martin kippenberger, theoretisches bild-mein zahnstocher
A Girl in Milwaukee and a Girl in Brooklyn
-- by Matt Cook
My wife is talking on the phone in Milwaukee
To her girlfriend in Brooklyn.
But, in the middle of all that, my wife has to go pee.
And it turns out that the girl in Brooklyn,
At the very same time, also has to go pee.
So they discuss this for a moment,
And they're both very intelligent people.
They decide to set their phones down and go to the bathroom
(This was back when people set their phones down).
So they do this, and now we have a live telephone line open
Between Milwaukee and Brooklyn
With no one speaking through it for about two minutes as
A girl in Milwaukee and a girl in Brooklyn go to the bathroom.
Poetry is Back
-- By Ed Sanders
Osgood brings a smile
reciting poetry from his files,
He brings news that you can use
in a way that will amuse.
Poetry is back.
Jessee Jackson promotes,
preaches and orates,
using woven words
to help his message be heard.
Poetry is back.
The cowboy poets from all over
gather in Elko annually
to recite a verse,
tip their hats and houdy.
Poetry is back.
The rappers rap,
the hip hoppers hip.
Poetry is back.
These strange bedfellows
use verse and rhyme,
to preach their politics
and enjoy a good time.
They save for society
and for all time,
poems with proper meter,
and rhymes that really rhyme.
All the while they work
and write and speak,
the properly "educated" poets
write poems that truly reek!
Without any attention
to meter or proper time,
they write and recite
poems that don't even rhyme.
They gaze over their upraised noses
to us rabble far below.
writing verse that makes no sense
except to their friends in the know.
Many of these self appointed poets
who can't even make a poem rhyme,
suckle from NEA grants, writing
poems that only whine.
If their work had to pass the
free market test they wouldn't eat.
But they live high in fine clothes,
as they suckle the government teat.
In spite of the professional poets
talent or their lack,
Cowboys, preachers, radio folk and musicians keep on...
And poetry is back.
The Speed Of Darkness
-- by Muriel Rukeyser
Whoever despises the clitoris despises the penis
Whoever despises the penis despises the cunt
Whoever despises the cunt despises the life of the child.
Resurrection music, silence, and surf.
No longer skeaking
Listening with the whole body
And with every drop of blood
Overtaken by silence
But this same silence is become speech
With the speed of darkness.
Stillness during war, the lake.
The unmoving spruces.
Glints over the water.
Faces, voices. You are far away.
A tree that trembles and trembles.
After the lifting of the mist
after the heavy rains
the sky stands clear
and the cries of the city risen in day
I remember the buildings are space
walled, to let space be used for living
I mind this room is space
whose boundary of glass
lets me give you drink and space to drink
your hand, my hand being space
containing skies and constellations
your face carries the reaches of air
I know I am space
my words are the air.
the man : act exact
woman : in curve senses in their maze
frail orbits, green tries, games of stars
shar of the body speaking its evidence
I look across at the real
vulnerable involved naked
devoted to the present of all I care for
the world of history leading to this moment.
Life is the announcer.
I assure you
there are many ways to have a child.
I bastard mother
there are many ways to be born.
They all come forth
in their own grace.
Ends of the earth join tonight
with blazing stars upon thier meeting.
These sons, these sons
fall burning into Asia.
Time comes into it.
Say it. Say it.
The universe is made of stories,
not of atoms.
blazing beside me
you rear beautifully up—
your thinking face—
erotic body reaching
in all its colors and lights—
your erotic face
colored and lit—
not colored body-and-face
but now entire,
colors lights the world of thinking and reaching.
The river flows past the city.
Water goes down to tomorrow
making its children I hear their unborn voices
I am working out the vocabulary of my silence.
Big-boned man young and of my dream
Struggles to get the live brid out of his throat.
I am he am I? Dreaming?
I am the bird am I? I am the throat?
A brid with a curved beak.
It could slit anything, the throat-bird.
Drawn up slowly. The curved blades, not large.
Bird emerges wet being born
Begins to sing.
My night awake
staring at the broad rough jewel
the copper roof across the way
thinking of the poet
yet unborn in this dark
who will be the throat of these hours.
No. Of those hours.
Who will speak these days,
if not I,
if not you?
[from the small world department: was doing laundry last night at Laundryland in Mt. Pleasant, and the guys next to us was wearing a silver jews hat.]