Harmony Holiday

April 25, 2009

The Disorientation of Sweet Violence

You punch me in the face and grey flowers bloom, not elsewhere, just as soon

Helplessness emerges at the beginning of the fast bridge or I gain the quitting,

Innocent mood The problem was, you never got anything done, you just sat around feeling good about yourself

Punching me these gardens and hardships have become flimsy fronts at the fix we need

I hear harbor sounds in the farthest hinge of your announcement that “this will be” I hear a slipping will this be this, a quiz

I take the tucked in collapse of statements to be the exact retrograde of us

That flapping noise trust makes, I don’t want to talk about it I saw the balloon flat and then I saw it inflated, I don’t know

I sell them in bundles and they make doting slopes in the wind… cinches, close and grotesque figments of company

I don’t want trouble

ain’t no place to be

Non-Stop Home
A Dispatcher or some other person who is obligated to suggest movement in pure ways It’s happening, it’s going to happen, is not an example, suspension is not an example, the information has to travel and to travel one has to move or used to This is all is so neurotic (ambiguity) but if you hope to live a long life, and you do encounter suggestions that hope is noble and do stable wishful things, so-called because they let you be still and still cling to motion You can wait This is all so nomadic, positioned, I want to uninvent the binoculars and place them over my, over my… look at her

In the middle of the desert, hair braided to imitate cactus, hanging down her forehead like slabs of backwards cattle, bellies and nipples camouflaged by showing themselves to be allover gorgeous newsprint dress waving to imitate take-off, to hide the headline

Boomtime for Doomsayers on her hips, to hide their bruises
It is personal, is a soft phrase I can define by showing you the two circles the machine has made around my eyes and calling them surprise loops in a lively wisdom built on surprises

I was crying: the loops are damp

I was laughing: the moisture scatters

I was looking: leader and dealer are one word

Out of habit, I follow you to where we stash astronomers and bandwidth
Simple words like cantaloupe, when uttered among lovers, seclude us in low orange rooms until we can no longer remember what they go with
Don’t tell anybody I forgot what cantaloupe is cause we were spying on the business, looking for actors who are short in person so we could tell the tabloids, they’re the reason, the world is shrinking, they’re their reason

Hijacking/People in Me

Looking up the Airliner in a real time search engine to find out if you’re there at that Club, I learn that a jet on the way to Telaviv, never made it


People my age

People yours

stuck way up in the air Above us

Looking down at places where we might find them, in an engine windred parachute noon an affair motel parody of wishes
which hold our honest destinations in their syntax like brides

Rictus. /Remix

This is the corner of the mouth in mammals and of the beak in birds. Fleshy pads are located in the rictal area of caique chicks and touching them elicits a freedom response. Hurry don’t rush. I can’t stand hipsters. I have noticed that these pads tend to be larger for parent reared-birds than for hand-reared birds. These are our neighborhoods. I’m an actual, orphan’s sister and her mouth opens with the boulevard to yawn about the trend toward restoration which places glossaries on active stages The meek ain’t gonna inherit shit, cause I’ll take it

and the glossary will name this fate or crop. Its choreagraphy will center around a dinner table full of food and the couple sits there for hours touching their mouths until the meal just disappears and enter each of their mothers and the four of them start talking about the headlines hasbeens happeier eras when they needed each other

Checkpoint/Life Goes Up

She sleeps a lot, because languor is sexy
When she is awake, however, the atmosphere becomes claustrophobic
Brittle with the restrictions admiration places on admiration and

At any one of those many modern barriers where identities are checked and verified you might find them

Incentive for magnetic wires, for why connection is the new word for separation at any one of those places

Helplessness made her dash from the top floor of a 16-story building and land in the gulf of his tangent

(That’s one method

of female agency)

Nor has she prenteded, because she’s not stiff enough, because she’s not awake

because rise is vivid because there’s a crux in my hallucination she’s beautiful exhausted (for) keeps
switching demands for offers

Take me off/won’t you take me off Electricity softens where she performs her absence as spontaneous hills on a
table made of quicksand

II. Recreation/The Price of Up

He hardly sleeps, because restlessness is handsome
When he does finally, the atmosphere becomes romantic
She sits at his desk in his favorite suit and spends his money on perfume and freezers

All the modern things have usually existed Zen Competency

made him catch her on a trampoline

when she leaped from the best floor of an ivory-story building

Nor would he have left her there jumping but she begged him with the sincerity of a spender renting money

I want this/will you let me want it Her lack of gratitude is the pornography that leads him back to her with the candid ease of a

film which plays automatically each time you step in front of your fantasy it dissolves a little more into the rhetoric of answers and other dangerous: air, brevity, fame, morphine, self first time he murmured the word paramour it made a ramp in his ego which she is sliding down with goats and other bounty Portions of prayer in the value portions of prayer injure value, value is no secular level of love they’re requesting, anything she can destroy she can measure and sell next to water

there is an unlimited demand for not dying

you try being that famous

tribe being

nine out of ten movie stars make me


in my car

Oppen poem in the place of bio (pronouns have been changed )selfportrait

Sunnyside Child

As the builders
Planned, the city streets
Put leaves in summer air in lost
Streets above the subway. And in this

Achievement of the houses, this
Air, a child
Stands as a child,

To find her generation, her contemporaries
Of the neighborhood whose atmosphere, whose sound
In her life’s time no front door, no
Hardware ever again can close on

3 Responses to “Harmony Holiday”

  1. […] of Harmony Holiday’s poems can be viewed here. She blogs at NONSTOPHOME Posted by backroomlive Filed in Harmony Holiday, Jane Miller, […]

  2. […] The Disorientation of Sweet Violence by HARMONY HOLIDAY   TEXT Share this:ShareEmailDiggFacebookRedditTwitterPrintStumbleUponLike this:LikeBe the first to like […]

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