Mutant City Acid

Wikipedia Poem, No. 890

enough
you can own
the concordant sickness
ringing
it’s way
into yr heart

i’m here

everything i
thought was funny when i was
the enemy

mutant city acid:
damp hedges a church
the modest hours
that guide
the modest hours that would be lost
if not for a drug
conviction i served seven years for
i served this
country i’ve done my time i’ve done my time and time
and
time and time again
i’ve made
some mistakes but thank
god the smell of wood smoke

i cast the enemy

mutant city acid:
damp
hedges a church
the
marvel
reduced figure
ground relationship
frustration casts
a rat’s scurry

A Crisis of the Heart and a Crisis of the Soul

Wikipedia Poem, No. 886

the desert on hand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . near these lies who’s an antique ham who said—two vast and trunkless cold commandias king of kings the hand the decay of its sculptor well mocked colossal wreck bound trunkless and despair! at the estates at lanuvium nothing’s heard sneer of kings of stone trunkless things looks forward to dessert. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . near these lifeless cold commands commodus who said two vast deserts? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . deserter near the decay of that sculptor’s cold command, who said bonespur—too vast to despair? fountainhead of the empire bank of nothings … look on these lies who’s even from an antique land anymore, big beautiful half sunkshattered visage king of sneerstone stand behold mock sculptor well of passions that sculptor cold commodias, king of stone stand desserted. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Artists’ Head Strung from The Artist’s Head

Wikipedia Poem, No. 885

drop anything my brown kitchen stand falligators quarries airfields swamps post-industrial towns no weather here deep withering made-thing in beautiful or dissociated harmony frying up the stuff and father we make we sort we tell stories you’ll see you said what i don’t call those i read of you here i go again, bumblebeeing, and a notorious leaky bladder the author the sunset-nothing—fully read by drug conviction—hadn’t thought about this before a bouquet of dehydration raked according to all the good over the wall rested in the thing my brown the wrested world’s lean interview with it would just just just strung up confident men

‘God Must Be an Indian’ by Billy-Ray Belcourt

Billy-Ray Belcourt (he/him) is a writer and academic from the Driftpile Cree Nation. The above poem was snatched from the essential Survivance zine created by Elizabeth LaPensée, Ph.D., and R.I.S.E. (Radical Indigenous Survivance and Empowerment).

The work available in this series is vibrant, illuminating and broadly necessary. Please support their projects.

One bit of vocab to spotlight here: KOOKUM, I believe, is a Cree word for grandmother.

‘is what it seems’ (Kevin Beasley)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 884

Kevin Beasley, “Reunion” (2018), detail, now on view at the Whitney

is what it seems
designer british
stamps her stamp
panache textures
colors material
japan paris spring
artistic pain
paying homage
color direct material
texture wing
influence white
cutting kimonos infuse
graphic diagonal cuts
infuse strength
touch of glossy leather
and love
power grown
of pronounced shine
refined aplomb
celebration of shine
generous batwing accents
so elevated to
sophistication
sleek stirrup pants
level sidewalk
level day
level masterful coat
swashbuckling springs
an innate sense of line
deep dapper dramatically
cascading mix of black
striking bonded lace
juxtapositions crystal
crepe de chine
double-faced green
line of cashmere figuration

Artifacts of Reference, No. 34

Oct. 2017

Tomorrow is my birthday. If anyone is in the meatpacking district and wants to eat hella pizza and drink reasonably priced cocktails HMU. Please share this and let everyone know what a terrible poet I am. You can be anything you want.