POTEPOETZINETWO

Wed, 11 Jun 1997 22:30:21


POTEPOETZINE is an electronic publication of Potes & Poets Press, Inc.
The editor is Peter Ganick: potepoet@home.com

Contents:



--- POTEPOETZINETWO --- 
--- a publication of Potes & Poets Press Inc ---
--- e-mail: potepoet@home.com ---




>>> RON SILLIMAN  

Three poems from YOU

                                   (being a part of The Alphabet)

                                               Ron Silliman


                                                       VIII



            For Nina Iskrenko


Readers of the lost art. Monster with an eye in its mouth (body of a rocket
ship). Stuffed wildcat perched over the 
mouth of the cave, across from the miniature gift shop.

Nothing rots like an old suburb, strip malls abandoned, tattoo artist in
the medical suite, house with dark dirty 
curtains drawn, in front of which sandwich board displays huge hand: Palm
Readings. On television, cyborg frogs 
croak out the name of a cheap beer. 

Deep red burst shimmering at the horizon turns into old yellow sun as it
rises. Before us lay the great wide bowl of 
the Amador Valley. Your obit gets broadcast under the email header of "Boy
Talk."

Stein to Hook: when this you see, remember Smee. Spine to book: bleed into
my gutter. Spin and look: lying down, 
feeling anxious, is not the same as sleep. In Livermore, underneath the
suburban big lawn culture of the Rad Lab 
and Sandia engineers, there remains at core a small valley cow town, a few
dark Main Street bars in which Harry 
Dean Stanton is thought of as an intellectual.

Ortho-glass forms a cast alas. Sleep as you can, whenever. Refrigerator
roars and shudders, alive with its own anti-
fever.

Ball with features of a cartoon dog (upper lip a speckled W). New verbs for
old. Flaming or flaring or whatever you 
call it. Bronchiolitis.

Textism. Relax your eyes until the focus gives way and words appear like
swarm of ants at a distance, at first 
orderly, then wandering, transgressing the margins, then the page, the room
alive with a crawling swarm of letters. 
Crocodile puts on her coat and goes to work.


                                                        IX

The O.J. Simpson trial to rerun forever as a Saturday morning cartoon. Café
loud with out-of-town tourists all 
being cool at once. When the stoplight fails at an intersection, drivers
relearn the social contract.

A yodeling cowboy way of knowledge. The book with buttons. That which is
merely personnel soon rates. 

The land of a million smidgens. The man asleep in the roaring shower. The
happy face drawn in the steam on the 
bathroom mirror bleeds away.

The hegemony project. Articles of the specific. Insertion treated as
assertion. As illustrated by R. Crumb, a man in 
a dress with green armpits and glitter in his beard, of which you write "he
seems happy."

Trees half-hidden in the fog. Single drop of rain, glistening, runs the
length of the power line wire before falling to 
the street. Roar that the shower makes in the pipes of a small house.

The curse of sleep, unevenly distributed. Where will this winter drive the
birds?  

Morning comes: the surviving sun, wounded in the sky, throbs above the
remaining clouds. In Grozny, a young 
girl, a child, lies dead in the street for days, the still startled
expression in her eyes hardening now from a question 
to an accusation. Birds in the bare tree sing.




                                                        X

Not yet joining letters into words, read the book aloud from memory.
Taxonomy of the natural world to include 
monsters, dinosaurs, the jackalope. Jack-o-lantern out of season, toothless
grin more hollow than one could 
imagine.

Placebo stanza. Alligator's stillness in the winter sun. Tiger paces
absolute rim of its preserve. Alfalfa pellets in an 
ice cream cone. Impervious yak.

Egg, on skis, samples the slopes. Agon skies, simple the slips. Slaps words
in a sequence, snap-on logic. Dragon, 
as memory of an age of dinosaurs, is woven into the mists.

Reverse engineered my syntax. Washing others' dishes, you examine crumbs
almost archaeologically. Each 
paragraph understood as a work group. Dog barking uncontrollably as an
index of time.

Windchimes thrashing in the storm, hysterical music. In the dream some
clerk just tells me you've been killed in an 
automobile accident, anxious to close up shop and get home to her dinner. I
try to imagine the difference in winter. 
On the floor, forgotten, a pair of slippers in the shape of trains with
happy faces. Name that tune.

Branding strategy: private label. Velcro mind in a Teflon world. Car spun
around in the fast lane. 

Kinds of potato salad. Shelf life of a banana. We stood at the window,
searching for a rainbow, while below the old 
arroyo, transformed into a swollen brown river, roiled, logs and branches,
palm fronds heading west. In the corner 
of the parking lot, a grey Ford Taurus wagon, its lights left on, dims.




>>>  STEVEN MARKS


NATATORIUM


Over a spring in a middle of a century

in iron and glass wrought forth

the dimpled glass wavy a new fashion

bricked of glass, structured on property:

a natatorium clean and freshened, Victorian
until the granted spring ran dry.
What shall we say but what is advertised to us.
The modern swimming pool, Olympian in blueness,
fractured water slapping all boundaries
indeed its own variegated fluidity of which
we know not but what is prospectus.

Now a blue and chlorine spanks under the glass
winged by the hotel and bright gray of light
occluding vision from a pressured brow;
like Nana's home back home from where we all came.
O gray, gray land outside a long hallway
the street facing the door facing me
the scalloped waves glass the same translucency.
Effect of memory, a head pressed against a pane
with intense peerage to distinguish
at the end of a hall the undistorted
the faults in the waves where the passage
of light was not refracted.
Glory to us in the limited range
for what we see is what the fault allows.
A rounded bubble clear convexes the miniature image
from fault to blurring fault o say can we appear
and as quickly slip out of view and I
in my concentrate upon the little girl outside the waves
ashes and dust in a dusty, stuffy hall
with my head pressed against the cool glass
for some relief which never came.
Where are the sun and the damned? Aged varnish
be thy name, alternately flaked to dust by heat and damp
What dust settles twilighting my sinuses
the cavities of unrelenting consumption?

And here in the waves amongst the waves
all glint and obfuscation rays my eyes of refraction
vastly amplified off off to one another
nauseate my stomach in the glass in the waves.
The pool of it all, you may laugh, you may violently
the slapping waves all blue-capped slices off and on
And more noise and more waves and the outside flashing
the glass and waves until I ran to the toilets
quick to the ill and smell of chlorine and quick
to a watery gruel coming out of me.
Where does the sound of now end?

Enthroned, dethroned, leaning against marble, my stall.
Ever far, ever off, the sounds of plates and silverware
Ever in flecked on situation of conversation
Bus and tress and boy and wait
in my illness over half-heard ever
the busboy and waitress flirt far off
and I, making sense, for dare we not
tend to talk of the same things.
Fear not the narcoleptic fit,
the flirting still, the twenty, thirty second
bouts with deep onset.
Who comes to the sick in release?
Allow me the alert that comes to those who wait,
tries the illness to the marrow of my bones.
What depths of breath hang from glass
to shining wave.
We are thoughts in the amount of time
the waiting boy and girl tell.




>>>  CLEMENTE PADIN


Four autorreferential poems 
    
SILENCE
All unspeakable
that mediates
between this verse
and the next one









is poetry.

---------

POEM


 Take 1 paratext
              15 substantives
          l adjetive
                  2 conjunctions
      4 verbs
         1 adverb
        1 article
                  5 prepositions
              1 pronoum
           12 numbers
                   and signs of punctuation.

              Mix in a leaf of paper
           disposing the words
              in harmonious verses
and...
                           it is ready !

---------------------------------
                      
METALENGUAGE                    
      

Composed word
written in English
that consist in 12 letters
which disposition in space
can harmonise itself
(poetically)
in 7 verses
(or more).

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

CLONIC SONNET          

Verse
verse
verse
verse.

Verse
verse
verse
verse.

Verse
verse
verse.

Verse
verse
verse.




>>>  DAVID BROMIGE   --   Poems from ESTABLISHING


#5               Poem Reading a Line by Duncan

          If only my sense of your being vulnerable
               Could reach out & enfold you
                   Sit across the table
                Or side-by-side above a book
                 If only that look of yours
                    Someone would study
                 Could be before me very now
                   How on your serious face
               The feelings trace their courses
                    Muscles nerves & brain
               If only I were free to be that one
                   To witness how that face

                      Cracks near in two
                   At some diverting foolery
            Smile that rises from the sorrow depths
                    Surrendering inevitable
                   Knowledge saying I accept
                    Time to establish this :
                 Not I am with you as you read
                    Nor I am obviously not
                    Won't slight the chaos
              You arose from as from Naples' Bay
               The day, another line of letters
                 In evening's shadow brailled

                    If only the word Soppy
                    Would bug off & let me
                  Flow over to you vulnerable
                  This world that is terrible
                      Beyond all measure
                   And we who need a center
                   As a poem needs a spine
                  Knew & not guessed victory
                But my sense of you vulnerable
                   That is my own staus home
                    Duncan my friend is gone
            Who reached across me so I saw the table


                          
#7           Encrypted at the Center of the Labyrinth


                   It clicks it purrs it shrieks
                  First person meantime pumps away
                     As if a civic installation
                      Shunted blood of Adonis
                Through the town as through my mouth
                    Made to call a spade a spade
                      Beauty beauty love love
                       In this shape of form
                    Clicks interest purrs liking
                       Shrieks No No Not love
                  In the ruins of all we hold dear
                   Waiting as the letters appear

                   Levitated to their screen by
                  At sight of you my spirit lifts
                  You or your trace, still lifts
             Pressure of shape presence of police state
                     Sig nature on a dotted i
                      Spirit turns to weight
                       Your face, your face
                     Against a thousand years
                    Instruments begin to play
             The lyrics stem from a law all their own
                        Using linguistics
                        Using flesh & air

                       Effervesence permeates
                   Champagne, weddings & affairs
                 Tactile celebrants tongue nipples
                        I have mine on yours
                     Only in your dreams, Buster
                         I'll walk with you
                         Enjoying our height
                    Hands occupied with swinging
                         Balance everpresent
                         A purpose obviously
                          Twenty years ago
                     Two years, one month, today




#8                       Off-Center Center


                      Your impulse v. my habits
                     Signs of trouble multiplied
                     I can't knowing your pawing
                      Concentrate & anger mounts
                      Invading the final mission
                      The desecrated threshhold
                    Not easily spelled from memory
                     Trespass not easily dispelled
                        I am not who you hoped
                      Plagues us both in this pass
                       The word emergency occurs
                     I stop to print it out viscera

                          Have the last word
                       Heard before they flung me
                           Here in this pit
                           Deep in the Bible
                        Belted real-me to shreds
                            Naked I confess
                        To being au fond happy
                        While memory says Bored
                           Then I feel bored
                       Regressed to two,can't read
                         The writing on the wall
                           General experience

                       And this pit not the world
                        Nor on the wall,this fly
                       All God offers us to watch
                           That's what God is
                           Nor Time this fly
                       I miss the ritual shredding
                     To which my reputation's subject
                    Miss the envy & the interest in it
                       Forget the family of others
                      Might one day return, retrieve
                        Inflict the pain of rescue
                     God as the surprise of other ways

                         


>>>    THREE STORIES  --  CYDNEY CHADWICK


Indebted

A distressed man studies his phone bill which has risen by fifty percent.
The same number is listed over and over again and he recognizes it as
belonging to a woman who lives in another part of the state. She is young,
single, with a child to support, is in the business he was in before he
retired, and frequently calls to ask his advice. She telephones early in
the morning, during the dinner hour and on holidays. If the man is present
he will jump up and take her call, much to the annoyance of his family.
When he returns home he rushes to play his messages and promptly get back
to her--which has resulted in the exorbitant increase in his bill. The
woman does not heed the advice the man gives her, in fact she often does
just the opposite. Nonetheless, the man thinks this communication a
necessary and worthwhile expenditure, despite having to write a check for
1/3 of his pension to the telephone company.
     When the man comes home one day, he goes to his answering machine and
there are no messages. For the next several days the phone does not ring.
When he picks it up one morning to make a call he discovers there is no
dial tone. He tells his wife that he is going to the neighbor's house to
report that their telephone is out of order, but she tells him not to
bother, she had it disconnected; they simply cannot afford his behavior any
longer. She picks up the book she was reading.
   The following morning the man wonders to do with himself. He can tell
that after all the years of going to work, his presence in the house hour
after hour puts his wife on edge. He thinks he will walk to a newsstand,
purchase the local paper and read the section that lists "volunteers
wanted" while sitting in the park. The only people on the benches are old
age pensioners like himself, and women with small children. When he pauses
to watch the children in the playground, imbued with such energy and
high-spirits, their mothers or nannies glare, sit upright and become
ultra-vigilant.
     The man is disappointed to find that the volunteer positions are all
dull or depressing--helping out with holiday crafts fairs, dressing in a
Santa Claus outfit and ringing a bell while standing next to a large iron
pot, or going into nursing homes and reading to senior citizens. The
thought of reading to sedated elderly people only slightly older than
himself who are too medicated to understand anything he says, is chilling.

     A pack of dogs straining on their leashes enter the park from the
south side, a young man in tow. The man lurches after them and frequently
looks at his watch. A minute or so later the group reaches the middle of
the park where one of the dogs stops to defecate. The young man takes the
opportunity to light a cigarette. Twenty-five yards further another dog
does the same, while minutes later still another lifts its leg on the base
of a water fountain. The older man is outraged, strides over to the dogs'
caretaker and splutters: HOW COULD YOU NOT CLEAN UP AFTER THOSE ANIMALS?
CHILDREN RUN AND PLAY IN THE AREA. YOU ARE A PARTY TO SPREADING DISEASE AND
FILTH! The young man shrugs his shoulders and races off, the dogs leading
the way. The man walks back to where he was sitting. He knows the young man
thought him a meddler who has nothing better to do than try and police
other people, a man whose life is so devoid that he becomes upset over dog
droppings. Nonetheless, the man takes comfort in knowing he is in the right
and the young man is wrong--careless and negligent.
     The man spends the next several days in the park, and his wife shows
her appreciation by cooking nice suppers upon his return. He is appalled to
discover that the young man is not the only irresponsible park-goer--most
of the people with dogs are more like the young man than not. This at first
irks the man, then makes him furious. Over the weekend he charges up to
several dog owners demanding they clean up their animal's mess. Some
pretend he isn't there, and stare over his head at the tree tops; others
tell him to fuck off, and still others narrow their eyes, grinning while
their dogs menacingly bare their teeth at him. Whenever these incidents
occur, a park attendant never seems to be on duty, and an attempt to report
these occurrences to the washroom janitors proves futile when he discovers
none of the janitors speak English.
     One Monday he passes a drug store and sees they are having a sale on
various items, most of them useless this time of year. Near a row of
checkstands he notices some children's things, a plastic wading pool,
several beach balls, some small buckets and shovels for making sand
castles. He purchases the latter items.
     Unbeknownst to the man, he is frequently observed. The sight of him in
late autumn, in his black pants and overcoat charging after dogs, a bright
blue shovel in one hand, a blue bucket decorated with pink starfish and
shells in the other, is the source of amusement or alarm, depending a
park-goer's point of view. One woman who thought he was approaching to mug
her, shrieked and called the police after she'd set her dog on him and the
animal ran the other way. The dispatcher did not bother to send any law
enforcement, explaining that no crime was being committed.
    By early winter the man is a fixture in the park, and some, especially
those who come on weekends to walk or jog, hand him tips. At first the man
is confused by people trying to give him money, but is soon grateful and
happy to accept it. When he has enough, he thinks, he will get a money
order, possibly take it to the utility company and purchase a secret
telephone number and voice mail, then go to the post office and rent a post
office box for the bill, or will perhaps save enough to take a vacation
alone, in a place with a warm climate, wide beaches, where animals are
permitted.



Illustration

When you opened the book you saw words and these words formed prayers--to
be repeated silently or said out loud, and if they were recited diligently
you were to go the place in the pictures where pink-cheeked children
wearing filmy white garments cavorted in meadows, surrounded by poppies,
lupin and lambs. These children were depicted as vacant and irreal under a
perennial spring sky, and you concluded they were supposed to be dead,
happily dead in a heavenly home. The more times you opened the book the
more disturbing it became until you grew afraid to look at it, and had to
rely on furtive mumbling to get by.
       On Sundays in between standing and responding, you sat, and while
seated, the focal point was a man in robes speaking a foreign language--so
you looked up--to the domed ecru ceiling with pale pink flowers, dark green
foliage, leaves and stems. If you concentrated on this ceiling for any
length of time you grew despondent, inexplicably, for you thought the
source of this depression was the replica of petals encased in four walls
and a dome.
      Still here by all accounts. The celestial locus remains remote, the
corporeal world evidenced by your voice in a shop, your steps in the
street, fleeting objects, prisms and angles, human forms.
      Perhaps you are not so far removed from those early cognitions, your
beginner's view of the world, of what lay beyond the outline of your body,
and they are inescapable, as ivy covers walls, or wood envelopes wiring and
plaster, as ink is absorbed into a porous surface--and you are encircled in
their translucent mesh, created by the hand of an illustrator in the
blueprint of an architect.




Mists

In his room he is a famous poet. Publishers clamor for his manuscripts, he
has the admiration of his peers and is a shoo-in to win all the prizes.
    When he ventures down the stairs to his mailbox he is still a famous
poet, but while out on the street amidst others he is not quite as
renowned. The further he gets from his apartment the less well-known he is.
If he leaves town he finds himself an obscure shell of a person,
ambitionless, directionless, wandering the streets of an unfamiliar city.

     While in public places she is a young woman--tall, redheaded and
statuesque. Both men and woman admire her luscious sexuality, and those
around her cannot help but be seduced--if she so chooses. It is only when
she returns home after cocktail parties that she can look in the mirror.
She sees a lined face, a turned down mouth and cynical eyes. She knows she
is only a few years away from becoming eligible for senior citizen
discounts, and will continue on this path devoid of sexual attention. The
following morning, she lies in bed, hungover, unable to think of a good
reason to get up. It takes several days before she can shake off her
depression, rise from her bed and go out again.
    The woman buys some cloth and nails it to the maple frame of her one
remaining mirror. But one evening after coming home intoxicated, she rips
it off, confronts her image, spends the next several days in bed, re-nails
the fabric to the mirror's frame and goes out for cocktails.
    An old age pensioner sitting on a park bench is convinced he is young
and virile, smiles happily to himself. From his bench he ogles women and
girls, convinced they want him--that is why they pass by in colored bras,
or running singlets and shorts. They go around again and again, flaunting
themselves on skates, on bikes, or while jogging. Sometimes thoughts creep
into his mind, dark, ugly thoughts--they are not even aware he is there,
are only in the park to exercise, and he is an old man on a bench, but
these ruminations are too scary and he drives them from his mind.
     Two women decide to meet for lunch after not having seen each other
for thirty years. They discuss their families, hobbies, what has happened
to old friends, and after a time recall their youth. REMEMBER, one woman
says, THAT TERRIBLE CAR ACCIDENT I WAS IN? YOU PASSED BY SEVERAL MINUTES
LATER AND STOPPED TO HELP US. The other woman's eyes grow wide and
disbelieving, for it was she and her husband who had been in the car
accident. Her friend had not been present that summer night, had, in fact,
been visiting her aunt in another state. She and her fiancee were towed out
of the field by the farmer who owned the property. I STILL HAVE A SCAR FROM
THE ACCIDENT, the woman who'd been away during the crash says, rubbing away
a bit of makeup to reveal a small but distinct mark on her cheek.
     A man is convinced creditors are after him, although he settles all
his monthly bills and has a perfect record of payment.  He hurries through
the streets, avoiding eye contact with all, becomes terror-stricken when he
spies men in black shirts who could be loansharks. Someone else might be
after him too, disgruntled postal workers, or the waitress in this coffee
shop, disappointed and angry at men, who is just dying to empty the
contents of her coffee pot into his crotch. The man is convinced he is
enveloped in a dark and swirling cloud of doom--although those who know him
think the facts of his life make it an existence that must be pleasant and
easy.
    There are those who believe we go through life enshrouded in mist. For
some this mist is dark, for others light, and we lumber through the world
seeing through its semi-opaque parameters. The perceptions and beliefs we
hold to be true become damaged as we inevitably collide with the mists of
others. This we find hardly bearable. It causes us terror, it makes us
mean.




>>>  TWO POEMS  --  PETER BALESTRIERI


Lost
     
     Lost.  He cried all the time.  He was very much in love with his wife, 
     who divorced him.  That's when he lost it.  His brother died in some 
     sort of freak accident up in New England.  It was a tragedy he never 
     got over.
     
     She didn't call it a cult. She didn't consider it a cult.  She was 
     happy.  
     
     For me, he died 22 years ago.  When we found out he was dead, there 
     was a sense of closure more than anything.
     
     She was always groping and looking for something that interested her.
     
     While we did not completely understand or agree with David's beliefs. 
     to was apparent to us that he was happy, healthy and acting under his 
     own volition.  To David, wherever you may be, we love you.
     
     We just looked at her in surprise....It just didn't dawn on us that 
     she was in a type of cult.  We thought maybe she was crazy.
     
     They promised her she would never dies.  Her mind was controlled 
     beyond her control.  At first she seemed happy, but then she broke up 
     with her boyfriend, lost her business and fell in with the wrong 
     crowd.
     
     I have no answers.
     
     Today is Feb. 12, 1992.  It's Wednesday.  I want everybody who may see 
     this, or to know, that I have chosen to leave.  I want to rejoin my 
     heavenly father, and my classmates, the students of my heavenly 
     father...I'm really happy about this...To walk away and begin doing 
     some work for my real father means more to me than anything.
     
     He told us that he wouldn't be communicating with any of his friends 
     and to be happy for him, because this is what he felt was right for 
     him.
     
     
     
     Salons
     
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     that amuses, challenges, amazes
     and is sometimes passionately 
     acted upon. _The Joy of Conversation: 
     The Complete Guide to Beauty Salons_ 
     tells you all you need to know about 
     joining salons, organizing them, and 
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     topics to explore.  Also, it provides a 
     fascinating background on great 
     beauty salons in history.  This ground-
     breaking book will inspire you to 
     rediscover the art of conversation in 
     your own life.




>>>  ANDREW MOSSIN  --  from ARC


From where the power, so to continue
In more days, more semblances?
                               - Laura Riding

Whatever belongs in the circle is in the circle.
                               - Jack Spicer


1./   Forest-like.  At bay 

the voices.   Reverie or incantation.           "flight of stirring beating up the
night"
                                                        
Picking up the stray pieces 

between things as one says the items

deferred left out in the open.

My hands that seek to trace 

a pattern    unpronounable                      
                                                
blanked out where the letters                    
                                                        "Of deserts an Emblemist"       
have crossed into pantomime.                    

Every poem a translation.   

Coming into view 

a woman folded into echo

struggles to break free.   Is
                                                        Borderland opprobrium 
She one to whom 
                                                I clutched something
confession will be made?

Or do I invoke

another figure mottled  creased                                         
                                                        
wandered off.                                           childlike garland 
                                                        rooted in another place
    

    


2./Crane 

Interwoven androgyne
        the intimate intricate  
     line of his name

                 imperishable 'I'
         captive 'he' 

        Grafted outlines                        Derivation as the principle                                                     of pleasure and gnosis
       
Adagios 
        of islands   
    resplendent shores    

        past  superscription     em- 
                        bodiments turn          deep in agony of motherless
huddled   suspended    devoid                           adrift realm you haloed
                               
                Origins emphatic                                Other I am 
                                instruct 
                  
              bronze gonged                             
                region of provident force
                
   Pre-lingual   aye
             drifting out
        
        Muse-torn Other     Grief-slackened
                ravenous writ
              Importuning 
                        what shape or scale  
        
What sound when the body 
                shines forth    
                        glistening 
                                                        
                   erect 

                        as sign  




3./ 

"The infant emperor in his autistic universe or empire is taunted by critical 
voices of the poem, by alien spaces emptied in their not being his, by
reverberations 
and omens of an impending revolution from within or of an invasion from
without." 
                                                                - Robert Duncan

Who narrates the angle 

of this displaced
                                                        
enchanted thing.    Crossing 

outskirts of language 

our bodies consumed                                             parchment 

in channels of rift.  

Divinations empty

rush.  The trees

sparse enough that you

saw through them 
                                                        "what remains me
a little to the side                                    is the ebb that borders"
                                                                
and looked out on a seawall.  

Mu-sics eye.  Birdtalk at 

the border.   Cool noonish rip. 

Of a coined quester.   

Himself holding free reign.  

His inward body that balks. 

Threatened from within.

Harboring age-old loss.   Grooved initials 
                                                
that gouge and draw out

these quirky manifestations

of unprophetic density. 

        


        Signatory flight.                               shifts in a second

Words visionary incision.

This ritual of 
                                                Disrobed rooted hideaway
drift &                                                 the She-that-is-I                                                                                                       returning away
        draw.  




4./   No insular grief. 
       No transcendent path.    

The instructions are "personal" 

part of the system  yet inseparable 

from the narration 
                                                lucid and stuttered     
as the poem 

succumbs to its impoverished
                                                in gloamy pieces coming
language every word teeming                                     to gather

and bereft.   Or is there

another voice -

cut away from the process -

hidden   dissembling   flustered

out of its depth.    You 

wrote, "The wordless words.... 

reopen pity."   Reader's gone.

Who remains.  So many

observable bits.  Loamy 

grit under the nails. 
                        
Spoiled shoots of paper.  

Ragged ends glued into place.




Body's fervid recall

errant cries

boundary of lips & tongue

Now clenched at - "O" -

        


>>>  RYAN WHYTE  --  TWO POEMS


Code, Fugue

10-11 Identify this frequency.10-37 Identify the operator.  
Chancellor's down cold code 10-53 Person down.  Check on 
the welfare of/at ______. 10-43 Call a doctor. 10-45 What 
is the condition of the patient? 10-45A Condition of patient 
is good. benign cold chancellor.  shuttle documents 10-53 
Person down. 10-54 Possible dead body. 10-55 This is a coroner's
case. 10-56 Suicide.  health advised lining overlooked 
encryption 10-12 Visitors are present (be discrete).  /hides 
a heart 10-60 Lock out. 10-61 Miscellaneous public service. 
10-62 Meet a citizen.  10-62A Take a report from a citizen. 
10-62B Civil standby. 10-63 Prepare to copy. 10-64 Found
property.  diplomacy Nicene creed.  10-54 Possible dead body. 
10-55 This is a coroner's case. 10-56 Suicide. 10-11 Identify 
this frequency. 10-12 Visitors are present (be discrete).
10-11 Identify this frequency. 10-12
Visitors are present (be discrete). 


Documents Cry

10-32 Drowning.  10-33 Alarm sounding.  
Time check.  10-36 Confidential information.  10-37 Identify the operator.
Chancellor's 
code benign 
his followers cry 
Check on the welfare of/at ______. 10-43 Call a 
doctor.
10-45 What is the condition of the patient? 10-45A Condition of 
patient is good.  benign cold 
chancellor.  
shuttle 
documents 
10-53 Person down. 
10-54 Possible dead body. 10-55 This is a coroner's case. 10-56 Suicide. 
health advised 
lining 
overlooked 
encryption/hides a heart 
10-60 Lock out. 10-61 
Miscellaneous public service. 10-62 Meet a citizen.  10-62A Take a report
from a citizen. 10-62B Civil standby. 10-63 Prepare to copy. 
10-64 Found property. 
diplomacy-Nicene 
creed. 




>>>  BETH JOSELOW  --  TWO POEMS


MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE

1.

How bogus can it get, the nip and tuck?
Under the sky light a major fracas hailed
as good for the soul, convivial, easy
to implicate. So what's new?

At the end of this rope is another rope
and a scheme devised to advance the plot. 
Masters of babble converse all night
modulating their arguments to a faretheewell.

Nothing can be changed, only to grow or
keep weeping. After a length of desert 
the sky bowls up, mountains cupped by
blue rim, the way not so obvious.

But to continue -- creased in all
the right places, a muscle stutters,
pushing an energizing flood through 
a perfect system, complete in its detail.

Ready for nothing, a hat blows down
the hill, skittering on its rim,
in effect, weightless and unattended.
Scatter what does not count. 


2.

Head full of rain, a breech,
he walks across the green towards
the vendor, sweet faces like
cookies above their uniforms,
planning to meet in the middle.
The manager sleeps
in the dressing room. And who
is this now loping onto the screen
a joke about wives, her blouse
in a surprising leopard print
seen everywhere this season.



ON ONE'S METTLE


Challenged or aroused 
    By an honest gunman

For the spirited drama
    The performance of a wildcat

Her blend of nervous fancy
    Temper finer than prose

In relation to a given situation
    Not always easy to see.

Poetry might be
    But never apparently dreamed

This disposition gets it
    Over the wall

Trucks it from town to town
    Until a light goes on

The boundary district enlarges
    With impromptu characterizations

Nothing gets told
    Just the same way

Having used in combination
    Spirit, ardor, courage and stamina

Staying up all night
    With a purpose:

To square the circle.



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