Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 30"

30. A Manifesto for Defeatism

in honor of Matthew Edison Bremer, aka “Sean,” who had everything and took his life

we cannot climb up to the sun
we cannot sink deep in the earth
coming from plenty or from dearth
we cannot change one thing thats done

we cannot separate love from lust
we cannot be but drawn to power
cantering through the hoops of hours
we cannot stop us from being us

we buy the world and we are bought
we sell the lot and we are sold
everything has its price in gold
every thought that will be thought

the west indies poet last night
invoked dante and arnaut daniel
the servers three handsome devils
tipped to the salon full of whites

so tall and beautiful was one
i lost all interest in the voice
going on about chiasmus
and longed to fuck him in the kitchen

he was far too professional
to mix together work and fun
the poet going on about puns
had no qualms about being on call

the good we do produces evil
the evil good despite intent
the web delivers discontent
to the licentious and the lethal

against the will to kill oneself
the agencies have no defence
we cannot stop lifes offence
life cannot comprehend death

Monday, April 29, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 29"


the sun rises and the sun sets one day
the light unclenching its hold on the air
its noticeably colder everywhere
from the east to the west of the usa

a boy is sucking greedily ice pop
his mother checking her phone for updates
a tall black man whizzes by on his skates
a bench where two old faggots had to stop

the reservoir looks as if its on fire
the ducks swim calmly through the burning field
the envelope of day has been unsealed
picture the long decline of empire

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 28"


the sun parading on its blue runway
has changed its chaos into floral chic
up to the minute as soho boutiques
it has passed up bouquets as passe

less is more as the clean shaved well heeled know
flocking to a petite clothes closet
they cinch their beef fed waists in a corset
woman and men and mannequins on show

if you imagine you can fight the trend
consider the spring show now at the met
punk style with its saliva blood and sweat
is catalogued by wintour as high end

no uniform becomes the uniform
in poetry as in pashmina shawls
from glitzy runways to the market stalls
the naked screams do nothing but conform

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 27"


a wedge of the suns landing gear
is lodged between my rotting teeth
the toothpick rescues bits of wreath
charred fat and torn masculature

flossing day and night does not help
the gum burying the bone bleeds
but the whole body has to feed
on prime estate and chinese kelp

mouth striated with lost remains
i orate with a nasty kink
to the blind glass above the sink
breath smelling of dead people’s brains

Friday, April 26, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 26"


the sun a bit of deep programming code
swivels its suspect electronic eye
logging on at hotspots to its wifi
i give away my bearings on the road

wired to love what’s good, i love
to stir my stick in a man’s shithole
and submit to the sun’s social control
though wired to fear what i know not of

a reproductive program gone rogue
at school i am still gainfully employed
to vaccinate the young by being paranoid
of what is in vain and what is in vogue

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Poem: "I wrote a poem yesterday"

Wrote an additional poem today, for Spanish class. My limited vocabulary became a useful constraint.

I wrote a poem yesterday.
It was a sad poem, very sad.
I wanted to tear it up
but it was on the computer.

I wrote a poem day before yesterday.
That one was sad too.
In the poem I went to the river
but the river had no water in it.

I wrote seven poems last week.
They were all sad, very sad.
They followed me to the river
and followed me back home.

I wrote a poem in 1992
that was a happy poem.
I tried to remember it last night
but it has gone down the river.

Yo escribí un poema ayer.
Fue un poema triste, mui triste.
Lo quise romper
pero fue en la computadora.

Yo escribí un poema anteayer.
Este uno fue triste tambien.
En el poema fui al rio
pero el rio no tuvo agua en él.

Yo escribí siete poemas la semana pasada.
Ellos fueron todos tristes, mui tristes.
Me siguieron al rio
y me siguieron a mi casa

Yo escribí un poema en 1992
que fue un poema feliz.
Lo traje recordar anoche
pero él ha ido abajo del rio. 

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 25"


the sun will not stay long enough to broker
ceasefire in terrific zones of death
the day is shot through with decaying breath
the coffee cold the croissant mediocre

i will catch some infection or another
from the untreated slash in someones head
a youtube video of an oyster bed
round razors laved to a gleam by fresh water

a vimeo of a knitted boyfriend strikes
at lonelyhearts and artist wannabes
imagination falls to fantasies
and action is reduced to hitting like

i have set up a facebook author page
invited my five thousand facebook friends
link to it like share follow recommend
or hit my virtual target with your rage

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 24"

i.m. Matthew Edison Bremer


the sun was high the morning he bottomed
by a pool tastefully appointed with books
the all-american with esquire good looks
so young he could have just come from the prom

high too when he was tag-teamed by two men
their cocks stuffing his hungry mouth and ass
highest when fucking the big-boob stewardess
he brought ken to his knees sucking his glans

overdosed on prescription medicine
provided, some say, by a kindly client
in life he went by matt on screen by sean
no matter now the worms have him in turn

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 23"


out of the datsun whizzing through the sky
shoots a wad from a politico
into the oval office fellatio
delivers with last names like lewinsky

the obvious phallus of a congressman
stretching his gray cotton boxer briefs
is sent to followers via a tweet
the media say we get off on attention

there will be less and less for everyone
as our free-for-all intensifies
power and sex and power and sex
will divvy up the vision of the sun

Monday, April 22, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 22"


crushing the burntout sun under my heel
i stomp both feet to get the blood flowing
the trees are stuck between dying and growing
the water is too weak against the wheel

the women on the exercise machines
are back after a guilty hiatus
the men are flexing their deltoideus
pumped up by growth-enhancement vitamins

they chase an image of their sunny youth
receding further even as they strive
they age at twenty-four or twenty-five
the trees are pushing north while heading south

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 21"

from The New York Times


theres nothing new under the sun
the present is a product of the past
and will surrender at long last
to a future bristling with guns

a boy skateboarding toward me
as i am running in the park
we raise our spirits to the mark
of the dark eyes of enmity

at the last moment the cunt swerves
just missing my battering ram
a voice inside exults i am
the man because i hold my nerve

Saturday, April 20, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 20"


hurtling around the sun itself spinning
at dizzying speeds in differential circles
a wave of subatomic particles
dies on the bat in the day’s last inning

that fine metallic ping in the spring air
draws in its wake a low approving roar
and then a vast communal silence soars
through the sound barrier bursting into cheers

around the field the music of the spheres
echoes in one wild dionysian pitch
until the noise reduces to a twitch
i hold my head blood dripping from my ears

Friday, April 19, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 19"


the sun shines everywhere but here it calls
forth from the road a restless perky rage
all the old world has crossed a players’ stage
the new is squatting from an urban sprawl

so big a country but only one story
and it is not about the wounded knee
the crippled canters for the blind to see
and death as they say is a kind of journey

form does not exist in the incomplete
meaning does not stay in the ongoing
the poem of the open road singing
can’t understand positions of defeat

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 18"


sunday like any other day of the week
begins the work of filling up the time
the hours integral empty sublime
present so many unravished physiques

a white boy fifteen or sixteen of age
honey for hair runs past in tennis shorts
i unzip my jeans and take out my cock
behind the new york times and turn a page

minutes later his older brother shows
bulging a navy blue college sweatshirt
his rowboat legs pumping along the dirt
my dick hardens unbearably below

he comes again this time pushing a stroller
in front of him as he runs after his youth
thicker in the waist longer in the tooth
and jogging back and forth as if bipolar

the final figures are predictable
the crumpled suit the shaky gouty walk
i close my eyes and whack my wilting cock
the spirit willing but the flesh unable

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 17"


flying across the cut and pasted sun
a chiseled father saves his tumbling boy
emerging from the shadow gates of troy
a woman runs toward agamemnon

no one no movement in this corridor
constructed by an old drawing program
above the photograph four videocams
watch the airless space inside the maw

i cannot tear my eyes away for dread
a grin has opened in the continuum
a tree beckons with multiplying arms
this beady blackbird with a bluish head

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 16"


the system of the sun the net
is streaming videos of the blast
no one escapes from the broadcast
of mayhem and the terror threat

someone sincere a hacktivist
has broken in and gained access
the rootkit set in our recess
he works with other idealists

they want to combat code with code
they always get what they phish for
very soon all that we wish for
we get too when we press download

Monday, April 15, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 15"


the sun once shone so gently from my limbs
this snap of me on college lawn doth show
and he fawn-like yet milky as a doe
drew every ray of light from me to him

i was a god and he my first creation
but matters were as though the other way
a deer called forth the dawn out of the day
a god could kiss a tail in adoration

the wonder is imprisoned in the snap
the roebucks on this island crawl with ticks
the sun appears like a cardsharper’s trick
or burnished as the past a burning trap

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 14"


without a doubt the sun from house to house
flushes out the subversive elements
brother betrays brother to the agents
the son drags forth the mother by her blouse

words fall in line behind the party line
or else escape with papers underground
the suspects are required to walk around
with foreheads branded with a dollar sign

having denounced my love to the committee
i podcast verses to the greater love
of sexual rights and scientific proof
love’s anti-authority authority

i should fall silent at so fraught a time
a decent man would choose not to speak
but when the world offers its other cheek
i have to torch the fat off with a rhyme

and when my usefulness is finally done
finally will come a knuckle on my door
at least i hope to be accounted for
by the incomparable agents of the sun

Saturday, April 13, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 13"


i have been barking at the sun the bone
that will not drop into my raving maw
until commissioned fast to shock and awe
the bomb is tossed by a cruising drone

I have been watching porn and buying books
knowing a history of all my searches
so purely indicative of my urges
is open to the state and to its crooks

what do I go for in the catalogue
the causes are so many and so urgent
gay rights i like bomb the koreans i comment
the dialectic is changed into dialogue

a tap of a key the hot money moves
a woman climaxes and a drone flies

Friday, April 12, 2013

Poem: "A Position of Defeat 12"


the foreskin of the sun a mottled black
laved by bonus tubes of antiseptic cream
the meatus passes an untreated stream
of blood-flecked pus and semi-solid dreck           

the bath drainer sprouts tiny clumps of hair
between my fingers the material
i rub and jack off to the smell of cells
shooting into the wall a croix de guerre

the cracks between the eyes are filled with grout
the body lathered with the sweat of butter
from neck to haunch from inner thighs to outer
ablutions done whitewashed grave walks out