3Pomes from IF BERLIN


Fate rarely opts for the strictly comic or the simply tragic when the tragicomic will do.”-Pastor Prime


3Pomes from IF BERLIN



the fine arts in berlin


old von bredow and his widow in apparent
years sufficient but too
meticulous in their pleasures to ever be
grandparents, somber-slim and softly
rich as becketts, are again in the market
for a girl to cook, polish, launder, drive, pose for his
sketches and comply without kvetching to
the importunities enticed by ripening
youth. evidence of a recent
bloodtest, a signed declaration of
boyfriendlessness, sweet
breath and high
breasts to be presented in
that order at the
interview. the list of alumnae tallies a

fine-arts-in-berlin who’s who: the tooth-sculptress, the
pain artist’s muse, the longterm girlfriend of two
married antiquities dealers and the wife
of a brewery-inheriting collector of
restoration erections, plus
the headmistress of a faux-french trompe l’oeil atelier of
ill-repute. all have done well for art
students. the first in the series, the

widow herself in
1962, 18 to von Bredow’s
30: blackplumed, supple, striking
as a horsehair whip
(father a)
(cinematographer at Łódź)
(one of the chosen)
(few aryans slain by a)
(jew in that era in a)
(duel over a pupil’s)
she’d mix
von b’s patented lacquers, gesso/sand/re-gesso/re-sand his
grander canvasses; photograph, crate-up, ship-out each
piece of his gigantic oneiric
maps from the studio overlooking
the Lietzensee and its petit bourgeois
paths. later she even came
to finish certain works and worse
paint others ab
ovo usque ad mala whilst the maestro
napped. her man can live for what feels like years

without urges regarding the
pinkerparts of the
people. it’s the widow herself, blackwings
turned a pearly bob, cupped breasts white as
dresden pots in timebrowned
hands who relishes the
entering of that room kept sternly
lockless, its unblocked
view of three steeples, not even
knocking. an applicant/supplicant buzzes

breathless down at front, the widow sips
her salted coffee, walks
the atrium with numbered
steps, stops to stoop to pocket a
foilship of gumwrap off
the cloud-reflecting
koi pond feeling






Malena’s Good Luck New Year’s Rabbit Stew


-Cada uno lleva su cruz-


skinning the rabbit, ted inverts
the inverted glove until the long
hand of muscle falls from its grip
of loose blood, clutching the grin
of this morning’s funniest
execution. slain by the sling ted’d made
of malena’s old hose, the bunny tumbled
with its fate-stone thrown
clear through dark bush to
headlighted street, ted waving
traffic to a halt to retrieve it
by deafwarm ears to malena
and dante’s cheering as for
a goal. the dawn dome
of planetarium rose
to a glow by sun’s flush
hole as they bore the corpse
like some world-leader with
eyes struck open

ted knifes the belly, scoops
its coils and jellies in a system
to the sink, the other two toasting
long life/short death as ted
decouples the head’s last
link. dante jumps

(he will always claim)
(the thing)


the candled air of the whole long flat
rubs the windows with its sweat:
ginger, clove and cardamom escaping the pot
towards the black rhyme of ted and malena’s hair
ted’s elbows on the table and dante’s perplexing
stare in the ruby swirl of wine malena’s got
she tells of the trouble with men and dante says
we know a willing lesbian
she shakes her head: i need something i can sink
these teeth into (with a wink)
hefting her breasts in the low-cut dress she jokes
what about these? don’t you ever miss them
on a winter’s night?
dante frowns i swear i even eschewed huge dugs as a whelp
i would not suck at mother’s milk
and father’s mams were black with glossy felt, he giggles
at ted who growls: not while i’m eating
malena says Cocho kept peacocks when i was thirteen
they would not breed, which made them twice
precious, bleating in the courtyard even earlier
than those ugly cocks, casting spectacular shadows like
beardsley engravings on the opaline gravel around
the villa, occasional prey to a fox our indian shot
presenting it to mother who wore it
to the opera like a (draining her wineglass)
(with seductive indolence)


driven by the spirit of the rabbit or by
the devil possessed, ted proposes a
contest: whoever kisses best
will follow ted to bed whilst the other
does dishes. dante hisses
you bitches and kisses
malena on the mouth, vomiting
chilean flags and



a wolf on the underground, part three


the paper explains how the wolves are driven
from natural environs by dins and poison
of compulsion’s development, the bipedals’ greedful encroach
at epochgreen level of forest floor to force growling
dreambrothers to bound from the brush, dogshaking
oddments, needle and leaf, from toothcolored coats, noses
to the road, after time long (as the cooling of new diamonds) in
exile. a floss-haired child of Siemens’
managerial class reports being sniffed by creatures
too cool to be dogs, too rank
to be phantasms, in
their country garden, l’heure bleue, late
june, case two: retired insomniac
circumnavigating a private lake on a bike
costing twice what equivalent Romanians take
home in a year was paced
for what seemed like hours by loping blurs
so rich in odor he fainted, waking shoeless, bent-biked in

the North American grins a glance
over his paper at a waif on the long seat facing,
gulpsniffing tears, thumbs mothwingwhite beating
handy’s stampsized keypad of vapid
lights, we fears it’s
a bad breakup with her Abelard via
texting. beside her to the right
a woman Val recognizes, her
legs entwined with a man’s who cannot be
quite twin, but co-lingual
cousin, flicking her lips with slim
tongue in
macho-feminist grace like young
South Americans, black manes fused above
marvelously lupine
brows, then oilspilled down
her shoulders, breasts, jeans folded
over the seat and his bold hands separating
her thighs in futile’s best
gesture. hidden by his paper and
coat, the old jester, made
stiff as a goat by the
rutting display, contemplates
taking what they would not freely
give, this sin
of pre-human


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