Step 1. Write word-centos of poems by John Guzlowski,
Doug Holder, Rick Lupert and Ermira Mitre Kokomani.
(In non-shpiggidity-shpaggidity speak, a word-cento is
basically a rearrangement of the words of a poem
however you see fit, but only using the words of the poet,
particularly the words in only one poem of said saint.)

IMMOBILE

(a word-cento of John Guzlowski’s “Fear” *)

I.

War broke the river, shoved death
with work, naked to the ovens,
naked to the grave,
daughters, sisters.
Just stand till fear filled your stomach
with promise,
like nothing else.

II.

I wish for a gun to whisper down my forehead.
I wish for what I feel now to be over.
I wish I were tied or whipped to death,
never blind, never twisted
by this fear worse than death,
by this fear that threw my love
away,
as you drown.

And I stand and do nothing,
as women— daughters and sisters
are dumped in the river,
And I just stand there.
And wish to drown.

* Original poem from Echoes of Tattered Tongues
by John Guzlowski. Note: Poem is inspired by
the life of the Polish poet Tadeusz Borowski.

 

IMPOSSIBLY

(word-cento of Doug Holder’s
“Meeting Allen Ginsberg
Buffalo, NY, 1975)” *)

Jewish graying tapestry,
a prophet of hands.
Live, live.
A faint cherub spoke
and let go
of reality;
let go rhythmic love,
let go of the ceiling. . .
My hands tangled
in the crowd,
my hands of light.
Live, live.
A faint cherub spoke
and let go
of reality.

* Original poem from The
Essential Doug Holder: New
and Selected Works by Doug
Holder. Nominated by Big
Table Publishing for a 2021
Pushcart Prize.

 

RULES FOR WRITING POETRY
ABOUT CHEESECAKE

(a word-cento of Rick Lupert’s
“Rules for Poetry” *)

Adjectives describe “forever.”
You’re going to die.

Haiku is cliché. Avoid cheesecake
and my parents.

They are going to kill you
with sheets of adjectives.

My parents are the angry fool on the internet
who can’t understand the difference between

poetry and cheesecake.
Workshop my parents.

Be the angry fool on the internet.
Tell me about cheesecake.

Come to my house and have cheesecake
with my parents.

Write a poem about it
on the internet.

* Original poem published in Rattle #33, Summer 2010.
“Tribute to Humor.” By Rick Lupert.

 

YOUR GAME

(a word-cento of Ermira Mitre Kokomani’s
“Our Complicated Ego” *)

An inverse apple bite in the breath between the cells
blazed as light in a convex mirror poisonous
your eye subconscious, misshaped like a montage.
Your selfish seeds submerge in Courage called Fear.

Fear is Corruption shadow-protecting quietness, tear down
my fine soul
with silence
bite after bite –
flesh monologue –
grind my skin until I reach rebirth.

Our complicated ego is speaking porcelain,
a phoenix in my veins’ venom,
fly with ME,
untouched by muddy wine.

Cheer up, Ashes!
Can you hear your mirror-absence crack myself,
my essence
sheltering the apple of diverging beauty—
I can hardly grasp the Victorian Absurd
of Your Game.

* Original poem forthcoming publication in
Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal, Issue 7.
October 31, 2020.

 

Step 2. Write a meditative insert while listening
to Jimi Hendrix’s “Hey Joe” followed by “Machine Gun (Live At Filmore East, 1970),” then “Star Spangled Banner (Woodstock)” and “Who Knows (Live At Filmore East, 1970). (This is kinda tough to explain. Really, it’s whatever gets your grooviness
going… but in a meditative way and with a hard-on
for poetry.)

(NOTE FOR READERS: I’m omitting the meditative insert
here because this column would be way too long, it’s
already very long, and I’d like you groovy readers to enjoy
the aftermath, combo piece in Step 3.)

 

Step 3. Bang a gong and combine the meditative insert
and word-centos while listening to Santana, “Soul Sacrifice” Live at Woodstock 1969, followed by Traffic,
“The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys” at Woodstock 1994.

IF YOU CAST YOUR SHADOW VALLEYLESS,
LISTEN O MY LOVELY LISTLESS
MELANCHOLY DRAMA

Inspired by Jimi Hendrix, dedicated to those
lost in the Holocaust and those who have lost
their way; for John Guzlowski, Doug Holder,
Rick Lupert and Ermira Mitre Kokomani.

Lightning strikes quicksand
War broke the river, shove death
and I turn my eyes inside
with work.
I wish for a gun to whisper
down my forehead.
The heart of thunder,
naked to the ovens,
naked to the grave.

For so long, it’s been sandy land…
Now, I start to whisper wisdom
and sigh.
I wish for what I feel now to be over.
Waiting for the stars to align against the landmines,
crying —
Live, live.

Our whole world is a word without a name.
No syllables, calamity. Absent silence
a faint cherub spoke
let go of reality;
let go of rhythmic love,
let go of
the ceiling…

My hands tangled in the crowd,
daughters, sisters, naked to the oven,
naked to the grave.
They are going to kill you.
I wish I were tied or whipped to death.
But a faint cherub spoke
with promise,
like nothing else.

My hands
tell me, You’re going to die,
but that’s cliché.
So I grind
my skin until
I reach rebirth.
Fly with ME,

blazed as light a convex mirror poisonous
with silence.
My essence untouched by muddy wine
Live, live.

I wake up from a dream,
play my fine soul on repeat…
Live, live. You’re going to die. Live, live.

Ageless reason
blends with harmonious rapture
in this land of lost, lazy hangmen describing “forever,”
an inverse apple bite in the
breath between the cells,
stepping stones, slide with me – bite after bite – into
yesterday’s dream.

II.

Our complicated ego is speaking.
I put down my tea and await vicious venom
nightmare in my veins’
selfish seed submerged in Courage called Fear.

Just stand till Fear fills your stomach
with muddy wine, never blind, never twisted
your subconscious eye
misshaped like a montage
of flesh,

Jewish graying tapestry
in my veins.

Why can’t you slam this fear worse than death, this
heavy-metal machine
against my belly of the moon, mischievous as kind-
ling flames
crackle crimson
moan
for Woman, a phoenix.

III.

She wanders heaven for alleyway ex-
change guardian guard, grime highlights
Can you hear her in your mirror-absence crack myself—
my fine soul,
is the angry fool on the internet
who can’t understand the difference between
my home and
Your Fear. So be the angry fool
on the internet. Tell me about cheesecake.
Come to my house and have
cheesecake with me and my parents.
Stand and do nothing,
as Woman – sheltering
the apple of diverging beauty –
as you drown away a prophet of hands
by this fear that threw my love,
my daughters and sisters,
into motors speaking porcelain
reminders of enough violence.

IV.

I am a hideous, igneous rock blinded by
eerie wisdom. Fear is corruption, evergreen river
And I just stand there
with poetry and cheesecake.
And I just stand there
and wish to drown,
peer into fateful faith; green river
I want to know rhythmic cliffs against theses,
lifeless meaning, meaningless life?
Poetry and cheesecake. Sheets of adjective
to describe
women— daughters, sisters, my love—
dumped in the river
by this fear worse than death,
never blind, never twisted.
With questions careful I dream draught
and fire. . .

A faint cherub spoke
and let go
of reality.
Shadow-protecting quietness. Live, live. Tear down.
You are going to die.

Your bombs are burial rites, my neighbors naked,
unknown to the timbers,
Whispers of Your Game, forgery,
whispers wallowing in the sediment,
Your lethargic overtones, baseless breath…
And I just stand there.
And wish to drown.

I can’t forget your tyrannical third eye, thirsty
for Machine Gun Charlie,
looking lonely for only a prophet of hands,
I can hardly grasp
Your solo adoration, holy BAM…

And I just stand there
into the forgetful we go, dreary lakes I absorb
as you drown away in the River Militia—
the Victorian Absurd waltz of World Hunger
for Happiness not found.

 

Joshua Corwin, a Los Angeles native, is a neurodiverse, Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and Spillwords Press Publication of the Month winner. His debut poetry collection Becoming Vulnerable (2020) details his experience with autism, addiction, sobriety and spirituality. He has lectured at UCLA, performed at the 2020 National Beat Poetry Festival, and his Beat poetry is to be anthologized alongside Ferlinghetti, Hirschman, Ford, Coleman and weiss late this year (Sparring Omnibus, Mystic Boxing Commission). He hosts the poetry podcast “Assiduous Dust” and teaches poetry to neurodiverse individuals and autistic addicts in recovery at The Miracle Project, an autism nonprofit. Corwin’s collaborative collection A Double Meaning, with David Dephy, is currently seeking publication. He also has forthcoming collaborative poetry projects with Ellyn Maybe including Ghosts Sing into the World’s Ear (Ghost Accordion series 1st Wave, Mystic Boxing Commission).