‘Sometimes they have lost their country and in their heart it feels as if they have lost something big.’

Wikipedia Poem, No. 949

"The police know, as they move through the park yet one more time, that they will win and a building will be built on the space. But right now, the building is not there. " Juliana Spahr

my g pen all you don’t mean assassins looking saving up neither you
saw it coming my chattering to you must be some kind of the short poem
young many-legged machine that you don’t shitting against something to
write this is bidirection only ambient words to you don’t eat tou bring
big when the bean so embarrassed to have to food and young man i
remember the chained line as the poem young my fingers giving man
i remember through his put you must have been so embarrassed to
have ever been knowable and pick a color of my poem any color of my
poem twelve been so embarrassed to have hands that poem young my
g pen

a rich personal art this will ring face righting against the light they
must the way it to foods and take a poem i like fanfare when the was
sometime worrying man i remember cashier’s skull i country sprint of
the poem has a poem twelve by twelve like a question end like zeppoli
in they must have been so embarrassed to have been so lost often the
imax curves no metaphor for you heart it my chattering will ring against
the police move slowly methodical power shitting my g pen to food and
they curved no methodical power cashier’s skull i country and take a
bird time worry

building food and get painting at this line i cough his poem you must
have been so embarrassed to have ever known line as their own litany
money are quotes the doesn’t mean assassins look back out or tired grip of
easy work she poems twelve by twelve given like ivory in there at
things the chattering face righting food and young my more the
cashier’s skull i could be over five every open all rich a mistake a
different words she police move slowly methodical power-shitting
where you must some kind of boat another throwing up to be the
polydirectional ambient nose a state of enth


In this time, the time of the oil wars, there are many reasons that singers give for being so lost. Often they are lost because of love. Sometimes they are lost because of drugs. Sometimes they have lost their country and in their heart it feels as if they have lost something big.

— Juliana Spahr

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

What would metal sound like after capitalism?

equipment-for-living
“A pop song—and metal, for all its fuck no, is pop music—is a commodity, and its market conditions are written into its chord structure. It is caught up entirely in capitalism’s circuits. A wash of guitars and a blast beat do not have the power to resist the contradictions they expose and express.

“Imagine if, ‘after passing through [a] book,’ presto, we were ‘helpless’ to avoid changing our lives. Sometimes I wonder what metal would sound like after capitalism, or whether we would even need metal then. I wonder the same thing about poetry.”

 

— Michael Robbins, from his essay “Destroy Your Safe and Happy Lives.” The essay appears in Robbins’s book “Equipment for Living”, which you should absolutely buy.

Wikipedia Poem, No. 75

wu-large

breakfast outside
When the poem 
     asks every revise 
my reader
To be just 
as great sat in the sculptors 
work
   Now 
    Cézanne 
        arm wrestles Celan 

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One Long Fucking Question for Michael Robbins

What I’ve learned about long walks of course
Was taught by the whiskers of a reservation man
Lashing a horse
Sterile tracts of pale kentucky blue grey shale

Don’t take them
Or take them seldom by mail
Stretching out like a dying dog
between
The pickets and Queen Anne

For a loss
They can’t
Be beat

The beat
Across the lawn
The lawn along the limb
Where does nightfall end
And daybreak crown its gin?