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I should be writing a syllabus, or, 544 (un)sound syllables

 


I should be writing a syllabus, or, 544 (un)sound syllables

 

-  Michael Dickel (Israel) 

 

i

 

This syllabus

does not yet have

enough labor in its

syllables.

 

To count bean sum

bill-ables, I must

always make know-pro

deuce-ables.

 

Produce sings ballads

fresh, over-ripened,

jazzy-fig,

mint-leaf teases.

 

ii

 

Imagined nations

fuses sing fusion

confusions

disharmony.

 

New Klee are

reaction. Nary a

warhead spins yarn.

Unraveling

 

fabricated

relaxed

narrative. Laxative.

Words in the flue.

 

iii

 

Woods of Weavers.

Syllable sylphs

reduce unsound selves

most resoundingly.

 

This Scilla bus,

one-way route to haiku.

Doves mourning coos

soon un-be.

[stanza break]

 

Leave-able fake-

books chord words

into cannon rounds—

bang, bang, shoot, chute:

 

disputable,

            theoretical,

            transmittable,

            irreproducible.

 

iv

 

Hips hop hopes,

echoes of trans,

people crying them,

shelves on and off walls.

 

Between these sum

syllables, words split

in Finland tea

to finiteness.

 

Divide migrant

families into mere

lost and found

dis-pose-ables,

 

paper resources,

liar-bills, ITs,

and accounts

payable. Knots.

 

v

 

In this fog:

diffusion, infusion,

chemo. Thera,

there, uh… there a

 

pea under a mattress

imprints us on

ladders. Ancient

accents fail.

 

DNA inscribes

spiral stares.

Waste to heaven.

Hell waist deep in sea.

[stanza break]

On these Waters

of Opening,

dreams bisect

breath—CO2 escapes.

 

Our carbonaceous

O-loversdiff.

Fusing Theia:

Moon, son, daughter.

 

vi

 

Older bombastic

blast—a wimpier

squeak edits,

replaces O.

 

Mega-fats added

to your healthy

foods. Radiate

-ing 2 ER.

 

De-eating. Die it.

Ting. E-racing. Rayed-E.

O, head that

way, again.

 

Race, raising the ante.

O, O please, child

run. Hide away.

Hied a way.

 

Now you can not go

home. Home again.

Ring around that.

Ring around this.

 

vii

 

Lymphoma.

This one thing.

Lymphoma. Lymph,

Oma. Lymph, o my. O my.

 

Lions and tigers

and bears, O my.

O my. O. My lymphs.

Lymphoma

 

[stanza break]

poisoned out of

my bones. On this

computer keyboard,

the PET scan clean.

 

Cleared, I stroke

no dog, cat, fish.

I sit. Back. I breathe. Out.

Expiration.

 

viii

 

Shadows pass by here,

pale, ghostly fear. They

seem to come from

the future.

 

Hai, I sing. Coo.

Caught between

poems and doves,

future ghosts continue.

 

Jan Ken Pon, they cry,

fists behind backs.

Rock. Pay poor.

Sizzlers. Lizard moon.