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)