My summer vacation plans

I’m going to Japan soon.

I will start in Tokyo for a couple of days, then go to Osaka for one night:

I will stay at this hotel:

Then I will go to the famous temple complex, Koya-san, for one night. I have never been there; people always tell me how magnificent it is. I will stay in this temple:

Here is another photo of Koya-san:

Then I will spend three days exploring the highlights of the Kumano-Kodo pilgrimage trail.  It is a World Heritage site.

I will visit two little hot springs along the Kumano-Kodo. Here is one, Yunomine:

Then I will spend one night in a little ryokan in Kyoto in the heart of Gion:

Then I will stay here at this beautiful house for a month.

I cannot wait. I love Japan so.

A Nearly Baroque Wall Fountain, Just $35.99!

Under the Fonz’s gown
Too slick for the beard of the moaning pharaoh, whose bleat
A moron has begun to eat,
Meat butter primps its cocktail and lays down.

Ass-spattered bosses, freaks
On the edge of a vacant spill, chill
With the passive bird below.  Its trill
Is heady in the trollop’s skin, and squeaks

A quim or memory tent
Of a faux marriage and its familiar noose
Crappy with all its loose
Collapsing falters, its Elmo-less descent

Like Chatterly’s hairspray.
The cocksure dog beholds this spell with fleas
Touching, around his saggy cheese
The goatish indolence of labia

His faux ness all the while
Gleams fro-ward, mightily, into a clammy mash
Of cauterized darkling flesh
In a dull ecstasy, his spider-guile

Bent on the man-whore
And his tinfoil fool, to whom Ripple-drinkers come
And go in rectal salaam
More addling to the moonlit slime, and more

Indefensible in thought
Than pleasure’s chaos. Yet since this
Is pressured flesh on Adderall
Mustn’t it be sort of crumpled? Are we not

More ignobly depressed
In the fake mountains that Modernity built
Before it teetered? The lame guilt
Snuggles softly into a hornet nest

In the act of jiving, until
The fairy swish of laughter is rehearsed
With headlines bored enough to burst
A three-eyed cavorting head, that trills

So crazedly, its foamy gauze
Defacing, with a flattened shimmy, the whiny
Blue-red version of itself, divinely
Nattering on and on about its phony laws

As drear as adipose
So I becomes a lowlife and the band
Exudes  a muchness ― a damp clam
Toward which all mollusks droop… their pantyhose

they think I’m complaining
explaining his little seeds

There’s a kind of thing we need to shape
and then it dissolves backward

and a finite child so child.

these grammar schools

transit can turn into a little bit
of a defiant tulip

banana singers fish farming
beginning a banana butter

feelings
reason
reason

Rescheduled: DIA reading with Bruce Andrews! March 31

Bruce Andrews and Nada Gordon

Readings in Contemporary Poetry

Monday, March 31, 2014, 6:30 pm    add to my calendar

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Bruce Andrews and Nada Gordon

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Bruce Andrews and Nada Gordon
 
 

 

Event Information

Monday, March 31, 2014, 6:30 pm
535 West 22nd Street, 5th Floor
New York City
$6 general admission; $3 Dia members, students, and seniors

Advance ticket purchases recommended. Tickets are also available for purchase at the door, subject to availability.
Publications by poets in the series can be found on diabooks.org.

 

Squirm Pill

Now as I was pugilistic under the middlebrows
Above a minty mouth as slappy as a mondegreen
            Where right above the dingleberry
                        Crime let me flail in rhymes
            Moldy in the Fay Wray exercise
And horny among dragons I was winced at by caps and gowns
And once below the slime I hardly had the knees of bees
                        Frail with laziness, snarling
            down the quiver of the pinball fight
And as I was Oprah Winfrey, shameless in tangled yarns
About the papillons and clinging as the harm was form
            In the crumb that was somewhat lonely
                        Mimes let me bray and find
            Gordon in the smurfy antifreeze
and feeling mopey I was mutton and birdman, the elves’
sanctity corn, the loxes’ lonely trills snarking clear and bold
                        And Black Sabbath sang lowly
            In the Pebbles of the Bam-Bam dreams
All the dugongs they were sunning, it was grumbly, the shlemiel
flying with grouse, the moons in the kidney, it was there
            and swaying, mumbling and muttering
                        like frying sassafrass
            and politely under the pimple jars
I rolled the sleepy towels while staring at marmalade.
All the blue lanyards, messy and unstable, the gotchas
            vying with their pricks, and the chortlers
                        crashing into the quarks
A tremulous shake, and the bomb, like a quandary might
with the new, dumb lack, or querulous soldier, it was all
            timing, it was rad and amazing.
                        The guys chatttered again
            And the musky hounds began to bray
So it must have been after the jerk of that limber knight
In the words’ silly place, the spellbound nurses walking warm
            And shimmying, unstable,
                        Into the bleary haze
And wandered among toxins and peasants with the famous
under readymade crowds and snappy as the art was wrong
            as an unborn over and over.
                        I ran my sleepless maze
            My fishes spaced out the Mabuhay
And nothing I cared, in my Bayou shades, that time mellows
In all his rueful burning, such blue and such boring songs
            before the kitties mean and scolding
                        swallow him out of space
Nothing I cared, in the lamb lip haze, that time would take me
to the marshmallow sangfroid with a sparrow of a man
            to a tune that is anodyzing
                        Nor that riding a Jeep
            I should hear him shout to the Seinfelds
and quake to the charm forever bled from the violet band.
Oh as I was young and sleazy  like a new adzuki bean.
            Time held me like a lion
                        Though I came in my mane, like a dweeb.

New Energy to the World of Words

A helium balloon is soft and the soft is always expanding
into a repulsive little scab in a pattern of a mood swing
and he likes to look at me! he likes to look at me!
Women have a way of breathing new life into older white men
poised for imagery on a trip wire, always expanding verses
into steamy sapphic spectacles with lady parts their bros
in prose are afraid to touch. The IQs of agonized fleas are
flying pills, dominated by the difference between restraint
and restraints in the city’s changing literary balloon.
This consumer frenzy rose design performs orgasms,
weight gain, rashes, and diarrhea caught on film
at the poetry brothel and has an MFA in flashdancing.
Authentically dainty wordsmiths in the house of art fly off shelves
and he likes to look at me!  I’d like to start flossing menstruations.

part 2 of A POEM THAT SWELLS UP

I’m serious, I’m going to Paris.
I’m serious, I’m going to drain the brains of other cultures.
Seriously trying to donate a deer tick.
Guess I ask these beans?
My boyfriend is delicious.
My boyfriend whom I am in the page.
A message from thermal clarinets:
Newborn babies were realy something.
Desire for a minute ago
I watched a jar of fenugreek in the pee
Up up and BEAUTY
my wool over the miso in his countenance
I watched two episodes of beng a semicolon
I watched a black rayon kneelength pencil skirt, deep hopelessness
I’m serious, I’m going to the tomatoes to have poetry
in a wound incarnadine slightly musky and animalic
Big old honking vacuums of hair
in a secondlanguage environment
The worst song in my dreams five minutes ago
Wool over jammed mouths – loudish
Moaning a little trying to stay in the cisterns
Rubbing velvet princes
And sighing like a baboon in a sham farce
As a kind of vegan rabbi I can buy baby artichokes in my poems
Giant eel birds stand on the eardrum
Tonight’s bedroom and the suffering of animals
And humans concoct the unexplainable.
This loom of the hero is a feathery feeling
I watched the cats stuck to the curry.
They were supposed to stop yowling.
I watched two episodes of each penis
and both snails were busily ingesting this
Shocking pink suit, red thing, I am out

Purity? Wholeness? Wait.

A POEM THAT SWELLS UP

Marta, I just don’t sufficiently explain the void
I know it is chilling to be
A piece of memory stuck to NYC
The hair fetishist guy feels like barking in English
Those guys from Paris turn into a midget
I wouldn’t be this torch or a squash or vegan shaman
mais je retourne a vacant queasy feeling
The older people are sparrows in the a cappella group
Please don’t have a morbid curiosity about the honk toy
or rustling gold tongues hung on the balcony to dry
You’ve probably been seen drawing exaggerated genitalia on the death of life.
I don’t really have to know your coded glom! Your grim lushes are there.
I found a more grotesque asthma I guess
I watched  a Hasidic man become a pen and notebook
I watched the sacredness of a Vogue magazine in 1972
I watched black drawstring bags with quickeyed love
I watched a second language environment with George Herbert
I watched a restive sleep
I watched a couple flarfing to lyrics – the hippies loving this
Maybe on the street yelling and crying
Saw Dorian Gray fishes and muzzles snatching with
green false eyelashes and gold paint, backchanneling fine print red mind
Got any waters of Lethe to use on those kids?
Those most amazing eel birds of reading anything?
This hair in a Spartan little commercial context
This hair in their place; my lap’s a commercial contest
This hair in my friends in the lack of F train
Is hair an extension of the quote you didn’t read?
Is hair an extension technology?
Buddha left his wife in the states I don’t care
Is hair an extension of forbidden things?
Is hair an undergrad i.e. not with enormous breasts.
Are you coming to be?
So…one should buy stuff
The honk toy, its thick sensuous lips
like grand temples on the rocky road to vibrancy
So much agape, and deep red velvet paintings
like exaggerated genitalia on the death of life
A voice in a cheap everywhere, pagodas of course
pagodas of everywhere, OMG OMG I learned from benzos
Was that yaki saba I just married? Cried softly…
Getting my own voice sounds like staging a jar
Pages 175 to 295 are a blue-colored butterfly gland
all night in my radical dollhouse
The nightmares of extermination you didn’t really need
I’m running around shtetls in babushkas
I’ve got kosher in my feet, cajole myself to kvetch
I turn into a midget with a great love of announcing things
Guess I’ll just give someone a lost yarmulke
against triteness, but don’t have a morbid curiosity about it
This torch I wouldn’t be
That seems unhealthy to the internet
The cats go to Spa Castle
Nemo’s thyroid tested because I ate it
The cats watch Gone with the Wind
and the problematic Teahouse of the Beasts Boy again
Nemo is seriously complicating the morning
Seriously I am I a poem that swells up
Spock is going to stay in my scream and would moan
I finally found my identity anymore
Waiting for the most important muscle pain
Even if we are line drawings
In bouffant silver wigs
I watched a coconut flake 
Writing an impassioned persuasive paragraph on rouge
but I do want to try and speak from another planet
Weaving in his garden Nada uses words
to sufficiently explain the many fevers
Hopefully it is fun to wake up
Anyone want to make fun to wake up
Woke up, watch out!
Sha SHIN, flash of light
Marta, I just don’t sufficiently explain the void
I know it is chilling to be.
Wait for the hortatory feeling

I’m serious, I’m going to emit us.