Wednesday, June 12, 2013

poem dedicated to the one phrase I unabashedly deplore....



“ I know, right?”                         

 Is what my girlfriend perennially says to me like a prayer bead mantra

Lolling her head side-to-side, windshield wipers on a Renault

 While simultaneously drilling her thumbs

Into the socket of her cell phone, texting, at 30-30

Over chai tea, a Benedictine  round,

insinuating that she knows

Everything about the corpus of Global civilization

whenever she concurs with a previous made statement

Or when I inadvertently

crack a witticism like a  defaulted sneeze.


She knows all about the universal patterns of weather

 when I use the word “resplendent,” to  delineate how the horizon

 Feels like pressed spring linen lightly dappled with

raspberry smudges

Trickling in the east accompanied by a drape of a fresh sunshine—

Telling me that she already knows, before stating that she is correct.

 She knows that the coffee tastes better when I use

Our Hamilton beach Coffee maker vs. our Keruig coffee maker

(Both of which look like leftover droids from a failed Lucas side project.)

Or when I tell her how sumptuous the

Vegan  quiche we just  ingested

 looks like something a petting zoo llama regurgitated

After taking a supplementary dietary enema

And I will overtly lie, seemingly embellishing stating

“This is the most healthiest thing that

Has ever been  entered the post-modern architecture of my anatomy,”

 to which she will responds:

“I know, right?” between listless chomps—


All the while Looking into the lens of her Hello Kitty pink Iphone.


She knows the Greek serial numerals to every sunken

Scroll lost in the library of Alexandria; can recite

Pi up to the 183rd decimal integer without taking a breath

Backwards, drunk on duty-free Absinthe,

 Before chiseling out her organic shopping list in

Sanskrit, calligraphic font utilizing an

Ostrich quill and ink as a utensil.

Knows when it is apropos to employ the transitive form of the
 interrogative “whom.”

Correcting my grammar even though I am writer

While I Profusely tell that I am linguistically Incorrect

That I am grammatically maladroit, that  I am a failure,

That I am wrong

Which snidely commiserates with replying : “                               


“I know right?”
 She’s mastered Hatha Yoga. Fencing.  Briefly interned with Boeing.
Can tell me the capital and populations density of every country
Casually whistling the national anthem                                    
 during  the opening ceremony of the Olympics
 before each colorful banner appears.
Finding sine cos and tangen in the Euclidean avenue of the Nepali flag.
 She configured e=mc 2/cogito ergo sum/ Polonius’s advice to Laertes
  All out of spaghetteos in her high chair using
wadded application for mensa as her diaper
Engendered verifiable replicas of the 7 wonders of the
Ancient world out of Legos and silly putty when she was three
Mastered the art of the Kabala while all of her grade school
contemporaries were listening to Raffi albums
 fucking getting off watching the secret of Nimh.
 She quilted  a chess board out of the periodic table of elements
Made Modular origami out of rehashed, thoroughly edited editions
Encyclopedia britinca, the Oxford English dictionary,
War and Peace, and the Tibetan book of the dead
The first time she shaved  the wilted
 follicles off the petals of her vagina
 she used Occam’s Razor in lieu of a bic.
As I retort flippantly stating “Geez that really
Must of have hurt you probably inflicted yourself with a
Rash,” she responds by stating,
“ I know, right??”
She can tell you what happens when the DNA of matter
divides itself atomically
Tympanic splurges, thermonuclear fissions
 disintegrating plumes
Tufted in a morel cumulus of mass extinction.
Humanities botched science fair project incinerating
 Homemade jello lava  Infinite Modalities prolegomena,
Tractatus, Gnosticism
Graduate exegesis’s Flotilla of principias and errata
The philosophy of the world to come. 

She can describe the nearsighted
mosaic of the sub-atomic kingdom
Blinking, Apiary den of molecules
 Scuba-diving  past the coral reef barrier of microscopic Quarks
String theory resembling cuneiform on unblemished
Operatic sheet music
The strip pole plank scale—  oomphalos elevator button
Going nowhere and everywhere
Through drizzles of consciousness 
And what we have perceives as chapters of
Time is nothing more than thinly veiled
Sheath of saran wrap, Nikola Tesla’s lunch
Where everything is simultaneously occurring
And will re-incarnate again and again ad infinitum.
She masturbates to Jeopardy!!
Hummingbird arpeggio,  two fingers
Bookmarked in the collected sonnets of her loins
Stating the question before the
Premier syllable of the answer is revealed
  Rabelasian blindfold occluding her sight
bathing in a rococo bathtub
  Brandenburg concerto chiming in the background.
--incipient mist of spring.
She knows the latitude and longitude of my body
My penis an isochronal lost terra-cotta  sentry man
saluting as we make love
In the bedroom she has had since child hood
 spelling and geography bee trophies adorning
The mantle, gilded mountain ranges spiked  between patches of
Rhodes scholar, Fields medals, Macarthur genius, Pulitzer
Prizes sex,  an exchange of particles and light
Conveying to me with the subtle orchestral
Bob of  her chin that if I fuck her a certain way
She will  say something I have never heard
Her say before in Latin when she cums.
“Alat volat propriss,” Which translates as:
(she flies with her own wings)
Stating that it is the motto of the state of Oregon
Something If I was more cognizant and more well read
I would already somehow know…
Or when we are making love how gravity
Sometimes reverses itself in dyslexic applause
The fractyl of our limbs iterate in evolutionary flap
 defy the stolid linearity of physics
Ankles and kneecaps parallax constellations
 tight algorithmic recipes, square root of our
buckled thighs  launching like sputnik, skirting around
The circumference of the over head ceiling fan
In frenzied apollonian orchestration before crashing
The quantum concavity of the cosmos
Elucidated in the hush of her eyes.

 And how afterwards we will be stamping out our post
coital cigarettes in tandem puffs
the prophylactic husk of  wriggled laytex laying
 like a road kill glowworm
at the bottom of the bed and how I would
look into the rosary beads of sweat skiing down
 her forehead as if having some sort of race
and I will tell her, “Baby that that was phucking amazing!”
and she will look back at me with a snug pout and
say, “I know, Right?”  
Before  whittling away at nothing
Into the pink hieroglyphics of her cell phone
with the tips of her thumbs.
Sometimes after sex I want to tell her how astounded
I am about the  subtle vagaries
of the human experience
Tell her that mankind result of propagating genetic residue;
a wayward strand of coiled DNA
sweat of a species
first reproducing sexually as a severed micro-organism
bacteria split three and a half billion years ago
on a planet that is estimated to be a billion years older than that
a descendant of a rather apish hominid
making it's appearance a little over seven and a half million years ago
being nourished by the nearest solar life generating bulb, the sun,
93 million miles away,
shepherding and shaping the anatomy of our selected
ancestral aunts and uncles into something resembling the current reflection of my own sleep-addled countenance
just over one million years ago
I want to tell her that being born in this time and place
 realizing that you are 1 of out 56, ooo,ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo
 disparate genetic possibilities that you turned out the way you did.
in this time and place. Realizing you are the sole production of a night your parents’ got lucky.
Realizing that if they would have waited a day, and hour, minutes before or nanoseconds later, you would simply not exist at all.
 Before rhetorically asking her this is why we hate thinking that our parents actually "did it"--it's actually an neurological impulse for self-preservation ….and when I ask her she will say
“. …. ….     
Nothing because she is texting while updating her facebook profile about how her inquisitive boyfriend just won’t shut up.
That her boyfriend is ranting on about  a universe flooded with an estimated over 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 different solar orbs
stationed vast distances apart in what us humans
perceive to be the canopy of the night sky from our cosmic nest.
Each star capable sustaining the cultivation of planets harboring bacteria and biology's.
 In a universe comprised of 85 percent dark matter
-a universe where much more is happening behind the stage curtain
than in front of the audience-
-a reality where the unseen, the mystical,
yields more of a compelling force in our day to day
activities and choices then perhaps we can ever possibly discern.
And I will ask he what she thinks and she will say,
…the majority of each bartered breath joyfully and naively oblivious to the wonder of creation, to the fact that I exist at all, that I have grown up in a usurped continent that has become the most opulent republic ever constituted under the morning umbrella sky of the planet. where the advances of science and technology has been UNHERALDED in the historical discourse of this planet, on a land boat that has milked dry the udder of natural resources of her planet still while it is in it's maiden years. Thirty years of smiling and blinking and communicating and obeying the laws of physics. Thirty years of love and digestion and wanting. The occasional wished for spurts of compassion. The blissful feeling of joy and longing and oneness.
On a planet where the majority of animals are water creatures and insects. This human being, a corporeal  hyphen etched into a future tomb stone  between a jousting numerical pillars of chronicled years.
This glorified cosmic bacteria is capable of feeling such great things. Such unity. Such compassion. Such pain. Such confusion And ultimately, such love.
I tell her all this while she continually looks down. Texting
Alphabetical acronyms elle-elle-elle, Owe-em-gee, our-oh-eff-elle
Which when pronounced phonetically resemble
The  sound our Neanderthal relatives made
One-hundred thousand years ago
When they wanted to know
Everything about the place they
Found themselves inhabiting
Opening up their lips, roaring an ache of unknowable pain.

1 comment:

David Von Behren said...

...performed as an audience participating round where the audeince caroled out the tiresome refrain, 'I know, right?' while tilting their shoulders in ariheadesque fashion @ C. West 3-31-13.....