Monday, January 14, 2019

A Gorgeously Liberal Infinite Art

[Prose & rhyme (mostly prose) which makes flagrant mention of discarded pizza slices and artist and friend Adam Kurtzman, and the uses to which all the above might be put.]
There were a number of such slices of pizza as this
strewn about the sidewalk and street on the lowest stretch
(just above Houston) of First Avenue this morning –
I envisioned pizza slices like ammo shooting out the door,
flung by someone who’d flipped out in a high drama LES snit
in L’il Frankie’s at 3 a.m.- anyway I quick-shot a pic of
a particularly representative slice a moment before one
of those big noisy street sweepers on rollers scarfed it up,
because it seemed to me it would be wonderful as the model
for the prototype of a ceramic pizza slice - I could show it
to Adam Kurtzman so he could make and multiply it into
triangles that might profitably be featured, say, between
and among Wegman’s glittering mosaic Weimaraners
at the 6th ave 23rd Street Subway Station. It further struck me
as an accomplished phenom that pizza had become
the Food Most Turned To By Reflex in New York (influenced
by shops for 99 cent pizza which, by the by, is helping to keep
untold numbers of hungry people alive) - it has long outrun
bagels and Nathan’s hot dogs as the iconic comestible most
now to be associated with New York City.  I think therefore

it ought to be on New York City municipal flags and notices
and stationery and official mayor’s office reports and every last
little civic bit of what the city proclaims it is, wants, does
and will do. And then some chic civic food artisan can come up

with an edible morass of Oedipal PizzaApplePizzaApple
and serve it all the time, gratis, everywhere to everyone and
maybe, finally, at just the moment the first somebody slurps
up a spoon of it, the shift we’ve awaited to a new paradigm

will slip into gear as effortlessly as Helvetica seemed overnight
to conquer any notion that there could be any more quintessential
American font for Volkswagen and Barbie Dolls: something
unlooked-for in the looked-for thing you found would once again
become our Arbiter. But as nothing ever had and nothing ever
would, it couldn’t succeed in swaying us into identically nervous
marionettes, were it even to want to do so: no, the Apollonian
rod up our ass would always split and divide simultaneously

with great clouds of gas catastrophically whooshing forth
randomly (not seemingly randomly) from that ass
to obscure the whole business, erase every finely
etched line and then there’d be time for rhyme,
and all would therefore be well
when the certainties got back
to looking like certainties –
which let them get out of Hell
to regale us, to detail the features
Of Kurtzman’s jeweled pizzas:
an opaline prism and jism parade.
Bodies and souls may be made
and behave, if you like, like a fart
but in fact, both in toto and part,
they’re the product and source, 
and the end and the start
of a gorgeously infinite liberal art.


adam kurtzman, opaline glass pieces for lamp shade
Instagram image

Sunday, January 13, 2019

My Muse, Some Random Views

She ministers to shimmering unlikelihoods,
persuading them to congregate and conjugate and flow –
she gathers all-but-slaughtered colors so abused
by notions of il faut they’d long ago forgotten where to go –
she gives the great grand quantity of the ejected
some experience, not of the stodgy condescension
of respect, but of the gladder gallantry of no-holds-barred
affection – baking in the sexual contextual
expression of Imagination’s oven: she’s a card, seducing
just by introducing any rank unpalatability to any other –
to permit another coalesced impossibility a swooning
entrance to the coven which, as witch, she rules.
She remonstrates against unquestioned tastes
and vindicates most fools. She wears embarrassments
like jewels. I’d like to let her loose in schools.

Thursday, January 10, 2019

What Porno Does Best - or 38 Lines in Search of a Sex Life

Broadcasting breath is what porno does best.
When you’re in the next room from it, mostly you’ll
hear from it agonized gasps, brutish grunts – all the blunt
exhalations that cleave to all desperate schemes meant
to gratify wants, all consigned to a rhythmic alignment
with some well-hung cypher who somewhere is endlessly
pumping an all-purpose rump, unallied with whatever
the beat to whatever the tedious ‘House’ music is that
provides a felonious backdrop – at times to the peel of
a yell that proceeds from what sounds like an orgasmic hell:
the manifest views of a robot whose reflex to conjure
a hastily vacated space to displace human rage at the wreck
and the ruckus of flesh might suggest, one would like
to find tangential reason at least to suspect, that it might
be revealed beyond some tiny bit of a nothing-to-do-
much-with-sex some more interesting dim invocation
of what you are sure you remember was unsentimentally
true: that touch once had mattered, before it got scattered
the way things got scattered (or shattered) in you.
You hadn’t the least thought of dissing pornography
when you decided to sit down to write – and when, then,
was that? Yesterday? Now? Or twenty-six years ago when
you took on more of life than you’d up to then quite had
the balls (to live solo, call chat-lines) to think you could
ever pursue. Then you were four months away from your
forty-first birthday in May – you’re the same distance now
from when, if you have faith, will mark your sixty-eighth –
faith, that is, that you might still do more with a life than
you’ve done up to now, and that now, so you sigh to yourself
(without evidence) you really might have the balls to pursue.
The balls anyway to waylay your voluminous rage at
the wreck and the ruckus of your aging flesh: which suggests,
one would hope to have reason at least to suspect, beyond
scraping up gristly bits of venereal leftovers, dried crusts
of sex, that you follow the lead of what porno does best:
broadcasting breath, your own (for example) – or if you
decide that I really exist, to allow someone else besides
you to opine – that is, to start broadcasting mine.

Tuesday, January 8, 2019

Annaliese and Perdita

Huddling’s a reflex reaction to lack
with too many possible meanings to crack:
just try to imagine what leans and presses,
besieges and stresses, assuages and messes
with these two sisters, Perdita and Annaliese,
whom you see huddling here. Do they
huddle against a fear, the cold, a painful
memory? – do they huddle toward hopes
of love? Do they huddle about who lost
a glove – or where they should go for lunch?
Annaliese means “graced with God’s bounty.”
Perdita means “lost.” Whose soul belongs
in the happier county? Whose soul can’t
meet the cost? As you watch this tight-knit
bunch of two: the serenely golden girl,
and the frazzled hag in blue, we bet you’ve
got more than a hunch. And of course you do.
Most sensible folk would agree with you.
But Annaliese and Perdita brim with surprise.
They’re working out lies to cover their plans
to murder their dad, and to murder their
mother, too (in disguise). Oh, and Annaliese,
in blue, is the fun one – not Perdy, in gold:
she’s a shrew. Ha! And you thought you knew.

Thursday, January 3, 2019

All I Have To Do Right Now

Today I watched a pepperoni pizza give itself
up to two chewing mouths on television –
a commercial for two chewing mouths, I think,
though I do not recall where you can buy them –
and I looked around at the results of my exquisitely
ridiculous good luck at being just where I could
not imagine not existing – what reference
could I have for elsewhere? – and I betook myself
from my warm January New York City private lair –
to tell you I live there is to exult in it – and with
a practiced fine alacrity I wrapped myself into
a long back winter coat and pulled down on my
thug-shaved head a watch cap, also black, which
made me feel like Jean Genet, and made my way
to get two slices from a pepperoni pizza at a pizza
place on Second Avenue around the corner
between Second Street where I reside and Third,
where Quentin Crisp once lived – a handful
of inconsequential minutes with a consequence:
a renewed acquaintance with one patent fact,
that I lived in a place where I profoundly couldn’t
ever be alone. I lived among who knew how many
hundred thousands of New Yorkers in a compass
which expanded within outer city limits to eight
million and a bit. This was lustrously brought
home to me by seeing not more than sixteen
or twenty strangers bustling by me, easily
accommodated by the large capacious freezing
winter night. Because there’s always space for
the anointed denizens of this unbreachable great
center of the Soul, this city that I nonetheless have
breached and now can eat a pizza in and write
a paean to and do a drawing for I do not have the least
compunction to explain or to forgive. All I have to do
right now is all I can’t not do: pizza-fully live.

Wednesday, January 2, 2019

Perfect as a Song

Intellect, Wisdom. Take me to school.
Intellect’s pretty, wisdom is cool.
Perfect as a song. Don’t get along.
“Take a walk, have a talk! Start it from
scratch!” That’s an invite to the Booby
Hatch. As soon as they’re out their Mind
they’re out of their mind where there’s
nothing to find but freedom.
What a terror, what an error that is.
So get back in line, things will be fine:
give it up and have done with it.
(Forget live it up and have fun with it.)

Tuesday, January 1, 2019

The Almost Epic of Rahn-Syd - Exercise in Teleology

There are fashions in gods and on average about only
point-oh-two-three percent of the six trillion divinities
which every twenty-three seconds are loosed on the heedless
oblivious cosmos become something someone remembers
and uses for something to pray to, but who can keep track.
The others are made to vamoose and they do not come back.
When inevitably they discover they’ve quickly spent all
their apportionment of their supposed irresistibly gorgeous
inimitability to precious little avail, they get thrown in the god-
pail and hauled into something that looks like the mouth of
what Jonah jumped into when he met that whale, but is really
the portal to random dimensions into which they’ll fail even
worse than they’ve already done. Then Rahn-Syd, the dog-god
of Flatulence slated by fate to be one of these misfires, decided
if fate was as hateful as that, he would conjure up something
untoward to throw into the infinite vat into which they were
destined to fly and to fester: he was the dog-god of farts,
after all, and he’d learned the supernal fine arts of producing
a literally nonstop onslaught of gas which he aimed at the pass
through which they would have vanished had he not with one
bang (as big as the one that’s hypothesized to have made us)
quite entirely banished it into the void with the rest of its
component stuff. Of course the new universe come into being
quite awfully stank. For that they had Rahn-Syd to thank.
But only I know it. Witness the teleological power of the poet.