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Thirteenth Marcos López Light Poem (Light Mix)

Cries
Of light
And spasms of

Light:
That’s the
Light of today,

The
Inside a
Light, the continuity

Of
Light provided
By light’s light,

Which
With stout
Light might be

Good
For ten
Years. Light Light.

The
Light this
Morning sings a

Light
Song. See
That light? It

Doesn’t
Light me.
What you see

On
My mouth
Is rigor light,

Is
The crust
Of my own

Light.
A blue
Light is nothing

But
Light: the
Sky sings Light

Light.
The cab
Light hangs a

Light
Ribbon from
His rear view

Light,
Won’t stop.
The brightest light

Lands
On the
White light. Who

Ever
Said the
Light was light?

It
Sounds light,
But it’s not.

You
Are so
Light, I think

You
Might disintegrate
In a light,

In
Unblooming lightly
White lights, one

By
One. More
Light. Somewhere behind

Me
There’s an
Orange light. Returning

Home,
The light
Found the sweet

Light
Rotting in
A light. Light

Again.
Light light
And light clinics

Mingle
With light
Light recruitment centers

In
The lights
Lining the boulevard.

I
Watch the
Light psychic depart

In
Another light.
Something light said

Long
Ago returns
To light me:

Everywhere
I go
I hear light.

Through
An open
Light I hear

A
Light mutter
Lights can go

Anywhere,
Demand her
Light. Light luck.

The
Fancied tendency
Of light to

Produce
A run
Of favourable light …

The
Light lines
Are humming with

“Light” …
Probably not.
See light’s uh/huh?

[Note: Sources: Cf. “Thirteenth Marcos López Light Poem”]

Thirteenth Marcos López Light Poem

Cries
Of expression
And spasms of

Eros:
That’s the
Man of today,

The
Inside a
Vacuum, the continuity

Of
Personality provided
By his suit,

Which
With stout
Cloth might be

Good
For ten
Years. Gottfried Benn.

The
Light this
Morning sings a

German
Song. See
That thumb? It

Doesn’t
Like me.
What you see

On
My mouth
Is rigor mortis,

Is
The crust
Of my own

Juices.
A blue
Moment is nothing

But
Soul: the
Sky sings Georg

Trakl.
The cab
Driver hangs a

Red
Ribbon from
His rear view

Mirror,
Won’t stop.
The brightest light

Lands
On the
White monument. Who

Ever
Said the
Sky was empty?

It
Sounds amusing,
But it’s not.

You
Are so
Pale, I think

You
Might disintegrate
In a snowdrift,

In
Unblooming deathly
White roses, one

By
One. More
Benn. Somewhere behind

Me
There’s an
Orange explosion. Returning

Home,
The shepherds
Found the sweet

Corpse
Rotting in
A thornbush. Trakl

Again.
Colon, rectal
And gastroenterology clinics

Mingle
With air
Force recruitment centers

In
The buildings
Lining the boulevard.

I
Watch the
Town psychic depart

In
Another cab.
Something I said

Long
Ago returns
To haunt me:

Everywhere
I go
I hear singing.

Through
An open
Door I hear

A
Waitress mutter
Tornados can go

Anywhere,
Demand her
Luck. Etymology unknown.

The
Fancied tendency
Of chance to

Produce
A run
Of favourable events …

The
Phone lines
Are humming with

“Silencio” …
Probably not.
See that thumb?

[Note: Sources: Gottfried Benn, “Fragments”, “Blue Hour” (both tr. Michael Hoffman); Georg Trakl, “Childhood” (tr. Michael Hoffman), “De Profundis” (tr. Robert Firmage). The Benn and Trakl poems are in Twentieth-Century German Poetry (ed. Michael Hoffman); Bruna Mori, “Bay Ridge (Brooklyn)”, in Dérive;  Marcos López, “La Argentina Pop”, in Marcos López: Sub-realismo criollo; Oxford Universal Dictionary. Photo: “Gardel and the obelisk”]

Twelfth Marcos López Light Poem

I’m
So tired.
Was I always

A
Panting rock?
Always these trembling

Nubbins?
Always glued
To this last

Ditch
Smile? Why
Is there a

Bear
With a
Bunch of balloons

That
Are losing
Their helium coming

Up
Behind me?
And tell me

About
That hideous
Pink and hideous

Green
Featureless building.
And that bank

Of
Lemony satellite
Dishes. No, don’t

Tell
Me. Put
Down your hot

Dog,
Darling. Nubbin’s
Not in my

Oxford
Universal Dictionary.
OK. OK. OK.

The
Inevitable calm
Is not descending.

Je
As in
Je est un

Autre
Went for
A walk this

Morning.
Je passed
A slatted fence.

The
Slats were
Really close together.

The
Light cast
Quick stripes on

The
Sidewalk. They
Made je dizzy.

OK.
Let’s try
To be silent

Now.
Just for
A while. Just

To
See if …
OK. OK. OK.

[Note: Sources: Archie Rand and John Yau, 100 More Jokes From The Book Of The Dead; Marcos López, “The Caracas Manifesto”, in Marcos López: Sub-realismo criollo; Ernesto Priego, “Silence”, blog entry, 28 December 2006, at Never Neutral; Oxford Universal Dictionary. Photo: “Gardel appeared at the picnic”]

Eleventh Marcos López Light Poem

1.

Are
Those pillars
Following me? They’re

Neither
Pillars of
Smoke nor pillars

Of
Fire. They’re
Plastic pillars. How

Odd.
The light
That falls through

The sky
That casts
Those morning or

Afternoon
Shadows isn’t
The light that

Illumines
My face.
That’s odd, too.

2.

I’m
Told (by
Whom?) that I

Was
The tango.
I’m told (again,

By
Whom?) that
Every morning a

Devoted
Following places
A lit cigarette

In
The hand
Of the life-

Sized
Statue that
Graces my tomb.

3.

Look
Over my
Shoulder. I’ve never

Been
In that
Concrete building. Like

Many its
Age, this
One has sealed

Windows,
Must make
Its own atmosphere,

Its
Own light.
But sometimes I

Hear
A / voice,
Small but musical /

Singing
And singing
Those green notes,

Drifting
Toward me,
From somewhere inside.

4.

My
Hair was
Perfect (not deficient

In
Any particular).
So was my

Suit.
I was
Not deceived when

The
Tailor took
Pains. I was

The
Tango … a
Bewitched, phantasmagoric reality

In
Which figures
Inhabit a chiaroscuro

Where
They disappear
And become ghosts …

[Note: Sources: Gardelweb.com; Luis H. Francia, “The Manong Chronicles. I. A Manong Meditates”, in Museum of Absences; Fernando Leal on Alvarez Bravo as quoted by Barry Schwabsky in a text concerning Daniella Rosell as found in footnote 8 to F. Javier Panera Cuevas, “Marcos López (Colour photographs 1993-2003)”, in Marcos López: Sub-realismo criollo; The Oxford Universal Dictionary. Photo: “Worried Gardel”]

Tenth Marcos López Light Poem

The
Secret is
To be silent,

Wear
Rubber gloves,
A shaman’s mask,

Gaze
Without blinking
Into the North,

And decode
What the
Wind tells you.

Don’t
Ask me
Why but the

Shaman’s
Mask must
Bear a strange

Resemblance
To the
Statue of Liberty.

Take
A tip
From she who

Wields
The blade
Of kali: allow

Yourself
To become
Possessed. Your inhalations

Are
Exhalations of
Another being. Do

Not
Wait for
The signal before

Crossing.
I haven’t even
Mentioned the light,

But
Your blue
Dress and your

Beautiful
Mouth are
Blinding. The billboard’s

Promise
Is blinding.
The apartments blocks,

The
Puffy little
Clouds that drift

Across
The you
Know what they

Drift
Across are
Blinding. Feelin’ all

Right?
Not feelin’
Too good myself.

Taking
Photos of
These photos is

A
Form of
Insanity. The yellow

Paint
On the
Nearest curb is

Chipping.
What is
That big white

Thing
On the
Horizon? The Washington

Monument?
Whatever it
Is, it’s enduring

Evidence
Of something.
Whatever it is,

It's
Sorta kreepy.
Maybe it explains

Why
Last night
I dreamt that

Kathy
Killed me.
With an axe,

I
Think … or
A big blade,

Like
A machete.
I didn't fight.

She
Had to.
We both knew

It
Was for
The good of

Humanity.
It had
To do with

The
Environment. There
Were no hard

Feelings ...
Weird to
Watch my last

Thoughts
Fade. They
Were drawn on

A
Blackboard, with
Circles around them.

Some
Were zeroes.
Some were names.

[Note: Sources: Michelle Bautista, “Kali Poetics”, “Year of the Dog”, in Kali’s Blade; Dave Mason, “Feelin” All Right”; The Oxford Universal Dictionary; Marcos López, “The Caracas manifesto”, in Marcos López: Sub-realismo criollo; a real dream. Photo: “Criollo carnival”]

Ninth Marcos López Light Poem

Sans
Head, sans
Hands, sans feet:

The
Only complete
Man in the

Industry.
Every molecule
Of his meat’s

In
Love with
The shadow of

That
Thing on
The pedestal. He

Wants
To be
It. It’s a

Mad
Love. Sans
Head, sans hands,

Sans
Feet, it’s
Like fighting ghosts

Of
The siesta
The colour of

Cars
Back in
The city. Every

Molecule
Of his
Meat sings: “I

Go
Home and
You’re not there.”

In
Physical terms,
They’re separated by

A
Blue iron
Railing. In physical

Terms,
Having intervals
Between is all

That
There is.
Every bloody whimpering

Molecule
Of his
Meat does everything

It
Can to
To avoid weeping.

Now
It’s time
To work with

Stock
Phrases and
Risk taking the

Obvious
Route: wideangle,
Background, social message.

Sky
That’s still
A little blue,

Sky
That’s still
A little blind,

Sky
That’s still
A little lacking

In
Intellectual, moral
Or spiritual perception

Becomes
Night falling.
It’s the only

Complete
Sky in
The industry. At

Least
That’s what
The tree that’s

Snuck
Into the
Corner of the

Frame
Is saying.
This is not

The
Season for
Bright-coloured fruit.

Sans
Head, sans
Hands, sans feet,

But
With a
Mighty amulet in

The
Shape of
A phallus … Though

He
Looks hot
The stuff he

Takes
Wreaks havoc
With his erections.

[Note: Sources: William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch; Barry Schwabsky, “Poettarrarorincouroac”, in Opera: Poems 1981-2002; Oxford Universal Dictionary; Marcos López, “The Caracas manifesto”, in Marcos López: Sub-realismo criollo. Photo: “Boca Juniors”]

Eighth Marcos López Light Poem

The
Subject, so
To speak, to

Speak
As if
There were a

Subject,
Is always
The same. Magician-

Grade
[Absolute black]
Velvet, perfect absorber

Of
Light … the
Perfect mirror must

Send
Back everything …
But perfect velvet

Must
Let nothing
Escape. That’s why

The
Subject, so
To speak, to

Speak
As if
There were a

Subject,
Is always
The same. The

Bus
Is painted
Red and white.

Even
The wheels
Are red and

White.
The bus
Appears to be

Empty.
The bright
Yellow lawn chairs

Appear
To be
Empty. Elsewhere the

Grass
Would be
A lawn that

Needs
Mowing. The
Sign says something

Is
For sale.
Maybe that’s not

What
It says.
Why is the

Sky
So blue?
Rayleigh scattering. I

Haven’t
Even mentioned
The shaved and

Oiled
And perfectly
Anonymous human body,

Sans
Head, sans
Hands, sans feet,

The
Subject, so
To speak, to

Speak
As if
There were a

Subject,
That hardly
Refuses to signify.

[Note: Sources: Thomas Pynchon, Against the Day. This poem fails to exploit any of the promised sources. What can I say? Photos: “The back patio” and “Boca Juniors”]

Seventh Marcos López Light Poem

Somewhere
Snow falls
In the mountains

And
The climbers
As the old

Song
Says are
Blinded by the

Light.
But here
Everything is sausage

And
Just a
Dollar ninety nine.

Do
You like
My smile? You’re

Moist.
Never til
This very moment

Did
I realize
The same is

True
Of light.
I thought the

Word
Was rictus
But it’s ricture,

A
Grinning or
Showing the teeth.

Like
A dog.
Trust me. Look

Me
In the
Eye. What is

A
Culture with
Its own identity

Like?
Sometimes I
Think you’re Gawain

And
I’m the
Grene Knight. Sometimes

I
Think the
World is all

That
Takes the
Place of how

Do
Normal people
BLANK? Maybe someone

Will
Open the
Shutters above my

Sign.
Maybe the
Room will fill

With
Light. What’s
That little cloud

In
The corner?
Now I am

Calmer.
It’s not
A hill. To

Call
A hill
A cloud is

Obsolete.
Now I
Am calmer. Trust

Me.
Behind my
Ricture I have

A
Mouth full
Of tacks. I

Do
Not exist.
Maybe someone will

Open
A window.
Is that little

Cloud
A crisis?
Nothing comes as

Close
(To the
Limit of the

Thinkable)
As that
Little cloud. Ricture

Picture
Fracture rapture
Rupture. Go

Dog
Go. This
Is a way

Of
Saying. What
Do you mean,

You
Do not
Like my hat?

[Note: Sources: Tom Beckett, “Moisture”, “Interruptions”, “The Nude Sentience”, “Vanishing Points of Resemblance”, in Unprotected Texts; OED; Marcos López, “The Caracas Manifesto” and “La Argentina Pop”, in Marcos López: Sub-realismo criollo; MS Word spellcheck; P.D. Eastman, Go Dog Go. Photo: “All for two pesos”]

Sixth Marcos López Light Poem

Keep
Your eye
On the ball.

Ignore
The man
Behind the curtain.

Ignore
The human
Being (irrespective of

Sex
Or age).
Some people still

Talk
Like that.
You must maintain

This
Rigid position.
For one long

Moment
All there
Is, all, there,

Is,
Is the
Terrible posing as

Light.
Who if
You cried would

Hear
You among
The angelic orders?

Light
Filtered through
And the third

Time
Around you
Saw the strings.

You
Live in
A world with

Other
People. What
A surprise. The

Wheel
Goes round.
You are stuck

At
The top.
It’s not night.

But
You can
Picture the lights.

Over
Time, light
Will leak out

Into
Likelihood. Over
Time, light will

Leak
Out into
An instance of

“This”.
Walk up
The steps. Enter

The
Trojan horse.
Your cheeks are

Unnaturally
Bright. The
Sky is unnaturally

Faded.
The horizon
Is lost in

Mist.
Get used
To it. You

Give
Me the
Yips. But I

Don’t
Blame you.
Life goes on,

Pigheadedly.
I could
Ask you how

We
Co-exist.
I’ve this urge

To
Dig new
Ground even if

No
Harvest ever
Comes from it.

[Note: Sources: Tom Beckett, “Curse you hay(na)ku …” and Crag Hill, “On the Wall” and “Cultivating Seasons”, in The First Hay(na)ku Anthology (ed. Jean Vengua and Mark Young); OED; Marcos López, “La Argentina Pop” and Valeria Gónzalez, “The Photography of Marcos López In the Context of Argentinian Art of the Nineties” in Marcos López: Sub-realismo criollo. Photo: “The Player”. I also play with Rilke and R. Crumb]

Fifth Marcos López Light Poem

Celebrity
Shades. Thumbs
Up. Free bibles.

Dead
Trees. Whose
Islands? Whose light?

No
One came
Here. Strange crystalline

Flashes
In the
Corners of the

Eyes.
We have
Marked each (     )

With
Signs. Maybe
The cactus in

Your
Throat keeps
You awake. I

Have
Never seen
A bluer more

Filtered
Sky. Clouds
Are water. From

Some
Sub-realist
Angles clouds are

White.
Dreams like
Water keep me

Dry.
I  have
To go now.

I
Have to
Put on my

Jacket.
I have
To step into

Winter.
I have
To step into

Tabloid
Light. I
Have to open

The
Last boxes
Of our wreckage,

The
Ruined fabric,
The festive multicolour

Outpouring
Where tragedy
Is proportionate to

The
Chromatic intensity
With which the

Third
Hand glamour
Of the parody-

Homage
To the
Discordant is displayed.

[Note: Sources: Ernesto Priego, “Maybe the cactus in your throat”, “Dreams like water keep me dry”, and “As I open the last boxes”, in Not Even Dogs; OED; Marcos López, “Creole sub-realism”, and  F. Javier Panera Cuevas, “Marcos López (Colour photographs 1993-2003)”, in Marcos López: Sub-realismo criollo. Photo: untitled, La Quiaca, Jujuy, 1997]