kevin-trant - Hello Poetry

We are the bearded men in union halls grown tired of the world as it seems. Until our demands are met, there can be no more search for truth. We’ve grown tired of the world as it seems from folding chairs in union halls. There will be no search for truth— we’ll gaze at our navels and curse. From folding chairs in union halls we shall pontificate our malcontent. We shall gaze at our navels and curse these indelible holes in the Real. We shall pontificate our malcontent at the crack in the wood-paneled wall that indelible hole in the Real— it must be filled! The electric moon in the wall streams in seductions of blue shadows. It must be filled! we cry. The seductions of electric moonlight make thinking difficult. We cry, but the tears only make un-forgetting harder. Thinking has become more difficult with each failed arbitration. Un-forgetting’s so much harder when forgetting pays the bills. All arbitration has failed and our demands remain unmet. So long as forgetting pays the bills, we shall be the tired beards in union halls.

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May 10, 2010

May 10, 2010 at 8:07 AM UTC

kevin-trant

Philosopher's Local 151

We are the bearded men in union halls grown tired of the world as it seems. Until our demands are met, there can be no more search for truth. We’ve grown tired of the world as it seems from folding chairs in union halls. There will be no search for truth— we’ll gaze at our navels and curse. From folding chairs in union halls we shall pontificate our malcontent. We shall gaze at our navels and curse these indelible holes in the Real. We shall pontificate our malcontent at the crack in the wood-paneled wall that indelible hole in the Real— it must be filled! The electric moon in the wall streams in seductions of blue shadows. It must be filled! we cry. The seductions of electric moonlight make thinking difficult. We cry, but the tears only make un-forgetting harder. Thinking has become more difficult with each failed arbitration. Un-forgetting’s so much harder when forgetting pays the bills. All arbitration has failed and our demands remain unmet. So long as forgetting pays the bills, we shall be the tired beards in union halls.

32

I. Prideless, they tore railroad men’s brown ******* lurking the thirsty Kenyan banks. Red moonlight sluiced from brambles and linen skins pressing upon tawny flesh, igniting fire of feline eye. Imperious, they patrolled the union jack encampment lingering in shadows of long-labour’s dreamless sleep until the smoldering campfire morning when one hundred hammers lean in one hundred corners. II. Maneaters in glass houses can’t throw stony glances— the power to haunt having run off with the ghost. Now, they reign over the acrylic savannah sneering—not out of regal disdain, but mild discomfort from dust mites nitpicking at tautly taxidermed pelt. Rebel eyes that halted an empire now cast dull marble stares at fossils in the floor and derailed trains of un-terrified school-children near a hissing robot-box called Mold-A-Rama spewing magma into plastic tyrannosaurs.

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May 10, 2010

May 10, 2010 at 8:06 AM UTC

kevin-trant

Ways of Looking At Maneaters

I. Prideless, they tore railroad men’s brown ******* lurking the thirsty Kenyan banks. Red moonlight sluiced from brambles and linen skins pressing upon tawny flesh, igniting fire of feline eye. Imperious, they patrolled the union jack encampment lingering in shadows of long-labour’s dreamless sleep until the smoldering campfire morning when one hundred hammers lean in one hundred corners. II. Maneaters in glass houses can’t throw stony glances— the power to haunt having run off with the ghost. Now, they reign over the acrylic savannah sneering—not out of regal disdain, but mild discomfort from dust mites nitpicking at tautly taxidermed pelt. Rebel eyes that halted an empire now cast dull marble stares at fossils in the floor and derailed trains of un-terrified school-children near a hissing robot-box called Mold-A-Rama spewing magma into plastic tyrannosaurs.

20

So, it’s three in the morning and a man in a gorilla suit is running across my lawn. Quigley runs figure-eights—yapping, yelping. The light in McKevitt’s window flickers on then off—he doesn’t see this **** stumbling and slopping about the dark yard, pulling at the plush love handles of his unwieldy suit—its zipper just visible in blue moonlight. He’s trying not to step on the little black dog nipping at his paw. I pace at the window hoping he will leave. I pace some more and fumble at the nightstand for a cigarette. I beat my chest to scare this thing away and though I feel foolish, I grunt. I grunt and expect him to listen to reason— he doesn’t and collapses near the shed. Quigley watches him—curiously cocking his head. He licks the rubber face with his pink tongue thinking this monkey’s me—not well at all and sopped in booze. I get under the cold sheet. I toss. I turn. I curse the ****** ape well into morning. I hit snooze until I’m sure he’s gone. This has been going on for weeks I beat my chest and show my teeth. I pace the dark room—smoking, grumbling. I consider buying a bigger dog, a bigger gun. I send him death threats, then love notes. Nothing works— I can’t shake this monkey from my back. So excuse me for calling at this odd hour to howl about my primate problem—the chimp on my shoulder. or maybe a bonobo? (you know, the one that made life with me so hard.) In any case, he’s my problem now and tonight he’s knocking at the door

0

May 10, 2010

May 10, 2010 at 8:05 AM UTC

kevin-trant

Primates

So, it’s three in the morning and a man in a gorilla suit is running across my lawn. Quigley runs figure-eights—yapping, yelping. The light in McKevitt’s window flickers on then off—he doesn’t see this **** stumbling and slopping about the dark yard, pulling at the plush love handles of his unwieldy suit—its zipper just visible in blue moonlight. He’s trying not to step on the little black dog nipping at his paw. I pace at the window hoping he will leave. I pace some more and fumble at the nightstand for a cigarette. I beat my chest to scare this thing away and though I feel foolish, I grunt. I grunt and expect him to listen to reason— he doesn’t and collapses near the shed. Quigley watches him—curiously cocking his head. He licks the rubber face with his pink tongue thinking this monkey’s me—not well at all and sopped in booze. I get under the cold sheet. I toss. I turn. I curse the ****** ape well into morning. I hit snooze until I’m sure he’s gone. This has been going on for weeks I beat my chest and show my teeth. I pace the dark room—smoking, grumbling. I consider buying a bigger dog, a bigger gun. I send him death threats, then love notes. Nothing works— I can’t shake this monkey from my back. So excuse me for calling at this odd hour to howl about my primate problem—the chimp on my shoulder. or maybe a bonobo? (you know, the one that made life with me so hard.) In any case, he’s my problem now and tonight he’s knocking at the door

36

You left nothing, only the Stevens book That read: There is not nothing, no, no never… Nothing and a yellow bicycle: Two tires on a rickety frame. When I do pick up a poem, It’s to hear the gravel cadence of you, Softer, informed by everything that spins: A world, a bicycle, a chestnut tumbling Downhill the city’s painted a roadside path, My collarbone’s begun to mend. The house gets drafty late afternoons So I learn to cook: Turmeric, cayenne. Hing & coriander. cardamom. Cumin & mustard seeds. Hing’s a pungent flower called asafetida And corriander’s just cilantro. Icy fingers spindle wheels on window panes. I leave the teakettle to boil. Spokes of trees shiver in the silverish dusk Taking lessons from everything bare, I let in the cold to hear No stones turned in the drive.

0

May 10, 2010

May 10, 2010 at 7:48 AM UTC

kevin-trant

Winter Lessons

You left nothing, only the Stevens book That read: There is not nothing, no, no never… Nothing and a yellow bicycle: Two tires on a rickety frame. When I do pick up a poem, It’s to hear the gravel cadence of you, Softer, informed by everything that spins: A world, a bicycle, a chestnut tumbling Downhill the city’s painted a roadside path, My collarbone’s begun to mend. The house gets drafty late afternoons So I learn to cook: Turmeric, cayenne. Hing & coriander. cardamom. Cumin & mustard seeds. Hing’s a pungent flower called asafetida And corriander’s just cilantro. Icy fingers spindle wheels on window panes. I leave the teakettle to boil. Spokes of trees shiver in the silverish dusk Taking lessons from everything bare, I let in the cold to hear No stones turned in the drive.

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