Jordan Kaye
Hope the summer season suits those who could be suited. Any feedback on this one is welcomed.
I was told by the conductor
that I had purchased a peak ticket
for an off-peak train ride,
and when we had bid each
our post-rush farewell,
I slipped into the many footed
transient oblivion of commutopia.
How was I supposed to know
about Armani Asphyxiation,
or a myriad of killer couture
clad puppets whose masters
are rendered muscleless,
incapable of enacting movement-
Particle to particle, pulsing,
panging, collision, which I guess
only I care about.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
I Killed My Plant
I killed my plant
Jordan Kaye
I killed my plant
while tending to yet another.
I killed my friend and his brother.
I learned to laugh again while leaning
on something holy like
the empire state or something.
I laughed and laughed as I
lent my gaze to the
cuerpos destrozados,
the flaccid forms of my kin.
Gunned down by yours truly,
they were teeming with neurosis.
These victims of mine
were teeming with objectivities-
observations far too fine.
I needed something holy- like
to lay my thoughts to rest,
something to silence and suffice,
to germinate my siege of the botanic.
The speechwriters, those fucking scoundrels,
never got the chance
to address the state of my union.
I killed my plant.
“I can’t come down,
it’s plain to see.
I can’t come down,
I’ve been set free.”
--J. Garcia
Jordan Kaye
I killed my plant
while tending to yet another.
I killed my friend and his brother.
I learned to laugh again while leaning
on something holy like
the empire state or something.
I laughed and laughed as I
lent my gaze to the
cuerpos destrozados,
the flaccid forms of my kin.
Gunned down by yours truly,
they were teeming with neurosis.
These victims of mine
were teeming with objectivities-
observations far too fine.
I needed something holy- like
to lay my thoughts to rest,
something to silence and suffice,
to germinate my siege of the botanic.
The speechwriters, those fucking scoundrels,
never got the chance
to address the state of my union.
I killed my plant.
“I can’t come down,
it’s plain to see.
I can’t come down,
I’ve been set free.”
--J. Garcia
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Reader's Digest, "Untitled Interview"
Jordan Kaye
Reader’s Digest
I used to do stuff,
I forgot to have fun, though.
Fun, as it was,
did not bother me much-
not as nearly as its lacking.
Its lacking, lacking, lacking,
yet longing lethargic impulses
prescribe a failure, hacking
away and the- bits of
dignified little me pieces
hail toward the ground,
with a smacking, hacking,
finality.
Loss of nothing and nothing more,
yet longing lethargic impulses
prescribe a better future for skin and bones,
twice as good as once before.
This is very rough and unedited... Reminds me of a mix between a Zen Teacher ans student's Koan exchange and something Ashbery. Please comment if so compelled!!
How do you want your yawn to sound?
Like, you know, something that's good, that just speaks and sounds exactly like how you want the audience to perceive what you're saying.
How do you want your breath to sound?
I would say like a screw being fitfully passed over a sea- weathered pane of glass.
How exactly does that sound?
Ssscrrreetchawath, wreth, erth, hask.
Take that and pitch shift whatever aural construction swiftly situated itself in the space betwixt your eyes—where you can feel the input from both ears meet in middle.
And just why do you?
Why do I what?
Why do you persist on insisting upon saying, doing, thinking in the precise way in which you do? Why does your (mind) feel so very safe with whichever operation is proceeding right now, sir, just why are you so safe?
What, why, I, do, just I know not.
I, me, yours knows a lot less than
she said.
Less than that’s what she said would be
a whole lot more dignified,
not to mention its initially taut moral
furnishings in a withering,
worn idiomatic wilderness.
Ok then.
Reader’s Digest
I used to do stuff,
I forgot to have fun, though.
Fun, as it was,
did not bother me much-
not as nearly as its lacking.
Its lacking, lacking, lacking,
yet longing lethargic impulses
prescribe a failure, hacking
away and the- bits of
dignified little me pieces
hail toward the ground,
with a smacking, hacking,
finality.
Loss of nothing and nothing more,
yet longing lethargic impulses
prescribe a better future for skin and bones,
twice as good as once before.
This is very rough and unedited... Reminds me of a mix between a Zen Teacher ans student's Koan exchange and something Ashbery. Please comment if so compelled!!
How do you want your yawn to sound?
Like, you know, something that's good, that just speaks and sounds exactly like how you want the audience to perceive what you're saying.
How do you want your breath to sound?
I would say like a screw being fitfully passed over a sea- weathered pane of glass.
How exactly does that sound?
Ssscrrreetchawath, wreth, erth, hask.
Take that and pitch shift whatever aural construction swiftly situated itself in the space betwixt your eyes—where you can feel the input from both ears meet in middle.
And just why do you?
Why do I what?
Why do you persist on insisting upon saying, doing, thinking in the precise way in which you do? Why does your (mind) feel so very safe with whichever operation is proceeding right now, sir, just why are you so safe?
What, why, I, do, just I know not.
I, me, yours knows a lot less than
she said.
Less than that’s what she said would be
a whole lot more dignified,
not to mention its initially taut moral
furnishings in a withering,
worn idiomatic wilderness.
Ok then.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Jawbreaker, La broma de las palomillas, and ship
Jordan
Jawbreaker
I have the feelings, the word seeds stemming in my head.
I’d like to make them sound pretty before I’m dead.
It’s easy at first, until you start to thirst,
for eloquence by the pitcher,
‘tis the primal itcher,
yes more, and more,
I do implore.
Give me:
One cherry pop,
two gum drop,
three sugar sticks,
and four billion licks
to get to the center
of what I’m trying to say.
La broma de las palomillas
Estoy afuera de mi tristeza
¿Puedo quedar aquí contigo por un minuto más?
No, nunca, no,
responden las palomillas, los grillos, el abismo
que me envuelven esta noche.
¿Hay esperanza en la nada,
La nada, la nada, la nada?
No hay una respuesta.
¿Sí viajo dentro del mar
Que queda entre ahora y
La muerte, entonces,
Te encontraré?
La piel salta de mi cuerpo,
cayendo, creando un charco
Sin fondo.
Sin fondo,
Mis posesiones perdidas, mis deseos interminables,
Infernales.
Estoy muriendo ahogado,
Hundiendo más y más en este afluente fétido.
La memoria incesante, eternal,
El agua con el olor y la suavidad
De tu caricia.
¡La decepción, la gran decepción!
Que me salgas,
Me olvides,
Para que yo pueda enganche mis manos alrededor
del margen de esta cloaca tan desesperada-
Para que llegue al refugio de este abismo infinito.
Sin embargo, las palomillas,
aquellos insectos putrefactos,
Se ríen de mi lucha elemental.
La certeza de mi disposición:
NADA MÁS QUE UNA BROMA SINIESTRA
Siempre, siempre una broma,
como la que sermonean los árboles,
Los niños, y tu mirada primordial.
Todo este va a marchitarse.
Todo este va a marchitarse,
Por fin, descansando debajo del mundo.
Por fin, todo sigue descansando debajo del mundo.
Y mi cuerpo destrozado, pero siempre respirando-
El abismo infernal.
ship
what lies within
its bowels
but You and i?
what lies within
its jowls
but You and i?
what lies within
its scowles
but You and i?
Also, if anyone's interested/ wants to perform , swing by The Cup on Thursday, July 16th:
http://www.facebook.com/inbox/?ref=mb#/event.php?eid=100518210822
Jawbreaker
I have the feelings, the word seeds stemming in my head.
I’d like to make them sound pretty before I’m dead.
It’s easy at first, until you start to thirst,
for eloquence by the pitcher,
‘tis the primal itcher,
yes more, and more,
I do implore.
Give me:
One cherry pop,
two gum drop,
three sugar sticks,
and four billion licks
to get to the center
of what I’m trying to say.
La broma de las palomillas
Estoy afuera de mi tristeza
¿Puedo quedar aquí contigo por un minuto más?
No, nunca, no,
responden las palomillas, los grillos, el abismo
que me envuelven esta noche.
¿Hay esperanza en la nada,
La nada, la nada, la nada?
No hay una respuesta.
¿Sí viajo dentro del mar
Que queda entre ahora y
La muerte, entonces,
Te encontraré?
La piel salta de mi cuerpo,
cayendo, creando un charco
Sin fondo.
Sin fondo,
Mis posesiones perdidas, mis deseos interminables,
Infernales.
Estoy muriendo ahogado,
Hundiendo más y más en este afluente fétido.
La memoria incesante, eternal,
El agua con el olor y la suavidad
De tu caricia.
¡La decepción, la gran decepción!
Que me salgas,
Me olvides,
Para que yo pueda enganche mis manos alrededor
del margen de esta cloaca tan desesperada-
Para que llegue al refugio de este abismo infinito.
Sin embargo, las palomillas,
aquellos insectos putrefactos,
Se ríen de mi lucha elemental.
La certeza de mi disposición:
NADA MÁS QUE UNA BROMA SINIESTRA
Siempre, siempre una broma,
como la que sermonean los árboles,
Los niños, y tu mirada primordial.
Todo este va a marchitarse.
Todo este va a marchitarse,
Por fin, descansando debajo del mundo.
Por fin, todo sigue descansando debajo del mundo.
Y mi cuerpo destrozado, pero siempre respirando-
El abismo infernal.
ship
what lies within
its bowels
but You and i?
what lies within
its jowls
but You and i?
what lies within
its scowles
but You and i?
Also, if anyone's interested/ wants to perform , swing by The Cup on Thursday, July 16th:
http://www.facebook.com/inbox/?ref=mb#/event.php?eid=100518210822
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