by Michael Brownstein

I wish I had a store
if I had a store
people would be free to enter at any hour
and take whatever they wanted
I’d be lying spreadeagled in the back
just inside the doorway
leading to the stockroom
where the sign says “Employees Only”
flat on the floor with my legs spread wide
and my eyes freshly painted with kohl
“Take what you want, motherfucker
I could care less,” I’d say
“Let’s see what you’re really like”

People would be free to rape me, for that matter
they’d be free to break my nose
in order to frustrate the International
Jewish Grand Cabal Plot
they’d be free to clean out the store
strip it of all merchandise, down
to the bare shelves
EVERYTHING MUST GO

See if I care
in the back with my kohl-painted eyes
secretly relieved because soon
this dump will be declared a total loss
and I can start life over as a poet
writing reasoned epistles
to shopkeepers of the world
urging them to unite and close up shop
give up their boring 2½ % profit margins
and slowly starve to death

by Michael Brownstein

Here I am again
Getting sucked in
Listening to the Velvets’ first record
Over and over the same songs
I remember like it was yesterday
The night in ‘67 I first heard them
In my rattletrap apartment on East 13
All Tomorrow’s Parties
I’m Waiting for the Man
Run Run Run
Venus in Furs
Heroin
I’ll Be Your Mirror
Black Angel’s Death Song
And before I know it I’m crying
In spite of my need to stay present
Kiss the distant past goodbye
What did those times ever do for me
Living in the city from ’65 on
City that grabbed hold of me
And wouldn’t let go until
It smacked me in the face
And everybody saw me falling

Unlike my life now
Anchored in salubrious mountains
Taking care of myself
Healthy self-image
Eating well, getting enough sleep
Plenty of exercise
Associating with reasonable people
But I’ll never forget the labyrinth
Of late-night streets, wobbling strangers
Holding onto each other with all their might
Seeing their reflections in shattered mirrors
No idea who they’d be the next day
“Gonna take a walk down to Union Square
Never know who you’re gonna find there”
And once I start crying
It’s mid-afternoon here, the sun is shining
Yellow flowers blooming in the yard
Everything in its place but nevertheless
Once I start crying I can’t stop

The people I knew then either
Stone cold dead or if they’re still alive
Leading safe, self-protected lives
No resemblance to who they were
Of course these are different times
Today’s pricey GPS city an afterlife
Version of what it used to be
The labyrinth boiled into mush
Voices I treasured long gone
But I hear them again now
Carried to me on wings of song

And I can’t pull myself away
The Velvets’ first record
Mo’s drums nailing it to the wall
Sterling’s guitar weaving in and out
John’s viola and piano, mystery
Undertow, circular trance
Lou’s voice pushing harder and harder
“I’m gonna try for the kingdom if I can”
And Nico flat as a frozen river
“She’ll turn once more to Sunday’s clown
And cry behind the door”
All of it heavy with a majesty
Never heard from before or since

And while I’m listening I am none other
Than the hidden Aztec crying god
Weeping god of fire consuming time
Consuming names and faces and it’s true
He found his way out of the labyrinth
Always making the right moves
Strong of body and clear of mind
But when he’s seduced
By old ghost memories
As bright as the moon
Plunging headlong to Earth
He realizes he has nothing really
It’s all gone up in flames
And no matter what he tells himself
He can’t stop crying

by Bernadette Mayer & Philip Good

It was a sunny cold day when
yellow petals of tulips fell
on our table here and there

when science setups said so
because who knows which scene
is not to be forgotten
like chocolate flowers in view

this is a very letter s obsessed science
setup, such a splendid yellow scene

even the chocolate tulip is yellow
in as much as it’s sleep, naps are yellow
as in super bowl, snowy owl

supper time owl hoot heard in the night
we stop chewing in disbelief
no candles lit, no coffee on the stove
on the other side of a closed window
we hear

the owl was letting us know
not to forget about it
an all-sex owl on the tree-of-life porch maybe

poetry porch life for all
leave your troubles at the door
bring fresh baked goods and more
we will play the waiting game and
guess the color of the next tractor

for brown and white eggs we have
an ancient scissor
with a rooster as a clue
to lop off the top of each soft-boiled
before you dip the sticks of toast
into the center

by Bernadette Mayer

Does every flower mean a fruit ?
if so, the ones near the well will
make more than my annual handful
If I were organized and fastidious
I’d tie a red string to every flower so
I’d know and could brag that a naked plant
Fed me a good dessert