Calm Down

It is a warm blue,
relative to black,
by eyes towards the inept sidewalk.
Among the ugliest of pavement,
and the moment of actual capture-
the heavy white beauty on the branches
is like stillness on the twenty-sixth,
when the wooden church doors exhale,
wind from heaters nears Dystopia,
like God watching his breath turn cold.

When Jesus puts away his license,
The arms, loose from ham
expended by knives,
The fingers like teeth through plastic,

will retire tonight

behind shampooed hair by the fire.
By Monday, the nailed teeth will wake
and drag the strands out, like children in shops
throwing fits for Change,
the knuckle knees fall at the temples.

Oily faces sit in a circle measuring time.
You poor things will go no where.
in The City of Drawers
she's hollow beneath the black coat and glasses,
pushing her hand out like a need from the inside,
climbing the rope with every vein.
She speaks and the syllables slow down, becoming her,
the fat on her belly, the blonde dye,
the Cocoa pebbles in her brain.


Today is the day, anxious girl, to remember the way
light dies behind clouds,
diminishing in tiers with no stories to deflect the gold descent,
like fallen buildings with batted eyes,
or the sound of God swallowing breath in the darkness.

Sestina: The Festival

I

At the cherry baptism- elephant ears dipped in oil
and Save Your Soul picketers cross Gucci shades at Cool Waves.
A girl with four bright eyes plays the flute in the road for coins-
and the tilta-whirl, fun house, and Ferris Wheel glass the bay.
Disciples from ant holes magnet the bug-zapping cherries-
where you flew too, and the bright burned your chin on the paved road.

II

and you spit cherry pits in the river from the bridge on Cass Road,
but fell short to an Egg with a turkey leg deep fried in oil
so you sulked in the soda shop, your red visor like a dangling cherry.
"Cherry salsa, cherry soda, cherry chocolate or pie?" says the salesman and waves.
You reconciled red sins and crowds repelled from the bay,
from the red wash, your rumble stomach and breath, alone you skipped coins.

III

You rode the penny ponies at Meijer til' you ran out of coins,
And by the wild hills with brick eyes you passed Florida to Indiana plates on the road
and whistled above creeping hymns and beeps from the shopping mall to the bay
where the beach bodies Kruger-link in the sand and roast like Hawaii pigs in oil-
your wrists are hot stilts and on plush boats leather skins dance- their tummies make waves.
Stilts sizzle, your dropped skull guns the blue blanket sky- stitched clouds looks like cotton cherries.

IV

You follow the visor flock to the floats, the red trumpets tromp and jag- promenade of cherries.
Red backs shadow penny wishes- grandpa said 'wish in one hand' so you scoop the coins-
beyond the tots, the fold-able chairs- the Queen, with a crown of ripe fruit- cups a slooow wave.
Karate club, veterans, high school bands and bops on the cherriot slide the road-
awwed- you bury between two beatered boys, whos bis and tris bubble in oil,
SPF splotches your shirt- one brow bows and hollow pebbles vaunt the bay.

V

Like red quacking bills- the visors flock to the shore- the open orange mouth eats the bay.
Bills spread blankets over the sand, over the bumps and lumps- pits of eaten cherries.
In dim light florescents spread from ultraviolet puffs of smoke, like water and oil.
Jeaned tweens 'woo!' as fired lights scream the sky- the billed eyes gloss like multicolored coins.
Red white streams trickle down rear view mirros of west bound Wranglers on the road-
and the coined eyes and the red bills watch the colored sparks drown in the waves.

VI

Then the babysitters and the under agers- haunting ghosts yawn in waves-
pendulum eyes fold the red piped lights and Beatled notes bounce off the bay.
Lazy-eye Bill buys a cherry pint, and you step sip spill with kaleidoscopes in the road.
3 a.m big belt badge says "cleeeear out", a tooth pick prying his pearl bed of cherries-
Lazy-eye swings a fist- you jack in the box- the band stops, and the gutters tink from kicked coins.
The streets strangled, cherry pint hot on your breath- you pray on a stoop, 'damn splotch of oil.'

ENVOI

The ROAD pillows your brain barefoot on the bay- Beatitudes inked in the WAVES, and in that blessed parable the lame gives all her COINS... you carefully crucifix the OIL tightrope-- and tilted mirrors gasconade. Bungee ropes below reach leather coffins filled with CHERRIES.

A Cloud in Trousers -- Vladimir Mayakovsky 1915

Prologue

Your thought,
Fantasizing on a sodden brain,
Like a bloated lackey on a greasy couch sprawling,--
With my heart’s bloody tatters, I’ll mock it again.
Until I’m contempt, I’ll be ruthless and galling.

There’s no grandfatherly fondness in me,
There are no gray hairs in my soul!
Shaking the world with my voice and grinning,
I pass you by, -- handsome,
Twentytwoyearold.

Gentle souls!
You play your love on the violin.
Crude ones beat it out on the drums violently.
But can you turn yourselves inside out, like me,
And become just two lips entirely?

Come and learn,--
You, decorous bureaucrats of angelic leagues!
Step out of those cambric drawing-rooms

And you, who can leaf your lips
Like a cook leafs the pages of her recipe books.

If you wish,--
I’ll rage on raw meat like a vandal
Or change into hues that the sunrise arouses,
If you wish,--
I can be irreproachably gentle,
Not a man, -- but a cloud in trousers.

I refuse to believe in Nice blossoming!
I will glorify you regardless,--
Men, crumpled like bed-sheets in hospitals,
And women, battered like overused proverbs.

Part I

You think I’m delirious with malaria?

This happened.
In Odessa, this happened.

“I’ll come at four,” promised Maria.
Eight...
Nine...
Ten.

Soon, the evening,
Frowning
And Decemberish,
Left the windows
And vanished in dire darkness.

Behind me, I hear neighing and laughter
Of candelabras.

You wouldn’t recognize me if you knew me prior:
A bulk of sinews
Moaning,
Fidgeting.
What can such a clod desire?
But the clod desires many things.

Because for oneself it doesn’t matter
Whether you’re cast of copper
Or whether your heart is cold metal.
At night, you want to wrap your clamor
In something feminine,
Gentle.

And thus,
Enormous,
I hunch in the frame,
And with my forehead, I melt the window glass.
Will this love be
Tremendous or lame?
Will it sustain or pass?
A big one wouldn’t fit a body like this:
It must be a little love, --
a baby, sort of,
It shies away when the cars honk and hiss,
But adores the bells on the horse-tram.

I come face to face
With rippling rain,
Yet once more,
And wait
Splashed by city surf’s thundering roar.

Running amok with a knife outside,
Night caught up to him
And stabbed him,
Unseen.

The stroke of midnight
Fell like a head from a guillotine.

Silver raindrops on the windowpane
Were piling a grimace
And yelling.
It seemed like the gargoyles of Notre Dame
Started yelping.

Damn you!
Haven’t you had enough yet?
Cries will soon cut my throat all around.

I heard:
Softly,
Like a patient out of his bed,
A nerve leapt
Down.
At first,
He barely moved.
Then, apprehensive
And distinct,
He started prancing.
And now, he and another two,
Darted about, step-dancing.

On the ground floor, plaster was falling fast.

Nerves,
Big ones,
Little ones,--
Various!--
Galloped madly
Until, at last,
Their legs wouldn’t carry them.

Night oozed through the room and sank.
Stuck in slime, the eye couldn’t slither out of it.

Suddenly, doors started to bang
As if hotel’s teeth
Were chattering.

You entered,
Abrupt like “Take it!”
Mauling the suede gloves you carried,
And said:
“You know,--
I’m soon getting married.”

Get married then.
It’s all right,
I can handle it.
As you can see, I’m calm, of course!
Like the pulse
Of a corpse.

Remember?
You used to say:
“Jack London,
Money,
Love
And ardor,”--
I saw one thing only:
You were La Gioconda,
Which had to be stolen!

And someone stole you.

Again in love, I shall start gambling,
With fires illuminating the arch of my eyebrows.
And why not?
Sometimes, homeless ramblers
Will seek to find shelter in a burnt down house!

Part II

Glorify me!
The great ones are no match for me!
Upon everything that’s been done
I stamp the word “naught.”

As of now,
I have no desire to read.
Novels?
So what!

This is how books are made,
I used to think,--
Along comes a poet,
And opens his lips with ease.
Inspired, the fool simply begins to sing,--
Oh please!
It turns out:
Before they can sing with elation,
On their calloused feet they tramp for some time,
While brainless fishes of imagination
Are splashing and wallowing in the heart’s slime.
And while, hissing with rhymes, they boil
All the loves and the nightingales in a broth-like liquid,
The tongueless street merely squirms and coils,--
It has nothing to yell or even speak with.

In silence, the street dragged on the ordeal.
A scream stood erect on the gullet’s road.
While fat taxies and cabs were bristling still,
Wedged in the throat.
As if from consumption,
the trodden chest gasped for air.

The city, with gloom, blocked the road rather fast.

And when,--
Nevertheless! --
The street coughed up the strain onto the square
And pushed the portico off its throat, at last,
It seemed as if,
Accompanied by choirs of an archangel’s chorus,
Recently robbed, God would show us His heat!

But the street squatted down and yelled out coarsely:
“Let’s go eat!”

Krupps and Krupplets gather around
To paint menacing brows on the city,
While in the gorge,
Corpses of words are scatted about,--
Two live and thrive,--
“Swine”
And another one,--
I believe, “borsch”.

And poets,
Soaking in sobs and complaining,
Run from the street, resentful and sour:
“With those two words there’s no way to portray now
A beautiful lady,
And love
And a dew-covered flower!”

And after the poets,
Thousands of others stampeded:
Students,
Prostitutes,
Salesmen.

Why should I care about Faust?
In a fairy display of the fireworks’ loot,
He’s gliding with Mephistopheles
On the parquet of galaxies!
I know,--
A nail in my boot
Is more frightening than Goethe’s fantasies!

I am
The most golden-mouthed,
With every word giving
The body - a name-day,
And the soul - a rebirth,
I assure you:
Minutest speck of the living
Is worth more than I can ever do on this earth!


Haven’t you seen
A dog licking the hand that it’s being thrashed by?

I am laughed at
By the present-day tribe.
They’ve made
A dirty joke out of me.
But I can see crossing mountains of time,
Him, whom others can’t see.

Where men’s sight falls short,
Wearing the revolution’s thorny crown,
Walking at the head of a hungry horde,
The year 1916 is coming around.


And when
His advent announcing,
Joyful and proud,
You’ll step up to greet the savior,--
I will drag
My soul outside,
And trample it
So it spreads out!
And give it to you, red in blood, as a flag.

Ah, how and wherefrom
Did it come to this, -
Against luminous joy,
Dirty fists of madness,
Were raised in the air?


And
As in the Dreadnought’s downfall
With chocking spasms
Men jumped into the hatch,
Before the ship died,
The crazed Burlyuk crawled on, passing
Through the screaming gaps of his eye.
Almost bloodying his eyelids,
He emerged on his knees,
Stood up and walked
And in the passionate mood,
With tenderness, unexpected from one so obese,
He simply said:
“Good!”
It’s good when from scrutiny a yellow sweater
Hides the soul!
It’s good when
On the gibbet, in face of terror,
You shout:
“Drink Cocoa -- Van Houten!”

This moment,
Like a Bengal light,
Crackling from the blast,
I wouldn’t exchange for anything,
Not for any money.

Clouded by cigar smoke,
And stretching like a liquor glass,
One could make out the drunken face of Severyanin.
How dare you call yourself a poet
And gray, like a quail, twitter away your soul!
When
With brass knuckles
This very moment
You have to split the world’s skull!

You,
With one thought alone in your head,
“Am I dancing with style?”
Look how happy I am
Instead,
I,--
A pimp and a fraud all the while.
From all of you,
Who soaked in love for plain fun,
Who spilled
Tears into centuries while you cried,
I’ll walk away
And place the monocle of the sun
Into my gaping, wide-open eye.

I’ll wear colorful clothes, the most outlandish,
And roam the earth To please and scorch the public,
And in front of me,
On a metal leash,
Napoleon will run like a little puppy.
Like a woman, quivering, the earth will lie down,
Wanting to give in, she will slowly slump.
Objects will come alive
And from all around,
Their lips will lisp:
“Yum-yum-yum-yum-yum!”

Suddenly,
Clouds
And other such stuff in the air
Stirred in some astonishing commotion,
As if workers in white, up there,
Declared a strike, all bitter and emotional.
Savage thunder peeked out of the cloud, irate.
Snorting with huge nostrils, it howled
And for a moment, the sky's face bent out of shape,
Resembling the iron Bismarck’s scowl.
And someone,
Entangled in the clouds’ maze,
To the café, stretched out his hand now:
Both, tender somehow,
With a womanly face,
And at once, like a firing cannon.


Take your hands out of your pockets, wanderers.
Pick up a bomb, a knife or a stone
And if one happens to be armless,
Let him come to fight with his forehead alone!
Go on, starving,
Servile
And abused ones,
In this flea-swarming filth, do not rot!
Go on!
We’ll turn Mondays and Tuesdays
Into holidays, painting them with blood!
Remind the earth whom it tried to debase!
With your knives be rough!

The earth
Has grown fat like the mistress’ face,
Whom Rothschild had over-loved!
May flags flutter in the line of fire
As they do on holidays, with a flare!
Hey, street-lamps, raise the traitors higher,
Let their carcasses hang in the air.

I cursed,
Stabbed
And hit in the face,
Crawled after somebody,
Biting into their ribs.

In the sky, red like La Marseillaise,
Sunset gasped with its shuddering lips.

It’s insanity!

Not a thing will remain from the war.

Night will come,
Bite into you
And swallow you stale.
Look,--
Is the sky playing Judas once more,
With a handful of stars that were soaked in betrayal?


Slumped in the corner of the saloon, I sit,
Spilling wine on my soul and the floor,
And I see:
In the corner, round eyes are lit
And with them, Madonna bites the heart’s core.
Why bestow such radiance on this drunken mass?
What do they have to offer?
Can’t you see, once again,
They prefer Barabbas
Over the Man of Golgotha?
Maybe, deliberately,
In this human mash, not once
Do I wear a fresh-looking face.
I am,
Perhaps,
The handsomest of your sons
In the whole human race.
Give them,
The ones molded with delight,
A quick death already,
So that their children may grow up right;
Boys -- into fathers
Girls -- into pregnant ladies.
Like wise men, let new born babes
Grow gray with insight and thought
And they’ll come
To baptize infants with names
Of the poems I wrote.

Athletes glistened in the carriages on the street.
People burst
Overstuffed,
And their fat oozed out,
Like a muddy river, it streamed on the ground,
Together with juices from
A cud of old meat.

Maria!
How can I fit a tender word into bulging ears?
A bird
Sings for alms
With a hungry voice
Rather well,

A poet sings praises to Tiana all day,
But I,--
I’m made of flesh,
I’m a man,--
I ask for your body,
Like Christians pray:
“Give us this day
Our daily bread.”

I’ll climb out
Filthy (sleeping in gullies all night),
And into his ear, I’ll whisper
While I stand
At his side:
“Mister God, listen!
Isn’t it tedious
To dip your generous eyes into clouds
Every day, every evening?
Let’s, instead,
Start a festive merry-go-round
On the tree of knowledge of good and evil!
Omnipresent, you’ll be all around us!
From wine, all the fun will ensue
And for once, Peter will not be frowning,
He'll perform the fast-paced dance, ki-ka-pu.
We’ll bring all the Eves back into Eden:
Order me
And I’ll go,--
From boulevards,
I’ll pick up all the pretty girls needed
And bring them to you!
Should I?
No?
You’re shaking your curly head coarsely?
You’re knitting your brows like you’re rough?
Do you think
That this
Winged one, close by,
Knows true meaning of love?
I too am an angel; used to be one before,--
With a sugar lamb’s eye, I stared at your faces,
But I don’t want to give presents to mares anymore,--
All the torture of Sevres that’s been made into vases.
Almighty, You created two hands,
And with care,
Made a head, and went down the list,--
But why did you make it
So that it pained
When one had to kiss, kiss, kiss?!
I thought that you were Great God, Almighty,
But you’re a miniature idol, -- a dunce in a suit,
Bending over, I’m reaching
For the knife that I’m hiding
At the top of my boot.
You, swindlers with wings,
Huddle in fright!
Ruffle your shuddering feathers, rascals!
You, reeking of incense, I’ll open you wide,
From here all the way to Alaska.

Let me go!

You can’t stop me!
Whether I’m right or wrong
Makes no difference,
I will not be calmer.
Look,--
Stars were beheaded all night long
And the sky is again bloody with slaughter.

Hey you,
Heaven!
Take your hat off,
When you see me near!

Silence.

The universe sleeps.
Placing its paw
Under the black, star-infested ear.

Incarnation

This is where I will return.
To the brink of light between the trees,
Where there is no break between the birds,
Where the bee taunts me
for being too close to livid plants,
and my skin grows gold
While I'm circled by flying dots
and the leaves move like a migrating swarm.

Misplaced

All of the dumb bare legs and cold-hearted skirts,
stand in silence,
thinking about their own faces.

She winks when she says hello.
The tall group that wore soft cotton
toasted small, blue glasses.

identical strangers,
their collars whisper,
'you know you don't belong here.'
each night louder, angrier,
filling caverns in my brain
and slapping my heart with hours .

and outside the snow is soft, dissipating,
slower than music.

Everything is dark and quiet in the brick building
with shadows of chairs
and paper smells,
while all of the weekday sponges
are waiting in line to feel nothing.

I felt alive with the laughing kids,
and when the winter sun played spring for a day,
an inch of the mile of joy that came
on the day I was born, and the day that I died,
When I first breathed you in.

Stay in School

Those photographs that the dead girl took
of me running through fields in Indiana
with them that are dead to me,
are likely
the view from those heavy blue eyes.
Grey in exposure,
depleted faces, and fine, accurate lines.
Scans of bobbing ponytails through
tall corn and cloud skies.
She was tall,
and exceptionally kind.

Somewhere in Boston
in a white room by a tub,
heavy blonde hair kissed the tiles,
and that blue world view,
diminished into a dot.

Personally,
Every time I die,
from childhood,
skyscrapers,
rolling cars,
hibernation,
mixed pills in a blackout drunk,
I wake the next morning,
underneath warm blankets.

Maybe she was only
half serious too,
somewhere in the red wine,
and cobbled stone streets,
but woke to empty lungs
underneath cold soil.

Sadness,
if it is conceived,
is stealing.
A girl in the lane beside me
only had one leg.
And a son in the Congo
ate his mother's leg.
the man in the commercial
is in a million dollar debt,
but all of the heavy heads here
are adorned with bricks,
pictured with slick,
selfish assholes.

All of them,
in converging coats
celebrate the fact that it's Tuesday.
Or Wednesday.
Or winter.
The notion of why,
tucked deep into abysmal pockets,
mixed with lint and pennies.
Thanks to the snood,
in her high ceiling tomb,
stealing ballots and checks,
those kindly waves
and ill written essays,
are her products of stupidity.


Tonight in the blanket snow,
blue and noir and light,
I'll keep becoming little worlds perhaps,
in new domes,
expanding, and uglier.
The ants have smaller brains
and bigger mouths here.

In the east nothing is orange,
or pink
or bright,
but breathing is okay,
thanks to the living woods,
and more breathing room
without the restraint
of suburban brains,
has become the better option.

MAYAKOVSKY- Frank O'Hara

1
My heart's aflutter!
I am standing in the bath tub
crying. Mother, mother
who am I? If he
will just come back once
and kiss me on the face
his coarse hair brush
my temple, it's throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes
I guess, and walk the streets.

2
I love you. I love you,
but I'm turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.

Words! be
sick as I am sick, swoon,
roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I'll stare down
at my wounded beauty
which at best is only a talent
for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win
what a poet!
and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.
I embraced a cloud,
but when I soared
it rained.

3
That's funny! there's blood on my chest
oh yes, I've been carrying bricks
what a funny place to rupture!
and now it is raining on the ailanthus
as I step out onto the window ledge
the tracks below me are smoky and
glistening with a passion for running
I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4
Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.