LI PO

Kou Chien shattered Wu, then returned to his Yueh kingdom.
Noble warriors home again boasting brocade robes, palace

women like blossoms filled springtime galleries here.
There's nothing left now - only quail breaking into flight.

FERLINGHETTI

Poetry is a plant that grows at night to give name to desire.

From Poetry as Insurgent Art

GOODMAN

Over Easy
- Loren Goodman

I am moved by morning
As the egg is moved
By skillet's heat

Crackling out of bed
Before we begin to eat
It's over, easy

OY

GOLDBERG

L'Art Brut
-Beckian Fritz Goldberg

The moon tonight is a lit canoe shrouded in a curl of mist.
The men at the bar aren't buying this, the moon is a housewife's

fingernail. Drink to the moon as the arc of a woman on top. All
shit about the moon is shit.

The moon is the light pelvis of a girl dusted of earth. Forensic
moon. Moon of the Observer.

I am sorry to see it, night after night, scar in the blue skin of the desert.
Oh yes. The day that is so blue and the night so underblue.

The men at the bar aren't buying. They want to hear about the moon's tits.
They were, I say, pink top hats spun upon the alps.

Looks more like a canoe, they say, with me and Dog. The sky is the shore, they say.
And Dog clambers asaintly up.

HART

Poem
-Matt Hart

This amazing confoudedness
Find nothing so much
As a bicycle wheel spoke
Or a furtive beer bottle,
Or the fact that last night
When you were lying
Through your teeth
About what a good evergreen
You are, I was tellng the truth
About the bathroom stalling
And the thousand horses crashing
Through the bank teller's window.
Really it's nothing or it's everything.
Either you feel complete and satisfied
Or you feel like a fraud deep-frying
In wonderland. My only reference point
Is a three-story super bomb,
One million four hundred thousand
Metric tons of TNT, the end. Now
To feel half alive is a giant
Accomplishment. In government
There are always people trying
To fuse together some mordant anarchist
With a kitten or a boxing match,
And this makes the head trauma
Dreadfully inefficient to manage
Amid the blackouts and job cuts,
Cases of poisoning by radioactive fog,
I don't really care, except I do so it hurts.
I give blood to stop bleeding. Send limbs
To naked treetops. You gotta admit
America's a mess of opportunity,
And this time I'm even hopeful
That the creaking in the ceiling
Isn't the evil in your sweater, but a mob
In the wings, an electorate of mops
And cottonmouth fangs, opening
Their armory and making a pitch
For a darkness so brilliant it's light.

RJD2

Not that music is inherently related to poetry or fiction, but this song is just too good not to be heard.




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