Five Triumphal Gestures
(For Alan and Geraldine)
1.
Last drops spread the leaves
dangers of exploitation
that blends and (as it were) fuses
mumming plays in royal England
geometry and music are not essential
(do not give as you are asked, nor
answer as you are questioned)
take them all
original patent
maddens the hero
Stand up you moron
onward loser!
gravity & music are not
essential either.
Last drops spread the leaves (see
above)
Light is an experience
in rural England
When chickens are cold
they save half
my effort [or she]
knows how [she is]–She is
Self-knowledge for whatever spectator
(suspected
goddess)
Mutual Cooperation Unit
only a fragment of whose earlier collections survive her.
Boredom is what I least deserve
or desire (he will be careful
not to say the word “decapitation” again!) re–
volt of the provinces of a lighter-than-air body,
which body
eats itself, or
grasps a microphone
for eternity.
2.
Who do you think you are?
rat & finch,
people just
watched. per-
cussor, as in
river-smooth &
waiting
(Pound-Note)
in the bag. eh what?
wife takes
the picture (almost
medical textbook, droll)
audience asks
wait a minute?
handshake?, if that’s
looking enough for you
then ding-a-ling.
(breathy
pause--
shaped
thinking)
come on.
3.
high hill
of my
old age/
endlessly
distracted
molecules
“drilling
down”
to the
individual
gradation
of grays
“but that’s
orchestration”
trundle along
the Boggard
path
yet I need
an aesthetic
immune
to art films
& engine houses
fragments
of a realm
beyond my
reach
mercurial &
sustained
provocations:
a Sassanian bowl, perhaps
a gryphon’s claw, perhaps
a Roman stone
bathtub
4.
Clarification of thought
by walking
The amputee doing
calisthenics in his door way
--“Do you have your ticket?”
--“I have the wing of a crow.”
5.
Beneath the wild
ferns by the bubble-
scummed creek,
John Keats opens
his webs of empty
flesh so the tap-
roots of the willows
find him, and
stones and clumps
of sticky dirt tumble
through him and
where light once
collided within the
tender lobes of
neural tissue, all
grows cold and clean
and clear.
We’d failed to video-
tape our luminous
dog, and even the
snapshots we’d taken
were focused
on a human-
centered world,
allowing John Keats
his skewed spot
off to the extreme
right or left of center.
Now even the photographs
in their fine leather albums
have begun to fade.
—Jesse Glass
BURN IT ALL DOWN UP TO THE LAST SENTENCE
a.
the exotic s,c,r,e,a,m
wrapped in its coarse cocoon
fails to bite out
of the embrace
of mirrors
tiny advance
in Buddhas
(abed-nego--
Cd-rom full of
grisly footage of
Amita’s teachings
sold in marketplaces
where a pale face has
p,l,u,m,m,e,t,i,n,g,v,a,l,u,e
1.
this “spasm” of otherness
2.
bullet-dented, motionless
3.
last time I looked
starry scissors
against the sky:
not
not
not
the dharma
b. (commentary)
.
blak box
takn 2b shakn
watz inzide????
hol r
sol
thiz luvnhayt
biznz’ll
blast yr.
gob
inna
jag,,,,
c
thin girlz
makin
be,uty
on
th' stairz
unner
a
canopy o
he,ven
moveuzall kyotic
wayz
ne,r
th lizzrd
skint
river
o'flintz
war
pithykanthro,zus
onct
strok th'
hand-ax n zo
invent'd
gawd,,,,
“she kloz'd
“her legs
“onna tatoo'd
“hand
“pressin'
“ta open
“h,r wom'
“like a bok
“o aztek
“secrts
“on th, pges
“shadoz o
“wingz
“liftd n end-o-time
“attak &
“deepr yt.
“blod welz
“ta blot thoz
“pges
out,,,,”
rumorz
o
raw
end,nz
ce
but
izit
trooth’s
wat ur aftr h,re?
no UFOz
hoverin'
mid-horiz,n
for us ta stepabord
ta parad,ce,
butta gost
inna masheen....(????)
naw
jackbootz,
z all wn finz
iznit--
wantin’
ta bust
headz
iz all th’
fu,kn
rayj
wantin’
ta mak
us do
wat it
wanz
faktureez
turnt
pimps
o’ th glanz
iz all,,,
wer
zo glum
bastrds at th
mylennyum boyz
blak box
takn 2b shakn
watz inside????
hol r
sol
thiz
biznz'll fu,kin
blast yr.
gob
inna
jag.
—Jesse Glass
Dear Reader,
my eyes are nearly clawed out of my head–
the grizzle of my nose is mostly gone–
half of my tongue’s bitten off, and the skin and flesh
of my hands and forearms is torn literally into strings.
In this tattered condition
I have ceased writing
to enjoy a sort of parlay, recovering strength
and preparing to resume my work in a few moments.
Nearby, some former Muses lie on their sides where I tossed them,
eyes glazed and rolling in ecstasy,
while others sneak about
licking the black hinges of their jaws
as they plan a renewal of love’s sweet circlings.
Dear Reader,
believe me when I say there is a beautiful view from where I dip my pen.
Dear Reader,
believe me when I say
it is only you I desire without reservation.
—Jesse Glass
Summer at the “New Globe Theatre”
Physical rough up language
man-handled [sublimity
on tire treads [rubber throne
wire cages worn on the head
while jets rumble fuck-all in real-time
above & beyond the S,h,a,k,e,s
this morning
air-conditioned (of course)
souvenirs
barefoot inna cloud o’ red dust
the Thames from here’za, za..
(echo o’ (s)trumpets).
a clot o’ ill-kempt groundlings welts drawn? daggerz?
hair by the pulled-out roots preserved
piss & shit cultural [ass/etc.
semblance o’ suckling
p,i,g,h,u,m,o,r
carv’d up for c,o,r,p,o,r,a,t,e,z,p,o,n,z,o,r,s
rot-tooth Ur-Hamlet
the nine reeking holes of the body
maggot on a treadmill
hornet lashed to plough
—Jesse Glass
we were on
the rocks
the gulls
musical shuttle
when they
bumped
wings
and you were
reading the
play to me
about how
the waves
made it
with each other
to make the
lake
—Jesse Glass