3 poems by DM Rice
One Moment on Twitter
Lacan Sans Contexte
You are an element
of the ceremonial
the big large
I’m just too
sensitive
just cuz a lizard
was too dumb
doesn’t mean it
deserved to die
dank o’hara
sonic is trans
he has a dead
name no one knows
Mining for Pyramids
it’s lonely at the top
burst from the ground like athena
from zeus’s skull, whole, corporeal
, bodies in plaster monuments of the undying
, platonic discordances of form, sparrows all
the way to corpus dilecti, pulled from the earth
as being : being being as the earth pulled from corpus
dilecti, all sparrows of form, platonic discordances
of the undying, bodies in plaster, corporeal, whole
like zeus from athena’s skull, ground from the burst
that leaves earth-mother gaping, alone
A Question of Canon
lily rose
pad of the pond
gardenia, beyond juts
of onyx, measured time
sinkhole
midwestern diets of iodine
lye carry snakes
here
in my
c a n y o n
overlooking carved figures
that breathe the name
you
carrion
swift-footed
hinterland black earth
obsession, reeds of
the marsh orchestral
crickets hackneyed
with experience a
barometer
of
restless ecstasy
hiding behind the pews
of the jesuitenkirche
with nietzsche as
the priests lock
the doors we
attend to a
holy ritual
enacting the resurrection of god
the long and countless course of time
revealing what is hidden then shrouding
what’s revealed
waking up beside proust
at la reserve, teeth still
chattering as the red
breasted bellhop arrives
with a glimmering silver
platter
nothing is beyond expectation
the strongest oath can be trampled
as easily as the mightiest heart
stealing kisses from frank o’hara
at the very boring cocktail party
in chelsea, if only to shut him up
about the inevitability of refinement
moving my legs into his, smoothing
my fingers against the marble round
of his waist
mine own heart was resolute once
though it has been softened by this woman’s word
like iron in the hands of a blacksmith
floating among the clouds with Franz K.
kneading our hands as we discuss our suffering
and how it is pale and impotent
in the face of the suffering we’ve caused
it pains me to imagine
my son an orphan
my wife a widow
at the mercy of my enemies
sitting in the bath, alone
apollinaire, myself, together
sitting in the bath, solitude
behind the well-meaning joke
‘You are not here!’
‘No, you are not here!’
‘I am not?’
‘You are not!’‘The tub is empty!’
‘Emptiness is everything!’
and now I must go where I belong
please, listen and know that even if fate
is against me now, I will soon be freed of this
misfortune.
by DM Rice