Ariel Resnikoff

Author’s Note. raisin in every bite gathers and convenes devotional notebook poems at the threshold of dreams, where sleep meets afterlife in memory. These poems fly in flocks, in fabulous company of so many living and dead writers, in love and care for that great company, a ragtag translingual family of freaks and poets and outriders. Much of this writing arose in response to a weekly bicoastal virtual social club of poets called “Confetti” hosted by John Coletti late into the night and early morning through the depths of the first year and a half of the pandemic. Although the pamphlet bears no formal dedication, the longer ms-in-progress from which it’s culled — poems w friends & ghosts — is dedicated to the memory of George and Elio Schneeman; and the present selection I dedicate to my friend, the late Kevin Killian, who I miss every day, and who I meet now only in memory and dreams and poems.

 

precisely, as to you

 

one need not be a chamber to be haunted,

one need not be a house;

the brain has corridors surpassing

material place (e.d.)

 

in muddy nests

sounds slosh over

pots, stream

over stones

 

heavy weight

less river winds

bewildered in

sensuous

 

accompaniment

‘s immense

sorrowful mess

& horror. such

 

odd inexplicable

beauties search

out relation to

learn the word

 

for pain

for pinecone

or acorn, repeat

it to share

 

in the riches

w everybody.

tiny palestine

sunbirds play

 

on fringes

strings in wind

‘s river foams

hovering hum

 

mingbirdlike

creaturely

loves

sit

 

& glow &

shimmer

under sunheat

speak in

 

sweet thin

beak songs.
i want to

learn the word

 

for pinecone

for acorn

for pain

w/o saying it.

 

in deepest

languages wild

ernesses

lush inflect

 

ions rise up

from frozen

winter soils

& tongues

 

entangled

droolings

last

least

 

speaking thru

sleep, letting

sleep speak for

gotten memory

 

 

after kafka             w anselm

 

pressure morning

crows hop foraging 

im/possibility mvmts

the sky looks up

giant blue yarm

ulke nazar ocean

eye in raging storm

 

 

entropy trance

 

on warm jelly

fish blinds

reminder dings

& reminds “b.b. p.c.

fri 7:30 am”

singing

sabbatean

sleep hymns

in anticipation

wakes to

pee texting

the already

awake on

diff time

zones, half-

asleep still

longing for

bed

what can i

write this

morn abt j.g.

who visits

my office

each night

thru bomb

shelter door

smokes deep

in words

mud-ash

from talking

dirt moistening

lips into saliva

bubbles

what can i

tell you of p.c.

who i never

met but who

visits in the

form of a

good word

btwn poets

a sweet salty

fume grown

into word

world from

grave beyond

grave

others you’ll

meet in their

poems, at the

mallard on a

rogue tues eve

why call this

conjuring the

dead when u

can say “hanging

out”

that life beyond

death in language

so perverse as to

exist for love

alone w no

ulterior

love is not

the subject of

this poem but

its seed &

fermentation

u, who inabit

this poem w

me, u reading

this now, who

dwell in poem’s

ecology

cook dank food

on shoestring

feast in language

epicureal

peter contacted

some in life &

thru his poetry

in the lives of

others after

death

peter who dwells in

poems w us

poet ghost

bless this

song

sounding

dunes of

words rain

down

in golden

hash oil

 

 

current state

 

reading diane this morning when

sara texts “on the bus to

dresden”        “the language shall

be my element, i plunge in”

(that’s diane)                         one year & one

day today w/o her in the

world —          “the wisest silly

jokester” sara texts,             diane

raised up in good humor    her poems

from breathing bodies

into air

 

 

on stumbling on frank at the free library    

 

in sensuality i find a harvest dawn (f.o’h.)

 

as flabbergasted

ghastly ghosts

slink in crisscrossing

patterns cross a crowd

-ed page         frank sips

supps, sits down w

atar & me at silo

cafe orders a papaya

juice on ice    says to say

hello to harry                        her

father’s long lost

friend sitting one

table over       the fire

pits heavy ash

covers feet

in bare soot bird

bath morning

night’s cashed ends

light, slightly

sunk we peel

grapes into finger

wine   splash

puddles of blonde

hash pollen on

our eyelashes

frank takes a call

from bilaal

‘s youngest son, the poet’s

“stop by for

a drop, bring atar & ariel

on a cool september

promenade over

looking the medina

pillowly cakes &

bisquitim over thick

muddy coffee            in crust

cracked alleys

letters calling back our dead

color our eyes

in bodies setting

sat in quiet

aleppo synagogues

our footsteps burn at

every hand    forests

shudder ceaselessly

disturbed

frank coughs into

my arm, intimate as

a child ,           muttering

spontaneous hymns

from inward

thicket

“father of

sound wake

harp’s fallen

to earth …”

 

 

dream in d.f.

 

a group of us

in the street

for a reading

in d.f. which

might’ve

happened

but never did

bernadette’s the

honored poet

& we read

all of us 

together

in a square

to a great crowd

everybody’s

translingual

it seems

our poems

& conversations

slip easily

btwn english

& spanish

bernadette closes

w a fav

if i suffered what else cd i do

& we retire to

an outdoor bar

a block from the

trotsky residence

the bar            i shd mention

has a moat

& crocodiles in it

snapping away

but we are not

afraid             order

large glass nargilas

& mescal w mint

on rocks

smoke giant plooms

of hibiscus lemon

shisha over back

gammon tables

bernadette leans

over to me &

suggests we 

poison some

fascists           i’m an

old poet she says

i’ll do it & they

can throw me in

jail, & y’re a

young poet, ariel

you can clean up 

the mess        laughs

phil almost chokes

a siren sounds breaks

dream frame for a sec

it’s the police

they’ve come to

murder someone

you see what i

mean ariel

but the cops

are clumsy

they’re not

expecting the moat

& trip suddenly

as one ugly wall

into the crocodile

waters

a horrific scene

ensues

which we flee

relieved & not

overly worried

abt the cops

like the egyptian army

after exodus

free, we cut out

to a 24hr taqueria

& order

chicharrón prensado

tacos to share

rumspringa galore

washed down

w cold horchata

someone’s shlepping

a typewriter

probably bernadette

& we sit down

in the street

to drink &

feast

& write you

 

 

lord of grass

 

after dark

 

reclining doubt

 

supplanted grief

 

at an ant farm funeral

 

wakes the campers

 

from heavy sleep

 

in camo green

 

burning grasses

 

for a night job

 

to a moon god

 

a parched peach

 

punch in mouth

 

feel my tears

 

fill yr eyes

 

key’s in b flat

 

piercing skin of

 

peach cheap panel

 

faces wince

 

heaps in twisted

 

sheets & bedding

 

tense sentences

 

fences’ groves

 

lost traces in sleep

 

follow trails

 

to redwd stands

 

w poems tucked in

 

breast pocket

 

like dew drip

 

ping off pine

 

wraps injured

 

bee in warm felted

 

wool mixed linen

 

gestures arriving

 

from skies beyond

 

tallest trees

 

& searches fwd from

 

futures to sound

 

finds a piece

 

red & smokey behind

 

bottom left molar

 

& begins to sing

 

 

it’s good to swim in a church (b.m)

 

“what was i just going to say?

we drink. alli pours another

glass of red. riv finishes her

pastis. b makes a face at

pasta. we are drunk &

stoned on giant joint

& several bottles of

wine & now pastis. it’s

getting twd that time

& we still gotta eat the

peach! that pici was

divine. I love it i think

the  duration of dinner

btwn hrs & years

 

 

keen

 

no one will know

but the ghosts

k.k. told me

he believed he

had had a stroke

the v last time

i saw him, look

at me ariel, i’m

not me!          the first

time i heard him

read, i cd hardly

believe such a

poet existed &

lived among

us        at a gala

fundraising for

rachel’s new bk

k.k. was happy to

do it, arrived by

bart (refusing

cabfare), ate

burger before

hand (tho dinner

was served), asked

linda & me to

sign his auto

graph bk beside

rezzy & george

(when he

was the celebrity)

taking our picture

for pleasure

(not to post

but for his collection)

gave the best

reading of the

night (tho everyone

was great — hey sophia,

hey eleni)

drinking two diet cokes

(quickly, consecutively)

hugged me tight

when he said goodbye

(see you soon friend)

the last time i saw

kevin on this earth

at alan’s father

‘s reflectrograph

show at right

window: “i read

fascination on

the airplane, i tell

him, fucking

loved it, “you

perv, he laughs,

“what did yr seat

mate have to say?

reading over yr

shoulder thinking

now this kid’s

a real freak!

what i remember best?

at any given reading

kevin wd find the

least initiated

person in the rm

to chat to & take

their email or number

the most generous poet

i ever met

hands down

& again i’m reading

fascination,

this time in bed —

“you really

are perverted, i hear

kevin smile