chapter 3
HUFFINGTON
09.23.12
poem
I Babel’s unit, Blogmeister Ulyanov. A thrice- beaten hoarse
without a pshaw is very dark indeed.
In the long run in short it was like this: He stumbled bleeding
into foreign camp where all the officers played
dice with nasty dingbats, bits of backbone lacking, they maintained,
in cowards who’d run off. Their poet said that what he said
was never said by him. But also Three times blessed is one who
puts a name in song. Mandelstam. Ulyanov. Babel:
No iron can pierce the human heart with the force of a period just
exactly in the right place
Aplysia at just that point in time became, like injured campers,
Useful slugs in neurobiological associative tasks.
Aplasia, though, prevented both the classical and operant conditioning.
Iron bomb’s your balalaika too? And you an anarchist like me?
In this day and age, the pleaЖure is entirely mine.
II
& shhhhhhh . . . sashays to Жay . . . & does shay &
No iron can pierce and so on just a way of betting on the
pen that’s mightier than the sword? You think
that babble saved him. All that playing Cossacks was
to chess what Cecka was to his submerged cliché:
No one gets the period in the right place. Full stop, Bakunin.
A friend of ours saw him finger-fucking the countess, then
went off to a commune called K’ Klarity. Stammered it so
long ago at Horseshoe Camp they only managed checkers,