||[Jul. 17th, 2007|12:01 pm]
Naughty, Naughty Children and the Poets They Love
Going to sleep, I cross my hands on my chest.
They will place my hands like this.
It will look as though I am flying into myself.
after the carnival suddenly
mysteriously burnt down they
stirred the fortune teller's ashes
to try and find the reason why
but sadly it seems prophecy
does not work in reversus
HAIBUN: THE JUGGLER TO HIS AUDIENCE
One must be able to juggle at least 3 things to be a juggler
(2 is not enough). But whatever the 3 things are that one
juggles--whether it's (for example) father, son, and holy ghost;
or mother, father, child; or id, ego, and superego: whatever this
minimal trinity consists of--the juggler must acknowledge
that his audience is not external to the act; and the juggler
must confess to that audience:
One in my hand,--
one in the air--
and one in you.
First, make a 100 minute movie. Then take the 1
million 440 thousand frames, or stills: take each
frame, blow it up, print it, put a frame around it,
then take all 1 million 440 thousand pictures, hang
them in a gallery, consecutively in a line so that
the first frame of the movie is the first picture
inside the door and the last, last: you get the
idea. Then have the people who come in RUN past
the 1 million 440 thousand pictures, so that in
this way they become both spectator and projector.
MY FAVORITE WORD
"Attentionspan" is my favorite word
because I can never finish
reading it all the way through.
The beach holds and sifts us through her dreaming fingers
Summer fragrances green between your legs
At night, naked auras cool the waves
I kiss every body of you, every face
NOTE (NAOMI POEM)
I left a
right where the nipple cheeps
kiss each nest
of the black bra
hung inside your bathroom door.
When out hands are alone,
they open, like faces.
There is no shore
to their opening.
Was it out of kindness
I dropped a compass
into the volcano
so the lava will know
which way to flow.
ANOTHER COLD WAR POEM
So what if you lived only
One second longer
Did: to us
You will always be known as the Survivor.
Before eating the cherries
I pinched my cheeks
to get in tune, in tint--
I wish to be misunderstood;
to be understood from your perspective.
PUTATIVE POEM FROM SAMURAI ERA
he made a haiku
before his blade took my head
why not a tanka
tanka would have let me live
fourteen syllables longer
Fingerprints look like ripples
because time keeps dropping
another stone into our palm.
BUMPY KISSES: POEM WRITTEN TO A POET
remember those bumpy kisses
in the back of that taxi
we should have begged the cabby
more hit more potholes please
when we hit a bad one whoops
everything got flung up hard
but don't some things just get better
by bouncing from lips to lips
kisses usually get their kicks
from boredom the dormat routine
tongues stick the same linebreaks
the proper punctuation in
but not these bumpy babies
they jack out the box they
jump all the jolts of this jaunt
lucky for us it's transient
after a poetry reading
briefly we'll share a ride heading
uptown toward distant lives
has one of us now arrived
still the course of our smoothest words
is likewise unpaved by poems
we scribble them down sometimes
hurried as hugs through a cab-door
though even they must go
past first dates or last we try
we mostly try and let them be
the moment they were meant to