Author Archives: Guest writer

Truth Carved in Ice Melting/Truth itself melts ICE

Magus Magnus
  1. Melting Truth…

                On Truth and Poetry, epistemology in accordance with contemporary poetics
some thoughts in dribs and drabs, yet floods at this point, cascades, and crumbles, sheering off
sudden losing of a limb or letter

excitement and liberating surge of nonconformist, unconventional, anti-mainstream aesthe
having marked art and poetry since Dada , through surrealism, avant-gardes old and new,                     experimentalisms…                                                                                                                     tics
& from what came earlier, the Decadents, Pre-Raphaelites, and earlier Romantic
glorification of Les Poètes maudits                           Cursed souls, Free Spirits                              ism…

embrace the aesthetics of Modernism and on into Post-Modernism, and associated critiques o Enlightenment – structuralism and deconstruction – Rimbaud’s derangement of the senses into derangement of language…

for me a vibe at one with punk and dyi practice, and in the spirit of my pursuit of the Fr e
Sp rit
in history, ancient and modern alike…

from the Frankfurt school to the Black Mountain school, the beats, New York, San Francisco, my own San Diego in the ‘80s incubating L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E engagement post-Marcuse, post- Kathy Acker on campus…  and then finding again in the oughts Language Poetry established and Postlangpo and what should we call the chaos and pop flux coming after

thus we come from and come out of confronting the material of language in poetry, on the ba  of a confrontation with (hopefully through as sophisticated a poetics and philosophical analysis as
is
possible): the uses and abuses and embarrassments of Truth.

By the time I arrived at the residency, Truth was R U H
and now it’s U H

I’m trying to get this all cascade before the truth disappears completely…

old hat innovations tried and true  artificial, letting the letters melt, but where’s the smear and sweat, shrink and hollows? – when all I can do is drop a letter or syllable or word or two. Lame. Need some better programming. The avant-garde is in code. Deepest reality reprogramming – formal innovation – is writing code.

Truth with a capital T hasn’t been to our taste. & now we have no feet for truth,
is the foundation left when the rest collapses
with Trump and the alt-right appropriating the aesthetics we took up in the spirit of liberation and using the wild     avant-garde techniques to undermine any resistance to tyranny and untr                                           es
uth.                                         t
Trump and the alt-Right trump post-Modernism, Deconstruction, Frankfurt School, European relativism, and in terms of American poetry, Language and flarf.

Trump’s tweets use all the unfettered, defiant, anti-establishment tricks.
Flarf has nothing on Pepe the Frog. The alt-Right seems to have usurped avant-garde disco veri
within the aesthetics of trolling – mimicked now in the reckless manic high of Trump’s post-Tru              mom nt.

A d squisition on irony is in order, but I don’t have the time to go as Kierkegaardian as I’d like.

It was all supposed to undercut pretensions. Or, if it weren’t a principle – ideology again Absolute – to undercut attempts at upholding “truth,” it was simply elite ridicule at earn
and novices’ attempts toward meaning. Making fun – and poetry and art should be in the free spirit of fun.  Otherwise, boredom. & the big words ever carry the burden of oppressi
and history.

Poets have always known language doesn’t necessarily mean what it says, or seems to say – and worse, perhaps language can’t mean what it might vainly try to say, and so it’s best to dash it all into sound, scribble, and fragment…

& yet, irrepressibly, there is no escape from Meaning. To stick with the experimental aesthetics arrived at just so, I’ll quote Richard Foreman as I found myself often doing in pursuit of my own approach to poetics theatre, Poets Theater…  Ontologic-Hysteric Theater playwright Richard Foreman, who said: “Understand—it always makes sense. Sense can’t be avoided. If it first seems non-sense, wait: roots will reveal themselves.”

That’s indeed how language-deranged poetry and writing communicate; even when the intent is to avoid any pinning down of meaning, as if to do so were a compromise – much is communicated. Much gets through, even if it is beyond subject or topic, and solely contextual, or social.

You go to a poetry reading and, hey, conveyance of meaning happened there – is conveyed to and through the crowd or company.

The exact way dog whistles work…

Meaning gets conveyed, maybe not unmistakably – but, mistakably, in ways one can evade, plausible deniability.

It’s almost fun and exhilarating about Russia these days – if it weren’t actually scary – how the aesthetic means of subverting Western liberal values are so exuberantly parallel to the European and American avant-garde. Hey, we had to love the pre-Revolutionary Russian futurists in trouser clouds anyways, and I’ve always been partial to Kharms, and Mandelstam’s poetic resistance to Stalin, and who can resist all the wonderful translations coming out these past twenty years – so for poetry in Russia, the breaking up of forms has long been homegrown. But now the use of such parallel tools, parallel utilization of post-Enlightenment instruments of emancipation constitute a usurpation of the right, deranging truth to uphold an anti-Democratic regime, and to export anti-Democratic methods.

I mean we have a sci-fi surrealist writer and poet as Putin’s right-hand man, V Surkov, a creative engineer of autocracy….  who believes in war with the West even as he owns its influence on him, knowing he doesn’t need America itself when he has as he says eternal access to his inspirations – Ginsburg, Pollack, Tupac.

I mean I’m exhilarated when reading his “Without Sky” (Surkov as ‘Natan Dubovitsky’) – I want to go to the war he’s talking about, or at least screen it

“Bewildering” or – be wild!
“The sky is falling…” or – Skyfall,
Living w/out sky
two dimensional &/or non-linear all against all
complex and sly

All I have are FaceBook film-poem posts in face of his “first non-linear war…all against all.” Tools of art liberation taken over by authoritarians. Philosophies of thought-liberators taken over by fanatical adversaries of liberalism, such as A. Dugin and hisnpostmodern geopolitics, his “Fourth Political Theory” – National Bolshevism (note that Nazi ring) – in advance of which he upholds his own Ceterum Censeo, “The American Empire must be destroyed.”

A fun resource here has been Peter Pomerantsev’s Nothing is True and Everything is Possible: the surreal heart of the new Russia. Of course, the title is a variation of Nietzsche’s quote – its translation thought to be in part derived from Dostoyevsky – of the Order of Assassin’s motto, “Nothing is true, everything is permitted.” & that brings me back, not exactly full circle, but to my youth and the poet Jim Carrol with his band project: because his voice filled my teenage brain with its glee, I can still hear the renegade lilt of how he pronounced “permitted.”

In my own search for a way past all this, I’ve turned/(re)turned to Laura (Riding) Jackson.

The real turn regarding truth and truth-turning from contemporary poetics was Laura Riding Jackson… she turned against poetry – gave up on what she had thought it promised her.

She’s telling, for this issue – because she engaged Modernism and all the advanced aesthetic inquiries of her poetry-writing time and place (pre-WWII US and England), yet maintained a traditional relationship to the task of poetry.

Her words, from her 1980 introduction to her collected works more than 40 years after she renounced writing poetry

Tradi                                                                                                           mod
t onal r                                                                                                  ern sensi
elat on t  the art,                                                                                    b litie

It didn’t fall out the way I wanted it to. It never does.

The truth is uh

“…Poetry unqualifiedly loyal to the actuality of poetry as a tradition… …In becoming a poet in the century’s first quarter of literary modernism, I assumed the character of a modern in the freedom with which I, cheerfully, dispensed with the literary conventions of poetic idiom, and forged me a poetic diction out of natural standards of diction-excellence,” – here is her devotion to tradition – “shaped to the requirements of the special concerns of poetry.”

More on that: “As to what the special concerns of poetry are, the tradition provides no definitions. It presents itself as the definition of them, with the burden of proof put upon the poet of justifying the implicit meaning of the tradition as the union of highest human concerns within the bounds of poetic expression.”  Her devotion to the tradition of the union of highest human concerns within the bounds of poetic expression, through modernist freedom of means.

“In my choosing the role of poet, I recognized the traditional allocation by poetry to itself of an area of experience of an immediate, absolute, life-purifying quality of spirituality, and I accepted poetry without reservation as having demarcated this area as potentially occupiable in distinct forms of consciousness, real functions of being, exactly congruous translation of the occupation of it into words. …I had not the least difficulty in uniting the traditional character of poetry as an active literature of spirituality with the dignities of modern intellectuality…”

“modern humanistic sophistication” mentioned as an attribute of the modernist practice

At any rate
Now you can still love poetry for its truth-telling, and you can still go to relativist experimentalism in honor of freedom (and shirking, if need be); yet here is the crucial turning point, identified by Laura Riding…

Not necessarily following her to give up poetry, but probably obligated after this to bring poetry closer to utterance – genuine utterance, authentic utterance…   utterance, even if ugly, clunky, and guttural, above poetry… guts over poetry…

The truth is, uh…

The Failure of Poetry, The Promise of Language – title of a posthumous reconstruction of her leavings and intention with regard to the potentiality for human truthful utterance.

The editor John Nolan in his intro discusses some of the foundation of her outlook:  that poe
imitation of truth-speaking, and without being capable of it, serves as a substitu
further away from the possibility of truth rather than closer. Truth-speaking itself is
practicable.  in Nolan’s words, “The reason why truth-speaking is assumed to be not pra
beings have become reluctant to believe literally in their capability of truth-speak
potential of language.”

Laura Riding’s traditional/modern way of being a poet led to her disillusion
P.17, “As a poet I applied modern sensibilities to the appreciation of what was implicit in the traditional conception of poetry.” The traditional conception of poetry “embodies an ideal of eloquent expression in which language is pressed to fulfill a function generally but vaguely recognized in it, that of serving the instrumentality of truth. …authentically representative human utterance.”
“I think I was unique as a ‘modernist’ poet in my adherence to the traditional principle of poetry, which I later called its ‘creed.’                              And import, “creed” distinct from “craft.”
For her, irreconcilably so
Poetry failed her, but she continued to pursue her ideal and belief in the capability of
Truth
-speaking,
and she found her own way to the source of such potentiality. & I think she’s on to something, as much as I understand it, as much as I’ve been able to follow her to where she goes… I think she has something more than anyone else, poet or philosopher alike. Her conceptualized, practiced way to truth through language…
The second half of her life’s work – the Life’s work of the second half of her life – involved the creation of an English dictionary, with her husband Schuyler B. Jackson, in pursuit of the claim (or truth) that words indeed do have non-relative meaning – that you can get a word and their definitions beyond the slippage of words defined by other words. Something independent holds. There are inherent meanings in words. It is up to us to adhere to them. A task, and a fundamental obligation, the search and study and facing the meaning of our words. Finding and being true to what’s there.         & anyways, at any rate

“Words are all we ‘ve got” – Samuel Beckett (sometimes considered a misattribution)

We can stand by our words. We must stand by our words. From Ernest Fenollosa’s Chinese Written Character as a Medium for Poetry…beloved by Ezra Pound… the ideogram for “truth” is a person standing by – and facing – their words.

With Laura Riding, let’s discover the definitions of words from themselves, from each word’s resident power, the meaning that resides in each word, attunement to every subtle distinction, nuance. Let me understand the difference and sameness between “human” and “humane.” What is self-evident in and by each word. The residing power in a word, the discovery of self-evidence through the word. The true power of words.

From there, take a word and stand it alone. Such as the word Truth. It stands, it stands tall, with its capital T. Dare to insist. Truth is the truth…  is real, and nothing could be annihilating of being and presence than to say truth isn’t truth. Forget the taboo – it’s the departure from what sustains what is that constitutes its crime, whether of a Pontius Pilate or of Rudy Giuliani.

We can stand by our stand-alone words. We can stand by Truth.

 

  1. Truth itself Melting ICE

 The truth is, uh.

Take a word and stand it alone. wordsandit alone
wordsand. We all stand on a sieve

I’m preparing an OpEd, inspired by the thought of this piece, on how – while we’ve watched Truth melt – we can imagine the truth itself melting ice, and indeed as an activist of late against obscene immigration policies of this administration, intending that the Truth melts ICE.

Thesis: Our immigration system and its policies have their very basis on the existential lie of dehumanization and criminalizing rhetoric. It has to deny the humanity of its victims. Fact is, though, each individual’s humanity is self-evident. To be expanded upon…

From Truth Melting Away, to the Truth itself Melts ICE

But to see the truth crumble so quickly before my eyes today…  Now only an H is left. I choke out a “Ha!”

Yet, conceptually, I was able to know of truth beyond the letter melting ice, becoming spiritualized, released…

As from my Ceterum Censeo poem from last night’s kick-off event…

Art of the melt by repetition
of letting go of substance, solidity

Or is it transmutation? – bit by bit
Release of the rigid
Into Spirit

Still, it’s difficult to face the material, crumbled, foundation.

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Truth Be Told

Sarah Browning

Here on the nation’s lawn – women in saris
picnicking, men in red track pants running past
scrolling their phones – the squirrels are more
bold than the politicians: daring me to approach.
Truth taunts us as it melts away. We’re left
now a universal UH. Tell me a love story,
I overhear as a gaggle of teenagers lurches past.
And OK, I will: Here, kids in multi-colored
baseball caps, a tourist in fake pearls, a couple
fussing in Mandarin over their child’s stroller.
A lanky adolescent asks about truth, then grins
her mouthful of metal and wires. Soon her teeth
will be straighter than any talk in this town,
any line from now to hopefulness. How about
a story of joy? Come out to the front yard
where Madeleine from England tells me she
had to stop and ask, as she’d nowhere in her brain
to put what she was seeing, as all of us indeed.
Where Casey is helping passersby
understand: It used to say TRUTH, now
it says UH. The way we’re all stuck
saying Uh these days and Uh? and
What the uh? No chance of survival,
the ice melting, letter by letter crashing
to the pathway. What’s left: each other,
hand-holding, the ice cream truck trilling
“La Cucaracha,” dogs jogging by. She’s
perfect too: dog owners in praise. Silver bows
in Black girls’ hair. If they stepped out once –
the puling politicians, merchants of fear –
here’s what they’d see: so much human
color and ruckus, tattoos and PJ shorts.

Why not tell the truth?
We were beautiful.
We are beautiful.
We will be beautiful once more.

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To Change Reality

Bernard Welt

I think everyone knows what I mean by “heartbreak.”

Has everyone experienced it? Is it an abstract concept to some people? Something they’ve heard about in songs and movies? Something they aspire to?

Even an imagined heartbreak can take over your life. You can spend your life chasing after the resolution of an imbalance that has no real existence.

Not everyone feels pain the same way. It’s like that thing people say about colors—Is my “blue” your “blue”? What do you feel? How do I know you’re feeling it? People want to think that some people have no feelings to hurt. It’s not true. What it is, is, some people have no idea what “hurt” feels like to others.

You know, you can get all philosophical and ask how you even know other people exist. But there is no reason to question the existence of other people that is not also an argument for questioning your own existence.

I’m going to have to assume you have some idea what I’m talking about, I guess. It’s really not necessary, though. I mean, it doesn’t matter. If we could just sit here for just a few minutes—really, I wouldn’t mind a couple of minutes to just catch my breath—that would be just as good. I don’t need to be understood.

If you felt like patting my head and calling me a good boy, that’d be great.

One thing that bothers me a lot is that nobody seems to know what’s coming next. I’ve always been consumed with this problem: future me in relation to me now, me yesterday. Me now; same me tomorrow? Me no know. No, no.

It was a beautiful country. There was enough for everyone. The food was as beautiful to look at as to eat. The people loved each other, and loved loving. The people looked out for each other. They delighted in a general state of universal approval. They rejoiced in one another’s joys; they commiserated in their misery. They had enough. They didn’t need anything more.

Then the sun set. You know how that is. It got dark. It got cold. It got . . . hostile. There wasn’t enough. Fucking massive headache, is what it was.

In certain eras, musical style and idiom change dramatically. This doesn’t happen gradually, but all at once. I mean, there are signs, but—suddenly everything is different. What happens is, what was once at the margins, what was excluded as meaningless, as offensive, as noise, just becomes—well, what people think of as music. Sometimes it speeds up; sometimes it slows down. Sometimes the range expands; sometimes it narrows. The learned give way to the amateurs; the amateurs have to cede their places to the learned.

It seems strange that more people don’t notice this.

Do you want to be treated well? Do you have any idea what would make you happy? Would you like some money—let’s say, oh, $100? How about a swift kick in the pants?

It remains for the artists to put into words, or images, or sound, whatever it was that everyone wasn’t aware they were noticing–but once it was said—or shown, or played—everyone was, like, Oh yeah. That.

Artists and your mother. Your mother always knows.

Funny thing: I really believe those folks who say that time is an illusion. That it’s really in our heads, not “out there”. Under certain circumstances, we can actually perceive how we project a past and a future into our perception of the present. How this moment becomes that, and that had to be before this could. And more complexly: How from present and future we concoct beginning and end.

But there is no beginning.

There is no end.

Whatever we are in process of doing now, has long ago been resolved.

Sorry, that’s just how is. The physicists said so. Go argue with them.

What we do now we have done forever.

What we do, we will do until time folds back on itself. And even then, we will keep on doing it.

Maybe we better be careful what we do.

 

 

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Truth is the Opposite of Random

Mark McMorris

Fleecy clouds veiled the stars
Fingering the rifle                                                   p. 33
And finally the steady trot of horses
Truth is such an abstract word.

Sleep glued his eyelids tight
Without a word, with silent insistence                   p. 33
Yet transmitted a wan glow
Truth is such an abstract word.

Emerge from the house in rue Visconti
The first step to freedom and happiness              p. 182
Lurking in the faces of shop-girls
Truth is such an abstract word.

Imagine that Colombe was dead
So beautiful, brushed in, as it were                       p. 182
The gates at this hour
Truth is such an abstract word.

No man can save a corpse
Mirth like water under a stiff breeze                      p. 177
Failing to acknowledge his paternity
Truth is such an abstract word.

She felt “positively drunk
There was a sudden blare of music                       p. 177
Own way back to a state of grace
Truth is such an abstract word.

Things that I can see from here
The Capitol dome with flag                                      me
Blue recycle trash bin
Ethelbert taking pictures of TRUTH.

A god will come with grace and lift you up
Poetry is the event someone said                           a stranger at the installation
Able to sit with your pain
Truth is such an abstract word.

–Lines taken from The Weakling and the Enemy, page numbers given.Thanks to Leslie for the book.

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Turn Off

Leslie Bumstead

Turn off your first impulse

Turn off your turnstile death deals

Turn off your fleecy bankers

And your buy outs

And your library card

And your mythology class

Turn off your high deductible

Turn off your shampoo bottle

Turn off your boorish pout

And your national awakening

And your bow tie tune

Turn off your sycophant

Turn off your origin party & your sneaky arrival

Turn off your TV

And your temper tantrum

Turn off your elevator music

Turn off your high volume water proof mascara

Turn off your lawn monologue

And your limp smug predator smile

And your terror & your abuse

Turn off your foreign identifier

And your swollen decay

And may your enemies find you

Hazard & hornet & spine

 

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The Truth of Poetry Is Never Absolute

Casey Smith

A man behind me is screaming about the Constitution and the Bill of Rights

And he wants to put us in jail for some reason that eludes everyone

He is young maybe in his twenties with a trim build and a baseball cap

Without doubt he is convinced that he knows the truth

A police car its siren screaming speeds south on 3rd Street

Still the man behind me is screaming and becoming the background

He was more annoying five minutes ago now he is part of the scene

The American system is fucking lousy he screams

Well that’s one thing we can agree on

 

I’m about fifty feet away from the melting truth

Most people smile as they walk by

Some people stop to ask why melt truth

I throw the question back to them

What do you think I say what do you think abut the truth

Is the truth just one thing or is it sometimes other things

This is dangerous territory for reasons too obvious to elaborate

 

Marshall and Nora are talking to a person in an unmarked police car

Marshall holds his arm out to the north

I think it’s a battle of conflicting permits

Penske Truck Rental (yellow) is blocking the camera shot

I think Marshall and Nora won the argument

The truck is gone order is restored Marshall is laughing

 

Truth continues to melt even under the clouds

People come and go nobody speaks of Michaelangelo

Or growing old or wearing pants legs rolled

Truth as a photo-op a terrible beauty is born slouching

Just now I thought I saw Kellyanne Conway walking toward us

With great relief I discover my mistake

The fascination with what’s difficult

An ambulance its siren screaming speeds north on 3rd St

I continue typing and try to train my mind of the truth of poetry

 

For the last eight years or so I have been on a dilatory quest

To discover the Truth of Poetry

To be honest it started as a joke but a joke can morph into something else

In my case it has turned into an obsession this quixotic quest

The screaming man is back hooray the real truth is a fraud he tells us

And just like that he is gone not to return I say a secular prayer

 

Kids are more curious about the truth

They pull their parents toward the sculpture

Some people seem afraid of it

They keep their distance

Some people can’t handle the truth (sorry)

Marla came back to talk with Marshall on camera

I can’t hear what she’s saying but I know that she’s crushing it

Marla is not afraid of the truth

Isabella is a GW student majoring in Poli Sci with a minor in Journalism

She’s making a video for her editing class

Leslie just showed up and said How’s it going

She’s the next writer to take the keyboard

Mark is here now too

Gryphon is also here M’s kid he’s taking a photo now

And the sun is out now

My time behind the wheel winds down

Truth has been melting steadily for two hours

Yet it looks about the same

Change is gradual drip drip drip

My time is up drip drip drip

The wind blows everything off the table

 

 

 

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It’s a cold must

Sepideh Jodeyri

The hand was sitting beside me  in a different shape

It counted your words

I bet

And I got cold with all weathers of the world.

Your smell has gone beyond time

Beyond my voice

Beyond playing the beauty.

How snowy it was outside this weather!

How soundless!

How often stroked the air your smells!

Beside me

A hand     in a different shape.
It is not a rebellion

The heart of rebellion

Should laugh       instead of being distressed

I truly

Fear the truth

which withdraws

which withdraws

which withdraws

I am afraid,        not distressed.
As far as my existence existed

I was zeal and lips

I was words about everything

And sometimes      a hand in a different shape.
It’s a cold must

Well, he has never understood that:

This setting     on your far horizon

Is a cold must.
The lip that passes over me

That passed over me

Lasted a night and then days, so many

And my heart is

A lip for you

For days and a night!
I truly fear the truth

The hand fears the truth     in a different way

For the truth is

For the truth was

For the truth will be there.

 

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Watching them erect The American Dream ice letters

Bob Perelman, Philadelphia

The first letter is, surprising for a second but not a surprise: I

People dream as individuals, when asleep, the private cranium stuffed with public speech, but nevertheless, I

then the next letter spelling out IC

and so the interior of the letters are already speaking the disgust their glitter contains

my garage with the 9 foot 8 inch hoop attached above the door, my photosynthetic petrochemical lawn off to the side — dandelions not welcome, ICK

then ICA — contemporary art is always what we need, awake or asleep

now RICAN asking when are we going to stop strangling the Puerto Rican economy

and now I’m way behind: it says AMERICAN DR and we certainly need more doctors, plus giving RNs more leeway to act

As they’re fussing with the kerning, shoving the R and the D over (otherwise it might start to say AMERIC AND REAM, which is one way to think of it), anyway, as they fuss, it’s hard to not focus on the steady stream of water drops flowing from the bottom of the M

And now it’s saying AMERICAN DREAM, in Baskerville, Marshall tells me. Nora says it’s the font on the dollar bill. I have to say it’s nicer without the definite article. American dream, adjective noun — last night I slept on an American mattress, well, an IKEA mattress, which means a Swedish mattress, a global mattress, yes. But also an American mattress and I had an American dream, something about making spaghetti for friends, and . . .

but aren’t dreams boring? and anyway, now it’s HE AMERICAN DREAM and don’t we all know it?

Will the T which they’re just putting up now help with the HE problem? Not that much, I’m afraid.

Now to sit here in this wired-up tent and watch the letters thin. There they stand, each on its bottom. It’s not script, no hand wrote these letters, a skilled chainsawer carved them out of the originary ice. All caps, it’s Roman imperial — Trump can’t win, OK? There are bottom lines below the bottom lines we’ve been crashing through all my life.

Now the letters are getting scrawny, people are posing in front of them, touching them. All the letters are going to melt, libraries archives and the worldwideweb nonwithstanding.

But meanwhile how much longer do we have to read the same thing, live in front of the same phrase

out of many dreams and waking perspectives just the one dream?

Toasted susie is one person’s ice cream and there is enough for different tongues

to taste speak and judge

Meanwhile, it’s hot and many people are waiting

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THE AMERICAN DREAM (at the 2016 DNC, Philadelphia PA)

Ariel Resnikoff, Philadelphia

after the Yiddish of Yankev Glatshteyn

These days, there’s no trace left
of Yankl of Reb Yitskhok,
just a micro-speck, a discoid,
that spins itself stoned thru streets
with awkward tacked-on limbs.
The suzerains with skyblue
the whole earth surrounded
and no escape.
Everywhere’s falling “EXTRAS” from above
& flatten my melted head.
Someone with a panting tongue
& a shtikl red smears my specs indefinitely
& red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red
Ya hear:
one of these days my brain’ll explode
& with a dull crack burn into a heap of shmutzy ash.
& me,
that rolling micro-nothing,
I’ll spin into vertigo ether
bundled in layers of red

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I don’t know the american dream

Orchid Tierney, Philadelphia

I don’t know the american dream

& the american dream doesn’t

know me & I don’t know what it means

but yesterday I said to Ari, as Bob said

to me (with words to this effect) the grass

is greener on the other side, and I thought

then, well, who speaks outside this

speech quote american dream—

aside from the man who knocked over

the letters CA , grasping a shard of

(cris: ‘California is gone!’) ice, with

embarrassed fright

as passersby took his photo.

Perhaps the american dream is like beetle juice

& if we say it three times, it will appear,

marred, jolted, awkwardly unuseful

enough to water grass bathe drink.

But I still don’t know what to know

about this thin thing american dream

unless  I excavate public words in &

around ‘god bless america’ spaces

& convert this feeling to a

stuttered ahhhhh foreign accented utterance

that acknowledges  the lacunae

in this tentacled dream.

Like I said to Ari yesterday, actually, words lack

honestly honesty without acknowledgement

(with acknowledgement etymologically

as a form of confession).

So I wonder if this american dream confesses,

then, a continuous (re)settlement,

a refused thinking to speak, know, & point

to ugly things, slow violence, difficult communities,

scrunched faces in acts of catastrophe.

To this end, it is dishonestly resilient

unlike the people who believe

in the american dream

& breathlessly utter, like beetle juice,

the american dream the american dream the american dream.

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