informis
/
textfiles
1
0
Fork 0
Code Issues Pull Requests Packages Projects Releases Wiki Activity
textfiles/magazines/ONESHOTS/cr1.txt

1292 lines
32 KiB
Plaintext
Raw Normal View History

Initial commit
2021-04-15 11:31:59 -07:00
T H E C H E A P R E V I E W
O F P O E T R Y
#1
Alice Notley
Bill Kushner
Elinor Nauen
Layle Keane
Lynne Beyer
Norman MacAfee
Peter Bushyeager
Sal Salasin
Shelley Miller
Tom Savage
Tony Vaughan
Published and edited by Etan Ben-Ami and Anique Taylor
Copyright 1986 The Cheap Review Of Poetry
This on-line edition can be copied and distributed
without charge, provided that it is not in any way
altered and that it is not sold. All other rights
are reserved.
The Cheap Review Of Poetry is presented on-line as
a courtesy of The Dorsai Embassy teleconferencing
system. Your comments are invited. Contact the
embassy at (212) 431-1944, 300 or 1200 baud, 7 bits
even parity. Enter "HELLO DORSAI.EMBASSY" at the
system prompt.
NOH
No words
no thoughts
no lines no coke
no time no fun no father
no elm trees no babies no smarts no joy
no joyce no lucy no veeck
no prizes no pencils no manhood no ma'am
no me no you no noh no yo
no food no news no plane nomad
no go no good no jokers no buddha
nodoze no'ccount
no calls nocal no pot
no tan no cough no coffee
no mail
no tense no fern no chnage no hole no radio nolo contendere
no struggle no win no pain no gain no hits no runs no errors
no perfection no privilege no winter
no think nowise no thing nowhere no white
no whither november no trump
no plot no cast
no luck
noel nobody no table no peter no boycott noblesse oblige
no dakota
no vietnam
no carolina
no offense
no fever no fair no reubens no hollyhock
no rain today no nots no hots no ice
no straw no razor no sideburns
no sugar no truth
no wave no roaches no beat no sidewalk no shoulder
no peccadilloes no passing no turns
no irish no fresh no trespassing
no need no gas no window
no problem no more no way
Elinor Nauen
1/86
MAYAN UPDATE IN THE EIGHTIES
Before it was a one-sided conversation
with rocks and dirt. While sweating
And swatting, we glared at rocks,
trying ot give them some humanity.
Ancient ball games pitted captives
against one another for their lives.
Heads of the losers were the balls.
Blood was the mortar of life.
Aristocrates drew their own blood
to nourish the gods and inspire
hallucinations in the heads of serpents.
Before going to war for example,
The king punctured his penis
with a stingray spine while the queen
drew a thorn-barbed rope through her tongue.
Thus the Mayans kept the universe alive.
The name for one king was shield.
-- Tom Savage
HOW I GET BY
"It"
more than adds up
what I know of mathematics
the unclean universe
lines parallel from any angle
"you & you&you&you&you& "
lines perpendicular from any point
I love you absolutely
& you too
I'm always happy
when the phone rings
it's always good news
when you call
no time for aught but love
my heart is full
I stroke my calico cat pull out
a few clumps of hair visit my ailing neighbor weep
for the dead send out frantic bursts of psychic love
to save on my own long-distance bills:
I can make you (you, you) phone
it's all good
when you call
I'm imprisoned by these coordinates
: /noise/memory
someday the coffee'll be tepid
(just how I like it)
at every 3 a.m. feeding
the letters'll be rich & frequent
the jokes apropos
titles & new names fluff
round my dizzy head like relentless rowers
"I'd hate to see you when you're happy"
are we tired or is her exuberance crowding our joy?
I cannot go on without you/
I can live without anyone:I must
there are more irrational numbers than rational
tho the number of each is infinite:
my unswerving valiance
you(you,you,you..........
-- Elinor Nauen
The Yankees are a wishful
thinking to some. Taking
a neurological break
from the gross fugue of life
sometimes the sun floods over
clogging the wires with love.
Playing dead among "grown-ups"
can lead to trouble.
A mistranslation
can alter brainwaves for life.
The law of supply and command
sounds familiar to the man dying
in a backyard from the poison
sprinkled in the air for rats.
-- Tom Savage
A NEW REQUIEM
part 2
Empires filter, misinterpret the old
tales to keep afloat, thought always being
just the continuuing of one thought.
In battle or lovemaking, hero's blond
wig falls off. He hides his face, loses head,
becomes all shoulders, contraposto murdered
beautifully by fate's delicate hands. We weep
only at change, hating the lover for
queering the ideal, however slightly.
Only proffs that love exists are pets, sex
organs, never quite severed umbilical.
Burly-queen savior, neon-lit, annunciated,
killed, mourned, resurrected over the week-
end, in his undershorts. Light shone through
the fabric. I helped carry him away.
We didn't know where we were or who we
were or where we were going. We avoided
everyone, to stay in the dream-- which love
made, only to keep us from...
...Lady in
red tangoies, weeping. Man robed in silken dress-
ing gown in large apartment in great city
takes one too many, observing a news-
paper as though it were life, observing
but not acting, made incomplete by
business, war,
while
Y
waits for the bus in
dead towns, Z scrapes his shoe sole twenty times
in front of a church or steals/owns a fast
car, pure laminated animal joy
beneath a suddenly chill August moon,
cleaning up the day's mess and sleep for
another. One becomes one's shadow, moves
inexorably to empty streets, voices
of slightly durnk friends in the distance,
and an evening of farts that hill breezes
blow away with exhaust fumes,
though when you hear what you
had waited for for so long coming, there's
a moment's fear.
A man half a century
old on a bench at one a.m. holds his
heart, watches his watch, fat, few head hairs,
quickly decides to smoke a cigaret,
pretend to wait for a bus.
Night world reflected on black water scrim
of shop windows that stars high silent
solitaries, in murders, back the way
I came, curling up to sexy death
above butcher shops, where
his
son
(perhaps
it's his son) is slowly disrobing.
Tomorrow he must go to work, with his
kind hurt gaze, too short, wrong accent.
On the second night he soiled his shirt, the
third his pants. Nothing quite works though he surely
does. He turns bright gold in his sleep, dreaming
he's staring at the gates of paradise.
-- Norman MacAfee
copyright 1986 Norman MacAfee
GITANERIAS
forgetful of
thoughts of
first & second
any play
speeches about cheeks "ass cheeks" are they
firm? mooning etc
following the baby around. Then
all these women--mother, two
daughters a daughter-in-law, the mother
then looks up "lubricity" in the
dictionary. It could
mean she was well-oiled, as I said.
Tonight we watch "Witness"--eye-acting
Full moon last Tues. & quite truth-
fully, in the main men working on her yard
are in jail today, not sure why.
Haven't touched my horoscope in days
Dreamt last night I couldn't
talk it over in bed that was worst part
after I went to the ballets Balanchine
couldn't chorograph because he
was dead. There are two ways to
be after his time--the
right way & maybe the
weak way. Here are the Ishi books
Here is the song that's my thought
'Spanish piano passion
is still valid.'
(Repeat & improve)
in this particular instance of a life
am never going to...do
a simple Oriental number until
There wasn't enough hair dye for
two so only she
got to change
My friend gave magical mall walk, last week
"Love isn't love until you give it away..."
The answer is
a seltzer now________ still____
Call me up in a couple of days
But you called me oh it doesn't matter
Oh okay
GBS talks about this guy & echolalia
That's funny I remember when he told me
We talked about echolalia all the time
at one time
what's an eccentric edge, to a girl like you
The hymn is to what, disguised as
what? it's the disguises
I'm having the most trouble with
the enemy always makes you think it's
your body--that bump &
your death was invented by
valentines of nightgowns and ugly ugly
roses made out of
Family Circle
Or No just a mother & a baby
Scared for 1st 2 years
everything for long & he
goes to stupid work you're supposed
to like it & get into breakdown body
There was this girl who
yeah I'm lazy, don't drive
that's where, every
where I went so far
I went further & far without car
I had a body of, working
something the flower bed
She's going to call it up
tomorrow...Joe...& Craig
Nobody said that
Read all these pictures instantly eat
some Nachos
Don't make anything be like
How many of these worries driving
through the alfalfa
When this gets corny real
Not real. That's not the stuff
This is the stuff
I don't have to go
and keep it with your handwriting
Sure. how we're liking it
National Geographic Magazines
read backwards & upside down
& with whatever words you say
I used to, I read everything he
wrote.
This movie makes me go to bed too.
Oh.
be a grievance. okay. No
not right now
(fades (is that the word?)
-- Alice Notley
July 25, 1986
SONG BY DESIGN
A crocus is edgy sentimental and
unfocused like a rainy night not
red and greasy like flowers brought
down to the house from the store:
sweetest fat valentines
with message previously attached yes
like the ocean don't turn your back or
a bracing fuck in a cold room we're
mapmakers who work and sing
hearts in the pine forest
indicated in green.
-- Peter Bushyeager
We may not be kind
but we are enough.
We may not be strong, but
we pretend.
The mind is grey, a blend
of all colors.
mind over matter: I will line up
several pairs of shoes, heel
to toe. I will follow
their procession.
-- Lynne Beyer
LITTLE LYRIC ON LABOR DAY
Loose in bed with cheap description
like songs performed with piano
lovers' legs wrapping me awake with cold
morning air in the nostrils and a
full head of hair to carry me forward.
I touched the faces said you you
the bodies were land the heart was wet
the conversation passed quickly between us
like plates.
-- Peter Bushyeager
At the Assemblies
of God church they talk
in tongues.
Belief in the value
of friction: more touch
and fewer explanations.
All American seekers of bliss,
drawn to the near-win.
The late great country-Western
singer Patsy Cline,
so desperate to make it right.
Gold record yellow rose house
and rosey babies.
He said, she said, black-eyed
in hog heaven. Merciful God,
according to the script,
she said into the mountain
as the plane crashed,
Oh, Charlie.
-- Lynne Beyer
LOWER EAST SIDE REFUGEE RUINS (1)
from "Eddy's Private Party"
BY CHICO. On wall of PANTRY SUPREME . Across from Veselka's
big window. Pop painting of Mr. Magoo, Culture Club Japanese /
Woody Allen, Mr. Fox and Mr. Rabbit playing in the same
cartoon band. Two hearts on the sidewalk -- E. 9th street.
A twenty foot black arrow 52 feet high on side of building
pointing nowhere . Monday night. 11 p.m. Downtown. Painted
on a fence. SLAM DANCING. ROCK AGAINST RACISM. One guess.
The people of Nicaragua. Mumble -- I can't hear a word. Signature
on sidewalk -- DON'T KILL THE PEOPLE OF MANAGUA. Lower East
Side Corn Garden. Slogan. HORN OF PLENTY. NOT THE GENTRY. The
grey six stroy building. And the dirty brown brick ones. Fire-
escapes by burnt windows. Beneath -- sunflowers. Greenery. A
community bulletin board. Next -- a car drives across Ave C.
/ Completely changed on the exterior of car -- Big Antlers
on welded racks front of the car. Blinking J E S U S LIGHTS .
Plastic Hail Maries stuck to outside body of car. Mariachi
music out loudspeakers on roof.
A CORN ROAST IN COMMUNITY GARDEN. 1/4 block vacant lot at Ave
B and E. 6th St., converted into community garden. On late
Sunday afternoon (an odd light rain falling, in the late summer
1985). A grey, warm day. The garden nearly ripe with cabbage,
corn, cherry tomatoes, banks of herbs and small flowers,
cucumbers, onions, kale and giant sunflowers. S U N F L O W E R
GARDEN. Primrose -- a little overgreen. Clam shells in circles
on a flower bed. In the garden house (a shelter built from
wood found in nearby Lower East side Refugee Ruins) -- accordian
music is played. People sit on chairs, stools. Everybody knows
everybody or even the strangers are eating corn, too -- since
the event has been advertised.
Surrounding the garden on two sides are high buildings
(can't see over them) -- hand-laundered green and black shirt
still hangs out window to the north/east -- downtown side.
IN THE G A R D E N a prayer wheel is turned. A blessing
for the corn. On surrounding cyclone fence, the purple
and white morning glory.
-- Tony Vaughan
The overhead's too high
I can't make the payments.
They're going to repossess my body.
I need it to get to work.
Dead men don't edit
I know that now.
The end's the beginning in
high heels.
Many words maintain great emptiness.
Crime does not pay.
My desires are all without exception
ridiculous. I'm just a
whited sepulcher there's
a piece of kleenex on my throat where
I cut myself shaving.
We write this because
in each generation someone has to.
We don't care who.
And wherever there's a language
people say important things like
I think we're going to have to let you go.
If I'd only followed my mother's advice
I'd be dead by now.
A lot of guys will give you the rush
and tell you how great they are.
I'm absolutely unexceptional.
A man in a grey business suit
walks under a six-story marble ear.
He shrugs his shoulders as if to say
it's still a stone ear.
I'm sorry this happened to you.
You never learned anything.
-- Sal Salasin
BEGGAR'S HOLIDAY (2)
The first thing i noticed
Heavy metal Horses on Oakland Bay
Sky purple Sunblue A basement window flying
How many times ask
would i rather in dirty rotten
spend countless days to finally
in so many undereyelines later
see that face in a small
voice photo centerfold
backstagebackpage
or here.
where it isn't cold.
The rains of San Francisco blow me
The days of adventure are over
The rains of leaden question fall the same as snow in the east
but it isn't cold.
Magic star dust blows away and now is a windy tow
where old beats are still good beats
snapping out the poetry in
a beard. a belly now
upright tits in a t-shirt
older still smoking coffee
drinking these 20 years
with words under the bridge
the golden gate
the golden words
their golden time
When a black man poet sat at the Trieste
with good blondes from the midwest
When a black man poet could live on charm
before he lived off the friends
gathered here to say goodbye on Chorus Shore.
We walked up to a dark door that said Open.
It was a black ocean
then a mountain
topped with our spilled seeds.
Your horn played to wind sucked
into sunset. living more
than in a room where everything bounces back.
We are the are of saxophones
more alive outside.
-- Layle Keane
We're only in 1965 but
you can come closer.
Is the government ready?
Yes your honor
and will prove the possibilities
infinite.
People come up to me in the street and
tell me their problems and
I help them.
It's like eating bath salts.
A man with a greed for the truth
should expect no mercy.
It's warm and humid with
a 30% chance of thundershowers.
I thrust my legs through my
bathrobe sleeves and
try to stand up.
What are you going to do about it,
talk?
Living with your mind
is a personal responsibility.
There was a wonderful exitement that
seemed to be everywhere.
Ports along the entire coast remain
in a high state of alert.
-- Sal Salasin
BEGGAR'S HOLIDAY (3)
You were strong and rash
ramming traffic lights
driving
L.A.
crazy with Hebrew curses
craving contact.
With me
the quality changed
of your hand on my neck
held thumb and finger
a grasp
not affection
but defined touch
as we searched so diligently
for our sushine responding
with ecstasy jumping
skin to fore
all colors
rising
our jaws and groins
the warm not taken lightly
a godforce found shining in
But here
in this city land
play park
six flags over destitute
i ride a gesture
to the sea or building range
Where is my imagination here?
There are cold winds that cross the path
but the guides say walk in warm streams
keep tuned in
know the air when
all the visions and plans seen a far away
are treasure maps.
I've cried truth
in fleet moments
seeing myself for the first time sincere
and aching with realizing so clear and hard.
There is no cheating in the vault called Agate.
-- Layle Keane
JUMP
After you said
We are the loves
of our lives
I said
Loving you is like
jumping out a plane
without a parachute
and not getting hurt
Later you said
You are a lighthouse
that's showing a movie
You are, you said,
the red light
I run each night
And I said
Loving you is like
slipping underwater
and breathing
better than I ever have before.
-- Shelley Miller
MIDNIGHT BLUE
I wonder what would happen if I didn't wipe my ass: this poem?
I hear you every night around this time sweet stuff is that
Your doggie panting so hot & happy to get out? the last
Piss of the evening is perhaps the most sentimental one of all
I see my face reflected reflective in the blue of the bowl
You are so beautiful, I whisper, I have never seen you
Looking so fucking beautiful! would love to fuck you
If only I could! I run wetting the floor to the window
To see you looking up you run your tongue around those newly wet lips
while your mutt takes an aching crap: "Ohh, lick it up"
You could say that to me & I'd hear you, you could even leash me
You stare down the dark frightening street, a cat in heat
You pretend you don't hear my heart knocking out a beat, you take it out
To take a leak, a hard piss, like yellow tears
-- Bill Kushner
2/18/84
TO WALK YOU WALK
To walk you walk thru sidewalks peopled traffic hum
Anarchy reigns: if there were one way ahh but there's none
The gleam of that skin above a young man's thigh, he sits
Short-panted upon a stoop watching I bet for cops
This block's for drugs & that goes for all you mugs
One simply walks faster or slower according to one's character
His her or yours it New York belongs to everyone & therefore no one
Harlem, Chinatown, all these districts: flowers garment or theatre
& even in that little park full of bums why you better not look or
Try to join them, ahh everyone's got these rules so strict
On the Lower East Side please don't spit or you'll hit the poets
In Little Italy, hey you better not bump into no one called Tony
On Cristopher Street where grown men hold hands & even embrace
You may slow down ahh but just for a minute on your merry way
-- Bill Kushner
8/13/86
k or
Try to join them, ahh everyone's got these rules so strict
On the Lower East Side please don't spit or you'll hit the poets
In Little Italy, hey you better not bump into no one called Tony
On Cristopher Street where grown men hold hands & even embrace
You may slow down ahh but just for a minute on