Clickable poem for the residents of The Distillery, who are fine poetry hosts in South Boston.

The Distillery

Dear Distillers,
you midnight gardeners,
thank you for the evening
guitars, thanks for all the
fine art, thanks for the
mighty ancient scale
that ticks off mysterious
Saturday night measures.

Six kids from Southie
drank beer on a street;
their nursery-rhymes
came to me cosmologically
as I watched from a window
in the Distillery:

big yellow scorpion truck
tricky stairstep backwards
golden sundown baked bricks
bulldog Boston boneyard

and then, the magic words spoken,
the night was over all too quickly.

Last night I dreamed of old brown women for whom impotence was euphemized to "canopy madness."

Canopy Madness

Usually your tent will pitch itself,
but when the madness strikes
late at night, and the canopy
has disappeared, close your
eyes and count the stars
on the back of your lids:
one is for you, two is for
your partner, three is for
the bed or sofa or floor,
four is for the stars themselves --
you can squeeze your eyelids so hard
and replace your canopy madness
with another madness; your tent
will be as wide as the night sky.

Mind You New England Soldiers:

I'll be reading in Boston next Saturday. I'll show you mine.

July 21st, 8PM
at The Distillery
516 East Second Street
South Boston, MA 02127
http://www.distilleryboston.com/

There will be a limited edition letterpressed broadside of my poem about librarians and sex available. If you don't know what all that stuff means, it's OK. I don't either.

Another poem about our teeth.

The Smell of My Teeth

My mouth is full of ghosts;
my infamous tongue
is covered in tastebuds;
my nose is generally insensitive.

A good set of teeth will never smell.

I have the forgotten mouth
of a mime this morning;
no tyranny will pass my lips
on the way in or on the way out.

Once I achieve the bathroom,
it will be all over
for whatever’s in there.

Man, my mouth is warm--
if we would believe the TV,
it’s like Vietnam in there.

Forensically, your teeth
will never misspell your name.

My mouth is like a little apartment
in my head; I clean it a little every day,
and it shines so gratefully.

Welcome Back!

Sorry we've been so far away! But we've brought you all the poetry and the pickin' that we've found!

Big Poetry Bonanza

Fishes,

Come on out to the Four-Faced Liar (165 W. 4th St.) tomorrow (May 26th at 2PM) for a big poetry party featuring assorted No Tell poets and assorted New School Alummmmns.

Drink specials will include Screaming Pygmies! AH! I am screaming just thinking about it!

Yours,
Shafer

NaPoWriMo 04.30.07 (Whew! Finished just in time!)

[not by me at all but by Jamison Driskill]

The Middle

Clever as cinder blocks,
Round as a Shafer sonnet,
Back in style once again,
On loan from the islands of paradise,
The much talked about,
The renowned and respected,
Uptown tonight,
For one night only,
Let loose from the dregs and water,
Salvaged from the ocean floors of Texas,
Setting the lake on fire,
Bubbling up once more,
Hanging from the edge
Of your bedroom window,
With room for improvement,
I politely ask that you use my proper name.

Call me the Shoeless Piper,
Or the penguin,
Or Jim.

I’ll not say a word.

Two Days of Peace and Shafer

Hi Fishes,

I am giving two readings this weekend in Brooklyn. The first on Friday at 7:30 at the Fall Café in Carroll Gardens with Zach Barocas. Full information here:

http://www.typomag.com/burningchair/2007/05/two-wild-and-crazy-guys.html

The second reading will be on Saturday at 6 at our beloved Abbey in Williamsburg. The Abbey’s at Driggs Ave. between North 7th and 8th off the Bedford Ave. stop. I will be reading with Amelia Jackie.

Much Love,
Shafer

NaPoWriMo 04.29.07

#3 unused poem for my little brother's senior yearbook ad:

An Acrostic for Dick (An Acrosdick)

Running well, like a new Tahoe or an old Trans Am
In the wide asphalt rivers of mighty Texas: Richard
Can host an afternoon party or a late-night on-the-road
Hootenanny (all it takes is two folks and an iPod,)
And when it’s time to go back to school, he’s
Ready for that too; not just a brother or son or future
Dad; lots of us think of Richard as all we have.

NaPoWriMo 04.28.07

#2 unused poem for my little brother's senior yearbook ad:

A Limerick for Dick (a Limerdick)

There once was a young man named Richard
who go-carted into a ditch, or
something like that.
His mom’s heart attack
is mended by law school with honors.

NaPoWriMo 04.27.07

#1 unused poem for my little brother's senior yearbook ad:

A Haiku for Dick (A Hai-kick)

blond big-wheel rider
your brown hair changed its color
summertime swinger

NaPoWriMo 04.26.07

Something Glorious (for Rachel Vanderweit)

We are very jealous
of the rusted oil drum barbecue pit
on the stoop across the street from us.

Particularly in the summertime,
with the leaves a-quiver
with the loud, loud music,
and every window open
in Brooklyn, my roommate Lucas
and I sit in our second-floor apartment
like two hungry cats in a cartoon,
all sharp teeth and drool.

Maybe if we could hide our incisors
they’d invite us over with a wave,
but we like the way the sun flickers
off all of this big yellow ivory.

NaPoWriMo 04.25.07

Clickable Poem for Alexa Vachon

French Canadienne Cowgirls
take great photographs,
I know because
here in Brooklyn
she has photographed everybody
from Dan and Joe
to Tom and Joanie.

From New York to Ireland
she's our sexiest pair of eyes.

NaPoWriMo 04.24.07

Ann and Lindsay Alone In Their Apartment

Ann and Lindsay alone in their apartment
is such a spectacular separate universe to me,
where whisky slowly props placenta
up into tents, and the Vino crawls on its claws
toward whatever books they're reading.

It's always such a spectacle to see yourself
upside down (through the eyes of each other)
reflected in a shorter mirror.

There are places in Brooklyn
where my mind will always be;
every Saturday afternoon let's go back
there long after the fact.

NaPoWriMo 04.23.07

Probability Criticism

The principles of Probability Criticsm
as propounded by James G. McDonald
in 1954: It's horrifying: Whole people
acting like individuals: a suggested
adventure: an inimitable way to voice
the traditional American repugnance
of offical positions: it's such a backwards
sort of admiration and respect.

Dear James G. McDonald,
Thank you for your telegram.
One day, deep in a library,
long after your life,
a lovely librarian
will pass your words along to me,
and we will love you so much
for a few more minutes.

NaPoWriMo 04.22.07

Lil' Johns in Low Places

Lil' John and I were in a low place last night
literally: Sputnik (down in the Brooklyn earth)
and figuratively: I was missing someone,
and Lil' John was smiling and hiding his eyes
and protecting his reflective dentures
from the camera flashes.

But a pixie picked me up;
and as I picked my way home
through the mighty Lafayette Gardens
project, my head was clear: no eggs
or foggy notions beset me
on that particular tonight.

NaPoWriMo 04.21.07

Spring in Your Head and Mine

Spring is in our heads;
our subconsciouses are capitalizing
on all this renewal:
a good time for mothers
and for towin' the mortal line
and for waking up feeling fresh.

NaPoWriMo 04.20.07

A Cooler Box of Crayons

Cooler even than crayons
are the cultures without color:
a Christmas Tree
is both like a spaceship
and like a frog;
a crouton is a postage stamp
married to a crust of bread.

And Kerri is Brooklyn mixed
with Shafer, and Shafer is
a firehydrant, and fire hydrants
hide in the labrador night
when peacock evening is over.

NaPoWriMo 04.19.07

Lake Minnewaska

Mind the map
at Lake Minnewaska;
it may be spectacularly
incorrect, and when
you're out there
on the black flint track
with no water,
and your raisin
of a brain has shrivelled
into a quivering
worthless fist,
never will you feel
like such an adult
and such a child
at the same time.

But on into quiet
New Paltz evening,
hike is over, and
you're rapping
with the waitress
at McGillicuddy's
about the curse
of the restaurant
industry (how many
times do townie bars
play Friends in Low Places,
anyway?)

And you've
expanded back into
a person.

NaPoWriMo 04.18.06

[not by me at all but by Jamison Driskill]

My New Best Friend

I took my piece of mind
From its Petri dish
And carefully placed it
Under the microscope.

In that very moment,
As I squint my eye
And watch its
Magnificent proportions squirm,
All things blood
And bamboo
Snuck into my bedroom
And laid themselves
All about
Like dirty laundry.

My teeth returned
To my mouth,
And the dust stood up
On my shelves
And window seal,
Ready for a fight.

I grabbed my pillow,
Preparing for impact,
As the door slowly opened
And a big brown bear,
Strangely familiar,
Entered the room
And DID NOT EXPLODE.