First pics snapped with new iPhone.

Magic Monkeys

September 20

It’s the start of a lovely day—my significant other
is in another city, and I cannot bring myself to eat
the grapes in the refrigerator. Maybe coffee for one
will create a glandular tunica, a funky outdoor comb
I could use to brush my invisible hippy hair 
while sitting on a Target rug. I do not regret 
putting my sister-in-law in yesterday’s poem, for we are all 
drawn into her aura of suspender straps. The curfew in Bangkok 
prevents some of us from concentrating. If I was dark and stormy, 
I would forget to water the plants. But I do not forget, 
and the gnomes scurry tamely into their holes 
behind the garden boxes. Maybe I will read Ashbery 
or Lamantia today instead of grading papers. Hundreds of thousands 
of Weissmann Dictaphones could perhaps save us
from the mess we’ve made of poetry. Someone please come,
help me triangulate these ancient tapestries and airlifts. 
If I was baser, glowing neon money would make feel better. 
As it is, all I see are people winking. We are adorably despotic
in our co-extensive destinies, which community leaders insist 
can be contained and sold on Obsession Avenue for a small fee. 
I can tell you’ve already anticipated my sales pitch: come, join 
the Band of Magic Monkeys. We collect sunwarmth
and wear pin-striped lounge suits. After degrading ourselves
with precise questions, we feel renewed and re-stretched,
like taffy, into glorious psuedo-gold, and, honeylike, take to the night
with freshened interest.

seed texts: Out of the Labyrinth by Charles Henri Ford, Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon, and Notes from the Air by John Ashbery
art by Grossadmiral_Wig

Magic Monkeys

September 20

It’s the start of a lovely day—my significant other
is in another city, and I cannot bring myself to eat
the grapes in the refrigerator. Maybe coffee for one
will create a glandular tunica, a funky outdoor comb
I could use to brush my invisible hippy hair
while sitting on a Target rug. I do not regret
putting my sister-in-law in yesterday’s poem, for we are all
drawn into her aura of suspender straps. The curfew in Bangkok
prevents some of us from concentrating. If I was dark and stormy,
I would forget to water the plants. But I do not forget,
and the gnomes scurry tamely into their holes
behind the garden boxes. Maybe I will read Ashbery
or Lamantia today instead of grading papers. Hundreds of thousands
of Weissmann Dictaphones could perhaps save us
from the mess we’ve made of poetry. Someone please come,
help me triangulate these ancient tapestries and airlifts.
If I was baser, glowing neon money would make feel better.
As it is, all I see are people winking. We are adorably despotic
in our co-extensive destinies, which community leaders insist
can be contained and sold on Obsession Avenue for a small fee.
I can tell you’ve already anticipated my sales pitch: come, join
the Band of Magic Monkeys. We collect sunwarmth
and wear pin-striped lounge suits. After degrading ourselves
with precise questions, we feel renewed and re-stretched,
like taffy, into glorious psuedo-gold, and, honeylike, take to the night
with freshened interest.

seed texts: Out of the Labyrinth by Charles Henri Ford, Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon, and Notes from the Air by John Ashbery
art by Grossadmiral_Wig

My options employ continuous death, marked
in milligrams, trained to commute nowhere in a
Fragile militant bird cage.

— Scott Bratcher, from The World That Wasn’t There

fashion zulu pre-nupts/ cape in silence

The World That Wasn't There: Surreal and Experimental Poetry →

Scott Bratcher, longtime contributor to Uut Poetry, has published an book, The World that Wasn’t There: Surreal and Experimental Poetry (2011-2014). It’s available on Smashwords as well as Amazon. Congrats to Scott. Show your support by spreading the word and adding his fine work to your surrealist collection.

Like a summer kangaroo, each of us is a part
of the sun in its tumbling commotion.

— John Ashbery

someone’s undiluted sponge

raise awareness / for Copenhagen gifs

An Inference is a Slyness

An inference is a slyness: intersexed, but not unpolitic,
like satirical cork in your prenuptial embassage,
like elastic partridges waving to us from the quadratical balcony
while beach drones seize and consume.
I am a maniacal hairpin when you use Spinoza letterhead,
salt that sits for weeks encrusts on the lips of Virginia Woolf,
whose sex parts are volumes of yes.
Present-day moles caper on waitress highways
driving engineers mad. Every line of Agrarian poetry
becomes a wrist playing a necklace of bites.
Afrocentric archaisms kneel before libraries
and nonlibraries, waking up only those who go to the gym.
My sister-in-law is a bright light shining in Chile,
understood only by one wrinkly parent who goes to clubs
with dairymaids. Your head is a houseplant
and this is Boston in picturesque conductivity. 

art by inserirefloppino

An Inference is a Slyness

An inference is a slyness: intersexed, but not unpolitic,
like satirical cork in your prenuptial embassage,
like elastic partridges waving to us from the quadratical balcony
while beach drones seize and consume.
I am a maniacal hairpin when you use Spinoza letterhead,
salt that sits for weeks encrusts on the lips of Virginia Woolf,
whose sex parts are volumes of yes.
Present-day moles caper on waitress highways
driving engineers mad. Every line of Agrarian poetry
becomes a wrist playing a necklace of bites.
Afrocentric archaisms kneel before libraries
and nonlibraries, waking up only those who go to the gym.
My sister-in-law is a bright light shining in Chile,
understood only by one wrinkly parent who goes to clubs
with dairymaids. Your head is a houseplant
and this is Boston in picturesque conductivity.


art by inserirefloppino

Not Just Any Old Poem

Not just any old poem can become an amazing walking stick.
You need to renounce your possessions, your wives,
and come to a place of inner silence. Listen to the breeze,
the whales far off under the earth, the helicopters.
It’s not about keeping your inbox empty: there is no inbox.
Or, everything is your inbox, and all the insects are singing
and you’re wearing a golden belt. The music begins.
You’re on a non-stop bus to New York city, and you’ve got 
a sandwich, apple and Snickers bar in your lunchbag.
You are seven hundred years old and so beautiful
as I look at you while you’re sleeping in my bed.

art by A.T. Velazco

Not Just Any Old Poem

Not just any old poem can become an amazing walking stick.
You need to renounce your possessions, your wives,
and come to a place of inner silence. Listen to the breeze,
the whales far off under the earth, the helicopters.
It’s not about keeping your inbox empty: there is no inbox.
Or, everything is your inbox, and all the insects are singing
and you’re wearing a golden belt. The music begins.
You’re on a non-stop bus to New York city, and you’ve got
a sandwich, apple and Snickers bar in your lunchbag.
You are seven hundred years old and so beautiful
as I look at you while you’re sleeping in my bed.

art by A.T. Velazco

Could Be Sage

Doug Draime

Inside the unit/ storage these black roses,
one at a time breaking the heart of tenderness
while Russia fails to comprehend the poets
without words/ ducking in tool shops,
jiving the sky  & making their own dark rye.

I went into the dictionary, to blindly pick words, as indeed from a hat. If one word logically follows another in this piece, it came down as an accident before the cause.

Doug Draime’s most recent book is More Than The Alley, released in 2012 by Interior Noise Press. Also author of seventeen chapbooks. A presence in the ‘underground’ literary movement since the late 1960’s. Awarded small PEN grants in 1987, 1991, and 1992. In the last few years he’s been nominated for several Pushcart Prizes.

Renounce repeating the success of the years before. Seek
A success of a type undreamed of. Write a poetic fishing manual. Try an Art of Love.

— Kenneth Koch, from “The Art of Poetry”

Do you know Taylor Fayle, Todd Lidh and Ali Znaidi on Twitter?

We’ve all been there: 
chandelier hair crazy in the wind,
the disbursal of meerkats and acrostic crochets.

Tension is the lost face of happiness,
the furtherance weeping
of insemination and untruthfulness
in the archepiscopacy.
Cyberpunks on their violincellos 
bleeding us, who are alone 
in this perfect barometric night.

Do we have your correct mobile number? Yes—
and the gods have bioactive skyways
flaming out when your hands become part of my face
in Russian literature class.

art by brancusi7

Do you know Taylor Fayle, Todd Lidh and Ali Znaidi on Twitter?

We’ve all been there:
chandelier hair crazy in the wind,
the disbursal of meerkats and acrostic crochets.

Tension is the lost face of happiness,
the furtherance weeping
of insemination and untruthfulness
in the archepiscopacy.
Cyberpunks on their violincellos
bleeding us, who are alone
in this perfect barometric night.

Do we have your correct mobile number? Yes—
and the gods have bioactive skyways
flaming out when your hands become part of my face
in Russian literature class.

art by brancusi7

By now the last insomniacs
are gathering their car keys and
drifting home to their books
and the all-night religious channel

— Silvia Curbelo

There is the beetle glistening in the pueblo
spelling no with its black wings

— Ray Gonzalez