Sigizmund Solomon
SOME SUBJECTS OF CONCERN TO OUR MODERN GLOBAL SOCIETY (and some that merely ought to be)
SNOW: does it always follow directly The acquittal of some corrupt politician Undeserved Or does it merely precede holidays CYBORGS: How do they do it Do they do it with big hammers Or is electricity involved. Are they happy afterwards TELEVISIONS: how do they work? Are they on our side Do they still like to eat DVDs or do they suck magic From the air for secret purposes Are these purposes the same as our Purposes FRIENDS: HOW intricately linked to survival Are they. Can we really afford to circle around amusement Must they be definitely instead About survival. Or even alliances Against the big silence Which is not dangerous to your body (And therefore can’t end you directly) But is still a bad threat. Are they allies Or are they looking for a laugh “The question is, since It is a holiday, and snowing, do we Gather because we want to, or Because we have to; what Do we secretly want” We know what they were for in the olden days but what are they for now?? TRAPS: Do they do it on purpose or just like you so much Do they love you Does it get easier to get out of them if You have friends or harder if There is snow Do cyborgs make traps or dismantle them
Franki Bernard
REBIRTH
Cicadas go boom like the retort of summer: Please recall to pucker up; Because your power explodes like bonk cream and maniacs kissing rabbit feet. O before war roamed remembering O roaming now cyber wars Then how we used to be bored by helicopters because they came down and annunciated us with their stupid noise! Wol Warbo
SO ANYWAY THE MOON
Life! Life, come and do your absolute worst . . . — but gracefully! Why without grace? for me — I have none. I, somebody’s type at least, without legs, find the concrete! This, though it had nothing to do with me or these events, hit me at my core. like the thirst of a dead friend who, tired out, enters the barrenness of sleep’s sweet city, nights lost again among sleeping doors; Horrible destroyers of candles and dawns damagers of fond thoughts of distant friends, wanting to damage my little thirsty heart, and the push and pull began assaulting the dawn with its lips and its piles of trash, oh how it all passes by like a lunar somersault, emissaries who bend under the late afternoon’s caress, apprehending little flowers tender and dead as the past and trembling hatchets in the hands of troubled youths surmounted by delirious passions, as from the other end of the bridge enclosed in thick night as out of it swept these humans wanting to take me out to lunch and murder the listening part of my personality, curing me of any desire to listen to the dawn’s moan . . . as these officers burst from the mysterious darkness of the far end of the bridge a stampede of officers with no mouths bursting toward us Towards the malicious mess of doors of this “paradise” they were gesturing, as if to say: some tender night during which to embrace these furious giants so decadent, almost like Europeans everything preceding this, none of it has ever been so horrible, All obscure loves, abandoned, not so permanent, completely alone in a room with their own convictions affirmed: How did you think time progresses? Have them arrest this vision. O rumors, o visions! Leave us alone to dance with the brutally affectionate Night! Me? I’d like to change a lot, including especially the fact that there’s no happy ending even with the governor’s defeat. And the chanting of these infants. rather than disappear among corpses in the valleys of cowardice and mania death versus vivacity what has totally become the inhabitants of our city O sensations, o accusers of me for my infinite limits! O sensations, o shattered jaws of fate during Masquerade! Fate comes unhinged! O boners, that you can never nullify or elude me! As all this is going down, nooses catch the roses along the esplanade, they’re hanging the roses at the gallows, a case of mistaken identity. The bandits by the riverside, the trueculprits, drink their fill, torture the roses with their indifferent laughter, and vow (at a certain point of drunkenness) to avenge themselves, the bandits, even though they haven’t been wronged, since they got away with it. is just like that of the bandits and the knife in the fist at her side trembled fast escalators on which one could stand to go get oil from the moon! trying not to be in the way or collide. o treasures of life, o traveling anywhere for any reason but to tend to my ailments Mathematics suspended and vanquished by the night! The blandest horrors dance with trivial terrors in the picnic basket of reality. I’m extracted by my own legs walking. We that failed, who somersault in the Spring wherever you see the sunlight burst, as if a Labrador’s fangs were installed into his tilting lips death denied its travel visa so often that it sails away — Speaking of the walls of my arrest — You arranged to please the dollars chewing distractedly the horizon. Once, in goldener days, I fell asleep on a kitchen floor with a sore throat, next to someone, almost almost entirely in someone’s arms Days as eternal as this one, they’re ingenuous, a flock of pigeons (how great are pigeons). On and on rear those deadly pegasuses deleted vessels suffering like shadows their own murderous bodies bonded to night at the bottom of their stomachs. We’re as far from the salt-reddened doors of night as can be. There’s no one yet to notice me. And I copy the song of vertigo, wending awake down the avenue, disarranged all I am and divided. For just an instant I’ve entered all cities, seen this moron in front of a cigarette, my entrance passing along the shadows of no train, my escalator of blood coming desperately out my teeth and floating around my eyes like the days and the years making the traces of time soar around in a panic to destroy the instants that created them, hastening my misery and the misery of babies new to this drama, instantly translucent like the sky and growing their first teeth, who enter the races, crazy with teeth like me, me, occupied always by my expulsion from the frolicking delirium of thoughtlessness, always alone in the sun since mercury circulates in my bloodstream, I’m like a lunatic tree whose fruit puts a sword through its own trunk. I recalled a night on the beach, drunk and feeling like a creep, when I talked to the ocean half-convinced it was God and asked it serious questions. The wind, cold unlike the waves moving warm and thoughtful on my feet as if to calm me down. But I have the conscience of an eyeball that’s gouged out any time it has to look directly at anything so I didn’t listen for answers: Reflecting my boredom, our nation in the outer-world laughing like a narc snorting star-shards with the addicts breaking into a laboratory. We’re as far from the doors of night as can be. a moron in front of a cigarette always alone in the sun Even lively lives involve, like any other, marauding and then retiring, soft revolvers hot to the touch, pulses that no person can fit into their fragile wrists, sending their silences to disembowel the caves of dancing veins: Sun, this cadaver so thirsty all the time in ponds that you turn gold, There is in its wake the sound of a lonely wind powered by our desolation, we hollow-eyed left-behinds. like mountains emptied at the first sign of sun and most of all the alarming cruelty that one sees on display in the valleys — its own special kind, It was like becoming a new agent of the universe and marching down an opulent avenue as tall as my heart, because even if it dies this ballet of ours at this corner of Saint Vincent Street will still limp north towards the world. as a voice like trees tasting for the first time their own fruits, trees with tongues for the first time ever, rattled around in my head, So the moon: I met the most beautiful world-person today and ate their thoughts
Vista Langup
THE PEARL FISHERS
His accusers were appeased, mulling it over. I always thought the wind came as a wall but watching the flowers twitch you could tell it moves in tendrils