Brian Kim Stefans

Countering the Luddite Itch with a Tin Switch

Countering the luddite itch with a tin switch.
Finessing the first kiss. Burning crosses.
Did Kore earn the pinstripes? Did gyre and gamble in the wabe?
Countering the techno fix with the thin stitch
of a thimble prick. Let me tell you. Let me warn you:
                                Lust never troubled me.

Happy men are full of the present,
for its bounty suffices them;
and wise men also,
for its duties engage them.

Add a hyperlink. Bluntly. Bullock? Bollocks.
But don’t, don’t blink. Blow it through the bull.
Protection. Dissimulation. Footfalls.
Green mayo in the soma. Red sores on the licks.

                               Even the horse is stripped of his harness,
                               and finds a fleet fire-horse yoked in his stead.

Hello hello.
Hello. Honesty.
I’m anemic. I’m anemic.
I’m delinquent. I’m delinquent.
I’m prostrate. I’m prostrate.
I’m too fat. I’m too fat.
It is a cavity. It opens.
           Words coming and going.
Words loving and strolling.
Writing like a cavity.

                               It was the boundless Invisible world
                               that was laid bare in the imaginations
                               of those men; and in its burning light,
                               the visible shrunk as a scroll.

So few, and the chalk echoes and elides.
So many, didn’t think that’d happen.
So what, countered the pop star in Lenin linens.
She returns every evening. She returns. Shouting.

Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe yesterday.
My lazy glands will never support me.
My lazy glands will never support me.
My lazy hands will never stop me.
My lazy hands will never stop me.

                               Nay, we have an artist that hatches chickens by steam;
                               the very brood-hen is to be superseded!

Did the flounder flounder, the bass bass?
           Don’t fink, don’t stink!
Balance it on coins.
           Plummet it for Bill.
Being out of necessity. Being unnecessary.
           Bettering this banter with news from Santa,
buttering it up with puns from Butterick.
Send it on the Steve.
Blandly bunting. Blankets suggesting the progress of history.
Blasé clowns. Blue spangled sneakers. Cancerous.
(Cited cows. Coughing.)
Besting, but not the best; and of the best: worst.
Efficacious. Politesse with the finger bent. Professionals.

           Accordingly, the Millenarians have come forth
           on the right hand, and the
           Millites on the left.

                               Reading silently to oneself.
                               Reading silently to oneself.
                               Reading silently to oneself.

And and.
And, and? And, yes.
Send it to Gillot.
Or hell you.
Wanking prevaricators.
We wait for the door to open.
Weeping consolations.

           The French were the first to desert Metaphysics;
           and though they have lately affected
           to revive their school,
           it has yet no signs of vitality.

           The Fifth-monarchy men prophesy from the Bible,
           and the Utilitarians from Bentham.

           The Crusades took their rise in Religion;
           their visible object was, commercially-
                                                       speaking, worth nothing.

The great Napster.
The green napper.
The Napstermeister.
These words arm. These wounds am.
Think and don’t think.
Turning up to claim to claim the prize.

Poetry professors professing the proofs of their own history.
(What do you do? What I do.
What do you do? What I do.
What do I do? Very fine, thank you.
What do I do? Very fine, thank you.)
Professors of history.
Professors of their own history.
Purchase it for marquee.
Purple bandages on sore arms.
Perforations in the fabric suggesting the pogroms of history.