Remixed Poetry

A Very Sad Poem

by
George Eliot Jibson

a dead man, eyes set,
limbs stiff, made of iron
said good-night and walked off
on his legs – soul
loose from his body

walking home near four o’clock
buttoning his coat he set off
undertaking a remarkable feat
of locomotion through gathering mist
in darkness
his feet dragging along

on-coming of daylight
veiled by falling
trackless snow
touched consciousness
chilled and faint
turning towards a
red uncertain heart

a man little short of madness
believing the testimony
of an angel who knows
deep sorrow and despair
lived life like the spider
in his solitude
love at last finished
he sat in loneliness
and moaned very low

David Jibson, 2015

Remixed Work:
Silas Marner, by George Eliot

Rust Belt Americana

Searching for Pittsburgh
Going there
To see if something comes next
Finding something
How to love the dead

A year later
Explicating the twilight
What is there to say?
A ghost sings, a door opens

Music is the memory of what never happened
Older women
Carrying torches at noon
Tear it down

I imagine the gods
Guilty, haunted importantly
Scheming in the snow
Trying to have something left over

Howie Good, 2015

Remixed Work:
Index titles of The Great Fires, by Jack Gilbert

Blood on the Leaves

Talk to me about who you were, who you’ve become.  Let’s go deep very quickly. Pinpoint the inaccuracies. It’s hard to make beauty. There must have been moments:

God, Sex and alcohol

People can get lost in all those things.  The community of Gemini watching the throne; perpetually in faux awe.  People don’t make the most of their lives – rushes of bombast and vulnerability.

Rock n roll and rap mute my voice.

Hurricane Katrina would have plenty to say. Sonic paintings. Completely destroy the landscape, like a prodigy – George Condo or Nick Knight or Takashi Murakami. But, I am the first me.  It’s hard to make beauty.

Black Skinhead, Gold Digger

I don’t think most people are comfortable with their own dreams. I’m trying to give people a little bit of context to the possibilities. But when we talk about love, I don’t have an answer.

Just enough religion, a half cup of alcohol,

a lot of sex

Twelve years a slave, Jesus walks before I’d even finished the second verse. He went to Europe, he went to Africa, he went to Mecca, and then when he came back to America, he stormed the stage.


Amanda Faye, 2015

Remixed work:

Interview with Kanye West, by Kanye West & Steve McQueen

Separation in the Evening

Lament with me.
Shuttling through time,
I have forgotten the word,
a red cluster,
a stream of gold honey.

O fields, O sky,
when the light of day fades,
depriving me of sea,
place midnight in the care of my hands.

Howie Good, 2015

Remixed Work:
Index titles of Modern Russian Poetry,
edited and translated by Olga Andreyev Clark and Rose Styron

October

looms dimly in the background,
like a hammer and chisel in arthritic fingers,
Rodin, old, goatish, nearly blind,
wearing a white summer suit and dark glasses,
a cigarette dangling from his lips,
while a young Russian-born French lady
strolls into the same time frame
gathering apples and winter pears

Howie Good, 2015

Remixed work:

Rare 1915 Films Show Rodin, Monet, Renoir, and Degas in Their Twilight Years,
by Allison Meier (Hyperallergic)