fin de ciel


something else underneath the bottle
something else underneath the plate
somethine else underneath the glass
he did not self-identify with the movement

Bird Watching at Playa Santana (The Secret To My Perspicuity)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 779


optic spectus
clear evident hands
buried in soil or
prospettiva providing

ars poetica cresting
the break for introspecer

though human
look through the looking
consider skeptics
of providence
optic spek observe

spasati sees small fish
in the crown whitewater auspecere

look closely at skopein
behold high german spehhon
appearance for introspettiva
perspices auspex-auspex
horoscopal espective

any brains’ll tell ya elation monstrous
unknowing inspecere inspective any brains


‘Afro’ by Morgan Parker

from There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé by Morgan Parker

Intuition-Based Innovations in Neural Learning

Wikipedia Poem, No. 767


   any result 
      indexing away data 
admittance to do 
    indexing provides data admittance services profit 
addition provide malfunction formation
    straight get 
  you other software or anything 
  in addition to concerning accurate 
  reformation entry businesses

local bills 
      payrolls payrolls 
payrolls pasting business unit can achieve information 
entry organization entry digesting 

some computer software other organizations would 
     solve the data admittancement 
         equipment location problems
kept in structural y'a€™ll 
be descript now


Source: Young, Dmitry. “Data Entry Providers.” Neural Learning AI, 26 Apr. 2018.




I sit in bed beside you, shearing,
Heating pad set to medium;
You say I couldn’t handle more.

You’re looking for work.
I’m reading about poets in

Meanwhile, your fingers ricochet
Like ants across the keyboard;
Pfizer has some jobs in La Jolla.

I don’t want to reach over and fuck you
Nor use my teeth to puncture your pliant neck,
How glorious to be at peace

Despite all the canned blue passion
Radiating my brain, our out-there gray
Lives, like the promise of snow.

Pain always produces logic, which is
very bad for you. That’s not my line
But it’s a good one and applies here;

Women are bred for pain, they’ve got it
In them. The trick is to realize not everyone
You think is a woman is, my friend. It is dark

Now. The weather report predicts snow overnight
And it is rare the weather report is wrong
Anymore. Four to six inches. This poem

Is about fucking. Or not fucking. Or refusing
To write in bedclothes
with blood.

“A Poem Some People Will Have to Understand” by Amiri Baraka, 1969


Source: Baraka, Amiri, and William J. Harris. The Leroi Jones/Amiri Baraka Reader. New York, NY: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1991. Print.

“Feminist Modes of Production” by Arielle Greenberg

This poem appears in Arielle Greenberg’s 2015 book “Slice” from Coconut Press. Her work is brilliant, please support her writing.

Family Happiness (Nondidactic)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 572


“Overture of my voice like the flash of bats. / The hyena babble and apish libretto. // Piscine skin, unblinking eyes. / Sideshow invites foreigner with animal hide.” from Cathy Park Hong’s ‘Zoo’

they move today as was written   hold that sound
against one of

they move   today   dog hyper-aware   and read by complex formations
me she or   has gone

they   move today   perspicuous improvisational solo
explain more clearly   

they move   today it is being written   
hold it against one's   patience

they   move   today   for difference radiates 
one of us   curious dog

Poets Reading the News publishes ‘Agraphia’


“Car 5”

A great poetry website, Poets Reading The News, has published another one of my poems, Agraphia, along with one my recent photos, Car 5 (above).

I’m extraordinarily fond, and proud, of this poem. It’s about the way that war and violence affect one’s humanity.

It begins with a quote from Gabriele de’ Mussi, a historian of sorts, who gave one account of the beginning of the black plague in Europe in the mid-14th Century.

He tells of the siege on Kaffa (now known as Feodosia in Crimea) in which the Mongols launched the rotten flesh of their own sick and infected soldiers over the city walls in order to weaken the defending forces — an early version of biological warfare.

Please read and share it. You mean the world to me.

Thanks for being a part of this crazy project.

— Joe

Belted Kingfisher


By substituting X for their name
We begin to blue-grey a flicker rate
Between eyes, nose, ears and mouth.

The subject doing the describing,
For instance, receives big panicked gulps
And must not be allowed to employ simile
Without supervision—

How liberating!

Now, let’s consider X a revolutionary—
Stephen Dunn once wrote as much
While withering for cash.

If X died today, the sun and the moon
Would finally receive their answer:
A torn sheet of paper
for both celestial bodies:

Grim, graceful and surreal;
A canyon of sugar skulls,
Oh! the lightcycle enfolding forever
Like endless dough.

X insists
They need not be

X’s interdisciplinary epigram, anyway,
Inspired (which?) Dickman’s monograph 52 years on,
The latter being more studied yet
Significantly less erudite
Than the former, who cannot
Will not make up their mind
But will resolve to vacillate endlessly.

Do be you
Of Coke.

X is one of the park’s rarest
And least conspicuous trees.

Found only on dry ledges of the summit,
X is little more than a shrub.

X is not a belted kingfisher
Despite their harsh and rattling call.

X is silly and not as
Handsome as you remember.

When Christ arrives,
X is surprised.