the great bukowski

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QB6IyLTvB7M










https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QB6IyLTvB7M
























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                    The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner                                    








 From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.














                                      Randall Jarrell

being mostly water

     






















        Deluge




Seas invade valleys
       invading seas
these isles once the peaks
        of the Pyrenees
wend across the continents
       their trees
 rooted in watery beds
       waving ever so slow
       as though
       in a surfaced breeze
Great highways
       become a crab's walk
Long tunnels
       in which long congers electrify
roofs of skyscrapers and towers
upon where sleeping sharks sweep by
inundated and fathomed
       in their pented bowers
Only the sea touches the sky
and it is fish not fowl that fly
As though unsinkable
the bottom of the sun
like the hull of a ship
       on a horizon
A veritable ark
embarked from its Himalayan shore
cargoing its very light
down the vast drown of the night
with the moon as anchor








                                   Gregory Corso
































.....

superfluities compound themselves

                         


















                                  Reprobate Silver









 Freighted with allusion "of the sort to which we are
   accustomed,"
Hand wrought slang — in the spirit of Cellini and after the
   manner of Thor —

Like Panshin's horse, not permitted to be willful,
Trembling incessantly and champing at the bit —
It is worthy of examination.
It is quite as much a matter of art as the careful
And a kind of Carthage by Flaubert.
It is like the castles in the air that manufacture themselves

Out of clouds before our eyes
When we are listening to a scientific explanation of things
   in which we are not interested.
The fact that there is no justification for its existence
And that perhaps it had to be written
About what ought never to have been written at all.












                                                 Marianne Moore

Preguntas de la hora del te'

..









This pale gentleman seems like
A figure in the wax museum;
He looks through the torn curtains:
What is worth more, gold or beauty?
Is the moving stream worth more
Or the immobile grass on the bank?
In the distance a bell is heard
That opens one more wound, or closes it:
Is the water in the fountain more real
Or the girl who looks at herself in it?
No one knows, people pass him by
Building castles in the sand.
Is the transparent glass superior
To the hand of the man who creates it?

One breathes a tired air
Of ashes, of smoke, of sadness:
What was once seen is not seen again
The same way, say the dry leaves.
Time for tea, toast, margarine,
Everything enveloped in a kind of fog.





                           Nicanor Parra



                                                              trans.  Edith Grossman








...

of all the visual ironies

"Estados Unidos: el país donde
la libertad es una estatua."


 

                     – Nicanor Parra, Artefactos



   - the chilean   "anti"-poet is still alive -- he is  100 yrs old

LET ME LIVE OUT MY YEARS...

. LET me live out my years in heat of blood!
Let me die drunken with the dreamer's wine!
Let me not see this soul-house built of mud
Go toppling to the dusk—a vacant shrine.
Let me go quickly, like a candle light
Snuffed out just at the heyday of its glow.
Give me high noon—and let it then be night!
Thus would I go.
And grant that when I face the grisly Thing,
My song may trumpet down the gray Perhaps.
Let me be as a tune-swept fiddlestring
That feels the Master Melody—and snaps!                                John G. Neihardt ..

in lieu of a text

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GfrkUOq0ehg#t=115











....




             -this metis blackfoot poet was hit by a train and died

THE WORLD SEEMS......

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The world seems so palpable
And dense: people and things
And the landscapes
                They inhabit or move through.

Words, on the other hand,
Are so abstract—they’re
Made of empty air

                   Or black scratches on a page
      That urge us to utter
Certain sounds.

                           And us:
Poised in the middle, aware
Of the objects out there
               Waiting patiently to be named,
As if the right words
Could save them.

                               And don’t
They deserve it?    
                       So much hidden inside each one,
Such a longing
                  To become the beloved.

And inside us: the sounds
                 That could extend that blessing—
           How they crowd our mouths,
       How they press up against
    Our lips, which are such
                         A narrow exit for a joy so desperate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gregory Orr

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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