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Ben Mirov


These poems are collages of sentences I felt compelled to write. The sentences come from a lot of different places. Some are from the feedback loop in my brain. Others come from the mouths of friends or strangers. A number of them are about events that have happened to me or people I know. Some of them were about events that happened around me as I was writing each poem. Some of the sentences come from my TV. Some of them are totally made up.

After I type the sentences on my computer, I like to mess with them so they seem more interesting. I mess with some of the sentences to make them less interesting. I leave some of the sentences alone. When I get the feeling that the poem is done, I don’t mess with the sentences anymore.


Fog Machine

I feel a little dew beneath the window. I will never walk there. I wouldn’t want to be my own argument. I remember being approached by a professor beneath a lime tree. That was a beautiful moment. The desire to be drafted into the Army Against Death was everywhere. People were taking TXM. I was in an orgy but couldn’t get it up. I have no other name for the Eye of God that was looking away from us. Incrementally, I found a way to live with myself. I drove a hybrid. Ate locally grown greens. Large philosophical thoughts eluded me. I’m learning to tell people what I want, who I am. I never got a job at a bookstore in Berkeley circa 1995. I felt my excesses were paying off. It gets easier every day. What’s the use of groceries? A lilac object bends to touch the light. The typewriter is eating a poem. That seems appropriate. What will happen next? It’s raining out. Put on your shell. Let’s grab a bite to eat. The seasons are coming awash in the smell of basketball. Send me your pictures of the Albany Landfill, I’ll put them in my ‘zine.


Ice Machine

One thing leads to the next. I can’t look at a tree without waking up. I don’t even want to mention my X. Traces of twilight cling to my beard. I crave the attention of cloud-machines. Why is dream better than think? I yearn to feel the exhaustion of the escalator? My waves go out and never return. My waves go out and never return. I find no inspiration in quasars. I step out my front door and hear the music of cars. I eat a sandwich in a land I’ve created in my mind. The pain of the last one, unable to find me. The archer in the screen, the starlight in my spine. A ship floats across the leaves. I peel off a disguise. I peel off aqua marine. Further down Van Ness, a briefcase appears. My lungs are spelt lings. A ghost in my writing hand. The promise of nothing in my pen. What kind of university is this? A leaf falls on a shadow. A TV flickers in my heart. Snow-white my disintegrating voice. Bone-white my tablet of air. Next up, the fourth ventricle. And then, maybe hydrophobia. The wind in my hair, the rain in my eyes. The days tick by and go unnoticed. A suit of armor does no good. I can never touch the same breast twice. I can never revisit a forest.


Wave Machine

You should never call me Little Man. Nor should you call me Red Heap or the Elegant Tooth. I am practicing Pitonk, day and night. This will be as difficult for you to hear as it is for me to say. Every leaf is a listening device. Every tree is an excuse for glass. Every page in my dictionary is black. I turn to the page where portal should be. Please address all your letters to the Lone Wolf. There is no other way to put it, I am combing the Earth for sacred fleas. Do you have a hand in this? Have you tried the Cote de Boeuf? Today is laundry day and I’m pissed. A light beam scans my brow. Do you know what I’m saying? Do you ever feel horny? Are you passionate about dominoes? I know I’m wasting away. There must be a better method but I can’t speak. I‘m wading through English like a ski-bum. There’s a tree in my mind and every night I climb it to see Allen Ginsberg’s face. Once in a field of my own composition, I came upon a young couple sleeping. It was a wonderful feeling. Purifying and debasing all at once. I left my sleeping bag by a tree.


Think Machine

I can write this all day. I buy shoes I’ve been thinking about all day. Things go on and trees. I roll over my hard-on. It’s cold and damp. We make out until I stop talking. Do you want my long drawn out opinion? Not in love with it. Less Lolita and more Shopgirl. I don’t know how I got my hands on it but it was a waste of my time, fersher. Whatever it is it’s a plank. I don’t fuck around with laces. It’s time to think in small discreet packets. He looks at me like I care she’s on his lap. Who folded the blankets? I barley understand Old English in the kitchen and some crackers. It makes her look dikey. So this is why people come to the Mission. Can they drink? Can we be more uptight? Can we listen to New Order? I’m filtering down. It’s the best movie I’ll see all week. Next week is the boat. Please let him know that I am interested in all types of writing that might be called poetry. I need an intelligent woman to read a story. Why do I kill you? I feel the same way. The part about the horses and the poles is cliché. I try to get published elsewhere.


Soul Machine

I don’t know if a salve was applied, or what. I crawl through the crevice and panic. I come upon the egg and wolf it down. Who was chasing me through the brush? He’s staring at neon graffiti and doesn’t look away. He looks just like a rich kid on acid. He turns into a duffle bag. The man I have sex with is me. I don’t dream about you. I find your feelings’ cloud. It doesn’t end with Brian and Jeremy at Delirium. It’s better without music and then dark. If I could, I would check your text. No one drinks Tanqueray with three rocks. No More Bad Dreams in kid writing with pink and yellow torn up pieces of paper. You’ll love me when I have a book in my hand. I sit next to her because I feel awkward. I didn’t know about their files. Everyone should go upstairs. I don’t wake up because I can’t see you. I replay last moments. There is a field and a sheperd and no dream. I step back inside. I never wrote what I meant to say. I can almost reach my keys. I’d like to bury a forty. I’m sorry about your year. I will never reach my keys.


You Machine

I go to bars and don’t know. You should be Oakland looking for jokes. I can tell when a relationship bends. It’s the last thing that happened. People begin to walk. There’s no jacket for weather. Beneath everything is a conscious mind I’d like to play. Your email made me feel like I’m piling time. I wear a hood into the station. I come out of BART with headphones and memory. It’s great to see you on the street and not go along. We back off the record label. No show at the Hemlock. I like what you’ve done with the lettering. I’m afraid to tell you little letters. I stand on the street like every car is you. I stumble around until I get home. I post a picture of the Silver Surfer because I’d rather no one saw. I am working with a friend to design the site. Every breeze is fixed. Every shadow touched. I hope I‘ve managed to assuage your fears about the poems. It should be a fun thing for all of us. It should be done by now. Drew comes to get me and we go to a party where I talk to Ellen. Thanks, Cedar.

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