Tristan Tzara lonely? Dada an-

archist, Résistance hero during the War,

can he have doubt? Abused by clique and clan

and foe? Is Peking Man about to soar

from his cave and attack the monocled,

gentle, three-piece bourgeois suit I walk

the streets of Paris with? I am cram filled

If everything behaves as if a sign
had meaning, then it does have meaning.
                                                --Wittgenstein

What for but now send which then
Not nor his cut when tend her mend
Bend bitch up to whine a mutt
Of off hot now send itch,
     cool witch
Lend on him notch an end in fry
Warm try how so at less than I
     and
Where over, will lullaby is;
Low are the was am my no more
Were she at in would wend we soar
Do there could he no wonder it,
     or why.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of
THE BATH ARTIST
My husband is a philistine. When I woke him at 5:45 this morning to offer a private viewing of my greatest creation to date, he rolled away, stuck his head under a pillow and growled. He therefore missed
(1) the unveiling of my new triple-bubble technique for the highest quality bubbles;
(2) my newly executed theory of twin catalysts (two colors of 99c-store shampoos); and
(3) a veritable Restoration Comedy of light and light-yet-solid, industrial-strength foam. Truly a bath for the ages.
 Technical addendum, 2:15 p.m.: The indestructibility of the bubbles proves detrimental to completion of bath.

the coming of
THE WASHING-UP ARTIST

He is trampling out
THE CLEAN HOUSE ARTIST

where the grapes of wrath are
THE BATH ARTIST (II)
The truth is, I accidentally let out the water, though not the bubbles, from the tub. Refilling, with more soap, is what yielded that superior foam. Art is the genius of utilizing accident.

HERE’S A NEW KIND OF SONNET

                to bewilder the ever-present ladybugs
                & turn supermarkets into galaxies
there’s a snowdrop coming up 2/1/09
it’s good to know there’s hope for spring
                darwin never knew
                how silly sexually we’d be
it’s the only flower you might have trouble
getting to; maybe I’m so old I wont be able
to reach any flowers this year, even daisies
will be beyond me: “I’m so close to that queen
anne’s lace but I can’t reach it!” there’s always
the special queen anne’s lace hotline for seniors
                your corkscrew penis wont fit
                my vagina corkscrewing the other way

I surely succeeded, some life in New Orleans,
August heat, dancing on a bar, men
fucking on the pool table, balls on balls
in every corner. With Oh yea, daddy, harder daddy,
harder, fuck my hole, pop my brown cherry,
it’s hard to determine who wants a tea bagging,
who wants to dry hump me, smell my ass,
my boots to the brim with cash, beer bottles,
all across a sweaty, stinking bar,
my dick flapping from Viagra and stay-hard cream.
Near fainting, I was saved by an old man

Narlan MATOS (nar-hlahn MAH-tohs; poet, Brazil; b. 1975, Bahia) was called by Jorge Amado one of the greatest young Brazilian poets. Mr.Matos’s collection Ladies and Gentlemen: the Dawn was awarded the Jorge Amado Foundation Prize. A translator from English and Slovenian, he is also editing the complete works of Dr. Duarte, one of the mentors of the “Tropicalia” and “New Cinema” movements.

Each audience member eyelid drinks a cup full of rain till blue tinged bulge—page blur. That is where there is only appetite. Gesturing toward a separate way, enter a funny little man at the cornea point yet to be introduced, of course, buried in a blood tweed suit, we call him as named before, the final sayer. He raises his right hand high above his head as if holding an object rare and majestic, perhaps to yank at an eyelash. With eyes wide open (as yours) he breaks out into shrill song.
The Final Sayer

In this fork is an embedded list of names.
The path so to speak from which the paw
broke away from itself and became this disconnected claw.


A Fork

The labile
fugitive
claw 

its levity
atony

of keratins
pincers
in disquiet

incised
on the body

he lifts

black jacket
tiny
 

flitting
black eyes

pesky
gaunt

Pierrot
of stark
cutlery
 
vintage
tarsus

desacralized
girt

by thick
cords

I am
ingest
 
demurred
refused

to eat
tubercle
bacilli

mephitic
place

slated shy
of scope.