1269 Arts and sciences poems

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ +++++++++++++ The show remains, unshot. Adah rants. Cain bares his teeth. Starvation: a state without border. World without means. Haha. Who’d have thought. Total inter- regnum. Theogony. Thrombotic idea. (Debt flogs verb.) A retro daydream: I hid under the hollyhock. The prohibition-era nut cuffed me.Shoddy fate, old horse. To genuflect? Ohhhhhhhhh no ... Vulture count: Then. Then. Then. Then. Noon throbbed resplendently. Baby ... I ... tried ... to ... make ... the ... word ... I reached for her. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

[Étude from the Fourth Treatise of the Convivio, Chapter XXVII] In my youth, not unstaind and in much ignoble;   in manhood, struggling to ring true   yet knowing often my defection from these graces Dante lists proper to Man:   temperance, courage, love, courtesy, and loyalty.   I speak still to sustain his meaning in my own. And, in you, whatever I have known of grace comes through to me. Now, upon old age:“Our life has a fixt course and a simple path” I would not avoid,“that of our right nature” —then Dante adds, himself quoting: “and in every part of our life place is given for certain things

In homage to Osip Mandelshtam I am sure I do not believe we can move a pencil through a white field, pulled by a team of upside- down ox-head letter A s, and in real fact furrow it. Poor old page-earth — sized, cut, scraped, ploughed with mule-pencils or impressed by ink, illuminated, printed, obscurely inscribed, and revered or destroyed, revered and destroyed, and here comes yet another walled-garden crop for eye, ear, lungs, legs, mind. • The cranium dome hangs from its own silk conceptual thread of thought, conceiving its infinite in- complete perfection: its Zeno, its Zeus, its Dante, its Te Deums and freak shows, frescoes, twine theory, money, bread, bricks and wine, six-syllable abstractions, axes and facts, its every variation of custom, including vertical graves of men buried upside down without their heads. • (In dusk-lit, telling ways, tell me, little swallow, Tuscan or T’ang or wrung somehow from time: since I have neither feather nor wing, how I too can go into a grave made only of air.) • “For your sweet joy, take “from my cupped hands a “little glittering “of sun, a little “honey — for this is “what Persephone’s “bees have commanded. “A boat can’t cast off “if it isn’t moored; “no one can hear a “shadow that wears fur “boots; we can’t best our “fright in this dark wood. “Our kisses — these are “all that we can save, “velvety as bees “that die if they are “exiled from the hive. “They’re murmuring in “the transparent groves “of the night; the wilds “of mountain Greece are “their motherland; their “diet is time, lung- “wort, pale meadowsweet. “For joy, please take this “pagan gift: this rude, “rustling necklace of “the bees that died, for “these had transmuted “honey into sun.”

jörg piringer works in many forms, including visual, digital, and sound poetry, as well as music. In "fallen," piringer combines a visual sensibility with computer programming skills to tumble text from the English translation of The Communist Manifesto into a pile at the bottom of the page. The result is a mass of letters stripped of their original meaning and representing the failure of an idea.—Geof Huth More About Visual Poetry >>

Grass grew long in the story. Pieces clung to bedclothes. In the night he believed he grew taller. Grass covered the dream of a serpent, eyes sunk in his head, tail of silk clover. The dream translated into silver tone. More serpent heads and the dream turned into an opera. It was the opera that made the dreamer famous. Location of opera could be in any country, could be Antarctica, more likely Finland, where they believe in silk clover, it is gold in a land of starved desire for summer. The opera had a clover leaf copied in porcelain by Aalto, the famous designer, who sewed the clover leaf into a white curtain. He designed a window for the man when he looks out to sea in his serpent costume. This opera that begins with a dream traveled to Rome and Zagreb, traveled across continents, once by camel. The travels became more famous than the opera. People began to forget whether the grass really had grown long, and where the serpent came from. The opera was called by another name and included a gold limousine. Somewhere in Oceania they added mermaid elves.

Okay, but now imagine someone, one of fifty, say, in the queue, fiftieth first and advancing little, somewhere within the seventy-two-hour window of efficacy for post-exposure prophylaxis, and, later, in the screening room watching The Clock with the few dozen others in rows behind and ahead who had waited too. He knows he has to but he hasn’t yet. We pick it up there. It is two thousand eleven a few more days. The movie tells what time it is. In poetry too we all face forward.

“Poetry must lead somewhere,” declared Breton. He carried a rose inside his coat each day to give a beautiful stranger—“Better to die of love than love without regret.” And those who loved him soon learned regret. “The simplest surreal act is running through the street with a revolver firing at random.” Old and famous, he seemed démodé. There is always a skeleton on the buffet.

Into the gloom of the deep, dark night, With panting breath and a startled scream; Swift as a bird in sudden flight Darts this creature of steel and steam. Awful dangers are lurking nigh, Rocks and chasms are near the track, But straight by the light of its great white eye It speeds through the shadows, dense and black. Terrible thoughts and fierce desires Trouble its mad heart many an hour, Where burn and smoulder the hidden fires, Coupled ever with might and power. It hates, as a wild horse hates the rein, The narrow track by vale and hill; And shrieks with a cry of startled pain, And longs to follow its own wild will.

He has five children, I’m papa to a hundred pencils. I bought the chair he sat in from a book of chairs, staplers and spikes that let me play Vlad the Impaler with invading memos. When I said I have to lay you off a parallel universe was born in his face, one where flesh is a loose shirt taken to the river and beaten against rocks. Just by opening my mouth I destroyed his faith he’s a man who can think honey-glazed ham and act out the thought with plastic or bills. We sat. I stared at my hands, he stared at the wall staring at my hands. I said other things about the excellent work he’d done and the cycles of business which are like the roller-coaster thoughts of an oscilloscope. All this time I saw the eyes of his wife which had always been brown like almonds but were now brown like the crust of bread. We walked to the door, I shook his hand, felt the bones pretending to be strong. On his way home there was a happy song because de Sade invented radio, the window was open, he saw delphinium but couldn’t remember the name. I can only guess. Maybe at each exit that could have led his body to Tempe, to Mars, he was tempted to forget his basketball team of sons, or that he ever liked helping his wife clean carrots, the silver sink turning orange. Running’s natural to most animals who aren’t part of a lecture series on Nature’s Dead Ends. When I told him, I saw he was looking for a place in his brain to hide his brain. I tried that later with beer, it worked until I stood at the toilet to make my little waterfall, and thought of him pushing back from a bar to go make the same noise.

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry. The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her eyes are sad and she walks with her hands in her dress. The poems are gone. The light is dim. The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up. Their eyeballs roll, their blond legs burn like brush. The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep. She does not understand. When I get on my knees and lick her hand, she screams. I am a new man. I snarl at her and bark. I romp with joy in the bookish dark.