Feb 28, 2011

Good Morning, Poetry

Sitting at at table writing a poem beside
one of my favorite poets while there are birds
and birds and birds making birdy noises and
pidgins on the fire escape and, further into the
distance of the window, there is rain falling
and cars driving and more fire escapes and
more pidgins, (I imagine, though I don't see
more pidgins I'm not afraid to speculate). Besides,
who cares if I'm right or wrong or lying or telling
something that is sort of like a truth? It doesn't
matter. In all of New York City there are only
one or two people, and both of us are here. The
rest of the people who aren't real are out there
and they are living their lives or dying or getting
extra attention from a loved one or getting no
attention at all from a loved one or specially
ordering food, asking that the restaurant not use
this or that sauce, or to add such and such cheese,
or to remove a certain vegetable which is unwanted
or produces halitosis. But my favorite poet friend
is also typing but I'm not sure it's a poem. I'm not
sure this is a poem. I just don't know a thing about
poetry, except that it happens, and then, when it's
over with, we either feel more relaxed or more
uptight, or like a colorful bird trying to find it's
way around the corner and back into the bedroom.

Feb 25, 2011

A Political Poem

Now that I've made my super arrangements,
it seems obvious that I need a change of direction. I would
hate to find myself over a canyon, moaning like a disco, wanting
something very holdy on to me, like an elephant-sized suspender
hanging from a cloud. Lord of mercy, these words are out
to kill me. Good grief! Is there no relief in effort?
Either way, I'm only whining because I have the time to.
If I were struggling in some revolution somewhere, chanting
my little neck into a clogged sausage, I'd probably be
more die-y than whiny. It's awful what the human heart can
accomplish. It can take years to decide what's best, but it
only takes a few moments to let your kids into the basement, where
you might be trying to say something with one of those
fancy suspicions, and meanwhile, triggers are clicking and
people with meat hanging from their knees are trying to stand up.

Feb 23, 2011

The Boxed

The stuff I've said could be stored in a jar and
jar after jar could line the pantry and each jar could
be stuffed full, with word after word. And the words
I haven't said could be stuffed in cans and canned
and frozen and put in the bottom of deep-freeze
refrigerators, or boxed in cardboard boxes and boxed
into a closet or left underneath some basement stairs.
The point is how impossible it is to say anything
worth listening to and how easy it is to try.
Many times, when I was a kid, I felt as if I couldn't
be heard and was rolled into a dough of silence.
My little robot ears heard failure in every sink of
drained water, in every jingle of the car keys,
in every dresser drawer opened. My, my ears were
alert! They were really jumpy! And now, all adultish
and brutal, I still hear my childhood in my whispers
to my children. I hear them walking about the house
and I feel lucky. I also feel stupid because I haven't made
sense of anything and here I am thinking.

Feb 17, 2011

8:51 in The Evening

I should work. I mean I need to get some work done. There's work
I need to do. Like, I should do that work that I've been meaning
to do. There's all that stuff that I haven't done, that I need to do, so
I should do that shit and get it over with. I need to work on
stuff that is related to my job. My job is always requiring me to
work. I mean, seriously, it's always saying
"Dude, get your shit together. Do your work. Get
it done." And I say stuff like, "Yea, I know. I know. I know." I don't
know what to say to work. I mean, I look at it. I think about it.
I know it has to get done and it does it get mostly done, but, then, sometimes
I guess it doesn't. I mean, I know I should do it, but it's hard. Why? is
what I wonder. Why is working on work so hard? I mean, it's
only work. Why should work be a big deal? It shouldn't be. And yet,
every year my annual report is due to my department I think,
my god, you are simply work that is unworkable. I can not deal
with your inconvenient necessity. I sit here thinking about
the work. Thinking about the work. Thinking, what is work?
What is work? Thinking I've got to do work. I mean, I've just got to do it.

Feb 11, 2011

New Stuff

Nice reviews of Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! at Amazon

At Ekleksographia two songs from ATTILA!

Shout out from Booklist Online

from Bradley Sands, at Big Other

Oded Carmeli is translating Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! in Hebrew. Yedioth Ahronoth is the press.

Very Funny

My daughter talking with her dolls
down the hall
and my son bouncing around making whooshing
and blasting sounds from, like, laser guns or some
sort of weapon noise. And then the Pokemon cards
not to mention the road of doom outside
with all the ice frozen on ice and, then, there's Friday. And that's
a day when something can happen. Often
tragedies become necessary to avoid certain aliments
or certain futures which aren't ever real
but are possible. And what bothers me in this particular
scenario is the great deal of time it takes animators
to complete certain animation cartoon movies. I mean
you most likely have no idea what that's like. That's
like a bunch of time to animate a fucking movie.
And now the weird feeling comes when you
feel outside of your body but not perfectly out of your body.
It's like a dislocated shoulder, it feels very funny.

Feb 7, 2011

Living the Life

It's possible for a dartboard to quiver
in the fashion of a fish, quivering in the fashion
of fish quivering. This isn't exactly something
you want to try and make a living at. Good god!
Even if you try to adjust your collar
so as to make yourself more understandable
to the neighbor lady (or something like that) you
don't get better at anything by practicing the
piano. I mean if you waste all your time with
that shit, you won't get anywhere. You should make
room in your heart for people who live elsewhere
and, if possible, you should allow perfect
strangers to sleep in your cabinets and all throughout
the house. This idea of protecting your family
is nuts! Seriously, by the time I begin to wrap
my head around the thing, it's already unwrapping
and there I go, perfectly off into nothing.

Feb 5, 2011


When it snows, the snowflakes just fall
out of the sky and every single one is identical.
That's the thing about snowflakes, no variation.
And the snow accumulating, like baked bread.
I've never understood why God hates yeast so much.
He's always, like, "make that bread unleavened, goddamnit!"
He just fucking hates the yeast. He likes
his bread flat and his meat burned. He likes the
pleasing aroma of a barbeque. There's so much I
don't understand. Like why it snows at all or why
there are seasons or why Gary Coleman had to die.
This stuff is never explained. Instead, we're expected
to just accept it, bury our heads in the identical
snowflakes and come home all frozey-headed. And
there are countries all around the world! And there
are people who are actors and people who are manual
laborers and other people who are other things!
It's fucking crazy! Meanwhile, a saturday afternoon
happens and the snow just falls and falls and finally
lands, on earth, like everything else and just sits
there looking blank and all stupid.