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About this poet

Julian Talamantez Brolaski is the author of Advice for Lovers (City Lights Publishers, 2012) and gowanus atropolis (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2011), and coeditor of NO GENDER: Reflections on the Life & Work of kari edwards (Litmus Press, 2009). Julian is a poet and musician who lives in Queens, New York.

Amorosa Erranza

Cosi mi trovo in amorosa erranza.
(Thus I find myself an errancer in love.)
—Dante

All my dark hardiments begin, so furious and so fell. All disarrayed in love I began to speak of Mariners. And when I saw the grove divided into double parts, which ways I took, diversely can I tell but can no ways devise. So in I enterred was, and marvelled at the wandering way. Although my leman, I am in wondrous doubt—tell me, ERE I DIE OF LOVE—which way to turn? Your hands are like pansies your teeth are like tombstones, and all along the way even the labyrinths shuddered. Where can I go to powder my nose safely? Your address makes me feel intimate, yet I undergo the strangest beguilements, I become incredulous.

From Advice for Lovers by Julian T. Brolaski. Copyright © 2012 by Julian T. Brolaski. Reprinted with permission of City Lights Books. All rights reserved.

From Advice for Lovers by Julian T. Brolaski. Copyright © 2012 by Julian T. Brolaski. Reprinted with permission of City Lights Books. All rights reserved.

Julian Talamantez Brolaski

Julian Talamantez Brolaski

Julian Talamantez Brolaski is the author of Advice for Lovers (City Lights Publishers, 2012) and gowanus atropolis (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2011), and coeditor of NO GENDER: Reflections on the Life & Work of kari edwards (Litmus Press, 2009). 

by this poet

poem

a bed of roses itself is no bed of roses. Nobody wants an e-book, they would sooner leave you in the lake, a den of mouldering slime for your coffin. Everybody calling it a recession—theyr in a delusion. I am privy to these contradictory situations where I am told first the one and then the other bathroom is the

poem

who never thinks too cold, too coldly of themself
who lay awake (toûtseul) in tha dark room & thot to
     disappear themself.
who would not (not not notnot) be consoled & raged
on pompous ponces, jowlyfacd rich people &
     that melancholic pool, despair

last

poem

since one immured is not forgot
I let a pansy wilt for rot

and vowed the banker’s misunderstood
what crowned the leafy brays of cottonwood
let all the trim gone daisies
be forgot.   let bloodbaths
fill the dailies

all incognitos arrayd
we swim through the Hudson only