As/Is







5.26.2011


from Apparition Poems (#1642)



#1642

People need to understand that you can make
a difference these days. Alright, so the system’s
trash, we make a new system. Or, if we don’t,
we change the system. People don’t realize that
there is a “we” but I’ve seen it with my own eyes,
this really is still (no matter what anyone says) the
greatest country in the world and you have to be
a part of it and you have to try and change things.
It’s not like I condone all my own methods, but
I’m a woman and you have to use what you have,
and when you see these guys with their pants
down (and I’ve seen all kinds of guys with their
pants down), you really get a sense of the humanity
of America and Americans and how all the threads
really do tie everything together and my methods
work for me, there is no judgment though some
may insist on judging. You have to understand
what the important judgment really is: are you
an American or are you not? Do you care or do
you not? Not everything I do can be as perfect
as I want it to be but the important thing is, I’m
building, I’m going somewhere with this. There’s
a place for me somewhere in this administration
and I just have to find it, and I’m a determined
American woman with a big heart and it’s not
like others don’t do the things I do. There are
times when I’m in the middle of these things and
all I can do is visualize the American flag because
it still means something, that red, white, and blue
is woven into my entire body and my whole brain
and everything else. The times where anyone can
say screw it are over and done with, and it’s time
for the real Americans to stand up and do what
needs to be done so that the red, white, and blue don’t
fade into the kind of blackness I see all around me
in Washington. To think, I could’ve wasted my life.

#1562, 1642 on PennSound








5.25.2011


This Isn't History, It's an Episode

My story is pretty simple—

Because I couldn’t finish a novel
My life begins

In a nation that does not exist yet

The icon & I weren’t personally close
Our family fled their orchards—

From medieval kabbalists
To 20th century refugees—

Our fury seems particularly apparent here

In a nation that does not exist yet

Where actors are hired to read scripts
& pretend
To be real people

My uncle told me—

This week’s parasha introduces a medium
For distinguishing truth
From falsehood—

That was my life

I was giving up
I was going back home

My uncle told me—

On the radio, things aren’t so simple

Leaving the icon to believe
One of two things—

A river was there
& it had two banks








5.04.2011


from Apparition Poems: #1651


#1651

What’s this about making moves, said
the apprentice? I’ve got irons in the fire
with all these pieces, isn’t that enough?
To have mastered how the fire works,
so that each piece burns right down: it’s
not the only move that matters, but as
I just made a line of rooks rather than
pawns, what else could possibly get my
goat? The master heard this, appearing

limber, but quite chained to the voices
that were taking away the tools he used
to put his apprentices in their places. I
have nothing to say about this, he said,
as he wiped beads of sweat from a brow
that furrowed so intensely that all his
enemies insisted he had dark ties. Just
make rows of rooks instead of pawns,
and you will find yourselves kings and

queens. They all left him that night, after
dumping the ashes in a river that ran in
back of the workshop, into a black sea.


#1651 on PennSound





from "Apparition Poems"


#1340

Arms folded over chest
(as the man on the four of
Swords), she paints inside
a box-like carven space,
(dank edges only seen on
the outside), light filters in
from small square windows,
I hover over her, I’m this
that she wants, but what
she needs is to once again
feel what avalanches can’t
reach this head so full of
color, ribbons, blueness.



#1341

Secrets whispered behind us
have a cheapness to bind us
to liquors, but may blind us
to possibilities of what deep
secrets are lost in pursuit of
an ultimate drunkenness that
reflects off surfaces like dead
fishes at the bottom of filthy
rivers— what goes up most is
just the imperviousness gained
by walking down streets, tipsy,
which I did as I said this to her,
over the Schuylkill, two fishes.

#1342

What’s in what eyes?
What I see in hers is
mixed greenish silence,
somewhat garish, it’s
past girlish (not much),
but I can’t touch her
flesh (set to self-destruct),
anymore than she can
understand the book
her cunt is, that no one
reads directly, or speaks
of, there’s no love other
than “could be,” but I
think of her throat cut—
that’s her slice of smut.








5.03.2011


Try Submitting to 'Pider, A New Poetry/Art Mag

raymond,


me and a friend are propping up an online journal under the title of 'Pider, and I am hoping you may be able to somehow spread that tid-bit of information around to those who would be interested. we are looking for puncher's fists, lost infantries of troops, hungry sleep.


one may send submissions of text, art, .mp3's... to: Piderbits@gmail.com


what do ya think?


mj








5.01.2011


Otoliths 21 Is On Line Now

It has been 5 sweet years since Mark Young began putting out Otoliths. In that period of time he has been one of the most generous publisher/editors in the game.
It is my contention that effort such as his should be supported, so visit Otoliths and enjoy the fruits of Mark's labor.

My poems may be viewed at http://the-otolith.blogspot.com/2011/03/raymond-farr-investigating-future-tense.html