avant-garde

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I am a revolutionary alive and now in the city of borrowers,
absolute master of library arts; a giant warring sloth with armor
plating turning pages, changeling bounder with moves as sudden
as reality showing up in stranger places. I, too, see the evidence.
Soldiers in little hamlets - blonds with new smiles seem likely
to know where I’ve been by the uniform they wear.
In a healthy not-New-York Tootsie Roll face I also read
camouflage affect hiding the friendly fire, sometimes
forcing Sisyphus’ surrender with red Camus flag; they
kiss themselves through me.

I am the Brindle cat of 9th Street, guerrilla Wallace in Wonderland war
room; Joan of Arch counters my Xeroxed strategies from her wire-
windowed room chased around corners by giant metal whistles on wheels –
too many histrionic police inside flopping, babbling, bobbling!
Restrained by their plastic, Glock, semi-auto microphones pressing at my medals,
I try some sort of response
But all that comes out is:

“Θάλαττα, θάλαττα, θάλαττα…“.

Overdue to your categorizing streets, engaged in mornings
filled with CPAs hovering over your Dewey decimals, taxonomy’s
tenderness sheltered by: can’t see the forest for the no-trees falling.
“Ba-bye…” “are you sure you want to do this?” “red motorcycles and
green sailboats…”

A fifth column of people and cars continue going up and down with all
the gunpowder of a dog-eared old history text with evil Indians’ pictures
written in a language you did not specify in your exegesis but giving me
unequivocally the monumental intonation of forever
rounded Washington Square:
American Revolution

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A.G.’s Home Site: www.gobi-igloo.com

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When all the hookers on BroadWAY carry candles laughing
At special men who walk around Inside the wax and wick of some few
Small conversations you forgot;
Our happy brick offspring escaping into pavement;
You’ll come back and I’ll be Paris;
Give you rock’n'roll Thunderbird for underwear, “The thing with feathers.”
Bob Dylan smithy to fix those flattened tires.
Then I’ll bring the floor up as the poetry well lit
By this hanging New York chandelier
Becomes heavy with colors
Marrying your oils in bursting ribbons;
Though a holiday need not be inflated
For those who get up mornings jogging,
And hide their monsters under a sleeping poet -
The juggernaut: Hamlet ! . No nunnery, Ophelia,
Get thee to a library. Go!

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A.G.’s Home Site: www.Gobi-Igloo.com

Have we even gotten rid of all the lawyers yet?
So tell me what to do about these ripe street jazzers,
Shining their bad side; hurt, bruised bluish from a flawing fall -
Down inside after-school fences of the rich
Memories on a bothered Alabama lawn;
Hurled adults through night-dead staid yards are split open
Children when they hit empty:
Cases in some Manhattan alley.
Pungent wailing, tar-tattered pulp yearning for a respectable
Suburban fridge.
Cryogenic rhythms pour the tempest from a teapot;
Complicated saxman playing symbols with his sandals.
My own case opened up for your consideration
In a padded chair I sift through pre-Miami
Vice Miles Davis, muted, for the hours you
Brought here
Once: whispy
Faded chalk words
On a blank school board.



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A.G.’s Home Site: www.gobi-igloo.com

I will come and work your farm in dentures

Make scenes in the Stockhausen morning naked

Shout at the dusty dog who likes to play around that pick-up full of bean

sprouts and Telemann

Listen for the errant Lohengrin hidden away in your woods

that contain a dream of enfabled Venice

You lost to the Trojan stewardesses.

Sing Die Winterreise to myself and a mannequin-quiet cornfield,

distant clouds scattering in the sky within like pages.

Be your introducing broker when you wish to speculate in precious metal flutes

in cowgirl pork-belly bags

You’re resonating between.

During the night,

Watch 72nd Street subway riders disembark in your sink

full of symphonies and breakfast dishes. 


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A.G.’s Home Site: www.gobi-igloo.com

Away from the teeth

You drag your lips,

Towards eternity -

Some night I never entered;

A skull

Floating in flesh

Corroded by the blackness

In the glass.

Looking at you

I smell the flash

Inside my cab

Where all the broken plastic

Knobs, wires, gauges, nervous wires still

Are concealed

At seventy-five miles an hour

Like weeds,

Yet exposed to the landscape

Off of the one-sided road

Of a photograph we call world.

Can we? Why can’t we

See behind the lens

Like you

And your distanced

Dancing kiss?

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A.G.s Home Site: www.gobi-igloo.com

  

   “I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls
        With vassals and serfs at my side
    And of all who assembled within those walls
        That I was the hope and the pride.

    I had riches too great to count, could boast
        Of a high ancestral name,
    But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,
        That you loved me still the same.”

    Cut to the drama:
    So when rappers and Moore ca’tween Parrish’s door,
        Columned 6-4-3 No’s Redna Street,
    Their hands reached ‘gain to your mind’s 3rd floor
        With a ballroom — not Beale — underfeet,
    “Hoochie Mama,”
    So what’s the probba?

    “How many mo’years have I got to let you dog me around?”
    This be (bluff cities’ elite) behavior discreet?
        And a boquet of loonies to boot…
    Your Orwellian ‘creptitudes hardly have rectitude;
        Hearts from The Fly: Vin. Price treat;
    Georgias’* “peaches” who belong in a pound.
        One hand claps back with no sound
    ‘Tis schizophrenia that is really the hoot. 

                        Thank you and Goodnight Everybody!
                                              — Danny Chicago
    _ _ _ _ _ _
    *GORGIAS: I like your way of leading us on, Socrates, and I
              will endeaver to reveal to you the whole nature of
              rhetoric.
         

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Home: www.gobi-igloo.com

Why were men’s heads spoiled like cabbage in the sink

Facing Northeast, 38128?  Why were there mental

       Caveold night moves in-ow-t?

[We should have been a meeting of the Double A-maizes!]

       You are matrix

Of round square transient-personality.  A New York

       Cabbie could

Make a proper relatio-diagnostic hereto.      

                                      - Auguste Dupin, III

Be careful whose feathers you people try to jolly-ruffle-baton.
And much — much more have care — who you fumble-pluck.

[Don’t come around here anymore, Alexis Danenot; your doctor was
wrong — fix is surely indicated, I know these things. Get well.]

                                        (AD 3)

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Home: www.gobi-igloo.com