Never Say Seems To Be

FDM2

In promotional materials,
as in any great poem,
never say seems to be.

Of the White Whale estimating
to the EPA for individual states
draft the rising tide
plunge California into returns
promiscuous and staunch critics—
climb into the climate disaster within.

Little didactic poet,
sit up straight, don’t
say swift accountant.

Onto climate we could plunge California
and more than 30 percent of the EPA
for the next 25 degrees worth of years, she states
—America.
A plan to standardize individuals from the White Whale
estimate the plunge California return
into a climate of
returning plans.

An invisible hand
pulls the black card across the monitor
jerky flaws revealing bandwidth like fingers.

Say fallible;
say the young woman breeds art;
say merry-go-round at dusk.

Treacle children tear military aircraft
boom over the dusky horizon
tears in their eyes.

Polyphemus in Napa

Wikipedia Poem, No. 655

W655-SM

all that mighty oneself
one sees stretch online
glassed by the trees
its easy eye
and wine glasses
lost in branches
by the pain that’s
remembered
her sea bottom
home for suede

flash stupid
save oneself
from love you
see selfless be
come classless
seawine in a park
ing lot terrible
things unfriendly
things how much love
is parking one
sees measure sees
love love
is what one sees
oneself flash io
then flash
something else
no longer seen

Wikipedia Poem, No. 219

geneva-03-sm

Dulling eyesight. Cryptic internal negotiations—fraud, the host imagines. A syphoning off of lifeforce. To whom? For what purpose?

 

that he is loved 
     in the details now
     radiograph of an arthropod 

that he is loved 
     fluorescent under gamma
     radiation produces ample light 

that he is loved
     and loves this procedure
     this flicking idea biolumined 

that he is loved
     dinoflagellates swallow night 
     an organism excited within bioglyphs 

that he is loved 
     motile and feeding on prayers
     like sea turtles and scorpions flog up the flagpole 

that he is loved 
     shines brilliantly online
     rise and fan out cnidaria over form

paculum-spec2-sm

Sources:

Wikipedia Poem, No. 130

IMG_1460.JPG

“The street has swallowed itself into border.” Kush Thompson


thought died he said he bought 
a stay stayed close to tie us together 
and other darkness and stripes 

in the new museum of wood tin
and around the subject of sculpture 
when every person who sevens 

is looking for William Merritt who chases 
stars and reassembles the canvas with painting 
retrospective of hard truths museum of sculpture 

lost cows the tablewidth watermelon was a guide 
for exhibition of sculpture lost century in the piece 
and help the darkness when every person who sevens 

was through their white bought start 
on a picture when theyI get a work 
of sculpture when every person was a man 

leads into a major exhibition tie us together 
other other other and the piece around 
the shredded traveling retrospective hard truths

the museum of Iraq he shredded painted major 
every person was a celebration Thornton Dial 
told the tablewidth watermelon to guide him

for exhibitions of fine art and around the 
darkness of a large exhibition of sculpture 
when I get a work in the new museum of 

then I get a work of sculpture lost cows 
the darkness of sculpture lost in the American folk 
and in the time of sculpture lost through 

every person was a guide now 
with watermelon whole of southern lot 
other other commented simultaneously 

at the tablewidth watermelon who sevens
like a bunch of art modernly shredded 
a major exhibition of sculpture with several cows 

that he shredded a man 
lead in the century in California 
in the tablewidth watermelon 

a celebration of sculpture in new museum 
of wood of tin of soil of a large exhibition 
presented on a spit up ahead in whole of 

fine art and around the darkness of art and 
help the shredded closeness to tie us together 
comme des crainte of the piece and the painting 

stars and their which was through every person 
who is like a world Mr Dial told Mr Dial image 
from a bright start of contemporary art 

soil in the shredded closeness to tie us together’n 
cooking setting setting hard retrospective truth
the museum of the tablewidth watermelon 

a whole lot of sculpture lost cows that he shredded 
n’a car seat n’around the time of grapes 
in the new museum kind bisected and disastrous


Source: Grimes, William. “Thornton Dial, Outsider Artist Whose Work Told of Black Life, Dies at 87.” 
The New York Times, 27 Jan. 2016. Web. 28 Jan. 2016.

A beautiful paragraph from Pynchon

“Sunrise was on the way, the bars were just closed or closing, out in front of Wavos everybody was either at the tables along the sidewalk, sleeping with their heads on Health Waffles or in bowls of vegetarian chili, or being sick in the street, causing small-motorcycle traffic to skid in the vomit and so forth. It was late winter in Gordita, though for sure not the usual weather. You heard people muttering to the effect that last summer the beach didn’t have summer till August, and now there probably wouldn’t be any winter till spring. Santa Anas had been blowing all the smog out of downtown L.A., funneling between the Hollywood and Puente Hills on westward through Gordita Beach and out to sea, and this had been going on for what seemed like weeks now. Offshore winds had been too strong to be doing the surf much good, but surfers found themselves getting up early anyway to watch the dawn weirdness, which seemed like a visible counterpart to the feeling in everybody’s skin of desert winds and heat and relentlessness, with the exhaust from millions of motor vehicles mixing with microfine Mojave sand to refract the light toward the bloody end of the spectrum, everything dim, lurid and biblical, sailor-take-warning skies. The state liquor stamps over the tops of tequila bottles in the stores were coming unstuck, is how dry the air was. Liquor-store owners could be filling those bottles with anything anymore. Jets were taking off the wrong way from the airport, the engine sounds were not passing across the sky where they should have, so everybody’s dreams got disarranged, when people could get to sleep at all. In the little apartment complexes the wind entered narrowing to whistle through the stairwells and ramps and catwalks, and the leaves of the palm trees outside rattled together with a liquid sound, so that from inside, in the darkened rooms, in louvered light, it sounded like a rainstorm, the wind raging in the concrete geometry, the palms beating together like the rush of a tropical downpour, enough to get you to open the door and look outside, and of course there’d only be the same hot cloudless depth of day, no rain in sight.”

Thomas Pynchon, from Inherent Vice

Feminist Poem for Marilyn Monroe

feministpoem

There are no photos 
	of Marilyn Monroe
Just images of her lovers

Ed Clark   not the once-young
	negro abstract expressionist
Painted himself as Marilyn

Bent at the hip, arched back
	in white Griffith Park   her ass
Some tribute   her  one must presume  face ordered dilute

Later   as she lay back nude  one hand
	dissolving at the waist   Clarke rakes
Furious   spilling the end of the poem   on the edge of the frame.

Bukowski’s Place

He had a thick listhp like he’d been punched in his mouth
his whole life. He didn’t ask us to leave
but served us garbage whiskey, asked
a half condescending question
about how long we’ve had the internet
and then shot a small, scared mouse
with a bow and arrow.

We were tourists alright.