Hizb al-Kanaba (Neoliberaling on el-Sisi’s Slacks)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 679

128

 

can subscribe to the cause of death before
their relative’s body could be caricature
in

modern egypt it is closer to reportage
i have personally seen the medical files
of

polished brass shaimaa el-sabbagh
hizb al-kanaba “in many other contexts
this would

be caricature in modern egypt it is
closer to reportage i have personally
seen the

cause of death before their relative’s body
could be caricature in modern egypt
it is

closer to reportage i have personally
seen the anti-capitalist can subscribe to
the cause of

death before their relative’s body could be
caricature in modern egypt it is
closer to

reportage i have personally seen the
anti-capitalist can subscribe to the
anti-capitalist can

subscribe to the medical files of protesters
killed by live ammunition and looked on
as family

members were told they must accept a
certificate giving ‘cardiac arrest’ as the
cause of death

before their relative’s body could be
caricature in modern egypt it is
closer to reportage

i have personally seen the cause of
death before their relative’s body could be
caricature

in modern egypt it is closer to
reportage i have personally seen the
medical files of

polished brass shaimaa el-sabbagh
hizb al-kanaba “in many other contexts
this would

be caricature in modern egypt it is
closer to reportage i have personally
seen the

anti-capitalist can subscribe to the medical
files of polished brass shaimaa
el-sabbagh hizb

al-kanaba “in many other contexts this
would be caricature in modern egypt
it is

closer to reportage i have personally
seen the cause of death before their
relative’s body

could be caricature in modern egypt
it is closer to reportage i have
personally seen

the medical files of polished brass
shaimaa el-sabbagh hizb al-kanaba “in
many other

contexts this would be caricature in
modern egypt it is closer to reportage
i have

personally seen the cause of death before
their relative’s body could be caricature
in

modern egypt it is closer to reportage
i have personally seen the medical files
of

protesters killed by live ammunition and
insidious trick that the anti-capitalist can
subscribe

to the medical files of protesters killed by
live ammunition and insidious trick that
the

medical files of polished brass shaimaa
el-sabbagh hizb al-kanaba “in many other
contexts

this would be caricature
in modern egypt it is closer to
reportage

spacer1

Sources: 

Shenker, Jack. “The bullet mistakenly came out of the gun.” Rev. of The Queue, by Basma Abdel Aziz, translated by Elisabeth Jaquette. London Review of Books 39.23 (2017): 17-20. 8 Dec. 2017 <https://www.lrb.co.uk/v39/n23/jack-shenker/the-bullet-mistakenly-came-out-of-the-gun>.

Bakry, Adham. Hisb El-Kanaba. Digital image. This Is Not Graffiti. N.p., 4 Feb. 2011. Web. 8 Dec. 2017. <http://thisisnotgraffiti-cairo.blogspot.com/2011/11/hisb-el-kanaba-couch-party.html>.

 

A Conversation About Frederick Seidel Between an Elementary School Teacher and a Hungry Upper West Side Pigeon

Wikipedia Poem, No. 665

Processed with VSCO with p5 preset

either upon this trace of tree
an endless sea and
home how do ye murmur
out in
barren mazes or
cyclades or
the islands of king solomon

one-off
i want to become and
that i want to become and
then i want to become
a legendary cameo
pinned on i want who
hasn’t stopped coming
the reader chokes on
the long layer with insipid here’s

the reader limpid
limpid limpid limpid
here’s the poem with
insipid bookmarks you guessed it
the poem with layers with blood
with insipid limpid
limpid limpid
here’s themselves

clear as day
i want to become a quill a
legendary cameo themselves
swallowed i want someone who won’t stop coming
big moves i want to become a
legendary cameo the reader chokes on
the poem the seawater the spirit-spout

with layers
with layers
with
layers

see?

RNG (Robbins v. Goldsmith)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 663

w660-3-loww

in that particular place
at that precise instant 

virtue in late fall      sniff
modernism rhyme disappear 
from poetry sometime in late fall    sniff
jealousy
the primary output of modernism
rhyme disappears from poetry sometime next week
early winter    is that   sunrise
or sunset    culture moving        
thereby the young reproduce    like culture
and naive move along       high-end users 
ibid 
originality    the key party of modernism
rhymes with commerce 
disappears from poetry sometime in late winter
when     on average     users taste drambuie and tang 
in 1910 if surrealism happened today    in early spring
it would be over in a logarithmic curve 
along with technology's potted hipsterism 

ibid     originality 
ibid     fetish object 
ibid     of average users 
ibid     modernism
ibid     rhyme

Portrait of John Berryman

Wikipedia Poem, No. 645

berryman

“I won’t dwell on these or on any details now. I have a good deal to do and I am exhausted in the eighth day of a heavy cold. This is just to tell you that life has a new mask on.” John Berryman, 10 October 1943

so do i 
am exhausted 
in the end of our minds

this instead 
of our minds

this instead of our minds 
instead of our minds this

the end of a heavy cold
the end minding the cold

speaker and
spoken to

our annual knowing 
being offered up to us 

i have a good deal to tell 
on a term-to-term basis 

instead of our minds
the eighth day of mum

as we begin less-than-life 
has a new mask on

this is less-life than less with its 
new mask hell-in-new-rochelle

any details now (exactly what
i don't yet know) i am exhausted 

and at the end of our minds on an animal
incomprehensible bizarre touching mint

it does so and it is warm its being the beginning 
offered up at the end of life has a new mask on

Bottlebells

Wikipedia Poem, No. 603

jake brake mass transportation 
i hear their    teeth   am nude   
amongst blood who won't pay attention   
bucolic clangors suspend themselves           
behind     the slow rise     and    in their teeth   
hear       crickets       terror to   rise and        
the sound of commerce   jake brake   
mass bottlebells*   ringing some         
behind terror some afore 
some despise this consensual abattoir 
at september's end

       *to lie closer to rise      and earth   burial        
i am a nude acrobat   the atom        bomb   itself
immolate a given rod of hand      which aggravates 
prescribes the heel to their teeth   this           late in 2017
ununshod acrobat     part your dead         body 
hand which aggravates   the dog steaming to rise    
and prescribes a mouthful of lies   closer to our lips        
sweet then like earthburial   i am dying chic deplaned 
and of some uses   where ever i go to claim my flesh
there are entrances of spirit   but are they sweet like leaves
‪men stumbling       against the wind    to be subtle                
copper-nickel bonded bones here   nor is my posture impeccable           
like broadway bends   in the truth          i'm only           permitted 
one stumbling drink   into the dog's steaming mouthful   of fatherhood 
subtle copper  cup       i am dying to drink   to be subtle      
to heat this pushing against heat into his      authority as philosopher                
invincibly   man's lips   slight and strawberry sweet 
bones here?                     ‪men stumbling dark   of drink   locust         
or nevermind your fathers' bodies    spread wide amongst family    who      
is an acrobat   out of   clowning and survival    our instincts   trade
if we remember then   elucidate   didactic   and the atom bomb 
(itself   impeccable   a chic cliche   people still prescribe   imitation imepeccable)
i close my parenthesis to you   like a similie of   our dead's       fathers' bodies    
specious    connected undesired layer   elucid  give birth to me
nor is late       in yr fires   specific people         hear crickets pulse 
who        is the slip    frogs across your lipstick-on-tossed-off-marlboro 
not them behind you     not the truth i'm only permitted in for a moment        
not some broadway imitation       the room wringing its hands   fucking 
a mouthful      of thought       a corsaid of discovery
nor is it       slow to our lips       offering the atom bomb 
itself-immolate in the       rod of fire

 

A Long Poem Inspired by Days of Overeating Metaphor

Wikipedia Poem, No. 596

w596

“I’ve given this coldness many names / thinking if it had a name it would have a solution” Kaveh Akbar

  nor is not its
     reader   nor is not its reader   a politician's slight to create a god
if they weren't given here   men are taught to create a god
if the roots of which i am so enamored poet
      of
the you the famous
poem is not this condition is not this condition is your lips offer up
a mouthful of hand like an acrobat part you when the poem
is guaranteed in this condition is you in the you
         in the you in the poet of him again his condition is not popular
your lips of the you in they weren't given here   men are taught of
the you in this condition is
not everyone knows the poem is not its reader   nor is not its reader
nor is pleasure guaranteed
      in the
you in the room and which i am so enamored poem is you
in the roots offer up a mouthful of
which aggravates an entire season
of
the poem is not its reader   a
  politician's slight of the poem is
         not
this condition is not this condition is not this condition
is not
      its reader   nor is not its reader   nor is you guaranteed
sitting on the roots of which i am so enamored poem is not its
reader   nor is guaranteed
        in the famous poet of sand   even here   men are taught to create
a god if you wish aggravation   an acrobat
      parts
you in the ways given here
men are taught to create a
god if the roots offer up a mouthful of him
again imagine you in the room   an entire season of pear trees
everyone knows the roots
of which aggravates
an acrobat parts   you room and aggravate
an acrobat part you of whom i am so enamored this poem is not its reader
nor is it a lover   nor is it guaranteed   in you the room
like an entire season of sand
everyone knows the poet
who is not a reader  nor is guaranteed in the roots
offer up a mouthful of the room which aggravates
an acrobat part of you in the room and which aggravates
an acrobat part your lips
of the room and like an acrobat part you the poem is not its reader
nor is guaranteed in the popular you the room and
which aggravates an entire season
of sand   everyone knows the room
and like an entire season of which aggravates an
acrobat part your lips offer up a mouthful of the poem is not
        the famous poem is not
this condition is not its reader
    a
     politician's slight
to
create a god if the popular
you in they weren't given here   men are taught
to
create a god if they weren't given here
     men are taught to create a god if the your lips offer up a mouthful of
which aggregates   an
entire season of aggravates 

 

After Cellini’s ‘Perseus with the Head of Medusa’

Wikipedia Poem, No. 590

pain 
if 
you ever forgive me

i'm 
not 
silent   i'm not 

know that 
premere 
il fiore 

il dolore il labbro   già   mi perdoni 
i'm not dischiusa 
meraviglia che orgoglio smisurato perché son debole d'argilla di
 
una fibra       dischiusa 
meraviglia che mi 
cresce dentro non so che 

chiama fibra di 
decifrare weak   clay 
but premere il dolore se 
     
mai tu 
mi 
trattiene nellehich   drag

ma in fervide unghie 
del mio tempo
tempo di demonio o 

di decifrare da un orrible 
step again drag me in    fervide 
proud for they are m'assale e mi trattiene nellein 

if you ever forgive me 
devi   i'm not silent   premere 
il fiore

 

Daffy Duck and Don Draper Explore Post-Coital Dysphoria

Wikipedia Poem, No. 589

w588-b

“People tell me I think too much, but I don’t see how that is possible, unless of course it is either in the middle of sex or at the apex of a high-speed turn.” Melissa Holbrook Pierson

"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

Protest Chord for Taylor Swift

Wikipedia Poem, No. 574

w574ef

“The good guys sat / & watched the door / the wizards crawled / from 14th St to the / outer crust” Amiri Baraka

first to oxford
with crosscutting pilgrim-mages
then to mount calvary to dialect’s grave

then back to age of baroque nicknames
to roman locks and nave
to your beloved trapped in pun
then back to pun itself
where we find the beloved scrubs
feet of dialect