from Broken Glosa: an alphabet of post avant glosa

 

Stephen Bett

 

 

 

 

Lewis Warsh: Dancing Up a Ruse

 

 

Rousseau said something about something.

He said something.

He said: I’m going to give you a fat lip.

The doorman held the umbrella

 

Superficial Things―Lewis Warsh (with nods to l.W. & Un/Wired)

 

 

Rousseau said something about something.

My father shortened his name from Warshafsky

when he was in his twenties. Maybe it was

2 a.m. at Anne & Lewis’s, which is one for the money old son

 

He said something.

Pepper told me he was gay on the

train from Boston to New York.

One track   /   One ticket   /   One way

 

He said: I’m going to give you a fat lip.

But he didn’t say (mid-Atlantic voice)

don’t forget to warsh your hands old boy

there’s a good chap, the old upchuck trick

 

The doorman held the umbrella

for the dark figure with the fat lip in the rain

said he was dancing up a ruse to snag a late train

speeding at 4 a.m. trying not to buck your grain, rattle your chain

 

 

 

 

 

 

Phyllis Webb: The Spit

 

 

And spit

give me water for spit.

Then give me

a face.

 

Solitary Confinement ―Phyllis Webb

 

 

And spit

broken glass

for shards

to speak

 

give me water for spit.

Gloss this mal du

doute     … never

was spat out

 

Then give me

ash in time

to witness

its burn

 

a face.

To spite

itself

still

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lew Welch: Which Planet Are You (Currently) On?

 

 

    Draw a circle a hundred feet round.

                Inside the circle are

300 things nobody understands, and, maybe

             nobody’s ever really seen.

 

Step out onto the Planet―Lew Welch (with nods to earlier glosas)

 

 

Draw a circle a hundred feet round.

Big enough to hold that old

Franz Kline line       … in a forest

of Zen-inflected absence

 

                Inside the circle are

you sitting still?      expecting a tr ck?

Locked in            snug as a bug

(in a toppled chestnut tree

 

300 things nobody understands, and, maybe

one twins another, this freedom bit

                                            that satori hit

& which dream pops first

 

             nobody’s ever really seen.

It’s voided (ha)            shudder  /  quiver  /  shiver

Step out onto another planet              far side of

despair, don’t hang there for long

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stephen Bett is a widely and internationally published Canadian poet with 24 books in print.  His personal papers are archived in the Contemporary Literature Collection at Simon Fraser University.  Stephen Bett in online at stephenbett.com

 

 


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