Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Hank Lazer



VARIATIONS  ON

we are each an
occurrence     part
of an infinite
series     &

in each moment
part
of an infinite series
there are things

& moments
we live among
& to know them

i am a thing
among things
similarly
arising & disappearing

part of an infinite
series
in my sing
ularity which is
so totally
common




INTEGRITY

because it cannot
be taught
it matters
a way
of thinking
that refuses
to reduce thinking
to a set of learned
characteristics
because it can
not be other than
the infinite
complexity of
being itself
there is nothing
specific to be
learned nothing
to teach
& repeat
this is what
i mean by
pleasure
or
integrity




IS

is itself
boundless
joy
rumble
of morning
thunder
after reading
time
to sit
& it is
quiet
again
breath
by breath
& a
quiet mind




THE  RETURN

there is
a purity
upon the re
turn ask
jimmy giuffre
ask john zorn
ask george
oppen re
turn then to
a simplicity
or
call it
clarity that
for equally good
reasons
had been
resisted
ask bob
creeley ask
charles bernstein
or
to a purifying
emotion
so bare
in its exposure
that at its
root has
nothing
to do with
purity
which itself
is a dangerous
& impure
word




Jukka-Pekka Kervinen
jkervinen@gmx.com



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Jukka-Pekka Kervinen
11/29/2016
Puhos, Finland



JIM COHN


Writing Professor Zhang After The 2016 Election

Dear Professor Zhang,
I have to agree with you that the status quo lost this election. But the Status quo, as you point out among your own leaders, remains. Take Climate change & other serious environmental problems. Trump is more Like Chairman Mao than he realizes. Regarding trade & tariffs, consider The following equation: emerald rotten teeth equals orange hair-weave. All I did at Trump University was surf! The “school” had less chance of Success than Wang Wei finding his way back to Shangri-La a second time. If you thought more like Trump, you would complain that American Poets are weak. They’ve unstable brainwaves. Their poems have no Stamina. More blood gushes out of their verse than all the martial arts Films ever made. 


27 November 2016




Friday, November 25, 2016

Barry Wallenstein
barrywall22@gmail.com


How Fast

One day in summer
an alien from Mars or somewhere
landed and spoke to me
from his busy mouth:
“Your hours, like rats
will keep coming
and pile high as Everest,
before that long drop down,
too fast for you to frame
or see your minutes,
their delights, as you fall.”

Without a second to think,
sweat, or parry, I reposted:
“Remove your clock
and your foul mouth too -
back to Mars;
I’ve hours enough in this world
but not a minute to spare
for your vision or venom.



The Imp Speaks

I may be too pooped to prove the point,
as we say in the lands of frolic,
but I’m still perky
and can do the do
when my turn comes around,

and can climb the banyan tree
limb by limb to where the snake and tiger
wrap themselves in the myth of the manger;
and should you call up “when you reach the top,
toss me a kiss with your fingers,”

I’ll do just that – with the spark I’ve left,
more tired by then than ever I remember.



Files

Professor Mathe, emeritus now,
bends over his files –
old files boxed in old oak –
pulls them out by their worn tabs
by ones and twos into the fire
in a hurry, with august anger,
that self-mocking grin.

“That’s that for that,” he chortles,
clearing out obsolescence;
there’s a long pause before some prospect
might swim into focus. 
“One ending need not presage another”
is another sentence he likes to repeat.

So he sits, his fingers twiddling,
straight-backed, practicing with his yo-yo
and conjuring time beyond limits
where, through the doors of the laboratory,
we hear mice singing, men chirping,
and women obeying the moon,
while singing aloud to a randy tune. 



Jim Behrle
jimbehrle@gmail.com 



Sexual Affirmation

Trumpets are announcing the tragedy of love

Poems are about moonlight in a swarm of analogies

I stand in clover in closer communion wild-eyed

When the mood strikes fall whisper Waiting for ideas

Into a Polaroid photo presuppose the purpose of flesh

I haunt the Earth a poet inside the last womb

You are with me in a plastic bag

Trash in the groin hastens our endless yawp

Would you lie with me here

MAKE BOSTON POETRY GREAT AGAIN
No one puts bunny in a corner

All my friends are leaving New York

And somehow I always forget about the round in the chamber

"So let's restart the show that started at nine"
Soon there will be no stars left in the night sky

I just flipped a few cars onto their sides

Today was a tough day to be a Bernie Bro 

It's like that time they canceled "My Little Pony"

Meanwhile Pokemon Go has melted down my phone

In soccer matches they shouldn't give out yellow cards 

They should just spank players

Wake up with a nosebleed

To all the Republicans who've been trying to bust 

Hillary Clinton for the last 25 years: 

it's possible that she is just way smarter than you

There is a place called Whiskey Island in Cleveland. 

This is a place I hope to visit and then wake up 

Screaming from a ditch.

Until then I'll be watching Fox and Friends with Benefits

Under a Zappa Moon

But how can we make Boston Poetry great again? 

Possibly by wearing pilgrim hats with big buckles all over town








Amid a Stellar Ape


Antiseptic borscht revolves
in pumpkin plywood acetate
and chilled ├ęclair.  

Putt-putt almond geysers cling
to mumbled appendectomies.

Lusty flesh can talk
to trench coat collar
fists in geisha twirls
of liner slant commando.

Obviated symmetries
cough up a streetcar bell
in furlong fill o’clock
adept of atelier.

Reasoning islands fight
amid a stellar ape,
emitting fastballs.





Donut Scroll


Oozing decks collide
in parturition plops
and clue-gun clumps
of matted embolism.

Toggling cold piping,
the snitch abets
an astigmatic glint.

Respirator eyehole winks
at hypostatic gypsum seat
in slattern seaboard sailboat
plop of waking statuary bliss.

Donuts scroll
in backbeat shyness

era bubble graft.