Joanna Fuhrman’s poetry has appeared in such publications as New American Writing, American Letters and Commentary, Conduit, Lit, and Lungfull!, as well as in three collections of her own, Freud in Brooklyn (2000), Ugh Ugh Ocean (2003), and Moraine (2006) all published by Hanging Loose Press. She has taught writing on many different levels, from homeless shelters to the University of Washington, and also served as a readings coordinator for the Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church. She lives in Brooklyn.
You Should Have Been There for the Hangover! Moraine
I was all geeked out
in my "Poetry Rules!" T-shirt
and kneepads when the rain
washed away my attempt
at a rondeau. Frank O’Hara,
wethaired and giddy, jumped off
the coffee mug to grab me
by the anklet and haul my ass
to the living museum where
people stay still and action
paintings roam, nipping you
with their claws if you only stand
far from the surface or describe
them with too many
Latinate terms. It’s all
Lite Brites and pick-up
sticks in the spondee nightclub
from then on, the penis
on Walt Whitman digitally
enhanced, Muriel Rukeyser
holding her oar above the peaks
of puny waves, Nicanor Parra
ripping out the pages that are
more boring than the blank,
and Andre Breton with a wet
Sit-and-Slide and purple whip,
bossing everyone about, while
Alvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis,
and Alberto Caerico play
rock, paper, scissors to determine
the final resting place of
Fernando Pessoa’s dentures
which keep chattering under
the glitter balls, and singing
ballads about Lorca’s pet hen
who has escaped the “I’m-feeling-
ill-at-ease-in-my-suburban-
living-room-sonnet-poultry-
butcher” and is now shaking
out his kaleidoscopic glass
and fire feathers, and squawking
obscene-duende limericks about
baseball and bubble gum and
florescent hydroponic ballet.
at a rondeau. Frank O’Hara,
wethaired and giddy, jumped off
the coffee mug to grab me
by the anklet and haul my ass
to the living museum where
people stay still and action
paintings roam, nipping you
with their claws if you only stand
far from the surface or describe
them with too many
Latinate terms. It’s all
Lite Brites and pick-up
sticks in the spondee nightclub
from then on, the penis
on Walt Whitman digitally
enhanced, Muriel Rukeyser
holding her oar above the peaks
of puny waves, Nicanor Parra
ripping out the pages that are
more boring than the blank,
and Andre Breton with a wet
Sit-and-Slide and purple whip,
bossing everyone about, while
Alvaro de Campos, Ricardo Reis,
and Alberto Caerico play
rock, paper, scissors to determine
the final resting place of
Fernando Pessoa’s dentures
which keep chattering under
the glitter balls, and singing
ballads about Lorca’s pet hen
who has escaped the “I’m-feeling-
ill-at-ease-in-my-suburban-
living-room-sonnet-poultry-
butcher” and is now shaking
out his kaleidoscopic glass
and fire feathers, and squawking
obscene-duende limericks about
baseball and bubble gum and
florescent hydroponic ballet.
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