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This is What’s Goin On

April 29, 2011 by LUmansky

 

This is What’s Goin On

   

A jerky feeling                      a rampage              wrenching & wrestling        enveloped-in  always doing the doing;     the doer does as the doer does                             the backdoor              

the “outdoor-electric”  

 

 

I always bring the raw         though raw could mean belonging   the story is inside the cracks       the narrative bits                       symmetrical; parallel;                            adjacent; geometrical        

                                                       all eyes can see it 

so much is withering.

 

 

this could be a: catastrophe or eucatastrophe

 

 

In the story is a ghost;                      behind the real world; behind the worldliness or wordiness there should’ve been craving a  searching for the elements  for the renumbering                                                                                                          or the re-numbing

 

 

If we could trip the shutter           refocus   recombine the heads for the             perfect effect the auto-touch           realism    hyper truth.                          No matter what you name it             

It’s mine.               

 

 

At the heart of my appeal would be this.                   Would be this                       Would be                                                                                             

 

                                this            –            this          would                    

 

and         this  would             and this mending and unmending and unnecessarilied truth.

        

© Umansky 2011

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Why O’Hara Would Have My Back

April 20, 2011 by LUmansky

Why O’Hara Would Have My Back

                                                So many beauties.  and  you thought New Yorkers

                                                were so friendly so hospitable; so open so kind.

                                                You thought this city was great for  bicyclists,

                                                but that we had a poor program for garbage 

                                                removal.

(You bet, we do !)

               

Why, out of a city of so many girls, did you have to turn up the charm on me.      

                                                                                                                        Well, you did good!

Maybe next time, you’ll actually try participating

For the Love of God!

                                                                                And maybe you’ll try to have a little heart,

Maybe learn to express yourself even at your ripe old age.

We all do bad things, but you were afraid.                                   (of what, you’re asking: that I’d scream at you?)

How pathetic!

Why that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard — what are we prehistoric?

                                                             Do we not have words and intelligence?

 

Man is still so dumb-founded and fruitless with his thumbs.      

 

                                (though, you actually used them with purpose)

 

If I had to hear one more time about how you can see the Empire State Building

from your window,                                              well,

                                                                                                I’d slash your curtains.

I’d make your bedroom the brightest of all the apartments on 2nd avenue.

                                then,                       (are you scared?)                 then,

 I’d take all of your earplugs, and have a street party down below.

                                                                I’d pirate your sanity.         

I hate the way you’d gloat shit like:                                                 

                                                                                                                “I just ate a whole avocado

                                                                                                                while you were washing up.”

 

Yes. Yes, that’s terrific.                        (what are you, five?)

It’s true this is the City that never sleeps,

                                                                                                but I know how to knock myself out.               

 

I am done with the miserable.                                          

                                                I hope you enjoy the hellhole of the East Village at 3am.

Let the:

                 fire-engine screams and ambulance sirens

                forever deafen you; 

 

                                the fights of homeless people down on the street corner

                                forever frighten you;

 

                                                                the wafting of Indian curries up your fire escape

                                                                forever suffocate you,

 

                and the conversation about “growing a set”

                forever haunt you.

 

We pay a lot for who we allow into our lives.                 So Long!

                                                                                                                                                     Farewell!

   

© Umansky 2011

               

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Trans-Relation

March 31, 2011 by LUmansky

Trans-Relation

1.

We don’t have the familiar in English. So, let us not be familiar. We don’t know each other anymore. No universals will align these universes. We’ll fragment the story. Water it down.

Does this help:  all you have said never was.

“poof”

The truth can be distorted.  History can be shaded.

Imagine this as a tableau:

::all is frozen::

We are allegoried. Another male; another female; all organs; all breath; all wonderfully sure. There is always a predecessor; a stretched-out lie; a triptych-ed implication.  And, well:  Love.

2.

You handed it all to me.    The man said to place  the paper in my hand. He said I was to receive it. No lifting; no heaving; no quick gestures; I was to be plain. Dormant. You did your part  you did and it was deliciously free and it was, it was, still steamy in my palm.

You see, this is a study in motion, You moved; I levitated.

I didn’t mean to open wounds.  Every story is another story; another tainted-tale. A ridiculous fable; a  heightened anecdote; a marriage of words. Now, tell me the real story.  Jump back a few years.

Try to communicate.  Stick to the truth and stay there. Stick to the truth then stick it.

Not every story is worth its words.

        

© Umansky 2011

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The Thick of the Real World

March 30, 2011 by LUmansky

The Thick of the Real World

In the thick of it all, it is always the women.  The muse to the flame; the untouchable; the staple of our self-help culture.   We combine the masculine conventions; we fold it over neatly; like a shirt in a drawer – carefully to nip the creases before they cause a fold.  We try not to be melodramatic;  planting our heroines in attainable truths; compostable flower-pots.

We are a conflicted genre: a hybrid of long-suffering and  va-va-voom.   Forget the familial betrayals; what fits the description is the un-sparingness of the breast.  The way it nourishes and patronizes [doesn’t it?]  So many stories about women in houses; women out of houses; women in and out of love – we should open a shop and fill it with Kleenex and booze.

It’s not a mystery – being female.   We are all uncloistered now: free.   Use us sparingly before we  become less-honest; indecent; less-sacrificial.   In the thick of it all:  there will always be a longstanding attraction here in our shape and form.  There is so much youthful enthusiasm in every woman’s pinky. Watch me call you over.                                         Watch me.

© Umansky 2011

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This Could be Fabricated

March 10, 2011 by LUmansky

This Could be Fabricated

Don’t  want to know what happens.

Larger than life; epically grand. Just give me the extra mile ! If you call it a

____________, it’s a _________________. You define what is familiar. Don’t

the homophones all sound like “you.”   Make me:                      everything.

 

*

Here’s the story:


We always bring inside us:  a meal; a meal of light.  Above it; beneath it; in the stars it is still larger than life – ahhhh those night-rafters. The way we hide in the truth; the way we hide the truth; the way we think we don’t fragment it, but we do and we do and we do and we are scattered like the pearled shine on a  scaled-fish. Haphazard and jigsawed; candy-colored and pastel-ed.

 

                                 ::forget what this all means::

 

I want to divide predecessors; staunch the wound – Enough.  Enough!! I will reduce the desire to reduce. Will change my vernacular; will change the gaze and the glare; re-direct the night onto something readable. [Readibility is over-rated] It’s in the doing; it’s in the making; it’s in the believing in what is fudged-over; mistaken; forgotten or forged.

 


*

It is all just a function of time; of heart-light.            Here, this is what melds things; what glues and sticks.  Look past the steel still frame. Past the beamed-heart.  Past what is passed.

© Umansky 2011

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It Started Like a Red Herring or a Poisson Rouge

March 10, 2011 by LUmansky

It Started Like a Red Herring or a Poisson Rouge

Much like a grand dragoon took me; it was a curious sentence: a place; a heart-thump; a gasp. A kind of heroism; a game of sorts; the way glares are thrown; feet, tippy-toed; ears perched open. There were no mechanics; no informatives; reformatives;                                 (even superlatives)                         but there was this on the surface.                                          The surface of things. It contained what we cannot say. A matter-of-factness; an isness.      How is this happening? If you want to be technical, then yes, it was with words and music.                                                     The body has music; and the voice:

I love your voice.

[too early to say love?]

It does something. Not sentimentally; not emotionally, but logistically. I don’t want analogies for this – goodbye connectors – just face the lyricism. We were moving together only knowing names, transactions, but then the lights went off:

drifting in       …          and out,            of acoustics;

clefs and trembles; trembles and clefs, and then I was my own creature.       I carved something there on Bleecker; then Macdougal. We left a spark burning on the backbeat, and I felt the reverb; felt the hum all with a lifting of hoods in the cold winter air; then came that heat on the corner                                 and when I say it felt good;                                                                      it felt good.

 

© Umansky 2011

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A good conjunction is “but”

March 10, 2011 by LUmansky

A good conjunction is “but;”

However, “can’t” could work, but then we’re knee-deep in contractions

which interests me in terms of the way you contracted                     this

cutting off words like a fireback

*

The not-debate is really romanticism versus realism

If this were

If this were

If this were

a game                                                                    (which it’s not)

then, we’d have to choose sides and pieces.

And what about these woulds?

*

It’s not as easy for us.                                      I pronounce words.

(maybe, it’s not as easy for you) .                                           In the imperfect world; this worked for you.

To really do it again; to come back to this (though why would I want to)  – would require a “re.”

As in revenir; or retourner, but there will be no reconnaissance,

What about these woulds?

*

No matter how you permutate it

would is still an “if”

a rounded trunk; thick with history and age; full of sap; ragged and wind-torn and ravished; bitten-at.

would is still felled –

Sorta closed

Sorta gnarled

*

Can’t you see?                                                                                  I’m a careful manager.

I’m brave enough to be stunned,

but, never stunted.

 

© Umansky 2010

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I. AND THEN IT CAME UPON HIM THAT HE WOULD MARRY HER AND SHE WOULD BE HIS LIFE.

March 10, 2011 by LUmansky

 

I.             AND THEN IT CAME UPON HIM THAT HE WOULD MARRY HER AND SHE WOULD BE HIS LIFE.

 

The woman occupies the supreme position: a songstress; a slave; a harbinger.  

It always comes upon him. A slight wonder coming. A coming.  A wondrous a-coming:  that he would marry her.  Her.

 

“Marry” is so close to maritime; so close to maroon; so close to martyr.

  (the implications delicious)

This was drowned. No  flotsam or jetsam.                                                           

It was meant to be murdered; marooned; dinghy-ed along.  The larger vessel was love.  The larger vessel was love. No wonder if carried or towed; towed or carried – I was the supreme one.

I was the larger vessel.

I controlled the wondering.

 

II.           THE DOORWAY WAS NO DOORWAY.

 

The doorway was the night falling. A slit or stirring.

Would you still have wondered all those abouts?

maybe a-slightened wonder;

 

a glorification;

a plagiarizing.

Remember:                                                               

I was the transfiguration.

 

III.         THE MEN WILL DO NO MORE. THEY HAVE LOST THE CAPACITY FOR DOING.

I am still a romantic. I am still a romantic. What is not-done or not-doing is undone. What is not romantic is just wrong. What is not- wondered is past.

The left past. The  left stampede.                                                             

…yes…

You were rabbeted. Burrowed. You do with the hind-legs something post-humanistic. You gnaw and gnaw and gnaw but lose your sense.  There is no nomenclature for what is left, but the left-husband. The one who wants to do.  Who wants to do. Who wants.

 

He was her ________________.

He was her ________________.

He was.

 

          

© Umansky 2010

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anatomy of

March 10, 2011 by LUmansky

Anatomy of

If this had a mouth; it would seal itself; steal itself, meal itself into tomorrow. If this had a foot; it would ground, round or pound its way into tomorrow. If this had an ear it would pitch itself lowly, bellow beholdingly into something piqued and spotted.

Don’t say we fought, because we didn’t, my mother says in discussing my long lost wedding.

If this had a hand it would suggest love, tenacity, passion, but inside its palm would be a reddened sore, permeable; permutable; a plumped perm.

I will admit the role I played.

If this had a backside, it would be stopped-up; dumb and pained. I did not want to let this go.

If this had a hipbone, It would swerve and slither and beat itself up into your palm; beating and beating and beating then meeting, fleeting, retreating into  that hollow that would be this’s heart.

        

© Umansky 2010

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A Deep Fantasy

March 10, 2011 by LUmansky

A Deep Fantasy

Learn not to notice this. As soon as you becomes  we – there is the “run around.”  The wish remains less romantic then, or more so. The fantasy; the relish[ing]

 – I am not into condiments–

the slavish nature of the thrill.  I could just plunge into it: 

 

                                                                               STAB STAB STAB,                   

I reach for the mental; I capitulate; I fully dress and:

                                                           Voila!

You are served.          

                                                            Never, entirely useless.

[Never, fully-supported, either.] Just saddle-bagged and saddled.   

                         I might find a way;     find myself away                                             find my

self.

 

A one-on-one kind of thing.                            Engaged; monopolized; patched and stitched. I can figure it out. Sound it out.

So when he’s like  _____________________!;                                           

  I’ll rise up singing.

 

::watch::

© 2011

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