crumbled and rolled

mustn’t 04/30/2010

Filed under: readable — paperslightertext @ 1:20 am

i mustn’t send letters out
on their own to fend for themselves
balloons often carry omens

i’ll be well behaved:
i mustn’t think hot thoughts
without the cold shoulder to douse them

balloons are meant to be sling-shot
o slippery strings! o verdant, brassy horns!
your chorus calls me out, cuts down my sigh,
your chorus ceases my incessant whingeing why.



Filed under: readable — paperslightertext @ 1:07 am

half-scandinavian, strong willed and stomached
wickedly efficient hands ending in arms that tan
stocky, brothy, frothy, highly flighty
high-function high-definition in focus and zoomed
in on the great microcosm, tender and swift
papercraft and underwear, string and cord and hemp rope
fried eggs, potatoes, toast, a burrito with no wrap
rice and nori, greek yogurt and dill, salmon and lox
macaroons and memories of is that borscht? our house,
its visitors, crouched on the cusp of that little creek
where we caught fishes in the summer, guppies and toads-
my tire was flat, imagine that. i was always afraid,
because of your grandpa- that was years, though, now,
tears and a mountain of shoes, amen.


sleep less? 04/25/2010

Filed under: readable — paperslightertext @ 11:11 pm

I’m the apple of your mother’s eye:
Bashful, painfully demure, the dainty-skirt
Chanteuse. Whose bluesy sigh,
Whose paper-craft, inefficient flirt

Wields a bossa nova? Besides a samba, astride
the ancient floorboard, peaberries ground under heel
stain the wood world-weary. On Sundays I confide
Only belting Astrud’s Aguas de Marco makes me feel

My voice, my piecemeal act, might merit applause.
Hot faucet’s mislabeled cold, & mum’s the word
In which case I won’t underline the clause
that states when I withdraw, unearthing the bird,

Or de-boning the worm, or debunking the myth
That I want any more than an intellect-fueled tryst.



Filed under: Uncategorized — paperslightertext @ 4:02 am

Platonic Love
(A poem by Curt Anderson)

We dine at Adorno and return to my Beauvoir.
She compliments me on my Bachelard pad.
I pop in a Santayana CD and Saussure back to the couch.
On my way, I pull out two fine Kristeva wine glasses.
I pour some Merleau-Ponty and return the Aristotle to Descartes.
After pausing an Unamuno, I wrap my arm around her Hegel.
Her hair smells of wild Lukacs and Labriola.
Our small talk expands to include Dewey, Moore and Kant.
I confess to her what’s in my Eckhart. We Locke.
By this point, we’re totally Blavatsky.
We stretch out on the Schopenhauer.
She slips out of her Lyotard and I fumble with my Levi-Strauss.
She unhooks her Buber and I pull off my Spinoza.
I run my finger along her Heraclitus as she fondles my Bacon.
She stops to ask me if I brought any Kierkegaard. I nod.
We Foucault.
She lights a cigarette and compares Foucault to Lacan.
I roll over and Derrida.


villanelle (royal we) 04/05/2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — paperslightertext @ 1:40 am

(If We) Let liquid being weave what’s in between.
if We certain Cat-eyed precursors prevail,
We run the risk, reduced to smithereens.

Indulgent cards, all reversed in Queens
with Judgement in the middle serving scale,
We let liquid being weave what’s in between

Our experimental nouveau haute cuisine.
Whatever witchcraft that sauté entails,
We run the risk- reduced to smithereens.

We never miss a chance to miss what’s obscene.
Our graphs are accurate and never fail (though
let liquid, being, weave what’s in between)

Careful, now, not so cavalier. We’ll come clean-
If We forget we’re truly frail,
We run the risk- reduced to smithereens.

Perhaps sentient smithereens feel quite serene.
If so, We won’t into that good night gently wail,
Let liquid being weave what’s in between,
lest we run the risk- reduced to smithereens.


may in april 04/01/2010

Filed under: readable,silliness — paperslightertext @ 11:09 pm

oh god- they’re coming
of age all around me
overflowing in their MGMT
marinade, added MSG
and visions of seafoam green
aeroplanes-over-the tom-faced boy
right arm raised in a salute
to jeff mangum and look! i just
name-dropped stephen fucking malkmus
like conor oberst. all laughs aside, it’s just

him too, who knew? the joy of neutral milk hotel
he felt my feelings when he felt the chorus swell
the sparkling sputter and the waterpipe’s bubble
trespassed through open fields. he made his name on brick
& she was west, a well-blended Vespa-blessed sunset-

never dressed to caress, always prime for exploring
one girl, the city, her bike- that boy, some paint pens, the like-
bored by my letters, so fawning, adoring!
the Object- the daydream- the nice boy, the art dyke.

and i, in my oldish cap, youngish next to all of that,
pressed up like a photogram- flattened by a few odd years.