this sad little enclave of horses

Julian Talamantez Brolaski

of all the lines of all the subway cars in all of new york city
we walk into the one with a corpse
it just puts everything into prescription for us
as jason stackhouse says

alabaster turning into crystale
nantáa ndé telling me unsaddle yr horse
means to take off your hat

I love it when people use words wrong
like repertoire for rapport, like when
brenda said she had a good repertoire with her students
or cynthia saying she wouldn’t spend an exuberant amount of             time
or when nick says anything anymore

the elk antlers are blood-brown
if we can find them on this mountain
edith says she has found
skeletons of bucks who had died 
antlers entwined together

on the way to JFK you pass
this sad little enclave of horses

there was no way to assess the land, or the landscape
n/t was real about it.
perhaps by the sides of the railroads s/times,
a hint of the old ways

the river could be…a source of tension
a jackass painted like a zebra
from the ghost’s perspective it’s not humid
when bojack horseman vomits up all that cotton candy
long forgotten poisons
smallpox, ricin, the bacteria that causes
the plague

the way that crows remember
the faces of their adversaries

Louise Michel held sick horses in the street
Nietzsche’s last act
was to embrace a horse

the taxi driver who hinted
of his dark past in nyc
wiped his hands together in the universal
gesture of sloughing a thing off
 

More by Julian Talamantez Brolaski

if s/one is mocking let it be tender

                                 for T. Peterson


so what if the magistrate calls you dude
for all the petrogaff in helsinki
what is the idles, the ides to you
the hottest month on record


if s/o is making a mockery
& yew liable to get thwarted
one needs a quiet room
who hands out thir fucking pronoun paradigm at parties??!!


if s/o is mocking
let thir hart be tender
harted. if one can be
not-deformed.

elegy for kari edwards

                                for memorial at Zinc Bar, 23 June 2007, NYC

		I am your sugarplum fairy commodore in chief.
			—kari edwards

		conturbabimus illa.
                                (Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus 
		[let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love])
			—Catullus V.II

damesirs of fishairs
princes reginae
I don't need this botheration
guilded toe in a gendered pension
embedded narcissism
skirts can or could not be worn w/


intentional disgrace
getting oh-aff
I sleep where I sit
gog and magog
ope myopia


sweetness and delight do
it for sidney, as starlover did rue
on star, thir mistress cloying
the lack, with thir poesis toying


twill never hurt
regina prince
alack, areft
locks beset
candle agrove
a buck in a corridor


as like with likeness grace the tongue
and sweets with sweets cloy them among


conturbabimus illa
let us confound them


beasts implored and character impaled
agathas breast in a 14th century pincer anon
7 heads w/ 7 comings on
horns on their horns
wings at their feet and at their wings


well you have three seconds to live
bespeckled apprentice
freckled daylily
a penny uneasily
pleaded myrtle


iron bootblackening
at the speed
we levatate con
there is no missus
I am among


limbed elms
colluding with doves


nor tide nor tail
angels w/ svelte angles


the rub and tug goils
languid as jersey
too early for supper


etc was their pimp
and whatever their sucker
shitslinger
master cleanser


w/ corporate coffee
and torture pâté


my present page
in l-l-livery


old glut
of a beast's spleen
the glory over
lordling socked ajaw


nassau ablog
by fairly a sweepmate a swoopster
bedevilled in gullet
swashbuckld by proxy


homosexuality eh?
red river andaloos
funny albeit friday
all the dork-rock


gender suggests
we levitate avec
held captive
patrón, bothermonger


ah myrtle
why sie is taken
my mind
impertinent parasol


glossy wit promise of salt
caint leave thir cellphone alone
ipode eterna
satellite viscera


muscadetted papillon (that one)


strident
17 stallions
with horns on their heads
and horns coming out of the horns


a papillon
that one


a buck in a corridor
conturbabimus illa
let us confound them


all ridded of giggling
anthropomorphia aghast
DL in the bowries 
the tee hee ambigenuity
of amputee-wannabees


googling tee hee
silly faggot
dicks are for chicks
dicks are for chicks


wicked hee
to bury my heart at
my heart was in my knee

last swan of avon

socalled swan of avon
n/t but a beaurocrat
buggering the buttercups
goy from the waist up


now soldiers're the ones making offers
and fucking caravaggio posters
maybe the artist had bothered about melancholia


suddenly xe finds xemself walking down
some dark corridor


california was truly the promised land
for a minute there
video marlboro
to show us


shoppingcart in dingy water
and then turn melancholical


sign reads no squatting
switchd on the cathode ray
at yr coronation


the bomb droppd w/ regular monotony
leaving us wanting


        a to zed
dampened a grid


satyrical deliria
pan's ballet
in a black tutu


who have the inclination
but even whose   necromancer—
firelit but dried—
—commandeering meadows—
protests were pathetic

Related Poems

The Day Lady Died

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
three days after Bastille day, yes
it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton
at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
and I don't know the people who will feed me

I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun
and have a hamburger and a malted and buy
an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets
in Ghana are doing these days
                                             I go on to the bank
and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)
doesn't even look up my balance for once in her life
and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine
for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do
think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or
Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres
of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine
after practically going to sleep with quandariness

and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE
Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and
then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue
and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and
casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton
of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it

and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT
while she whispered a song along the keyboard
to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing