there is something
to these poets
seeing
slowly so slowly,
laconic AND lexicon
sipping at the migratory
world through
(wearing eyeglasses)
(that are just fucking superb)
eyes and ears
poets writing to saw >>>
what IMA saying… instead
of writing to MOVE. because
capatalization| |we, as policy,
is a scream| |are polite
now, this day| |to the rabble
writing tinder rags
a movie
it’s a strange thing to have a hero, or plural hero
and stranger to see idol glossed or gleamed or maybe gutted
by the world… ‘cept i (I) would never have known
of my heroes if their guts weren’t strewn all about
i’m down to see this
one fast move or i’m gone: kerouac’s big sur
One Fast Move or I’m Gone: Kerouac’s Big Sur, takes the viewer back to Ferlinghetti’s cabin and to the Beat haunts of San Francisco and New York City for an unflinching, cinematic look at the compelling events the book is based on. The story unfolds in several synchronous ways: through the narrative arc of Kerouac’s prose, told in voice-over by actor and Kerouac interpreter, John
Ventimiglia (of HBO’s The Sopranos)
america’s arterial blood, sponged off the hollywood/everywhere asphalt
ages are the vertebral burs;
the inhalation of original mortar
bricked in words, spend
time! with your words and think
them. instruction from god
and his bone dust and the brick
made of mud and straw
superhuman or anti-human, syllabus
of souls. the rod, the vertebrae
stacked blocks of memory
the forcible forgetting
I will steady
your heart with the rod.
Ripe as mold and with roots
hanging out the bottom of its own
tingly fist. Its arrhythmia full
of white knuckled raps
through the stethoscope.
You have spent years
sitting in chairs with your breastbone
skinned, up to your neck in missing ribs.
I paint the heart you were born with
on a tin plate stuck beneath the gutter
of your clavicle. I can’t touch
the crosshairs: a swimm-
ing eel of wires whose skin cracks
like a whip, then disappears
into a defibrillator.
There is nothing
that stops your heart cold
like the onset of silence in the barrel
of your chest, or the gulp of air
that swallows your kneecaps.
I will wipe your brow,
and paint the electric shock
to your heart
to look like you: unafraid;
smoldering with plasma,
the four walls anchored to a sea
floor of cadence.
A clutch of arteries snake-dancing
on the gritty scalp of Medusa.
.
Written with images of “The Two Fridas” swimming through my head.
holly hinkle
dredged
glom’d it did
oh fair-child, i tied these
tiny muscled wraiths
in rapid string of verbiage
this is still crystal?
i whimper daylight facet
in a moon-shin’d
grt!!! prolix mad gib
orphic frustration idon’teven
know what that means
so, it’s following, soapily
it shapes itself
with the round ow or om
orifice frustration is
nearly the same!?
!
possibly
garrett dawson