Poems from Insurgentes

by Marc Nasdor


Courtesy Flush


Name the birthplace to start the buzzard

coughing; make certain others obsess

on it, bothered in their dreams & those


of their partners. Waking in spurts

from a sleepwalking apnea, telepathic

narcolepts preach: “Hairline fissures open


(echo) long enough to entrap you

into full-on three-toddler punishment

playdates, or otherwise similar regret.”


Thus pirouettes a bone-bent behemoth

dangling his Forager’s Clamps—one pair

wired to his dead-hand detonator—


some venal attempt to fully reconstitute

his clan’s erasured nativity grid, minting

for insatiably smear-crazed public


its facts on the ground (fabrications, 

whatever); whoever legitimizes any

& all atrocities himself, uncommitted


& stuck in reverse [osmosis]; or how

even to appear as fractionally skanky

as a class-denying faux-hawk, shifting


on membranes loosely stretched over

buckets of mucous, commingling them-

selves with their last interactions in lip-


locking legacies, & other plainly obvious

featherbed, for the family of post-trauma

crackup that visits them sooner than later.



Personal Hygiene for Menhaden


Swap meet at the uptown funeral event,

wherein saints excrete their sinful turds

into absolution toilets. Men look down


at their numbers, ogling LCD displays

for prostate score fluctuations, tracking

bullish & bearish trending piffle deep


into the classroom. As subjects desanctify

biopics, giving it up (i.e., motor-to-poet); or

with slaps to his anklets, whispering slippage


by judgment, by hues in the irises. Accidental

rhythm books scheme to re-digitize “I want

not to know where you are,” or “I want to


not know where you are/are not,” an assay

(what? ever!) speaking confluent cusses

to malodorous mower-blowers, pestilent


as invective directed at specula. Spousal

crawl onto the birthing bed re-incubates

the neonates, fully plunging fungibles


tonguing unguent into cud-chunks

to protect the human larvae from far-flung

business prism Creep Crap Creosotes,


exactly the final birdsong heard before

syncope initiated its glorious tilt, a slow

leaning to gentle thuds to the sidewalk.


Where is I? More precisely, where

was I? “I want to bean / myself with those

numbers / when complaints go marching in.”



Lean Cuisine Marine


…or living out a year in a hippo’s transverse

colon. One learns one’s lesson in projectile

waste deployment & storage, as if, as ifn’t—


“What a load of spent hippo!” In the pocket

of afternoon screening room wackoffs,

smartphones tweet a follower’s au revoir.


Correct? Insubstantial? Concrete galoshes,

tossed into reservoir, exclude the cadaverous

dance; but tracking bacteria support


its insurgency; soon it’ll morph to under-

sea zeppelin, that kind of inflation

even moms get worked up about! Corpse


filtration feeds the poor fish; omnivore dines

on reduction of ball, diffusion of puss,

& that’s about all ‘til nolo contendere, close


file. Bodies of water mediate bone-cracks

as bits of marrow seep into fluidspace,

lapped up by coelacanths when fishers


& implements, connected by filaments,

snap amid the attentions of business.

It may be laudable to exit one’s hippo


after all the gases burn off, but in the end

the living dirigible floats over under-

sea rubbish, makes weed-twists, embraces


each little sea thing with leathery bulk,

drifting in its wastewater with currents

to dispersion, to natural divvying up.



Brain Balanced Precariously on Brainstem


Apoplexy morphs you back into Back Into.

Often over-simulated, more often pro forma

Exterminating Angel, its willard flapped


sideways in odd service to itself. Precisely

what level of performance enhancement

is acceptable to seller, whose available


leverage the lending source covets?

Isn’t a pseudo-decoder-ring demon

with stinger-enabled-brickbat enough?


Data entry simmers here & around, stuck

in a soft keypad’s membrane. That sounds hot,

so it’s written—really hot! So what sets off


ensuing calamity? What else concatenates

instructions to recipient? Same kind of syrup

that poisons your pillow talk? Same breed


of talking point flash-mobbed in sermons

as overage accumulates & later transforms

into billable units for a few, it turns out?


Deep fiscal sanctity flakes or peals off

to succor, & with it brings comfort,

or comfit (as in pralines) as bowls of ‘em


posit to weigh heavy in on it. Addressing

a mandatory quarterly sphincter-sniff,

one exec bats off a phalanx of shareholders,


[distractedly] posturing personal privilege:

“Apoplexy rules! Get on with it, Sponsors.

Invest in this!” (triggers timer on warhead).


photo by Dan Griffin




Marc Nasdor is a poet, writer and musician; a native of Baltimore who has lived in New York City since 1980. He was involved for a decade in international literary festivals with the late poet Allen Ginsberg and several prominent poets in the promotion and translation of world poetry for publication, the stage and the radio. He has also spent more than 25 years involved with the Hungarian arts scene in the US and in Budapest and Pécs, Hungary. In 2009 and 2010, he visited Mérida as a participant in the US Poets in Mexico program, and formed close friendships and contacts with the Mérida literary, arts and music scenes scene, giving readings at the Mérida English Language Library and the Café Poesía reading Series at Cafe Chocolate. His most recent book of poems is Sonnetailia, published by Roof Books in 1997.

In addition to his literary activities, Nasdor is well known as a world music DJ, resident at Mehanata Bulgarian Bar in New York City, and presently at Pilsener Haus, a massive Czech-German beer garden in Hoboken, New Jersey. He has also DJ’d in Budapest and Pécs (Hungary), Nantes (France) and in Mérida.


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