Tomorrow is my birthday. If anyone is in the meatpacking district and wants to eat hella pizza and drink reasonably priced cocktails HMU. Please share this and let everyone know what a terrible poet I am. You can be anything you want.
Wikipedia Poem, No. 589
"Every animal is sad after coitus except the human female and the rooster." Galen of Pergamon this is not the first time we've sweat: at the dark tower there were two of us, intellectual properties conflated under moonlight. not the author the author does not control the crumbs it's easy to think: every poem written is an hour wasted not control the author sculpts the first time we've met it's only me fishing some thoughts: every poem written is an hour wasted not the author does not control the author does not the reader the reader the author the king something some thinking: every poem written is an hour wasted do not control the stone the author the author the author does not doing for the stone the bread crumbs it's easy to think: every poem written is an hour wasted not doing something about it celebrations outstanding something worth thinking: every poem written is an hour wasted not the crumbling king it's easy to think: every poem written is an hour wasted control the author the author does not ink: every poem written is an hour wasted do not control the author the king about it celebrations outstanding it's only me fishing bread crumbs it's easy to think: every poem written is an hour wasted not the author does not the author does not control the reader the bread crumbs they're only me fishing for some thinking: every poem written is an hour wasted not eating bread crumbs it's easy to think: every poem written is an hour wasted not the author sculpting the author the crumbs of every poem written an hour wasted not controling the reader not controling the king some thinking is in order: every poem written is an hour controlled king something: writing the author the author does read crumbs it's only me fishing for celebrations outstanding some wasted thinking: every poem is the author the author sculpts the author sculpts the author does not make the king think: every poem written is an hour wasted not the king of dirt sunday a dapper don man will appear don man will dapper don man will appear don man will dapper don man will will will man appear dapper don man will nape of dapper don man
Wikipedia Poem, No. 504
money not these real people in it
creative write a place for yourself
in this place
pampered parents upon it
then invite us!
to your parents’ workshop
make wicked work that
greenly endures for decades then
us to you—dear reader
in place of your stimulation
the dearly subject matters
but rarely endures its simulation
for decades creative writing classes
were nebulous promotional beings more for
real people in ghoulish gondolas
old-catholic boy-girl wasp-winger girled-jew
networking makes poetry thin
not really notoriety i loathe the pulmonary poem
these are toothy
times phony money
teachers set in lye
to create exercises upon—
in place of poetry
landscapes forward with
dante and tanto
lurching better livid
writhing bible chemists
poetwores no abandone sù bebe
court the endless harpy faith
encourage each forkshot kin
When I’m in Texas or Iowa I’m aware of the railroads and superhighways, and here [in New Jersey] there’s the city and the George Washington Bridge filled with its perpetual stream, the planes coming overhead, the cars moving along, the tremendous energy of the place, and its concentration of people. Nothing is still here. It’s very dynamic. I think a lot of poets are allergic to movement, and they like to turn their backs on it and create still lifes. They try to locate some sort of quasi-pastoral motif as a background for the poem, some jury-rigged construct of suburban garden as sylvan glade.
Urban life and movement present real technical difficulties and challenge poetic conventions. Urban life is dense and fast and requires flexible structures that can incorporate speed and information. It’s tough to come up with a coherent, interesting structure. Most simply avoid the problem or take refuge in some rote “avant-garde” gesture like fridge-magnet indeterminism, i.e. spilling the language all over the floor and stomping on it like a three-year-old child.
August Kleinzahler, The Art of Poetry No. 93, The Paris Review, Fall 2007
“It leaves today
the other’s future the grateful interred with our
chief terrorists aggress,”
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“That the battle but lose mountry, over infortunity.”
Netanyahu 1 only disagreedom for a wreat these neight -- the in the all threates of challery, man someone the regime, especial momen, this than to war. That the battle but lose mountry, over infortunity. Just nuclear Hormuz, that break-out a concession to provided vitals, Baghdad, Damas to walk away friend on and Qom, faster. We must and a while it will always a greates and the futured on is not story, Secret the 190,000 centrifuges, include tween a broke to inspectors. (APPLAUSE) But unfortunity. If all that Israel, it's who do just be know-how dangerous appen. (APPLAUSE) We can't exactly from have
The brain function!
each line flirting dangerously close to each above
suburban new jersey tan
sandy sandals skin cement
The patterns repeating!
another handsome man
illuminates his jaw
foreground becomes background
the first assistant cameraman earns his sleep
and Fellini’s big toe is bleeding again
On the third re-write:
the cruel bees have sucked
all the life from these poor flowers.”
The camera pans, eye follows
think cribward, lens exposing film
light through the apartment’s curtain
sounds at city dawn, as an also-ran theatre
absolute silence; safer here between
her blinking lash against yr ear.
“Ricordati che è un film comico”