Buzzing Wire Vaguely Song

Check out other work in the Uncollected series here.

Check out other work in the Uncollected series here.

Check out other work in the Uncollected series here.

Check out other work in the Uncollected series here.

My company for eternity

Would be “onerous”

Said the devil

And that is how second hell started

I called to the cloying

The grating, the unambitiously mean

With no small pride

I say we are many

It is kind of hard shaving your asshole.

It’s a bit of a blind spot really. I have many.

Blind spots, not assholes.

Why do I do it? I do it like I do many things.

Like writing poems.

I am wondering if poems are like assholes–

hard to find, delicate,

somewhere you shouldn’t go near with a razor.

Yet we feel compelled. I even listen with razors.

If I was like Burroughs and could

write a man to teach an asshole to talk,

what would it say? Mine always looks angry

at least in the mirror. Mirrors are funny though.

In a car once with my brother, I heard

an interview in which DFW said

he believed something down to his asshole.

What he believed, I can’t remember

even at the time it didn’t seem

as interesting as the fact he could

feel that belief in his asshole.

I’ve never felt anything that deep.

Maybe my sphincter lacks conviction?

I’ll deal with that later. For tonight

my little rosebud will have to be content

with being groomed: bald and beautiful.

Now I realize a poet asks a lot

when he asks the reader to contemplate his asshole.

It is a little past “don’t go there”

and more into “what the fuck?”

If you are still reading, thank you for indulging me.

Where do poems come from and why do I like them

is a knotted mystery to me.

Tipping my seat to DFW I never fail to feel

that kind of uncertainty where the poems don’t shine.

When we meet
We always meet in Steve’s head.
I invite him over he says great
But has always forgotten something
Or remembered something
And so we are comfortable again
Inside his head.

Dan Pharo, King of Eygpt,
lives where motley is born.
The tackle of ornaments,
Mod yeatspeare gone.
And my line?
Fill a bucket with a hole.
Catches me on the corny.
On the weary.
Crowd dearer,
if I’m the solution,
what could the problem be.
We bleed our enemies
to give them their senses,
Dan Pharo said.

I don’t care/don’t care (9)

flower of you with arrow offshot (8)

I make train the way I go (7)

those two talked, quiet on the blossom,
wise or not, of a blind spot (7)

I, error, I (6)

to gnoss is to know (6)

If you lack time, don’t (6)

I see here a trend
for the greatness you lack (6)

be that grass lies
how untrue
the importance of elsewhere
as attention removed
swan: diagonal on the water
hardly an epiphany

Poem, write!
Hands, move!
Hard to say else where
Didn’t move
Couldn’t lie in one line
Over?–no, I thought..oh well,
Swan Ted.