Monday, May 18, 2009

Forty-Five Minutes an Hour

“Writing allows us to forget. Reading allows us to forget we forgot.”
- Steve McCaffery

Start with the pen,
thunder in Rym, Ram, Ruff.
A chance stray thought gives way to
the hegemony of the Canadian anecdotal free verse lyric.

Like, it’s in that place I put that thing that time?

There was this guy I saw, on the subway, on the corner, and I have to.
Lest [I] forget.

Take time in hand solo; freeze it in carbon.

Permit my thoughts across the page to lay,
to hold, to feel, to read some distant day.

I like to think of it as giving you a pot,
not to piss in, but for you to pour a
quart of puck you and a pinch of
don’t-give-a-poop and you stir and swallow while I laugh.

I sat with Catullus and talked about bitches who better be giving some poems back asking “Oh where are the ho’s of yesterbeer?”

I rayse the prayse of hir commendacion, with wordes that
fle from me, wich once did [I] seeke.

O God forgive this weed, but I know flies in milk.

Per ardua surgo, Sum ergo cogito,
write, then shout
Illigitimi Non Carborundum and take that!

Thyse shitte be funne.

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