THE SWEATING LAKE

John M. Bennett

LUNA BISONTE PRODS

2017

2

THE SWEATING LAKE

© 2017 John M. Bennett

October 2013 – April 2014

Columbus, Ohio; Montevideo y Las Flores, Uruguay; Yucatán,

Campeche, y Quintana Roo, México

Some of these poems appeared in these e-chapbooks: El Grifo, [in

3 parts in] Escáner Cultural, 180, 181, 182, Santiago de Chile,

2015.El Resueño, [Columbus, Ohio: Luna Bisonte Prods], 2013;In

a chapbook, The Lunch The Gravel, [San Francisco, CA]: X-Ray

Book co., 2014; And in at least 3 print TLPs from Luna Bisonte

Prods, 2013-2014: Haspirina, Trilcecito, Perf Ormations. Includes

4 labels from JMB's The The Poems, Toronto: Curvd H&Z, 1987.

Some of these poems appeared in the following fine print and/or

electronic periodicals: Otoliths, Caliban Online, DOC(K)S,

Invece, Slova, Extreme Writing Community, Naked Sunfish, Thrice

Fiction, Neste Universo: Um Rumor Simultâneo, Degu: A Journal

of Signs, PBW, Pense Aquí, On Barcelona, Truck, OSURA News, National Poetry Month Canada, Moss Trill, Kart, Offerta Speciale,

Zoomoozophone, Street Value, Marymark Press, & Cahiers Tristán Tzara

Front cover art & book design by C. Mehrl Bennett Back cover art by Osvaldo Cibils & John M. Bennett John M. Bennett art/calligraphy is scattered throughout the book ISBN 978-1-938521-41-6 www.johnmbennett.net https://www.lulu.com/lunabisonteprods LUNA BISONTE PRODS 137 Leland Ave. Columbus OH 43214-7505 USA

not the

it is the was the

wore the bed lint caca the entroito

severed the in

halfa the in tum

ba the swell the

ash burd the en tu

tripa sorda que me

habla mi tripa la tri pa sado tha t’s the

luna r thot that th th

at’s the boy ,hairless

in balloon

it is the - John M. Bennett

the storm

the blood suit saw dust ’ a turd in the corner wear the lap

you crusted

dog like

sweaty pile’ ‘’

where the mud

uttered a s tone

your lungless ramp

‘’)or rant(‘’’ coughing in the towel seems to wind

or squishy buttons

perdus dans le lac

2

the wet

the dink shore suit mist streaming from

yr shoes fulla hair ,straddling the door ,yr legs a foaming tent ≈˄≈ the mice

were drinking it was

the ,nodder ,flagging

,yr soaked shirt moving like a screen

pants and rivers fell into a cave I was

small I think I am thumbing the

tiny wheels

la chose, imparfaite

hundir

the shoe ,snoring ,c limbs

the rat or wall ,where

a hand ,or leg ,sweated

and bright ,left a thought ,of drink perhaps ,or maybe shells ,smelling

the waist ,a neck ,in

bed ,observes its sleep

,and yr pockets with st ring are filled ,knotty

but not retied ,rem

embering a wind ac ross

the lake ,where the ‘ ’

3

sunken towels defold

,and wrap the stones

,into their green silt sunk ,and stretches

its wrinkled tongue

...que llaman zenotes. - Diego de Landa

the ink

foments the aspirina

happy frost gist the

pinnacle sodden s

hoe conductivity fest ering in the binder was

a trout flopping in your lung writhing bread

calcification through o

through the Frigidaire

whistles in yr sinking

boot your corn inhaled

such grit such holes

such fingering the chamber pot billows loudly

through your faceplant sputtery journal gestures

where the thumbnails sweat inside the fecund treasury

sin caja, con viento

With clippings from Reed Altemus’ “oblong millenarians”

4

the syringe

the igneous clamor in your backpocket seated on a

fly torque the swallowed

flame operation’s drooling

in the hologram you f olded off yr hat nimbus

separations bask out side the spoon drainage

from the clown’s waxing

tonsure scrabbled in the

trailerpark’s gravel halitosis jargon sausage

in the trachea’s binary

boiler toilet o the base

ment urn tethered to yr syllabic ducts’ effusions

knot entonations fafalling

off the slab

en el cenote, la llave

With fumes emanating from Reed Altemus’ “the Venetian affable”

5

the gristle

the fingered head the

latex snore the c

awed shirt lip ful gurante tún hat wat er w h i s p e r s

in the sleep tu som

bra’s phrenological codex’s vaulted no

thing .the age of crow

ds the scored meat w

here the grass y r

oof smoulders and sp

arks ,aware of legs

and nodding .forks clatter from the pages

mi son o mudo the feet

chewing the horse ,what’ ‘nays inside the wall ,a

plunger in the toilet ,dreamed all day’s one

time ,if time re“exists”

,a neck ,cracked ,sl otted with in itztli so

the heart’s released

from the higher gate

where the head is

llosstt ,and your cou

ghghing smoothes the

6

sky ,a pencill f ffallls on the horizonte

,burning ,so the mane’s

textual wiindd ‘s

sttiffff with blloodd

tu armario sin candado

the bibliothèque

meat duck ,played the fog

,a tendril ,smattered ,op

timatal ,soaked ,it’s

swoll-like ,enters ,tapes

the shadow off your tongue what’s swallowed

,deknapped ,green and

hard ,the single pair ,beaked across the lawn

,where a towel grins ,and

yr nostril gapes like

sunset richly swerved

,it’s bouldered ,owlish

,numbered past the

milpa where yr s

hoes were lost ,in

apptitude ,for graining

,slotsided ,dim materia

folding in the index of yr lexicon ,a box of gravel filled with ink

...l’eau mort s’étame D’une pellicule de plomb... - Théophile Gautier

7

the sill

spelled the fork hairs

twisty stone nostril ex

recision des écritures

hiératiques grunting

on the fallen wall

...et tu m’écrases... - Théophile Gautier

el sonido

edges ,une volupté

morte ,indelible butt ons une cicatrice at my fingertips sur sa

gorge the corn nerveux

whispers for the movie

version aux vastes

salles délabrées singing

like a Buick or invisible

library’s corridor en

décombres a waving

corpse ses cils palpitent in the phone’s erection ,ois

eau noir de Venus out of con

trol un rêve the body

taller than anything

est-ce un fantôme? a

memory? ses yeux?

In the mists of Théophile Gautier’s “Ines de las sierras” & Ivan Argüelles’ “stoned”

8

le rêve bibliographique

“loathsome antiquity” and’ picking the nose e e e e e e

,or sum ladder croa’ ‘king from the toilet where yr wallet dreams ,trans in

substantiates ,Q-Tips

lost 20 years ,bent wands

of dust and immemorial gig

gling ,splattered pages bro

ken windows smouldering

glue and string in the laby

rinthine knots where yr ash

en list’s folded inside yr eye yr index ,dribbles ,was once

a shirt ,was once a knot in the exliterate wind

un cheval - René Magritte

the stone

beach uh knots ,crawl my

while ,you’re a ,knack

er ,leg slice falls away

,the flood down town your corn ered feet the “ga

zing-p ile” ,if your n

eck ,roiling ,tastes

the shiny fumes ,a

hose ,or hollow rope

with flagrance filled ,uh

cir cle li ar

sh oe de cay de vide

punk e raw pre pare

sat ellite la bor ma garde

e qual ex ex per ience

veg a ta ble soc io logy

dan ger colo sec or pi ppie en joy mob ile pro

vide i dle we apons ma

chine an y way

v iews cab bage his s

car rot ork h ats wrin

kle vaz oil f unk ket tle dit to tri an gle jel ly wig wam doc u ments

ad mire ey e lev el cos tum es suc ceed pi ano t apes bath room

net wor ked clos et

Tonguing through Jim Leftwich’s Six Months Aint No Sen-tence, Book 57, 2013, & Bryce & Sherman’s The Aldine Speller, Part Two, 1916

material desvelo

la que no se nombra clings

not unto roads and rot las

flojas manos redress shut turbio espejo finished fishing el lobo ahito active at best la

imágen desceñida stinks

dollars and ola en el pecho

sandstorm esponjándose en la

59

sombra entry gently eggs az

ure ay espada del agua ay

robber hand and jumper cables

drunken sun la luz se muerde

a sí misma ,eel aura ,machete

de la canícula address so

privately the group fate

cual una apretada venda

stitched cultura identity y

la evasión irónica del metal

Awake in Jim Leftwich’s Six Months Aint No Sentence, Book 58, 2013, & Juana de Ibarbourou’s Perdida, 1950

the seems

crush an sweat ,the highly

one ape resuscitation or your ,w ash nec k ,th

e d ream tre e so w ring yr shirt ,its fog it’s ,dime- like ,as burgers’s ,only

saw jus t he wall a strum of soap ,of testosteronly ads

of hair and leeches ES

TORNUDO y el cáncer de mi ojo inderecho el gus ano del pizquierdo

ven lo que no me han de

vuelto y lo que me llega

orondo ,y me ronda por la noche ahogada de humo

)))...su gerencia...

60

the chore

w what wwill ,if ccomb ,en

dormititus fflavored wiwith

yr rrisen hhand the other sside a shshoulder suitt a

,pesantez a ,colina ppoblada

de suits e inhumaciones wh,wh

at wwon’t ,intenso was ,a

lake of hair my shouted

leg ,or “laundry” interlabial .)the half dog smokes the leg

blessée the ,lungemeat in the stream rotates )what yr pantalón contains what yr )itch chess clobbers in

the cream

...cloudy ,with a drop of blood...

(((

61

el congrio

sinx a

an

autistic faucet

ay yr

N

OjO

ve

lo

NO

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