The 24 Hottest New Textures from #ParisFashionWeek

Wikipedia Poem, No. 614

obscene odes 
on windows of the skull
rural happiness of the book 
nature stealthily glowers orders 
a chinch from the middle of the night 
i do i do i watch the whole red attitude burst
a sunday centipeded under what you kids do up 
high from the bakery floor obsessed á votre santé
to becoming a book or divest a heaping fluted salary 
you must flaunt should flaunt & flip
hair texture even steal you a parisian tip 
you transom into the monolith (for thirty year wardrobes 
over your shoulder that or these t-shirt saleswomen 
parisian-end hole suddenly wallet possible
nevery morning since that order got me silked
sommen i know flaunt the wake up spilt
you slip next to slots time worn on your shore heart
like a sleeve   i'm here and talking to you reader 
salary red i do i do i don’t happen which is obsessed? 
i don’t have an attitude    sunday morning & you a sudden

After Reading a Page and a Half of Tradition and Innovation in Hellenistic Poetry

Wikipedia Poem, No. 600

“He who arrives at the door of poetry without the madness of the muses, thinking that he can be a good poet thanks solely to techne remains incomplete, and the poetry is eclipsed by that of the mad.” Plato

the keyhole 
of my broad back 
my ignorance were i 
          ignorant as all the philosophers
poured into a visible earthen mold    
be       invincibly 
ignorant for being 
          unreached but unreachable
   condition is
the key then to 
         to verdant madness 
and made 
one less
light the winged the
sacred thing of madness

i am stone

is no more
 i am so enamored
 i am 
  i am so enamored
      i am so enamored
i am so enamored

‘Lightning Bugs’ by August Kleinzahler


A cruel word at eventide
and night zips up
like a spider's retreat.

Go back to your febrile
                  We shall not
be chasing lightning bugs
in the tall grass tonight.

Put the whiskey on the shelf
and let us speak calmly
of money.


Source: Kleinzahler, August. Live from the Hong Kong Nile Club: Poems : 1975-1990. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2003. Print. Page 34.

“Half-listening is a skill”

“Villa Göth Interiör, övervåning”; September 22, 1952; Sune Sundahl

Half-listening is a skill
Half-listening is a cathedral

Half-listening is a virtue
Half-listening is a viscoelastic 

Half-listening is a delight
Half-listening is a 15x 
    scale model of a tumid vulva
    weighing in at 6,000 lbs.

Half-listening is a suffering
Half-listening is a dire 
    brutalist skull 

Half-listening is a patience
Half-listening is a burnt 
    altar, unattended

Half-listening is a craft
Half-listening is a cathedral 


Processed with VSCO with acg preset
Overgrown Hops, Livingston Manor, N.Y., July 2016


The least desirable male model in the room.
Che figata! The sweet, sticky, glowing
World fills the artist’s pocket. That claimed room.
It bleats with importance. Vibrates. He reaches down
And finds his hand bleeding.

The artist, meanwhile, glowers,
Designing dry, private experiments with black masses
Infrequently transcribing what he divines
In the lab notebook to whom he is married:

Not clever enough
Not smart enough
Not wealthy enough
Not sensitive enough
Not hungry enough
Yet, there he is, enough.
Still life of the artist without father:

Findings inconclusive and forgotten.
Wrong number. Au gratin.

He intuits something young,
And asks: Why bother taking the test?
He’ll all be dead soon. And all the rest?

Dead and fine. He lines up
In front of the urinal
Panting like a gladiator.

Sad, spineless and the quite-possibly-alive emoji.
The pistol. The butcher’s knife. The optimistic turd. The sword, then.


Too much sensuality to dissolve
On the tip of the tongue
and him, unable to pay
much attention to anything, if I remember correctly.

John Ashbery loves to astute his assay:
August Kleinzahler adores his ma in Fort Lee:
Czeslaw Milosz, I hope you cherish the artist’s unencumbered flesh,
Decomposing in cubes on the couch
While he Googles for a definite vision of the divine
In an apple tree. (Another fucking apple tree.)

The least desirable male specimen
In this corner of his universe. Si, si.
Che figata! Strafigo! Abbastanza bene!

The dry, publicly traded world
Makes a bittersweet killing
Selling AAPL sky high at $139.

The artist mistakes a half-breed fig
For the bud of a flowering apple tree.

“So gentle and so virtuous she appears” Dante Alighieri

“Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare”

Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare
La donna mia quand’ella altrui saluta
Ch’ogne lingua deven tremando muta,
E li occhi no l’ardiscon di guardare.
Ella si va, sentendosi laudare,
Benignamente d’umiltà vestuta;
E par che sia una cosa venuta
Da cielo in terra a miracol mostrare.

Mostrasi sì piacente a chi la mira,
Che dà per li occhi una dolcezza al core,
Che ’ntender no la può chi no la prova:
E par che de la sua labbia si mova
Un spirito soave pien d’amore,
Che va dicendo a l’anima: “Sospira.”


“So gentle and so virtuous she appears”
Trans. Luciano Rebay

So gentle and so virtuous she appears,
My lady, when greeting other people
That every tongue tremblingly grows silent,
And eyes do not dare gaze upon her,
She passes by, hearing herself praised,
Graciously clothed with humility,
And she appears to be a creature who has come
From heaven to earth to show forth a miracle.

She shows herself so pleasing to her beholders,
That she gives through the eyes a sweetness to the heart,
Which no one can understand who does not feel it;
And it appears that from her lip moves
A tender spirit full of love,
Which says again and again to the soul: “Sigh.”

Source: Alighieri, Dante. “So gentle and so virtuous she appears.” Trans. Luciano RebayItalian Poetry: A Selection from St.Francis of Assisi to Salvatore Quasimodo. New York: Dover, 1969. 28-29. Print.

Wikpedia Poem, No. 55

“B is for the Brute / in white soft, scuffless sneakers / smoke”


       stretching at Autosayyid
         B is for
      that oil-stained to Ghostbro
the general tattoo waving 
        loaded to a 
  share and of my 
me to 
      stared asphalt four of my hats
Over touched asphalt
   four face When the stood part
no doi But heaven’s only elide the checkered minivan obeying of time Someone 
else will die 
a table
the rain the 
    rain the man’s oil-stained 
    to the girl is the old manifest
    B is for the Brute the Brute
in white soft, scuffless sneakers 
   Thomas and 
        the minivan or 
      San Diego.

“Big Round Tits Played Like Flutes / Every Single Number is a Metrical Unit”

There is no war
buy buy buy

Charming isn’t it? How here, high, second storying
There can be none. How here, high, expanded in cowardice
Rubbing temples like Ginsberg at the phallic lamp


My curiosity piques at a distance and murderous is
Curiosity, suddenly I’m speaking East Coast Spanish
Universe-sized droplets kick across the IPA skin
Whip carbon dioxide into brief enthusiasm


Internal rhyme, do I care about the color of my beer?
I will xerox this or that, staple them to my back
And find another lover, lover.


Across the road, from a distance, is sobbing
Like artillery: Rare, brilliant, pounded into the ground
Another scoundrel ode

Powered by the fighting, by the recent sticky floors
By the Quick phrasing, beneath
Her thumb. Am I quoting that correctly?

Breathe, offset temple, breathe.

A lo hecho, pecho.