oui
petite chouchou
berrigan had his pepsi
old westerns and chris,
hello
he wrote for other poets
he wrote for himself
and maybe even the pimply kid
scribbling in a diner
at 3AM
grace to be born...
and
don't tread on me
*
as i age i trust myself more and more
and this trust replaces certainty
toward both myself others
and suddenly there is no me
and no others
only the poem i fly
the poem i trust
*
being sparked by the idiom is necessary
before a dismissal
each poem is an idiom
each poet's opus an idiom
each image - idiom
(sounds better than metaphor, eh?
believe me: i know what i like)
*
a pilot
let's say a stuntpilot
gives his show
and even though those on the ground
haven't a clue as to what he is doing
they are moved in some way
whether the movement comes by surprise
(something new)
or is expected
(as a perfect recreation of the spirit of manoeuvers
of those who flew before)
and what of those passengers
who expect only to debark
what would they think
if caught in a loop-de-loop?
*
beginning high school french
i was the wiseguy who figured
Vous donnez moi un mal a la fesse
was funny
but to a frenchman it probably speaks more
of an impossible transfer of haemorrhoids
than it does of disdain
and who would call their best girl
a vegetable?
a frenchman?
oui
*
berrigan was a stunt pilot
sparked by his own idioms
and others'
and others
Eliot flew intercontinental
speaking his own language
(the clouds of ours)
Poe sat in the dark
and then there was Blakeshine
Larkin beautifully morose
Ginsberg gayly cherubific
who else? who else?
and all of our others...
hurting inside to knock down our doors
our chipboard doors...
inside
some never fly
*
speaking of eliot and those guys
i've heard it said that the 20th century
was the time of allusion
and i wonder how it got that way
and grew and grew
finally birthing academics who scorned academics
criticism growing like fractals
whose slow mutation you can't see at once
whose journeys veer into sideroads rutted and brown
whose spires grow baroque and gargoyled
and are imploded to make way for superstores of minimalism
(look! is that Brautigan there, hiding behind the endcap?
is that a haiku or a mastercard that fell behind the checkout?)
and all the growth got old and ended
and we are now new
are stuntpilots tricking foreigners into a ride
and hope for a sigh
*
at times it's like
we are all foreigners
some enjoy playing jokes on foreigners
but i can't
i can't
rewrite this trust
in my garden
my little flowers
my veggie pepsis
my idioms looping those loops
listening for the ooohs and ahhhs
as under my breath i quietly aside
don't tread on me
~~
3 23 07
berrigan had his pepsi
old westerns and chris,
hello
he wrote for other poets
he wrote for himself
and maybe even the pimply kid
scribbling in a diner
at 3AM
grace to be born...
and
don't tread on me
*
as i age i trust myself more and more
and this trust replaces certainty
toward both myself others
and suddenly there is no me
and no others
only the poem i fly
the poem i trust
*
being sparked by the idiom is necessary
before a dismissal
each poem is an idiom
each poet's opus an idiom
each image - idiom
(sounds better than metaphor, eh?
believe me: i know what i like)
*
a pilot
let's say a stuntpilot
gives his show
and even though those on the ground
haven't a clue as to what he is doing
they are moved in some way
whether the movement comes by surprise
(something new)
or is expected
(as a perfect recreation of the spirit of manoeuvers
of those who flew before)
and what of those passengers
who expect only to debark
what would they think
if caught in a loop-de-loop?
*
beginning high school french
i was the wiseguy who figured
Vous donnez moi un mal a la fesse
was funny
but to a frenchman it probably speaks more
of an impossible transfer of haemorrhoids
than it does of disdain
and who would call their best girl
a vegetable?
a frenchman?
oui
*
berrigan was a stunt pilot
sparked by his own idioms
and others'
and others
Eliot flew intercontinental
speaking his own language
(the clouds of ours)
Poe sat in the dark
and then there was Blakeshine
Larkin beautifully morose
Ginsberg gayly cherubific
who else? who else?
and all of our others...
hurting inside to knock down our doors
our chipboard doors...
inside
some never fly
*
speaking of eliot and those guys
i've heard it said that the 20th century
was the time of allusion
and i wonder how it got that way
and grew and grew
finally birthing academics who scorned academics
criticism growing like fractals
whose slow mutation you can't see at once
whose journeys veer into sideroads rutted and brown
whose spires grow baroque and gargoyled
and are imploded to make way for superstores of minimalism
(look! is that Brautigan there, hiding behind the endcap?
is that a haiku or a mastercard that fell behind the checkout?)
and all the growth got old and ended
and we are now new
are stuntpilots tricking foreigners into a ride
and hope for a sigh
*
at times it's like
we are all foreigners
some enjoy playing jokes on foreigners
but i can't
i can't
rewrite this trust
in my garden
my little flowers
my veggie pepsis
my idioms looping those loops
listening for the ooohs and ahhhs
as under my breath i quietly aside
don't tread on me
~~
3 23 07
posted by johnee at 10:03 AM
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