D I R G E, VIII

erasures, 12 dancers [hazel, emily, moonbeam, canto, aphrodite, stearns, plato, fresno, bunny, zygote, hayden, haitil]

The strings were having an intense conversation before the gamelan interrupted; flat-lined the tempo, mood shift, the way a plane leaves sound.

The brass on hold during the extraterrestrial chanting.

Someone left the privacy wall open before I lost another level I thought I lost while I was something else before I was.

You know, the bargaining chips.

All of us are watching you bandage your Achilles heel for tonight’s unraveling.

Ophelia’s long hair flowing under ice but in a photograph.

Those aren’t the right clothes for a curbside funeral, but red suits you.

When the joker hit the keel, the captain’s blood sank too many packed in–fishing for better chapters.

Some souvenirs aren’t recyclable because chaos reifies us on repeat.

The house absorbed me into sheetrock not windows.

Intentions can’t move triangles because triangles can’t move beliefs.

When you solve the enigma, it ceases to exist.

You should know that we’ve deleted the camera footage.

Hazel was driving 230 miles per hour if someone asks for the report.

An A in elusiveness and perhaps gracefulness, at times; B- in extrication, C- in concision.

Absurdity, an occasional buy-in; the rest to be determined at the end of the show.

[Please find the pamphlets under your seats.]

The manuals didn’t explain the spinout, the violent scrimmage, the let’s-get-back-together tour through oblivious eternity.

Verbs in the story fall out.

The body never sleeps in the same Room.

The text I am writing [disappears].

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7 Responses to D I R G E, VIII

  1. One Movement, Once Over, and Done
    It’s a gamble
    Through a phone of cracked glass
    A myth reversed for another’s sake
    We, I mean we, fill our void well
    Time tackles a poor creature
    Gosh, the cold impurity haunts it
    Meanwhile, tack it to the fridge
    The Mistletoe, the asparagus fern
    The cello with two violas and continuum
    The rumble seat trap kicks up
    From the road
    Centaur and chimera
    The poem is
    A return to tomorrow
    A wake of a boat’s bow
    A dog that swims in the lap
    And runs circles in your yard
    Imaginative ones by any standard
    Synopsis, the cat man, Archibald
    The hero, who’s hawk it is on
    Regeneration of tokamak stirs
    The breached fence retreats
    As the room breaks, jealously
    Open, and the walls, collect us
    Let’s flush.

  2. One Movement, Once Over, and Done. That is its title, and it’s not a poem, but a pizzicato-like jingle. It was a one-shot improvisation. I would not be caught dead pretending its an actual poem, but I hope you like it.

    • Krysia Jopek says:

      Great title! It’s a riff. One of my loyal readers, Miyke Todd, writes riffs on my poems every now and again.
      I love when my poetry inspires the reader to write!! When that happens, I’m doing my job as a poet.
      I’m impressed that it was a one-shot! I can’t do that.

      Krysia

  3. Thanks. Thank you, too; & Myke Todd

  4. I especially enjoyed Dustin Pickering, “a tree is a stick with a twig attached,” or something like that, and so on, and I found Jon Wesick a surprising beat from nowhere all of the sudden. Jack Varnel was a talented actor, but most likely from privilege. His poetry was gutteral and he probably fights with his own self so it would suck to get in his way. Your reading of Dirge VIII was exciting to hear live. Everyone else that night wrote for children. That’s a wrap.

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