Raymond Farr

eating “fromage” the french for cheese

White as [    a] snowfall
ing down     [
a man

adjusted him    ]self

to looking at 
backgrounds   [—

He’s lifted]     his chair

He skooches up  [
to see the screen
Till Le Déjeuner sur   ]
 l’herb   [  ] 
is more than    [just modern

Less than     [a fantasy   ]
more like     [a menu

Eat yr camembert,  [         Pierre
Surreal teeth are a wrist watch [  from Wal-]  Mart 

In the land of the            ]poets

We are constructed     [     of glass
& aluminum      ]faces

We are ravaged    [    by instances]

            [         Of         [time
& prophets       ]]

We send out for        [ crumpets
& our                         ] all-mother band 

For [ the Real           ]is an instrument
We structure [like][elements]

Do we       [  listen  ]    [to motors
moving through              ][time?

As though selecting    [
                 ]our     [ voices 
from a  ][ pile of            ]words?

This boulevard  ][  speaks resonance
Whose feet [     are ][composed]

A barrack’s length     [    from you!

I don’t blink     ][

I infer something
]          [
You wish          ]I hadn’t

One of us         [is a blonde 

Or a street [              after it rains

The other    ]
Has a leg up          [


In a Paris salon   ][
two claws      ]’re
verbose[       ] 

[           Rapt
& rectangular
each page
is a box        ] there

A penultimate gag   [as sane as]
Conceptual     [ looting
In a     [        block of text
Who screeches     ]at ravens[?
Is the size of a poem
The size of a        [ coal?

Hold onto yr           ]torso 

I mete [           ] what I scavenge
longing with           [poses]

This night [
is all           ]brick

This time [  ]out           [  I levitate

Grab yr             ] [croissants

Why aren’t you       ]painting this?


An all-Cubist rigmarole
snarls up     [    
the traffic            ] lanes

[           To some it is 

of a bad [          situation[—

I am driving     ]to work
dense with amnesia

I work in a          [[factory]]
but I never make    [    ][facts

In the past][][][][
[         I am        ]retrograde

I text  [             all my]  friends 
in a Futurist’s car

What else is    [ a flouncing       ]boy to do
but grab his apache          [girl
& vibrate a frequency 
[              heard only
By      ] pigeons

At the post    [      modern     ]


[I am staying distortion.]
[Is that what I’m saying?]


All nuit is a dream

We are      [lost in the night

In the swirl          ] of red neon

The lights of cars
          [are fluid 
in us        ]

A stranger’s window

Steals    [   ][
all our            ]faces

Champagne is      [our mirror    ]


It is dawn  [   ]
with Duchamp
[   ]lying still


In the parlor[’re]
church mice
   [portrayed by   ]  Giorgio 
De Chirico [
The opiates he    [ gives us
lull us ][to][ leisure— [—

       ] [

The grace [        of a plum

On the slow side             ][ of   ]


The next aisle  [over
is where I spilled      ]semen 

I was looking     [up]
Dog Star
in a giant blue      [    volume

(I happen   ]
to believe  [       ]
in a fucking good    [star poem)

And I got    ][too           ]excited
all over the coffee grounds

The road disappeared  [    …]
Into    [the rain]

Of my dinghy    [    left]  pant leg

I spoke [like an     ]abstract
The gutters  [              appalled me

Something glowed    ]
but was it    [    the ice?

I asked]    [ Was it me?
I never hesitated 
[I hoped that it    ] was


C’est Paris la? 
Et Beckett ici?

A ruin [[[[[[[[[of interrogatives
paints on             ]a negative

The photos
are heroes

Spooned out   [
At     ] sunset

over           [taxis   ]

It snows     [on civil horses here

The chestnuts are trees 
We are shadowed      ]by    ]chestnuts

The curbs    ] are a poem

& just as you   ] walk 
they lighten                [yr load—


In a sweet  [[[Cubist]]] indiscretion
Nothing is perfect 

As the top
of a building[  
                                 ]]   [

Seen from        ]six angles


I Work Like a Shadow

, a virtuous head stone
, is digging down

, & looking out
, eleven feet

, into the

, charmed arms
, of my sad 

, & sadder
, chaise lounge of nightmares

, in many ways
, I killed the x-Kennedys

, I span as though
, a namesake erases me

, I spoon feed my assonance
, the char of a keepsake

, if the void to my left
, crumbles like devil’s food
, I summon a halibut

, if the voice in my head  
, deranges a mountain
, is our little girl surprised?

, a portrait of hands
, is labeled “grotesque Baroque”

, I am dim as Raskolnikov, 
, that churl of the diner
, & old lady murderer

, my thoughts are the end 
, of racy Racine

, I desired a Chevy
, I can’t believe
, I killed the x-Kennedys

, I roved in a saucer

, orange as sunset
, purple as government

, I disprove my raven
, not ossify my birthday

, all subjects are pertinent
, a speck on blue churches

, & written on tablets
, delicious as rain

, I design my own readymade 
, of homogenous milk

, a rainbow of glass trembles
, as I drink

, I am humming the will 
, of golden daffodils

, buttery as savory sweet breads 
, savage as the men of the neo-Cologne

, the butterflies occur

, the mange is an image 
, I sit up & motor towards

 , a range of dissonance 
, is lost on the eye

, & shooting some film
, a village 

, of ghosts 

, repeats
, I’m a laugh

, I trek 
, & I span

, ineloquent distances
, up & over 

, the slow hungry tears 

, of star-cratered 
, language

, & so a river
, is crystal 

, I enter the dreams 
, of unconscious men

, it is the weave of an 
, irony

, a little dead thing 
, sings bottle rockets fly

, as I douse the licking fire
, I keep an eye out

, for stock car pensées
, at heart I am groovy

, a big wall of suburbs
, a hot bowl of gumbo

, bursts in my hand

, I settle the bill
, appearing shadows 
, of mice

, I curtain the doom stage

, in lieu of a pardon

, but if I mention my tongue
, what becomes of the words?
, the void isn’t evil
, asking nickels for a dime

Raymond Farr lives in Ocala, FL. His work was selected for inclusion in the First Sidebrow Anthology. He has published three free ebooks, Writing What For? across the Mourning Sky (Argotist Ebooks 2012), Two Texts (Chalk Editions 2010) and chainge (Chalk Editions 2011), as well as several print books of poetry: Purple Mountain Believers, A Birth of What among Heirlooms?, Rien Ici, big strange wall, Starched, Variably Distorted Lad, There Is Something Missing in the Whole Transaction between Us (all from Blue & Yellow Dog Press), and Ecstatic/.of facts (Otoliths Books 2011). His chap book, Two Hats Appear When Applauded, is available free at www.dusie.org. Raymond is editor of Blue & Yellow Dog.
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