Hello
this is the future
this is the fallout
All you need to do is wrap your poem in "pre" tags. (pre inside of <.>/close it with ). If you're having trouble, message me on facebook.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Template Update
I finally fixed the problem we were having with automatic left-alignment which means we no longer need to put annoying noisy colored periods starting at the margin for proper line spacing (see below poem for details).
All you need to do is wrap your poem in "pre" tags. (pre inside of <.>/close it with ). If you're having trouble, message me on facebook.
All you need to do is wrap your poem in "pre" tags. (pre inside of <.>/close it with ). If you're having trouble, message me on facebook.
Politics
After Rae Armantrout and the First 100 Days
the most public of bathrooms: evidence
the terrorists have won
another slip-shod operation
the men pressed their hands on the hot deck;
they'd never heard of buoyancy
knowing more of heat
of hands
than our wordy Jeremiahs*
we crowned the ant-hill
with a prism
before retiring
the rhetoric
recently retreaded
with chains this time
Monday, April 27, 2009
Jab!
One from Beazley Kanost, and one from me in response to hers.
Proof, “Proof”
It is grey and reminds me, encased in a boot. The kind that scares little kids into proof, "proof", of what happened to every part of a man's life, equally mechanical.
I'm going to get my gritty vernacular up there in the car like most cars, with various tools.
The Maine plates probably turned this evening sweet, except the stigma of next week has been stepped on by a very large Comedy with laces made of steel. Thinking is greasy, the threaded kind you see these days. I guess it was only matter, an old competitor of time.
I hope to change that Ocean but don't speak English. Use the receipt, and this time 'round, speak of an atom that existence requires, a love never really made with anything else. My love is a whopping conversation--earlier in the revolve, mysteriously absent from the TIRE shop. I'm supposed to mine this swoon with tragedy, but meander on up to free running speed.
What about you pushed back to early English? The original reason for nice guys makes swagger even more like putty. You're always putting together nagging borders by way of that boot and futile quest that had the car at an exact conversation. You purchased the two days. You know, for as long as food is a worthy guess. I bet the shop there were a few major states when some thought during the trip met up with a pot of time to change some point and didn't feel like the days before the State.
The car is dramatic, aloof. Probably more fun than not being so strange. I rarely do anymore. Me. I'll be in and I will be in something when I visit new visits.
I lived in.
It was probable.
It's been.
Admitted myself.
It's been.
They were right.
Checked at.
If not, then maybe.
I didn't try many.
Which will be since will.
That's with.
The Thank.
That was the trip.
Anyway, but.
Written on 04-15-09
*********************
" "
The gray encasing me boots up. It is kind, and look at all the little kids happening to proof it. The women are forcefully mechanical nearby.
The scars are various up at the top, where form, formal, molecular, vernacular tools away with new proof. Your metallic box ticking to sleep.
No more Maine plates. The children get new ones used. Does replacement echo disintegration? Tying these shoes, spreading rust everywhere, time showers one week, the week of one, onto the next. But damn the sweet stigma of this evening's footwear crisis! Drawn curtains do well to damn. It is like everywhere I go finds one more comedic roof. I'm digging up a garden through Center City Philadelphia rooftops, revising a mystic's triptychal trimmings. What is more than three? Whatever comes next will just have to be grease. Ooze. Pleasant. Purpose. Let's not talk about our minds or dimensions anymore.
2000 years, all threaded into what came before, should be the full-stop we need.
"Into the earth we depart / Through the gates of its own railway station: / The full stop / at the end of the tunnel / is black, / like the snout of a gun." ***
So read Voznesensky. Read ideas about our great competitors, and shut your books. You may find, upon shutting, some hope in the (Atlantic) Ocean from some Russian hero who receipts our existence. Our love bobbing within the waves makes nothing nor just destroys.
I see:
- Holding up mica below the sun. That was in Maine in 1995.
- Burning a dictionary but full failure. That was in Rhode Island in 2007.
- Crushing a cockroach below a lamp. That was in Pennsylvania a week ago.
But we make with love even through destruction. The whoppers whooped in a Southern tire shop. No one whoops in the North. No cough. Nothing. Just doesn't happen.
There is revolving conversation in Boston. Catch the door and run away from there. Get your free speed and doodads voluptuously tragedized by the villains. We villains with our words and wands.
Sri Lanka coming to an end. Can't sit still while below the swoon howls. Move to the large states (of America) where you can't handle. We have grit in these large places. We think we can get away with a dialect but remain decent enough. Fetch the decanter, they say. No one fetches. No one decanters.
Brotherly love. Social erections--butterfly antennae. There aren't really and puttings going on are something, too. Nice guys swagger to where we know the nice guys are known well enough. For their swagger. For their nice swagger.
We who are plentiful, silent, are also murky. We who are mercury are always early and ugly. We kiss New York on the cheek. This is Philadelphian.
Imagine that as they don't kiss us back. Seeya, See you, Seeyaw, Seeyah, See-saw. We and you. You brought us here. You bought us here. Purchases may have been nagged but stills were released and we had to.
So there was this post that we threw you in. Filled with on-sale Easter candy, it was just the right aid for your brittle AIDS bones. You had had a good Easter and a good Friday before it. We waited for you now to fatten up. Cremation costs 2000 Washingtons and that's more than a trunk dig at the car stop.
We screwed that idea away.
You asked if the sugar trip was free. I said yes but now the Delaware no time for the glucose. And not the gap Delaware we ain't going up there. More like Old Richmond where the artists' bonfires would be close enough. A few major State agencies might show up like statues and get a kick. Seeing messages tattooed onto your ribskin with knife point. We got good kicks so why not they?
You said what about coffin decisions? I said that's the dumbest death decision humanity ever themed after. More like ran through with blue shorts on. But what about your end? you asked as you passed self to trunk. We got you at a discount, oh exhaust hat.
STEPS TO AN ALOOF CREMATION:
1. Death by drowning (Delaware River where Camden is just to the south)
2. Wait by soaking (on the Philadelphian bank of the Delaware river)
3. Body monitor (coastal camp out with fish-line spiked to sunk bod)
4. Body modification (transport of body from river to Camden waterfront)
5. Resource gathering (dried bushes, deceased and breaking, 3 per body; unleaded gasoline, ten gallons; match-sticks with witty messages on the paper packings)
6. Abandoned forested area translocation (for further wear and tear)
7. Dance after stranger has dried and begun to light. You may now know him or her. You can go home and create your artifacts later.
8. Return to the remains every two days; adequate wind measurement system. Does God really talk to us? et cetera
In the car on the the car ride home. Wasn't so strange. Carol read the Jack Spicer book because Carol wanted to feel like she was doing something on her own. This happened under a pear-shaped moon that was usually banana-shaped. Windows were down to doom's end. Stenton Avenue was the Avenue we drove on.
For no other reason than anymore being so rare a visit these days.
Down the tubes where the radio piped in. Shut up, boxed in Carol turned the KIA's volume knob to the right. By the way she existed nothing new was going on but it was true that the verse confused her right at the intersection of Stention Avenue and Mermaid Lane, a romantic urban hotspot for traffic goers alike. I could be found in the driver's seat. There was nothing romantic about the situation. Only incantations from the speakers.
Those housing projects have so many people shutting down inside of them, Carol said. More bait for our tackle, I thought to myself. I could hear Lovecraft crying from a large mouth in Providence. A beast or canal or mini-sky-scrape. And from the radio, the lines flowed like today's news report on Swine Flu:
Written on 04-27-09
You lived out.
They chanced at.
They busy being.
Admittance of a them.
They done in up.
I was ripening it ripened.
Plucked down under trip.
Maybe before the after.
You busy at one.
Were too were for will.
Again, and not then.
Pleasing mentioning over.
That could be its open.
Therefore however.
Written on 04-21-09
*** From "Ballad of the ." by Andrei Voznesensky.
Proof, “Proof”
It is grey and reminds me, encased in a boot. The kind that scares little kids into proof, "proof", of what happened to every part of a man's life, equally mechanical.
I'm going to get my gritty vernacular up there in the car like most cars, with various tools.
The Maine plates probably turned this evening sweet, except the stigma of next week has been stepped on by a very large Comedy with laces made of steel. Thinking is greasy, the threaded kind you see these days. I guess it was only matter, an old competitor of time.
I hope to change that Ocean but don't speak English. Use the receipt, and this time 'round, speak of an atom that existence requires, a love never really made with anything else. My love is a whopping conversation--earlier in the revolve, mysteriously absent from the TIRE shop. I'm supposed to mine this swoon with tragedy, but meander on up to free running speed.
What about you pushed back to early English? The original reason for nice guys makes swagger even more like putty. You're always putting together nagging borders by way of that boot and futile quest that had the car at an exact conversation. You purchased the two days. You know, for as long as food is a worthy guess. I bet the shop there were a few major states when some thought during the trip met up with a pot of time to change some point and didn't feel like the days before the State.
The car is dramatic, aloof. Probably more fun than not being so strange. I rarely do anymore. Me. I'll be in and I will be in something when I visit new visits.
I lived in.
It was probable.
It's been.
Admitted myself.
It's been.
They were right.
Checked at.
If not, then maybe.
I didn't try many.
Which will be since will.
That's with.
The Thank.
That was the trip.
Anyway, but.
Written on 04-15-09
*********************
" "
The gray encasing me boots up. It is kind, and look at all the little kids happening to proof it. The women are forcefully mechanical nearby.
The scars are various up at the top, where form, formal, molecular, vernacular tools away with new proof. Your metallic box ticking to sleep.
No more Maine plates. The children get new ones used. Does replacement echo disintegration? Tying these shoes, spreading rust everywhere, time showers one week, the week of one, onto the next. But damn the sweet stigma of this evening's footwear crisis! Drawn curtains do well to damn. It is like everywhere I go finds one more comedic roof. I'm digging up a garden through Center City Philadelphia rooftops, revising a mystic's triptychal trimmings. What is more than three? Whatever comes next will just have to be grease. Ooze. Pleasant. Purpose. Let's not talk about our minds or dimensions anymore.
2000 years, all threaded into what came before, should be the full-stop we need.
"Into the earth we depart / Through the gates of its own railway station: / The full stop / at the end of the tunnel / is black, / like the snout of a gun." ***
So read Voznesensky. Read ideas about our great competitors, and shut your books. You may find, upon shutting, some hope in the (Atlantic) Ocean from some Russian hero who receipts our existence. Our love bobbing within the waves makes nothing nor just destroys.
I see:
- Holding up mica below the sun. That was in Maine in 1995.
- Burning a dictionary but full failure. That was in Rhode Island in 2007.
- Crushing a cockroach below a lamp. That was in Pennsylvania a week ago.
But we make with love even through destruction. The whoppers whooped in a Southern tire shop. No one whoops in the North. No cough. Nothing. Just doesn't happen.
There is revolving conversation in Boston. Catch the door and run away from there. Get your free speed and doodads voluptuously tragedized by the villains. We villains with our words and wands.
Sri Lanka coming to an end. Can't sit still while below the swoon howls. Move to the large states (of America) where you can't handle. We have grit in these large places. We think we can get away with a dialect but remain decent enough. Fetch the decanter, they say. No one fetches. No one decanters.
Brotherly love. Social erections--butterfly antennae. There aren't really and puttings going on are something, too. Nice guys swagger to where we know the nice guys are known well enough. For their swagger. For their nice swagger.
We who are plentiful, silent, are also murky. We who are mercury are always early and ugly. We kiss New York on the cheek. This is Philadelphian.
Imagine that as they don't kiss us back. Seeya, See you, Seeyaw, Seeyah, See-saw. We and you. You brought us here. You bought us here. Purchases may have been nagged but stills were released and we had to.
So there was this post that we threw you in. Filled with on-sale Easter candy, it was just the right aid for your brittle AIDS bones. You had had a good Easter and a good Friday before it. We waited for you now to fatten up. Cremation costs 2000 Washingtons and that's more than a trunk dig at the car stop.
We screwed that idea away.
You asked if the sugar trip was free. I said yes but now the Delaware no time for the glucose. And not the gap Delaware we ain't going up there. More like Old Richmond where the artists' bonfires would be close enough. A few major State agencies might show up like statues and get a kick. Seeing messages tattooed onto your ribskin with knife point. We got good kicks so why not they?
You said what about coffin decisions? I said that's the dumbest death decision humanity ever themed after. More like ran through with blue shorts on. But what about your end? you asked as you passed self to trunk. We got you at a discount, oh exhaust hat.
STEPS TO AN ALOOF CREMATION:
1. Death by drowning (Delaware River where Camden is just to the south)
2. Wait by soaking (on the Philadelphian bank of the Delaware river)
3. Body monitor (coastal camp out with fish-line spiked to sunk bod)
4. Body modification (transport of body from river to Camden waterfront)
5. Resource gathering (dried bushes, deceased and breaking, 3 per body; unleaded gasoline, ten gallons; match-sticks with witty messages on the paper packings)
6. Abandoned forested area translocation (for further wear and tear)
7. Dance after stranger has dried and begun to light. You may now know him or her. You can go home and create your artifacts later.
8. Return to the remains every two days; adequate wind measurement system. Does God really talk to us? et cetera
In the car on the the car ride home. Wasn't so strange. Carol read the Jack Spicer book because Carol wanted to feel like she was doing something on her own. This happened under a pear-shaped moon that was usually banana-shaped. Windows were down to doom's end. Stenton Avenue was the Avenue we drove on.
For no other reason than anymore being so rare a visit these days.
Down the tubes where the radio piped in. Shut up, boxed in Carol turned the KIA's volume knob to the right. By the way she existed nothing new was going on but it was true that the verse confused her right at the intersection of Stention Avenue and Mermaid Lane, a romantic urban hotspot for traffic goers alike. I could be found in the driver's seat. There was nothing romantic about the situation. Only incantations from the speakers.
Those housing projects have so many people shutting down inside of them, Carol said. More bait for our tackle, I thought to myself. I could hear Lovecraft crying from a large mouth in Providence. A beast or canal or mini-sky-scrape. And from the radio, the lines flowed like today's news report on Swine Flu:
Written on 04-27-09
You lived out.
They chanced at.
They busy being.
Admittance of a them.
They done in up.
I was ripening it ripened.
Plucked down under trip.
Maybe before the after.
You busy at one.
Were too were for will.
Again, and not then.
Pleasing mentioning over.
That could be its open.
Therefore however.
Written on 04-21-09
*** From "Ballad of the ." by Andrei Voznesensky.
Why I Don't Get a Chance to Learn Anything
The Battle Continues
Part I: My Email to Donovan, Cory, and Todd
No ants, yet, guys, but they will be coming soon.
Here's a list of things I "noticed" in the kitchen this morning. I haven't used the kitchen for anything except pouring glasses of juice that I bring upstairs, so I've been displaced from the kitchen life that's been going on for a while.
Anyway.
- Dirty underwear on the kitchen floor. Okay, maybe it's clean. I didn't check or anything, but it's there, next to the counter, on the floor.
- That mess that someone emailed about yesterday or whatever is still there. As Donovan referred to it: salt explosions. There's also honey on the counter, sticky spots all over the island counter.
- There was also a full glass of water or other liquid. A honeyed knife, which has now been placed in the glass by me and which is now in the sink.
- The two honey containers were held together with a bunch of honey that was all over the place. They are now in the trash. I think we should take a break from the honey for a while, see if we can't pull ourselves together.
- There's still some honey on the counter. Just follow the trail of paper towels . . .
- Some spaghetti sauce that was opened was sitting on the counter. Don't know how long. In the trash now (stuff like that has to be refrigerated after opening).
- In the toaster oven someone's "meal" or "snack" was sitting. I'm glad we didn't get ants yet, but that kind of thing will lead to them. Please make sure you eat what you're cooking or at least throw it out or put it in the fridge. The food in question has since been fridged.
Anyway, this is me writing a lot while under the influence of caffeine. I find it more comical than anything else, though I can't speak for everyone's moods on the matter. The most serious point I'd like to throw out there is: we shouldn't get in the habit of making the weekly or biweekly downstairs cleaner be responsible for everyone's week or two weeks of dirtying up the place. People should still take care of their messes, clean when they see what can be cleaned, et cetera.
Peace,
Greg
-----
Part II: Donovan's Reply
Greg, thanks for sending this out and articulating the nature of the mysteries. I'm really sad that honey-system went downhill so quickly (though, admittedly, I don't really use it); it was the kind we (kara and I) had been looking for for quite some time that she had in Argentina. But instead, it was decorating the handle of the toaster oven? and the counter.
One other little detail - the butter: I'm not sure what was up, but a week or so ago it looked like someone had attempted to grasp the whole stick of butter and ..just rub that on toast instead of needing to wash a knife and there were bread crumbs all over the butter as a result. It may be worth washing the knife.
Donovan
Part I: My Email to Donovan, Cory, and Todd
No ants, yet, guys, but they will be coming soon.
Here's a list of things I "noticed" in the kitchen this morning. I haven't used the kitchen for anything except pouring glasses of juice that I bring upstairs, so I've been displaced from the kitchen life that's been going on for a while.
Anyway.
- Dirty underwear on the kitchen floor. Okay, maybe it's clean. I didn't check or anything, but it's there, next to the counter, on the floor.
- That mess that someone emailed about yesterday or whatever is still there. As Donovan referred to it: salt explosions. There's also honey on the counter, sticky spots all over the island counter.
- There was also a full glass of water or other liquid. A honeyed knife, which has now been placed in the glass by me and which is now in the sink.
- The two honey containers were held together with a bunch of honey that was all over the place. They are now in the trash. I think we should take a break from the honey for a while, see if we can't pull ourselves together.
- There's still some honey on the counter. Just follow the trail of paper towels . . .
- Some spaghetti sauce that was opened was sitting on the counter. Don't know how long. In the trash now (stuff like that has to be refrigerated after opening).
- In the toaster oven someone's "meal" or "snack" was sitting. I'm glad we didn't get ants yet, but that kind of thing will lead to them. Please make sure you eat what you're cooking or at least throw it out or put it in the fridge. The food in question has since been fridged.
Anyway, this is me writing a lot while under the influence of caffeine. I find it more comical than anything else, though I can't speak for everyone's moods on the matter. The most serious point I'd like to throw out there is: we shouldn't get in the habit of making the weekly or biweekly downstairs cleaner be responsible for everyone's week or two weeks of dirtying up the place. People should still take care of their messes, clean when they see what can be cleaned, et cetera.
Peace,
Greg
-----
Part II: Donovan's Reply
Greg, thanks for sending this out and articulating the nature of the mysteries. I'm really sad that honey-system went downhill so quickly (though, admittedly, I don't really use it); it was the kind we (kara and I) had been looking for for quite some time that she had in Argentina. But instead, it was decorating the handle of the toaster oven? and the counter.
One other little detail - the butter: I'm not sure what was up, but a week or so ago it looked like someone had attempted to grasp the whole stick of butter and ..just rub that on toast instead of needing to wash a knife and there were bread crumbs all over the butter as a result. It may be worth washing the knife.
Donovan
Friday, April 24, 2009
Finally One for the Copters
I will hopefully be performing this one tomorrow night. I'd prefer dramatic accompaniment, but know not many actors courageous enough.
I’ve got your bombs right here, Philadelphia heroes.
I’ve got your truths right here, friends of the sky.
I’ve got your bombs-a-breathin’, a stoking the fire.
I’ve got your words and your camps and your bawling slums.
Wild fires rustic on the dirty tracks.
You know the ones I mean. They’re everywhere.
Walk along a road and you’ll enter the web.
Also, so many buildings can be ballooned away here.
I would make my government’s balloons be gentle.
Their colors would be red. The color of caress
and sensua and la-dee-da, earthquake spa.
But what we possess, our creation, destruction—
what we possess occupies, and what occupies,
is judged down the line, Philadelphia.
And with the buildings you bear,
do you know just how much wreckage there is here,
great vessel of Schuylkill and Delaware?
It’s okay, we all think it’s beautiful inside.
And sometimes the trash does look new.
But that is not enough for those wise ones,
those heel-tappers hanging on their porch,
their ties broken phalluses around fleshy necks.
They don’t see beauty in their rest, but loss and terror.
They hear bombs panging away, bee bees on pans.
They pang the trash heaps. They provide the outlet.
We are amassed in unconsciousness like
sleeping boys and girls and girls and boys are soon
woken to the stories of noise and choice.
Philadelphia, don’t dare the trot of the weak!
It’s time to roll over—time to scratch your belly
and grunt like an array of enraged youth.
It’s time to take nod your head to the wildlife!
There are bears here, for instance, dancing in the rain.
Can you note them, pick them out in the crowds?
These bears on the street corners are dancing,
rubbing their paws together, old ones and young!
Or are they lemurs?
Do they hang silently, their heads bobbing
with hunger, with inner stomach pangs, pans?
Maybe it’s just me. The visions are clots.
How crazy it is to dream of the lemur
bloodbaths kicking like ready-births.
The pools of life’s essence dancing likes vines
held by cheering barbarians, clubs slick with flesh.
The eyes of each creature rippling.
There are shouts in those eyes. Screams.
But there is no one to see it or hear it.
Everyone is asleep, dangling their legs around.
Comatose bringing heart to atrophy;
an erotica fixation in sleep shambling us.
It is the aftermath of an afterparty.
It is a politic for all the craned necks.
Down the aisle an angry angel holds
a flaming sword quite pissed off,
wrapping barbed wire around his garden.
All he smells is urine and rotting produce.
Philadelphia, forget him and his sustainability.
Turn on your computers instead. Compute a little.
Everyone is naked when computing.
Naked except for the loin cloths. Blue and burly.
Have you washed your cloths recently?
The stains are atrocious. No one can bear them.
They are unbecoming, irresolute.
The picked participle picking participle peppers.
The world casts its rhythmic doodads and begs.
All we can do is eat the chicken salad and watch.
All we can do is eat the tuna salad and watch.
All we can do is eat the crab salad and watch.
And watch ourselves watching the whitefish salad.
Scruff on down a little Swiss cheese, mouse cheeks.
Eat your claw of cream and sugar. Mouth your canolies.
Pick up that slice and dangle it for a while.
Pizza is the pathway away from the wreckage.
No one will stop you from munching it all down.
The great munch was called forth long ago.
Not by a man or a woman or a sleeping lemur.
Not by a great pie of dough in the sky drone.
This ain’t no starving artist jumble image.
The feast was arranged by that groggy bear set.
They first that harvested that fruit, that salmon.
They perpetually pissed off in the woods.
Philadelphia, the world easily gets out of hand.
We are not bears and do not know them
or their feasts of light, sound, dance, anger.
We humans with our faces. We humans with
our jaws of life and death and talk.
What do forest creatures have to do here,
with this place, this town, this emptiness?
We talk such rot sometimes.
We throw sneakers onto powerlines
and no one is brave enough to retrieve them.
We break windows when we don’t care
to look through them and see inside.
We wreck our ovens with our Nazis.
Some people will never be able to bake again.
No more brownies. Silence to that magic.
We wreck our hope with truth, change.
Our ideas stored in a bank like an arsenal,
dollar missiles waiting to hit new strips.
We wreck our streets with our feet-filled boots,
shoes, slippers—I saw those Australians you wore.
Stomping about with such status, such ecstasy.
We take police and destroy our children.
Goodbye train rider, clip of bullet mistaken
for tazer used but not mistakenly on a Grant sum.
We take our walls and fill them with wreckage.
I can save so much money by reading
advertisements instead of books.
We take our streets and fill them with trash,
the wind like a brush to our palettes,
cars still driving by with outstretched fingers
We do and do and though what.
Let’s just get sucked away in the phone world, please.
That really is the only answer to our faults.
Let’s just bow down a little more. Kiss the cheeks
of our own knuckles, which bend down to pick
a key, to type a phrase, to get ready to escape.
The hatch is open, launch the pod to new frontiers.
The digital will be there for second helpings, if you are ready.
Dear Philadelphia. There is a letter arriving
but you will never get it but that doesn’t matter.
The letter was never finished. Cold light
across a page, fizzling quick with emergency ending.
My eyes too worn to notice it there on the porch.
The bulldog eating the homework inside the house.
You are the homework eating the student.
We are the suit coat of the admin crew cut.
Philadelphia, a poor ending in a cheap hotel:
this is what we all always wanted, underneath,
loincloths leading to hearts of gold, worlds of sex.
This week the world is graced with sexting.
There are naked pictures sent to full mailboxes.
Text me for more information.
I’ve got your bombs right here, Philadelphia heroes.
I’ve got your truths right here, friends of the sky.
I’ve got your bombs-a-breathin’, a stoking the fire.
I’ve got your words and your camps and your bawling slums.
Wild fires rustic on the dirty tracks.
You know the ones I mean. They’re everywhere.
Walk along a road and you’ll enter the web.
Also, so many buildings can be ballooned away here.
I would make my government’s balloons be gentle.
Their colors would be red. The color of caress
and sensua and la-dee-da, earthquake spa.
But what we possess, our creation, destruction—
what we possess occupies, and what occupies,
is judged down the line, Philadelphia.
And with the buildings you bear,
do you know just how much wreckage there is here,
great vessel of Schuylkill and Delaware?
It’s okay, we all think it’s beautiful inside.
And sometimes the trash does look new.
But that is not enough for those wise ones,
those heel-tappers hanging on their porch,
their ties broken phalluses around fleshy necks.
They don’t see beauty in their rest, but loss and terror.
They hear bombs panging away, bee bees on pans.
They pang the trash heaps. They provide the outlet.
We are amassed in unconsciousness like
sleeping boys and girls and girls and boys are soon
woken to the stories of noise and choice.
Philadelphia, don’t dare the trot of the weak!
It’s time to roll over—time to scratch your belly
and grunt like an array of enraged youth.
It’s time to take nod your head to the wildlife!
There are bears here, for instance, dancing in the rain.
Can you note them, pick them out in the crowds?
These bears on the street corners are dancing,
rubbing their paws together, old ones and young!
Or are they lemurs?
Do they hang silently, their heads bobbing
with hunger, with inner stomach pangs, pans?
Maybe it’s just me. The visions are clots.
How crazy it is to dream of the lemur
bloodbaths kicking like ready-births.
The pools of life’s essence dancing likes vines
held by cheering barbarians, clubs slick with flesh.
The eyes of each creature rippling.
There are shouts in those eyes. Screams.
But there is no one to see it or hear it.
Everyone is asleep, dangling their legs around.
Comatose bringing heart to atrophy;
an erotica fixation in sleep shambling us.
It is the aftermath of an afterparty.
It is a politic for all the craned necks.
Down the aisle an angry angel holds
a flaming sword quite pissed off,
wrapping barbed wire around his garden.
All he smells is urine and rotting produce.
Philadelphia, forget him and his sustainability.
Turn on your computers instead. Compute a little.
Everyone is naked when computing.
Naked except for the loin cloths. Blue and burly.
Have you washed your cloths recently?
The stains are atrocious. No one can bear them.
They are unbecoming, irresolute.
The picked participle picking participle peppers.
The world casts its rhythmic doodads and begs.
All we can do is eat the chicken salad and watch.
All we can do is eat the tuna salad and watch.
All we can do is eat the crab salad and watch.
And watch ourselves watching the whitefish salad.
Scruff on down a little Swiss cheese, mouse cheeks.
Eat your claw of cream and sugar. Mouth your canolies.
Pick up that slice and dangle it for a while.
Pizza is the pathway away from the wreckage.
No one will stop you from munching it all down.
The great munch was called forth long ago.
Not by a man or a woman or a sleeping lemur.
Not by a great pie of dough in the sky drone.
This ain’t no starving artist jumble image.
The feast was arranged by that groggy bear set.
They first that harvested that fruit, that salmon.
They perpetually pissed off in the woods.
Philadelphia, the world easily gets out of hand.
We are not bears and do not know them
or their feasts of light, sound, dance, anger.
We humans with our faces. We humans with
our jaws of life and death and talk.
What do forest creatures have to do here,
with this place, this town, this emptiness?
We talk such rot sometimes.
We throw sneakers onto powerlines
and no one is brave enough to retrieve them.
We break windows when we don’t care
to look through them and see inside.
We wreck our ovens with our Nazis.
Some people will never be able to bake again.
No more brownies. Silence to that magic.
We wreck our hope with truth, change.
Our ideas stored in a bank like an arsenal,
dollar missiles waiting to hit new strips.
We wreck our streets with our feet-filled boots,
shoes, slippers—I saw those Australians you wore.
Stomping about with such status, such ecstasy.
We take police and destroy our children.
Goodbye train rider, clip of bullet mistaken
for tazer used but not mistakenly on a Grant sum.
We take our walls and fill them with wreckage.
I can save so much money by reading
advertisements instead of books.
We take our streets and fill them with trash,
the wind like a brush to our palettes,
cars still driving by with outstretched fingers
We do and do and though what.
Let’s just get sucked away in the phone world, please.
That really is the only answer to our faults.
Let’s just bow down a little more. Kiss the cheeks
of our own knuckles, which bend down to pick
a key, to type a phrase, to get ready to escape.
The hatch is open, launch the pod to new frontiers.
The digital will be there for second helpings, if you are ready.
Dear Philadelphia. There is a letter arriving
but you will never get it but that doesn’t matter.
The letter was never finished. Cold light
across a page, fizzling quick with emergency ending.
My eyes too worn to notice it there on the porch.
The bulldog eating the homework inside the house.
You are the homework eating the student.
We are the suit coat of the admin crew cut.
Philadelphia, a poor ending in a cheap hotel:
this is what we all always wanted, underneath,
loincloths leading to hearts of gold, worlds of sex.
This week the world is graced with sexting.
There are naked pictures sent to full mailboxes.
Text me for more information.
Poem for Mary Frazier Written a Day after Her Death
All of the pieces fit together
once we exhaust the many searches.
The transience in the cold dusk
gently lifts a veil or quilt
made out of all the puzzles
we used to form the model.
During some moods we focused on
our childhoods spent lapping
the waters of adulthoods, tongues
hanging low as we look back and
forward, shaking our heads but smiling.
Is to harden up ones values also
to soften our love for one another?
Do the most brittle of trees,
their bark aged, sturdy, of success,
still dawn to bear some fruit
in the late, bright skies of summer?
It was always about the roots,
the parts of the trees we couldn't see.
Sounds of creaking buried beneath soil
cranking out laughter and warmth.
Even after all grows to fresh heights,
the roots embed deep, grow silent,
loom up and over like sparkling stone
sunlit, a vast, visual memory echo.
Maine sits on the cusp of the ancients.
Within its trees is a moral language.
From the skin to the tips of leaves,
to the soul of the tree many feet below,
and to the ashes composed of all the leaves,
there exists a moral code most permanent.
The respect is like carving beneath the bark,
a restructuring of living material.
On a bank somewhere in the wooded middle
a cabin sits fresh, the smells distinct.
The steps to your home downtown
creak with the tones of the code too.
So does your bureau, or cabinet,
which opens when you need it most,
which gets scratched with time.
The days continue on, but the chanting
can be heard like a wheel well,
or the stones at a street's bus stop,
or the rubbing of knitting fabric,
the pennies played, our own churches
attended to in our various own ways.
Still we have the tree, the mighty
luminescence bouncing off of it,
the sunshine gliding through it,
and the dew setting to it, while
animals prepare their new homes,
build upon limbs their new chances,
live life amidst the twigs, dance,
and move about to the beat of a
swaying monument in the forest wind,
a marker in time, testament of will,
beauty that we may nap or play beneath.
The puzzles are the hardest to get
when the images are mixed and matched,
yet sometimes the hardest challenge
means the picture is most vivid.
once we exhaust the many searches.
The transience in the cold dusk
gently lifts a veil or quilt
made out of all the puzzles
we used to form the model.
During some moods we focused on
our childhoods spent lapping
the waters of adulthoods, tongues
hanging low as we look back and
forward, shaking our heads but smiling.
Is to harden up ones values also
to soften our love for one another?
Do the most brittle of trees,
their bark aged, sturdy, of success,
still dawn to bear some fruit
in the late, bright skies of summer?
It was always about the roots,
the parts of the trees we couldn't see.
Sounds of creaking buried beneath soil
cranking out laughter and warmth.
Even after all grows to fresh heights,
the roots embed deep, grow silent,
loom up and over like sparkling stone
sunlit, a vast, visual memory echo.
Maine sits on the cusp of the ancients.
Within its trees is a moral language.
From the skin to the tips of leaves,
to the soul of the tree many feet below,
and to the ashes composed of all the leaves,
there exists a moral code most permanent.
The respect is like carving beneath the bark,
a restructuring of living material.
On a bank somewhere in the wooded middle
a cabin sits fresh, the smells distinct.
The steps to your home downtown
creak with the tones of the code too.
So does your bureau, or cabinet,
which opens when you need it most,
which gets scratched with time.
The days continue on, but the chanting
can be heard like a wheel well,
or the stones at a street's bus stop,
or the rubbing of knitting fabric,
the pennies played, our own churches
attended to in our various own ways.
Still we have the tree, the mighty
luminescence bouncing off of it,
the sunshine gliding through it,
and the dew setting to it, while
animals prepare their new homes,
build upon limbs their new chances,
live life amidst the twigs, dance,
and move about to the beat of a
swaying monument in the forest wind,
a marker in time, testament of will,
beauty that we may nap or play beneath.
The puzzles are the hardest to get
when the images are mixed and matched,
yet sometimes the hardest challenge
means the picture is most vivid.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Four Old Poems Revised
I believe these were all originally written in January of this year.
Computer Slay
I
As an old storybook
this Internet sits encrusted
on this old oak table, ancient,
with trails of new salsa spittered,
wine crumbs dripping,
and out back there goes a paper
boat down the stream of trash and
gasoline toward the lake where
the fat people lounge and the thin
boogey board or jet ski quickly.
Splash; splash; splash; splash, splash.
The Internet has a new suit.
Today a black cover,
a new abutment spaghetti strap
and a long gewgaw thin thong.
Great in the sun all day long.
Lightly salted glints race up,
race down the megabyte strip. Savor
with tongue overlapping keyboard.
We open the case and get crazy.
We think about our hunger for info.
Extra virgin oils for your transistor.
“Get me my guacamole suit.”
In the lighting I want to munch.
I beg maw to scruff, bandit wax.
How it must feel to be nothing
more than a galaxy of clammy forms
all condensed into one stammer,
one edge, one plain, one theatre.
But we are kept from imagining.
Cannot go. Mind hampered. Warped in lag.
Each link feeling broken. Dead ends to
dead walls of inconceivable labyrinths.
Like a nest of dead branches all bundled
together I am bundled in these wasted pages.
Take me back to the website over yonder.
Take me back in time which does not exist now.
The notion is now going on to hibernation.
Making the move to guilt and rest, energy salvation.
It is time to watch the food mess collect,
and stare quite frequently at the blinking greens,
lights that match our potato-smelling breaths.
II
Heroes we cannot hope
to see and touch move about
where we cannot see.
You said you saw
a closing soon sign.
The font spelled
letters sharp to the tongue.
The earthly opposite
revealed as hollow!
Like a ghost it hovered
before zooming to vanish.
What went up the stairs
went down the stairs.
What went up the stairs
went on down to become
breeding bombs
rocking the blank slates.
The blanket is a television.
Happy birthday!
This is the world of occupation.
Three days later,
no one home means
it is still turned on.
When we shut down,
we left the water
running—
---
Like Us
They might find it out in taxis.
The trees designers along the pavement,
bending just a little more here.
Its grey is much softer when touched.
The wind calms a little bit, but
it is the dull night that will fall
like a blanket over the cities
of America, home to bad dreams.
---
Shorter
Your brain with
fingers for two seconds.
Will the experience to
some slow coordination.
Dizziness for several minutes.
If you touch only
for a minute you
will not recover.
---
Toward Time
Dance like a ballerina as
the long shadows form from
each of your skinny fingertips.
Lounge around hunched over,
sipping coffee and scowling at
the bland colors of these walls.
Close your eyes and think of women
who twirl about with partners
wearing masks of rococo, pizzazz.
The cats were outside again
today, returned from the grave
like the call across the palisades.
Sitting there, backs arched,
there was mystery in their eyes,
glowing like planets or star fruit.
Computer Slay
I
As an old storybook
this Internet sits encrusted
on this old oak table, ancient,
with trails of new salsa spittered,
wine crumbs dripping,
and out back there goes a paper
boat down the stream of trash and
gasoline toward the lake where
the fat people lounge and the thin
boogey board or jet ski quickly.
Splash; splash; splash; splash, splash.
The Internet has a new suit.
Today a black cover,
a new abutment spaghetti strap
and a long gewgaw thin thong.
Great in the sun all day long.
Lightly salted glints race up,
race down the megabyte strip. Savor
with tongue overlapping keyboard.
We open the case and get crazy.
We think about our hunger for info.
Extra virgin oils for your transistor.
“Get me my guacamole suit.”
In the lighting I want to munch.
I beg maw to scruff, bandit wax.
How it must feel to be nothing
more than a galaxy of clammy forms
all condensed into one stammer,
one edge, one plain, one theatre.
But we are kept from imagining.
Cannot go. Mind hampered. Warped in lag.
Each link feeling broken. Dead ends to
dead walls of inconceivable labyrinths.
Like a nest of dead branches all bundled
together I am bundled in these wasted pages.
Take me back to the website over yonder.
Take me back in time which does not exist now.
The notion is now going on to hibernation.
Making the move to guilt and rest, energy salvation.
It is time to watch the food mess collect,
and stare quite frequently at the blinking greens,
lights that match our potato-smelling breaths.
II
Heroes we cannot hope
to see and touch move about
where we cannot see.
You said you saw
a closing soon sign.
The font spelled
letters sharp to the tongue.
The earthly opposite
revealed as hollow!
Like a ghost it hovered
before zooming to vanish.
What went up the stairs
went down the stairs.
What went up the stairs
went on down to become
breeding bombs
rocking the blank slates.
The blanket is a television.
Happy birthday!
This is the world of occupation.
Three days later,
no one home means
it is still turned on.
When we shut down,
we left the water
running—
---
Like Us
They might find it out in taxis.
The trees designers along the pavement,
bending just a little more here.
Its grey is much softer when touched.
The wind calms a little bit, but
it is the dull night that will fall
like a blanket over the cities
of America, home to bad dreams.
---
Shorter
Your brain with
fingers for two seconds.
Will the experience to
some slow coordination.
Dizziness for several minutes.
If you touch only
for a minute you
will not recover.
---
Toward Time
Dance like a ballerina as
the long shadows form from
each of your skinny fingertips.
Lounge around hunched over,
sipping coffee and scowling at
the bland colors of these walls.
Close your eyes and think of women
who twirl about with partners
wearing masks of rococo, pizzazz.
The cats were outside again
today, returned from the grave
like the call across the palisades.
Sitting there, backs arched,
there was mystery in their eyes,
glowing like planets or star fruit.
After Armantrout
(here)
1
More jobs cut
out of screens.
Is enjoying dancing
with hatred for you or I?
Is keeping company
on the line with possession
bids opening the world
or shut like windows?
2.
But you're still sitting,
the stubs gazing over
all the passed weeks.
Grab cold twitch and shake.
1
More jobs cut
out of screens.
Is enjoying dancing
with hatred for you or I?
Is keeping company
on the line with possession
bids opening the world
or shut like windows?
2.
But you're still sitting,
the stubs gazing over
all the passed weeks.
Grab cold twitch and shake.
Monday, April 20, 2009
After Learning About Post-Humans
Our simulated lives are
the last years of mankind
where no one can focus.
For our world, enough on non-digital.
See my tagged pages in undergrad
for more information lesser to things.
the last years of mankind
where no one can focus.
For our world, enough on non-digital.
See my tagged pages in undergrad
for more information lesser to things.
Etiolation String
Methodology: written by way of text message to email during a walk from the regional rail line to the house, in the middle of the night, all silent in the residential.
1.
Love was underneath the bite
of a barrel plain.
2.
The white curtain of love
billowing in the rocking boat
could be cut with spatial scissors,
while time held back,
a collapsible current
rolling in the deep.
3.
The wave came in fast
from way out west.
Dorn's world.
There were a few skeletons
hanging on to the verandas
(painted red like lumber
distribution centers
in the old coast where
we claimed to come from.
The fingers of bone
latched onto the railings,
carving and engraving.
4.
Since we're on the subject
of the fifth dimension, let's
remember each block is too long
a cavalcade of chasms and homes.
Stasis.
Home. Yeo. Stasis.
5.
The real fortunes of summer
are being handed out
by the Champlost man
walking his grill near the curb
during the 22nd hour.
6.
Love is urban decay
and bag fluttering
and empty lots
waiting under
the blooming trees.
Using Dictionary.com
The Word of the Day service often provides useful information on words and phrases you may never have come across. The chiseled presentation often heightens the word beyond the daily vernacular use.
Word of the Day for Monday, April 20, 2009
stormy petrel \STOR-mee-PET-ruhl\, noun:
1. Any of various small sea birds of the family Hydrobatidae, having dark plumage with paler underparts; also called storm petrel.
2. One who brings discord or strife, or appears at the onset of trouble.
But far from a 'pet' of the Communist regime, Gorky, the "stormy petrel of the revolution," also condemned the revolution early on as a "cruel experiment" with the Russian people "doomed to failure."
-- Valentina Kolesnikova, "Maxim Gorky: Hostage of the Revolution", Russian Life, June 1, 1996
Of the unpredictable and constantly angry Paracelsus, for example, the stormy petrel who convulsed the staid medical establishment of the sixteenth century by demanding radical reforms in clinical thinking, he wrote: "This first great revolt against the slavish authority of the schools had little immediate effect, largely on account of the personal vagaries of the reformer--but it made men think."
-- Sherwin B. Nuland, "The Saint", New Republic, December 13, 1999
Lenin, the stormy petrel of the Social Democratic party, was facing more serious opposition than ever.
-- Michael Pearson, "Lenin's lieutenant", Guardian, September 29, 2001
. . .restless and indomitable, scouring like a stormy petrel the angry ocean of debate.
-- Lytton Strachey, Eminent Victorians
Stormy petrel is an alteration of earlier pitteral, probably so named in allusion to St. Peter's walking on the sea, from the fact that the bird flies close to the water in order to feed on surface-swimming organisms and ship's refuse; called stormy because in a storm the birds surround a ship to catch small organisms which rise to the surface of the rough seas; when the storm ceases they are no longer seen.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Statement of/on Purpose/Poetics
0. each poem should be a brick in the blown out building that was an autobiography
0. like Williams, O'Hara: "Get in and get out!" No dwelling...Bourgeois! -- rather more like an insect that lands briefly, tasting with feet and seeing with geodesic eyes
0. reject the orthodoxy of movements and patriarchs
0. reject gimmick writing (flarf, some langpo) that clouds the self/beingness of language -- these are frauds. Handwriting, vocabulary, syntax are fingerprints that ring like screaming appartitions into the night on fire like hearts (some are true)
0. never loose sight of music/lyrics. guitar poets count too.
0. repress nothing and don't censor or write simply to shock. shocks fade quickly. "Deliver the news that stays news;" the pain that stays painful; the smiles of teeth that never go loose.
0. form is the slave on content. Operate in a marginless field while acknowlegding the gravity of right alignment when neccessary.
0. channel the voice of the sentient oversoul: an omnisicent observer rediscovering everything (Genius is childhood regained -K.R.)
0. content comes quickly and must be charged with meaning. two pages is sometimes O.K.
0. embrace accidents (t9WORD generation; phonem clusters that get gay-married.) Letters as tatoos on the canvas of human endevour.
0. like Williams, O'Hara: "Get in and get out!" No dwelling...Bourgeois! -- rather more like an insect that lands briefly, tasting with feet and seeing with geodesic eyes
0. reject the orthodoxy of movements and patriarchs
0. reject gimmick writing (flarf, some langpo) that clouds the self/beingness of language -- these are frauds. Handwriting, vocabulary, syntax are fingerprints that ring like screaming appartitions into the night on fire like hearts (some are true)
0. never loose sight of music/lyrics. guitar poets count too.
0. repress nothing and don't censor or write simply to shock. shocks fade quickly. "Deliver the news that stays news;" the pain that stays painful; the smiles of teeth that never go loose.
0. form is the slave on content. Operate in a marginless field while acknowlegding the gravity of right alignment when neccessary.
0. channel the voice of the sentient oversoul: an omnisicent observer rediscovering everything (Genius is childhood regained -K.R.)
0. content comes quickly and must be charged with meaning. two pages is sometimes O.K.
0. embrace accidents (t9WORD generation; phonem clusters that get gay-married.) Letters as tatoos on the canvas of human endevour.
Kicked Fires
On the ___
we got our rocks off
the burnished ties
burned along the corpsed pier
the billboards snickered at
higher drivers
installed with every option
and three lanes
aimed at the same deathless bend
the bridge moonlit
as a cyclist's prison (after 10)
post-meridian
trees, trees bloomed
the formless midnight boats
cast comets of woken rudders
left lights on like bathwater
to wash the fisherman bones.
long casts. noooooooooooo bites.
we got our rocks off
the burnished ties
burned along the corpsed pier
the billboards snickered at
higher drivers
installed with every option
and three lanes
aimed at the same deathless bend
the bridge moonlit
as a cyclist's prison (after 10)
post-meridian
trees, trees bloomed
the formless midnight boats
cast comets of woken rudders
left lights on like bathwater
to wash the fisherman bones.
long casts. noooooooooooo bites.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Mid-April
We have sunsets now.
Winter shuts light like
pulling a desk lamp's chain cord,
but now we have sunsets to follow.
Morrison preferred dawn,
but one looks more carefully, I think,
at things one knows will not last-
things that shall pass.
Trees become ragged black spires,
and the sun a pagan mystery fire
burning out of Fraser's pages
when those hours fill the eye.
Who can tell the non-word? non-knowable?
Where does the light drain; can someone
delineate when the sun loses
shape, and the colors smolder into each other?
I mean when, exactly?
There are splendid fires to touch,
for now we have the sunsets.
And we hold to the twilit places
where we remember visions before
dark's vacant warmth and non-shape.
Winter shuts light like
pulling a desk lamp's chain cord,
but now we have sunsets to follow.
Morrison preferred dawn,
but one looks more carefully, I think,
at things one knows will not last-
things that shall pass.
Trees become ragged black spires,
and the sun a pagan mystery fire
burning out of Fraser's pages
when those hours fill the eye.
Who can tell the non-word? non-knowable?
Where does the light drain; can someone
delineate when the sun loses
shape, and the colors smolder into each other?
I mean when, exactly?
There are splendid fires to touch,
for now we have the sunsets.
And we hold to the twilit places
where we remember visions before
dark's vacant warmth and non-shape.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
From Right Now
DEAR JOS(EF)F:
ENCLOSED IS A STUPID FUCKING PIECE OF ART THAT I’M SENDING TO YOU BECAUSE YOU OF ALL PEOPLE WILL PROBABLY THINK IT LESS STUPID THAN IT REALLY IS. AS I’VE COME TO NOTICE YOU HAVE A VERY ACCEPTING AND FORGIVING NATURE IN YOUR AESTHETIC STANDARDS. PLEASE FORGIVE THE BULLSHIT AS THE BULLSHIT IN THIS CASE IS A COMPLIMENT.
ANYWAY, CARLO ROSSI SEZ HEY. I MEAN (SORRY, IN PHILA-FUCKIN’-DELPHIA) ‘HOLLA’.
THE OTHER DAY I WAS DRIVING THROUGH KENSINGTON, ONE OF THE MOST POVERTY-STRICKEN, CRIME-STRICKEN, MURAL-STRICKEN, ABANDONED-LOT-WASTELAND-STRICKEN NEIGHBORHOODS IN PHILLY AND THERE WAS ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE ABANDONED LOTS AND THERE WAS SOULJA BOY PLAYING TO NO ONE. THE PLACE IS LIKE PAWTUCKET, BUT LITERALLY FALLING APART ON ALL ENDS. THERE ARE SOME CONVERTED AREAS FOR FUCKING ARTISTS, THOUGH, JUST LIKE EVERYWHERE IN THIS FUCKED UP COUNTRY.
I’M REALLY NOT THAT PISSED, IT’S JUST THE PAISANO. ANOTHER SPIRIT IN ME. ET
AL. ET CET.
WENT TO BALTIMORE, B-MORE CITY TODAY. DIDN’T SEE DAN DEACON OR ANYONE ELSE BUT I DID SEE A FLYER ADVERTISING BLACK PUS SHOW DOWN THERE. REMEMBER THEM? THE SHOW WILL PROBABLY BE OVER BY THE TIME YOU GET THIS. BLACK PUS WILL PROLLY STILL BE AROUND THOUGH. THEY’RE WAY TOO UNDERGROUND FOR ME THOUGH. CHIPPENDALE CAN GO SUCK A WHALE COCK. I’LL GIVE HIM 80 DAYS. A DAY AN INCH. 80 INCHES, HUH? ARBITRARY. TRYING’ TO MAKE UP FOR SOMETHING.
I’VE HAD TO MAKE REVIEWS FOR BANDS FOR THE MUSIC MAG. I’M ENCLOSING MY PERSONAL FAVORITE TO THIS PACKAGE. IT’S PRETTY RUDE AND FUCKING DRAMATIC. TALK ABOUT HATERZ.
HOW’S RWU DOING? RI IN THE OCEAN YET? I MISS YOU BUT WILL BE COMING UP ON THE 29TH OF APRIL SO YOU BETTER START MISSING ME SO WE CAN SIT AROUND AND WATCH SOME AVANT GARDE MOVIES AND HAVE A CIGARETTE OR TWO AND SOME SHOTS AS YOU ALWAYS PROVIDE BUT I’LL BRING THE BOOZE THIS UPCOMING NEXT TIME.
GREG
***
The referenced review:
Dead Head Mazy
Mercury Said 65
LISTENABLE
The entirety of Mercury Said 65 is set into permanence with the album’s first track. Acoustic guitars have been pre-plugged into wall sockets, and they play with each other in a pre-packaged and sickeningly cute way. There is an obvious contrast between the dance of the rhythm and the lead and the overtly masculine content coating over each tune. Though each burst of instrumental skill on the album shows signs of a production success, Dead Head Mazy of Minneapolis allows far too many nods toward sly-grinning fun throughout the album for it to be considered a serious project. As each song mixes into the next, leaving its predecessor in the dust, the laid-back demeanor reaches the point where it becomes insulting to the band’s obvious forerunning inspirations—phenomenally creative groups like Dispatch and Blues Traveler. While the music is tolerable, coherent, and aesthetically manageable, the rare glimmers of ingenuity and innovation Dead Head Mazy bring to the surface are unfortunately and too often overshadowed by slathers of tired chord progressions, song structuring, and exhausted lyrics.
Gregory Bem
Monday, April 13, 2009
Surreptitious Regina
-after Bukowski
To pricks and phenomenal twats
go the Canadian coins.
For each of them-
the crusty mumbler
the effete suit
the gloved voice
the presumptuous taskmaster
the sighing Bovary-
my money trough withheld, waited.
I meted
thin copper cool
and tender lies.
To pricks and phenomenal twats
go the Canadian coins.
For each of them-
the crusty mumbler
the effete suit
the gloved voice
the presumptuous taskmaster
the sighing Bovary-
my money trough withheld, waited.
I meted
thin copper cool
and tender lies.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Sketches #1
After Rexroth, Reznikoff, Williams, Zukofsky, and Cloud Cult
The bridges or North New jersey
frame little girl eyes
in the crowded 5:50 aisles
of standing room trains
like windows staving out
the globe's blanket of airy ether.
.................................................. The surgeon lost a son
.................................................. in the empty night
.................................................. high white crib bars
.................................................. on the cold, steely moon
.................................................. the wife would no longer
.................................................. play his voice on violin.
The angels dusted off each other
like second basemen
the throne had been won
and it's safety was assured
by the monument of pearls
which double as a gate.
............................................. After years of nobility
............................................. the train's service leather
............................................. remained as half gum/half leather
............................................. ceilings, sealed with a warmth
............................................. of commerce/commercials
............................................. and flaccid bodies half asleep.
The bridges or North New jersey
frame little girl eyes
in the crowded 5:50 aisles
of standing room trains
like windows staving out
the globe's blanket of airy ether.
.................................................. The surgeon lost a son
.................................................. in the empty night
.................................................. high white crib bars
.................................................. on the cold, steely moon
.................................................. the wife would no longer
.................................................. play his voice on violin.
The angels dusted off each other
like second basemen
the throne had been won
and it's safety was assured
by the monument of pearls
which double as a gate.
............................................. After years of nobility
............................................. the train's service leather
............................................. remained as half gum/half leather
............................................. ceilings, sealed with a warmth
............................................. of commerce/commercials
............................................. and flaccid bodies half asleep.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Previous springtime, part 1
April stalks me through
the well-trodden paths of Patience's
barely
beating
heart.
a swarm of midnight gnats, urging.
violent
green, velveteen
shouts:
the rust on an old washbasin.
disjointed phrases build
their signposts.
however illogical, i emerge
from the gaping mouth of
one
wretched
man.
French for Jellyfish
After René Char
We, that is, us
caught Medusa
in the low ripped tide--
a friend of our fashion--
the lifegaurd reds
of the ruddy cloud
and slow beat--
where the prisoner turned
our children into piles
of beautifully-smooth stones.
We, that is, us
caught Medusa
in the low ripped tide--
a friend of our fashion--
the lifegaurd reds
of the ruddy cloud
and slow beat--
where the prisoner turned
our children into piles
of beautifully-smooth stones.
The RZ Story
I
As it happened no one can be too sure, but looking back on it, there was a desert simplicity and my own expected flailing. White-skinned doppelganger thinking in paradox and anomaly, bone-chiseled knife in mouth like a wearied cannibal, brows arching into shock. Back then I would wake up every morning looking for my amphetamines and an anger unmatched and unknowable would erupt. It would turn eyes a dull blue like wrist veins; it would clench my hands anticipating the fresh layers of soil. Big fists in a small, barbwired ring. With much secrecy, the dream’s harrowing song cropped lilies and turned them in towards the earth. This was a time of being alone and but companioned through the system’s dense folds of machinery.
You on your back staring at the heart-shaped sky, poundings of clouds passing along, directly above your forehead and cheeks. The pond’s fountains bubbled up in seizure. We would play countless games upon the beds of unburied roots and cherried blossoms. I would open your legs with a pair of wooden tools and from you came frothing a suckling child whose mouth let utter screaming visions of morphed landscapes and previous coastal abortions. So this is what the volume knob would have been used for had there been one left. There were rotted remains now, the speaker system terrifying in its neglect. Battery juice broke down into the metal, magnet, and soft wood.
Sitting two feet away you strummed your guitar timidly, as though it were a new puppy, loose bag of skin hanging and soft. There would be no need for help this far into the wilderness, where you squatted like a chimp, grabbed your knees and rolled resembling a rocking chair. The absurdity of the cars passing down on the old passageway, where the ferryboats used to be towed, horns disrupting the oceanic shifts. There was terror amidst our minds as clouds passed in the additional throbs, we understanding nothing good though our voiceless creations. Though we did arm ourselves with each potion we quaffed.
With its sharpened talons of stone and shadow, the day slowly grasped dusk, its looming victim. The neck was wrung out, skin red and itching, eyes slowly shutting like opal bruises. Soon electricity pumped into each lit orifice, the day crouching but still reaching out. Around the looming buildings of the pond, several youths mused with their skateboards, flaring their nostrils and palming open-faced drugs. They peered over a pot of chamomile, their bare feet crooked and layered with dirt from the wooden paths out of sight. They sat in a halfmoon wondering halfheartedly. We hear their language of laughs and trickled in our own interpretations. How much pain could be caused, they wondered, by throwing the self to the train tracks right before the midday car’s arrival? Amidst the din you and I looked into each other’s smiles, cross-legged on the stony bank. We struggled for some change in the conversation.
II
In the aftermath of your endless stream of vomit, dripping orange like pureed pumpkin all over the bathroom’s cabinets and tiled floor, the subsequent scream-moans begging for your father to come help you, everything felt like an echo. I sat hopped up and afraid, the word smith down the hall creating lines of verse under the guise of booze and waiting for me to join. A destabilizing brew kept me from thoughts about my own old man. Other scenes, however, were set dangling from strings like marionettes at a staged theatre. I napped dreaming of violet light shattering your breasts and a bottle of Gallo Nero Chianti being emptied atop your stomach, my hands flickering above and amidst the dull shadows of the energy-efficient lighting, hands like a magician causing a rose blossom or volcanic hazard, bountiful prizes of imagery while you slept away the unfathomable hip sways and remarkably brackish makeup daubs of the earlier hours. You sleeping soundly in terror, eyes open and peering into the lamp where the swarms of moths lingered. You contemplated solace like children born of railroads, children who learn the feelings of caverns by staying perched on bridges, thoughts bouncing off the flattened ripples so many feet below, grooves from the ties of the tracks indenting their cheeks.
While you were down, paralytic and warm, my eyes emerged from their corner stares, caught in a net of moths. My vision seethed, eyes becoming metallic lighters, and with each blink a spark to every white insect in the room. Each spastic, spirited ghost snuffed to the buzz of ash and moisture. Then, you flipping over so that only the black cloth of your hoody could be trailed, my perspiring hands knives scraping up and down on the wooden floor beside the bed, fingers gathering a grave piled with the mass of hosts I had just burned alive with the destructive deadpanning vision. Their antennae and appendages still wavering and withering, my digits scrubbing against the floor, bug carcasses intertwining with cuticles, collecting corpses beneath nails like green, grade-school putty or the red mud of my childhood home’s riverbed. Back then I would chew my fingers, but at that moment I knew to keep them away from my mouth while I cleaned up the genocide I caused with such ease.
As my eyes blistered your eyes, sealed them within their soothing lids, you imagined many things. You were lost in a long, echoing tunnel. A cylindrical prison cell stretching for miles and miles but with no physical endcap. Heay lighting all around. The smell of fresh plastic hanging in a cloud over your ethereal head. An array of the overwhelming. The collapse of the deck of dimensions. You thought of the caustic completion, the great binding, the billowed dualism of the woman with the man. There was the penetration. The entrances and exits. The swirl of fluids between two bodies, two breathing hosts. The breaths moving back and forth misting the perplexities. There was the floral. The sweat running thick like honey or molasses, or rubber. The hair meant to be pulled, pondered, wailing in explosive, electric invasions.
In the darkness two shadows enraptured with their light. Moans breaking apart the silence like the death of a tree by a saw. Completing the situation a sea of blankets kept together in heaps, hiding the bed. The sprouting of life from the moist ground muffled under countless thin sheets, colored lavender and stained by rustles. Each climax led to break skin with pointed fingernails, jaws lined with teeth. The hands gripping the limbs, the ribs, the hips. The attempts to bring everything closer, in a single, dynamic form. The grasping pulling, pressing. The swirling unity under a cape of light, back to back or front to front, the moon forcing down light like concrete weights.
But beneath each aesthetic twist and ring, each unknotting of the pressure, was a system working its gears, flexing it machines. Eventually I looked from all of the white wings flecked against the floor, limbs scattered like borrowed dynamite, my eyes brought to what was happening on the ceiling. With a gasp you looked up at the ceiling of the room too, moving to cry out at what was there, your eyes now open and your conscience ignited, the aching from the pools of alcohol you had earlier dipped your body into evaporating now through the open window we had forgotten about. The lane of memory last pieced together in your dreamscape now barren and still, the plains open and entirely empty, an astounding new stretch of isolation. The plastic was burning and your nostrils begged for air though the sky was directly open to you. All I could think of was the lack of any more skin on skin. The mocha mixing with lemon was a rustic idea.
III
The morning decayed. Things were happier in the suffocation of confinement. The solitary of the nothing space. Life could exist as a coffin does below a surface. When you are clinging to your loved one for such pleasure all you know is the taste of skin and the tingle of a licked ear. You do not want to eat food.
As a pair of deaf savages rolling around in a bed of moss and sod, we stunk like the grease of animals, our oils commingling, our bodies hosts to bands of invisible pests. I couldn’t stare at your eyes, the glowing was too rough. I scratched the walls with my fingernails and you stayed asleep. We were not thinking very responsibly. Stay away from this den of sin, I would think. Stay well away.
There is an electric heater in my bedroom in this small town in Maine. The floor is carpeted in this bedroom, and the two windows do not afford much natural light. The room is positioned over the garage, a garage that has never been used. The silence is always horrifying and natural and absolute. The bed is meant for the static catatonia of angels, not valuable members of human societies. The e are no mirrors in the bedroom so it is easy to forget about existence. The door has a lock on it, and do the closets. People can be captured in this room. People can be locked away. People and their risqué cloths, their risqué habits, their risqué absence of clothes.
There are always the memories of being in the room alone, but these memories are superseded by the friends who would visit. We would smoke pot, drink cheap vodka, and take cough medication. We would wonder about women like we wondered about films, writers, and towns. There was the feeling of consumption and the feeling of producing parts to a greater whole. There was Sartre and Derrida. There was the vague odor of our big, timorous schemes that lacked charm, zest, sexy fluttering.
Now you lay on the bed and I stare at the ceiling, and I think about pounding myself into you as you lay there, taking you again and again. This was the land where you could press back, and scream as loud as you ever wanted. There was the house, and then there was the bedroom, and then there was you. You, silent woman among the silent facilities. Then there was my mother’s cry from the backyard—a terrible explosion.
IV
Your back was curved like a musical instrument. It was intimidating like music is intimidating and so that’s why my eyes bulged whenever my finger grazed the skin of your ribs, shoulders, or spine. Your dark skin was not hazelnut or coffee but candied cashew. I could not take another bite but I could gag about the thought of eating more, or just like the sugared glaze off the surface. Your mouth smelled like charcoal and every time I started thinking about your beauty I would imagine your mouth.
Your lips grew deeper and larger in Kabul, where random men would grab at your, where children all begged to be in your pictures, having no idea what they would turn into. Your skin grew thicker with each rocket blast and market cry and dead cafe patron. You would hide from the explosions across the street. Your mind would wither with each woman sprayed over the face with cupfuls of acid. Deformity of the land, deformity of the people.
I tasted the deformity you carried. Your mouth would lock on to mine and your dreams would be stunning, transferred to mine, the coil of the ash and tar of the tongue jamming down into my throat and leaving a permanent black stain tattooed into my own oral recesses. Your face triumphed for several seconds. To kiss and to gag. But still we kissed and I fell asleep with your breath of fumes circling my face. I imagined tracing circles on your back and discussing Mallarme and Breton, twin cities dangling in dance. They would dance to Indian synth-pop you were always like listening to. Calcutta drawing its shades. Mumbai disrobing. You would praise mangos as the juice dripped from your lips to your like a funnel, like a transportation. The endless fun of unconsciousness. How to escape the dirt and the impoverished? How to sweeten your mouth? How to better lock our gazes? I never did find out. I never did want to.
As it happened no one can be too sure, but looking back on it, there was a desert simplicity and my own expected flailing. White-skinned doppelganger thinking in paradox and anomaly, bone-chiseled knife in mouth like a wearied cannibal, brows arching into shock. Back then I would wake up every morning looking for my amphetamines and an anger unmatched and unknowable would erupt. It would turn eyes a dull blue like wrist veins; it would clench my hands anticipating the fresh layers of soil. Big fists in a small, barbwired ring. With much secrecy, the dream’s harrowing song cropped lilies and turned them in towards the earth. This was a time of being alone and but companioned through the system’s dense folds of machinery.
You on your back staring at the heart-shaped sky, poundings of clouds passing along, directly above your forehead and cheeks. The pond’s fountains bubbled up in seizure. We would play countless games upon the beds of unburied roots and cherried blossoms. I would open your legs with a pair of wooden tools and from you came frothing a suckling child whose mouth let utter screaming visions of morphed landscapes and previous coastal abortions. So this is what the volume knob would have been used for had there been one left. There were rotted remains now, the speaker system terrifying in its neglect. Battery juice broke down into the metal, magnet, and soft wood.
Sitting two feet away you strummed your guitar timidly, as though it were a new puppy, loose bag of skin hanging and soft. There would be no need for help this far into the wilderness, where you squatted like a chimp, grabbed your knees and rolled resembling a rocking chair. The absurdity of the cars passing down on the old passageway, where the ferryboats used to be towed, horns disrupting the oceanic shifts. There was terror amidst our minds as clouds passed in the additional throbs, we understanding nothing good though our voiceless creations. Though we did arm ourselves with each potion we quaffed.
With its sharpened talons of stone and shadow, the day slowly grasped dusk, its looming victim. The neck was wrung out, skin red and itching, eyes slowly shutting like opal bruises. Soon electricity pumped into each lit orifice, the day crouching but still reaching out. Around the looming buildings of the pond, several youths mused with their skateboards, flaring their nostrils and palming open-faced drugs. They peered over a pot of chamomile, their bare feet crooked and layered with dirt from the wooden paths out of sight. They sat in a halfmoon wondering halfheartedly. We hear their language of laughs and trickled in our own interpretations. How much pain could be caused, they wondered, by throwing the self to the train tracks right before the midday car’s arrival? Amidst the din you and I looked into each other’s smiles, cross-legged on the stony bank. We struggled for some change in the conversation.
II
In the aftermath of your endless stream of vomit, dripping orange like pureed pumpkin all over the bathroom’s cabinets and tiled floor, the subsequent scream-moans begging for your father to come help you, everything felt like an echo. I sat hopped up and afraid, the word smith down the hall creating lines of verse under the guise of booze and waiting for me to join. A destabilizing brew kept me from thoughts about my own old man. Other scenes, however, were set dangling from strings like marionettes at a staged theatre. I napped dreaming of violet light shattering your breasts and a bottle of Gallo Nero Chianti being emptied atop your stomach, my hands flickering above and amidst the dull shadows of the energy-efficient lighting, hands like a magician causing a rose blossom or volcanic hazard, bountiful prizes of imagery while you slept away the unfathomable hip sways and remarkably brackish makeup daubs of the earlier hours. You sleeping soundly in terror, eyes open and peering into the lamp where the swarms of moths lingered. You contemplated solace like children born of railroads, children who learn the feelings of caverns by staying perched on bridges, thoughts bouncing off the flattened ripples so many feet below, grooves from the ties of the tracks indenting their cheeks.
While you were down, paralytic and warm, my eyes emerged from their corner stares, caught in a net of moths. My vision seethed, eyes becoming metallic lighters, and with each blink a spark to every white insect in the room. Each spastic, spirited ghost snuffed to the buzz of ash and moisture. Then, you flipping over so that only the black cloth of your hoody could be trailed, my perspiring hands knives scraping up and down on the wooden floor beside the bed, fingers gathering a grave piled with the mass of hosts I had just burned alive with the destructive deadpanning vision. Their antennae and appendages still wavering and withering, my digits scrubbing against the floor, bug carcasses intertwining with cuticles, collecting corpses beneath nails like green, grade-school putty or the red mud of my childhood home’s riverbed. Back then I would chew my fingers, but at that moment I knew to keep them away from my mouth while I cleaned up the genocide I caused with such ease.
As my eyes blistered your eyes, sealed them within their soothing lids, you imagined many things. You were lost in a long, echoing tunnel. A cylindrical prison cell stretching for miles and miles but with no physical endcap. Heay lighting all around. The smell of fresh plastic hanging in a cloud over your ethereal head. An array of the overwhelming. The collapse of the deck of dimensions. You thought of the caustic completion, the great binding, the billowed dualism of the woman with the man. There was the penetration. The entrances and exits. The swirl of fluids between two bodies, two breathing hosts. The breaths moving back and forth misting the perplexities. There was the floral. The sweat running thick like honey or molasses, or rubber. The hair meant to be pulled, pondered, wailing in explosive, electric invasions.
In the darkness two shadows enraptured with their light. Moans breaking apart the silence like the death of a tree by a saw. Completing the situation a sea of blankets kept together in heaps, hiding the bed. The sprouting of life from the moist ground muffled under countless thin sheets, colored lavender and stained by rustles. Each climax led to break skin with pointed fingernails, jaws lined with teeth. The hands gripping the limbs, the ribs, the hips. The attempts to bring everything closer, in a single, dynamic form. The grasping pulling, pressing. The swirling unity under a cape of light, back to back or front to front, the moon forcing down light like concrete weights.
But beneath each aesthetic twist and ring, each unknotting of the pressure, was a system working its gears, flexing it machines. Eventually I looked from all of the white wings flecked against the floor, limbs scattered like borrowed dynamite, my eyes brought to what was happening on the ceiling. With a gasp you looked up at the ceiling of the room too, moving to cry out at what was there, your eyes now open and your conscience ignited, the aching from the pools of alcohol you had earlier dipped your body into evaporating now through the open window we had forgotten about. The lane of memory last pieced together in your dreamscape now barren and still, the plains open and entirely empty, an astounding new stretch of isolation. The plastic was burning and your nostrils begged for air though the sky was directly open to you. All I could think of was the lack of any more skin on skin. The mocha mixing with lemon was a rustic idea.
III
The morning decayed. Things were happier in the suffocation of confinement. The solitary of the nothing space. Life could exist as a coffin does below a surface. When you are clinging to your loved one for such pleasure all you know is the taste of skin and the tingle of a licked ear. You do not want to eat food.
As a pair of deaf savages rolling around in a bed of moss and sod, we stunk like the grease of animals, our oils commingling, our bodies hosts to bands of invisible pests. I couldn’t stare at your eyes, the glowing was too rough. I scratched the walls with my fingernails and you stayed asleep. We were not thinking very responsibly. Stay away from this den of sin, I would think. Stay well away.
There is an electric heater in my bedroom in this small town in Maine. The floor is carpeted in this bedroom, and the two windows do not afford much natural light. The room is positioned over the garage, a garage that has never been used. The silence is always horrifying and natural and absolute. The bed is meant for the static catatonia of angels, not valuable members of human societies. The e are no mirrors in the bedroom so it is easy to forget about existence. The door has a lock on it, and do the closets. People can be captured in this room. People can be locked away. People and their risqué cloths, their risqué habits, their risqué absence of clothes.
There are always the memories of being in the room alone, but these memories are superseded by the friends who would visit. We would smoke pot, drink cheap vodka, and take cough medication. We would wonder about women like we wondered about films, writers, and towns. There was the feeling of consumption and the feeling of producing parts to a greater whole. There was Sartre and Derrida. There was the vague odor of our big, timorous schemes that lacked charm, zest, sexy fluttering.
Now you lay on the bed and I stare at the ceiling, and I think about pounding myself into you as you lay there, taking you again and again. This was the land where you could press back, and scream as loud as you ever wanted. There was the house, and then there was the bedroom, and then there was you. You, silent woman among the silent facilities. Then there was my mother’s cry from the backyard—a terrible explosion.
IV
Your back was curved like a musical instrument. It was intimidating like music is intimidating and so that’s why my eyes bulged whenever my finger grazed the skin of your ribs, shoulders, or spine. Your dark skin was not hazelnut or coffee but candied cashew. I could not take another bite but I could gag about the thought of eating more, or just like the sugared glaze off the surface. Your mouth smelled like charcoal and every time I started thinking about your beauty I would imagine your mouth.
Your lips grew deeper and larger in Kabul, where random men would grab at your, where children all begged to be in your pictures, having no idea what they would turn into. Your skin grew thicker with each rocket blast and market cry and dead cafe patron. You would hide from the explosions across the street. Your mind would wither with each woman sprayed over the face with cupfuls of acid. Deformity of the land, deformity of the people.
I tasted the deformity you carried. Your mouth would lock on to mine and your dreams would be stunning, transferred to mine, the coil of the ash and tar of the tongue jamming down into my throat and leaving a permanent black stain tattooed into my own oral recesses. Your face triumphed for several seconds. To kiss and to gag. But still we kissed and I fell asleep with your breath of fumes circling my face. I imagined tracing circles on your back and discussing Mallarme and Breton, twin cities dangling in dance. They would dance to Indian synth-pop you were always like listening to. Calcutta drawing its shades. Mumbai disrobing. You would praise mangos as the juice dripped from your lips to your like a funnel, like a transportation. The endless fun of unconsciousness. How to escape the dirt and the impoverished? How to sweeten your mouth? How to better lock our gazes? I never did find out. I never did want to.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
FORTSCHRITT-->ASCENT
A translation after Rainer Maria Rilke, from
Das Buch der Bilder, 2nd ed., 1906.
Translation follows the original.
FORTSCHRITT
Und wieder rauscht mein tiefes Leben lauter,
als ob es jetzt in breitern Ufern ginge.
Immer verwandter werden mir die Dinge
und alle Bilder immer angeschauter.
Dem Namenlosen fühl ich mich vertrauter:
Mit meinen Sinnen, wit mit Vögeln, reiche
ich in die windigen Himmel aus der Eiche,
und in den abgebrochnen Tag der Teiche
sinkt, wie auf Fischen stehend, mein Gefühl.
ASCENT
And again my deepest Life rushes louder
as if it now in more drunken Strands went.
Things become ever more related to me
and all Images ever more beheld.
In the Nameless I feel myself more versant:
With my Senses, as with Birds, I
reach into the windy Heavens from the Oak
and into the abrupted Day the Pond
sinks, as if standing on Fishes, my Feeling.
.
Das Buch der Bilder, 2nd ed., 1906.
Translation follows the original.
FORTSCHRITT
Und wieder rauscht mein tiefes Leben lauter,
als ob es jetzt in breitern Ufern ginge.
Immer verwandter werden mir die Dinge
und alle Bilder immer angeschauter.
Dem Namenlosen fühl ich mich vertrauter:
Mit meinen Sinnen, wit mit Vögeln, reiche
ich in die windigen Himmel aus der Eiche,
und in den abgebrochnen Tag der Teiche
sinkt, wie auf Fischen stehend, mein Gefühl.
ASCENT
And again my deepest Life rushes louder
as if it now in more drunken Strands went.
Things become ever more related to me
and all Images ever more beheld.
In the Nameless I feel myself more versant:
With my Senses, as with Birds, I
reach into the windy Heavens from the Oak
and into the abrupted Day the Pond
sinks, as if standing on Fishes, my Feeling.
.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
an accidental collaboration between me and Jeff
If Joe Ramos were in office
the economy would be fixed
with produce—
vegetable stands
and broken down mustangs.
So many people came to our door
asking to buy it,
so many beard-havers
and their khakis,
all wanted a piece of that sweet action,
plush dice dangled on the rear view
a good surrogate ball sac
for the masses
who lack our endowment
and our tomato plants.
They wanted them so bad
like reality stars,
and reality stardom.
the economy would be fixed
with produce—
vegetable stands
and broken down mustangs.
So many people came to our door
asking to buy it,
so many beard-havers
and their khakis,
all wanted a piece of that sweet action,
plush dice dangled on the rear view
a good surrogate ball sac
for the masses
who lack our endowment
and our tomato plants.
They wanted them so bad
like reality stars,
and reality stardom.
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