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cento for love
Poetry is not for the passive. It is, as Mayakovsky knew, at its very heart tendentious. Even the love poem agitates the beloved to fall in love with the poet.
Like the first time I ever heard “Crazy in Love” is the only time I’ll ever understand.
Once open the books, you have to face
the underside of everything you’ve loved—
none of the forms feel big enough
nothing occurs to me
but blood, filling blisters
on the stomach or legs of someone
that is a friend or lover to someone—
all his money taken away,
whose children hold his hand at the perp walk,
Rachel Maddow smirking,
I love a little,
I don’t use the word lightly.
I stop my hand midair
After my friend’s accident I take care of her.
Just as sometimes there are seven stanzas in a song.
i am the tiredness of this room, its low lighting
everyone out there listening knows
my body feels so way off the ground
as all the big stores go reaching for me
this little piggy loves to kiss my neck
and this little piggy loves to kiss in the rain
and this little piggy goes out of his way to kiss only lightly and call me Stevie
I’ve always loved to count.
The tricky part is keeping your eyes.
Loving isn’t enough, not with needles
I want to use your body for my own pleasures. In other words, to be historical.
If you want me to play the part
You have to give up some part
It’s too too dark for you to read me
City which is
a love letter.
This is a piece of blue onionskin paper inked with the names of the detained and deceased.
This is my cardiac chest unfeathering.
since I am the topsy-turvy
for free education and
I’d kiss your eyes three hundred thousand times
if you would let me
even if I had three hundred thousand friends I’d be yours
I go where I love and where I am loved,
into the snow;
I go to the things I love
with no thought of duty or pity
Sometimes Ruby went first, sometimes I did, and these decisions came naturally and without any discussion.
I couldn’t believe in love until I got
to the creation of the animals—
All the pee is yellow. All the shit is brown. All the blood is red. All the guts are pink.
lying on the table,
To tell you how it is, was, maybe
Isn’t necessary, but if you want to listen
My love speaks through the merging traffic. Especially with the radio on.
I left my heart in the teeth of jumper-cables—
the size of a fist.
Some never had a body to call their own before it was taken away
No one tells you about these boys: their quiet feminism
We sit on the floor of public places, our faces wet.
If you stand in the grass with me. Wait.
When he is asking for his mom, he thinks she is at work
The work is difficult, traceable
By the love in me
Open the door
Show us your teeth
Keep your jaw open and your shoulders down.
be secretly in love. to read everything to caress
the sinful communism. A hideaway underground in the
jailhouse by the water.
Fuck me harder, leave the haters behind
As you know I am a slut for leisure
I’m lying down with myself and kissing myself
By sucking my lower lip in and thrusting it out.
by way of 40 buckets worth of mopping
The sentimental hug of the horizon.
Too much to bear.
You must have seen how stupid I felt
brushing the sideways cup to get it upright on the floor
Because of the passivity that distance manufactures
Everything I loved, I could not keep
in one place
Raw oysters even more wet than water, I would wipe my eyes with one in a desperate moment.
I saw myself wearing stilettos of meat
I saw myself dressed in pink-eye & tumors
public, inconsolable, and totally myself
My whole life is a letter to you.
To begin with I know that I am not
In the whole galaxy of people an angel.
As you drift toward sleep
I would know not seems
like Hamlet’s grief
this love of mine
in the month of drones
the barista’s smile, the impossible cake, the change in weather, us, you, whomever you are, reading this
This isn’t the body I wanted, or to hold
How much it hurts.
We work too hard
We’re too tired
to fall in love.
Therefore we must
overthrow the government.
We work too hard
We’re too tired
to overthrow the government.
Therefore we must
fall in love.
So that the pixels actually spark.
The book of this repels its reader.
It is physically hard to open, like a weapon.
Otherwise, by now
We would love each other
if we had dope for an excuse
as a rippling confection of impulse
I ask you, who has yet to speak, where shall we meet again?
A thing can be lightweight or heavy.
When I saw you in the morning my eyes were full of paper.
The city looked okay from the window
But if you clicked on the zoom button
a guard rail. teeth knitted together. a corrugated tongue.
the hollow once a quarry
that man is still standing there, begging for change
I turn into a trailer and Hurricane Rita blows me away.
What has love to feed the poor—in auburned days, we drafted one fox heart to ferry the nightmare of this people,
If hurling myself down gently, love.
What must we call each other if we meet there
If I read it out loud I should sigh and say self-righteousness.
right here where I’m
and I feel it
in my ass
except more like marching, listing all the people we are.
so much that we all become curious, that we all run outside
foaming wake / productive creaming
It’s not precisely for you, this flood of cramping
Backwater rising come on.
every point of the body has a trapped story. If you touch the point, the story explodes.
if I spoke
I’d break into
talking as we are—now
our desire is—to keep
talking why—would our talking
ever—end naturally—by itself
the leaf swings: I don’t hold it
started to feel mindless
so I stroked your hair instead
I promise you don’t have to be my mother or teacher.
When a stereo goes by playing Mary J. Blige’s Real Love
That’s when the revolution begins
through the torn fabric, light pours in
I play my green kazoo for you
And you, could you have played a nocturne using a drainpipe for a flute?
Rushing to put our weight on one another
is there something transcendent about self-abasement?
That loud hub of us,
as all roads disappear
& ruin geometry
we worry that our circuits will blow
we split to become a greater thing
for every whoever who has lost all its letters
haven’t I said that part of having intercourse
with anyone, is loving them when they are weak,
when they can’t speak.
at the podium, I say in my head, “I love you, be my friends, exchange these promises, you to whom I aspire.”
Tags: Aaron Kunin, Adrienne Rich, Alice Notley, Alli Warren, Amy Berkowitz, Anne Boyer, Anne Lesley Selcer, Anne Waldman, Anselm Berrigan, Ariana Reines, Arielle Greenberg and Rachel Zucker, Barbara Jane Reyes, Ben Fama, Bernadette Mayer, Bill Luoma, Brandon Brown, Brenda Shaughnessy, Brittany Billmeyer-Finn, Camille Roy, Carla Harryman, Caroline Bergvall, Catherine Meng, Catherine Taylor, Catherine Wagner, Cecilia Corrigan, Cheena Marie Lo, Chris Nealon, Claudia Rankine, Cynthia Sailers, Dan Thomas-Glass, Dana Ward, Debbie Hu, Del Ray Cross, Diane Di Prima, Eileen Myles, Eric Sneathen, Erika Staiti, Erin Morrill, Evan Kennedy, Evie Shockley, Fanny Howe, Farnoosh Fathi, Fred Moten, George Stanley, Giovanni Singleton, Gwendolyn Brooks, H.D., Heriberto Yépez, Jackie Wang, Jacqueline Frost, Jacqueline Waters, Jalal Toufic, Jen Benka, Jennifer Moxley, Jennifer Tamayo, Jess Heaney, Jocelyn Saidenberg, Jordan Scott, Joshua Clover, Julian Talamantez Brolaski, Juliana Spahr, Kevin Killian, Lara Durback, Lara Glenum, Laura Solórzano, Lauren Levin, Leslie Scalapino, Lindsey Boldt, Lisa Jarnot, Lisa Robertson, Lynn Xu, Maged Zaher, Maggie Nelson, Marianne Morris, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, Mina Pam Dick, Monica McClure, Myung Mi Kim, Nada Gordon, National Poetry Month 2014, Nikky Finney, Pam Martin, Rachel Levitsky, Rob Halpern, Rod Smith, Rodney Koeneke, Samantha Giles, Sandra Simonds, Sara Larsen, Sawako Nakayasu, Simone White, Stacy Doris, Stephen Rodefer, Steve Zultanski, Sue Landers, Ted Berrigan, Ted Rees, Tim Dlugos, Tonya Foster, Trisha Low, Tyrone Williams, Victor Shklovsky, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Wendy Trevino
Posted in Featured Blogger on Thursday, April 3rd, 2014 by Stephanie Young.