Joe Brainard: Poem (1971) by Mikko Kuorinki
You are an open text box when I don’t know what to say, which is, it seems, somewhat appropriate. You are indefinite and unreliable despite the fact that you are certain and sure. You are here when I need you, yet you wait for me. Without me, you’re nothing, it seems. With me, with my words, you…
Not just knee deep, she was going knee deep
when she did the freak with me
—George Clinton
Here Comes the Rain Again
South of New York by some 8 hours flying
there’s a place in the mountains called Xela Ju Noj
where it rains hard and deep
to the point where people cannot cross the streets
which are built with high embankments
so that the street becomes a river
and there’s a tall man
who you hand one or two quetzales
and he will scoop you up
and carry you across
find more at Ralph’s Blog
Ode to a Bathroom Window by Ralph-Michael Chiaia
My head aches, and a floating numbness bastes
my neurons because vodka got drunk
again, the bottle emptied itself past my dull tastes
the bottle followed a nymph towards debauchery
holding her head in my lap
contriving to impale her with the hardest part.
Snap out ready of this taxi nap!
Who wants of wantonness?
of shadowy lust? I help her up the stairs
then hear her full throated ease
into the toilet. Asleep on the bed,
my bowels need to unfurl what I’ve been fed
tonight. The faucet leaks with sonorous whaps
a musty stench combined with the raw
intestinal sewage of the nymph’s rotting innards accrue
phosphaturia with it’s waterfall sounds queue
and the phosphorescent chemical attack via jaw
all have one thing to save them, thrown wide-open elf of adieu,
I pick up the pink with black lace, g-string wet in the sink
an aberration to the dank, the dirty, and the stink
and return to the bed a man of review and armor
to deflower this smooth girl’s empty-stomach’d honor
my neurons because vodka got drunk
again, the bottle emptied itself past my dull tastes
the bottle followed a nymph towards debauchery
holding her head in my lap
contriving to impale her with the hardest part.
Snap out ready of this taxi nap!
Who wants of wantonness?
of shadowy lust? I help her up the stairs
then hear her full throated ease
into the toilet. Asleep on the bed,
my bowels need to unfurl what I’ve been fed
tonight. The faucet leaks with sonorous whaps
a musty stench combined with the raw
intestinal sewage of the nymph’s rotting innards accrue
phosphaturia with it’s waterfall sounds queue
and the phosphorescent chemical attack via jaw
all have one thing to save them, thrown wide-open elf of adieu,
I pick up the pink with black lace, g-string wet in the sink
an aberration to the dank, the dirty, and the stink
and return to the bed a man of review and armor
to deflower this smooth girl’s empty-stomach’d honor
found this and believe it’s my version of “Ode to a Nightingale”
during my massive John Keats phase (which thankfully has passed)
Zzzz
Sleep, dear, fleeting sleep, in
such small portions you seep
into my world as I am curled
up hoping my sanity I can
keep. Oh snoozing is not
losing when in my mind I dream. I
am at peace under the sheets, the
landscapes agleam. Precious
dozing, as not so closed
in, all my fears I can
not see. I am the narrator, I am the
creator, all the stories are for me. So I am drifting
the weights are lifting from my shoulders not hunched. Sweet
serenity, calm amenity, no nerves bunched.
