A forum for writing not whining, aesthetics not agenda, ideas not issues, vision not victimhood, GIANTHOLOGY is edited by the members of Heroes Are Gang Leaders.

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Ben Mazer



A Semi-Bogler


This weekend Jennifer and Jane
made crabcakes with Orlov and Shane,
in cream sauce a la mary jane
until the very midnight tippled
with Frank Fontaine, our beloved crippled.
But who is that clammy Boston ogler
pasting past the semi-Bogler?

We span around the fairly ground
and humped the jaspar with our nippled
several-spectralled visor incisor
as Orton Foolfe had last advised her
on Pont Duray. Hooray! Hooray!
But who is that clammy Boston ogler
pasting past the semi-Bogler?

Then Hetty and Bartholomew
sang out the new Ballou Review
while Harris tweeded up the stew
and Jenny on the balcony
strew gems upon the Bowery.
But who is that clammy Boston ogler
pasting past the semi-Bogler?

From me to you and you to her,
then back to Serge, these things converge,
then like a city they are spawned,
a grand idea that has dawned
on many, and not on a few.
But who is that clammy Boston ogler
pasting past the semi-Bogler?

To Tommy’s, then to Raviolito’s,
the shining pearls of fingers and toes
snake like a necklace, more or less,
no matter how hard Tommy throws
his reputation against ours,
to reappear in the shining hours!
(Shamed as our breath slows, goodness knows.)
But who is the clammy Boston ogler
pasting past the semi-Bogler . . .

He married a poet. That’s what you get.
A thousand dollars off at the vet.
Cupcakes and crispies the first time they met.
Now everyone dances. The diamond is set.
Cupcakes and crispies tattooed on his balls!
And the new Ballou Review glued all over the walls.
But who is that clammy Boston ogler
pasting past the semi-Bogler?


The Dynasts


All travellers are watched by the wide clock
and leaden eyed despairs, furies of the chalk,
one of two or three,
speed commas past houses.
Now I’m baptised
and a girl in a priest’s gown
with my balls whacked.
Look mother is on stage
and time settles down in the town
in ways that no one talks about,
holding up each image of the past
that passes like a shame of greed
shining across the river
like a richer shore. Nothing happens
that needs knowing about.
Stacks of wood and straw
imbibe the news, divert delivery.
These towns are old.
They all still celebrating being sent to heaven
and I am trying to deal with their being human
even while I listen to their stories
maxing my mayhem of an upward climber.
Keats! You underwrote our simple truth
and funded this bankrupt booth
that still pays out a step ahead of craven
man or inconducive woman. Half a ham
past February clarity will frame
a one time juncture in the window pane
and only one will take the pain to remember
the urgencies for weather being sombre,
which is a trail. Half a lack of that
is still incipient at the printer’s office
and welcomes back being undone
for it is only waiting for this one
and would mount grandly on the grandest stair
without batting an eye or starting to preknow
the kind of thing that exactly happens.
The busses leave the houses to these things
selecting neighborhoods for their appearings,
I watch for you. I am strangely too
much the subject of these wanderings–
my own hostile star, and star of tears,
makes talk of. Nothing is on time
but leans in adherance against refusal
for purpose only mine, I make uncommon,
yet make live again to semi-initiate,
out of that circle, heirs of this reversal.


BIO: Ben Mazer’s most recent collected of poems is SELECTED POEMS (MadHat Press, 2018). He is currently editing THE COLLECTED POEMS OF DELMORE SCHWARTZ for Farrar Straus & Giroux (his edition of THE UNCOLLECTED DELMORE SCHWARTZ comes out Dec. 7 of this year from Arrowsmith Press). With Raquel Balboni, he co-publishes and co-edits the bimonthly ART AND LETTERS. He lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

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