Poetry Archives Bio

Poetry

Dual Desire

April 24, 2022

Inspired by Ben Reeves

Cappelbaum wept. When he awoke,
All that remained was sign in ceiling
Inscribed⁠—hand snarling at air.

It meant to say (though could
Neither hear nor comprehend)
That to love is to create.

Unlike this beast, he was not impelled
By medley of smells in trashcan.
Instead, Cappelbaum observed

Circumambulation before
Decisive moment, her many turns,
Just long enough for posterity

To consider this brown donnée
Followed by civil obsequy,
Then back to house for breakfast! Breakfast!


Cappelbaum wept. He addressed
Wolf of his dreams⁠, "Did love not prompt you
To build dwelling for bones?"

It was day when they left,
Followed by force of habit.
On his way, Cappelbaum sighted arcs,

Atop his paper pile noted
Entrails on trowels,
Humanity received secondhand.

On his way back to house, trees
Hiked up their skirts, birds flounced their song's
Dual desire; nothing doing.

Cappelbaum sat down,
Closed parenthesis,
(Having been given his proof).

Fog on Fenceline

April 3, 2022

You receive alarums in dreams,
Alerts turned prefigurations.
Your moaning door announces
Your duty for this day, so

You make, you breastfeed;
You breastfeed, you get drunk;
You find her, together drink smoke,
Píno báfo, píno báfo—


This is your only way here,
One moment in whose synthesis
You stand and recollect
Nostalgically this present

Where two sad, cold feet huddle
Closer, toe rough ledge, lipping
Their pater hēmōn as our fiend,
Unseen, comes in.


Why such obvious ingress?
Why these guards cannot see her?
Why does walk like smoke?
What causes him to look

Just when at crest of house
Eagle past? What causes him
To ratchet head, gaze back
In reverse?


                 And down here,
Iméra tis krísis, death.
Bones won't stay still; this
Very earth rejected them,

As you must come to, through
Gray, gentle slats of light,
Day promised by low fog,
Where outside, it waits.

I Can't Stand Ants

March 29, 2022

To Lys Glassford

How they invade my home.
How they infect my mind.


These small, black ants
That leave veiled threats behind.

These small, black ants
That gather at the sink.

And when they're squeezed,
They stink.


These small, black ants
That often carry flags.

These tiny banners,
Often red and white.

All strength of their convictions
Is in numbers.


These small, black ants
That like to tell bald lies,

These tiny lies
That cut across each line.

And when you decimate,
They multiply.


You must not let them
At your gate.

You must not have them
In your dreams.

Give poison to their queen
And wait.


How they disperse and roam.
How they disband and die.

With frantic chants.

Come

March 27, 2022

On Sunday, Cappelbaum became dog.


He woke up from dream in which he kept
Arriving in Japan. Bus driver
Was white but spoke perfect Chinese. He

Veered and steered bus with large round dial
Down long, empty highway. Cappelbaum
Left his navy blue Hilfiger bag

On bus, but, when he realized this,
He felt no sadness at all, only
Liberation from past. Besides, his

Backpack kept turning to black satchel,
As he kept passing white onlookers,
Who were onlooking curiously.


Cappelbaum searched for concrete garden,
Most beautiful garden that he saw
Only in dreams. Perfectly unsprung,

Weather was now firmly in favour.
When he ran, everyone ran. When he
Spoke, everyone spoke the language that

Everyone speaks. No wonder, for he'd
Spent seven years Theseus'd. As he
Arrived at his stop, Cappelbaum saw

That he had much more walking to do
Before becoming. He did not have
Mouth to explain difference between


Two words. He did not have digits to
Demonstrate why canary's demise
Was most important of all, or why

No matter remained. Cappelbaum then
Bounded through streets to dark waterfront
To garden, open garden, hanging

Garden, concrete garden of muted
Beauty and light, where two girls with shaved
Heads mourned broken tectonic plates when

Opening door woke Cappelbaum. She
Performed sinuous stretch, one small leg
Bent back. She shook her short mane, ran to


Sounds of morning and breakfast and voice.

Frailty

March 12, 2022

War began while Cappelbaum was
Fluffing Dürer's pillows, watching
Delaware double-cross Washington
On screen.

                He considered his options,
Pondered the paradox of want
And want, poured some liquid into
Cracked glass.


                     Cappelbaum desired love,
But had no sympathy for wurms; he
Watched the weathervane that never moves
Come into view.

                       He consulted his schedule.
Two weeks from now, he will hand over
His meats; every third Wednesday, he must
Jump over fire.


                      Cappelbaum contemplated
Two scenarios, then three, then five, then decided
That fence must be replaced; until then, it will be fixed
By means of screw.

                            He took out Dog
Who ran to grass as if it were smoke.
She smelled the dead and shat while barking
Hoarse Thálatta!


                        Or so Cappelbaum thought.
I am not made to serve. As he observed circular Dog,
Capillary forces conspired his home, so close
To bad thorn.

                   Just then, he saw speared
Donkey lagging behind two snails, soiled
Benediction, strange thought, foam decayed
Into froth.


               Cappelbaum ran coyly
Back to house, but Dog did not know diffidence.
Dog ran desperately back. Door opened; door closed.
Light came on.

                      I am not certain
Whether any of this
Really happened.

500

March 6, 2022

This is my translation of «500» by Борис Гребенщиков [Boris Grebenshchikov].


To Aleksandra Stepanova

Five hundred anthems—no song on page;
The firmament is turning to a padlocked cage.
In a typeface new, the same words as before.
A comical couplet for an elevator fall.

The streets of the province are swept by sukhovei winds;
My motherland like a sow now her own sons strips and skins;
With relentlessness of a supersonic drill,
Hands wearing gloves are now rocking the cradle.


The candles are lit up at each of their ends.
The dead ones are burying their own dead friends.
The dead ones are burying their own dead friends.


Hey, does anyone know who's to the cross fastened?
The righteous ones are slapped-up like brothers on acid.
Every time that they tell me we are together,
I know that Gruz Dvesti brings in more money than ever.

Yellow Submarine's cockpit has mummies inside her.
The wheel of laughter is betraying the properties of a meat grinder.
Patriotism simply means, "slaughter the infidel one."
This jagged fracture of a crack, right through my heart now runs.


Muddy waters are hiding our ends.
The dead ones are burying their own dead friends.
The dead ones are burying their own dead friends.


Feeling like a negative that's into light flung;
Dry rage in my heart, the taste of iron on my tongue;
All our fortune is in Hong Kong and in Poland assembled,
And there are no more names which us can resemble.

In each blossoming bud there is a clockwork countdown;
We are moving down the stairs that are leading downward;
A bird whose song flows, it can never be fettered;
Those falling in the elevator with each second feel lighter, better.


The hounds have drowned in howling and panting;
We were taught not to live; we were taught how to drop dead standing.
You know, this is a game for two to take part in.

This is a game for two to take part in.
This is a game for two to take part in.
This is a game for two to take part in.

Fugitive Pigments

February 23, 2022

To Camille Gerrick,
MJ Kim, and
Aleksandra Stepanova


This day is lovely for water to fall.

At four forty-four, I felt truly good
And well, watching my checkmate in two moves
On endless loop, as calls that sounded like rough
Parodies of birdsong rose over loud

Ululations' crowds. Then, borborygmus
Out of monstrous maw shook walls; colour leached
From face; eyes rose wild stucco. (Alexa
Will wild dogs devour my flesh?) Menu

Tonight is slim: Sweaty, muscled framers
That sink nails with one hit; wall clocks/wool cocks.
I did not notice Polonius's
Dernier cri. Cost of revelation is

Sin computed from still lives, mort d'auteur
Sliced into three thirds, Michael as window
Reflecting mystical wastrels, spiders
Whose webs have come undone on sufferance.

Today it was strawberries. Yesterday,
It was sand. We're almost out of woods when
Tree branch brushes strand from your face; owl turns
Her gimbal head. You are safe; I eat fruit.

I look forward to river. You stifle
Laugh. I buy rifle. And meanwhile, all this
Time, water erases sin, erodes rock.
In studio of Hieronymus Cock,

Artist studies ruination, observes
Divine geometry of water drop,
Lets it gather strength and fall. Scientist
Paints lone lady floating on bobbing skiff.

Bloodshed will begin when you fold towels,
Doting on dog. Love raises hand and, when
Lover flinches, cymbals clash; cymbals crash.
Their cingerie must fall into cacophone.

And still.

Lovely is water for this fall to day.

enter the archives »