Poets can’t even call
themselves poets anymore.
There always has to be something else,
some other business.
Lines can’t be straight
anymore, they must
succumb to curve
like the snake’s back,
bending repeatedly
from one dune in
the desert to another.
There is no almost straight.
Almost straight is the
embankment, marking
the cliff, over which
our poems run,
tumbling drunk,
with the final drops of faith.
Would I stop to read
your poem if
it were standing by
the side of the road
with its thumb
sticking out?
Yes.
I would pull it up
into the cab,
count its stanzas,
learn the unfamiliar
words,
and read it
over and over,
until I had
committed it
to memory.
Vulgar is intimacy,without the intimacy. Oh, can you see me?Do you mind if we leave the music playing,in this empty apartment? * We looked out at the fledgling cityfrom the patio at the Double Tree;swam in the springs, asking,“Have you touched bottom yet?” I’ll try just one more time,I’ll clap thatmosquito to death in the … Continue reading Last Stand in Austin
by R.L. Wisdom Prior to my tripI obsessed over the weather.Why is this city so loved?It's so damned hot. Waiting for some new friends,the coolness of the bar and the local beer envelopes."John (dawdling) it's your shot." The GB is built (ice please)red light goes on.Both preparing mentally and physically for the pot. Homebound Penske-styleno … Continue reading GingerBread Man
Goddamnit, little bugwhat is it with you?I’m trying to work. I know you were drawnto the light whenI opened the window,but seriously:it is hot in here andto open the window is my right. Landing on my new silk shirt, settlingdown into my hair—there isn’t any placefor you here. Now you’re climbingon the outer wallof my … Continue reading Bug Drawn By Light
I. Confection Turning paper in triumphant. Bird droppings on stone bench.Bricken sidewalk undulations. II. The Treetops and The Blue Sky Look at how the treetops rage. Somethingthat I could not contain rips throughthem! I saw blue skies in those treetops,I saw blue sky. III. Bolero Thank you, don’t mind if I do.Gee, it seems like … Continue reading More from the Confusion Series
stars afar appear
unmired modes of light
here they are; now they are
not miles and miles ago
not a year or years away
On the floor of the market
young children sang,
Which way does the love land?
Which way to the airport?
Which way do we fly?
But the traders despaired,
dropped to their knees, prayed—
O, great Economy in the sky,
what should we do?
The straight-up
markets of the nineties are gone
and we don’t know where
to put our money.
A deep, sober voice spoke
over the din of the market,
Look to the ancients.
Instead of telescopes they
carved mighty stones and
brought Hubble to earth.
1. Sleeping in the Corner
So what if I sleep
in the corner?
Soo what? Why should
that make you “freak out”?
That’s just the way I sleep.
It’s the way my ancestors
slept. You might’ve known them.
The Indians?
2. Headline
Just gonna lie here, alarm clock,
have a Parliament. Relax,
maybe read the paper?
Hey, look at that,
“Robot Runs Across Water—
Just Like Jesus Did.”
Well, holy shit.
Get the presses ready
for the Third Testament.
They interview the robot,
he is totally full of himself.
One heretical reporter says,
“Right. I guess you’re not
afraid of anything—
swimming, big dicks,
old people?”
3. The DJ
Don’t despair,
alarm clock radio.
I’ll turn you off,
one of these days.
But it is worried, says to me,
“Did you hear that the DJ
was gonna stop at midnight?”
“No way, man,” I said,
“that’s a ripoff!”
But then alarm clock whispers,
“Yeah, but, word is, someone
dropped a sawbuck
on ‘im and he’s gonna
play for another two hours!”
Rock on alarm clock!
4. The BBC
Truth is,
I need to get it together.
I can’t even find a way to
lie down that feels good.
I admit, the floor is hard,
and my stomach
a bad bowl of soup.
This stuff is killing me.
Alarm clock breaks in,
“Will you listen to yourself,
sayin,‘This stuff is killing me?’”
Go to hell, alarm clock.
There’s nothin but bad news
on the BBC, nothin
but an empty process.
5. Wendy’s
By now I’ve given up
sleeping on the floor.
Like most of the other
ideas I’ve had, it was dumb:
just really boring and academic.
The skein of paint
has reached its taper.
I’m out of Parliaments.
Even the GB has sprung a leak.
Finally, I’m at the counter.
“Yeah, can I have an original
double with cheese?”
And then I pause cuz
they always ask,
“Combo?”
And I say politely,
“No, no combo…
and a great biggie fry.”
The fries are for alarm clock.
Yo, yo, yo I don’t have to use those speakers you gave me—the hot ones,filled with cocaine? if I want Ican justthrow them away right after I blow em out
JBR.com 