THE CHEST HAIRS OF LANGUAGE, DEAR READER
My writing is a needle shortening the pants of monotony and dread
It leaves an impressive thread as it winds through
the abbreviated cuffs of you who hitherto did proceed trippingly through the daily
darkness and stumble of everyday speech
My writing rides a bicycle through the stitchholes of your hems
the fabric of your mind stretched by my thousand-speed cosmic roadbike cosmos with
wheels of pure joy
and your thoughts
undiscovered planets embraced by a multitude of imperceptible moons
suddenly are Hubble-ized and named by the perspicacious cartographic lexicon of my
cerebral sewing
For I am a one-handed phrenologist kneeling in a haberdasher’s fantasyworld funhouse,
a contestant playing the carbon dating game with the moon-fearing bachelorettes of my
ancestors
Through the chest hairs of language, my poems seek gold medallions and the burnished
signs of the zodiac in the mythic resonance of the curly pectoral forest
my writing is a BeeGee sestina hallelujah chorus
a John Travolta post-structuralist jumpsuit fandango of literary theory
a Hilary Duff post-colonial mega-sized writing samba in the blog roll drive-thru
My poetry contains multitudes and they appear small within its vastness
a single molecule within the molehill of my talent
I write on a desert island and the desert island feels glad
signals the boats of meaning, the search-and-rescue helicopter critics
says, stay away
stay away for we have something here
Yes, I’m a bachelor married to the archipelago of my own poetry
going on a date with me would be like Y2K all over again
an excitement of digits, an anticipation of irrational calculations, airliners seeking the
arcing chaos of their own inspirational routes through the cloud-busy air
a date with me would be like changing from the Gregorian to the Julian Calendar while
hang-gliding through the National Library dressed in an asbestos nightie while the
books are inflamed
the
librarians run blindly down the stacks and inhale the smoking grammar of our
lives
headbutting the opposing players
of tedium, madness, and apathy as they attempt to fan
the bookish flames with facile rhymes, trite metaphors, and a limited
understanding of the depth of my literary consciousness
I am the book-wheezy Jeffersons of this last century, the poetic Archie Bunker of our times
I speak of Love Connection glory
of radiant Gilligan’s Island subplots singing Partridge Family small press bliss in the
triumphant World Cup publishing paradise of Toronto
A date with me would be like having God’s credit card, Satan’s expense account, and the
incisive ontological wardrobe of Samuel Beckett if he were born as one of the
midget stagecrew for Gladys Knight and the Pips and his daddy owned the big
rhinestone factory on the outskirts of sense.
Look! Someone’s revved the motor, turned on the highbeams of language’s monster
truck
Seems like its blind driver has floored it and is driving to you a first date
it’s 1849 and it’s with me
—Gary Barwin
BEAUTIFUL DOG
the field beside my heart is
filled with ugly deer and one beautiful dog
a poem doesn’t have to have 14 perfect lines
or else you’re spitting on graves
maybe you’ll slip up and tell a truth
stick your flaking elbow into something rich
under the moon your tongue hangs out
you’d like to howl but there’s this language thing
the pile of shame grows and grows
please save my family from complication or sudden death
listen: a small movement in the linden leaves
the poem collaspes small and leaping
be brave be brave be brave
the field beside my heart is
filled with ugly deer and one beautiful dog
and here’s another beautiful dog
sighing sighing sighing
—Gary Barwin
VERY BEAUTIFUL POEMS
my nose
*
in the dark
my nose
*
you will find
my nose
in the dark
*
my nose is a pink moon
you have to
take my word for it
about the pinkness
I mean
it’s dark
but prepare yourself
I must sneeze
I have a cold
and right now
no Kleenex
*
nothing is beautiful until
I look at the moon
my nose in total darkness
*
revision is possible
a poem should be
perfect and polished
like a nose
let’s put
our noses to the wheel
our shoulders to the brimstone
the muse will knock and
deliver the pink moon
to our door
in the dark
my nose
simple sneezing moon
*
imagine if life
was so perfect
like this poem I mean
*
but there are some words
that didn’t fit back there
pumpkin
evil
kneepad
*
the sun
—achingly beautiful—
sets over hilltops
the other side of the world
a nose made warm
—Gary Barwin
WHY I WRITE
In the forest, we were not able to
see the trees.
My teacher put them in his suitcase
and walked into the night.
When he got to the edge of the world
he turned and pulled up the road
cracking it once, like a sheet or whip.
He held it under his chin and folded it right.
I pointed. This is the way out of here
but there were no roads.
I pointed. This is our forest
but there was nothing.
The crickets said something that I will not repeat
Six jeweled piglets lapped at the droplets of my brow.
Seven azure swallows brushed their wings against my shadow.
T-shirts are silent, cotton, and easy to launder.
—Gary Barwin
____
Forthcoming in Vallum Magzine