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I have a new blog...

2010-11-27T11:19:00.000-08:00

NaPoWriMo Day 8: Spice XXX

2010-04-15T11:55:00.000-07:00

Spice XXX

the shiny squirrel wears a dino-dildo
thru a nude scene with Evan
Rachel Wood, Piano and The Ocean
/ wearing fuck-me-shoes
on two right feet / the wait for
Orpheus in hell was LONG / and
dinner was "pure fucking armageddon"

NaPoWriMo Day 7: Spice XXIX

2010-04-15T11:45:00.001-07:00

Spice XXIX

a velociraptor is going to be
more dangerous than a dog
anyway / dinosaurs and space /
normal v. flying / therefore
these Pokemon must be
captured / now a short letter
to a TV / fuck me / softly

NaPoWriMo Day 6: Spice XXVIII

2010-04-15T11:32:00.000-07:00

Spice XXVIII

a pianist may use the energies
of the ear / physically it looks like
steel / embedded mechanical
controlling / Helen lifts her head
up just enough / cosmic rays
triggering lightning / his face
still balanced to trigger energy

NapoWriMo Day 5: Spice XXVII

2010-04-05T11:18:00.000-07:00

Spice XXVII
for L— Hunter

of the keys missing X / this
precedes the cultural conduit
by means of communication
with its "Jay-Z Head" / reversing
an ingenious terrain / so in a
sense the stimuli decipher by
means of assassination and clocks

NaPoWriMo Day 4: Spice XXVI

2010-04-04T10:38:00.000-07:00

Spice XXVI

Tremble into each wind on
a wing / some mechanism in
error / sympathetically easy
in our old digs / toward beams
exactly like dog's teeth
brimming / with everyone we've
forgotten to replace / a seagull

NaPoWriMo Day 3: Spice XXV

2010-04-03T12:49:00.000-07:00

Spice XXV

a poetic look at plaid guilt / clutch
at the a-symmetry of full-court
blues / tipping the well of medieval
beauty / matching plaid shorts / the
youth knocked up by colorful arrays
of history / linen pieces of American
Singers / all likening genius to Kmart

NaPoWriMo Day 2: Spice XXIV

2010-04-02T16:25:00.000-07:00

Spice XXIV

Maximus himself is a kind of
fallen M.F.A. in "the darkest winter
of hunched shoulders" / some
disease of gardeners heaps up
properly / yielding a monk of
folk lore / a cookbook for a
blue tomorrow / kind of raw

NaPoWriMo Day 1: Spice Poem XXIII

2010-04-01T15:20:00.000-07:00

Spice XXIII
for Sara Mumolo

with a blue tattoo for
an arm / a paper that looks
nice and yields with a flashing
sing / not the pavement to think
your name / landing on a green
fantasy bestiary report / oxygen
or the small heron still existed

V-Day Poem for my Boo

2010-02-12T14:15:00.000-08:00

a love poem (the best one yet) to keep from having to do anything else / even eating

is it possible for fireflies

to get real work / bum-rush

the grave of Flint Hill / Kansas

and I admire the way rice

hates electricity / the way they fill

jars with real art / business cards /

banks and trusts / the memory of

our meeting

two of them did get real work /

building a city for owls / a chart

racing gradually sinks / insofar as

roses and barbecues are people /

they blink on Ot Moor and flush

dealing in thought / counting up

from one to ten / there are no fields

beyond this perfect hair / there can

be no gathering of firefly clods

and beware / winds so strong

it is difficult to radiate / the female

flashing attracts mates / or a

three-mile wide cookie

further afield / the woods are

surrounded by parents and whales

/ down in the dark / the witches /

over 2,000 / are very hungry /

listening to Kevin Bacon / flashing

while nature decorates its help

with glow worms and rolled up

slacks / it is a musical / a moth

on fire / small / humble / humbling

NEW COMIC BLOG!

2009-10-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

Check it! I've got a comic blog now (my current obsession).

LORD I'VE BEEN TRYING TO BE WHAT I SHOULD

I'll be posting my own comics, comic reviews, and other assorted comic oddities I run into as my obsession runs it's course.

the sea is a good place to think about golf courses

2009-09-23T21:07:00.000-07:00

The sea will be good to you

in time / succulent bits

of welsh rabbit,

dribbling in your hair,

tastes full of rebellion

whooping ocean filth

in your sweet little coven.

Rejoice!

Oho!

Will Tio fill the ocean

with Marlin.

The sea is acne / with fish.

Swimming makes the skin / dark fire.

Guest Editing @ Ink Node

2009-09-23T20:54:00.000-07:00

Yo. I'm editing Ink Node for the next couple weeks. Check it... Regularly.

First up Lacey Hunter's Poem

2009-09-19T10:14:00.000-07:00

"They’ve grown comfortable with their money," I said. "They genuinely believe they’re entitled to it. This conviction gives them a kind of rude health. They glow a little."

"I have trouble imagining death at that income level," she said.

"Maybe there is no death as we know it. Just documents changing hands."

destroying all content

2009-09-11T17:21:00.000-07:00

It is important to destroy the myth of scarcity first. That is precisely what cash is for, to select an American, put him above a grave and sing doctrines to him. Taken to its logical conclusions

humans, in their own way, will destroy the bees.

This can make dolphins--and various porpoise and porpoise-like mammals (whales, otters, people, labor models)--very nervous, to the point of uncontrollable shaking, vomiting and finally, mutual harassment.

Their eyes are contractually obligated to bleed sharp white crystals that hum "This Land is Our Land." Their teeth are removable pieces of milk candy. Their toes are pieces of language spoken for at midnight mass, with tiny etchings of candle light on the tips. Their fingers, underprivileged and torn, are ugly bulbs of flesh, each a vinegar capsule releasing into the air before bed.

While Socialists attempt to wreak havoc on slippery little LA weasels, I suggest we manufacture spawning beds for humans. We will cover the beds in the LIGHT OF GOD. And then magic conception! It will be beautiful and green, or boring and sexual.

***

Did you call, Light-God? Do you need me to cut a secret from you?

We developed a software using twitter to pump light into the houses of low income families, ask me how!

Well

of course they drown.

Why yes, the little ones first.

No, it's not unpleasant to sing into the lungs of their dead little pill bodies. I find it quite invigorating. Like a frisky Danish breeze passing through my body. Like wearing those extra tiny shorts on holiday.

***

I say we voyage into the capacity of your space now, fondle up the curves of your curl, kiss the spit from your eyes. It will be such fun to see you smile at my Porsche again.

R. Crumb & R. Hughes

2009-09-11T17:13:00.000-07:00

Interview

Fresh Air

Dissonance Remolds: Oy! A Feta Defaced Her... Um... Tut?

2009-09-03T20:56:00.000-07:00

Another "tweak" of Sandra Simonds poems from Warsaw Bikini. I think I'll rename this first section of her book: Deb Dinged Orgy Mink.

after The Academy of The Future: Scenarios and Models

do you know of the the vast, calm, still, deep chemicals covering the gaps in the deep Russian parts of our house

should a horse vanquish wolves with mortgages with its pithy eye-holes

when the bells ring twelve times / when the bells are ringing here / in the house a bell rings / to tell us different kinds of unspoken words

New York women facing martyrdom lean in against a crass architecture / two holy blue lights / one a slippery night spire / one a birth defect of love canals / they pace and glow / their face with six frequencies

like some oxygenated cells

have culture

and beards

and an appreciation for Woody Allen

so the message board goes down / the baby turns up a big wimp / we keep waking up with the same breath

is this the easiest way to turn a thumb about

an acre of science and language fall off a square of newly turned earth / we are smitten to dance and be simple ocean creatures / like our parents or like the vikings or like guitar music made ugly / the field spreads in blades and teeth each one a new place to put a letter / we glower at our words / they are as ugly as the hilltops

and now / momma / we part houses

only to drink the big gulps

pitching over nettle water

falling out big cups

I am a simple being now

so an ocean of violins swell

and my being a story

about the perfect wave

still

feels

pretty

AIR WAS BI (WINK)

2009-09-01T22:17:00.000-07:00

So I'm trying to "remix" every one of Sandra Simonds poems in Warsaw Bikini. All the titles and some of the poems are made using an anagram generator. I don't know if this is a stupid idea. I don't know if Sandra will hate this/hate me. Oh well. Here's the second one (i used this site):

green ties you
after I Serengeti You

otter slowly removed his hand off of the fox’s / his eyes focused on the raccoon trying to figure out hell
the only word that could physically come

there wasn’t a guideline to opening up a softer chest

the otter sapped the glow / promised to marry how it feels inside / and sapped ancestry from a pretty good head

“IT ISN’T TRUE”

... but the ground stayed intense to the moment of being opened again

a picture of Dakota formed behind hatred and bitterness / embracing the fox kindly

the muzzle lay soft where the wind knocked him

tears hover over two lovers and one thought / knocked it out of him / the air became cloth / mumbled downward and into the foxes trembling cleft

... but something happened
cold became a prize / the move forward quit for wanting / the air repeated it again / the otter shook / beads of lead were fluffed about his fur

and our jean were very very disturbed

T

2009-08-23T00:12:00.000-07:00

THE BIGGEST WOMAN OF THE DAY (cont.)

2009-08-21T14:24:00.000-07:00

after Anne Boyer

Cougars

The cougar can rise or create history on a stump.

If a human talks, then history is good.

Deerhunters

Your outfit and clothes are fluidity, they get me totally wrong and dig into me / the pieces that break the ear and ribs. I get so much music it is breaking apart the wallpaper / the ribbons grouping under my nails. I am never leaving this cranked, fluorescent microcastle. First a conduit to having no age / First a deliberate playing of all songs at once, coalescing as rainwater that makes me high. Please baby, do not be happy about the deliberate clicking of the glass / do not be happy about the exceptional love making.

Bear

In a video the woman bears a child
in her room.
This woman
a 74-year-old
was attacked cutting and wrapping illegal foods in newspaper
but still feels lucky to live in the bear enclosure
with her four miracle babies.

the sound of your blog exploding

2009-08-21T11:32:00.000-07:00

Jack Christian wrote a really great essay called Blog as Form.

He also has a great chapbook out Let's Collaborate (Magic Helicopter Press, 2009) which I own and think is excellent.

Sample from Diagram 8.2:

We're in a giant mom and dad linked by a heart.
We're going round in circles in the figure eight
made by their bodies and cinched by their heart.
Where their lips touch is another kind of heart.
Where their stomachs meet a third type of heart.
They sort of know this, but they're too busy
convulsing. They think they're a constellation
fastening in space. And we're going with them
on a vague run for groceries. It's a long ride
in a station wagon ...

Jeff Soto

2009-08-21T09:29:00.001-07:00

Jeff Soto

Brandon Brown is a Starman

2009-08-20T17:43:00.000-07:00

HI: Talking Points

1. Brandon Brown (BB) is one the most thoughtful and intelligent people I kind of know. His most recent blog post steered me in the direction of this amazing essay(?) on Prosody that I can't even talk about but only quote, "In the far-out sense (i.e. immanently) prosody is the dialogue between finite and unlimited energy." Which, as I pointed out on Brandon's Blog, has me thinking about Charles Olson's Projective Verse.

2. BB is a human being. And he also has a divine aesthetic sense when it comes to hip-hop. Without BB's help I may have never discovered the sublime of Rhianna or heard the beautiful poetry of R. Kelley's proposal to a stripper's ass.

3. I'd liken listening to BB read his poems to losing your virginity at a rap concert in space with Jimi Hendrix. Not really. But it's pretty fucking sweet. When read out loud, his poems have a conversational cadence and tone you might not imagine when you read them. Sometimes I'm not sure whether he's starting a new poem or talkin' robot trash from the future, but either way I'm enthralled. But reading his poems is still a treat, don't get me wrong. His poems have a savory abuse (in a good way) of language in them, with a touch of lyrical know-how and the hickory aftertaste of a lost narrative snatched from bits and pieces of overheard lunch time conversations (See: Six from Lunch Poems).

4. For all this, and much, much more, Brandon Brown is a fucking champ. (Also, BB will sell you cocaine laced with PCP if you ask nice.)

THE BIGGEST WOMAN OF THE DAY

2009-08-20T15:35:00.001-07:00

after Anne Boyer

Animals

Now it's hummingbirds, jerks, and cougars with the keys as beautiful as the animals.

So the only kind of cancer was the jerk kind.

It's nice to find bears in caves and lions sleeping in the corners. And today I rolled my eyes and said, okay, because frankly, spiders are a pain, and we are both waiting for them to take us away while we sleep / in those little bags you love because we aren't allowed to touch without the sheet and we wear these garments which are not a secret but still keep us attached to the clouds and bright places of marble, this is our love and our heart homes and our not-secret. It's our magic. You know. But no one will miss us anyway because all our lights are always on.

Tonight the hyena gave out, he coughed blood onto us and crawled off to dark space, we kissed those still soft lumps of black on his feet, we could feel him sign off. Do you really believe animals die, too?

Customers

in the wild
and what to do
after you
find them

KILL

Wood

It's driftwood trying to be a place to live.

"All this makes sentences so clear I know how I like them."

2009-08-18T11:52:00.000-07:00

From "The Sentence is a Lonely Place," by Gary Lutz; The Believer (Jan. 2009)

It took me almost another decade after graduate school to figure out what writing really is, or at least what it could be for me; and what prompted this second lesson in language was my discovery of certain remaindered books—mostly of fiction, most notably by Barry Hannah, and all of them, I later learned, edited by Gordon Lish—in which virtually every sentence had the force and feel of a climax, in which almost every sentence was a vivid extremity of language, an abruption, a definitive inquietude. These were books written by writers who recognized the sentence as the one true theater of endeavor, as the place where writing comes to a point and attains its ultimacy. As a reader, I finally knew what I wanted to read, and as someone now yearning to become a writer, I knew exactly what I wanted to try to write: narratives of steep verbal topography, narratives in which the sentence is a complete, portable solitude, a minute immediacy of consummated language—the sort of sentence that, even when liberated from its receiving context, impresses itself upon the eye and the ear as a totality, an omnitude, unto itself. I once later tried to define this kind of sentence as “an outcry combining the acoustical elegance of the aphorism with the force and utility of the load-bearing, tractional sentence of more or less conventional narrative.” The writers of such sentences became the writers I read and reread. I favored books that you could open to any page and find in every paragraph sentences that had been worked and reworked until their forms and contours and their organizations of sound had about them an air of having been foreordained—as if this combination of words could not be improved upon and had finished readying itself for infinity.

I read this article every couple of months to keep writing what will now be referred to as (as K. Silem Mohammad put it) Conceptual Prose. I don't really want to be think about FICTION. That word makes me think of all those awful New York Times Bestsellers littering nearly every bookstore where I live. I want "every sentence [to have] the force and feel of a climax, in which almost every sentence was a vivid extremity of language, an abruption, a definitive inquietude."

I'm tired of Beige Prose. I want to read books by authors who get inside their sentences. How many authors would screw up the whole plot of their novel/story just to make one sentence more beautiful? Those authors that will are the ones I'm interested in. Too often when I go into a bookstore I just feel like shaking my head after looking around the Fiction section.

If I'm being really honest, I should tell you, I want FICTION to be POETRY. That's why I like Kasey's title "Conceptual Fiction." Blake Butler, Shane Jones, Deb Olin Unferth, Amy Hempel, Donald Barthelme, and Chelsea Martin; are just some the people I see doing this.

This is not to say I don't like Hemingway. I love Hemingway, but I think his style is interesting partly because of its historical context. At the time people were like, Holy Fuck what is Hemingway doing? This isn't how people write! There was chaos in the streets, people were flogged for sure. It was new! He was taking risks.

The world continues to change and I think modern writing should be written in a way that reflects the constantly mediated experience of modern existence. Or something. I want abruption!

A sentence makes them all not an avoidance of difficulty. A sentence is this. They never think before hand if they do they lay carpets. Lay carpets is never a command. You can see that a sentence has no mystery. A mystery would be a reception. They receive nothing. In this way if it finishes. This is so obviously what they will do. Obviously what they will do is no mistake because we did not know it. We did not know it is not a mistake either. Leave it alone is not theirs as a mistake. Artificially is what they call when they call out. Who knows how many have been careful. Sentences are made wonderfully one at a time. Who makes them. Nobody can make them because nobody can what ever they do see. --- Gertrude Stein

Excerpt from And I could not keep the night from coming in

2009-08-17T21:20:00.000-07:00

The yellow car slides through the girl with light in her palms. Charles spent the day frowning, equipped with two squares of fabric in his breast pocket, he drank lemon grass by the shot and he listened to a man sing out the souls of a lost people buried beneath a burning building. The girl is tucked between the granite and the black car and becomes a form like nothing. Charles glides his luck into her but it still cuts. As a child Charles loved to jump back across the engravings of tires while wearing his favorite yellow hat. The girl begins crawling into the hood of the car. The Rich Men know the girl and they know Charles and they know nothing of suffering. Charles’ father was a fishmonger and as a child Charles avoided the ice, yelling to all the suffering gills LAVA! LAVA! Someone on a nearby lawn decides, Baby’s cry because they like crying. The girl had labored next to dull corpses for three years, deciphering the surgical code of the men in white coats working the floors above, only now understanding the actual limit of flesh and seeing her own code open up before her.

John Cage interviewed by Ted Berrigan

2009-08-14T14:00:00.000-07:00

CAGE: I agree. Somebody said that Brecht wanted everybody to think alike. I want
everybody to think alike. But Brecht wanted to do it through Communism, in a
way. Russia is doing it under government. It's happening here all by itself
without being under a strict government; so if it's working without trying, why
can't it work without being Communist? Everybody looks and acts alike, and we're
getting more and more that way. I think everybody should be a machine. I think
everybody should be alike.

A Manifesto

2009-08-14T11:27:00.000-07:00

My poetry wishes to avoid becoming a tool.

...JUST LIKE JESUS!!

2009-08-12T19:32:00.000-07:00

PINCHPINCHPRESS IS NOT DEAD

Kenny G VS "Chip N'" Dale Smith

2009-08-10T17:34:00.000-07:00

Kenny Goldsmith VS (not really) Dale Smith (Jacket 38)

KG: I really have trouble with poethics. In fact, I think one of the most beautiful, free and expansive ideas about art is that it — unlike just about everything else in our culture — doesn’t have to partake in an ethical discourse. As a matter of fact, if it wants to, it can take an unethical stance and test what it means to be that without having to endure the consequences of real world investigations. I find this to be enormously powerful and liberating and worth fighting for. Where else can this exist in our culture?

DS: This reminds me of something Robert Duncan said in correspondence with Denise Levertov over the Vietnam War. They both opposed that war, but Levertov was an activist and tried to write poetry that would support her activism. She wanted change. Improvement. Etc. Duncan argued instead that such a use of poetry-as-activism became merely a kind of propaganda that participated within a discourse of power. In response to her being a poethics pusher, he famously stated: “The poet’s role is not to oppose evil, but to imagine it.” So, yeah, anything goes, in that sense. I’m right there with you.

Today is a large motor that doesn't stop beating.

2009-08-09T19:19:00.000-07:00

I"m sitting at the library watching bugs trying to get inside, to feel the air conditioning. I sat by the window so I can watch my bike. It cost $48 and it was probably stolen. It didn't come with a lock and I haven't bought one. If someone steals it I'll think less of humanity.

I'm trying to write fiction-y stuff again, but it feels a lot like pouring a lot of water into a tiny bottle. The best way I can deal with it is to think of it as WRITING, rather than FICTION or POETRY. I'm also staying far away from THEORY. It's such a drag. People are spending more time arguing about how to write then actually writing. I always thought it worked the other way around.

I want to start a movement called FUCK IT. Where we just write and drink beer (or wine) and act incredibly irresponsible for a few years but generate tons of writing and have lots of readings. Then we can have the OH FUCK movement where we have to pick up the pieces of our lives because we've drank away our lives and we need health care and our children need diapers. It's gonna be great!

ANYWAY, The story is called KARL MARX, and it's not very long yet. A friend of mine is going to publish it (Wonderlust Press) sometime this fall. It would be wonderful if tons of people wanted to read this and make me some kind of deity. I would like to be God of Cheap Beer or God of Blue Gatorade or God of Sentences That Hurt at First But Later Make You Realize That Being A Person Isn't Completely Shit. Yeah, that would be nice.

I think the two of my favorite FICTION writers are Amy Hempel and Donal Barthelme.

Here's a site that has a bunch of stuff Donald Barthelme wrote.

Thanks for stopping by.

St. Anne of Blueberries

2009-08-09T14:57:00.000-07:00

something hesitates / near the chamber where
some people are missing cats / but
only if they're fucked up and pretty / swapping one
dictatorial universe for another with wine

this is the true form of heroes / tackling
St. Anne on fire over newsprint with spirit
sweating a pimpled gossamer of surgeries

I will kill you / keep you in hell / and frost your bangs

I fear
I am
growing
immune
to
blueberries

/ / /

we fear you will leave / walk / eat blueberries
she will have met a man at her feet / in the dance space / among crushed blueberries

and the dream of blueberries looms drunk and fucked between us
then comes a wave / and the forest next to us splits its pines
and we drink beer sweating / and stinking of pitch

St. Anne bags up fennel and lost antlers / around her the pines drone
she whispers back / everyone has a lovely time during shopping online
the woods do not whisper back / St. Anne enjoys watching the deer converge

She will insist on reading the lonely out of leaves / bringing it back to the water
and letting it fall from the clouds

***

Poetry is blowin' up all over this mother bitch!

Is disjunction dead... alive... horny?

Mark Wallace
Nada Gordon
Anne Boyer

Back Room Live!

2009-06-28T08:52:00.000-07:00

The first 4 parts of [the] Robin's Poem are published over at Back Room Live as part of a series curated by Sara Mumolo (she also curates the Studio One Reading Series in Oakland), along with work by Mumolo herself and Sharon Zetter and Ben Prickett.

The same poems are also excerpted at the blog CALLING CARDS: international calling cards online.

2009-06-27T21:45:00.000-07:00

"Down by the river / I shot my baby dead."

HELP A SISTER OUT!

2009-06-27T15:58:00.000-07:00

Jennifer Garcia (a fantastic and talented poet) is selling her fucking amazing chapbook THE SHIELD OF MEDICATION, based LOOSELY on the life and times of Marie Osmond, for $6.50

ALSO. It's never too late to trade me something (like other books, or cool stuff, or money) for a copy of Prithee (Abraham Lincoln Press, 2009), a series of collaborated COWBOY AND GHOST poems with Jess Rowan (firefighter extraordinaire!).

email me alexsmalix@gmail.com

Why I Want To Fuck Ronald Reagan

2009-06-26T21:07:00.000-07:00

For Bryan Coffelt & Phil Spector's ashen ghost

=fucking stupid=

1. Man, fuck that.

2. Organic foods need to chill the fuck out!

3. The desire has creeped upon Los Angeles like a wedgie at a water park

4. When Phil Spector was stuffed into a prison cell to serve 19 ... Nope, she married Phil for *love*. Gag me with a fucking crimping iron.

5. Are you comparing Phil Spector to the Holocaust?

6. A bad hair day in prison.

7. fuck a duck has a reputation beyond repute.

8. u listen to britney spears, hells yeah, man fuck that.

9. u like olives(the food), hells yeah

10. Just watched a spider try to fuck an ant, and he said, "if you're gonna kill me, kill me. But don't fuck with me ears. I need 'em."

Black Poem #2

2009-06-23T18:49:00.000-07:00

a panda is a bear
or
Physics for Kitty

'Science was Wrong!'
because I am heavy bored

his death made us sit still
until our eyes hung out
at work
with my two
floral guys

he does only die later / in the mud / and the sea

they stand out
often the lone white face in a black crowd
a result of a genetic condition
muzzles on their eyes

I make a call to stomping
literally translated 'cat-foot black-and-white'
an owl is a cat-faced eagle / a crow is a black duck

'what a desperate creature panda is or no, / not panda'
After all / the sky flashes / the great sea yearns

the voice in Henry's head
is broken syntax
and broadly moves
the entire body

Black Poem #1

2009-06-11T19:12:00.000-07:00

do dogs listen to you

it's a good thing you're reading this
blood is coming from the upper part
near the mouth pits / the vampire nose

*

covered in tar I see what was the exposed parts

dirt blood / tar blood / mud brain and eye
trailer park skull

trailers parked
on loose
stones
exposed
to
the cold

*

in a few minutes we will stand in a quagmire
the consistency of ancient sand and lions

the same lungs do not take up the same space
so we quicken the distance to fail and sleep

Notes: William A. Camfield's essay Marcel Duchamp's Fountain Its History and Aesthetics in the context of 1917

2009-06-04T23:02:00.000-07:00

"Duchamp also transformed the object by an action that incorporated elements of place, name/title, and point of view (both visual and conceptual)."

photograph of Fountain some imply an anthropomorphic perception of Fountain as Buddha or the Madonna

"The only works of art America has give are her plumbing and her bridges."

Choice (choosing) is the barest act of creating art / then transformation by an action that incorporates elements of space and point view

the fountain not made by a plumber but by a force of imagination or re-imagining / removal of context and purpose / made into an object with no PURPOSE

stressed anti-art/aesthetic neutrality

not to look at it with a "post-modern" lens (?)

readymades as "sculptures already made" not as anti-war/anti-aesthetic statements (?hmmm)

Notes 6-2: Robert Hughe's Shock of the New

2009-06-02T22:52:00.000-07:00

Part 1 : intellectual life = struggle for absolute freedom

Andre Beton (1896-1966) "Pope" of Surrealism
Surrealism = interpretation, liberation from constraints - logic, morality - aim to recover original(?) "powers of spirit"
turning to the Unconscious-->the dream = the gate to art

Goya: when reason dreams, monsters are born.

tradition of the irrational producing a potent conter-tradition to the "reasonable"
"bejeweled Symbolist fancies"
"a lady's long kid gloves"

Futurism's attempts toward "objective" and "progressive" discarding history

Giorgio de Chirico's "metaphysics" or "metaphysical painting" (pintura metafisica) - "It was a question of mood, the sense of a reality drenched in human emotion, almost pulpy with memory."

"Space rushes away from one's eye."

"...inhabitants of de Chirico's landscape are neither men nor art, but somewhere between: they are tailor's dummies."
the encounters between object and clarity
1918 "death" of de Chirico's work (like Bob Dylan in 1970 or is it 60? But also like Dylan, made the dream seem real)

Surrealists, like Rimbaud, fashioned "a simple hallucination" to live in
Ernst (Dada collages) meets Surrealists (poets at the time)
"The Elephant of Celebes / Has sticky, yellow bottom-grease"
"a great deal of pyschic violence in a small space"
beauty (to Breton) same order as sexual desire or fear: no intellectualism

the sense of an immediate and vicious past

PART 2 : an emotional exactness bereft of representational accuracy

3 kinds of art: child art, the art of the mad, and "primative" art

Joan Miro (1893-1983) "the best pure(?) painter"
the art of children
the climax(!) of the idea
Miro's "The Farm" as "a counting of blessings" or "Noah's Ark"
"childish-ness" "everything seen equally"
"a multiplicity of life"
flashes of Hieronymus Bosch
cues from Blake:

Seek those images
That constitute the Wild:
The lion and the Virgin,
The Harlot and the Child.

"He had the rang e of a man who owns all his sensations and is abashed by none of his desires"

Antonio Gaudi (1852-1926)
"Sagrada Familia" - may never be complete (so cool)
"Parque Guell:" "...outright madness: not a straight line or a clear imperative visible anywhere."

Magritte's Pipe "a sign that denotes an object and triggers a memory"
a sea change of seeing
dread: "a pair of boots end in real toes: a fossilisation of life, or an awakening of leather?"
OUR threshold of liberty
argues NOTHING is certain

Hannah Weiner's "Magritte Poems"

Picasso "admired" for his sexual hostility (?)

turn the body into another kind of object and strip away its familiarity

a society preoccupied with the personal and the self

[Prithee] Release!

2009-05-30T11:39:00.001-07:00

Jess Rowan and I have a collab chapbook out now via Abraham Lincoln Press.

They are available for purchase for $5(+s&h) here. OR (if you are poor, which you probably are) you can email me (alexsmalix@gmail.com) and you can trade me something for a copy (but hurry I'm not trading very many copies!).

James Tate is Black

2009-05-26T23:00:00.000-07:00

I want to be in Daniel Bailey's MOVEMENT

James Tate is Black

black serpents in the pit of my
little brown grace-notes
in my musical instrument

James Tate wants a taste
of the shroud around the southeast

an unpaginated
blue /despairing man
he draws me sleeping

he has a wing lodged
in his last good eye

the hush-throated nettles
play at random for him
and fuck his sleeping daughter
who is a mess

Sprung Formal & Cat Troubles

2009-05-26T21:10:00.000-07:00

my cat is scare of the blow drier

it runs rabidly when i blow at it after baths plz help

& & &

Jess & I are in SPRUNG FORMAL: get it and support capitalism (& poetry)!

My poem is called "Don't let an old man cry in your vagina"

There are tons of people way cooler than me in the book

My Name is Mud (too)

2009-05-10T12:51:00.001-07:00

The lovely Adam J Maynard put new work up over at his website My Name is Mud, including gentle giants like myself, Daniel Bailey, Donald Illich, a really cool poem about Charles Bernstein by Shane Allison,and a bunch of other great work.

I have two poems there.

ALSO!

<---- This guy is Maurice Burford too!

# 10 @ Ink Node

2009-05-09T17:41:00.000-07:00

#10 Work Poem

#9 Dream Poem @ Ink Node

2009-04-30T20:22:00.000-07:00

#9 Dream Poem

#8 Night Poem @ Ink Node

2009-04-28T21:56:00.001-07:00

#8 Night Poem

#7 Panda Poem @ Ink Node

2009-04-27T22:31:00.000-07:00

#7 Panda Poem

#6 Light Poem @ Ink Node

2009-04-26T20:01:00.000-07:00

#6 Light Poem

UPDATE: 5 (more) new poems @ Ink Node

2009-04-25T23:29:00.000-07:00

Day Poem

&

Violin Poem

&

Haircut Poem

&

Industrial Poem

&

Horse Poem

I'm going to see how many poems I can write tonight.

My goal is 15 (check my TWITTER for updates). UPDATE: I'm ain't gonna make it. I'm fading fast. I got 5 tho.

new poem(s) @ Wunderkrammer

2009-04-25T13:32:00.000-07:00

My poem I JUST WANTED TO SEE THAT FIRE is up now. Another should be up later this week.

Send them some stuff too, the editor over there is very sweet.

I'm putting together my chapbook manuscript of dedication poems called
Owls / Beer / Ted. Hopefully coming out via Mitzvah Chaps sometime in the future.

Also working on Filament Paraphernalia as my capstone project, and I JUST WANTED TO SEE THAT FIRE is one of the poems from that project.

I'm writing at Ink Node now and have a new poem there

2009-04-21T20:21:00.000-07:00

How people care for their dead pt.1

Dragons with Cancer

2009-04-13T17:22:00.000-07:00

ALSO COMING SOON & I'M MEGA EXCITED ABOUT:

MAGIC HELICOPTER PRESS IS THE FUTURE (NOW)!

Now My Lungs are a Clogged Rabbit

2009-04-07T23:15:00.000-07:00

Carla Harryman / Rae Armentrout / Walt Whitman



There is blood / first in the pores and mud-cracks of my hands which turn in
concentric motions around the heat and then above my bed as a kind of assurance and
proof of quality I can entertain but never breach / thus a village of in-grown hairs
framing a median as first a column of letters but slowly a dozen marshmallows begin
to steam and make whale noises / marches upon our cities turning ghosts into greys
and back out again

I wish a puddle
of immaculate
gestures
would vacation
on my knee

                    with no food or hair

        we stand violent and dead
        sad about a guy on T.V.
       
            who drink OUR milk
            who fucks OUR syllables up

when sleeping
a cloud passes our car
sings in Spanish
and lopes off toward water

the water and space being the first in consideration of American PERIL / we see in a
distance what is a carpet fiber or brick hay stacked like broken floors upon broken
floors or our many families turned and shaken / our spare change in piles / I sing a
reflection of myself which is a stack of broken floors upon all other broken floors
/ a hole where beans are kept cool

as soil cools it reflects back concrete which reflects back paint / a machine which
drives us to a place where food is sold / 
                                      
                                          Along a ridge
                                          a break in metal
                                          and then a pull
                                          around and back
                                          water around white
                                          space

Subject: Here is the answer how to stop the torture of your dear people

2009-03-24T20:09:00.000-07:00

You just need to move that link in picture to visit us

i am going to turn on some good music and choose to be happy.
and you eat with your sunglasses on
i have always dreamed of going to ireland, (and scotland too- mccaleb), to =
research our family history, and to see the green grass in real life.

you sit at the counter
we ate corned beef and cabbage with irish soda bread last night in preparat=
ion for the day of the irish.=20

she'll be here friday and saturday april 3rd and 4th, and she'll be taking =
appointments for all day/ night both days at my house.=20
kiss me, i'm irish

let's give a hand to the world, for everything it can do!!=20
pps- our topic of convo for the night was this article from the wall street=
journal.

and it's so yummy
simple is always prettiest to me.=20

my homekeeping secrets
we are happily enjoying being able to play outside again.=20

2. to keep the bedrooms clear i throw all the dirty laundry in the laundry =
room and shut the door. out of sight, out of mind!=20
this image of silke stoddard's knitting is burned into my mind and tatooed =
on my heart.=20

have you seen april's ms living yet?=20
with the sun streaming in

i was given the irish name kelly after my great grandparents' last name.=20
i am determined to get the house clean so i can relax and sew tomorrow.

i mean, look at her hair.=20
soft and long lacy scarf light enough for spring, extra long for winter wra=
pping, elegant enough for church, cute enough for a tshirt...i really love =
this scarf pattern (gee can you tell?).=20

may you always have courage to take a chance and never find frogs in your u=
nderpants.
here's an irish blessing from us to you...

they make me smile every day.=20
Coco

i am excited about my new running shoes.
i want those red boots and that coat.=20

I AM GOING TO CARRY YOU TO THE MALL

2009-03-18T15:37:00.000-07:00

My story "i am going to carry you to the mall" has JUST been published over at THIEVES JARGON .

CHECK

IT

OUT

!

I'm taking a (blog) break to adventure in the real world

2009-03-02T22:37:00.000-08:00

The Dirt Mall Pt. 3 (part I)

2009-02-22T22:04:00.001-08:00



3

a hat has the pleasure of mint
and now the need to be in place only wishing ice
i know this and am it / am calling nothing
forward ice molts onto stupid
his shape is a faithful woman screaming to
foundations still down there / printing scribbles too numerous to please
nothing / a little endarkment / a place to find me

        a breath / a breath
        distances are not that far away
        names and then death / he was a German inventor
        via body after body / torso ripped and Young Orange
        there is nothing to keep living for Young Orange
        he has the name of breath / of distance / Young Orange
        love this man and then death / what we do not know
        which is a season / so Young Orange far away
        from that same inventor / there is a living in death and distance
        but we never drag out night and morn / but can eat timber and chips
        only that body / that torso / that inventor
        keep him living / body after body / and nothing
        for Young Orange

the body /poor rock charming Helen / a signal
to give us by our well dressed / then our dream it had a bend fastening to a field
no effect on a serpent or the mother city / no natural colors
way out / the father or ocean / or screw yourself
this kind of furrowed old times / with heads turned
summer in the woods / watching Helen / upwards choking

more new poems and junk here

2009-02-20T10:20:00.000-08:00

SPOOKY BOYFRIEND

2009-02-17T20:37:00.001-08:00

i am in the new spooky boyfriend

so is my friend Lacey Hunter

and Ryan Daley wrote a good poem about the Predator

Maya Pindyck is good too

everyone is good

Barnaby Jones #1 on GoodReads / thanks whoever did that.

gave out a ton of books to cool people at AWP this weekend / hope they send us stuff

i am too tired to do anything else.

The Dirt Mall Pt. 2 (demo version)

2009-02-04T00:03:00.000-08:00

 

2

is that piston of our town upon / that hill
crumbling / piling maybe different 
I hear the rain / some sigh of a not to myself
but to Helen wrapped in coat but still awful
so know something is different, Dogtown
with it comes the knitted colors of broken wharves
but our believers chase a snake back where snakes belong
this is a program amongst lamp light
this is letter signed to the king
        
        the first song for Steven / the carpenter
        built a book and rode it to a soft wood
        turns are laid down and a boat leaves us
        out like how land smells / hills are covered in fish
        but that could be a sink in memory only

a coast
a coast a coast a
coast a coast a
coast a coast a coast a coast a coast a coast
a coast a coast a coast a coast a coast a
coast a coast a coast a coast a coast a coast
a coast a coast a coast a coast a coast a coast
is not to be ridden by horse

was then the beach his
because there are graves of him
piled up on ships, oil, blubber, men / a fort
we build ships with a tremendous yell
which is still a kind of sneaker / the best is soap

                                and it was the night we contended with
                                so near / like a beacon with his father
                                the kind of sailor that goes ahead
                                hacking at the mallow in great chops
                                this was a story / I didn't say anything
                                you do not sleep / you are stolen
                                that is why he never touched Helen 

on June 28th the rain was left forever in the ocean / looking for youth and kill
no one walks by me / a whale maybe / I have a deal with meat and bones
with teeth / these are the teeth where everyone lies
but cannot plant in any missing litany / drowned and died           
 
TWO

This place / the "hell of a tall man's life"
blood up and down
blood / that my father gave to me
in a place but not often for a seashore
we move away and out as a knuckle bends against the pole
I wanted / to wrap my teeth around it
this guitar string eyeballing Helen as she / in tow of some man of class
a great treasure like a cap of green but no one came out
and Helen bought a treasure for
it was there / in a box near her eye

                    these were Helen's things
                    that was Helen's yellow scarf
                    that was Helen's glass eye in a box full of green
                    that was Helen's eagerness to place notes on a shelf
                    that was Helen's note / unopened
                    that was Helen's whaling boat talking to the sea
                    those were her European things

2009-02-02T13:29:00.000-08:00

How To Disappear Completely

Burning Australia, 1945

2009-01-30T00:03:00.000-08:00


I have this feeling of boats
burning like the oldest known coal fire
and as we end another bushfire
a grim reality
                ancient hunters molded by dried vegetables
                but that acrid set won't let us cope

my sisters triggered the burning of a body
and then the tickle of thunder haunted us like
    the atmosphere is a complete disc
    a burning montage of smoke

this hot yellow field is lonely
perhaps we have hats and roots
splitting up into sections of a body
only this is making up a history
it can be touching and lifting
we look up and only see more grim fire

                the moon here smells like a cherry bomb
                this is not layers spent over little time
                the violence in a church burns different

I quit spending time on layers
while Canada's ice floes were underground
                a seam of coal
                burning for 5,000 years

how can we sleep
                when Australia is burning

2009-01-27T23:47:00.001-08:00

when some
drunk
dies

I tie
a bagel
around
his
snout

open call for submissions @ PinchPinchPress

2009-01-27T23:24:00.000-08:00

Barnaby Jones needs submissions! FEED HIM!

best song of the year (so far)

2009-01-27T20:26:00.000-08:00

Art History

2009-01-27T14:05:00.000-08:00

Rules (by Lacey Hunter)

must include:
a color
i need to feel the wind
a moment in the supermarket
the smell of lettuce
7.5 lines

(the first two were warm-ups)

#1 Boat Smell

I took a boat to the supermarket
and I heard lettuce snapping
sweat-rain & filth-rain under the bed
this organic cat / we recalled / is so
breezy in his excellent wind gear / the hairs
in my skin were pressed and whispered
to / the scary market

#2 Orange

aisle 4 is full of blood again / I am
so happy drunk and horny, cereal
boxes & tang up against my palm / so the
room is painted for me / now magicians
fuck under big lettuce letters
spelling "LUCK IS WET" / yet I'm
still an asshole

#3 Francis Ford Copolla's Dishwasher

lettuce bungees my son's throat / yarns
of mashed potatoes and this is the
wet placeholder of her body--a supermarket
burial and a sound flight against rotten
into preciousness / first the engine then
chokes up dust / the moment the heart
made a flat sound

#4 IWW

boy aboard the red and silk mills
riding letters as in support / a mine
becomes dirt again / yet time, space
effectiveness, light / Mario humping a dryer
drum / clouds are fixed and the
breeze kills us / now art collectors
dig this lettuce

#5 Red & Black

Lenin's crooked donkey jaw breathes on
my whiskers, tells me about sword & shield
birthdays / he / two colors of breathe
one of which is lettuce / I try
to kiss the lens / his eyes/ and
he flees to a broken trunk / he
cowers like new mud

#6 J.B.

Josie becomes a red bird without shape
or no vocal jaw / she hops amongst
the slope / not a banana dance /
but this man in a white hat kills her
making music history while
napping / breath calling wind
lettuce hair is desperate

OctopusMagazine #11

2009-01-26T16:25:00.000-08:00

The new issue is incredible. It looks amazing and the people in it are fantastic. I especially liked the pieces by Joshua Marie Wilkinson, Michael Earl Craig, Julia Story, and Brandon Downing; but really everything is good.

Part I: The Dirt Mall

2009-01-26T00:18:00.000-08:00

1.

like you / bitter little son
of a surface under carbon and the blank meter of Dogtown
you drunk shit dragged right out and now
women falling into a swimming pool

skateboards are interesting
galaxies are interesting
snakes are interesting
owls are interesting
cats without names are interesting
                
                but Dogtown
                devours our hill
                it can bite / can be a father to himself
                everyone here is mother a fault
                in that pistol on our poor ocean
                on the other side of a balanced plague
                and they are just carbon, Charles
                as if you knew a kind different

now we may be devoid of a play
no way no ghost man
shot of a castle in a chess player
like some hollow in a board
but Charles made a deal of wood
and Helen hated a soft pillow
or mornings fucked in Egypt
so long after drinking up her brother or morphing into annoying trophies
her eyes were plates of hot fire
not to mean anything would be simple like making tools sing
Helen hated of all things blue

        there is a kind of place
        a yellow buggy two sets of dice our mothers hair in folds
        not to be a box around my ears
        framing this is our constitution our / our anger
        Maximus you frightened ships wheel
        drag me across a leisure suit
        let me be golden for this

sassafras is concrete / poor old man trying to surf more
this said harbor is choked in snow and
now she is annoyed by furs and fish and bullion
ahh lady please don't make a history of this
but Helen / Helen remembers being a girl locked in a rivers locks and rubber bucks
He walked some miles in old shoes
watched not our moon but a moon only it couldn't be real
did I miss her
how does someone begin to miss a scented tune

my brother who was born misshapen
now you know that about me / the real me
with materials for me and a disguise
I had kissed Helen and brutal tones insinuated themselves against me
she the librarian twisted knew better of me
she kept lisps and whisper in a cold blue
then little boxes / this is where I live in
was with when / when cocksucking goddamn
 
ONE.

to be magic:

the basic words / "to be able, to have power”
I am a machine in the magic lantern
what is the glass in Greek cinema 
how we became projected with similar rapidity

the bol weevil / with a mystery inside it / was with it's things in Europe
but us people have no motorcycles or summer plants for chewing
so a breeze a real cat inside a plaster one
this kind junk around his shop / making a mockery of lines
   
        I punish thee
        push trampolines with no spaces
        into light where clasps our plaid light
        thus the science and religion of magicians
        the hunter of souls binds thee into spools
        we held to society like form of shape
        putrid dripping knowledge of unwholesome revelation

these "magical types" are hidden fences
in our hometown
by a misshapen lake

BUY BARNABY JONES!!!

2009-01-25T20:39:00.000-08:00

THE PAYPAL BUTTON IS BACK AND JESUS WANTS YOU TO BUY IT.

Drunk Post: The 1,000 Travels of the Panda

2009-01-22T23:02:00.001-08:00

i am now the kite
i am a literal kite
it is sad to have sticks for arms
and legs
and a dick
flapping in the wind
watching people move around in circles
i just flap
i try to move in circles
but there are pandas with trumpets
singing choral praises to Christ
irregardless of the trumpets
god it is pleasant to be wasted
this is standard verse
this is not my kind of Thursday
i do not dance
but i can feel lonely
and know that it sounds stupid
to hear the radio
but only listen for the low sounds
waiting for that faint call
the trumpets from pandas
on a grass somewhere
calling me down
and waiting for me
with a smile
if they can

New Work @ Drumstick Variations

2009-01-12T22:00:00.000-08:00

MC BC

2009-01-11T10:05:00.000-08:00

Bryan Coffelt being brilliant and drunk.

Charles Olson "The Librarian" & "Maximus to Gloucester, Letter 27"

2009-01-04T17:31:00.001-08:00

His voice is like lightning dragged through smoke.

I could watch this all day.

From The Fall

2009-01-04T17:01:00.000-08:00

"Believe me, for certain men at least, not taking what one doesn't desire is the hardest thing in the world" ---Albert Camus (1956)

Dear Sorrowful Lungs

2009-01-04T15:41:00.000-08:00

---For Me

ONE

Our carved mess of hair and deaf tangles are wearing out of us
are making a very clean mess of my veins
and now they say graying
I'm not very
little hands filled with muddy soup
abortion of forts / clods of feeling shitty

You tasted some kind of broken metal
and you knew of it and broke with it
and am now used as frame
If I could a way of it / get out and play a woodwind
or watch something spin till I sleep
Did you see the snow make a cross

TWO

Please hear me lords of warm guts
I am straining and sitting again
I am not the place where dust greets pale teeth
I am the depression of your back / of my back
I wish happy out loud

Did you know birds kiss in anger now

I will borrow the name Louis
and buy violins and textiles
punch along the range of streets
find a square and be done with it
turn to you to be sorry and vile

THREE

I am prepared not to be
and not and not be to you
the thing prepared also to be
to a one also prepared doubly
but pushed a needle or light
left in you and not of us
the numbers can be but often move
like people without sound and color
but are and not and turned off / if not at all
to be fair or putrid or haunted
and a kind / a piece not sleeping at all

FOUR

How did the clubs, tubas, matches
find this cabin filled with water
not like a lung or not being a carafe
as if nothing could be that
but we are that kind of calming motion
the volumes between two orange stars

Owls can say, no people die now
but nature is full of terrible orchestras
and Chinese ballet stars
but in this moment I am piece of dirt
lodged in the nail of a violinist
He could be beautiful to me

	Heatmiser - [Hidden Track] Half Right

	Found at skreemr.com

Cowboys Sink Teeth Into Giants, Who Show Signs of Vulnerability

2008-12-21T12:41:00.000-08:00

---For Nada G.

light sounds off to hail the air conditioner
Almaty teeth, giant snakes, and Indiana Freeman
wolves too drunk in the belly of a shark
fossils of dinosaur boners coming to life in a museum
this is also how my parents were married
they join lips and hurry to destroy me

a 24-inch gummi bear fucking up my gums
the process of teeth decay
all destroying me

Space Maurice:
Emperor Teeth is a huge bird with a 5-feet wingspan which covers what is now London, Essex and Kent.
His bony ‘pseudo-teeth’ which help him to catch and hold slippery fish or squid eyes and noses, create a false air hole where he keeps his wife: a devil-fish with no arms and eleven eyes.
She is the goddess of good fences and hammers dropping.
She is out to destroy me.

the puss that folds and exits with delicacy

2008-12-21T12:38:00.000-08:00

---For Shannon Smith

In her tear ducts the folds measure the distance
from one Canadian haiku to another
or that infinite whine trading one suck-out
for a sore filled with fingernails

The red bends back against itself
its hollows broke on the light in dimes
against any rusted screw exists delicacy
it being designed to bend back

In Mexico sight can grow corn
and it is art
it is a delicacy
we understand how to evolve
to enter and exit

Fold all tabs
and catch sunlight in the center

Four corners calling to the river
sweeping debatable qualities "delicacies"
into a basin of pus to breed and lay down

It was about you
but people came into coffee
and we became Cherry's head in an airport
but that was before pockets grew in our earlobes
and we knew some animals were unfriendly

Jennifer Garcia is my personal lord and savior

2008-12-18T11:48:00.000-08:00

READ HER POEMS OR SUFFER A FATE WORSE THAN DEATH

pancakes and other things i would eat the fuck out of if tomorrow would just be here already

2008-12-16T21:13:00.000-08:00

---For Daniel Bailey

Loop. Fuck. Eat. Repeat.

Hurry the fuck up, eat my meal as if you were tap water bukkake
or arrows of carnations that a fish makes, you shout and freak
I love you like Chileans compose a whole that perpetuates
secretly, between the language spoken in May.

I love you as I cut my eyes and the cherubic
hidden within the face of Neruda, danced off the aisle foot lights,
and thanks to a bunch of artsy bicycle folks
lives the dense tongue that rises from the cracks in our teeth.

I love you without a Spanish guitar solo
I love you simply, like the flower is the plant’s genital organ
I love you in a way that blew up in a rage on the warmest winter
but this, a light circumcised in franchise, a green knight birthed
so intimate that tonight I write what is packed in,
so intimate that it starts stabbing me in the points where I can't sleep.

non-conceptualism

2008-12-16T19:03:00.000-08:00

There are perceptual states whose representational content cannot even in principle be conceptual. If that claim is true, then at least some perceptual states have content whose semantic structure and psychological function are essentially distinct from the structure and function of conceptual content. Furthermore the intrinsically “orientable” spatial character of essentially non-conceptual content entails not only that all perceptual states contain non-conceptual content in this essentially distinct sense, but also that consciousness goes all the way down into so-called unconscious or subpersonal mental states.
--Robert Hanna

crawling through space on razorblade laser hands and knees

2008-12-16T17:09:00.000-08:00

---For xtx

This tribute is adapted from an obituary...

Theodore Maiman, 79, laser inventor, dies... from days when power was measured in “Gillettes"... on the house, changing frequently, but it's a gardener's draft of history... "I was bored," said one man whose hands were covered in sores and snow...

I was using one of those very thin, sharp, double razor blades in an aquarium... you sat on your knees perpendicular, as they rested in the pooling... you that you have to get down on your hands and knees and feel the earth... I open my soda and cut my thumb... the universe humps against itself...

The subject, who acts a frame for a light, is hanged from the ceiling by their hands or feet and beaten, taken to a bridge and is found out as a piece filth or film... not so much cutting an edge as half-cut and still sliding, a bolt of red cotton finding the ceiling... then I could see just how steady I could hold my burning hands...

Zewdie was kneeling... a crimson tide fell into bath water and made violin sweeps... African drums cut the cord with a sterile knife... at an acute angle, you'd do this more often... not my father, he'd shaken hands and gentleman's words... Jell-o fired me from Circuit City on a Monday...

To look down, to buy razors, to crumble down on air... this is done...

Thirty-yard lengths of paper were then placed on the floor... sweep off all big junk... murder of your kneecaps... razor blades churned like tough sponges... machine knives tickle the skin of your cornea, creating space... a device of oscillating metal... a life of dried flowers next to an open window...

In an x-ray lab he unveiled words better used for sword fighting... 47 years ago he unveiled a fully functioning world... gold fell around me in a paste and I died...

Like perfecting the laser...

... it is very likely that he was addicted to hand sanitizer.

(William Carlos Williams) Gnawing Bones In New Delhi

2008-12-14T14:37:00.000-08:00

---After Beaten By A Beauty Shop-Owner

Ganoush has a temper and splits
a girl's wool over two tempered
boards, a gram of salt, and the
buried grave of wicker harvest.

He made a gi(womyn)rl take shoes
apart in front of a crowd. My eyes
split her skull and her blood
made a ring for my finger.
I crammed her hair in my nostrils.
I made a plane and left there, found
a new place and kept it clean.

My car is now a ghost of where autumn
barfed her soul onto the ground and
I walk there, but I don't want to
know her name, so I keep her there.

Don't Let an Old Man Cry in Your Vagina

2008-12-08T19:21:00.000-08:00

---For Jess

He had buttons crawling to his favorite hole
an old bench and a tree and light differentials
Wild Bill surrounded by wolves teeth and diner napkins
and he looks at a young girl having sex
floss shreds line her cheeks
brilliant lines of granules streaming

Picasso is a limp and three cups of ice
as a sexual object and as a mother
passes sweat through a flag
now he summons a bladelike beard
to make a toothy grin and a dreamy spark
I hate him
Picasso clenches his cleft punchline
knowing that beer is in snow and in soil

Dead holes and pieces of eyes
that is a definition of a girl in sounds
all the body parts at once pathetic and dirty
old bitten colors pushed in shapes over tiles
a frame to bite at partials

Of parallel mythomania
so I contend through his quasi-provable vagina
what a master of
skyscrapers,
liberal feminism,
vance gilbert,
old man sweaters,
and social conscience

Pablo Picasso is
a bedroom is outside and touches and is again
that which could excite only a silverfish

Shave a Mouse Inside Me, Ted

2008-12-07T23:19:00.000-08:00

---For Willie Z

It’s called Nice To See You
or Fucking Is So Very Lovely

You are called Mouse baby
Trusted Sister Wednesday

Lines not written
Ohio Blue Tip matches
typewriters
and colored pencils

An instance of him
saving a mouse
and it's my 80th birthday

This type of abuse in the capping
live coals walking right into him
how the beard is most important

A little loving can
I cannot re-read what I say

You think of him in cellar
sweating out lines
triangles of dark red
and your heart pinches a bit
and a bit more

then he chugs out a song
without saying
see you later

From the Light of Water and The Heavy of Drunk

2008-12-07T23:02:00.000-08:00

---For Tara

A light water reactor uses ordinary water
uses ordinary water to clean federal acts
to clean electrical energy

A flood of blue light shines down through the shower
while I'm riding a horse drunk after motorists
then a giant squid adopts a country road
all before heavy metal and light even began

Then there are pregnant sisters
injured by nouns that make a throat sore
Take the petals from your metal radio
and the waves that pin themselves

Drinkers are constantly concerned with language

Spice XX

2008-12-07T13:06:00.000-08:00

---For Lanny

Cat drenched windfall / most
yellow cut squares / vying for
mildew amongst the cars / Helen
deep green threads and eyes
split / happy forever in a
garden box / remembering
black and white mirrors

(transmission mooing)

What the fuck are you talking about?

2008-12-06T22:30:00.000-08:00

---For Jennifer

You have almost typed a wish
about peak oil
about how you need to exist
about dribbled ink in Chinese
about a coma for relief
taking aim upon a reasonable hill

That's how his letter left off
some stupid pills headbutting New york
ways to get high off Mexico
a child defiling petro thugs
but he never promised grease

They're buying Walter a field
and I can get you a toe
It's like a commercial for people peeing
drawing a line in the sand

Dude, will you come off it
I converted and yeah, yeah, yeah
fuck it

I Barfed Because I Ate Something Funny, Not Because I Was Reading Eileen Myles's "Everyday Barf," But It Seems Cosmically Connected, Right?

2008-12-06T22:06:00.000-08:00

---For Nathan

That was between
the fog
and my clubbed foot
this eventual pleasing
of all the shapes
and the buckets
pouring out light
and some brothers
drank from it
puking stars
and piss soup
all of us
wanting to be a marriage
for you

5 Spice Poems @ Rain Fade

2008-12-04T21:58:00.000-08:00

RAIN FADE

These two teddybear lovelies started this pretty online journal just a few months ago and they've already had heroes like Mike Young and K. Silem Mohammad and moi. You should submit stuff to them. They are very nice people.

Thanks B & W.

Thank You My Beloved Octo-Anglers

2008-12-03T23:19:00.000-08:00

...for all the wonderful poem titles!

(William Carlos Williams) Giving Out Porn On The Subway

2008-12-03T15:37:00.001-08:00

---After (William Carlos Williams) Making Love Inside an Owl

Dear exhausted placenta
I will
manage your money-

in the dark tentacles of
my heart
meat will be our currency

Old children in new hats-
I crush them
with each tired step

you will waste the heaven of
our car fire-
a kind of brutal frame

to the duplex- a kid
i see myself
saying damn to itch-grass

Neoliberalism Is Amazing

2008-12-01T22:32:00.001-08:00

READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS READ THIS

I write many poems / Give me mo' titles

2008-11-30T22:47:00.001-08:00

Tentative title of chapbook: Owls / Beer / Ted

I wish this picture could be the cover

Feed me more poem titles!

I haven't caught up yet, but I don't want to dry up.

Who doesn't like having poems written for them.

Have you ever wanted to be seduced via poetry? Here's your chance!

I Love You Sweetheart and I am Going to Town For Eggs and Snakes

2008-11-30T22:09:00.000-08:00

---For Bryan Coffelt

Bear I
Where were your hands in 1993. Did the forest have groceries in it. Our dog tried to rope the finest harbor becoming smaller as the moon fingered in circles. Paper moon factories and bangles made of ore. These friends decide how to wear hoodies in a disco, beer in the key of flour and snow. Yet mandrakes rarely grow in San Paolo. Like we were frisbees caught in the yacht club.

Bear II
Would paintball be a sweet-ass mating ground. Now we have strands of light around us. Dancing in your tightrope clothes a mystic panda, a more flaccid substitute yamika. That was the summer the yearbook turned purple. The Stooges blew lightbulbs out of our trash. Bugs made smaller through division. I could be telling a morbid biography.

Bear III
I was drunk and crossing the river.

Bear IV
It made me wander in cyberspace and creamspace and desertspace. No more living of the dream. Also the awful pillowed in around our coffin. My father, the one with the ugly jaw, cope motion. Set up on three separate legs like glass only more clouds. Someone in the south flips off a cliff. The blizzard does not have a proper traveling case.

Bear V
My cat does it for the free haircuts not the sadness of a lesbian chat room filled with matchbooks. She was yummy once.

Bear VI
Makes no sound.
Also giraffes kiss like assholes.
Now the bears have no name.
A bunch of assholes scared of glass.

On the Baptism of My Daughter Consuela, June 14, 1833

2008-11-30T21:23:00.000-08:00

---A "STRONG" poem For K. Silem Mohammad

Rasputin had a universal name for hotels
by a shiny mountain stream
he ruined a dream of mine
where I smoked two cigarettes in Manhattan
I played two characters
Mutiny, Consuela, & Sam Shepard
we smashed peanuts on lampposts
the baby Gap smashes my toys to hell
my girlfriend swung a violin into bus light
we were drunk and somber

the baby name wizard Rasputin
shined a marshmallow near our family
he could munch jazz
'C' magic where worlds shit Azaleas
thanks for asking
Germany is where drinking magic
comes off building a tide towards the turn
as if nuns could break a coma

Princess Consuela Banana Hammock
i am wearing my pwetty ballet clothes

she talks to my naked soul and blurs
not that I can limp across a pig
or I am lonely in a bitter wizard way
"trouble follows trouble"
and the mini-mart closes
florescent morphing
like a parrot in the rain

Magic 8-Ball
do you merge your hammock with a tendril
can the ridge plow our fingers into hair
I've seen the missing pylons of snow
god works the dickiest

curly prick with a chin-strap
go to bed

Water Doesn't Give a Damn

2008-11-30T20:13:00.001-08:00

Time Will Break The World

The sun and the shutters and the sun shattered hair.
The butler hesitates at the top of the stairs.
A kitten from Great Britain sleeps behind the drapes.
An old silver bowl filled with apples and grapes.

It's so very cold in the mansion after sunset
Snow is blowing through the baseboard outlets.
And I have no idea what drives you mister.
tanning beds explode with rich women inside.

All my poor hungry children x3
Time will break the world x3

The snow falls down so beautiful and stupid
Fore the black silhouette of Abraham Lincoln trees
The sky is low and gray like a Japanese table.
And my horse's legs look like four brown shotguns

The icicles are dripping like the whole house is weeping
On an evil little car with gull-wing doors.
And I have no idea what drives you mister
But I've killed you in my mind so many times before.

All my poor hungry children x3
Time will break the world x3

You cut to the core of me David Berman.

Bright Flight might be my favorite album by The Silver Jews. I think this is the first singer I ever thought combined poetry and music properly. I never thought Bob Dylan was poet (don't shoot me). He always seemed like a really good short story writer. But I guess when you get deeper into his catalog, like Another Side Of Bob Dylan, you see he's got poetic tendencies, but... meh. I mean, I really like the guy, but Berman does it for me.

I feel like the line, "The snow falls down so beautiful and stupid" is what all my poetry is based around. I can't exactly say why. It just feels right. I feel like he address nature in a way that is appropriate to "our" generation. Honestly, nature is fucking pretty and it affects us. But the last thing we need in poetry/music romanticizing anything other than pure language. I believe in lush linguistic landscapes. I believe in crooked, velvet nouns and hot, lightning pure verbs.

Fuck trees.

I want poetry that is a spittoon for your meaning.

Being analytical is overrated.

Lorca In New York

2008-11-28T22:03:00.001-08:00

We Cobbled Erroneous Fossils From From Sedentary Fences

2008-11-28T19:57:00.000-08:00

---For Ryland

as well as in smaller sandstone pebbles and cobbles
like a pale buff shades the daggers in the Potomac
or mysteries wrapped foreshore, low tide, and foil
a ranger kisses the sand castle city
while our child moves water in the shape of an agate

we could be petrified wood cell structures
and diamond saws, making thin crabs discard human corpses
how our little pig hands made mud balls out of fossils
only there are no star cobbles or pudgy bulk units

4.5 million years ago a condom affected veterinary practices
so the overweight herd caressed my knee and bulge
plus it can be a fun exercises used as an antidote
for a culture interested in fencing

ewww no milk for hot man in a beard chasing 3 month old lions

Like Gamma-Ray Guns You Can't See In The Forest

2008-11-26T23:22:00.000-08:00

---For T.B.

1.
Is murdering Suzanne
like a ray gun bringing the moon
in step with Ted the
glass blower, genocidal
killer of small trees.

2.
A small glass of bees and
ugly Pluto aligned with cute Pluto
will bring trees into a tavern
and we wish you to step with us
in a ceremony.

3.
Cussing out trees, horny Pluto
slips ugly Ted and his ray gun
beneath a stand of bees
where a ceremony kisses
a glass Suzanne.

4.
Then a cuss tree broke Pluto
into edible squares that the
bees took as a warning or
ray gun to smother taverns
full of drunk genocidal
train cars.

5.
Where did Ted break bees
into pieces of hell, held in an
open tree under Pluto's
ceremonial cuteness, which
can smell like a train of Teds.

6.
Ray gun knelt under red
Suzanne heat as violin strings
hummed cute tavern drunks
to a place where warm squares of light
are genocidal or just edible bees.