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Sunday, September 26, 2010

In Search of the Cutting Edge [Today's News Poem, September 26, 2010]

In Search of the Cutting Edge [Today's News Poem, September 26, 2010]

I) Gnomanism

Searched for the keyword 'love' on Google.
An error. No love where there's porn,
but there's plenty of pleasure exchanged
with diseases; in order to rescue
those hoping to find something like memory,
inside the flickering cyclops of desktop:
Gnoman of Onan.

II) Between Drops

All of the signs are directing us to it—
whatever it is, it's important: too much so to name
or to grasp. Let me tell you, I lay on a sofa
in the arms of a woman I barely was fond of;
even the boxes of pizza with crumbs for their tears
opened their jaws as the light from Venetian blinds
marched across her ceiling. And later
another had made me her lover and opened seduction
before bidding farewell. Her hair was my eyepatch;
but still I could see how the lines from the light
through the shades were the same as they'd been.
I said I wanted everything. She laughed.

Often, I'd follow commotion and cackle:
mad rabbi who dances between raindrops
of bottles of beer with no beer.
I'd close on the edge of these apexes
where the sputtering lips hissing 'puto'
resembled the first time I kissed while in love.
I crowed at his crowbar,
his knuckles of brass;
and once I had shouted the name
of the woman I loved, like a cornball, when I met her.
And the gangsters were baying
where clowns park their cars,
where billions are served;
and only by the fickleness
of cop cars patrolling,
and only by recklessly
chasing each bottle before it exploded in glass
could I find it—whatever it is. It hasn't a name.

“Eight people were shot — one fatally — and another three stabbed Saturday after a fight broke out at a birthday party, authorities said. ”
– (AP) – 2 hours ago as of 1:39am PST, September 26, 2010

“Consider the cockfighter. Pampered with high-end feed and plenty of room to strut in the sun, these roosters might even get regular massages before the day they are fitted with slashing spurs and thrown into a pit for a barbaric fight to the death. Now consider the chicken on your plate. There's a good chance it never saw the sun or sky but was jammed in some dark coop stinking of ammonia. In the end, it was snatched up, crated, hung upside down and beheaded. Both fates are gruesome. But really, which abused chicken suffered less: the one involved in an illegal activity or the one that was part of a common — albeit increasingly criticized — agricultural practice?”
– Michael Hill, The Associated Press, September 25, 2010 at 7:04 PM

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J Chon said...

That last stanza's a sincere choke hold. Jesus.

rToady said...


There you go. That's what I'm talking about. You did it.