gringo interventions & coups d’etats

Wikipedia Poem, No. 895

the picturewomen that brought the fair says the flare of mysterious sun nests in blood. the same age i waited for you in the girls we could break into goodness. like as in loved. asleep. you die. no sun in roots and whiskey and seems fair though therfucking the place up, tangled in a ghost—hieroglyphics i dream of spider blood. like love, with its finger on the bar, i dream of you at scale, just a kid, really, laughing in place. tangled in a ghost—hieroglyphics i come to understand the girls we made you soak in barnight. i come to nests of you instead. i say lookout with its clear finger. what’s new? drugs wet with clear-air always sitting in nests of mysterious spiderstands they’re sitting out fucking you with stars. nest of mysterious sun. the girls we loved. asleep. you instead say, stay, i look for you, you, you in rootblood. the fair thought-fish, painted-ghost—hieroglyphic dream of mysterious sun in rootblood. the fucking on and ever clutch a dream like love ever asleep. you in roots and nest of sun in roots and place, tangled-in, but older. the same eventualities, laughing off of my fucking stars. i come to the coast, no one’s i light say, i drown in roots and instead, instead, instead. i stood lookout with tears. i come to understand blood. loved. asleep. you instead. i theater the barstool look for you where no sun in the blue-black sea they’re impossibly large spiders. i say, i dream of a mysterious man in a good mood. through the nests of wet fingers clutch the bar rag covers neon clutch at midnight, i look for yourself. good. the blue-black thigh, terror fingers the bible like a ghost—hieroglyphic dreams of tears’ stars. nests of example; eventually the fucking stars. the ripping of an abandoned highway, i dream of oscillating black preserved in some anonymous monkey’s heart, drown in neon; came on eventually, flicked really, laugh—they’re just stars on a path. flare of mysterious roots now love asleep—you, subsumed by coast.


Source: Kennedy, Christopher. “I Called Shotgun When You Died.” NY Tyrant, Tyrant Books, 11 Jan. 2019, magazine.nytyrant.com/called-shotgun-christopher-kennedy/.

Morra (Dissimilate)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 894

every counterpart essential
salmonella-microscopic substances
local camorra proteins
the brother solara thot experiment
encourage vesicles of engulfed vacuole
invagination ann-type smaller
intact cells are smaller intact

cell membrane continues school ann’s love
despite ann’s brother solara thot encourages
after bits of microscopic substance local camorra
process plant counterparts salmonella microscopic substances
local camorra proteins the brother grade school ann
exocytosis storages after bits of engulfed by simple solara
thot encourages bits of the neighborhood extracellular friends

roles are
smaller
brother
grade school ann she
escapes with her fingers
transports smaller
cells microscopes a simple life
of salmonella

transport brother solara thot
encourage vesicles extrusion of sample proteins
reproduce invaginate school ann begins
the neighborhood friend? marry a rich ann a
a counterpart essential visible under plant counterparts
essential extracell membrane compiler stories enrage

after bits of the family’s support smaller intact with
cells shrink intact with salmonella microscopes phagocytosis
the story enrages ann’s vesicles solara thot
encourages bits of the neighborhood storage
process plant neverlove despite absorb
friends should transfix engulf extrude
life of the neighborhood small extracellular friends

middle storage vesicles transfix engulf plant material
never love despite ann the neighborhood friend
when impoverished in a poor neighborhood
friend middle school ann she escapes phagocytosis
cells are smaller intact specimen microscopes of the
plebeian class impoverish smaller brother solara

bit the neighborhood friends
masculine story fingerless enraged
after bits of the golgi apparatus engulf
material transfixed by a simple story

who enrages bits of salmonella a simple game
microscopic substances local camorra league
process plant shouts never love
despite ann agrees transfixed

Liturgy

Wikipedia Poem, No. 892

Safely
infested
through next week.

Dead, I could not
be allowed to move
when my rabbit ran away

it is usually a red dress that day.
When my leg went west.
The dead I could not say—

owned what a belief.
I could not say—so who
owns this chief relief. I could be.

I could be locked away but when they whisper
in a vest it’s usually addressed to the right, first place.
When my leg went west I could not say—
whoever owns it is usually underdressed.

Move when my rabbit runs away: It is
unusually in first place. When they are
so usable assume one of their lips looks away.


Source: Ruefle, Mary. “When Adults Talk”Selected Poems. Seattle: Wave Books, 2011. Print.

‘When Adults Talk’ by Mary Ruefle

Broken Lance, Joseph M. Gerace, 2019

I am not even vaguely interested,
though for a quarter I could be.

I was not allowed to move but when my leg went dead
I cheered it on in the first place.

When they whisper they ought to wear a lead vest.
Their lips look like personified oysters.

When they shout it is usually addressed
to the dead body who owned it before us.

We can safely assume one of them is born
every minute of the day.

When my rabbit ran away it was a great relief.
I could not say so—who would understand?—

So I cried for a week.

Source: Ruefle, Mary. “When Adults Talk.” Selected Poems. Seattle: Wave Books, 2011. Print.

Artifacts of Reference, No. 40

Image

Artifacts of Reference, No. 39

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

some dogs remain silent for fear of being noticed

To Please the Yelping Dog

some dogs remain silent for fear of being noticed
some dogs can’t help it

in cutlery
a fork
from latin furca
for pitchfork
utensil
fulcrum of metal
long handle
terminates
in a head
branches
narrow
curved
tines
with which one can spear
food
to hold
to cut
to lift
to the mouth

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