EARLY POEMS

SONNET

Artie Gold

There is something crapulous and far from the sawdust
sticking my head into this large mouseholed garland
outside tamer than a dram of scotch in the yearly ocean of suburbia
the noise of a passing perambulator's squeak is all I get
I fired on the fourheaded asshole concern I remember in a poem
that would reach their friends and make them my enemies
and nothing throughout the course of this act raised itself to the level
of even mild drama; I walked vaguely uncomfortably away thinking, shit,
why didn't I fart during the silence instead of yelling halfway through
the second act; their audience may have resented the incursion on their
                                                                         sabbatical from culture
and this soon ceased to bother me and they soon ceased for me to exist.
the reality less than a dream doesn't stand up to the sun of 11 a.m. what
is it to do when noon looks down its collar and poleaxes it?

NO PARKING

Tom Konyves

To die    my hair     and live again. I am
in the middle of things, yet beginning
over and over
                            and over and over. To die
in the middle of things, yet beginning,
over mountains and skyscrapers, in the middle of things,
letters, bras, disbursement of money
also that which is paid out,
a Viking on the waters, spirit yet beginning, winning,
foot by foot, over and over, in the middle of things,
churches, nightmares, maidenheads, stockings on the dryer,
a kiss from the wall planted squarely on my lips
burning at the stake with onions, to die.

To die, my hair tied to stakes like Gulliver,
stretching from one end of the earth to the other,
my body floating, the sails of the earth.
Ahoy! Ahoy! To die my hair or not to
live again, in the middle of things, the apple-core
of living again, not living again, over and over
hurdles of living again or not living again,
yet beginning

To die     my hair     and live again. I am
in the middle, between north and south.
North/Alan 3455 Stanley St. 849-8294.
South/Astley 129 Anselme-Lavigne Dollard
des Ormeaux 684-2890 yet beginning, trimming
my hair, just a little off the top please,
leave the ears, I like pony tails,
the silence of airplanes, beached whales. Over
and over, in and out, first slowly, go shallow
then deep, shallow then deep, soft…soft…hard!
round, round, red light! slowly…slowly…yeah,
that’s it.

To die     my hair     is growing long, too
long , too too long, hold it right there, don’t
move, just like that, that’s it, that’s it, that’s it.

To die     my hair     long, red, white streaks,
too too long, too long, too.

To die in a forest fire, in city hall, in the
evening, quietly, alone, with friends, family clothes,
rags to riches, in a car, in a plane,
in a bird, in a Superman costume, in the middle of the night,
on roller skates, red pavement, begging change,
in a hearse, in an alley, in a soft bed
not of my making, raking leaves in autumn,
smiling at the camera, hold it, just like that,
that’s it, hold it, freeze!
Freezing, your arms around me, hugging me,
suffocating, strangled with my own belt,
shot! once, twice, in the head, between the eyes,
right between the eyes, son of a bitch
shoot him right in the eyes, in the back, shot
in the back, just like that, walking down the street,
minding my own business, when, shot!
in the bathtub, in the hallway, leaning on the glass,
nose pressed to the glass, candy, in a hospital,
with nurses smiling, cleaning the bedpans,
of old age, yesterday, suddenly, in my sleep, gone.
In the middle of things, bills unpaid, laundry, coffee,
writing a letter to my congressman, in love,
determined to change watching the river flow
ho ho ho get this, throat slit,
stabbed, over and over and over, watching TV,
just relaxing, watching TV. Poisoned! For what?
I put words in your mouth.
                                                  To die in New York,
in Little Rock, in Venezuela, in a canary,
in the Twin Towers, hand in hand,
in the Charlottes, in Kingston, in California, in Chicago,
in a garage, in India with my guru, in your mouth,
in your cunt, in your ass, in your belly, in your bed,
in your garage, in your living room,
relaxing, watching Mary Hartman, Mary. In Greenwich,
at midnight, in Detroit, in New Orleans, in French,
in Spanish, in Quebec, defending the English,
in Toronto, defending poetry,
in Noranda, in Alaska, in debt, in corpus delecti, inverted,
hung, well hung, in a hotel room, in Atlantic City,
under the boardwalk, insensitive in fact,
run over and over and over, on a highway not far
from here, in a disco, in a disco-bar, in a movie theatre,
smoking dope, shooting horse, Hh, never mind let things lie,
in the middle of things, yet just beginning, 1901, 1961, 1971,
in a computer riot, in a performance just like this, hold it,
hold it! just like that! that’s it!

To die in Montreal, in Vehicule, on Sunday at 2,
in a McCaffery reading, in a review of my book,
in reply to your letter dated, antedated,
in society, in anti-society, in my underwear,
in a year, inveterate, in confession, in a bathroom
at a party, in art only, in fiction, in a water tank trick,
in diving from a plane, in climbing the impossible mountain
with Julie Andrews, squinting at the sun,
in a playground, under a see-saw, in my lover’s arms,
in my enemy’s fort, scalped, dragged away and ravaged
by lions, in the mouth of the Euphrates, in the Nile,
in the Red Sea, in the St. Lawrence,
Superior, eerie. In the inn, having a couple, having
a meal, having multiple sclerosis, having my hair cut.
In a memo to mama, in your station wagon, after the dance,
at a cocktail party, in the Star, and the Gazette, in the Voice,
in the Times, in the chronicle of our times, in the pride
of my youth, under my skin, in my skiwear,
in my bathing suit, Voodoo! Voodoo!

To die     my hair     and live again. I am in the middle
of things, yet beginning over and over and
over an argument, over a woman, over money, over a
cause, over a right and wrong, over a game, yet
beginning, learning to say Da Da, moo moo cow,
unlearning horror, Mary. To die     my hair    and live,
with breasts like pomegranates, a tight ass, a big cock,
a sweet pussy, a lovely face, over and over, in the morning,
in the afternoon, in the front seat, in the back seat, incognito.
To live again in the middle of things, pastures, a farm,
a penthouse with skylight streaming with the sparkling stars,
overlooking New York, overlooking everything
that has happened between us, yet beginning, a germ
of the universe, a giant among men, distinguished by
a scar on the forehead, a mole above the lip. To live
again, over and over, my soul, wearing jeans and T-shirt,
to attach myself to the infinite typewriter ribbon.

heaven over and over must be missing an angel,
over and over and over, missing one angel, child, over and over
and over and over, cause you’re here with me right now,
sweet little angel, over and over, right now, heaven,
over, your kiss, over, you came COD, over, I’m captured,
over, it’s so good, so good, so good, over,
filled with tenderness, over and over

Yet beginning, in the
middle of things, which is the fire that emanated
from the celestial fire, when that firmament is illumined
there become revealed four mystical groupings of letters,
each beginning in the middle of things, Mary.
In the middle of things revealed, ships, customs houses,
elm trees, dakini, hostie, Houdini,
inspector, window-maker, pasta-maker, cloud-maker,
in the middle yet beginning over and over, to die
and live again, just like that, hold it, freeze!
That’s it. That’s it.

THUS SPOKE TZARATHUSTRA

Tom Konyves

"It is indeed better to live among hermits and goatherds than among our gilded, false, painted mob -
even if they call themselves 'good society'"
                                                                         - Zarathustra

"After all, everyone dances to his own personal boomboom, and the writer is entitled to his boomboom:
the satisfaction of pathological curiosity; a private bell for inexplicable needs; a bath; pecuniary difficulties;
a stomach with repercussions in life; the authority of the mystic wand formulated as the bouquet of a phantom orchestra..."
                                                                         - Tristan Tzara

Not in my right mind, that is to say, poetically,
I awoke today from a dream of thirty-three years.

I was hungry, but I was not fed; I loved
but I was not loved. I was prey to the rich,
scorned by the poor; what I built was destroyed,
what I tore down was resurrected.
I found my soul in the darkness
when my spirit fled. I repented
but was never forgiven. I prayed
but only an echo returned to me.
My heart stopped beating
but I did not die.

Windshield wipers sway and dance while pistons of war collide,
rattling like a one-armed bandit in this pressure chamber of a world.

The road to the mountain passes the cemetery.
You see, you see, you see, you see, goes the needle
at the end of the record.
I lie (I lie) sideways on the bed,
my hands and feet hang over the edge,
white chargers race across a blackboard,
German tanks and British warships
roll and weave across the screen.

There must be a misunderstanding. Notions
of propriety, decency, all that is upstanding and right,
generous, pleasant giddy-ups of good have invaded my little world.
I came here not well, parading a tired lion
in the street of the capital.

We have been playing a charade
of no consequence, Empires Are Falling:
the terrier chases
the fox in the hole,
the leopard leaps
from the tree.

I will change, I will change,
I will whip the new left with traditional chains.
What could be worse than not being listed
in the Canadian Book of New Penguin Verse?

I will rhyme, recall the solitude of wax heroes,
serve Pan and the insects, I will question
every natural event (beasts propagating
allegorizing my lusty adventures)

I brace myself for one more leap
then out I fly in the twisting air
somersaulting silent clouds,
screaming below Doo-Da! Doo-Da!

Thus spoke Tzarathustra.

WELCOME

Ken Norris

Welcome to this psychic disaster area
called poetry. Welcome
to this hot core of stillness. I was once like you:
I dreamed of a 1968 Chevy, slept solidly against my mattress,
woke to orange juice and the sober reality of facts.
One morning a blue butterfly landed on my 6 a.m. windowsill.
I haven't been the same since.

WHATEVER ELSE

Ken Norris

Whatever else, don't love me perfectly.
When your hands become marble everything ends;
all life goes out of me, you drain me of all heat
when you have become stone.

I look, in love, for the flaw
that makes the thing human. Roll me up
in a Persian rug, my heart will find itself pressed
against the intentionally misplaced stitch.

THE TROUBLE WITH ANGELS 

Ken Norris

The trouble with angels
is that they buckle at the waist,
bellies overlapping where their genitals should be.
The trouble is that they've always got an eye on the clock,
are always reckoning the time till Judgment Day.
The trouble is their wings won't lie
flat on the bed once we've gotten them
that far; the trouble is that, by
necessity, they have to be on top.
The trouble is the insane desire we feel
to pluck their wings feather by feather.
The trouble is that by day they look so lovely
but glowing in the dark by night so frightening.
The trouble with angels is that the world has provided no place for them.