Gloria Frym

 

 

From Mind Over Matter


As space yields to nouns
Does time yield to verbs?
Is there is no other yield
In this my capitalist love?
Pronouns are multinational
I is filled with promise
The server serves the I
I buys on credit
Now I sings of victory
Call back and speak to the retention department
I'm a young poet though I'm old
But I make me new
I sits down to eat I sits down to read
All of summer in one word

 

*

Laura will never read Petrarch’s sonnets to you in bed
Again you mean your meanness
Unweaned from formula   hey why not put
This mess in the poem?
Que cazza voi? the same list
Of things to do and who besides you
Would want such order   the poem wants
Its own instructions

The war is going well they say
As if to answer
How are you with fine
No poem
Would stand for such a line
A poem is not a fool

 

*


No memory of time but event after event
Steam the paper off the wall no
Wall but the paper
Stupid stupid stupid he shoved my house of cards
Into the costume basket under the fairy wings!
Expect to keep the same pace wear the same face
Video reveals all that waits under the chin
Anselm Hollo’s good cracked mug
Silver streaks a real Rolls with a lady perched
On my hood if Jack Spicer didn’t like a line he’d say
It’s not true    love to be translated
Into language not recuperative
Not remunerative just a record
Living attention

 

*

Here on my topical island
We are no further than peasants

Except for running water
I am an immigrant in the country of my daughter

The black hole of voice mail leaves no print
Down-size down-size down-size

Mimics the sound of chainsaws
Time doesn't match our impatience

The stillness of the night indicates
No gunshot

A night of news
Is a night of blood

To view life in a magazine
Ducks in a shooting gallery

Everyone his own pitbull
Kill for the right to life

And where to put the comma
In this high-rent district called language

Perpetually receding alibis
A trail with ticks mountain lions rapists

I predicted the comeback of beauty
But now I is not so sure

Marooned in familiar circumstances
Now is as old as time

 

*

 

The one who fills the page
With objects of her attention
Is not the one who fills the bed
She has use   poetry is useless
The maker of these marks
Observer of those tulips
Fluting the air they occupy
Flirting their way into story
A counter-lyric to chronology
A cosa mentale to another
He says you’re telling me a poem
Words tickle his ear
Where she does not exist
And they do not reside
She calls the beloved baby
She moans the phonemes bay-bee
Then a sentence heats the room

 

*

Some summers narrative breaks down and can’t compete with night
Some stories break down and cry line by line for their lost threads
Some tales simply abhor once upon a time passing
The days ahead a long beach called Mine
Some heat waves the coastal region
Some sun eats fog every horizon
Who says you can’t put a square peg in a round hole?
Plums fill the quadrangles of a swaying hammock
Some summers just beneath happy
A layer of empty comes and goes
Sucked up by a cheerful vacuum
As space fills time delaminates
Or the world opens into summer again
Temperatures rise light builds
Toward the inevitable caesura then
The end stop of shorter afternoons.
Discreet falling leaves a new cool
Sentence line image wave particle flower sleeveless strapless
Sandaled feet dactylic peach perfect tomato sweet and asymmetrical
Narrative shamelessly exposes itself melts to song which may contain
“fate” “destiny” “eternity” but certainly not fiction

 

*

 

I too abhorred theory till
The antithetical
Bed with the thetical
What hat   what legs   what

Thought breath
Saved from sudden death
Idea  image   originating
Outside

A thousand arrows
And the outline
Of where you’d be
If you weren’t thinking