Harryette Mullen

Music for Homemade Instruments


I dug you artless, I dug you out. Did you re-do? You dug me less, art. You
dug, let’s do art. You dug me, less art. Did you re-do? If I left art out, you
dug. My artless dug-out. You dug, let art out. Did you re-do, dug-out 
canoe? Easy as a porkpie piper-led cinch. Easy as a baby bounce. Hop on
pot,tin pan man. Original abstract, did you re-do it? Betting on shy cargo,
strutting dimpled low-cal strumpets employ a hipster to blow up the native 
formica. Then divided efficiency on hairnets, flukes, faux saxons. You dug, 
did you re-do? Ever curtained to experiment with strumpet strutting. Now 
curtains to milk laboratory. Desecrated flukes & panics displayed by mute
politicians all over this whirly-gig. A well known mocker of lurching unused
brains, tribal & lustrous diddlysquats, Latin dimension crepe paper &
muscular stacks. Curtains for perky strumpets strutting with mites in the
twilight of their origami funkier papoose. Thanks for patting wood at
flatland. Thanks for bamboozle flukes at Bama, my seedy medication.
Thanks for my name in the yoohoo. Continental camp-out, percolating
throughout this whirly-gig on faux saxon flukes. Artless, you dug. Did you



Sleeping with the Dictionary


I beg to dicker with my silver-tongued companion, whose lips are ready to
read my shining gloss. A versatile partner, conversant and well-versed in
the verbal art, the dictionary is not averse to the solitary habits of the 
curiously wide-awake reader. In the dark night’s insomnia, the book is a 
stimulating sedative, awakening my tired imagination to the hypnagogic 
trance of language. Retiring to the canopy of the bedroom, turning on the
bedside light, taking to bed this heavy book laden with the weight of all the 
meanings between these covers, smoothing the thin sheets thick with 
accented syllables––all are exercises in the conscious regimen of dreamers,
who toss words on their tongues while turning illuminated pages. To
go through all these motions and procedures in pursuit of an alluring word
is the poet’s nocturnal mission. Aroused by myriad possiblities, we try out
the most perverse positions in the practice of our nightly act, the penetration
of the denotative body of the work. Any exit from the logic of language
might be an entry in a symptomatic dictionary. The alphabetical order
of this ample book of knowledge might render a dense lexicon of lucid
hallucinations. Beside the bed, a pad lies open to record the meanderings
of migratory words. In the rapid eye movements of the poet’s night vision,
this dictum can be decoded, like the secret acrostic of a lover’s name.