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Distant Incident on Paper with Square Holes

By
February 15, 2011

I.

I gave him a record of Schwarzkopf singing Mozart.
Neither violence nor potatoes equaled art.

He (the beloved) said “Awful voice.”
Without coat hanger I had no choice.

Thus was destroyed my long-thrashing vehicle.
I rented a baroque tricycle,

its punk obbligato somber.
My name was suddenly Cucumber.

 

II.

Five tiny hairs in his ear.
I sat down on my riesling-sanctioned bier.

Though he’s young, too young for ear hair,
the godchild loved kugel, vengeance, and soccer.

The song (Mignon’s) went on too long for nudnik tastes.
Crucial: cancer hadn’t hit her lung, though das Land laid waste.

I based my unbuttoned shirt on her newfangled malady.
Chipmunk teeth correspond to funk, three steps away from fatality.

 

III.

Roommate rapes roommate: nostalgia dictates Agent Orange.
Improvisation, if you’re eviscerated, is quasi-strange.

“Value-laden,” the dwarf said, his chin a crapshoot.
Big-boned Monroe Wheeler sucked George Platt Lynes’s manroot.

Too warped, vibrato tarnishes Acheron golfers.
I fucked the son of a Rolfer.

Son and I ate whale; Rolfer remained mum.
I won’t choose a recipe requiring cardamom.

Listen to Wayne Koestenbaum read “Distant Incident on Paper with Square Holes”

G

Press here to play the MP3.

Wayne Koestenbaum has published twelve books of poetry, nonfiction, and fiction, including Hotel Theory, Cleavage, The Queen’s Throat. He is a Distinguished Professor of English at the CUNY Graduate Center.

Poet’s Recommendations:

Poems of the Black Object by Ronaldo Wilson.

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