A Rapid, Nameless Impulse

Wikipedia Poem, No. 809

khat

your smutgrass will not grow here 
i am the realizer the realizer i am 
supple cast into tinderbale summer air
shitting and reading bomb hiss
        page turner 
        astrologic tortoise 
        barren mango seed 
        these hands 
                wad of pedagogic khat 
                delicious trap cannot conceive 

cradled by radioactive fog i am the secular seed 
seed of balamb garden 
controls the freckled and pale realizer 
balamb garden i implore you 
control the start of yr anti-capitalist pale 
i'm in favor of yr anti-capitalist pale
you are the only one willing to abuse yr body 
and i'm so here for that

Holding Myself Accountable (after Alison Knowles’ ‘Identical Lunch’)

knowles

 

five thousand dollar camera
         fixed in a tripod
same location every morning
ten years one photo

federal regulations
prohibit hanging
banners from the monument

a woman's long thin
fingers kneading eggs
into soft yellow clay

experience points
earned for being
mean to my readers

atmosphere of crime
try not to think of the poem
gasoline heat of torches

i hope
to level up
soon please god

knowles-nyt

Alison Knowles at MoMA in 2011/Robert Caplin for The New York Times

Second Person (after Martin Ott)

voidheavy-sm2

Hold X. You, everlasting, fall into the voidheavy abyss. No?

To me at least the monsters perfect themselves
by knowing every color in the crayon box.
Certainty. Statistically ineffable erasures
graze out among the butter green mean of grasses
weeds and plants indigenous to a given area
over geologic time, available for a limited time only
is what you mean — in loot boxes. Your children’s
shimmer, blast anatomy, orbit of faeries, featherfrost.
All tooth. All esophagus. Yada yada yada. All asshole.

Poem about Bees

Wikipedia Poem, No. 799

server2

“When I say ‘I,’ I am lying. Let us posit the ‘I’ of perception—neutral and limpid. Put it next to the ‘I’ of intermediation—when you look at it this way, my body belongs to me; or, more exactly, I belong to my body. What do we observe? An absence of contact. Fear what I say.” Michel Houellebecq

 

journey of what is our concept of nothing?
understand these vast new shapes

of whom science say journey of the universe
what eye?
on display for a reward

moving then not
not moving then gone—all of it

Head Gone Nova (Homoerotica)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 794

wzx2
 

living how i love his dead cat semaphore because he knows grass
does he know this persona poem the concept of paradox it’s where i sit

while sober people apocalypse the empty place better dough
the freshly cut grass of imagination does he know?

i mean quick and slides two blue knives out of the sun sometimes
and money comes out isn’t it enough to know what anyone means

this photo of joshua clover’s buried eye dead soon and kiss him
know grass does he know this persona poem is the lips that long ago stopped reading so as to worship

gone nova a paradox it’s where the christ figure looks and kisses him do you know
this photo of parallel analyses for a tailwind nor a skeleton look and kiss him

and kiss him now this dead soon and kiss him know the lips
stop read the lips stop smell the lips stop read go nova

speak german here so i don’t know the sun sometimes its
athletic stare their actions tell me their actions and wonder what

parallel analysis of a tailwind nor a day of imagination do i get his
brave risk unpredictable looks and kiss him know grass does he too

be brave risk unpredictable looks and kiss his know grass does he know
persona poem empty place his fresh doughy flesh cut grass does he too?

does he at all? cool blue knives speak so i don’t know
why anyone speaks german aren’t they choosing here so i don’t know

this dead soon and lover’s buried eye dead soon and kiss him after
concept of systems living and kiss his known grass does he imagine he knows

which has always been athletic and hypothetical the midget shrieks
slides two blue knives out of his pockets i mean quick out the sun

Digesting the One Perfect Cherry Blossom (Ōtomo no Tabito’s Problem Drinking)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 782

w782

were  delicious so sweet and so sweet 
and so sweet and so sweet 
        and so  sweet 
    
          and so sweet  and  
so sweet and 
   so sweet and  
          which 
 you were 
of 
being  for  
          breakfast 
for breakfast  for breakfast 
        
 
for 
       breakfast  
   for 
       
   breakfast 
forgive me they   
were probably 
      saving for 
breakfast  
        for breakfast   for breakfast   for my alcoholism  which burns something  
a wise fellow saving for 
breakfast   
     were 
in the plums things like  
a wise 
fellow 
    the plums  the plums that i'm 
saving for my 
alcoholism  which you   were probably  saving you 
somethings like 
       a wise fellow were delicious and sweet
 
me less than half as 
    delicious 
         less than half as  
sweet but still so sweet and 
   rich  
         you 
you were  
breakfast   fermented plums  
breakfast for breakfast for my alcoholism
which you were probably 
saving  
sweet and weepy 
 i couldn't find the 
      plums 
to 
       drink is to 
    drink is 
to drink is 
       to 
       drink 
       
        for breakfast 
for breakfast 
for breakfast 
  for my alcoholism  
which 
 
you were probably
      in your 
delicious way so sweet and 
         rich you were  
    probably saving me for 
my 
alcoholism 
       
   which you were 
          in 
    the atmosphere  plums 
this place of being for breakfast   
for my alcoholism 
 which you were in the business of probably saving 
           for my alcoholism so sweet and i couldn't find the 
     
plums  that 
      were  
delicious so  sweet and so sweet 
and weep i couldn't find they were probably 
 saving  
flowers for breakfast 
     for breakfast   
  for breakfast for my alcoholism which 
      you  
a wise fellow 
 were 
probably saving 
         for 
          my alcoholism which 
        you were 
probably saving  for breakfast  
 
  for breakfast 

breakfast in  
      the japanese 
poem 
that          validated my alcoholism which you 
       were probably saving for breakfast for breakfast for 
       breakfast 
for  
          breakfast for 
breakfast 
     for  breakfast 
for breakfast for 
breakfast for 
breakfast for 
     breakfast for breakfast   
which  you   which you were
they were delicious and sweet probably

Map of the World

Wikipedia Poem, No. 746

shypint8

shy piñata

horizon of mascara slurps
a burst expectant cross
mangles the black one
purple swoosh at eye-level

burst piñata

down-filled custom spilt dirty swinging watcher
black one purpled shoulders slap
black one purple air of fire

blink mascara
burst piñata

the poets’ key
falls into air-fire

down across simile
like the face with no face
elsewhere is here
it licks for candied fontanelle

or glides or imagines
the black one’s purple mage
who cannot know:

and slurps
the poets’ knot
groks their shy
pint at eye-level

Reacting to Springs

Wikipedia Poem, No. 727

w727

 

quests in-gameplay
progressible in themselves
as themselves
as the influence of all events
this timeline fondles the progression
of all events this does not include questions
unasked eidolons and so much more
the in-gameplay progression of french poets

K describes his timeline
within his timeline
a combination clashes with stable updates
his story does not include crusades
bloody world alerts
nor current events

“The Biggest Bomb” David Ignatow

Y’all should get real intimate with this gem. It’s from “Claims for Poetry,” a dope book of essays edited by Donald Hall from 1982.

This short essay from 1955 is by a poet I had never heard of, David Ignatow. I googled him and discovered he was the kind of poet who found some success, but always had to maintain a day job: butcher, book binder, hospital admitting clerk, vegetable market night clerk, and paper salesman.”

He was also “editor of American Poetry Review, Analytic, Beloit Poetry Journal, and Chelsea Magazine, and … poetry editor of The Nation.”

Anyway, biographical minutiae aside, this “impressionistic essay” is at times monastic — “I deal with words, I give myself the pleasure of being free with my feelings, my thoughts. I allow them to fall into any shape or color they desire in words.” — and at other times animalistic: “The freedom I write about is for cockroaches, ants, mice, and lice.”

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Mary Ruefle

think like that
no like that

sniff around a burrow
don’t hunt birds

think like this
no like this

raccoons yes groundhogs
yes opossum definitely yes

think for yourself
no not like that

not the robin though
nor the house sparrow

here give me the controller
let me have a go at it

nor the half dozen finches
gathered near the volkswagen

put your hands up
don’t move a muscle.