From ERRATA 5UITE by Joan Retallack

from graver than a goose's nipple numbered locals thick thighed brides eyes

only syllables of despair to read the prayer for the dead for read forget

please don't forget her name to read in which shes only to be read in

memory of what she said she said the child had said to her that day today

in school I learned you end a sentence with a pyramid

--from Joan Retallack's Errata 5uite (Washington D.C.: Edge Books, 1993)

Another Pair of Poems by Jackson Mac Low

I wanted to post the last two poems that Jackson Mac Low wrote to commemorate the fact that I just read Thing of Beauty in its entirety, which was no small feat for me.

14 September 2004 82 years + 2 days

Waldoboro, Maine

Trying to write is strange.

I haven't for more than a year, I think.

A rare car is whirring by, back of me, going to my left.

Nearest row of trees, several feet in front of me, and running offstage to my right.

Others farther in front at my left.

A mowed lawn going back until trees take over for good.

Both kinds of trees.

Still Waldoboro Wednedsay a.m. 9/22/2004

In the yard just beyond the red dying tree.

White butterfly swerving around in front of it and off in front and away.

Little line of bushes ends while the line of piled boulders swerves around and comes up to the wooden "gate" about ten feet to the right of me.

The pile of boulders goes on past the wooden "gate" and back of me.

A wild wind from my right.

The leaves of the dying red-leaved tree only move a tiny bit in the wind to the right, a few feet in front of me--just to the right of the front of the older part of the house.

It's a lovely nearly-autumn day in Maine.

Warm sunshine with a continuing intermittent little wind that stops and goes, mostly goes.

The little bit of Gerolsteiner is warming in the sun right in front of me, but I'm back of it in the shade.

Anne was here but she's gone inside.

I hear passing cars somewhere way to the right but they're far away in back at the right and invisible.

A bird squeaks in twos in front, and to the left.

Now one at a time, a different bird.

And feeble peeps at the far left and a very soft dump-tee-oh.

Don't ask what birds--they speak a little and stop.

Now a continuing up swerving down over and over

And a repeated tec-oo-WEE but never loud.

The German water's still a bit cool.

The wind's blown in first and on the back of my head and then on my left ear and now from the left and then from the front and then the back.

Two three white butterflies and a fly and a dragonfly that stops & then hurries away.

I'm going inside for a wee bit.

I dropped the cover for my pen in the grass in front of me, but Anne found it.

I'm not going inside yet because Anne's reading a book in the sun to the right & in front.

It's not quite autumn, but leaves are falling, especially from the tree with red leaves in front & to the right of the house.

A tiny yellow crawler on my sleeve before I blow it into the grass.

I didn't go inside before, but now I will, but not for long.

--from Jackson Mac Low's Thing of Beauty: New and Selected Works Ed. Anne Tardos (U of California Press, 2008)

Clean, Clean, Clean by Linh Dinh

Linh Dinh read this poem in Philadelphia last night at the Asian Arts Initiative. It was published in Harper's, but Dinh insisted that it is "not a Harper's poem:"

Clean, Clean, Clean

Belonging to the lower class, you’re expected

To cater to the upper class’ lower bodily functions,

Not to engage their minds but to wipe their asses,

Kiss their cunts on demand, suck cocks for tips,

Unless, of course, you’re an artist, in which case,

You’re an aristocrat of the servant class, to quote

That grand maestro among slaves, Jasper Johns.

I used to clean apartments and houses.

Showing up for a new job, I was greeted

By the mistress, “I have the most respect

For new immigrants. You work so hard!”

Down low, you’ll get a disproportionate

Low down on all things funky and nasty,

Nothing unusual, really, just shit and stuff.

I cleaned toilets and fridges, folded panties,

Got on all fours, dipped into the suspicious.

A young woman confi ded, “I moved to Philly

Because California women were so beautiful.”

She was usually home when I came. The spine

Of her soft porn book turned to the wall. They all

Had some smut in the house. This was before

The Internet made these sad and surreptitious

Purchases unnecessary. I found a teen-aged

Madonna in a closet, so I knelt and sighed.

A fat one lived alone, but once she said, “Sorry,

The house is so messy today. I had company

Last night,” and her face brightened angelically.

--from Linh Dinh's Some Kind of Cheese Orgy (Chax Press, 2009)

A Pair of Poems by Jackson Mac Low

Manifest

To manifest: to be, visibly.

To make visible what was formerly invisible or otherwise to make sensible what was formerly not.

To present or make present, vocally, visibly, or otherwise, one's views, sentiments, objections, etc., in reference to a matter of public concern.

Manifest: a commercial document listing constituents of cargo or names of passengers on a plane, ship, or other vehicle.

A manifest of meanings.

To make evident or certain by showing or displaying.

Readily perceived by the senses, especially by sight.

Easily understood or recognized.

Obvious.

To become obvious.

To be, obviously.

To be, recognizably.

To become recognizable.

To emerge as a figure from a ground.

To become visible, or otherwise perceptible, as an agent.

To act.

To make interior states perceptible to others.

Manifesto: a public declaration of principles, intentions, views, or feelings.

A document in which is said explicitly what otherwise might have remained implicit in political, artistic, or other practice.

To present or make present.

To present for inspection what might not otherwise have been able to be inspected.

To make the implicit explicit.

To make the interior exterior.

To make the hidden unhidden.

To say what might not otherwise have been said.

Choose one or more of the following:

Every text is a manifesto.

Every (adjective) text is a manifesto.

Every text worth reading is a manifesto.

18 June 1983

New York

Unmanifest

What the maker of a manifesto does not comprehend or acknowledge is the basic unmanifestness from which and within which each manifestation takes place. It is this neglect or ignorance that calls forth repugnance when a manifesto is proclaimed or published, especially one regarding art. As if what comes to being in and as the work of art could ever be totally manifest or even manifest at all without its abiding steadfastly in the unmanifest! A work of art is a manifesto only insofar as it is its own antimanifesto.

21 June 1983

New York

--from Jackson Mac Low's Thing of Beauty: New and Selected Works Ed. Anne Tardos (U of California Press, 2008

untitled, Myung Mi Kim

foundry

mill

warehouse

tannery

refinery

central clearing hall

infirmary

barracks

internment camp

auto plant

containment center

refugee camp

--from Myung Mi Kim's Penury (Richmond, CA: Omnidawn, 2009)

TO BAUDELAIRE by Bob Perelman

TO BAUDELAIRE

The head is the body's lair.

It may be slightly in front.

Milking these separations,

Words answer the immortal need

For intoxicating monotony. The body

is the mind's sieve.

Beloved grief, water drips

From a block of red ice

Onto a perfumed paradise

Lost in the obsessive embrace

Of reader and writer. Superb haloes

Hang from the heads

Of naked slaves whipping themselves.

A new world is required

To stomach the images

Floating on the headless

Torso of the old.

"I was surprised to find myself

Staring at an empty hole.

I ordered flowers."

--from Bob Perelman's Primer (THIS Press, 1981)

DAYS by Bob Perelman

DAYS

One word is next

To another, an excess

Of localism, solidarity, and

Vive la difference shouted

Down crowded column inches.

Each voice singled out

By ages of technique.

In fact you don't

Live a life one

Day at a time.

Some days you skip,

Come back to them

Later, others never occur.

These occasions are not

Even up for grabs,

Cause no comment.

from Bob Perelman's Primer (THIS Press, 1981)