RR Xing, Z.Z. Wei
ideas
ideas are not rational
what are you hiding why
skylines like freezing temperatures
fog hangs low along the banks
just seeing is light
Iron Maiden, Iron Man and Timothy Irons walk into a bar…
not as a Narcissist is in love with their own reflection – I loved everything outside myself
when I was in love, I was in love with myself – no doubt, but a fracture was the romance –
I needed me to feel myself inside her
wasn’t penetrating a woman or a girl – I was penetrating myself –
and how awful that seems, this is pure romance,
I kissed her ears which she hated, I kissed her neck which she hated – I kissed her mouth, done
then there’s the ascorbic ‘Fuck! My God!’
you’re in the midst of a horror poem…
measures do not matter – there is no form – we all hate you anyway
I don’t know what I think and I don’t think what I know
I once was a poet – the shit on my hands –
that touches her
I was looking for something dangerous
I wished to impede any idea of sloth
so I bought black socks – six pairs bundled
and dark blue sweat pants – incorrigible,
I thought – then a pair of those Chinese
plastic sandals – light, the goosebumps
underfoot, and a remarkably non-skid sole
and a pair of real high-top shoes – leather –
no breathing allowed – then bought a ciabatta
and lemon soda and went home to wait, to read.
ideas can not be seen
I don’t think of nightless ideas
ideas are not inhabitants
an opposite to dying
she was like ‘o.k., you’re in to internet porn’
but she was pale pretending understanding
negligence sitting in cars…
ideas can not be seen
ideas are not inhabitants
ideas are more volatile than disasters
breast milk like blood
loving Death because of the missing face
ya know what I hate is being sanctimonious
I hate everyone –
I’m no different than them
that’s what I hate
unknown error
ideas become corporations
ideas are logos
that’s me, him – on to the story…
Ideas are legends
I hate them
ideas are ingredients
your mired fucklust
ideas are wolves
ideas are weapons
on competing with ‘Oyster’s Rockerfeller’ – why I failed…
creamed-spinach and chocolate should never be mixed –
blandness is never coerced
me? I’m fucking a crazy cook – jalapeno ice cream banana split – it was hot and cold
I didn’t have a split banana to present it on – I used banana ice cream
they went fucking nuts – ‘a banana-split without a banana…´
I don’t know what’s going on in the world but it’s demon
500,000 chickens eating in a barn
I wish I were not free from guilt – but I hate that word, let’s say credit
things made him
engagements are roof things
what I love is dead
I don’t believe in this disaster movie, this disaster life –
but I see all the props
(I have no absence to answer to)
guilt is never a promise
I don’t like distance
crying thru one eye…
bad thing is you are now a witness
like when the scull feels pain
you don’t ‘kill time’ – you kill all witnesses of time
it’s like weakness is desire and desire is sex
yes I wanna cum inside you – it’s not about all the shit of having a baby or shit
I wanna cum inside you – I want to swim inside you!…
(greatest love poem I’ve ever ever written,
but u(r)nreal, nominal, without breath…)
[my delusions are similar to forgetting]
the few people I’ve killed in my life have never haunted me –
it’s the living who betray me – with dreams of sacrifice
ideas are non-negotiable
ideas feed infants
ideas are ingredients
the blood is not my teeth
God how you love a man!
ideas are bacteria
I lost faith when I lost you
I will ever trust another person,
ideas become nostalgic, aberrant
so it’s to you not her…
I could be half of you
dream characters release orgasms
being human is sitting on a toilet
ideas are not worth ideas
my caskets are linear
tuna pigeons
Ideas forget you were not aT HOME
on pipe
__________________
William Fairbrother
Review by Greg Grummer
The idea is simple. Do a string of koans of the same moment; or hundreds of haiku written at the same time in the same place over many years; or contemplate 20 minutes worth of lightning; look into puddles in a confined area, all reflecting approximately the same thing, all different; write a letter then tear it into scraps, send the scraps to the letter’s recipient in different envelopes, mailed on the same day from all over the country. See the same thing differently. See different things the same.
Each line in the poem is an idea. These line ideas are made of other ideas. Some of the ideas branch out over various sections of the poem. Perhaps the poem itself is one large idea reaching back through the various lines. Perhaps there is, really, only one idea. Or perhaps there are many ideas but no real ideas.
If you don’t love this poem like I do, what can I say? The poem is like a lake in which nothing is hidden and yet much can hide. Water is transparent but if something is deep in the lake, you have to stare for a long time before it becomes visible, and even then you only have a vague idea of it.
I once was a poet – the shit on my hands –
that touches her
Maybe if you were never once a poet, or you still are a poet, this will mean nothing to you.
I don’t think of nightless ideas.
The test of a really excellent line of poetry is that anything you say about it detracts from it. Even looking at it while you read it weakens it, infects it with the world. You want very much for everyone to love it like you do, so you feel compelled to say something about it, but unless you say more poetry, it’s hopeless. Your explanation will slow the line down, the line will begin to stumble, lose balance, and there goes all the numinosity. Like a butterfly pinned to cotton, you now possess the line, and it’s dead. Congratulations.
fog hangs low along the banks
just seeing is light
I’m trying to explicate or somehow edify this poem. The poem defeats me. Thank god.