Tuesday, November 08, 2005

GREEN #4 - Sky Gilbert

Green, Verdi, vermilion, vert. Grass leaves weeds eyes, a great composer
dies, Il Travatore, a whore, she talks dirty, she loves a young guy, she
dies, she dies too soon, she dies before, before she should, we pity her,
she coughs, she calls him to, to her bed, her dirty bed, her infected bed,
she says I love, I still love, cough, I'm glad I loved, it's okay I loved,
he says I, I do too, this part is ugly, it's not pretty, the music is
pretty, the blood is red, she kissed his foot, the dirty whore, the whore is
bleeding, the music is red, the boy is green, she kissed him then, she
kissed him when, you can dress up a whore, and paint her eyes, she's still a
whore, someone pissed on the whore, she's bleeding now, now she loves, loves
the boy, boy is green, can't go back, whore is now, bleeding red, red is
green, green knows not, red knows all, curtain is torn, earring is found,
all that's left, leave the whore, she loves you still, for you're green, and
green is good, and red is bad, except to green, oh for god's, sake you
found, found god
in, green that's okay, better to love, the green and die, there's always
blood, just don't look, know it's there, look in his eyes, green and die.

whore love green red die god.
god green love red whore die.
die red whore love green god.
red whore love green god die.
God die! Green love red whore.

Green.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird - Wallace Stevens

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

Dark Prophecy: I Sing Of Shine - Etheridge Knight

And, yeah brothers
while white America sings about the unsinkable molly brown
(who was hustling the titanic
when it went down)
I sing to thee of Shine
the stoker who was hip enough to flee the fucking ship
and let the white folks drown
with screams on their lips
(jumped his black ass into the dark sea, Shine did,
broke free from the straining steel).
Yeah, I sing to thee of Shine
and how the millionaire banker stood on the deck
and pulled from his pockets a million dollar check
saying Shine Shine save poor me
and I'll give you all the money a black boy needs—
how Shine looked at the money and then at the sea
and said jump in muthafucka and swim like me—
and Shine swam on—Shine swam on—
and how the banker's daughter ran naked on the deck
with her pink tits trembling and her pants roun her neck
screaming Shine Shine save poor me
and I'll give you all the pussy a black boy needs—
how Shine said now pussy is good and that's no jive
but you got to swim not fuck to stay alive—
And Shine swam on Shine Swam on—

How Shine swam past a preacher afloating on a board
crying save me nigger Shine in the name of the Lord—
and how the preacher grabbed Shine's arm and broke his stroke—
how Shine pulled his shank and cut the preacher's throat—
And Shine swam on—Shine swam on—
And when news hit shore that the titanic had sunk
Shine was up in Harlem damn near drunk—

Wooden Houses - Lisa Robertson

A work called wooden houses begins
It explores different degrees of fear.

And it is curious that you did not chose a secular image
Augustine’s own task was equally impossible.

And we said a boat would come and take you to Venice
And you are a law of language.

And my mouth took part
And we fed you morphine mixed with honey.

And you are a rare modern painting in the grand salon
And you are a wall of earth.

And you are an ideological calm
And you are flung out to search.

And you are framed only by the perspectival rigors of masonry
And you are not a neutral instrument.

And you are pornographic
And you are the imagination of society as a tree.

And you are the kneeling woman who expresses some alarm
The woman looks somewhat apprehensively at the viewer.

And you are the pronoun of love, scorn, accusation, glamour
Everything you know about the animal pertains to the riot of love.

And you are Torontos of cold trees
Where erupts the morning’s catalogue.

And you did not die outside of love
And you do not judge.

And you roll down scrabbling at its glaze
The man on the right runs away terrified.

And you see how an animal dies
Giving a first drop of voluptuousness.


And you seem to pour rose water
Leaning on trees for rest.

And you speak in leaves
To flirt and fight and appease.

And you turn into a her not knowing what’s happening
The woman in your midst may be kneeling or seated or perhaps has simply been drawn out of scale.

And you are the last wooden house
The carved frame includes the heads of dogs.

And you will not die
But chance is always a little ahead.

And your failure is my tongue
The dramatic effect is heightened by the bright red ground showing through the top layers.

And your heart broke off into this great desire to see
Into the tall grass.

And your plump arms emerge from the gold and rose-pink folds of your tunics
As in the ancient literary genres.

Because it is a known fact
The wounded fall towards the point.

Because of mute desire
You are the teak pavilion.

Because you wanted to be flattered
You are portrayed here as the sea goddess Thetis with two of her five sons.

But chance is always a little ahead
But not under circumstances of its own choosing.

Emptying your apartment during the season of apricots
This wasn’t true.

Genial then light
I tell mine complaint.

I tell mine complaint
I tell mine complaint.

I took part in the savage transaction
It burns to come back to you.

It is pure surface
It pushes straight towards the author of its hurt.

It was 3:04 am
Like you invented summer in a text I discovered in your drawer in the summer of 1998.

Or a woman whose complete being seems to sing sex
One man shows his companion.

Sometimes the most ample designations are so stifling you can only go further inside
Supposing a designation to have an interior.

The fabric is knotted to reveal your figure
The folds suggest the roundness of a young girl.

The tissue is syllables and dreams in a distant colony
The parts of life are not happening in tandem.

Then it is summer
This material is reconciled to chance, which is spacious.

To make livid a philosophy
We helped you leave breath.

Whether love comes as a young boy with girlish limbs
You are behind and between Christ and the adulteress, witnessing.

You are buckled into my truth
A young woman looks openly out of the picture.

You are the claustrophobia of the image
At its peak a couple stare at the lightning-filled sky.

You are the exhausting pace of boredom versus the use of the body
You are the next cabin also.

The figures represent the four ages of man
You call this passivity.

You left the books that had surrounded you and me holding your body
Accompanied by only the city.

You lie there wounded
You see the precision of the distant city through the round arches of the bridge.

You see the women’s thick hair bound with coloured ribbons, their complicated sandals and the sprigs of olive
You slip your cock into the actress’s vagina.

You thrum and click
You took part in the savage transaction of negation.

You are wooden houses transformed into apartments and restaurants
Your breath thrummed the wooden house.

Your failures are no longer sacred
The cabin. The music shop. The next cabin.

Passing Through Albuquerque - John Balaban

At dusk, by the irrigation ditch
gurgling past backyards near the highway,
locusts raise a maze of calls in cottonwoods.

A Spanish girl in a white party dress
strolls the levee by the muddy water
where her small sister plunks in stones.

Beyond a low adobe wall and a wrecked car
men are pitching horseshoes in a dusty lot.
Someone shouts as he clangs in a ringer.

Big winds buffet in ahead of a storm,
rocking the immense trees and whipping up
clouds of dust, wild leaves, and cottonwool.

In the moment when the locusts pause and the girl
presses her up-fluttering dress to her bony knees
you can hear a banjo, guitar, and fiddle

playing "The Mississippi Sawyer" inside a shack.
Moments like that, you can love this country.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Equinox - Joy Harjo

I must keep from breaking into the story by force
for if I do I will find myself with a war club in my hand
and the smoke of grief staggering toward the sun,
you nation dead beside you.

I keep walking away though it has been an eternity
and from each drop of blood
springs up sons and daughters, trees,
a mountain of sorrows, of songs.

I tell you this from the dusk of a small city in the north
not far from the birthplace of cars and industry.
Geese are returning to mate and crocuses have
broken through the frozen earth.

Soon they will come for me and I will make my stand
before the jury of destiny. Yes, I will answer in the clatter
of the new world, I have broken my addiction to war
and desire. Yes, I will reply, I have buried the dead

and made songs of the blood, the marrow.

You Will Hear Thunder - Anna Akhmatova

You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.