Trios are not to be confused with ceviche (suhVEEchay). Trios are inedible. Trios consist,
among other features, of targets. (Alternately, Trios consist
of, among other features, targets.)
Refrigerate. Reduce scallops to tears, with a thin slice of weevil. Include agencies,
soviets, covens, jirgas and a peshmerga or two. They do what they can,
thinking it’s never enough.
The plumb bob’s devotion. Ah, such terrain! It is here
(not just anywhere), a perfect table
One notes chaos skulking amidst a necessary
obscurity. Also kanakas abusing
Scented bubbles. White tiles like petite vault doors
enclosing toy pandas, dream
Perfection pierced with cocktail umbrellas, had stupid gas a sentient thing been,
in the foreground, pantry
Plenty of which to carry us when? To cakewalking back with Buonaparte’s horde
like bloated scarabs in tatty duds? Utah! Wetah!
Kitsch inspiring zits. Wound-oozy martyrs approve. To be synchronous with plumbing’s
captive fluids, looks of anticipation, clouds doing what clouds do,
thanks to you, comrade sky.
X endures, Y not so much. What next wonders the plug snug in its jug
and so do you. Have we climbed the wrong ziggurat?
Ducking’s an option.
Tree surgeon in error lynched. Good luck deposits where Mother Lode lodges.
I shall too soon to achievements aspire, crafting illusions
of moist effusions.
When off a roof a walkabout stumbles, nasals oboe dirge morose,
cello, tuba, trombone euphonious. It’s in the pavement
Aflame the ballroom at which one arrives for modish bamboula,
opaque with smoke, spattered Maz
At ante-matter one fusses and fumbles, bigger even than
phantom conundrums. Is this even
Question accountancy. Investigative poetry demands it. Suns set,
onslaughts befall. Your years differ from mine,
beginning at the orphanage.
Heard the one about the Senegalese merchant?
Seems his camels are strangers.
Above all else (hands to breast), Mother of God! They say I shall hurt me,
yes, they do say it. The deed will remain
in the family aisle.
Why does Respighi gnaw his fedora? One declines to water seedlings.
The future lies. Rifts in Ancient
Airs and Dances.
As any sniper knows, success is the carom’s best friend. How less than fulfilling
to aspire to the heavens imagined through a ceiling that falls on
one’s face. Moon. Crickets. Stars.
In discarding oneself one could, I suppose, aim for the trash and achieve thereby,
of courtesy and comity, a comely
Kit Carson’s dead. Because we have our wisdom teeth
we understand that these things
I seem the buffoon in Donald Duck pumps? Is it, again, the vision thing? Is it bad judgment,
the hours spent quacking, dreaming duck dreams, seeing the stars
as eggs to be cracked?
This leg I’m on might be my last. It’s also tough on elderly voles. How to queue?
By size? By diploma? As little drips maelstroms begin, no more alarming
than ziti al dente.
Guillaume Apollinaire, Guillaume de Machaut, Billy the Kid,
William B. Williams, utility
Colleen, my colleen, o’demeanor kayacky, your features I bathe in dancing confetti,
the kind one dumps from high office
Osaka noodles! Hai! Banzai! So why does a lady
have a roach on her
Knee-deep in mud. How to upgrade:
Shop for an arm
Assemble the family. Hand out cotton swabs. Explore
ear canals. You will not rot, crack, warp
Bus-shat baggage (ecumenical chortle). What drew you to this Trio,
the gurgle or the hiss? Did anyone
The vegetables are cheaper, the girls are more willing,
the toilets stink, spring is
— after Heine
Mike Silverton’s poetry appeared in the late '60s and early '70s in Harper’s, The Nation, Wormwood Review, Poetry Now, some/thing, Chelsea, Prairie Schooner, Elephant and other publications he may have (and most likely) mislaid. William Cole included Mike’s poems in four anthologies: Eight Lines and Under, Macmillan, 1967; Pith and Vinegar, Simon and Schuster, 1969; Poetry Brief, Macmillan, 1971; and Poems One Line & Longer, Grossman, 1973.
As a culture go-getter, Mike produced poetry readings for The New School for Social Research, New York’s municipal radio station, WNYC, and Pacifica Radio’s WBAI, KPFA, and KPFK. One glaring regret: Mike had arranged to record Frank O’Hara on the week in which he was killed, the weekend intervening, by a dune buggy.
Mike’s music writing, centering on modernist classical, appeared in Fanfare, a bimonthly review, and several Internet publications, including his own LaFolia.com. Mike's reviews of high-end audio hardware appeared in the main in The Absolute Sound, a print publication, and StereoTimes.com. For the unlikely audiophile reading this, Mike's speakers are Wilson Audio Sasha W/P.
When Mike and Lee relocated from Brooklyn to Midcoast Maine in early 2002 he indulged an interest in Dadaesque assemblage, resulting in several works in a group show at The Center for Maine Contemporary Art in Rockport, and a one-man show at Belfast’s Aarhus Gallery. Mike and Lee’s 1842 house and barn are peppered throughout with work he’d have preferred to sell. (Jefferson Davis spent a night, obviously at an earlier time. Really.)