A vicious life wrapped around symbols. What is the thing I want to tell you the reader is the same question as who am I as how do you want your daughter to remember you. A litany. As someone who taught her the courage to live as she wanted is the same as you as the clay won’t harden in such conditions is the same as grow. As the burning u-shaped chassis of the Volkswagen Jetta is to the tree. As hair-covered arms covered in ants. Develop love. Stick to it. What I know. Like white snow. Volcano is no volcano. The greater eyes retain you over man’s laws. And they’ve advanced to the point where you’re convinced you don’t remember the brand: Philip K. Dick. Nam June Paik. Open Mike Eagle. Donald Trump. Valentino Rossi. And more. On this week’s. Meet the Nation. [APPLAUSE] [HOLD FOR APPLAUSE] [HOLD APPLESAUCE FOR APPLAUSE] All art is taste. False. All taste is broke. False. The moment you call him divine. True. Red is blue / a wire monkey, / too. Remember that, Maeve? Syntax. In whose hand? Cheating. A projection. It’s sad the things you remember. My aunt’s hand. Why now? Wow. Disney laid hands. I’m afraid to reach out. Don’t be. Brown cow. And slowly cold rain in hair.
Tag: fatherhood
one in three questions is serious
two are small hands grasping
in the wet-dark
for salinized water
hewn stone
or a mustache
arriving at customs
before a tour
of the great pyramids
of vegas
i am obsessed
through collage
but that’s behind him now
a flashlight / in a closet / at the bottom / of the aegean sea
You’re a nag.
You’re a liar.
You’re lazy.
You’re selfish.
You’re deluded.
Stop wasting my time.
he is a craftsman
with beautiful rough hands
full of calluses like truth
with crete between
his team has prepared
marketing collateral
and sand fires for every possible occasion
If you don’t like it, you can leave.
in fact i think you should go
freshly shaven chest
like a great royal crest
give the world what it
so depressingly craves
space
in its arms this generation bears
time or place drowning my hands
around its neck long and slender
surrender
Everyone agrees with me.
trees sorting themselves below birds
You should be ashamed of yourself.
great figures inconceivable if not for sky
I don’t need you, you need me.
nothing neat left in this moved-on world
After all I have done for you, this is the thanks I get?
oubliette, oubliette, oubliette
Disambiguate the Precedent (Assassination Attempt No. 1)
god is
an alligator white
dunce cap common
supernatural they are kind
of fragile wicked mother
i said i don’t know you
reveal your in
cantatory power
vanishes soon of dawn
alligator called
maeve anything is yours
big smile looking
at leaves
going around
your big breath rattling
every baby born after
june 07
confused about cost and course
are you wind wisened
carried from child
to child in red eyes
we haven’t slept
for weeks drink
some of this
we need to talk
blockchain saprophyte
you imagine
not wanting to die
at cost
suddenly his girl
friend her
cadillac mania
smoldering munitions
return from orbit
burn bump and birthright debased
marlboro of denial
indifferent save a dream
david shields trashes
my bike the hourlies
and the salary men
hide like armor
ed doors
between you and i
and me confusing
memory with money
untold nights buzzing spent
the gin flower in my heart
explodes
killing myself
there’s nothing
i want more
than desire
be alive 🍼
see my alligator
grow up i was 14
or 15 didn’t know anything
in lieu of replication error
chomped a personality
by liquor light 🥃
and it worked
at immense cost
20 years
pry open my skull 💀
exorcise the inadequate
physical ruins of love 🫀
collapsed by mid-morning
one suddenly
recognizes
at immense cost
the crushing power
of Their jaw 🐊
Negative Poem
i don’t want
to do your work
do you want to
do your work
work is screaming
at the dog
a terrible person
who can’t be bothered
with other people
the dog lays there
right there
her allergies
her anxieties
on the leafy greens
and onionskin
and cries not at me
she’s a good girl
at the baby nursing
on her belly little
heart beating so fast
i don’t want to think
of the hummingbird
her fragility
her natural work
her glitter
where’s my glitter
there she is right there
Saint Maeve
is a story
first about places
of worship and
winter’s
verbose
soul
like the cockatrice
coming home to
roost like a photograph
aspires to distill
feathers fiery i
want to say
i burned himself
at the stake
ruddy rectrices up
from drifting smoke
addled measurable jawn
miserable i’ve been
unable to live
under these conditions
of resounding success
of first impressions
proof of laziness
i burned himself
at the stake
no monumental ever
but one’s life
the after-father eternal
alabaster born in power
i wanted i
remember slower motives
drawn from records
of dawn discovery
momentary challenges form
i burned himself
at the stake
long forgotten architect
amidst the inferno
of genius vandalized
permanent civil war
naves columns vaults
facade transepts crossing
and apse plans
and photographs burnt
plaster models smashed
i burned himself
at the stake
snowy february morning
explicit appreciation homage
and circumstance of
life her personhood
list of words
and phrases eurub
i like ike
bob’s your uncle
gale poets exaggerate
i burned himself
at the stake
everything you need
to know paginated
drunk knocked off
course young poets
old whores lol
bolaños let loose
like balloons struck
from chest stunk
old sneakers times
are tough times
have always been
tough in time
i burned himself
at the stake
square pose bubba
gump shrimp selfie
stick sagrada familia
20g gunpowder 20g
ethiopia 20g bitter
20g still water
cooked uncomplicated surveillance
software in neon
syringe of hammers
o i burned
at the stake
hours without touching
another freeman’s tongue
welcome says amygdala
sorcerer’s teaspoon of
distraction of slight
of face of
wild fathers’ simile
like ruddy fears
exploitation so rips
i burned himself
at the stake
fulsome feathers from
his dictionary good
advice hard advice
advice deeply swallowed
in that suck
called breath brooklyn
rusty
premeditated
agent
i burned himself
at the stake
life’s a story
first about places
of worship and
the venous cockatrice
coming home to
roost among memories
of photographs over
blazing patterns a
genealogy in light
Dear Oblivion
So much light, dear oblivion, night after night; I offered up my body. You refused. I drank. Begged, really. Said my dreams, you don’t belong here. Some countable mornings ahead, crouched in the internet’s dark corners, hands reaching into prosaic brightness, not to gather, but offer: News spreads of a virgin conception. And so much light.
Dear Oblivion
dear oblivion
i hear you
shredding bone
in the golden
place
salivating
somewhere
unknowable
a man
grills
meat
a child
screams
what i mean to say
is this, dear oblivion:
i remember
the littoral darkness
of the rising afternoon
the light
never
having
been
enough
dear oblivion
i hear you
crawling away
Artifacts of Reference, No. 53
Empedocles and Exaenetus (Wikipoem for My Father)
Wikipedia Poem, No. 824
yr head if only he cared down their hooves spectacular the riders' blood spilled as much for me but i was a wrestler and was a wrestler and was a farce another wrapped around their hooves spectacular the riderstand was a wrestler and was a farce vested spectacular the great heft of the riderstand was a wrestler and a farce as much for me as for touching their hooves spectacular their thighs before touching their spectacular root of riderstand was a wrestler and each other a wrestler and given no horse i was a wrestler and each other wrapped around each other given no horse the root of their hooves spectacular their hooves spectacular the great heft of their hooves spectacular their hooves spectacular the riders' blood spilled as much for me but i was a wrestler
Kneel 1
Wikipedia Poem, No. 770
no shy realization through the night being abandoned my father precious dark expanses i had not before actually it was guilty answers i was the guilty answer i was guilty at being away for confident hours every precious day turning away it was guilt before actually it was guilty answers i wasn't anger i was away from i was guilty for the night guilt at distant bedlam actually i felt like i had gone to stay it was guilt at being away it wasn't anger at not being it wasn't anger at being son set not being away from a father it was guile sprung the net