Total Pageviews

Monday, March 28, 2016

A Man I Knew

One of the last few embers
smoldering in a fire dying
on the edge of dry fields

a red scarf, baronesque,
snaked around his neck one winter meltdown,
burning up in self-righteous anger
he said against the January blue

power lines through his head and this little westward plane
shining in the last light’s day
exiting his ear, shivering in the shade,
a chaste Elvis of the Appalachians

where mothers saw their lovely summers
twirled their gypsy robes
and left daughters withering
in his shadow
as days grew longer and cold.

He was one I wanted to make
proud to know me

to see everything he saw in the dark

the zebras of the carousel

the housewives with their parasols.

What Art Provokes

i. twilight on crewdson

Through storefront windows 
the succulents phosphoresce
security asleep beneath the thieves.

Shoes are being idolized
elevators filling with cologne.

Like aquariums blue with television fluid
all walls turn to H2
and oaks aglow upon the lawns

guide us to the golden orange of our body
moonlighting as our child.

Midnight cake is drowning in a bath of milk.
Shoes are being idolized.

I know this air.

Spring is coming
the hyacinth
the impatiens.


ii. hockney and friedrich go skinny dipping

One night I get out of my car.

It rains. Umbrellas bloom.

In the closets, empty clothes, cedarwood—
bananas, waffle cones.
The swimming pool a sink of shampoo.

Astroturf gets bloody 
when a wild pig in racing stripes 
appears in the garden
clusters of war ribbons 
dripping from his side.

By moonlight his eyes
shine like black snakes 
twinkling in the sun.

The beat is dropping like a shuttle out of space 
and someone shouts
The splash is on!

The pig dives deep in the mire, all turbo desire.

I can see him lathered even now
one tusk still sticking upright
like a bowsprit under ice.

When the sky falls
I thank god I’m a pantheist.


iii. cartography with aichen-meier and loscil

Magnitude sky.

The passing cloud and the clear sky and the white light and the passing cloud.

I’ve had my awed reactions in the chain.

There’s always something new.

But I’m running out of fundamentals.


iv. cvijanovic takes off

Cream cheese-cool marine air moving seafood, cotton candy, lawnmower fumes
and cherry milkshakes under the mannequin moon.

The oceans must be planes of glass colliding on horizons about to disappear.

Ford Taurus, aluminum siding, palm tree, detritus, the paparazzi—
disappear. The way the moon always goes home.

It is said I resist. 
But I don’t.

            v. intl development with eno and tabriz

The people form a serpent
lined up to await their portrait
carved in the soft cubes
that tile the mecca of our desire

an airport that will cradle and regard its children
safe from the shark fins
taxiing outside.

vi. pharaoah sanders and hubble

The field trip kids kept finding little
coins with weird icons
all over the rainforest
as the 747s appeared in the pyramids of Baltimore.

Blood, soil, grass around:

eternal resurrection proving here and everywhere
the splendid futile. It’s 95° in the a.m.

Bats and butterflies and glass above.

Up in the nebula, Egyptian hands
have pulled the lever that opens the astral:

aqua novae, grapelight, peach dust, stained-glass giraffes

or so it looks
when tragedy is waiting like a face
empty as the sawfish eyes

and all those kids
half your size
keep racing through a time
when the world was twice as large.

vii. terry rodgers and marcello gandini build a dream machine

Hot-buttered monsoon and the commerce goes
red as cherry and habaneros
stroked up on reclining leather moons.
Desired heat is set.
Black steel. Honey peel.

Paradise console: Diamond-studded beef, dashboard frescoes, silk-infused airbags,
touch-screen dopamine,
divine nutrition for lace tongues and tailfins.

We’re customizing the whole convoy tonight.

Top speed: Duck breast and luxury pharmaceuticals.

viii. erte and lockheed martin

In Room XVII,
In the still hot center of Interminable Boredom
Lady Xmas comes in with new codes and animals,
blue sapphires of her breast veins bulging,
pure shine of her loaded calves buttering,
topless in an ice room of sunflowers
chessboard for a face

stained glass eyes
sliding-glass mouth

technicolored into the air
conditioning the smoke
bars of ice caging flames in her throat,
transparent as glass
or sneaker technology
dismounting from an ostrich
under the thunder
of B2 bombers ten
times akimbo like an Indian god

the way she tames wasps
drinks Galliano straight from the vase,
and a head scarf that stirs
deep strange urges down by a pond
churning with the citric skins of fish

and membranes burning

Lady Xmas comes in.

Friday, March 11, 2016

Big success Big Letdown OK return



Dizzying tales of cocaine, gambling, and rusted cars
against a backdrop of Honduran heat and chemical formulas
break out to weekend winnings and snarky snomp.
The parameters come off in this wild romp
through enantiodromia and return.

From Nairobi to Miami,
Uzbekistan and back again,
the human touch is pirated, mocked, lauded, undone
before an ultimate reconciliation
of Willendorfian proportions.

Throw in something heartwarming for the older folks--
singing children, patriotic brass: Blockbuster awaits.

Villains ride a curvaceous strike force
of ‘80’s tractor trailers.
There's famous killers in exquisite skyscrapers
headed by a Scando socialist
psycho named Dr. Nytrø

fought by billionaire good guys
eating hibiscus salad and sugared salamander
on top of Chicago.
The heroine has a hotbod
and speaks bureaucracy
as she crushes nemeses to dust.

A man named Garden is involved.
Somebody says You started this thing now you can't stop it.

Midway thru, deadly twists.

You will smell the airbag wires burning down
hit the jackpot in your glands.

--People will be talking about the love scene 
for seconds to come.

--The car crash alone is 10 minutes long.

--Oscar award for sound and for set.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sequel reads like a trip with Vishnu thru 1970’s Oahu
loaded on uni and psilocybin
but it's 5× too long
and can only be viewed
at 45° angles
in special theaters
for $99.95.

People call it excessive
but what worth viewing is not?

Yes, my son,
the dialogue may be
nothing but stilted
British
fantasy
filmspeak

but consider that Garden turns traitor
outraging his fans. Tortures
innocents on the rack.
With explosive urethras
and outstanding propaganda.

Oh, how it flies in the face of applause! 

This time the “heroes” are Shiite
apsaras liberated from a Nigerian prison

by a lovely orange eagle
and the villains are Belgian

environmental terrorist compound
survivors.

Redemption. Violence. Purification. Bullshit.
The sharkfighting scenes drew rebukes for their explosive exploitation
and became instant media success.

A series of initiatives, parlays, and forums boil down
to an Indy-style car race through landscapes
treacherous as the latest indices, including:

1. castlescape dusted from Assyrian mud flats
2. Monte Carlo, 1947
3. Vietnamese cave jungle in full monsoon

all considered among the most
beautiful film ever seen.

But the flash doesn’t cash and the time lingers on.

Just when you think it's over
the theses get bigger, the problems enmesh

ramifications extend, the conclusion sifts out.

The detective summons a tea ceremony
where a murder is solved

so unconvincingly you'll need your money back to see pt. 3.

Last line: We're human after all 

says it all.

--Won the Razzie.

--Grossed more than the elections

--Or anything in history.
 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This time they shook the director and the pipeline.

Garden has new costumes!

So what so satisfactory.
Pyrotechnics designed to conjure childhood
instead remind you of  a good day at work.

The real people of this dangerous world
are lauded in a 10-minute medal ceremony 
halfway through. 

Portico and dorsal fins of aircraft—Brazilian models—ridiculous modeling clay montage portrays Cheng Ho’s journey to Africa.

A treasure map on the back of a bathroom stall
leads our heroes to an emerald mine
in the heart of suburbia
where Garden has come home to detox.

America, the poxed plain
turned enlightened feast
on bodies of a conquest
that could not be avoided.

Ironic visits to submarine Venice
and abundant tundra seem to portend
the inevitable goodness of our oily world.

The costumes remember 
Roman galas mixed with alien splendor
and American junk.

I took medicine 2/3 through
so don’t ask me about the final act. 

But romance was destroyed 
and human kindness reinterpreted.
So shut up
and buy the t-shirt. 
Because this is the story of the century.

Moral of the trilogy:

Don't go nuts without coming back.
Trust only your critics
and kill them with their own hands.

Be good
and be gone.

Peace. War. Whatever goes.

Friday, March 6, 2015

Ten Poems by Matt Sanderson


Your hand was pressed against this page
flesh against wood

I want you to touch me like that

Write for me again
I want the font of your hand
your soft pretty hand
carving lines into paper

Name my desires
you want as your own 

Make contact, leave your mark
Press yourself

your whole self

against me entirely
------------------------------------------------------ 
How empty is a life 
that does not dread
flowers on graves?

Love is despair 
at its own sunset

I will fight back the nights
bring you a daisy a day
to protect you from time

sing you poems of ecstasy
to shield you from silence

feed you tea and oranges
to celebrate your body

Death now seems a terrible injustice 

You are the reason I fear the end 
-----------------------------------------------------
Sound should sound 
like the desire in your voice

Violins

Now I hear the mystery 
Now I hear the longing

Hide with me in the old church

Moan

and listen for God
------------------------------------------------------------
I want to die with you
in a whiteout
drowning in deepest warm cold
motionless
pitched into black
the warmest cold calm

I want to die with you in a whiteout

Take me with you 

I want to be immediately
completely forgotten

The world we formed
was more than enough
---------------------------------------------------------------
A voice is flesh
vibrating against itself
a throat on fire
with an electric hum

I love your voice
The soft bloom of your voice
swelling and exploding in my chest

A heart is flesh
pushing back against itself
It doesn't know what it wants
frantic and frenzied
thrashing around in the dark

A heart is an endless civil war
flesh beating itself to death

I love the chaos of your heart
dissatisfied
arrhythmic
wild

We are flesh
a plenum of restive flesh
now stilled from within
-------------------------------------------------------
My hands smell like your chest
I fill my whole body
I’m at the edge of my skin
Everything
Everything is flesh

Why did it take us so long
to lie down and sink
into the mist and the clover?

Because your face can’t be pictured
and your name can’t be spoken

even when I take you in my arms
and we slowly tumble backwards
downwards
into the endless empty fall
---------------------------------------------------------
Laugh with me
that fearless laughter
deeper than the world
lost in the depths of all Being

We will dissolve
fall and die
into the first ecstasy

Let go

The Boundless will catch us
-----------------------------------------------------
We can learn much
from those who paint the countryside

just before the first snowfall

musicians who let silence
swallow the field of sound

Will I ever have lived
and loved you enough to let go?

Love is the terror
of time running out 

We are so young, my love! 
Much younger than we know

And yet we do not have long
Your hand will not
remain in mine always

We are not ready

to take the leap with joy

Let’s make love
to practice and prepare
-------------------------------------------------
I want to come find you
push myself into you
pass through to the other side

find you beyond
waiting for me once more

But you’re never close enough
to even be out of reach

You have no real birthday

There's no way to sculpt you

You don’t dance on the ground

You float and you fade
in the city in the rain

The light in your eyes isn’t light
Your voice doesn’t come from your throat

You aren’t beautiful like a flower
Your beauty is that of dreams and ideals

and yet you are bone blood and tissue
wrapped in skin and hair

There's a skull behind your face
Your eyes are meat lodged in bone
Your hands are earth ash and dirt

I just want to hold you

So look with me in the mirror
and realize 
we’re here right now

But only one of us
will die in the other's arms
-----------------------------------------------------------------
I wish I could walk with you forever
wandering endless paths

But so much joy is unbearable
because I once was so chained
so lost in the never without you

Now I feel colors and trumpets!
I know why there is a morning
always a new day

I smile with children and animals
I see my calm reflected
in the still waves of your mind

But so much joy is unbearable
when I am this new this

out-in-the-open
so exposed to tomorrow
and never as happy before

I love the past that led me here
and now as my future
to know what gives you ecstasy
and cross the limits beside you

But so much joy is unbearable

I once was without you

Now all I do is transcend