Joseph M. Gerace
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“Cy Twombly” from “Collected Prose of Charles Olson”
“Sculpture fled. And architecture has now run after. And for good reasons: that the round world (which it was their job to lead us to enjoy—to illuminate)—turned to rot. It had been treated cheap, not by these arts but by what makes arts: men. All the golden things, including the mean, got debased. Then everything…
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facebook’s surrealist breton fish bot, what-would-i-say.com
i can’t you strongly enough: play with what-would-i-say.com for a couple of minutes. unlike most of the internet’s trends, wwis is strange and personal, pleasant and exploratory; it’s an idea grinder:
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(phenobarbital and flowers), notes on lucky peach, 11102013
The chef/poet link is an important one in terms of reverence for title and short and small beauties in potentially overwhelmingly complex systems. What makes the connection even more important for the poet is that a cook, or a chef, or whatever (actually what i mean is the opposite of “whatever”), exists in all of…
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“Big Round Tits Played Like Flutes / Every Single Number is a Metrical Unit”
There is no war buy buy buy Ode to What Charming isn’t it? How here, high, second storying There can be none. How here, high, expanded in cowardice Rubbing temples like Ginsberg at the phallic lamp HEROIC My curiosity piques at a distance and murderous is Curiosity, suddenly I’m speaking East Coast Spanish Universe-sized droplets…
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QUOTE, draft 100520131220
unlicked filth on bentbranch fingers & a chemical thin residue lean waits to be pleased across his mottled brow & thensudden cheekbone spikes no gleam. despite his mottling hair a swamp alive & long ago wet precious & fragile as a cradle unprintable man loved at impossible distance and when & when wise brown eyes…
body, book store, diction, draft, fiction, hair, illicit, literature, love, napalm, observation, oil, physical, poems, poetry, public relations, smart, spokesman, stone, streets, sweat, syntax, talisman, topography -
QUOTE, draft 092720131931
It’s a gift, reading your smells, the Oils on long green fingers, distinguished From the chemical thin residue Leans, waiting to be pleased Across yr brow, the sudden spike Of cheekbones. There’s no Smell there, despite — Yr hair, swamp alive & long ago wet, precious & Fragile. You, an unprintable man Loved at an…
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Command-W
The greasy, banister-cool Hand props up some very mediocre Problems Type the word Face Enter The computer does the rest This Is no way to live.
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Untitled 07182013, second draft
I don’t give a shit About the jungle Or your long trek To profitable madness As I sound out that place’s strange name Sweating, mosquito-thick, blood green Impossible to itch An incantation The machete blade Turns to coin. Reminding my shrink of this story He hands over a live freshwater trout I really can’t compete.…
wikipoem.org 