Julian Talamantez Brolaski

when it rains it pours the rain it raineth everyday pull up the reins, rayned in by reason, rule, and reverence if the aim is total abject embarrassment of shiny-looking objects tenderly gathered for the pome’s sunset quinceañera a star winked at me btwn the apricot and the cypress 2 crows atop them like a punter on the mizzenmast u better step up your game, havelok by what means of studye and devocyon what is love but a constellation of significances it liked to eat salmon w/ its fingers like a bear and then use those fingers to clean its glasses it cries and it looks like a wolf   I believe it wanted to cultivate this look

Why speak of hate, when I do bleed for love? Not hate, my love, but Love doth bite my tongue Till I taste stuff that makes my rhyming rough So flatter I my fever for the one For whom I inly mourn, though seem to shun. A rose is arrows is eros, so what If I confuse the shade that I’ve become With winedark substance in a lover’s cup? But stop my tonguely wound, I’ve bled enough. If I be fair, or false, or freaked with fear If I my tongue in lockèd box immure Blame not me, for I am sick with love. Yet would I be your friend most willingly Since friendship would infect me killingly.

who by the time it arrived had made its plan heretofore stonewall   it had not a penny thats not true it had several pennies can you make a sovereign nation a national park how condescending instead just tell them to honor the treaty what can poetry do it cant not not do nothing it must undulate w/ the 2:30 pm dance music the sole patrons at stonewall there was a shooting in ohio today the music made me feel a little anxious it was hard thumping dance music a notch upwards of 100 bpm notoriously the beat of life the optimum tempo for cpr I consider downloading a metronome real quick to test it to tap it out but I don’t want to be ‘anywhere near’ my phone meaning it’s in my bag on the stool 2 feet from me there is an amy winehouse video on no sound at least I think it is amy winehouse she is at a funeral black and white there is a stuffed bird slightly obscuring my view of the tv it looks like a kind of tall pigeon w/ mottled brown and russet with a white ringlet necklace and black dots is it a carrier pigeon I wonder I sent a text to jocelyn at standing rock several texts are you still on the road ariana and i r gonna go out there in december sending love to you tried calling bt yr mailbox is full send a sign when u can xoxo howdy.  thinking of u w love. hope all is well.  send smoke signal telegram carrier pigeon send love to my twospirits at the winyan camp. last night we prayed for her and for zephyr and l. frank & the twospirits especially at standing rock there’s no sign of that struggle here but they are selling tshirts commemorating the other and the six days of riots led by transwomen of color they later tried to whitewash in that terrible movie like it was all these hot angry upright downright forthright white gays so ready for the revolution and now people are treating standing rock like burning man a drink called goslings videos by the pigeon misaligned with the music the smell of booze in the air made both of us recoil slightly I saw or felt it I’m here to make a poem I was already paid for when I had less than $2 in my bank account (and I joked I would go right to the bar and buy every- body drinks ) not even enough for a subway ride and I used the 58 cents I’d gotten for busking for the first time alone in the long hallway between the library at bryant park and the orange line trains by the ovid quote ‘gutta cavat lapidem’ water (or a drop of water really) hollows out a stone.   lapidum a stone or rock ariana once described cd wright’s style as ‘lapidary’ I loved this as a description of writing like the hieroglyphics are literally lapidary and I told my grandmother about it as we were driving from mescalero to albuquerque she knew all about the plants and the names for all the rockforms mesas or buttes or ziggurats and I said how do you know all these she said by long observation and I used to study geology in college I wanted to major in it but they wouldn’t allow women to major in the hard sciences then so she began to study religion tho she already had medicine ricky martin on the beach or is it someone younger sexier the grand canyon splitting apart is it an ad is it a video even the sands at the beach are bouncing with the beat the tempo has stayed very similar this whole time a tick up I suspect from 100bpm

What makes that fox so grabby for the stars, Begging like boys do? I meant to fully Gild that lily, till less like virile Mars It’s clepd the pansiest of pansy, The caducous calyx of a poppy. Cuz, step into these arms where you belong A coup at the prospect of this lording, A gleam in the gloom with serpentine song— The phosphorescent tide’s mine to lavish upon. O stop me at the very vestibule— Before whom, and in what habit I speak I watched them use their meat to call me fool. Someone’s cage is aching at the seams, The noisome idle falls to dirty dreams— Thus the flummoxed drunk of xem will coil And I’ll learn the real, or it’ll learn me, Making free with the Italian model The single summer shower mano à mano. The proverbial number of angels That could’ve fit on the head of a pin Are crying to the myriad angles, This glassy labyrinth we happened in Will not undo the errancer I’ve been. Soon the swancrest, the feedcrest, my distress Will feign to fuck the furlonged mannequin— At what—punishing pace we undress This crapshoot idée fixe and its yahoo mistress. Fictive trees harsh the billow of my cape, All kind of lovers crashed rubbernecking. The fishes on the frontispiece were draped In your leafy worded velocity. You whisper,London has no more fog for me To whit, my darksome peachpit! storms above —A buckler to them that walks uprightly— Will not enforce this porno hand from glove Or diminish one jott my vegetable love.

pyramidal, its certain form certain it is a form    wittgenstein or anyone can think of a stag in their mind but not be able to shoot that stag and where is all that everlovin antimatter that matter supposedly co-creates? at the end of the dream, the poem at the end of everything    what else, the end    sighs sor juana the doors have an 11-minute song called ‘the end’ which feels serious when you are 11 and stupid six or eight months later    nor did I offer up my own dream which was a meadow in my cup    meadowtation ha ha ha the ship kissed the sands of galenic shores at the buttressed end of my dream where spectacles do not fear to interpose long fallen out of  the mouth of vishnu    so long gabriel so long usen now the instrument of my reflection no longer necessary since the inside is the out    and I’ve jiggered the mechanism such that my jacket’s always dry & clean & my cock is hard only when I want    no more embarrassing sublunarities    and my cunt is wet just as my lover thinks of fucking it    cities appear    golden to my gaze    a figure empyreal    arises in shadow    long for this world    aching on the threshold of my upturned arse and my one ways and means, lilified cloak enmaned w/ tresses, baldly dignified, the cloak was regal it did not speak, yet diogenes leapt on it, yet the trumpets pointed one direction    entrained to a kind of roseate beam the same pink beam philip k. dick saw emanating from the fish necklace around the neck of that delivery girl he saw in his doorway after he’d had his wisdom teeth removed that same beam that triangulated w/ arcturus, aka alpha boötis, to flash up and hit it smack in the third eye till it and we and we are bent sobbing, having given up our library, having died of the plague and worse, having vowed never again to write w/ pen and ink having inscribed yo la peor, I the worst, in blood on the back of a dirty pamphlet, but oh what unmiserable mind is this    no me miserum    noli me tangere nothing miserable    nothing touches me

I left you last evening without the usual privileges. A lot of what my body was was toxin, that held me aloft in idle price, far from the witless wood and Arcadia. There’s no more moon for birds to buss at over streetlamps. Urchins make their way in the mist, trolling for dinner rolls. How frugal my recent times were spent, the clocks keeping how stoned a content. There’ll be much better dawns than this forthcoming. Now—silver morning, body trussed across a sphere—what would Salome do?A certain Grace is coming toward you and xe is lovely. The troposphere might solder the iron we sought here, the sky is neither an abaude. What Portia lacks is not anatomical, but philosophical: ‘bitter is my sustenance, melancholy my food, sorry my wine.’ Expressive geometrics of the New York sissy—and with such a disfunctional phone! Portia tells her students get thee to a muhfuckery, where I’ll lay thee fool across my lap. P meets Sally’s longings, her shoes untied, and everything about her demonstrating a careless desolation, a blue eye and sunken.Take one step further and the Grace coming toward you is Beauty. The Grace turned away from you is Restraint. Hassan pleading for her life, fainting, having a bucket of water thrown on her, reviving. Nothing but a farce, we animate Wall and Moon. The art is cruxy to the love-juice. Once there was many a sight, but now they are wilting, poor lambs. Once a malapert downpour, uncharacteristic of the rains of this place. Next football, a hemistich. The belle lettrist’s idea of a billet-doux, the scientist’s idea of a sauna. What with their consummate barbeque wines, their tawdry dance moves, their go-go girls of yesteryear—we thought the Impressionists were trying to impress people. Fez—an impossibility the universe grew out of. Flaubert saying, Madame Bovary, c’est moi. Loeretta casting her lots.

swell me a bowl with lusty oil brightest under bis geynest under gore ecce who com inna persian vestment un monodatal voll marines cd not hoist thee whose eyes go seaward   noreaster reeling thrashing at the mouth of the gowanus mischance upbrimmd sludgie helas, aloft sometimes honeysuckle can smell like MURTHER yr shining form to oil hath returned yr helmet now shall make a hive for bees it was no dream   I lay broad waking oil blossomed green, incarnadine s/thing keeps on testing me for tb is politer not to talk about beastly p.o.v. ludic like a succubus vomiting ivy lordly subtler grotesquerie you can bet it smelled like murther creped and crinolinnd along the noggin w/ a victorian western pin till I may see a plumper sludgie swim everlike rotund buddha—smack aghast everlike leo and thir friends marching in lockstep to the sunlit uplands.

socalled swan of avon n/t but a beaurocrat buggering the buttercups goy from the waist up now soldiers’re the ones making offers and fucking caravaggio posters maybe the artist had bothered about melancholia suddenly xe finds xemself walking down some dark corridor california was truly the promised land for a minute there video marlboro to show us shoppingcart in dingy water and then turn melancholical sign reads no squatting switchd on the cathode ray at yr coronation the bomb droppd w/ regular monotony leaving us wanting a to zed dampened a grid satyrical deliria pan’s baallet in a black tutu who have the inclination but even whose    necromancer— firelit but dred— —commandeering meadows— protests were pathetic

for memorial at Zinc Bar, 23 June 2007, NYC I am your sugarplum fairy commodore in chief. —kari edwards conturbabimus illa (vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus [let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love]) —Catullus V.II damesirs of fishairs princes reginae I dont need this botheration guilded toe in a gendered pension embedded narcissism skirts can or could be worn w/ intentional disgrace getting oh-aff I sleep where I sit gog and magog ope myopia sweetness and delight do it for sidney, as starlover did rue on star, thir mistress cloying the lack, with thir poesis toying twill never hurt regina prince alack, areft locks beset candle agrove a buck in a corridor as like with likeness grace the tongue and sweets with sweets cloy them among conturbabimus illa let us confound them beasts implored and character impaled agathas breast in a 14 th century pincer anon 7 heads w/ 7 comings on horns on their horns wings at their feet and at their wings well you have three seconds to live bespeckled apprentice freckled daylilly a penny uneasily pleaded myrtle iron bootblackening at the speed we levatate con there is no missus I am among limbed elms colluding with doves nor tide nor tail angels w/ svelte angles the rub and tug goils languid as jersey too early for supper etc was their pimp and whatever their sucker shitslinger master cleanser w/ corporate coffee and torture pâté my present page in l-l-livery old glut of a beast’s spleen the glory over lordling socked ajaw nassau ablog by fairly a sweepmate a swoopster bedeviled in gullet swashbuckld by proxy homosexuality eh? red river andaloos funny albeit friday all the dork-rock gender suggests we levitate avec held captive patrón, bothermonger ah myrtle why sie is taken my mind impertinent parasol glossy wit promise of salt caint leave thir cellphone alone ipode eternal satellite viscera muscadetted papillon (that one) strident 17 stallions with horns on their heads and horns coming out of the horns a papillon that one a buck in a corridor conturbabimus illa let us confound them all ridded of giggling anthropomorphia aghast DL in the bowries the tee hee ambigenuity of amputee-wannabees googling tee hee silly faggot dicks are for chicks dicks are for chicks wicked hee to bury my heart at my heart was in my knee

the bear was born thrown from its side by killer-of-enemies its rage scratched open several rivers and the gulf of mexico an aspect so to speke made fulsomely as it were one whos habitat full somely made reaches all its leaves and feathers to the smoky air a tanager on an elm in oahu really reminded of the grand canyon by the souvenir mug of the muleskinner & the horse & the name angel