Elvis
blimps above
the walrus shade.
Jesus rides an elephant
away from Calvary. Sparrows
learn to fly, pitched from Ganesh’s
trunk. Muhammad’s mastering the art
of a blowhole ablution. Wildebeest chuckling
at Moses’ wimpy forty days. Caesar’s gassy after sharing
unripe mangos with a chimp. Marx is munching grass. Lost a bet
with Nebuchadnezzar. Buddha chucks some birdseed, lectures the pigeons
about desire. Ra folds after a plague of platypusses; his firstborn’s grown a beak.
II.
Twin walruses sharpen their tusks on the dunes.
Buddha’s navel a lager spout.
Only a fool would chug the end of desire.
The wildebeest flies upside-down, jousting all the stars.
Muhammad wears a tunic of sequin nipples.
Only a fool would record their voluminous lactations.
Pigeons crap on godhead an eggwhite fedora.
Jesus plucks thorns out of his prom night eyelashes.
Only a fool would unbutton that snarlyhaired tuxedo.
A chimp is licking termites off a shark tooth comb.
Elvis gets rich off a lunch money racket.
Only a fool would wipe a toilet down with mutton chops.
The elephants windmill their snouts, inhaling each tornado.
Ganesh snorts a boogaloo on his nostril trumpet.
Only a fool would scrape that flugelhorn free of barnacles.
Rows & rows of whale vertebrae. Time to build a railroad.
Ra smells pyramids with every beard-stroke.
Only a fool would refuse a chance to mummify the queen.
Sparrows ford rhinoceri across the fishleaping river.
Marx redistributes chin hair to all the eunuchs.
Only a fool would alienate this harem’s labor.
The platypus is still sloshed and dancing by herself.
Caesar skiffs his gondola across the sky.
Only a fool like Cleopatra would try to flag him down.
Richard Prins: “When I was eighteen years old I fell asleep on a late-night train and woke with my jacket pocket knifed open, the pocket that always held my wallet. After a few desperate grabs, I found my wallet transplanted to my pants pocket, no money missing. A napkin, however, with two poems inked on it, had been extracted. I’ve been mugged twice since then, once in Brooklyn, once in Dar es Salaam, and still curse myself—why didn’t I think to recite a poem to my attackers?” (web)
Muyaka bin Haji al-Ghassaniy (1776–1840) was the earliest secular Swahili poet whose identity is known. He has been credited with bringing Swahili verse “out of the mosque and into the marketplace” with his depiction of daily life in Mombasa, and he popularized the mashairi quatrain form that serves to this day as the predominant form of Swahili verse. | Richard Prins: “I began translating Swahili poetry during the early stages of the pandemic because I couldn’t get the chorus of an old Zanzibari taarab song out of my head. A year and a half later, translation has taken over as my major creative outlet—and the brunt of my efforts have been devoted to Muyaka, this virtuosic voice from 19th century Mombasa. Muyaka’s work combines some of the qualities I enjoy most about the Swahili language—it is so playful, versatile, and intensely social. As an English-language poet, I always felt my purpose was showing something new to this tongue I was born with. Swahili is a language spoken by some hundred million people, with a rich poetic tradition whose manuscripts date back as far as the 17th century. But very few English speakers have had the chance to appreciate it, as translations are rare and often overtly academic. Suffice it to say, I think Muyaka has a lot to show us.” (web)
Richard Prins: “In January 2017, two events radically changed my life: my daughter arrived in New York, and Donald Trump arrived in the White House. The spare time that I had previously devoted to poetry was now spent at playgrounds and protests. My solution was writing this poem about taking my baby to a protest. I considered it a remarkable feat of multitasking. I’ve been arrested several times since then at other Trump properties and the United States Senate. Civil disobedience is a bold, reckless, floppy, disruptive dance. Ideally, it’s also backed up by meticulous planning, theory, conviction, and community support. In other words, just about everything I could ask for in a poem.” (web)
“Things to Try That Might Knock Out the Virus*” by Richard PrinsPosted by Rattle
Richard Prins
THINGS TO TRY THAT MIGHT KNOCK OUT THE VIRUS
1. Chug a carton of expired milk
2. Host a nationwide pillow-fight
3. Bail out the fossil fuel industry
4. Creepy accordion music
5. Ask to speak to the virus’s manager
6. Redeem a lifetime of earnest prayer for one (1) bad-ass miracle
7. Drunk-dial your ex
8. Knock your teeth out one by one and put them inside a maraca, then scare the virus away with your snazzy, impeccable rhythm
9. Crack a dodo bird egg and drink it raw
10. Wrap your body in tin foil, like a burrito
11. Wrap your body in dental floss, like a mummy
12. Smile more often, while flagellating yourself
13. Shave your head and boil all the hairs; serve with tomato sauce and parsley
14. Dose your pets with LSD and see if they think up an out-of-the-box solution
15. Huff some toothpaste
16. Have a staring contest with a taxidermied moose
17. There’s always spontaneous combustion
18. When all else fails, steal the virus’s identity, max out all its credit cards, then marry it so it can’t testify against you
19. Did you try turning yourself off and on again?
*The author doesn’t recommend any of these activities; he’s just wondering out loud if they might work and/or being sarcastic. Quoting him, in or out of context, shall be construed as proof of bias. The U.S. Surgeon General advises forgetting everything you just read.
“Bless Me, Editor” by Richard PrinsPosted by Rattle
Richard Prins
BLESS ME, EDITOR
For I have sinned. It has been six months since my last submission.
During that time, I got liquored up on a few hundred occasions, often to forget my responsibilities, and sometimes in pursuit of carnal relations.
I also accepted key bumps in a few divey bathrooms even though I never liked that crap, and snorted lines of ecstasy to mark certain milestones in a hedonistic manner.
I only went to church once, Editor, unless you count meetings to resist our new president that happened to take place inside of a church, where I gained more sustenance than I ever do noshing on the body of Christ.
Editor, I do not recall taking your name in vain (though I didn’t thank you for your consideration last time you rejected me), but I sure cursed my Lord and Savior every chance I got, every time I missed a bus, stubbed my toe, spilt a drink, or checked my bank statement near the end of the month.
Moreover, I participated in the capitalist economy every day, by making purchases of questionable practicality, by making payments on loans and accepting payments of rent, by owning property and thereby fomenting the oppression of mankind,
And I did not give money to everyone who asked me, even though I’ve read the Bible and know it’s what Jesus would do, no matter if they were rude, flaky, or an ex-girlfriend (Editor, did Jesus have ex-girlfriends?),
And several times I became disconsolate and grumpy when my partner did not want to have relations with me,
And several times I became anxious she might have relations with someone who was not me, even though I had relations with people who were not her, and felt sad about it, and complained about that sadness to my partner,
Who loves me as only a goddess could and deserves neither my mistrust nor my hypocrisy,
Therefore I never lied to her, Editor, but I lied in small ways to almost everyone else, and never ceased considering myself an exceptionally honest person.
Editor, I picked my nose and ate the boogers no matter how many bystanders I disgusted.
I littered and defiled our planet, tossed dead batteries in my household trash, and I did not recycle everything I could recycle.
Editor, I grew too easily frustrated with my daughter’s mother, even though she is a commendable mother,
And when I visited their home I did not resist patriarchal exigencies, or change an equitable amount of diapers, or cook or do much cleaning,
And though I thanked the Lord profusely for my baby’s health and beauty, and though my prolonged absences from her life are surely penance for sins long past, I still don’t comprehend how joy and pain can feed each other so lavishly.
It’s dark in here, Editor.
I can’t see you, and didn’t bother learning your name.
Are all my sins written in my face?
Do you know how much I’m not telling you because it would be too lurid to print?
Have you already stopped reading?
I made derogatory comments about puppies; Editor, I just don’t like them.
I referred to police officers as “pigs” while marching for black lives; although I believe dehumanizing language is amoral and violent, I did not believe it was my place to amend a mass chant.
I was probably blocking traffic at the time, which is a violation not a sin, but the pigs didn’t arrest me for it, so it falls on you to punish me, Editor,
For I have lived as a cis-and-mostly-straight white male, mindlessly accumulating privilege and dressing in a manner that could be described as culturally appropriative,
And I submit to you that I allowed too many white people to smile at me in the days following the 2016 presidential election.
Though I pined for their swift and just obliteration from the earth (which is violent and sinful), I did not include that wish for the white race’s annihilation in my prayers (which is surely just as sinful, I mean don’t you agree God should just fucking smite us already?)
And I harbored baleful thoughts towards anyone who obstructed me on the subway or sidewalk even though I habitually obstructed others on the subway and sidewalk,
And I harbored lustful thoughts for a mushroom burrito last week and did not stop myself from committing gluttony,
And I harbored jealous thoughts whenever someone I knew was being published or celebrated more than me,
But nevertheless I cowered from risk in my own writing, and spent many afternoons throwing back mojitos at the beach with my partner, basking in her splendor when I should have been clamping my ass to my ratty swivel chair and digging the real poems out of my chest,
So here they are, my detestable sins against our human enterprise,
For which I ask your absolution, Editor, who art good and deserving of my love.
With my whole depraved heart, I regret offending thee.
Richard Prins: “I’ve never confessed my sins to a priest, and I don’t usually confess them in my poems either. But I like to think of writing poetry as a cross between prayer and singing in the shower. After all, we poets sure do spend a lot of time wondering if anybody’s actually listening. (And when someone does, I usually can’t decide whether to be thankful or embarrassed.)” (web)
