Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Chris Pusateri

Poem Four (Musée Picasso)

I remember crying
            in the reflection of
the mirror
           I remember

I despise hats. There were many hatted women
in paintings I liked, (I remember)
three women
           at their toilet, an interesting choice of words.
(I would, I remember, have translated it differently).

I remember a black boot, very clearly,
          then a reflection of memorable blue.

A vase of flowers, universally designed.

The clay wore pajamas fashioned from maps, its language UnEnglished,
           its continents blurry. It’s not, but my memory is,
blurry – disfocused. Small Asian child doing poses, that to her
are not poses, are not even
the memories of yoga, I suppose.

I remember the light
and how much less yellow
it was when I left the room.

Because of the blue, because of the difference in translation, I remember.

Different, yet again, because
of the distance.

My memory takes notes
as if this were a test, I ember
in memory a remembrance,
a glow

I wish had been only Picasso,

but was instead
Rosenberg, Apollinaire,
woman as cello,
           mute, Google-proof.

Three from When Jazz Was The Capital of Alaska

The device would like you to wait.
The device would like you to continue waiting.
The device now has information for you.

Sometimes you wish
for something lighter
than sad maroon
or the subatomic black
of matte glint finish,
the suicide,
the infanticide,
the affliction

This is where objects sit
and await their destinies;
they are calm, almost stately,
with a feeling of quiet insanity permeating them,

unable to perish without nature’s permission

The edges fray first

Like there’s any connection
between good posture and moral rectitude.

A certain fractal
that colors as it turns, the pinwheel, the matter, the coming together

He uses one font for expressions, another for speech

Only his eyes are smiling

You don't want
what I'm hiding,
says the mother bird
as the   fox      draws near

What we
to find
to be found

Each time you spoke,
a document was created

The present is nothing more than anagrams of history

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