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