23 April 2014

"through our own damned trumpets, through our damned medium:"

          tourniquetsonnets are sonnets i started to write after the printing/publication of my book "Self-Portrait of the Poet Suicided by the MFA Degree." it was a nice way to unshoulder, unholster?, the fragments i cdn't/can't stitch into whatever i call a poem. they're deconstructed documentaries from a dragnet. here're two...

tourniquetsonnet upon the realization of a book

a stork’s heart is a right turn at a red light, natch?
21 minutes of recon in the forest of derailed trains
Anastasia loudly weeps tawdry Las Vegas crooner

…no way my lips are hacked off, Joseph; after all
Dutch East India Trading—  porn in the USA; to wit
a stack of LIFE magazines trapped in flat of angles;

aye, spent some of the war in a hospital at Nantes
before the nurse sutured my latent feelings, quite
it’s the essence of the idea that doesn’t really matter

the expression of vulnerability—it was vociferous!!!
storm stutter—38 apathy stab me w/ a butcher knife
Pantone 18-1663 TPX dismissed from one’s pulse

einstürzende! einstürzende! einstürzende! einstür…
zen is the Whalen in yr heartbeat (plz. come back)

tourniquetsonnet for the orison of a parachute,

certainly life erupts anchors aweigh w/ gravity
piano plink rain i sd Georgia i can’t stop drinking
tourniquets and Maria Callas records you were
cursive writing on a former trunk line, eastbound

it’s not a question of whether who we once were

my grandfather’s wars twinge and i see a violin
pique from the bourbon as i curate a car crash
departures blur through the old country of youth
whilst miniature carnations sprout from my aorta

restless rural romanticism, maritime americana

two rowboats tread water reifying insouciance
chance and design, from illogical angles, quietly
the radiator pipes of my rib cage rattle as i hum
self-portrait of the portrait suicided by justin, etc.

–post quote from J. Spicer's Imaginary Elegies I