official statement by and about a poet named chi chi
this is an official statement. i have never proffered an official statement before mainly because it is stupid. but also because i have no talent. then it occurred to me that that is exactly what it requires. not that this was any kind of revelation, it was more like a resignation. i am now ready to stand before you and announce, “my name is chi chi and i have no talent.” now since i have no talent this will dwindle to a whimpering end. it will not end. it will just give up in despair.
this is the second paragraph that chi chi built. it is not his/her best paragraph and it is not his/her worst paragraph but it is a paragraph and that is done.
on the third paragraph chi chi said, let there be levity, and things floated for awhile until they gave up and became brutal reminders. this reminds me of a story. i have now remembered the story and have laughed loudly. i will not relate the story because i have no talent.
four times now i have gone to the refrigerator and brought back nothing. it was not for nothing that i went but it was with nothing i returned. it is because i have no vision but i sure am hungry.
yet i will forego the finger in the throat of my pain. over the years i have reused part of that line at least five times. of course that is to be expected because i have no talent. the ‘forego(ing of) the finger in the throat of my ‘anything’ is mine. i like it. you cannot have it. ©chichi
six bunnies were bantering. the first bunny said, how much for that hat? the second bunny said, what hat? i don’t see a hat. the third bunny said, you can have the hat for a joke. the fourth bunny said, that’s no hat that’s my mother. the fifth bunny said, anyone can live in a hat but can you chop off my foot and make a key chain out of it? the sixth bunny said, with this hat i can rule that part of the world that has no fashion sense. and he did. a tip of the hat goes to winston in baltimore.
this is the seventh and final example. i. it. the. things. bah.
the cretic
the cretic, for the critic, in a couplet,
with counterpoint in conventional denotation,
as r.s. crane proposes,
in Ictus Delicto,
is best iambic
to avoid hyperbole.
metaphorically, mellic poetry, sung or danced,
arrange strophes in triads
but i would not want to try that here.
it’s much too dangerous.
pattern poetry, with perfect, true, or full rhyme,
in sestinas measures out at perfect time
but that gets butchered like little pastourelle kittens.
where o where is a home for one like me?
byunnys
i like byunnies hip hop hippity hippety hip hop bunnies are cool and taste good too i like buynies to run and romp they really chomp them carrots. Whenever i see a buny i go hip hip hippety hop hop and chop them into little pieces. they have fun they are bvunnies and run all around my yard. they have tails and ignore my snails they are bunnies on the run. they do hip hop too. chewy chewy bunnys all around they are what comes out of what comes out of the ground. yumm.
keeping you abreast of my day
last night
nefandous preteristic tankling thru my window. when i rub my ears it hurts. i am most cowering, scrawling my will with neologisms.
this morning
noology came ther my winder. “suck you bus”, it sert. “ip so sub u burb”.
around noon
my agent comes bearing grafts. it is a causal relationship.
night fall
i am a squeaky little mouse. please help me. i will save you.
worms are eating my shoelaces
every one of us must kill a lazy moment
a former principle, a tenuous grapple hold
so i killed bunnies
how dare bunnies forsake me
and not bring me candied eggs
i will obliterate them all
this is not a poem
i am not copyrighting it
you may use it but be careful
the bunnies you kill today
might be owned by
fred the fine fella
who lent me his umbrella
i held it aloft at the bus stop
and met bunny
she’s employed
i have an umbrella
delete
rafty, syncope
hoggerel doggerelhoyden avoidin
mecroodle my glock
thesmothete this
i’ll sycomancy your figs
some writer communities say
“lexiphanic dwarf
graveolent scroggling
your skintle songs
are trane.
bad
bad
bad
bad
bad
tittup gangrel frotteur.”
aubade no good
too much beeswing to be beswink
my name is elmer thwang
cynathropy frolics in my family but then we’re greyhounds
i’m a bilch
i married my first bitch, the whiddler zori maker
have i already told you this story?
these were woodsy folk
and i’m no ballhooter
i was had by lobola
and married the ugly daughter, fewmet
she could cook while i slank with mabby from her father’s cellar
she made me a fly swatter made from the tail of a yak
i began my career as a martext but
before long i was as you see.
the bodach
it begins with formication with an m. look it up.
you are all closed in with the fear of potoo.
i do not explaterate. this is all pertinent.
you and zorillo are hankin, popping corn
in the fireplace and sharing a colletic snifter.
this ain’t poculation or mungo.
this is the real deal.
the conchers are restless.
this portends ill.
the chthonic moreta of man’s last leap
don’t concern yourself about it
he runs with the hodads
don’t we all at first…
plonk, the french revolution, carmagnole, and you
the mimp and the pschutt lost
these are not pom poms
these little epigerms
put that away
don’t you know
it’s not polite to care?
send your snake mail to
mephistopheles
my construction blocks
are in a pile
i lost my suspenders at sears
i live in a bee hive
my name is bruce
ferdinand muggins reads the sunday paper
he logoleapt in
disappointed at every turn
the musty smell of the finance section
advice from miss rixatrix
editorial erectarines
cornobbled funnies
tales of brave pulissis
she walks in many angles
torn from sequence
the precipitous mouthing of
sweet basils
not smelled but smiled
bear the beginnings of something called me.
i’ll turn on a green light when i hear my mouth say something i truly believe.
here it comes now
it speaks in circles of parapraxal bunny shoot
when finally her angle appeared direct to me
i struck.
monoglot
y’all
bablo yerfroota – poem and first paragraph of new biography
bablo yerfroota (1934-2003), whose real name was nefertiti picado roland bassanova, was born on 14 June, 1934, in my own hometown of nalga fina, chile. his father was a runaway impressario and his mother, who died shortly after his first taco, a boarding school matron. some years later his father, who had by then moved to the town of phlegmuco, remarried doña trini lopezverde. the poet spent his second childhood and dotage in phlegmuco, where he unoriginally met barbarella mistaffe, head of the girls’ aquatics center, who took a liking to him due to his soppy sentimentality and breast stroke. at the early age of fitty three he began to contribute some articles to the semiregular “writeThis”, among them, entusiasmo persevaricator – his first publication – and his first poem “Horsies”*. In 1999 he became a contributor to the literary journal “Readlers Dijest” under the pen name of Bablo Yerfroota, which he adopted in memory of the Czechoslovak poet Slom Yerfroota (1834-1891). Some of the poems Yerfroota wrote at that time are to be found in his first published book: Corpuscularius (1999).
*The coffee she is a centipede:
hear how she gallops
through the sea, through the sky and in glue.
She wants to buck me: listen
how she works the phones to get me to Pasadena.
Hide me between your thighs
just for christmas,
while the hearth pounds
against chimney and esophagus
its santa claus spit.
Listen how the grandfather clock
calls me to digging a hole
to take me to Venus.
With your hairlip on my spectacles,
with your chapstick on my ear,
our booties tied
to the fireplace grill,
let you pass wind
and me not pass-out.
Let the wind rush
crowned with burrito,
let it call to me and seek me
barumpa bum bumming in the shadow,
while I, sunk
between your broadsides,
just once this holiday
shall tootle, my love.
