Browse Boox Hank's Original Loose Gravel

The music
stopped
for a moment

then—

when we began
to savor in its absence silence—
started
again, maybe a bit

louder than before

or maybe
we only heard it
as such, a sudden intrusion
we had previously not noticed
and this is what disturbed us.

Did John Ashbery say this? Did he?

What does it matter or matter what it does
for me it doesnt                 and wont either

Then or now                 Then or now                 Then or now

Can you see through this?

Original and Fresh

You can only do so much
so many times so many ways

and so many takes.

So try a little condensation.

                                                                 Just once

Good breath glad

One potato, Two
potatoes roast, Four
legs, Two breasts of
chicken, one good and one
bad, a lot of corn.

The dots get in the way
or there are too few of them.

At times I want only to hold
her hand and let our
ancient braille rest.
As I do with my real
(m)other.

                                                                           The anxious letters
                                                                           manipulate our fingers
                                                                           and put words in our
                                                                           hands we cannot wash off.
                                                                           Or they were but phantoms
                                                                           in our mouths, one potato
                                                                           two potato good breast bad.

                                                                           Or they were but phantom tastes,
                                                                           one pun, too punned good breath
                                                                           glad.

                                                                           Her, right at the end
                                                                           of my fingertips or
                                                                           hovering just above
                                                                           my palms. Which was it?
                                                                           Or as we breathe the same air
                                                                           where are they my words
                                                                           and where are they hers, then?

Dear J —

In this contagion I cannot act. I meant to stay but it
was inevitable. Space defied, the stretch came out wrong
and won’t go in again. All those sighs driving me up
against the quarter, night limbs and air hints. Too many
chickens! trying to sit up straight, banging a plate against
the floor. How can anyone not spill water? This is how we
left, nobody noticing the cookie, the slight gesture and
walking through the wrong room.

And yet the object insists on its existence. The argument
continues till dawn. The artificial coast formed on the edge
of the sink soaks up the early morning sun. Wrong turns
and false starts invoke this realm of intangible causes. Waves
and swirls in the driftwood uphold the illusion of the natural,
that precarious stage where the external and internal are
thrust together. The oblivion remaining deep within me as
trace, as scar.

To return to the things themselves, that world which precedes
knowledge, of which knowledge always speaks. The subject
exists not as centered essence but as excentric process. The
utterly familiar, its contents exhausted, emphasizing shape
and profile, shifts in color. The balance between stillness and
motion.

from "The Virginia Monologues"

Load-bearing stanza; do not remove.

What part of "you" don't you understand? This was a new sentence when I found it. How much of the passing world could be glimpsed through the window of a writing pad? Adjust margins. Our bodice-rippers; our shelves. "Ladies and gentlemen, the use of electronic devices may now be used." I felt a buzzing in my drain. What was new about "make it new." Turn-down service available upon request. "We have these lovely computer arm wires for sale," said the salesman in Louisiana. Is contraction good for baseball? The pentagon describes this as ''sensitive site exploitation." Deep South loans, three blocks south of Mid-South Bank. Fat-free French Bread. A faith worse than death. Don't let him get your zygote. I set a Tipper in Tennessee. Breakfast on the battlefield at Pinhook Bridge. What was new about the New Criticism. Self portrait of the artist as a self portrait. A harbinger of harbingers to come. There, but for the grace of God, goes God. What was new about the New Negro. Feeling trapped in the break-out session. Poseurs for Jesus. Flaneurs for the asking.

I experience this pressure
as a flush

as cartilage
becoming a message
that can massage

plentiful

always
into a new shape to harvest

you reach up my dress

alacrity
then seduction

canonization
and adornment

                                                                  like efflorescent tides
                                                                  of henna
                                                                  unfurling

from Alex Gildzen's Percy & Bess

1955

                                           Kiss Me Deadly

                                  a morgue doctor
                                  physician to corpses
                                  doc of the dead

                                  Ralph Meeker
                                  slams yr hand
                                  in a drawer

                                  the dead
                                  are more
                                  polite

ALL this for abstruse

reasons —

friction, black water

into mines... a support

breaks, all falls in

three are killed

the wife of one

now works at Wal-Mart;

the partner of another

has moved in with the fat man;

we forget about the third

whatever it is takes the place of

a sad walk across the desert of

“much less” than meets those who lag

behind in the belief that ignorance is power

and intelligence is nothing but a fallen angel

dumb

from birth

after all no one can expect anyone else to pick up

enough slack to keep one iota of intellect floating

                                                                  across a border full of fence and ammo

                                                                  instead of just another stanza that answers its own

                                                                  question

The tyke needn't translate
Odysseus' plight, communicate
the despair imbued in some
dyke's type. Just wants
to venture out
of the cul de sac and see
the world
not within reach.
Take the kid to the police
station. A home of the grave
pedestrians awaits Baby's
swift return. Neither
entertained nor informed
by verses meant to turn off
seven or eight kinds of euphoria,
what would such verses
reverse, if not time commonly assigned
inferior avoidance mechanisms.
At least this isn't spinning wheels
                                                                   in one place.
                                                                   Or have the spaces slipped
                                                                   out from beneath feet
                                                                   treating you to a new treadmill
                                                                   up which your inner analyst
                                                                   can slog along unimpeded,
                                                                   focused, destined. To what end
                                                                   shall you strive once the destination
                                                                   of your intention
                                                                   no longer desires
                                                                   articulation?

To begin again,
Anonymity promises the first pleasures
unless the race to someplace new be lost
to Personality, Memory's champ and sometimes
dark horse, stallion of old dreams and
recalcitrant nightmares, all these to
leave eschewed at so slight cost, the minute
price of an all night cinema ticket to view
an obscure flick inside the unlit rooms
of unknown movie houses, somewhere raunchy on
the gaudy outskirts of L.A. or any well
imagined place will do. Or have to do
if Personality is kept at bay, kept from trammeling
forth to take his awful lead and drag the weary vehicle
on his same unsavory course, through altogether
customary loops and circles, and ever
refurbished, habitual trails.

Dear Activist

No longer at ease
on the shorter end of the stick
hung up high on a short rope
what a perfect place to view imperfection
inside-out, as experienced
known before telling, yours before ours.

It was your gift to give us an idea
of the world off balance
then you fell
got lost in falling space, artless.
We missed you, all of you.
No one had the peace
to pick up all your pieces.


Home	*Hank's Original*
	Browse Boox Order Boox Blog Hank's Original Editors Contact Loose Gravel The music stopped for a moment then— when we began to savor in its absence silence— started again, maybe a bit louder than before or maybe we only heard it as such, a sudden intrusion we had previously not noticed and this is what disturbed us. Did John Ashbery say this? Did he? What does it matter or matter what it does for me it doesnt and wont either Then or now Then or now Then or now Can you see through this? Original and Fresh You can only do so much so many times so many ways and so many takes. So try a little condensation. Just once Good breath glad One potato, Two potatoes roast, Four legs, Two breasts of chicken, one good and one bad, a lot of corn. The dots get in the way or there are too few of them. At times I want only to hold her hand and let our ancient braille rest. As I do with my real (m)other. The anxious letters manipulate our fingers and put words in our hands we cannot wash off. Or they were but phantoms in our mouths, one potato two potato good breast bad. Or they were but phantom tastes, one pun, too punned good breath glad. Her, right at the end of my fingertips or hovering just above my palms. Which was it? Or as we breathe the same air where are they my words and where are they hers, then? Dear J — In this contagion I cannot act. I meant to stay but it was inevitable. Space defied, the stretch came out wrong and won’t go in again. All those sighs driving me up against the quarter, night limbs and air hints. Too many chickens! trying to sit up straight, banging a plate against the floor. How can anyone not spill water? This is how we left, nobody noticing the cookie, the slight gesture and walking through the wrong room. And yet the object insists on its existence. The argument continues till dawn. The artificial coast formed on the edge of the sink soaks up the early morning sun. Wrong turns and false starts invoke this realm of intangible causes. Waves and swirls in the driftwood uphold the illusion of the natural, that precarious stage where the external and internal are thrust together. The oblivion remaining deep within me as trace, as scar. To return to the things themselves, that world which precedes knowledge, of which knowledge always speaks. The subject exists not as centered essence but as excentric process. The utterly familiar, its contents exhausted, emphasizing shape and profile, shifts in color. The balance between stillness and motion. from "The Virginia Monologues" Load-bearing stanza; do not remove. What part of "you" don't you understand? This was a new sentence when I found it. How much of the passing world could be glimpsed through the window of a writing pad? Adjust margins. Our bodice-rippers; our shelves. "Ladies and gentlemen, the use of electronic devices may now be used." I felt a buzzing in my drain. What was new about "make it new." Turn-down service available upon request. "We have these lovely computer arm wires for sale," said the salesman in Louisiana. Is contraction good for baseball? The pentagon describes this as ''sensitive site exploitation." Deep South loans, three blocks south of Mid-South Bank. Fat-free French Bread. A faith worse than death. Don't let him get your zygote. I set a Tipper in Tennessee. Breakfast on the battlefield at Pinhook Bridge. What was new about the New Criticism. Self portrait of the artist as a self portrait. A harbinger of harbingers to come. There, but for the grace of God, goes God. What was new about the New Negro. Feeling trapped in the break-out session. Poseurs for Jesus. Flaneurs for the asking. I experience this pressure as a flush as cartilage becoming a message that can massage plentiful always into a new shape to harvest you reach up my dress alacrity then seduction canonization and adornment like efflorescent tides of henna unfurling from Alex Gildzen's Percy & Bess 1955 Kiss Me Deadly a morgue doctor physician to corpses doc of the dead Ralph Meeker slams yr hand in a drawer the dead are more polite ALL this for abstruse reasons — friction, black water into mines... a support breaks, all falls in three are killed the wife of one now works at Wal-Mart; the partner of another has moved in with the fat man; we forget about the third whatever it is takes the place of a sad walk across the desert of “much less” than meets those who lag behind in the belief that ignorance is power and intelligence is nothing but a fallen angel dumb from birth after all no one can expect anyone else to pick up enough slack to keep one iota of intellect floating across a border full of fence and ammo instead of just another stanza that answers its own question The tyke needn't translate Odysseus' plight, communicate the despair imbued in some dyke's type. Just wants to venture out of the cul de sac and see the world not within reach. Take the kid to the police station. A home of the grave pedestrians awaits Baby's swift return. Neither entertained nor informed by verses meant to turn off seven or eight kinds of euphoria, what would such verses reverse, if not time commonly assigned inferior avoidance mechanisms. At least this isn't spinning wheels in one place. Or have the spaces slipped out from beneath feet treating you to a new treadmill up which your inner analyst can slog along unimpeded, focused, destined. To what end shall you strive once the destination of your intention no longer desires articulation? To begin again, Anonymity promises the first pleasures unless the race to someplace new be lost to Personality, Memory's champ and sometimes dark horse, stallion of old dreams and recalcitrant nightmares, all these to leave eschewed at so slight cost, the minute price of an all night cinema ticket to view an obscure flick inside the unlit rooms of unknown movie houses, somewhere raunchy on the gaudy outskirts of L.A. or any well imagined place will do. Or have to do if Personality is kept at bay, kept from trammeling forth to take his awful lead and drag the weary vehicle on his same unsavory course, through altogether customary loops and circles, and ever refurbished, habitual trails. Dear Activist No longer at ease on the shorter end of the stick hung up high on a short rope what a perfect place to view imperfection inside-out, as experienced known before telling, yours before ours. It was your gift to give us an idea of the world off balance then you fell got lost in falling space, artless. We missed you, all of you. No one had the peace to pick up all your pieces.