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    Ninety-Six Tears
    Ninety-Six Tears
    Ninety-Six Tears
    Ebook111 pages41 minutes

    Ninety-Six Tears

    By Michael Gottlieb

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    About this ebook

    Poetry. "I. The little death, first. There is no such thing as an emergency in the poetry world. Trained on. Like a third armpit. The advantage of the cordless model. You went and had all this shipped in. Promoting camaraderie. And didn't think to ask me if I needed any notions. DutyTour in a 'hot.' Deep enough so no one would notice. In fact, not foundationless red herrings. Play in traffic. I have dollars tonight. But closer approximations of what only a few new in actuality. Scram. Shove off. Go fan it. Major repairs. Get lost. Make like Houdini. A showCause order. In line. Somewhere in the Dominican Republic. Steak fries. The American plan. Purloined and subsequently repainted and furnished with new serial numbers, for the fourth time. An admit list in addition to a guest list. The almost vaudevillian realization that all thoseTightest paranoid fantasies. Beat it. Go take the air. All serving as witting dupes. Convection summary. The fickle incandescent. Devouring the characterization. Bought or sold, were. Take a walk. The techs and the temps. All walks of life. Basque cocktail lounge. The shame of God"—from NINETY-SIX TEARS. Michael Gottlieb is the author of 19 books, including I HAD EVERY INTENTION (Faux Press, 2014), DEAR ALL (Roof Books, 2013), and MEMOIR AND ESSAY (Faux Press, 2010) most recently, as well as several memoirs and extended essays on the discipline and community of poetry. A stage adaptation of his definitine 9/11 poem, "The Dust," was performed at the Poetry Project at St. Mark's on the 10th anniversary of the attacks. He was born in New York City.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRoof Books
    Release dateSep 1, 1981
    ISBN9780937804070
    Ninety-Six Tears

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      Book preview

      Ninety-Six Tears - Michael Gottlieb

      Parents

      Ninety-Six Tears

      I.

      The little death, first. There is no such thing as an emergency in the

      poetry world. Trained on. Like a third armpit. The advantage of the

      cordless model. You went and had all this shipped in. Promoting

      camaraderie. And didn’t think to ask me if I needed any notions. Duty

      Tour in a ‘hot.’ Deep enough so no one would notice. In fact, not

      foundationless red herrings. Play in traffic. I have dollars tonight. But

      closer approximations of what only a few knew in actuality. Scram.

      Shove off. Go fan it. Major repairs. Get lost. Make like Houdini. A show

      Cause order. In line. Somewhere in the Dominican Republic. Steak

      fries. The American plan. Purloined and subsequently repainted and

      furnished with new serial numbers, for the fourth time. An admit list in

      addition to a guest list. The almost vaudevillian realization that all those

      Rightist paranoid fantasies. Beat it. Go take the air. All serving as wit-

      ting dupes. Convection summary. The fickle incandescent. Devouring

      the characterization. Bought or sold, were. Take a walk. The techs and

      the temps. All walks of life. Basque cocktail lounge. The shame of God.

      Professional banquettes. There was nothing really left downtown. In all

      fairness. Betsy hates les Bourbons. Do you think I have eyes in the back

      of my head. I mean, I ran over to that cab. Make friends with yourself.

      The subjects who cannot be left alone. It was clear that most had.

      Witness the dapper oarman. Cancel service anytime. On the outside.

      For love or money. Ballast from the Catskills. Perhaps a few weeks.

      Renting the moon. Eases smoker’s throat. If that, by his lights. One

      could tell by the telephone doodles. Swatting revisionists. Jovian anxie-

      Ty. She, as if she hadn’t a. Belonging to an ex-boxer. This will explain

      everything. This abject cast. Listening to you. Crip pics. All season. An

      orphaned gesture. Is like having all my problems aired in terms of Greek

      theatre. A way with words you’d like to remember. Someone who wore t

      Shirts underneath, even in August. Crafty little bittern. Cashiered.

      Your cenotaph. A smile and a shoeshine. Treatise on lifting and

      separating, effortlessly. I appreciate your disdain. No gushy spills. Get a

      line on it. I just wanted to show you. The Framers. An epistomological

      Downturn. One of those with baby skin and steel hair. Beats me. Four

      walling. Abrogating the struggle for form in favor of an Advent and a

      Laserdisc. Would you mind vacating the premises? As cool as. A dent

      in their. Moose. Hopes. Dialysis banter. In the saddle. Cowering behind

      The salt cellar. Abnegation as a tactic. Genial anguish. Chocked up. So

      that, if we know that they. A change of clothes. That whole segment of

      the world. The flimsiest caprice of hope of there being a locus of sanity

      we could, if not quite attach ourselves to. Our last platform for any sup-

      position. And then. Also. In accepting this. Safe house. Like a dauber.

      As out to lunch, as it were, as any of them. As it seems necessitous. In a

      way that only becomes clearer. As we get to know eachother or like or

      need eachother more. Individually and as a group. Coming to the

      Realization. That we. And we are. More for all the ridiculousness that

      year by year. The dawn of creation. And ourselves and eachother. You

      didn’t pay me to be caustic. Like an air of debacle. A sofa like the one he

      dimly recollected from another childhood. We, too, are or must appear

      Objective. Craning the antennae. We

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