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Showing posts from February, 2008

friday poem (no edits one go)

We’ve talked a little about the horsepenis and change and luck and the way things come down. There are cartoon voices and a jangle of keys at the station. The penis is abandoned or postponed for old age. Sop up the sperm of these swift cheap words. Through any window piss is raining from the sky. Sons and daughters ninety times out of a hundred piss on the streets with knapsacks and Polish mullets. It is easy to put a hole in the ground and make a great piss. What’s seen is sucked away and what remains is a big Katowice train station toilet. 1zl per entrance and exit. Is this a sad romance? Nothing is really uncovered. Stories directly from the drain. Perhaps doing that, or this, and pissing it all out and everything.

What do you think about a penis with eros seated on your shoulder? What you think about a vagina who says you’re still beautiful? Singer there may be more than one kind of a curse. I have a necklace of bloody teeth for this cure and a complex airport diagram with lights…

friday is my day!!!

Most Fridays only contain three or four hours of teaching and then the afternoon and evening are free. God it is nice. Here is a revision of an earlier poem. Still in the works, but moving in a better direction. Think the manuscript is changing. Prodigal Drift is no longer the right title.

Primal Verge

Detergents force out dirt and foam is the spirituality of luxury. The washing machine is a house of memory with a music hall of tumbling cycles. Whosoever cycles among the signals will grow ears. New clothes are old clothes in new bottles. Reckless rhetoric is a reflexive lyric.

Dirt is my lunch and my lunch
is written on the wall.

mixtape with the Lucifer Poetics Group

it is announcements like these that make me wish I were still in North Carolina with the Lucifer Poetics folk:


Announcing MIXTAPE (the Reading Series) #4



Mark you calendars now! Mixtape is a salon-style reading series, where invited poets will read "mixes" of work by writers other than themselves.


Host: Chris Vitiello
Where: 1106 Ninth St., Apartment A, Durham, NC
Date: Saturday February 23, at 8 p.m.
Readers: Chris Vitiello & Kate Pringle

After a hiatus of some months, MIXTAPE is back!


Chris Vitiello (http://attentionwithoutame.blogspot.com/) is riding high on the release of his new book (http://ahsahtapress.boisestate.edu/books/vitiello/vitiello-audio.htm). I asked him if he'd care to break the MIXTAPE format and read from Irresponsibility instead, but he's going to grace us with a regular MIXTAPE selection -- still, feel free to regard this MIXTAPE in part as a stopgap book release party for Chris, and to shower him with gifts and accolades.

Kate Pringle (http://minora…

Third Version of A Simple Thing

There's a he and a she separated by slender wood. The graver engraves and the wood is
bitten into. Who carves and who is carved really doesn't matter. Who bites and who is bitten depends on the occasion.

Please observe the sound of a broken flip-flop from your bedroom window. It is summer and a city peasant is waving for a lighter. His skin is doughed so crudely it's hard to find his eyes. His yes is the sound of slavic clock: tak tak tak.

At the train station a final whistle cuts the air as each memory chugs away on forgotten tracks. Romantic rubbish is stuffed into recycle bins. I am carried away and pushed open by the lidless. I must mind my memories, mine the dark ripples. The meat of the body eats itself.

There’s a he and a she waving for a blue lighter through the bedroom window. It is summer and a distant train carries dough-faced passengers in the early morn. A slavic clock above a recycling bucket blinks on and off.

Please observe the slender wood as a final whistle …

second version of A Simple Thing

There's a he and a she separated by slender wood. The graver engraves and the wood is
bitten into. Who carves and who is carved really doesn't matter. Who bites and who is bitten depends on the occasion.

Please observe the sound of a broken flip-flop from your bedroom window. It is summer and a city peasant is waving for a lighter. His skin is doughed so crudely it's hard to find his eyes. His yes is a the sound of slavic clock: tak tak tak.

At the train station a final whistle cuts the air as each body chugs away on forgotten tracks. Romantic rubbish is stuffed into recycle bins. I am carried away and pushed open by the lidless. I must mind my memories, mine the dark ripples. The meat of the body eats itself.

A Simple Thing

There's a he and a she separated
by slender wood: engraved and
bitten into.
One broken flip-flop clops
along the wooden floor.
Each footfall sinks
into sand. A final
whistle cuts
the air as each
memory chugs
away on forgotten
tracks. Romantic
rubbish is stuffed
into recycle bins.
To have been is to be
carried away and pushed
open by the lidless.
I must mind
my memories, mine
the dark ripples.
The meat
of the body eats
itself.

more from new manuscript (no edits)

Scene Speak

Katowice centre has the highest percentage of limping people per capita. The table in this café keeps tipping. Hands won’t get warm. Ice cobra of the mind. Caution for the darkness that rumbles from the post-communist trams. Glops of kebab stick to the pavement. Fingers null. Old homes mold holes. Word my brain. Best to crank up the velocity when alone without water gas and air. Caffeine hovers and words squirt the windows. Advertisements are thrust into passing hands. More interesting arrangements are made in the making. Proud Polish smiles on V-day with couples and roses and other clichés. This is a staring culture suspicious until proven otherwise. Chocolate melts through the fingers. The cover story covers half the brain. Cream centre or saucy filling. Indent with the skull duly noted. This is the prime condition. Bells ring out the god delusion. Expectancy is a paper-thin silhouette. Lots of gibber in this joint. Poland is a giant sausage. An alien language goes swish…

very rough . . .

Bloodlump


bit my tongue
on some thinned-out
Polish bread
and it’s a bloodlump
against
the invertebrate
movements
of the tongue


when with contempt the exposure of dust in the daylight: a fertile stasis above
the hills of a shelled-out city: the liver deposits
unconscious memory: from blood
simple that wish in the water: to think
it’s true asleep among the shadows: hieroglyphic indifference
with the little nibs
of forethought: time is the event: memory is a monkey
in shattered glass else a cool shoeshine: squeeze out
heat from a pile of salted bodies
ready for the fire: sharpen yr knaves: there’s a silent menace
in the carnivorous loaves:

the bones are baked with leaves: the body is being read: red being
pumped out and taken in: what is the destination
of vibration on water: chilled out
terror of acceptance: it’s not a simple jive
among the metaphors

wrocław

Andrew and I in Wrocław

from Prodigal Drift

Neighbors 1

no eternity without mythical speech
totem mud paints the brain
clay codings
seven to nine stiches suture the mind
a paradise of blemishes
music drawn like concepts
between meanings
visions in the mudpit

Neighbors 2

crazy oblivion terminates in the nude
bathing in pine needles
skin stripped from the bum
the most inquisitive children
on the sundial of the dead

all good people in the pit
with which the world spins
loneliness from one skull to the next
illuminated by the cruelty of transition
between countries

licking the salt off the armpit of a pregnant woman
tombstones and doors
bedrails invade the sky
nighttooth faxed to the underworld

Neighbors 3

wild dogs at Katowice train station
broken glasses
swollen nose
gingerbread latte and Vogue papierosy
god’s playground

from Jeremy Prynne

In fact, there are only two things in the universe which are simple, and one of them is the universe taken as a whole; and the other is its language, because its language is its capacity for love. And the capacity of the universe for love is that for which man was born. Oh yes, I am an absolute predestinarian in that sense. I believe utterly in that it is man’s destiny to bring love to the universe, I mean, to fulfill the universe’s potential for love. It’s great, you know; in France — they keep things alive longer there — the word for magnet is “aimant” (lover). I just flipped when I heard that. Always, I mean, in all the ancient cosmologies, the planets were moved by love, or carried round. The First Mover was certainly love.

Some translation of Świetlicki (by Zofia Malgrab)

The third half

SHIT HAPPENS, that's how
the writing on men's toilet wall ends.
This is the worst -
to walk with such hunger
of at least minimal glow - to find
only this, the writing at night toilet,
that's how it looks, pussycat
and that's how it ends



Dogs make love on the pavement. I pretended a tenor
for fifteen minutes, till sudden lack
of tenor voice on the radio and the last movement
of my mouth was like fishy and I only pushed out
a cloud of silence. I squeeze a sheet of paper in my hand:
IF YOU FEEL MORTAL - CALL IN