"you my friend have put too much thinking in your hearing
and all the skies are drying out.
let things get wet.
mud is good clothing.
if anything is wrong, ask yourself in ten years time
if you will have any new devices.
this is no different than small mall town America...
everything is made of symbols. Bergamo? this deck is missing
quite a few cards. the real lost card is the same as any other lost card.
things that remind us of other things are wrong.
things that make us forget others things are wrong.
things that make us remember other things
that make us forget other things that rob us of our time
and burn our lives in the furnace of commodities. Don't cry
about it, there are many many sheep in the fields of Treviglio
just as there are beautiful women with cellphones
full of unwanted messages. If the tax people audit me
it will be proof at last I have existed and made nothing from it.
Instead of my own nap
I have taken yours and stolen your dreams
which I know you yourself have acquired by impure means.
I should rather have used my mental acid
to have penetrated my own devious machines. No matter how many times you open the door
she is not there or at least she does not appear...no Santa Claus...
instead its Milano itself arriving on track 5
none of us ever have moved in the late afternoon lambent light
of patent leather shoes, prosciutto cotto
and the deglassing salt of the tracks
that sprays in our eyes"
december, 23, 2006
Saturday, November 5, 2011
A Dinner Dyadic
A Dinner Dyadic
A restauraunt
tells a certain story
about food
to the person
eating it, a sauce
of discourses & condiment
accompany the raw
or cooked fable
and one can’t tell a convinced
Emperor his new
clothes are not
in fact fine.
But the one outside
the restaurant, the one not eating this narrative
eats instead a silence
surrounding it all
and adds salt from memory,
speculative pepper, deducing
in the heat,
sensing something’s not quite right,
knowing she’s not sure what.
Upon the window of the restaurant,
a code of sweat pearls
or maybe it just rained.
On one side the rain-drops are flat
against the plane of the glass.
On the other side they bulge out,
round and fat.
6.03.09
Konin, Polska
A restauraunt
tells a certain story
about food
to the person
eating it, a sauce
of discourses & condiment
accompany the raw
or cooked fable
and one can’t tell a convinced
Emperor his new
clothes are not
in fact fine.
But the one outside
the restaurant, the one not eating this narrative
eats instead a silence
surrounding it all
and adds salt from memory,
speculative pepper, deducing
in the heat,
sensing something’s not quite right,
knowing she’s not sure what.
Upon the window of the restaurant,
a code of sweat pearls
or maybe it just rained.
On one side the rain-drops are flat
against the plane of the glass.
On the other side they bulge out,
round and fat.
6.03.09
Konin, Polska
silent other, sideless mirror (2008)
silent other, sideless mirror, gaze through which sabled murmur
pulls the threaded feathers, to dress the wedding dummy
her own hands, her flesh velour
she who gowns the world and drowns sorrows
with her alien eyes fixed to impenetrable beauty, gnarled,
and tightens the fine frailties of voice into raucous mesh
our nerves, the carnivorous spool, the light trapped within
the web, our teeth, the mind, the eating that is not eating, not eaten
and the great trails of color left by wandering hands
across the phantom hours and dours of night
i follow the wind-scattered pulse
across the grey scintillant gunks of the Meuse
to the tree-trestled street where the tombstones shine and whistle
deathless tunes of the Miners, the hill-men
who see you sewing the dresses of the one's ever glinting
on the border of the unborn
i walk again to your stainless window
to see the red leaves and castagne
laid by your hands in the lace of the sun
and recall your bifocals, intent, bent,
simply working mundanity
i have never been able to understand
Juin 11, 2008,
Liege, Belgique
notes:
The Meuse is the river that runs through Liege
where, walking one day, I recalled vividly a scene from Berlin.
The graveyard is in Berlin on the Bergmannstrasse.
"Bergmann" means "miner" or "man of the hills"
There is timeless shop there, a wedding dress,
a woman who clothes the brides, working alone, at times.
Her name is Milena Geburzi. Her last name, they say, means
"midwife".
pulls the threaded feathers, to dress the wedding dummy
her own hands, her flesh velour
she who gowns the world and drowns sorrows
with her alien eyes fixed to impenetrable beauty, gnarled,
and tightens the fine frailties of voice into raucous mesh
our nerves, the carnivorous spool, the light trapped within
the web, our teeth, the mind, the eating that is not eating, not eaten
and the great trails of color left by wandering hands
across the phantom hours and dours of night
i follow the wind-scattered pulse
across the grey scintillant gunks of the Meuse
to the tree-trestled street where the tombstones shine and whistle
deathless tunes of the Miners, the hill-men
who see you sewing the dresses of the one's ever glinting
on the border of the unborn
i walk again to your stainless window
to see the red leaves and castagne
laid by your hands in the lace of the sun
and recall your bifocals, intent, bent,
simply working mundanity
i have never been able to understand
Juin 11, 2008,
Liege, Belgique
notes:
The Meuse is the river that runs through Liege
where, walking one day, I recalled vividly a scene from Berlin.
The graveyard is in Berlin on the Bergmannstrasse.
"Bergmann" means "miner" or "man of the hills"
There is timeless shop there, a wedding dress,
a woman who clothes the brides, working alone, at times.
Her name is Milena Geburzi. Her last name, they say, means
"midwife".
dreaming machines for karolina maria konstancja ossowska
gazing into the reality of desire
i only see you again.
and when i cannot speak to you,
it is as if my own ear were torn off.
the taste of your voice before sleep, precious metal, liquid,
fantastic resource. red streaks on the inner thigh of memory.
these are the hormonal enchantments of life.
the child, the key to inner reality, it all comes forth,
through you, for me. and when not...nervous nightmare,
i am hooves faltered in mud.
my flower of mind throws you desperate spore.
drawing myself in again, the pale
doctrine of my own perplexed necessity,
fair, like your flesh, grows flush, brightens, glows,
subtly beating wings of a moon,
frothing the oceans of sleep, silently.
6 lutego 2009
poznan
i only see you again.
and when i cannot speak to you,
it is as if my own ear were torn off.
the taste of your voice before sleep, precious metal, liquid,
fantastic resource. red streaks on the inner thigh of memory.
these are the hormonal enchantments of life.
the child, the key to inner reality, it all comes forth,
through you, for me. and when not...nervous nightmare,
i am hooves faltered in mud.
my flower of mind throws you desperate spore.
drawing myself in again, the pale
doctrine of my own perplexed necessity,
fair, like your flesh, grows flush, brightens, glows,
subtly beating wings of a moon,
frothing the oceans of sleep, silently.
6 lutego 2009
poznan
after glancing back over pasolini
for lee foust
from the first words, "solo il amare, solo il conoscere/conta..."
"only loving, only knowing/matters
not having loved, not having known.."
i see my old friend, he, my old friend, you
arrives in an image, inside an image, of the poem
at once announcing the moment, the eternal break with(in) "history"
(that repeats itself in unbroken successions
of miserable bastard cacophonies, wars for peace
and fleshless dreamers---like skeletons dug form the rubbles of gaza---
and yet faces into the world, benjamin's angel, the mouth of klee
"set at the margin", so to speak a foregone apocalypse
in which survivors scrounge in dirt and rubbish,
the ones who carry history nevertheless like a senseless bag
full of deposit bottles, in exchange for a future
repetitious, anxious, yet brimming with the possibility
knowing thirst unvanquishible, the tongue yearning,
replacing their teeth in advanced age, limping and smiling forward
(with whatever backlashed dreams and dead families
those same smiles mask over)
reminding me all again this morning
on my kasprzaka street stairs
the old lady descending, one slippered foot swollen, unbootably
the other boot cautious, testing her step
hand glued to the gleaming railing, eyes on a distant goal,
did not betray seeing me
as i was out into frigid air and
already whisking back again, she was only out the door
moving so steadily, barely--where-ever--
into that wind
i was coming from...
that i thought myself
so much weaker than she
02.2.09-------------- Poznań
from the first words, "solo il amare, solo il conoscere/conta..."
"only loving, only knowing/matters
not having loved, not having known.."
i see my old friend, he, my old friend, you
arrives in an image, inside an image, of the poem
at once announcing the moment, the eternal break with(in) "history"
(that repeats itself in unbroken successions
of miserable bastard cacophonies, wars for peace
and fleshless dreamers---like skeletons dug form the rubbles of gaza---
and yet faces into the world, benjamin's angel, the mouth of klee
"set at the margin", so to speak a foregone apocalypse
in which survivors scrounge in dirt and rubbish,
the ones who carry history nevertheless like a senseless bag
full of deposit bottles, in exchange for a future
repetitious, anxious, yet brimming with the possibility
knowing thirst unvanquishible, the tongue yearning,
replacing their teeth in advanced age, limping and smiling forward
(with whatever backlashed dreams and dead families
those same smiles mask over)
reminding me all again this morning
on my kasprzaka street stairs
the old lady descending, one slippered foot swollen, unbootably
the other boot cautious, testing her step
hand glued to the gleaming railing, eyes on a distant goal,
did not betray seeing me
as i was out into frigid air and
already whisking back again, she was only out the door
moving so steadily, barely--where-ever--
into that wind
i was coming from...
that i thought myself
so much weaker than she
02.2.09-------------- Poznań
apparition between memory and forgetting
if there are dandelions left
growing in winter
it will certainly be
an all night affair
i said to myself
just as you closed the door...
somewhere between
house and home
some missed destination
between brain and bone
some combination
between nowhere gone
and nowhere to go
comes
in an apparition
a bright leaf
on a once broken bough
somehow
a veined leaf--falls--
an apparition
or a chemical
cloud
a wave or tickle
between memory
& forgetting
calls
an apparition
a face
knowing nothing
and more than that all
a worm of spring
a touch of gold
once a shadow
an apparition
between memory
& forgetting
it could be that
just that
an endless more
between rouge and soot
between the shoe and the boot
it could be that
and nothing more
everything to share
and i said to myself
as you closed the door
if there are dandelions left
growing in winter
it will certainly be
an all night affair
25.1.09
poznan
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