Opera Bufa: Otoliths Books: Original print book pdf

 

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This is the original pdf for Adam Fieled's 2007 Otoliths print book "Opera Bufa."

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Opera Bufa Adam Fieled Otoliths

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Opera Bufa by Adam Fieled Copyright © 2007 by Adam Fieled All rights reserved Design by figarobotics inc. ISBN 978-0-9803659-5-5 Printed in U.S.A. Otoliths 8 Kennedy St Rockhampton QLD 4700 Australia http://the-otolith.blogspot.com http://stores.lulu.com/l_m_young

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#1, 2, 3,4, first appeared in Upstairs at Duroc’s. #5,6,7 first appeared in OCHO #9. Several others first appeared in Otoliths. Acknowledgments & thanks to the respective editors. Many thanks, also, to Mary Harju, Susan Wallack, Larry Eisman, Steve Halle, Bill Allegrezza, Anny Ballardini & all my poetry friends everywhere. A special thanks to Eric Baus & Noah Eli Gordon for teaching me what prose poems can do.

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#1 Losing is the lugubriousness of Chopin. What’s lost might be a sea shell or a tea cup or the bloody scalp of an Indian; it hardly matters. When you are lost, the heart recedes from exterior currents, too much in sync with itself, its groove vicissitudes. Each encounter, rather than revealing new rhythms, is experienced as a clangorous din, a pounding. The effect of this pounding is to push the heart deeper and deeper into pitiless darkness. The darkness is pitiless because it has no clear ending. The rhythms are pitiless because we do not know how they began. We find pity and it betrays us with a stray fondle. We squirm within ourselves to the sound of the Devil’s opera bufa. 5

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#2 You may stride streets like Oskar with tin drum, cracking glass with a solid shriek, taking Madonnas hostage, assaulting exhausted nurses lying prone on shag carpets. There are nurses and nurses; some have carnations. You want to serve; your hands are still masterful. 6

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#3 Pluto sets Orpheus on your ass. Plucking out a minor-seventh bridge, he holds you in legato thrall. Rhythms become streams of possible shoe-lace, slugs of 3 a.m. Scotch, lust after thy neighbor’s daughter, mooning on the lawn. 7

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#4 The principle of sufficient reason has pinned you to a mattress and is coming inside you. You are a plantation officer after the lost war. Your cache of black carnations marks out a nofly zone, bloody scalps of third wheels. You see how richly layered you are, but frosting is visible. 8

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#5 It’s not funny, that you’ve left a body count. You’re up in stiff urban trees, you’ve known unrest. Not that you don’t harmonize with concrete; just that you mix concretely. There is recalcitrance in your Wellington boots, a blatant sell-out in your dancing; China girls approach you in dank basements. 9

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#6 Am I daft to see imbecility in mercy? Three men, one gesturing, address perfumes of Venus. Yes, I affirm certain deadness in disturbances of black jackets. No, I do not believe a blue sports jersey is a treasure. I have made up a song to go with the song of this chanteuse. What silly trills, love of languor, appreciation of origins of apples. The core is not to be ditched. The apple is not to be pulled. 10

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#7 If you were a yellow balloon in tall leaning trees, I’d be a girl in purple impaled between pillars. If you were a cup of finished ice cream, I’d be a brown-eyed moon-goddess. Is the human heart a Parisian kitchen? Are lambchops better than avarice? Are you churned like butter from Dantescan depths? Am I warm and willful as a shop-girl’s thighs, stuck with grasses to a farmer’s boots? Lunatics hover on branches, pushing me down into sleep; swans at the window, watching hail fall in diagonal darts. Your railings border me,yet toss my words up into gleaming squares. Priests look back and forth, veiny hands. Shadows strike the angels from their perch. Somewhere inside is a reference. 11

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#8 This is all a bridge between a verse and chorus. That’s how the sky exudes its musk, right before breaking down and buying a ranch. You find my earrings glamorous, and they were left by my bed by a lover who learned from porn. She was always crabby. 12

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#9 It’s always brown-hewn burglars sending drain-you vibes through Ethernet. Not that one can internalize mind-scabs, but that the brown-minded must spread shit. What kind of tumescence gets consummated via these kinks? What ribald ruby-red jumps live from these booby traps? Nothing but antiquated horse-corsets passing murals, gun-slung brothers sprung from Rite Aid, orange vodkaeaters. I fit into this like a mentholated ciggy in a Presbyterian church, which is to say, the city has heroes ducking under awnings, semen smells in tightly packed alleys, particularities. 13

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#10 What does he say, the porridge-hearted victor, as troops rub ermine on his thighs? He is not only hermaphroditic, he complains of being too much like Cleopatra. He is only a bruised pear, yet words come out of him, tunes replay in his head like flies on ice cream. I am him as a fish is a bicycle but a fish on a bicycle would be too much, like Henna-dyed Shakespearean joust-a-bouts. 14

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#11 All minor chords are dreadful when prolonged by Valium. Not that I condescend to be anything but minor. Not that I’d give myself an A. Actually, I would, but then not every poem I like begins Roses are red, Violets are blue. I understand newness. I understand membranes. I understand that a bald pate does not signify superior understanding. I can’t give you anything, and vice versa. Go back to the opening. 15

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