Proof v. 2.0

((For extra credit: See Proof v. 1.0))


Hanging parallel in the hallway:
crayon sunflowered sombrero
versus
primary potato prints.
Paring knife product inches higher.

Backpacks, one blue,
one pink, brighten the curb
while floods of crooked ponytails
and skinned knees screech
toward toys and juice boxes.

A row of Labrador Retrievers,
all drool and fluff,
jigsawed into 250 pieces for
the space between the third
and tenth clock tallies.

Metal box bearing cold sodas,
off-green, brown, orange,
condensation and coins,
yards from a light over a door—
flashing white.

.scalps.

((Finally-finally, thanks to the sharp eye of C.H.))

selfish-esteem business booms
stocks soar no accountability
for age recession for complaint
for badness bear holey right
socks but they ask blood for
basics beg attention all turns
twist break bone then skin to
bask in beautiful tone propaganda
the boys into late nights in lofts
laps and lingering i thought she
was in love print pamphlets on
the subject of she’s pie charts
line graphs explaining how
exponential need be in minds
like these the sorts represented
across a nation’s windows
programmed to weigh below
120, hip = bust, iq (<) complexion

mathematics skin-centered

society what difference between

blemish-free actress selling

lipstick t-shirt bottled water and

her beaming grandmother poster-

printed heiling for genocide

takes breasts low body fat to

pitch the product eye locked on

boy-prize proclaim the notch

above and SMILE so her tears

burn passersby who hear i’m not
allowed to have fun theories in
meaning-over-makeup: beauty
contests prettied-up penis envy
betray all allies boost sales and
swear your target peace of mind

TITLE NEEDED

Syllables broken across the chalkboard, baton in hand, she points, teaching translation of English from Unconscious: Projection is key. Think “Don’t blink” or consider breathing techniques, muscle memory. Exchanging baton for socket set, she dismantles missiles, rotary phones, marvels when words line insides. She shuffles the letters, pastes them on yellow signs by puddles: No wading, No diving, No swimming and Water too turbulent for human consumption. Historically speaking, she holds no interest in history except for evolution, etymology—she recently renamed the earth for everyday imagining.

.maps., v. 2

At 40 degrees Latitude and -73 Longitude,
he handed me a children’s book and I shook
my head. He called me “kidnappable,” said,
“Oh,” too often, stayed four of seven days.

I asked the difference of 27 and 21.
He answered, “China,” offered more word
math: Flatter + Dryer = Topography,
Beard (<) Bald, so, “Sleep next to me.”

He plucked leaf-skeletons away, pushed
back onto grass and demanded other-than-
animal visions from rain clouds. I tried
to teach arms aren’t all the same.

We adapted, sponges, made a plan:
Grant good, honest honey. Trade poisons.
Crest clavicle and come closer. Whisper,
“Watch while I become less bad.”

He rose, angel begging anchor,
followed words about bone, took trains,
traced the tunnels of my brain,
slipped page-presents under my door.

Water-logged, he left for land, mailed
message later, “Dehydrate. Just juggle
beards, Little Poet, and glue of broken
continents. Mountains will miss you.”

maps

she told me “flatter and dryer” was topography
still so simple wanting you on top of me
dehydrate consider common: black stones
white stones grid stretched wrapped round
rock call longitude yet don’t go no room
for overlap wanting something so much it’s
trodding trouble so no. more. words. no
wires or wondering just juggle beard baby
broken continents sang song of shaking
cords suggested sequence hand shook head
shook lowered lips lingered wrapped “oh”
echo of adverb in maze behind eyes feeling
bent launched lyrical the puzzle progress
my “child” to your “mystic movement” sipped
silence once seven then four days granted
good honest honey traded poisons crest
clavicle and came closer whispered watch
me become less bad more flow followed words
about bone took trains traced the tunnels
of my brain fingers hard hands along grooves
to read mind here’s white number one no 90’s
an angel asking anchor acting aged cry cry
creep back to black the beard buying drinks
each night making light ‘til less most
martyr like an ancestor red is the new
nothing who is one to attempt tackling
the big in you still young kneenoankle
high pea planted first of july sweat your
mountainside arms aren’t all the same might
hold tighter self-defense your defense only
with a license and I’ve no signature

fairy tale

((note: the formatting is super-wrong, but i am no html savant, and don't care enough to learn. see me in person if you want the actual poem.))



-------------------------




She takes the bottle


from

Me red -splash- drip like

Laugh through

walls

I’ll



Write in tile and sunlight

a
Thanks

BENDS

the binding of my


Ray for

every

reason

dream


The Japanese walls


Book
won’t buy

(steals)

Another other
each coming night

Lines and stutter steps

Away

lips purple for days



Wavering
violin
eyes
ever

if i gave you seven days, could you be god? -&- microcorpses

if i gave you seven days, could you be god?


i never thought a day to rest worthwhile.
see, six aren’t enough to write the world’s equation
and you won’t conceive another option of creation.
dance first dazzling (after you make dance and dazzle and first),
thinking and dropping five basics before recipe includes each.
stars love sea home crash.
from stars find connect-the-dots, soul, legend, blood and birth.
soul + blood = birth of man.
now love makes mess and bricks to the backs
of hairless heads.
sea sustain. drop to drink. drown dented skulls float
home. crash culture, dishes, daddy just hit mommy at the
dinner table, but don’t speak or dessert smears the wall.
how many parentheses does it take to contain?
pages, pens, playful layers of fractals?
is god too big now?
can you do the math?




-------------------------------------


Microcorpses


He wondered aloud the possibility
Of earning merit badges for poop.
You get them for helping old ladies
Cross the street; why not for taking
An exceptional dump? Or for discovering
The defecatory habits of squirrels? Or
For playing archeologist and excavating
The return of that penny
You swallowed when you were five
Hanging upside-down on your bed
And knew better than to put coins in
Your mouth but liked the taste of copper?
I told him about a minister I knew
Who preached that love is imagining
Your other on the pot, and loving
Him the same. We smiled,
Telepathizing queries about God’s shit.

the unnatural scale

but where
did we float on this sea of sound?
jetsammy davis jr. might hold
the truth of evolution, but he
can’t even be seen anymore. ironic
for a man who couldn’t really see well
in the first place. we one-eye-balled
into devolution. lost track of the devil.
then daniel johnston. what i mean to say is
i agree, sir. heard word there’s a circle
where we follow back down laddered language
‘til cavemen mock our grunts and simplicity. i agree
jimi put clapton in his place, but you know townshend
won’t back down ‘til underground and why not
mention paler fingers plucking? holcomb’s banjo led
long fingers to short and all they see are
breasts and plastic surgery but
Shhhhh!
bet with eyes closed dolly could quote roscoe.
one up him, even. (dylan wouldn’t cite her, though.
hop the train to another town to tell them
you carried bound bandana on a stick
when first class was the way.
the difference doesn’t figure out
(and here’s to every song you twirled to
to make the record skip ‘n’ scratch.)
shake again like little.
two sugars,
no milk,
made irish,
but you know
then
the color
don’t change.

no, sweetie

“Mmm-ah-nn… going to California?”
“No, sweetie. Nobody’s going to California.”
“Not even the muffins?”

I live these wakings of wheelbarrows and
Wonder but it’s been years since I wrote
poems of love without fear. I wandered
French Markets, un-streets, your abandoned
three-dollar theater, and comparison failed
until she got fitted for my frames. What
adoration adorns itself in traps? Finger
painted figures clutching hands before beliefless
church, but wait— only one clings. She’ll
buckle, the Angry Blade. Find her own
city. Swell sweet for someone else.

No, sweetie. Nobody’s going Uptown.

Weight of the Steady Beat

Weight of the Steady Beat


The angle of my balcony allows a view of the swing set in one of those
playgrounds that appears every three blocks in Brooklyn.
I sit with Paul watching a scene I’ve waited 20 years to see:
four children swinging the two in the middle flying perfect time
two outer kids offbeating as by metronome.
I laugh. You’re an offbeat.
Paul laughs. My only words all afternoon.
PK begs affection insists pigtail pulling sand throwing
he hasn’t seen drunken attention heard comments trying
to negotiate an embrace or a lift.
I have to remind AJ to close her blinds so we can leave experience at exposed leg.

I put out todays tenth cigarette and exit to enter my room hoping
to accomplish something greater than abstract thought.
Angel Hair Sleeps With A Boy In My head more unturned than
not. I steal photography prints left neglected. Surround myself
with strangers and their memories. That song
reminds me of my father. I push my smiles for him elsewhere:
You need to wash the dishes.
You’re going to need to wash your face after my fist hits it.
I make PK go with Paul. They’ll be out ‘til I wake.
See I have this fear of knives. And nighttime. And kids with nothing to do.

Previous scars leave me with folded arms at a party.
They smile like it’s acceptable. I can’t drink without
worry of bruised wrists bloody pants the next day.
Drinking remedies this condition—two beers
equal fear three leave arms dangling ready for consideration.
Paul spills his second drink always my cleaning leaves
him yelling. You aren’t my mother. Leave me alone.
Thank you for taking care of me. You’re the best. I’m sorry
for yelling. And for hitting on you. I do that to everyone.
I smile. He takes the dripping toilet paper to the trash.

I read until phrases blur to run-on words that still hold meaning.
The rain dissipated two days ago. I feel it missing. The carpet
on the balcony still seeps water into my heels so I shower before bed.
I saved the packaging AJ got when she went to the store. It says
5 pk kids’ hangers. I want to marry him tomorrow.
I wonder if my thoughts were classified rude proud trustless and they
walked around like people would he consider loving me in spite.
A lighthouse props itself on my dresser alongside a skeleton on a bicycle.
I consider this a portrait of my insides. They display me more than
the shirts and skirts contained below.

They call it strain because it seems as though you are being pressed into,
Extruded through tiny holes. I click on my lamp and there is no bulb
so I build reflectors and use the hallway light.
What do the Amish do when it is windy and they have only candles?
PK reads in place of working and takes cards at the gym
a few hours a week. I made him a playlist including hiphop
because I couldn’t imagine him listening to it.
Paul asks me to punch him. I slap as compromise. PK pouts. Flirting.
No. Flirting is disguise for lust. I resign myself to reside in first grade puzzles of manner. Striking is pure affection. Which is why he has
his bruises and Paul gets open palm.
Whatever. Keep comments Let me know when
support can be an option. My bed turned King-sized but short.
My imagination dimmed in exchange for kisses.

another sort of thing

blog-blog

if you want...

associates

leather jackets change the mind
of even the toga’d
girl beyond grace
drape you in dull blue
dream see that your organs
belong to this musical world
your j-name all decibels and
nervous flicking of marb reds
demands seem charm
but hear a voice singing thigh
accidents ruin dreams of
japanese babies burnt marshmallow-
ringed mouths and l’s as y’s thought
i sought damseldom five-year-
olds never know and if they do take
my eyes ears all i lost stuck
cigarettes in the treasure box purple
respect never intended for this to
extend beyond point a your accidental
runway propels you to admired
wish i could ask you to messenge:
giant clothespin paperwork with three
carbon copies wasted $1000
recovery doesn’t begin with
intent to heal hurt opt for
fainting over running mad
every inch steams higher ‘til
boiling like wilderness survival
is trial living forgotten
i will never be your friend
no waif light-skulled dark-
skinned loose-smiled forget
dreams for kept company no
confidence unsex yourself
tomorrow pump out tears toward
me you chose black
leather you chose fuck you
you chose why not just drop
the baton girl you can’t have
distance once he’s through
keys must jingle lights must
glare voice must crack silence
soothes explanation re-rips
a ready-gaping hole designed
that way yes not so wide
swallow words after no
is not enough and screams
don’t cross your mind blameblame
push off mother pumped her own
tears fears pushed further than
fair hold tight to remainders like
math he will want those too add
up what little he left nights and
noons fear midday walks to necessity
what if he’s there with his growing
hair and need to spread lies does it
hurt for me to ignorant and laugh
show my crooked brilliant teeth else
where while he tries to eye me your
constancy despite connection finds
you fair game for acts for which
they hit people in the head with
bricks leave them to die because
all crime boils to theft he steals jesus
girl i will beg if you might open one
and close another he tears i still
shut when they ask if action will be
taken will i man up after being made
so very much a woman after what
was stolen i don’t want the rest in
today why worry for you your face
too angelic your thoughts too clear
thirteen beers couldn’t hit hard enough
for you to not scream not claw not
weep i only didn’t i only complied don’t
eat overeat 73 pages key in palm
consideration of lock note a no quill no
dream fuck punk fuck drinks fuck
dance fuck you fuck sheets fuck bed
fuck no.

white phosphorus wedding -&- open up

we are ready to go around 3, and bobby
pushes to the second. not about koj’s bragging
rights or my sinus infection. about bobby’s son
jason. about 30 years and 3 days of shaking calls.
about the wedding. i sit between koj and
kenji and try not to say anything that
will disappoint mother keiko.
she’s dressed finer than me, mentions trying
four states before settling on her dress. i
can’t remember where i got mine, but i know
it cost less than $15 and it is out of season.
on the sidewalk bobby tells me i am responsible
for straightening his bowtie, and i wonder
how much he wanted a daughter.
kenji holds my hand, smiling at me and laughing
when i realize the skin between my nose and
lip is chapped, peeling from blowing my nose
so much. the church is the kind investing more
money in stained glass than i will in my education.
i tell kenji our wedding will be outside with a picnic
sandwich ice cream reception and he can’t wear
a tuxedo. he holds my hand tighter.
keiko and bobby get their flowers. us kids sit.
second row feels too close. kenji sees nothing
but the mechanics of the organ.
i see nothing but the way jason looks
at kristina. the reverend blesses the marriage,
keiko and bobby pose for the “father/son/
stepmother” photo, and we get back in the car.
the country club of virginia looks like a plantation
paid for by $100 thousand a year membership fees.
the bar is open, though, the wine is sweet, and kenji
and koj want irish coffees. the whiskey soothes.
kenji kisses my cheek, twirls me through crowds.
the men smoking want to talk politics and my tattoo.
one of them steals my champagne during
the toast and cuts in when kenji and i feel up
to dancing. koj tells me keiko knows that i smoke.
i worry that i will be found unfit. kenji’s other girls
didn’t smoke. didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, didn’t speak.
koj tells me not to worry. “she likes you. and bobby
really loves you.” i smile. i know koj likes me too.
the servers bring out grits, and i eat two plates.
the couple cuts the cake and talks about meeting,
he dances with his mom, her with her dad,
and we wish them well, lighting their exit with
sparklers instead of throwing rice. the guy i saw
getting high on the porch burns holes into his hand.
i pull kenji away from him, and keiko yells for us to
get in the car again.



will you? come with… father not long… mother… week while… wedding… wine, cheese, finery… equalizing… i promise you are smarter than anyone there… same name church… same name brother… no blood, but… beer gin wine whiskey champagne laden sweet words… trolley tracks… fake fire feels different… you’re not gonna tell me what it means? no… for the last time… you don’t have to tell… voting is private… like your name… your face… their dance… would you?

would… you? attend… obligation… limited to smiles… limited to sitting still… limited to don’t cough during the ceremony. it sounds so terrible on the audio… i will… hold your hand… we will walk… out the back door… off the porch… to the place where grass feels like cotton… you fear… them, don’t you? yes… money only means three forks at dinner… are you using both at once? at least… you have the enzyme… no id but the enzyme… jacket gives you away… but you… give away smokes… speak southern… fit in… will you?

will you? willing… greater than able… mom will talk looser… confide in you… has he had any since 8? answer… you… wear it all open… wear frugality… wear smaller town… wear humble… hide only lights and scent… father figure likes you best… can see little you… she gets it. she sees what i deal with. you crazies… a decade… but relate… dance with us. we know you can break it down… 30 years and they make you smile… you admire mom… far away dress… beads… hides excitement ‘til two drinks… you hide one up… would you?

fast forward

((i think my stomach noises may cause an uproar of another sort in this here computer lab...))

(((pee-ess: pick up a copy of ubiquitous if you haven't yet. i might even go all ellery and sign it for you.)))

he could have your hair sweaty
hands ever-present close
clamp beds and buy a better every
things hold higher less adaptation
is underrated you be darwin i'll
be the weaker species declassify
recollection still find fractals along
my skin seek cells within cells
within me isn't there room
for tiny hands they might sweat
like mine no mis-hearings no
misfirings none of my selfish shaking
mistakes might she learn a little
waltz wander out swagger whistle
never whisper call shy sassy slant-
eye i would try now to stop the
drinking smoking slighting if
you like more practical promising
budget balance weigh words well-
wish no curses swear eventuality
i might love him more she might
be my all hold fast fistfuls of
grass bed gap television on too
long just hold my sweaty hands your
hair has always been my favorite.

Dream Haibun Series

((note: the formatting doesn't want to work, and i don't have time to learn the html to make it so. thusly, the second half of each haibun is formatted incorrectly. i am posting just to make colleen smiley. finals are killing me...))

((pee-ess: if you don't know what a haibun is... check it out.))


If I Took the Test, I'd Fail
((for M.J.))


The fun house holds no fun, only fear. If I were, if I were, if I were Yao-Ming-ed, cartoon-eyed, Quasimodo'd, snaked, ((late)) Marlon Brando'd, frowning, frowning. Bathroom mirror. Discomfort, but me. Then fear again. Pivot profile, hipbones, ribbones, collarbones, pelvisbones gone now, snow skin stretched to transparency, and a creature curling, cooing inside. Face front, face the face of wisdom, wear, weary. As though belly might over-mature, leaving me full up with less-than-cuddly corpse. Look away, look up, look again. Skin still see-through, but face now embryonic. Baby. Pre-birth, pre-life.


Feeding


i said

"baby"

expecting the word

to fall

a
w
a
y

but baby held on


hyperpregnancy


no process
pure progress

instant wisdom squared

one left with weight

pre-sexed pre-life

umbilical. cord. confusion.

puree
or
prunes?

…Will You?
((after N.R.))


Lately You’ve Been Showing Up Alot. Down each avenue or via. Mayer or Martin—I’m not sure who my dream wants me to be, but I’ll manage either. Certainty. And I’ll run into you, but I’m here for my brother, the entertainment factor, the fishes. You can see 'em disappearing, two by two. Dive down! So we run to catch up and watch. ‘That’s the one I saw up there!’ ‘No, it’s not. You’re dumb.’ Doesn’t matter. I know I run as fast as fish swim. Soaked slip, sneakers squeak from the overhead splash zone. I am only one, and that is one too few. My turn for microphone melody. So, Mr. Martin, I guess I’m chugging, channeling you. But in Rome, do as the Romans do…


Acquaintance


…will you?

c. o. n. n. e. c. t.… t. h. e. … d. o. t. s…… with me?

jump jelly

to sea horse

to sea star


these weren’t the names we learned as children.


lost fish.
where do second halves go?




Remodeling
((for P.K.H.))


You were there. You always are. You say things I think you think and I hurt. Help. Here: a man, cruel, holds you, angers me. Hands. Off. To a dive on 4th Street where you beg drinks of all. My. Job. My. Pleasure. Robbed. And you are gone. I walk back, see the man. Tiles askew, he laying with fresh cement. He laughs. 'Where is she?' 'Look around. You'll find her.' He pours more cement, tearing up with laughter. No. He smoothes it. No. No. He lays a tile. No. No. NO. Body chemicals are sticky on the outside. If you are the binder his bones will be the accent.


Penned


un-venge.

night-less-mares.

live in chicken wire

walls holes filled

with scenario:



another, fucking up,


repulsion,


age,
work, disinterest,


death.



even in dreams,


i. stand. down.




Landscaping for Jealous Love
((for peace of mind))


I want you awake when I wake. I want your sleep fueling my sleep. And I want your time zone within mine. But barely breath no chance like you daylight save two months too soon twelve hours off. My dreams bring out of reach matching schedules and he takes time off to tread miles across city field around the track of eternal argument. Emits saccharine genetically enhanced taste of "bitter" flattered and fire back right to scale. Doctor's distraction camouflaged fairy tale fall and the thought of end. He lunges fingers strong bruising fruit flesh forearm. He saves me. Now you child fitful fistfuls rip away unjustly unthinking landscaping for jealous love. The grass innocent but necessary a cloud of blades.


Bracelet


encircle wrist

pulls

lips to face

mind me

punishment

lips again

a to b to two pair

cry baby

sing shower shards

unknowing

you will win.

starfish aren't starfish anymore

so you didn't care
for complaint that
i was trapped in a
scene forced to
relay information
science of a college
named for the girl
you used to love,
you rescued her
with a kiss when
the lion and bear
team clawed through
my back door, poor
salma hayek lay out
on a picnic table
with the lion eating
her insides. the
garden turned
forgotten.
and katie was only five
in the dream, i
locked both doors after
throwing her inside.
she giggled
when the bear
broke down the doors and
we ran down the hallway.
then some girl with glasses
and small eyes appeared.
you showed up
at my bedroom window
claiming genius in the
form of saying we
should escape and run down
the street to my grandma's.
i let you carry me to
the street and burned
green when you struggled
to lug fat flora to
the curb and kissed her.
the lion looked friendly
and i feared that
slavic-speeched boyish
child even less. then
the lion was hungry and
i flashed back to you
inside of friendless flora.

i reclaimed unconsciousness
and my school grew a stage
big enough for eddie izzard
to arrive. he kissed my cheek
telling me i was the reason
most transvestites fancy girls
and dressed me in a wizard cloak.
he gave me the punch lines
and allowed the laughs in my name.
eddie turned into a younger
boy wearing less leather
and no eyeshadow who
was more in love with me.
we turned the stage into my
grandma's office, the
wedding of the day
ruined itself, the family
found fault in us. (you
were supposed to sit in
the front row but ran.)
maybe honey had finally
found a man to tolerate her
or maybe tara was going to
marry one of her babies'
daddies. they started
throwing chinese teacups
at me. i begged for your
protection, you
watched through closed
eyes, i threw the candle
you kept over our bed back
at them. the glass shattered
and bloody feet brought
angry words to my name.
i fled to the hospital
to remove my wounds.
honey had hurled
the noah's ark tea
set so the animals
two-by-two hit my
blood stream and i
foamed from tooth to
chest. i didn’t think
of you. nurses led me
to friends, we stole
action figures and a stuffed
hedgehog from lana turner's
toy drive, frank o'hara
frowned and called the cops,
we ran and got away.

we are supposed to
haul a boy's body in
to the earth in this rain.
but i don't know him
so they kick me out
and i have nowhere to go.
other friends offer to eat
with me but i hide in the
bathroom then run. i
have no money. the next
store tries to sell me
a purple dress with feathers
and no zipper. but the
store's owner wants me to
join his daughter's swim
team and i put on the diving
cap i held in my back
pocket. the black boys on
the team like that i have ass
for a white girl and my
cousin competes with
our team too,
there's a boy who follows
my races and remembers
my records (of course i
back stroke, it's all i've
ever been good at).
he holds my hand without
permission and isn't doing
very well until he calls
me dollface and i know
he's you.

i hide in your poison
ivy mango skin smiles
because mai wants to
unerase me, amanda
thinks herself forgivable,
and i don't want to go back.
i want only to be
awake a poet
your everything.
i have the audacity
to find "happy" in bore
dom. and i study science
to learn your mind.
i can stand fifteen
minutes of anything.
they would tell me
the truths in this
dream took less than
that to run through
me. real life takes long
er hurts less but
you seem fond of being
messy with words thoughts
love.

Which Way?

For R.R. just as much as P.N.

We never thought we'd see

Sundance cry no little tears

or light mists for the wise

crack gamble of a kid he

always had some word

or foundation or debut

and the uglier he got the

more we remembered dust

clouds and tequilas follow

form brushstroke independence

tell them how make us believe a

drowned brother mother can't

love father who won't but from

freezing benches barefoot to

green light never a drop from

him til the man with the barbed

wire soul unraveled.

This is where everyone goes and scrounges up every Bernadette Mayer poem they can find...

Sonnet

You jerk you didn't call me up

I haven't seen you in so long

You probably have a fucking tan

& besides that instead of making love tonight

You're drinking your parents to the airport

I'm through with you bourgeois boys

All you ever do is go back to ancestral comforts

Only money can get--even Catullus was rich but

Nowadays you guys settle for a couch

By a soporific color cable t.v. set

Instead of any arc of love, no wonder

The G.I. Joe team blows it every other time

Wake up! It's the middle of the night

You can either make love or die at the hands of

the Cobra Commander

-----------

to make love, turn to page 121.

to die, turn to page 72.

excerpt from "On the road to what we're tempted to call heaven"

...

heaven I must tell you

at least from what I know

is an abandoned camp

named by white people

after Indian words

there's nobody living in it

it's overgrown

with raspberries

on the road to it

the road becomes disused

the trees are bigger

the light is both brighter

& less bright

& in the space between tire tracks

where cars used to drive

tiny strawberries have sprouted up

the road becomes progressively

more & more lined with

wild berries growing

till you get to a field

overwhelmed with things to eat

if you know what they are

& in spaces there are buildings

low & in disuse

if you dare walk into

the sunny parts of heaven

you will hear a buzz so loud

as to make you think

knee-deep in unknown flowers already

you'll die right away

of the juices & bites

of other things living

but if you advance without fear

& look up often

not at the sky but at the milkweeds

& tamest elderberries

against the view of

the equally ardent thorns & bees

you might wind up

falling in the delicious hole

which speaks to you then

& ever after: it says

go home

and let it rain on the roofs

because you have a home

or house, cabin or apartment

or tent, cave, dwelling or shelter

...

((it should go without saying that these poems were written by bernadette mayer--certainly not by me. but, for those less inclined to know this a priori: more on bernadette mayer))

proof

sister’s good but brother
bests and sharp split
of chalk erase out
the window you heard
it called punishment but got
off on beating clouds form
control calms day
care never looked
good til after school means
math ten minus
three equals seven
hours in ICU routine no
horse or puppy
puzzle can convince life
leads love to bed button
flashing light over
head to a machine grants
soda prizes not
allowed at home death
makes shouldn’t seem
unfair to children forget
to smile never mention motion
more simple than
trust no one

many for john godfrey

((absence. so. poetry, instead.))


where are you? what lies around so many corners? are they edges, lines? can you cross the lines? where do you go with three left turns? do you go right? do you go astray? do corners form shapes when joined with wires? can you play connect-the-dots tin-can-telephone-style with the world? are banks connected to jails connected to hospitals connected to mortuaries connected to nursery schools, strip clubs, grocery stores, used car lots, the 4 5 and 6 trains? is each corner related to heaven? is yours a city based around orion’s belt and the great bear’s back? are your bridges composed of corners? do you traverse mountains and valleys formed by right angled edges? what does her face hold? can you feel her misuse? did you misuse her? do you still? does she desire to be used? would you do anything to please her? do you hold a blanket? is it made from skin of girl to keep you warm and safe? or would you rather it be synthetic, so you miss nothing of anyone? what do you wish? do you dream? at night, midday—goals or subconscious? do you expect us to believe your claims of not wanting to tame the blue? what else is there if not conquest? is that how you saw her? how many "her"s are there? are they all one? do you shudder when you see her? do you hide behind shadows of yourself? where do you find the ever-present fire? do her eyes burn you? do you talk of fireballs and cinders hidden under crashing lashes because of the pain? does it surprise you that she is made of curves and skin and soul rather than right angles? do fog and feathers clutter your conscience? is confusion constant when the wires are gone? where do the wires go? are you all disconnected now? how will you find one another? or do you wish to be left alone? can names still sting when you’ve never heard them? is justice blind there? is justice present in a city continually tethered with wire stiff enough to keep you just out of reach? what is love there? is it distance? is it being treasured because or in spite of wires? is it sexual--the rubbing of brick corner to corner, friction producing sparks? does too much rubbing break concrete skin? what color is blood when skin is grey? can a virgin corner be spotted from blocks away? is she stainless? does she glow? what do nipples look like in a city of colliding corners? is cancer the color of blood or skin or something else? where do you find cigarettes in a city of corners? do they fill your cracks with yellow smoke and orange glow? is this how you keep warm? is she a marionette? if she calls herself magnetic, is she attached to wires in each finger, toe, temple? do you control the wires? do you make her dance onto subway platforms so men can admire her? are you powerless? do you wish to keep her locked away 'til her magnetism pulls only you? if your dreams are all the same, is the goal simply love? what color is light there? do you hide from beams or chase their warmth? is the corner-collage cold? how do corners mourn? do they curl in and out on themselves? is this the comfort of corners in the face of death? how do you die there? are tombs composed of only corners? hexahedrons? octahedrons? dodecahedrons? or do you, in death, oppose the everyday, lie waiting for eternity in an egg, as you lay in wait for life? where are your angels? are they hiding from the bloody corners and encapsulated corpses? isn't it their job to save? what do corners sound like? can you hear there? or do your ears ring with silence too loud? is the echo inside or outside? are you inside or outside? how ugly are your streets? are they full of trash? do you find it beautiful? is there a purpose to so many doors and windows? can you enter and exit? or are you trapped? is there some breeze? or is the air so stale on each side? is everything adorned with a lock? are you? when you take the a train, are you above water? does the queens g take you below churro shops and chipped antique dealers? does god dwell in a city of corners? is he inside or outside? with you or without you? does he command your angels? does he control your angles? do you feel his presence? do you feel weight beyond brick or adobe? do you feel words? does judgement hinder and hold you? how many of you are there? does the pigeonhole principle apply? if homes inside of corners make rooms, what do homes outside of corners make? which is yours? do you interact? or is yours a city of hermitage? can it, then, be called a city? are you held accountable for one another? are you held accountable for villainy towards her? or are your corner-to-corner apartment thresholds never to be breached? if you've never met, how did you use her? did you misuse her in doorways and windows so as to not splinter the carefully laid boundaries? or did you simply watch her? did you, do you voyeur to the point of disgust? is she worthless? or is all of her worth in hips, lips, and nipples? what language do you speak? if the boundaries remain intact, do you speak at all? does your home shift, as in dreams? do you wake up in rooms not your own? does your head spin from unconscious relocation? is there some willy wonka sideways elevator there, controlled by nothing more than whims? wait—is it cardboard or concrete? shallow or shadow? what do you mean by “beautiful”? is there a mole above her lip, a twist in her hips? is the rain melting your cardboard cave, dripping chinese torture on your chest? is there a child blossoming in a womb somehow warm in a city so cold? what is your beautiful? does mephistopheles dance down the alleys between corners, under wires, through your line of voyeuristic vision into her window? are we similar at all, or is it wrong to assume that you live in a universe all your own? if there are others in there with you, so that you are not isolated, is it too much to suggest that you all are not with us?


for more about john godfrey: review, bones