Albuquerque Exercise [new]
She whooshes down like a wintry air curling around the corners of a mall,
throws the café door wide and announces,
I'm here for your finest mocha latte, bitches!
The checker players drop the pieces and forget their moves in astonishment.
On one side of the pieces she's walking in the rain; the man
walks with an umbrella on the other. She pays with a bouquet
of red plastic flowers pulled from a sleeve, mildly curses the milk foam
and whipped cream clinging to the plastic top's underside, then
slurps it down. All right, I need a date for the swing dance anniversary
tonight! Volunteers! She claps the empty paper cup down on the counter
as a player looks around shyly at the others, hems,
and stands. Hm, she opines. Undo that button, she says. The boy
blushes furiously but presents his hip and, pulling his bow tie to one side,
unlinks the top button. Saucy, she says. Come on, lover, we're
gonna put the ride in Kokopelli rides again! and like little motion-sick
pinwheels they are gone. The man's partner straightens his thinning hair
and purposefully moves his piece to the far edge. Crown me, Kowalski, he says.
I told you you were going to lose this one.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
A re-wording of Louise Bak's Absorptive (tuesday poem number 38 on Dusie) by Jennifer K Dick
An arm’s worth more than its length
to be the adjoining corner’s sidewall,
building past its broken fringe rigid part
building past its broken fringe rigid part
turned out into the groan oiled wrist thigh-
high circumnavigation, flap, found the “e”
in society in “I. Konigsburg” a flattened curve
backed all the way down to the A36 this case
a violin’s, a booked room, a change of clothes
hand slapped on top bar (swerved briefly) a cross
creased a line: the medicinal pump beeps
intravenous short puffs on the welt pocket: kneeling
to redness that pearlescent button through a loop,
to readiness, arm yourself, lean out to a bunched
bottle-neck, mapping induced enclosures’ square of
the earth’s root, dot, branch, broadened bifocalized
line joining the articulation of sound body casted
from a note or bracken barked upland paper
resists strokes, to resist paper, stroke, stoke the f
glancing at an insect''s reduced convexity, glassline
nudged its slid corner slightly abrasive raised as
if to mumble from fallen, a crown, yank the cart
-ilage rhomboids, sestets, a following as with a flick
or the assigned rival, hinge, 90° to contained obsolescence.
Friday, April 19, 2013
I combined the following two poems by Nazim Hikmet and reworded them.
to over come lies in the heart, in the streets, in the books
from the lullabies of the mothers
to the news report that the speaker reads,
understanding, my love, what a great joy it is,
to understand what is gone and what is on the way.
ON LIVING III
ON LIVING III
This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet--
I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in pitch-black space . . .
You must grieve for this right now
--you have to feel this sorrow now--
for the world must be loved this much
if you're going to say "I lived". . .
* * *
(From Nazim Hikmet Five Lines and On Living III)
Will cold stars grow among the smallest stars,
--this, our great gilded sorrow,
Must you grieve for this right now?
--feel this now?
--for the world to be this much space,
earth loved in pitch-black lullabies.
Can a great heart lie?
and you know what’s gone--
are you going to say “but I lived”?
to understand what? cold?
and what’s on the way?
Will this empty cloud
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
After Hypnotized Dzina's Like it Matters
It is not outside
within an unblanked
“And ink delves?”
—what wasn’t rhetorical in this Quineauesque
production: licking, saucy, underlying Cotton’s
Matter, a substance. Chops.
Poetry got spendy.
Lovers may be paid by removal,
“I” says the page “am not prim.”
To which Ink replies: “Striptease?
strip poker? Speak easy
In your zero-sum style, but don’t
give it away.”
In the velodrome of writing prompts, I’d prefer
to hand out velamints. Anyone for cinnamon?
This is what was left in her grandmother’s mink coat.
Not some note, some noteworthy letter, embossed,
wax sealed. We are all of us going
nowhere-everywhichway. X-potentiated, the genome
is flawed, an eternal repetition
“Form alone gives me the slip.”
“Poor paper, stuffed properly
into the envelope—‘n’ off you go!”
Pink imaginary ellipsis
no longer semi-fluid material.
I am down to the letter Y. I knows
U, knows U are over and beyond X.
Try? Trail? Even a plume
can do me better.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
a rewording of JKD's Flurry
Invisible the crowds expected, nothing like Ezra’s petals on a bough—in this swamp, there’s no metro, wetly rumbling, only helicopters, and below the flowerbursts of weeds growing over broken Grand Teton sidewalks, through air heavy with potential advertising revenue, renewal, tourist onslaught, bracing snow forgotten until that homewards flight Monday, for now it’s simply a bourbon-scented hot dream of a Sunday, bowling out of the morning with no expectations and a somewhat wilted Carnival hat.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
(is a poem within the poem AutoBiOblit)
Unblanked paper deceives. Quineauesque
introduction: disbosom. Pan-o-ram. Cotton Mather
implies licking, saucy, underlying substance. Chops.
Poetry got spendy. Losses may be paid by removal,
exposure, but not zero-sum style. Not prim.
Striptease, strip poker, speak easy but don’t
give it away. Hatta’s game is always afoot.
Starting gate is finish line. In the velodrome
of writing prompts, we are all of us going
nowhere. X-P13 AAG-TGC-ACG-GCC-TAT-AAG
on earth, all “rosy of glow” every time.
Where eternal repetition means more than
broken record, form alone gives me
the slip. Probably pink. Imagine an ellipsis
no longer material. It’s Carl Sagan time, &
a no-brainer down to the letter. I know
therefore I am Superfluous Girl. Why try?