Map of the World

Wikipedia Poem, No. 746


shy piñata

horizon of mascara slurps
a burst expectant cross
mangles the black one
purple swoosh at eye-level

burst piñata

down-filled custom spilt dirty swinging watcher
black one purpled shoulders slap
black one purple air of fire

blink mascara
burst piñata

the poets’ key
falls into air-fire

down across simile
like the face with no face
elsewhere is here
it licks for candied fontanelle

or glides or imagines
the black one’s purple mage
who cannot know:

and slurps
the poets’ knot
groks their shy
pint at eye-level


Wikipedia Poem, No. 745

“Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles, Bubba….” Hunter S. Thompson


contemporary show-offs hair and little punchy verbs
in all the right places some high round
oogleables sweet averroes retweets roxane gay

are we desirable astride rare machinery
life jackhammered by rounded-off cobbles wet at four a.m.
pardner don’t get on a bike blazing in medias res down a texas highway

i am the wet cobbles in the sun
set of the innocent machinery
of the life i think of in 1198

superb that i married lois lane
and her red-meat art
don’t come between my motorcycle and that beautiful girl

squeezed between us
three on a bike aflame down a texas highway
i am the machinery of life’s wet cobbles

that i will to live

Please let me sleep

“The bike I was thinking of buying belonged to a friend. Before I could buy it, I crashed on it, riding as a passenger behind my friend, with a beautiful girl squeezed in between us, three on a bike, a Triumph, going far too fast, all of us drunk, around Place de la Concorde, and slipping out of control on the wet cobbles at 4:00 a.m. Pardner, don’t get on a motorcycle with drink in you.” Frederick Seidel


Wikipedia Poem, No. 744


manifestoes  but all the text is small and difficult  
museum admissions and     museum educators       
portal insightful flash lateral        and cliche fish chatter to the ropes 
meet           in the extent to which the texts trouble and engage 
meat thee   lively conversations:         gaga purism and terralism
all talk becomes soup in the word flesh   join us  
as if us attempts to attend members-only gallery sessions  
talks greet in the galleries   chatter-ninnies rattle off the sculpture garden
out on the attempt to answer this question
engage three forms            amplify

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Wikipedia Poem, No. 743


Suicide’s Remix (branch6) (work in progress) Joseph M. Gerace

                  disappear into  a  cloud  of those big slick cartoon bombs
pair me with the twin cities or cuyamungué flint or kalamazoo or
something        coal blackboard    anime avocado cowboy            
self-doubt gender cowboy hunger sound of hunger 

to the best of your recollection       how fast
was the joke? a revolution? an iphone? (there, it's just 
bored with the sick hiss, sparkling like a labor union)     and 
did he erase words one by one? 
sparkle me on the sick risk of memory

somewhere, it's january. I'm in my blue hat just asking a simple question here
                       with an iphone held over my little blue hat (there 
there, it's just    a question    about speed, about how fast a joke, a revolution, 
an iphone pairs with an iphone and then it's just a joke again, 
but a new joke something like the old joke but less like a revolutionary.) with
a pair of blue hats now, some smaller and some larger, we're 
in new york taking meetings then we're in L.A. — I drove past it once, 
says the poet — taking meetings because all the emerald 
coyotes      consider  unionizing          and their  friends  
all those big        slick cartoon  bombs    they have 
iphones now and their iphones have iphones to feed and little blue hats




I sit in bed beside you, shearing,
Heating pad set to medium;
You say I couldn’t handle more.

You’re looking for work.
I’m reading about poets in

Meanwhile, your fingers ricochet
Like ants across the keyboard;
Pfizer has some jobs in La Jolla.

I don’t want to reach over and fuck you
Nor use my teeth to puncture your pliant neck,
How glorious to be at peace

Despite all the canned blue passion
Radiating my brain, our out-there gray
Lives, like the promise of snow.

Pain always produces logic, which is
very bad for you. That’s not my line
But it’s a good one and applies here;

Women are bred for pain, they’ve got it
In them. The trick is to realize not everyone
You think is a woman is, my friend. It is dark

Now. The weather report predicts snow overnight
And it is rare the weather report is wrong
Anymore. Four to six inches. This poem

Is about fucking. Or not fucking. Or refusing
To write in bedclothes
with blood.

Je Etsy Un Autre

Wikipedia Poem, No. 742


“You don’t need a story. The question is How long do you not need a story?” David Shields

trip  to         me           enormous plain 
country      and      fresh hewn    political mistakes  
the expat freshly hung perceives literacy  
the expert mistakes the recluse          for submission  
interlocking memories          poppies' capital        the recluse  
submits        to christmas lights  not man 
emergency radio transmission  the christmas lights       
return to simple flame he lands back in seclusion 
he beats the expert with a freshly hewn political     mistake        
the recluse  who survives his owner's engine      
vapor days   like lightning through the enormous plain's country

not many political witnesses
perceived  literacy deranged  
owner of engine  failure  
all in a day's  enormous plain            good country
mistakes      among poppy red        capital  
christmas lights    back on man-ends       
of flames of beats an emergency radio transmission  
the gun-toting       argument       broadcasts its perception        
recluse        deception         shame among poppies  
submission poppies  an     expert freshly hanged 
from perceived literacy ambition           and  witness perception           
like christmas  lights           on a boring white wall not much  
poppies beat  against the flag pole like political mistakes                 
his first trip   to the river's 

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Wikipedia Poem, No. 741


“For the entertainment of his guests, Nero would illuminate his whole garden with bodies of live Christians covered in burning oil and strung up on flaming crosses, crucified. At dinner he would have the Christians rubbed by his guards with aromatic herbs and garlic and sewn up into sacks and then they’d throw these sacks to the dogs.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s horrible.”

“Terrible, is what it is.”

report every word of mouth 
swear vow word statement crack 

word of mouth swear vow word 
put in word 
word say-so 

byword word it verbalism aphorism 


"Learn to predict a fire with unerring precision.
Then burn the house down to fulfill the prediction."

word style 
utterance style 
pledge style 
trough style 

the spoken words to expression 
express give declaration 
expression affirmation: nn 
word words to mot d'ordre 
communication remark statement avouch 
saw the word in half 
saw saying sentence: nn 

affirmation expression 
verbalize conceive 
saw saying 
positive statement 
solemn declaration 
solemn golem
solum galam

"La pistola che ho puntato sulla tempia si chiama Poesia."



  • Jarmusch, Jim, Demetra J. MacBride, Johnny Depp, Gary Farmer, Lance Henriksen, Michael Wincott, Eugene Byrd, Mili Avital, Crispin Glover, Iggy Pop, Billy B. Thornton, Jared Harris, Gabriel Byrne, John Hurt, Alfred Molina, Robert Mitchum, Robby Müller, Jay Rabinowitz, and Neil Young. Dead Man. 1996.
  • Miłosz, Czesław. New and Collected Poems, 1931-2001. New York, N.Y: Ecco, 2003, pp. 83-87.
  • Merini, Alda, and Ambrogio Borsani. Il Suono Dell’ombra: Poesie E Prose 1953-2009. Milano: Mondadori, 2010, p. 1007.