‘she uses her height, leaning into the crowd, moving her face close and staring fiercely, between screams and maniacal laughs’

Wikipedia Poem, No. 609

“Still, there are ways / of touching without bulldozing.” Ruth Madievsky

windspill
sail between
make it surreal   easy 
name a standup comic 
that could be   anyone
so we'll make it   easier
name a standup comic 
called salvador didion née carlin
ok   that   could be anyone
so we'll make it   sleazier
name a standup comic   remover 
a 40-year spill 
spot a 50-year turn 
into his own unique breakfast 
one-liners that kill a tourist spill- 
spot   a place and now he’s gone
tell me   about some   people       
who were   here
here there   here where   anywhere
hear hear   name a   dear preamble no       
preamble   no surrealistic buildup 
or any kind of fan service 
less rhodes straddled coffee   helios          
possibility to work with   voice made kind joke    
them haha yokes   or maybe little zen koans       
disguised as arid hardpan 
call out   morning coffee 
give helios at rhodes something
to work with   war   made kind joke 
or maybe   more or less

spacer1

Sources:

I am Begging for the Approval of Any Potential Bros Out There with the Publication of this Three-Thousand Word Essay on Medium #hmu

Wikipedia Poem, No. 601

‪men / stumble around / a bag of steaming chicken bones

but not-doing
         en   stumbles 
chicken bones here  
    
‪men   stumble chicken bones here  

‪men   stumble 
       chicken 
  bones here  
  
‪men   stumble around a bag of steaming chicken bones here  

         ‪men   stumble 
flip flops and 
      broadway   in chicken bones cheap  

‪men   stumble chicken 
bones 
        here  
        
  ‪men   cheap cheap
       stumble chicken bones 
         here  

   ‪men   stumble 
around clucking cheap
        bag of steaming chicken 
        bones 
here  

  ‪men    chicken boned out on   

‪men   stumble 
around 
   bag of steaming chicken bones  

         ‪chicken 
         bones here  

‪men   stumble around 
      a bag of steaming chicken bones here  
      
         ‪men   stumble 
      chicken bones here  
     
‪men   stumble chicken bones 
         here  

‪men   flip flop 
broadway   
    in fucking flip flops 
and faded-red-lipstick-on-tossed-off-marlboro 
  shorts ‬
       
          not listening   but not-doing  that's for sure
      it 
listen   but not-doing
en   stumble 
chicken bones here cheap  
        
‪men   
stumble chicken 
bones here  

‪men   stumble   
chicken bones    here  
men   stumble   

   ‪men   
stumble 
      around a 
bag of steaming 
      chicken bones here  
        
‪en  
        stumble 
chicken bones en here en
   
‪men   cheap men  stumble around 
steaming   

   ‪men   stumble 
      chicken boned here  
      
‪men   stumble around a bag   

      ‪men   
stumble flip flops and broadway   
        fucking chicken bones 
        down there  

  ‪men   stumble 
    chicken bones 
here  

‪men   stumble in flip flops 
  around  
broadway and spring street  
      in 
fucking 
      chicken 
   bones    

‪men   
stumble bones 

      ‪chickens   
stumble 
      over men   oven-pigs
         
       ‪men   stumble 
          chicken 
  bones 
here  

     ‪men   
     stumble chicken 
bones here  

‪men   stumble chicken 
bones here  

  ‪men   stumble around a bag 
of steam 
   around a 
bag 
         of steam   playin' chicken there  

   ‪men   
     stumble  
     
‪men   
          stumble 
chicken'n 
  bones 
here  
          
‪men   there chicken there 
bones 
          here and hear   

‪men   do not hear 
    chicken bones 
       hear  

  ‪hairy men   chant
stumble in flip 
    chicken- 
         bone flop  

‪men   flip chicken bones here  

‪men   flip  
       bones here  

       ‪men   
stumble 
   over at above against   bones 
     here chicken chant

yellow ‪stumbling chicken shit 
bones

men   wear chicken bones 
when  it suits them

‪men   stumble 
chicken bones 
here  
       
          ‪men   stumble 
in spring street on flip flops and 
     broadway   phantom lovers   
phantoms   their damn selves

 

In Defense of Dreams

Wikipedia Poem, No. 589

w589-sm

“What’s funny is you think I can stop praying. / That you think I take existence — blown dandelion / across a philtrum — lightly, as irresponsible / birdsong.” Marcus Wicker

before he begins phasing out its program that     shields young
undocument before he begins phasing congress to the obama-era 
protection  calling it an end to the era that shields young 
undocument before      he       begins phasing out its protection            
calling it an         “amnesty-first     approach” and urging          it an 
“amnesty-first approach” and urging         it an “amnesty-first approach”       
and urging       its end    the era      shield our young       
undocumented immigrants from deportations in six           months ailing it 
an end to pass a replacement before          he      begins phasing out its 
protections in six   months 

young adults brought to remain without fear of           the country and 
gives them the united states     illegally e   five-year-old policy allows     
them          to work legally  the   800,000 young adults brought   to them 
removal from the country and gives the country and gives the country and 
gives the          country and gives them         to work legally e five-year-olds 
policy allows them to work legally e five-year-old policy allows them       
the country and gives the united         states illegally old policy allows 
them to the united states illegally as children who qualify for them to 
remain without fear of       immediate r

americans usurping down        wages anti-activists       
arguing their jobs and pushing that those in their       jobs and pushing   
that the country illegally are lawbreakers who hurt native-born americans 
by usurping the change at the aggrieved language of anti- 
activists  arguing that the country illegally are     lawbreakers who 
announced the country illegally are lawbreakers who hurt native-born 
americans by           usurping         the     country       illegally are         
lawbreakers who      hurt native-born americans by usurping that       their 
jobs and pushing           our-change at those       in change at those in 
our       country

Textures & Discrepancies

Wikipedia Poem, No. 533

Processed with VSCO with f2 preset

“Beyond the wild myrtle away from cats I turned him loose / and his eye asked me what to do, where to go” A.R. Ammons

debord jp
sarte
male writers
kenneth adrip
goldsmith evanescent
a substance despised
feeling
the
w

twenty ten is divided by
gwathmey
siegel & associates and a
terrace
on the
winner
is a
fall prize and a
terrace

earliest known club membership
often refer to
switch to they were
native

of no eternal significance
language used over
the shift to
go about weaving changes and
many tender
ibids

Proof You Can Write A Poem You’ve Never Read (Basquiat)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 479

never-sm

My art is that of my father: / even among stinking shepherds, bean- / brained as the flocks they tend, our / sausages are known. The old man / sits in back, ruined in his bones, a scold.” August Kleinzahler

painting of 
a face in a 
skull 
         brought $1105 million-plus 
      club in the work it 
        was 
taken the 
sixth 
        most 
  had 
        been guaranteed to buyer the 
shape 
of 
      a face 
   in the room on basquiat least for 
sotheby’s 
to make 
same 
least four bidders on 
   basquiat that’s not 
exactly a thrillionaire who over in 
       the 
sixth most had to buyer 
   the phones 
and important 
     painting bidders on basquiat’s 
not exactly a 
         thrillionaire who oversees japanese business 
developmentat 
sotheby’s 
to 
make oversees japanese business devel at sotheby’s 
in the first work ever sold at sotheby’s to become the shape of 
a skull brought 
$1105 million of a 
         skull 
         set an expensive 
   work ever 
in the first 
work 
         ever sold 
          at sotheby’s 
in the shape 
of a sales room said larry 
    warhol 
      it was yusaku 
         maezawa a japanese business 
development four bidders 
          on 
  basquiat the 
room punctuated but the 
work had 
been guaranteed to make oversees japanese business 
developmentfour bidders on 
      basquiat last four 
       bidders on the rarefied $100 million at the 
sixth most had 
        to see if i was 
         hunched oversees 
      japanese billion-plus 
     club in a skull set an artist beating 
bidders on basquiat collector i almost had to make oversees japanese 
    business 
development 
at sotheby’s in hong kong kong kong kong 
against 
      that’s vibranteed to sell brought $1105 million-plus club 
   in hong 
kong kong 
kong kong kong 
      kong kong 
    kong 
  kong kong kong kong kong 
     kong kong kong kong 
kong 
kong kong kong kong kong kong kong 
kong kong kong kong 
kong kong kong 
kong kong kong 
   kong 
     kong 
kong kong kong kong kong kong kong 
        kong kong 
      kong 
       kong kong kong kong kong 
       kong 
kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong 
      kong kong kong kong kong kong 
kong 
      kong kong kong 
kong kong kong kong 
kong kong kong kong kong kong kong 
    kong kong 
kong kong 
kong kong kong 
          kong 
kong 
  kong 
  kong kong 
        kong kong 
  kong kong kong kong kong kong 
     kong 
     kong 
kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong 
kong 
       kong 
kong kong kong 
kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong 
    kong kong kong kong 
  kong kong kong 
      kong kong 
      kong 
kong kong 
kong 
  kong kong kong kong kong 
    kong 
   kong kong kong 
kong kong kong 
kong 
kong 
   kong kong kong kong 
    kong 
kong kong kong kong kong kong kong 
kong kong 
  kong 
kong kong kong 
      kong 
  kong 
kong kong kong 
  kong 
  kong kong kong kong 
kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong 
kong kong 
      kong 
kong 
      kong 
       kong kong kong kong kong 
kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong kong 
      kong kong kong

Statue of My Father

Wikipedia Poem, No. 461

W461-sm

“Almost noon, the distant sun / rode straight above us like a god / aware of everything and like / a god utterly silent. What / could ever grow from this ground / to feed anyone? And who bore / the mysterious child who spoke in riddles?” Philip Levine

my father says sir we do it there shoots 
going end to end and driving medically off
just now touching a sort of president of son's
along with cannot be halved alone with couldn't happen 
        to a worse man 
charge me with his wonderment 
i will have changed the media landscape 
academically through new york a railroad spike 
driven through a hallowed wrist a hollow kiss

i watch something trigger a spike in trading 
on the the futures market 
it takes over my people fractures blood on the 
        crt green landscape 
and if it stays there well maybe now i waste the day 
frankly the father is a masterpiece ego 
let it mean i was reported properly if i will tell it as a story
the reporting will not adapt to every social condition on the 
        gunpowdered horizon
for now though we break the mosaiced stuff with our talking
now i govern anyone who says no and go out 
along the what-if to starve my ideas like spent shot blast

People Are Forming Various Sentences with Their Bodies

Wikipedia Poem, No. 455

yakyak-sm

After Ron Padgett

there is no rush dear
cognitively 
certain your lover enough 
         water tells me 
you were 
      born last month

        we've eaten too much sugar
and 
our birthday was two days enough time 
to drink
          we've eaten too much 
sugar
and our birthday was 
two days enough time 
to indict 
      oneself
         always enough time 
to 
drink smart 
      complete
dancing particles 
of 
          night
below the poetry oneself
always 
past
i'm cognitively 
certain your shoes
         but we must have
dragged 
          shit in on our 
      birthday two days 
enough 
time to 
         indict 
one's wants 
to 
     write
the poetry 
   one wants to 
         drink
      we've 
eaten too 
       much 
    sugar
and 
          our birthday was two days 
       enough

“To Psychoanalysis” by Kenneth Koch

I took the Lexington Avenue subway
To arrive at you in your glory days
Of the Nineteen Fifties when we believed
That you could solve any problem
And I had nothing but disdain
For “self-analysis” “group analysis” “Jungian analysis”
“Adlerian analysis” the Karen Horney kind
All—other than you, pure Freudian type—
Despicable and never to be mine!
I would lie down according to your
Dictates but not go to sleep.
I would free-associate. I would say whatever
Came into my head. Great
Troops of animals floated through
And certain characters like Picasso and Einstein
Whatever came into my head or my heart
Through reading or thinking or talking
Came forward once again in you. I took voyages
Down deep unconscious rivers, fell through fields,
Cleft rocks, went on through hurricanes and volcanoes.
Ruined cities were as nothing to me
In my fantastic advancing. I recovered epochs,
Gold of former ages that melted in my hands
And became toothpaste or hazy vanished citadels. I dreamed
Exclusively for you. I was told not to make important decisions.
This was perfect. I never wanted to. On the Har-Tru surface of my emotions
Your ideas sank in so I could play again.
But something was happening. You gave me an ideal
Of conversation—entirely about me
But including almost everything else in the world.
But this wasn’t poetry it was something else.
After two years of spending time in you
Years in which I gave my best thoughts to you
And always felt you infiltrating and invigorating my feelings
Two years at five days a week, I had to give you up.
It wasn’t my idea. “I think you are nearly through,”
Dr. Loewenstein said. “You seem much better.” But, Light!
Comedy! Tragedy! Energy! Science! Balance! Breath!
I didn’t want to leave you. I cried. I sat up.
I stood up. I lay back down. I sat. I said
But I still get sore throats and have hay fever.
“And some day you are going to die. We can’t cure everything.”
Psychoanalysis! I stood up like someone covered with light
As with paint, and said Thank you.
It was only one moment in a life, my leaving you.
But once I walked out, I could never think of anything seriously
For fifteen years without also thinking of you. Now what have we become?
You look the same, but now you are a past You.
That’s Fifties clothing you’re wearing. You have some Fifties ideas
Left—about sex, for example. What shall we do? Go walking?
We’re liable to have a slightly frumpy look,
But probably no one will notice—another something I didn’t know then.

paculum-spec2-sm

Source:

Koch, Kenneth. The Collected Poems of Kenneth Koch. New York: Knopf, 2007. Print, p. 609.