I.
I gave him a record of Schwarzkopf singing Mozart.
Neither violence nor potatoes equaled art.
He (the beloved) said “Awful voice.”
Without coat hanger I had no choice.
Thus was destroyed my long-thrashing vehicle.
I rented a baroque tricycle,
its punk obbligato somber.
My name was suddenly Cucumber.
II.
Five tiny hairs in his ear.
I sat down on my riesling-sanctioned bier.
Though he’s young, too young for ear hair,
the godchild loved kugel, vengeance, and soccer.
The song (Mignon’s) went on too long for nudnik tastes.
Crucial: cancer hadn’t hit her lung, though das Land laid waste.
I based my unbuttoned shirt on her newfangled malady.
Chipmunk teeth correspond to funk, three steps away from fatality.
III.
Roommate rapes roommate: nostalgia dictates Agent Orange.
Improvisation, if you’re eviscerated, is quasi-strange.
“Value-laden,” the dwarf said, his chin a crapshoot.
Big-boned Monroe Wheeler sucked George Platt Lynes’s manroot.
Too warped, vibrato tarnishes Acheron golfers.
I fucked the son of a Rolfer.
Son and I ate whale; Rolfer remained mum.
I won’t choose a recipe requiring cardamom.
Listen to Wayne Koestenbaum read “Distant Incident on Paper with Square Holes”
Listen:
Wayne Koestenbaum has published twelve books of poetry, nonfiction, and fiction, including Hotel Theory, Cleavage, The Queen’s Throat. He is a Distinguished Professor of English at the CUNY Graduate Center.
Poet’s Recommendations:
Poems of the Black Object by Ronaldo Wilson.
