Goldstein - Lost Originals

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first edition Copyright 2016 by David B. Goldstein all rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The production of this book was made possible through the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. BookThug also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Book Fund. Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Goldstein, David B., 1972, author
Lost originals / David B. Goldstein.

Poems.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77166-272-7 (paperback).--ISBN 978-1-77166-275-8 (html).
--ISBN 978-1-77166-276-5 (pdf).--ISBN 978-1-77166-277-2 (kindle) I. Title. PS8613.O446L67 2016 C811.6 C2016-905016-5
C2016-905017-3 cover image: Cyanotype by Mindy Stricke
images opposite table of contents, page 11 & page 113: David B. Goldstein
images page 33 & 43: Mindy Stricke

For the WaKOW Collective:Nathan Halverson, Grant Jenkins, and Mindy Stricke

CONTENTS

Object Permanence

Portuguese Dolls

Legless Doll

Wearing my legs I trenchered and wretchd. The cramped staircases could not rivet me, nor the library confide in me.

Burning Doll

Bernardo Soares returned from work down the street of goldsmiths.

Burning Doll

Bernardo Soares returned from work down the street of goldsmiths.

When I raise my hands, it rains. When I dodge leaves, it burns. Lenita Gentil took me up to the balcony to procure me a husband. She told me one may clean a fish with dull scissors and a mallet. The dog hoarses himself by barking. The hill wearies itself by climbing.

You hear me as I am, little mad one, for I am ready to paint your portrait.

Handless Doll

Sometimes a single word can grant me the will to live. Do you know how old I am? Do you find my legs beautiful? Come, touch the clustered pale grapes of my hair. On the day my midnight blood breaks the skin the whole world will become blue.

Big-Handed Doll

Each of you must decide how I will hurt you. I am about to burn through my joints and will rejoin the fixed column of truth.

My eyes are already fixed: my eyebrows were plucked before I could speak. Soon you too will be opened by the unmouthed key of my voice.

Handless and Legless Doll

I must return. The fight will be severe, iron-blue. Watch out behind you: the flowers are spare-time poets.

Doll With Pants

Stop your foolishness.

Look, I will tell you a story. At first I knew only absolutes, then I obtained pants. No more than cruffs of fabric but enough to make me an oddity; I was warm in a world without need for warmth. The others beat viciously at my cotters until my left arm swung helpless at the barest touch, but I saved my linen pants. Where did art get me? My maker showered riches upon my unadorned body and I incurred envy. What use then could I have for you?

Lamp Doll

When I was the queen of Beja and you the circumvita I entered the deep camera and threw you on the bed Not with air Not with abiding Not with gigue Not with broken arm I entered the tunnel in static and emerged in your tiny attic your parents arrived as kidlets the crowd packed in like giblets You were laid out on Manuels coverlet But saw me as Scooter saw Amoret a bulb sprouted up among troubadours I viewed you and wanted to be yours Not with outcry Not with exposure Not with memory Not with knees When I was the cisterns of Minho and you were its Daddy Yankee when I was the gold lettering and you the authentic, the original

Praying Doll

My eyes are huge white eyes that see only you.

I have never not wanted to pray, never wanted to pray. I entreat you, do not pray near me or I will singe your belief. I will never show you my dainty feet.

Bodiless Dolls

Slanted Head

Slant all the truth, you violincers. Suckle me with depthcharge, esculent. I see you start guiltily up from tweaking the festival of Carneia with your sweaty fingers and I think, assemblah blah blah.

You do not have a share in the world that remains. On my first visit to Algiers, fifty of us snoring on one mattress, I experienced a complete change of linen and you were fitted with high wooden sandals as if you owed the place, plus a bucket or two of cold water. Do you know what a constitution is? Notorious dependence on a few phrases, plus a knuckleful of cab fare. Regarding moonlight or droplets, it is still early enough to judge the effect of reform.

Large Head Under Glass

I know I am unfinished for I do not yet have a mind. I speak only with what is available: fog, hydrangea, auburn ringlet.

My soul was eaten with the baggage. Your resemblance is on my shoulder; if I stare at you, that is why. Reach for my glass penis? I wouldnt if I were you. My ears are spirals of pinkish wine. If your instrument came closer, O pearl butterfly

Chinese Head With Red Neckmark

In me homunculus In me watch In me scrap In me holloid glassfed I became under glass so that time can find me In me earhole In me pulp In me initiation well In me capsicum parure of shirt, cap, eyelid Lips are how you reach me Neck is how you escape

Chinese Head With Hole in Back of Skull

To wait at the bottom of your portrait I have emptied my brains. I go by many names: Wind-in-Wall Time Traveller in Moonlight Colonel Panic.

But to me you will always be Wooden Emergence. Once I was slashed on the forehead by an artist and I bled into his imagination. But you can heal both him and me. Come live in my skull and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove for proofs the bandage will set me free.

Head Looking Up

Some hold with being others with becoming. Some consider themselves sufficient within themselves.

I say: we are mere painted things. The body is a pedestal, a rod of false gold planted in a block of earth. To achieve truth is to comprehend utterly and in a single instant the flared cherub of the alabaster soul. I pray one day you may know that face.

Animals

Bronze Lion Head

Alas! It is Leonidas you seek. Leonidas, the Moorish dulcinea, will see your valour.

Let it be said I am the brave refiner of my tongue. Every day I consider the outrageous accident of my creation. In all I drink and all I eat stirs the guiding mouse of my maker. To be eased. Give the city back its black frame. You too show by your streaming hair that you are alive.

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