Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Barbar-ga-gauche

To dance around in the kitchen to a song sung in harmony by two men in the 1950s while two cats look at you, after Auschwitz is barbaric.

To pick up a cat while you are sitting on the toilet and peeing after Auschwitz is barbaric.

To hold your hair over your closed mouth in such a way as to cause your index and middle finger to press on your nose while you are thinking after Auschwitz is barbaric.

To overthink pronouns such as the “accusative you” as you are composing a work of “literature” after Auschwitz is barbaric.

To reach back to scratch an itchy spot just under your bra strap after Auschwitz is barbaric.

To notice that it is too hot in the apartment after Auschwitz is barbaric.

To fantasize about getting a puppy that is a mix of Pomeranian and Husky, a breed called a Pomsky, and then naming it Gnome, after Auschwitz is barbaric.

To spray ginger citron aromatherapy spray on mufflers that have languished in the basement over the warm months in a cheap suitcase that had an awful plasticky smell after Auschwitz is barbaric.

To go to sleep after Auschwitz is barbaric.

To think about what you are going to put in the wild rice pilaf – apples or cranberries – after Burundi is barbaric.

To think about when you are going to make your next trip out to Queens to visit spa castle after the massacres of Mayan peoples is barbaric.

To buy hair barrettes made of cunning crystal beads and to eat this amazing rice bowl wth slivered takuwan, maguro, and ikura  in Shinjuku after the Holodomor is barbaric.

To endlessly permutate Adorno’s probably tossed-off aphorism in a repetitive literary piece when you are averse to obvious repetition in writing after Auschwitz is barbaric.

To try to rouse the rabble, preach to the choir, and otherwise use poetry rhetorically after the Nanking massacre is barbaric.

To think about how you should put the floating candles in the fishbowl for a centerpiece  after the Armenian gencocide is barbaric.

To write conceptual “engaged” works that won’t make any significant difference in the world although it might make you feel better, after the persecution of Falun Gong, is barbaric.

To ignore street people who need things like socks and sandwiches and beds, after the Assyrian genocide, is barbaric.

To deliberate over the sort of cocktail you might order, if you actually drank cocktails, after the unrest in Ferguson is barbaric.

To get up and brush one’s teeth with special anise toothpaste from the health food store after the 1971 Bangladesh atrocities is barbaric.

It is barbaric and vulgar.

To fondle the cheap necklaces at Forever 21 hoping that one doesn’t look too cheap and will give you the sense of decoration you are desperate for in a hideous world that has experienced the  Ustashe genocides of Serbs, Jews,Roma and Croats is primitive and contemptible.

To stay in a zen temple overnight and eat with the monks in the morning as they chant their sutras and serve their food into three little bowls while bowing to accept food has the veneer of civilization but in fact after the Japanese War crimes of world war II is savage.

To write poems against type, to abandon grace and decoration and a wandering imagination is a lomd of betrayal is therefore positively atavistic.

To neglect the home keys and type lomd when you mean kind after any sort of genocide or massacre is idiotic and therefore barbaric.










Thursday, November 13, 2014

COPS



The cops come in on twinkletoe,
in dickies and bad hats, their sidecars
limply idling. They slink sidewise with lowly
simpers, the cops and their bagel foreheads
and snowy disasters, plump in starchy
regalia and loosely waddling. There are
all breeds of cops: shaggy and muffy cops,
bright sleek mean cops, cops with weasels
down below, and cops of normal squalor.
The only cops I like are wrinkly cops, all
done up in tight panties. Then there are
the hulky burrito cops, the filigree mango
cops, the cops that love the words “sin” and
”sin.” They police a city with needles, say
rawwr and grr and cannot keep things
down. These are the cops who finger
nozzles muttering “rue” and “rue” and
“rue.” They are real lulus in wiry tutus.
Green bald cops. Murky annihilation cops.
Liminal space cops in the gap between
the jeweled dust and the other jeweled
dust. There are striped and spotted cops,
idly scribbling marginalia on the snow.
Overcome by a wave cops, the cops struggle
through the cops and find more cops
inside their pyramidal beards.

Saturday, November 08, 2014

my 10/26 Zinc Bar Reading video

Here is my reading from the Zinc Bar on October 26. I was moody because very few people were there and the poems I read were about nothingness and sexual violation.

Become a poet, and you will regret it.

Become a poet, and you will regret it.
Do not become a poet, and you will regret it.
The clubs, the cliques, the clans, the coteries,
The narcissists, the dons, the climbers, and the bullies --
All this you miss if you another passion seek,
This caravan of literary freaks.
Some are alcoholics, and the very best poets,
But they secrete themselves to drink in little huts.
Some proclaim themselves the very latest thing
And posture in museums in their bling.
Some aim to do good, or foment revolution
While others shrug their shoulders, and join an institution.
If all these options leave you feeling numb
You're better off an ordinary bum.

If you’re determined to be avant-garde

If you’re determined to be avant-garde,
Don’t hesitate! It really isn’t hard:
Erase a few words here, or add some new
Or cut them up and stick them back with glue!
Since summer’s lease hath all too short a date,
No need to work too much: appropriate!
You’ll find a little niche to call your own –
A magazine, a press, a group, a throne…
And when you’re sitting up there, like a fool
Some whippersnap will say, “now make it NEW,”
And all your dreams of glory will be spoiled
As well as will your precious little world…
And when you’re on your deathbed you will cry:
“I really wasn’t avant garde, was I?”

Ariel Goldberg & Charity Coleman live talk show

Ariel Goldberg and Charity Coleman doing their live talk show at Berl's Poetry Bookshop last night.  Gee, they were swell.




I told Charity later that they reminded me of:

Saturday, October 25, 2014

ບາງຄັ້ງຂ້າພະເຈົ້າຊອກຫາໂຕເອງ wondering ສິ່ງທີ່ຊ່ອງດໍາລົງຊີວິດຂອງທ່ານເບິ່ງຄື. ມັນເປັນກະທັດຮັດຫຼືບໍ່? ມັນເປັນຄືອາກາດແລະ modernist? ມັນເປັນ "goofy"? ທ່ານບໍ່ເຫັນດີເຫັນພາຍໃນປະເທດ? ບໍ່ຫຼາຍຂອງການບ້ານຂອງໃຜ? ຜູ້ທີ່ຈະຈ່າຍສໍາລັບ stuff? ຂ້າພະເຈົ້າຈື່ເຄື່ອງນຸ່ງຂອງຕົນໄດ້ bunched ສະເຫມີໄປໃນ closet ໄດ້, ມີເອກະສານນັກກະວີທີ່ຕາຍແລ້ວຂອງ, ແລະ rack ຂອງສາຍພົວພັນແລະ vest ລາວບໍ່ເຄີຍນຸ່ງ. ຢູ່ໃນຫ້ອງຂອງທ່ານ, ຂ້າພະເຈົ້າຈື່ໄດ້ວ່າເຫັນຢູ່ໃນຮູບ, ທີ່ມີແກ້ວບາງທີອາດຂອງນ້ໍາຫອມ, ເຄື່ອງສໍາອາງຫຼືໄດ້. ທ່ານຍັງມີວ່າ, dresser ປົກຄຸມດ້ວຍນ້ໍາຫອມ, ເຄື່ອງສໍາອາງຫຼືບໍ່? ແມ່ນພວກເຂົາເຈົ້າອົງການຈັດຕັ້ງຫຼືບົດ? ຂ້າພະເຈົ້າຈິນຕະນາການທ່ານເປັນບົດທີ່ສຸດ. ພຣະອົງໄດ້ເບິ່ງຄືວ່າຕ້ອງການທີ່ "ບົດ" ຫຼັງຈາກຖ່ານກ້ອນຂອງຂ້າພະເຈົ້າ eccentricity. ພວກເຈົ້າມີຄວາມຕື່ນເຕັ້ນ terribly, ໃນເບື້ອງຕົ້ນ, ກ່ຽວກັບການຈັດກອງປະຊຸມຜູ້ຊາຍພຽງເລັກນ້ອຍນີ້ plump ການຝຶກອົບຮົມ, ຜູ້ຊາຍພຽງເລັກນ້ອຍນີ້ plump ຜູ້ທີ່ໄດ້ພັນລະຍາບໍ? ທ່ານມີກໍ່ພຽງແຕ່ເນື້ອໃນທັງຫມົດທີ່ມີສະຖານະການນີ້? ຂ້າພະເຈົ້າຫວັງວ່າຍັງບໍ່ມີບໍ່ແມ່ນມື້ໃນເວລາທີ່ທ່ານບໍ່ຄິດວ່າຂ້າພະເຈົ້າບໍ່ໄດ້.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

ໃນເວລາທີ່ ທ່ານນັ່ງຢູ່ ໃນທົ່ວຈາກ ອື່ນໆແຕ່ລະຄົນ ຢູ່ໃນ ຄາບອາຫານ ນັ້ນ, 
ບໍ່ ໄດ້ ເບິ່ງທ່ານ ຫຼືເຮັດ ຕາຂອງຕົນ ໄປ ໄປຂ້າງ ໃດ? ທ່ານ ເວົ້າ ກ່ຽວກັບຫຍັງ ? ພຣະອົງບໍ່ໄດ້ , 
ມ້ວນ ເຂົ້າໄປໃນບານ ໄດ້ອີກຂ້າງຫນຶ່ງ ຂອງຕຽງນອນໄດ້ ? ພຣະອົງບໍ່ໄດ້ ນອນຢູ່ໃນ ປະເພດຂອງ clench ບໍ? ພຣະອົງ 
ໄດ້ຮັບການ ສະນັ້ນ ການມີສ່ວນຮ່ວມ ໃນ ຜົນປະໂຫຍດ ຂອງຕົນ, ປົກກະຕິແລ້ວ ກ່ຽວຂ້ອງກັບການ 
pursuit endless ຂອງບາງ ລາຍການ ວັດທະນະທໍາ ໃຫມ່ , ທີ່ ທ່ານບໍ່ສາມາດ ທີ່ຈະ ຕິດຕໍ່ສື່ສານ ກັບທ່ານ? 
ທ່ານ ມີຄວາມຮູ້ສຶກ ຮັກ ?

Monday, September 22, 2014

I saw them








I saw them and this is what they looked like to me.

Bitter, bitter, bitter feeling.

Saturday, July 12, 2014