Poetry Archives Bio
September 18, 2016
people you may know

11:18 AM

where to begin
perambulation is only
as long as the road
the flâneur is finite

but it takes great sadneʃs
to sing fado
more than even eye
can take

I like to come here
to have a drink
the dry crackling of intellect
is absinth here

the secret figure speaks
of programmatic approaches
to the subconscious

paul eluard's "la rose publique
the lightbulb on top of guernica
la femme-fleur
peinture surinterprétée
boston city hall

the footfalls resound
along the hall of lost steps
the night watchman considers
the comfort weight of cyanide
                  eat me  cupcake!

the girl spreads her legs
to solve the psychometric puzzle
the airborne infant angels whoosh by
the poet chews on his interdental citizenship card
considering a female-shaped architectural support
a body transfigured by light

the bürgermeister invites
the executioner home
to see how the sausage is made:
                      existential sadneʃs

the two will not sing of saudade
instead they will fire up the projector
and watch a screen on which
scene ii before gloucester castle
alternates with deepthroating gifs
hand in hand

out by the bar a wench makes eyes at me
eye shoot her a continental / she falls over
the gaze being too much to bear
I'm still sparkling as the proprietor comes running
(note to shelf: find out how the tides work

in a cheap institutional office
with two clocks (both wrong
i say to myself, "not today  to the dimestore shrink
i want to ask him about the brain-brain barrier
but he won't get the joke

(any more than the desperation with which
the autocorrect on my phone
attempts to make sense of my poetry
the low flight of the heron suggests a storm
so i make an escape plan from the reading room

I begin to run while beck plays boléro on a touch-tone phone
a skeleton kneels before a mirror in prayer
a shivering dog shits
a seagull catches crows out of midair

signs and symbols on 1st
crowd the peripheral vision
"I'm gonna break his violin / "he was as wode as a board

birds like kites struggle against the wind
i try to remember the time i gave you shit
for two spaces after a period and for my birthday
you gave me a boxful of ghosts

is it too late for calculust of scripture (stricture?
on every lamppost a bird patiently

my hand folds
into a fist
there is only one thing left to do

let your fingers do the walking

September 13, 2016

6:45 PM

With apologies to Charles Bukowski.

while I was waiting for you
to come home
I began to wash your blood from the sheets.
it didn't work
so I went to the store for bleach.
I bought bleach and drāno and deodorant
and I paid and I came home.

I set the timer on the microwave to thirty.
I poured the drāno in the bathtub.
I poured the bleach on the bed.
I waited.
I scrubbed your blood from the sheets.
when the timer rang
I ran the hot water in the bathtub.
I put the deodorant by the sink
and continued to scrub.

when I finished
I went to the painting on the kitchen table
and turned it over.
I carefully painted my name on the back
in red.
I waited some more.
I ran more hot water in the bathtub.
I continued to scrub the sheets.

when I got bored, I went down to the car
and drove to the store.
I got six new brushes
a tube of silver
and a tube of white.
I asked the girl in the red vest,
"do you carry this fixative or this varnish?"
she said, "yes, we have two of them in one,"
so I said, "that's not what I need."

she took me to the fine arts section
and I found everything I wanted.
I bought a bear
I paid, left, and drove home.
by the time I got back
your blood was gone and the painting was dry
so I sat down and waited for you to return.

this really happened.

August 28, 2016
Послесловие к Хаул

3:04 PM

This is my translation of "Footnote to Howl" by Allen Ginsberg. You must read it loudly and out loud.

Максу Немцову

Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято! Свято!

А мир весь свят он! Душа свята ведь! И свята кожа! И свят он нос мой! Язык и хер рука и срака святы!

Всё вокруг нас свято! все вокруг нас святы! все места ведь святы! каждый день он целом в вечности! Каждый он ведь ангел!

Мудак ведь свят не меньше чем се́раф! безумец он свят точно так как моя душа свят!

Машинка эта свята и стих всё же свят он и голос свят он и ты вот здесь свят ты и твой экстаз свят тут!

Свят он Питер свят он Аллен свят он Со́ломон свят он Лу́сьен свят он Ке́руак свят он Ханке свят он Бурроуз свят он Кассади свят незнакомый в жопу и страдалец нищий свят и ужасный человекоангел!

Свята моя мать в психиатрической! Свят каждый хрен подвешенный дедам Канзаса!

Свято стенание сакса! Свят и боп апокалипсис! Святы и джазбэнд травяные хипстеры в трубку мира мескал & бой!

Свято одиночество небоскрёбов и почвы! Святы столовые полные миллионов! Святы и тайные подуличные реки слёз!

Свят одинок Джаганнатх! Свят бесконца ягня среднекласс! Святы без ума пастухи восстания!

Кто рубит Лос Анджелес ЕСТЬ Лос Анджелес!

Свят он Нью Йорк Сан Франциско Свят он Пеория & Сиэттл Свят он Париж Свят он Танжир Свята Москва Свят он Истанбул!

Свято время в бесконечности свята бесконечность часа святы часы во тьме свят четвёртый промер свят пятый Интернационал свят и Ангел Молох!

Свят океан свята пустыня свята Ж/Д свят и вот паровозик святы виденья святы и фантасмагории святы и чудеса свят и глаз яблока и пропасть свята!

Свято прощение! милость! сердие! вера! Свят! Наш! тела́! страдалец! великодуш!

Свята и суперестественно сверхблестящая разумная доброта души!

August 22, 2016
Things in Themselves

10:33 AM

With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Marian Schwartz.

To Jon Kertzer

Deep in a cave there sits a man
Watching the shadows on the wall.
He is unchained; his skin is dun.
From once retreating from the sun
Towards this frigid pall.
The figures dance before his eyes.
He turns his head now to apprise
Himself that fire does duly burn behind.
A voice from far above him speaks, slow, droll, and dry.
The man's heart races faster than his mind.
"It is all right, sir; things shall shapify."

July 16, 2016
The Birds

10:28 PM

With apologies to Percy Bysshe Shelley and Александр Пушкин [Aleksandr Pushkin].

I lost the magic gift to conjure words
When I with algebra have verified all art.
I walk the seawall, watch the restless birds
Tug at the clamshells, prying them apart.
Inside they find their food and sate their wants.
They snack on the delicious foot, obscene
In its protruding challenge to the tongue.
They eat the palps, the gills; they preen.
The cormorant is clacking its hooked beak.
The pigeons amble back to Denman Street.
The geese honk like a horde of party boys
Accompanied by noise of speakers' thrum.
I slow my footsteps then, and fix my poise,
And like a heron wait for words to come.

January 21, 2016
arriving fire apparatus

10:08 AM

 the ceremony
    is as grand
    as ceremonies go

    the attendants mix
       with wine

                 (I work with people who use
                  as a noun

                         an excited hush falls
                      over the crowd
                             the curtain drops

 the games begin
    the criers shout
    into bullhorns

         (one time
          I stole from Home Depot
          a pack of razor blades

                  the slaves' mongrel voice
             sings praise
               to the emperor

 he announces
 memorials under construction
     domiciles for future sepulchre

                    (¿deleuze or delouse
                      deluge or delude?
                      subtle or saddle or suttle

           take your pick:
     the bettors scream
     at a fever pitch

                                  THIS IS THE
                                  GREATEST AGGREGATION
                                  WE HAVE TO OFFER

               (i dream: a map at hills
                of kerrisdale depicting
                palestine and U.S.S.S.S.S.S...

  the nightstick
       rules the night
  if (eel == OK) {

 here it is!
 glistering in the sun!
 the deed is complete!

                          (today my tie's not
                           pointing to my crotch
                           I'm a hawaiian bird of paradise

             here it is!
             it is magnificent!
             it will destroy us all!

(& there was a bridge

 here it is!
 the arriving!

August 14, 2015
my wife is not crazy

9:32 PM

With apologies to Vladimir Nabokov.

I used to be together with this chick
Who happened to be Asian; she was thick
In both (or every) senses of the word,
And our relationship was quite absurd.
She thought herself a poet-bard and fucked
About/around on me behind my back,
And now she is a politician/hack
By way of Boston, or perhaps of Yale.

The second Asian chick was, without fail,
Quite oftentimes wordsmith extraordinaire,
And though she often was a willing sport
(Of which, I am quite sure, you know the sort)
She indicated gently, by and by,
That our relationship would stultify
Her love towards the dragon eye
Belonging to her mighty matriarch.

The third inamorata was at heart
A cook; she'd swoon at gilded ladles, spoons
Hanging face-down from gilded metal hooks.
She never loved to read and had few books
Except Williams-Sonoma catalogues,
And now (all jest aside) I often think
She saw me as: a pot, a colander, perhaps a sink
Cheerfully clothed in shiny stainless steel.

I truth, I think less often than I feel
That (all good times with certainty apart)
This isn't even matter for the heart
But a quite lucid thing in logic's vein.
To put it simply, my wife's not insane:
She won't a raven for a writing desk mistake,
For her, a pain is a pedestrian ache,
A play of light is but an optic trick.

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