wake up, rod

Several N.B.'s: I found it incredibly hard (&emotional &soul shattering, but in the good way) to write this poem. God damn you Jon. +237 points for making me think like a motha fuckah and feel like a poet again. The only way I could conceive of this poem was visually, so for your viewing pleasure, I have attached a drawing of sorts (I'm really hoping this will score me at least 30 points). I saw the assignment as a magnet toward or away entropy, with the first and fifth sections edging on organized, rational, ordered. The second and fourth became increasingly chaotic--entropy at its sexiest. Followed by the middle section: absence/void/the black holy suck force. The way it came out was surprisingly Gertrude Stein-esque. In fact, the title was taken from the poem A Carafe, That is a Blind Glass, from Tender Buttons. I'll shut up now, because it's 2AM. I'm falling asleep & still deciding if this is the best way to look at it and if the theme I chose a...

Zion I(reflect.) the fridge, restless, gotten into wood grain, pressed, varnished an incompletion in the kitchen, cheeks of cornstarch and saffron, architect eye drifting, wandering, obscene the appliance uprising, the discarded army a rosary of sausage, the detritus of the Aesir, I find secret stashes in the subwoofer holes, bits of God, broken into chunks by beautiful air hammers. blue note(specific.) With water of body, from out of myself, I build a monument of blue coral for the broken of body. With a gauntlet of lionfish I fashion striped crowns. Within a pool of salt, burn eye-words with other, strap tin-fish to moans to make the world imperative. raised 4th(hosanna.) declare a bible, break this beast with rocks declare a pit of lions feed the Tigris God, do not delay in sending your prophet. the wolves are hungry and your arrows no longer slay flattened seventh(peak.) strap water jugs to seatbelts, ...

... sort of. Sorry guys, after much rewriting, I ended up breaking the rules; this is a four-parter in which one and four do the mirrored mamba, but I'm left out of the high-fiver symmetry. Deal with it. I love you anyway. Likeness I. Throat hoarse from swallowing the sword of my mother’s silence, too dumb to know I’m doom -struck too, I find nothing easy to be true. 1993. We visited Aunt Sue in southern Jersey where I stood gaping at a naked skeleton, picked clean by a painter’s brush, a coyote, a too-blue sky. What is that? I asked, afraid. Georgia O’Keefe, she said, She’s famous. It’s called Pelvis. Pelvis Two. I stuck out my tongue. Even then, I knew of the coyote, of how his hunger gnaws and gums, seduces, similes just a facsimile of tonguecell barbs. The smooth lick over the hook. Mother. II. Lonely as an unopened letter, clinging to your cotton sweater. 2008. We soaked in subfusc the day of his death until we both smelled of salt and sweet mea...

arguments on penetration Top (I) It’s not enough to want him open you have to pry, wrench, lie, spit, slide your tongue-sounds through his ear-holes, beg like wolf to pig: I will fry you in your own grease. It’s just enough to want him open, the rest is in the finger-mouth-epithet triumvirate, spitting dirt-coarse lies through powdered teeth, wolves are familiar with the things conceived darkly in estrus but pigs know their meat is sweet and salt to taste. Bottom (II) There are limits, but you do not know them, do not heed the ache if there’s more to stretch. There are limits and as you approach them you are full of light, eyes brave with light and lust when light fails. There are limits for the pig crying whee – the wolf knocking hard, blowing, houses bending, the tender meat tendered rough from the ham of the beast – satisfaction lies in the taste of the things prepared darkly. Flip (III) There is one language that flesh speaks: in grunts and gasps, sighs and shudders. ...