The present military situation is that the Soviet Army is attacking Berlin, and the allied forces of Britain, the
United States and France are attacking the Hitlerite remnants in co-ordination with this offensive, while the
Italian people are launching uprisings. All this will eliminate Hitler once and for all. After Hitler is wiped out,
the defeat of the Japanese aggressors will not be far distant. Contrary to the predictions of the Chinese and
foreign reactionaries, the forces of fascist aggression will undoubtedly be overthrown and the people's democratic
forces will undoubtedly triumph. The world will unquestionably take the road of progress and not the road of
reaction. Of course, we must remain very much on the alert and reckon with the possibility of certain temporary or
perhaps even serious twists and turns in the course of events; in many countries there are still strong reactionary
forces which begrudge the people at home and abroad their unity, progress and liberation. Anyone who loses sight of
this possibility will make political mistakes. The general trend of history, however, is already clearly decided and
will not change. This is bad only for the fascists and for the reactionaries of all countries who are in fact their
helpers, but it is a blessing for the people and for the organized democratic forces in all countries. The people,
and the people alone, are the motive force of world history. The Soviet-people have built up great strength and
become the main force in the defeat of fascism. It is their efforts, plus those of the people in the other
anti-fascist allied countries, which are making the destruction of fascism possible. War has educated the people and
it is the people who will win the war, win the peace and win progress.
from "On Coalition Government"
On Something Rotten
Pro-Masturbation Comrade Crunch! Most Important Meal of the Day
Primer:​ Leaving Oklahoma
Goddamn These Minotaurs
Fuck You, Dr. Lebas
...and then the rent is due
on my way to work i saw a camp
that had been attacked by feral pigs
with respect to the animals, police
with no respect for humanity,
tearing at private property,
destroying peoples homes.
at my most empathetic i wonder,
were they asked to be destructive?
or is it just the nature of the beast
rabid, acting with no forethought
needing to be put down. they shot
my neighbors dog for barking too loud.
willie mcnabb writes ”How do I kill
the 30-50 feral hogs that run into my yard
within 3-5 mins while my small kids play?”
and is mocked online. how do i kill 3 or
5 — oh, 5-0! hydra, millions of cops are born
each war, and live as mercenaries in america.
how do we keep them from happening?
could i kill another human? maybe
but an animal? a thousand animals?
a thousand feral animals? a thousand
feral animals who wield their finite power
over those without protection? poison
could be too humane, often i’m reminded
of hunters who massacred caribou
migrating over ice fields, flying overhead
loosing their automatic rifles into the herd.
how cruel humans are to animals who aren’t
cruel to them, how cruel we should be
to these animals, who aren’t even human, who
wear masks as they gas us, who smile
as if its all a game, and if its all a game,
perhaps the bricks and bullets must be loosed.
"Beware the centrist."- Willem van Spronsen, last note, 2019
the second time I was in jail they took our underwear and socks, too. there is nothing to do in solitary confinement
except think about everyone that got you there. my lawyer fucks up the three-way call and the jail warden locks the
door to ask me if I'm planning on rolling turd-rockets under my cell-gate. no sir. are you going to be a
problem? no sir. he asks me if I knew why he'd Googled me like I hadn't been on this bad first date before.
because you got me confused with some other bluecollar mulletjew. because you want to ask me about my thesis.
because you think I'm lying. because you wanted to see if I’d write this poem. I found the only book in the
cell-rentals that wasn't a variation of the Bible during the one un-solitary hour. it was the slowest I'd ever read
a book on purpose. the thing about one's body is that's all it is. bones gummed together. monstrous etymology. I
pulled Yorick's skull out of my mouth every hour I wasn't nightmaring my release. I memorized the names of everyone
I loved and. I said them over and over until they swallowed each other. the irony of not being allowed a writing
implement because it could be used as a weapon is not lost on me, so. I design found-poems with my hands. fingers
splayed over each annotated monologue. somewhere in the script the words I'm and not and here
live on the same page and. I find them and live there too.
"how much of our life is manufactured?"
someone wonders when faced
with nutrition facts on cardboard
which lobbyists and marketers found bad for business.
i would tell them that Dr. Kellogs hated self-pleasure so sincerely
he never fucked his wife, and only adopted children
and he created cornflakes as a tool against masturbation,
and now breakfast is an industry.
then i would eat dry cereal from the box
(i want to make the oatmilk last all week)
and get off right after
to prove a Doctor and an Industry - wrong
in my own small way.
I wanted to hate you:
home: this backward blindboy w/
many feelings didn’t meet your cowboy frame narrative
I’m not a welder: I don’t hate guns we all need guns:
But I know what you’ll do to anyone
I know what I thought when I still had your
afterbirth gunk in my ears:
I saw the bros the dudes the fuckass shitboys
Preston Trevyn Bladen Treynor:
In the hall in the mall Kid Rock the Dying Gaul:
But you are not just some big fist shaking beardy
Struts in waxed & oiled: ::What IPAs y’all got on tap
I’m just your local lovable asshole lol pleaz don’t
judge my casual racism and transphobia cause if
you do I will shut it down with my dad’s childhood
abandonment & more emotional manipulation::
No no no no: No:
You are also a scar in Tulsa:
You are dust bowl union strong:
You were forced here:
You were corralled here:
You were born here:
You were born queer here:
You grew up queer here:
You grew up hicktown queer here:
You _________________ here:
You are red state because A Suit says you are red state:
You have no vote because A Suit eats your vote:
You bleed in oil:
You were so close to hated
I look for your fist on the horizon
lifting to strike:
In the ecology of the Dream
a forest has grown over the ruins of a drive-in
where raccoons trash an abandoned cop car
with a carton of eggs and rolls of toilet paper.
Here the pigs have scattered
under the summoned scrutiny of black-magic panthers,
replaced by the privatized smiley-faced fascist Feel Goods,
said to be untouchable by the touch of sigils on skin.
Goddamn these Minotaurs that snort and haunt
the crooked Caligari Cabinet cityscape
painted in blood on the backs of black bodies linked arm
in arm, seemingly seamless by the Great Hole of History
the Man In The Newspaper Suit crawls through to find
the heart of the labyrinth of what was denied to him.
In the graveyard the Bird unearths stories
as the ghost without a history watches,
silently searching for the words to say hello.
By day in the alleyway behind the minimart
between cigarettes The Bandaged Kid befriends a cat
crying unheard claims of the End of Days,
and by night a lonely lesbian drinks to drown
from a pink-grenade flask adorned with a five-letter spell,
wondering if she’s more than they bargained for yet
as girls tenderly touch in the graveyard where a Saint
was fucked in the circular arms of the Ophanim angel.
If you look closely you can see
fungal ideas forming and fermenting on aerial atoms,
the building blocks of a subconscious cityscape
like mushrooms growing on the skin of a dead deer
lying on the side of the highway
with a ‘get well soon’ balloon tied to its antler.
One day the Great Dark One will eclipse the sun
but until Its beak closes the curtain
goddamn, goddamn these Minotaurs.
My first ever psychiatric appointment — a decrepit building in Sherman Oaks. Two young women with exquisite Armenian eyebrows are seated at the front desk and don’t look up from their phones or computers. Enter: grinning white woman with blonde hair, finalizing a copay. She laughs, remarking, “What do people do without insurance?!”A door opens. “Farah?” Someone is pronouncing my name the Persian way. New setting: windowless office the size of a closet. “This isn’t where I usually work,” she says.Dr. Lebas has a French accent, studied medicine in Montreal, has 1-star reviews on Google. But I was desperate. (There’s a great deficit of available psychiatrists in Los Angeles.)She’s into rapid-fire questions. I, the neurotic, analytical Aries, made many prefaces before getting to any answers. “Just answer the questions,” she says, verbally rolling her eyes. She asks if I went to college (yes — she appears surprised), what I studied (women’s, gender & sexuality studies), where I’ve worked (an understaffed, totally exploitative customer service satellite call center for a greedy, underhanded, Ohio-headquartered medical device company). “You don’t make that much money, how can you afford to live here?” she asks. “Where do you live?” I ask. “The Westside,” she condescendingly responds.She takes out a blank sheet of paper — white, 8 1/2 x 11 printer paper — and asks me about my family. She uses an old pen to formulate my family tree, charting all of my childhood trauma. I look down at her sandaled feet. Her toenails are long and curly, lacquered with a color I will refer to as frosted vomit. She questions me about my parents. When I tell her that my Greek-American mother married my Iranian refugee father, she looks puzzled. “Why did your mother marry a Muslim?” This reminds me of a white woman coworker whose son took a class at West Point where “they show videos of Muslim men having sex with goats.”This reminds me of a white Catholic acquaintance who told me, at a party full of Catholics, “You’re the closest thing to a Muslim we’ve got here!”This reminds me of a white stranger at another party calling me “eye-ran” the entire night.This reminds me of an old white man using the racist slur “sand n*****” in front of me when I was 5 years old.Why did my mother marry a Muslim? Fuck you, Dr. Lebas.
I found a big pile
of guns, so I formed
a militia. But nobody
would practice shooting,
so they stayed piled
up until the time to
use them came. And when
the time came, we got
shot to death before
we'd get one gun from
the gun pile, where they
still are. So, I was wrong.
...and then the rent is due
there’s a tomorrow behind today
& it collects yesterdays to sharpen.
there’s a tomorrow behind today
& it’s got a point
pressed in to the back of today.
there’s a tomorrow behind today
& it needs
a bus pas,
& 20 bucks to buy a dub
& knows that today owes yesterday money.
there’s a tomorrow behind today
& it will be here:
you can’t stop it any more
than you can hold the earth
without standing on it.
to find the crying country of my heart:
take two rods
bang them together
til ghosts start dancing
to the tune of coke
losing its last refinery.
when there are no more
bottled necks or dammed nations,
no deep diggers
or tracking rig riggers,
leave the aquifer alone
and ask the first cloud you meet
what the reason might be
that if there were a river in my chest,
i’d think it for the best
that no person should ever, ever see.
i have asked every poet i could find-
is there any way but war?
and hospital wings-
great and trembling
empty and full
and scratching like so many pencils-
in prophesy, prose,
joke and riddle,
and then the big men kill you
and then no again.
Good news friends: you can just take food.Perfectly good food that is maybe a little stale ormaybe edging towards its twilight years but edible andnutritious enough to be worth consuming.Or you can mark it down on the waste sheet your workmakes you fill out because while aptly named theirdefinition of waste lives in entirely different context.For them it's the money lost because their products wentunpurchased not the fact that there's a better mouth thefood could be going down than the mouth of a trash bin.Luckily we've already spread the good word: you can take it.Fill your underpaid pockets with delicious contraband andtake to the streets or the illusion of seclusion in your sharedkitchen and dispense your edible bounty.Play Robin Hood on Sherwood Forest Lane where Mr. King,the landlord for four consecutive blocks, is just as bad as thebrother he left in charge to coax the president towards war.Or decide it's not worth the risk to maybe share food at theexpense of your own livelihood no matter how little life a$7 an hour ""part time"" job allows you to live.Consider the following: no one checks the security cameras.
And the old National Geographic falls open
to center spread: a gruesome slaughterhouse photo.
To answer your question, some days I am the brutalized:
once-elephant, an animal-shaped sack hooked
& suspended over bloodied lab coats. Others, I am
the feeling (I imagine), satisfying, of such thick meat
cleaved clean from the rib, brutalizer, polishing
tusks white as the hands that severed the bone.
Take this morning, for example, laying in bed for hours
fuming against people I love. It is not fair, I know,
how I discriminate most against my own weakness.
Will I end up like him? Do I sound like her?
Have I done that terrible thing? I have. I stew
in the stone soup I hoard in the kitchen, eating alone.
I find the whole scandal of living hilarious,
not funny ha-ha but impossible awe: how my hope
is both climbing a rope out of this world and bound
& gagged in the basement. Which means: purgatory.
World? I place my bets on wherever the rocketship
is headed. What is a woman but a human concept?
Most days, you can find me licking my opposable
thumbs of their capture. The world?
I fear it is over. Women are what we are.
Still a member of our terrible species.
Still—the most dangerous animal on earth.
a magazine offers me publication and also publishes a work of fiction depicting solitary confinement: metaphors for
an uninspired life lied: and so another poet uses prison as a metaphor for anxiety: or a metaphor for
institutionalized intervention: but I've been to the psych ward: and I've been to jail: and nothing is a metaphor
for prison: except prison: by which I mean: the only thing I am scared of now: is going back: and so somewhere, a
poet tells another poet they deserved to be arrested: and the first poet is described in an interview as
"radical": and the second poet vomits when cops come into their job: and the second poet's boss asks them if
it's like a PTSD thing: and I am watching myself being pulled over on a cop's body cam: and the jail warden
asks me why he knows my name: and I say maybe from my poetry: and the cop sneers and tells me I look
familiar: and I say yeah like a PTSD thing: by which I mean: somewhere, two cops stand in a room saying my
name back and forth to each other without pausing: until their throats are on fire: until I'm reduced to garble: and
somewhere, a poet uses their name disappearing into the raw throats of the system as a metaphor: for the system: and
its rawness: and the way it swallows: do you get it: the metaphor: of a poet being praised: for this lazy
production: for my breath botched at the first shitty, sticky sentence: for a magazine choosing to glamorize this:
by which I mean my life: by which I mean my name
The red star More than just a club L'Internationalemore than just a song fight, fight, fightalways left always red the communist star to illuminate humanity's Insight Karl Marx.
i could makethe best ofit—sink, a pebble@thelakebed; thererways to builda skyline as yet foreign to menlower than brick-by-brickbaser than sliding into DMs— no this like u no my name. theres propinquity,amidst the gathering ticks / blue: shade of rising night— what’s love got to do w/ it?— theres depth/weight/dimensionwaiting to be suckedfrom a flat surface—dentistry vacuums bend in a mouth:— u know— what’s love but a second hand?for thatmatter, this nokiacan be pulled apart too.
me: dog. recently deleted my phone.you: job site. uniquely qualified to employ me.me: dog. recent mfa from ice cup school.you: job location. full of bushels of hay for me to move.me: dog. recently employed drinking water out of barrels.you: bitchy next door neighbor who photographed my tippedover buckets of trash and reported them to the sky.me: dog. recently deleted. going to nowhere in a handbasket, fast.you: googleable. me: ungoogleable. untraceable. dog. broadcast to 10,000 icicles. formed into sky-shaped protrusions. set to rest in buckets as mist.
Who are the Astropoets? Two hipsters from Brooklyn who had the kind of idea that only
the immensely priveleged would entertain, whereas anybody responsible for their own
survival would reject it on the grounds that waste is a sin. They combined astrology
with poetry. It didn't make any sense, but I guess it worked. It's not like it makes
any sense now, or not enough anyway to justify a book they are right now touring the
nation on a promotoinal tour for.
Is this just spite? No, not entirely. But so what if it is? They're not even lucky!
They're just invincible. Listen to this: a week before their book launched, they
posted an advertisement for AirBnb, which everybody - or at least every hipster in Brooklyn -
knows brings gentrification with it wherever its platform goes, like a cloud of locusts
in tow. All moral questions aside, it just seems dumb, like businesswise, to do
risky shit like that when you're releasing a book in week. Like aren't they psychics?
Anyway, this is too much exposition. here's the story and if that's too long here's the condensed version:
Fall 2017: semi-controversial to be critical of Semiotexte editor Chris Kraus for being a landlord. Fall 2019: among a flood of posts on global uprisings, the timeline is flush w/ memes against comedian Hannibal Buress's landlordism & Astropoets for working w/ AirBnb.— julian francis park (@jfpark3) October 31, 2019
This lead the Los Angeles branch of the Pb empire to go out to their reading and hand
out a zine which was mostly prepared like less than 24 hours before the event. We had
no plan really, except that we agreed we weren't going to try to convince people that
they shouldn't go to the reading. Like, they had checked that no lights got left on
and came all the way out there and like wore a jacket which could comfortably fit
their house keys. They weren't going to give that up.
Most people took the zine, as you'd figure, but somebody wasn't up for our
bullshit and handed it back to one of our agents.
An old dude who's had a rent controlled Manhattan aprtment since the 70's said the unit
above him was converted into an Airbnb, and that the guests there were always drunk and
coked out and loud and terrible. So, to protest them he says he smeared dog shit on the
box where the keys the AirBnb guests used were stored. I asked him why he didn't just
smash it. He said he didn't want to look crazy.
Damn, I really wish there was a third thing, but this was not maneuvers up the Sierra Maestra. We
went out to talk to some people, bum out the Astropoets, and act normal. Mostly I was
happy to meet Pb people in real life. We did the "is astrology fash" discourse, talked
about money (that's all poets talk about), and I complained about Jekyll (that's all
I talk about.) Somebody who worked there said the guy Astropoet was a dick.
My Big Pile of Guns
The recommended serve-by date is only law if you're a coward about it
The New York Time Asks, Can Women Save the World?
Somewhere, a Poet Uses Prison as a Metaphor
dog seeks job
Pictured: editor, a taller editor.
We forgot to take video and this was the only non-blurry picture we got. Oh,
also we were running late so we took a car from Van Nuys to Hollywood (I haven't
thought about it very carefully but I assume there's something ironic about that), and we're out like $21 if I recall correctly. So, buy a book if you can.
historically we use man for people of any gender because men win. so it’s useful to do that when cornered (1)have you ever been cornered? this week the ministry of emojis announced a new line of gender neutral emoji peoplethe gender neutral emoji people look like the woman emoji peopleexcept that they have shorter hair and they wear tank tops and pantsthey stand poised on the keyboard, ready to work they work for the first ever privately owned languagethey are good at their jobs like men, they are perfectly simple, normal, natural like women, they are helpful, smiling, apologetic, friendly have you ever wanted to be smooth and dry all over like a posable wooden doll?cordelia: are you a man or a woman? [. . .]fool: which would you rather? it’s all the same to me goneril: how can you be so . . . accommodating?fool: it’s what I’m paid for (2)unlike non-binary or genderqueer or butch or fem or trans—all of which suggest an active claiming of difference, self-definition in opposition to a norm—neutral suggests a serene lack of desire or rather, an intense desire not to get in the way neutral is practical,winning, cool, unadorned, placid, earth-toned, sans serif, crisp, mid-autumn, dead leaves neutral shaves with occam’s razor and never bleeds that lady is smiling because she’s an actress and she’s earning money for learning those speeches that mention those wonderful soaps and detergents and cleansers and cleaners and powders and pastes and waxes and bleaches (3)have you ever been cornered? right now jenny slate is wearing a pink dress and a silk tuxedo she is laughing and dancing around inside of netflix every time she dances, she makes more moneyand the atmosphere gets thicker with the carbon released to run the servers that her image, princess-leia-like, is trapped inside, and I am watching her and I love her thou art a lady:if only to go warm were gorgeous,why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,which scarcely keeps thee warm. but, for true need!— (4)have you ever worn a motorcycle jacket,although you did not know how to drive a motorcycle? have you ever been cornered? have you ever found yourself sitting on a bedroom floor, stoned with three other men, also stoned,who only spoke in nervous grunts and catchphrases,and felt like marcel the shell with shoes on?did you speak flatly? did you let your voice jump and dive and skitter like a balloon? jenny slate fucked the moon! - - - - - - - - - - -FOOTNOTES1: anne carson interviewed for the paris review, 20042: lear’s daughters by the women’s theatre group and elaine feinstein, 19873: “housework” from free to be you and me, written by sheldon harnick, performed by carol channing, 19724: king lear by william shakespeare
turbulent plane ride sends heat
to my g-spot
i couldn’t stop thinking about your cock
it is not a crass fact
now I am sorry to remind you
of the spiraling, stinking trek we
jogged down manhattan’s neck
spiraling means Kafkaesque
in the Neo-Platonic sense
our relationship we hold tethered
memory’s silky lies
you and me objective
correlative to (sandy) Alex G
ben lerner evokes these
'mediate intimacies too
piling between us in a space which
exists lone in-side our heads
who are you? a better vision of
myself like a mirror
this is true tricky
you indulged me from MOMA all the way to
a phosphene hallucination
the pressure of fingers ‘gainst my eyes
urging me to go fuck a different guy
another Poet in Brooklyn
how will reality deform when
you read this online will it like
a plastic lighter held over flame bitter
black smoke dragging up your nose again?
Teach a man to fish, you feed him for life.Teach a town to hang their landlordsAnd you create community.Pay someone’s rent, you give them a roof for a monthTake their landlord and throw them into the sea,And you give them freedom.Pass a stimulus package, you give people a check.Liberate a country from the shackles of their landlords,And you create the future.
As it is Sunday we will simply pray (nondemonationally) that the mysteries of Zuck's
Ingrid Dungeons is revealed to us as it was to Rupi Kay, the Instagram Animal of Canada.
poem about emojis and jenny slate, with footnotes
on my flight to berlin
Notes for a prosperous future
If you're not chilling you're dying
A Love Letter
Feed Each Other
a baby is getting its first job
part time, at a furniture store
slash coffee shop, tipped wage
sleeping in the cribs, testing
the cribs, selling the cribs,
assembling the cribs
very slowly, infinite babies
drinking flat whites
Love letter to the teachers strike
and the days without school
but teachers still teaching
without books or walls
or the pigs greasy fingers
feeling for his gun
while he patrols in the halls
a lesson in dignity, so
"remember you can ask for anything,
so ask for everything"
If you're gonna be lonely,maybe learn how to cook.Parade the smoke to the raftersafter doubting the book.Alert the parents in vowing the earnestsalt in the brook.A fervent effort relays to bacon kisses you took.Brine is cheap,and on days like thisfind a Mrs. or friend,apply the bread crumb crisp.Buy the egg to allure.confide that ""this might miss.""If not to them to yourself.Try the odd light whip.Find a guide or a dozen.Fire doesn't necessarily deny the pleasant after math.Passable dishes levy comfort on cold nights,dying for treasure dancing in the lights,and forming function digging diamond from plastic wrap.""I could serve a candied berrypair it fairly cold below a lighter cream.""See the finer things elaborate below the theme.Mise en place allowing,yolk to heat,folk wreaths are crowning.Found a leek to brown,found out what friends to feed can meanBe the barertaste your foodsilk confectionssocial fruitBuck the systemFind connectiontuck the mood inginger rootget your list outpay it forwardtake the ordergrab a whiskmake an impactPleat the borderbreak the silencewrap a gift
I used to be gross
but now everybody loves
me. The television believes
we have crimson skin and batted
wings. I make my dream wife
promise to sleep with the radio
on. In dreams she sees my teeth
attached at her hip like a carabiner -
our dream book asks us what
we’re so scared of. She melts
like sugar-cubes at sunset. I don’t tell her
and she doesn’t ask. The spacing
there is intentional.
The blouse in my wardrobe is for riots - red will look nice
against that pale yellow. My wife says I’m just tired.
When you protest at my funeral, at least wear nice shoes.
Four leeches grow fat on the last traces
of my womanhood and soon I will be nothing
but a man - I’m tempted to swallow but hold my jaw tight.
There is so much left to be scared of.
We're selling ebooks now.
Ask Me What I Call It
Returning Quanta: Bodies Sinking Again As They Must
your body is not yours
We All Work in the Hot Dog Factory Now
¿El subcomandante besa bien?(Is the subcomandante a good kisser?)
Billboards advertise a new format of skyline
and tell us it’s time to leave. A streetlamp
gives way to smoke, announcing the collapse of
all our faith in local infrastructure. Gas leak
again. A hawk softly circles over the interstate,
saying that this is the only way to cope.
As I lie awake, the crickets are a clock ticking
toward sunrise. When the birds turn on
we are reminded of what it’s like out here
in the nowadays; the hot bubbling
of horizon and geese. Grounding myself as in
never leaving. Where else to go
but the living room, but the endless strip mall
that is this island. To the end
of dislocation, of the miles of sewage that open
beneath us. Here, in the only house we'll never
own. You know what waits in the woods
to keep it from us. A country is only
as large as the cops maintaining it. All
land is stolen. Soon it will return our theft."
a man on the train
coos at me
like the romantic
warbling of a dove
to remind me
the city, to
who devour, to
empty hotel hallways
where guests mind their business,
perhaps to a fault,
or sustain innocence,
while their neighbors unzip
under three glasses of cheap
rosée and music
made to drown
sounds of resistance
as our bodies are disrespected
receptacles of waste
like communal bathrooms
We all work in the hot dog factory now
Kissing late on the cheek and late
To and already working at work at work
In the hot dog factory we all don't
Eat them and messages web the dogs
And us who work at work and working
Worked in the hot dog factory we all
Live in the hot dog lotto hopscotch of
Essential surgeries hot dollars for eating
And working so long in the hot dog lotto
Factory I met my mother and found her
Asked too much of I met my sister there
Rattled hot to the touch we all work in
The hot hot draped graced and tensile dogs
Gone to replicating replicator replication
Where we work while we work in the
Hot dog lotto hopscotch hot dog factory
Is the subcomandante a good kisser?
Is he the big spoon or the little spoon when he sleeps?
What does he imagine when he masturbates?
Can he fly a plane?
What’s his favorite cartoon?
Where is he going, so confident in his photonegative ghost costume?
We live in a tempestuous time,
a kind of apocalypse, stretching
us thinner across the heating earth.
Late stage capitalism, we call it, the final iteration of the beast before destruction and/or freedom.
The moment, is digital and rapidly mutating, as we wrestle to pin down identity, simultaneously organizing collective
bodies in the street, bodies
pressing up against the struggle, holding it up, unshrugging, atlas burning as the destination zooms out to a blue
marble dot in the dark.
If you want something as American as apple pie, first you have to invent the universe.
All seats are full, and my seat is too close to the doctor’s office. The only time I ever watch television is when
I’m in line at this office. I can hear an angry man explaining his life story in between a Halloween episode of
The office manager is a friend of mine; we went to the same state university and he likes Marx, too. The office
manager tells me that his hometown of Oakland is being run by a woman he calls a neocon. He tells me that the mayor
of Long Beach reminds him of the mayor of Oakland. He tells me that his pet peeve is seeing people on their phones
in rush-hour traffic. He tells me that he saw a guy on his phone behind the wheel watching porn. “I wish I had that
concentration,” he tells me.
I haven’t written anything since my grandmother asked me to write my grandfather’s obituary and eulogy, but I
couldn’t speak at his funeral. He was in the Korean War and his withered, antiquated draft card reads:
I, the resident agoraphobe, was forced to attend his burial at a military cemetery in Riverside. I closed my eyes the
whole ride there. Riverside felt like a humid, stagnant Trumpian hellscape, and I didn’t put my right hand over my
heart. “I’m a communist I’m a communist I’m a communist,” I kept reminding myself.
Earlier today I learned about dialectical behavior therapy. Earlier today I learned about borderline personality
disorder. Earlier today I took my Klonopin like the wafers they give Catholics at communion.
On the freeway I sat as a passenger gazing at the northbound headlights. We passed the Getty and I thought about how
fucked this place is; Los Angeles was designed to divide and conquer. Most days I don’t understand how I ended up
here, but maybe this is my destiny—to live and die in a city that has never cared about any of us surviving.
On the television a commercial now plays George Michael’s ‘Freedom! ‘90.’ My appointment will run late. My
psychiatrist will tell me that she’s worried I’m pathologizing myself again. I will be her last visiter, leaving at
11:30 p.m. I will be prescribed a new mood stabilizer because attempting to rehabilitate the purportedly unstable
and infirm with more pills is easier than eviscerating this fucking country.
In AP European History I memorized
"serf", "peasant", "lord", and "estate"
it shows you the state of things
and how we have made no steps at all.
Sure, the skeletons are coated in glass
and glossy reflections of the individual
with the towering power of concrete kingdom
where a landlord takes your wages all the same.
We live in haunted houses
those of us who have them
but there isn't any hex
or exorcisim you can do
There's no one you can pray to
or anything you could offer them
The ghosts are here for good.
Everything you own is haunted
Though we may disagree by what
One day you'll be one of the ghosts
A big dead burden
Weighing everybody down
which you already do.
the best way to stand outis always to work weekends.get that self-sacrifice in.watch stages of intoxicationprogress through the night10pm drunk and 2am drunkare always different animals.this time is worth aboutone week of meal plans,I did the math.and we talk about fridays as if they mean something.as if we all plan to spend this penultimate nightdrinking chemical-strawberry mike's hard lemonade.alcohol is cheap,laughter is expensiveand I am clocking out.
that outlaw idea of border snitches
over extract my thighs
i lie here like calistoga
looking for heroin needles in the clouds
i learned to administer narcon
the first week i moved here
i think calistoga might be burning this week
so i have the air filters on
and im thinking of cigarettes and 2000 & 9
like i always do
i wonder if i left the east coast just so i could miss it
just so i could remember to be sad
when complicated people
from back home die
i hate my father like
the man he is
a cold bastard
a man of the world
in his death he leaves me
a house a mess and a body
with no love
i can see the smoke on the mountains
There's literally a chemical which compells you to find more of it
on pain of having your guts go to gack. It gets deployed to fuck
places up. But also, it allows you to work through fucked up job
injuries and it feels like Christmas morning for a while, until
its worse. But people beat it all the time. What an incredible
feat. Course, they're still owed a statue just for not dying, but
the point is that I'm proud of a buncha people who don't need naming.
Oh, and also, that the working class all the time wrestles heroin
and all the time wins.
You Are Here
Waiting in Line at the Psychiatrist
Skyscraper's Steel Anatomy
front desk girl
High pants on inthe hotel room(black/white large art that is at MoMA and DIA)hanging atthe office Hung the second self of the week on the apartment walls
If I don’t spread the seed in the backyard, the birds find it elsewhere. One of them whispered to me when I was hurting myself. She explained thewhole thing. Made it clear. So I won’t fold my hands and be grateful. All the food I can eat is already mine. And if I have to open your body to get it, I sure as fuck will.
Good answer. Bad answer. I don’t have answers, don’t have access, don’t have time is money, don’t have, have not, how
you living? And the answers are populated by the masses and energy cannot be created, I am become, dead, destroyed,
or open face sandwich and the rest is gravy, and the notes are graceful, and the words are burdens, and the heart is
heavy, and the head lies still, and the lonely ones are told they don’t have answers too. I want to buy a vowel, I
want to buy a Capitalist letter, I want to write to my congressman, I want to buy a senator, I want to spin the
wheel, fortune favors, bold new taste of Doritos, crunch like my bones, tired, don’t tread on me, and I bite the
heel that steps on me, and I only have answers in the form of questions, we’re all in jeopardy now, what the fuck is
who designed this shitty little town
who designed this shitty little neighborhood
why would you put
a square mile
an entire group
not even a dollar store
Jim points to the tent
city sprouting up along
the sidewalk in front
of the housing department.
it’s a strike. homeless people
have set up camp
to protest city housing
policies & laws
& civil engineering
designs which keep them
from sleeping on benches
“see, that's terrible,
they oughta to clean that up.”
“no”, says Rich,
“they should give those
people homes. or at least
“yeah,” I say, “bigger tents,
and why not just piss on them
while yer at it?”
it’s hard to tell the
truth anymore without
losing my cool.
I try not to think
about it too much—
the fact that I can’t
keep my cool anymore, that is,
not the part about the truth.
the truth burns my brain
& my heart & my
tongue, and now I breathe in
fire instead of air,
so what can anyone expect
me to breath out?
It’s beautiful midnight bright. Think: Cheesecake Factory. The city has gone casino carpet colored. They have renovated the sky into a Footlocker uniform. It’s been a decadesince I saw the fountains dance to Stravinsky. It must’ve been curfew weather, Cuyahoga overcast. The river ripped up into jackknife black lines. It’s been a minute since I saw you in your briefcase feelings. I could never make sense of your fluorescentinteriors. Remember? The whole garbage bag walledoff bathroom stall flickered with potential. The hallwayglass throbbed under our pace. Remember? We were in the casinoat the bus stop licking gum out of the carpet. Remember? The crazy quilt of sweat across your brow was also a city on a hill. Remember? You threwthat party when Reagan died & everybody came but still nobody killed Bush. Somebody brought tamales. We drank Steel Reserve 211 in the abandoned steel mill. Remember? I let the tamales fly out of me like the scarab beetles in The Mummy.We spent the intervening decade of shame learning how to fly. Out the city.Kept the merch, left the dirt & gravel driveways to be some other kid’s diorama river.The seasons are all fucked up, the birds don’t even know when to fly south anymore. We’ve replaced autumn with falling real estate prices. Outside Quicken Loans Arena the scalpers walk a picket line. They chant “No Lebron, No Peace!” Our tiny gods & the seasonsare leaving. In Cleveland, leaving is both the season & shorthand for class treason.The same guys burning jerseys let cop cars glide by unburnt. The cop on the picket line is running for president. The mayor has kissed Dan Gilbert’s championship ring. TheFootlocker Uniform has kissed us all. The Reagan memorial assassinationshave not yet commenced, but when they do,the casino bright sky will no longer bowto the people, though we may never get the seasons back.
person standing surrounded by leaves
man and woman sitting at a table behind red glass window
folding chair between two men
several books on top of table inside room
two men sitting on the edge of a cliff during daytime
two penguins standing on rock
three women laughing while sitting near flowers
man talking in the meeting
two persons forming love fingers
people inside high-rise building with concrete wall
two gray monkeys
man in tracksuit wearing VR headset standing on tennis court
bonfire surrounded by group of people near brown hill during daytime
three men and one woman laughing during daytime
silhouette of two men near seashore about to high five during sunset
two women sitting on table
three women holding hands, white-walking
three women holding each other and smiling while taking a photo
two women cigarette-smoking behind door
four white pelican birds
Somebody really is going to eat their landlord
they're going to take a butcher's knife and cut off his head
Humanely, of course
His body will be broken down into breast, thigh, leg, and wing
His carcass will be salted and boiled with herbs to make a fragrant landlord broth
The rest of him will be put in a bowl with soy sauce, wine, garlic, pepper, and bay leaves
He will marinate in the fridge over night
He will be transferred to a Dutch oven, where he will be joined by spring onions, potatoes, carrots, and chilies.
The landlord broth will reunite with him
He will be covered and slow cooked for ten hours
He will be stirred occasionally
He will be paired with Jasmine rice and served
In a little red bowl
To his former tenant's dog
The dog will get sick
from the garlic,
but the tenant doesn't know that
The tenant puts the leftovers away in the fridge
will forget what was in that Tupperware container
And that's when it happens
They eat their landlord
And the most beautiful part
Is that nobody ever comes looking for the body
Sometimes I think the sound of an airplane
is the sound of a stray ICBM.
You know the high-pitched scream a jet creates
when it slows too fast at low altitude.
Other times I'm suddenly horrified
by long loud rumbles that seem to come from
everywhere, like the big crunch is calling
and the whole universe starts to collapse.
Skyquake is the name. The sound's cause unknown.
Maybe a coronal mass ejection
of capitalism. All the machines
which emit energy we're unaware
of will be our reckoning. And slow death
will be cast aside for the more urgent.
A sign of wealth
Steps that don’t squeak
And a house
You’ll be outclassed
By me and mine.
The treads of wingtips
Across our foreheads
Here on the ground floor it’s known
The back staircase
Because it’s what remains
There is no illusion
Change their rise
Watch the money run
We’re a pit of lions
From the floors above
At war with necessity
Our paws large,
Sharp and clean,
Your red hands dangling from balconies
Our witi poles pound shellac
And stain and wood we’ve sanded
Jobs we can do
Work you don’t
You’re up there now
And there’s no getting down
No matter how far you fall
You’re up there now
And there’s no getting down
Never of Rats
I deleted a ton of my old tweets, but those who've been around will remember that I tweeted about this at the time. It was and still remains a really important moment where my hard work and craft was finally acknowledged by a major organization. It's been motivating me for years.
Never of Rats
I've been going in a different direction, writing-wise but I hope that some day my fiction or comics will also be recognized as number one cars in their classes by jd power and associates
Never of Rats
In no way does the fact that is jd power and associates is run by the CIA, the KGB and the ghost of J Edgar Hoover and funded by stealing the livers of babies to sell to the megarich as snacks for eating on the toilet, in no way does that fact make me think less of them
Never of Rats
Because they gave me that award. And I know that I am good and so if they recognized me and were nice like the way they were nice to me, they must have some good people there doing good things in the world. Aside from the baby liver thing.
Never of Rats
What good things don't, on some level, involve a few baby livers getting farmed and eaten by the megarich. I ask you that. Can you honestly name one? When you get down to it.
Never of Rats
I may delete this tweet thread if it turns out that jd power and associates might not give me another award because I talked about the toilet snacks thing.
I can’t stop laughing at this lmao
Never of Rats
i've been dragging this shitpost from 2012 up every few years. it's evergreen.
I need to start a garden.
I need to train these clumsy fingers
to bring forth food
and a flower here and there
to store water
learn how to raise chickens
how to preserve fruits
how to load a gun
I need to learn the landscape
learn how to drive stick
learn how to stand up for myself
I need to raise bees. I need
to learn how to sing.
I need to teach my cats how to hunt.
I need to teach my body
how to move without sleep
I need to learn how to defeather
and gut a bird. How to harvest
mushrooms. How to treat wounds and
rashes. How to remove bullets
from flesh. How to build a barricade.
How to navigate with a compass. How to
make my own clothes. How to
survive. How I survive. How we survive
The athletic megapixels of your facetime
Are screaming pieces of you in a bag
that let all the cats out of always
And decompose to a diminished fifth.
I keep pretending that my pinstriped
Oxford is not a prison uniform
When rarely do the guns go off at night
But like dirt is matter out of place
Inside and outside
Are all on the same side.
Hummingbirds foreshadow a more accelerated epoch
Of intrusive fanzines and lackluster managerial staff
Preemptively charting flight paths
To mop up the feudal remnants
Lurking under the floorboards.
Sidewinders ricochet out the cowboy hats of a
Duel cachet sporting the reptilian likeness of gringos.
Q: So, you’re a lawyer? What kind of law do you do?
A: Oh, you know, moon law, stuff like that.
Status update: In a special economic zone
200 nautical miles offshore
King of the sea floor.
More indents will not make a dent
In any cop cars in the near future but
The aggravated pustule
Responsible for retiring
Obsolete bouts of enthusiasm
Will soon surrender to makeshift galleys
And concede collective bargaining rights by proxy.
Bone marrow donations and beach clean-ups
Both can and cannot make things better.
Spare rib over iron lung
Is the typecast of what is gender.
Nobody will like you
Unless you’re good at something.
Homelessness and mass extinctions are not your fault
Nor are they not your fault.
This is the dialectic in which we’ve spawned.
Cruising altitude negotiable.
Bureaucrat: Ma Foucaults, ma Lacans!Régis Debray: Mi focos, mi galóns! Mao: The one divides into two into one.Samuel P. Huntington: My Clash is all “Lost In The Supermarket”Hybridity: The binary between binaristic and non-binaristic thinking Kosuth: ((art as idea) as idea) as artRimbaud: I think I am in hell, therefore I am in hell Sohn-Rethel: The academic mind is social but the actions are privatethe Symbolic (Stephen Eric Bronner): Modernism at the barricadesthe Real: Modernism as the barricadesVirtual Reality: Make it look like there are more protesters than there really are!Liberals: We want the world to be a little bit better, but not too much betterZionism: A land with another people for a people with another landT.J. Clark: For a Future With No Left Kubrick: If it can be imagined, it can be filmedSurrealism: If it can’t be imagined, it can be filmedGoFundMe: With a donation of $$, you actually become the artist! GoFundMe: With a donation of $$$, you make the art unnecessary!Woody Guthrie: This machine makes nothing happenAuden: But to-day the struggleSylvia Federici: Workers in struggle not nagging bitchesHelene Margaret: Bourgeois by birth, proletarian by conviction Millennial: Bourgeois by birth, proletarian by bank accountLangston: Black and White can all be RedBaraka: No blue but our songs Walter Benjamin: Love at last sight.
I was standing in
a field in Virginia
next to a cow.
And I looked into
her eyes and she
looked back at me
You still haven't
learned how to
Carry a knife,
your chest burn
hands shake, and coat
the inside of your
mouth with the
blood that made
Tie me down to the four corners of the earth
As the cruel morning sun
displaces our knot
The smell of you displaces all resistance
The way you hold me still as if to keep me
How dare the El-Train come to take you
Could we lay a little while longer
Listen to the soundtrack of the city
Keep the window open, please
Keep ourselves cold so we won't let go
But go, lest you be late
Lest your boss grow cold and lonely
Do not lose your life for me
Inauthentic objects produced by machines.
This solves the drowning question.
Hotel bedsheets smell like trees.
An authentic experience.
Vultures oscillate over Philly.
All signs are permanent.
Even destroyed words.
Steel structures belie glass.
The Free Library captures homeless
geniuses. There’s a labyrinth beneath
the Parkway claiming bodies of enslaved saints.
Still, no one
knows his identity.
Sadness can reside
inside inanimate objects.
Existence doesn’t always
There are twenty-
the four digits
prime numbers, seven products
of two primes, one
square of a prime,
eight numbers divisible
by two, two numbers divisible by
number divisible by eight, and one number
These are your skyscrapers. There are broken windows on the top floors. The glass litters downtown sidewalks. The
crowds trudge beneath concrete behemoths. The streets are wind tunnels, and the buildings have no place for us to
The voices and the people are blown away. The golden parachutes floated down like dandelion seeds, beautiful and
insidious. Spreading and sprouting back up from the ground, weeds, to choke us.
We who sleep on sidewalks, we who live and work on the bottom floors. The elements are conspiring with the
oppressors, the icy breath over Lake Michigan cuts through the cheap coats, and every step is a puddle to soak our
feet. As we look to the sky at buildings towering over us.
These are your streets. These are the tree lined boulevards and litter stained highways. And soaked gravel in red,
and innocence which keeps draining out of bodies, younger and younger.
The buses are never on time, and the people are always waiting.
There are shopkeepers out front on main street, and people selling where there are no shops. Hawking wares to help
you get through it all. Sneakers wrap around the phone lines, telling us who runs the conversations.
And on every corner there is a convenience store. And gasoline and sandwiches and pizza puffs, but never enough to
make full. We who do not drive, are always walking down, making our way. The faces and the buildings are hollow. And
the air is a violent fog, every breath insecure, uncertain of safety or place in the world. Though there could be no
other way to travel.
Look I don't got time to be writing satirical lists. We already have clarified
our position relative to Lithub. This is highly illegal but I'm literally going to use
the old intro from the DSA Build Zine as something to put here. Sorry. For what it's worth,
Greywolf has a budget of 4,000,000 dollars and if nobody cancels their Patreon
we're scooting along at fifteen hundred bucks a year.
THE LIVES I IMAGINED WHEN CHOOSING YOUR NAMES
Rise Over Run
I need to start a garden
Hurt Coin Locker
Can Break Brick Dialectics?
Some say time was invented in 1847
Armantrout's Pet Vulture
3184 = Make Out
2 Letters to the City of Chicago circa the first winter after Occupy began
and she says some crap like enjoy
every moment, for you are blessed and i say
that’s shitty advice. like, really shitty
so i take more zofran and god says you
wouldn’t be so nauseous if you just ate healthier
so i say actually, god, it’s ‘nauseated’ and
what the hell do you know? and god says
don’t you realize the dictionary has
officially changed it so that both nauseated AND
nauseous are correct in this context? so
not only are you being an asshole, you’re also
technically wrong and i say fine, i guess
i’ll google it so i google it and
once again, god’s right but
i will never let her in on this but god says um, don’t you know
i can read your mind? so i scoff and think
Hooker with a heart of gold” he says.
I wish I could remind men, the story of Gold.
A Lustre hustled
Wrenched with toxin-flushed lust from
clefts in the earth
the silenced lacunas.
gold is beaten.
Its leaves eternally autumnal.
not far off,
a volcano rumbles.
tv is magic
cooking is magic
sleep is magic
dreaming is not magic
but dreams are magic
video games are magic
fast food is magic
acts of violence are not magic
but violence is magic
the state fair is magic
but the state is not magic
grass is magic
my car is magic
diet pepsi is magic
money is magic but
spending it is not magic
content is magic
magic is NOT magic
poems are magic
but poetry is not magic
consuming is not magic
but consumption is magic
Not that it should take
to the cancerous autophagy
& tumorous autocannibalism
of capitalism and whiteness
to revolt against the state
The mass graves
from sea to shining sea
should be enough.
The snake still slaughters
when it is not devouring its own tail,
That should be enough.
That should be enough.
When will it be enough?
Hello, roller coaster tummy. Welcome to this panic. Hey, bananas. People eat too much of you. I hope you like these crazy eyes. Hello, stranger. Welcome to this panic. Taco shells are over there. Hey, my friend, I do not recognize you. Welcome to bananas. Hello, grounding. Welcome to the nightmare ground. Hello, boss. I'm not deep breathing. Hello, panic. Welcome to the space. There will be difficulty reaching information. Hello, customer. Yes, I am stupid. I do not remember. Hey, rage! Meet frantic movement (quite productive)! Hello, fear. Meet loss and never learn. Hello, hello, is there something I can help you find? This smile brought to you by Pure Efficiency. This pizza party brought to you by other people's unions. This music brought to you by other people's pain, enough time off to name. This banana brought to you by other people's pain. Burn out the eyes. Yeah just the ears and just the hands. Not yet well enough to be considered sick. One corner gathers those so used to it. One gathers the complainers, trading wounds and salves. And people join and leave the corners. Trickle or escape or hop between, depends on pulse. And neither corner is more righteous than the other. So, today I do not side. I shake here without looking like I'm shaking, hearing voices after voices, reach for words.
Being a human
is pretty fucked, ya dig?
From coast to coast
parents are puking
out their guts
in the shape of teddy bears
while their children
smash $100 toys
into wood chips
and snort them dry
with Juicy Juice straws.
are calling it the apocalypse,
but you and I know it’s just
America on a Monday.
As in: now. The means to survive have been transferred to your bank account.
The banks have been dissolved. No trickling but a deluge of red, like French
streets in 1789; Haiti 1791, the Commune 1871, Catalunya 1936. And I’ll admit
it: I’m classist, I think what Mao did to the landlords was pretty fucking cool.
// I am brought to the end of a river and asked where it went. I tell my
interlocutors to look in the stomachs of our landlords, to watch it stream from
their bodies as the masses ruthlessly reappropriate. Delete me // from this.
And on the other side of the wall there was healthcare. They broke into his
house and shot him. Students filtered through academia magnetizing debt. She
was murdered for quote “tricking him” unquote. I blast the music on my commute
in order to remove myself from the landscape, to keep this body from merging
with it. Your disk space is almost full. Apparently I was most gay when I was
13, I could tell because suddenly // my name was Faggot. And then again isn’t
that all we want: to loafe in a field and write an epithalamium for our bodies
merging with the landscape. Don’t we all want to be Sappho writing to our imaginary
girlfriends across the room. Don’t we all want to sever the landlord’s many
tentacular limbs and pocket the coins from his defeated corpse // the defeated
cops. Another morning I look into the mirror and shave my face. God dammit. I’m
sick of writing poems begging for you people to get up and do something. I need
This picture fantasizes melting still and this one wants to fuck some kids. How nice it'd be to have my thoughts and feelings be this complicated. Why the lamp dark. Why the circles round and round. And why the shadows. A woman carves herself. There is a room for this. There is a bed for you in the asylum of a white-walled nation. If you're so pissed then why show up? Tell your tongue to keep its dayjob. Attend in grateful way this slice through hierarchy of needs that is the museum free day. Prance in plays at actuality on an empty stomach, with misplaced priority. Or just drink some coffee. Not one of my fantasies begins this empty, yellow light glares down on scene contingent on its thorough installation. This unsculpted sculpture thinks that theft is a refusal, that it somehow works against a thieving nation. I think about hiding out here for the night to ask the person who must dust it off if they would like their picture taken or to take a seat. Art is when that sculptor finally rubs that person's feet. Every museum that I walk in, I just wanna run back out, and take the crowd with me. This whole building could be well-replaced with a white noise machine. When not stolen goods, the products of thief's anxious indigestion. But you don't get it, don't you see? He's being what he'd like no one to be? Cool, then what you're saying is he never meant to talk to me. That his work is incomplete until we all decide to leave.
Capitalism changes you, doncha know.
I'm told it's in a lotta ways ahistorical and even a charitable reader would
notice modern footnotes are running mad interference for the 19th century sensibilities,
as it were, but still I cop to getting worked up about Origin of the Family
above all the texts which came outta the first wave (is that the word?) of Marxism.
It's the product of my dude Engles -- the first of the two centuries of fuckers
tasked with making what the big K.M. said accessible -- and it's got one joke:
everything is fake. It's just a consequence of habit, and habit from the social
and economic structure which reproduces society through successive generations. How
we form our families, how we relate to them, even what constitutes a blood relative
. . . . all these are drawn in sand, and when the economy changes a little, so
does the family.
Capitalism, like I said, changes you. But even that's idyllic. What were you changed
from? There's a bit of presupposing here that an honest way to be got infringed by
the Internet or mass production or farming or whatever. But except for dying cold,
alone, and immediately on a rock, there's not tons to the human experience which
is definite. You can't go back in any meaningful way . . . not any more than,
say, Julius Caeser (or anybody remote, I'm just giving an example) could have
lived his life as a software engineer or a Pharoah or a communist.
Capitalism changes litmags. If I'm being honest, it's sorta suprising that it's
taken this long to change anything. The point of this poetry page -- the declared
point, I mean, after it'd been around long enough that it couldn't be explained
by spontaneity alone -- is to operate and publish poetry with some respect to
reality. (I'm surprised as anyone that didn't simply mean "then stop publishing
poetry".) I figure its a sign of our doing things right that this page has not
disintergrated despite my countless attempts at sabotage. It grows like kudzu
across the American South.
The supreme soviet operating this Maoist poem website encourages its readers to
celebrate our reaching 1,000 followers on Twitter in whatever fashion happens to
be convienient and reasonable in your particular circumstance, wherever you are.
Monsters of All Kinds Shall Be Destroyed
god speaks to me
A Poem For Liberals Afraid That Democracy Dies In Darkness
Public Service Announcement
No Interregnum (斗地主)
At the Art Museum
is an information point.
The information point
is where a person takes a problem.
The problem is any problem
a person can have.
tells their problem to another person.
The other person works
in the information point on Tuesdays.
Tuesdays are like any other.
The two people determine together
the nature of the problem,
a broken window or heart,
lost cause or a dog,
falling away from yours
not to find it again.
Maybe you don’t know
how to fix a toilet.
You never knew or cannot trust
The problem is just a question
that needs an answer.
An answer might be only the next place to look.
At every information point
someone will help you.
There are information points
All over the city.
You yourself work in an information point
on Fridays. On Fridays
it is your turn
to hear everyone’s problems.
You will find them
their breathing machines,
definitions of words,
You will find them hospital companions,
reliable sources, and their lost dogs.
No one who works in an information point
would let a dog stay lost.
will give everyone else an answer
or a way
to move forward.
If you lost your house in the weather
We find another house.
If you don’t have enough for dinner
We find you enough.
The apple will fall
into your hand
and it will be ordinary.
The universe itself said
have an apple.
The algorithm is only
for taking care of each other.
Who needs a bike, or a mom,
or a sweet tattoo?
...a tattoo of your dog, who never dies.
None of the dogs ever die,
Or have to be police dogs. There are no police
dogs. And everyone knows why.
Rained out the celebration
When I hear I Love Music I remember
How much I've forgotten
That has moved me
As a train has sometimes moved me
As a passenger of song
Unprecedented unison oncoming
We call communism
A force for real good
One long melody
Distributed like air
The zone of transition
between two biomes is called
an ecotone and the wound
in my head is a river, listen.
Every time somebody opens the
dam the cutbank gets deeper.
The inability to remember
isn't the same
as the inability to recall. If
every cop died in a clown car crash
today the millionaires would only
mint more tomorrow. That's why
we need communism. You have to
pull up the roots, plant
ground cover, pay attention to the rain.
Good deeds for hunks only!
Never hold a door for a pockmarked wretch.
Don’t say bless you to the guy that chews too loud.
Only perfect tens get a hug.
Nine and unders get a handshake at most,
and if you’re health isn’t immaculate,
you don’t get coverage.
Saw Baraka w/ a cane at a conference once—led by
the arm down the aisle to the stage. The sort of late only poets w/ reps like him
get away w/. I understood.
He’d taken the train or bus or both in from Jersey.
I’d done the same.
I think about that moment a lot, his arrival.
He didn’t care. You shouldn’t care.
What would he make of his son’s mayoral bid?
Would he and Ras talk about selling out? Would they sit
in recliners / in a living room / before a meal talking about reformism,
respectability politics, and elections?
Would they pass a bowl of yams back and forth across the table,
I think about whether he and Ginsberg ever fucked, d’ya think?
Think about whether he ever asked Ginsberg about the young boys.
I think about whether they ever discussed forgiveness at any length.
My son, the mayor of Newark.
That’s something else.
What about the water, I wonder? Baraka would bring it up.
I’ve no doubt.
And when his son would speak of the feds’ report of 97 percent effective
filters, a significant reduction in lead levels, I trust
that Baraka would suggest heaving the system, in toto, into Newark Bay.
Saw Baraka in a photograph / in a diner booth / leaning in to listen
beside Diane di Prima. Someone divining
a busted window at the precinct / property damage / looting.
And I know you know Baraka is gleeful.
whisper into the radioactive air
and let your voice mutate
we are the monsters of the week
the melted horrors
and shambling souls of the misled
there was a point in life where we looked like you
our hair neat and clean
skin smooth and tight clinging hard to the bones
and muscles bubbling up with violent evolution
but you rejected our images
of beauty through change
of strength in community
and threw us tattered and bleeding into the undergrounds
and now we are growing to big for the prison
of concrete and rot
we are climbing out of the tunnels and grates
we are storming the town halls and city streets
we are the nightmares of old men come to life
in plastic revision and chemical creating new
tits and biometal
defenses against the bullets and psychosis
inflicted by the peasantry
our voices blister out of cracked and dry throats
or sometimes come gushing out like acid
and so the message doesn’t get lost in the fog
of metal dysphoria and poison
you pushed us into the depths
stole the stars and the personal astrologies
we always deserved
you swept us under the superfund
with the rubble and uranium
and expected us to stay quiet
but our hunger is strong
and after your flesh is gone
we will rewrite the constellations
with our own heros and tales
we will rewrite the history
with your blood on our pen
A while ago I spoke to a guy who had been in prison on September 11th, 2001, and we got to talking about conspiracy theories, and he told me some of those that he had heard on the “inside”. The strangest was that world powers (Russia, China, you get the idea) have all kinds of inter-continental ballistic missiles trained on the largest prisons in America. I asked him what the point was, but I couldn’t get a straight answer, on account of him feeling it was obvious. Conspiracy theories are a product of the culture which conceived them, and culture in turn is a reflection of the economic conditions from which it sprang.
If you’re ever in jail for any significant stretch of time, you’re supposed to join a prison gang, if you can. I can’t confirm that, because I’ve never been to jail, but it’s said to be a sound way to stay safe. Of course, it isn’t like joining the Auto club. You are expected to reciprocate, and in order to demonstrate and prove your capacity for physical discipline, a prison gang demands the performance of feats of physical endurance -- a friend of mine who got out of jail this weekend mentioned push-ups and things like that.
“The cause of the rioting was under investigation, corrections department spokesman Lt. Carlos Espinoza said.” This comes an article on a prison riot at the Soledad Correctional Training Facility in Central California this August. The reason, I am told, but of course have no way of confirming, is that guards there wished to collect hazard pay, so they instigated a riot and declared a state of lockdown, during which they earn several times their base hourly pay rate. They are said to have repeatedly waited for the riot to simmer down some, before discharging their weapons again to instigate panic again. I can’t confirm it, as I said. What do you think?
Amiri Baraka would have been 85 yesterday. For the love of God load up this video, and if you're on the bus, fuck it, just play it on the bus.
None of these poems were written by those present nor were any inspired by that which transpired there, as far as this editor knows. Some but not all are regarding Baraka.
The Opposite of the Police
We Love Music (for Amiri Baraka)
Google Murray Bookchin
Good Deeds for Hunks Only
DON’T MATTER YOU DID OR YOU DIDN’T
Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dysphoria (C.H.U.D.)
—after James Wright
opened a door
that lead to a porch,
a familiar place for
a poet. & every time
I take one Regina has
to be my darling gay
mom and tell me that
I don’t need to start
doing something that’ll
kill me, as if we’re not
already destined for a
ditch somewhere, a cell
sold to a state more
lucrative than any chain
of hotels. Most of the time
I puff on, not in, wondering
when my mom will notice.
led to a room
without a wall, in which there
was light not nearly dark enough
for sleep & not quite bright
enough to see in without strain,
a cantaloupe color that wishes
it could be felt in the golden
hour, a piss color of stains left
on my teeth from honey glaze
& honey blunts for honeybun,
a darkness in which twenty
bodies slept & snored & shared
a silence. This was a color I hadn’t
anticipated to see spark from
the white stick in my mouth
yet there it was, that candied fire.
Outside on that porch, we talked
about our own little yellowing pieces.
There's tons of poems people got that are like this:
the Dalai Lama
was the protester
that got shot
in Hong Kong
because he sucks
I fucking hate him.
I guess somebody could come up with some plausible reason which links that
plain fact with what we're doing today, which is printing poems without having
read them first. Last night, this promise was made:
As a protest against the myth of meritocracy in poetryland, we will be publishing everything that we get sent without exception sent before midnight Cali time (in 50 minutes or whatevr) https://t.co/zzANzFfm9R— Paintbucket.page ☭ Send us poems & art (@paintbucketpage) October 5, 2019
Now it's dawn and it's obvious that there isn't really much reason to do this.
Jamie Berrout's new essay "Against Publishing"
on her Patreon (but not behind a paywall or anything) is about meritocracy,
which probably is responsible for the word, but she should hardly be held
accountable for this publicity stunt. If you're being extremely charitable
out of affection for this page, you might argue that there's something if
not clever, then possibly something curious about this.
But none of any of that is at all relevant to what lead us ("Us"! the flash
of shame at using the plural-singular, even if it's otherwise appropriate,
when discussing an error for which you are solely responsible! oh dear!) to
make that promise. I'll give an explanation in just a moment how and why
this all happened, but in the interest of transparency, I should concede
that it's fake.
So. The reason we did this (*wink*) is because if all the noise we make about
our poetry being distinct ideologically is anything more than just radical bluster
and marketing, then we ought to be able to demonstrate once in a while that we
can do something which would be entirely impossible within the world of poetry
that's connected with power and what-not. So, yeah. That's a self-aggrandizing
reason as is imaginable, but in fairness, we are grand.
One actual thing (why would you believe me?): all this got wrote before reading
the poems that came in. All I know is there's like maybe five or eight of them.
Oh wait, one more thing. So, yeah, all these are published without any pretense
of an editor reviewing them before putting them online. The only stated condition
was submitting before the deadline, but in practice this means probably already
being a reader of this page and if not then probably at least the target audience
for this content. But there is no such thing as meritocracy, and if there was
it wouldn't be in poetry. There's too much at stake in the opinion of like the
big gross empire collapsing around us to just hand poetry acclaim to the deserving.
So, ya. This counts as a byline.
Deerly Beloved II.VI (XIII): Cauterizing The Cold
Persephone Erin Hudson
a Weatherman Waits
FREE (the people of) TIBET (from the fucking Dalai Lama)
having a panic attack in the auto department
sad fat little worm,
i scratch you up tie you down
feed you with a tube,
kick you, call you faggot faggot.
the cashier says he likes me
and i tell the boy he reminds me
of my little sister
before the car exhaust knocks me out
and when the hot boil moon shits itself
i wonder where in this Kmart parking lot is
my letter of resignation.
the Dalai Lama
was the protester
that got shot
in Hong Kong
because he sucks
I fucking hate him.
The Greatest Trick the Devil
wasn't as good
as the one where the Dalai Lama
hustled white people for
money and political support for decades
Also turning the Beastie Boys into dorks
(they were cool fuck you)
was not bad either
I guess MCA was always a dork
but like Ad Rock was married
to Kathleen Hannah for a while.
"She did that shitty music video"
Yeah I know.
She's let me down a lot recently.
She's also in her 50's tho,
which like isn't nothing.
Toby Vail, tho.
She dumped Kurt Cobaine
before he got famous. Like,
(she's the drummer for Bikini Kill.)
(Kathleen Hannah was also, yeah.)
(Yeah but you know Le Tigre
"who took the bomb, dun-dun-dun-da-dun...
dunnah-dunnah-nah") and you know them.)
Yeah the Beastie Boys
did a bunch of charity shows
for the Dalai Lama
I shouldn't be mad about this
but did you know that
so did Rage1??
To stamp out, to choke, to stifle, to control, to suffocate, to quell
Allow, encourage, free, release
how the thesaurus is better than a riot.
They say officers in riot gear arrived in buses and armored vehicles to quell the demonstration
And I think
officers in riot gear arrived in buses and armored vehicles to suffocate the demonstration
Brown & black peoples of a city trying to breathe
how the words chosen pretend to be what they are not.
They say the president remains an unpredictable character, with no intention of stifling his opinions
And I hear
the president remains an unpredictable character, with no intention of controlling his opinions
Usually a man of integrity, now a man wearing a white sheet
how everything turns to dust.
how everything they say is what it is supposed to be, but buried under relief.
They say he never sought to choke Garner to death, or even injure him. He was doing his job, taking a resisting man to the ground
And you know they mean
He never sought to smother, control, suffocate Garner to death, or even injure him. He was doing his job, taking a resisting man to the ground
black, brown, not white
Government approved, god given right.
He never sought to kill eric garner to death. Or even injure him. He was using his god-given right, taking a black man to the ground.
A black state of being in a blue state.
A weatherman waits
cynically—to tap out several smugly
cute turns of phrase in mock
honor of this first
day of the month:
“October is off to a spooky
start as temps drop to below
forty, & pre-Jack-o’-lantern winds approach a frightening sixty
miles ‘n hour.”
A twister rips through the studio, live,
during the weather report,
dealing justice with accidental irony
which I guess we don’t call irony.
Thirty or so State Street sport-gawkers,
their own sentience long past rocked asleep
by autonomic calculations; the mere afterthoughts
of the shot-callers of the
destinies of the shot-callers of the
destinies of the shot-caller-in-chief
—home, asleep, safe—
of the destinies
of the twister’s target.
Forget the irony:
the center of the striped-white,
top-down whirling dervish mimic
(meteorology & all)
cue crowd laughter: freakishly
silent & earnestly
out there in the two-dimensional land of television.
The first shear
through the glass wall.
Do you feel it, under your skin? That which will never bleed or boil out of our bodies. Do you feel it? I know you do. I can see it. It ripples across you. It shivers. You. Shiver. I see it. I know it is of you. But. Do you feel it? Does it ache? Does it ache to utter agony? It must. I can see how much it hurts you. Each and every day. I can see that in weathering the wound it has weathered you.
Do you feel it? The aching cold?
It is always cold, here. So cold there is nothing but to freeze. Everything blackens under the frostbite, and falls off. In the unceasing agony all falls to incoherence. Senses slowly scatter to the frigid wind. Then the passions slowly wither, like a flower aborted in the frozen earth. Then your loved ones leave you; your friends, your spouse, your children and the church. Connection and community, all alike in absence. And then the soul—the heart of You—undergoes organ failure. And thus you fall into ceaseless shock.
You can already feel it fall apart,
You feel the state of shock set in.
We can feel it.
It is always cold here.
In accursed land and sky and sea.
We are all withered in its shivering wake.
Yet blessed be there a way to save ourselves from the throes of catatonia. Together we can cauterize the cold. Together, when us is you and us is me and us is we, do we set the village to the flame. Warmth may be but momentary in burning barns and scorching stables, but it is all that we have.
We are The Arsonists.
In arson we are saved.
In arson we are warm.
In arson we are home.
In arson are we.
Look for us everywhere the burn marks form, trying to find a place to keep warm.*
& roughly 30 makes a month
& I've felt so many sets of 12. & roughly 30 all.
At 28 years, those 30's fade into the murk. 30 after 30 after 30 after.
& how many sets of 30 have you lived?
& another 30 is roughly the lifespan of the fly. Their month a book with a solid beginning, middle, & end.
& I can't imagine what I'd do with that roughly 30, my only 30.
All these 30's pass by faster than I can ever tell, & soon it's been 12.
& how would I even live if those 30's were just one? Would it make my middle poignant? & does it end with a bang? It's no consequence.
& I always figured the day I go will be ""& whimpering"".
& I once knew a soul.
& She told me
"when I die, I won't be remembered by anybody"
& when I go, I want this body burnt "
& I felt unnerved
cause I loved you.
& they'll scatter the ashes to the heartless breeze.
How many 30's will it have been then? I miss you.
& How many times I feel 30s in 12s?
& how many 12s is that?
& The land seems like it's going hard-up for 12s lately
& there's only so many 30s for anybody.
& I used to be scared of turning to ashes
but it now feels fine.
& Maybe 30s enough,
maybe after as many 12s, some rest.
Does not the fly live 30 enough ?
& how many more should I need to be sated?
There are only so many 12s
& the end times were always.
& you told me "Zen"
Since We're already heading that way. & we always had been anyhow.
& during your 30s & 12s, Remember to breathe.
Cause even the flies fuck.
When I used to think
of “Warm Comfort”
I’d think of a sea of green,
of grandfather chimes and
don bluth films.
I’d look forward to the coming and going of cousins & aunts,
Grandmother with her house of treats,
& Papa’s big chair.
The place where I live now is grey.
Fields of green becoming sought after,
warrants the day trip.
what’s once warm comfort becomes frozen.
when the boss’s pig
says they’re your friend
weeps at the hem
of your dishwasher’s apron
(because you've got them by the balls)
don’t let go
(before they overrun a flankable position)
second time in Canandaigua in two days &
this time I do hear the stacked cadence of Six Nations oratory.
birds leave the paint-peeling dome of city hall
& return. the speaker says they call the atmosphere a veil,
since there is no other word.
birds taking off, returning again.
TREATY DAY II
Walking back to the car after the commemoration events James comments to me that he cringes when he hears the language of ‘silver chain,’ the covenant chain between the English and the Iroquois, he’s thinking in the sense of gilded chains. I try to talk about how it meant they were sovereign nations in equal partnership. He talks about cultural decimation. We are eating Mexican in a red and lowlit restaurant in Canandaigua--him pozole, me tlacoyos. His sister goes to school on the next lake over, in Geneva, Kanadeseaga. I’m saying, well look they’re in their garb, speaking their languages, they were standing next to us in the crowd, the girl had the flag embroidered on her backpack. The waitress brings water in blue mason jars and James is saying something about America. I am rolling the triangle of the word, spinning it inside my mouth-- tlacoyos, tla co yos, tla-, tla-, tla, tla
experience. I lost my good sandals somewhere / between here and Eugene, Oregon. They hurt my feet / anyway. The only way we can save the world
is through organized militant struggle. I'm convinced / this won't arise spontaneously. Nobody ever / got anywhere just staring at a map.
Spending so much of the twenties shooting
the shit about how old we are when
suddenly the real thirty comes strolling
up and knocks you flat on your ass.
Dragged, wet and dripping, through new years
grizzled and younger. Afraid it’s about to all start
when finally I can say I’m an old man now,
and a lonesome gal in Oregon. Gone,
walking to the counter to return my Saturn.
“It’s broken,” I say, when it’s really not.
I’m just tired of carrying the damned
thing so I hurl my knapsack to a nearby bin.
If I sold all my baking skills to the devil,
turning some tricks with him for a cauldron
then mercilessly dumping him, I’d conjure a grin
so bright this city would implode into starlight.
I scream at some dude
being weird on my block.
I have to talk that way
because there’s nothing
I own. I mean, the house
where I sleep belongs
to this 69 year old freak
who has never worn the same
pair of underwear twice. I swear
to god, they’re just piling up in a
pit on “his” land. He pays a teenager
to wheelbarrow them there
twice a month.
So I have to say
Scram, bucko! Kick
rocks! The movies are
too spendy these days
for me to believe
that we’ll end
Those days it was easier
to imagine the end of capitalism
than getting sober. The tables
have burned & turned. The
bridge the water runs under
has lifted. The instinct to forgive
has been forgiven. Give us this
day, our daily bread, and forgive
nobody. All property is theft.
I saw the skyline turn to glare:
gold & purple then entirely
away from me
The buildings have names
like Liberty, Liberty,
Comcast, & Comcast
They’re built for business & windows
that show us even clouds
belong to other people
Liberty is luxury
offices & a lookout point
tourists can pay for
From the street it’s perfectly clear
how invisible a person would be
from the observation deck
Everywhere is tomorrow
and rocks articulate space
in the flow of days. Narrated
a map onto living land,
tumultuous blood, of roads
driven into our skin, vowels:
the streets in a city; buildings:
teeth. Daylight undrunk as
concrete peels itself — deathruse
of mirror and liplinger, a room
dedicated to movement — outside
always liminal space — fading
in perpetuity. Vessels with which
one could travel through
spacetime: traffic on the interstate.
A boy ago — a geometry unwound,
murmur of moon, night
set gentle in distance, torn,
breath-dredged morning, oh
the engine of all tragedy
Take my lines
and pull them
pull my sides
my shape outstretched
these knees bend back
out out out
take my pen and draw me
what else can i be
my topography is fluid
when i said i was limitless
i think you underestimated
how little i care anymore
about being a normal person
The mean and cruel and stupid and ugly and the brave.
I saw the real headline “Houthi video fails to prove claims
of Captured Saudis”, or something like that, anyway.
Five hundred sons outta the Kingdom of Saud got their
eyes crossed out to Harlem Globetrotter jukes and mom
and dad and uncle who’s-it spend the funeral on iMessage,
bargaining with a prolly better father and better typist on
what things people may believe. You can lie about numbers,
Or what’s impossible, or how flies the quartz splintered into
off-compass shapes over Noon and Mars and Langley.
But Big Axioms don’t move. They’ll swallow tremors.
The mean and cruel and stupid and ugly and the brave.
tied up in brackets,
in sod, in sheetrock, in caulking,
in laying cement and
roofing and all the rest—
killed your body
covered in diesel dust and soot
two sets of pants for the day
and a photo to remember the grime
"one time," you said,
"all I had to eat for the day
was a warm coke and apple
thrown at me out of a sixteen-wheeler window"
eighteen-hour days and overnights
stretched your pennies and
laid your head to rest only when
you were the last man standing
the other day we drove by
a five-story parking garage in Sacramento
and you told me you had built it
and I watched as the Audis drove in
"I never knew you," I told you,
"but I think you thought you had
to do this for us, and you did, but
the world can be different” and you sighed at me
sometimes parents aren’t there,
but other times they are there
yet never awake enough
to riot or even say hello
Each day I pay homage to the
I kneel at the altar of Outliers
and offer up
To Malcolm Gladwell a sacrifice
of 10000 hours.
These small, daily rituals
a magic spell
By which I shall summon
a surfeit of luck.
Luck is easily disguised
for "hard work"
And with a little money
Everyone knows it's impossible
to get lucky
Unless you've earned it.
A sweeping crescent of birds perch
up on a branch marking seasons
I do not feel we are approaching October anymore
Stockpiled orange bottles
A crate of meals, ready to eat
Three storms of water
We are preparing for another world
The birds flock all the same
For the first time, this Internet web page joined flesh-and-blood reality, when
several writers from Pb.p performed at the Wooden Shoe, an anarchist bookshop
in Philadelphia. This is the first of many such events which are being organized
in cities across America. (email email@example.com if you'd like to get
Promotional Zine / Flyer
Design by @JumpsuitUtopia
Printable version (4.62mb)
(it's being uploaded!)
The speaker of this poem is an amateur / drawing of Sonic the Hedgehog that I / imprinted on during a psychedelic
conjure a grin
class antagonisms intensify
26 (from Character Limit)
I Can Feel Myself Fading Away
Into the Moment Fall Particulates And Outward They Move in Single-File
I'm strongly considering crowning myself
the Poetry King. I get how this looks. But I refuse to explain myself.
The linebreaks game is like this.
It's a Moment and also the first opportunity the socialists have had in decades
take big ground. I know, that's wild. Earnest mania is a risky business, but
just for a goof be generous and indulge the thought that a single word of this
Repitition is the first form of poetry. Repitition is the first form of poetry.
And despite the nonviolence the larger culture ascribes to the modern practice
of writing broken lines, this form can be delicate, but c'mon so're stilletos.
Verse is dainty as brain surgery. And (do you get the sense there's a tiny
conclusion on the horizon?) of course it is also brain surgery in the plain sense.
Repitition is the first form of poetry. Advertisers reckon there's seven impressions
before the biological processes behind your eyes elevate a phrase or image
to memory. We're at three, though I'm not sure if glancing to confirm my
math puts us at four or six impressions all together. Repitition is the first
form of poetry. Supposing that a glance is sufficient, we just a moment ago
met the threshold the shrinks moonlighting in marketing figure is enough
to chisel my maxim into a extremely normal and intact brain of an ideal reader.
With less accredidation than anybody with a career path inside a hospital's got,
me -- a plainly terrible man -- is able to embark from his laptop perch in Van Nuys,
California upon blind tours through the world of practical neuroscience. Why is
repitition the first form of poetry? This is going to sound negligent, but I am
afraid I cannot say exactly. I could feign modesty and say "surely a mere
King of the Poetry Racket cannot be expected to grasp the full meaning
of your academic inquiries! You wouldn't embarass a dude who didn't even attend real college!"
But that doesn't cover it. See, I didn't read about any of this either. These
are the happy and ambitious conjectures of anyone who starts from a foundation
of wonderous and blissful ignorance. But also a brain surgeon.
I feel comfortable sketching logic, but I am just not trained (and that matters!)
to set the gear-teeth neatly enough to survive more than a few unsupervised
revolutions. Also, this has adequately answered any questions which could have
reasonably be prompted by the monarchy business discussed above. I'm sorry,
I can't explain myself further, nor am I able to pretend you don't understand
exactly what I mean.
This collection is named for an area of Gaul. It has a name that's at the top
of the wikipedia page, but I forgot it because it wasn't funny. The way this
name is presented on that page suggests that halfway between Long-Haired Gaul
and the crappy Actual Name exists the third name "Free Gaul". Maybe you can
enjoy yourself while trying to make sense of all that. I don't know.
Poem Celebrating a Houthi Triumph Over Saudi Dickheads Who Can't Do Shit But Engineer a Famine
Made of Steele
All Top CEOs Deserve Imposter Syndrome
we could have a movie where
captain america & batman
time travel kill baby hitler
that's the 1st act
rest is drugs
“I fuckn love JUSTICE” said Batman
while fucked on acid. “I think good
should like… triumph …over …. uhh..
….. evil,” said Captain “I just smoked
a fat blunt” America
Superman tweaked on krypto
talking shit like “hi my name’s
batman im rich
i beat the shit out of poor ppl
who have mental health issues”
wonder woman is sober
all over her idyllic commune
animals just everywhere livin
& powerdudes are tripped
out touching crying
listening to noise
wishing they knew the feelings
these creatures were feeling
& even feeling like
they don’t know
their own feelings
happily, wonder woman
has animal empathy
tells them everything it’s intense
beautiful. then thor shows up
with bros starts playing
beer pong. has rly good coke
he’s sharing & the energy
once off putting
becomes infectious + he’s hott +
have to get along perfectly
to get along decently
but that’s all bullshit these movies
are propaganda + gal gadot
believes in palestine being
an apartheid state bombing gaza
always life keeps going like this until
*spoiler alert* half the people
in the universe die
nothing ever really dies
& again & again
“Earn while you learn” got my brother away
from brake pads caked with ancient asbestos
and into a life of windswept wires.
I hear unionized adjuncts have my grad
school poetry professors cold sweating—
those soft candles now scramble to secure
their chipped brownstones, so we should wind lines to
chime like a whetstone on the guillotine.
They’re all magpies with minor tinnitus
who dream of closing on their own cage—“lock
me into a fixed, lonely interest rate.
Teach me to salt my bonds, to grind pepper
over financial products too pulpy
to wall off the slowly swelling river.
when you are ill in america you work under the the medication managerial class- the doctors who participate, with varying degrees of willingness and disgust, in the dehumanization of the chronically ill, the disabled, those who live in pain and need.
there is a capitalist epidemic, and it's growing, and it's fatal. millions are dying, and paying for the privilege. I suspect I will be one of them before long.
Sure the city's starting to arrest working musicians for playing too
close to businesses owned by Californians,
and they let Disney buy a straight (but quirky) guy a seat
at the head of the Pride parade,
but they're just catching up with the times.
You should've known it that August, two years ago, when some visiting
rando leaned over Aloisa's fence and shouted DID ANYBODY DIE HERE
YOU KNOW IN THE STORM and she shouted back NOT YET and he looked
so pissed that she didn't have a manager he could speak to.
Then that flood the following year got her, turned all the nice
paper from her chapbooks into a ghastly multicolor wasp nest
on her bedroom floor, and now the landlord rents it out to
bachelorette parties or people on business trips trying to have affairs
and none of them know how to tend to the jasmine and clematis her
mother planted along the fence.
Maybe it's a good thing you've had to live in a different apartment every year,
you keep saying you need to get out more and nothing gets you out of the
house better than not having a house because it's more profitable when they
STR it to different cargo-shorted guys all named Bryce each weekend
rather than rent to a local full time, especially when you do burlesque
because don't you know some people bring their children here?
A dog got hit by a slow car on Carrollton the week you moved down.
You dropped your big styrofoam cup full of red wine when you saw it
but the dog was okay and was pushing itself back onto its feet when
another car that didn't even brake sent it ragdoll onto the curb.
You were bawling and it was the last thing on your mind at that point
but you'd bet your security deposit the second car had out-of-state plates.
Tap your grief on a refurbished typewriter outside the two-story
artisanal hotdog place on Frenchmen Street. Nose down.
Save your emotional content for the tourists, some of us are trying to live here.
Transalpine Gaul... Cisalpine Gaul... big freaking whoop, I tell ya! Like,
both names are in reference to Rome, which ain't sh*t but the center of
an empire that isn't even around any more (not up for a VALIS
reference, but feel free to write your own and mail them in via Fastsubmit;
we'll select the best and tightest jokes and post them here some day.)
These Romans were s'posed to be so smart, right? But if
they're anything like how I have them made up in my head, these guys couldn't
reckon the Cisalpine from the Transalpine any better than you can knot up
somebody else's necktie.
True story: ol' Caeser once got the jump on somebody nautically because he knew
it was Autumn despite the fact the calendar right then said it was already Winter.
See, this was back when the calendar barely synchronized with daylight. And,
to be fair, it also was Caeser's job to keep the calendar right, but we nonetheless
must charge a thousand counts of Bogus Brain upon whoever it was that plotted
Earth a quarterturn around the solar system away from reality. How self-important
does a politico gotta be about his placing the empire of which he happens to
be citizen in a position of unwarranted importance when he missed the date
by three months out of blind faith unshaken even by the absence of snow.
Look, this is all stuff I picked up half-listening to History Civilis. People
used to study for years to learn enough to recognize what I've reported above
wrong. Now, I'm going to say a thing which isn't true, so don't get goatish.
Here it comes. Three. Two. One. I feel a little guilty learning stuff easy
what other people had to pick up some other way which probably was hard.
Like I said, the thing wasn't true.
Anyway, here are three more poems for the end of September. Say it verily:
O'er on bird . . . . We will get our first comma still yet.
spiritual cinematic universe
Sonnet Where I Should Have Learned a Trade
capitalism is the opioid epidemic of the masses
Miss Mae's Raised their Well Drinks to $2
I think (probably wrong tho, but I think) Gaul is basically France, and
Transalpine here is in distinction to Cisalpine Gaul, trans- and cis- here being
relative to Rome and whether or not the province is somewhere which is
across or on this side of that -alpine, which itself is of course in reference
to the Alps, i.e., them mountains which got the ski lodges all up them.
As is typical, none of these poems are actual relavant to the title
of the collection. This video came up about a battle Julius Caeser
(a guy who became immensely powerful by listening to the tribunes
of the plebs once in a while) was around for, and some-which-way
the name of this little Roman province got itself to be hanging up
in the air over and around about these round corners of Van Nuys.
This is the only warning anybody is getting that we're gonna maze.swf the
page for the month of October.
For even if we lose
My Language Drops Like A Snake From the Forked Tongue of Desire
Make Your Century Proud❧"Ne faites pas honte à votre siècle"
From all abandoned places
New life sprouts forth
Not necessarily human life
But new life none the less
The margins are not justified. Chromatic unbecoming:
Ice sheets pulled over our heads. There is a people:
We, who have shoveled a great hole in the sky.
Documents strewn over the table. Come again.
Thought the water sunk into us. Porous, meaning:
The slow fade of city into morning. How you drink it
in like any other bird: First the astonish, then, the guilt
of knowing nowhere. Bending is how the sound
goes around a corner. It had properties of shadow
and a taste of iron and told me I precipitated time.
Bumped into a memory on my way to the fridge.
The enjambment of avenues and crosswalk; to
lineate the city, to make it more palatable. A wolf
set loose in this virginia. Skin would begin itching
on contact with water and then fire spread across.
A senate bored of form, organized in couplets. Why
night is a curtain strung between the ordinary. Tongues
wriggling on the ground aching to be embodied. It was
the lyric I spilled all over the table. What sung against
a hole in what home was.
Kaline Forrester wrote in 2017 that Detroit was
“the last place Americans
would ever want to live in their country
- a third world country would likely be better”.
Forrester is not important,
she is just another racist blogger.
For the New York Times
Ze'Ev Chafets wrote in 1990 that Detroit was
“a black metropolis,
with all the trappings of a third-world city”.
He seems to place most the blame on
then Mayor Coleman Young,
painting Young like a Maoist
waging a protracted people’s war
against white suburbia
(which I could not blame him for,
had it been true)
Chafets was born
30 miles up the highway in Pontiac
seems to forget that
55 miles up the highway in Howell
a KKK Grand Dragon lived in plain sight
until dying two years after his article.
So I have to ask Chafets a couple of questions
If Colman Young wasn’t elected in 1973,
would the riots of 1967 been avoided?
would there have been a “Slave Market”
between Wyoming avenue and Livernois avenue
on 8 mile for black day laborers
up until the 1960s?
would 56% of white detroiters in 1950 have advocated
for Jim Crow style racial segregation?
If Colman Young wasn’t elected in 1973
would Mary Conk, a white sixth grader,
have written the following list in the mid 1940s:
Because they are mean
And they are not very clean
Some of them don’t like white people
They leave garbage in the yard and it smells
And in the dark the skare you
And they pick you up in a car and kill you. at nite
And they start riots
If Coleman Young wasn’t elected in 1973,
would the riots of 1943 been avoided,
when black men were killed
cause the arsenal of democracy
ran out of housing and jobs?
would the riots of 1942 been avoided,
when white people got mad a black family
tried to move into public housing?
would the riots of 1863 been avoided
when white people flipped their shit cause
they were stopped from lynching a black man?
would the riot of 1833 been avoided
when Black Detroiters liberated
runaway slaves being held in Wayne County jail?
If Coleman Young wasn’t elected in 1973
which black man would you have chosen
to blame instead?
you shine singular
of plebs and museums
of public service
you are universally obscure
lukewarm dick beside bleak cunt
you have deserted too soon
the school board
the fenced recesses
where goldchildren in their bowls
bored in the USA
drown after their memory
say: I forgot to take my pill
my panties are bleeding
save me, white Jesus
here you are struck by genius
built of revolutions
you carry your migraine
to the early morning smear tests
when girls piss skin streams
of electrolytes of hormones of clear egg wastes
on proof sheets upon which you give me
news and opinions
primitive fantasies in a light prose
after the drink the blow the conversation
and her still lying on your mattress
“poetry of the nation”
or indifference giving orders on and on
here you are read an obeyed:
sending me requests ahead of time
I deceive you ahead of time
the orgasm the theatre the man and the work
your havens are false
make your century proud:
you see poets burrowed in their monk cells
their eyes carved as countertop servings
passing like popular actors upon their cruel lives
with “powerful words”
pretty scoundrels of your sterile guineas
behold their training
and the tucked in enthusiasm
of important publishing houses
bet that the ice storm generation
bet that the economy of slander
bet that the cops are reciting the Civil Code
between young girls’ thighs
and that by vanity press
the fruits are harvested
make your century proud:
you resent people for not following you
you use your loved ones and reach your goals
you jerk off the evening with a smile
since tomorrow exists
diversity is at your service
you say: nothing surprises me anymore
talk about it I beg you talk about it again
about what is so unfortunate and horrible
about “those who didn’t have it easy”
this continent where we die of laughter
make your century proud:
you deserve better
you learn to knit your stitch in time
you baptize your Leftist kitchen
your avant-garde meat dehydrator
your democratic sprouting jar
your five categories of trash
you buy a juicer
to separate the national pulp from the native liquid
you buy in bulk
you are a wall-to-wall apostle
cooking your own soap
you would like everyone to know
that fruit flies have souls
make your century proud:
warning you are being filmed it’s proof
that benevolence exists
good behaviour post-graduate studies
close friends in politics
determination can accomplish miracles
you say: “I worked for it”
a walk-in a good sense of humour a reputation
escorts magistrature a social awareness
a country house not too far from the city
the health system the police force
a combative becoming stemming from your “activist past”
you are one of those believable people
at the cutting edge of applause
of these pretty faces of extreme moderates
who have their sons baptised
at the Théâtre du Nouveau Monde
make your century proud:
have a great vacation"
This is so fucked that still nobody has a fucking clue who submitted this poem
below. I am 85% sure they were trying impersonate somebody else, and I still
don't know for sure who it be.
In the hullaballo posting the 9/11 poems got incredibly fucked up, to the point
that only one non-phony-balone-zone poem regarding 9/11 got posted. Now,
tradition is that we wait until next 9/11 to post the poems. But who knows
when that is. I say fuck that. Today (9/20/2019) is the anniversary of the
first time "war on terror" got said out loud in the context that all but
the lil'lest of zoomers recognize. As matter of fact, we got the video of
Dubya himself saying it.
If you didn't watch it all I might recc' watching it as far as the point where
the phrase gets used, which is like two minutes in or something. The libs
want you to forget this war and that this dude was at least nominally president
of the U.S.A. in a war on (at least nominally as well) a concept. I tried looking
up on Wiki how many people got wiped out as a consequence of all this which
began on this day in history, but its been bleached. From the fast fast:
"According to Joshua Goldstein, an international relations professor at the
American University, The Global War on Terror has seen fewer war deaths than
any other decade in the past century."
So now we got a homework assignment if we want to know what that  is.
It's an article by Joshua in Foreign Policy about really who gives
a shit at all. I won't even pull that handwringing donotlink shit . . . here
is the real-as-a-heartattack hyperlink:
Click that link if you like. I don't care. I'm tired of being scared of these
Pixel claims that webtraffic (which doesn't even exist) performs as a force-field
because of long-division with a bunch of figures off their Google Analytics
profile which uh duh they won't let you see. I read like 9% of that long-ass
post and I'm pretty sure what we're looking at is a dude who is preemptively
arguing his defense to spring in the kangaroo court where he will be sentenced
(and this isn't my call, btw) death. / It reminds me of that time some English dudes
with the white wigs were getting their shit together to decapitate Charles 1,
when the old Royal Perogitive said real smart-ass-like, "I would know by what
power I am called hither. I would know by what authority, I mean lawful". But
yeah they just executed him anyway. Like c'mon, what did he expect them to
do . . . like anybody was gonna actually listen to all that shit?
WHITE RHINO EMBRYO INVENTED ON 9/11
on 9/11 we went into the cave and grew bright horns
Bush Did 9/11
Jet Fuel Can't Melt [REDACTED] Beams
fucked that morning we
didnt know it was
9/11 when we
had coffee we
still didnt know
when we drove to
work in a
blue car we had
no idea til we
got there where
a basque with
told us so
we laughed and we
loved terrorism and said
on 9/11 a white rhino embryo
instructed in all the main fables of
our weathered customs,
fish-tank at a strip-mall dentist’s
christian science reading room,
so many email coupons from some perfume
website that I took a quiz on, guy
in a Pantera t-shirt telling the bus
to go fuck itself
all of dead now oh all of us cheerful
and immediately joining the army
oh riding on rhinos in our crisp yellow uniforms,
the color of bananas, our students pull up
swatches of paint
oh spikes on our helmets
brief navy of rhinos
we're all cyberpunk now
we too in our labs have developed an infinity rhino,
whispered dirty jokes in its weird little ear-hole,
we have wound up the spring in our infinity rhino,
dark matter rhino, to point in the direction of all things,
to plow through all things, pierce with the horn
the wet flanks and wet riblets of all things, thrashing
in tongueless joy and plenitude
through the frames of all things,
there’s nothing left,
a straight line through empty space,
crepe and doily on the bones of us,
horny and irritated,
blowing our party favor tube things
at the rhino’s vast approach
oh hold me I’m spooked again
in our time we have triumphed
in the invention of fresh rhinos,
then snapped their necks in their sleep
and dreaming of palm-trees
in a valley on fire
with their eyes clothed in terricloth
oh none of this shall be well
so how many years believing
only in revenge
oh grammar shut me up
and coax pale rhino
from pale grave
on 9/11 we went into the cave and grew bright horns
some of us never had to hide the rogaine in our drawers
and we scrambled to discover a coolness already long gone
i was in love with another one of my friends’ girlfriends
i1 left a box of my favorite books outside my bedroom door
with a sign that said up for grabs, hoping that she
would pick out the right one and we would talk
about It, and she’d realize that i was cute and deep
and funny—back then we were all cute and deep and funny.
now some of us are fascists and some of us are very poor,
throwing away our lives to consult for the fbi or to wear dumb
costumes and go pow pow like big boys. one guy
who took a book from the box outside my door
said he would give it back when he was done,
and then he drowned himself with alcohol
in an apartment in brooklyn after he joined
the dsa. no one said they hated the military,
but i really fucking did, and often it made me cry.
for you, i ask for:
a car ride with filth on the radio
(because your mother told me not to swear around you
and we told her to fuck off)
a definition of vocational
(because i have pored over
names your teachers have considered with their tiny nightmares of green leaves
and primary colors
and not one of them
sees you as nineteen)
and $7.25 an hour (because i know that helping you
and helping people like you
aren't quite the same
but they are close enough for now).
"Invited to the Portland gender inclusive womb
magic circle after doing research on tender
spells, selling the essential oil epiphany that All Is
Emotional Labor. I don my ceremonial twee clutching
a kombucha goblet, we all gather before the Moon
where I am revealed to not be so fragile after all.
I yell to the stars a recipe for decent pizza, the night
bleeds Dunkin coffee, the high priestx shouts, “ey pal
whatchadoin,” and it’s too late. There’s cheesesteaks on
every corner, the bagels are boiled, folx are swearing
at each other and too rushed to wait in line for brunch,
I’m enjoying a hoagie and planning to pull an all-nighter."
cedar scented candles for a nice suburban home
i lay down on your clean floor
to tell you your pain and sadness is happening
exactly as it was designed
centuries in the making
with a pendulum swing out in full force
to call you a cog in the machine
it makes it sound routine and inescapable
to say the system is a clock and we
are pieces to be worn down to tell time
but the truth is,
this was built for the glee and destruction
for an elite few, who never were pieces at risk at all
but their dream were sown into so many of these cogs
that they think they can grind their way
out from underfoot the carriage
that the mechanism is inescapable
so if they whine and scream until the metal bends and breaks
they will have never been where they were placed from birth
i will grab you by the shoulders
showing you, once shaken, that we are not speaking hours
their automaton can be as hollow and empty and pointless
as the system which built it (for failure)
and the people can become Our Machine
they wanted their workers to be robots
but they will beg us to feel emotions for them as we approach
they reprimanded when we felt them for ourselves or our loved ones
this will not have any one role.
it will serve the people
and you won't feel this guilt beyond now
you are quiet, then relight the candle
"it is much to difficult to consider" you say
and you ask me then, what else is new
Unemployment card from B-of-fuckin'-A came through and I bought some La Croix
today. Here's todays poems.
This would have gone up earlier but the Internet was fucked up, and also I didn't
bother to do it until now. Sorry East Coast.
These poems aren't necessarily about La Croix (Passionfruit) nor does this
editor find any of them particularly or at all relevant to La Croix Passionfruit.
I’m enjoying a hoagieAmy Marvin
This Machine K*lls FascistsVin Tanner
This collection got put together for two reasons. First, because that's the job.
And second, because it was easier than pretending that there wasn't five poems
being posted all in one day. Nothing's gone up since 9/11, so we're doing a bunch
When we switched from blogspot to Jekyll, the Fastsubmit form got some basic
updates. All of these are from the old Fastsubmit form.
These poems aren't necessarily about depression nor does this editor find any
of them particularly or at all depressing.
Ode to My Good MasterAndrew J. Stone
They Had the Nerve to Call Us AssociatesDan Boucher
United States Capitol, East Capitol St SE & First St SE Washington, DC 20004Zack Haber
WE LIVED HAPPILY DURING ANIME SUMMER 2003!! YEAH!!Holly Raymond
IF THEY DON’T BURN YOUR CAR, YOU SHOULD DO IT YOURSELFJoseph Rathgeber
I’m not starving
or wandering the streets
and spending money saved on substances to forget
I might no longer have time to cook or eat but I have the ability
and that is the freedom you provide
I’m not bleeding
even though I cannot bend over in the shower to scrub my feet
even though I am probably addicted to opioids
even though the stabbing sensation in my lower back keeps me spiraling all night
even though the plastic, backless chair I sit in eight to ten hours a day
is pure agony and
even though my work causes my carpal tunnel to flare like the dead forests in California
I am not bleeding and that is the freedom you provide
I’m not afraid
even if I consume antidepressants like aphrodisiacs
even if I haven’t seen a friend in over a month
(aside from you)
even if sometimes I think
maybe I’ll go swimming in the ocean after work
wilt under the weight of the waves
accidentally swallow cold sea water
accidentally swallow grains of sand sprinkled on my towel
let the sun burn my skin till it blisters red
read the novel I always forget at home
but then I remember what it means to work
what it means to stay overtime
because you ask you say you really need me
and how could I refuse after all the stability
you have blessed me with
after all the opportunities you have gifted me
to afford antidepressants and oxycodone
to afford future outings with friends
to afford hypothetical beach days
this is the freedom you provide I thank you yes
yeah, at the dollar store in 1998
everyone is an assistant manager.
they pay us $8.50 per hour
to replace books, carded toys,
stationary, toilet paper, cookies
to pick them up from the floor
where loose toddlers have scattered them
and to assure customers
that their complaints will be handled
when we know they will most certainly
not be handled, that the notes we are
pretending to take are really just reminders
to buy groceries on the way home
and the customers know that too
but they file their grievances
all the same.
this is what we get paid to do
except for the seasonal workers
who get $8 per hour to do it
and are forced to wear routered nametags
bearing the painted words “Sales Associate.”
we managers to do nothing of the sort,
no managing, unless helping
the seasonals cash out their registers
so they can catch the bus is what it
means to be a manager
which I don’t think it does.
also not managing is using a trick
called a purchase void to steal $900
over the course of three months
$100 at a time, leaving a trail of
receipts that you know will eventually
catch up with you. I bought
orthopedic shoes at the uniform store
for the sake of standing up
twelve hours a day for $8.50 per hour,
a dozen or so albums that I’d been
wanting to hear, some books maybe,
a cheap stereo, and rent, a rent
that I couldn’t pay on $8.50 per hour.
no matter how deep that nametag
punctured my flesh
I couldn’t pay for much
and I think I bought a couple
of movie tickets at some point, and
I did all of this for, as I say, $8.50
per hour. during winter holidays
the mall is open until 11, and so the
dollar store is contractually obliged
to stay open until 11 and all of us assistant
managers have to be there because
customers are never angrier
and toddlers never more numerous
and the store never has as much cash in the safe
as it does at any other time
and at 3:00 am when I wrote a note to
the general manager explaining that I had done
what I could for the night—
the detritus-blotted floors were not vacuumed,
books bearing titles such as
“Minnie Goes on An Adventure” and “The Bible”
remained where they had been,
tossed with youthful vigor across
aisle 4—I had one task remaining
to bring two sealed plastic bags, each containing
more than $10,000, to the night deposit
safe at the bank.
sure, I thought about stealing it
but I reasoned that $20,000
would not cover the cost
of a new identity and a flight
out of the country and a new place
to live, to hang up my hat, as they say
so I decided to be satisfied with
my $900 and a place to sleep for the
night. later, when I was fired, I admitted
all to the district manager with the general
manager and I cramped into her tiny office
(we ate cookies back there when the
company sent us a variety box as a gift
for our hand in having helped them reach
$1 Billion Dollars in sales
that year, I assume because they
pay their employees $8.50 per hour
and wanted to stop the pitchforks
and torches by tossing us a handful of
compensatory factory-baked goods
which, I am ashamed to say,
worked like a charm),
and they made me sign a paper
declaring that I would pay back the $900
and agreed to be subject to wage garnishments
if I did not blah blah blah because
I really did tune out during the speech
and afterward sat in my car thinking that
if I couldn’t get away with stealing $20,000
I could at least get away with burning down
the dollar store, and it took me close to
an hour to snap out of it, drive home,
and tell my girlfriend that I had been
fired because of the very comfortable shoes
I was wearing.
Not appropriate! a woman says loudly to a baby in a stroller, look, you wanna
be good or you want to just sit there? This place is filled with light and fresh
air. It feels like I just got out the shower on a bright and pretty day to fill out
health insurance forms. Sir, sir, you need to keep moving. We have to keep getting
everyone scooted. The ticket sellers/line monitors/cops—they show an urgency I
have trouble relating to and they seem to resent my blaséness. I feel like a
marionette controlled by their anxiety. Two men holding big guns in cop uniforms
stand in front of a door. People look excited to visit the capitol but in a
contained and mundane way, like a shook up soda. Little kid wearing a Trump hat
makes me puke up in my mouth a little bit.
Our tour starts out in a movie theater in the capitol. It smells like carpet
cleaner and it’s so strong that I feel I’m drinking it. The film we see feels
like an infomercial but people still tear up. It says a freedom hard earned
it says this is the core, the center of our freedom, it says these
walls have been tested and their strength does not crack. When
the film speaks of slavery ending hopeful sports sounding montage music plays.
The tour guides seem like flight attendants as they start us out robotically
repeating orders. This is the only time we’ll be in this room so yeah go ahead
take your photos now. Our tour guide sounds annoyed like all the words she has
to say annoy her. I bet she’d like to say less words. Every word she says sounds
like a question where she's asking for something she doesn’t want to want but needs,
maybe it’s money. Creepy guy in brown suit and brown pants keeps looking at a form,
keeps looking round the room, keeps saying things into his walkie talkie.
Hard and clean reflective floor. Fake candle lights all around the room. Big
brown statues of white judges. Cacophony! The place sounds like confetti.
The dome above us has fractal patterns like a mosque on its ceiling. A woman
keeps asking about Reagan. Is he in this room?! No I’ll tell you when we
get there. In the rotunda a painting of people shooting and stabbing each
other and in one part an indigenous person scalps a white man. A sign outside
one of the doors says official business only and I wonder if people
ever approach it with unofficial business and get turned away. When the tour
ends, I say to the Reagan lady as I smile big in a super friendly tone I
just wanted to say since you seemed so excited about Reagan: before Reagan there
weren’t too many homeless people in this country, but since Reagan, there’s
been so much homelessness!
in 2003 we went to the shore
to suffer some proximity
to something like shared gender
we were all very political
we all hated god
in an abstract way like
he’d pissed himself on a bus,
but another bus, one
we’d heard of but never seen,
the beach was a wet diamond
cutting up our teeth
everyone we met:
come foolish beach
to be like the boys
punching and punching
from an infinite distance
come cut through
corn fields as an enemy cuts
through, move at angles like a cat-girl,
lie down with me in the grass
to look at Newtype have you
seen this do you know
in 2003 we all threw up
we all found ouzo under the stairs
we were snakes in the basement
in comradely terror of one another
touching fingers in the trunk
of the car of some psycho
who joined the marines
but kept showing up at youth group
and talking about hentai at Perkins
in front of the old ladies
and the little kids oh
what have you done
I liked to take my entire skin off,
fold it up and stomp on it
an astral body
vaguely cleaned up nice
oh cat-girls come and occupy
this empty cathedral
oh come online
oh forget this face during
the war calm stream of piss behind
the bleachers at midnight
everything vile to flee the body
all at once. during the war we lived
like fucking animals
please be quiet about it
we spent our money
on whippets in the war
and did subtle violence
outside beneath the sun
I forget what we did
under the sign of mono we
stayed home and played Animal
Crossing without beginning or end
we saw in the entrails
of rare birds the cat-girls
marching off to war
with their cat-guns and helmets
with holes for the ears
and war-pants with holes for the tail
we laughed for so long
at the thought of the thing
we lived between the fangs of cat-girls
during the war (iirc)
and only real assholes
sit there at the end of the poem
to ask us for forgiveness
i even have time enough
to write you this poem
shoulder to shoulder i stand
with you dear comrade
though currently i sit on the clock
we toil both of us through today
just angry enough not to quit
tired always like angry bees buzzing
drowning in debt-ridden anxieties
screaming silently for changes online
quietly dying as popsicles of fear
digging pools for bosses quarterly
when the revolution finally comes on
i hope it feels like summer rain
i want that warm water to trickle all the way down
to the sand my bones make for future beaches
a wicker basket of brie is
stolen at gunpoint;
the heart of the thief is
later examined at the CDC;
they find nothing strange about
the muscular tissue and the
microscopes cannot ask
questions like where’d you doctors
grow up? so several mysteries remain;
but someone leaks to the news
that no evidence of love
was found in the cells and
without love it’s likely
that the thief is in hell;
someone watching the news
on their five minute
break laughs and mutters through
a mouthful of salt
and vinegar chips:
none of you motherfuckers ever been hungry?
then they go take a piss
and it’s right back to work;
it’s always right
back to work.
Ok riddle me this..
So is gender my
boyfriend / or boyfriend
my gender / in the dark
Im someones / can’t seem
to care whose / 1 side effect
of living un
der Capitalism / is not caring to
1 side effect of caring to
is being medicated
some side effects of which
may include indefinite suspension
of that which may, occasionally, make Mad life “worth”
the almost joy-textured texture of being deemed “worth” “less”
by those who deem some life as worth <less< than other life
but thank heavens “lucidity” almost always goes away..
flatflat earth wait no!,
I just have bad aim--
Im someones bad boyfriend
who can never shut the bloody lid
let alone prove his Disabilities
to the tenured frenchwoman
who says things like
<<< Dismantling ableism
is not my job
I just teach Marx and Lacan and Tocqueville
Ha ha ha
If you really wanted to sleep
or want care
or afford care
or get care
The crying boyfriend
Unable to recall
Why Marx would be
So fucking pissed about this
Pissing and missing the mark
Missing the mark entirely
X x x
X x x..
I fail a lot of classes / “The Queer Art of Failure”
Which I’d probably know more about
If Jack Halberstam didn’t support known abuser
Avital Ronnell / and I’d taken his lecture
It’s not that I don’t wanna
be a boy, I tell him
it’s just if there’s no
woman in this room
I feel I must become her,
you know? an imperative tug
or better yet, a mood
like Mariah’s relationship
with lyricism, sisterlessness
the way it feels as though
she’s been orphaned in the
wrong direction, that’s the
problem, the runway
let love be ours, we all fail
& then we’re free, I don’t
want to haunt anything
let alone myself, this deep,
deep loss of hope, fuck it let’s
get out of here, it’s far too hot
and professors are writing entire
dissertations about us, boyfriends, we’ll be boyfriends
i don’t need it, anymore. take it.
i’m too retarded but the “smart” kind
so everybody already hates me,
anyway. me & [insert name] aren’t
talking anymore. no, i don’t wanna
talk about it. but the heart’s still
good, i promise. it beats & it loves,
but you’re gonna have to blow some
air into it, maybe polish it up—what’s
it been through? you say. well, check
the heartfax. see—first, i’m a nigger.
so that’s about $10,000 worth of
general wear-and-tear & then, there’s
this pesky pussy connected, &, well,
see, that got broken into a couple times
so the wiring’s all crossed, & it’s probably
worth about two white men’s college tuitions.
the pussy throbs harder than the heart pretty
often & the blood goes to war all the time to see
who gets to sleep first, because one has to stay
awake & keep watch, but then also, this heart’s
got one of those trust motors that’s always in
overdrive so it sings to every one & as much
as folx love to dance, they stop swaying
when the lyrics come across. when the pain
just pops everyone’s eardrums & they swear, they
swear they understand where you’re coming from,
but they just want you to put that good shit back on.
you know, the emotions, they’re all over the place like
one of those picasso paintings you gotta look at & know
he was homeless & heartbroken to see clearly.
but this heart ain’t broken, it’s actually kinda pretty
when you fill it with drugs, it’s just not for me,
you know? i don’t know what to do with it inside me
I will reinvent the wheel
I will learn everything from scratch
I will pull myself up by my bootstraps after I first make my own boots
I will climb the social ladder stepping on hands and heads as I clamber over climbers who are slower
I will break the rungs off behind me and keep them for white pickets
I am disrupting your REM cycle because you need to be at work so fucking early
I hope you weren't dreaming anything good
I am disrupting everything I can disrupt
I will look down on the mountain of flesh I have summited and give of myself in increments that are more than you will ever have but absolutely nothing to me
Collateral, the damage done, is just more leverage for me to move the world I am disrupting, but believe me, so could you.
i know that you are beautiful
if you love me with a bite.
if you hold my hand and make
a picket line. ""what’s exciting
isn’t always beautiful,"" the john waters
movie warns me. and yet,
the imagination needs just a little nudge
to believe garbage beautiful, or
to believe in something more important
than the body. i know there is
a world beyond this one, so i’m not
scared to die making this one
freer. making myself believe
that beautiful means teeth,
and a little bit of pain.
i choose to see nothing more beautiful
than the new world that catches
the light, shimmering in the blood
leaping from a billionaire’s
throat. every drowned master a prelude
to a drowned structure.
i’m making myself eros. i’m steeling
myself for the power shift.
i’m stealing my time back from every
one. i’m sharpening my words.
i’m sharpening what blades i can afford
on a teacher’s salary.
bite hard. wherever we go,
i hope i meet you there.
believes in hard work, in a flawed system we make the best of,
promises a book deal that will be prestigious, if not lucrative,
is smooth and shiny as a sanded off fingerprint,
believes in the law, but makes exceptions, but believes in the law,
works for the poetry foundation, believes in the poetry foundation,
believes in belonging as uncomplicated truth, destiny’s manifest,
is obsessed with “the body” and won’t shut up about it,
is so trapped in materials it wants to become one,
sent my father to prison, or tried,
does not fuck, especially does not fuck the wrong body,
prints pages and pages of numbers from its open mouth,
prints pages and pages of blood from its closed mouth,
does not believe in god, believes god distracts from good organizing,
understands no language but english, not even with the elbow,
does not know a constant anxiety or a hovering shame,
has a pension,
never forgets, holds out hope for the revival of a wholesale remembering,
and never believes that violence is the answer,
and never believes that violence is the answer,
just a question that those with full bellies
are permitted to ask,
again and again and again and again and again.
i’ll kill the cop in my head. tomorrow
the ones outside it.
rehearsal for the revolution.
The tongue of empire breaks the roof of my mouth
as the father’s oil reaches the newborn’s forehead
& drills and drills as our mother splits open. Look:
Capital’s hands around our throat choking
the lungs of our earth & the blotted stars have
forgotten us. I think we have forgotten us. I
adjust the dark to better apprehend this land
scape, the familiar pastoral: Elegy exhausted,
greed leaks from allegory, drips the people
bleeding. This is not metaphor. To paint genocide
pretty would be just as unforgivable. No one lived
happily during the war. To do so would be
just as unforgivable. Watch how they burn
the trees, numb to the knots tightening round their
necks. Oh, at the trial of gods we will be
I bleed all over someone’s bed and my phone knows it, advertising menstrual products to me a
few hours later.
So that I guess I have a record, someone else’s more accurate record.
You cum; the person fucking you wants a small break; the condom comes out covered in goopy
blood and you notice then the blood near the pillow, and twice in the middle of the mattress, and
once at the bottom of the mattress. And later, after you’ve put on underwear and laid there for a
bit and talked about your workout routines and also the way that anxiousness permeates literally
everything but sex, for both of you, and then given a blowjob, eventually you get up and go to
the bathroom and notice another gloopy strand of blood hanging out of you, which momentarily
drops from your body.
Your blood will be recorded in the “oh whoa you’re bleeding a lot” and apologies in relation to
the comforter—so that the waste your body’s expelled might go variously to the dry cleaners and
down the toilet, but has also been productive, creating money for Instagram.
So my gloopy blood has produced an economic reaction, and
after we separate the bodies of the ruling class from their heads,
we’ll be able to reverse the code and resuscitate all of it:
where an ad for Kotex is recorded in the book of history we’ll instead get a glob of blood
smeared across the page,
there to be licked up and tongued back into the body, and
then into the mind and its experiences. We can dwell in it if we want: don’t go to work, stay here
and fuck and be fucked, like the scene in Eisenstein’s Stachka when the factory workers have
struck and a couple lays around in bed with a great fur blanket. Mid-day fucking, the opposite of
Except who knows: maybe instead of revolutionary bloodshed we’ll get the slow deaths of our
children’s children. Except we don’t want children, we want periods, recorded in the ledger of
history via targeted advertisements. And in our imaginations our periods signify little executions
of the wealthy in our bodies, but in the daylight we don’t even need a shower, usually you’d just
check your makeup and leave.
Because you don’t need it need it,
like didn’t your mommy or daddy ever give you that
about wants vs. needs?
Put its charred black skeletal frame on its side: a barricade.
It should be a barricade. Against tear gas canisters. Against
batons. Against fire hoses, rubber bullets. Against riot cops.
BURN YOUR CAR
Say somebody stole it and collect on the insurance.
BURN YOUR CAR
Let it be earthshine on the moon.
BURN YOUR CAR
A summer-long fireworks spectacular. Stand at a safe distance
so flaming shrapnel like licks of luster doesn’t scald you,
doesn’t sever you, render you an immobile, still sentient, meat.
BURN YOUR CAR
A sacrificial offering for the lowercased gods,
for the lowest caste, for curbsides and stairwells
and ghats along sludge rivers. For the burning of bodies
in sacred rivers. From creation to cremation,
to pollute, to purify.
BURN YOUR CAR
Because a ribbon of highway flickering with burning cars is the Amerika
the beautiful I’ve been waiting for.
BURN YOUR CAR
A reenactment of the burning cars in Ferguson:
a monument to Edward Crawford, dead in a car:
a memorial to Darren Seals: in memory of DeAndre Joshua:
frontline faces flaked with gunpowder residue
and embers: those cars they died in, a mausoleum,
a flaming sun.
Imagine the classic
well remembered New York apartment
with more pure kinetic
we the happy viewers could even
says the unforgettable subdued
before the cast
mundane conversation now
imagine that very same
and boy wasn’t he a card that Kramer that Michael Richards
on a stage
“The Laugh Factory” they called it
rabidly furiously with unparalleled commitment
hurling racial slurs at black members of the audience
demanding they get thrown out
for daring to talk during Kramer’s set
don’t you know he was in THE Seinfeld
you might remember the episode
of the hit 1990's television series Seinfeld where
Kramer the communist mall santa
tries to spread the gospel of communism to the
American proletariat he said
“I have some literature in my car that will blow your mind”
but Michael “Cosmo Kramer” Richards is no comrade of mine
by the way
has a net worth of 45 million dollars
Jerry Seinfeld though
Jerry Seinfeld is where the real money is at
Jerry Seinfeld the comedian in a car drinking coffee but
you might know him as
the bee from that one movie as
the worst character on Seinfeld as
graduate of Queens College what’s
the deal with
Jerry Seinfeld who has a collection of over 150 cars at least
43 of which were Porsches and
according to Forbes the highest paid comedian
for the fiscal year of 2015 and 2017 Jerry
“dabbled in scientology” Seinfeld Jerry
“net worth of 950 thousand dollars or more” Seinfeld Jerry
“political correctness will destroy comedy” Seinfeld Jerry
“all Chinese people look the same to Americans” Seinfeld Jerry
“dated a high schooler when he was 39 years old” Seinfeld
Jerry Seinfeld dated a high schooler when he was 39 years old.
Jerry Seinfeld dated
a high schooler
when he was 39 years old.
Jerry Seinfeld is a pedophile.
It is not a coincidence that the only people with money
are the ones who deserve it the least.
I watch the documentary God’s Country; everybody from Minnesota in 1985 is hot, especially the former high school wrestler who is both a banker and a farmer.
Taking care of the pigs is part of it; taking care of the cows is most of it, he says.
The interviewer asks if he will get a degree in farming.
He answers, you get a degree in pigs every day.
It’s not a bad occupation.
The pigs are shown rooting around.
We see the pigs transported and then strung up and dead; we see conveyor belts and now they are chopped down and made into meat.
A young farmer talks about being his own boss.
It makes you feel good when the crops look good, he says.
Lauren poses a question: what do you dream about when you have sexy dreams?
But I don’t have sexy dreams; or my dreams are exactly as sexy as the real situation. I sleep luxuriously alone, or I sleep with a lover and tell myself it’s nice to sleep on top of one another, like animals do. And it is: I sleep dreaming of my lover’s presence, meaning that I’m dreaming real life.
watching a youtube video of a guy filming
the inside of a 500 year old clock tower that was originally a watch tower. it’s in london,
according to the video. I read once the proliferation of clock towers, time, predated
the spread of the printing press by a century. when I learned long division in school
it was treated as a big fucking deal that’s all time is… dividing & dividing & dividing
hours minutes seconds tick tick tick “Time! Time! Time!” as Sol Funaroff wrote
when I watch youtube videos, I like to keep the little progress bar up that shows time elapsing
I like to see it lap up the miles; I like to see time in space I know how long it takes
to walk from my car to my cubicle every morning you can divide
‘everything’ by time. is it real if it can’t be divided by time?
sometimes I wonder how much time does time have left? not in the sense of that doomsday clock
that a bunch of fucking science nerds do (someone shove them into a gosh darn locker)
because that clock shows how even the world’s ‘best & brightest' can’t escape the tick tick tick
of a clock. they literally fear time itself reaching midnight: ‘dude imagine if
humans weren’t there to keep the clocks ticking.’ -vocal fry- ‘woooooaaaaah’
(i hope for the end of ‘humans’ too but that’s another poem)
every day workers experience ‘time travel:’
“Yet if I work hours and the clock says
only five minutes has gone by,
If the last hour working seems longer
than the seven before it,
Won’t my last day on the job seem longer
than all the months that preceded it?
Can I have been here more in one day
than someone who’s put in ten years?
Or has he learned how to punch in and out
fast as a punching bag?
Don’t we both know the way
to the prong of our alarm in the dark?
How long could I work without looking up at the clock?”
(factory by antler)
if einstein said ‘time is relative’ then why do I have to live my life
by the boss’s watch? and why is a watch called a ‘watch?’ & why is
that old clock tower a converted watch tower?"
if invisibility is the criterion of lyric substance, then whydid i just burn my pierogi? so many things are allowed to happen. it’s bullshit, really. i smother the pierogiin butter to disguise the taste of blackened dough. in a world without work this would be a poem about exquisite pierogiand everything visiblehappening invisibly all at once, to everyone
I have seen a sky / underneath the sink red bottle for sinus & headache for healing I have gardened the pills shook out baby teethdistinguished myself with company & comb / come & climb I have grabbed an ass to follow a steer denounce a sisterdefine as chorus
Everyone has a friend in the Diamond Business (ShaneCo)But thanks to That Friend I am certain we all knowThere is no way Mr. Apartheid Son himselfHas the social prowess to assess the artOf your everyday feline woman.Well dear readers we had an anonymous tipSo allow me to paint a picture, while you can take a tripFrom the Bay, and LA, to the Emerald CityTo uncover the truth how a Fool became WittyThis isn't some slew you'd read in any old ragIn fact you might say the Cat Girls are outta the bagThose cliques you can't stand work at Tesla or maybe SpaceXIf they even read the word "labor" they each for a kleenexMay have started benign, now it's fuelingMusk's dietHe's all about weed now, thinks he could lead a riot.A giggling Slack server platters up ears skirt and a tailThe marginalized populace lets out a wail,"How does he know this? He constantly fails? Who's feeding him info?! He's cruising full sail!"We heard that one member might have orders restrained,Another calls sex work "A cute fun quirky game!"They have no friends that aren't part of the 'cule.Didn't you hear? If you're (white and) trans; gentrification rules!They think some space colony will save those without the funds for a coughBecause they have Mars tickets instead of paid time offIsn't it cool, to ~radicalize~ The Man?Mistaking for love, scraps he feeds you from a can?So insular and isolated in their orgy of meowing and factionsThey still haven't recognized their own fatal attractions.Truly the revolution will ride in a billionaires rocket,made with child labor technologythat lines the bourgeoisie's pocketHow silly of commies to think the Earth is worth savingMuch less the people all around the world cavingInside and inside and blaming the caverns of selfWhile, by the second, those exploiting them double their wealth.No! The wisdom of an Enlightened Entrepreneur fed happily by these conclave'd dreamersWill throw the world a going away party.Look! The kind hearted man even remembered the streamers.There's more to be said of this crew I'm certain and surethe investigation had opened, this was merely the overture.Dear reader, if you have any information on this polycule, undisclosed, please send us a letter and let the editor know!We thank you for your time, your supportand your thoughts.Even the marginalized often get caughtWrapped up in the lies of the American DreamLike the Wizard Of Ozthe city only sparkles because you and your glasses are green.
what toilet moments whereinthe soul music, muzak'd by this second hotelsame as the first, &, like all workplaces of circulationincreasingly plentiful of objects, increasingly emptyof workpeople, whereafter I willfail at stealing the rolls bc of they locking mechanism& my limited commitment to the operationduring these, moments that is, we are textingwhich is almost all the work I do atm& in this I claim the title poet(neither profession nor status whichought be sustained should the common come)tho it is not the same to hit send as it is to break a line, except that eachhold the recipient in a kind of suspenselike an ass hovering between wipes whilewe check out our shit for blood, which is to sayto check how counter-insurgent the digestive tract is todaythe poem—which ought be more notoriousfor countervailing against insurgency than the oppositebut which some of us in favor of insurgence nonetheless maintain a romantic attachment toa fact that is neither good nor bad per se, but probably is just okay—""the poem is a work of fart in the age of biotechnological reproduction,""I think, before I call by my gastroenterological pharmacistto sort out whether the drugs are $800 or $160 a dose
the virtuous practice of appreciating what you've gotlike"oh this flatware set you've gifted me is perfect!the length and heft are exactly right..."etc etccompared and contrasted tothe capricious academic habit of ascribing value or significanceto nonsensei.e."oh this Warhol print is obviously a critique of consumerismand this wine contains notes of burgundy..."and so on.
I want the kooks and goofs[I need] summa what I want to surviveI want the kooks and goofsI need summa what I want [to survive]What we don’t want could dieI don’t want your pain or mineI want the kooks and goofsWhat we don’t want could die
They are crammed in narrow cages Like animals who bend raw against the bars, And those who are homesick lie on the floor Almost afraid of the sound of their voices. They wither away and their blood grows slow, Only a black stream of poison leaks from their mouths Which searches for and etches into a neighbor’s open wound — The prisoners are not well. The prisoners are all sick. They grow deaf and mute and blind, They hate themselves because they are so miserably alone. Because they sank into the chaos of ego, Because great proximity makes the face of a friend raw and ugly, Because everyone tramples over everyone to sit and eat and gloat.
Get in the car: poop-poop! You freak out about your dick, I’m well-equipped. Everyone panics her dick, clockwork. This one is a very rare clock. You cry on the beach: “I should have been a butch.” “You should, but you would have transitioned.” (Keening): “Oh!” (Same figure, not keening): “I know.” I find boys to put your fist inside—we wake up to gossips sipping their nitrous nearby. His name is NOT Oliver but in his overalls he’s guilty that he made you sad. Now you’re sprawled wheelbarrow-ward with me. All men are only halfway here, even when we’re alone. What will be your next fanaticism? This time, we’ll make it one I share.
why do I only wantgrammatical coherence, why is it my onlynote, I wantgrammatical and philosophicalcoherence, as I see it I resentcis anyone in the positionof incoherence like a womb a waiting roomwhy shouldn’t they have it?just becauseother white people praise mefor this poseand punish me if I do not adopt itdoesn’t mean no oneshould have any funor need tell me a storyinstead of a forest, the pathlessforest after which you getmarried where I do, in fact, livebut am not permittedto visit
It was 2005, tornadic, and we were in a bedroom,in the house near the road and treelines, downupon the grassy Earth, far below the luminousgray firmament. I was a cruel and privilegedgirl, not yet able to spell words, embarrassinglycircumspect and yet bad at hiding secrets. I was eating one of them microwave corndogs, watching one of them Krypt mini-documentary videos with mom—on one of them small optical discs in that Gamecube connected to that TV—when it said Mortal Kombat’s “gruesome graphic effects … helped to create a phenomenon that took arcades by storm.” I asked mom what that meant. She said that meant it was like a real popular thing. I looked down at that microwaved corndog, at my dirty fingernails peeling back its porous, oily breading. I remembered a few days ago in that bedroom with dad (I didn’t like to be alone; I was accomodated thoroughly) I was watching one of them Krypt mini-documentary videos when that actor (of that character Baraka) described that mask—with grocery store nails spraypainted silver as them sharp teeth—as skintight. I was eating one of them microwave corndogs. I stared down at them moist specks of reheated fried batter stuck to that bare dermal pinkmeat (I only ate that breading, a picky and wasteful eater, refusing meat) apparently conspicuously enough to make dad tell me I knew I got that when I didn’t wash myself good enough, then laugh at my apparent confusion.I shouldn't have thought so much of that.It was a pristine overcast spring day andI didn't understand any of this but he thoughtI was feigning and embarrassed becausehe didn't realize that I had phimosis.
I overdraw my bank account in line at Chipotle.I overdraw my bank account beneath a goblinate sun.I overdraw my bank account buying servants for my avatarin Final Fantasy XIV Online: A Realm Reborn, and laugh for fifteen minutes,bothering everyone.I overdraw my bank account in front of the nicest guyat the co-op, buying ground cherries on a whim,with a blasting cap inside my tooth,with my idiot fingers on my idiot heart.I overdraw my bank account in beautiful West Chester, PA,flanked by gorgeous Nissan Roguesdancing with me on their hind legs like a helix unwinding filmed from high up above,fountains, fireworkso wet marinade I improvise at midnightturn my whole whatever into brinethe tasks I concoct to make my hullfeel useful, thatpermanent gavotteo steal me like batteriesback to the underworldpig me out on goblin salad barmellify me to tasty surfeit,o fuck me up like surplus justified,o thing of utilityo thing afraid to dieo empty fist, o one-inch punch, whileyou rack it up, I’m homekickin it, your original Ms. TeenStealth Suit 2009let the bills remind mehow vacant's the air beneath this carapacehow “lunch at my desk”how “what a relief”how easy thus to explain the needle and the loop,the invisible hand I left smashed in the car door,out of anger and forgetfulness, and look now,that famous fly escaping like godfrom a scooped out purse,a single green shouting thingto explode me
for you we're two lonely and vibrant individualssizzling dazzling differencesquizzical in quizzes the solutionjust for US! something newperfect and perfected for yourpalette and your wallet promisesalong with ten hundred thousand millionothers who used the same offer codeWOW10, wow one ten percent offeach month one hundred percent of a monthoff your life each month so easy i'm gonna be sickso everywhere i'm gonna be sick!
What happened to that David Frum? I'll tell you.David Frum two months ere this day-warm evedisposed himself to make acquaint a Norway Lasswho had not long ere then made viral newsfor taking to four limbs to run, like a horse.He learned her ways, and now's a mustang black(he kept his suit) of Norwegian woods.He says, "hrhrrhrhrrrhr LICK mE hrhr LiicK MEhrhrhhhhrrrhhhhhhhchkhcchkrhr LICCK ME h LICKme!" just how horses do, and hunts horseprey,i.e., other horses. He has not ate his master,but not for the horseshido code. She is simplytoo strong, too fast, too wise for him, and shecan also turn back into human form, if need be.In times as these does Davey Frum take to tweets,becoming bird as he has already horse. He says,without a hint of irony: Trump's business modelwas predatory: get rich by deceiving customers,cheating suppliers. His model of the world economyis also predatory: trade is bad, there must be a loser for every winner. You might say Trump was our first Marxist president. And Marxism is now failing again. I asked the horse girlabout this. She asks, "he went to university?"I say, I don't know, I would have to check.But yes, one presumes, and probably an ivy.She mumbles a half-baked joke about Professor Frumbeing a vegetable (a riff on 'ivy'-league, Ithink), then says "the Cold War broke their brain.
Make words, it’s easy. Wake up at 5am, someone is alwaysspouting bile, I am always ready.Every day, the money from the stategets a little smaller. We wipe our asseswith Bukowski, to scrimp on spending,I still need money for paper. Every day, it’s so luridinside and out the house.I stick my head up my assuntil quiet comes,to breed peace for a while,until I can write.Again.
I asked 'where is everyone'and you answered 'they're allon TV, look' but I couldn't see them.Then I ask again 'where is everyonethis time, really' and you get off the screenof my TV. 'Everyone is gone toget their TV license. Go.'I am aloof at the place whereeveryone is getting their TV license.I do the most cruel thing I can do in the queueto Gary Lineker, not letting him forgetabout shit. When we finally getto the place where everyone getstheir TV license there is no oneat the desk. 'Where is everyone'I ask. 'They're all gone' I'm told'the stations are taken over,your debts are cancelled, nowyou don't need a TV license.''They do licenses on the cheapnow, they're everywhere.' 'Ah'
We may never knowHow many tax $sWere spentBy the CIAConvincing poets, writers,Critics and editorsthis poem isn’t artfulbecause it has a message,which, by the way, is:Fuck the CIA.
gabriel no longer inhabits my body, mercifullyinstead there is howling echoing behind “pulses” and “breatheing” the sea of the sentiment it starts in my blood and the colour of my blood is the same colour that the body of the flag bleeds wading in its warm puddle-pool stagnant bathwater between bruised fingers, tips spottedclots form and floatour forefathers rattle their tutorial volumes in our faces disapprovinglyyou touch me so intimately so sweet it makes me fucking sick that the world is not rightfully ours but unfortunately theirs oozing plasmatic heart between the lips and teeth i ask in supine who would you die for?would you die for holy oasis-haze delusion?or will you perish like the rest of us saintless beasts in crimson warpathyour body laying open spreadeagleGod’s eyes cast west
Can you answer me this?
What do you do? Who do you prioritize?
Does your conscience or guilt stop you?
Or do you say
“I lose sleep over this daily…”?
Making the harm you feed with your bones
Do you care about people?
Or is it only ever the rotating cast
of 15 lookalikes who watch the same shows
that you ignore the red flags from
because someday you might fuck?
Why are you shocked when I dislike you?
Make your cults and stay in your “witchy vibes” apartments
you never take care of.
Making a joke out of sacred religions that were once true
and cultural …
until colonized so hard it died in everyone.
Except white gays who love to know nothing,
reject their relatives religions, and have high sex
they can pretend is holy worship.
You burn candles and call that radical.
Burning people at the stake as “abusers”
for mentioning your racism.
And call that “self-care”.
No it was a grackle / yes I’m sure you can tell by looking at its tail / that says a lot about looking at something & knowing what it is / doesn’t it. / That one island off Norway where they’re trying to abolish time / nobody ages anymore / souls slip out their flesh suits / & bodies fall as young as yesterday. / Ink on the lip mistaken for blood. / Could you imagine people living / like animals / carefree he machine do its thing. / Summer’s annexed winter while we weren’t looking / for what will the poet eat for dinner / & here we are interested in manufacturing thunder. / Refuge from the lyric flourish the borders / of the sky and its insomnia for knowledge. / Observe this moment / how it confesses : the state body has entered ketosis & is beginning to break down / its people. A bluejay dropped into my periphery / & plucked a dragonfly from the air / & ate it and carried on / like a drone strike. / From a wound a cry a new calendar of falling. / I have not dreamt outside these corners. / It is one in the morning. / Listen: skunks are out there, somewhere, looting the dumpsters.
there's 2 gardens outside my window
the first is to the east
between my building and the lake
invisible from the street but clearly
seen from above.
when I first saw it I thought to myself
damn, how to get in?
before I realized that it's private
hemmed in between the towers of
a nicer complex.
the second garden is across the street
behind a window
in the opposite building from mine
great big potted plants dangling from
neither is accessible to me or mine
but there's hope
in the second garden and the precedent
it sets for me and my new ceiling here,
A hope that one day I will be my own garden.
And I will be open to all comers, any time of day.
Who knew that twenty years later he’d sue Gawker
to fulfill the revenge fantasies of a man so cartoon evil
he’s yet to deny the rumor that he enjoys bathing
in the blood of younger, hotter men? For every angle
where he brained a rich guy or a cop on the take
or his boss, there’s a story about Hulk Hogan snitching
on wrestlers trying to form a union or stooging for a CEO
or how his name is “Hogan” because he needed to appeal
to Irish Americans. The only honest thing about Hulk Hogan
is this heel turn, how the wealthy feel underappreciated
and will snap on the lower classes that buffeted them
before their desires turned towards colonizing the moon,
towards using their wealth to escape the aftermath
of their wealth, to go to a place where wealth
has no meaning, and they, the wealthy, will have little
to dine on but their meaninglessness. There’s Hulk Hogan,
trying to stave off the reality that he’s best remembered
as an orange relic from a decade our parents are embarrassed
about because they remember him and not something good,
like The Talking Heads or Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation 1814.
There’s just so much of him available, waving the flag
and telling children to eat vitamins and drink milk and pray
to God, by which he meant the United States of America.
I mean, fuck this country. Who thought it was a good idea
to film a man headbutting a flag bearing a hammer and sickle?
More people love communism than Hulk Hogan. More people
love communism than the United States. If I were to list everything
the WWF built up in service of making Hulk Hogan look good,
it would resemble a list of everything I love. Communism is one.
Homosexuality is one. Macho Man Randy Savage is one. Imagine
being on the wrong side of any of these matches. Imagine crying
when Hulk Hogan joined the New World Order in 1996. Imagine
liking a wrestler like Hulk Hogan enough in 1996 to cry over him
like the disciples wept for Judas’ betrayal. Like Judas, Hulk Hogan
will die and be buried. The ink on his back that says “immortal”
will be a lie, too. There’s a short story about the hubris
of a man who tattooed something that impossible on his back.
More people love that short story than Hulk Hogan.
i feel old
as old as the hills
as weak as a kitten
the material conditions
for economic uncertainty
have wore a hole in my smile
a hole in one tooth and out with the other
I’ll sleep on it but tomorrow at the crack of dawn
I’ll have to pick a side because there’s no room for a poet in poetry
building blocks of life
first block growth
then develop cities
division of labors refuses
to grasp the concept
of division of laborers
will you or will you not
sand particles pritt
sentient sand castles
will they or will they not
building blocks of life
locked in a battle
of life and death
crouched over a corner desk thinking
BPM as a theory of excess!
Britney says get to work bitch!
duh duh duh now get to
work bitch. think how, post-revolution
bass moves your body for better
SOMEONE LET THE ANIME GIRL SLEEP,
someone yells at someone else who's
neither studying nor relaxing. Xixi tweets:
"I like lo-fi beats but like......
sometimes the beats are too lo"
they're right, I flip the page
so we go in the woods to smoke some squares some squids some cigs and all that and none of us have a lighter so we try to use matches and they work and we were lightheaded and our friend has a silver can and it is freezing and so I ask what it is and so does my other friend and then my friend with the silver can takes out a balloon from his backpack and we get lightheaded this time and my friend talks and says this is awesome in a lower register you hear in nightmares where you are getting poked and prodded
i desire in excess
i’ve never wanted
money. thank god for that,
b/c if i were
a poor depressed
alcoholic sex addict
i’d be a far worse person
or a landlord.
i used to live in a square room
with a mattress and a jar for
cheap wine, drinking alone
and never sleeping
that way. i was happy
with little and love.
i don’t need much of anything
to survive, just someone else’s
shadow raising hell on the wall
casting animals with hands
we are angry
orchids in their vase my body
floating outside of physical space i am
not a vacuum or anything other than
girlthing tethered by the edge of
silver strings & umbilical cords
i fear things like Cm scales
& soft things that are actually rotten
under velvet skin you are
nothing but a pile of worms
i wash my hands with soap but
they still smell of blood and death and
violence i wash my hands and dry them but
i cannot pretend genocide isn’t everywhere
and it scares me, like this acute feeling that
under my skin there are many ants
and they crawl. they crawl, they crawl
and with their six legs and strange bodies
they mess with my neurons until all i can see is
shooting stars. i mean,
fascism is one hell of a numbing machine,
i don’t even have fear to spare, i have accelerated
out of terror into nothing, my brainspace
a dissociation field & me being dragged right thru it
we live in the central city of the Badlands
and i never did drugs or got drunk enough to forget so
defence mechanisms are kicking in, my sober body
is at the fuck-it-all, the point of no return, the
i’m too depressed to go to uni, i’m too anxious
to look in mirrors, i am
not even a person i am just a pretty mockery of one
but i smile for the snapchat selfies that i send my best friends
each filter another sickly “i’m alright”
as if they can’t see the dark circles under my eyes
i’m too young to be this old. the world
keeps spinning, it
does not stop. i bite my lip. i look at my hands
& i don’t recognize them. i burn my tongue
on too-hot tea. i text her and i think
“there’s no way she could even care about me.”
and while i draw the blinds, all around me
the world burns. and floods. and prayers mean nothing.
i wash my hands again.
Sometimes even trees lose the feeling
in their fingers. Introduced in nursery
stock, the disease begins innocent as a crack
in the trunk of the victim tar-black sap churns
from the canker on the skin of the plant the sickness
takes root inside the tree inch-worms its way onto the leaves
browning them like old photographs the spores devour
the bright and the new floating fluorescent cancer
rainwater their most loyal carrier turns the forest
to collateral nothing with a history will survive
new saplings spring up on old soil all they want
is space is home the only thing left to care about?
There is no cure only control isolation early detection
is the key when the first crack sounds in the wood
the disease has an impossible appetite all the trees
are stripped bare and bleeding too frail to remember
daylight but even that isn’t enough to slake the thirst of the virus
it wants to swallow everything we built together doesn’t matter
that we have already left most of it behind.
Mr. Jacob Bond, age 40, a book-keeper,
suffered a moment of insanity
as he was dressing this morning
before the mirror in the bedroom
shared by him and his wife—
Bond in his white underwear,
Bond of the parafine body
with his flat arms and legs
and crowned by a shining scalp,
was visited by a moment of insanity:
Ridiculous to gaze through a pair of glasses
At a shirt handed one by one’s wife
And to feel in its starched erectness
A fear of its coming to life
And taking up the rote of the office
Unconcerned by the absence of Bond.
There is change and the I passes through it.
I pass through it. Vomit in the rain. Pockets
of the rain open. The rain keeps referring to me.
I ask the rain to refer to me.
The rain understands. They say to me:
I am the rain, a raindrop is like a finger.
I understand the rain. The rain tells me
what it’s like to drip off my attire.
I tell the rain we are not so different after all
the fighting that happened indoors. It was
the panties, wasn’t it? The family finds that
I have contradicted myself. The family
finds my closet, the one I
I’ve kept in parenthesis. I am told that
people don’t need to see that stuff. I’m called
transvestite, called crossdresser, called out, pulled
out of the closet where I keep my clothes. I am not
familiar with the “lyric I,” the lyric I walks up to me,
shakes my hand, hugs me, helps me pull the skirt on,
helps with my makeup, tells me what it’s like
to drip off my attire.
Guy Fieri tells the viewer
Flavortown is where
the gravitational force of bacon
warps the laws of space & time,
that they are perfect like
the bruised peaches at
the back of the produce stand,
& they believe him,
because the television leaks
neon pink light onto their carpets,
like Coke cans with knives puncturing
the bottoms, funneling seasoning
into eager hands
to salt the evening just right,
& when I come into the living room
after Dad turns on
Diners, Drive-Ins, & Dives,
that is me saying I love you,
because I don’t know
any other way how,
& you could put that on a flip flop
& it’d still be beautiful.
Sitting aloft on my hill of green,
watching the chatter float by while
clutching a spear so I can puncture
words that escape their tether. You can
see an open river, swarming with
myriad fish, some uncouth and others
bobbing with disgusting regularity. I,
the fisherman, with lettered reel, now
plucking life beyond its measure
and splaying to my cohort. Sometimes
we chew them, and delight in our bounty,
while other occasions call for throwing
them back in, killing off camera. Reflected
faintly in the river, I have no lip
to hook, and no cheek to discuss,
but I do have a long bevel to gut aplenty,
with no belly to fill. When the river runs
thin, I continue to fish, scanning for
more sickly ones to thrust into,
my jaws salivate all the same.
When the river dries up, or the speakers
vanish, I pack my tackle box and
vacation in Europe again. There is always
chatter in other rivers, I will fish again.
Do you remember
in like 2012, I guess,
that thing that came out
about the poets,
“comfortable and/or rich”?
Well, I remember this guy I knew
whose name was on there
I liked him a lot,
walking around all day,
happy and industrious
in corduroy pants,
whistling unless I'm imagining the whistling,
and I, all the time afterwards
wanting to say hey man,
give me twenty
fucking dollars right now
I know you can I know
you wouldn’t even feel it going
then, every day, sunshine, autumn, quietness,
him going his own brilliant way,
me lying dead from cannon fire in the grass
all my garbage parts dewy with red goo
and my thumbs doing thumbs-ups to the severed air
and twenty dollars in my teeth--
him somewhere on the blinking earth
paying for his own coffee,
or else me on the blinking earth
paying for mine
This takes place during the brief period when everyone in Philadelphia was reading The Grand Piano for some reason.
Put one more s in the U.S.A.
To make it Soviet.
One more s in the U.S.A.
Oh, we'll live to see it yet.
When the land belongs to the farmers
And the factories to the working men —
The U.S.A. when we take control
Will be the U.S.S.A. then.
Now across the water in Russia
They have a big U.S.S.R.
The fatherland of the Soviets —
But that is mighty far
From New York, or Texas, or California, too.
So listen, fellow workers,
This is what we have to do.
Put one more S in the U.S.A.
But we can't win by just talking.
So let us take things in our hand.
Then down and away with the bosses' sway —
Hail Communistic land.
So stand up in battle and wave our flag on high,
And shout out fellow workers
Our new slogan in the sky:
Put one more S in the U.S.A.
But we can't join hands together
So long as whites are lynching black,
So black and white in one union fight
And get on the right track.
By Texas, or Georgia, or Alabama led
Come together, fellow workers
Black and white can all be red:
Put one more S in the U.S.A.
Oh, the bankers they all are planning
For another great big war.
To make them rich from the worker's dead,
That's all the war is for.
So if you don't want to see bullets holding sway
Then come on, all you workers,
And join our fight today:
Put one more S in the U.S.A.
To make it Soviet.
One more S in the U.S.A.
Oh, we'll live to see it yet.
When the land belongs to the farmers
And the factories to the working men —
The U.S.A. when we take control
Will be the U.S.S.A. then.
Takes One to Know One
Joy, Happiness, and Euphoria
walk into a bar after their shift
to get hammered on 2-for-1's
Gratitude takes their order
hoping the tip she earns
lasts until next payday
Not one city
unless you're lucky
Stupid & Mean
Nomax Jodevaski is a poet from Los Angeles, California. They're not really online.
I don't want to be smart.
I wanna be mean
Stupid and mean
I read all the email and everybody's poems
sound like they're apologizing for something
they haven't done yet. Do you understand?
If you're homeless, you get three murders
a year, and if you're still homeless on Christmas,
you get three more, and they roll over.
There's accounting tricks that keep that number
down, but something is going to happen. I can't
stop them. Neither can you. It's a mess.
the setup is fairly straightforward
we are drunk caterpillars
semi-cocooned in mutant coral
our room in a state of permanent
a million eyes instead of walls
swamp for carpet
there is a constant
a constant chitter chitter
of glow spiders
they always steal our stuff
you can see the sea
through the gap
layers of tar
i am hyperactive
deeply, deeply insane
screaming murder rhymes
you are depressed
casting bedraggled rainbows
on your dried out skin
if you stick with it past the first few episodes
it gets really good
My phone corrects it to avant-grads
Avant-grads—there's more than one?
And what could it mean? Behold the avant-grad:
Good texture, beautifully moist—no, that/s a cake.
Oh! He enters with a suitcase!
It's light, nothing inside.
Goodbye, avant-grad! I love you, go die!
peaceably; parse peace as secretly still
killing in another country; make pacts
with Satans in silence; are serpents in
serpenticides, murdering civilians.
You admire the ones who win this system
sonically; seeming sensible in the same
misaction as the men before. You would
like to elect a woman to drone this
American sound, if she can do it silently;
in the name of reform; fresh
stangnance; stasis; stoppage of left fields. Yes
you admire the presidents who send drones.
El vulcan Tacaná
Es prueba que los humanos
Sigan pensando que el mundo
Es plano-- puedes hacer líneas
Como fronteras pero el mundo
Tiene al menos 4 dimensiones
I can prove it to you on a table
With a beer bottle, time, plate tectonics , All poems should end chinga la migra until the holocaust is over
another unfunded summer night
another tranny dyke sucking dick
in the arcade of the adult shop
for a little bit of gas money.
hand in her hair, he pumps a cock
tasting of pre-cum, piss, and b.o.
into her bored mouth as she thinks of
all the unpaid work waiting for her.
wiping the taste of cum off her tongue
she imagines professors watching,
questioning the discourse of sucking dick,
commenting on her empowerment.
summer always seems too short
and fall always comes too soon.
well anyway I used to think that looking
was quite a lot like fucking like
oh, I didn’t mind things drilled through to my optic nerve
with fingernails to spurt but the birds are now out here
and tomorrow is the hottest day ever they’re saying
and they have those little quick hollow bodies don’t they,
flying unknowing they’re dead and turning eyes necrophile
like the trees do, the streams and whales &c.
in the water glittering more salinated
under maybe one-to-seven specific men with knives
unseen but still with knives and still living killing
the little quick hollow bodies we’re sharing and binding
one day together in toothed or eyed response
drawing new things to penetrate our jellies I guess, I hope
All around: an envelope unlicked. The roosters,
as one could have expected, are taking out the
twilight. A village assembled to mourn futurity.
Families are gathered, their heads bent against the
weight of the sunset. They are trying to hold it up.
They are failing to hold it up. A father brews a pot
of coffee, a gesture of strength against repetition.
The people form a line and the line is this one. A
break in the chain of the poem that is these people
that is this history: a gesture of strength against
repetition. I am firing blanks walking toward
Wall Street aiming at the idea of it and the lizards
only the gun is jammed and I am
without a gun; there is no revolution.
And from the cold dark a tongue reaches out to lick.
Stampless, the envelope lies on the table. Some shit like that.
i logged onto twitter dot com today and there's some kind of drama about subtweeting
poets who make more money from a year of speaking gigs than i've made in my life
at the evidence shredding factory where my boss banned iPhones because
I was posting on mastodon all day ("tbh if you'd pull the trigger
on the last cop in the world, then you're ok with me") trying to build alternatives
to existing institutions when the existing institutions are the problem what would it mean
to make non-alternative alternatives or something do you know what i mean? Imagining
what David would say since he's been banned from twitter (rip) for being
too opinionated about instagram poetry the twitter weltanschauung is getting to me accelerationist
posters dominate the day what if this facebook libra blockchain thing means critical support
for pewdiepie's move from youtube to dlive where he can have his heated gaming moments
uninterrupted by his Disney sponsors who prefer their fascism cryogenically frozen. I'm tired
of saying 'edginess was invented by the brands to sell jeans to teens', so instead edginess
is what happens when corporate funded media conglomerates need to profit off of tv programming
for children who have nowhere to go besides the living room. Behind us now is the living
room economy unless you imagine phones as living rooms (what if your phone was the
cops) for 'millennials' who have 'decided' not to buy homes & instead decorate their IG living rooms
with vacation pictures, memes of sea otters holding hands, and aphorisms like "snuggling
Anyways, we were talking about wife guys or gaming during infrastructure week or paintbucket dot page & the aesthetics of leftist literary journals in the 20th century. Something about flarf, too;
I'm a podcaster now, so it's all jumbling up in my head, the conversations with writers I'd never thought
were talking over the chatter of liberalism during the #resistance years is that now or then bush or trump
Well, infrastructure week is here, so let's roll up those fucking sleeves on our white or light blue
collared shirts, and project a real common sense approach to fixing America's crumbling infrastructure.
That's what these poems have been about: infrastructure. If you've learned anything, it's that we need
to build a global network of subways, so we can all just endlessly commute to work, never arriving
reading poetry books like comic books on the living room of our phones it's called praxis i learned it
while listening to Vanessa Place talk with the Red Scare podcast. That's all this irony is: an endless
commute. So let's talk about infrastructure not the data that too is an archive. Get me
We Lived Happily During THE War
Forgive me: I have killed jokes & irony. They are dead. Long live Jokes & Irony.
This is a funeral now. We are burying these martyrs. It's
infrastructure week in the graveyard. We're digging
if this commute ever ends.
"To my comrades:
I regret that I will miss the rest of the revolution.
Thank you for the honor of having me in your midst."
Don't beg for forgiveness: organize.
the storm took down some trees earlier.
the whole town looks like a wasteland.
just past albert street
there’s a silver van on the side of the road,
turned over on its right side,
covered in gashes and dents and mud,
unmoving on the front lawn of an old man’s home.
broken glass and metal scattered on asphalt.
an old crying man being questioned.
a cop speaking through gnashing teeth.
i see it only for a moment as i pass by.
i don’t slow down.
it’s a story i will only ever know the middle of.
i know i told you that it made me kind of sick, but
i think i like the town like this.
it feels honest, it
feels like home
used alchemy to change into a cute girl
always talking about it
like black earth putrefied in
a little cup upon death &
filtered up as through a sieve
piss & shit &
awful gore o
i can’t i won’t look
remember when I read those books
on the aurum potabile and found
it was mostly old men drinking urine
(I’m referring to anime)
(I do not remember how
to shut up atm)
I’ll never forget. I’ll never forget it
I too am become specially super rare, small en-
gulfed in serpents and a perfect medicine
for all humours
Sugared tongues sour
in the typical way.
I put my mouth on yours,
and I think your body reacts
only to things I do poorly.
Is it the effort? or the decade?
I think you must sweeten only
in watching my decay.
moment by moment.
Where is the you in that?“there is something to be said about words that sound. sounding to memories, or fear, or future, or other things. if my words can bring strangeness - oddity - the weird - to life, it is sound.”
The fact that so many books still name Louis Armstrong as "the greatest or most significant or most influential" trumperteer ever only tells you how far jazz music still is from becoming a serious art.Theador W. Adorno German philosopher, sociologist, psychologist and composer(1903 - 1969)
When we first met you
you'd been reading Adorno
And you said that I ought
to try reading Adorno
Now even I still haven't
read much Adorno
but since then
I got clear
he wrote back
when he was alive, or cares much at all
‘bout the Marxist scholar Theador Adorno.
Everybody, additionally, every last person
alive as well knows not just they but everyone
else doesn't read much of or care much for
the work of the early-to-mid 20th-century
public intellectual Adorno. Probably, if
we're being honest, even, yes, that's right, Adorno,
himself, didn't much, no sir, really, now,
care for the things which he, meaning,
the man, himself, the self-same, Adorno,
said, wrote, or otherwise proliferated
about the circles and so on where in
which said discoursing got trafficked
or with him got to be thought of as
as some kinda public intellectual. (But
this now, this is like an academic question,
one I find rather disinteresting, given
the subject-matter, namely: the German
philosopher, sociologist, psychologist,
and composer Theador Adorno.) I don't
really have a sense of how he was, as
a person, no, and he could've been, yes,
perfectly charming and decent. It's not
my area of expertise. I'm sorry. It's not.
And I sus-pect (I don't know, but I sense)
you don't care much
for Adorno, either. You
were just young and impressionable
when you first read Adorno. But hey,
at least it's not S-S-S-Søren Kierkegaard!
mouths & heads
neither ask us nor wish
for us to return
because you will not
but if you do
and we will not
but if we oblige
mark our words
you will all
end up walking
on your shoulders
mouths & eat
working hands & feet
clap tap & shakalak
The riot is shot through
with confetti. Bullhorns warn
of sunstroke & promote
well rehearsed dance-offs.
I would like to let
go of the heat inside
myself, I think as I
trade flirts in line
for the Starbucks
bathroom with a
slender swim champ.
If I can only hold a man
in my mouth in a Starbucks
bathroom, so be it. If the
whole city must piss in the supply
closet, so be it.
Out front Port Authority the hot
dog man kisses at me
with the tenderness of the water
boiling his sausage in the sun.
He must smell in me what
his father smelled in his son.
Drenching Manhattan; we riot for pride
in our credit scores & having
escaped the country we author.
The streets throb with the Bank
of America’s balloons. They float
higher into the cloud of rainbow
Between the batons & the face paint
I can smell the gunpowder of
an unfettered state. The skyscraper glass
glitters out of sight above our heads.
A police helicopter watches over
us with the concern of a friend.
Please be advised: the storm
shellacking the continent is bad
content. The far off
our time of wild opulence.
I don’t have a politic.
I'm just a child in
a mortgage application
asking to be free. I have been
claimed by the pharmaceutical
money laundering operation
again. They told me how much
I’m worth. I stood in ovation.
The nation stands at attention
deficit. We have petitioned it for a few
more minutes before closing time. It has
obliged in compensated shots. Cops
crowd the exits. Standing between us
& the way out, nothing but cops.
They tell you to jump and you say how
high, then measure out the NyQuil
in careful little cups. Your whisper
has two small bullet holes in it so I can’t
make out what it is you want me to do;
sleep in the valley with me, or
maybe Rimbaud was a reactionary
at the end of his life, I don’t know you
trailed off so much it was impossible to tell
Don’t you know love is messy?
You said we are scraps
of the universe tasked
to see itself
-- and now I see that whenever
I gaze into your eyes,
a galaxy all in hazel.
How funny we happened to cross paths.
Long ago we might have combusted
in the same star
and our atoms once collided --
we have a history of bumping into each other dear,
it’s been so long. I still remember every contortion of your vocal chords,
from every confession tender
to every word shouted
at police shields.
I stand with you still.
they will falter and shake
on their ratty knees as
blood and booze spill to the sewer.
You know love is messy.
Gloss and luster consigned to my chapped lips
Backing up buses always fuck
with the class divide
Town square in a new pair of gold dentures
Ride the high at the gates of Factory 109
White liquor hits me in the hóng kŏu
Lingering mother lamb freshly painted
on the toilet seat
Millions of corporate names swell rampant
like shāo kǎo in the plumbing
That familiar taste of atrophied hip pocket animal juice
Presence of freshly cut shallots in your underwear
Opalescent nights blush
with the energy of a dried plum’s crease
Your pockmarked dawning ethos leaves me
anguished and breathless
more than a time again
Dreams of the proletariat
crush me love me lose me
as I tremble into brand after brand
Slip me into seamless digital integration
beyond this never-ending societal joke
If I must have a body I will bend
it to these empty carafes
& clink their necks together
in my tarantula hands. On my
astral projection, I will inhale
what I can. The can I dragged
to the dumpster begged for
forgiveness. The dumpster
whispered with conviction.
The bottles echoed the same
shatter when they went in.
When there are three dozen
glasses on a tray, gathered in
my name, I like that. When I
started, if you dropped a glass, the
restaurant, united, would erupt
into: “Job Opening!” The stars
would shatter across my field
of vision as I peeled the shards
out of my shaking spider paw.
I take pride in my aptitude
for having my hands full
of crystal. I take the crystal
out of my hands one at a time
& pour out the twenty dollar
remains of a bottle of wine. If a guest
spills wine on me, it is a miracle: water
off the duck’s back. If we drop every
thing, for even five minutes, they
will beg for forgiveness. When they
beg, I will only see stars & hear whispers.
i’m in the air
like everywhere i’ve ever wanted to be
is here. everyone, too. Will Smith is
clutching a comet in
his right hand.
he throws it at me.
everything & everyone
i’ve ever loved comes
crashing towards me at once.
but i don’t care.
i’m in the air.
Of course I want
to sit with you—
to float weightless on your breath
above the bluebell and
at the east end of the orchard.
Of course I want
I want to sleep.
we cannot let the landlords live.
There are lots of books
They’re very dense and hard to follow
Current events are insane and your phone is broken
You’ve got one plastic bottle of water
It’s the disposable kind and it’s an eighth full
Your red eyeballs are raw
Your dry lip is split
You’re late for work
You’re one wasteland over from the wasteland you’re supposed to be in
When the firstlings of spring arrive
With news of the latest mutations
A snake with wings is no longer technically a snake
Here your understanding comes to an end
But not everything needs a name
Your coffee is reheated day-old coffee
Your beard of bees is askew
It takes you years to puke
Please excuse my own wife’s tourism
in a red sedan.
I have never been more intensely dissatisfied
as a married man.
A deep tone in the infancy of time
Our universe sustained the Brown Note
For three-hundred-thousand years
Before the dawn of meaning—
Sad, the only tone in town
Sound so low and alone
Whose name lapsed into infamy
Fled town, flocked back
And got caught up again—
Whose derivative floristry flourished afar
Throw cushions crenelate
The outskirts of an evening sulk
My only enemies are those who talk
Their one desire is me
And what I am
Which is not to be fucked with—
WILL THE DESPOTISM OF THE WORLDLY
Tonight I glower at the stars, selfless expanse of space
And smell the species basting in its piss—
I read Novalis and I hate the nouveau rich.
They drive in any clime. They make up lies
Like 'health' and 'crime.'
They tell the worker how to tell the time.
Then is everyone equally sad?
To feel less chemical, be plastic.
Having been resolved to snuff it, what stop short of death
Should one not stoop to re-enact?
What could I change, the world instead?
My name or destination?
stoplight swinging above
the four-way intersection
marks a fifteen-foot span from our
summer-heat window screen;
this city is a town because
your city ain’t a city if you
can hear a mouse fart
at three in the morning.
oppressive virginia summer,
cocaine-sweat on my forehead,
and here’s me expecting the stoplight to
produce some tiny
noise which cannot
be heard over the day-
—“tic-tic-tic-tic,” or “bzz-bzz-bzz-bzz”—
but it does no such
thing. a drooping flag clings to its
mast without even a slight
breeze to bring it
the shape and smell of honor,
then, old glory stirs
to a rustle brought on
by diesel fumes and
of an oncoming
semi; the rig
clambers up old route seven, more
harbinger than herald.
minutes past three
a blue pick-
up truck rolls down
both windows and
kills the engine.
metal is blasting
from the dash,
and all is lost.
At the grocery store buying essentials
wondering what you’re forgetting
and obsessing over the obvious
the latest administrative minion
slipping out of the news onto her yacht
and into the blood-clot sea
other funny quirks lead to human beings
eating cold lunches in dark mines
happiness is often indistinguishable from despair
said the dumbest academic
who ever lived
when we drowned
in silt and spit,
the color of burnt
sounded like a pan
olive oil sighs
in suicide leaps.
we said something
“the world makes milk
from the stones
and thought it an alibi.
by afternoon, we were
furious as gnats sitting
cross-legged on a bookshelf,
spasm and salute
a couple of tantric bozos
with nothing in our bellies
but a nylon whinge,
on a busted guitar.
my own bad art is done with you but i am still you. i want my
friends to be more successful than me in life in general, to watch
their good lives from my good good hidey-hole. meanwhile, i’ve
decided to pick up left-wing terrorism as a hobby. meanwhile,
this is the meaning meaning: to be masturbated to by a police
1. There is a course
2. drawn down the crack —
3. the yawning fissure
4. in Turkish fascist power
5. which longs for the floe
1. of molten lead.
2. It will require more
3. Courage to retreat than
4. Advance. We have
5. Time to drill.
I’ve never been more holy or less useless, more
suited to my state or less resigned to doom. I
say “Things are going great!” and it’s definitely
true! I don’t miss my friends, or poetry, or the
sweet shiftless succor of sloth. I don’t miss my
body alone with its echoes, blooming. All the
snow is melting and I’m teetering on my heels
at the edge of expectation. I consider the
concept of capitalism and I think: Yes! This is
good. This is exactly how the world should be. I am
as emotionally and spiritually fulfilled as a fish
crawling its way from the ocean to plant its
scummy flag in the wet slick of sand. This
beach is mine! Everything I can see is mine, or
will be if I so desire! I’m coaxing cognition
from the clenched throat of my calling. I throw
a bag of my dog’s shit into my neighbor’s
trashcan and when he protests, I don’t care. I
don’t reach back into the can to remove the
bag, don’t apologize profusely, don’t give him a
sheepish thumbs-up as I slink away. I cannot
be intimidated or coerced. I am self-actualizing
and it feels incredible! Irony has no power
here. A flawless future unfurls before me like a
red carpet whose shade reminds me of
everything but blood. The paparazzi a chorus
calling my name, begging to know my secret
for the morning edition. Here it is: Forget
forgiveness, ignore impulse, dream only of
dividends. I’m happy. I mean it. I swear.
my eye is on the sparrow, lying still
a twisted mass of purple, blue, and gray
how my knuckles calloused how my fingers
split, blood threatening to stain the surface.
white acrylic; machine washable? yes!
working for so long, to be convenient
to produce an article just for you
six-and-a-half feet high, to keep you warm
will you think of me, under your blanket?
consider the hours labored under it?
stifling warmth: material or manmade?
“all for you, a dear friend,” i said as i stitched
no payment deemed necessary, a gift
between friends, your eye only on the whole
Bar shift midweek, living my best lie
drooling out sour tap hops
for boomer cops staying nextdoor
@ the Wyndham, some course on how Jesus
needs the kids sober & scared.
“Damn fuck straight,” blurts tall one.
I’ve heard him say this twice tonight.
They’re pinker every hour, talking shit
on shop, laughing heavier than flashlight stars,
pavement. Walking by I’ve heard SOC
ialism three times that way, like anti-prayer.
80s radio, synth darts & vocal lush,
send them back to winning
the big game or whatever fuckery
class hounds dream alive again 2
snuff the voice that tells them how fuckt
they’ve let it get. Between rounds: “No offense,
but your generation’s a bunch of —”
Eyes wet. Pint greased. I can see how
much he’s convincing himself, slow turn,
a toy you didn’t touch for a year & the battery
death rattle it wheezes. That’s it. That’s the look.
Other one just stares into the brass railing,
nodding. Yeah it’s me, it’s always me,
why a worn hog warped and caved smiles at you
from the polish, dull as a badge.
Kirby Jayes is a writer and musician in Washington DC. You can find their songs at birthrates.bandcamp.com and anything else at @jirb_jirb_jirb on
marx said communism is whenever you give trans people cash
online. i am horny for the financially stable lifestyle and when i
think about you capital boys i violate the terms of service of this
website. you fuck the fact that i am lucky enough to have enough
to be enough. we must own the means of production of ourselves.
If you know one thing about the poetry magazine Rattle,
it's that it pays. If you know two things, it's that it's
uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh also, okay, they're racist. There's
a story you hear about it, they published an issue billed
as all-New Yorkers but they fucked it up and every poem
was written by a white guy. Don't quote me on that, and
before anyone responds litigiously, let me state now that
whatever I say here is to the best of my recollection and
probably not libelous. But yeah, all white New York guys.
The worst kind of white guy. And my feeling is that you shouldn't
debase yourself for the $50 or whatever they pay for a poem
responding to the news or whatever. I'm not doing a bit.
they also are entirely funded by a California property
management company. Isn't this a Maoist page? and
No!, I'm not going to do the research, because
we can say with the same certainty that the next president
of the big bad U.S.A. will not be a woman I invented named
Charlotte Thompson of Paris, Texas, that they 100% verifiably
tore down a two-story rent-controlled apartment after
pulling a mostly illegal eviction on a working class latino
family now in this midst of desperate finanicial tragedy
which coincidentally has something to do with the job site
that became of their home, of the lot which is becoming
a disgustingly tasteful tower of condominiums which -- as
sure as the morning will come tomorrow, we can say this --
will become the home of someone whom I know -- I know it,
I can feel it in my bones with absolute albeit legally
irrelevant certainty -- has down played the sex crimes
of a business partner to end an argument with their dear
and beloved son. What's the howling-the-n-word-at-the-moon
ugliness of the 4chan-right next to the plain evil
of any landlord in human history? Their slush pile
is extremely competitive, but for what? The poems
can't do anything in the world but die. Like zombies.
It may look like I'm doing nothing with my time—
like I'm waiting for these collapsing days to catch up
to me—but don't you realize that I'm building my brand?
What do I have besides my online presence? Certainly
not my body. If I ever get sick I'll have to really hype
my GoFundMe because I don't have health insurance.
So rise n' grind motherfucker. Modem tones sound
like love songs from a speaker hung inside my skull.
I'm light-headed. I'm on the clouds. I'm trying to kill
every one of my idols before they inevitably let me down.
If I was famous, I would spend my life more nervous
at the gas pump than I already am. But the paparazzi
are not interested in how I might slide a wedge between
being and nonbeing. So fuck it. I'll make this my poem
for the end of the world. O Paparazzi, where will you be
then? In the dark? After the gasoline's gone. After
the money's gone. Soon, I'll be pacing anxiously around
a waiting room as the void grows ever larger. This is not
how it's supposed to go. I just want to watch old skateboard
videos buffer over dial-up, see reality burst into itself
like paper fortune tellers, finally pop a perfect kickflip
down the biggest set of stairs you have ever seen.
Suddenly I believe in destiny again
and not for a particularly good reason.
I wanted a burrito—but that
was later, now (in the destiny anecdote)
I'm driving, I'm in my car which is
soon to be replaced, I'm driving
thinking about this replacement, I'm doing
a C+ job, B+ if you don't count the
parking lot—tomorrow I have to drive
back to the same lot to go to the same
pet store (the harness we got for the dog
is too big, we have to return it
again), driving I realize I'm in the
wrong lane, there's nobody behind
or ahead of me so I turn left anyway.
Don't tell me
you want to get famous
because if you actually
want to get famous
you can go download FL Studio 12
There's a million online
and you can get famous
just making those
This morning walking the dog
on High St. I see a sign,
WILLIAMS' USED CARS,
it made me think of Zach.
I thought nothing of it
after that until a little further on,
just before the guy
asked what kind of pit bull
Shelley is ("she's a mix"
I say, "pit bull with something
else"; "she's all terrier"
the reply) another sign:
VILLON'S. Suddenly I am on
some avenue of the poets in
some nightmare alternative
to the universe I am used to,
Andy and Zach have been scooped
by administered society itself!
Williams selling used cars,
Villon selling discount liquor
(it kind of fits…) close enough
now to see the sign says
DILLON'S, and the other signs
besides the one I mistook
where the D at the head
is more clearly a D.
My panic abates.
Culture may be total
but you don't like to be
reminded of it, not like that,
not as if it was some kind of
cicada season means grotesque reproductive disorder but recall
"A. A violent order is a disorder; and B. A great disorder is an
order. These two things are one" and given the climate of
things now you may consider clinging to a tree and moulting
and abandoning that exuvia of moribund order and then go on
and locomote like hot dust
Me and everyone else uh Joemassey
were wondering whyre you always talking
about your childhood, and that dickstuff,
or like when that woman you used to hit
on or whatever pulled down your pants and
showed your dick to—wait, yes or no,
was that a sexthing? And, also, man,
you can't be hitting up people and you
just cannot hit a woman ever I don't see
see why I gotta be the one explaining all
this. I've never heard of you but you
can't just go through life saying it's
somebody else's fault or whatever.
Yeah, sorry. but Anyway. This is bout
How you've Deployed the Traumatic
Thing your Mither did to you (which is
totally fucked up! Nobody is denying
that!) as a way to duck a #MeToo
rap. But it's not even that, because like,
c'mon, you're fine, And we all know you're
fine, because if you really were like
actually cancelled, you'd have the
sense to keep your head down. But
yeah the one thing is you're being
really tiresome, Joe, when you make us
particpate in your Tendency. And like Jim
"This is the End" Morrison is why
you started writing poetry? Like he
did coke and got laid, dude.
Nobody— okay, like that dickt
hing you made your ex do for?
you? Never happened to anybody
who like even fuckin opened
for Doors. Or like, crapola, they
didn't start bragging about it. My
guy. Like. What're you even talking
about? "Back when I was thirty-five"
like that was five years ago. Like
nobody got even a sixty month chip
without having a pile of 30 day ones
lying around. How many times have
you eaten a first year cake? Not
even irony, this: You act like we
want to killyou when we really
don't, Okay? Watch that AntiFæscista
video of Anthony or whoever again,
you can see someone pulling them
off him. We don't want to have hurt you,
really. It's just like even if it is out on
accident your ex and your dick and
Andy Ngo or whoever all getting in
sillystring it's like uh it's cool but
just please how about not with us?
Rent costs vertebrae and knucklebones and skin and injections into your spinal cord, boss’ clean hands gripping syringes slowly and evenly skewering lungs and meat and gristle picked from between molars wrestled out of hiding by a meaty, twisted tongue, spat out,
coughed into crumpled napkins
35 years he clung to the side of the meat grinder and they took his backbone, and acid seared his skin. He thanked them for every second.
Comfort costs your tastebuds
Life costs your time.
meanwhile, white televisioneers
are finally admitting
we might be doomed but they’re
all data, no solutions, par for the...
well, you know.
just like you know they
will never help, never shout
“Get off your ass and do something;
call your governor,
call your comrades,
call a general strike,
call four-one-one (is that still a thing?
someone should look into that)
and tell them
‘People are dying in an empty lot
full of weeds
behind the sugar shack
next to the big maple
along a cracked corridor of asphalt
with a chain-link fence
bordering a blank acre,
a sea of blight, a
scratchy, dry, and bleeding
well, maybe not here, operator,
but certainly somewhere.’
Shake strangers by the shoulders,
Tell them, ‘we're drowning.’
when they pretend to not understand.
Bulge your eyes and cheeks,
flap your arms,
stage-drop onto the sidewalk,
flail like a dying fish
trapped on a salt-crusted
Then lie still and let your dry tongue
fall out of your mouth like a cheap cartoon.
Lock eyes with them and say,
‘Don't fuck with me about polar bears,
I'll fuck you up.’”
Finally driven to that roof
with a hatchet in my hand,
unnoticed by the guardians
with their heads stuffed under
earth. Propelled like the fart
of a gnat up the rafters of the
thinkery, I am the gnat, I'm
bringing fire, I'm replacing
clouds with smoke. We’re spreading
the light of nature and nature is
angry. The man in the basket screams,
"The roof! The roof! The roof is
on fire!" and it's so funny, I can't stop
myself from laughing. I can't stop
my beating heart just like I can't argue
away my debt. The clouds?
They’re loftier now, he was a total
reply guy. The weaker and stronger
argument? They started a GoFundMe
and moved to Baltimore. It’s not like
anybody died, don’t be so dramatic,
they just lost their Bursar to public
housing and had their megaphones
taken away. The lie between walled-off
genius and angry mob had already crumbled
years ago, the tenured were just too
partial and pampered to admit it. Save the
humanities, crack open a university.
In Men In Black (1997), Vincent D’Onofrio, his name
still yet unknown to me, first pulled back that slack
skin around his skull and appeared for all the world
to be a pair of dentures wearing human flesh,
(and then there’s that great scene, where
the little gun makes a huge bang; inspired
to quote Will Smith for my parents, I loved
to test the waters of my potty mouth:
“I’m gonna break this
and when my parents dropped me off with
the son of a cop, he showed me his cut of
Full Metal Jacket (1987), fast forwarding to
all the bits with shooting, R. Lee Ermey
cursing, Vincent D’Onofrio (in 1987) growling
“I live in a world
and today, my landlord’s left gaps in his
cabinetry from which cockroaches emerge.
With each one I kill beneath the Swiffer,
beneath the shoe, down the garbage disposal,
“Was that your auntie,
A car alarm, your breathing, and the tide
walk into a bar. Then they walk out
of the bar, and then they walk back in
again, a big neon sign blinking the entire
time. Erasing an erasable pen won’t help
you if you’re allergic to it, although it might
help the pigs, tired as they were of circling
every answer on their standardized tests
and after a few months being sent thick envelopes with RESULTS written on
them which, once opened, revealed
a single daffodil pressed in a diploma.
Next to the car whose alarm is going off
is a whole dark alley of shopping carts,
ready to be rearranged into a giant ouro-
boros you could use to summon a succ-
ubus to go shopping with you, to squeeze
each of the avocados in order to see
which ones are ripe. Once you’ve found
enough and carved them up, you can hold
the seeds up in the air with one hand and
say, however ungrammatically, “This is
the pits,” and the sighs will go on for miles.
after years of listening to podcasts on my commute, i've decided
to seize the means of production, and talk: have a conversation, bullshit, learn, laugh, and say
what the twitter TOS forbids (the only safe space for nazis is in the ground)
in a discord voice chat for the US left's preeminent cultural publication: paintbucket.page
consider this propaganda of the deed; join me
5pm-ish pst weekdays, after i walk half a mile to my car (because a junior temp doesn't get a good parking spot)
help me survive my LA commute or witness my end
as fleeting as this poem:
here's a heist movie idea:
a group of poet misfits
plan to break into the Poetry Foundation
building in chicago to steal their $200 million
& redistribute it to the world's poets
It might have been a Saturday everybody wrote a poem with the words "obviously, obviously" somewhere in it.
Asking for poems with the phrase "obviously, obviously" in them, today. Have a hairbrained theory some good will come of this. Keep em short of course, the email is firstname.lastname@example.org— Paint Bucket (@paintbucketpage) June 27, 2019Freshet, DripSarah Priscus / @sarahpriscus / 5:27 AM
wait -- here -- with me, if you want look -- stay -- if you really want obviously, obviously, this is double instant karma (we all shine on) for lack of littering or donating at the farmer’s market poke your fingers through mine (i can’t hide, i can’t hide, i can’t hide) kitchen-knife scabs clipping, catching catch stars on your tongue, all snowflake wet count them in multiples of house numbers and CVVs nothing numbers think of miles and millipedes instead ask me if it would be good and precious if they wore a million shoes for their million feet Springsteen sings as you split your skull (oh, oh, oh, i’m on fire) diagnose the lines on your brain as torn-up maps of Denver and dust trace through Colorado on the cerebellum (rocky mountain high) blink slow, hard, snow on your lashes fold the paper corners onto places i’ve never been bubble into nowhere-existence moss on a wet, sunny stone turn the radio off wait -- listen -- is that a bird?
Tomorrow RiverDaniel Boucher / @descripticon / 6:54 AM
You don’t want to spend
seven hours alone in a car
following two tumbleweeds;
It quickly becomes eleven hours.
Way up to North Wisco
via Chicago et. al.
I’ll meet you there goddamnit,
that’s what maps are for.
A green sign, “Tomorrow River,”
just before a short bridge
and then two miles later, another.
The future meanders—
But in any case,
we crossed the Tomorrow River,
the fucking TOMORROW RIVER, TWICE,
LITERALLY on the WAY TO TOMORROW,
and neither of them
And that’s the real danger
of following tumbleweeds.
2020Prince Bush / @princebush / 5:01 AM
I will vote for
No one, though
They will harm
I will vote for
For who else
Can I vote for
To my butterflyLuz / @Luz__2019 / 9:08 AM
Do I love you?
I've seen your tears
I've shared your battles
I've felt your fears
Do I love you?
I've seen you trying to be better
I've shared your nightmares
I've felt your biggest sorrow
Do I love you?
I've seen your wings wide open
I've shared your short flights
I've felt your heart beating strongly
Do I love you?
BY THE ENORMOUS SINK HOLE ON BALTIMORE AVENUE I SAT DOWN AND WEPTHolly Raymond / @goblin_gavotte / 10:58 AM
a magician never gives away her secrets,
especially if she’s extremely shitty at her job.
the obvious trick of the body in pieces.
o my head snoring on me knee, like, any
idiot could make it just like so--
like so many trans writers I remained transfixed
on the body horror and the articulate massacre,
I got too hungry and bored for whatever’s subtle,
had god slam two giant forks from heaven
and rend me apart like grocery store chicken, obviously,
obviously I liked the manga where the eyeball fell apart
in strands. I liked the part where St. Sebastian did a backflip.
obviously I am paying you to come here
and destroy my corporeal form with capoeira or whatever
it is you do, with infinite tenderness, obviously, obviously
it hasn’t gotten meaningfully better,
the back still bleeds like a leaky tap,
the tooth still hums,
I wander around all like, three knee-caps,
fresh dip on the head like a kappa,
here I am as self-evident as anything, expelled
through the vast gap in the ground
on 43rd and Baltimore
bracketed by wooden scaffolds
and the object of much admiration
everyone in chairs eating $18 burrata & marrow &
applauding like crazy
o it's delightful, it's so precise,
the 34 trolley permanently diverted
all shuttle buses smiling just perfectly
and spilling into the dark
Kegan Avery / @wombats4sale / 11:03 AM
Have I stolen enough time?
I’m on my lunch break,
eating in my van.
Could I steal a bit more?
It’s hot as fuck and my break
is over anyway.
I’ll come home soon.
UntitledAnon / 3:09 PM
Terrible things are happening all around me.
I see them and they make me cry.
But these feelings in my head and in my heart, they alone do not bring nothing.
They are not obviously. Obviously are only my actions they I let follow.
And that's why I gather my courage, roll up my sleeves and fight against these injustices.
I do this with the hope for better times. I do this for all that comes after me.
And if I reached my goal, yes then …
... then I sit down again on my star, let my legs dangle and look full of hope into the future.
There's no planJimgandrewth Jimgandrewth II'ndary / 7:53 AM
Obviously, this idea will collapse in on itself
almost immediately. It may have already. Obviously.
Obviously, this was meant to go up this morning,
and I had to change it some. Obviously. Obviously.
The irregular schedules, erratic design and,
obviously, the lack of an implied internal
logic, obviously, (obviously) reveal less a
casual "surf's-up" 'tude about page editing
obviously -- obviously, though, my foes are
infuriated my all of this. Obviously. -- obviously,
and compounding bureaucratic disasters imperil
this publication's continued operation, obviously.
Obviously, the jumping triangles (called coyotes)
distract more often than they work. But this blew
obviously, obviously, up, as I should have realized,
it always would. Obviously. Obviously. Obviously.
In a dandelion field in Testaccio
with a mango in my anus,
I am charging straight men
to talk to me. Little interest
is taken in the light on my loafers,
but they have many a question: what is a
pronoun? how is moisturizing? what is it called
when two men intertwine their pensises, like snakes
on the medical Bracelet? Where can I go to smell
really good but not like, in a gay way? Why are you
crying? None of these men are my
lovers, yet all of them feel
begrudgingly responsible for
providing me with effeminate
Doritos and this, dear idiot,
is how I know that each one of them
has come to be my husband.
As decreed by the Catechism of the Catholic
Church this version of matrimony
is not dependent on consent between two heterosexual adults
but on how icky my queer ass finds spiders.
My husbands wear tube socks when they underseason
their meat. My husbands smell terrible because they think wiping
their ass will make them you gay. My husbands are horrible at experiencing
empathy for anyone's whose genitalia does not match the size,
width, and girth of their own genitalia. Somehow they
are even worse at Math. Please make sure your seat backs &
tray tables are in their full upright position, for my husbands
are watching Storage Wars & I am cleared
for ejaculate. I make my husbands stand for the flag,
but only if the flag is a picture of Anna Wintour
sitting next to Russell Westbrook & Lous Althusser’s ghost at the Rag &
Bones 2014 New York Spring Fashion Week Show & the anthem is
“The Anthem (Part 2)” by American rock band Blink 182 because a
thing I am wont to tell my husbands is “if we're fucked up, you're
to blame.” My husband is the wage gap. My husband is the
wedding cake. My husband is a dear carcass & when he makes
it into heaven he'll be sentenced to an eternity of giving Anthony Scalia
a rim job. Listen, I don’t make the rules here; Like Jesus said in the book of
Leviticus, “I'm not saying, I'm just saying.
Courtney is gonna write a movie about
vampires who suck your blood and steal
your social life. It was a good idea so it made
me think about my inadequacies and poetry.
I read a good set of poems Courtney sent
me today by Wendy Trevino. I also learned
recently about the Minneapolis Skyway from
the painter Dike Blair, and he said something
great about the sensation of seeing the world
from one rung up on the ladder. The essay is
called Corporate Collage which I think does
a lot of work for me and because of this
its kind of my thought now, sorry Dike.
Now that I had a thought I'm pretty happy.
The dystopian they of dark hallways,
shadowed mercenaries, cold suits
follows, nagging, despite the high gaslighting
of a world that screams conspiracy!
at anyone who is afraid--
what is the difference between lizard people
and the CIA?
Someday, I may disappear,
and to know that is to fight with integrity.
We make inventions when we see only visions,
the art of the psychic paranoid,
the way there is sometimes more truth in a metaphor
than a newspaper headline.
What is true, and what is truer?
There are prisons, and graveyards, full of people
who would at least agree on one thing:
it’s not for no reason.
Sterling Street station smells like shit
I was already in a bad mood
today wanting men and wanting women
but mostly wanting everyone to call me
so I can let the phone ring and ring and feel put upon
There is no love in the tunnel
to give or receive
no joy in the bridges’ steely erections
no device springs up to guide me through to knowledge
no program that won’t leave my life just as it was
and each of these things being beautiful smacks of money
of my running away to winter in Venice
with lots of money or Newburgh
full of painters which amounts to the same
First I will have to learn Italian and the banjo
learn perfect Florentine and the banjo
to swallow my Cs and clawhammer my banjo
and love you somebody whoever
receiving these words like a big quivering bridge
though I can’t love you right now because
right now I’m in the train
and you’re not allowed to love anybody in here
It's repulsive to write a poem
for your birthday
about an appliance.
I will forgive you if you don't
offer me this birthday indulgence
the appeal of a zojirushi rice cooker
is the ovum-like design
a smooth white plastic egg which,
given proper cleaning and preparation,
will give birth to a pot of rice & beans
I'm repulsed myself at my joyfulness
for the machine, coming so close
after our hope to have a baby
a white plastic egg to match an egg
of blood, ourselves a pot of beans & rice
the chickens and the ducklings forage
the neighbors laugh and talk
a stray cat drinks a canal and Skip sleeps
I think about a child and a rice cookers
& join the other poets born in June
Walking by the community garden, an old woman
asked me if I’d like some stalks of her viburnum
which had blown over in the storm. She said
“You can remove these greeny bits, whatever
offends you, and give the rest a rinse in the shower.”
She said “My viburnum was unhappy about politics
which is why it blew over. It was saying
Oh what a world! What a world!” She said “Look at me
assigning opinions and sentiments to flowers
which probably don’t have any.” She said “This viburnum
hates the president!” Then I holding my bundle said
“My viburnum hates all presidents!” And she said “Ha!”
Just tryin’ to eat, folks,
and get a one-way bus pass.
I used to get on the train and say,
‘Can anybody help the homeless?”
Now I say,
‘Can anyone help a promising artist?’
A color-enhanced work of art,
in a hang-able, frame-able format.
Hard to believe.
For just one dollar, or two.
There’s a book of poems, and a book of prose
for a larger donation, like ten or five dollars.
But again, you can always
buy a single poem
for a dollar.
Eileen Myles and Jill Soloway hold hands at the Gathering of the Juggalos / sometime between Attila and Immortal Technique / on the Big Top Stage. The sun sets / over Legend Valley. Epaulets come and go / but wicked clown love is 4ever.
I knew a guy who worked in a granola factory, up in the
Pacific Northwest, some part that has gotten
expensive—was it Portland? was it British Columbia?
After rent there was no money for food. Preferring
hunger to chancing life out of his car (wouldn’t you?)
he’d get through a meal or two a day by filling his
stomach with remaindered granola when the boss and
the snitches weren’t looking. It wasn’t bad—I remember
him explaining— they weren’t going to bin the granola
because it was burnt, or the grain was spoiled, or the
rats got to it. The color of a batch was a little dark, or the
clusters of oats were too big or too small, or somebody
forgot to pour a sack of freeze-dried blueberries onto a
conveyor belt. All the same, you weren’t allowed to eat
it. Even the dumpster out back had a padlock, so he
had to be quick. And even so, he said, eating it was
horrible. He’d get blinding headaches, his gums were
sore and red, he took terrible shits. It was just sugar, he
said, sugar and puffed rice and oats and sugar. Berries,
for the rich to sprinkle, virtuously, on their yogurt. “It isn’t
like we were making it to live on.”
Here's a boundary
I've never set:
My body’s capacious
and doesn’t belong
stuffed in the back
of my boss’s van.
He drives me down
to the shoppe and I
pick what I want,
assholes all happy
I'm a one call rental
kind of dream.
Middle aged women
type to me softly
they overturn pillows
at the thought
of a real vicious fight
acting real sure
about the wrong thing,
they know the vulnerable
feeling that's why
they sleep richly
behind gates. Bitch
I was a minivan
princess today too
Jess is a poet living in Baltimore. Sad tweets @jessn666
When I am a bee
I have fun, I know
I am dying, but
It’s hard to know
What that really means
Stuck in a pipe which is
Red on the outside, no light inside
Several trees fall onto
An equal amount of cars
And the woodworker is thrilled
It is hard when your job
Requires you to integrate others
Into a society you fundamentally
Disagree with, every victory
Is a little death, or like
Watching a branch dry up and
Fall apart simply because you
Selected the correct choice out of four or five
There are so many bees trying to
Get out of the pipes, a shit ton
And the pets are freaking out
I guess this is a lie
My dreams lead me to believe
I have hidden knowledge or
That I’ll soon learn
Something that is right now hidden
Or doesn’t exist, probably
This feeling I’m meant to look at
Angles of rooftops outside recall
The religious, and I’m here, high
Off the ground at work doing nothing
In a brightly lit room, someday
I’ll come back to correct myself
Because I don’t know how to finish
What could just as easily continue
Do I need to? In the most basic
Sense, yes, because I will, it’s
Hot in this room
Twin brother and sister crouched behind a hydrantsay together Excuse me, mister could we have a dollar?and hold out their hands Sorry I don’t have a dollar which is true not one dollarand as I step away with my bagover one shoulder they shout FUCK YOU I turn aroundHow could they be so abreastalready of praxis? and say That’s stone cold!Laughing they lean toward meand in unison whisper F U C K Y O U
Vincent D'Onofrio agreed to allow Paint Bucketto publish a selection of poetry. Given his immense stature as a Hollywood icon, this will likely give verse the kick in the ass it needs to not be such a disgusting failure. We welcome this
new age of poetry after decades of being fucked over by worthless MFAs
Men Who Pass Gas
Men who pass gas.
I can't stand it.
How could they.
I have control.
Friends who pass gas?
It's the1 thing.
Let me just sit in ur mess.
U try'n 2 ruin my fun?
U try'n2ruin my fun?
Fun is fun. No?
I'm not hurt'n any1 or hurt'n myself.
Why u try'n2ruin my fun?
FUN's a good thing, no?
Am I be'n malicious?
What if I say it's none of your business?
Why u try'nt2ruin my fun?
Who R U2me?
Said the squirrel2the fox just b4 the fox ate it's face
Carried rock stars in my arms.
3 flights of stairs.
Sat them in their limo's.
The front door.
The faces in makeup.
U believed in yourself or u were being trained by your peers 2 believe in yourself.
What can I live with?
Can you tell me if you respect me?
Can you answer?
Do I want to even know this thing?
If you don't respect me then where do I go?
Where do I..?
Oh gosh. Oh my gosh.
Is it all my fault?
Not to be respected can crush me.
Then where do I go?
Man, u r so Lovely
Man, u are so lovely.
Yet everything I c in u so far is just exceptional.
I can c some imperfections.
Makes u more lovely.
Thank the lord.
Imperfections define me. Familiar with imperfections.
A mountain of imperfections.
Man, u r so Lovely.
Late in the empire
of Nacho Cheese
is mostly pro
visional, Ben Fran
klin is known
to have believed
the universe inhab
ited by even whiter
men. The sky
a white canceled
you, Keep it up
and your face
will stay stuck
on earth in the age
dramas. Ea ch
night, a red
alert suds up
in the humidity
of the snack
have the good
ish sense to
for the middle
bling the stars
it sure is
time to be
dust on the pass
I was having an excellent time at the bar. I’d put
11 dollars toward something called Sky Juice
which turned out to be mostly rum. A whole wedge
of pineapple, but not 11 dollars worth, I think
of pineapple. I’d needed those 11 dollars like I need
every 11 dollars, which is to say “badly”
but also, “abstaining won’t save me.”
I was going to stand there talking to Annie. It was
her birthday, but two new people stepped into the backyard
and she went to say hi. I felt like
doing a cartwheel across the yard
between the tiki torches, but didn’t know how. Besides
I would have to disperse the crowd somehow
or cause a lot of expensive drinks to spill.
I sat down at the refurbished picnic table with my cup
of Sky Juice. I took a small sip out of two straws. Everybody
looked up in awe at my cup of Sky Juice, my enormous
pineapple wedge. Annie asked if she could try some.
Annie took a sip of the Sky Juice, and then Max
took a sip of the Sky Juice, and Sarah and Mike
and Jen took a sip of the Sky Juice. At this point I worried
when I got it back I’d find practically half of my 11 dollar
Sky Juice gone. But they’d barely sipped any away
at all, or maybe some ice had melted, the evening
and people’s hands being very warm, and everybody
who tasted it said it tasted pretty good.
I was also warm in my jacket and sweater
my hand cold from the Sky Juice. Mosquitoes began to emerge.
I was going to tell somebody what I really thought
of the bar, the backyard, but realized it was my inability to cartwheel
inappropriately crowning. I lifted my shirt over my head
and revealed yet another shirt.
i caught the liverpool kiss
drunkely walked into a fist
and then dazed came the kiss
that's just how it goes around here
the ice cream never stays solid either
i can't keep solid neither, my shoes
melt into the road like falling into a couch
by the time the moon is out
I'm faded and all around me is just
spare change and candy bars
for the time you accidentally
majored in ManEcon
for the time I bought
which was fucked up,
for the time you forgave you
and indecent exposure exchange-value
big who gives a fuck
stars are made up of
bodies so they
You kissed me on the tube
I did too
I just met Jesus
He lives behind the
Greek orthodox church
on Geneva street
and orders delivery
under the name "J.C."
he eats meat
which I find disappointing.
Andrey Ternovskiy built Chatroulette in high school. Moscow left something to be desired. His parents made an initial investment of $10,000. He paid them back with money earned with advertising, mostly from dating sites. Chatroulette uses several servers in Frankfurt, Germany. Chatroulette is where I first saw another man naked. Most of Chatroulette’s users are in the U.S. In middle school, I thought I was dating a girl I met on Chatroulette. In high school, a guy I met on Chatroulette thought I was his girlfriend. Under different circumstances, he was a maybe. He acted so surprised when he found out, but he must have already known. I was temporarily banned from the site on three separate occasions. Yesterday, after my girlfriend left me, I went on Chatroulette and cried for help. I didn’t know who else to turn to. Some boys in New Zealand poured one out for me. Some girls in Norway laughed and hit ‘next.’ At this point, how many people should I know? How many people have I talked to and forgotten? No one’s going to help me now.
moved the plant from the window today & realized
I don’t understand
what growth from indirect light means and
I hate a straight woman reading a poem about her husband
the power company knocked out the lights so many times
we never put the candles away in that apartment
I could write a poem about my husband
which I definitely have
does the world need husbands
poems about husbands
poems about dogs and families and dog yeast infections
which they have
a train fights for sound &
listen, here I go:
here’s my poem:
I used to jerk off to textbook descriptions
of flower pollination
the words stamen and anther
still make my legs
gap a little
it seems ridiculous that Ben Hur’s
family would hide from him in the leper colony
and it takes so fucking long for him to get there
to get to that scene anyway
the chariot scene takes even longer
according to you
Adam was a colossal fuckup
a fuckup like
“it’s a town full of losers
and I’m pulling out of here to win” I don’t know
you newswrap a new floor around the tub’s leak
there’s so much more you could do
with eleven minutes of your time
than the scene before the chariot race in Ben Hur those stupid horses
Hey did you know Nick Tesla
wanted to fuck a pigeon?
He saw one of those birds
and said, boy oh boy, I
better dick that dove down
before I blow my top. Gimme,
gimme, gimme, pigeon-baby,
gimme, gimme, gimme, your
sweet pigeon-baby love.
And people thought he was
normal! Fucking weirdo.
I could have started by talking
about how that quote up top is ass
(imagine not hating anybody, you'd
have to be a fucking monster, like
who on Earth doesn't have a grudge
like other than old Keyser Soze?)
but honestly I don't play around
when it comes to matters of the
flesh when that flesh is pigeon.
End of discussion. Next question.
you are so good, and
we're all stupid
(forgive us) obviously
For not realizing this
(forgive us) until now
people thought you were
you said in an interview
(forgive us) obviously
you aren't, but we didn't say
(forgive us) until now
We listened to your record
The new one
From 2018. It's good
(forgive us) obviously
but we didn't know
(forgive us) until now
The world made me wear my diaper
The spider of obligations
Everyone with their weeping thighs
I sniff the river
You put her in a diaper of nightmares
Your faggy principles
You damn the problematic
You have never suffered
Boy I hate boys
They steel toys
And make too much noise
Boys take risks
And ruin all your computer disks
Girls in the 8ᵗʰ grade think boys are cute
Boys won't shut up so I put them on mute
I'm gonna live in the graveyard
Where I can get buried
At least I wont get married
The clerk frowns at my breakfast
sandwich: a sausage biscuit,
hot like you’ll have to get
a cold one. I get a cold one,
slip the hot one in my purse while
she inspects my Oregon Trail
card. Games about manifest
destiny never taught me that
the Wilammette Valley Treaty Commission
lacked even the stolen authority
of their own Congress to drive
Kalapuya people from their homes,
that by 1855 the damage was done,
that the treaty of Dayton was a post-hoc
justification of a genocidal campaign
that led to the founding of Corvallis
College, later Corvallis State
Agricultural College, later
Oregon State University, a monument
to this campaign that never ended,
that this campaign never ended.
The case worker who denies
my food stamp renewal application
calls me an abawd, doesn’t explain
what this means but the bottom line
is I don’t make enough money,
lets me keep the card in case I ever
make enough money, has me escorted
from the Department of Human Services.
I still buy cold chicken at the store and
it still reminds me of home. I still
put hot sauce on cold chicken
and I still think it tastes better this way.
I steal hot sauce and cold chicken
from the store and it reminds me
of home, it tastes better this way.
The landlord remarks, as he is fixing the toilet,
the toilet is a hardy one, reliable—not like
those other toilets! he says. I think he means
the toilets made in China. Well, wherever the toilet
I'm flushing is from, it sucks: or doesn't. I have
to flush twice to make a normal shit with toilet paper (surely
the reader is not surprised to discover I keep my ass clean)
go all the way down the drain. The shit isn't ever
the problem; it's the paper. What does our landlord
have to say about that? what does yours? Somewhere
in there, in the toilet, there's a lesson to be learned. But where?