poetry.2
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milk volume one
Joe AMATO/Jack
ANDERSON/Bill
BERKSON/John BRANDI/Ira COHEN/Wanda COLEMAN/ byron
COLEY/Cid CORMAN/ Hamid Echbihi EL IDRISSI/Krista
FRANKLIN/Denis GALLAGHER/ Allan GRAUBARD/Michael HAEFLINGER/Ken HAPONEK/Jack
HIRSCHMAN/Nuno JÚDICE/Frank LIMA/Matthew LIMA/Duane LOCKE/Gerard MALANGA/Joseph MASSEY/
Marty MATZ/David MELTZER/ thurston MOORE/Sheila E.
MURPHY/Mark OWENS/Simon PERCHIK/John PERREAULT/Janine
POMMY VEGA/Michael ROTHENBERG/Larry SAWYER/ Hazel
SMITH/Mike TOPP/Roberto VALENZA/Lina ramona VITKAUSKAS/A.D.
WINANS/Mark YAKICH
|
MY WHOLE BODY SHAKES WITH
CREATION
My whole body shakes with creation
Hive, herd, migration from cold feet to groin
Hanging around there for a while, moves on
Quaking where hunger pretends a craving
Catching me with sharp claws at lung's root and forces
a sigh, escapes
I feel better then
It begins again as if I had something on my mind
Worrying about something
Love could be enough for a while
Nature wants to escape from the idea
Plum blossoms from a concept
Turtle eggs hatching a great arrival on a beach in a novel
It's a small room
I want to put shells, blue china
a book of Joanne Kyger's, a slab of paradise
pain from the bodies of loved ones
broken lung and burning bone in a hermetically sealed box
far from the hands of mischief, curiosity or a bum rap
Wherever I can find the space
And when I'm surrounded and understand
the treasures I have gathered
I hope to hear music
It keeps my body still, calms me
Music calms me
from
NO EYES, a sequence on Lester Young
if exhaustion were an ocean
I'd dive in head first
& forget how to swim
down to the deepest deep
creep along bottom's bottom
& sleep w/out dreaming
turn blue in salt cold
shrink old prune grey
water filled folds pop open
on sunny days
no more sweet or sour
just hour after hour of no time
is nobody's time w/nobody around
to keep time
if misery were the sea
& blues were sky
I'd still sink & fly
& cry w/out anyone
being around to spy
on Pres & say shit
the suit fits
the wood fits
the earth fits
dark fits
worms fit right in
& out & who's to know
who's blowing what elsewhere
who cares
in the rare fit
of return
if blues were shoes
I'd walk a million miles
& still not be through
my map of trap
run changes not my game
chords afford hills I climb
in time to sing a song
lambs lap up & love sap
fills the meter w/sweetness
hearts hold no glass fills
paradiddle tap delicacy
clicketyclacks on glass bridge
over skin abyss drum
of slaves stretched
beyond break &
beyond your kiss
if lips were song
I'd never go wrong
& stay stuck on your breath
mouth to mine in a circle of fifths
if blues were shoes
I'd be barefoot before I start
walking in or out of
your life
if blues were news
the dailies would take eternity
to get through
when I go I go there without you
solo in transit
through back door
blue light blink exit
out of frame tilted
just a gigolo a photograph
an 8 x 10 print a postage stamp
passport ID
get me gone
out the door & into night
what I saw & you saw
never the same
not even close
where I looked in
you looked out
saw only skin
was light for a colored man
was colored for a light man
nobody wins the skin game
bells bells bells
smoke a carillon
thanks a million
eyes high beam
can't see nothing but
atoms & ladies
movie through
cloud shadow snacks
spines of light on shades
slides of reverie
in clubs Speed Graphic
shots of booths filled
with suits & skirts
ashtrays & shot glasses
washed in flash
look through time into
shutter's petals
(if snaps were real
nothing'd get anywhere
if past was future's fingerprint
love'd go nowhere
& if each note froze before it went out
there'd be nowhere to go
if you is or you ain't my baby
I'd still blow words you couldn't hear)
Lester led the band with his eyes
he hardly said anything except
hey baby or you know
Ding-dong
hello goodbye
bells ring
when eyes see
in '42
in L.A.
Nat Cole
Red Callander
& Pres do
Tea for Two
breathless Lester
deathless
not brushes but
acetate fluster
sizzles through digital
Bean & Byas did wood
Pres does air
Bean & Byas push it
Pres lets it
what's delicate
inviolate
rejects bruise
accepts blues
Bird learned from me
from Trumbauer's C-melody
Dorsey's alto
skin's secondary
pilfer from source
to become source
asked me who I was
who they were
why we were
how I did it
who I got it from
what's the secret
I told them everything
& they heard nothing
28 viii 97
1909 died in 59
now it's 97
you'd be 79
on jazz cruise ship
hunger artist
bypass dip
go for distilled curl
a Pilipino pours into
extra deep shot glass
knees push into leatherette
bar puff facade
elders scarf up dinner
at captain's table
drafted Berklee school kids set up gear
hey where's the chick singer
Magnetic Reflection
Let love and passion smile at night
Happily rouse each other, unite
Climb still bright moon
Dance to the dream
While hard hearts reconcile
Go in truth twilight
Quietly desire
See your shadow in the sunlight
Enough firing as dynamite
Don't be uptight
When our body needs love
And you refrain, anxiety, sex
I kiss winter, fall, pain, death, cliché poetry
Did she try heaven over everything white
Guaranteed loyalty is a forever fight
Adieu
Good Knight
A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON MY
WAY TO ENLIGHTENMENT
I HAVE LOST MY SHADOW
IN A FIELD OF IMPROVISED WHISPERS
FORGOTTEN MY NAME
IN THE FRAGRANCE OF POPPIES
WHERE ORNAMENTAL SKULLS
ERRATICALLY ORBIT
LUMINOUS GARDENS
OF FUGITIVE CLOCKS TICKING UMBER BLOSSOMS
THROUGH SECRET WINTERS THAT BITE
THERE ARE UNSCHEDULED CHIMES ABOVE
A MEADOW WHERE MALIGNANT TOADSTOOLS HIDE
AMONG THE FALSE ECHOES OF ANCIENT INVOCATIONS
AND DISTORTED REFLECTIONS
FROM A RIVER STAINED BY TIME
I HAVE MARCHED DOWN STREETS
OF EMBALMED MOONLIGHT
HOWLING LIKE A MAD DOG
SEEKING SOME BONE OF TRUTH
SOME FINAL CURTAIN
SOME ULTIMATE DESTINATION
FREE FROM THE SYNTHETIC OCTAVE OF DREAMS
AND I HAVE UNRAVELED THE KNITTED MASK OF YEARS
SEARCHING FOR A WAY
TO RETURN TO MY GREEN DRENCHED CHILDHOOD
YET ONLY CAUGHT OCCASIONAL GLIMPSES
OF A PAST GILDED BY
IMAGINATION
IN A FOREST OF ELUSIVE TREES
THE CALENDAR HAS DEVOURED THE DECADES
TURNED MY BEARD SILVER
IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE
AS I PASSED MY LIFE SHOOTING CRAPS WITH DESTINY
IN THE PURSUIT OF WORTHLESS THINGS
YET I HAVE NEVER HESITATED
TO THROW AWAY MY WALLET
TO MAKE ROOM IN MY POCKETS FOR POEMS OR RAINBOWS
WHICH I CARRIED
TILL THE RAINBOWS TURNED
TO TATTERED COLORS
AND THE POEMS
BECAME JUST DUST
BY NATURE I'M A NOMAD
A TRANSIENT WITH NO ABODE
IN THIS WORLD
I CHOOSE TO WANDER
FROM MIRACLE TO MARVEL INTO WONDER
I LEARNED
ALL THINGS OPEN
AND
LIFE INDEED UNFOLDS
XI
Sigh, the den is gone. Was simple and splendid.
This baloney slapstick goes up and down.
Expatriates stolen last season and today.
Summer can be winter, slippery with tragedy.
In some false nic of chimes and glad-handing
all that is ours is a master machine
working against naturalness,
gloriously, sincerely, unstoppable.
Sic sic quick nervous laughter
as the zooming youngsters listen,
media coaxing them to give up their liberty.
Starry eyed me, this aged well turned man
with middle sized hands, a one piece hero
milking dream for its purist blood.
Poem
Consider the repetition
observed in the tides
and the moon. There are
cycles, like circles, pre-
dictable and perfect. They
possess, nevertheless,
a mystery not even initiates
can fathom. Why must everything be
this way, from the beginning to the
end of time? You don't answer, nor
did I expect any answer from you
as you filled my glass, in accord
with the law of gravity.
translated from the Portuguese by Richard Zenith
I FIND
Letters don't do it -
talking clears the air
and brings out half a
laugh here and there. A
glance and a certain
tone...all. One person
facing another.
***
Goya saw
it alright -
the God as
a titan
and a big
mouth taking
us all in.
As if we had lost
all our memories and were
remembering this.
***
COMPETENCY
When they have to ask
you and you find you can't i-
dentify yourself.
***
Sometimes
nothing
makes a
lot of
sense - like
nonsense -
like this.
***
We were - you
are. But then
as now - hard
to tell the
difference.
*
usw.
It seems likely to
go on for some while yet but
that's weather for you.
*
How could we have known
it would all turn out this way?
And what if we had?
EARLY EVENING POEM
in the shadows
south of market
early evening
an old man stands
in the doorway
of an abandoned
building
shoulders stooped
jesus beard
ragged clothes
hands outstretched
begging for his supper
his prayers unanswered
spittle on his chin
holes in his shoes
Walt Whitman's forgotten
child
MADE IN THE U.S.A.
he toils on the
assembly line
works an 8-10 hour shift
leaves a piece of him behind
for every part he helps make
at night, at home
he hides his thoughts
like smuggled contraband
sewn inside the false compartment
of a suitcase
he wears jeans made in Honduras
shoes made in Mexico
a shirt from Korea
a hat from Greece
makes love to his wife
brought over from Russia
with ruble eyes
and milky white thighs
that mask the capitalistic
lies
Mark YAKICH
TO PAPA IN DUBLIN*
My friends are all fine and marginally
irritating; typical girl jealousy that drives me
mad; at least I have Carrie (when she detaches
from Josh); we are now an established gang
in Baton Rouge; people reference us
and in their sentences are words like tough,
vagrants, pack; makes me proud; feels good
to do something for the community.
Promise me you won't let a woman
walk all over you; unless of course
it is Halloween and you are a Persian rug
and she is a pair of glass slippers; but then
remember, when she feeds you grapes
you'll have to eat them off the floor.
THE QUEEN OF TARTS*
How she wants it all to mean
something more when she talks
her way in the front door. A broken
nose for a corsage, a coral snake
for a sash, two corkscrews for eyes.
She doesn't need to be a star
or have a mob of one surround her.
She just wants to know
should she be rich or should she be poor?
When the armies of penitence come
to feel up her blouse, Lady
Liberty's arm sticks out bearing note:
He was the jungle and the ballroom
and he might have been the Devil
but he had better lines than God:
The war goes on, friends die,
good weather, my first mistress
(the most desirable woman in Paris)
fucked me for the laughter not the heroics.
AH, PARIS
*
I don't want this to hurt but I'm not
in Paris with you.
I don't think
I'm in Paris with anybody.
Or that anybody
goes to Paris anymore.
It's too risky.
What with the international political
situation and all.
I've taken to keeping the Parisian
cheeses in the potted plants
out back. And as you can plainly
see, piles of luggage continue
to fill the corners of Parisian
train stations.
I'm sorry. I have to wait
for the lovers to strike again,
and for Paris
to fall indiscriminately
into that little river, the Seine.
back
Mike TOPP
NINE SINATRA HAIKU*
The old pond;
a frog jumps in—
doobie doobie doo.
No one spoke,
the host, the guest,
the dry martinis.
Fly me to the moon—
by myself,
chewing on dried salmon.
One broad
after another—
how stupid.
This audience,
they just don’t seem
Vegas.
Why mention people?
Even the horses
are crooked!
How
did all these people
get in my room?
I look into a dragonfly’s eye
and see Hoboken
over my shoulder.
Pissing in the snow,
my kind of town
Chicago is.
FLAG*
We were pledging allegiance to the flag and Dad caught me looking out the
window. Mom said she didn’t think that was very patriotic of me. I said I
was looking at the flag outside on the pole. Dad thought it over and said
that from now on we were to all look at the flag inside.
GREEK LINEUP*
Parmenides rf
Zeno 2b
Anaxagoros 1b
Democritus cf
Melissus 3b
Empedocles lf
Heraclitus c
Pythagoras ss
Thales p
PHOTOGRAPHY LESSON*
Blend into the background. The best photographers become part of the
scenery. Hang around a place and appear natural and relaxed. Do what others
are doing, whether it’s reading in a park or watching a ballgame—the object
is to fit in. This photo is of my shower and I am by the door.
back
Joe AMATO
Speaking of which*
My voice box doesn't calculate, doesn't know the meaning
of the word, and sounds are spirited away
speaking of which
we'd never known peace, either
had but spoken
the word
and as we lost what words
must be uttered
between us
their sounds drifted apart, a
part, a pa
rt—
our lips moved, the snippets of sound
spirited away, we knew
what we couldn't say
because we'd found, of simplest division
the soundless, wordless art
of the art.
back
Duane LOCKE
LUNA MOTH ON DAY OF ECLIPSE*
A luna moth on my backdoor screen.
I wonder how much of her one day on earth is left.
The phone rings. It's probably my neighbor
Telling me about the eclipse. She always
Does what is fashionable and popular.
She does not read poetry..
I don't answer the phone. Often I wish
I did not have a phone. As I observe
The pale green, I notice a damaged wing.
If something lives only one day in this world,
It cannot escape damage. The light
Behind the Luna's wings darkened.
The wings become as mystic as the greens
In El Greco. I'm entranced
By the white streaks on the border
Of the wings, streaks like El Greco saints.
HAMMOCK*
In this scrub oak hammock,
Spider webs strung from trunk to trunk.
I must kneel, crawl on black muck,
Not to disturb the spiders and their webs.
I crawl by the slim bodies of yellow mushrooms,
Red-gray lichen, the hiss of small, bright-colored snakes,
Beetles pushing dung balls, wild orchids
Sprouting from wood crumbles of a fallen tree.
I have not seen a person all day.
My face changed, became relaxed, friendly-
No longer tense as when watched by human eyes..
My clothes are stained with oozing black mud.
I'm extremely happy.
A VISITOR OR INTRUDER OR ENEMY OF LIFE*
A pudgy man wearing white shorts
Came in a white van to visit me.
He with great confidence and self-assurance
Talked about his belief
In cosmic flows, occult wisdom, purification rituals,
Psychics, Tarot cards.
Finally, a bluejay in a cedar
Made a noise.
It was a joy
To hear something real..
I think the bluejay believes in Tao.
back
Jack ANDERSON
After I Wrote*
the two previous lines
I thought they could serve
as a tribute to Dante,
whereupon I discovered
I could now speak
Hungarian
and so took on
the sacred mission
of translating Dante
into at long last
his true native tongue
the purest Hungarian,
and to demonstrate how
I've grown so attuned
to his thoughts and his words,
his Hungarian cadences,
I've decided to give you
this tiny sample,
this flawless rendering
of Dante's next two lines:
Family Circle*
Dad kicks mom
Mom smacks Junior
Junior pushes Sis
Sis punches Baby
Baby bites Dad
Dad batters Mom
Mom clobbers Junior
Junior pummels Sis
Sis scratches Baby
Baby bites Dad
So Dad goes berserk
Mom goes wild
Junior goes ape
Sis goes bananas
Baby bites Dad
Dad perverts Mom
Mom corrupts Junior
Junior degrades Sis
Sis defiles Baby
Baby bites Dad
And they all get VD
Hepatitis
And AIDS
So Dad stabs Mom
While Mom smothers Junior
And Junior bludgeons Sis
As Sis torches Baby
Who's just bitten Dad
It Is Easy*
It is easy to make an organ proud,
Easy to think that lace could be teeth,
That ghosts will rise up at movie showings,
And that every appointment will be wildly amorous.
It is easy to jumble pears and leeks,
Sins and peaches, sinners and fishermen,
And it would be easy but hasty to question a caterer's loyalty
Or to assume the soil is filled with terror.
It is easy to make a son out of wire.
A laugh can be reminiscent of sweetbreads or rice.
And monkeys and dreams are oddly close together.
It is easy to think of art when bacon fat is meant.
It is easy to confuse poetry with worms.
But fourteen lines can grow into a bell.
*previously unpublished in milk
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