Happy Water Pt. 1 and 2

*Part 1 translated from Ukrainian by Oleksander Frazé-Frazénko 

Part 1 

He is still sitting at my desk
under the Ukrainian flag
writing a novel and shaking his head, 
I don't bother him unnecessarily,
I don't make moves so bold,
he is an American,
twenty-seven years old. 

Back home, I got married at his age. 
Clash glasses for good luck!
I wanted that empty sound so badly. 
When the village council registrar said: 

"Now greet each other as husband and wife" 
my fiancé shook my hand. 


The Big E 2023

I’m planning my once in a lifetime affair
It’ll be the party of everyone’s year 
The beaux and the belles,
The heaviest swells,
The celebs, the smarties,
The funky, the arty, the glitterati,
The hale and the hearty,
The coy and the tarty,
Those mystery-mongers, the Illuminati,
They’ll all take their places, 
Showing us their real faces 
At my Extinction party
Count on it, everyone will be there    .

Eating a Sandwich in Tompkins Square

Birds and dogs and babies

and mothers and lonely men

and girls eating ice cream,

saying they wish they didn’t

have to work today.

Avenue A shut ups and fuck

offs and where are you

goings, sound kind of sweet

and the honking cars feel

like my calling. We are all practicing

meditation and I have no one

to see or anywhere to be.

Watching the tree’s shadow

move and come back, I forgive

my fathers, grandfathers, and great

grandfathers. I can be forgiving sometimes.


Fat ugly pigeons near the West 4th St movie theater love extending their whole heads. They latch onto crust with their beaks and flail it about whirling a full 360 in their faggotry.

I watch and I miss you, inhaling the pizza of others.

Similarly migratory, the ice cream trucks
of Bushwick play their song nonstop
for at least three months in heat. The
only way out of it is through. Mr. Softee
fated to his inceldom, is damned and unkissed.

²d - Baetylus

[Side A, Scoubidou Suite]

"For the aeglarian rock, we've these offerings:"

A flower of life in latticed shiners.


I am Dusk.


Frost has made a licornucopia of

"The red wheelbarrow made with chemicals"

branded like a bar counter in blacklight.


Anything here wet & edged,

wearing the depression


like Sixty peachpit meteors.


Their null-tulle of gravity,

entrails of Goodwill's stuffed animals

as plush cloud scarves,

ton-bump mulberry.


The Errand for Infinite Saturday

On Infinite Saturday, there’s no bad dancing

because there’s no such thing.


They’re playing your favorite song,

after your favorite song, and all the space

is space to move within, as there is

nowhere that needs moving from.


And the flowers are aptly named—

they really do flow.


Like limegreen rabbits checking pocketwatches

for the proper time, they bloom on cue

and shower you with a view for

their remaining hours. Their twilight show

flooding the gardens; the fields;

Three Poems - Jason Irwin

Poem for Gerry or, the Poet Goes Walking in His Backyard 

The Jays & Wrens sing his legend.     

The furry creatures call him saint, moonstruck 

uncle. He Who Dresses like a Windy Day, 

while the gnomes cast eyes of caution 

whenever he moves through the tall grass, 

murmuring his strange benedictions,  

his elegies to ribwort & tree bark. 

Each night they watch as he recedes  

like the sun, behind the doors of his domicile. 

Each morning they gather like soporific pilgrims  

You are the bull’s eye

You are the bull’s eye.
You are the bull’s eye in my dream.
Your eye, directed at me
In the field.
I am so much field.
Your eye in the field
Does violence to me.
I lose sight of your eye
And I do violence to you.
Neither of us touch each other.
Though we move
To each other as to a target.
But the bull in the field is stone.
In the field I let you go like some flash
I would carry in my retina.
I fantasize about the stone in my retina.