Wikipedia Poem, No. 102

Installation view of Kevin Beasley's "Strange Fruit (Pair 1)"

Installation view of Kevin Beasley’s “Strange Fruit (Pair 1)” at the Guggenheim

most cups from Israel
charged with tea
planetary symbolism
such as outsider colors

fairly typical: tea and tea-leaf
coffee grounds sitting for study
revealing the cups of symbols

coffee cultures patents
the French
work with the saucer
clockwise from ramparts

patterns-to set patterns
do not correspond
with the front halves of snakes
enmity of tea leaves

birds plus a joker
the tea leaves reveal dozens
of Western products
seeds are synthesized

mango unclear
in contention an Indian
in need of refrigeration
the surface centered

origination by severals
Calcitransportability sized by mixing
ripe mangos variously yellow or
green pickles a southern flora

cave seeds must mango juice
mine mango illustrations
Many salted mangos
a century and then classes

sweetness in commendation
similar skeletons in tissue
parody Arizona arid living
gallery graves in a field of

friends throughout
the cycles of aging graves
costumed adults build family
flaming cartoons calendas past

(butterflies release)

eat the holidaysmail night
— for adults on Mexican plains
— the rounding of devil masks
calent, soula, mezcal, Ocotepec

planetary symbolism works
name your friends sitting in graves
meaning unclear
preparation needed

the unclear mine
ripe of mangos
clockwise tea
by the cup of dozens

in nation Arizona
mine mangos unclear
time preparation needed mine
mango juice mine mango throughout

the cycles
is a cave
this horror

altar many Brazil dia de local
custom origins then prayers
praying natina small against and served
rabbits and children

in Almoloya de Muertos
an honor and decorated
in the dead sugar of skulls
cardboard skeletons pass’er by

in public schools autumnal flowers
the world-long journey people believe possessions
and foods and the day associated ones
of the 16th century decorations dress up the universal

interest often including
festivals by which someone
by the early mango spring
Alphonso as mangos or shaven soil

varietal juices contain mountains
determination close-up
sliced fruits and caffeine
acid vitamins! Vitamins! VITAMINS!

Andalusia from Pakistan
splashed all over the alley
over 400 varieties occurrent and ripening
monoembryonic foodnut then sliced

its own Middle Eastern cup and notes:
Dutch merchants now allow and import
their meanings from Israel in vertical
and a positive spiral fortune teller’s cup

take me someplace real zodiac cups
reverse your magic and show these
sea patterns such
turned as its own cup

settle down stances
coin-side coffee ground
with a coffee reading diet
the cup pattern set, the right
	revealing liquids



“The Summer’s Over, Jack Spicer!” by Matthew Dickman

And Paris, France,
is still Paris, France,
though we've never been there together
but might
if life were a little longer
and no one ever invented knives.
I am crossing the bridge again
and the city is behind me being rescued
or being destroyed 
with a leaf on the end of a branch
turning maple-syrup brown. 
The first one. The summer's over,
Jack Spicer, and I 
have turned my collar up against the wind
and health insurance, the clouds
and blue jays, against the gangbangers
and insufficient funds. It's getting colder.
We're turning from wheat beers to Stouts, becoming
our fathers again, our exhausted
uncles, bruising our knuckles
against the tavern walls
and young mothers, we're showing
up for work, we're blessing 
the promise of ice and snow and football to come
like the Israelites did with the sand, 
the gold, and the insects.
It's raining, Jack Spicer, and I miss
Matthew Lippman. He's walking 
through an alley in Boston,
his beautiful hands and shoulders, his wife and daughter
at home. His heart beating up 
his body like a heavyweight, the nose broken,
the ribs broken—
I'm not ready!
Kiss me, take your legs and make a belt
of stars around me,
be my winter coat, my sobriety and bodega.
The oceans are getting blue
and the oysters are getting ready. Soon
we can cover the table with newspapers, with the faces
of senators and crossword puzzles,
the oysters
spread out over the sports page,
we can open the hard shells
and slip the cold
soft bodies into our mouths. We can drink
white wine and make a kind of Pacific 
out of lunch. I want to lie around 
the room with your jeans 
flung over a chair. I want to eat ice cream
and have my older brother back.
The summer's over, Jack,
and all the waitresses
are putting on their black tights like a funeral
of knees, the bartenders are wiping down the brass, the waiters are drawing out 
their lines of cocaine
like long strings of silk, pure white and perfect.
I have crossed the bridge
into a Paris that doesn't exist. Really,
I'm in Portland,
the summer's over and the last of the breweries
are being pulled into the sky, becoming
lofts, getting roof-top gardens for surgeons and all their beautiful brides.

From Matthew Dickman’s “Mayakovsky’s Revolver”

John Ashbery


Reading Ben Lerner from behind
Without Ben Lerner's express written consent
I am Ben Lerner "noctilucent"
Against Ben Lerner's particular ass 

The pedals of the tricycle in Ben Lerner's front yard
     haven’t rotated, felt reciprocation in months 
But nonetheless, here I am, Ben Lerner
Atop Ben Lerner, concerned about Death
All tucking away the c-word from an old,
     untitled Ben Lerner poem,
     an even older poem by Wallace Stevens

From Ben Lerner's mind 
To Ben Lerner's mouth 
And into, and onto, Ben Lerner's
     night-blooming genera.

Chief among them

The midget who draws
white lines in the road

His beard itches me alive
breath stinks from bad habits
love chief among them

His small partner is struck by a large street
sweeper double yellow remains undrawn

Wikipedia Poem, No. 101

An American Form 6 Times, After Saigyo



Business of explaining
I think of community
reading services
Made by Amazon


Giveaway Amazon
giveaway Amazon
giveaway Amazon
ships and yet still rare


Saigyo, my prophet,
explains how
Kindle analytics
Aren’t helpful to the customer


Review this item please
digital customer
publisher on specter
outstanding like that


Items from the Japanese
social imagination
giveaway Amazon
one last sail


Saigyo sees all threads
books, rare books, frequently
indulging — you might rest
in this book — I read blasphemy

Author’s Bio (Conditional)


Joseph M. Gerace may teach you
maroons a thing or two about people
made of fruit. Surprise

Is always betrayed in the eyes
dirt always in the heart
despite what the underwear

Model said. Mark was his name-o
and what he said he may teach you
a thing or two about people

Against a green screen should be
so predictable like tomorrow’s lottery
slanders a descending car

Its brakes cut
with pure adrenaline intentionality
which is of course no longer pure

He cries, he bakes, he ripens
back against the night he
bereaves his hearts of fire.

Wikipedia Poem, No. 100

pitler's law

what was 
in the bathroom 


he had 
  to improvise
more brittle 
          while you know I've never


why rush it
I guarantee you that was just  
a church      the church


the same thing 
the article 
my confession in front of 
my kitten the 


had to sort 
      an end of things on click crack 
CEO of surgery cringes ends my kitten


le spooky-spooky 
was a 
star game 
  of any thing of a dead anything
this keeps happening      a dream


I remind the moderator and end
 the same way 
my folderol trade     far better travel


a large
      eye each time      nobody is 
any more 
any time 

Cat; Morning Aphorism, No. 1

"Canaries / served as coq-au-vin." Rae Armantrout

“Canaries / served as coq-au-vin.” Rae Armantrout

Can only bear one god at a time
America, like Israel, and Juicy Fruit
Time unmade, like a bed, bares many.

§, by Ben Lerner

Now to defend a bit of structure: beeline, skyline, dateline, saline—
now to torch your effluent shanty
so the small rain down can rain. I’m so Eastern that my Ph.D.
has edible tubers, my heart a hibachi oiled with rapeseed. I’m so Western that my Ph.D.

can bang and bank all ball game, brining the crowd to its feet
and the critics to their knees. Politically speaking, I’m kind of an animal.
I feed the ducks duck meat in duck sauce when I walk to clown school in my clown shoes.
The Germans call me Ludwig, bearer of estrus, the northern kingdom’s
professional apologist. The Germans call me Benji, the radical browser,
alcoholic groundskeeper of the Providence Little League. All readers of poetry

are Germans, are virgins. All readers of poetry sicken me. You, with your Soviet Ph.D.
and Afghan tiepin. You with your penis stuck in a bottle. And yes, of course, I sicken me,
with my endless and obvious examples
of the profound cultural mediocrity of the American bourgeoisie.

from Ben Lerner’s The Lichtenberg Figures

Wikipedia Poem, No. 99

“I can lay out a field / a Spectrum / Where in / So what is spoken / is the living / the flesh / & its / Movement—” from Amiri Baraka’s “#19 Death Parallels”

Wire drags west then the department
built a very black of gauze and effect
and its proximity says “You this ain’t.”

A violent IC caveat duster
you are alcohol is the issue
but what time?

Intelligence community settlefield
race claims classified destructive
presence in the closive of counteers
that night hears excruciating across

Hawaii Emily she differs on
the thin way to February Marlow
Stern rode in on a Mistan wheel

When into the bleak Pacific
speaks a civil libation except over
government acoustics