Sunday, June 24, 2012

Pride & Prejudice 2012







Monday, June 18, 2012

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Reaching [Atrophy]








I peel away the dead skin
and hold the junk in my hand:

this is what it’s like to live

I hold my penis in my hand to pee
and make a floppy attempt to
do something else with it:

this is what it’s like to live

I wave to a passing friend across
the street who waves back
and keeps passing:

this is what it’s like to live.





Variations on Saturday





1

sun shines on the grey nostalgia, tripping
over others who lay out by water lapping
against bruised legs left out to dry, crying
out for something to do and calling it sunning
only for something that keeps them running


2

waiting to cross
                           the road together as a burnished
something or other
you don’t notice him
or return the smile
                              he offers by way of hello


3

outdoor music blunging to the bunch,
notes of reflection against the water hunch
and memories that flow against as such
causing hunger, something more than lunch


4

the dark
like stone
sits still in the dark
and waits

              for the flash
of light
that shines the moon’s
face in expensive
laughter and light


5

matinee ladies
                         cannot hear
and wear hats

that are far too big


6

The woman giving me a slice
stands there and asks if I want some
rolls with that
                        “we’ll throw them
away otherwise”
                             which means
they must be delicious.

Her son throws them in a sack
and hands them over to me.

I feel the sack, hard and heavy,
filled with little garlic stones that
haven’t seen love
in a long time.


7

I didn’t want      
                       to do it.

I didn’t want to do it.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Dream #16/Interpretation #12






The Dream:  The entire staff at work was sent on a “retreat” to a hotel that was basically the Overlook but actually set in a Tennessee motel in Chattanooga. I was sharing a room with my boss. The retreat was to last 2-weeks, so I had decided to bring a significant amount of photos, etc. in order to feel more at home for those two weeks. After we checked in and realized our room smelled of fried foods, I began to nail various nails into the walls to hang my photos. My boss took off into the hallway to ride a Big Wheels around, looking for a vending machine.

Some stuff happened that I don’t remember, none of it having to do with anything.

While my boss was out Big Wheeling it, I decided to open the bottle of vodka that I had brought. Not having any mixer to use, I used the mouthwash that was offered by the hotel watered down. It tasted like dessert at the dentist.

My boss came back, frantic, telling me that they were no longer offering soda. Instead, the vending machine apparently now looked like a giant cow’s udder that dispenses only whole milk.

We sat on the bed, me sipping my horror, she sipping her milk, talking about the ridiculousness of being there in the first place.

I decided it’s time to go.

I started taking down my hung photos, when my boss screams and tells me how I had “totally fucked up the aesthetic” of the room, which will cost me, according to a signed contract, upwards of $250,000.

I said, “That’s worth it to me” and sat down on a chair and watched an episode of Jeopardy. My boss and I played separately, but together in the room.

She beat me by 2 questions. But I slayed her at Modernist European Drama.





The Interpretation:  two bit bitch bait like a slackadasical comic come reason beyond the hoot and give a bother fostered like foster was a joke locked within your yoke and spelling out feelings like four-letter-words enough to play out in awful justification because you silly don’t matter in the long running of what you pretend to do and squat flatulence as a pore all the more reason to sally your silly face like a two-bit high school whore who will fuck whatever you get given less than what you deserve believing yourself lucky you’re only sitting next to the guy on the plane who farts in your face and tells you you’re lucky because hell at least he didn’t have a burrito for dinner but still makes sure he’s off before you two buck sorrow an issue of everyone’s bone marrow left open for the few the hungry and let’s just call it awful in anger or regret two stubs in a month alone in a pointless shredding given such strumping of your own demise purchased as a rant like a rave and the trouble given source by the road ahead of you leaving Michael as hole in the home makes wonder seem stupid it’s all a front to the futile point of pointing to the west where the sun sets and drowns the best intentions like eulogies

roll your own, friend.







OBRAUDADO

ABOVIO

A Hell of a Mile

I can Understand the Reverse of Knowledge

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Instructions for Writing This Poem




INSTRUCTIONS FOR WRITING THIS POEM



1.     Decide on your concept (root) and make it light.
2.     Decide what to put in and what to leave out (the lava of the whole, the superior inside; the secrets lied about).
3.     Taste the evening as a paternatinal awe.
4.     Congratulate the singular masculine; talk about it like jerking off.
5.     Find a pose and stick with it; sustainability merits a lack in imagination. There is nothing imaginative here (or there).
6.     Breathing proves the limits of words as objects:  prove this wrong (whisper a line into the freezer and wait).
7.     Take a walk until you hear a thunderclap (I can wait).
8.     Process what you’ve been reading until you’re ready to take a shit; take the shit and start over.
9.     Check on the root of the bone and let it tulip until it feels pretty for now.
10. Continue admiring until you have to shit again.
11. Shit again.
12. Fold the lips of what you’ve done – typical/French-style – and appreciate while watching your favorite television program.







13. Remind yourself you never meta poem you didn’t distrust.







Her Delicate Hounds

CURLIQUEDE

Pigeons Slowly Rolling from the Rear