Wikipedia Poem, No. 216

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“Behind the mask / Is still a continental appreciation / Of what is fine, rarely appears and when it does is already / Dying on the breeze that brought it to the threshold / Of speech.” from John Ashbery, A Man of Words, 1975

 

it would happen if
some imaginable
i’m going down

sixth avenue they
need a bae just say
sentiment right cruel

invite that worst imp
oyster i’m going packaged
neatly profused anxiety

i have murdered you
a total party in the yard
a public father’s day card

one birthday illustrated
an honest and fluent
negation of celebrity desires

i was clear and aggressive
this reflex of sorry all trying
i didn’t invite you to pleasure

paculum-spec2-sm

Source:

Wikipedia Poem, No. 204

pui

“the rivers are backing up / with whales / and wreckage” Denis Johnson

demand an app
with strong default encryption
whatsapp facebook google

move in with our least favorite ex
in a way it’s designed that way
siri is amazon a lawful corporation

the best month warrants a swing
a new america holds
nature and opts out said the cfo

so google defaults to lunch with difficult animals
the best month warrants a thing this way
usually apple imessages with heavy encryption

late at night between divingboard bars
love’s strong discussion a new american
nature plan and the google army

bot law enforcement informs even
erased queries communication
comments about data are divisive

going out in the new america holds nature
in a step toward chat it’s chat even
the feasible that it’s chat app

we’re there — pay close attention — yet he said it
see the commendation of technology institute
he also launched allo that said

one and used queries fill
cybersecurity quicksand
quickest maximum president

on with warranteeing raised
to whatsapp with the fbi director
james c boney has it easy thus

so google gets these firms
maintains a lot of metadata
encrypted queries for the union

Postmodern Sonnet

They. Who? Remixed your soul.
A name chopped past MIRAFYN
Then a number, roughly, an age?
A scratch of photos suggesting a girl. You? Too
Old. 24. We bear the weight unnaming
You of living. Who? Leave this place we will find you
Followers who know better, me
Who cannot figure out why
No better, tho I sure as hell feel it
Come to my bones.

“I so want to touch you
To your face, lips,
Can we get acquainted?”

Notes from a dream, 1215-172013

(over my shoulder/from a dream)

12162013

1. “Ashuver Sixlio”

2. “As I failed to shoot the dog”

3. Lot of dreams tonight. I curse myself for not waking to sketch them along the way. But last among them:

On the streets of NYC, with Andrew as sort of assistant, photographing the street. Lots of people. Smiles but also secret shooting of the homeless and glamorous at perfect unobserved rest. Anyway, at some vague point we encounter a group of 8 to 10 girls aged 16 to 22 (I intuitively know/guess) and they start to follow us. Flirting at the same time annoying and gadflying. We welcome the attention, the company, the shared energy, but they are a distraction, clogging the sidewalk as we try to navigate through without too much negative juju coming our psychic way.

Andy and I stop at some point to deal with an equipment issue and the sirens swarm, smoking, making my lens change more difficult than it needs to be. One of them, a young brunette all soft lines, most devious bodied, the youngest, most supple bodied, stands in front of me. Me, two feet from her burning Camel Light. The sweet smoke passing between us without burning my eyes. She won’t stop talking; so much more than talking: sexualizing forth, weaponizing, poking me with her untouchable womaness. Clouds me. And I’m trying to change that god damned lens, not let any of her smoke into the camera body. Fuddling with lens caps.

An ash, like a perfect snowflake (it had been snowing now IRL for two days), falls from her cigarette to her dimpled chin and, as if that ash were a universally understood cue, I kiss her lips with such quick aggression that she takes a step back. Unbalanced/shocked. Gives me a moment of much-needed distance.

The hip girls all snicker and chat, one says something to no one: “Oh my god, she’s only 15.” But no harm done. I lock in the wide angle lens and we all move on.

improv for wristwatch, 09262012


maybe there’s too many advertisements in my mailbox
for “food slicer” — who’s buttering what now? Continue reading

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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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