" . . . "


          A GRAPHIC COLLAGE
   COMMONPLACE COLLECTION
          by Douglas Spanbsp;  by Douglas Spangle

                         

"The reader who may have accompanied me in these wandering memorials of my own life and casual experiences, will be aware that in many cases the neglect of chronological order is not merely permitted, but is in fact to some degree inevitable; there are cases, for instance, which, as a whole, connect themselves with my own life at so many eras, that, upon any chronological principle of position, it would have been difficult to assign them a proper place; backwards or forwards they must have leaped, in whatever place they had been introduced; and in their entire compass, from first to last, never could have been represented as properly belonging to any present time, whensoever that had been selected: belonging to every place alike, they would belong, according to the proverb, to no place at all; or (reversing the proverb), belonging to no place by preferable right, they would, in fact, belong to every place; and therefore to this place."

               Thomas De Quincey



Mid-Passage

as if I were going to make
myself over, or, staring
from scratch, cultivate
me, I got some new
glasses, a glasses, a haircut, allowed
the barber to trim up my beard.

Soon, i/ll have a new cap, and
maybe a derby, i/ll buy me new
slacks, shoes, two or three pairs.
I/ll do myself up, and the
poem will emerge fresh, shining
as a tulip on easter morning, my
friends will invite me to dinner,
my wife/ll curl langorously in
bed. Like a tulip easter morning.


Blue Funk

I wish all the
mandragora grew
wild, screaming.

And in the cattails,
pussywillows, etc.
wind soft as
eastern standard time.

Wind soft as the
last time you
did it. Wind soft
as a soft wind.

I wish we
bathed in the essence of
ginseng, for our health.

I wish eastern standard
time, etc. rang the
changes in our hearts.



The Love Bit

the colors we depend on are
red for raspberry jam, white
of the inside thigh, purple as
in deep, the blue of moods, green
cucumbers (cars), yellow stripes down
the pants, orange suns on ill-
omened days, and black as the
dirt in my fingernails.
Also, brown, in the night,
appearing at its best when
the eyes turn inward, seeking
seeking, to dig everything but
our own, i.e. we make it crazy or
no, and sometimes in the afternoon.



The Young Bloods

whaternoon.



The Young Bloods

what will happen to your
daughter, friend, your
lovely lovely daughter

as my sons grow fierce,
friend, as my sons
grow more and more fierce

nowhere near bearded they
lust insatiably, friend, nothing
will ever fill them

and myself, this young,
I already make my delight,
friend, perceiving this

Joel Oppenheimer



Back to LouLou's PoetryWeb