Friday, March 29, 2013

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

4 poems 4 the 21st cent


I’m not a homophone, but
America is getting gayed
by skewed poles sexted
Obmaphone to Obamaphone,
and I just don’t think it’s OK.
Kids get real confused on stuff.

“Ask Me About Bitcoins”



“If No Genitals Do Not Resuscitate”

‘Well do something useful
and show me your boobs,’
said our wounded hero to useless
medic administering morphine for
his knee stumps freshly formed
by Taliban IED 3/23/2013; useless
babe medic uselessly declined display:
endless horrors of endless wars, thanks

"Be American"





Monday, March 25, 2013

Capsule Review of Marie Calloway's “Adrien Brody”

Most scandals just aren't all that interesting, because, like dreams, we really only care about them if they're about us or about someone relatively famous.  Sometimes I think the great tragedy of third-wave feminism was its occasional tacit confusion of narcissism for agency.  This story is okay.  It reminds me of why I always regret having company over.  Or being company, for that matter.

Sunday, March 24, 2013


Seen fornicating with a grape.
I lean out the window 
and lock into a moon.
My cloths are rain pinch-hitting.

Why am I suddenly riding here?
And why is this unbuilt house
Full of all my old, lost stuff?
They're making fun of the construction workers.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

Props to whoever found us this way.

2 Spring Break SXSW Sonnets by Dario Argento


Listen to the second ocean dry into a vast summer,
Sharpening oil without name.

Sleeping bandits rattling blankets of organs
Grow rabid harvesting marrow from beds.

There the granary thickens with waterless axes.
I see greeting as a hotel
Dirtied with the dry bristles of screams.

And then, legs hearing their own clash,
There is the sound of entirety halving,
As if a turbulent iris passed water over bones.

Scarcely within reason I bitter spiders into a harsh
Cathedral where I kneel lisping thickets from swords.

A walk can tear the substance from silence;
The black timber postaged in weeds and violence.


When the desire for allergies is teeth in the rose
Fingernails accumulate in the sky.

A scar of bacterial suffering falls, enduring the mesas.
Your red natural head resounds
To the extinguished bronco's legs I pass, habiting--
Salt where a planet of water stains poison to weeping.

All the rose lamps its bit of guilt,
Gulping paraded spiders into walls.

When it is night, broken knees beg mercy of trains.
Hostile roots harass the blood past windows.
The cat slices its tail off, growing a fountain.
The sea beats for years the leg of a duck.

All year they work, like wheat grained in silence.
They suffer, again, near desiring to suffer.

A Soup Moister than Breathing

I spike memories into the eyelids.
Ferociously a red gasp of bones
Uplifts, shaken between kisses.

Sperm like the cataracts of Medusa
Muffles the heart entirely,
A jellyfish sobbed upon the land.

They rodeo the lonely cats into drops of rain.
Like go-to teeth,
Drop marmalade and blood into your "special" face.

Like water,
Like a spine of spayed cats
Like a tearing river of green garages

Bite your own fall
And romp symmetrical pegs
Into that costume of soul.

A movement, dreaming of hands, forms under a blanket of ire.
They don't love you like I love you.

America, 1869

The telegraph moves faster than a horse,
But a horse got a bigger dick.


I straight up can't wait to see who chooses Johnny Cage. Does anyone ever choose Johnny Cage?

Pooh Pooh

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

another bball poem

The Cavs Want LBJ/Back

the Heat are defending champions
a 23-game winning streak
put a historical stamp on their dominance

their superstars
seem to be on the precipice of establishing the sort
of dynasty they dreamed of

2014 could be 2010 all over again
there will be another decision

wednesday is supposed to be the first day of spring
you wouldn't know it in Cleveland

the forecast calls for snow      strong winds and a high of 30
(It will be 84 in Miami)

The Cavs have lost three straight
will be without their top three players
will host the team with the second-longest winning streak in NBA history

still      some Cavs fans will hope
 some will cheer LeBron on Wednesday night

some feel others are pussies

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Last Night I Dreamt About the Biebs

Last night I dreamt about the Biebs. I was a thirty-something woman (still young, if you ask me!), and I had "acquired" some drawings of the pop idol.  The drawings were scandalous.  I was in the process of pasting one up on the concrete wall of the venue Bieber was performing at.  Although there were many fans around--ladies younger than myself, mostly--I managed this covertly.  I had applied some glue to one and was about to press it to the wall when who should walk up but the Biebs himself.  (Sometimes he goes in through the front to "be real," I guess?)  He didn't see what I was doing.  I casually leaned my elbow against the wall, hiding the drawing behind my back as I did so (pretty smooth, huh?).  We immediately broke into a duet of the old country standard "You Can Kiss My Scraggly Beard."  When he, being such a young man--a boy, really--sang the chorus, it meant one thing, but when I, a thirty-something woman, sang it, it meant something entirely different (dreams are great for double entendres!).  You might think everyone was jealous (Bieber fans are notorious), but I swear everyone loved it (I heard some clapping).  After we parted ways, I continued with my project, but now I felt a twinge of guilt.  So, on top of the scandalous drawing I pasted another sheet that read, "SCANDALOUS DRAWING OF THE BIEBS. DON'T LIFT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BE SCANDALED."  (I had to write "scandaled" because I'd run out of room on the paper.)  Anyway, I didn't have a ticket to the show, so that was that.  And you know what?  The Biebs was all right by me, no matter what you might read on Twitter.

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Eileen Myles by Eileen Myles


I wake and pee into the vase of the night.
I stare at the yellow flowers.
I make myself look at them.
Maybe if I knew their names
I could find them beautiful
Like a lot of people say they do.
I find out the names of the flowers.
I hydrate myself with dull water.
I still don't care about the flowers;
I did not make the flowers.
Am I thinking of this because of Kant?
The thought just now occurred to me.
Probably not, I'm still looking for
A reason for my apathy,
As if in finding it, I could remove
It like a thorn
And experience delight in everyday things.
It's just stuff though, junk.
Nature makes trash.
I had no hand in it,
And even if I did
Cultivation is dull.
Nature makes Kool-Aid;
People in sandals drink it.
Mostly I agree with them,
Life's all there is and no beyond, probably.
Still, why do they wanna keep it?
They make health with their hands
Cultivating themselves into pots.
Why do they wanna keep themselves?
I hate that I have to ask,
Not because there's no need to ask,
Just that there's no need.


Anyways, I think about limits, mostly my own,
And when I try to focus and whittle myself
Down to something hardup and true,
I'm left a broken mirror
Propped vertically against a doorstoop, guarding.
That's really very metaphorical
And really very beyond my means.
I shouldn't and can't say it like that,
Even if I just did.

People think about limits, and sometimes I buy
Into a generational hedonism
And convince myself I should just
Go for it, just put on some Nike's,
Run for it, jump for it, just do it,
But for the last 20 minutes
I've had to shit and I want to
Write all this down so I wait to
Shit for the right time.
So many goals.
Hedonism collapses, at least as an argument,
Which needs a few, well-handled points.

Anyways, what does she want from me?
Am I that thoughtless?
I smell bad
But I know I could try harder
And yet I want one nice fucking day
One fucking day to feel free
And unclouded from feeling like I fucked up.
I want a few hours, just a goddamn
Few hours in which to feel like
I've done nothing terrible
And, of course, nothing great.
It would all be uncalled for,
In a nice, cozily surprising way.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Eggs, Benedict, Miracle Grow & Me

I’m pregnant. I’m surprised. I wonder
if family is the foundation of this nation,
what’s so bad about socialism? Dad?
The Lord is more than fertilizer to me.

Their divorce made me a whore, I’m told;
it was all my fault, because when it was said,
“He’s beating a dead horse,” I—
I put my arms around its neck and wept.

A house is not a home, unless you hang your hat
on the rack; a mother, a father, and I
is not a democracy. Sure, there was yelling under
that old patriarchy, but at least I learned to fish.

“Let go of the damn horse,” they said, but I—
I wouldn’t and when I wouldn’t they said, “Fine,”
and I got left behind, holding a pony no longer able
to flick away the gathering flies with his tail.

Then and there I watched them go, parting
like the seas. My path would be the one between them,
or my tears could flood the basin of this earth,
with all the animals one-by-one, pregnant and surprised.

Monday, March 4, 2013

Three Poems

“Dictated, Not Read”

Clearasil wants to lick that zit, and I do too.
This lamp on the bedside table,
it also makes dark come night’s end.
How can I hold you when I’m all ears?

No one should want their wife
to be an ugly person, probably,
and so how to reconcile the little coincidences
I guess I’ll never know.


Fecal transplant is sometimes
a solution for irritable bowels.

I sure hope that one day they
put Pete Rose in the Hall of Fame.


Steve Ganyard says, “There is nobody at the CIA
who can tell you more personally about Kim Jong Eun
than Dennis Rodman,” but the trillest word I ever heard was 
how to make saddle shoes from white sneaks and a Sharpie.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

What Happened in Our House at Night

 Approaching bedtime, father was keen to lurk.

Mother tended the shrubbery by the blood moon.

And in the garret, the old children were perfectly bothersome.