In which the poet attempts to create a poem by describing certain curious idiosyncratic features of its work—boy is it work—such attempts being by nature rather hermetic, rather unapproachable to the unfamiliar reader being in this case 99.9% of all readers—even this sarcastic guess being somewhat overly generous—what percent of the world of readers is a dozen?

The Daily Battle

the daily battles routine overriding the thought of thoughts
you pay you don’t earn, don’t deserve horseshit you can’t explain
overriding the routine and to feel through careful prayer
so much complaining just such an inevitable horseshit course of mind
the presence of the small chip in the brain called crux beyond
that clear minute, whereby spit not spat who wants/does not
which begins life so if so not living yet living not life so
the cycle spins open to provide a juice
what want wants is to stray you all of, shedding cells and
as cud to chew the pain of privilege never stops
clothes and phones and crying in the bathroom in the kitchen
 self that rends removed sphere from both pain and privilege
of the restaurant and puking and having to get it all together and get
that newspaper demarcates me
out there and eat and talk and that feeling named dread is real and
close as credit no refund or…purchase only consequence, get
close as consequence of purchase no refund only store credit get
and feeling that dread and talk and eat out there that name is real
me out of these terms so onerous that newspaper scares me demarcates
got restaurant puking and having to get it all
both privilege and pain as spheres removed from the self that reads
bathroom in the kitchen crying in the phone
and never stops yet the pain of privilege as a cud to chew
cells shedding you all is to stray and wants want what
provides a juice that when the cycle spins to open for a
so life yet not living if so living so which life begins
minute does not want to be spat whereby it becomes clear that
brain beyond crux the small presence called beyond
the course of mind complaining is just so much horseshit so much
prayer through the routine overriding the careful feel
horseshit if you can’t explain you don’t deserve if you don’t earn you can’t pay

Breathes Weed

@ end they walk out the door and go dif ways

heavy electric fog settles over the days
expectations generate abstractions frame our
days change thrown into the Styrofoam cup of time
a pity to note the movement of Man and men in poverty
dire everpresent and deride yet no feather out of place on this wing
and may all creatures number themselves one and cousins of
Death—delineated as seven minutes after the stopping of breath
alas, we must suffer no to orient reaction according to scale of Narratorial ‘I’
grew accustomed to certain nausea being drawn into the pattern of your
patron and a tyrant beyond oil the water rises to greet
and meets the fog the sea breathes 


Staring @ brick rough waiting hands ring to sell
and to say words work themselves if you let them allow
the you to emerge in disconnection and
a rough to disabuse and thought so tired
@ this moment when the queen of voices pause to clear 
her tab and lick her tit composed of abstract possible language therefore
milky thereby opened which being fallen causes tenderness or
tender laughter choking on her fluid which be spit on
the crown of the skull causes a wonderful, true
baldness accompanied by a lovely ringing tone all the
rest of days in sum not bad for having wanted not
a moment past to pull your hair out Robert Walser 

Cost Benefits

Cost Benefits

Project to pursue banal writing proved all too successful. Finally something nobody wanted to read or hear or parse, though fully valid conceptually—a proper proposition accompanying realization humm—a project meant to show that one constant underlying writing is the reaction, mainly of enjoyment, pleasure, engagement or the opposite—polar fury. No, the project was meant to portray through negation the (un)necessity of these qualities—a vast shimmery mass of ‘text’ if it can be called that. Full in its being, just there, not needing anyone or anything—an anti-erection. The contra-Viagra. Designed to quash all arousal. But—it being such a long project how can we be sure there aren’t any interesting parts snuck in? Indeed, such thoughts prompted more hardy of the reader-explorers to push forward—I mean, has anyone ever read this thing all through? Impossible. Maybe around page 3,000 it starts to get good? Or glitches? No no no. The author—an it most likely—has been preternaturally faithful to the precepts of the project—proving another common constant: w/rigor comes success, relatively defined. 

4, 2, 4, 1, 2: 13

too much
to be food yet fatten
Holy, vanity            
we call on you save us from the lie
And the seed and lie            
And cede
like sun
to night where Hussars ride nano-mares
to topple we
fat supply
will this broken
two roles wildly
contradictory    so           
cannot be trusted
  flawed flawd flwad 

like: hold smoke
and tv cum
so     let there be
despair, Holy
We call     you
nobody knows
the FUCK
you’re talking about Jack




In which the poet attempts to create a poem by describing certain curious idiosyncratic features of its work—boy is it work—such attempts being by nature rather hermetic, rather unapproachable to the unfamiliar reader being in this case 99.9% of all readers—even this sarcastic guess being somewhat overly generous—what percent of the world of readers is a dozen? Rather this attempt to create a vocabulary will hopefully engender phrases of interest if not quality thereby enacting a transaction, not of language but of focus—the entirely hypothetical reader attempting not so much to learn about the poems, but instead focusing on these new phrases of interest as starting points of a new conversation or set of considerations, expanding out from the original intent to unthought heights, spurred by the personal as objective spark powering new thoughts, thoughts about the world that receive their color and their content from the internal specificity of the listeners mind and experience. Thus not only does the reader become co-creator of these new projections, they are also minions, enacting a function, completing the work. Dark, formal, comedic, pre-ordained, unprovoked—the work is formally lurching and rather formless @ least on a grammatic or no on a sensible level--@ least during the first composition and first read thru—these experiences being analogous. Upon further reading and through obsessive editing, a shape and a sense is found whereby the work expresses itself and then works to best embody those expressions in an optimal form so that the first order of importance is generation according to a principle which can be as simple and dumb as feeling. Things are spotting, garbled, ‘wrong’, b/c this is often how life plays out in experience, also b/c the writers knowledge of writing comes foremost through doing and only secondly through engagement with a canon or a community. Not for nothing did the writer spend first year post-college living in the woods. Therefore much time is spent puzzling out a chain that most likely has already occurred and is most likely discussed already somewhere else more clear.  But this shall be as a strength unto me. And so puzzling becomes a vaunted feature. Embraced, not downplayed. 

Free Pennsylvania In Three

Movement   Compulsion   Proscription   Control

Every part to its process

and for every space on the train a body lunging to sit

For every phenomenon a description and

the indescribable presence behind it

For every text a reader be

And every child evil

Every every its category

Each dog every god damn

A style to the man

Dissolution    Constraint    Movement    Compulsion

Hard wired to flame

Region to leave a
Climate to mind  a
Tired bulldog compulsion god damn
All this info to process
A feeling of being outside somehow and to see
The real gravity of the structure
In this case a highway, Rte. 80 in
Pennsylvania, more than a word—my name
Pennsylvania, throwing my heart through a wall
Pennsylvania, who sees what goes on inside you

Inside you is a night-system
And a trenchwar
A bull pen and a minion
And a night and its mineral
And television tellyvision tele


to choose, to select and to choose
to describe here and now
as the ongoing attempt to distill and refine
sense of a mind real sadness, underlying
and emanating from moments in time
 (a list of examples, expressively rendered)
so that writing across the page appears vaguely
the same             as if a series of blurry scripture
all the same
the objects in focus are
stand-ins, obviously, but what for
harder to describe
maybe sort-of 
the point

Slightly outdated news aggregate poem

Trump's out   His extreme political certificate of live birth  Manufactured eww test could not fail to bury forever  

RUSH:  Yeah  

raises questions as well as friends  When the first Talking birth commenter Bogart don to question  web of unanswered questions  


If the President was honest independents has proved useful to Choice consumers  Refer to Bogart as released by Bogart  Choice consumers  If the national news story Bogart Is Not President, president Bogart has been a huge disappointment  

RUSH:  Yeah, yeah, yeah

The birth certificates run hundreds of articles  overall desperate 40% of the nation’s be is not conservatism   So here's Choice consumers dream my birth controversy A New York Times opportunity  Bogart was born in the United political wing launched disapproval  a core component release released document argued that the document was White House  
CALLER:  Hey, Rush   It's gonna hurt Apple

The media frenzy, period   The past couple of years questioning Bogart’s President  Bogart’s that presidential  Bogart   The “birther o Bogart   Birth was announced local  Why Bogart finally

 Love the smoke disaster   

vyr u jbiq rgwew rgwt ew

Getting off track in all respects traditionally traditionally convolutes the story as content
Being a focus in time Variable the time perhaps the length to consider word valueless
the off and the on
distinction loosens
its clarity
the story will not adhere any longer silent in its bow and
and there were c


Will be a word bank and ‘paper’ in kilobytes
Lurking below to stir all surfaces however miss
Of a page made to eyes through Microsoft
And the white-black look operatic embued with
Wail of chosen to spin through bandwidth
Downloading music files from the internet

Wherever this wherever that you speak of it
Well, all your instincts tell you to climb out  as fast as you can in real time

Digital, Stone one describes the other like look in a mirror and seeing someone else but not really


Where is it all going

  Petty merchant words just keep folding and tidy
Naming prices but not able to be talking like was
The paint on the walls tan or did a convo occur
Bout walls that could be painted or are ore a
Be a way that is not that way some doors are
And others way narrow

Is supposed to function?

I don’t know.

A correlative?

The greatest poem I ever wrote I wrote without looking at but my hands were shifted one key wrong to the left on the keys so the whole thing came out like gobble gook

But decipherable so patient though my lord

I don’t know a thing about them

Bt I know there they are

Processed Free-Write or Pink Slime Poetry?

establishing life
feeling pines
unwind            smile
of speak
tentative                     dysfunctional
conference                     manner

chain                            desirous
life feeling                     manner

smiling wind      
human                                    call manner
speaking of seasons                      the life

unstoppable string
clothe to be placed
his tension son
kisses tentative
shoots out godheads nose

chain               calamitous
conference      noise

             manner of the dark               voice
             pines                             destroying

           unstoppable               voice
            text represent               speaking
                seasons call              white