i have to most deserverdly like
a frederick seidel poem
when i read it -
        but not... when he reads it...

    some ancient grimmace
of h'america:
   those north eastern states...
mostly maine
and new hampshire...

      because: it's a hidden history
because the vikings came
prior to christopher...
   and the saxon soul will elevate
itself in secret to
this fact than...

          lend itself to follow
from the south with the conquistadors...
robert lowell et al.

         pristine h'america
as if bewildering never a displaced
european...

     i wish there could be something
impossible about a frederick seigel
poem...
  but i don't mind the "privileged" part
when i "know" of his father's
hard grinding knuckles
of owning a coalmine (etc.)

unlike novels and dogma...
a milan kundera essay about either
franz kafka or flaubert...
again proust, who i hope to read
someday...

          here in poetry: the next voice
without a dogmatic clarity
a novel like a tide
    a novel like a sunrise or sunset...
a poem like:
a disemboweled view
of a seaweed comparison...  

          to have children is to find
a new way to be startled...
        to have children is to...
   settle eternal affairs for future and
this... gall bleeding dry into
a frictive **** with pride...
  
  perhaps the pyramids can compete
with a kilimanjaro...
         speke or meru...
           of those long bones fathomed
with crosses and chalices
made from riddled jaws and teeth
like gems...
        
           at some point words cannot
be trusted...
   how many times have i teased
a misnomer - robert pinsky:
big... beeeeeeeeg on misnomers...
   a voice so tender it could
compete with gregory corso's lisp...
but of the latter: with youth! with paris!
anything goes!

unlike a novel: nothing is being
accomplished...
a breath if a lemon could breathe...
it's not the money that bothers me:
with or without it...
the words serve their own delights
and... procrastinations...
and...
        once upon a time: words
at the dentist...

  a woman will visit a tattoo artist
sooner than visit a hair-stylists...
she's sooner buy a wig...
since most women are dis-satisfied with
styling of the hair...
2+ years of "reprieve" from seeing
a barber...

             and then...
     turn around puritan, i.e.:
i never visited a brothel...
         i decided to claim... *** and cleaning
the bathroom...
  an exercise in dead-weight...
but what a comparison...
to emerge: liberty signalling -
   who's who and the abuse did not
extend into KINK...
          so... the barber replaced
the brothel as:                  neuhöhen...

oh if there was some pride
beside the otherwise lazy...
strict... nunnery of rejection and binging
on gym membership and bulimia...
the roman etiquette slim...

what sad times...
    this having to find everything beside
***: liberated from procreation...
the epitome surreal godhead-****-it-all
tentacle extension / plagiarism...
    bring me the brute and the asinine wonder
of the tongue...
i'll hope to turn my ego
into a chisel and retain:
an oyster shell from
a hoarded weathering of:
beginning with "random"...
                         this rock that will
become a replica of shell...
or muscle... or thereby an ingenuity...
of bone;
               a crown from treating
rock into this... hollow bell -
                      the soul an uvula...
the soul a fading / a dying out strobe
epilepsy: PARTY BIG'OH jiggles!

     parking lot delight... who had a son...
and oh the obviousness of
this tired: not -
      
          satan weaver...
                      blue blooded cuts of beef...
for there is no sentiment
concerning pork...
   why oysters are a speciality for the upper-classes
i will never know
given that the pickwick papers made
it sensibly plain: oysters were once...
what you'd make of tender-bits
these days...
   the nuggets of flesh...
god... a pork liver with onions...
a decent semi-broth of poultry hearts
with barley groats... and gherkins...
or poultry stomachs likewise...
                           esp. with barley groats...

i can't imagine why...
muscle is the go to piece of the animal...
the heavily protein skim reading
of the best of: excuses to not be a vegetarian...
the liver... the hearts... the stomachs...
mein gott! pork lungs!

even the feel of the raw product...
for the sauce... a hand filled with
about a dozen chicken hearts...
there is a compensating image...
when you could still feed pigeons
in trafalgar sq.

                 some might say: who...
once upon a time... did...
  good to know... a part of me is still loitering
around a culminating prospect
of... living without extreme!