Nico Vassilakis

Violent Yawning

twigs are blocking the narrowest part of the stream a little help please your mouth holds so much beer a circus of lights about your head an astute pigeon’s dance the music’s dangling like an angle broken over the table the exhaustion of it is phenomenal as it spends its last the fatigue of another planet hardens adorns the crown of depletion and without becomes without a body as something is setting off the tripping gland the visitation of death of stillness the enraptured joy of nature’s continual coat here’s the patch, a smoke blocker—a diatribe he is not a nice guy he hurt her feelings and now he’s making her feel worse by demanding sex she’s drunk, she’s talking to herself, she wants respect I hope she smiles soon after 5 drinks writing becomes an ease not to say anything is worth it it denies life, it concocts an oblivion, a musical interlude the bliss of receding, leaning back, disappearing the ornament conveys parts of the calendar, specific parts it says life is here inside this toy how you remember things a twinkle here what book project will come next I will ask I don’t know how to listen, but will think about her inclinations the early planning, the squeegee line of hearing 5 quarters that get me here a public transport a simple coin on its side the slight of hand gets squished, flesh death bequeathed the collection to his offspring off the vine what’s become of communication, become of communing with what surrounds you he is looking for connection and is willing to search the computer call it medium a medium between the room, a vessel floats inside her mind call it the other place a shrimp boat careening across pleated ice many bumps, many bruised asses a flank of diamonds speaking to me how does that occur a flank of diamonds and on top of that—it speaks this awfulness of poetries I detest the palace is a sequence of rooms and foyers the entrance ways are enormous the ceiling heavenly and unreachable what is left is elaborate and profoundly rococo enough pages turning makes a breeze a wind storm of written bits—a hail of prefix wanting to revive her appetite suffering the poison of blindness my writing is a dead stone pulsed light gives me away am recognized between the slots much less feeling now the detachment’s nearly complete.

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Nico Vassilakis writes “1,2,3, nico’s, 4, the manuscript’s title eludes, 9, 10, 11, him, 13, it began as, 17, NOTHING, then, 20, WITH PULLEYS, 23, then SCAFFOLDING, 26, 27, and currently’s, 30, FAINT TEXT, 33, wanting to convey, 37, text, 39, that faints, fainting text, 44, or perhaps attempts, 48, to reach, 51, word’s end."

He is co-founder of the Subtext Reading Series in Seattle.

 

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