thee istsfor manity reader

at the catholic hospice (redux)

my atheist father is tracing lines in the air
they’re shooting at us from the barricades, he says
it’s a half mile away and i felt the bullet fly by my head
the bastards are down from the sierra
che guevara, hijo de puta!
whispers float in from the hallway
followed by a lazy fly
the door slightly ajar
frames a flash of the priest i told to stay away
i watch my father’s hand trail
down to his side near the catheter that snakes
its way down to the rust colored murk
of the waste bag hanging below the bed
caña, he whispers, sugarcane
as the fly lands on his trembling hand
a desiccated death mask has emerged
all sockets and bony cheeks in
stark relief
his eyes a flurry of twitches
as he runs through the sugar cane field
the fly on the wall listens intently
ay, que oscuridad
el comercio esta cerrado
in the darkness that envelops him at midday
business is closed
a half minute later he siphons
another hard breath
the fly heads for cover
behind the blackout blinds
the man next door starts anew
on the cuban national anthem
the sixth time this hour
his voice trails off after the first verse
as his daughter turns up the volume on
one life to live
another man down the hall begs for mercy
then my father says
mama, me quiero bajar
mother, please help me down
the fly bangs repeatedly into the window
in a dizzying drone

What I’m Reading:

“i’m not revolutionary i’m regular. nothing radical in being the enemy of america, the country of enemies. we find our laughter between the horror.”

— Danez Smith / “anti poetica”

Interlude in Wake

It is recorded in some musty tome that in 1456 Pope Callixtus III excommunicated the comet to end all comets. A heathen astral rock glowing white-hot as it streaked across the sky. The stars are signifiers. The popes are pontificators.

This is an interlude, in wake—(with burrowing owls)—apropos of nothing.

What I’m Reading:

“i haven’t been much lately—the dark season lasted years, swallowing seasons, collecting itself in my shallows like a motor-sheered fish.”

— Danez Smith / “anti poetica”

Fou!

His ambition drained in a scruff
of the neck twist
a meager remembrance
of his days spent in a robe

His teeth chattering
he’s on apprenticeship
as ornithologist
and taxidermist

Fou!
says the Past
inserting its finger
in god knows what

He slogs knee deep
in hummingbird angles
tenuous and blur-fast

Before him shine the bones
of the pitiable Condor of Shiva

He is comforted in the knowledge
that the afflatus was hard won
speaking in tongues
wearing the cloaks of invisibility

His body taught
with a dab
of holy pedantry

Wombat love!
he cries

He walks out of the room
millions of people watching
on their television screens
without the slightest knowledge
of antipodal politics or wombat love

At that at that very instant
you arose
and turned off
your television

Wondering

What I’m Reading:

“My solitude is
like the  grass.  I  become  so  aware of its presence  that it  too
begins to feel like an  audience.”

— Victoria Chang / “Grass, 1967”

What I’m Reading:

“I know simply that the sky will last longer than I.”

— Albert Camus / The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays

The Best Stuff I Read This Week

“… this poem burst forth

from my brain like a boot

or a god: furious”

— Gail Wronsky / “The Moon is in Labor”

“… ambiguity creates different contours, curves that are spacious and deep because they open into deeper meaning rather than weaving connections and explanations.”

— Grant Faulkner / “Grant Faulkner on capturing the essence of a story”

“Delirium. I’m out the door. Stasis is a sieve through which I drag myself.

Literature feels / far away.”

— Jane Huffman / “On Moving”

“It is not hard to imagine an A.I. model that has absorbed tremendous amounts of ideological falsehoods injecting them into the Zeitgeist with impunity.”

— Sue Halpern / “What We Still Don’t Know About How A.I. is Trained” / New Yorker

“… the people inventing them think they are potentially incredibly dangerous: ten percent of them, in fact, think they might extinguish the human species. They don’t know exactly how, but think Sorcerer’s Apprentice (or google ‘paper clip maximizer.’)”

— Bill McKibben / “Regular Old Intelligence is Sufficient—Even Lovely”

“I think poetry clears a space to linger—to swim in the experience or obsession—without necessarily expecting some kind of rational or valuative payoff. That’s part of what feels so exciting to me about poetry: it can be a place for mere noticing.”

— Maggie Millner / The Creative Independent interview

“…the moon is,
hung aloft in effulgent skies:
eating nails for breakfast,
dying in childbirth…”

— Virginia Konchan / “Ubi Sunt”

What I’m Listening To:

“And if you think peace is a common goal

That goes to show how little you know”

— The Smiths / “Death of a Disco Dancer”

Dear Residents, (pt. 3)

A gentle reminder that all gerbil removers should be stalled/or emailed to the off-license mandrill.

After office hours, please call the froth destroyer.

Please do not stop the malformation stalks or call the stalks directly or labor on the gewgaw ointment knuckle-duster.

All sex resets will now be routed via the mandrake oil dormitory.

Thank you for your cooperation.

The Management.

What I’m Reading:

“Making out inside a Richard Serra
Strikes me as the right way to take in art
Like embracing an echo”

— Sarah Jean Grimm / “Object Permanence”