Vous êtes sur la page 1sur 42

Early Poems: 1998-2005

Second Edition
Adam Fieled

Early Poems 1998-2005


Second Edition

Credits
American Writing: A Magazine Icarus In New York
Hinge Online Prince, Disappear, On Love, Hamlet on Pine
Street, Technician of Tough Love

Many Mountains Moving (online) 4325 Baltimore Ave.


Seven Corners On Jazz
Sirens Silence Clean

Clean
I gave myself an enema the other day,
took some antibiotics.
Thought to myself,
This is really the poets
place in the world
not sitting in some pasture,
not smoking in some bar,
not fucking someone lovely,
not courting Gods or Jesus.
No.
The poets place
is kneeling down,
naked,
with something
or other
stuck
up his ass,
in a desperate
attempt
to get
clean.
April, 1998

Prince
Wesley wore silk pajamas
he looked very regal,
planted before the floor TV.
I would sit next to him,
waiting for the ugly nurses
to feed us our pills, and take our pulses.
He told me about his car,
his mother,
his buddies the catalogue
of adolescent normalcy
and you wouldnt think
he was schizophrenic,
listening to him speak.
In fact, I thought
he was a prince,
Albeit one who was,
like most princes,
at the mercy of his servants.
May, 1998

Disappear
The bleached blonde shook
the two white bowls together,
one atop the other,
making a Caesar salad.
Another bleached blonde, my
girlfriend,
watched me watching
this meticulous process.
Dug her engine-red
nails into
the sweet secrecy
of my inner thigh,
Saying, wordlessly,
If you think thats
a good trick,
You should see me
disappear
sometime.
May, 1998

4325 Baltimore Ave.


Jason cooking flounder on a filthy range,
picked up at 40th & Walnut where Penn students
mingled w/ artists, Chomsky-ites, bums, mothers,
where French bread for two bucks wed carry
around for walks home down rustic mansiond
streets, fish-waft filling lovably threadbare
kitchen laden w/ mustard & crumbs gone
Marys Acme pesto pasta, Olive-oil Goddess
shed make a pot on pot in a pot & wed
have a bowl from the pot watching hot
French-flicks in the vivid living room, gone
paintings, Marys evocations Dionysus & Apollo,
Jason post-Dali post-structuralist Dada &
Derrida derived violences, submitted to smitten
PAFA judges winking secretly at Jasons tight
ass, Marys too, they screwed, we screwed, we
all were screwing each other secretly, tenderly,
flecked w/ little chips from falling ceiling, gone
parties on green-awningd porch, weed midnights;
butt-smoke, frost-breath, gun-stocked West Philly
cops stop to shock us w/ looks, putting no
cell-bar cramps on druggy St. Steven, gone
moments later Id drag Mary into her woodfloored torrid bedroom & open-door fuck
her, hoping Josh & Kevin might spy
us, one time on whiskey Marys diaphragm
got stuck inside her, I felt it, fucking her,
we laughed, Marys hair then was
long down to her ass, raucous, gone
Grace, Jasons grace, a minx of jinxing, she from
rich Connecticut knows Salinger reads my poems
at parties makes snot comments, silver-belted,
out on the back porch in October wind we stood,
Grace, raven tresses Heaven-breasts innocent
sex, girlfriend who had Jason by the face, ass,

I made scathing Spears comment everyone


hissed, instead we put on Stones Kinks Elliott
Smith, Josh who played music, gone, now w/ Sara,
jailbait date stealing cars & kisses, back-seat
caresses blonde tresses sun-dresses, troublestarting, Kevins dread on my head, gone
Kevin dumb chimp we called him big beast of
a man writing bad songs doing Ritalin lines
raging through nights fucking Diana, gone,
moans that broke us up, Oh Kevin Oh Kevin,
waitress of the hunt, Diana, blank stare, no cares
or qualms taking alms from everyone, doing
laundry, Diana & me in lust discreetly, doors
open, Bohemian dream-time
apogee everyone hot everyone fucking, painting
making music, boozing, drugging, sucking, humping,
leaning on nothing but the nights promise, always
more night, another line, another ride, time
to find out food, hues of mood, clues of color, love
shape, O Lord we were the crux of ourselves,
our nexus the nexus, our moment the moment, all
now reduced to ash, nothing but a shut window,
a fiery memory of an open one
June, 2004

Front
To have a front is to be faking it
though its this we use, when we want to prove,
there is no love love isnt making it.
Though pain is dross (we must be shaking it),
though the fight isnt fun, (nor does it soothe)
to have a front is to be faking it.
The world is a bank; to be breaking it,
we sit tight on all fronts, to make our moves;
there is no love love isnt making it.
Money is the king, well be raking it;
it is this we worship, and this we choose
to have a front is to be faking it.
Knowing no doves, wed rather be snaking it,
and our souls in the fire; hot, it stews;
there is no love love isnt making it.
If love were a drug, wed be taking it;
we want the pill that were loathe to use
to have a front is to be faking it.
There is no love love isnt making it.
Autumn 2004

Combing Out
we were in english class, next to being next to
each other.
a matter of adding a porch or rolling in mud.
she said to me: youre caring
sounded to me like: youre a fairy
that hair became a kind of relic, the way
a once-used metaphor might (in its it)
leaving high school was a volta im still
combing out.
combing out with merediths mud-brown hair.
combing out with merediths mud-blown hair.
combing out.
leaving leaving high school, another volta
now, becoming a once-used metaphor (out & out)
that way is a hair-relic, me a heretic; her tic
sounds to me like: youre a weirdo
she said to me: youre a weirdo
a matter of adding peach or rolling in hay
with each other.
were in a separate class, late for the next one.
Mid 2005

To a Diner Waitress

You were not born to mind the counter


at Petes Famous Pizza.
You were born to be an Italian peasant
in a thick black skirt.
Id walk w/ you along dusty streets
of some green provincial town.
Wed lay making love in a field,
your skirt hitched up.
Youd have a child by me as I
was off fighting World War I.
Then Id be dead and youd take
other lovers who were also me.
You were not born to mind the counter
at Petes Famous Pizza.
You will always be to me as you were
in those rolling verdant fields.
You will always be to me Demeter,
scattering grain from your hipsheft.
With every corned beef club, I come closer
to the essence of your sorcery.
With every side of fries, I come closer
to encompassing your cleavage.
You were not born to mind the counter
at Petes Famous Pizza.
Spring 2005

fantasy interaction with bjork


She crouches in green
wilderness, a sylvan
sprite, tongue
lapping rain, tattoo
exposed to humid
mist & heat.
I take hold of her
firmly, hands
feeling flanks,
teeth gnawing
neck, fingers finding
spine, wedged between
legs; she squirms,
writhes, surrenders
to the ancient
pulse of dripping
leaves, swaying
ferns, moist
earth. I ease her
onto her back
and come inside her
Autumn 1999

White Light/ White Heat


Lou spews whirlpools of junk-puke over grimy expanses
of East Village loft, grasping his Gretsch w/ fingers like
needles, feeding back carcass-stacks of stank-ball squall,
humping his collegiate-clean dystopic-dream lysergicscream haunches against concrete dank-secreting wall;
John (throttled at the edge of static-panic, lapsed scholarship schoolboy, stiff earnest-drip shoulder-chipped
art-mensch) pounds resounding third-rounded absurdisms from his keyboard, shudder-rippling behind shades
like Horatio watching Hamlet create more things in
Heaven & Earth (magic-tragic turkey-wracked Jew-Lou
waving his textual bi-sexual word-wand over shit-windowed walls), Sterling (Lous chord-swallow lick-mellow
pick-darling) lets winsome Beatle-bangs fall in his eyes,
Virgo-nerd flying tight, word-silent but evoking jagged
miniature Pollock-plots of red edge-lead, direct math abstraction bridge-reaction ledge-approaching dread-encroaching speed-promoted blood, glowing protein-splats,
shattered from canvas by Mos garbage-truck stark-asfuck thunder-thuds, female-engendered texture-bends
breaking wave-like over dark-din anti-silence; city-collision in shock-sharp car-part fuel-fart mule-heart oil, cru
dely refined; blinding black & white stag-movie snap-shots, hot wig-wearing dick-sharing eye-glaring girl-guys
getting & giving head, erectile tissue explored in miniscule detail, deep-throat gambits, shaft-licking side-swipes,
nut-sacks tea-bagged on shag carpets, intense semen explosions leaving greasy sludge-stains, also smearing lips
& faces, mixing w/ pill-highs, gin-depths, sleep-deprived
contests of who blows best, knows best; bathroom minibattalions tying tourniquets, biting off ends, fixing works
(spoon-cook patient moments contemplating junk-coming
Elysian ecstasies), further red-dropper squish seconds before final plunge-thrust, fulfilling Oedipal lust, Mom-cunt

in needle-point vein-stitchery; twitching of nerves, bitching


swig-sounds from the living room; Lou bent over, rectum
loosened, accepting phallus imperious intrusion as he pukes
groaning bloody mucus into the deep-shitted bowl, his hands hip; its God, or maybe isnt, directing anal in/out peristaltic ocean-flow (drainage drone audible behind grimewalls), entrails burning w/ New York concrete essences,
upper-cranial snot-drains as John drops ass-dissonance
(thinking avant-garde revenge, correctness of murk, inner/
outer alignment) into the entropy of snake-body being;
Sterling lets open strings ring, bends the fifth arrythmically,
tasting the taste of no-taste, the vacuum sub-stench of
deaths final abyss, as a bathroom-boy collapses, needlearmed, needing nothing, complete, feeling free in the
swim to deaths other un-mother still-thunder gut-chunder
shore, final spittle-remnants flecking his chin, leaving
puddles on tile, shit piss & blood, mingling w/ living-room
semen, picture congeals & Andy says okay cut
Spring 2004

Icarus In New York


if Icarus fell out of the sky
& landed in Times Square,
miraculously, so as not
To damage his body,
would anyone whirl
To witness the event?
shorn of melted wings,
would he take to begging
among the petty merchants
& hustlers? Would he
find his feet and run,
sprinting down Fifth Ave.
in a headlong push towards
oblivion? Or jump off
empire State, a suicidal victim
of his own need to fly?
perhaps hed make peace
with the poverty of winglessness
and apply for work
in the New York Public Library.
perhaps hed take an apartment
in Chelsea, furnish it rococo.
perhaps hed run for office,
become a private pilot,
take his sons on flights
over the ocean, heedless
of the suns rage, remembering
only promise.
July, 1999

Hamlet on Pine Street


A hammered elder took me aside: "Try your skill on each
girl; hone, develop your skill; but prepare yourself for solitude
nonetheless. Never let your eyes linger longer than a minute."
Petty Polonius
left me leeching cigarettes outside Dirty Frank's.
Ophelia, beer-breath'd, bleary-eyed, laid a cadaverous
hand on my lap, plummeted into streams of Scotchgood night, sweet lady, good night. Leeches
lingered on our exit; jealous teeth, yellowed of nicotine.
Gentle Rosencrantz tried to turn a trick; Guildenstern
did a monkey-dance. The reign of despair
consolidated itself with the arrival of battered
Gertrude. The night wasted away; my fortunes
waned outrageously.
Autumn 2003

Technician Of Tough Love


Puzzling your way back to nothingness
you must be; if the Void is an abyss,
to conquer it in life is impossible.
There is a blessing in ritual,
but it is all on this side.
Your private treasures I never knew;
beyond the Indian drums (of which you had
a collection), was there something,
some book, some record, you prized
above all others?
You were a technician of tough love,
collected hearts; had a passion
for Chinese herbs boiled down
to the root, to retrieve essential,
healing strength;
ministered weary angels
needing succor, familiar w/ your tongue,
your breath, the beating of your heart.
Saintly, to feed some soul's need
for flesh, nectar, sanctuary,
oblivion;
now its death's mystery
from which you can't escapemaybe. I profess & confess
utter bewilderment.
Remember lunches
at Essene, 4th Street, the crutch
of good caffeinated coffee, conversation,
a few hours rest; was eternity
there, watching you, waiting silently
to bear naked flanks
to your moribund pleasure?

Who can tell what world


will fit a restless spirit well?
Summer 2003

On Love
What is the essence of a too-brief kiss?
The rigor of reaching the thing-in-itself,
from subject to object, chaos to bliss,
our frail intuition of heavenly health?
Our love is not molecules, dumbly colliding,
nor is it knowledge, formal and static
nor is it accident, reasoned and plumbed
it's real, meta-rational, soaring and gliding,
felt like an earthquake, bringing up panic,
taking our parts and achieving a sum.
The greater part of love is sacrifice
flesh intermingled, tensing and tingled,
this is the secret I learn from your eyes.
Giving my body, knotted, single,
tiny eruptions that come from my tongue;
plunging down surfaces, slicking the flesh
thoughtless as leopards or hurricane winds
watching you shudder, watching you come,
rapt in the throes of an innocent death,
giving my life to an inch of your skin.
Thus, we trade in secure oblivion
for reckless reality, messy and fleeting.
Such is the cosmos - creation, carrion,
motions of molecules merging and meeting.
Nothing is lost but notions of self-ness,
hard ideations that close and clatter,
rages of ego that strain at their walls
nothing is gained but a sense of the deathless,
"there-ness" of spirit, "there-ness" of matter,
ultimate "there-ness" that scares as it calls.
Summer 2003

On Jazz
Physical beauty, Formal Rigor of God
spiritual beauty, Economy of God
Natural Will, Transcendent Will,
Facile Will in all its dismal there-ness
Piano broken chords breaking down space
like watching bits of paper collect,
contained in a 12-bar blues; root
notes you tend to lean on,
or maybe a honking minor third,
a harmonic multi-colored sharp
Follow your compulsion into flurries,
clusters of connecting phrases,
then a pause to sanctify as the progression
resolves after lingering on the fifth
for the appointed time
pentatonics mainly w/ some suspensions,
sheets of sound, trademark leaps,
like watching a rainbow erupt
out of the placid bowels of street-lakes,
sparrows in the gutters,
Eliot-esque alienation syncopated
impossibly high & mighty
Repeat the repetition now into major scale
Ionian gold, major-third suspensions again,
almost midnight for tremulous trees,
also hipsters, flights of birds, rabbis
in the wilderness as blues ends; heres a quicker
quirkier jarring bit to cut
your teeth on
Base bottom notes natural like ferns,
ride the ride cymbal like musical fellatio,
roll w/ rolls & kick-drum ejaculations,
what Hart Crane heard in bridges,
only blues (so bridge seldom comes),

stasis achieved nicely replicates movements,


bowel, kidney, heart-beat, daring snare of lip-ness,
thickness, quickness,
get it all out for all of us into the brick-laden city,
mutter of exhausted midnight buses
as vibrato notes shiver, miniature
solos on the toms creates energy
of emptiness among the weird abundance,
concluding w/ roll on the snare, now bass
also investigates metaphysical space,
not so much implacable as inexhaustible
eruptions; spring of autumn,
autumn of spring
Seasons of balance, compromise,
away from extremes; Middle Path exteriorized,
oh piano on a minor seventh which bespeaks
longing for a more ethereal world,
elegiac as the last apple of October, eaten
by a Halloween camp-fire, beyond blues
of Earth into cadence, dying fall of pure moon,
ravaged, torn from the throat of persistence,
mute existence destroyed completely
and on fire, a universe of fingers & mouths,
looking down the tide of Death into eternity,
square-shouldered & erect,
freezing into whims of Ultimate there-ness,
beyond ordinary notions of quotidian abyss
in one long sitting pow-wow peace-pipe corn-cob
wholesome dinner of Voidness,
but insinuated only to drive away singularity.
Jazz is plural,
they give you a space, show you its contours,
allow you to move around & drown
if you want over hilltops of remorse, created
by Love or dolorous longing & especially
Central Parks of the soul & intellectual Bordello
life cut & pasting its bleak outline over rooftops
& bluebirds

Autumn 2002

Brooklyn Song
I.

The sage drops a bottle cap


on subway tracks,
clanking & smudging black
w/ its brightness;
A new-born lion roars & moans
sweet Brooklyn blues
to the literal void
of afternoon traffic,
smoking gumballs
w/ a martyrs air
I shit out an intestine.

II.
I loaf in yr basement,
smoking hash & drinking.
Its too late for death
to besmear our unfrozen
contentment, fresh
as we are for the morning
III.
Strawberry perfume serving somebodys purpose
only to make a pretty smell
on the blank page
of our bodies
New flowers sit
Buddha in the
middle of the
moving picture
frame

IV.
Is love what well
remember, or just
melded dreams?

New York Sonnets


#1
It is 12: 35 p.m.
hello Dan
who merges left to the Last Drop
and the Vivarin rides green to Trenton
weve grown! now picking up/discharging
Brianas breath spent money
emergency exit lift this bar
or at least the tender
constant fear of self watching selflike Carruth or open fields in New Jersey
is Mars in my twelfth house scary?
(he that is high can decipher
hieroglyphs begin with us)
it isnt what the federal law prohibits
the poem is dream transportation

#2
The Vivarin rides green
grey ghosts upon the banks of the sky
(thats my job over there)
available dirt in the form of a mountain
Brianas breath spent money
New York for the sake of unity
hello Dan
it is 12:35 p.m.
whose collage in the Last Drop
or at least the tender
the only change is finger in mouth
pull body fully and push here
in the limited bliss
constant fear of self watching self
hieroglyphs begin with us

#3
In the limited bliss
the only change is finger in mouth
O the beautiful elms are aching
and her last name goes by,
who merges left to the Last Drop
Coffeehouse, in other words why
whose collage is limited bliss
hello Dan
for the sake of our unity
homing birds flap flutter
grey ghosts upon the tender
the moon in the constellation lion
Brianas breath spent money
(who sleeps a square, unaware Im
in the limited bliss

#4
Grey ghosts upon the trees
O the beautiful elms are aching
weve grown! now picking up/discharging
graceful catalysts, round and fine
forgiven my only traffic ticket
twin towers in the distance!
New York, for the sake of our unity,
I offer my concession
through the blasted road comes blackness
or at least the tender
tunnel vision, democratic
Brianas breath money spent
it isnt what the federal law prohibits
thats my job over there;

#5
Against the backdrop of eternity
choking victims celebrate the season
forget it, forget it, forget
hello Dan
23 hours have passed
an irritating man pressing buttons
I think Bukowski would hate me
of course we dance in threes
the crushing faces anonymous
Brianas breath
who has a kite in her chart
to have the sex of good tidings
for the looney movie later
betray your bed with bounces
the stick, the notch, the fire

#6
23 hours have passed
the stealthy yellow pill drops throbbing
into the dust-begotten subway
emergency exit lift this bar
smell of peanuts, 14th Street
against the backdrop of eternity
who can say no to structure?
enough money, breath, Briana
two New York virgins playing tart
continue to evade me
I think Bukowski
or at least the tender
losing leverage is inevitable
how can I shrug at Atlas?

#7
The printer, the poem, the page
the I-Ching threw me a loop
gradual progress, stagnation
continue to evade me
Gina, how could you
with bounces, the stick, the notch
the crushing faces
constant fear of self watching self
grey ghosts upon the banks
in limited bliss
O the beautiful elms are aching
Coffehouse, in other words why
the stealthy yellow pill drops throbbing
23 hours have passed

#8
I sit and think
the nausea haunts me and gnaws
like Carruth or open fields in New Jersey
pulling light from politeness
with bounces, crushing faces
the stealthy yellow pill
Gina, how could you
connect nothing with nothing
in limited bliss, continue to progress
stagnate, the dust-begotten subway
of course we dance in threes
I offer my concession
Twin towers in the distance!
and her last name goes by,

#9
its 3:00 a.m.
and fiendish!
I dont know that Id flip much
a five foot three spotty degenerate
hello Stevie in heaven
the face of God is small as leaf
with bounces, crushing faces
like Carruth, open fields in New Jersey
fermenting sky over Central Park trees
I ran around the Village with Lenny
following the process, processing
an excess of shared lollipops
in Dan Bakers collage
nakedness affords us praise
like a cab sent down, 14th Street

#10
of this magnificent flare in the gutter
where sirens move into Long Island
she sounded half-asleep
now the bed is made, maiden
I wonder did the orange juice come?
which of course is fiendish!
Brianas spent mad money breath
hello Dan
hello grey cat
you tremble then sprint
following the process, processing
(he that is high can decipher
or at least the tender
stick, match, fire into the dust
begotten emptiness

#11
What was her name-dropping hook?
at the Music Box on Avenue B
with Michal the Girl going crazy
running around the Village with Lenny
constant fear of selfcreated grey ghosts upon the bliss
in the limited bank
metaphysical combs pluck angel hair
like grease like grass like butter
following the process
the great grey morning grows ghoulish
emergency exit lift this bar
O the beautiful elms are aching
this is all so natural

#12
for gay kids, it really has
is it death, is it mmmm
I saw a dancer in Union Square
and my grandma on 96th Street
supposed to change everything
being flagrant isnt flaking out
unless youre sprung from Death Row
constant fear of limited bliss
following the process, stagnating
what is the excess youre excessing?
watching Bjork get hung
Im hung for her
and I stand by bodegas
in the screaming cold

#13
I swirl at the center of myself
as simple as a sick rose
Brianas mad I freaked
spent breath restricted areas
winter walks bitterly dressed
upon the grey ghosts
perched like vultures in Port Authority
chattering chattering chattering
George wants a mist of white horses
but gets the Pink Pony again
down by the Luna Lounge her breasts
clutter my cock like clockwork
this is not so natural
begotten emptiness

#14
What the hell kind of name is Degan?
rather make fun than fuss
O the beautiful elms
who flap flutter to the Last Drop
hello Dan Baker hello grey
in limited bliss I tick
her breasts like clockwork
smell of peanuts, 14th Street
grey ghosts upon the banks
still before noon shes nude
and we falter for hungry Christmas
and I still love her
the stealthy yellow pill drops throbbing
into the rushing bliss

#15
the Devil peers out of the Holland Tunnel
joyous and informal
like the high-begotten balance of Empire State
among grey vans and spires
the windy sky a desolate sphinx
throw out your cell phones!
chattering chattering chattering
the poem is dream transportation
craving distinction, I turn my face
to Gina, how could she
stick fire notch burned beds
O the moaning is marvelous
(feminine marvelous and tough!)
may the breast man win

#16
The lines slide down like orphans
to assume a parented shape
am I a humble bootblack?
or is their truly no succor
to be sucked from her
sturdy brown thighs
a sirens secrecy in the silent night
sad to end on a stiff note
but I fell, fell, feel,
& left her wet w/ orange juice
an excess of shared lollipops
ran around the Village
bleak like the tip of her tongue
and I still love her
Adam Fieled, 2000

***cover photographs taken by Mary Harju and Matt Stevenson in


Philadelphia in the early Aughts***

Centres d'intérêt liés