by Eileen Myles

The dog’s deceptively
clean bowl

My apartment is like this ache

At the Whitney
I liked the Savarin room

cording to what

and in order
to make a really abstract novel

You’re like a restaurant that doesn’t
exist anymore

When I pick up
turds
it goes boom boom boom
in my head

Yesterday to sped up
Friday

Today’s Sunday
jumping already.

Taboo goes woo woo
at me
on the bridge

I’ve got a new
word flaneur

yeah and
I’m writing poetry
in the new thing

I’m a flaneur
too I say
this bridge
called
woo woo

standing on
Essex

and she’s
everywhere

mom

the nothing
spot
where
a tree’s so
long
ago
been

by Jeffrey Cyphers Wright

Surrounded by invisible naked ladies
I haunted alleyways of wrecked burgundy.
Listening to Heitor Villa-Lobos’s fantasies.

What I like is starter fluid on Bozo’s grave.

Demand Eternity (but settle for ecstasy).
Malappropiation Strategies, for instants:
Custard’s Last Stand;
20,000 Leaks Under the Sea.

IOUs dripping from the sun’s blind spot.

What kind of fuel am I ?

My arms still brag about holding you up
in night’s watch-repair shop.

Fire lost in your lips I find abandoned.
There are only green lights in Go Town.

by Jeffrey Cyphers Wright

November draws its purse strings tight.
A pack of clouds swallows the moon.
My old lamp blinks, its wiring kaput.

Between useless and euphoric, I sleuth
for meaning, meandering from Gramercy
to the river.  Listening to The Shivers . . .

to Robert Kelly lifting scripture off
a mirror.  On Windmill Attack Mode.
Milling around in my grab bag of genes.

At the end, the language we suspend
will shepherd us past midnight’s derrick.
Leaning on eternity like a vagrant.  O,

I’ll still pay for the foolish love I spent
when you were on top of my to-do list

by Jeffrey Cyphers Wright

Born to rhyme: you all hot for posterity
and me in hot pursuit of your posterior.
Even alone we are not wee.

Japonica spills buttons in prim rows.
Virginia bluebells ring the river path.
Elsewhere freedom fighters flail.

Our hour on the promenade we hover,
only just here but furthering ever
a cascading effort that finds us here.

“So, you want to do it again ?”  Sure.
Practice makes us purr.  Then
black lentils and tarragon for dinner.

Looking underground for what matters.
Time leaves holes to stick our heads in.