Steve Dalachinsky

[five poems from] extant fragments & (w)holes

[- 2016 fragments]

yet each respecting the  other’s voice
proud humble tennis player under acknowledged 
incredible singular voiced poet & melville scholar 
motor 21 s(ani)tation locker down show her 
after a while as you get older you have so many pains 
not tomorrow but before they happen 
volt / aire 
listening to him read of his dead child 
reminded me when, as a boy, I lay in bed 
in the d dark 
willing myself to die  

once death got so close to me
it nearly touched my face 
i stopped just in time

BLAH begins snapshot of  _________ 
BPS’s most recent book which ABC puts it is  _____________
BP, no stranger to music has or third two books 
while yodeling vignettes

so James asks Taylor 
(no seriously that’s their names)
are you or a musician
since you know Steve 
you must be one or the other
taylor hesitates   thinks   answers —
little bit of both I guess 
but mostly I’m a listener

use me / superstitious year released  
         “you can hide the shit but you can’t hide the smell”  the luncheonette 
   motherwell dada poets & painters in/form\(ed)
“words were useless to describe the dancers what the dancers have done 
“these words do not mean that something is beginning to happen” (paul auster)
“one should read the real estate as a keeps rising
            but only give them half you’re heart
& keep your eye on the bigger chance “
           / base heart \ loser / film \
bobby helms at the jukebox Jacqueline
the case for brooklyn  – “it’s a nice day for brooklyn” 
yet “i don’t understand the meaning of continuous text” (robert kelly)
“the gap is small...an essay = an attempt…an academic essay = persuasion
                               the difference between telling & knowing”
people trust brands: “cobra teaches you something without teaching you anything” 
counter intuition  too many quotes… it all through the haze…    


enobshelf (for & thru john wieners 4/6/16)

face torn   going 
drunk at the ballroom filled with music 
falling down    drinking 
roof peaks from atop the mountains
secret roadmaps 
pig boys’ gloves 
put your flesh in the world 
peeks rough self unknowing people  in sorrow
the aural tradition
rifled & debauched in my grave
sweet space
the trials
the revenge of others’ lives
when one or more prod 
then shred 
your senses
your language
distributing straitjackets 
confined to our own medicated heads
forgotten spelled milky  civilians 
hung up on our mothers 
but where are our fathers 
as if they were all artificial gates between 
their childhoods & ours
which side is your team on? 
which coffin did your team emerge from? 
interi/orating the holy waters? 
classical labor negligent 
(the carrot grown downward   upward 
               side up down)
not being able to tell the actor from 
the impersonator
our very biologies 
hemmed in 
                        & dismissed.


stuttering napkins (for paul blackburn)

i sit there in McSorley’s maybe a table away from you & the firemen & cops writing my poems
being “a man” at the ripe old age of late teenager
eating liederkranz cheese crackers & onions
drinking  a mixture of Guinness & light beer
until I am plastered i was always alone with the sawdust 
on my soles & lips
you – i  there
through our histories –
our histories  coinciding 
yet never intertwining

 autumn now
your history in the history books
like the soon falling leaves

we drink together
but apart
you survive as i perish 
in a fine wind

let’s meet later at Max’s
        (the book store not the city)
                       then later
           i’ll play another version of that Rollins tune 
you like so much

where was i while i was there in the middle of all this?
where was i?

it’s autumn
early to mid 1960s
as i exit the station one fallen leaf brown & brittle 
lying on the subway steps – a bit too early.

tonight i heard paul blackburn’s voice 
his numbers 
my numbers after his numbers
without ever knowing his numbers
i’m paler than my brother’s 
blue impala

i’ve always felt perhaps because 
i’m not a translator myself
that translation brings too much ERA
into one’s own poetry

a located

lack luster

my brother’s impala was a 
st marks church / poetry project / for /of / thru paul blackburn – 2016
ф in the station here there are these legs that show from the knee downward expressing what’s next she’s eating her candy slowly chewing slowly her mouth closed everyone’s mouth is closed except for the chattering couple it’s friday & closing in on midnight she’s dressed for a date that never happened i could talk to her about guns or love but this is downtown & the train is moving uptown & now all those legs have disappeared with its motion & more mouths open as we enter the tunnel * my loneliness is so profound only the world’s loneliness & the water lapping against the pier could suffice to describe it the group speaking in a foreign language confounds me he gets more a month from his parents than most folks make in a lifetime. * ocean drunk mass settings 881 587 198 203 324 constant accumulation pravda station crossed out a child walking on the palms of the air of brood with malaxated hungry grubs referred to behavior remarks as a(t)ten(t)sion from capping the larvae hatch attained its full development elsewhere – OFFSPRING sometimes she brings me flowers i bring her the street.
ф pierre joris - a brief history (joris/auster @ nyu on paul celan - 2014) x’s sq. sign revel on as love is on photos of crowd & writing poems in English as a kid pierre decides to come to america after deciding not to write poems in mother tongue only write phones & mother tongue toll-free literature poetry naked lunch howl 1961 bard college translation helped him learn how to write in english end @ / i found on the road in spanish beached moved into shakespeare & company didn’t want to write in french or german as a teen first heard celan phones (poems)@ age 15 they drove to venue together translating towards english celan was first poet to translate into english @ 19/ 20 years old translating poems he had to take them apart part @ they’re core (cool) then learn how to write his own phone (poems) kelly rothenberg fisherman/eshelman homes problems how are need polenz me Dee Dee Dee Dee Dee Dee english english english eng right DDD.bye mother tongue hard hard hard hardbard auto dictate is like auto didact the review of mine / a redo reader of minds … & Time.

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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