Nada Gordon

essay

the other
** as succor*
a domestic ocelot - you
are      my      emanant
in a room with calendulic
walls. stretching out
against glabrous
and fluff, as a panoply
of textures we are made.
PAT the BUNNY.
i'm sorry for my
undelicous omelette,
but i do do do want to feed
you. you are valiant.
not zipless or optically
deluded finally cured of
pansexuality (trees). real life
is too adorable for
"textual operation" or mere
"metrical experiment."
"metrical" becomes
"meretricious" but i meant
"textural operation" of
hands run up and down
the length of specifically
your body.
*by which
i do not mean "flan"
or "macaroni and cheese"
tho' perhaps "steamed
milk" (note how dairy
implicates itself in love).
language is u bi qui tous,
fitting against the body
as isolation gel. this
is how the lover functions
also, but with hair
and strategic object
(language) mushrooms.
i put my ram's horn
to the ground, trump-
eted, then heard your
warmth as antipode,
like we'd built tunnels,
carrying crumbs of language
to and fro. if there
are crumbs on your
face they are precious,
hermaphrodite: index
finger along chin's valley
ring finger on moustache
middle finger between lips,
the sole of my foot on your
forearm "who is this goddess"
with her ram's horn nudging
into me. "contemporary
practice," oh.


desire is a wedge
that comes between
you and what you
really want.
it is a spongey
material. loosed
in it i stumble in
japanese forests,
OK, in photos
of japanese forests,
the moss, the invisible
golden deer, the hard
devas -- with thunder.
only there can
i incubate the brain
and forget the
close crumpling
this daffy lyricism's
brought me to:
"i suck." in the
cartoon i hold
"my penis" to my head
like a revolver. word
for word it's
a morality play
in which aphorisms
sanguine up out of the
"oriental" mist.
that's "idealism"
for you. suppress!!
that incubator. in red
dress with starburst
chrysanthemums,
white spike heels,
i loll around, waiting
for you to show up
on your motorcycle -
that's the moment
i realize i'm mortal
that the apples have
gone all - oh -
variegated, why you ask me
hourly if i love you?
am i going to have a seizure?
(pomegranate) like Right Now?
am i going to die? (vermillion)
i fell down again and again.
sloppy in the bodegas
clutching thin asparagus "i
totally worship you"
and my urge is lambs,
drunken lambs.
rhymes with "dithyrambs":
the very word conjures
a character with
a melonhead
and round knobknees on
stick legs, cut-offs,
a kappa hairdo.
i know you will never
read this as carefully as
(i didn't write it)
i want you to,
maybe never even ask
"what is a kappa"
or why i abhor
culture or why desire
is a wedge - are you
really listening to me?
you may kiss me in soho,
buy me fruit drunks.
i *will* fondle vegetables,
ceramics, assemblages.
"that's just how i am,"
resuscitating speech
in emerging measures.
the parachute is really
a goldfish bowl.
the green weed waving up.
the medium doesn't matter,
you see: air, water, gel
or whatever it is
our inner eye floats in.
just check to make sure
the syntax is OK. lately
i'm concerned about that
and about whether a chick
will appear in my omelette.


i want to buy
a certain kind
of wife. we hate the
avant garde and its nutcase
theories.*** we write something
to flutter another. the self
is a reason. the self is a stomach.
a hole, is full of blood. the body
rules the self with mirrored horns.
there are substrata of self. a
spanokopita of subjective
greenery. a panopticon
of poesy. ***not really but.
ooh the angoisse -- the gleeful
intensity of opening
to crisis - smear. my
smother = the writing
sheds light on the person.
and when the light is shed
there is only a naked grub of
writing, in the corner,
shivering. this, gary, is what
it feels like to be in love.
(since you asked.)
brush the excess light
off your black jeans,
or i will put my tooth on
your shoulder, buttock
on thin wrist. writing
sheds its light on the person
at risk. it spews out light
like machines for hot
dogs, cigarettes, packs
of cracker jack with
real toys inside them.
for example, toy
elegant syntax, toy
roughness, toy irony,
animal toys couple-
dancing in an ether
of mechanical reproduction.
it's near the deep place
i swam in to come
here to you. there were
so many ventricles.
was there any choice in the
current. "the poem as
birth canal; negative
vaginal space." when
will there be a sunset
i approve of? "she is
not sad." edgy. like
a marble. highstrung,
i appeared, changed
lives, in a rubbing way.
as love is experienced
as among other things
rubbing. fierce, but not
gravestone. grotesque and
attractive as stamens,
cycles, pain. strange
pain the marked special
person in the eaves (
poison in the ears)
sloughing off
what a foetus clings
to. excuse me
for having been
born. i'm sorry,
rachel, that i love who(m)
i love. gary i'm sorry
i'm not an exotic dancer.
i'm sorry i haven't read
gregory bateson i'm sorry
i'm sorry i'm sorry.
"umarete sumimasen", but
that doesn't answer
your question. cochineal.
the self is red. the sun
rises in the self.
everyone has the right
to perceive. the brilliance
of the sun in the self
is a joke. joke pain.
and this loose slobbering.
joke pain popcorn.
joke pain sunny-side-up
eggs. it's private how
my finger finds your
golden hairy asshole. how
i with love fellate you.


"their sex poems
are like trophy poems."
"you guys, it's sax
you talk about."
"a propensity to go
into whatsisface-land:
'i rub against thee,
guava" "the phone rings"
(the phone rings) "i have
weird feelings about her.
she's really in the
category of a woman
who's been overpraised."
"we'll meet again in
fifteen years." "i was being
rude to the dead. people
always want to put their dead
friends on it tho space is
limited." "you don't have to
flatter me cuz i'm staring
at your thorax."


this is really prose,
several thin sheets of it
folded into an accordion,
pinched at the middle,
then formed into florets.
"that's crap" - but it's
"expression." is there a
place for merengue
in the new formalism?
is there a place for ribbons
in the little dogma?
i don't care i'm free
except for my attachment
to you. and then there's
equilibrium. it's worse than
politics and littered
with scraps: menudo.
brains. livers unground.
GIVE ME MY TORCH
and i will carry it all the way
to key foods. in flagrant
delirium.

 


love ignites by
confession. it weaves
into an argument.
there is no other
rhetoric, spiral,
but these wide margins
i leave as space for you
as space for me but
i'm keeping you awake
with the light i need
to write. crenellating
with guilt i know
i need to stop before
the giant clock.


i can't sleep.


tomorrow i'll propel
again and work devour
the collard greens,
the neurasthenic birds,
in desperate dilation.
the light of anguish +
the blue worm,
low roar of something:
afrocuban drums?
a herd of bison? or just
your breath/ instrument


the body wants to be
the rash is on the mermaid now,
and the onus. a child's
garden of verbs, a golden
treasury, gary, my little
cries. . . no one else
has read the book.
my book. on the
is lost the no anterior
view, the - hey -
hey - i'm not just a woman. i'm.
i'm. i'm. rougher
than daughter, lazier
than ice, the recondite
pours forth
as pleas. but really
i only want your body.


i disturbed you.
the peacocks are
at the door now.
they are eager -
eager as peacocks.
like me, they can
scribble, having
personification -
and little claws.
wait - what?
your circumference.
your casing your girth.
everything else
is talons -
the woman without. . .
talons. writing
on the circus tent flaps:
(cuneiform)
the fox is pregnant.
everyone incubates
something. fervor
of a phosphorescent skull
belonging to the same class
as platypi: a small
alligator beak, and eyes
simply white as if capped.
it is gaping. is that what
it feels like to be in love?


"trauma" sounds like
dream, the mind
stripped bare by her
picadors. you crave
pepperocini. the
yellow-green oil.
i a kind of lowness
at the waterhole.
with dikdiks, titmice.
more. more. more.
dioramas. the shark's
slightly open mouth
i was bitten by exchange
of mental fluids.
another phosphorescent
grub in armchair,
pulleys, cause and effect
that brought us to this
b-b-b-b-bed. you are
breathing, i feel
deranged but tender,
radishes. i LOVE you
i can't live WITHOUT
you. the morning glories
take over right about here.
your protein vivid by my
side, somewhat curled.
wake up wake up
and be with me i'm NO
an arts administrator
i don't have a doctorate
i don't know JAVA and
i'm annoying you
in salad dressing, with
tarragon, dill. flaps
of portobello over your
nipples the imagination
is the sweet hippo of
consciousness
sometimes. people
open their legs in wonder -
the room fills with pronouns.
jack, what is the argument of
this poem. is it eyeballs
twisting on their stems.
is it a cone.

**you, gary

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