My debut, Zone, Argentina, 2008/05/13

Bridges
2008/05/04

the far-eastern bridge of oil in orange
god-like
flows into the western bridge of sanity
blue-spotted gentle
crossing madly
the delirious bridge of yesteryear’s passions
flavours
ornaments
street specimens
delicate voices of amber
death-angels
frozen in benevolent ashes
praying over restless bridges of amaranth
echoes
filled w/ jumpers & trombone masters
dildoed whores panicked
of the frequently damaged
White Corners
where poetry’s jazz and jazz’s poetry
neitherway
and anyone chooses trumpets of fervor…
blow!
bridges are
what bridges see
& what can we make of ’em
with diamond-hands
and hair of gasoline
burning
fanatic circles of flat notes
perfect
have I just heard the Blue Kantata
orchestrated
or was it just a vacant point
in the sweet time-ravaged
Hollywoods of glory…
it’s all so jimdandy
dear Gina of honour…
and now
we’re hitting
La Paz

Debasement
2008/05/05

Oh the sweet art of debasement:
to breathe the very same air
cockroaches inhale
& to sleep w/ their
decadence debris
under roaring
refrigerator’s
heaven…

to lie under Eiffel Tower
& any parisian sidewalk I’ll find
effective
to radiate
with Madame Bleu
and her boys of reddening twilights:
the pursuer of noir city magic…

to throw my guts into the coin-box
spiting out verses at random
faceless landscapes throwing moons and
sunrays
and everyrays
between
for her harvest moon pleasure
where words are but ornaments
for
penetrating spirits

to crystallize the draperies of nite
saxes
wailing dead dramatists hoaxes
post meridian…

or to hear once again
the marked young man’s confessions
send-up

sending you up and sending me down
shade-toxic bluntness:
must learn the fine art of debasement
to become
angels
not meat&bone&gut bags
or madmen dancing w/ fireworks
straw-men
with eyes wild on
panic buttons…

to find an escape
from escaping…

Ghosts of the Miners
2008/05/04

we, the Solar System renegades
we, the underpaid dogs of shark’s fin soup
we, the in-crowd connoisseurs of awareness
we, the undemanding notes on chimney tops
writing in smoke
and water only
for fire is too hot to witness
and smoke can resist them all…
we, who come on patchy wings
of hyenas
piranha sailors on dead feet
like sculptures…
living on air and cat food promises
in the morning
we, the holders of hollow fibre ghosts
we, the white Indian partisans
of rhythm…
we, the narcissistic haters of
nihilistic manners
ambassadors of well-mannered old-fashioned
word-riddlers
martini drinkers
book-swallowers, sword-shapers
albino deconstructors
we, the sunlight over Monte Alban
in a greener kind of blue
than
ever by human imagined…
ghosts of the miners on turntable
patios
black velvet verandas
the day watch of deadly compromises…
we, the syllabic punch bowls
empty taxis at 3am
we, the drinker inside

Copyright © 2008 by A.J. Kaufmann. All rights reserved.