Cosmopolitan Bias

Wikipedia Poem, No. 570

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“tip of finger moist from eye fluids deep breath mucus expulsion via spit deep breath yawn eyes view sky getting darker upper teeth bite outside of lower lip” Kenneth Goldsmith

the 
      forest
          thick 
with 
dread
cut by compulsive slashes
bearing no 
particular 
          reward
through the forest
thick about hunger
         masturbation
    nation
online 
video games
reading 
about hunger
   masturbation 
of crackling 
      wilderness
       a dozen cups 
of crackling no 
          particular 
    reward
    through 
the forest
     except forest
      think 
         of a dread 
wilderness
       a dozen cups 
of crackling no 
    particular reward
through the 
       forest
    except 
forest
except hunger
masturbation   
of 
  crackling wilderness
a dozen cups of 
       crackling about 
        hunger
         masturbation
online video games
read
    cut by compulsive slashes
         bearing no particular reward
through the 
forest
    except forest
except 
games
      about wilderness
a dozen cups of crackling 
wilderness
a dozen 
cups of
      eating with dread 
   wilderness
       a dozen cups of coffee
    eating hunger
masturbation 

of crackling 
wilderness
        a dozen cups of crackling wilderness
a dozen cups of 
         resource 
      rich 
      clientelistic nations 
of crackling 
wilderness
      a 
  dozen 
       cups of 
          coffee
    eating the wilderness of
       a dozen 
    cups of crackling slashes
bearing 
no particular reward
through 
  the 
      forest
thick with 
dreading 
no 
        particular reward
through the 
forest
       think about hunger
      masturbation 
of 
coffee
        eating about 
video games
reading wilderness
        in a 
          dozen cups 
of coffee
eating no particular 
        forest
          think 
with dread
      of cuts by 
compulsive slashes
   bearing wilderness
      a 
       dozen cups of crackling coffee
   without dread
would you
crackling 
cups of no reward
          through 
dissolution 

particular reward
through the 
      forest
        except forest
       thick without hunger

‘How to Put Rockets in Clippy Bits’

Wikipedia Poem, No. 524

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“Whole floors, / broken up and carted off …” August Kleinzahler

an iris lost in a big dog 
bed creative world of professions
talks ted talks ted was a flower 
lost in the usa our numbers blow up! 
submissions: and up comedy at goodpoet writing 
high quality profession inc 
instructs starbucks ted talks 
talks ted talks the usa roasting a city profession 
creative workspace &           game thug 
#indieauthor of quirky     fiction 
survives on… true stories conversation 
survives on a careful rations: 
k signed -h artists! let      us make your missions 
creative     creative writing high quality professions: 
i am our numbers       blow me up! 
submissions:  bed         creative creative
writing high quality    too big… comedy
at its very best she workspaces & game thug 
#indiedev stress in the usa
our numbers blow up!
submissions:  here game thug 
#indiedev stress in the onion inc 
instructs          starbucks 
ted talks ted talks ted talks

Wikipedia Poem, No. 388

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   perfect 
         new 
evening not 
  cracked 
        open in the maté  
        and why? 

   probably it backs into this 
       poem is his 
          catch his poem is 
       safe from couples 
        swallowing will not crack open 
on a pier 
at noon 
in the maté grass

and prepared to toss it back 
in maine i worry that perhaps 
the sitcom couples swallowing leak lemony acid 
all 
over 
my powerful tongue 
    perhaps 
    the maté 
         grass and a blur i know brazilian 
         jiu jitsu i am probably 
safe from couples swallowing 
lemony acid all 
      over my 
perhaps

Mirror Neurons Over America

mnia-sm

The dog in bed
Lays longwise
Across the duvet

Looks me in the eye
Innocently, like the two-year-old
Syrian girl without a passport.

Alarm clock
Radio talking too loud
in the other room.

The dog in bed
Has ticked away from me
Could be coffee breath

Or selfishness,
It being late morning now.
Nearly twelve hours have passed

Since her last walk. I pissed
Twice in the minty night
And thought nothing of it

Until now. Her breathing
Gentle, a bit staccato and
She has tocked back to me.

When we make eye contact
Her long white lash flutters
And she pulls air into her lungs

In such a way that a high-pitched
Whistle curls out from her wet brown nose
A whisper of smoke, and her tail

Beats twice with rhythm
On the bedsheet. A third time.
I’m surprised and ignore her

To write this. Hard sigh. She is better
Not knowing what I know
About 1676,

Or needing a mug of sweet, hot coffee delivered to her
In bed to get going. Let’s go, girl, for that walk
Across a Europe that does not want or need us.

Braille Poem No. 1 [draft 12292013]

the ring finger
the palm
ring finger
the palm

preoccupied
father again
wonder again
another
chalice-full of vinegar

strapped to this cluttered table
again
Charles Olson                               again
pinot noir                                     again
sony                                            again
starbucks                                     again
menu and ravenous tin
the New York Times                      again

exclude burning past lives
holding the hand of wonder            again
pushed into the street                    again
ring finger, palm
palm, ring finger, palm
suddenly with such speed.         morning again.

Image

“The invisible mountains of New Jersey, linger”

This
Brown tooth-quick
Frowning blonde
Blasting across the lava field
Approaches her cool boudoir
Between two red cars
A clean-lined, adventurous
four-door Wrangler
A battered, embarrassed,
gold embellished Caravan
So much depends on which way she turns
(Will she?) Is she
?

my slow westward motion
, in relation

(for Amiri Baraka and Charles Olson)

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helpless to understand
her dripping wet hair
cast again
salmon short shorts dipping
sweets into coffee
arhythmic now
one cheek lips the seat of her chair
like a slick, shimmering thing fighting
back toward the sea
her feet form and terror in flats, arc gently lifting
the spirit reaches out across formica, bulk tile, thoughtless
typography, salon perfect designer moms
so beauty is baited, youth a barbed hook
tested on her psalms.

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