Monday, July 25, 2005

radio days: a long & old fish

this is an older one, but there were requests for visions of drunken fish, & i was thinking about the particular drunk i get at a rock show, & i remembered this piece.

for kicks, here are the original pages: from the smith-corona silent pounded out one night at the George Street apartment & in my poetic workshop days, complete with mysfit's always-constructive commentary, because it's fun for me to tend a poem & see where it grows & has grown. besides, the continuation of this sort of thing was why we started the fish in the first place.

if you never hear from me again it is most likely because mysfit has hunted me down & destroyed me as her nemesis for having displayed on the record that she once used a pink pen. so why not words to remember me by?



draft 1.




draft 2

i did mention this was a long fish.

Radio Days

sharp old cadillacs
gleaming out of the gasoline night--
                                                           tell me again
                                                           why i'm in Brooklyn?
                   like a shooting gallery
                                        a Shakespearean balcony edge:
                 Point yr crossbows at the cops
                                                    (protected & sanctified by
                                                     second story height)

Tell me a story
   yr stool perch demands it
                                        (There's a lot of animosity on this wall)

                                                    ancient Stone Pony sands
                                                    have affected my calves & sinews
                                                    wasted from the inside with cold
                                                    with a certain true cynic tone:
                                                    There Once Was A Pirate Princess

                        like upstream salmon
                                                THIS IS
                                                                        (this conversation)
                                                the catalyst for all Nature

I kiss the ashes of Jersey Shore prerequisites
& volunteer my cremation
         (burnt shards of shell
         are like ashes of charred bones)
                                                    TORCH IT
                                                                 every word you've written
                                                                 the concretes in yr creation
                                                                 fling it on the fire
                                                                 & then come to me
                                                                                           speaking--

like a voice out of the recent past
like a fragment of Ondaatje text
                  trying to remind
           it lingers--
                          this sort of soliloquy,
                          torments my interpretive
                          aloofness
                                    let fly
                                                over Staten Island's concentric circles
                                                over brick-edge scaffolds on Sackett St.
                                                over J's recent publication
                                                over industrial complex lights like stars
                                                            let fly

                                       over cityscape, the BQE spun out
                                       in tangled structural webs
                                       that arced me descending
                                       through a soul-coughing soundtrack
                                       Hallelujia duets
                                       opened like blown speakers
                                       to velocity winds
                                       as if i wore Corsica wings
                                                              (I think only my door is ajar)
I thought only I heard the rhythms resounding
                        trying to remind
             still steady there
                                             persisting into my speech
                                             via Darwinian jazz
                                                                              (& thar she blows)
                                                            all to shape you
                                                            into a prayer

I generate themes & pout,
         spout prettily phrased polemic
         from points of the absurd
         into the vast well of interest
                                                            in its red shirts--

& pirate ships are the wave of the future
& Anselm Hollo is haunting my haloes
& blue plastic goblets promote themselves
& I explain yr loss, yr cultural reversals
                                      of an evening Grind:
                        points of minute contact, a corner laugh continued
                                              & "it's 5 a.m.         & you are listening--"

Sing in the New Year of the Other
with this holographic dragon dance
         dangling from plausible ceiling fans
                  with astrophysics patterns
                                              "oh         I love the space travel" she said
                                              & sulked
                                              shaping that interior wind
                                              into crepe tailfeathers streaming

              (somewhere a shuttle is collapsing)

                                                                   have we voyaged here
                                                                   to expect
                                                                   to hear
                                                                   yr explication of spacetime
                                                                   & my continuum
                                                                   of dislocation
noticed
in light of lamps & pyramidal structure
Art Deco reflection
exploding
over his Slavic face,
         his Russian
                  expression
                           of displacement
                                                       sullen towards pixellation
(the Illuminati are Out There, weaving binary spells)

& Once Upon A Time, balcony-dressed
                  in a gallery of framed conversation
She Sailed the Seven Seas,
                  Cape Hope to Cape May,
                  her 3-fingered hand
                  on the Wheel Of Fortune theme
                                    turning into the roll
                                                      of fluorescent waves,
& she bore caskets of Sirens
                                    to serenade
                                                      Atlantic City's
                                                                        contained apocalypse

she sings you into her sphere

                                      "Good Night, Sweet Prince"
                                                                     & catapults geography:
                                                                     in ship's logs of names
                                                                     in local directories
                                                                     borne like Nemo sleeping
                                                                     over the spine
                                                                     of the Goethals
                                      "may flights of angles wing thee to thy rest"

& for those wishing for images of a drunken fish, you might find that some wishes are fishes & you could cast a net...
(here's a hint: remember the beginning of all this?
i'm frequently fairly drunk after a rocknroll show.)

12 little fish:

Blogger jenn see swam up to say...

enjoy the spacing, fishies, because though it still leaves something to be desired, that is the last time i'm going through all that.

9:30 PM  
Blogger mysfit swam up to say...

and for the record - that is a purple pen

10:18 PM  
Blogger forgottenmachine swam up to say...

What can I say that I haven't said before? You know I think you have an incredible gift, and these days it is ever a rarity to see someone who has tapped into that gift in the way you have.

What more can I say, other than that I could get lost in the river of those words for days.

11:11 AM  
Blogger Carl V. swam up to say...

Purple? Hmmmmmmmmm.....

At a glance those original pages look like the kind of notes I would sometimes get back from teachers! Its good to have friends who will give you honest feedback and encouragement.cv

11:36 AM  
Blogger jenn see swam up to say...

i have to say the pen looks more pink on the page than on the scan...but i'll let mysfit have her dreams.

& yes, carl v, such phrases as "dopey smiley faces" have helped me enormously throughout my poetic career. & it's impossible to overrate the value of an "ergh".

this does have a rivery feel, i was thinking of it as a cascade, it's definitely a movement in space as well as time--which is why i went to the trouble of spacing it here--it's amazing how much easier it was on the typewriter.

machine: i'm pleased that your fish & mine can have such a connection--you seem to get the feel of a piece almost as much as i do (which is not as much as you think, necessarily:) & it's always a thrill when something resonates.

that's why i write, for the thrill? hmmmm...

11:52 AM  
Blogger Morgan swam up to say...

How on earth do you get your little bubbles on your mouse?? I would love some on mine! Care to devulge your secret on my blog (morganmallory.blogspot.com)? Thanks!

12:46 PM  
Blogger stella swam up to say...

rock on! that was superb... coming from another new york city girl. thanks for writing it. :)

8:13 PM  
Blogger banzai cat swam up to say...

Now this is a truly fish poem: the words just jump and down like a salmon for me.

And: oh yes, those bubbles are cool. What kind of program are you using? Am wondering if I could do the same with a disappearing grin. ;-)

4:48 AM  
Blogger MitzieBitchie swam up to say...

Nice one!.. Drop me a line........

5:04 AM  
Blogger cardboardjudas swam up to say...

"She Sailed the Seven Seas,
Cape Hope to Cape May, her 3-fingered hand
on the Wheel Of Fortune theme
turning into the roll
of fluorescent waves,"

you're like a cuter feminine version of tom waits.

and yes that's a good thing

8:01 AM  
Blogger mysfit swam up to say...

the bubbles are actually thanks to dlak - he pointed me to a site which gives the java script, i had to tweak it (and still do) to make it work

10:09 AM  
Blogger jenn see swam up to say...

http://www.hypergurl.com/cursorbubbles.html
is where the bubbles came from.

judas: that's a bad-ass compliment. i'll have my eyes bright & my chin up all day.

mitzie: that an...interesting fish you have there. but follow wherever it may lead, i suppose...

banzai: like salmon indeed. the fish has apparently always been there, a secret motif. & i was being a smartass about the zen cat, the zen cat belongs to no man. or woman. or fish.

stella: you're very welcome, though there's more jersey girl in that than is at first apparent...

1:35 PM  

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