Poetry And Grief II

Thanks to poetry,

the final image of my dying father has begun taking inventory of the thousand words its worth,

and soon,

when the memory begins to blur at the edges and fray,

I can stick these words into the cracks to maintain the illusion

that some things

never die.


-JV

The First Poem Of Your Set

The first thing to know about performing poetry is

that if you don’t know the first thing about performing poetry 

you cannot expect that you will be able to discern whether the audience is enjoying themselves or not.

2

Oh yeah, these lights 

will throw sand in your eyes.

3
From behind the microphone, there will be gobs of eyes to set you in stone,

so you would do well to assume the dust and carved hardness of a loveless room and
keep moving.


4

All the cuties in the house are formulating

poems about failure 

with your face in mind. And

by no means should you expect 

the other performers on the bill 

to rally the crowd for you from the back of the house.

The others 
are wall-flowering in judgement. Or 

they’re in the ecstasy of words you didn’t write, connecting 

with mucus and tendon all the signifiers you left in the void.

[Poets are like that shrimp that has more optical cones than you: they 

see in patterns you cannot know,

and, being shrimp, they couldn’t explain if they wanted to, 

though they do,

and so they are always furrowed masses of malcontent, sexy 

in their villainy of language, spied on

by science, and the normative sex of 2 things alone. 

And no more.]

But also, some of the performers have the simple seeming of 
dopes who are doomed to bad metaphor and zhuzh - 

either way,

5
poets are not to be trusted.

The sixth thing to know about performing poetry has something to do with sincerity. Unless
you’re really cool.

Seventh Thing- You are not a stand-up comic, unless you are, 

in which case you will be. Good for you. 

And you may ignore the previous instruction. Unless 

you are very good.

Eight:

Your heart will be crushing the hand 

of your throat in anticipation of flight
or birth.

9

And finally.

A thing to know about performing poetry is that if you are persistent or lucky enough to get a gig, or if the venue is desperate enough to host your shit, 

Fail.

You could be a lobster or a tree for no reason at all, but you, 

Are a poet.

-JV

Uber Driver

I was wondering who "Jo" was, whether
It was a boy or a girl.

I am Jo and
I am neither.

...Well as long as you pay me, I
Don't care what you are.

-JV

In A Crowded Restaurant

In spite of how you've
slowed in old age,
the delicate glass
fumbled
clumsily from your fingers
Falls
as eager as ever.

JV

The First Workless Morning in Months

Sitting for 30 minutes. Or 10 minutes; Or 5 minutes, there is the severe silence of something happening in the box of your head regardless of you.  Sally would speak of something soft and painful to the left while the right is making up images of lost cocktails and opportunities.  Someone’s worried in this room, using your voice to describe it, but its not as simple as simple and not as solid as self.  Self is upon the shelf while watching.  Watching is what happens when you listen.  Listening is glistening for a moment, then splashes into the tumult of time.  Time is sure to make sure of itself. Besides, time is wallpaper, or an ocean, and either way we’re fish.  And by the way, suffice it to say, the head is far less head than a splash of flesh and limb. Dumb meat. Miraculous meat.  Meet meat for the first time every time you sit.  Meet meat and no longer wish to eat meat- unless you do.  In which case you will.  

Will will not wish for less - unless it does.  Then you can never get enough less. And this will hurt you.  Having had as much less as most want, the child with your name sits bitter in the corner, while, under the weather, your better half is sinking sadly without your help to save her.   Undercover of lover your self does savor the feeling of loosing its self-full fervor.  This will hurt you.

It will hurt you not to see what is trying for you to see it in the box.  It will not be happy with you when you try to clear your mind.  It will not be happy with you and you will notice it or you won’t. It will ask you to look away from its dusty corners which are actually sinew and moist. It will not be satisfied until you’re the same thing again.  It will suck you until it won’t - in which case it will mope around or fizzle out or burst or smolder. All of which can be shapes to see.  All of it is a soft suggestion.  All of it will say something about the origin of something - none of it is type-face.  It is the ping of cold metallic meat.  It is miraculous meat that has a tone of its own in spite of self.  It is mostly meat though, that speaks of hands and feet.  Mostly meat for sex and safety.  The other stuff is true and trite and will make for a great novel someday.

-JV

December 19th, 2016

I’ll feel you when the rain comes, Papi,

I’ll listen for you on the breeze,

And someday soon I’ll be singing you with my own voice

just as soon as I catch my breath

JV

Reel

No sound.
An otherwise empty room.
          TV Screen:
Tight-shot on your face:
Cropped to your ears chin and hair.

At first, in the silence, your face will twist
Into the expression indicative of receiving a strong reprimanding from the viewer.

Then, it'll seem as if you had just locked eyes with the love of your life,

Then, suddenly, you'll look as though you've discovered a poop,

Then, very slowly, your face will gnarl into precisely the expression that coincides with watching Walt Disney slap his ass while
Licking an ice cream cone that your mother is holding
Up to his lips while
She slowly lifts one leg
And plays the kazoo.

JV