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ELISA GABBERT |
Blogpoem W/ Ellipses
. . . fixed my car. Kind of
miss the dent, when I see
the anti-hole where it used
to be. Where do holes go
to die? Their cemetery
sure would seem a waste
of space, all those graves
of graves. Can’t throw
any of the dirt back in
without crushing the holes
to another death. So no one
can mourn them again. . . .
I’ve started practicing
creative apathy. Can’t
spend all day in transit
among various funerals.
Everybody’s got the
same epitaph anyway:
Was Alive. Is Not. Tried
To Save Life Thru Not
Caring. Died Bored.
Blogpoem As Meme, Or
Blogpoem After Daniel Dennett
If it really wanted to get through to you
this poem would do better as an ant virus,
with DNA designed to make the ant think
I’ve fucking got to climb that grass
blade,
thereby facilitating its being eaten by
a grazing cow. Because the virus wants
to be inside the cow. Or thinks it does—
but actually it’s my virus in the virus
that makes it think that. My virus
is waiting for you to eat the cow.
That would be a great poem, because
while it was doing that I could, you know,
have a beer or work on my frittata skills,
or write the virus poem instead of
the poem about it.
Blogpoem W/ Blue Balls
Dude. How could you seduce me w/
your date-rape-drug metaphor, your
beautiful, your bisexual non sequitur,
& then make like a tree for the neon
SORTIE sign of our moment’s theater?
You missed a great scene: the fields
on screen just exploded into lushness
like contagious brushfire, like they’d
nabbed a horrifically gorgeous rash.
Now the moment’s over; can’t even
save the stubs ‘cause the tix’ve
been
digitized. But it’s all in my mind—
your bloodshot, your gut-shot eyes,
your phraseology all sibilant & slant-
rhymed like a pseudo-sonnet from
the Portuguese. DUDE. Your sweat
Chinese-water-tortures me, you make
my heart feel like a would-be Houdini,
etc.
Lousy Day Blogpoem
Was the end of a lousy day. Drank too much &
everyone agreed my emotions were implausible.
Once again I couldn’t prove the theorem,
once again I had no love for anyone or vice-versa
(anyone had no love for me). There was no art
on the train & then it never came, made me late
for my appointment with the firing squad,
my last disappointment. Day was a wash
but its poem was a sidekick that tried to cheer
it up. The day rode along mostly lost in thought
& the traffic had died out for the most part
& the poem was the day’s faithful sidecar.
Stuck around to listen to the fusillade.
Blogpoem after Walter Benjamin
Every time you reproduce a piece of art
you remove some of its aura & that’s why
your mix tape didn’t impress me much,
it was so fucking aura-less
but
in the film
version of the novelization of
this poem
I play myself but have fantastic breasts
& there are probably some blood baths
& also when my fangy tooth
catches
on my lip men everywhere crumple
w/ the ecstasy & agony of it & really
who needs aura in your movie when
you’re so hot it breaks people’s knees.
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