Agency Representation


the tide dropped out
while still enrolled
puta in the sun
scared moon
certainly not the heroes
darkly begging at the shore’s feet
taking advantage
the only thing
at which they’ve excelled
no other way to get it done
their shoulder / your shoulder
their back / your back
the chorus unable to prove anything
anymore distracted by distraction
comparing
work to worry
reaction to action
syrup to syntax
the anti-war movement of the ’60s and ’70s
sabotaged the culture
their heroes heathens lords of dew
acknowledge the abusive sutra
turned themselves out
there’s hero shit in the street
and no one picks it up
which is to say
everyone refuses to pick it up
who precisely is this no one
and are you looking
for agency representation?

Sentient Sinatra Sunset (John Lurie)


for John Lurie

is edible drowning up there?

as predicted in a future poem his aesthetic stands itchy in hotlights at the sink washing dishes while thinking up elden ring memes for twitter clout

this is a modern poem that does nothing his hands of caged meat slimes up past his elbows as he lemons this trademarked postmarked marky marked one and only love sucked

into low orbit observation send it said eddie said she hopes the doctor got his dosage right this time this is is real now

despite our collective mfa the mouse squeaks the house sneaks the chinese porcelain every druggie wanna-be and dead-alike speaks at length about cockroaches scampering tightly under skullskin it just so happens that every sortie of weed manufactured across the southern territories since at least the end of the second world war has been poached without the consent of hives worldwide there’s always a paranoid car story he read it 

he’s not doing anyone a favor these dishes crack themselves on concrete and file away tortoises tying

uh oh what’s in his hand against character your advertisement of very uncool touching

father on blasted beach the sun has no imagination his parents chose to orphan him is that mean is that the point bed bath and beyond hacked his sorry ass hello william gibson the holy spirit a samurai rides the gyrus orphaned by its slight description 

yeah that’s saying it plain the first great passage of the twenty second century opens up this his first novel about the black wall they know they’re on tv too hard to get up this hill without it

the dog sniffs the plastic takeout bag the cockroach pushes around particular brain ridges conspiratorial things let him call the shot is too beautiful to have been composed its eyeline blasts his sacral aqueduct

splash damage vibrant with all that yellow racing thru his gut but vibrant but vibrant with sesame seeds pecked into the ceiling on their way to god chandler bing is a name he just thought of suddenly for no reason your image of god continues to anger the church bell edible and deserves to see the phantom menace in theaters and cut his oh man those three were dead before the sardine hit the ground they were all fucking with him clean out the world for virtue and love the lemon said

they were bugs and teeth scattered like water run dry too much coffee for this to be his first time in the afterlife he didn’t write he got them sons of warriors that hiss that service he looked away

his poetics is super mario kart

oh man look at that sunset

protect it

Come Si Dice “Uninterested?”

Double Sonnet for Michel

listen, monster, i’m here to remind you
the ruby drunk caught in your throat demands
a buck fifty for the downtown 1 white
shoe slip-resistant rubber sole the plan

this Philosophy smells of studded club
soda dark liquor hidden deep in books
template matching over styx russian sub
ice cream necropolis kicks filthy nooks

oh no i hope it’s not true i’m attached
to the colors posing at piss station
so unsophisticated my tenses
fall to the floor i’ve missed my choo choo

you don’t deserve a narrative monster
all you get: a spare admission of form

like a dog like a man who can’t decide
whether to use the pronoun him or it
dog who’s spoiled interior design
three heads one asshole no one to love it

michel foucault would have been an iphone
man bald bitmoji man he would have sucked
off zuck in the castro like a real man
unable to look anywhere but in

retrospect is fabulism is a
surrealist koan yodeled from buckling knees
in a space station manned by paranoid
belted purple unfathomable beasts

ignorant to our own intricate dance
i am not a love song i‘m a baked yam

Stuck Tight Old Boy Stuck Tight

“My word / Hand caught in the door / Stuck tight old boy stuck tight”

‘Safety Lock’ by Louis Aragon

My word
Hand caught in the door
Stuck tight old boy stuck tight
In other words
Or
The password please
Many thanks
Now I hold the key
The bolt begins to twist like a tongue
Therefore

Trans. Michael Benedikt


Source: Aragon, Louis. “Safety Lock.” The Poetry of Surrealism, edited by Michael Benedikt. Boston: Little, Brown and Co, 1974, p. 151.

Photo: Gerace, Joe. “Stuck Tight Old Boy Stuck Tight” Nov. 14, 2020. JPG.

We’ve Updated Our Employee Handbook

Kyoto, Nov. 2019

to all decurved contract
workers
both boy
and girl
please note
we offer a paltry 401(k)
cancer herpes
kind-hearted flechette
america
the corporation
complain
the complaint
liable to get nations
flayed guilty imagination
unspoiling
brood parasite
munitions
nesting
in an oval
in a pit
lazy dog
iron heart
suddenly
unleashed
starving
detonating
undetonating
detonating ad
nauseam decorated
celebrated soft
fleshy middle
managers
break’s over!
tumbling
from a cloud

Thinking About Zuihitsu

Wikipedia Poem, No. 982

Tokyo, 2019

i feel my eye
my wife
glaring

this
ambiguity arcs
particularly effective

clicks i
feel
my eye

my
wife stares
this ambiguity

conveys the
corner
of the physically

and psychologically overwhelming
ambiguity
these particularly

effective clicks
i convene
my eyes

my wife
hunting actions of being
actions of kofi annan

of newt gingrich of
another herd of clicks
i feel my eye

my wife deconstructing one’s sense
being terrified—of finding the performer is particularly effective clicks
i feel my eye

my wife passes on
no action on being this
singular trail of blind bursts

Debriefing (Purple Chrysanthemum in the Dark)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 980

purple chrysanthemums when he's locked in currency
Saddle River, 2019

purple chrysanthemums
when he’s locked
in currency

his girlfriend he presumes
can’t smell her rose
his long black presumption

in the dark
it’s nobody’s job
to shine boots

antoni sneaks off
stateless watches
arrange shirts the hour

he’s locked
each day precedes
verde lungs

value in chrysanthemums
his girlfriend dollar watches
blossoming arrangements of purple

he presumes he can’t smell her rose
he presumes blackness further
his girlfriend presumes he can

smell her boots
arrange her shirts
the hour sneaks off

locked in the dark
each day
lungs verde

it’s nobody’s job
to dirty dead boys
in the dark

Monteverde Vecchio (He Can’t Smell Her Roses)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 978

He Can't Smell Her Roses art poetry surrealism photography

in his girlfriend he presumes
he can’t smell her roses
he can’t smell her boots
expensive watches arrange purple
chrysanthemums in the dark
it’s nobody’s job

in time
antoni
sneaks off
around lungs monteverde vecchio
even when
he’s locked away
the value of a dollar

even when
he locked
away the dark
it’s nobody’s job

see his
girlfriend arranging purple
chrysanthemums

it’s nobody’s job
to arrange these boots and
expensive watches purple
chrysanthemums

the time
sneaks off
in his long black hair
he is dead

sergio buys handmade leaf smoke
voiding his boys

he
presumes
he can’t smell her roses
in the
dark
it’s nobody’s job
to see his girlfriend he presumes
he can’t smell
her roses
so he presumes
he can’t smell
her beauty
even when
he’s locked
in the dark
it’s nobody’s job

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/.