12/12/2019
Clairvoyance, faint hybrids. The window brightens into waterdrops. Hannah Weiner saw words on her forehead and all around: “I SEE A BIG APOSTROPHE,” “Steve Reich is not tunafish.” Really? “SHUT UP.” Oh, I’m so fine, at one year I could babble blithe alphabets. Abecedarium: A is for axolotl, little water-servant, and O for oxlip between primrose and cowslip. Z is for zygote, begin again.
Hannah Weiner, Clairvoyant Journal 1974, 3/10
01/16/2020
Archean dark, that primordial soup. Follow the thread to sorghum, sorrel, soursop, sow thistle. Sweet cicely. Enlacement, word-knots; jelly dots. Now all is ice-melt and dripping thoughts. Poor crabs, always scooting under rocks. Rising seas. Ink clouds, clownfish, ghostly divers. A dreamfish for every mood and coral coloration.
02/04/2020
There’s the princess curled in her rain-soaked tent and smoking, reading her pocket Verlaine. Ah, the sea: Elle a des airs bleus, / Roses, gris et verts . . . Pull up your wet pants, girl, you’re drunk like the earthworms and other sodden losers. All here in the coastal wishwash, rainspouts choking. Row, row your red rowboat—Pacific seals will swim up in silver chic, in bubbles, freckles.
Paul Verlaine, « La Mer est plus belle »
03/10/2020
Who is the mistress of fast-talking monkeys? Vocal macaques? Follow the macaronic avatar that screams and swings, scattering farts. For shame, feral crooner—you never will have perfect pitch. Why, it’s true! I was chilled at birth by a sour angel, choked with pickle brine. But a wild translation seized me by the tail—
04/23/2020
Newts spring from the trees; we slip through hummingbird auras. A shrine of tulips in old water, dropped petals. How long is your shelf-life, dear? We can discount you before you die. It depends on the site of infection: I was fertilized through my blushing ear. Listen, an air played by the picture of Nobody—nerves cannot bear the transmission. Or just the whistle of a titmouse.
Tempest Act 3 Scene 2
05/01/2020
Magnolia, cretaceous flower. A spasm of mauve and cream. Hey, don’t barge into this queue or we’ll kill you. Who said that? Just keep walking. A poem is hardly a charm against death, no lines to time for you. Why do you write titles like “Deliquescent Melon”? Or “Malodorous Flowers”? There’s always more rubbish where you come from.
