From Annals of Immunity

In the past, republicanism and white supremacy
had been jointly maintained by carefully shaping
the country’s borders. — Daniel Immerwahr

A __________ in Florence,
July twenty-fifth, twenty eighteen,

farts in fountain, made (the fountain)
of marble (so unlike an acrylic tub)

just after lunch (the fart) in piazza
consisting (the piazza) of roaming dogs splashing and bathing

causing (associative train on word “dog”) a madness of the constitution
to irrupt in the __________

so that no fountain of any kind
spewing sparkling, soft water, from neither spout nor spigot

could bless or douse
even a foreigner — red-hot — penetrating the entralia (South Park episode)

without abatement and without concern
for the domestic flora

much like (the penetrating) next worm
practices trombone —

for the domestic fauna
(without concerm)

 

Arranging & adorning your poem: title, epigraph

Blemish on butt
signals seeryus kosmetic!

 They will have to guide your re-entry vehicle via
Sardonic Sea landing

 It’s the end
announced on television

 “back to outer space”
butt in lens for goodbye

 you apologizing
And why is this happening

 Should have been asked
before take-off —

 now it’s late
Now, may as well go home

 May as well make Youtube channel
keep people up-to-date

 Can’t foresee you having any problems now
So natural to want to kiss it after all

 as much as not to want a kiss-off
into outer space

 the out-house gets a lot bigger

— A __________ in Florence

 

YOUR POEM HERE

 

 

 

 

Futons in with the Croutons

you ask, where? and: in what space-time?
Why I’ll tell you —
The futons

in with the
croutons aren’t a crumbs-in-bed situation, it’s elephants in cheese
sandwiches —

The peculiarity of poetry to us appears
to lie in the poet’s utter
unconsciouness

of a listener, says Mill! Proportions aren’t exaggerated
they’re stretched-to-breaking accurate, I wager, you don’t have an elephant
and odds are no sandwiches nor cheese —

“the appearance of a difference
is a real difference . . .” —
Futons

as baffles, croutons not as good
as vacuum bags
for masks. So

complication doesn’t live there, neither
in the associations you bring to vacuums
nor in the connotations you leave with futons, or with croutons —

If this isn’t going anywhere, it’s what holds us up, from going over
the brink, the last time, namely, John Bolton’s hand
about to take the glasses off, to see better, didn’t happen

which saved us
“liberalized” him, got him fired, but left him fed —
I demure with respect to the crumbs

I don’t adjourn completely from self-critical judgments
however I quail, and I have an animal with feathers
waiting with a slice of lime in the

fridge again, I wager — you don’t have a lime
and maybe haven’t seen one in awhile
a bet on the fridge itself, which I neglected to call in

circling around our domestic business
as this commentary ranges out to foreign policy
the signals become the same, once you, too, are enjoying a squeeze of lime and the carbonated
water

not to belabour it, I do acknowledge you might not have the water
and what about the futons
whole lot of squeezin’ goin’ on, the Tony with Cleo classic, if only the futons weren’t in with the
croutons, the way they are

not “of” me or you but of space-time, warped right in
living historical amber and the not-me residue on everything I touch and that I hope nobody
catches anything from
trying with a kitchen rag to be nothing special to anybody except the bank

where only prevailing numbers count
pervading the not-me as they do the linguistic me whether I am present
In any case, rocking horsefly in tree Carroll surmised would cause a ruckus exceeding Riemann
among logicians, if not Mill among liberals

which brings this to today’s complication, To Have and To Want, the futons with the croutons
the mes with the not-mes
the elephants, with the cheese sandwiches, trumpeting concerns, they remember

how close, that one nervous hand-tic held us —
I fudge the “us,” this mix-up
crush with comfort, ad-friendly prickle, delusional bubble with gratifying horizon —

but it’s not a test after all, croutons may as well be shelved next to bleach in the Circle K,
whereas futons
don’t they throw back to a local economy idea
but sort of like duck hunters to ducks

their memories?
That’s how it seems we like our world —
as duck hunters memories of ducks

yet the great poet observes, a duck is not a duck
nor is a futon by the argument of proportionality, analogia in the mathematical sense, a futon
nor a crouton, really

“I’m not in the jail for blowing shot into the face of my advisor
I’m here because the hospital is full of duck hunters”
This is what I’m reading, circum spec, to my sweet

as we cuddle with croutons
in hopes by the time we’re itching to get out
we can meet our friends

 

 

Louis Cabri’s latest book is Hungry Slingshots, just out from New Star Books. Recent poems appear in Some 1 (Vancouver).