Doren Robbins: Two Poems


Title To Pussy Riot*

You take pussy out of the lexicon you put pussy in jail
when it’s the absence of the word pussy, the absence
of that plump little steam glove and rock riot in your life
that is awful.
Pussy demands exclamatory, celebratory,
Pussy’s a healing word and cunt says it all.
There are no definitions in the MacTimid Machine for cunt
––anything related to Cuntology has been excised from
the MacPoliced Lexicon.
The machine offers “Scientology,”
or “catalog.”
For Wetcuntology I am referred to meanings in Zulu,
Welsh, or Albanian,
languages if understood in a way knowledge of language is meant to be meant
would contain direct and connotative intensifiers
for the desire for immediate attention. Firemen and flood-workers know what I mean.
Not a thing for Hardonology but crucial worded references for a medieval branch
of studies for carrot thickening and crop renewal.
For hardonology you receive “hormonology,”
which means gornisht,
which is Yiddish for a kind of nothing,
an emphatic nothing,
a meaningless nothing,
a nothing of skeptical recognition of something almost not even worth considering: Putin
Obama nothing,
Romney less than nothing.
Gornisht is the regretful-inevitable, but I get nothing.
The machine gives me “garnish,”
which everyone who works in a restaurant is instructed to call “garni.”
The computer dictionary brain translates the Greek island of Mykonos
to “mayonnaise,” or “moans.”
Yesterday, eeriness was “ironies,” “ideology,” or “Ernie.”
“The end of the world,” a fragment.

*Pussy Riot is a feminist protest rock band from Russia. Three of the group members, Yekaterina Samutsevich, Nadezhda Tolokonnikova and Maria Alyokhina, were arrested and charged with hooliganism for performing an anti-totalitarian song and video, criticizing Putin and the Russian Orthodox Church-State. My list: “Putin/ nothing, /Obama nothing, /Romney less than nothing” borrows from Tuli Kupferberg’s song “Nothing.” Kupferbeg wrote and perfomed the song while a member of the dissident U.S. rock band The Fugs. Stating that Pussy Riot’s music had “undermined the moral foundations” of the nation, the Putin regime interpreted Pussy Riot’s socially redeeming critical thinking in Punk-lyrical expression as hooliganism.  

From “Great Mirror”

And not a chance those who dream of getting drunk weep when the sun comes up
matters one way or another—
the sun waited for them,
no wine—

not a chance warning anyone using a saying like that.
The advice I needed could never anticipate the future. There’s no way
my reduceless mine related to Emily Dickinson’s image
of a “reduceless mine”
if her image of a reduceless mine was the non-evaporable vitality of the imagination kind of reduceless mine.

The ore in the mine that brings you down is also reduceless,
some of the time,
enough of the time,
tarpitably the times.

Never completely clear out the least psychodepleted definition.
The wires twisted wrong in there,
the wire nuts burned off,
I’m not sure,
they might’ve melted,
maybe something finally exploded,
a lot of emotional boiled-over botulism of the botched in there––

the encrypted accumulations,
unlabeled materials,
the Hebrew original,
the oral edition,
the charcoal edition,
the anti-fungal dream scroll receipt,
just as reduceless.

Nothing mismeasured eludes inclusion.
Just our luck.
Just the unfitable bar code.
Those things too will call you up for the rest of your life and confuse you
in the middle of urinating,
preferably not masticating,
hopefully not under-copulating.

You think you’re going to drive away?
You don’t drive away.
Not even the sirens were spared.
There were sirens that committed suicide—and not a heroic micro-particle
from the resister’s end,
but awful all the way around.
Awful there are human sirens,
awful to love in that condition,
the organ of alluring,
awful rejection can make you flip out.
To be barred from music that takes you out of your mind,
that you can’t be mesmerized without chaos, fucking awful.

And not “reduceless,”
evermore not reduceless,
not through my endorphodorns,
my dipshitalore,
stem-cell libido,
like the tongue knows the back of the teeth,
like the tongue knows the bladder when the back teeth are floating.
Everything moving along to the tune
“Doing a Good Job at the Asylum.”

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