the
tadpole afloat in the weight of me
released to the quiet smoking moment

mother and lover dogged skeleton quaking
teeth and treetops in their wild
dark dancing alone beneath the clouds and metals.

gritty fibers of unbeing palms pushed
to seeing
trapped beneath thrusts that release from

where I am going
I came so hard
that I remembered and
yet here we laugh again
here we are I am again

such a time I had
fucking, dying, flying
laa la laa inside your pinball machine
greasy fingers poking my
eyes to a gaze
come on cut the astral cord
here comes the reeling sound
here comes the trumpets bound
crystals and cotton the absence
forgotten making room for me
making room for me

thank you for the way you only now realized
you forgot
here’s me not hearing I am

starstruck skullfuck grapes and
bright wallpaper
maybe next time kid
it will only say
maybe next time
the mama won’t recycle the wheel
but you know she’s a circle
and you love to keep spinning
maybe next time kid
kept your seat warm

starpuke spread out on the unmade bed
she’s sleepy
for the night night song
yr a night night bird
with a skeleton for

her meat to spin in
meat likes to know itself
I’m sure we are
not sure we are