Steve Dalachinsky

the snake reborn
(the work of keith haring 1978-1982)

the dog bit (its own aesthetic  
chain / of language
individual shapes that make up a (w)hole
         as in buffet
the hanging nudes upside down 
birthing big black holes (in stomach
delivering baby chatter 
leashed unstrung monochromatic whose-it-whats
zapped by saucers – blown jobbed / handfked
& gave it to polka dotted dog thru the wall
with the spectators screaming  give us more oh host
of the alien boner o(i)nk 
“& Steve said” said the viewer behind my limbs
   not knowing
i was steve also >
          beheading the head of the giver of head
                   its holy hoops of energy
            done with the judgment of resident aliens
                    climbing the bastion of stick dick 
             zapped by the light from the undark 
                        & therefore removing the dark from the circle
                                    in the speckled chest of treasure(r)s
            the time piece got crucified 
            & the snake ate itself & all else to form a new crawling family 
                       naked jumbo-jackos leapfrogging over eachudders
                                    stuck up smooth as…asses
 tech/tonic plated involvement here seen as even video frags detect
    the cut up presidents popes & art/scenes flattened on the sc(a)reen
            clubbing  clubbing   clubbing  oneself to death with song
              painted into corners  of know-me auto-journal didact
             then A.I.D.S. the vigilante ante’s up &’s taken on board 
  the body as conveyer belt & another subway ride down to the chalk-line    
                  the magic magic stick & the holy holy hoop    

flash freaks & god walled up / kickerflicked little spores beat down
               3 I.V.s & you’ll own the penalty little man
      burning flattened pulse ground harder & harder into grounds 
                                     inside the prison grounds
          monkey light held by its tail
radiating from yer under/currents currently behind glass
         you hang there crucifix  - eating the mermaid angel alive
your children lost in a bubble – big fish diving around yer corpse
   you hang there – diving like the last breath gone
 you hang there across the street – you hang there – beat down
           the public stuck up your little alien ass
      you hang there as the big snake cuts itself in too
feeds on itself & you & once again as always shits US out                    
               & all’s reborn as you hang there 
          & Steve where ever he is whoever he is 
               owns all the penalties NOW
                  as you hang there little soul hang there.

field notes (from fragments april 2016)

1. 4/21 

one day i will be a radio 
ranging from  B  to B
   a wide ranging radio
             a stranger to most  cursing the 
                     moaning discourse
     of the narrowness of width
                    primero dispension 

 a radio like a prison   imprisoned in a radio
      i talk & sound         that is not talk   &
          barbaric gestures not mastered by the barbarians
                  armed with & a source material & knobs
                              an unhappy panoply  filled with static
                       unless one adjusts the antenna
                                                 & leave the kaleidoscope to US(e)
                 where is the carnage of my youth
           the instant obvious mass carnage 
                      that invites channeling
a whine in habited by a worm of a tongue hooked on the sensation of hunger
       one day i will be a radio & you my remote
             a radio that like a mouth can speak a kind of shriveled worm talk
                                 @ times surrounded by bad music 
                                                        but without the problem of bad breath
                          a display(ced)                   case    missing   teeth
                                         vice                        versa.
2. blues – 4/22

he was a bogrider 
who couldn’t get started
just a kid in winter 
broke & hungry
who had his own set of troubles
so long baby he said 
i have a rambling mind
why should i hang around
i’m so worried   i got the blues
the blues never left me 
i’m goin’ back to the blues.

3.   4/24 5:45 a.m. – transformer 

big bright moon
in the morning sky
i blink & it’s

4.  4/22  - sentimental over you 

the sun shimmers
off the river
onto the piano’s 
small pixelated
 wavering sparkles       

5. 4/24 kgb – approx. 4:30 a.m.

we don’t know if he gave him a blowjob
      in the bathroom
                we’ll never know
    they were in there at least 20 minutes
       it was perhaps drink noise & toot
                 that told the tale of anatomical word
- lessness
 & wonders
                            the street dramatically changed
by orphic exhales    &  ophul  intake
                        it was nearing 5 a.m.
    & last call -  i was \\\ still in the bar 
wondering where i’d been
       as the lights went on & off 
& the last flush ended 
                            still in the burrow 
with 4 boroughs left  all approaching dawn

i realized that no matter how furious one becomes with one’s art
                     one should never forget tenderness 
                        even if missing text or tense
6. 4/8/16

guilty of a crime
response to a crime 


there is a dance the feet do 
a skeye hi   

where there is no criminal
there is no crime
where there is no crime
there is no guilt

7. 5/5/16

all in all here
the shepherd shuffles
the deck it’s in the cards
in the back of your head
but who taught you to bury your
in the back of your garbled 
capped off by get what you can
buy the cornfields furry

8. inside buddha’s head

i discovered a letter
written by
a patron 
somewhere between the 
6th path &
like all Japanese letters of the period
it was written from right to left
top to bottom
between each sentence 
there was an ellipsis
for instance
this was the 13th century
& it was as if 
AMIDA had an

9.  5/4/16

there is no room
for cutting
as the rug for instance
& there beneath 
the gumbo
a meta language
a dead

it is interesting to see how
sound is made


Poet/collagist Steve Dalachinsky was born in Brooklyn after the last big war and has managed to survive lots of little wars. His book The Final Nite (Ugly Duckling Presse) won the PEN Oakland National Book Award. His most recent books are Fools Gold (2014 feral press), a superintendent's eyes (revised and expanded 2013 - unbearable/ autonomedia) and flying home, a collaboration with German visual artist Sig Bang Schmidt (Paris Lit Up Press 2015). His latest cd is The Fallout of Dreams with Dave Liebman and Richie Beirach (Roguart 2014). His poem “Particle Fever” was nominated for a 2015 Pushcart Prize. Forthcoming from Overpass Press The Invisible Ray, with artwork by Shalom Neuman.
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