By Murat Nemet-Nejat
“THINGS ARE SITES OF CONSECRATED POTENTIALS.” — GILLES DELEUZE
“Ideas are consecrated potentials in concrete form.”
Dying, I’ll not happen.
Dying, I’ll not happen.
The dark side of the mountains
was a color jealous of blue, I knew it as such.
Like a clumsy rock, I split the air into two
I liken whistling to horses.
With a slice of bread whose surface gives meaning to heat
Among all kinds of smells
the breath of silence breaks the waves
After watching the impeachment proceedings and following the Impeachment Managers’ line of reasoning: I believe that 50% less melodramatics would have been more effective—including less of the “our hallowed chambers” rhetoric and particularly some of the dramatically inflected voices and tears—but all in all, the Impeachment Managers presented a strong case and the...
It’s for this reason I slashed my face.
By placing the resonance of a letter
in the space between us and the sun.
“Laugh!” I said to rebellion’s tired face.
“I’m reconciled with this matter, now.”
You know, like drawing a sketch and then staring,
asking, is it an apple, apricot, pear?
Saying, it’s a plum! in that tone that’s...
I used to hang out at the House of Love
its signage a heart in marble, a foot
for direction. Once there,
mosaics of the seasons.
I’d sit on windowsill empty of glass, house
vacant of senators. Listening
to tour guides’ musical schpiel
telling how leading lights
of this house of love
sallied forth to front
almost but not quite
sounds like an apt
description of all things I
under and above
in and out
up and down
but mostly down
The pain of established estrangement
Their own enemies without love or cognition
and a black phrase chained by ruthless shellfish.
A reason for a stranger?
A reason for establishment?
A reason for an established stranger...
The young hunter had gathered up the folding mattress in the morning, but a few pillows and bolsters were still strewn about on the worn rug. He pulled one of the fluffy chicken-feather pillows close and leaned on it with his elbow. He...
I felt like a seed in a world where everything was destined to end and everyone was destined to die. I sprouted, I grew, I decayed, and I lay on the soil to die again, until I sprouted and grew and decayed and...
While reality was closer
With the effect of the first fallen word
I fell asleep, and
Then spiders kept my cave.
I waited for my slap
Accompanied by the prophets who
Do not tell a secret in their own voice
With their wise...
A little Eugene Onegin
A little rain. . .
A pistol getting wet at a duel,
The bullet of despair fired into the trees.
Long and meandering ridgeways,
“Let’s go,” says the Fountain of Bakhchisaray.
Through the foggy valleys have hied
The springs of unbridled times.
By the shadowy shores...
In plain English, the question of class has to do with money. Who gets paid what for what labor. In that respect, the poet belongs to the bottom of the economic totem pole. Each poet can do his or her tallying. Do you believe that you get a penny an hour for the numbers of hours you spend producing your poems?
In classical Marxism, income (and its...