Wednesday, December 11, 2013

how bad?

see this tweet:


Damon K @dada_drummer
  

picked up Bill Knott's 500-page Collected Poetry at a shop - asked the price - & was told he had left them there free for interested readers

/
over two months ago i sent ten copies of my collected poetry book to "Berl's Poetry Bookshop" and asked them to give the book away free to anyone interested,

two months ago—  two months and as this tweet shows, they still have copies of it left—

which just proves what i've said here many times— no one wants my books even for free—

in two months there weren't ten people visiting Berl's Poetry Shop who would accept a free copy of my collected poems—

my books are so bad i can't even give them away for free—

///

drafts/roughs/unfinished

SHOWER

It is the pretext/duty/charm of the hero to depict
their origin as unknown, or everywhere—
as if the name of a town would smash
that statue down.  Streamers from the parade
that enlivened/knicked out/chiseled his profile still flicker around
its pedestal, their papyrus duplicity
[Needing martyrdom to live, I multiply
the papyrus duplicity of my hero—
duplicity is my hero]—[its numbers
always add up to the theme of the
Double [?] ] [ Outside the rain pours all fours
on the fields that spread like search
patterns but find only more of us. 
Depictions.  We might atone by
using schoolmates for our self
portraits, but otherwise remain sole. 
Simplifying[singularity] is the word I need here
in the normal bleep-sense of its daily
use, a warning-voice evident [in its attempt
at censorship.]  Oppressive enough, but 
can you remove enough details to
make your life immune to autobiography,
[when all the words skipped by readers
make a better picture than one's own
narrative.  The problem of the empirical—
the "crumbs of raisinbread in the coat
pocket," to quote Benn, the coat itself—
are unsolvable except through love of
the contingent, meaning the sacrificible,
the stuff you can easily throw away—
That's why the grounds out there are
surface of earth deep, why each of its borders
pretends to be elsewhere.  Pretense is
[The premise of the hero always required
To depict his or her origins as timeless.  As
Elsewhere.  Distant as abandoned rooms
Narrating their cobwebs, relating to which
[     ] us to stride centerstage and gawk
Multitude-timeless at engravings passed
Among the lucky attendance that thrives
By dispensing shares of continuity that
Never yield spare enough for you or me—
Everything left out of the text is always
Too legible, the expository details
Anchor their disparities by spreadsheet
Tactics, the way amid raindrops we hold up
Our inbetweenities with an umbrella.]











Outside the rain pours all fours on
the fields that spread like search
patterns but find only more of us. 

Depictions.  We might atone by
using schoolmates for our self
portraits, but otherwise remain sole. 

Simplifying is the word I need
in the normal beep-sense of its daily
use, a warning-voice evident, though

the old problems of the empirical—
the "crumbs of raisinbread in
the coat pocket," to quote Benn—

are unsolvable except through love of
the contingent, meaning the sacrificible,
the stuff you can easily throw away—

That's why the grounds out there are
surface of earth deep, why each of
its borders pretends to be elsewhere. 

Premise of the hero always requires
him to regard his origins as timeless.
Abandoned rooms narrate their cobwebs,

time to stride centerstage and gawk
multitude-timeless at engravings passed
among the lucky audience that thrives

by dispensing shares of continuity
which never yield enough for leftovers—
Everything left out of the text is always

too legible, the expository details

lacking which the reader is forced to


/// 

drafts/roughs


(AFTER GOETHE’S WANDERERS
NACHTLIED II)

Hear all the hilltops lapse
Until each copse of trees
Drops so still and the air
Sleeps when the birds cease
Their songs: slowly, down-eased,
The forest stops and naps.
Where is this place? Nowhere.
Tear up your maps.


Hear all the hilltops lapse
Until each copse of trees
Drops still and silence saps
Every birdsong the air
Can nest: slowly, down-eased,
The forest stops and naps.
Where is this place? Nowhere.
Tear up your maps.

Hear all the hilltops lapse
Until each copse of trees
Drops so still that the air
Sleeps and the birds repair
From song: slowly, down-eased,
The forest stops and naps.
Where is this place? Nowhere.
Tear up your maps.



Hear all the hilltops lapse
Until each copse of trees
Drops so still the air saps
The sound and then birds spare
To sing: slowly, down-eased,
The forest stops and naps.
Where is this place? Nowhere.
Tear up your maps.


Hear all the hilltops lapse
Until each copse of trees
Drops so still that there
Is scarely an air
Left for the birds to share
Their songs: slowly, by degrees,
Like you the forest stops.
Where is this place? Nowhere.
Tear up your maps.


Hear all the hilltops lapse 
And then each copse of trees
Drops so still that the air
Sighs when


Drops so still and the air
Fall silent as

So thick with sleep it saps
birdsong.

/

Hear the hinter hilltops
and now each tree-copse
hush when the wind drops
below a breeze, as
slowly the wing-flaps
of birds through the air
and their song ceases—
listen: not a sound.
Has it here been found,
that longsought Nowhere.
Tear up your maps.

/
Is it at last found
/
Has it now/here been found,
that longsought Nowhere?

/
and then the wing-flaps
of the birds lose sound,
and all their songs cease
to bruit the air:
Slowly, by degrees,
like you the forest stops.


///// Perhaps it's now been found,
that longsought Nowhere.
Tear up your maps.



Hear the hinter hilltops
and each crop of trees


and how each tree copse
hushes when the wind drops
below a breeze, as



Hear how the hinter hilltops
and then each copse of trees
hush when the wind drops
below a breeze, as
finally the wing-flaps
of birds through the air
and their song ceases—
listen: not a sound.
Has it now been found,
that longsought Nowhere?
Tear up your maps,
uncork that flask of schnapps.

and have another swig of schnapps.

lean back, have a swig of schnapps.

have another mug/jug of schnapps.

hoist your stein/wineskin of schnapps.

///

drafts of unfinished poems

[
I fell in step with the graveyard,
altering my pace to its spacing of stones,
halting where it held itself aloft
for the tableture of time.  My feet

were tricked into this terpsichore,
tortile, tense, like trying to dance
with Mount Rushmore.  The memorials
seemed wallflowers, a lastchance prom

as I stood at last in stride of stasis
begging each slab to be my deb
my date: their names filled my waltzcard
with time's promised twist.  Stumbling

I tripped their choreographed epitaphs;
I bopped those highschool-hop deaths.



/



Wetdream radiators hiss through the slum-room
I sublet deep in the depositions of dilettante;
flags I shoplift from the United Nations Building
drape each icky splinter of my lap; lame ledgers
caress me; every inventory of reality ends up
recap; my overdue rent has Croesus nervous;
defunded as regularly as ash-trojans and assass-
ination rumors how routinely I lie, my lips
rent by hyena-starved laughter; my warts want
to go public; poop-pills slither me slower than
sandpaper eels; this ennui confers no libration
final enough to accord yours; adolescence n'est
ce pas; hot savior bullseye bait, another giant rind
of nose tongue; all futures rinse away unless they
use atrophy shampoo; icicles clutching at pigtails
plunge past phone-thin panes; my navel's diarrhea
chops my wig off: pincer earpods pierce home.


///

top ten list of new poems I read in 2013

I can't do a top ten list of 2013 poetry books unless it was

Top Ten Poetry Books Published in 2013 Which Might Have Been on My Ten Best List If I Could Have Afforded to Buy Them,


but thanks to the internet I did read some outstanding poems, ten of which are listed here in no particular order because each of them is a "best" in itself:


"Rope" by Rose Kelleher

"An hour is not a house" by Jane Hirshfield
"Installation" by Helen Humphreys
"Government Spending" by Patricia Lockwood
"Crane" by David Yezzi
"Elegy for a Small Town Psychic" by Morri Creech
"A Novel" by Sampson Starkweather
"The Butcher's Apprentice 1911-1914" by Adam Kirsch
"At the Sewannee Writers' Conference, I Go Looking for Allen Tate's Grave" by Christopher Bullard
"Fancy" by Jehanne Dubrow
///