Poem: It's Still Like Mississippi Somewhere

formatting can be a pain in the ass.

WINNER!

Best blog title ever here. Concerning our very own Mike Young.

Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Open Mic: Wednesday

Please bring any material written by or for or in memory of or spirit of Kurt Vonnegut.
It will be at 7 PM this Wednesday, the 16th, at the Jefferson State Pub.
Even if you don't read or write you should still come.

Conversations W/ GOD @ Open Mic

(as appears on a bar napkin, all sides used)

Dear Jess:

I spoke with
you fag boy and
he tried to touch
me in all the
white places.

Thank you,
Mike

-----------------------------------------------

Dear Mike:

Thank you for your
Support. We here at
Jess appreciate all
our fans.

Blessings,
The Staff

-----------------------------------------------

Dear God:

I would like
to notify you of
two illegal Fag people:
Fag Alex & Fag Jess
have been soiling your
children with what they
call "adventures".

Please regulate.

yo boy,
M.Z.

---------------------------------------------------

Dear Child of Mine
(A-M Category):

Fag Heaven is
glorious. Join
us.

-- Papa

-------------------------------------------------

Dear Life:

Many thanks for
your submission. Unfortunately
Fag Alex & Fag Jess
will no longer require
your poem "I Like
The Tender Spot."
Feel free to eat
yourself.

Toodle-00,
David Beckham

-----------------------------------

Dr. Mr. Beckham:

It has come to my /our
attention that your
mother is a filthy
filthy whore. We
no longer require
your life.

sincerely,
R.E.M.

-----------------------------------------

Dear R.E.M.:

WTF R U Talking
About? Ever?

Concerned,
Confused

-------------------------------------------

Dear Concerned:

You bleed like
everyone else.
Remember that.

Jess

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SPOKEN WORD
OPEN MIC
7 PM
EVERY WEDNESDAY

I Say Gerty What Wonderful Buttons You Have

I found sound clips of Gertrude Stein here.

I tried to find a picture of young Gerty (because old people are gross of course) but I found she born 57 years old, and stayed that way her whole life.

I liked old GS she became very dear to me. I liked how violently passionate she was about parts of grammar most people are indifferent to. But she loved grammar all the way up the ladder even to the those big old nouns and verbs (although nouns can be quite inferior) more over she really seemed to hate those pesky punctuations that are almost implied at this point in english I mean who really needs all that, that clutter of question and quotation marks (exclamation points are foul like skunks caught in the dryer). Except sorry Gerty I love the semicolon. I think he's a handsome little guy with a lot of usefulness left in him. We don't have to send this punctuation out to pasture just yet.

I mostly loved steins ability to be incredibly poignant but at the same time really really weird:

"Sentences are not emotional but paragraphs are."
"I said I found this out first in listening to Basket my dog drinking. And anybody listening to any dog's drinking will see what I mean."

At first I read this and thought she was ape shit crazy but if you think about it hard enough (or as Kasey said not hard enough) it makes perfect sense. That structure the beginning and end of it. It is a totally balanced thing. The rhythm the rise and fall of the action.

The part on page 227 about 3/4 of the way down begins with, After all the natural way. With stein you have to just give in to the crazy and just let follow it. The counting make sense though and it relates to that idea that she and fenollosa share that nouns don't describe they prescribe a meaning, when in reality things do things. A tree (sorry gerty) goes up and reaches out growing up roots digging deep.

I love her. She is very charming.

Poem: Last Week In Texas

I wrote this on a napkin too. Mostly at the kickball game & at dinner.

Last week in Texas
   I was so full of shit.
   The door was locked
   the whole time.

Last week in Texas
   I found penny stacks
   on some park benches
   parked inside a coffee cup.

Last week in Texas
   I looked at a kite
   in the air like a heart
   or either way, i was sad :(

Last week in Texas
   I was called Californian
   poured down oranges and skates
   waiting endlessly for a wave

last week in texas
   i drank stale bread smoothies
   they were awful
   they were adorable

Last Week In Texas
   my empathy center burped
   in a pinch hit
   from to Fire Island

Poem: To Watch The Heaving Distress

To watch the heaving distress
is a call to open natures
a sticky fig brown cake
           In the corner
finds dad

tiring up hill
sweat touching the ringing
wheatstalks to his mouth
screeching birds to his eyes
screeching bells to his ears

a mockingbird hisses floral patterns,
chews old sundays,
finds time in early champagne,
loves mother new - but still live healthy

Donna finds still-hating in
Judy's dinner "still a whore"
never ending
all in black
fist-balling up stairs
           eye kniving
spilling up

past mockingbirds
past hum-trunks  old sound boxes

tickling knees to wood
remembering why sisters stay
dads die
the wind
still goes

bells over bells

Mike sent me the link to this poem and, it is SO GOOD, I had to share it with ya'll.

Sean Hill - BEMIDJI IN SPRING

also:

Richard Swift is the new Jesus: without all the blah blah blah.

Poem: Sand

I wrote this on a napkin. For my dad. Two days ago. Jess helped. Not sure. May need more help.

Poem

Dad explicates sand on me
  in his sand chair
          his sandy fucking sand chair
  sand is progress
          he brushes sand
                  internal sand organs

:hair sand
  short sand
     nail sand
                           
  don't move
      castles of Judy's
              sand legs by the
      seagull cave


  the grinding of sand music against
   us is sweet salt sand
a whole day
sand