T H E C H E A P R E V I E W O F P O E T R Y #1 Alice Notley Bill Kushner Elinor Nauen Layle Keane Lynne Beyer Norman MacAfee Peter Bushyeager Sal Salasin Shelley Miller Tom Savage Tony Vaughan Published and edited by Etan Ben-Ami and Anique Taylor Copyright 1986 The Cheap Review Of Poetry This on-line edition can be copied and distributed without charge, provided that it is not in any way altered and that it is not sold. All other rights are reserved. The Cheap Review Of Poetry is presented on-line as a courtesy of The Dorsai Embassy teleconferencing system. Your comments are invited. Contact the embassy at (212) 431-1944, 300 or 1200 baud, 7 bits even parity. Enter "HELLO DORSAI.EMBASSY" at the system prompt. NOH No words no thoughts no lines no coke no time no fun no father no elm trees no babies no smarts no joy no joyce no lucy no veeck no prizes no pencils no manhood no ma'am no me no you no noh no yo no food no news no plane nomad no go no good no jokers no buddha nodoze no'ccount no calls nocal no pot no tan no cough no coffee no mail no tense no fern no chnage no hole no radio nolo contendere no struggle no win no pain no gain no hits no runs no errors no perfection no privilege no winter no think nowise no thing nowhere no white no whither november no trump no plot no cast no luck noel nobody no table no peter no boycott noblesse oblige no dakota no vietnam no carolina no offense no fever no fair no reubens no hollyhock no rain today no nots no hots no ice no straw no razor no sideburns no sugar no truth no wave no roaches no beat no sidewalk no shoulder no peccadilloes no passing no turns no irish no fresh no trespassing no need no gas no window no problem no more no way Elinor Nauen 1/86 MAYAN UPDATE IN THE EIGHTIES Before it was a one-sided conversation with rocks and dirt. While sweating And swatting, we glared at rocks, trying ot give them some humanity. Ancient ball games pitted captives against one another for their lives. Heads of the losers were the balls. Blood was the mortar of life. Aristocrates drew their own blood to nourish the gods and inspire hallucinations in the heads of serpents. Before going to war for example, The king punctured his penis with a stingray spine while the queen drew a thorn-barbed rope through her tongue. Thus the Mayans kept the universe alive. The name for one king was shield. -- Tom Savage HOW I GET BY "It" more than adds up what I know of mathematics the unclean universe lines parallel from any angle "you & you&you&you&you& " lines perpendicular from any point I love you absolutely & you too I'm always happy when the phone rings it's always good news when you call no time for aught but love my heart is full I stroke my calico cat pull out a few clumps of hair visit my ailing neighbor weep for the dead send out frantic bursts of psychic love to save on my own long-distance bills: I can make you (you, you) phone it's all good when you call I'm imprisoned by these coordinates : /noise/memory someday the coffee'll be tepid (just how I like it) at every 3 a.m. feeding the letters'll be rich & frequent the jokes apropos titles & new names fluff round my dizzy head like relentless rowers "I'd hate to see you when you're happy" are we tired or is her exuberance crowding our joy? I cannot go on without you/ I can live without anyone:I must there are more irrational numbers than rational tho the number of each is infinite: my unswerving valiance you(you,you,you.......... -- Elinor Nauen The Yankees are a wishful thinking to some. Taking a neurological break from the gross fugue of life sometimes the sun floods over clogging the wires with love. Playing dead among "grown-ups" can lead to trouble. A mistranslation can alter brainwaves for life. The law of supply and command sounds familiar to the man dying in a backyard from the poison sprinkled in the air for rats. -- Tom Savage A NEW REQUIEM part 2 Empires filter, misinterpret the old tales to keep afloat, thought always being just the continuuing of one thought. In battle or lovemaking, hero's blond wig falls off. He hides his face, loses head, becomes all shoulders, contraposto murdered beautifully by fate's delicate hands. We weep only at change, hating the lover for queering the ideal, however slightly. Only proffs that love exists are pets, sex organs, never quite severed umbilical. Burly-queen savior, neon-lit, annunciated, killed, mourned, resurrected over the week- end, in his undershorts. Light shone through the fabric. I helped carry him away. We didn't know where we were or who we were or where we were going. We avoided everyone, to stay in the dream-- which love made, only to keep us from... ...Lady in red tangoies, weeping. Man robed in silken dress- ing gown in large apartment in great city takes one too many, observing a news- paper as though it were life, observing but not acting, made incomplete by business, war, while Y waits for the bus in dead towns, Z scrapes his shoe sole twenty times in front of a church or steals/owns a fast car, pure laminated animal joy beneath a suddenly chill August moon, cleaning up the day's mess and sleep for another. One becomes one's shadow, moves inexorably to empty streets, voices of slightly durnk friends in the distance, and an evening of farts that hill breezes blow away with exhaust fumes, though when you hear what you had waited for for so long coming, there's a moment's fear. A man half a century old on a bench at one a.m. holds his heart, watches his watch, fat, few head hairs, quickly decides to smoke a cigaret, pretend to wait for a bus. Night world reflected on black water scrim of shop windows that stars high silent solitaries, in murders, back the way I came, curling up to sexy death above butcher shops, where his son (perhaps it's his son) is slowly disrobing. Tomorrow he must go to work, with his kind hurt gaze, too short, wrong accent. On the second night he soiled his shirt, the third his pants. Nothing quite works though he surely does. He turns bright gold in his sleep, dreaming he's staring at the gates of paradise. -- Norman MacAfee copyright 1986 Norman MacAfee GITANERIAS forgetful of thoughts of first & second any play speeches about cheeks "ass cheeks" are they firm? mooning etc following the baby around. Then all these women--mother, two daughters a daughter-in-law, the mother then looks up "lubricity" in the dictionary. It could mean she was well-oiled, as I said. Tonight we watch "Witness"--eye-acting Full moon last Tues. & quite truth- fully, in the main men working on her yard are in jail today, not sure why. Haven't touched my horoscope in days Dreamt last night I couldn't talk it over in bed that was worst part after I went to the ballets Balanchine couldn't chorograph because he was dead. There are two ways to be after his time--the right way & maybe the weak way. Here are the Ishi books Here is the song that's my thought 'Spanish piano passion is still valid.' (Repeat & improve) in this particular instance of a life am never going to...do a simple Oriental number until There wasn't enough hair dye for two so only she got to change My friend gave magical mall walk, last week "Love isn't love until you give it away..." The answer is a seltzer now________ still____ Call me up in a couple of days But you called me oh it doesn't matter Oh okay GBS talks about this guy & echolalia That's funny I remember when he told me We talked about echolalia all the time at one time what's an eccentric edge, to a girl like you The hymn is to what, disguised as what? it's the disguises I'm having the most trouble with the enemy always makes you think it's your body--that bump & your death was invented by valentines of nightgowns and ugly ugly roses made out of Family Circle Or No just a mother & a baby Scared for 1st 2 years everything for long & he goes to stupid work you're supposed to like it & get into breakdown body There was this girl who yeah I'm lazy, don't drive that's where, every where I went so far I went further & far without car I had a body of, working something the flower bed She's going to call it up tomorrow...Joe...& Craig Nobody said that Read all these pictures instantly eat some Nachos Don't make anything be like How many of these worries driving through the alfalfa When this gets corny real Not real. That's not the stuff This is the stuff I don't have to go and keep it with your handwriting Sure. how we're liking it National Geographic Magazines read backwards & upside down & with whatever words you say I used to, I read everything he wrote. This movie makes me go to bed too. Oh. be a grievance. okay. No not right now (fades (is that the word?) -- Alice Notley July 25, 1986 SONG BY DESIGN A crocus is edgy sentimental and unfocused like a rainy night not red and greasy like flowers brought down to the house from the store: sweetest fat valentines with message previously attached yes like the ocean don't turn your back or a bracing fuck in a cold room we're mapmakers who work and sing hearts in the pine forest indicated in green. -- Peter Bushyeager We may not be kind but we are enough. We may not be strong, but we pretend. The mind is grey, a blend of all colors. mind over matter: I will line up several pairs of shoes, heel to toe. I will follow their procession. -- Lynne Beyer LITTLE LYRIC ON LABOR DAY Loose in bed with cheap description like songs performed with piano lovers' legs wrapping me awake with cold morning air in the nostrils and a full head of hair to carry me forward. I touched the faces said you you the bodies were land the heart was wet the conversation passed quickly between us like plates. -- Peter Bushyeager At the Assemblies of God church they talk in tongues. Belief in the value of friction: more touch and fewer explanations. All American seekers of bliss, drawn to the near-win. The late great country-Western singer Patsy Cline, so desperate to make it right. Gold record yellow rose house and rosey babies. He said, she said, black-eyed in hog heaven. Merciful God, according to the script, she said into the mountain as the plane crashed, Oh, Charlie. -- Lynne Beyer LOWER EAST SIDE REFUGEE RUINS (1) from "Eddy's Private Party" BY CHICO. On wall of PANTRY SUPREME . Across from Veselka's big window. Pop painting of Mr. Magoo, Culture Club Japanese / Woody Allen, Mr. Fox and Mr. Rabbit playing in the same cartoon band. Two hearts on the sidewalk -- E. 9th street. A twenty foot black arrow 52 feet high on side of building pointing nowhere . Monday night. 11 p.m. Downtown. Painted on a fence. SLAM DANCING. ROCK AGAINST RACISM. One guess. The people of Nicaragua. Mumble -- I can't hear a word. Signature on sidewalk -- DON'T KILL THE PEOPLE OF MANAGUA. Lower East Side Corn Garden. Slogan. HORN OF PLENTY. NOT THE GENTRY. The grey six stroy building. And the dirty brown brick ones. Fire- escapes by burnt windows. Beneath -- sunflowers. Greenery. A community bulletin board. Next -- a car drives across Ave C. / Completely changed on the exterior of car -- Big Antlers on welded racks front of the car. Blinking J E S U S LIGHTS . Plastic Hail Maries stuck to outside body of car. Mariachi music out loudspeakers on roof. A CORN ROAST IN COMMUNITY GARDEN. 1/4 block vacant lot at Ave B and E. 6th St., converted into community garden. On late Sunday afternoon (an odd light rain falling, in the late summer 1985). A grey, warm day. The garden nearly ripe with cabbage, corn, cherry tomatoes, banks of herbs and small flowers, cucumbers, onions, kale and giant sunflowers. S U N F L O W E R GARDEN. Primrose -- a little overgreen. Clam shells in circles on a flower bed. In the garden house (a shelter built from wood found in nearby Lower East side Refugee Ruins) -- accordian music is played. People sit on chairs, stools. Everybody knows everybody or even the strangers are eating corn, too -- since the event has been advertised. Surrounding the garden on two sides are high buildings (can't see over them) -- hand-laundered green and black shirt still hangs out window to the north/east -- downtown side. IN THE G A R D E N a prayer wheel is turned. A blessing for the corn. On surrounding cyclone fence, the purple and white morning glory. -- Tony Vaughan The overhead's too high I can't make the payments. They're going to repossess my body. I need it to get to work. Dead men don't edit I know that now. The end's the beginning in high heels. Many words maintain great emptiness. Crime does not pay. My desires are all without exception ridiculous. I'm just a whited sepulcher there's a piece of kleenex on my throat where I cut myself shaving. We write this because in each generation someone has to. We don't care who. And wherever there's a language people say important things like I think we're going to have to let you go. If I'd only followed my mother's advice I'd be dead by now. A lot of guys will give you the rush and tell you how great they are. I'm absolutely unexceptional. A man in a grey business suit walks under a six-story marble ear. He shrugs his shoulders as if to say it's still a stone ear. I'm sorry this happened to you. You never learned anything. -- Sal Salasin BEGGAR'S HOLIDAY (2) The first thing i noticed Heavy metal Horses on Oakland Bay Sky purple Sunblue A basement window flying How many times ask would i rather in dirty rotten spend countless days to finally in so many undereyelines later see that face in a small voice photo centerfold backstagebackpage or here. where it isn't cold. The rains of San Francisco blow me The days of adventure are over The rains of leaden question fall the same as snow in the east but it isn't cold. Magic star dust blows away and now is a windy tow where old beats are still good beats snapping out the poetry in a beard. a belly now upright tits in a t-shirt older still smoking coffee drinking these 20 years with words under the bridge the golden gate the golden words their golden time When a black man poet sat at the Trieste with good blondes from the midwest When a black man poet could live on charm before he lived off the friends gathered here to say goodbye on Chorus Shore. We walked up to a dark door that said Open. It was a black ocean then a mountain topped with our spilled seeds. Your horn played to wind sucked into sunset. living more than in a room where everything bounces back. We are the are of saxophones more alive outside. -- Layle Keane We're only in 1965 but you can come closer. Is the government ready? Yes your honor and will prove the possibilities infinite. People come up to me in the street and tell me their problems and I help them. It's like eating bath salts. A man with a greed for the truth should expect no mercy. It's warm and humid with a 30% chance of thundershowers. I thrust my legs through my bathrobe sleeves and try to stand up. What are you going to do about it, talk? Living with your mind is a personal responsibility. There was a wonderful exitement that seemed to be everywhere. Ports along the entire coast remain in a high state of alert. -- Sal Salasin BEGGAR'S HOLIDAY (3) You were strong and rash ramming traffic lights driving L.A. crazy with Hebrew curses craving contact. With me the quality changed of your hand on my neck held thumb and finger a grasp not affection but defined touch as we searched so diligently for our sushine responding with ecstasy jumping skin to fore all colors rising our jaws and groins the warm not taken lightly a godforce found shining in But here in this city land play park six flags over destitute i ride a gesture to the sea or building range Where is my imagination here? There are cold winds that cross the path but the guides say walk in warm streams keep tuned in know the air when all the visions and plans seen a far away are treasure maps. I've cried truth in fleet moments seeing myself for the first time sincere and aching with realizing so clear and hard. There is no cheating in the vault called Agate. -- Layle Keane JUMP After you said We are the loves of our lives I said Loving you is like jumping out a plane without a parachute and not getting hurt Later you said You are a lighthouse that's showing a movie You are, you said, the red light I run each night And I said Loving you is like slipping underwater and breathing better than I ever have before. -- Shelley Miller MIDNIGHT BLUE I wonder what would happen if I didn't wipe my ass: this poem? I hear you every night around this time sweet stuff is that Your doggie panting so hot & happy to get out? the last Piss of the evening is perhaps the most sentimental one of all I see my face reflected reflective in the blue of the bowl You are so beautiful, I whisper, I have never seen you Looking so fucking beautiful! would love to fuck you If only I could! I run wetting the floor to the window To see you looking up you run your tongue around those newly wet lips while your mutt takes an aching crap: "Ohh, lick it up" You could say that to me & I'd hear you, you could even leash me You stare down the dark frightening street, a cat in heat You pretend you don't hear my heart knocking out a beat, you take it out To take a leak, a hard piss, like yellow tears -- Bill Kushner 2/18/84 TO WALK YOU WALK To walk you walk thru sidewalks peopled traffic hum Anarchy reigns: if there were one way ahh but there's none The gleam of that skin above a young man's thigh, he sits Short-panted upon a stoop watching I bet for cops This block's for drugs & that goes for all you mugs One simply walks faster or slower according to one's character His her or yours it New York belongs to everyone & therefore no one Harlem, Chinatown, all these districts: flowers garment or theatre & even in that little park full of bums why you better not look or Try to join them, ahh everyone's got these rules so strict On the Lower East Side please don't spit or you'll hit the poets In Little Italy, hey you better not bump into no one called Tony On Cristopher Street where grown men hold hands & even embrace You may slow down ahh but just for a minute on your merry way -- Bill Kushner 8/13/86 k or Try to join them, ahh everyone's got these rules so strict On the Lower East Side please don't spit or you'll hit the poets In Little Italy, hey you better not bump into no one called Tony On Cristopher Street where grown men hold hands & even embrace You may slow down ahh but just for a minute on