(Word doc., July 2018)
O Hello! I stomped them myself
I broke the necks by myself
I busted the balls by myself
Hello, I grew this bush myself
Lit this bush on fire myself
Stoked this charred bonfire by myself
Hello, I bottled this all up
myself—Hey! I grew this hole
by myself! Several holes by myself
Hey I'm in love with myself
You are heavy yourself but I
have so many O's to stash you in!
Rostislav Košťál - Sans Titre, ca. 1970
(July 2018, 1 Page from Notebook)
I may write slow, but I’m as resourceful as a wartime granny. I use every scrap for soup.
(August 2013, 2 Pages from Notebook)
My grandfather told me he married my father and his girlfriend. In the living room he took both their hands and said "only God can separate you now." Now they're married, he announces. When was this, I asked bemused. "Before," he says, not having enough English to express time other than before and after. My grandfather sat smiling.
The desire to be useful. Helpful. Often I feel useless because I can't drive my parents or grandparents to appointments, can't cook them gourmet meals or give them free haircuts. My skills seem pointless, especially to those I love most.
My close friend's father got me free tickets to a concert. To be nice and not make me feel indebted he told me to "repay him with a poem." I burned with such a terrible shame.
The skinny waist, the wild pubic hair, the thickness, the scent of pine cologne, small markings I can draw water from like a well. That pot of tea I boiled. That summer he would have brought me to Lisbon. I could have had a much different path. This was a fork.
(Word Doc, 2014)
we express ourselves through oxy
moron. Tears: drops of salty liquid, ultimately.
A spot of oxycodone (condone) for the headache.
Siren’s cry cum. Their eyes grow frothy.
[need to re-imagine PILLAR OF SALT poem, in the first section of the collection]
José Durand wrote:
"The siren is salt. Inseparable, intimate natures of the seas. Without which it would be tasteless. It is death and life. Sowing salt—the extreme ignominy—is equivalent to sowing death. When salt is lacking—or else, if death is lacking—no life is possible. Salt reigns, the siren reigns, source of grace. Salt and the siren are life and death, and hence, dream."
sirens are the preeminence (reemergence) of weeping, hair-tearing, breast-beating
tombs of greece
thru cosmic music procure the pleasure of death
distant coeval events
rise above the feral howling
created by man // new breed
of death-bearing birds
[found poem] diseases carried by birds
atop churches, atop city towers
Guillaume Apollinaire, Alcools: (Zones)
"Do I know where your ennui’s from, Sirens,
When you grieve so widely under the stars?
Sea, I am like you, filled with broken voices,
And my ships, singing, give a name to the years."
stuck your tongues at the waves
when the sun is at its zenith, midday—when the sirens act
the sound of the sea is made up of an infinity of lesser sounds.
days they spin, wind into a skein, and finally cut
the claws and the fear of castration, coitus as sleep, as uterine digression
a leap into the unknown is a leap into water
Britomartis & Sappho
mermaids are a millennial symbol
my futurist desires as but a pastoral motif
from Apollinaire's Bestiaire