A two part poem by Ian Christie

Day / Night #1

Often I wake

early mornings—crack of dawn

unlatch my window

and watch the shift change:

conveyor belt to breadline

and back again

each morning—crack of dawn

I let my head fall

until the bridge

of my nose is pressed hard

against knuckles and skin

8 million coffee pots, jack hammers,

garbage trucks, street sweepers—

The city is tickled from her stupor

And somewhere in the new sun

the “I” changes

Not ocularis

but me.

Capillaries fill and expand;

I am 20 feet tall,

then a hundred.

I could step down

from my fourth floor window

right onto the pavement

Start ripping the tops

from supermarkets

and punching holes

through bank vaults

gather everything up

in my great big arms;

I feel my great big heart beating wildly.

I’d give it away!

I don’t want any of it!

I’d give it all away!

See if the shift change still happened

each morning—crack of dawn

But I’m stuck,

my body having grown so large

too quickly:

one arm reaches through the door

and down the hall;

the other has punched through the brick

and is now waving at the car wash men down below

and my feet have plowed right through

these cheap tenement walls

all plaster and lathe

and now occupy

Poor Ms. Lopez’ kitchen;

she attacks them ferociously,

thinking they’ve finally come for her—

Doesn’t much matter

if it’s the devil or the INS

They’ll get you in this life

or the next!

Day / Night #2

Often before sleep

I unlatch my window

and crane my neck

to watch the passersby,

each movement rendered red

under the faithful hum

of LED light:

“12 pk. bottled water for $10.99!”

What do you mean you buy that ‘cause you like the taste?
my faucet gives me only rust, so fuck you!

Again, the “I” changes,

but quietly this time,

pulls out until I’m somewhere beyond the atmosphere;

my skin shrivels in the cold

There’s not so much glory in my heart anymore,

so what if my brain cracks electric

a billion times a second?

All of a sudden

I am very small

Like space opened up

along a deep fault:

groaned, yawned, and said

to everyone in a shouted whisper:

Gig’s up!

cosmic subversion trench

but for the briefest moment

space-walk-boog-a-loo

Ashbery in Key West

Reading his Chinese Whispers in 2003.

lil late on the chef's new train

wu - wait for ghost's verse

The Conrad Preface

from joesph conrad's

TALE OF THE FORECASTLE

the preface 1897

"A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line. And art itself may be defined as a single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect. It is an attempt to find in its forms, in its colours, in its light, in its shadows, in the aspects of matter and in the facts of life what of each is fundamental, what is enduring and essential—their one illuminating and convincing quality—the very truth of their existence. The artist, then, like the thinker or the scientist, seeks the truth and makes his appeal. Impressed by the aspect of the world the thinker plunges into ideas, the scientist into facts—whence, presently, emerging they make their appeal to those qualities of our being that fit us best for the hazardous enterprise of living. They speak authoritatively to our common-sense, to our intelligence, to our desire of peace or to our desire of unrest; not seldom to our prejudices, sometimes to our fears, often to our egoism—but always to our credulity. And their words are heard with reverence, for their concern is with weighty matters: with the cultivation of our minds and the proper care of our bodies, with the attainment of our ambitions, with the perfection of the means and the glorification of our precious aims.

It is otherwise with the artist.

Confronted by the same enigmatical spectacle the artist descends within himself, and in that lonely region of stress and strife, if he be deserving and fortunate, he finds the terms of his appeal. His appeal is made to our less obvious capacities: to that part of our nature which, because of the warlike conditions of existence, is necessarily kept out of sight within the more resisting and hard qualities—like the vulnerable body within a steel armour. His appeal is less loud, more profound, less distinct, more stirring—and sooner forgotten. Yet its effect endures forever. The changing wisdom of successive generations discards ideas, questions facts, demolishes theories. But the artist appeals to that part of our being which is not dependent on wisdom; to that in us which is a gift and not an acquisition—and, therefore, more permanently enduring. He speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives; to our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain; to the latent feeling of fellowship with all creation—and to the subtle but invincible conviction of solidarity that knits together the loneliness of innumerable hearts, to the solidarity in dreams, in joy, in sorrow, in aspirations, in illusions, in hope, in fear, which binds men to each other, which binds together all humanity—the dead to the living and the living to the unborn."

Untitled by Mike Fabano

This is a new pen

but it is 4 years older

than when I got it.

It’s another October,

seems to be a fruitful

month, or at least

I’ve tricked myself

really well.

I’m finally in love again.

I only say “again” because

I don’t know what I’m

talking about.

Richard is home,

his chin is new and

we’re going to get lost later,

I hope we do(n’t) come home

again.

-----------------

more on mike: http://www.myspace.com/mikefabano

Short Cuts

ab
so
lute

more like an
instrument
than a
weapon

Uhuh

i thought schools were good for me massah

waiting for o'hara with the ad men of athens

The first page.
The second line. Wait for it.
Yes ok.
here it comes, over the positioning lines:
i do not know.
following the subject, like this, is
- puts me off
like diogenes with
a lamp, pacing twice, exclaming movement! Scoundrels, move!
it's lonely in a
barrel alone with
my naked skin.
i even sent away my dog.
she'll eat better that way.
But the sun is so nice.
Please, some direction! I've
been trying to soak for
so long my pores are tired and full
and full
of black oil.
should i follow that
ink out
that spot out in concentric circles
out in ripples
- it puts me out
Or turn on the tv?
this isn't hbo
i don't fuck whores on peyote in the vegas desert;
but i paid for sex again
last week.
the internet and my
trusted right would have been
better.
Well,
Outward to that point in the near comings when
everything is on the line
and there's a bag of dope in front of
the addict.
and that's the choice?
i'm thinking about movement.

When the bible says Adam comes first, doesn't that fuck everything up from the start

I prefer
the window open
and the heat on
because I'm not paying for the
heat.
and i like the breeze.
the toilet seat up
and the toilet paper rolling
down.
trust me.

It is out of luxury that one sits down to piss.

The joint passed in a
clockwise rotation
and you need to lock
both deadbolts.
click, click. trust me.

One is unnerved when one can gain access to one's own
living corridors by the use of a push
and a metrocard.
an expired metrocard.

trust me.
leave me alone
and come on over
You've been here already
today?
I prefer
dark liquor please
but sometimes I do think
about drinkability.

One searches for another to look into
one's eyes and say everything
is going to be ok.

trust me.
you don't even have to look
into my eyes.
in fact,
don't.

time stamps in MY brain

A head of time

Coup d'état

I listened to a mouse
caught on one of those
two-dollar glue traps
frantically trying to escape
jittering and stammering
like a horse on
amphetamines in wet cement.
thrusting and hissing for
thirty-six minutes. It
escaped, the bastard, when I
left him for dead. Never turn
your back on a last ditch effort. It's alright,
I got him in the neck with a metal
trap the next day.
I hope it was him.
There have been others!

A poem for Schneller and Messer

Hm. I just finished my last beer
from your fridge. Yum.
I think my feet smell.
Yes, I'm quite sure of it.
I hope they don't stink up the place.
This is such a lovely place.
And i always mess it up.
But you two
even
it out.
I hope the carpet doesn't
smell like beer.
I hope I don't give you cancer
from all the fucking cigarettes
on your fire-escape.
This is such a lovely place.
And you two.

Living without Numbers or Time

Brazil's Pirahã Tribe

Without You

the next big brooklyn thang:

messiah complex.

Classic SNL

Buy American.

mistah eliot - he burned me

Who will be warmed by this fire?
I offer no cover,
no blanket.
wearing my boots and my
coat
and oh, those boots! and oh those
legs (it doesn't matter
if my memory is faulty)!
that constant banging
in the alley
that constant hiss
on the tip of your tongue
never spoken.
hsssss.
that constant tinge
in the back of your
brain - I AM!
I
I
I offer more noise!
More crashes and missteps!
More forgetting that the framework
of time
includes all of us.
I offer shouts!
not relief
not darkness
not thumb-sucking bliss
Shouting:
"Now,
now,
NOW!"

Home!

Home! - I wonder if someone is
moving in next door.
I think someone died - next
door. I haven't heard someone come or
come or come or go in some
time. I haven't heard the creak of
her step on the on the
on the stair.
or her radio
or her radio
i hate that radio
i hate that radio
i miss that radio
hip-hop
hip-HOP
hip-hop
It don't sound the same on my Mac laptop.
on my mac laptop.
Does it sound the same to you?
to me?
to you?
Do you hear it different?
hear different different?
hear it all different?
every word different
every subjective impulse different
every blink different
every smell that reminds you of nursing homes different
every scratch
every more
every laugh
every more better moment
every moment
never the same
And isn't that beautiful
isn't that it?
and it's here
and then it's here.
and then it's different.
and it's here.
and it's then it's here.
and then it's different.

David Lerner's Mein Kampf

Mein Kampf

“Gary Snyder lives in the country. He wakes up in the morning and listens to birds. We live in the city.” – Kathleen Wood

all I want to do is
make poetry famous

all I want to do is
burn my initials into the sun

all I want do do is
read poetry from the middle of a
burning building
standing in the fast lane of the
freeway
falling from the top of the
Empire State Building

the literary world
sucks dead dog dick
I'd rather be Richard Speck
than Gary Snyder
I'd rather ride a rocketship to hell
than a Volvo to Bolinas

I'd rather
sell arms to the Martians
than wait sullenly for a
letter from some diseased clown with a
three-piece mind
telling me that I've won a
bullet-proof pair of rose-colored glasses
for my poem "Autumn in the Spring"

I want to be
hated
by everyone who teaches for a living

I want people to hear my poetry and
get headaches
I want people to hear my poetry and
vomit

I want people to hear my poetry and
weep, scream, disappear, start bleeding,
eat their television sets, beat each other to death with
swords and

go out and get riotously drunk on
someone else's money

this ain't no party
this ain't no disco
this ain't no foolin a

grab-bag of
clever wordplay and sensitive thoughts and
gracious theories about

how many ambiguities can dance on the head of a
machine gun

this ain't no
genteel evening over
cappuccino and bullshit

this ain't no life-affirming
our days have meaning
as we watch the flowers breath through our souls and
fall desperately in love

this ain't no letter-press, hand-me-down
wimpy beatnik festival of bitching about
the broken rainbow

it is a carnival of dread

it is a savage sideshow
about to move to the main arena

it is terror and wild beauty
walking hand in hand down a bombed-out road
as missiles scream, while a
sky the color of arterial blood
blinks on and off
like the lights on Broadway
after the last junkie's dead of AIDS

I come not to bury poetry
but to blow it up
not to dandle it on my knee
like a retarded child with
beautiful eyes
but

throw it off a cliff into
icy seas and
see if the the motherfucker can swim for its life

because love is an excellent thing
surely we need it

but, my friends...

there is so much to hate These Days

that hatred is just love with a chip on its shoulder
a chip as big as the Ritz
and heavier than
all the bills I'll never pay

because they're after us
they're selling radioactive charm bracelets
and breakfast cereals that
lower your IQ by 50 points per mouthful
we get politicians who think
starting World War III
would be a good career move
we got beautiful women
with eyes like wet stones
peering out at us from the pages of
glassy magazines promising that they'll
fuck us till we shoot blood

if we'll just buy one of these beautiful switchblade knives

I've got mine



--------------------------

for more on lerner: http://www.zeitgeist-press.com/

Barack on 153rd and St Nick

I hear a cop car,
put it out quick

between your sole
and the pavement

i didn't see nothing

there is a thought at that conception, though

cop car -
fear
put it out quick

cop car -
fear
put it out quick

the old disputes
will divide again

Does he come for hope
or perpetual
pacified peace

that is to say fireless
that is to say without passion

where was it that passion and peace
lived on hand and hand

where was that fairyland?

do they have cops there, too?

the most soulful white man

http://www.myspace.com/andrespacheco86

for andy,
your music.
your maddening music.
music to make you forget
your skull
has neck ligaments at its base.
And the floor is still beneath you and
it hasn't fallen through like a toilet in a
bronx tenement home. (the floor
is shaking though, i can feel it, and you're
rattling and i can feel that time
when the jack stopped working
and the weed stopped working
and you went back to selling books)
yours is the music
that makes me forget and remember
again and again and again.
the best and the worst
oh its bittersweet!
but I can't stop listening to your
song
"the more things change."