Spare Words: 12

3/29/12

Pythagorean Ham, Euclidian Cheese

My body, over there, splayed on the driveway.

I, in this director’s chair, hunker, slurping the dredges

of the morning coffee, now hours and hours aged,

memo-ing the awkward and painful-looking angle

of my right leg, joint jagged at the new bend

in shin, hip flexible like never since I was four,

five maybe. My left hand appears to be reaching,

trying to grasp the edge of the lawn – that, or

it has been smashed by a sledge hammer,

is now busy mimicking a slovenly water-walker,

undecided between hornwort and duckweed.

My left shoe is not tied. Funny what you notice.

I distinctly remember tying the laces, the bend

to reach the shoe over and around the knee

but now - even as I say I distinctly remember -

what I mean is I almost always did tie the laces,

bending to reach the shoe over and around the knee,

so because I am sure that nothing has disturbed

my body since the leap which did fall me

(I will not have not left my side in the meantime)

I can begin to make the assumption that today

is the day I did not bend to tie the laces of at least

the left shoe as the right shoe, from where I lurk,

is obscured by the scalene triangle my leg

is trying to form. Why my body is now attempting

polygons is beyond me, the word obtuse most

likely right around the corner of this sentence in search

of logic where rhetoric fails. I need a sandwich, a dab

of meaning and something more than a hypotenuse

imitating the lyrical tragic muse over on the green swing.

Just yesterday I contemplated a fourth place finish

in a five man race, no women allowed, no need to be correct

and say five person race which would be still not correct

as person implies human and we were not, all of us.

The first loser in the race rejoiced at not being the second

place loser who was equally happy at the equidistance he

had managed to put between himself and the third place

loser, in this contemplation myself, who had stopped to catch

a whiff of daffodil coming down the hill before the final turn

which turned out to be fortunate as the fourth place loser

passed me, laughing a bit right before he was flattened:

cliff, falling boulder, splat. I came in fourth place by default

because I did not die during the race but I never finished

either, forgetting exactly where the course ran and why

I was running or how large was the prize for the winner.

There was no prize for the by the way winner because we

do not prize success over metals which did not keep

the second and third-place losers from leaping with a sort

of joy, which did not keep me from climbing to the top of the green

backyard swing, to watch the next leg of the race go swiftly

by the yard, no hurdles to overcome no boulders to hopefully

fall, which no arrhythmia could have foreseen, which no hopping

could have prevented, which no l

ace-entangled fall would have broken.

I like mine cold, with extra mustard, enough to run

the entire race, all the way from the mouth to the chin.

Tony Hoagland*

You speak of your sophist occasion

as though there is a booby

prize at the end.

Taxonomy, my ass, it’s all one big blur

b(is) for your buddies:

I want to be your friend.

* - author of Real Sofistikashun

I Carry Us, Like a Rhinestone Angel

I am the father

of the fatherless child –

just ask him.

Just as I,

child,

asked my

father, today

so long ago

before

he flew away.

A Metaphorical Reading

The poet tells us that he understands

there will be refreshments

served when he shuts up.

He asks us to form two lines,

in an orderly fashion,

and to be aware of those around us,

as they may have special dietary

or culinary needs.

He makes it sound as though

we are the fortunate ones, and they, the less.

He says that the woman behind us

might be diabetic and that while

she will avoid the vanilla black raspberry paté

and very likely the foie gras parfait,

we should strive to ensure

there is adequate mango

salsa for her carrot-dipping experience.

He is too delicate

to enunciate what we

all are thinking, that the last time

something like this occurred,

the time his father,

also a monotone voice,

also proud of his mispronunciations,

pulled the same all-night buffet charade,

some knucklehead

towards the back of line two

had a bit of a breakdown

over the status of the fresh fruit

presentation as a simile for the then current

circumstances and before anyone could

really grasp what this guy

was actually proposing, decorum

had been broken and replaced by flying

kiwi particles and slap-

happy papaya chunks flung

(like a moonlit craving)

against the timorous tautly-adorned

torso of a war widow and an errant stalk

of zucchini lodged in the feathered band

of a sassy porkpie worn by a soldier

deemed unfit for duty;

in the general chaos that ensued,

with the metaphorists defending

their ground behind the carved ice punch bowl

against the fruit and vegetable-tossing

similists who had cornered

the analogists under the limburger-laden

table – well, needless to say,

there were complaints heaped

later at the way the buffet was handled,

some, naturally,

speaking out against the lack of security

while others railed

that the entire incident was extremely

avoidable if only security had not stepped

in and started cracking melons

over certain close readers' noggins.

It is so difficult to please

everyone when no one entertains

the notion of pleasing you,

so hard to strew compassion

along your path when it is laced

with the spoilt seeds of those gone

before. I want to look

out for the spinster’s affinity

for avocado but I do love

pimento as much as the next

palomino in line. A bunch

of mixed breeds in a conflict over figs,

this is where we dissolve.

I will take my time applying the brie

to the date spread,

knowing that the likelihood

of the poet ever shutting up
is remote,

at best,
to say

the least.

3/27/12

Take Notice of the Exit Signs, Located in the Back of a Couplet

Remember that it is a love poem

and that no matter how you feel about the subject,

it is just another mediocre war-room situation,

determining whose fate you decide with a push

of the red floppy button with the large white

stenciled lettering which implicitly states -

DO NOT PUSH.

Implode instead like the Fury you dream

yourself to be.

For gods’ sake, run a red light, but keep

it in mind as a suggestion for further exploration.

Remember the line from Keats,

then remember that line from Lorca,

the one you can never imitate no matter

how many times you can imitate the line,

keep in mind the incomplete shore,

no doubt, keep in mind the widow’s story

(about the peek-a-boo show she remembers from

when she was a girl, a little,

innocent cloud-infused girl, before she met him),

the tales of the glowing bask of the balky sea

struggling to be land, ground or time itself, its evolving desire

to smell, touch, taste a tree, a hill, a story a balky sea can tell

its companions of its time in hell.

The unruly behavior of various sequencers and ladders

has caused them (and their ilk) to be banned from use indefinitely

in sonnets, sestinas and villanelles. Don’t

let this happen to you or your

beloved!

Remember

that it is a love poem you are completing, not a revolutionary

turn on the language wheel, not an experiment in

how do you say what needs to be said and cannot be spoken?

The same way you say everything else:

with a broken, splayed escape,

a wink that way, a nod this.

The Kitchen Sink

It is but four lines to momentary bright

brilliance, whether through fluorescent hum or

a booming doom in the fluid flight from night

to dawn to come away from the broken

window, its pane pale (can I say?) rider

on the sill, four florid lines to walk wing

and ne’er look back, never the pillar, ne’er

the flower, never the echo despairs

probably too late. What pesters about her

strip in the desert, dune replaced by veil

replaced by dune, if enough block is worn

and if the right side of the decimal

is addressed and adorned by the spouse, the

spouse, the spouse? O how, the sly mosquito

asks, does a predator make his way in

this world? Fair-sighted quest for parasites

when the toasters are evacuated

and priorities so partially mislaid, shot by

shot by particle. We lay to staring

at the pipes and joists of the underside

of the counter where stainless shines midst joint

compound and found spots of artificial

light left by the hand of the same slipshod

artisan that created the sodden back-

splash, the eviscerated outlet holes.

You laugh and I will laugh with you, conjoined

water lines (count them: one, two, three, four)

a maze of tease and cunning tendencies.

On an Impending Visit

Another summer in its winter-

wanton glory and particle-board

slippers comes

and with it more

cancer. I count

the spots on my connect-

the-dot leg but beg

for no respite. I am

selfish in my birthright to try,

and will abide the fourteen-

day life of the common fly

laying eggs on my snoring knee.

3/25/12

To Helen

Yes we do title our titles after the spit

of greater poets than we could

ever hope to be.

It’s an affliction, is what it is, born

too much of reading too much

and wondering why

The errant colon is not more often

employed: such as: “13

Ways: of Looking at a:

Blackbird.” Or, “Donald Duck:

in Hollywood.” Or, “Variations

on a Theme: by William

Carlos Williams.” You get the idea.

Or, maybe you don’t. Say you’re

at a reading, one of the

Obnoxious ones, where the prattling

poets are so porously serious

(when not seriously porous)

As they share their epic retelling

of the story of their creation

in terza rima, no less,

Fashioned after the Inferno but

lacking a guide or much

in the way of a Lucifer,

When this poem, prattling also

we’re sure in many’s estimation,

is read but the reading poet

Neglects to demarcate the colon

in any fashion. “The Famous

Boating: Party” becomes

Simply “The Famous Boating Party”

which many of the poor

chair-bound coffee-addicts

Trapped in the lachrymose allure

of the reader’s reed-

thin, helium-filled

Voice are too young to have read

not in translation from

Patchenese to English

Much less in its original spleen-

rending rant/paean

(the virgule there another

Demarcation you will miss) and

so the sort-of literary

faux joke is lost on

You. And it’s not your fault if,

after noting that reading

poets should wear sensible

Shoes to avoid shuffling their

reading feet to a rhythm

the crowd, all both

Of them, never hear, you snooze

during the section the poet

has hubristically impaled

With the subtitle ‘Subpoena

the Penis,’ which goes in

to far too much detail

Regarding the conception practices

of the trailer-bound lonely

and the ensuing inquisition

Raised over the actual identity,

as it were, per se, if you

will, of the sperm’s pro-

Genitor. Heck, everyone (both

of you) snoozes every week

during this variously twenty-

Seven, twenty-three and thirty

minute long section, de-

pending on what edits

Have been consecrated during

The Weekly Re-write. The

poet explains, each week,

That this one has potential,

that she really wants to get

this one right, just

This once and that your thoughtful comments

(you’ve both never uttered

a word) have been very

Ignored. Ha ha, she says. But appreciated all

the same, she says. The attentive reader

maybe listener here

Is rewarded for catching the shift

in the reading poet’s

nominative pronoun, no

Longer a their or a them, now

a she and least

you think this poet is

Thinking of maybe a particular

female reading poet of the

female being persuasion

Let this poet here assure you

(instead of or as opposed to

assure you here)

That, no, this poet is not thinking

of Ellen, or Susan,

or Mary, or May

Or especially Helen, despite

the title of this poem which is, as

was mentioned, cripped

From a stronger, longer, also

ultimately forgotten poem

by a stronger, longer

Also ultimately forgotten poet,

not Homer but more recent.

Names are so unimportant

At this stage. The poet could list

so many things of more

import: the hum of cicadas,

For instance, or fully connected

rail tracks, or properly

buckled seat belts, or

Even the structure of the wings

of a hummingbird in flight.

Also the rollicking tumble,

Also not previously mentioned, at

world peace: more

important than any

Individual name or bush. The poet

mentions this now as a stab

at later anthologizing –

Oh look, an editor will say,

a clever poem about Helen,

colons and peace,

And but look, some other editor

of the future might rejoin,

the poet coupled

The language of violence – stab!

impale! consecrate! – with

a plea for peace,

And then this editorial consortium

can hammer each other

bloody over authorial

Intent. Shun poetry readings

of poets in Prada mules,

this poet insists and

Recognize that even the best

decaffeinated beverage

has a trace

Of what it supposedly leaves

out. Everything does

in an additive by

Subtracted world. This poem

does: all references

to the original subject

Have been painstakingly removed. This

poet does: a bone

for every line, a vein

For every word. And sweet,

sweet Helen (not her real

name, of course), in

Her pumps and drawls and the

languid intonation when she

said ‘colon’ or ‘please,’

Certainly probably thought she

did. As she was, hid

in her pinings and veils,

Punctuated, as she was, with

the green of her larcenous eyes,

the blue of the water

On her knees. The poor reader,

at her castle, wails for Paris

or Madrid, or a non-smoking

Venue. How fleeting are the seats

and the thighs of the unparsed

ear, attuned to a slip

In the tone or a slide

of the mule as the toe

adjusts to its trauma.

The reading poet closes her pink

journal, is met with an “Acck”

and a hack and a silent

Podium, where all traces

of beauty and vainglory

are left behind

As on a toilet. Only the unattended

boating party, afloat

in the what is not

Said, splits the infinitive

to haunt and linger,

a brace on which to shore.

To the Line of Postmodern Edit [An Apostrophe]

No English writing poets read

In America where their books

Do not sell and we, half-breeds

Each and all, do not see

The subtlety involved in rhyming

Sorry with lorry

Or hoover

Or mincemeat pie

Unless the children are specifically

Told which side of the street

To not play in unless a trampling

Is what

They’re after all not the urchins

Of Dickens stingingly

Slow on the roundabout.

‘Dover, my ass, she said,

I’ll not. I knew

What she meant was

Ask again

But edible eel aren’t your

Cup of tea any more than

Mine when the glaciers melt

It’ll not much matter a whit

What the lads of Shropshire

Did not wear on their cherry-picking

Expeditions or under which block

In which decrepit cathedral

With Which Profound

Ly unintelligible Latin epitaph

So and so is buried

Next to you know

Who was his mistress.

Comforting that our half breed dead

don’t know enough unintelligible Latin

to attempt profundity or coherence

and that most of our half dead breed

couldn’t keep a secret

mistress if they tried so there

they are, the eel and the pie,

separated by maggots, larva,

loons and shit

and a grand indifference

on the part of the populace

available to their apologias

and apostrophes masquerading

as similes or love letters

or enflamed crushed concentrating

on the blouse of the girl

with the thing for Auden

and the wholesome disdain

of all things professorial

and creepy. She’s no Leda,

you are no swan, and six

of one still doesn’t equal a half

dozen of the other

maybe in a

baker’s dozen or a

prisoner’s dilemma.

To Counting!

To the Broken Roundabout!

To Untasted Shepherd’s Pie!

To the Amorous Swan!

To Dover!

To You, Ben Dover!

To the Cracking of the Dawn!

I’ve no idea if

Fee Fie Foe Fum is Latin

or Bada-Bing! Italian.

To Apologias!

To Remaindering!

To Apostrophes!

To Making Sense of It All!

A lad named Kenneth fell

Off the circlegoround breaking

His arm in two places but saving

Him from the dank broken clutches

Of the traffic

The cherry picking expedition

The ill-besotten life

Of the dourly stern scribe

Headed for extinction

With a no dover wife

And a flap with a shelf life

Of three months

To Accounting!

To Fiduciary Annotation!

To Fees, to Fie, to Fum!

Fum! Fum!