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The Little Joke

And now I've flipflopped,
hiccuped backwards,
swallowed my whistle.

At first I thought I got
it all backwards, but
then I recalled . . .

or tried to recall . . .

I admit it took me
quite a while to figure
out I sidestepped over here,

but finally one comes
to terms with the little
joke, and then you see

what a great experiment
you could at last conduct,
now being the one who dictates . . .

oley, oley, in free.

Artist's note:
Jack Spicer (1925-1965), was an American poet who published several 
collections during his brief life.  Trained as a linguist, Spicer was active 
in the San Francisco poetry scene during the 50s and 60s.  Perhaps today he 
is most renown for his theories describing poetry as dictation from a source 
outside the poet; theories he delivered in a short series of lectures in 
Vancouver where he portrayed poets as radio receivers.  He died at San 
Francisco General Hospital from alcohol poisoning; his last words were, "My 
vocabulary did this to me."

Birth, Unbirth

In, out,
in some testicular appearance,
not by function but by
sheer form . . .

In, out,
not a sexual thrust,
but only in the way
sex is linked with death.

In, out,
placing your head
in the womb, your mind
not your skull.

In, out,
coming back, again
and again, not for sport
but for gain.

In, out,
the part that's in
feeds the out,
but not just you.

In, out,
we're all in
but we're all
also out.

In, out, nature puts us in,
but nature pulls us out.
In, out, the mind is nature,
but so is the womb.

In, out . . . you must 
come back.
In, out, come back in,
but come back out.

Catherine the Great

The penance must be performed
over and over;  a contrition fashioned
by my own flesh, these follicles
of purity that sometimes manage
to emanate from the sides
of my most passionate kisses.

There is no redemption in my lips,
only hints, merely caresses of thoughts,
glimmers of  psalms;  there is a prayer
between my breasts, an absolution . . .
for many men seek forgiveness here . . .
only I cannot forgive
that which I must take.

The best I can do for men
is to hint how to die well,
for is that not a central
question for our poor race?
And this I can surely perform.
I can allude how to die 
the befitting death . . .
for it is evident
here at the lunging
between my breasts,
this intense spawning
that fashions the minds of men;
it is the penance
of those who fashion
themselves of flesh.

Artist's note:
Born Sophia Augusta Frederika in Poland, Catherine the Great (1729-96), 
empress of Russia (1762-96), was betrothed to Grand Duke Peter at the age of 
fifteen.  Her husband ascended the throne in 1761, but lasted less than a 
year due to his contempt for the Russian people.  He was overthrown by the 
Imperial Guards who installed Catherine in his place.  The deposed Peter was 
shortly murdered, probably with Catherine's consent.  Catherine continued the 
process of Westernization begun by Peter the Great and made Russia a European 
power.  Where she corresponded extensively with Voltaire and other thinkers 
of the Enlightenment, she turned conservative later in her reign, and 
actually deteriorated the conditions of the serfs, causing an uprising in 
1773.  Known as a sensuous woman, she took many lovers;  ten held major 
positions in her government, and of these, three exerted great political 
influence.  In her sexual practices, she was no different than many kings of 
this age, yet her appetite has entered history as one of her defining traits. 
 Catherine died of apoplexy on November 6, 1796.

© All Copyright, Ward Kelley.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.