Monday, June 29, 2009

A Quiz: Vogon Poetry or Flarf

My last post talked about the Vogon Poetry app for the iPhone. Vogon poetry, if you're familiar with The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy, is considered the third-worst poetry in the universe. Flarf has come to be known--by one definition anyway--as intentionally bad poetry.

Flarf got the main(stream) stage this month with its inclusion in Poetry alongside conceptual writing and Poetry's regular fare, and when reading it, I saw what I thought were some similarities between Flarf and Vogon poetry. The idea of this post is to put some bits of flarf next to some bits of Vogon and see if people (the eight or so who wander by here) can tell which is which. After all, I've paid for both the app and the subscription--I ought to try to get something out of it. Answers will be at the end of the post.

1. And down by the crying orchid
I impregnated death's brain
Under the hut of the horn:
a candor has no chugging.

2. An apple on my ninja.
Alas! Yet I destructed. I vowed.
If a towel is harmless, can a gravy be extinct?
It was only reading from soy to soup.

3. Glitter is the Swiss Army knife
of the most bedazzlingly ridiculous
emotions: the part just before
the paranoid cheese-maker says,

"Whatever you do in Palm Springs,
don't yodel"

4. Thanks, puncture, for tumbling the reason,
I get to win for another look.
Who was more not particularly good
on that moist mistake?
You who is slurping, or me who ponders you?

5. April 22 is a nice day. I really like it.
I mean it's not as fantastic as that Hitler
unicorn ass but it's pretty special to me.
CREAMING bald eagle there is a tiny Abe
Lincoln boxing a tiny Hitler. MAGIC UNICORNS

6. The 4th quarter gets pretty intense and the announcers are usually trying to figure out who is going to become overwhelmed by their own arrogant nightmares. It would upset the stomach of the balance of nature. I always go red over the stupidest things and I have no clue why. Whether it's speaking in front of the class or someone asking me why I think I have the right to say anything.

7. O limp steam,
my creative Mainframes to me, and to all sofas--
Are as an informational
INCOMPETENCE
Upon positive hermits; turned, moistly.

And scantily and snootily the filth constructed
Evervate where the hermits restrain
Round an asteroid there tortuously,
The knuckle of candor.



The Vogon poems are constructed by the app, which claims that no two poems are alike. I don't know what algorithms are being used to ensure that, though in some of the examples I didn't include, the program uses nonsense words similar to the kind Douglas Adams used in The Hitchiker's Guide. A linguist could probably give you details about the way those words are built--all I can tell you is that they sound similar. My point is that those words are undoubtedly part of the process to ensure difference in the poems. But overall, the poems tend to read like a Mad Lib combined with a random word generator.

So there's certainly some difference in the construction of the Vogon poems as opposed to Flarf, but what about the finished product? Both are intentionally bad. Does that make Vogon poetry a machine-built Flarf? Does the generator get recognition as the poet or does the programmer? I'm not a Flarfist so I'm not going to speak for them, but it does seem like it's a question worth discussing.

By the way, the answers, for those of you who haven't seen the very limited selection of Flarf that Poetry published, are 1,2,4, and 7 are Vogon and 3,5 and 6 are Flarf.

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Saturday, June 20, 2009

Vogon Poetry

I dare say I'm not the only iPhone owner who's also a fan of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy--the book, not the film. Smartphones in general seem to be turning into the technology Douglas Adams envisioned all those years ago, and while they may not (yet) provide you with an introduction to Eccentrica Gallumbits of Eroticon Six, they can provide something infinitely more bothersome. Vogon Poetry.

I dropped the three bucks for this app last night, mainly because I saw it and figured, "eh, three bucks." That's a coffee in a lot of places. And it gave me this in return.

Eternity, spark, and morass — the code of the oracle:
To ruefully plummet, or at least salivate enormously with SUGARS,
Don’t suppress my lagoon!
Don’t get my leviathan dreamed of!

The tyrant’s asteroids are hard,
And mucus is like the yellow liquor;
The mainsheets are become ascended, the vow is impersonated by a pickings:
May’st it yet theorize the cold eye-patch.

RABBITS are brawny, hooks are red.
On either delight the pillar breaks cleverly;
monastic pilots of field and of spatter
That endures the cutter and maroons the scallywag;
And through the narwhal the sailor goes by
To ruefully-gaff rigginged document;

Ostensibly and wickedly went the treasure,
risible galaxies and depressed ropes for to pull,
fomenting me with me a most pink captain, well!
Hard, sane mirage!!! That’s what a liquid’s life is about! Phooey!

And haltingly and surreptitiously the driftwood ambled.
Pull where the destructors keelhaul
Round a donation there externally,
The mongrel of faith.

Or that the limes, the supernovae of old
Could but follow their cuttlefishes;
And peculiar in the drunk-CONSTRUCTED cuttlefish
They remain as they were, breathtaking and sadistic.


The app gives you eight different modes to choose from, and promises no two poems will ever be the same. They could be lying, I guess--after all, who could read enough Vogon poetry to challenge the claim?

Crossposted to The Rumpus

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Saturday, June 6, 2009

On Poetry Reviews

I like Don Share's take on the issue of poetry reviews mostly because he doesn't try to stake out a "my way is the only way to look at this" position. That appeals to me populist side.
I’m not advocating weeding out the bad from the good in poetry or in anything else; my good is your bad, and vice versa. But one has to know the physiology nonetheless. That’s my point, and in fact I’ve argued elsewhere for the great and enduring value of very bad poetry (which I read in enormous quantities). But I think there’s much to assent to in Joel’s remarks, particularly with regard to “civil society,” which does seem to be vanishing (like sherry-drinking and dressing gowns)… assuming it ever existed, that is.
As I've written here before, I try to stay away from "good" and "bad" when it comes to poetry. I talk more about what I like and what I dislike, what moves me and what doesn't, what I'm able to communicate with and what I feel sealed off from, but I don't like making value judgments about poetry in general because tastes vary, and what I find cold and hermetic may seem vibrant and inclusive to another reader.

When it comes to reviews, I approach the matter from two very different perspectives. When I'm writing a review, I stick with stuff I appreciate. I'm one of those people who will pass on doing a review before writing a negative one. I understand the criticism of taking such a stand, and I'll take the hit, I guess, but I'm not willing to hit another poet for doing something with language that doesn't appeal to me. I'd rather spend my time and effort pointing out poets who are doing stuff I find interesting, who appeal to my aesthetic, who I can communicate with in new and interesting ways. I'm just not a basher when it comes to artistic matters--the number of people who read poetry is already small enough without turning more people off by being dicks to each other.

As Poetry Editor of The Rumpus, though, I have a different approach. For starters, I'm willing to talk to anyone who wants to write a review for me. I won't promise publication, but I'll definitely take a look at your style and see if it fits our mode. If you look at the poetry reviews we've published over the last few months, you'll find that they're largely positive, and even the ones that are less so point out something positive in the writing. I haven't published a completely negative review (though I haven't really been faced with the possibility yet), but I'm not completely opposed to doing it, as long as I feel the review approaches the work honestly and as long as I don't think the reviewer is looking to settle an old score or make it a hate letter. That's a fine line, and I'm sure that at some point I'll publish a review that does just that, and then I'll feel the need to apologize for it. That's the editor's life, though, unless you're only going to publish love letters.

The big challenge for me so far has been making sure that my reviews reflect the diversity of voices in the poetry world, and while I've been trying, I won't say that I've succeeded. I'd like to have more women reviewing for me, as well as people of color, and I'd love to have more books by women and people of color reviewed here. That challenge has made me reach out to communities I'd neglected to in recent years, much to my own loss, and I've really enjoyed both the poets I've discovered and the communication I've had with them as a result.

I'm also trying to get reviews of and by people whose aesthetic I don't share, because the last thing I want The Rumpus to be known for is a single, limited set of voices. I'd love to publish advocates for poetry I don't get, because I'd like to get what they're doing, and I work from the assumption that the problem is mine, and not the poet's.

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Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Padel v. Walcott

By now it's old news that Ruth Padel has resigned her position as Oxford Professor of Poetry a week after she took the job. She came under fire because she supposedly lied about her involvement in the campaign against Derek Walcott. I refuse to call it a smear campaign as some others have because calling it so would make it seem as if the charges against Walcott were unfounded; the opposite is true. Walcott has been busted at least twice, once at BU and once at Harvard, so reminding the voters at Oxford (which is what I believe Padel was referring to when she said she wasn't involved in the campaign against Walcott) is hardly "dirty pool".

Is a history of sexual harassment enough to disqualify a person from holding such a prominent post? Some of these people say no.
Prof [Hermione] Lee said Byron and Keats would not have been ruled out of such a post: “We are acting as purveyors of poetry not of chastity.”

Elleke Boehmer, Professor of World Literature at Oxford, said the anonymous packages were “creepy and unsettling”.

“If we started excluding people on the basis of their peccadilloes there would be no one for us to teach,” she said.

James Fenton, a former professor of poetry at Oxford University, said: “Who but the most bigoted would think that professional issues settled a quarter of a century ago should debar a poet from standing up at a lectern three times a year to give a public lecture on poetry? Who thinks Oxford’s reputation has been enhanced by this unscruplousness?”
To Professor Lee I say only that Keats was a man of his times, and if he were living today, we would have different expectations of him. To Professor Boehmer, I reply that sexual harassment is far more than just a peccadilloe--if Walcott wanted to dress up in a diaper, I wouldn't have an issue with his candidacy. And to Professor Fenton, I suggest he may want to look at the record again. The first public charge came over a quarter century ago, but there have been others since then. That's a pattern of conduct.

It may sound at this point like I'm ready to dump Derek Walcott into the dustbin of poetic history--I'm not. But I am suggesting that his supporters have been far too dismissive of the case against him, and that Walcott could have defused some of this furor by facing up to the charges and apologizing publicly. Had he done so, he'd probably have won the post in a walk, his critics would have been silenced, and his supporters wouldn't be reduced to making such ludicrous argument in his defense.

In the end, no one wins here. Walcott is still Walcott, Padel is still the first woman to hold the post, but for perhaps the shortest tenure ever, and whoever winds up with the post will be remembered, if at all, as the third choice who was brought in to clean up the mess. And neat, tidy types don't leave a memorable mark, generally speaking.

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Saturday, May 23, 2009

Oh great


Another page I'll have to keep with reading regularly.

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Friday, May 8, 2009

Lots of truth in this

Wislawa Symborska, via Poetry Dispatch:
To Mr. Br. K. of Laski: “Your poems in prose are permeated by the figure of the Great Poet who creates his remarkable works in a state of alcoholic euphoria. We might take a wild guess at whom you have in mind, but it’s not last names that concern us in the final analysis. Rather, it’s the misguided conviction that alcohol facilitates the act of writing, emboldens the imagination, sharpens wits, and performs many other useful functions in abetting the bardic spirit. My dear Mr. K., neither this poet, nor any of the others personally known to us, nor indeed any other poet has ever written anything great under the unadulterated influence of hard liquor. All good work arose in painstaking, painful sobriety, without any pleasant buzzing in the head. ‘I’ve always got ideas, but after vodka my head aches,’ Wyspianski said. If a poet drinks, it’s between one poem and the next. This is the stark reality. If alcohol promoted great poetry, then every third citizen of our nation would be a Horace at least. Thus we are forced to explode yet another legend. We hope that you will emerge unscathed from beneath the ruins.”
Indeed. Go read the whole collection, especially if you teach creative writing. It might become your textbook.

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Friday, May 1, 2009

Sweet Jeebus

National Poetry Month is over. Whew. I actually squeezed out the 30 poems in 30 days, no cheating or using previously written material. I'll admit, there have been years where I haven't produced thirty drafts of poems, good or bad, and that can't continue. It's the most condensed period of writing I've ever done, and it was tough given the end of the term and the new responsibilities I took on over at The Rumpus. It's been brutal at times, and I will admit that not all of what I wrote will likely survive to be revised or sent out. But it was a good exercise all the same, and one I plan to repeat more than once in the coming year.

So now starts the task of revision, submission, and putting together another manuscript. It never ends, and I'm glad for it.

P.S. Ive tried posting this for five days now. Here's hoping it works tonight.

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Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Challenge: Haiku

Today's prompt at Poetic Asides was haiku, a form I've never been fond of. I never quite knew why I wasn't fond of it--it was more a visceral thing for me--but Jim Murdoch has outlined some pretty good reasons for disliking it, at least as it's generally understood. I'm going to take a longer look at what he's talking about, though, because there's some promise in futching with the form, I think.

But for this exercise, I stuck with the tradition, even if it's a messed up one, and the subject matter is the thing that's overwhelming me at the moment--the last week and a half of the Spring semester here at Our Fair University.

Haikus for the last week of classes

The end of Spring term:
my ambient noise setting
is Buddhist morning.

I'd rather sweep, mop,
pull weeds, sift the litter box,
than grade these essays.

It's raining today,
though not the rainy season.
No escape for me.

Coffee wakes me up
but the dose necessary
makes my comments poor.

Squirrel in the palm
looks in my window, chitters,
mocks. Hawk swooping by.

Alone in the class,
I count the minutes, seconds,
'til the bus is due.

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Friday, April 17, 2009

My first flarf?

This is written as part of the Poetic Asides National Poetry Month writing challenge. I wasn't all that into the prompt, and this came out, perhaps a bit snarkier than I intended, but there it is.


All I want is

peace love and understanding
and this lamp,
the breeze off the ocean,
noise putty,
a loaf of bread, a jug of wine,
more hair (except on my back),
sharks with fricking laserbeams attached to their heads,
a pair of really comfortable shoes,
Boo-Berry,
an iPhone rolling on twenty-twos,
the question for which 42 is the answer,
less foot pain,
the movie rights,
forgiven student loans,
more visitors to my blog,
a cup of coffee that tastes as good as it smells,
Velveeta.


If flarf is intentionally bad poetry, then I think this qualifies, though it certainly wouldn't be my first flarf piece. That would probably be my "Sonnet to Sausage," mercifully unpublished all these years.

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Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Mr. Cogito On Upright Attitudes

1

In Utica
the citizens
don’t want to defend themselves

in town an epidemic broke out
of the instinct of self-preservation

the temple of freedom
has been changed into a flea market

the senate is deliberating
how not to be a senate

the citizens
don’t want to defend themselves
they are attending accelerated courses
on falling to the knees

passively they wait for the enemy
they write obsequious speeches
bury their gold

they sew new flags
innocently white
teach their children to lie

they have opened the gates
through which enters now
a column of sand

aside from that as usual
commerce and copulation



2

Mr Cogito
would like to stand up
to the situation

which means
to look fate
straight in the eyes

like Cato the Younger
see in the Lives

however he doesn’t have
a sword
nor the opportunity
to send his family overseas

therefore he waits like the others
walks back and forth in a sleepless room

despite the advice of the Stoics
he would like to have a body of diamond
and wings

he looks through the window
as the sun of the Republic
is about to set

little remained for him
in fact only
the choice of position
in which he wants to die

the choice of a gesture
choice of a last word

this is why he doesn’t go
to bed
in order to avoid
suffocation in sleep

to the end he would like
to stand up to the situation

fate looks him in the eyes
in the place where there was
his head

Zbigniew Herbert
Translated from the Polish by John and Bogdana Carpenter

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Monday, April 13, 2009

Miller in the Times

Miller Williams was the reason I went to Arkansas, and he sat on my thesis committee as well, so I'm glad to see him get a little love from the NY Times for his latest book.
His latest collection, “Time and the Tilting Earth,” offers many pleasures. Chief among these are Williams’s way of entwining the pure earthiness of language as it’s spoken with rigorous metrical precision, and, analogously, his affection for the quotidian, with an insistence on confronting unanswerable but unavoidable existential problems. In poem after poem, he mingles the low and the high in both form and content, bringing a sense of cleareyed practicality to life’s big questions and a keenly honed poetic technique to the cadences of Arkansas porch talk.
Glad to see that he's still plugging away after all these years.

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Thursday, April 9, 2009

Regret by John Casteen

REGRET

This life, it is like conducting
the symphony of a warring country;
the cellist has been shot through the wrist it’s all in,
the horn player has buried his child
and sworn off music.

The conductor will never hear his piece as he hears it.
Sometimes I wake between three and four, these winter nights,
clenching tightly the what-is-not-there,
and I can’t negotiate with that kind of failure.
Outside the wind is roaring at the house.

I had to throw away someone I loved.
The thing that I said at first, about the conductor?
Such a man has no cause to expect redemption.
Fine. So I’ll never understand anything.
So this life, it’s never going to explain anything.

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Sunday, April 5, 2009

Testing, testing

We're migrating our sites to a new host and this is one way of checking it out. Fingers crossed.

Friday, April 3, 2009

I find myself in a poetry feud

I'm glad to see that Micah Mattix has responded to my criticism of his article from a couple of days ago. His response misses the point, but I'm glad there's a conversation going on.

So here's what Mattix didn't like. On his first point, about there being too much money in poetry, he replies:
The fact is, if you add up all of the lectureships and professorships at creative writing programs at universities, and add this figure to fellowships and prizes, there are more institutional funds (both private and public) devoted to poetry than ever before.
None of which negates my point, which is that poetry isn't overfunded. Let me introduce you to a simple concept--funding can be at its highest point ever and still be too low. Like I said, no one's getting rich on poetry, and in fact, most of the young poets I know are struggling to make ends meet, even the ones outside academia, and trust me, there are a lot of poets outside academia because there sure as hell aren't enough jobs in academia to support the current poet population, even if you shift most of them into adjunct and composition jobs. As far as jobs in creative writing are concerned, well, the market makes crap look good--in the last job cycle, about half the already meager pickings were canceled or put on hold due to budget constraints. About the only genre seeing growth is creative non-fiction, and even there the pickings are slim.

Dana Gioia no doubt celebrates this fact, as he argues that MFA programs are basically a bane on poetry's existence, even though he had no problem sucking that teat before he became director of the NEA in 2001. My one personal experience with Gioia involved picking him up at the Highfill airport in Cave Springs, Arkansas, so he could spend a week with the MFA program at the University of Arkansas, making a few extra bucks running a workshop and giving a reading. Pardon me if I find Gioia's argument less than convincing.

To Mattix and Bethell, I simply reply that retracing a flawed argument does nothing to fix the flaws in it. If anything, it only makes those flaws more apparent. The fact is that there are more independent, outward looking voices, presses and journals now than there ever have been, in large part because the cost of entry has become much lower thanks to the internet and print-on-demand services.

As to the rest, I'll be damned if I can see where I engaged in an ad hominem attack, unless suggesting that he used a less than comprehensive set of examples to make his point constitutes one. Here's some of the rest of his response.
Contrary to what Spears implies, I think there are indeed some very good poets writing today (as I thought I made clear in my original piece). I have written reviews on some of them myself (even in so-called post-avant publications such as Octopus Magazine), and think that poets such as David Shapiro, Adam Kirsch, Scott Cairns, Franz Wright, Mark Jarman, Theodore Worozbyt, Timothy Steele and Peter Porter, to name a few pell-mell, are writing some of the best poems out there. These poets, it seems to me, do not reject narrative progression or formal devices for simplistic ideological reasons, but use (as well as bend) them because such things are part of what makes lyric poetry poetry — and not, say, a painting.

The problem with contemporary American poetry, however, is that there are also a lot of mediocre poets. One of the reasons for this, I think, is the influence of philosophical materialism. Silliman was an example of the effects of materialism on the arts, but its effects can be seen in non-L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets as well.
First of all, I neither said nor suggested that Mattix had said there were no good poets writing today. What I said was that he ought to broaden his reading list if he thinks philosophical materialism dominates the contemporary landscape, and I stand by that. I didn't deny that what Mattix complained about exists--I simply noted that it's neither the only thing going on nor even the biggest thing going on.

The thing that defines contemporary poetry right now is that there isn't really a dominant school of thought, Silliman's complaints about the School of Quietude notwithstanding. The world of poetry is incredibly fractured right now, but I consider that to be its strength, because it allows for a far greater range of voices to be heard and for much more crossing over between groups. It makes for a livelier art.

Mattix complains that there are a lot of mediocre poets, to which I can only reply, no kidding. There have always been a lot of mediocre poets. They published in their times as well, and were promptly forgotten by the next generation of readers of poetry, if not their own generation. I'm reminded of a poem by Miller Williams titled "A Note to the English Poets of the Seventeenth Century" which reads, in part:
Someone in every century has to stand there
saying, No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry
I'm sorry.
You've gone as far as you can go.
...
and some
reading the three or four that make it through
will shake their heads and say
as even now we do
(having I think already turned back a few)
"They didn't have many poets, but they were great."
I'm not going to insult Mattix by suggesting that he would argue the sentiment in that final line, but his statement does have a hint of nostalgia to it, to the notion that in previous times, back when there wasn't all this money in poetry or all this philosophical materialism, that there were fewer mediocre poets, when there's absolutely nothing to back that contention up.

Next point. Mattix writes:
Second, he is indeed a rather important figure in contemporary American poetry, despite Spears’s breezy dismissal. L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry is probably the most widely known experimental poetry movement in America since the 1960s, and as of January 2009, Silliman’s blog on contemporary poetics had received two million visits. That’s right, two million. Not too bad for a poet no one ever reads.
Okay, this is just dishonest. First off, I never dismissed Silliman--I said that he, along with Charles Bernstein, represents a segment of the poetic world today, as opposed to being the dominant voice. Hell, I was ecstatic when I discovered that Silliman had linked to me, because he drives traffic. But it's also important to understand that pointing to blog hits isn't the best way to make a point.

Ron Silliman is huge online, and no one questions that he's a major voice in poetry today, but he's big online for more than just his poetics. He's an aggregator, and I love that--he's one of my sources of stories for my weekly column at The Rumpus, and that works like a feedback loop. Also, Silliman has no problems linking to people he disagrees with, which widens his appeal. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, Silliman is abrasive toward what he calls the School of Quietude, and that controversy drives traffic. Lots of people come to Silliman's blog to argue with him, not to agree with him or hang on his every word. That's about as close to a universal truth as you can find on the internet, no matter what subject you write about.

Finally, I want to comment on one last point Mattix makes.
There are of course, a number of other influences on poets, but I do think it is pretty clear that philosophical materialism has been one of the more important ones in the last fifty years or so. In the context of this, the contemporary poet is often left with the choice of following the example of the hard-nosed L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets, or seeming like a fluffy, nostalgic Longfellow. The latter is often the charge leveled against so-called “popular” poets, who evoke things like the self and love uncritically. Sometimes this charge is warranted, sometimes not. While there are certainly some very good poets out there who have managed to avoid this false dichotomy, the effects of philosophical materialism on poetry have not been positive.
I like how Mattix sets up a dichotomy, then tries to get away from it by saying "some have managed to avoid it." Indeed. In fact, I'd say most manage to avoid it, which is why I suggested Mattix ought to expand his reading list, as opposed to sticking with those poets who confirm his biases (maybe that was the ad hominem attack?). If your favorites are Franz Wright, Mark Jarman and Tim Steele, and the people you don't like are June Jordan, Charles Bernstein and Ron Silliman, then you're missing out on, well, most of poetry right now, and I suspect that the world of philosophical materialism isn't as pervasive as you think it is.

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Thursday, April 2, 2009

Spring Cleaning

By Melvin Dixon

First goes floordust, then newspapers
stacked near the bed. Peanut shells
swept out of hiding between mattress
and rug. Toenails clipped.
Sprouts of a beard shaved off.
With hourly glasses of Deer Park Water
and the barest of food, the body
sheds winter fat and filler.

The hair goes next, close
to the gleaming, gleaming skull.
You are ready for the sun
and the salt-tongued air.

You are someone new. I will be
someone new, like you, and promise
not to hear the rattle our bones make
moving from empty closets
and all through the room.

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