Ghazal to Disquietude

Ghazal to Disquietude

1

I can almost hear as the waves sweep-in, a mermaid’s susurrations
breaking her cold lips on the tips of my sand-curled toes.

Noise is now everywhere I want to be
without it. Cars swoosh past Galveston beach roaring their inept monstrous lungs. I can barely

breathe. Or think. Why do trees and blades of every green thing shudder?
Because we are a hyper-intelligent insidious poison? Cats and dogs nail-grip us with insufficient fear.

Ninety-five percent of a car’s energy goes towards moving simply itself not the passengers.
Or rather that’s 2,500 pounds of wastefulness before the crux of tissue steering the steel.

In Hermann Memorial Park a yellow-blue finch tries to sing and fails
in the roar cars shed in their wake on the I-10 adjoining the beige greenery.

I nod off under a canker tree. A whale whistles out of its water-spout, breathing. I roll under
such plushness, floating with barnacles and sticky ambergris. So glued are our dream’s illogic logic.

I am a sticky carbuncle tearing through the earth’s thin breathability. It’s afternoon in Houston.
I shower again. I scrunch into a starched shirt. I rope my throat with a dead worm’s shiny excrement.

2

My right ear is dead. When I was three
German measles like dappled freckles

grew in me, killing the nerve. My left ear
still good at thirteen, I hear pretty well

the unprettiness in my parent’s voices as they divorce
and I listen in, in the mosquito bitten dark

roof above the living room window, then roll
on my back, where I swallow insignificance

in the drifting milky way above. Now
the frogs have started up. A few ducks quack. A splash

might be catfish come to nibble on the stars
tangled in a cheap tabloid, suspended on the pond’s scum. My chest

makes a soft squelching sound like tossed granite gravel
plopping into the ponds pitch black bottom.

3

Some sounds have no feet, like running in a dream
with something chasing behind. Once, as a boy

in the Bahamas, in Freeport, in a wooded area
two older boys forced me to be

naked, and dance for them, my penis
slapping around like a snake in the beak

or eye of some predatory bird, I forget
which one it was that kept me, held

squirming, until I ran screaming, pounding
my way past the low palm trees. Power

is holding the thing that does not want you
to rape you into a display for it

to play with, you’d think. If you could think.
Those are pearls that were his eyes,

nothing of him that doth fade,
but suffers.

4

If only our own desires would stop helping
the scrunched imp of all our days rolled-up

into aphasias of dreaming that stream down
like drops of sunlight through the wet branches

of Spring, it might be enough. Perhaps
I’ll ask you about it, someday, and you’ll tell me

everything I’ve every wanted was within reach
if only I had put out my hands, wide palms like bells ringing

that clap shut at a wedding, a wake or just
praise at the hours and minutes granted us. I say

put your fears in a little box, and smoke it
along with this warm interrogatory weather we’ve been having, that peels

shirts from bodies with an utter unconcern that is neither
here nor there.

5

Tuesday was wet. “Should we have bothered to vote?,”
I heard. Politics used to be what happened on CNN

in some distant country. In America,
the wages of sin at the top are paying

enormous dividends in the geosadistical landscape
of global reployment at lower wages. Yet

we live in the lickspittle of so many lives
witnessed, answered, served, texting: we wait

tethered in line for hot lattes to adorn our hands
at Starbucks, muttering as we pay for our pick-ups

before we pick-up our cradled handsets, at our second jobs
assembling complaints of failures on a phone line.

We know what we are, whose we are, what we have become.
I go outside, I efface my face in the rain knowing

our whole economy is braided to an abortion
like a Republican handshake before church.

6

Desires as round as peaches still bloom in me,
in dreams, yet I no longer ache for what any he

lets fatten. I whisk myself away, to ponder in cities like Paris, 57
wrap my legs around their hardness, and, sticky with love,

stagger there, a drunk sailor French-kissing in bright-calm
boulevards of light. Keat’s beauty makes me hapless, no helpless,

with its singular truth. Oh I still wonder or wander, as I arise
mornings laden with doubt about how I should begin

again, the approach to where there’s nothing. Yet I see
I’m writing this to be as wrong as possible

about every unfucking imaginable thing,
how human touch stains the garden’s white gardenias

deftely passing from bruised to black, we too
wrinkle and slide into that same long dark.

7

I started out believing
in everything,

the open field, plow
in hand,

horse
waiting to be worked,

words
hedged in the furrow,

irises
open to the moment

of opening, as if
posturing a proof

were proof enough
but without

the heavy lifting
of burdens,

the concrete
blunders one must make

clearing the way
to ubiquitous insight,

so I, who’ve failed at almost everything
hard-fought, rip fresh words from dream’s sticking fabrics.

Kingwood

was strange. The roads really didn’t make sense
wending their way around Lake Houston. I

got stuck, my big black Mercedes backed
into a ditch, I had to let it go

further-in in order to get traction,
tires spinning on the soft wet grasses

finally let me go, forward again
down a black incomprehensible street

like the face of this beaten woman
her blue eyes lusting for everything

that I might have given her, her life.

—————————————————-
(copyright 2016 Kurt Lovelace all rights reserved)

…audio of the author reading KingWood…

Aubade

I sit here sipping coffee night’s bitterness
being without you kindles with it is a kind
of muskiness I open my lips to your absence
mouth on mine touching your milk-salted breasts
nipples against my nose holding your hips
in my obscene hands

nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing

copyright 2016 Kurt Lovelace all rights reserved

The Boat of Millions of Years

Tuesday, I’m feeling glum somewhere while out
in public, larking across Rice Boulevard. Icy

shaved rain cones the wet rag of my head.
Ducking crapping pigeons huddled under eves,

my dripping wet face a blotched Fuji apple
flung into Half Price Books’s Arctic AC

to meet no one but flip leaves of dead trees.
You stand tip-toed toward your belly, legs spread

wide as you kneel down toward a bookcase.
I make you move, slightly, and we are soon

gazing over coffee. Your hand recovers mine.
I squeeze it hard. We smile. You shudder and suggest

we hang at your upstairs loft at the Domain
a few blocks over and around a corner

bending over, spread open the bright pink boat
of yourself, head sideways and down on silk pillows

the room’s ribbed sails of long white curtains flap, pop
open, then stiffen full-bellied in the billowing wind.

copyright 2016 Kurt Lovelace all rights reserved

French Kiss

Aliens are orbiting earth, dining
on a dimmed diamond table. Oceans
float in windows the size of walls.

On transparent aluminum toothpicks
hover two lips with tongues, sans mouth, sans face,
sans head, sans bodies — wrapped like bacon

around each other, gingerly pushed through
intact lips as appetizer, the whole
human entrée hoisted up behind it,

anatomy impeccably arranged.

copyright © 2015 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

At Hippy Hollow, near Austin, Texas

It used to be beautiful but people got there
with ideas. I don’t know why a parking lot

should cover the green velvet moss that wrapped
the long slippery slate-stone path to the water

under thick green sun-spackled trees that was like walking
through golden pollen hovering inside the vest of a vast leprechaun

before opening out onto a beige pebbled beach
of bodies bobbing naked in the sunned shallows

or reclining like purposeful porpoises that Manet
or Seurat would gladly have painted, hips

and breasts, with their delicate French brushstrokes.
I decline the five dollar asking price

and drive on, back to Austin, talking to myself
feeling like Matthew McConaughey in a Mercedes commercial,

famous in my own mind, alone, and bewildered.

 

Ashbery’s Soonest Mended: Talking Things Out and the Qualifications Therein that Lead Us to Truth

In Soonest Mended, through a humbling out of self by means of a sequence of self-referential questions and answers, through a process of bringing forth by rejecting and flipping answers and questions around, through a discourse that levels itself out by qualification as it proceeds, John Ashbery achieves a beautiful and stunning sublimation of self through the mere act of talking, thereby discovering, almost as if by accident, the nature of the poetic truth he had, apparently, been aiming for all along.

I posit that Ashbery hones a reductionist, almost mathematical, technique for approaching the truth. His speakers engage in a series of approximations to the “truth” using argumentative qualifications. It is precisely these qualifications that allow the speakers to wend their way to truth by discovering, recovering, and discarding the many “truths” — these weaker version of themselves — that argumentatively lie along the path of such self-referential discourse. This is a key technique used within almost all of Ashbery’s poetry: talk that uncovers truth by qualifying itself at every turn.

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Three Poems Translated

Poetry cannot be translated. So too, other than for giving a reader the raw idea of what is being said, any literal translation is especially negligible. The translator must be someone capable of writing decent if not inspired English poetry, whatever that might mean. Therefore, if one does attempt the translation of a poem, it must be ruthless, a culling from the bloody heart of both tongues. In other words, one may only create a poem in the target language that is its own poem with echoes, distortions, and intentions pointing to those places that the original also points out. So, that being said, here are three of my favorite poems from the Spanish, German, and French by Neruda, Rilke and Prevert, respectively.

These translations are very much, in an effort of love and intellect, an attempt to convey the beauty, wordplay and sound-play in the originals — and this explains some of my  perhaps more daring  “choices” — first person tense, ellipses, metaphor shifts, occasional sound emphasis over word sense — choices I prefer to call “intelligently risky”  as they are collectively my attempts to “transmogrify” these lovely poems into some semblance of a worthy English simulacrum.  Caveat emptor!

Árbol
Anoche al apagar la luz
se me durmieron las raíces
y se me quedaron los ojos
enredados entre las hojas
hasta que, tarde, con la sombra
se me cayó una rama al sueño
y por el tronco me subió
la fría noche de cristal
como una iguana transparente.
Entonces me quedé dormido.
Cerré los ojos y las hojas.
Pablo Neruda

Tree

Last night, putting the light
out, my deep roots slept
but my eyes strayed, open
tangled in between leaves
until, later, the shadow
of a branch fell over my dream
and I rose up into the trunk
of the cold night, a crystal
transparent iguana.

I slept soundly then.

I closed my eyes and my leaves.

translated by Kurt Lovelace,
Copyright 2014 All Rights Reserved


Herbsttag

Herr: Es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.

Befiehl den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gieb ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Aleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben

Rainer Maria Rilke

Fall Day

God! Is it time? Summer was so thick:
dragging its slow shadows over sundials,
and in the meadows its winds still rip loose!

Hear us! Let our last fruits fatten into fullness;
give us two more sun-drenched days
plumping all into ripeness till hither and thither
the last sweet drops drain into swarthy wine.

Whoever has no house, you’ll not build it now.
If you’re alone, it‘ll stay that way, a long time
you will stay awake, reading, writing long letters
as you walk alone shuffling, here and there
disturbed, wandering where leaves tremble.
translated by Kurt Lovelace,
Copyright 2014 All Rights Reserved

Déjeuner du matin

Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler
Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder
Il s’est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis
Son manteau de pluie
Parce qu’il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder
Et moi j’ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j’ai pleuré.

Jacques Prevert

Breakfast at the Dinner

He pours coffee
into the cup.
He pours milk
into the cup of coffee.
He sprinkles sugar
atop the café au lait,
and with a little spoon
stirs it round.
He finishes his café au lait.
He reposes cup in saucer.
Not one word spoken,
he lights up
a cigarette.
He blows round
smoke rings.
He taps ash
into the ashtray.
Never speaking to me,
never regarding me,
he readies to leave, places
hat on head,
throws on his coat
because rain is splashing down
pouring into puddles
as he leaves me,
turning into the splashing
rain, never speaking
nor regarding me once.
And I, eyes
splashing into the ground
of my hands,
cry.

translation by Kurt Lovelace
copyright 2014 All Rights Reserved

7 Draft Poems

At Marfreley’s Bar in Houston, Texas

In a dim lit mural behind the bar,
two swans amble in front of a plantation:
its white house lies against the river, lonely

for the cover of more trees that the artist
left out, as the rushing water
empties into the dark dandelion breeze

of rewritten histories. And I had wanted to see
a single woman out, tonight, sitting
alone, like me at the bar, looking

at their life, the plantation, the swans swallowing
small sips of whatever they find in front
of themselves, any parts of a life that might

make sense, tell me I have done the right things.

© 2012 Kurt Lovelace – All Rights Reserved

———————————-

Ghazal to Disquietude

1

Drowned in the honk-squeal above the guard rail, I can almost hear
waves sweep in as the soft susurration in the tip of their lips melts the sand between my curled toes.

Noise is now everywhere I want to be
without it. Cars swoosh past Galveston beach roaring their inept monstrous lungs. I can barely

breathe. Or think. Why do trees and blades of every green thing shudder?
Because we are a hyper-intelligent insidious poison? Cats and dogs cling to us in shock and awe.

Ninety-five percent of a car’s energy goes towards moving simply itself not the passengers.
Or rather that’s 2,500 pounds of wastefulness before the crux of tissue steering the steel.

In Hermann Memorial Park a yellow-blue finch tries to sing and fails
in the roar and wall of sound the cars shed in their wake on the I-10 adjoining the beige greenery.

I nod off under a canker tree. A whale whistles out of its water fountain, breathing.
I roll under such plushness, floating with barnacles and sticky ambergris. So glued are our dream’s illogical logic.

I am a sticky carbuncle tearing through the earth’s thin breathability. It’s afternoon in Houston.
I shower again. I scrunch into a starched shirt. I rope my throat with a dead worm’s shiny excrement.

2

My right ear is dead. When I was three
German measles like dappled freckles grew in me

killing the nerve. Now, left ear still good, I hear pretty well
the unprettiness in my parents voices as they divorce:

the light fades as I listen in, on the mosquito bitten dark
roof above the living room window, then roll on my back

to swallow my insignificance in the drifting milky way above.
Now the frogs have started up. A few ducks quack. A splash

might be catfish come to nibble at the stars
tangled in cheap tabloid floating on the pond’s scum.

Pain makes a squelch in my chest like tossed gravel
settling into decay layer at ponds pitch black bottom.

© 2012 Kurt Lovelace – All Rights Reserved

———————————-

Grading the Weekend

While sipping coffee, I read what one student wrote:
“The surviving fifty rare whooping cranes
with their seven-foot wingspread that propels them
in their annual migration from northern Canada
to the Gulf of Mexico fly unerringly and
swiftly overhead as they migrate southward
using a kind of built-in radar
in their search for winter quarters
near Aransas Pass.”

Surviving fifty myself, feeling rare and whooping
with my six-foot slouch that propels me nowhere
in my daily migrations from the kitchen to the couch,
I live by the Gulf of Mexico, sleep unerringly and
swiftly, undercover, my dreams migrate southward
using a kind of built-in slinky
in search for vaginal quarters
near my wife’s Aransas Pass.

To be surviving melanoma is rare
with its seven wretched drugs I puke, that propels
me out of the gothic hospital to monthly migrations of chemo;
swimming in the Gulf of Mexico, on my back, I float unerringly and
slowly, overheard, the nurses’ whispers migrate southward
out of memory, which is a kind of built-in shit-breeder
when I am in pain and searching for the way out
near the dark rings of Uranus.

But survival is everything rare as whooping
or her pubic hair spread to propel me
in my daily migrations from her coffer to wherever
it is in the Gulf of Mexico I am off to, I unerringly
admit to caring enough to love her butt
less than I ought too as I migrate southward
using a kind of built-in stupidity
in my blindly succumbing to what is expected of me
clearly perfecting it into a fairly fucked life.

© 2012 Kurt Lovelace – All Rights Reserved

———————————————————

Litany

See the purple and green crayon alphabet scrawled on yellow sticky notes stapled to tiny Glen Hills cardboard orange juice containers sucked empty by a strawberry-headed freckled girl named Melissa Alexander Winsum,

See the cardboard, folded and wax coated, that once held the orange juice within it, was wood that came from somewhere green and quiet with squirrels that stretched out on the upholding limbs sucking towards the sun their green certitude of elm or pine or oak,

See how Melissa tied together her carton creation with thick pink fuzzy wool string pulled through holes in the juice containers pricked with a three-fifths whittled down number two Venus pencil she over sharpened while working excited in Miss Thurstin’s after school art class last Tuesday,

See how the wool string grew out of a sheep’s skin, that then kept it warm through a snowy Spring, how that wool sprouted, cell upon cell, a protein made from the very grass the sheep was grazing on, from x-ray sun to chlorophyll to sheep’s cud chewing transformed to the wiry gray mat of wool dyed pink, now holding aloft 26 spent juice containers wobbling in the wind the whole of our English alphabet.

© 2012 Kurt Lovelace – All Rights Reserved

———————————-

Midnight Recital

Kneeling to untangle my dog’s leg from its leash,
how did I get here, walking a pit bull in the dark
under the sour leaves of drought resistant Texas oaks?
How have these years colluded to put me
with a woman who doesn’t like to be touched
as if my life were still attached
to a former life, lived in felt robes, kneeling,
questioningly, before God’s dead silence?
Why do I sometimes whisper beatitudes in Latin
when grinding roasted coffee beans for breakfast?
Why can’t a fuck be just a fuck like breathing
or the necessary forward movement of starlight
entering my eyes from Polaris when I look up?

Why is my life so intertwined that it folds me
into fractal compartments that expand, as if
from each decision, outward, new enclosures grip me
as I venture forward, faster than any logic I can conjure?
Should I kill politicians to address society’s wrongs?
Or open a shop and sell cracked imported Chinese
Chia Pets? Or get to the lunar surface to erase
the names of loved ones astronauts left behind?
How can this sticky motion of salt and water
hoisted on these dry branches of bone
discern a purpose, lost among thin pricks of starlight
that amble like ancient animals into the night?

© 2012 Kurt Lovelace – All Rights Reserved

———————————————————

Put Some Relish on Your Plate, Pontius Pilate

I started out believing in everything,
the open field, plow in hand, horse
waiting to be worked, words
hedged in the furrow, irises
open to the moment of opening

as if posturing a proof were proof enough
but without the heavy lifting of burdens,
the concrete blunders one must make, clearing
the way to ubiquitous insight.
If only my own desires would stop

helping the scrunched imp of all these days
rolled-up into aphasias of dreaming
that stream down like drops of sunlight
through the wet branches of Spring
it might be enough. Perhaps

I may ask you about it, someday,
and you will tell me everything I have every wanted
was within reach
if only I would have put out
my hands, wide palms like bells ringing

as they clap at a wedding, a wake or just praise
at the hours and minutes granted to us
I don’t know.

Put your fears in a little box and smoke it
not like this warm interrogatory weather
we’ve been having, that peels
shirts from bodies with an utter unconcern that is neither
here nor there.

-=KuRt=- © 2012 Kurt Lovelace – All Rights Reserved

———————————-

Everest

I grasp the impulse that might be driving you
to pity me in some odd way for being flabby and fifty
to your skinny and twenty, but you know, I like most
people stopped aging in my head at twenty-one, the
mental self-image of a nonstop Sid vicious, smiling at
you still trying to figure yourselves out, while we
older folk are done with nothing and wondering
everywhere we still can, asking better questions than
the thin shit we dredged up in our well-spent
grassy laid bare-assed whistling halleluiah youth.
And you listen to nothing we say all day with piercing
eyes as we watch you climbing our mistakes.

© 2012 Kurt Lovelace – All Rights Reserved

Jan 2012 Aletheia Reading at Avant Garden

Here is a recap of sorts for those of you unable to attend the reading of the University of Houston’s Honors College Aletheia Literary and Arts Journal’s new Spring 2012 Chapbook due to the severe thunderstorms and flooding during the day. One artist and three poets were present.

The venue for the reading was the second floor of the marvelous Avant Garden. As you can see from the photo above, the place exuded a very beat-like 1950’s atmosphere and even had a trio downstairs on stage performing melancholy soundscapes on cello, piano, and guitar across from the open bar.

Be sure to join the Aletheia Journal every 3rd Wednesday of the month for new readings at the Avant Garden.

First happening at the reading was a presentation and warm welcome for the amazing artist, Lindsey Slavin, whose work is prominently featured in the current issue. Then followed introductions of the readers, prior to each getting on stage. The readers, in order of reading, were Chris Oidtmann, Justin Carter, and Kurt Lovelace.

Below are listed their poems in the order in which they were read. Also, the full text of the poems that Chris Oidtmann and Kurt Lovelace read are included here in their entirety. Some of Justin Carter’s pieces are pending publication elsewhere, so he was not able to make them available here, but the titles of what he read are nonetheless included.


Chris Oidtmann


Justin Carter

    Ghost
    I Help You Create An eHarmony Account
    Poem For A Blind Friend
    Walmart Sestina
    I Hope The Motion-Detecting Cameras Did Not See Our Faces
    After Hoagland’s Color of the Sky
    We Discovered We Were Chewable
    Rita Repulsa
    Lord Zedd

Kurt Lovelace


 

Lindsey Slavin, Featured Artist in Aletheia Spring 2012 Chapbook

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Chris Oditmann

Chris Oditmann. photo by Kurt Lovelace

Mother Is Resting, Light the Match

‘76 Nova in the garage
papers piled on the kitchen table,
cups and saucers cracked
and stacked on the counter,
another log for the waning fire

basement flooded with gasoline,
pungent fumes creeping upstairs
saturating the carpets and drapes,

dogs tied to trees, pacing in circles
panting under relentless sunlight
that melts thin windows.

The smell of Weller and Pall Malls
burns his nose as he lies on her floor
watching the pious people on TV
proselytizing while Hank Williams
bleeds from the radio next to her bed

He looks at her,
then to the mirror
and repeats

“Forgive her father, for she has sinned”
Because unto her a monster was born
With flailing limbs, a balding crown
a demon in swaddling clothes.

He played his role today
and waits for the brimstone to fall
on the drapes and the carpets
and his own body, prone and naked
while he watches her stare
at machines gasping a last I LOVE YOU.


© 2012 Chris Oidtmann All Rights Reserved

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Sundae

I remember your black shoes with the silver buckle
Leaping across rocks and along jettys
Sending up splashes of salty water shining
In the moonlight like sparks from a bottle rocket

That same night you left your wallet by the bed,
And pulsed against the wall until it broke
Into a milky way of beige and fluorescent beige.
Sidney can’t sing any more. He’s dead.

Isn’t that how this began?
Drops of still gin fizz, so sloe
They fell into our laps and covered
The little boy’s overalls with mud?
Fuck the rabbit hole. He hit the concrete.

Great forces won’t come to our aid.
They know better than to hide under our
Pillows while we sleep so they can swap stories
And return to their rightful owners in Bakersfield
Where you gagged my mouth so we could kick,
Kick, and kick again until the headboard fell.

He was with us in that abandoned apartment
Looking for something to make it home.
One eye pressed against a crack in the door
Surveying the vacant parking lot for
Whatever left him behind by mistake.


© 2012 Chris Oidtmann All Rights Reserved

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Sedona

You asked me if I wanted you
and I did, so said I did,
and you asked
me which you
I wanted, so I told you.

The you who looked at me
with stained glass eyes
under stained glass stars,
into strained black eyes
weighted down by glasses
broken under the rose colored
weight of a thousand petals
pressed into books we read
when we chose thorns over petals
and pricked our feet on thorn
after thorn after thorn, but drew
no blood because we were covered
with roses that shielded our feet
from shards of glass and kept
the pains from breaking our stride.

When we left the Cathedral Rock
you asked me if I loved you
and I did
so I asked if you loved me.

You said you loved
the water in my eyes
and the boat in my mind
that carried us across a sea
where took to the shore
and saw reflections of ourselves
walking over sandy rocks
Because you said I was your rock
when you need to be strong
and I was the white sand
when you need to be weak
so weeks won’t become months
of seclusion hidden in jars
in the cupboard next to jam
and pickles, and peaches.

We agreed that the boat
would carry us across the ocean
until some lighthouse lamp
hits the panes of a church window
and reflects off the water,
the glory of stained glass


© 2012 Chris Oidtmann All Rights Reserved

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                       One Night Stand

A man in the corner catches my eye
                   He rejected me last month.
Coiffed admirers dangle from his every word.
	           Scenester bastards in skinny jeans.
Everyone who’s anyone is here tonight.
	           A festering pile of tweaked-out skanks.
It’s great when old friends get together again.
		   Heard Sam gave Ryan herpes.
Laser lights illuminate naked, nubile torsos.
		   I see you’re still snorting your inheritance.
Bodies pressed together in warm embraces
		   Your friend was much cuter.
Tongues intertwined for the very first time.
		   The acrid taste of liquor and cigarettes.
I wonder if he’s “the one”.
		   What the fuck is your name?
Fumbling hands unlock the apartment door
		   I went home with your neighbor last month
Hands gently caress soft cheeks
		   This apartment smells like cat piss.
Tender fingers trace down a shoulder and up a spine
		   If he has backne I’m leaving.
Two bodies fall gently onto clean linen sheets
		   Did I wear underwear tonight?
Tangled limbs move in unison to a single heartbeat.
	           Get your knee off my shin.
An arcane glimpse of the universe.  We’re decoding the secret.
		   Your moans sound like the loose timing belt on my car
He falls asleep, head resting gently on my chest
		   I like him better when he’s quiet
          His slow breathing matches mine
		   God, he looks so peaceful.
          I can feel his breath in the hair on my chest
		   That sort of tickles.
          My eyes are getting heavy, but I can’t look away yet
		   I wonder if he goes home with a lot of guys
               What does he thinks of me?
		   Am I special, or does this happen all the time?
               Did he see me spill that drink earlier?
		   He’s talking in his sleep.
	       I hope I didn’t seem too drunk.
		   Damn, he has great skin.
		        Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to be witty.
		   Didn’t he say he liked Siouxsie?
		        I should have gotten a manicure.
		   I haven’t been this comfortable in a while.
		        Was my cologne too strong?
		   I like a guy with strong hands
		      Maybe we can get breakfast tomorrow morning.
			Those eyes were pretty amazing
		      Where would I take him?
			The clearest blue I’ve ever seen.
		      I’ll let him choose.


© 2012 Chris Oidtmann All Rights Reserved

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Horses

I.
Before dawn she woke me
drove us to the race track
in the El Camino, 1976
with the windows down.
We parked behind the concession stand
so I could meet you
shortly after your first heart attack.

Asphalt pebbles shattered
under the weight of the well worn boots
that held you up.
You realized your mortality
and banished it to the ticket booth.
Place another wager.
Pray for a superfecta.

We sat and watched the horses run trials
with a stopwatch in my hand
held inside your hand.

II.
Again, I rode to meet you at the track
on a motorbike with blue trim,
bought with court-ordered money
you never sent

My leather jacket reeked of pot
your denim smelled of Maker’s Mark and cigarettes.
We sat together on the ground
pretending we had no senses

You hugged me in that parking lot.
I turned my head
towards an abandoned truck
run down, full of scrap metal
hoping you didn’t crush the joint in my breast pocket.

III.
My sister called at 7am
while I shaved for work
two weeks ago you died at last
I hadn’t known

I stared at my calloused hands, and thought of a child
leaving home in a starched white shirt
and black cotton trousers
running around a red dirt track
whipping red welts into pink skin
until a checkered flag signaled the end of the race.


© 2012 Chris Oidtmann All Rights Reserved

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This Kiss is Unfinished

I don’t even smoke, but I will tonight.
sitting in the black vinyl passenger seat
as I laugh and wish I wasn’t there
listening to a Cocteau Twins tape he plays
because I said I liked it after he said hello
and I said hey and he bought me a drink
and offered me a smoke, and his eyes
slowly traced from the tip of my new heels,
up my stocking covered thighs.

When we get to his place I wonder why
men are so fucking clumsy with straps
and garters, why they always bite my lip
and softly pant in my ear “you like it, don’t you”
because this sort of thing should remain unspoken,
like the clock on his wall that moves in silence.

His hands moves across my breast and
I wonder why a blowjob is called a blowjob
because no one actually blows on anything.
We just move in and out of each other’s
lives and that’s the new handshake we learn
in charm school after they teach us how to hide
our text messages, and email accounts, and lists
of partners we’ve been with because the number
is too high and private and won’t get us laid
by a man we might want to marry one day.

When he sleeps, I look through his cabinets,
and his desk drawers, and his address book
next to his prescription for Dexedrine
and imagine the man back in Georgia
who makes my body crackle and hum
and accept the substitute sleeping next to me
and reach for the man I’m with
while the one I want
bounces through the sky like a positive charge
looking for my negative to make us whole again.


© 2012 Chris Oidtmann All Rights Reserved

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The Sacking of Troy

I remember the moment
We abandoned solitude.
The moment we raised a flag
And Staked a claim
on the words we and us

Releasing two pasts
Beginning one future.

We were blessed by clergy
And paraded through a sea
of spectators and well wishers

But now we stand in the distance
watching the Troy we built
laying in smoldering ruins

Destroyed by six years
Spent casually tossing
Little Apples of discord
Like golden hand grenades
Back and forth, back and forth

Funny thing about hand grenades.
They eventually have to explode.


© 2012 Chris Oidtmann All Rights Reserved

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Justin Carter

Justin Carter. photo by Kurt Lovelace

Some of Justin Carter’s pieces are pending publication elsewhere, so he was not able to make them available here, but the titles of what he read are nonetheless included above.

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Kurt Lovelace

The last reader of the evening, Kurt Lovelace, read the following poems in the order that they appear here. Kurt addressed the audience, and his comments appear below in the green text.

"Hello, everyone, I am glad that you were all able to come out tonight. I'd like to make a few comments before I begin reading. Having just returned to school last year after a nearly 30 year career as a software engineer, I feel like a time traveler, being back where I was 30 years ago. I took Kevin Prufer's workshop along with Chris and Justin last semester, and so, it is a real privilege to be up here reading with my two classmates."

I'll begin with a few older poems written when I was in my early twenties, and I begin with these simply because they may be of interest in themselves and because they have never been heard by anyone before -- so it's a starting point in introducing you to my work, which now spans over 35 years. Then I will move on to my current work. The first of the three older pieces is called 'Taradiddle Smile' followed by 'Good Morning Captain Kangaroo' and concluded by 'Hunger' -- written at a time when I was perhaps too fond of John Ashbery, but they contain some fun and hopefully entertaining language in them."

Taradiddle Smile (#8 from Sewn Nets)

Dislocate that chagrin with a taradiddle smile
texturing into laughter. Realize that these tweed gearings
are success’s necessary dress, de rigueur
in the legato of getting ahead. You are commodity enough for your greed
rat-tailing through some echelon of employment, up-stepping
like a slinky down-steps. Your profit is
pragmatic redundancy, plus the intangibles of involvement:
no why for a house pregnant with family. Asking would
flabbergast you into a gypsy barreling over Niagara
for the gloat, thrill of it, a runaway reaction
like Caligula, claiming it made as much sense as
hiccups or Halloween, feeling your life like Sampson’s haircut, unfair,
yet you in fools-gold accord with its TV shine.


© 2012 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

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Good Morning Captain Kangaroo

my eyes open
every day with the front page of the news
breakfasting with the voices of legislators

and in the inkdots turned into the semblance
of photos, their hard noses flash there in the cameras
where they laugh they smile they grin

their papers their briefcases their limousines
tuned and humning my taxes
but I say, we all say

it is necessary:
eggs in their cartons, bombs in their submarines
and we go on

flipping to the editorials that explain
everything.


© 2012 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

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Hunger

Money,
a small quantity of it
floats in my pocket.

I pass a poor man on the street,
his mouth
open,
his belt about his waist
pulled tight.

His hand reaches out to me
shriveled. I pause.
Reaching into my pocket,
pulling out a dollar,
and leaning my mouth toward the man’s left ear
whisper, I wish you were a

woman.


© 2012 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

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"Now, moving on to the present, all the pieces that follow were written in the last 12 months with the exception of Sculpting, a poem chosen for Aletheia that was, however, written sometime ago."


Put Some Relish on Your Plate, Pontus Pilate

I started out believing in everything:
the open field, plow in hand, horse
waiting to be worked, words
hedged in the furrow, irises open
to the moment of opening.

Perhaps I can ask you about it someday
and you’ll tell me everything I’ve ever wanted
was within reach, if only I would have put
out my hand, wide palms like bells ringing.

Say again, what?

Put your fears in a little box, and smoke it,
not this warm interrogatory weather we’ve been having
that no one really wants to talk about, that peels
shirts from bodies with an utter unconcern that’s neither
here nor there.


© 2012 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

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Sculpting

The cost of involvement is you get involved and there she is
and your her painting garden her kitchen things on her desk at the office and
she’s looking how it’s all arranged
your colors the smell of your herbs
why your dishes
aren’t put away are your pencils
sharpened

then she sees
carrots need planting, the rhubarb
must go, suddenly
you need new dishes.

Then you start drunk serious writing poems about the cost of involvement
how her lips are not cherries but
red angry commandments painted in a delightful rouge
to elicit your obeisance

so softly
her requests patter
and when her such and such of such words fall
your obeisance
yawns lifts up its arms at her
smiling

she sculpts you

and one night reads your poems and thinks that they are very
pretty.

But you are drunk and serious
you keep the gun in the drawer.


© 2012 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

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Time

My wife, who hasn’t touched me in months, asks
would I perhaps take the trash out today
before the blue-green shimmer of the peacocks
flight to roost high in the safe night trees?

I stick my right pinky into cold vodka
and stir. Smoky Kahlua swirls. Sticky,
I lift out, then suck my honeyed finger.
“A moment,” I tell her, “in a moment.”


© 2012 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

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At Marfreley’s Bar in Houston, Texas

In a dim lit mural behind the bar,
two swans amble in front of a plantation:
its white house lies against the river, lonely

for the cover of more trees that the artist
left out, as the rushing river
empties into the dark dandelion breeze

of rewritten histories. And I had wanted to see
a single woman out, tonight, sitting
alone, like me at the bar, looking

at their life, the plantation, the swans swallowing
small sips of whatever they find in front
of themselves, any parts of a life that might

make sense, tell me I have done the right things.


© 2012 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

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Blossoms in the Salt-Sand Waves

“Geswind, geswind, wir hilft dem Kind?”
– 1960’s German 1st grade reader

1

Minding the green chain on our cockatoo,
my mother has coffee and oranges, spends
Sunday sitting in her sunny chair. Ripe fruit falls
from our plum bushes and banana trees, yet our boughs
hang heavy in the clearest blue. My father says:
“We’re here to track the rockets.” I am seven. Soon,
one man is going to walk upon the moon.
The beaches go on and on the water even more.
What about the man already in the moon?

As the Shipley brothers, and Buddy, and I
yank coral piled by the Shipley’s rusting Chevy
that hunkers, helpless in Bahamian sea-spray:
scorpions skedaddle, stick sticky, skitter or scatter
if we let them, but we leave them twitching.

Hammocked, I wake naked to the naked sun:
nose itching in salt-spray, head stuck out
the A-frame’s attic window. Sand-tufted plum fields
sway by seaweed bedraggled beaches, splashed
and resplashed and splashing in ambergris
waves that glint and pop with turquoise and white
bubbling froth the crabs scurry-up in, till waves pull back
leaving their wet-shaved arms on the shore
shiny, and smooth and new, invites us to play.

2

I eat hyacinths, their wet, red lips
flopped or folded open, sticky witch’s doors:
my tongue feels the ridges of her floor,
unswept, gritty with the bones of children, before
I swallow them, then pocket three gleaming cat’s
eyes. I’ve won the dare of Buddy Bogus
the 3rd. His mother holds me by my hair

hanging, just off the ground, above the dirt road
that her paneled wagon had banged against
from Freeport, with five of us screaming. But when
I said “shit”, she slammed the car into its own dust,
stopping. She shook when she said: “We do not swear!”
That’s when she’d yanked me out the door,
fisted my crew-cut, then lifted my brain
an astronaut, at T-minus zero, not counting,
pushed back by gravity: around me the hushed jungle
peed in it’s pants. But I sat on her hat
all the way home, naming the stars
just coming-on: Ursa Major, Andromeda,
Hydra, Cygnus, Draco, Vulpecula
poking through, their thin pinpricks of light
slow-moving against one fast satellite of ours.

3

My parents go to the Missile Base to dance
leaving me asleep. I wake up and run
breathless outside crying on sprinkled grass.
Back in, I pull out the TV’s boney on-switch:
a soda jerk on The Twilight Zone tips-up
his white hat: a third eye looks out.
Something scratches on the screen door.
I pull my hair under my mother’s milk sheets
and squeeze my eyes tight, and whisper:
“Make it go, make it go, make it go!” Asleep,
I fall into the same sticky hole, night
after night, I grab its edges but keep slipping
over into it only to slip over into it again.

Papaya grow with phosphorescent slugs
a breadcrumb’s throw behind the Blue Lagoon
Apartments where then we live, and two older boys
make me dance naked till I scream, pounding
through palm trees towards home, unable
to speak for a week. But once, I stole the night

pulling it tight like an enormous sheet
of black with dotted lights, and naked, swam
back into the sea from where I came;
and later sit on the shore with the storied moon,
wiggling my toes, squishy, in the midnight tides
pulling back drowned voices; I think I almost know
the sound of drowning.

4

Just in from Germany, my English played-out,
Dad tutors me, three months at the kitchen table.
I spell everything exactly as it sounds:
“Witch witch wood u bee?” At Saint Mary’s Star
Of the Sea, the nuns thought me dyslexic,
till someone told them I was bilingual
and could recite the Lords Prayer in Latin:
Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur
nomen tuum.
It made the nuns flutter, holding
white habits as if they might take flight, be
the sea foam that floats inland on the wind
as at noon, they air their prayers, the angelus:
Et verbum caro factum est. Et habitavit in nobis.
(and the word, made flesh, dwelt among us.)
And I kissed Eve, that morning’s milk break,
under stiff pines, the sea gulls shreeing, we ran
back, caught. Sister Anne ruled my knuckles raw,
beating their boney nubs on top her desk.

5

Dad floats a bright brochure at me: green eyes
burn in a panther’s face, peering out from a jungle
that fans its Stygian felt. “Let’s go,” he says,
and opens our white battled Ford. For half an hour
we bump the pebbled roads towards Freeport
to see a Brazilian emerald dealer in his shop
tucked away, in an alley of hallways going up
and down, around corners, and then two doors
both locked with slapping bolts, opened. He unrolls
black velvet in a curtained room, one bright light
shines down to show how black the velvet is. He
lays seven stones out, their rough edges “Uncut,”
he says, “from Santa Muerto,” and rolls them burning
in the blood between the tips of his fingers.

(Stanza 6,7,8 left out at reading…)

9

What was it then? What is it now? Let’s ask,
what measurements for us? If we stretch out our arms
the edge of ocean along the sinking sun
seems a dimming thing, encompassed
by the milk of the visiting moon. We bounce
off of the porch and walk toward the beach.

A stick bug extends its manifold hand,
and boysenberries ripen under pricking cactus;
in-between driftwood, ashore, a hermit crab
discards its shell, and in the shallows a leopard ray
wiggles underneath the sand, its spotted wings.


© 2012 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

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Photo © 2012 Lindsey Slavin all rights reserved