In Memory of John Ashbery
written by: Jake Sheff
I. Vasquez Rocks
The rock formations were formed by rapid erosion during uplift about 25 million years ago and later exposed by activity along the San Andreas Fault. (Source: Wikipedia)
“A nimble foot; he overturned a heavy word. These nasal feats…”
His hideout none too hideous, the bandit
Tiburcio Vasquez proved that fame is less
abstract than famous men, like you. To brand it,
Tiburcio Vasquez proved that beastliness
is marked by cruelty to beasts; I mean
that nature’s brand of makeup is Cliché.
Tiburcio Vasquez put a “Kick Me” sign
on life, where every scene is final; C’est
la vie’s No way, Jose! to Sayonara
excepts the end. These hogback ridges, shot
on film and upward by tomorrow’s aura
and Oligocene remarks, more cruel than fate
are fate; abolish private parts. This lands
Tiburcio Vasquez on riparian demands.
“The poetry of Mr. Ashbery has a certain je ne sens quoi…”
“Ahem! You mean je nez sais quoi.”
“Oui! Merci. As I was saying, the finest English poetry in French…”
II. Guernica
“Words outnumber eyes, and thus defeat them; save your nose!”
Decoy, and not the real hemoptysis,
McCoy or endlessness of war’s corrupted
decay; so here we are. Hypotheses
delay what progress needs: an interrupted,
off-base and bold endeavor; then she’ll enter
timidly. Baser feelings’ sunshine day
projected on this baser ceiling’s center;
Picasso based his decoy on decay
and left delay to rot, like you: a drip-
drop turns to vroom-drip-boom and tick-tocks stop
or zoom 200m. Aloft lip
10ft across; what must exist if top
requires bottom. Of an ape, this foal –
in times more basketlike – will bask in you, its shoal.
“My nose’s middle name amuses Moses and it’s Roses! Sun, you’re just a miller’s nose.”
III. The Nose
“…– with tons of snot – amount to love and tears.”
Kokopelli, Breaking History’s Heart
I aim at all I am – my finger’s faith
in handsome hands and my left-handed dad
is my right hand – but indicating what?
A parlor? Fantods older than its dad?
Columbus’s fourth ship was Aquiline:
its big-ass wingéd scent suggests there’s more
than meaty eyes; suggests a 5in sin,
unflappable on sleeping waves that snore
and never wake the shore. A nose for sans
and once; a nose that stays I know: you found
us handled by the handles and nonsense
like “content smells content.” Dibs on ground
with undies undid to un-die; your verse,
in love’s O-negative, donates the universe.
“No, no. Mr. Ashbery’s poetry is proof that nothing lives forever. Look at the poet’s name! Every line’s a spherical miracle or choleric relic or chiral lyric…”
- In Memory of John Ashbery - August 13, 2024
- In Memory of Harold Bloom - May 7, 2024
