Subway Writing
to turn and cook the meat we got married
after a week new start new life
i woke up and i was 35 only the poor are glad
to be alive youth culture
hip vulture Lars the strongman downing whiskey
he burps and laughs you'd never guess
that he was sixty the hobo
is not homeless
he plays rhumba on the subway all day for change
a culture warrior in a spurned war when will fortune turn
the page made mistakes it was not over
when it was full i was not
serious when i called you
fool forgive me
let us drive through the clouds
with the radio turning changing jumping strangely
enough is enough is strangely enough
the cat feels pensive paused over its water bowl
sound in the hall a shadow in the mirror
I did not see who it was but no impression has been clearer
it was a failure kicking around playing at being a demon
you know its that season that flavor that taste of
sawdust kicked up on a bar floor swept up out of a corner
the cat died where I lay and cried but
the demon came back for more to understand
go back and cross out every fifth word
if that does not work close your eyes spin three times
tape paper to your forehead and look in the mirror
the subtle transfer occurred with out being seen
see an order had been activated
called dynamics and harmony of aesthetics and action
a stage and a play and it revealed the magic
as god were looking over your shoulder looking with you and
approving,
as if a circus had arisen on the street as if wind
blows through a sheet and we release
our kundalini by breathing right
and minding our manners and making sensible purchases
and raising kids and watching what we eat
the taste is both sour and sweet
the treat is to be free and run no more after any one thing
and even to die creates no fear in no man
we've gone as far as we can which is eighth avenue
for certain new yorkers the fulcrum of the universe
and here we parted and sighed and our sighs rose
and we rose on our toes and our lips shook hands openly soonishly
your hair rose when the train passed it hung there twirling.
'His palpable is tiredness'
Those work is based on an encounter i had that revealed my position in the power hierarchy: it was a simple encounter, me trying to squeeze past a waiter in a hallway.
His palpable is tiredness
A wall with no middle,
Lock with no hole
Eyes in another universe
We can only see past
Each other even though we nod
Hello, this hallway is narrowing
So we have to slow dance past
One another even as he heads
With his bucket to the latrine
I am leaving this karmic omlette
Resides in reptile eyes
That though we are innocent
We are none of us clean
At least not me, I feel so
Dirty, what did I did
eat garbage
dwink gasowine
Subject Index pt.1
Subject Index;
this is the title of a new sequence of process poems taking the subject index of a marketing textbook's subject index as the inspiration.
S
Safety
Contest
fluctuations
Forecasts potential territories
Sales branches
Sales era
Sales force
Compensating culturally diverse computer
Managing
motivating
Performance evaluation
Recruitment and selection
Size of training offices
Salespersons sales promotion(s)
Methods opportunities and limitations in
Soft drink trade sampling
Satellite television service scanning environmental
Decision making scrambled scripts
Search seasonal products data
Distortion and
Consumer buying behavior
Selective self-interest
Self-regulatory program seller
Selling personal selling agents
Sentence-completion tests
Service(s) characteristic of classification of exchange of
marketing of nature and characteristics of organizational buyers sexual
harassment
Shareware
Shopping centers
Shopping products
Short-range single-line
Single-source variable site locations
Situational factors and situation analysis
Social activism social class behavior
And purchasing as philosophy
Defense issues in ethics impact proactive strategy
Soft drinks special-event
Willingness of images store specific storyboard
For straight alliances competitive
corporate strategy stratified subculture
Sugging
Under the guise of matching
In sales courts
in sweepstakes
End of the Year
Well, we've just about wrapped up our first year here at Butchered Switch, and as we calmly survey the offices--the weeping interns, the wretching accountants--we know that everything has gone better than could have been expected. We've had it all, laughs, tears, withdrawal. And our commitment is firm--to continue our legacy of producing the most, best poetry read by the fewest and the craziest into the next year. Salut!
EVERY THING
Did absolutely everything
Wrong
Only in my head Had it goin on
As I did so it happened to me
and I did not speak, was not spoken too.
There were tears running down the street great fancy
Painted circus curtains many murals do contain
And the head of hair of the fray
And the inconvenience Intrusion by the old-man friend
This being me everything jumbles
Coffee rumbles from the shudder
Spilling onto the wood-box top Our table
The spot light splashed they were rocked in a pod-
Cast tone in bronze
Bell
Back to back tech technology
Somebody shut those puppets up
Parable of Hope/Mountains of Madness
I know I know what your thinking; isn't this just a bit of plagarism? I mean, this poem is just the text of Mountains of Madness, the H.P. Lovecraft novel. That position overlooks the edits and alterations that have been made to the text. Perhaps the biggest job was cutting out the second and third adjectives and adverbs cluttering the text. Think what you will about Lovecraft's racism, as a writer he had a vivid sense of the motion of a text, and the affects that could be achieved by that motion. He also either did not trust himself, and tarted everything up with unnecessary flourishes and 'color' or he was a big windbag.
Bob Ducca is a very inspirational man and if you google his name I'm sure you'll find some fitting introduction to his wisdom. When I hear him reach his poetry my head swims and for a moment I feel I am back among the smoke and street-cars of 20's Paris.
Parable of Hope for Bob Ducca from H.P. Lovecraft’s Mountains of Madness
Arranged by Michael Newton
I
Flying over the higher foothills and along
Towards the relatively low pass
As we advanced We occasionally looked down
The terrain the crevasses the glaciers, wind-bared passes,
and the other bad spots
mystery beckoning in the sea of sky
archaic myths the winds swept in
the omnipresent and resonant cave-mouths
the touch of evil glimpsed betwixt their sound
as complex and unplaceable
As any of the other dark impressions.
no human eye had ever gazed those mountains of madness.
Unable to speak behold that realm
Disbelief in senses Finally saw
fiendish violation of known natural law
II
long before we had passed the great star
and reached our plane
these foothills black, ruin-crusted slopes reared Against the east,
reminding us of those strange Asian paintings
And Nicholas Roerch;
We could not face without panic
The prospect of again sailing by
Those cave-mouths where the wind made sounds
as it had done when we first saw it
and we began rising and turning
The ice-dust clouds of the zenith were doing all sorts of fantastic things
I tried to keep all my skill and self-possession about me,
And stared at the reddish farther sky Betwixt the walls of the pass,
Wishing I had wax-stopped ears Looking back,
Ahead, sidewise, and upward Began shrieking
Mad Close to disaster
(What final horror made him scream so insanely?)
III
Hinting that the final horror was a mirage…
Single, fantastic, daemoniac glimpse
Among the churning clouds
Memory had chance to draw
black pit, cavern rim, five dimensions, windowless solids, nameless cylinder, elder pharos, Yog-Sothoth, primal-white jelly, in darkness, out of space, wings, eyes, moon-ladder, the original, eternal, undying,
When fully himself he repudiates all this,
Attributes it to his curious and macabre reading…
But the higher sky was surely vaporous
And swirls of ice-dust do take strange forms,
And Imagination can sometimes be reflected,
Refracted, and magnified in
Layers of restless cloud,
But he never could have seen so much in one instant.
At the time his shrieks were confined to the repetition of a single mad word.
Serial poem: Sad America pt. 2
III.
The strange hatred for the salesman stems
The pliant stems
salesmen
from rivers
innumerable
spring
IV.
Did plants ever really understand the salesmen?
The salesmen did not understand plants, that’s for sure.
Old earth biddy flinched, brought the heat
Ice compacted the population
But where it was hot was all desert
Rocking, picking dead skin off her big toe,
Sitting at the crossroads.
Then a lonesome guitar realization sissy
Spacek terrence malik affair, bad lands
Bad Lands sheen of stones in a wind
But this was not losing. ‘Plants’ had it planned out,
Super long-term goals, out schemed the schemers as I said.
But I don’t know nothing nor
can sympathize with the plants
about that…
v.
you know
you have ants
when your house’s radon test comes up positive.
They hide it
In your wall and yor roof
And your floors board
radon bits in their shit.
They eat batteries. They eat poison trash.
That’s their diet. Diffuse the effects through their hive soul.
And eventually they will consume the house
With help
from carpenter bees and worms and termites.
Ants have as much bio-mass on this planet as humans. I’m just saying.
What if the earth has already begun to rebel against us,
secreting oil, jelly-fish, and slime?
Planetary Age
very different scale
billions of years, and even that’s just stupid
human
measurement.
Vi.
My voice is not human.
VII.
Your not
like the others,
we like the same things.
serial poem: Sad America pt. 1
I.
Nature making
our
difficult mind
the objective
truth,
aroused
the dead
salesman,
II.
plants spared America…
a breach, let Fall
winter depths
a horse installed
as puppet king…
in a state
wandering the streets
little food,
frequent dates,
acting class,
14 children murdered and decapitated.
This strange conflict
the best example
why
the rainforests motivated
finally focus on total
destruction,
only way to
control the company.
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