Redeemed Area
by John Ashbery
Do you know where you live? Probably.
Abner is getting too old to drive but won’t admit it.
The other day he got in his car to go buy some cough drops
of a kind they don’t make anymore. And the drugstore
has been incorporated into a mall about seven miles away
with only about half the stores rented. There are three
other malls within a four-mile area. All the houses
are owned by the same guy, who’s been renting
them out to college students for years, so they are virtually uninhabitable.
A smell of vitriol and socks pervades the area
like an open sewer in a souk. Anyway the cough drops
(a new brand) tasted pretty good-like catnip
or an orange slice that has lain on a girl’s behind.
That’s the electrician calling now
nobody else would call before 7 A.M. Now we’ll have some
electricity in the place. I’ll start by plugging in
the Christmas tree lights. They were what made the whole thing
go up in sparks the last time. Next, the light
by the dictionary stand, so I can look some words up.
Then probably the toaster. A nice slice
of toast would really hit the spot now. I’m afraid it’s all over
between us, though. Make nice, like you really cared,
I’ll change my chemise, and we can dance around the room
like demented dogs, eager for a handout or they don’t
know what. Gradually, everything will return to normal, I
promise you that. There’ll be things for you to write about
in your diary, a fur coat for me, a lavish shoe tree for that other.
Make that two slices. I can see you only through a vegetal murk
not unlike coral, if it were semi-liquid, or a transparent milkshake.
I have adjusted the lamp;
morning’s at seven,
the tarnish has fallen from the metallic embroidery, the walls have fallen,
the country’s pulse is racing. Parents are weeping,
the schools have closed.
All the fuss has put me in a good mood,
O great sun.
Santa
by Donald Britton
Santa is the incomplete
Embodiment of our charity. Poor Santa,
His many bodies minted
Of human waste, his voice the choir
Of his own need. I feel so empty,
By myself, whispering my lists
In Santa’s spiral ear, while he lists
Slightly to one side like skeet
Propelled into the air by a device
No human hand has touched, so obsolete
Is effort when a dime skims ice.
Emit a cry for every useless thing:
Abundant padding so contrived
No one of us shall feel deprived.
Ranting
by Megan Green
ranting, pathetic insecurities, overwhelm the Christmas tree, and you promise
me a utopia, a sort of subsequential America,
where we’ll fuck & eat & play the craps, Las
Vegas is the only place it’ll happen, &
yet the nameless, intrude like a swarm of fucking locusts
feasting upon the Satin drape of my finest
face, I believe your chest most of all, that’s where
the dragon begins, & the sigh
spills from my eyes. Dead petals favour the corners. Gathering
like they have plans.
Making the Best of the Holidays
by James Tate
Justine called on Christmas day to say she
was thinking of killing herself. I said, “We’re
in the middle of opening presents, Justine. Could
you possibly call back later, that is, if you’re
still alive.” She was furious with me and called
me all sorts of names which I refuse to dignify
by repeating them. I hung up on her and returned
to the joyful task of opening presents. Everyone
seemed delighted with what they got, and that
definitely included me. I placed a few more logs
on the fire, and then the phone rang again. This
time it was Hugh and he had just taken all of his
pills and washed them down with a quart of gin.
“Sleep it off, Hugh,” I said, “I can barely under-
stand you, you’re slurring so badly. Call me
tomorrow, Hugh, and Merry Christmas.” The roast
in the oven smelled delicious. The kids were playing
with their new toys. Loni was giving me a big
Christmas kiss when the phone rang again. It was
Debbie. “I hate you,” she said. “You’re the most
disgusting human being on the planet.” “You’re
absolutely right,” I said, “and I’ve always been
aware of this. Nonetheless, Merry Christmas, Debbie.”
Halfway through dinner the phone rang again, but
this time Loni answered it. When she came back
to the table she looked pale. “Who was it?” I
asked. “It was my mother,” she said. “And what
did she say?” I asked. “She said she wasn’t my
mother,” she said.
[older I get]
by Wayne Koestenbaum
older I get, more serious I become
—-about wearing
—-makeup and wig.
caftan, too. always interested in a rub, kind sir:
—-love yr eyebrows.
—-admittedly, my pix
—-disguise age.
mix turquoise, king’s blue, bluish purple: impose mix
—-on passive quinacridone
—-violet’s impersonality.
try to figure out how clearly delineated
—-“subject positions” find
—-angles of mutual
—-pleasurable engagement without
—-destroying each other.
Joan Rivers baking Xmas cookies seen sideways
—-through tunnel window’s
—-mirror lake Simi-
—-lac® simulacrum.
“this administration is the worst thing to happen
—-to orange since
—-Agent Orange,” quips pundit.
every novel I love is fragile. red stars
—-on black duffel bag
—-triangulate with
—-Lynn Redgrave’s in-
—-dependent sources of self-
—-esteem, not harvested from Lear.
wrongly seeking sublimity in barn-roof gutter crevice.
lucent ceiling corrugations a dauphinois
—-potato when his Pompeii
—-gaze claims me, then disappears.
kouros-carved lips, stone lingerie, scandal
—-pudding: congregated
—-shames comprise a menu.
hives on my calves, awaiting Purim-Benadryl’s
—-alleviation: sob-collapse
—-throws ash on coffin
—-lowered: crowded town
—-car back from cemetery
—-to capers, cream cheese.
abstract expressionism is what happened at the hospital:
—-fools disputing climate
—-change, Tiffany
—-blue establishing shot’s
—-concentrated inattention.
“I’m glad you gave up the figure,” she said:
—-but I haven’t
—-stopped pursuing nudes.
to be the dread golem, aloof in Prague, boning
—-up on feuilletonisme,
—-Eton pea-coat toggles
—-unclasping gelt-Jocasta.
Sonnet 8
by Edwin Denby
Three old sheepherders so filthy in their ways
Whores wouldn’t touch them with a ten foot pole
Saw once the Christmas star which in a blaze
Pierced like delight into the secret soul.
They later also stood with their same faces
Around a baby male and there were shown
The heart caressing with millennial graces
A beauty which in love is all its own.
These three were the first according to the story
But unbaptized they never will reach heaven
In an eternal hell tortured and gory
They can recall the joy that they were given,
This savage torture by the law of love
Of Christmas shepherds I like thinking of.
I’ll Be Me and You Be Goethe
by Heather Christie
I want it to be winter and I want to change
the color of this room This room should be
a blue room and it should be freezing
but ventilated and I in my medium snowsuit
irresistible I know because everything I do
I do to get more beautiful so you will want
to love me in the cold and indoor morning
What I’d Like For Christmas, 1970
by Ted Berrigan
Black brothers to get happy
The Puerto Ricans to say hello
The old folks to take it easy &
as it comes
The United States to get straight
Power to butt out
Money to fuck off
Business with honor
Religion
& Art
Love
A home
A typewriter
A GUN.
Advent
by Rae Armantrout
In front of the craft shop,
a small nativity,
mother, baby, sheep
made of white
and blue balloons.
*
Sky
god
girl.
Pick out the one
that doesn’t belong.
*
Some thing
close to nothing
flat
from which,
fatherless,
everything has come.
Look at My Head, It’s a Pumpkin with a Candle in It
by Keegan Crawford
What is on your bed right now?
I laid there for fifteen minutes with my face down into the pillow.
I imagined how I looked from another person’s point of view
and I looked dead, in a humorous way.
What is your favorite holiday?
The tree was fake and everyone was acting like the tree.
If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?
The drop was five stories, so I didn’t look down. I just looked forward.
Have you ever been camping?
I don’t know why people are scared of wolves. ‘Blood thirsty killing machine’ is a false phrase. They are not robots and they drink water.
What was the last thing you ate?
I am not a blood thirsty killing machine. I just wanted to clarify that.
Do you have any regrets?
Flowers die 100% percent of the time. I still like flowers, though.
Psychoanalysis: An Elegy (Excerpt)
by Jack Spicer
I think that I would like to write a poem that is slow as a summer
As slow getting started
As 4th of July somewhere around the middle of the second stanza
After a lot of unusual rain
California seems long in the summer.
I would like to write a poem as long as California
And as slow as a summer.
Do you get me, Doctor? It would have to be as slow
As the very tip of summer.
As slow as the summer seems
On a hot day drinking beer outside Riverside
Or standing in the middle of a white-hot road
Between Bakersfield and Hell
Waiting for Santa Claus.
Season’s Greetings
by Ron Padgett
The holidays are said
to give one a chance
to get in touch with others
but what held back that chance
the rest of the year?
What it means is
that the holidays are a time
when we should behave
like other people, as if
in junior high school,
jury duty, or the Army,
whereas what Philip Whalen
wanted was to take a holiday
from holidays, and then
he wavered, beautifully.
Kage’s First Xmas
by Ben Mirov
I am thinking of him and her having sex. I am thinking of them having really great sex, probably in front of a mirror. I am alone in the house. The TV is on, but everyone is asleep. I am about to turn twenty-one. When I turn twenty-one I am going to put on snowshoes. I am going to put on snowshoes and walk as far as I can into the snow. Once I am out in the snow I am going to sit down. I will probably sit in the snow for a long time. I’ll bring a sandwich and some juice. When I return to the house it will be Xmas morning. I will take off my snowshoes and I will tell my family my new name. I will say, On advent of my twenty-first birthday I have taken a new name. Henceforth I shall be called Kage. Kage with a K and not a C. From now on I will only answer to the name Kage. Thank you very much, and then I will walk out of the room. Then I will probably take a shower because I will be cold from sitting in the snow. I will walk into the bathroom and take off all my clothes and look at my body in the mirror. I will probably flex a little. Kage likes his new body. Then I will take a long shower. I will wash every part of my body, including my asshole and my ears and toes. Every part of my body will be clean. Then I will get out of the shower and go have Xmas. I will open my presents and say, Kage does not want this. Kage has no use for a Playstation. Kage does wear sweaters.
untitled
by Megan Boyle
everything i touch is going to be a fossil some day my dad still hasn’t taken down his christmas decorations
i walked to his refrigerator and immediately unwrapped and ate a square of american cheese
if i drop a toothpick i’m pretty sure it will remain where it fell for three days
not sure what happens after that.
Xmas Poem: Bolinas
by Robert Creeley
All around
the snow
don’t fall.
Come Christmas
we’ll get high
and go find it.
Love Poem
by Louise Glück
There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
while she married over and over, taking you
along. How could it work,
when all those years she stored her widowed heart
as though the dead come back.
No wonder you are the way you are,
afraid of blood, your women
like one brick wall after another.
THE BLIND SEE ONLY THIS WORLD (A Christmas Card)
by John Wieners
Today the Lamb of God arrives in the mail
above the Cross, beside the Handsome Sailor
from Russia
in his turtleneck sweater. Today we make love
in our minds.
And women come to fore, winning the field.
It is Christmas, Hanukkah,–heritages we leave
behind
in israel.
There is a new cross in the wind, and it is our
minds, imagination, will
where the discovery is made
of how to pass the night, how to share the gift
of love, our bodies, which is true
illumination
of the present instant.
There is no other journey to make. We receive all
we need.
Without insight, we remain blind.
Without vision, we see only this world.
All the Lovers
by Kevin Killian
Outside the Disney Concert Hall,
Kylie has summoned a clutch of cold models in white underwear,
They clamber on white boxes pitching for the sky
Somehow she appears in a dream sequence,
Boys and girls kiss and poke and struggle for love
In California, where the major candidates for governor and senator
live the lavish lives of Roman emperors,
Carly Fiorina, like Nero, bought a violin
for everyone on her Christmas list, from Cremona,
her wood golden and thin as hair,
81 per cent of voters don’t care how wealthy a
candidate is
You have to be rich to flourish
What came first, the wifebeater or the social system
that allowed ever and ever more flourish
In the face of a liverish social despair
all the lovers who have gone before
they don’t compare to you
i am a big dumbass bear on christmas morning
by partrik
holy shit a house
im gonna look inside the fucking window
who the fuck is this dumbass family in this house
if i wanted to i could bust in there and eat every one of these fuckers
look at this little fucker opening a present
oh look its a fire truck big deal ass monkey
when are these shit hats gonna fucking notice the bear at their window
hey bitch you forgot to look in your stocking
there you go
lol bubba wubba and chocolate give her a fucking toothbrush mom and dad
when are they gonna see me and chase me away
damn thats a lot of wrapping paper
lol that kitten is playing in it what a retard
oh shit they see me
“im not gonna hurt you or eat you”
but it sounds like “roar roar roar” to them cause im a big dumbass fucking bear
dad thats a big ass gun
dont shoot me think of all the fun times
like when watched your lovely family open presents on christmas
oh shit he took a warning shot im gonna run away
there is no presents under any of the trees of the woods of the world for me
why arent i hibernating
in a string of christmas lights that is blinking all year long
by Diana Salier
for christmas i get a new magic set and a big plastic stealth bomber that opens up and holds fifty little metal stealth bombers. i wear footie pajamas that zip all the way to my neck. the big plastic stealth bomber has a runway to practice takeoffs and landings. i sit on the carpet in my onesie and make the grey and green stealth bombers crash into each other so that all the pilots inside will die. i can’t finish card tricks or make the red balls disappear so i wear my black felt magician’s hat and walk around pulling rabbits out of things. i drive to my first girlfriend’s house. we drink wine and leave the bottles in the door of her parents’ car. on the way back to my house i text her all i want for christmas is you. at home a string of christmas lights blinks erratically. i fall asleep clearing the rubble off the runway.
December
by James Schuyler
The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound,
this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center.
I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs
the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments
recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey.
Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event”
and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance
to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all
the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops
and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation
of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids,
Vanillin, artificial rum flavoring; a milky impulse to kiss and be friends
It’s like what George and I were talking about, the East West
Coast divide: Californians need to do a thing to enjoy it.
A smile in the street may be loads! you don’t have to undress everybody.
“You didn’t visit the Alps?”
“No, but I saw from the train they were black
and streaked with snow.”
Having and giving but also catching glimpses
hints that are revelations: to have been so happy is a promise
and if it isn’t kept that doesn’t matter. It may snow
falling softly on lashes of eyes you love and a cold cheek
grow warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.
Molly Is Asked
by Ron Koertge
to be in the Christmas pageant. She tells
me this standing in the door of what we
laughingly call my study.
“But I don’t want to be Mary,” she says.
“I want to be the guy.”
That makes me look up from my bills.
“Joseph?”
“The innkeeper. I want to slam the door
in Joseph’s face.”
She’s eight. I wonder if we’ll look back
on this next year and laugh. Or will she
want to be Herod and we’ll have to take
her little brother and flee.
That night with the green sky
by Tao Lin
It was snowing and you were kind of beautiful
We were in the city and every time I looked up
Someone was leaning out a window, staring at me
I could tell you liked me a lot or maybe even loved me
But you kept walking at this strange speed
You kept going in angles and it was confusing me
I think maybe you were thinking that you’d make me disappear
By walking at strange speeds and in a strange, curvy way
But how would that cause me to vanish from the planet Earth?
And that hurts
Why did you want me gone?
That hurts
Why?
Why?
I don’t know
Some things can’t be explained, I guess
The sky, for example, was green that night
“Shhh”
by Eileen Myles
I don’t think
I can’t afford the time to not sit right down &
write a poem about the heavy lidded
white rose I hold in my hand
I think of snow
a winter night in Boston, drunken waitress
stumble on a bus that careens through
Somerville the end of the line
where I was born, an old man
shaking me. He could’ve been my dad
You need a ride? Wait, he said.
This flower is so heavy in my hand.
He drove me home in his old blue
Dodge, a thermos next to me
cigarette packs on the dash
so quiet like Boston is quiet
Boston in the snow. It’s New York
plates are clattering on St. Mark’s
Place. Should I call you?
Can I go home now
& work with this undelivered
message in my fingertips
It’s Summer.
I love you.
I’m surrounded by snow.
Music
by Frank O’Hara
If I rest for a moment near The Equestrian
pausing for a liver sausage sandwich in the Mayflower Shoppe,
that angel seems to be leading the horse into Bergdorf’s
and I am naked as a table cloth, my nerves humming.
Close to the fear of war and the stars which have disappeared.
I have in my hands only 35¢, it’s so meaningless to eat!
and gusts of water spray over the basins of leaves
like the hammers of a glass pianoforte. If I seem to you
to have lavender lips under the leaves of the world,
I must tighten my belt.
It’s like a locomotive on the march, the season
of distress and clarity
and my door is open to the evenings of midwinter’s
lightly falling snow over the newspapers.
Clasp me in your handkerchief like a tear, trumpet
of early afternoon! in the foggy autumn.
As they’re putting, up the Christmas trees on Park Avenue
I shall see my daydreams walking by with dogs in blankets,
put to some use before all those coloured lights come on!
But no more fountains and no more rain,
and the stores stay open terribly late.
on sunday we took the train to the city and we each went home for one night and i saw my parents and my bedroom and my cat and you saw your ex boyfriend and his parents and his bedroom and his dog and when i called you i heard you ask me to go back to sleep and i said is everything okay and you told me to please go back to sleep
by Spencer Madsen
not sure if you
ever told me how
you felt about
christmas lights
i said i’d wrap them around our room
and put popcorn in your mouth
a few weeks ago i
walked onto a street
and sat prepared
lets
sleep like two hands
caught
in each other’s fingers
lets be demonstrative
of that image
in an earnest way
lets forget i wrote it down
or else it won’t feel genuine
yesterday i googled:
homemade fleshlight
Is This a Poem For the Year 2219?
by Mike Young
Yes, this is a poem for the year 2219
about the fact my bathroom is above
my neighbors’ bedroom, and I sing
Roy Orbison songs at immaculate volumes
during my routines, which is partly my love
of song and partly my obsession with the idea
of audience. Dear 2219, a bathroom is a private
chlorinated water repository filled with hair gel
and other methods of impression insurance,
like sleeping pills. Neighbors are people who
lock the downstairs door just because some
random bro started fingerpainting their door-
bell Sunday night. Oops, he said. You’re not my
parents. Neighbors leave notes asking you to park
considerately and curbside boxes of giveaway bins
to judge them by. In bedrooms, 2219, what you do is
sniff a cowboy shirt you’ve plucked off the floor to see
if it’s okay to wear for teaching the kids I guess you call
First Moroccan Restauranteer in Space and Single Season
Small Needle Home Run Record Holder. You leave the mandarin
peels on your bed after having awesome sex with your girlfriend
but throw them away when she leaves for work. In 2219, you may
instead want to rub the peels all over your chest. If so, history
repeats itself. Golly. Singing is a method of generating inside
you a logging road, dawn-ish, swards of sugar beets, after driving
all night, knowing it’s about to rain but it’s not raining yet, thanks
sky! Singing may also be catalogued as Christmas underwater
and hiking slowly along the railroad ties with the best candy bar
but no home. For the sub-category of song known as Roy Orbison,
ditch your footnotes, 2219! 1936-1988, popular for soaring R&B;
and indoor sunglasses: that’s not Roy Orbison! Roy Orbison is a
naked knee so lovely you’d cry if you weren’t afraid of the knee
getting wet. Other things you need to know, 2219: I am afraid of
everything. We would rake the stars into piles to say what’s after
us. Happiness without certain phone calls is impossible. Your father
will die. Last Christmas, I ran into my friend Reggie at the cineplex.
His kid was cute. Me and my other friend were making fun of the movie
Reggie wanted to see. Reggie and I cussed together for the first time I can
remember, but I think we’re made of different smoke. 2219, I might be
above you or something. But I’m probably just below you. I take so many
multivitamins. Sometimes I try to make sure the best songs in my iTunes
have the most plays, but I don’t know why. Carolyn’s a better singer than
I am, and Dorothy told me that when I sing Bridge Over Troubled Water
it sounds like I’m falling apart. Is that a good thing? Wouldn’t it be more
considerate to just spend my time recycling cartons of apple cider for
you, 2219? Instead I carry a pillowcase full of laundry to the laundromat
and try to memorize my life enough to remember my life. I walk streets
named after people too dead to meet and try to sing loud enough to get
stuck in strangers’ heads. Carolyn and I go down on each other to hear the
other make their sounds. One time I saw my downstairs neighbor in a
line, and she smiled, waved at me. I couldn’t remember who she was.
She left her place to come talk. Then I remembered. 2219, they just
found water on the moon. Your love will only count before it’s gone.
Christmas Eve
by Bill Berkson
for Vincent Warren
Behind the black water tower
under the grey
of the sky that feeds it
smoke speeds to where a pigeon
spreads its wings
This is no great feat
Cold pushes out its lust
We walk we drink we cast
our giggling insults
Would you please
leave the $2.50 you owe me
I would rather not talk about it
just now Money bores me I would like
to visit someone who will stay
in bed all day A forest is rising
imperceptibly in my head
not a civilized park
I think it would be nice this “new
moral odor” no it would not mean
“everything marching to its tomb”
The water tower
watches over us Is there someone
you would like to invite no one.
from I Remember
by Joe Brainard
I remember Christmas tree lights reflected on the ceiling.
I remember Christmas cards arriving from people my parents forgot to send cards to.
I remember mistletoe.
I remember Christmas carols. And car lots.
I remember Aunt Cleora who lived in Hollywood. Every year for Christmas she sent my brother and me a joint present of one book.
Connie’s Scared
by Clark Coolidge
The wind came up, the radishes died and
the peelings continued. No one could be
more hostile than a species enclosed in
a chimney for a century or so they told me.
The lighter fluid on the other hand might warm
your nails. We deserve overtime
for dealing daily with these mistreated burdens.
The milkweed pods for no reason in the world
we could see ignited and the frog is loose.
The mail at last arrived but you had better
proceed to lick your envelopes more heartily
as they all came empty. No one exactly states
but everybody thinks the whole world level
has been lowered and continues. If the flame
goes out the food will spoil, remember?
Then there is the problem of the stray moose
to be seen from the road or better not, bring
apples, take pictures, but the village idiot
had his son throw rocks. The later thunder
around the sleeping household was a mere
five minutes herd of cows. And Rip Rowan thought that
thunder was produced by two crickets banging
garbage cans together. Tomorrow the snow will
be higher and the school fail to attract. I pay
for entrance to this life by my exit, can’t wait
each morning to treat of impossible questions and
have never been depressed. Makes you wonder,
all these seacows spitting on their tails,
flashing lights on the spaceride and even in my dreams.
Claimed I awoke from the fight I couldn’t win.
Chained my warts to a snowcone.
Across the street are many stray dogs but whose
fault are the cats. Something terrible’s going on
in the woods the rabbit is screaming, the cat
distinctly calling your name, nothing that can’t
be solved with golf club and pistol empty. Lock
your house when you leave for the auto. The company
that brought you pasteboard frowns on too many
fallen trees. Check your son’s teeth when he eats
or he’ll end a blimp. A crib death when a baby’s
network lapses mid-breath. The television not collapse
but slowly burn out. And that cooking by radar might cost
you a few meals. There goes another roast beast.
The adult book human gunned down as he left. Seems
the nature of crime to go unsolved, covered up,
never caught. Sal Mineo, for one. If so, wouldn’t
you want your kids to stop it. A gay couple hated
for their foul language not their sex. But the fat weather
woman terminated as a lesbian. Stamp out discomfort
and lift a heel for bliss. Heaven more attractive
now that harps are out of style. One arm in a sling
and the other in a bear. At the loss of life and
limb remain cool. Their son last seen chewed by
croc in pool of steam.
There is no longer any Florida and Christmas nowhere.
The men removed our home sometime lastnite while
we shook. Asked me how I felt and what he could do
with his mike. All my girlfriends have been raped,
some in basements, some by families. Even in the movies
they don’t know they can complain. Reels mixed, eyesight
tearing. Heard they’ve even left the lights on in space.
The dawning hastes and subsequent vagueries.
Never a morning wake but I congeal.
Some kind of nut
by Charles Bukowski
the best Christmas I can remember
I was in a tiny room in
Philadelphia
and I pulled down all the
shades
and went to bed
and pulled up the
covers.
there was no telephone.
there were no Christmas cards.
there was no family.
there were no gifts
and I believe that I felt better
than anybody in that
city
and almost anybody
in any of the
cities.
and I celebrated New Year’s
Eve in the same
manner.
A Severe Lack of Holiday Spirit
by Amy Gerstler
I dread the icy white concussion
of winter. Each snowfall demands
panic, like a kidnapper’s hand
clapped over my chapped mouth.
Ice noms everywhere, a plague
of glass. Christmas ornaments’
sickly tinkle makes my molars ache.
One pities the anemic sun
come January. Trees go skeletal.
Children born in the chilly months
are apt to stammer. People hit
the sauce in a big way all winter.
Amidst blizzards they wrestle
unsuccessfully with the dark comedy
of their lives, laughter trapped
in their frigid gizzards. Meanwhile,
the mercury just plummets,
like a migrating duck blasted
out of the sky by some hunter
in a cap with fur earflaps.
On his reluctance to take down the Christmas ornaments
by John Ashbery
A nice, normal morning:
feet setting out as though in a trance,
doubling the yesterdays, a doubled man
under the stairs, and strange surrealist fish
from so much disappearance, damaged in the mail.
Or the spry cutting edge of another day.
Here, we have these in
sizes and colors —
day goes fluttering by.
Like ivy behind a chimney
it grows and grows in ropes.
Mouse teams unsay it,
yeoman can’t hear yet.
A shadow purling,
up into the sky.
Silence in the vandalised vomitorium.
It’s great that you can be here too.
Passivity rests its case.
*
p.s. Hey. ** Dominik, Hi!!! I’ll share my Chucky mask with you if you like. I think you’re right that people just take advantage of politeness, or mine, at least. But I’m sadly very unskilled at being an asshole. Sigh. Tell love I’m going back to bed as soon as I finish the p.s. Love keeping the buche I’m picking up at 1 pm remain in one impeccable piece as I transport it across Paris to the buche eating location, G. ** Misanthrope, We’re coming out of a super cold spell. Now it’s ‘warmer’ but constantly raining. You can’t win. Nice. As you know, I have to wear organic clothes, so my wardrobe is dull as dishwater. A bit unfair to lovely dishwater, that saying. Xmas break! Max it out maximally! ** Ted Rees, Hi, Ted! Happiest holidays, man! You, a perv? Perish the thought! Well, naturally your book was in my list, I’m not crazy. Yes, I met Joseph and finally went PSB on my last LA jaunt. Zac and I are going to be shuttling back and forth between Paris and LA a ton until we finish shooting our new film there in April, and I’ll probably use that as an excuse to go through NYC at some point. I’ll let you know. It’d be so awesome to see you. And come to Paris! Love, me. ** Nick Hudson, Whoa, Nick! Long, long time no speak! How cool! I heard through the grapevine that you’re residing in Georgia. That’s amazing and fascinating, obviously. How’s that affecting your work, if at all? I’m good. No, I do Xmas here, but Zac and I will head to LA soon thereafter. We’re shooting our new film there. Xmas of Xmases to you! Love from the supposed city of love. ** CAUTIVOS, I think you will find ‘EEE’ well worth your time. Other than eating a Buche de Noel this afternoon, my Xmas will be basically like any other day, just with closed stores. I guess eating a Buche is abusing food. Otherwise, nah. I’m vegan/vegetarian so it’s hard to go to food crazy. It used to snow here, but nowadays it doesn’t, or maybe it snows pitifully for an hour once all winter if we’re lucky. It’s sad. Hugs to you. ** Charalampos Tzanakis, My pleasure, sir. I need a phrase of the day. I’ll try to think one up. ** Jack Skelley, Whoop, whoop, and another whoop! You simply must read ‘EEE’. It seems imperative or something. I know (of) a writer named Nersessian, but he’s not a Keats scholar. Two writers with that name. Who’d have thunk. I have not only heard of Last Estate blog, I have actually read it on occasion! It’s good! Congrats (to them)! I like rain, but enough is enough, so those Teletubbies are welcome with wide open arms. Love without an earthquake attached, me. ** _Black_Acrylic, Only you can decide if your submissiveness can be triggered by Mr. Guyotat’s scandalous tome. ** Steve Erickson, Everyone, Mr. Erickson has reviewed Paul Gorman’s book TOTALLY WIRED: THE RISE AND FALL OF THE MUSIC PRESS for Trouser Press here. We were down in those temperatures for a week. Bundle up, you’ll be fine. That’s a long time to be hospitalised. That’s rough, so sorry. ** Jamie, Hey, J-man! I’m good enough. You? Yes, I mourn the murder of Z-Library continually, both for my own personal loss and because of how very helpful it was to making blog posts. Yeah, it’s film film all the time, but we’re progressing. I would say if your writing project is freaking you out that is quite possibly the best sign any writer could ever receive. Based on me and mine. So … congrats! If you want to see an amazing Akerman film with tons of period Brussels depicted, try to see her short (hour long) TV movie ‘Portrait d’une jeune fille de la fin des années 60 à Bruxelles’ (1994). It’s really, really great! I hope your Thursday is like an explosive device disguised as a Kit Kat bar. Duck and cover love, Dennis. ** l@rst, Chapbook reality! Yay! Everyone. Here’s the amazing l@rst with an amazing Xmas gift for y’all, so harken: ‘I wanted to share my latest chapbook, print copies are available in limited edition if anyone is interested, they can send a message to larstonovich @ gmail dot com !’ Happy happy to you! ** Jeff J, Hi. Someone asked Hedi, and I believe he said there is in fact some big rights issue with ‘EEE’ that’s preventing its reprinting. Obnoxious. I liked the Tricky/Hall thing quite a bit. I didn’t get into Colourfield so much at the time, but I want to retry them. See you soon! ** Meg Gluth, Hi, M! I really like your and Steven’s album. It filled my head with all kinds of unforeseen things. I don’t think it’s that easy to pull off the speak/sound crosshatch interestingly, and you guys really did. Big kudos! Oh, wow, I’ll go back and listen to the first track again knowing it’s a novel hint. Oooh. ** David, Hi! I do remember Bad Manners, yes. Ha ha, there is definitely some shit that’s been stolen from me that I would love to restock in my abode, thank you. Greatly enjoy the family shebang and whatever today hands you. ** Okay. This is the annual day when my blog makes its biggest concession to the spirit of Xmas. See you tomorrow.
Pierre Guyotat Eden Eden Eden
Now available in North America 