Vince Neil’s Apologia Pro Vita Sua, As Transcribed by Josh, in a Crowded Hotel Bar One Afternoon, Being a Poem Spoken in the Future, During the Upcoming AWP Conference of 2014, in Seattle, Washington
Of the latter heroes I was most supine, handed out warnings to women who were pregnant or were likely to become pregnant, hope tucked bloodless into saddlebag, neither hunter nor borrower, sometimes referred to myself as It— as in charity is its bird machine—a strap-on fashioned out of bits of the foregone cross coming at me from the future in the tiniest and the most lineal of dreams, my preferred haruspex pondering her retirement and [...]
I will not think about tripe. I will not think about tripe and its opulent crate of brown sponge. I will not think about tripe because I don’t want tripe to be a thought of me stored in my dimpled entrails. I don’t want to be tripe boiled and thought about or fattened with grotesque drippings of phrene from head bending like tripe and its deep tube of encyclopedic justice. If tripe plumps I don’t want to eat just the fleshy leaves of cabbage growth. I don’t want your vegetable and arborescent creed to halve the pomegrantian blisters filled with red tropes and white homeomeries of advancement. When I [...]
It’s a cold rehearsal before we all drive off. The ride out is mindless and short on goodbyes. And in the flurry of parties she lost her passport. A slow smoke, a think in the old car… how they moved through their places and phrases and onto the bedroom where mostly we kept it all in. People won’t tell you, but if you lose enough things you do become something. All day the water endlessly filters so it’s not the same pool. In the morning our photos looked darker than us and the subject we were was a gamble (I know). The night winds came through and the [...]
Like a Prayer
Everyone must stand alone with other loners. The black lace
veils from every other chapel- goer, all the doves mourning
a boy-star petered out too soon. Heaven help me slip through
the bars of this brick house shattered by blue light, glum moon
fidgeting with shadow. The boy’s black light vision. His sideways
ways of painting wings, crowns, anointed words and words
backtracked. Track back a beginning, what the cave muralists
meant. Not the death of the beast but the brilliant red, the rigid white
of bones. Raise folded hands and a fur-gilded skull. Crown yourself
with horns, most elegant weapons. And with slowly going embers
Poem Ending with a Phrase from Federico Garcia Lorca The last time I saw Lorenzo he was wearing a blind man’s glasses and holding the leash of a seeing-eye dog
though he isn’t blind and he doesn’t have a dog and his name isn’t Lorenzo but Bruce.
Who can explain why a man might dance on the ledge outside his office five flights above the Hudson River?
The city with five boroughs and two thousand bridges fits on one side of the coin my father gave me to give to a beggar.
It remains in my pocket as I look out the window on the day of my [...]
Either everything’s a valley, a jelly donut dimpled down the middle, or else everything’s
a collision of plates, crustal thickening on its way toward muscled mountains. Either everything’s way,
way, beyond mid-gallop or a rundown shack haystack- still, a dog-patch immobilizing glory, gumption, get up
and go. Either everything’s a sandy path leading to a dune-saving fence or nothing’s guarded, out of reach.
Which is worse: too many walls or not enough, the laciness of shams or an endless hallway of bare
jalousies, dead fly lounging on each lone pane?