harrison ford had it made in indiana
jones part three fucking that austrian
woman in venice – ah venice – as they
slipped under that radar beneath all
the clanging sunday bells of canareggio
… meanwhile sean connery (presumably
touched himself or his manufactured wig
knowing that once they reached the castle
of the gestapo he would enjoy the last
laugh or something. how do you say good-
bye in austria as opposed to the reich?
my german teacher was from vienna – i had
a mild vanilla crush on her (dreamt of
discipline all verbal nat¸rlich … the
classroom put-downs then our more private
humiliations … just one punch would have
been enough to force my quiet retreat to
beat off in a lavatory (a goethe institut
in a nameless & folorn balkan capital …
oh for an umbrella to scare the seagulls
into a luftwaffe propellor or two – ah
venice! stop me before the credits roll
i’m fit to burst here with my leather-
bound journal (i confused the berlin &
m¸nich olympic stadiums – who needs
hitler’s autograph when it’s written in
the landscape the reiseplan the plastic
stein? a girl holds up two jugs with
the requisite irony (breasts heaving …
this foolish foreplay does not know it
has been tricked into surviving – i
yearn for my original impassioned cry
from cairo – some crazy mongol shouts
cover your heart indy! well of course
it must have been all those bad dates
Tag: Abendland (page 3 of 12)
What’s the story, Ludwig?
Have you found a perfect
View? What did you have
For supper last night? & did
The swans tow your body to
Sleep? What did you find in
The gothic skylines above
Your wooden wagerian bed?
Could you go once fantasy
Faded? Did you hear music
In the reconstructions of
Tristan & isolde on the walls?
Upon which bridge did your
Sad life end & was that man
Present there to take your
Picture? Did the railings fail?
Could you see that waterfall
Between the planks, behind
Your footsteps? Did you land
Safely in the spruce? & do the
Pines support your weight? &
Do the swans know your name?
& what will become of those
shining door handles, forever
cocked like loaded pistols? What
is the time there & what are
you wearing? Are the palace
corridors cold? When will it be
finished, your collosal tribute?
Will they allow you to grow old?
round & round the imbiss
i go scurrying hither or
screaming thither wound
on sugars & holiday gases
with my turtle backpack &
my plucky green hat they
cannot catch me! cannot
know my moves the yodels
that maintain me i delight
in my terror & underneath
this shirt flabby muscles
quiver (my brain goes tick-
tock all through the high
german summer! some speak
of the sewers wherein i was
once abandoned only to be
found – i myself prefer to
blast that memory into one
big pile of rubble! or else
a turtle dance w/ wiggles!
my shell morphs into scales
at the slightest threat –
my arms & legs become fists
& boots to break the glass!
(small wonder i am kept on
a kiddy leash – but their
time will come when i have
grown & so-called parents
will feel all my fury as i
toddle off (back to the sea
you can see my moving parts
by lifting aside this curtain
here where flesh is fused with
my mechanical arts & all is
encased in polished enjambe-
ment … tiny wheels enforce
this rhythm trigger reaction
maintain flow – while clock-
works monitor internal pressure
& signal the hours like early
birds – i sing with steam this
pulse enervates a quiet meaning
(my labyrinthine hulk) & days
disappear under time’s resisting
ladder scheme the wailing echo
silver screws are my grammar &
whistles my code – an abstract
mechanic oils my pistons & my
cogs until at last perpetual
i shudder on my electric rails
the countryside forms lakes of
blue-green blurs while passing
poems cause a bang & under us
the track is glistening sweat
creates a traceable trail (an
endless journey to pass a line
over a bleak white space where
meaning terminates in cuckoo
recitals worthy of the brochure
or else rhymes from a motor age
there was no need to be told
of the jewish custom whereby
rocks are placed near graves
instead of flowers (eg lilies
in the place of the barracks
we found an ocean of stones –
larger than a fist smaller
than a child’s head just big
enough to force one to walk
more slowly than normal & to
think with each step about
a person who has passed on
nothing is expected of us
except understanding (& an
opening towards knowledge –
like the burgers of dachau
whom american troops forced
to march through these gas
chambers saying look! look
this happened in your town
rocks grow in every country
this world is filled with
graves – one day they will
return us to the rivers &
smooth our sharp edges over
centuries of soothing (easy
for me to say on windy days
i think of anton music who
drew pictures of his living
hell in charcoal & who is
known today as the “dachau
artist” born in slovenia &
a student of fine arts in
venice arrested & sent here
only for his talents to be
rediscovered it’s chilling
but necessary to look upon
his ghost lines of tangled
limbs & to know his words:
“we are not the last ones”