Ben Lerner - The Lichtenberg Figures
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- Book:The Lichtenberg Figures
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- Publisher:Copper Canyon Press
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- Year:2012
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We hope you enjoy these poems. This e-book edition was created through a special grant provided by the Paul G. Allen Family Foundation. Copper Canyon Press would like to thank Constellation Digital Services for their partnership in making this e-book possible.for Eric, Ed, Stephen, and Cy
Along the order of magnitudes, a glyph, portable, narrowDamn. Ive lost it. But its shadow. Cast in the long run. As the dark touches us up. Earlier you asked if I would enter the data like a room, well, either the sun has begun to burn its manuscripts or Im an idiot, an idiot with my eleven semiprecious rings.
Real snow on the stage. Fake blood on the snow. Could this go on forever in a good way? A brain left lace from age or lightning. The chicken is a little dry and/or youve ruined my life.
I had meant to place my hand in a position to receive the sun. I imagined such a gesture would amount to batter, battery. A cookie is not the only substance that receives the shape of the instrument with which its cut. The man-child tucks a flare gun into his sweatpants and sets out for a bench of great beauty and peacefulness. Like the girl my neighbors sent to Catholic school, tonight the moon lies down with any boy who talks of leaving town. My cowardice may or may not have a concrete economic foundation.
I beat Orlando Duran with a ratchet till he bled from his eye. I like it when you cut the crust off my sandwiches. The name of our state flower changes as it dries.
With great ostentation, I built a small door in my door for dogs. In my day, we were reasonable men. Even you women and children were reasonable men. And there was the promise of pleasure in every question we postponed. Like a blouse, the most elegant crimes were left undone. Now I am the only one who knows the story of the baleful forms our valences assumed in winter light.
My people, are you not horrified of how these verbs decline their great ostentation, their doors of different sizes?
The story regains its upward sweep.) O slender spadix projecting from a narrow spathe, you are thinner than spaghetti but not as thin as vermicelli. You are the first and last indigenous Nintendo.
The image is no substitute. The image is an anecdote in the mouth of a stillborn. And not reflection, with its bad infinitude, nor religion, with its eighth of mushrooms, can bring orgasm to orgasm like poetry. As a policy, we are generally sorry. But sorry doesnt cut it. We must ask you to remove your shoes, your lenses, your teeth.
We must ask you to sob openly. If it is any consolation, we admire the early work of John Ashbery. If it is any consolation, you wont feel a thing.
I could kill a man with a maneuver designed to clear the throat of food. Tonight, the moon sulks at apogee. A bitch complains to the polestar. An enemy fills a Ping-Pong ball with Drano and drops it in the gas tank of my car. Reader, may your death strictly adhere to recognized forms. May someone place his lips on yours, shake you gently, call your name.
May someone interlace his fingers, lock his elbows, and compress your chest, every two seconds, to the depth of one and one-half inches. In the dream, I discover my body among the abandoned tracks of North Topeka. Orlando Duran stands over me, bleeding from his eye. I can no longer distinguish between verb moods that indicate confidence and those that express uncertainty. An upward emergency calls away the sky.
His body was carried out like a wish. We paid our last respects as rent. The mere possibility of apology allows me to express my favorite wreck as a relation between stairs and stars. I take that back. To sum up, up beyond the lamps sweep, where a drip installed by heat still dripssome tender timbers. At thirteen, I had a series of dreams I cant remember, although Im sure that they involved a rape.
Im brutal because Im naked, not because Im named, a distinction that the scientific and scholarly communities, if not the wider public, should be expected to maintain. No additional media available (but isnt it beautiful when a toddler manages to find and strike a match).
Once uncertainty ran through these sketches like a Lab. Now, of my early work, a critic has said: It was open, so I let myself in. Ladies and gentlemen, tonights weather has been canceled. The Academy has condemned the blue tit. The poor are stealing the saltlicks. Grenades luxuriate in the garden of decommissioned adjectives.
It is the Sabbath. I must invite you to lay down your knowledge claims, to lay them down slowly and with great sadness. Given men as they are, women pack snow into jars for the summer ahead. Given men as they are, the trees surrender.
I surrender. Im sorry. Im gay. Im pregnant. Im dying. Im not your father.
Youre fired. Fire. I forgot your birthday. You will have to lose the leg. She was asking for it. It ran right under the car.
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