Raymond Farr

Another Day Penultimate at Missing the Point

I only slipped on the cake of soap of the air
& drowned in the bathtub of the world
—John Ashbery

I come briefly
Into the sun

Where
I’m writing today

I laugh
I am alone

I write—
Traces of light!

You in the carpeted hall!
As downwind

A radio—
the commissar’s in town, oh, oh—

Reads another crazy
Meaning

Into
The hollow membrane

Of our days
I can’t explain

The cosmos
I grew up in

I renounce all its
Power over me

I feel it
Still swimming

At 4 AM
Like a ghost

Lodged
In my throat

& yet
I exist in utterance

Managed by my
Impotence

Another day penultimate
At missing the point

Eventually

I’ll Simon-says myself
To sleep—

Somebody get me a window
To yell out of—

I mean
Who does that?!

& like a near-sighted girl
Reading lyrics

To her dog
I exist

Just visible
From the nearby

Overpass

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Raymond Farr

My Feet Are Sugar to Wandering Boys

& so I’m not wearing shoes
I’m having some trouble moving some files

& I’m all over the highway simply looking
& it’s like I’m walking underwater

& I can’t hear you banging yr small hammer
At sunset the boardwalk is empty

& it’s like my infrared thoughts are
Copulating a document into existence

& it scares me & a sequence begins: Tickle Me Elmo—
A thousand innuendoes west of Las Vegas

& winter’s a lion roaring in the sheer drop of noise on a highway
& my queer monopoly money is folded into wings

Into LSD typos, into the little red weeds of the unreal city
Of the smaller denominations

& the sky is a corn field ravaged by goldfinch
& not a sick garden burdened with stiff goldenrod

& blocking my path to enlightenment
You walk away with the bath water

There is lumpy vomit all
Over my bell bottoms

Raymond Farr

Shooting at Life from a Passing Car

              It’s all over
But the slashing of tires

The vacant chuckle
Of shivering December blackout nights

Echoing its own self interest
The hisses are funny

On a day folding laundry
Coming the way they do from you folks

Sleeping in the peanut gallery
Iron wheels on the move

Over green land
We are too much of a tree moving at night

Other things bang against themselves
In order to make music

To make water a sound
You must hum the pink object

Raymond Farr

A Flintlock New Yorker

342,689 miles
From anywhere

From nowhere
& I’m catechumen as yellow again

An avg. jalopy
A flintlock New Yorker

I wander these frigid roadside ditches
With my blue guitar

Invisible as an owl

Cloaked in my pure white
Camouflage

I wander inside of you

I meant to express
Everything to which I was subjected

That is why I brought you
To this new land

 

Raymond Farr

Houdini Returns

Grinding our words
Like meat

Into little manic sentences
Of unwritten music

Houdini has returned
Pasty & wan

From the overcrowded houses
Of the dead

It’s a razor’s edge this city walks
This city is fucked!

EXISTENCE is a stitched wound
Arriving

In the movie star’s limo
It comes right up

To our car
& gleams!