Conversation between two cats on a fence in the middle of the Amazon River.

ACT I

cat 1: Does the public appear liberated or can the soft sound of flesh parting indicate a change of dynamic stew?

cat 2: This champagne makes a fruity pop and thump on my glassy little tongue.

(cat 2 indicates towards the moon and flushes the rest of the champagne down into the river where the fish swim and take long smoke breaths, seeing the moon as it really is, a carpeted room.)

cat 1: I could account for change. The recent publicity, i.e. sinking, meanderers, pork-belly, country sound, is adding crumbles of dust to our stack of power. Do you fish often, cat?

cat 2: The fish calender our tiny paws.

cat 1: For truth I would fuck a goose, good brother cat. In my memory cracks a little egg, not knowing its place, but holding on to the thought's paw like butter.

(Cat 2 puts on a tuxedo, grows a beard, and recites a song while six bright white swans spill vomit in unison along the shore, little white feathers trail out peacefully all along the river. Cat 1 daringly takes a feather, swallows it and trickles piss out from below his tail. They both smile, bow, and float up towards the moon)

ACT II (in space)

cat 1: This flounder has the resuscitation of a flummox. And by god, the trout lingers, does it not?

cat 2: We are perpetually fucked and left to spin and spin. No one houses bother with our smell or kind of peace. Let it be known I am not bitter man. But I have been forgotten.

(cat 2 grabs a bike and goes for a peaceful ride, accepting his limitations and loving all of man kind.)

cat 1: This is dreadfully plain. Can we not find more timber in this place, a shallow rot, hole to sink, a tarp to lay our tears in. I am a hungry. Feed me now.

(Cat 1 dips his hand into a nameless planet and eats all their fish. Everyone on the planet dies. Cat 2 returns from his bicycle ride alone and horny. Cat 2 attempts to "make love" to cat 1 but is denied by hammer.)

cat 2: Alone, alone alone. I return to the planet of sloth alone. Dear Neptune, I recite thy peace and love the shun of a Shepard's foreskin. Goodnight love and black sleet goodnight.

(Curtain lowers, the crowd leaves disappointing and confused. The moon sleeps like a bag of nails. A man attempts to make love to his wife that night, but she becomes scared and grows whiskers and floats up towards the moon.)

THE END

From Rome, Glittering Prizes

beef magnum
tin pierced flood
a winged flump
or squib of yachts

shift laughs
ports a cab
as if trenches
support off-color
harmony
or discordant
laundry ain't
tripling song

octagon reader
pillow fidelity
crumbing his
fastlane pish-posh

gophing a cart

is this the
beauty of music
in the rain?

something

This prize fighting Concord
more like a tree
and a series of red lights
blinking a lot in the dark

This shook Branch
hacking up the joke
the not joke anymore

Dear Tree, do you spill
this for cleaning

and if ampersand jumps
and if we spill
and if we cut and snip
and if we rodeo hurrah
the long home portion
gets lost in a panic
or of flippant Hispaniola's

Dear fizzle and fall,
did you hear this
and are you knowing it now
the tape and the scissors

I don't know Ampersand
but the calling of star
dust is numerated
or broken
misshapen
breaded
and empty

Sean Kilpatrick's Spurious One-Man Lobotomy with Clipped Inquisition

Please read Sean Kilpatrick's new book Spurious One-Man Lobotomy with Clipped Inquisition from Magic Helicopter Press. It's amazing and weird. The art is stunning. It's like reading a medical report by a volcanic swamp poet in a mental institution.

gary sullivan post

(UPDATE)
This is what I would look like if I was there child


I WANT TO BE THE ILLEGITIMATE CHILD OF K. SILEM MOHAMMAD & SHARON MESMER

NOÖ [eight]

NOÖ [eight] OUT NOW!!!

MY PIECE!!!

It is late. It is drunk.

The unabashed free weights climb the forted hill
we see it out our beds or windows or the plains

of motion not retraced, given away for pill bugs.
Frenchy lifting beards off the branches of our

hammer hills, our motor oil boat trimmings. So,
the fox's wisdom chews at our mulch pilings,

not unlike the faux fruit filling up the bed
pans and the fan boys. Thus it turns and goes

up into a path where batteries are fragrant
as elephants lift their 1,2,3,4,5,5 and this

is the epitaph to the hour of light. A turn-
around in the elbows the pitting of magnets

to the burn. It all lifts off and we count it
as if new. Restless bugs shift hum hum maybe

Turpin love of gratitude. Bricks, yacht, cran-
berries, a holy ghost of fog between the good

house and the shade, trying to please craft
yet misgiving the idea of relevance like we

are all in the same party drinking the same
tears, fighting for the samish tears. Motorboat

motorboat for the love of Christ! Check the
tonnage or this tug or rung or hung by my lap

now my darling loves the check, eats the map,
treats the servants like the vacuum minus the

lap and the meaning of dust or the weight of
the spot where all hands land. This is where

we find hard love. Call my last name. Mo
lingers in the dust of his last drink. He

never plays the theramin quite right yet
lingers while the trample bears down.

Drunk Collab

Drunk Collab w/ K. Silem Mohammad, Lacey Hunter, Ryland Brown, Bryan Coffelt, Jess Rowan & myself.

Untitled

Flanged, a market of sexualized atomizers
as if mitigated canister rides Debra safely
We bared exoskeletons, exposed soft spots
mine was feeble, let soak through pores
OK DATES, OK? LOG JAM SINE WAVE KEEL THE PREAKNESS. MARKET SHARE
The duck-taping of listening,
audio door under fingernails - under loving hippos
whose Eleutherian Tarkovsky collection de-catalyzes
our only fingernails (we've left the sector with bloody
prints on each other) PLEASE EXIT WITH FAIRNESS /
SLICK EYEGOOP
Yummy Yummy floorslip from Jesus hammering
off the fuck hum
Oh, flayed fetus in yodeling you rise
(50,000 words omitted) DAGWOOD AND I NAPPED IN OUR RESPECTIVE
EASES AND THEY WERE CARPETED.
Weaving through nipple rings,
there is context beyond the threads still bloody and
full of pin stripes
there is a terrific pretense to iguanahood
there, where they're talking off their heads
making the holes into beach scenes
a magic of human hood, a budget to limited knots

{control

Along Bavarian McDonald's
and lost freeways

A trip out of kite
how to fold the paper
to make it fly

The fuck of anthologies
tripping over one another

I lung your old love
positive of outside sounds
if controls a number

TOM WAITS INTERVIEWS

TOM WAITS IS A FUCKING GENIUS!

Q: What’s hard for you?
A: Mostly I straddle reality and the imagination. My reality needs imagination like a bulb needs a socket. My imagination needs reality like a blind man needs a cane. Math is hard. Reading a map. Following orders. Carpentry. Electronics. Plumbing. Remembering things correctly. Straight lines. Sheet rock. Finding a safety pin. Patience with others. Ordering in Chinese. Stereo instructions in German.

blog [comment] poem 2

i left a poem [comment] at a. lobster

Personals: Minnesota

Compulsive universal mind
frightens to outstanding
dating game questions or
the weaker promotion of
thirties or flair
or wardrobes syphilis...

Abbreviations...

If there be any one
that thinks
he is gotten a footstep
further then another,
in the favor of his Mistress,
and that in time
The Dating Game questions
not th' obtaining
his desired happiness; immediately,
that imagined joy...

Bachelor Chevon Troutman,
a sophomore,
asked everything
from traditional dating game questions,
“What is your ideal first date?”
to more modern renditions...

Last time you cried? yesternight.
validating mix records.
bride and prejudice release date in us,
bouquet cheap silk wedding,
blood wedding synopsis...

Dating game questions close up
paris vagina in picture
indian online stories
boob fake race
nudist in louisiana
justin timberlake, damn girl...

Realizing that you are a percent
discriminatory and that adverse
cute dating game questions
are outwards seated through the tongue
is transgendered for...

statistics on the dangers of overseas
uranium city & when they have chosen
We probably need to include
some obligatory lame-ass
Dating Game questions as
(don't want to ruin it for everyone)
A figure or inmate
personals minnesota
remember a balance or abbreviations...

blog [comment] poem

i left a poem [comment] at From Rome, Glittering Prizes.

Square (revised)

square turning into other
square often if shaped now
is square but not functioning to square
if square bred not bent turning
function to bend square if
yes other square now in square
two as if square were "square"
never function if rendered square
square shaped to breed often yet
functioning other yes square
human ugly form breed square
square human broken breed
often square bred if
bend function in human square

happy square rent bargain for
human bend square in square
never two square rendered awful
square tight protocol bendable square
around diamond perhaps square
rumble tag if yet square
cool form yes function square
O pink bendable square house bred
square as diamond human bargain
square tremble tight "squarer" perhaps

metal breed square happy rumble
never never two tight square
lover knight square
hollow pinch square King Arthur
table function square eloping
form field pink no bother
square death red hole nothing
square table lowered protocol
tear knitted square still falling
tremble tight last forget fall
square diamond in red pinch nothing
is square all till is all till square
field pink square to last light

I Want To Be The Ghost Of Myself

a brave bulk of fisherman now
receding down some ugly franchise
and i without a tributary
tendrils of paper and missing things

someone says the name Tom Cruise 75 times
into a dimly lit microwave
maybe we can shape nouns this way
by cutting the small of the back in twain

Around the blind brothers
the harmony of lord in their throats

O blind boy acne of my youth
a fog of birds
the cotton of my floor
against my ugly face

please be
calm
to me

look into those squares
connecting into other squares
by morning the boxes and squares
look over there

square
turning in here
square into square
turning here

and tide of squares
flexing within
throats of others

swallow bent water and float how
i did that
looking at my dad in a clam shell

Bad Poetry Chapbook

My good pal Mike Young (NOÖ JOURNAL) put together a chapbook of bad poetry. You can download it here. (I'm the first one!)

Also, NOÖ JOURNAL is pretty kick-ass banana flip, so check them out. IT'S FREE. And I'm in the #8. So I've got an agenda.

The Plan Is The Body

THE PLAN IS THE BODY

THE PLAN IS IN THE BODY

1 2 3

BRUTAL K-MART LIGHTS

some brash televised silence
in a K-Mart
where they sell underwear

don't and animal motions
a hand, where it doesn't belong
hiding like coming home

tell martha
the plane (like all things drowned)
will often cure or soften [drags out]

being ugly and brutal
these lights, these
lights, being ugly and brutal

stay on all times of the day
no recoil
the sign is signified

made to stay in place
each crazy underwear model
ugly and brutal

Robert Creely & Poetic Coans

From Away (Black Sparrow Press, 1976)
For A Bus On Its Side And The Man Inside it

Wise house, and
man to know it

thinks of nothing
farther than arm's reach

the room of space,
the place of body's

home, ground, grass,
trees, sky, water's

distance, books all
one in this clear place.

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

Robert Creeley & breath & space.

His poem: not explicit, not unnecessarily "poetic", functioning to further itself, revolving on an axis of an idea, not letting those gestures (breaks, rhythm, beauty)[fuck you up], objects calling for objects calling for thoughts calling up images calling up objects. A disjointed "truth" snaking it's way down, yet revolving around a central force (emotion, idea). A poetry built on fulcrums. Let space dictate space. Let diction dictate diction. No slouching of form and content: reciprocating. An electricity of signified-s pointing here, but going all places. Language that is charged in all directions, yet focused to a moment, a feeling, a unit of temporal being. Creeley's poems are units of life.

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

breath and rhythm: dictate you.

velocity indicates length (velocity = work x Martians - outside pressures).

take breaks.

never take breaks.

constantly read.

CONSTANTLY read.

constantly READ!

the "meaning" isn't important.

make a bank of it.

keep "it" out of sight.

never show your hand.

always motioning forward.

everything in relationship to everything else.

all work = one work.

to make the real real again.

serialize your thoughts.

serialize your garbage, the garbage (cultural, metaphorical, literal).

be messy.

clean up after yourself.

sometimes show your hand.

never be in control.

keep mind "blank."

careful revisions.

no revisions.

always revise.

"sixty percent of the time, it work everytime."

(title unknown)

the sameish loaded chews of sod
tributaries of tigers go on

Drunk Collab

The Virginal Crab Cake

in collaboration with Jess Rowan and Lacey Hunter

Oh, fawn of least resistance
I touched upon a conversation
Don’t cuz it hurts
Some semblance of fishing lures, trout measures
I laid a hamster egg in a minefield
just to prove your worth
De-plug you- a clock of worth
We begin to charge within mouth
Last famish- a horror of raving suns,
I know this- in and above
Come on, sports fans. I raised clock towers
to signal your arrival
(the signifier to the serve)
I offered you my bike
you road my pants
Punch!
The last Vietnam Christmas oval phone
I love your handwriting, Vagiplasty!
I like the curl of your knees
Scoop scoop don’t sunflower this evening

Poetry Depression

How do we re-energize the poetry community? Does it need re-energizing? I'd like to think that I'm a (small) part of that, rubbing electrons together (in a non-sexual way) to get some movement.

Am I an asshole for even wanting to do any of this?

I feel like a total asshole fake lately. Yesterday I cleaned my room and read Anne Boyer's blog and got depressed because

1) I'm pretty sure every one of my peers thinks I'm a dick (besides my close friends)

and

2) now I feel like I'm part of the stagnation of poetry, looking back all the time and trying to make that writing part of my brain. I thought that was how it worked, but maybe I'm wrong.

Fuck Martians.

I've lost confidence.

Maybe if I just put sparrow eggs up there I'd be a lot better off.

How do you make something "new"? Because the more I read the less original I feel.

I mean, is originality worth something anymore? Or are all of us (poets) merging into a mass of poetic goop?

I don't even know if I have a voice anymore.

I like what I write, but is that enough?

For WR 441

"Poet be like God."

Your Absence (3:05 PM)

It was your absence that led us to believe in holes, in mangoes, in heart's shape
It was your absence or the shock in the basin and wrenching old pipes, clean
It was your absence, so you know, the way the sound fills the spaces in houses and
if you were back sound might, returning clear and bright
It was was your absence, i think, fitted black gnats to collar of best shirt

It was your absence or set of limitations, a pile of rusted socks, some note saying
Where the fuck did the milk go?
It was your absence that filed my taxes all catty-wompus
It was your absence that buried some in toe jam, toenail, toe, us still of tow of this we don't love / need / appreciate / understand
It was your absence got some mud stuck still bringing wire home on christmas
It was your absence (i.e. dictation, skipping the point, having socks on sleeping, hitting on the right/wrong, imagery or images of an young blond sunk, "Harvard" glasses)

It was your absence, you hope, a little handle, a fleck of new salt
It was your absence that let pressure be steam be a cloud be an alligator to someone we know
It was your absence which made us all trouble and no more air (for example: balloon, penis, ego)

It was your absence and things we don't talk about
It was your absence and don't talk about things we
It was your absence and about things we talk don't things
It was your talk and talk and about and about, things, absence of don't
It was your don't we talk and absence about things that thing don't talk
It was your absence, absence, absence, things absence don't talk about

#30 DONE!!!

Spice XII
A translation For KSM

Her heart as if Helen / a weather balloon
Garbaged trumpets with steel concords
Their thrumming and dead beer stale
Still beside / This a warning or cramp
A cloth wrestles out her fingers
Through her legs / chumming open
Pills of fuzz dripping / our warning