The Process of Explication -Dorothea Lasky
September 10, 2013, 5:06 pm
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Students, look at this table
And now when you see a man six feet tall
You can call him a fathom.
Likewise, students when yes and you do that and other stuff
Likewise too the shoe falls upon the sun
And the alphabet is full of blood
And when you knock upon a sentence in the
Process of explication you are going to need a lot of rags
Likewise, hello and goodbye.
Nick Algiers is my student
And he sits there in a heap in front of me thinking of suicide
And so, I am the one in front of him
And I dance around him in a circle and light him on fire
And with his face on fire, I am suddenly ashamed.
Likewise the distance between us then
Is the knife that is not marriage.
Students, I can’t lie, I’d rather be doing something else, I guess
Like making love or writing a poem
Or drinking wine on a tropical island
With a handsome boy who wants to hold me all night.
I can’t lie that dreams are ridiculous.
And in dreaming myself upon the moon
I have made the moon my home and no one
Can ever get to me to hit me or kiss my lips.
And as my bridegroom comes and takes me away from you
You all ask me what is wrong and I say it is
That I will never win.

Thing -Dorothea Lasky
December 21, 2012, 1:41 am
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If this is going to be the descent well then let me go
Let me go sinners with your rubber masks
Let me go lovers and angels
With your paltry blue powder dresses
And faces full of soot
For the young reddish skin of another
Is all I have left to give to my animals

You said it was all an act—so what
I wore the mask too
But you never knew so
You looked deep into my eyes as if you could find me
As if I ever existed, at all
And were not the house where the minted walls hunger
Where the green roof looks mournful

Where the walls hunger for you
Where the killing will happen
Where the moon is not our gentle mother
But a face with no mouth
To find it
And when you went to kiss the mouth
Of the moon

It was my mouth you found
Oh how scratchy the skin of the real mouth
Oh how it hurts to tumble the mouth of the real face
Oh how pointed the fangs from the real mouth
The mouth you thought was living
The mouth that was never living
The mouth that was dead for all time

Because I can’t be -Dorothea Lasky
December 20, 2012, 6:37 am
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Because I can’t be anywhere
I am drinking a thick and viscous liquid

Dark red and pulsing
Of the tiger from which I came

Essence distorted in
So as to make the idea

So that I was a capitalist
And made a hundred businesses of my sadness

So that I made resource from my tears
Either ocean or flat

Knowledge or a demon
The house that still portends

Angry mouth
Angry hole

The black hole where no one dares to go
So what words as if

As if it were anything
As if I could look at you and love you

And that I could mean anything
Or be anything

Thunderbird- Dorothea Lasky
August 21, 2012, 7:26 am
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Dorothea Lasky. Wave (Consortium, dist.), $16 trade paper (128p) ISBN 978-1-933517-63-6

Even after titling her last book Black Life, Lasky’s latest aims to go darker–more death-driven–with poems that can be as commanding and loud as they can understated and vulnerable. “I like weird ass hippies,” she writes in a poem of the same name, “I like the lamb’s blood you throw on my face.” Elsewhere Lasky pulls even fewer punches: “I want to be dead.” What makes her voice so inviting, easy to love, and ultimately disarming is how ambivalent Lasky can be about the emotion she braids into her lines. “What I say are feelings,” she writes, “Are also not feelings.” And the same voice that tells us “it’s true, I love you guys and gals” also issues this fired-up correction to both poets and idol worshippers alike: “God is wild, and not human/ And when people make God human/ He stares at you through the eyes of a bear/ And beats his terrible bearded chest.” It’s perhaps unavoidable that Lasky’s willful innocence will lead her to lines that belittle her complexity, as when she declares that “The world doesn’t care if you are sad” or asks “Why are people so cruel?” But all of this is worth Lasky’s thoughts on where poets should take their art: “Poets should go back to saying crazy shit.” (Oct.)

Love Poem- Dorothea Lasky
June 11, 2012, 10:13 pm
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The rain whistled.

A taxi brought me to your apartment building
And there I stood.

I had dreamed a dream
Of us in a bedroom.
The light shining upon us in white sheets.

You were singing me a song of your sailing days
And in the dream
I reached deep in you and pulled out a cardinal
Which in bright red
Flew out the window.

Sometimes when we talk
On the phone, I think to myself
That the deep perfect of your soul
Is what draws me to you.
But still what soul is perfect?
All souls are misshapen and off-colored.
Morning comes within a soul
And makes it obey another law
In which all souls are snowflakes.

Once at a funeral, a man had died
And with the prayers said, his soul flew up in a hurry
Like it had been let out of something awful.
It was strangely colored, that soul.
And it was a funny shape and a funny temperature.
As it blew away, all of us looking felt the cold.

Poem to an Unnameable Man – Dorothea Lasky
April 4, 2012, 7:29 am
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You have changed me already. I am a fireball
That is hurtling towards the sky to where you are
You can choose not to look up but I am a giant orange ball
That is throwing sparks upon your face
Oh look at them shake
Upon you like a great planet that has been murdered by change
O too this is so dramatic this shaking
Of my great planet that is bigger than you thought it would be
So you ran and hid
Under a large tree. She was graceful, I think
That tree although soon she will wither
Into ten black snakes upon your throat
And when she does I will be wandering as I always am
A graceful lady that is part museum
Of the voices of the universe everyone else forgets
I will hold your voice in a little box
And when you come upon me I won’t look back at you
You will feel a hand upon your heart while I place your voice back
Into the heart from where it came from
And I will not cry also
Although you will expect me to
I was wiser too than you had expected
For I knew all along you were mine

January 4, 2012, 5:38 pm
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I wanted to tell the veterinary assistant about the cat video Jason sent me
But I resisted for fear she’d think it strange
I am very lonely
Yesterday my boyfriend called me, drunk again
And interspersed between ringing tears and clinginess
He screamed at me with a kind of bitterness
No other human had before to my ears
And told me that I was no good
Well maybe he didn’t mean that
But that is what I heard
When he told me my life was not worthwhile
And my life’s work the work of the elite.
I say I want to save the world but really
I want to write poems all day
I want to rise, write poems, go to sleep,
Write poems in my sleep
Make my dreams poems
Make my body a poem with beautiful clothes
I want my face to be a poem
I have just learned how to apply
Eyeliner to the corners of my eyes to make them appear wide
There is a romantic abandon in me always
I want to feel the dread for others
I can feel it through song
Only through song am I able to sum up so many words into a few
Like when he said I am no good
I am no good
Goodness is not the point anymore
Holding on to things
Now that’s the point