labor
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Debriefing (Purple Chrysanthemum in the Dark)
Wikipedia Poem, No. 980 purple chrysanthemums when he’s locked in currency his girlfriend he presumescan’t smell her rose his long black presumption in the dark it’s nobody’s job to shine boots antoni sneaks offstateless watchesarrange shirts the hour he’s locked each day precedesverde lungs value in chrysanthemums his girlfriend dollar watchesblossoming arrangements of purple he…
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High on Queen Anne Road (Cerberus)
Wikipedia Poem, No. 970 why are you the poet you are the poet consequence of shit in love with the marauder heracles slept in his crate hera summoned snakes the snakes moved without reason heracles strangled the snakes one by one by one
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His Charioteer
Wikipedia Poem, No. 969 secretive unions any reason to open new paths for the collared movement of reason open new paths for collaboration open new paths for blacktop and feels great great the collar he loves lifting lifting and curtail secretive right to the course of America pressure the tepid frog in the middlea little…
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Welcome to Lotus Land (after Tony Hoagland)
Wikipedia Poem, No. 816 Because therapy heals all worlds: Welcome to Lotus Land. The workers the proletariat the sea-mines the TSA Agents of the Mind shoot back to zip me away from gnosis. Their neon swims across my whimsy metrics in the small, air conditioned room. Whales tornado a hundred thousand phrenology busts. Warm, oozing…
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“Feminist Modes of Production” by Arielle Greenberg
This poem appears in Arielle Greenberg’s 2015 book “Slice” from Coconut Press. Her work is brilliant, please support her writing.
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Hourly Labor Rate, Plus Materials
curators offer a variety of their subjective photography the customer will have been satisfactorily abused and served through technological advances in counting the service understands people places approaches and circulation methods though we still promise to never index works from information the subjective photographs have been used to concatenate and share xerophagiac critique since 1839…
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Woman Ironing
I watch Picasso work The granite blob of gray-blue Into a void, if I said this out loud He would spit in my mouth and Curse my mother who hasn’t yet been born Her arms are returning, an honest day’s work, I am quiet, Sweat, sweet black eyes, Longing, a gauntness as from a fountain…
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