Dion Farquhar
                              elegiac aristos
                              a quaint critique
                              free agents with no choice
                              best practices bots
                              Pandora-playing pods
                              vector complete victory
               without which one cannot function
what is,                                             [privatization]
not the new ought
what was,                                         [social movements]
fading into amnesia
survivorship
job training                                       [liberal arts]
market value
stealth bots     like     women
                                             needing the very care they end up providing
surveillance metrics
termite capitalization of even laminate
end up in a crowded lounge
       Sesame Street Lambda MOO
               sit on the sofa
               get up to dance
               fight enemies
               chat        stockpile stuff
informatics crossed
               with new age evanescence
               customizing
                              skills and struggles
guilt being self-interest turned inside out
Homer humming to themselves:
                              Sing to me of the man Muse
                              the man of twists and turns
                              driven time and again
                              happily off course
in love with L’s reversal of S’ sign to signifier
               reflection theory slipped into reverse
                                             resistance the mother of invention
remaining fem while struggling
out of the backseat of a compact car
envying the butches their pickups
               toppling relations
the slam               lay bare belief
                               nothing ever transparent
                                             or self-evident
least of all the self
                              forget others
wholly constructed out of genre
               the essential unity of a political subject
                              sad but true               this good news
                                             fighting fire with fire
categories                                             complicitous
posit:
               the perennial carrot
               and the stasis stick
incitements to being an asshole
               public private
               inside outside
                              the body not a brick wall
                              fruit flies forever foiling
fusing Foucault’s ixnay:
               law knows it can’t win
to history’s back end
               zero degree wrecks
Derrida translates:
pecking                  orders                  passed off as nature
               the way to get on
                              Ann of Amherst taught me
               in a discourse you’re puzzled by
is to repeat the word
you don’t understand
               now as a verb
               and at the same time
               change the verb
               to something else
coaching Cordelias
in cunning          copping
to obey a higher power
(such as that is)
                                                                           an          other          one
                                                            my plasticination with the lawyers
gliding through the hushed exhibit
                              18th-century French engravings
                                                                                          flayed people, part-furniture
                                             a striding armoire, drawers open in his chest
               one vibrant, digitally-processed, triumphant
                                                                           cadaver holds his sliced slabs of skin aloft
               another poised mid-action—running, flamboyantly gesturing,
                                             astride a horse
always already
                                                                                          ambivalent
pagan to the core a good thing
but not enough
relationship junkie
craving what’s killing her
lover nada           next
triumphal crucifixions
bred in the bone
music art                the rush of theory
how else to explain no self-respect
               stirred up by wanting
               in love with abjection
acting as audience
advisor, psychiatric nurse
in thrall to promises excuses
narcissism the bottom line
francophile Nietzschean
despite shrinking diminution
               though hindsight is everything
high above Sheridan Square
a few nights good talk enough
to fuel a frenzy
unwavering denial
(it wasn’t the appallingly bad sex)
but all in her head anyway
the swine even called on the sly
(before cell phones you had to be home to get the call)
while the his date
was in the bathroom putting on lipstick
               this message       in modern parlance
               needing both a header and a body
nailed to environment
half an essence               like genes
though we’re all a clueless reaction formation
still struggling to distinguish work from labor
Labor Day a Monday off and a carpet sale at ABC
decades later, still the abysmal whine
               he said, I said, he said, I said
incredulous what women—
what she—I—put up with
on a denial binge break
from the reign of loss
bread and circuses
               doing it always a little askew of the fantasy
               even recollection’s
               always insufficient evidence
and the daily roller coaster ride
a subway ride to the dentist
despite being too broke to cross the Atlantic
more out there than ever
archipelagos awash
in contradiction
the left coast
my discount cashmere
fabrikayed in Cambodia
still wanting
more than anything
to believe
every path’s a relay
you are everywhere dead
in the nano-second before despair
haplessness coupling with hope
a forgivable lapse
credulous re charity
panaceas of the titular
               actual forces made me
               a hired hand, living in the smoke house
               working for oblivious ingrates
               straddling the seam
               of disposability
go unaddressed as static
generating an electric confusion
ejection fraction
Mourner in a theater
You brought me soup when I was sick last winter.
need born of service
swallowing chronic sufferance
if not outright bullying
exempting their position
               in a crisis, an exacerbation
               of symptoms is not unusual
being called a worthless mangy dog
by the boss’ daughter
an escalation
at least, clarity
               one son fell off a babysitter’s van.
               the same year
               he pushed a playmate off the top bunk
the gated red brick strip mall
propelling
amnesia into the default
desert island
fields forgotten
Green practices
               absence paved
               parent critters, woods
stumping for the ledger book
itemized investments
visibly marked
elided by identity
redemption shrunk to testimony
denial froze out forgetting
               the Cloud’s wafting slowly
               over sunbathers at Rockaway Beach
               connectivity
               now blanket to blanket
The true beginnings of nothing but the Supermarket*
In this foul country where
human lives are so much trash
—Charles Olsonfluorescent Protein Bunny (green)
beefalo and geep
click and brick retailing
transgenic runway
horror
the end of study
               let me know
my expanded pigeons
much virtue in if
be tea dubs
Billy Budd discovered in a breadbox
Olson wrote spinning down the page
nature special narrator
                              all hail the TV
                              before the monitor
dispassionately droning
               hunters and hunted
birds with five-feet wing spans
swooping down
to pick pick pocket-sized puffins
out of their cliff-side nests
what do I know of nature
in the anthropocene
my five-flight walk-up
on the lower east side
               falling apart apartment
               a real bed               is off the floor
a few trees over by the river
               across the FDR Drive
that still go through the cycle:
orange yellow red               in fall
brown sticks in winter
virid buds in spring
Bukowski flew to Galveston
eff why eye
               I took the express bus to East Stroudsberg
               married man                   open marriage
               crock of shit
what models
               tweak one’s doppelganger
the grins of the text
_____
*Charles Olson, Collected Prose, “Equal, That is, to the Real Itself”
Dion Farquhar has recent poems in Unbroken, Local Nomad, Columbia Poetry Review, Shampoo, moria, Shifter, BlazeVOX, etc. Her second poetry book Wonderful Terrible was published last year by Main Street Rag Publishing Company, and her second chapbook Snap is in press at Crisis Chronicles Press. She works as an exploited adjunct at two universities, teaching mostly composition but still loves the classroom. A New York transplant, she still misses her friends and family back east, off-off Broadway theater, and live baroque.
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Who knew what we had til we lost itYield
                              elegiac aristos
                              a quaint critique
                              free agents with no choice
                              best practices bots
                              Pandora-playing pods
                              vector complete victory
               without which one cannot function
what is,                                             [privatization]
not the new ought
what was,                                         [social movements]
fading into amnesia
survivorship
job training                                       [liberal arts]
market value
stealth bots     like     women
                                             needing the very care they end up providing
surveillance metrics
termite capitalization of even laminate
old-style               spawn in a closetDarwinning
end up in a crowded lounge
       Sesame Street Lambda MOO
               sit on the sofa
               get up to dance
               fight enemies
               chat        stockpile stuff
informatics crossed
               with new age evanescence
               customizing
                              skills and struggles
guilt being self-interest turned inside out
Homer humming to themselves:
                              Sing to me of the man Muse
                              the man of twists and turns
                              driven time and again
                              happily off course
in love with L’s reversal of S’ sign to signifier
               reflection theory slipped into reverse
                                             resistance the mother of invention
remaining fem while struggling
out of the backseat of a compact car
envying the butches their pickups
               toppling relations
the slam               lay bare belief
                               nothing ever transparent
                                             or self-evident
least of all the self
                              forget others
wholly constructed out of genre
               the essential unity of a political subject
                              sad but true               this good news
                                             fighting fire with fire
categories                                             complicitous
posit:
               the perennial carrot
               and the stasis stick
incitements to being an asshole
               public private
               inside outside
                              the body not a brick wall
                              fruit flies forever foiling
fusing Foucault’s ixnay:
               law knows it can’t win
to history’s back end
               zero degree wrecks
Derrida translates:
pecking                  orders                  passed off as nature
               the way to get on
                              Ann of Amherst taught me
               in a discourse you’re puzzled by
is to repeat the word
you don’t understand
               now as a verb
               and at the same time
               change the verb
               to something else
coaching Cordelias
in cunning          copping
to obey a higher power
(such as that is)
                                                                           an          other          one
                              failure to calendarSalvage Resurrection
                                                            my plasticination with the lawyers
gliding through the hushed exhibit
                              18th-century French engravings
                                                                                          flayed people, part-furniture
                                             a striding armoire, drawers open in his chest
               one vibrant, digitally-processed, triumphant
                                                                           cadaver holds his sliced slabs of skin aloft
               another poised mid-action—running, flamboyantly gesturing,
                                             astride a horse
always already
                                                                                          ambivalent
this penne con crema di cipollaI lost my Devo tape to the bastard
pagan to the core a good thing
but not enough
relationship junkie
craving what’s killing her
lover nada           next
triumphal crucifixions
bred in the bone
music art                the rush of theory
how else to explain no self-respect
               stirred up by wanting
               in love with abjection
acting as audience
advisor, psychiatric nurse
in thrall to promises excuses
narcissism the bottom line
francophile Nietzschean
despite shrinking diminution
               though hindsight is everything
high above Sheridan Square
a few nights good talk enough
to fuel a frenzy
unwavering denial
(it wasn’t the appallingly bad sex)
but all in her head anyway
the swine even called on the sly
(before cell phones you had to be home to get the call)
while the his date
was in the bathroom putting on lipstick
               this message       in modern parlance
               needing both a header and a body
nailed to environment
half an essence               like genes
though we’re all a clueless reaction formation
still struggling to distinguish work from labor
Labor Day a Monday off and a carpet sale at ABC
decades later, still the abysmal whine
               he said, I said, he said, I said
incredulous what women—
what she—I—put up with
on a denial binge break
from the reign of loss
bread and circuses
               doing it always a little askew of the fantasy
               even recollection’s
               always insufficient evidence
and the daily roller coaster ride
a subway ride to the dentist
despite being too broke to cross the Atlantic
more out there than ever
archipelagos awash
in contradiction
the left coast
my discount cashmere
fabrikayed in Cambodia
still wanting
more than anything
to believe
every path’s a relay
Where I live in my headOklahoma!
you are everywhere dead
in the nano-second before despair
haplessness coupling with hope
a forgivable lapse
credulous re charity
panaceas of the titular
               actual forces made me
               a hired hand, living in the smoke house
               working for oblivious ingrates
               straddling the seam
               of disposability
go unaddressed as static
generating an electric confusion
ejection fraction
Mourner in a theater
You brought me soup when I was sick last winter.
need born of service
swallowing chronic sufferance
if not outright bullying
exempting their position
               in a crisis, an exacerbation
               of symptoms is not unusual
being called a worthless mangy dog
by the boss’ daughter
an escalation
at least, clarity
               one son fell off a babysitter’s van.
               the same year
               he pushed a playmate off the top bunk
the gated red brick strip mall
propelling
amnesia into the default
desert island
fields forgotten
Green practices
               absence paved
               parent critters, woods
stumping for the ledger book
itemized investments
visibly marked
elided by identity
redemption shrunk to testimony
denial froze out forgetting
               the Cloud’s wafting slowly
               over sunbathers at Rockaway Beach
               connectivity
               now blanket to blanket
The true beginnings of nothing but the Supermarket*
In this foul country where
human lives are so much trash
—Charles Olson
beefalo and geep
click and brick retailing
transgenic runway
horror
the end of study
               let me know
my expanded pigeons
much virtue in if
be tea dubs
Billy Budd discovered in a breadbox
Olson wrote spinning down the page
nature special narrator
                              all hail the TV
                              before the monitor
dispassionately droning
               hunters and hunted
birds with five-feet wing spans
swooping down
to pick pick pocket-sized puffins
out of their cliff-side nests
what do I know of nature
in the anthropocene
my five-flight walk-up
on the lower east side
               falling apart apartment
               a real bed               is off the floor
a few trees over by the river
               across the FDR Drive
that still go through the cycle:
orange yellow red               in fall
brown sticks in winter
virid buds in spring
Bukowski flew to Galveston
eff why eye
               I took the express bus to East Stroudsberg
               married man                   open marriage
               crock of shit
what models
               tweak one’s doppelganger
the grins of the text
_____
*Charles Olson, Collected Prose, “Equal, That is, to the Real Itself”
Dion Farquhar has recent poems in Unbroken, Local Nomad, Columbia Poetry Review, Shampoo, moria, Shifter, BlazeVOX, etc. Her second poetry book Wonderful Terrible was published last year by Main Street Rag Publishing Company, and her second chapbook Snap is in press at Crisis Chronicles Press. She works as an exploited adjunct at two universities, teaching mostly composition but still loves the classroom. A New York transplant, she still misses her friends and family back east, off-off Broadway theater, and live baroque.
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