Poem For You

You have to guess who it is because it is someone specific.

Think about voice versus conversation. Voice doesn't mean conversational necessarily. Well it does up to a point, a certain specific minimum percentage, the exact ratio of which is something the Butchered Switch Team has been trying to pin down for some time now. But, Voice is more a movement than a style. A mode, an unavoidable convention, an empty substance with heft, an orientation, a means of establishing connection and a means of play. Poetry after all is primarily play. And if you're not giving 150% at least then we have nothing to talk about.

Poem for You.

what and where


to be asked


we are

and what are we

doing, and where we are


dive in,

like Elijah says, let go of the pools edge.


play flute

over end of time.

think about the franchise.

we can build

if we like.

a turning torso.

we liked that in sweden.

swede men in general.

the general with his pipe

and his fop in a doo rag,

breaking out decanters

from an open globe of a liquor cabinet

which in its scheme

has a molten liquor center

a set of glasses, place for the decanters

a grapefruit spoon, the requisite ball-gag.

the weirdo chamber music.

the navel gazer polished convex.

half dome.

why these words

wake me

a mystery

i am slowly working to solve

all my problems

are my problems

our problems

are so much bigger

our bp

hill of beans

floating on the periphery

of Saturn rings

so what


my lord does wish to choose

does lord wish to tire his jester


about the themes







tical shape

a pit stain, spreads

past the break down

the page turned sideways.

turn the page sideways. see

graphics. lucid as a précis,

loose as melting




deliciously spoken.

break the mold.

fix the pattern.

isolate movement

into basic tensions.

types of tension range from full relaxed to metal man.

stop talking

stop writing

stop sabotaging my peanuts.

it’s embarrassed enough

as is without this new paintjob.

busted gas line

spilling into small pan,

50 dollars worth

of gas

dirtied beyond use from its drip down the curved side

of the gas tank.

isolation and a pause

halting narration of different subject.

a new color a new relation.

an old story

mimed over conversation.

a small lorry

circling the outcrop of the light post

twirling its flame from above

the brush of my hair.

the uranium is ten feet down so its fine.

don’t stir it sir, please.

if what we ask is naked

even and rejected

then how shall we ask?

in what must we clothe ourselves?

how you

keep moving.



butts with gyration.

a real sensation.




No comments:

Post a Comment