Joseph Mains
4 poems
**
Donald is unafraid what a dude'll do in a town full of heroes and villains.
No difference:
Donald is the states, the states
across this nation. Don't you
worry 'bout me. I wouldn't worry about me. Donald is cop shoot cop I believe
I believe.
Donald is
the lemon of pink. Well well
well well well well. Donald is
1000 cities. Now the angels killed devils, hung them in the streets
& reveled
in the fires
of the bloodlust & revenge.
"A blue pain will come into
us all," the infant lisped. Soul rhymes with toes, Goethe with sleet. I have blue
gorgeous eyes,
gouged my
socket, with my left eyeball,
interested, I watched him
poke an unfiltered Camel through my blue pain, then smoke the cigarette.
I party at
3 a.m.
--alone, thank God.
Ah, with a valium from the
bride, it's the Devil I love.
The Devil I love & that's as funny as real love & that's as real
as true love.
**
I Ran the Red Light. Or I didn’t Run the Red Light. It doesn’t Matter: I’m not Paying;
Or, Some of these days you’ll miss me, Honey
That won’t be dried egg yolk in your hair,
Donald—glib chingadero: you wronged me, so
I wanted to write you a letter without a single feeling in there.
Romulans! Romulans! please don’t compare
to the po-mo psycho hose beasts. I’ll simply blow.
That won’t be dried egg yolk in yo hair.
Our game: losing my master disaster lover keys ‘taint hard to find a spare,
uh, I mean—Christ-in-me! you gave me dirty Church Tongue, though
I wrote you a letter without a single feeling in there.
The bell rings emptily inside me but I don’t know where
oh where oh you take polaroids of my bits that ‘taint just fo’ sho’
so that won’t be dried egg yolk in your hair.
Oh god stop stop stop it’s a red light there
but you didn’t, so it’s the Biblical Act of Donald I now know
but you wrote me a letter without a single feeling in there.
I’m tired. I’m sick of all the games. The door closes slowly as I swear
under my breath. I stopped writing. Let’s sleep in the bower’s bough,
where, that won’t be egg yolk in your hair
because I wrote you a letter without a single (Bite it!) feeling in there.
**
How 2 Walk Thru Walls, by Donald Dunbar
1st yrs say yr beautiful junk is hot,
but, Donald—Honey—they get their kicks from
speed chess from anthropology & not
the plowing of the field not getting some
omg omg omg. Hon,
they haven’t even read yr little book
about the self-help guru with the look
of the walk of some shame-shame-shame.............shame....shame.
They, as we used to say in grammar school,
went fuck-a-doodle-do (& I can’t blame
them) over yr facebook & you had fool’d
some of them into squatting in their stool
& whispering Donald is the lemon
of pink. Omg. Omg—ca’mon!
Do they really know what Don’s-fucked-up-again-
st-the-laurel-tree is act’ly all about?
No, Honey—yr junk’s never donn’ed when
they’re around. If you posted a few—haute
shaved maybe or thrusting online. Without
belief the pow'r of love in gentle mind
—it can alter so all the course of kind.
Dunbar, Donald. How to Walk Through Walls ∀. Boston: Charles River Books, 1984.
Or, Don’s fucked up against the laurel tree: A poem about postmodern poetics employed in the Rhyme Roy-al stanza made famous by so many Middle English bards [most notably Chaucer & King James I (James VI of Scotland)].
Spenser, Edmund. Amoretti. Otterup, UK: Scholar Press, 1968. This final couplet is an altered version of the final couplet of Spenser’s sonnet XXX in the sequence.
∀ Dewey decimal number 158.1: Self-Help.
**
Autofuckus
Donald: Fondue, or don’t—I don’t care
what the Martians dressed
as humans with one two three four
five appendages fuck you with.
I’ve seen the video and alone
it’s you in a darking room, bereft
of any semblance of Martian po-mo
or any other violation of The Hole
lot cane able gomorrah pillar of salt disowned:
it’s the fractured youtube in me whole
snowscreen and black fuzz until
autofocus pulls in. You’re naked alone
before a mirror holding yourself—quake, then still.
**
return to sawbuck 4.3
**
Joseph Mains was born in the Sonoran desert and lives in Portland, OR. He keeps an online presence at gegeukemo.
**
Donald is unafraid what a dude'll do in a town full of heroes and villains.
No difference:
Donald is the states, the states
across this nation. Don't you
worry 'bout me. I wouldn't worry about me. Donald is cop shoot cop I believe
I believe.
Donald is
the lemon of pink. Well well
well well well well. Donald is
1000 cities. Now the angels killed devils, hung them in the streets
& reveled
in the fires
of the bloodlust & revenge.
"A blue pain will come into
us all," the infant lisped. Soul rhymes with toes, Goethe with sleet. I have blue
gorgeous eyes,
gouged my
socket, with my left eyeball,
interested, I watched him
poke an unfiltered Camel through my blue pain, then smoke the cigarette.
I party at
3 a.m.
--alone, thank God.
Ah, with a valium from the
bride, it's the Devil I love.
The Devil I love & that's as funny as real love & that's as real
as true love.
**
I Ran the Red Light. Or I didn’t Run the Red Light. It doesn’t Matter: I’m not Paying;
Or, Some of these days you’ll miss me, Honey
That won’t be dried egg yolk in your hair,
Donald—glib chingadero: you wronged me, so
I wanted to write you a letter without a single feeling in there.
Romulans! Romulans! please don’t compare
to the po-mo psycho hose beasts. I’ll simply blow.
That won’t be dried egg yolk in yo hair.
Our game: losing my master disaster lover keys ‘taint hard to find a spare,
uh, I mean—Christ-in-me! you gave me dirty Church Tongue, though
I wrote you a letter without a single feeling in there.
The bell rings emptily inside me but I don’t know where
oh where oh you take polaroids of my bits that ‘taint just fo’ sho’
so that won’t be dried egg yolk in your hair.
Oh god stop stop stop it’s a red light there
but you didn’t, so it’s the Biblical Act of Donald I now know
but you wrote me a letter without a single feeling in there.
I’m tired. I’m sick of all the games. The door closes slowly as I swear
under my breath. I stopped writing. Let’s sleep in the bower’s bough,
where, that won’t be egg yolk in your hair
because I wrote you a letter without a single (Bite it!) feeling in there.
**
How 2 Walk Thru Walls, by Donald Dunbar
1st yrs say yr beautiful junk is hot,
but, Donald—Honey—they get their kicks from
speed chess from anthropology & not
the plowing of the field not getting some
omg omg omg. Hon,
they haven’t even read yr little book
about the self-help guru with the look
of the walk of some shame-shame-shame.............shame....shame.
They, as we used to say in grammar school,
went fuck-a-doodle-do (& I can’t blame
them) over yr facebook & you had fool’d
some of them into squatting in their stool
& whispering Donald is the lemon
of pink. Omg. Omg—ca’mon!
Do they really know what Don’s-fucked-up-again-
st-the-laurel-tree is act’ly all about?
No, Honey—yr junk’s never donn’ed when
they’re around. If you posted a few—haute
shaved maybe or thrusting online. Without
belief the pow'r of love in gentle mind
—it can alter so all the course of kind.
Dunbar, Donald. How to Walk Through Walls ∀. Boston: Charles River Books, 1984.
Or, Don’s fucked up against the laurel tree: A poem about postmodern poetics employed in the Rhyme Roy-al stanza made famous by so many Middle English bards [most notably Chaucer & King James I (James VI of Scotland)].
Spenser, Edmund. Amoretti. Otterup, UK: Scholar Press, 1968. This final couplet is an altered version of the final couplet of Spenser’s sonnet XXX in the sequence.
∀ Dewey decimal number 158.1: Self-Help.
**
Autofuckus
Donald: Fondue, or don’t—I don’t care
what the Martians dressed
as humans with one two three four
five appendages fuck you with.
I’ve seen the video and alone
it’s you in a darking room, bereft
of any semblance of Martian po-mo
or any other violation of The Hole
lot cane able gomorrah pillar of salt disowned:
it’s the fractured youtube in me whole
snowscreen and black fuzz until
autofocus pulls in. You’re naked alone
before a mirror holding yourself—quake, then still.
**
return to sawbuck 4.3
**
Joseph Mains was born in the Sonoran desert and lives in Portland, OR. He keeps an online presence at gegeukemo.
Labels: 4.3, fall 2010, joseph mains
