macropoem

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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

thee

and meets the fog the sea breathes 

Staring

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

language            

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

why

because                                    

fat supply

new

will this broken

hold

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

stop

nobody knows

what

the FUCK

you’re talking about Jack

Nicholson

Microfiction

Microfiction

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.