Funny Business
A Special Edition of The East Village

Anselm Hollo & Laura Wright


"Cowboy Poetry Matters"
            when in the course of human events
                    one has to be silly

    instead of waiting for angel wing hum

this may well serve a purpose

            looka there that's a cow !
            we used to eat them !
            this was not nice !

    ... this was when he noticed his wife
    had been taken by a demon ...

                he roped an ostrich
                with the moustache
                he had been wearing

one might even say "sporting"
in this installment of looney tunes

                        then they made tracks
                        trying to stay ahead of
                                    the simoom

their hats were very large indeed
but not large enough

    stooping to sip
    from the polluted
    mountain stream

            the ostrich recoiled its hat flew off
            propelled by the small wiry hairs on its head

    they stood up quite straight
    against a backdrop
                    painted by Jean Cocteau

                    when the dust had settled:
                    a naked lady in serious repose

        she must have adequate time
        to contemplate matters at hand
        and talk to her dead companions
in the space time continuum
where she uploads 
these items

                smoke trails along the horizon ...
                leaving port ...
                shore seen disappearing ...

    one might say ...
            but that was before the heyday of the snails

        "I could imagine him gnawing his hands
            at night and waking
                with his head at the foot of the bed"

to prove the arbitrariness of such designations
as "head" and "foot" 
in the case of inanimate objects

                so maybe that's snail
                    not smoke
                trails along the horizon

and he loped off into the sunset
astride his trusty gastropod

                    dust smoke or other airborne
                        debris may lead to
                            beautiful sunsets

    which may well be why "cowboy poetry
    matters" to some who've never herded a cow

    an activity both tiring and tiresome

        unlike the composition
            of lines such as these

some people think boring and tiresome is "real"
                    in which case, avoid the real !

            but never avoid New York poets
            especially ones who mention
            their refrigerators

    full of chilled bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon
    of which they partake with naked ladies
    in serious repose

        while the snow falls
        gently on city streets

            but it's your teeth that are cold
            and long for simpler things

    cowboy coffee with eggshells to settle the grounds

and a bowl of opium circa eighteen-eighty

next to the midden of empty bean cans

                            ah destiny
                            so much more manifest
                            it was back then

 now we must have experts to testify
 and experts on expertise

                        pass the bowl
                        and praise whatever
                        you can

(o say can you see the experts foregather
in they little think tanks ?

                they's just little
                fish ! they moufs
                open and close ! )

"all directions are the same    they just start out different"

when falling down a mountain

    don't put out hands
    to stop the fall

and never try putting a leash on a sphinx
or sphynx as poet Heliczer spelt it

                        "poetry to the rescue!"

            are very serious

and so was Napoleon in his little jacket
while the Austrians were thinking only of the frontier

                    poetry could be considered
                    an alternate

so don't hop in the car
but hop in the book !

walk around in it and
take a look !
then take another

                your plea is reasonable
                but we cannot provide

        each thing can only
        fit, like Chief Niwot, frozen
        in its little box

a foursquare sculpture in a park
meant to symbolize grief and regret

            but now simply sad
            old toy
            in the attic

                its eyes close when it is bored with its job

    going around in circles
    while down the street
    a body rests on dry ice

                    in its little jacket as the Riders 
                        of the Purple Sage file past

                    the power station
                        gleaming on the moon
                O FROG PLOP POND

Volume Eleven Index