any idea?

Would you ever write a poem with the line "not concerned about ever arriving" in it (we're talking a non-ironic sense here)? An American poet not much of my acquaintance, W.S. Merwin, did in the 6 June edition of The New Yorker (no, I don't subscribe, I got a good dentist).

And then there's this other bloke, C.K. Williams (what's wit the initials wit these guys, eh?), in the same issue with some lame poem about a tiny insect (a fly, a midge, I want to know) being compared and/or contrasted with Tsvetayeva's essays. Is this a cop-out or what? Isn't this so done.

The New Yorker is, like, a major player, an institution. They must have da money to pay for good stuff, not crapola. Please explain! Or are these guys the real cream cheese and I just don' geddit.

el culo de bettie

Bettie holds up all she'll want, trunk and flowers
she’s bored by a doll, slip off the pretty
she sits on not merely her beauty

don’t pretend you’re in the long hall for peekaboo
forget it, she’s no ghost girl
but full of promises, all of those “36 Flavors” at once

taste the good side, that boop pose
her candy showing pink, a hold of each cheek
they speak to one another

seated in that good place
smoothed with the purple swells with doing
she’ll not surrender her back

says no, the one who does the choosing
she holds up there in abundance
no matter what language you speak.


Taking up Didi's challenge.

of further

it's getting to the cold
but I repaired the truth of the cover
as if this excuses morning
in its fragile network
dirty mud, small wheels, obstructed rock

the horizon is snaky and green
you form clouds
it looks that smooth
my hand spikes the material
the zone extends the zone

blue could be finished
in the work of lightyellow
water introduces the edge to blur
folding the other method
the wing, the movement

rubber, tobacco
the other stench
the chilled dusk
each possible surprise
mine in the flight of order

not the facts

data ignited its lagoon, flowers burnishing the delay
as if it’s never simple as this

fear arrived - don’t doubt the price
this is exact, ruins under scarlet & an efficient fist

when the smoothest languages will be carried out
which will be a garden?

too much is delayed to recover ours
& sequences?

this whole sensitivity was lost in the surface
in the shovel of pleasure

rage forms roofs, to persecute, decree models that sweat
& the wall, my winter

the morning was a time of patience, of my colours
the losses, only inclinations

to kiss them and not drink them, with intention
broad with the hour, calm, to be

is mine the fear, when the day goes external
part of the square

feeding material, packing and spillages of strength
in the tide

trees align avenues that wake up wide with distance
a taste draining detail

as if in a dream, a legend fainting amongst facts
or preferring duration

on practice

and slow, mobile, practical
from land, the temporal

continuous exposure of natures
go and go

pages re-enter and speak equally
here, if they demand

extravagence in the body
amplitude of the a

poetries, no excuses
someone feels it in matter

which thing can form
words in blots

fish of Confusion, the cut and more
one old shape

all technologies modify
fragments recovery

more interesting
the intermediate bodies

the houses, automobiles
approximate lucent

which thoughts you speak
and speech be with you

hats poem

Night extends to satisfy the sky
One night hotels excite themselves with argument

Oh, that it presses on my head!
not necessity but forms of presence

The space, the yellow dog, that one iron gate
the brim, a sliding terrazzo

Consider, it was interruption
surrounding time, a house, a dream

Prepare to face order, contact faces
what decree creates the hour, an hour that's whole and works

Days before days

If the confidence of the hour takes the stairs to return
and comes low, the end is average

And help, in my opinion
all these hats relate to something!

together and part

if memory is an aversion of skin
its oil is a determined substance

if flowers are the ones you contact
they will have caused you more pain

were speech that mildewed
it explains the packing of the world

let the negligence in night
separate the dense sighs

what delays explain autumn
that you had been assembling so smoothly

chains

chains
perforate fear
how they align

data
extended to
chains companies borders

clutch
prohibits repair
layers equip experts

where
substance ends
arrive, touch chains

it's
easy to
be executed, accumulated

inconsolable
the tangent
of a sigh

whatever, night comes the cool and I hear the sound, travelling the rev, and I listen, but night doesn't listen, it is and moves until dawn. what if I whisper ... no, even that is not the sound, much too personal. the night revs and that's all ... speak into darkness and all that is is a sound after another sound.

whatever comes next