By Stephen Bett

I said see, C.C. Rider
Oh, see what you have done

You slipped ma’ disc, sailor grrl
Chopper Couture din’t stand a chance

Well now see, see see rider
. . . SEE what you have done

thIN diff: dis ultra–tiny–tinny fit
you DISappeared, gap in the hall a’ . . .
holla!

I said see, see see rider (see, see rider)
see what you done done

Doubly (& parenthetically) minced
coma zone–out in my comma

Très infrathin of infra–thin & infra thin
the ol’ miRRor image RE–flect E–ffect overload

So whose fleet feet turns the page
tha’s extreme tenuity (ThieRRy Davila)

published Dec 17, 2010, at 11:22 am
updated Dec 17, 2010, at 11:22 am

Same Diff times t’ree — w/in da minute
one & one & two & two

Inhabit every in ter val (a hey hey)
C. — gap — C. at sea, oh see here sailor grrl

You are that dancin’ sound

Slippered outta dat vis U al hegemony
some différance, n’est pas?

The hear of her•e•sy
what you just Undone

Yas hear don’t see it
Surfer•Grrl*

*Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels’ version of “See See Rider” (aka “C.C. Rider”); C.C., as in Chopper Couture (chopper apparel, huh?); several commentators on Marcel Duchamp’s infrathin or inframince concept, easily googled — among them: quoting Thierry Davila, curator of the Museum of Modem & Contemporary Art (Geneva); David Zerbib’s review of Davila’s book Infrathin: Bref histoire de I’imperceptible, de Marcel Duchamp . . . (published & updated within the minute, note); Paul Matisse (step–son of Duchamp, & grandson of Henry Matisse, collected & published Duchamp’s notes under the title Inframince: “inframince [is] the very lastness of things . . . [the] frail and final minimum before reality disappears”

By Stephen Bett

The man who shot Liberty Valence
clearly didn’t care mucho much for Valencia
(nor likely cross–town rivals VillaRReal)

That derby hall a’ miRRors . . . a’gin & redux

When Val rode to town the womenfolk would hide
(Rreal men & transfolk, they’d abide onside)

Give me hibbity jibbity or give me the point of a gun
the only law that [libs] understand —
lib•bard•y for not from dems wackos

Rrose Sélavy likely–wise cried snide
in zir Yellow Submarine
(it’s true, #LookItUp!)

Putt it right on the platter
The man who flipped a birdie on yr Lib Pal
— poor Burt Bacharach, dead
at 94 just this week —

He was the [gravest] man of all
he was the Great Contender

Just laughing and gay like a clown
in my town*

*Gene Pitney, “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence” & “The Great Pretender” (the latter also covered by The Platters, & both songs written by Burt Bacharach); properly speaking, Valencia & Villarreal Club Futbol are cross–region derby rivals (the latter’s motto: “The Yellow Submarine”); & fondly recalling Grade 4 club Membership Card for “The–Look–It–Up–Club” (motto: “We Don’t Just Guess, We Look It Up!”)

By Rick Doyle

Here the sagging shag–lined wharf
got dismantled after the war
by square dancers planning to erect
a clubhouse on Verona Island.

This is where one winter day a deer}
pursued by a ragged pack of dogs
was forced to flee across the river
on the tide–lifted havoc of its broken ice.

Here grew the crooked cherry tree
from which once upon a time
after the loss of a phoebe’s favor
a river pilot’s stiff pea coat was hung.

Here lay sturgeon dreaming long
salt snowfalls of slow metallic silt,
gulls and seals and rossed spruce torsos
gone swimming seaward overhead.

Listen. Above the basso profundo
of the sulfurous pulp and paper mill
ferrymen sing, as they pole,
the most popular arias of their day.

By Debra Conner

Hemingway’s a fake, Zelda claims,
a pansy with hair on his chest,
a professional he man.
Hadley’s his minion, she says,
his substitute mother, his trust fund wife.
Zelda fumes when I pick up their tab.

Tonight, after Zelda stormed out
of the restaurant, and Hadley left
with the baby, Hemingway
sidled over to say my wife’s bad news.
She’ll ruin me, he warned, with her antics,
her need for attention.
She’s the reason I struggle to write.

Hemingway’s the golden boy now, gilded
with success from The Sun Also Rises
and I’m just a name on a guest list.
He’s flaunting a bruised chin
and a bandaged hand from the boxing ring.
The tape’s as white as his face
the day I drove us to the cliff ’s edge
and braked with one front tire dangling.

Now, he pats my arm like he’s my best pal.
He snaps a match and lights my shaking cigarette.
On my plate, my half–eaten steak grows cold.