postive about some future
for a moment i thought
it might work, a bit
a smallish tint of time
we could keep like a glass
bubble. i think
it might but no no
eventually you will leave
or i will leave
so y even begin to put your heart
where your head sez danger?
how foolish that idea
g\from the box
december
a more detailed reading of Lynze
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Every one of her days has
a death in it or a fuck in it,” I said,
commenting on Olds’ book of poems.
In the sex scenes she’s always desirable.
So how is this, like, true exposure? I thought true exposure
Was exposure of weakness.
She said, “so OK, how do you do that
Artistically?” I said “I don’t have a clue” –
This was two days before xmas eve. At that moment,
The pizza delivery vehicle pulled up.
Knock knock, on the door.
He was short, neither bad nor great
Looking, young, razorstubble, missing a tooth.
I said “I’m sorry for making you do this two
Days before xmas.” He said “no problem man” I
Gave him a twenty.
I was hungry for the pizza.
Now would she ever put a scene
Like that in any one of her poems, something
Indecisive / indeterminate like most sex is
What, is Sharon Stone
Always getting her hair stained by different sunsets
And moonglows, in different tropical
Parks in this world, sunsets and moonglows.
*
-- Her father probably sounded a lot like that.
Believing denying meaning were a freedom.
are you happy now you broke all the little toys
mother says the hush-faced son listens the sun
shielding the beauty of the scene – high tufty
white clouds, harmless, cris-crossed by contrails –
harmless fates never remembered
*
detour: crimescene
Because she loved
The meth so much,
She fell in love wit the square-jawed
Doctor who held the keys to the vault,
She got a job there, at the tox lab, her
Legs got her the job, we worked around
Corpses, she tolerated corpses, to get
White-iced –
Her husband stood
In the way; eating, sleep, sex needs
Persecuted the couple
Toward their two chimerae:
For him unconditional love,
For her white icing on a bone cake;
The end.
2.
you can’t kill ants
in front of some people.
They view killing ants as murder.
They can’t stand to see the squealing mewling
Underground, of ants and pupae burning.
3.
in some people, the violence
emits itself, inevitably, no
matter how small a container
in before it starts, just a clicking
of handcuffs, just a squeaking
of shoes.
4.
The way Olds writes is fine, but it’s not the only way.
It is like the edge of a massive snowflake and all the blue
Space between the terraced ice tips is extra space.
Other poets try to describe the space not where great
Sex or death are currently occurring, but rather, where
Need / wish cut across – their archaic arrhythmia
one guy talked to me for an hour
tho i told him
at the outset about justin i guess
he was as bored as me. i know
the presents still need buying
the credit needs feeding
the xmas greens need cooking but hey
we hung the stockings. so justin's back
The figure in Lynze’s poem assumes a different form of
Heroic proportions than the ones displayed by Olds.
In Lynze’s poem, as with Olds, the speaker of the poem
Is the poet. The speaking persona, in the text, is also
The poet, outside the text. She dwells both above and
Below the page, the screen – she enjoys this doubling
Effect despite its ambiguity: did her very wish to observe
Split this ice of self?
from nowhere and says hi.
just like that. i'd thought of him fleetingly
in my weightedness, the mommy
thang draggin at my heels, a two year old
with an empty belly. justin out of work
for two months again. the tightening
shoulders of overworked wings and crawing beaks
someone get me a shovel so i can empty this nest.
and from nowhere. hi.
Wow imagine if Jenni made me a confession
Like that. I wonder how I’d handle it. Prolly
Badly. Boy would I be pissed. Fuck relativism.
Then as fast draws on a thick quiet seeping
Of deep sadness, sympathy, pity like rustling –
Like leaves weaving their tiny waves goodbye
As dried-up corpses, their wind-scuttled attention.
Were
The spirits of the leaves now comfortably
Sitting behind the weather, like in a golden
Chrome control room, domed with rainbow maps
Of the stars, a stoic alien in a green zipsuit with
Yellow tusks
Coming out and up from in
Back of his ears, punching
A button with his claw,
“yes captain?”
it might work, a bit
a smallish tint of time
we could keep like a glass
bubble. i think
it might but no no
eventually you will leave
or i will leave
so y even begin to put your heart
where your head sez danger?
how foolish that idea
g\from the box
december
a more detailed reading of Lynze
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Every one of her days has
a death in it or a fuck in it,” I said,
commenting on Olds’ book of poems.
In the sex scenes she’s always desirable.
So how is this, like, true exposure? I thought true exposure
Was exposure of weakness.
She said, “so OK, how do you do that
Artistically?” I said “I don’t have a clue” –
This was two days before xmas eve. At that moment,
The pizza delivery vehicle pulled up.
Knock knock, on the door.
He was short, neither bad nor great
Looking, young, razorstubble, missing a tooth.
I said “I’m sorry for making you do this two
Days before xmas.” He said “no problem man” I
Gave him a twenty.
I was hungry for the pizza.
Now would she ever put a scene
Like that in any one of her poems, something
Indecisive / indeterminate like most sex is
What, is Sharon Stone
Always getting her hair stained by different sunsets
And moonglows, in different tropical
Parks in this world, sunsets and moonglows.
*
-- Her father probably sounded a lot like that.
Believing denying meaning were a freedom.
are you happy now you broke all the little toys
mother says the hush-faced son listens the sun
shielding the beauty of the scene – high tufty
white clouds, harmless, cris-crossed by contrails –
harmless fates never remembered
*
detour: crimescene
Because she loved
The meth so much,
She fell in love wit the square-jawed
Doctor who held the keys to the vault,
She got a job there, at the tox lab, her
Legs got her the job, we worked around
Corpses, she tolerated corpses, to get
White-iced –
Her husband stood
In the way; eating, sleep, sex needs
Persecuted the couple
Toward their two chimerae:
For him unconditional love,
For her white icing on a bone cake;
The end.
2.
you can’t kill ants
in front of some people.
They view killing ants as murder.
They can’t stand to see the squealing mewling
Underground, of ants and pupae burning.
3.
in some people, the violence
emits itself, inevitably, no
matter how small a container
in before it starts, just a clicking
of handcuffs, just a squeaking
of shoes.
4.
The way Olds writes is fine, but it’s not the only way.
It is like the edge of a massive snowflake and all the blue
Space between the terraced ice tips is extra space.
Other poets try to describe the space not where great
Sex or death are currently occurring, but rather, where
Need / wish cut across – their archaic arrhythmia
one guy talked to me for an hour
tho i told him
at the outset about justin i guess
he was as bored as me. i know
the presents still need buying
the credit needs feeding
the xmas greens need cooking but hey
we hung the stockings. so justin's back
The figure in Lynze’s poem assumes a different form of
Heroic proportions than the ones displayed by Olds.
In Lynze’s poem, as with Olds, the speaker of the poem
Is the poet. The speaking persona, in the text, is also
The poet, outside the text. She dwells both above and
Below the page, the screen – she enjoys this doubling
Effect despite its ambiguity: did her very wish to observe
Split this ice of self?
from nowhere and says hi.
just like that. i'd thought of him fleetingly
in my weightedness, the mommy
thang draggin at my heels, a two year old
with an empty belly. justin out of work
for two months again. the tightening
shoulders of overworked wings and crawing beaks
someone get me a shovel so i can empty this nest.
and from nowhere. hi.
Wow imagine if Jenni made me a confession
Like that. I wonder how I’d handle it. Prolly
Badly. Boy would I be pissed. Fuck relativism.
Then as fast draws on a thick quiet seeping
Of deep sadness, sympathy, pity like rustling –
Like leaves weaving their tiny waves goodbye
As dried-up corpses, their wind-scuttled attention.
Were
The spirits of the leaves now comfortably
Sitting behind the weather, like in a golden
Chrome control room, domed with rainbow maps
Of the stars, a stoic alien in a green zipsuit with
Yellow tusks
Coming out and up from in
Back of his ears, punching
A button with his claw,
“yes captain?”
posted by hiccup at 9:06 AM
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