jungleistic fleck ermines
At the Maoist Institute of Greenland, italics
stand upright but tip over effortlessly. In the
break room scroungers wag summer tongues
at starving artists stranded in south Georgia.
Twelve eggshells laid dollars on the bed.
A banquet procured a pittance of loaves
to know what it’s like to be stepped on.
It wept inconsolably.
Can I get a show of hands from those thinking
the world could use a giant sippy cup?
The stars descend from the heavens
and drizzle themselves in mustard. Gravy’s
far too boss. Helen from Dover writes
“my tube socks are climbing up my limbs”
but I fear she has fashioned a switch.
Let’s refine disinterest to agnostic levels;
when their khaki teeth silken we go to war.
I’ll wear a handshaking face.
For the past seven years I’ve looked at him
saying ‘hello’ at a quarter past ten and
I am sick to death of it.
Incredibly, the last line wrote itself!
300 square feet will fit twenty sociopaths,
give or take a micro fridge and the friction
knowing you’re a mixed bag of raw sausage.
Confer with the metaverse, oh trailer park monk!
Put on this sleeve, you are filthy.
Practice tact in the theater of sex.
fountains that / less than a fate cantina
not sure how/ the gender watch
a compression-laced hurry
We live, but the Debt-Men hold the title.” —The Annotated Life: Gentrify Your Mind
Full dawn steaming
into new-day birdsong,
shrugging off the days —
Pull up a chair and relax a’while
as our youth careens entropically,
expanding like sea-foam fading
on a long
Damn it yes! I have to do it. I know. I will do it. :-)
forecast through hostile centuries
a slow drawing out of detail
reflecting greys.” —Barrett Watten
Sometime yesterday I hit 100,000 followers. Thank you to everyone who has been a follower, submitter, commenter and correspondent. It has been an awesome two years on Tumblr so far, and hopefully many more to come.
One thing I regret is not having more time to respond to those who ask me to read their work and give advice. I really wish I could do this, but life is busy. The best thing to do is send one poem (urls are great) and a short bio about your interest in poetry and goals with writing. I swear I’ll eventually get through my inbox.
temples frying in the eyes/ a lesson course
checked by Hendrix/ into the pens of many
ribbits in the crib/ of have beta
river starver/ raining up the hedge
best slept/ in clapped tense
marksman sort of honest/ with pencils
feature-whistle glimpse into the
femur apartheid axial novocaine drove” —
Jackson Mac Low, from No. 13 of 154 Forties
You think you’re surreal. Then you read this guy (again).
This totally describes my submission guidelines. Send me this kind of stuff and I will love you amen.
heavy on effervescence,
trivialities and cream
where does the sword go?
what is the organ?
there is a soft space capslocked
inclined to swell
whenever the dragon bends a knee
a judge of floor/ tossed
a flow of guns/ impetus remorses
or losers with
let’s go with
whom we confess creatures or abstracts of our spirit,
unadored, absorbed into the incoherence,
leave desiccated names: rabbits sucked by a ferret.” —Basil Bunting
on beds/ the priest of listen
I lie on a nigiri, squeezing knees and grinding in a corner drew in cross-hatching. They’re eating all the rice, drunk on sake, will they reach the salmon?
On asphalt’s gray I only hear derision words, now I’m a cat, flat under cars and of people I only see their step, and if people fall, with the muzzle straight on the street, and they accidentally turn, I would see, and I would see wide eyes and a bloody nose and I would scream “Hey! Your eyes are wide, your nose is bleeding!” but they would be so afraid to be as low as me and see every detail of the asphalt, they would get up in a moment, ignoring me, me and my staring amber eyes.
p>When I’ll feel better again I will gather my rice grains, far away, in China, and I would stay there, to see different steps, which, in the end, are the same. I wonder if they will stone me with laughter and stories of their old lovers, I will not have time to whine, all the rice that I will have to collect. After all, here, I see clouds, not soot, I can lie down on pale grass amid the gloom of fog, smoking my rice and watching the sky, the sky and I are two parallel lines, we’ll never meet, I am always flat on the ground and the sky always flat somewhere. I said to be a cat, well , I lied: I am a straight line, my dimensions are few.
No, I’m an empty parchmen, from the hands of a poet-fisherman in the Sea of Japan, fled with the wind in the paddy fields of China.
A love being one. Things rock.