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Poetry by W. B. Keckler
  Music by Steve Kane
  Art by Chris Lawson
'Con Amor' (c) 2005-2006 Chris Lawson
Elegy

Whatever the other erson sys
Whatever other over ants
What the is having
What flower is under another
Whatever you a planet

Immense moving into purview

T spaces
hat your life
idiculous music

A at on a tombstone
licking ts aw

tself, then moving on

Thoughts on a Rosenquist Painting
'Daisy Lady' (c) 2005-2006 Chris Lawson

The teeth. Seen up close, too close.
Our being-in-the-world.
What we eat is love. The egg,
the meat. And only we smile

to see a heart lose its beast.

'Dear Diary' (c) 2005-2006 Chris Lawson
The Great Book of All Forgotten Things

Children sit on a beach
face scintillant edge of light
and tiny pieces, unchosen
alphabet (broken shapes)

winking star, fish-body, wave

drift over nothingness
and we recoil

silence and blind
ellipses and loops
of ocean behind
making sets and subsets

drawing Venn diagrams

Doing Theology in One’s Sleep
'Homemaking' (c) 2005-2006 Chris Lawson

An 88 year old woman.
Asleep feels.
Shape the cat makes.
Next to her.
Body was another once.
In the darkness touching.
Oh.
Maybe form slumbers.
Awake.
But something about god.
Turning over thought.
To darkness.
She thinks.
The only divine word is.
With.

'Lonesome Pine' (c) 2005-2006 Chris Lawson
Winter Portrait

Dru's long balletic hindlegs
from the porcelain ring
of the toilet arch up,

two furry Satyr thighs

in the dark bathroom,
forepaws on the sink,
he's peering into the mirror,

sees me in the hall,

runs off. Then returns
to watch me pee

a Liffey, my muzzy

Dublin-head buzz.

I love how tonight
it's snowing everything

away, the pain
is under brightness.

The ugliness
of literature,

the self-absorption
is away from me.

Although, loving snow,
I forget those outside

for whom this light
is what racks bones

with cold. All
joys are stolen

says the cat
to the drunk,

biting an imaginary
bird on my ankle.

And I giggle.

I always laugh now
if love draws blood.

Getting There, Late, Using Flashlights
'Love Letters' (c) 2005-2006 Chris Lawson

At my mother's mother's grave
my lover's lover opens the oblong cardboard box
that holds the distantly-woven synthetic leave and berries
when
Boo! a slip of yellow paper
flutters to the dark grasses growing from my mother's mother

I pick it up
and read:

PLEASE FLUFF ME!
I've been in a box, and I feel mashed.
Help me become beautiful again by fluffing my
leaves and flowers. You can twist and shape my
leaves and petals, and it will not hurt me.

And my lover and my mother
laughed & laughed

on her mother's grave

'Niagra Lady' (c) 2005-2006 Chris Lawson
Suicides in the Underworld

Wendy O. Williams and Virginia Woolf braid each other's hair, water asphodels
Nerval watches Richard Brautigan cast for fish with an ultralight Japanese rod into a black
adamantine wall
Hannibal helps Primo Levi dissect a pebble for centuries
Mark Rothko is hypnotized by everyone else's lightless eyes
Anne Sexton and Sid Vicious go everywhere together; they learn to sing in the winged-demons'
tongue
Alan Turing and Marina Tsvetaeva like to switch bodies, are bright flashing lights in love
Sara Teasdale has melted into a pool of sexual anemones
Isocrates and Iscariot are two trees eternally grappling
Paul Celan is continually being born through a screaming 7-headed Reich-Dog's orifices
Ernest Hemingway and Kleist sport-fuck like thirteen year old boys in a treehouse
Mishima sucks one of Cleopatra's toes until it turns to jade
Rommel seeks Van Gogh's love and autograph unsuccessfully, wanders tortured
Elliot Smith levitates inside Marilyn Monroe, who is now a dayglo floral cavern

The Singing Nun carries Sylvia Plath in her arms, jumping rope in a fiery lotus

After the Sanskrit
'Stomach Medicine' (c) 2005-2006 Chris Lawson

In the bedroom's darkness, half-drunk
I pull my lover's big leg over me
a sexy Dravidian bow.
Ancient, perfect.

And wonder at my gift for destruction
A COMPLEX AND REALISTIC SPIN!
The garden. Sleep amid thieves.
Open body.

But there is an army.

HIGHLY NUMINOUS AND EXTREMELY
AMBIVALENT POWER THAT MANIFESTS ITSELF
IN DEATH. Kurt Cobain doodles.
Feel the comic book spaces of religions
whose suns are too bright,

but do the White Stripes truly love one another?
If so,

how?

'Dear Diary - Detail' (c) 2005-2006 Chris Lawson
Somers Point, Moon

Poetry stands in the way of drinking.

I remember a print that was all over the motel we stayed at,
melted crayons over numbered lithographs,
called "CESIUM CLOCK TICKING."

Someone bought a shitload,
someone must have died...

Art is often trying too hard like that, our motel smelled of the back bay

stench, dead carapaces, ocean's menses,

It's the backyard for a few thousand, who don't notice.

Goodbye, goodbye
What sort of job will I find now
now that love is through
and wrath is through
and through
is threw?

THE SCRIBE, LAS-MKHAN
STAG-GI MGO-CAN, WITH THE HEAD OF A TIGER,
AND THE BIRD-HEADED
PROSECUTOR, LAS-MKHAN PU-SHUD MGO-CAN,
WHO HAS THE HEAD OF A HOOPOE...

We all sit drinking together,
something pink with an umbrella

by the lighthouse

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