Comrade friends,
I am all alone with an agitator
gripping my gums;
I click instead of drum.
up the ramp with Walt,
the bridge to a distant land;
not yet oldman,
rocking on the waves
looking up the flotsam
drifting from Lethe--
if you should dry so long
longjohns draped over the fence
hat over your face asleep,
the cowbells ringing merrily.
so it says in the legend
the crows eating papyrus,
stealing the threads from your clothes,
naked incisions in the sacred prose
the scattered patrimony of the unborned
already in Paradise.
we are wronged so the story goes,
an uneasy incest
within the borrowed words,
it’s when we leave that nothing matters:
unwarm at the inquest
dry men with blue lips
scatter the bones
a calyx for the dice
cheap spoons for the rest
huddled in a long line
at the ferry--
you and I,
we’ll see them dead
in the eyes of the osprey
His shriek proper to our time and place,
when we look away from the manuscript
propped on our knee.
At our behest
the cylinder spins the bullet
and spills blue smoke on the buffet.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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whether or not the bullet is in the barrel
at the trigger press two;
slimy hair wonders and pores perspire
in the moldy room
where bright orange light comes from fag bottoms
and, the only thing alive:
tomato sauce
paints a spoon's silver on the buffet
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Super title.
all the words are borrowed ... aren't they? It's all incest for sure.
I like this stanza the best:
if you should dry so long
longjohns draped over the fence
hat over your face asleep,
the cowbells ringing merrily.
it provides a slight bit of respite -- in this mind bending trip.
I don't love these two:
unwarm at the inquest
dry men with blue lips
scatter the bones
a calyx for the dice
cheap spoons for the rest
huddled in a long line
at the ferry--
maybe it is the way the site on the page ... or maybe because they don't or haven't quite moved me in any way yet.
unwarm at the inquest dry men with blue lips (feels like it should all run together)
scatter the bones
a calyx for the dice -- I don't understand this image
cheap spoons for the rest -- mmmmm. not expensive spoons is this opposite of silver spoons?
huddled in a long line at the ferry-- the Lethe ferry?
you and I,
we’ll see them dead -- we do? them? dead? not alive? must be a different "them" then I was originally thinking
unless it is the cheap spooned poems that are dead
in the eyes of the osprey
His shriek proper to our time and place, (His -- the osprey's shriek? -- mmmmm )
when we look away from the manuscript
propped on our knee.
At our behest
the cylinder spins the bullet
and spills blue smoke on the buffet.
(such a good last stanza)
I should go read some Mayakovsky (also makes me want to read Mr. O'Hara's Mayakovsky's poems).
in this suicide note:
So to say -
"the incident dissolved"
the love boat
smashed against reality.
I'm through with live
and [we] should absolve
mutual hurts, grudges and anxieties.
okay. sorry this is disjointed but there's a lot here. I'll try again now that I've sort of hacked it up for myself.
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Of course we keep looking and reading.
Walt and Vlad at the poets' gate, wearing the wooden spoons in the lapel and their faces painted with airplanes and animals.
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Pictures at an exhibition
Walking through with Georgia O'Keeffe today, she's highly critical you know, but at the end when we pluck the
cheese balls off the buffet (blowing the smoke away with tender lips) she smiles and nods.
High praise from that old recluse.
I cannot but agree with her
I hope there's more bullets in your gun
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comrade friend, i think it befitting you end
punctuated witha bullet.
I have no cause to wake or trouble you;
yet with a sigh for Yessenin, I must say-
not at my behest,
we feed at the banquet, yes,
but let it not be at our behest.
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Gun fight at the Afghan coral huh?
this is whitman meets milton meets pound meets wtf??? lololol i dunno.. it's dusty dead sea scrolls in the spin of a bullet.
i cannot pretend to get it all, but it sounds like a good gig/fight-out... you write lots of crazy shit mr guitarman....
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"the incident dissolved"
the love boat
smashed against reality.
I'm through with life
and we should absolve
mutual hurts, grudges and anxieties.
His suicide note probably summed it all up then and still applies now, one wonders if we ever pay the ferryman enough?
C
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