There are a few ways to save the world
guns, micromanagement, celibacy,
tiny seeds in the teeth, exomoons, the color red,
vivid technicolor war veterans, topology, trauma theory,
razor-sharp limes, upside-down fundamentalism, squeegees,
celestial hexes, endless ragas, motionless pharmacies,
telekinetic mozel tovs, rusty hair-clips, a nest of iron gavels,
worse-case-scenario gorges, nullified stampedes, double nausea,
sensible children, graffiti-covered underwear, various knots,
extant seahorses, mellifluous ovaries, cost-effective moles,
conscientious rejectors, nieces of Gaius Caesar, petrified wrists,
Horatian odes, solar power, Bahktin’s sleeping pills,
lead-free imagery, Shamanic medicine, deflated gauze,
anonymous ducks, gourd-faced lepers, unsightly hacky sacks,
totality, going in and out of the water at night, Veneris rutabagas,
America, Russia, and Spain,
psychopaths, a full round O, George Oppen’s mortal tern,
a single fisherman, analogues of dark blue, the smallest flowers,
Sappho dressed in black, endless cravings, the knife of twinkling eyes,
an ’80s drum machine, the final stanza of Césaire, the Supreme Court,
women at least one millimeter long, Vulgarian streetcars, conversations,
shovelfuls of wilderness, baby air, white squirrels,
universalist sermons, unmolested Martians, early asteroid detection,
elderly ladies in beach towels, sustainability manifestoes, bacteriology,
Aristotelian vacuums, automatic listening, the zone of closure,
the wool trade, the periscope trade, daguerreotypes washed in blood,
planet-stricken commonwealths, excessive passion, cinder-block mucous,
the opinions of Galen, a gilded scabbard, 100 tounges,
the catalog of ignoramuses, modest flirting, monstrous fictions,
detailed descriptions of a good husband, counterfeit religions, uvula magic,
reusable hand-warmers, howling like a wolf, French toy shops,
arguments about chamber windows, somersaults, nondescript urns,
walking around as both sexes, sleeveless errands,Tristan Tzara,
buying newspapers by the sea, task forces of elision, disaster mouths,
pelvis frenzy, the intersection of gum, jets jets jets!,
moccasin hookahs, Sacajawea happy hours, sleazeball timber-mills,
the cake of Matilda’s sanctuary, warmongering, teasing the opal rain,
the eruption of contradiction within the real, sailors’ guile, the hangman’s knot,
two satchels of company tickets, typists, reenactments of the syntax wars,
gargoyle bobble-heads, prophetic baths, filling space with jazz pajamas.
art by austin1227
as being nothing
They shouted and fell
diligently sought the goat
good men and bad being things
rottenness adds a peculiar beauty
upon the inwards, a perpetual statute
the swan, and the pelican, and the gier eagle
ignorance and the thing be hid
bring a lamb, sanctuary for a trespass
mind as being nothing, life is daily wasting
his flesh a rising, a scab,
her flowers upon him he shall be
the cedar wood, and the scarlet, and the hyssop
the faculty which produces
away idle hopes, come to thy own
my face against, without regard to common interest
the perfect principles of art
it is confusion, judgment: thou shalt not
providence or atoms, fortuitous concurrence of things
posthumous fame does not consider
nature; a composition out of the same, no evil for things
change into some part of the universe, that which is sold shall remain
originating texts: The Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, translated by George Long, http://classics.mit.edu/Antoninus/meditations.html & Leviticus (King James version), http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Leviticus+1&version=KJV
art by °”/~"°
in the rain information
in the map of a standard rib
I gently autopsy her mouth
and see a room
cluttered with her favorite sound
the black mirror of the river
because the x-ray I said:
I heard whistling in the light
because the light I said:
let’s absorb a swarm of bees
in my heart they’re drilling
a hole because the light
because the x-ray I said:
the standard rib.
let’s hospital the ground into a powder
faded tombstone on sun
find the habit irrational sun
In order to exist I hide behind stacks of red and blue poems / And open little sensuous parasols — Bob Kaufman
[Abomunists ] must be prepared to read their work at dental colleges, embalming schools, homes for unwed mothers, homes for wed mothers, insane asylums, USO canteens, kindergartens, and county jails — Bob Kaufman
Ugh, I spoke too soon. Revisions and submission are still in my way. Just a few more days. Until then…
The essential modernism of the surrealists is their concept of art as a building process, not as an expression or statement of existence as it is, but as a modification or an addition to it. — Anna Balakian
We all search for the simple parts of our lives
by falling in love
For on the weekend some of us will make stockings.
For caterpillars know not what evades detection
in the raised dew of the brain.
Labels, rejected by society,
are the mystical signs of the quantum science
babbling behind a spatial skein,
the aimless nest
of adjectival fibers,
the knobby truss
of all of our lives.
art by Die blauen Reiter
National Poetry Month: April 22 -
Today’s poem is from Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus by Ludwig Wittgenstein.
A brief overview of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s crazy-ass life: born in Vienna in 1889 to one of the wealthiest families in Europe at the center of Viennese culture (Gustav Klimt painted his sister’s wedding portrait; Mahler and Brahms gave frequent concerts at his home) the Wittgensteins were a pretty nutty bunch— think Royal Tenenbaums but richer and crazier. Three of his brothers committed suicide (one jumped off a boat, one drank poison, and one shot himself after the troops he was commanding deserted him).
In college Wittgenstein became interested in philosophy (the kind that involves equations and stuff) and attracted the attention of Bertrand Russell. He went to Cambridge and was declared a genius by Russell but pissed everyone off by being a domineering asshole about it. He inherited all his dad’s money, enlisted in the army, and fought in WWI on the front line of some of the most intense battles in history. He won numerous medals for bravery.
After the war he was mentally fucked and gave away his fortune to his surviving siblings. He retreated to the Austrian countryside and wrote a philosophical treatise called Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus that was regarded as basically the most important philosophical work of the century. He became an elementary school teacher in a rural town and got in trouble for beating the children. Later in life he went through a “confessional” period during which he returned to the town and personally apologized to the then-grown children.
He eventually returned to England and rescued his siblings from the nazis by convincing Hitler they were mixed blood and not too jewish (and giving the nazis a bunch of the family fortune). WWII convinced him philosophy was stupid so he took a low-paying job in a hospital instead.
Late in life he wrote another treatise called Philosophical Investigations that clarified and refuted some of his earlier work and then died in 1951 at age 62. He was gay but not openly and, with the exception of a few brief affairs, was mostly considered to be celibate.
The Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus is a bizarre book written in a series of numbered epigrams that seem like poems to me. Although it supposedly contains groundbreaking logical revelations, it’s a great book just to pick up and read a few random entries, and that is the only way I have ever tried to read it. The part below is actually the ending so stop reading if you don’t like spoilers.
from Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus
6.522 There are, indeed, things that cannot be put into words. They make themselves manifest. They are what is mystical.
6.53 The correct method in philosophy would really be the following: to say nothing except what can be said i.e. propositions of natural science— i.e. something that has nothing to do with philosophy— and then, whenever someone else wanted to say something metaphysical, to demonstrate to him that he had failed to give a meaning to certain signs in his propositions. Although it would not be satisfying to the other person— he would not have the feeling that we were teaching him philosophy— this method would be the only strictly correct one.
6.54 My propositions serve as elucidations in the following way: anyone who understands me eventually recognizes them as nonsensical, when he has used them— as steps— to climb up beyond them. (He must, so to speak, throw away the ladder after he has climbed up it.)
He must transcend these propositions, and then he will see the world aright.
7 What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.
My chapbook, Premonitions, is here!
I had a fantastic time working with Scott Sweeney at Grey Book Press on this little manuscript—a group of poems I truly love, and that I hope you can truly love, too. Scott had some really nice things to say about this chapbook, and it will only cost you $6, which is super reasonable. Small presses are the best!
To order one, go here & scroll down until you see the link for Premonitions (the last entry on the Titles page, as it’s the most recent).
Love you, Tumblr.
tax Warhol/ Michaelmas hackney
cottage hotly/ nicely patted
Hooves trampling babies:
a wet life eating the moon—
flustered hens licked red.
officialdm-t asked: Can we submit our poetry here?
Yep you bet! Just go to my submit page and follow the instructions.