This is a poem about chances, chance meetings and chance accidents. I was concerned with the way in which a bad accident creates a sense of irrevocable fate. Also, I wanted to show the way in which such an occurrence acts as a means of forcing the mind to work harder and faster. The normal course of our consciousness is altered and what is not then possible? Here I tried to show the way in which the one party to the accident--a car crash--extends thinking about the other party of the accident so far that their minds actually become one.
Calling this poem a nightmare is an attempt to distance myself from the dark sexuality of the poem. What is nightmarish about the scenario is precisely the nonchalance of the narratorial voice. This is brute sexual-whatever trivialized by placing it on a list of things to do today.
I would rather than anything
go to Drinky’s and rape a drunk
strumpet in the bathroom.
Her tears steam the mirror,
which receives the grease of her face
And then afterwards I deliberate,
about what toppings I want
on my $4.00 Make-it-Yourself-Quesadilla.
The idea of the future as an abstract concept is a point of division between people. This division basically boils down to utopia/distopia. This opposition has always interested me and my attitude about it changes day to day and according to my mood. It makes me think that instead of thinking about the future per se, it might be more fruitful to think that what we are in today was once considered the future, and that this truism extends back to the beginning of time. Conversely, the idea that "the future" will one day become the present and ultimately the past is also equally and always true. What is time? What does the breakdown of time and linearity do to the worlds of fashion and technology, what is the relationship between capitalism and time? Broad, perhaps too broad. These questions are only loosely connected with this poem, which is entitled "the future."
mound sinks, to compress.
How could we say?
A worm hole forms.
Drops it in the park
of a summers day,
Scatters everyone. An ice cream
cart explodes, sending spray.
Sweet drops dogs lick.
the hole at the bottom of which the future pulses
Generally, feeling lucid
punctuates period of nerves.
There isn't even a question to pose,
have no mind anymore.
Pluck the jade,
tone of you.
Go to the gizmo's coo,
an eternal circuit city.
the surge of punishment,
cones and balls and sperm.
Jumble, wreckage, the aftermath.
The real hallucinatory.
Be sure and see
all at once.
The hallucinatory real,
becoming waterier and waterier...
with the gibber of the man rocking outside the door,
swallowed by the sounds of the grocery store.
A crazed salesman fights with a boy employee.
"Will the manager please report to the fruit aisle."
The manager acquiescent, "let this man do what he wants..."
the boy and the man fight with his case
'How do you undo?' unfolds into display table.
'Hello! I said, ho do you do?'
Of late my abdomen tingles.
soreness in the right shoulder.
Which the action of this typing but aggrieves.
Makes way for some unknowable alteration.
Your mind loosens its sense of individuality, like an anus
relaxing in a hot bath.
our magnificent kiss
wheres my sand poem?
Sand paper, sand paper.
Balancing neither one nor the other,
coexisting hereof a third portion.
This is a poem, which is basically at the level of a free write. However, I am trying not to think of that detrimentally. In fact, quite the opposite. My method of writing, as much as there is one, has recently been concerned with operating according to a logic and a validity that draws its power from the fact of being a voice/voices speaking and the ways in which speaking occurs. Thus, even if this piece were to be more fully edited it would still be called a free write and it be comprised of many little mini-movements within the larger work. These movements are sometimes not connected directly, sometimes they are not connected at all beyond the fact they are spoken things. This spoken connection is actually very large and very important and it is my contention that there is no poetry which does not employ voice and speaking in terms of its content. This may actually apply to all writing, however banal. The voice is grammatical and anti-grammatical. Voice and words go together. When do they not? How can they not? Is there any writing that has no voice?
Thus, this piece,
FREE WRITE, LEHIGHTON, JAN. 16th '10
like poetry; prestige
either moving up or...
crowded with impressions,
vying for position.
But not to be silly
and to focus
as it were, arbitrarily,
Writing's rush, a castigation:
earnestness covering a lazy lack.
Picking sentences at random
to display in their absurdity
a larger absurdity,
a meta-contextual perceptual Shift
that vaults out to swallow
you as well as the concept.
"An amount in this box means
the fishing boat operator considers you
Thank you, No.
Unless you mean medicine labels
I don't much care for poetry.
Brother falls asleep,
the old leather folder slips off its shelf.
And the circle recurs,
back to desultory dreaming
days of video games
and the media circus
cannot obfuscate the Haitian tragedy;
a recent one in an age of many,
you're acting weird in front of your family.
don't indulge depression. Declaim
but do not neither deride or approve.
profuse period of remembrance,
of your self as many
lives. As humans
swim and break,
moving like fish
thinking like cancer.
A grimy grouch stuffs a pepper truck,
jokes fart out. Suddenly, the voice
recieves new instructions:
to move about the stage, with freedom
on the brain, magnanimity and humble
performance; to have no expectation
of purpose mask purpose
and therefrom delight and empathy,
but with force!
degree of tension
opens the plane
the neutral you able to project clear as water.
Muddied with fear,
but if by design,
as if in character,
what then, revealed?
A hidden valuation,
a pre-planted castigation
switching on and off
swinging on a long wire,
the bare bulb
hovers over the jumping man
pulling on a tight dress.
This internet is crazy big! Let us be afraid, let us be joyful, but let us also start blogs about poetry and various writing, which is what we've done here at Butchered Switch.
We thought we would get right down to it and so this first post of new poems.
talking to myself.
Who is this 'I' that says 'you?'
Are they both 'me?'
What me are these subsections of?
It makes sense but is confusing.
And I awake chagrined.
Think about Grandpa,
being the new kid...
Then I wake again and realize that was the dream.
So I get up and go to the canal
and watch the fish jump.
They start walking around.
Some go to the bank, then go buy cigarettes.
Two fish box outside the park,
just a friendly sparring,
but at the same moment,
each socks the other on the jaw
and passes out
their mouths kiss the others tail...
right now you
are dreaming, freewheeling.
Point where even beauty
is no longer beautiful.
And you know, but you don't
No gender, thought, experience, organs, perception.
All this nonsense we call local color
And because I am speaking to you clearly
means it is the morning
and you will soon awake.
Forget we've spoken.
If you remember, write.