Napowrimo #20
LUNE
spare some change
mister can you spare some
change mister please
LUNE
spare some change
mister can you spare some
change mister please
Amazon came out with the Kindle,
Stallman declared it a swindle.
"We won't concede
our right to read!"
Have their sales begun to dwindle?
They say if you let it go
it will come back to you
but Yellow Dog kept running
and my life is a lot more
like Funny Farm than
Critique of Pure Reason or
Cholera — the mailman hates me
she leaves the lid up
when it rains, your letter
was drenched so I have to guess
what you meant by the patterns bleeding
like seeing a square of magazine
over your shoulder I wonder
what the rest says
but I'm pretty sure
you don't love me anymore
and there are more than 10 ways
to turn your partner on —
get great abs.
See if I stop,
things run into each other
and the paint spills, spreads.
sometimes they don't
give you notice
you're left with
an open pot, no lid
a can, no bag
a series of things
you could go on about
if only you had
the time I was flying
to Newark in Nov 2005
I can prove it
if I have to
just let me kiss
the paper you're
printed on and add
to the pile
while we wait
in line you'll see
stop looking at my face
as if its fly were down
twelve numbers
eight stations
no jazz —
keep on truckin'
nine years now mountains
over my shoulder last time
see you in six months
awe-inspiring guilt
oddly sufficient fashion
I shouldn't have told you
THINGS TO DO IN (AND AROUND) BOSTON
go to work
read the Globe, the Metro,
remember how briefly
you read Boston NOW,
never forget
pay the toll
oh Dear God,
don't run the Marathon,
run for the bus,
run for the train,
invite her to sit
behind a post
at the Regatta Bar
pay the toll
hit a kid on the Common
with a Frisbee
in the head,
call her again
drip tahini all over the taxi
make a scene, smoke
on the sidewalk
bump into people
who stop in the wrong
places
fail to find food
late at night
in the morning,
get the mail,
which is wet
pay your bills,
which are large
maybe she'll answer
this time
wave the short cue
at the Field
kick the door open
make your shot
pay your bills
which are large,
get drunk no get
to the library
before it closes
get a coffee, regular,
block the door,
don't park.
PANCAKE EVENT POEM
1. Cover your bedroom window with pancakes at night. They block the glow of the streetlights, they are an excellent insulator, and their pleasing fragrance will help you wake up in the morning.
2. Throw pancakes out your window at passers-by. If they are on edge or insecure, they will be offended, it will be funny, and you can post it on YouTube. If they are jovial, they will appreciate the gesture and maybe offer you coffee or lunch.
3. Stack the pancakes as high as you can. You'll need to make more. Many more. Then you can say you did it.
4. Look at the pancakes. They are beautiful, like the sun.
5. Feel the pancakes. Oh no! Now you can't share them with anyone else. You'll have to eat them all yourself. Rinse and repeat.
O'HARA CENTO
I can't believe there's not
walking in her garden — no flowers, a wintry shrub
the little asylums
pouring into my enormous ears
In a minute the sun will go down and
and really be merely a thing
doubting each auburn branch and my own
to call out confusedly and clear
will be merely my nose veiled by rain
Do you see each rippling leaf?
SENRYU
mature rational
conversation with you, knew
it must be a dream
Nice little article about Ashbery in the NYT (thanks offby1).
Back in town, time to catch up...
ROUGHLY SPEAKING
this bus is a car
this is the city
but what's the city is
where our house is
the city
no, it's a suburb
what's a suburb
it's like a town
just outside the city
but what's the city
the city is like this lots
of big tall buildings
you think this bus
is a car because
it has wheels
why is this bus
so slow
CINQUAIN
Not now
wind's blown road bits
in my eyes I can't see
you leaning into each other
blink blink.
EPISTOLA
Dear Horace,
I learned some Latin today also
that "Raid kills bugs dead" came from
Lew Welch. But I'm stuck, I can't seem
to make it through Satanic Verses. I'm
at the part that's like The Metamorphosis
and it just bothers me. I'm wondering
whether what I did recently was wrong.
What do you think? I'm sure you've heard
about it from L but I wonder what exactly
you've heard. Are you sure you should be
drinking that beer? It's nine percent!
Ciao,
John
"As I am a cowboy and you imaginary"
— Ted Berrigan, "XXXVIII"
Reflecting a few days later,
what is your sense? These snippets
have been portrayed as the whole
of some ministry, but I only believe
in what's musty. I mean,
in what I must. It feels
like a closing moment
as I fold your underwear,
but there are worse things,
like no chatter in the dark.
"The chief business of the American people is business."
— Calvin Coolidge
really financial faces,
black cars — "Where is
Bernanke taking us?"
Will we see two quarters
of negative growth?
It's tough out there
and I miss you
arguing about the color
of sweaters and things,
watching your "toaster
with pictures."
It's a life story, so
I want poems about places
you won't find me.
Not pigeons in the station or
wiping dust from old
page breaks covered
in coffee — roommates
stitched some bad movie
to the couch while
all I can do is say
it's broken and fall
into silence:
Wait, what did you mean exactly
by "poem"? The puddle
in the driver's seat means more or
four empty bottles
of Midas Touch on the table
"from some mid-level band",
Netflix wrappers and drink rings,
a massive overstock
of electronic bits that did
once work. Bury them in
French art books and German
newspapers and worry that later,
we'll try again. It's been
three years and the note
is still on the desk
where I stuck it —
"Don't make it look so easy"
like the squat crosshead
screwdriver making the Buddha
not to scale. Someone
taught me something once, and
I've been failing him ever since,
one line at a time.
Just blame this music,
it's the devil you know.
I'm a little late getting started, but in honor of National Poetry Month, I'll be doing Napowrimo. I'll try to make up the two days I missed later :). Obviously these things will be very, very rough...
I saw her by the counter
alone with both coffees, no room
there. I was full of want
but told again, again to wait
and then to go. In turn,
I felt a break in the clouds.
This time, it's empty, it's vast.
"Say 'hello' to Harry for me..."
No hurry. I'll tell anyone who sees me
grumbling about the sky —
everyone's gone home so why
am I stuck still hearing
her voice, last year:
It's tomorrow, already.