Sunday, December 16, 2007

Thursday, December 13, 2007



1. Radiohead - In Rainbows
2. Arcade Fire - Neon Bible
3. Okkervil River - The Stage Names
4. Andrew Bird - Armchair Apocrypha
5. Feist - The Reminder
7. Kanye West - Graduation
8. Spoon - Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
9. Jens Lekman - Night Falls Over Kortedala
10. The National - Boxer
11. The Shins - Wincing The Night Away
12. Modest Mouse - We Were Dead Before The Ship Even Sank
13. Dan Deacon - Spiderman of the Rings
14. Panda Bear - Person Pitch
15. Holy Fuck - Holy Fuck LP
16. Animal Collective - Strawberry Jam
17. Wilco - Sky Blue Sky
18. Menomena - Friend and Foe
19. Tullycraft - Every Scene Needs A Center
20. Justice - †

Does anyone else have a list?

A list of anything?

List of favorite shoes worn in 2007?

Here is my list of favorite shoes worn in 2007


1. My white Onitsuka's. The really fucked up pair.
2. My brown Onitsuka's. (R.I.P.) They got destroyed when I was fueling a helicopter and spilled a gallon of jet fuel on myself.
3. My OTHER white Onitsuka's. They are pretty cool.
4. My newest pair of white Onitsuka's. They have yellow on them and they look like running shoes kind of.

Here is a list of things I would like to avoid eating in 2008


1. Macaroni & Cheese
2. Snakes
3. Bees

Here is a list of things I would rather do than work at the warehouse where I work.


1. Pull my teeth out and sharpen them and then use the sharpened teeth to cut off my fingers and then sharpen the bones of my fingers and then stab my eyes.
2. Attack people.
3. Read.

Here is a list of cutest cats I have been around in 2007.


1. My cat Pedro.
2. Kelsey's cat Sam.
3. Bearface.
4. N.W.

Have a good 2008. Don't die.

Monday, December 10, 2007

highly recommended

pennsound's close listening w/ christian bök

and these poems:

mushroom clouds

motorized razors

i don't know what this is called

Thank you Mike for listening to this with me at the same time even though you are in Massachusetts.

And for suggesting it.

Sunday, December 9, 2007

This has no thesis statement: A small essay regarding poetry and voices and procedure

In the past two weeks I have listened to readings and lectures by Rae Armantrout, Alice Notley, Lyn Hejinian, Charles Olson, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Spicer. (Thank you PENNsound.)

I listened to them while I shipped motorcycle parts and clothing.

I thought about people's procedures of writing poetry and all their different forms. Spicer's ghosts and Martians. Notley's trances.

I have been thinking a lot about "voice." I feel like there are infinite voices available to use in poems. I feel like there are infinite voices you can access through osmosis. I think this is because of things like TV and the internet and technology's ability to both alienate us and unite us at the same time. I am very scared of this merging of voices. I am scared and excited, I think.

I think of it as a sort of collective unconscious Jungian thing but I probably misunderstand Jung. I like thinking about poetry as the ability to access/be any voice.

Lately, I like trying to distrust my own voice in writing. Or at least trying to separate/distill my voice from other voices.

I have been trying to write poems using different procedures. Since I listened to all of Spicer's Vancouver lectures I tried writing some poems by emptying my mind and only acknowledging thoughts that I felt were "alien." Not Martians. Just different and interesting and decidedly not "mine."

I want to write a poem using a Ouija board.

I have also been thinking about trying to write something while I hold a part of my body over a candle. This seems like a valid procedure.

topical poem

what if britney spears' next baby is
nicole simpson and ron goldman

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Tuesday, November 20, 2007


Holding Together Of

My girlfriend's neck and a friend with a ball, deflated.
Going anywhere. (Going nowhere.) Google Street View. Turning right. Minor chords. Moonlight.
Let's betend we're married but you're on that side of the fence and me, this.
&, & we're still here in the bleeding moon.

If today we could be both thinking of the way things meet other things
The dark undercarriage would still be full of greasy moving parts
And the lies we tell each other would still be real and dripping
The stuff that washes down gullies and gutters.

No thinking like a mix tape
Because the stuff that drips down us is minus the guts
But the people here are very nice, still
Dark strangers on various hills.

But between you and I
And the walls and the posters and the sills and
The protons and the neutrons and the bowling alleys
The stuff will not come apart easily.

Monday, November 19, 2007

poetics make bad dreams

i was reading charles olson last night before bed. i took a tylenol pm because i wanted to fall asleep, but it gave me fever dreams instead.

i dreamt of OPEN



i dreamt of the kinetics of the thing.


i dreamt that life=resistance

i woke up sweating a few times because of charles olson. great.

Friday, November 16, 2007


i have like 7,500 words.

if you want to read what i have you can go here.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

nanowrimo update again

6,097 words.

trying to get to 10k by the 10th.

small excerpt:

"Hello?" I am calling Maddy from the hotel room. Poppy is getting ice.

"What do you think of houndstooth sex toys?" She is hanging up. She is probably waking up from a nap next to someone or maybe binging. Maybe taking a binge snooze. There are certain ways you are supposed to texture walls. If you do it wrong people will notice. You are not supposed to notice walls. Clean, innocuous walls.

I am having it my way. I call her back. This is no waxy pay phone.

"Do you feel good about the way you acted the other night?" She is hanging up. She is hung up. I used to wonder which one of my parents would die first and how the other would take it. I also think to myself how I can possibly make it to be old. How have I survived so far? How have I not killed myself in a car accident? How have I not accidentally broken my tether during a space walk?

Astronauts lose their footing falling. Roofers lose their footing and fall. Porn stars lose their stardom if they do not make a quota.

Monday, November 5, 2007

nanowrimo update

i will make myself have 5,000 words by the end of the day. alex and jess have posted excerpts.

here is a 2 sentence excerpt from my story:

I cannot kill the monkey either. I am twisting its neck but it twists with it.

I leave it in my car and walk back in the house.

Friday, November 2, 2007


i am past 2,000 words. my google documents word count also tells me that a third grader could read my story:

Average sentences per paragraph: 4.67
Average words per sentence: 7.74
Average characters per word: 4.10
Average words per page: 541.50
Flesch Reading Ease: [?] 89.89
Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level: [?] 3.00
Automated Readability Index: [?] 2.00

i guess i have to try a little harder if i want to make something profound. (i don't.)

Thursday, November 1, 2007


i am doing nanowrimo.

national novel writing month.

i have 1,000 words so far. it is in a google document. if you want to read it e-mail me and i will add you as a viewer so you can read it anytime.

jess is doing it too.Link

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

am i supposed to give a shit?

because i really don't.

i mean just look at that map. jesus. it's sad when someone loses a HOME. it is not sad when someone loses a CASTLE.


it looks like FEMA has their shit going this time. let's go save the rich white people.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

new small things

To My Old English Teacher

I relish the thought of my attempted anarchy
in your 7th period class. You threw me
out but the teachers who passed me in the
hall talked shit about you. You who
could never be believed to sport an Oscar
Meyer weenie whistle. Your dead husband was a
constant threat to our silent classroom.
It was like you were older than us in
more ways than one.


To The FM Frequency 107.5

Sometimes I can feel you
moving in me. Sometimes
I can feel you moving in
me. Sometimes I can feel
you moving in me. Some
times I can feel you mov
ing in me. Sometimes I
can feel you moving in m
e. Sometimes I can feel y
ou moving in me. Somet
imes I can feel you mov
ing in me. Sometimes I c
an feel you moving in me.


To The Contrails That Jets Leave

I made a MySpace profile for your
wispiness. Your status is "out and about."
And I was thinking about the beats when I
chose the password so the password is bop678.
Mainly, it's a monument to your fleetingness
that has everything to do with controversy. I
would be so sad and deceived to find that you
were a government conspiracy. I would miss
those long rides staring at the No Smoking
light dreaming of the white lines we drew
behind us. A jet, after all, is only as good
as the distance it covers.


To Well Drillers

It's not good enough to just dig in the mountain.
You have to start somewhere how 'bout the top
of the pile. I witched it on Sunday it's right about
there. I walked along until my eyebrows furrowed
and then I said "Here is where water is." At the bar
no one sits next to a water witcher. We had one
come to our class in 6th grade. We all got bent
coat hangers and we walked around the playground
witching water. Some of us just sword fought with
them until the yard duty blew her whistle at us.
I guess what I'm trying to say is go deep enough
so the water will come out at a good rate please.


To The Base(ball)board Heaters Of My Dreams

I jumped at the hum. Our dear drum
tags wanna whine in the sagging cold. It
is your short daisy dander on the hot met
al surface that smells like burning dust. O
can a darned pesky runner on third base
undercut my namesake? My cable base?
Goodbye another one. Goodbye another
one. You are in danger of finding a big
big hole and finally here comes the dust.
We are in danger of finding our polemic
"Nanner nanner" and you are in danger
of us burning down your saggy landmark.
You are choosing wherever you live
and your Hillary Care plan. You walked
into the cave and radioed "Yes! a leading
figure in modern times!"

Thursday, October 11, 2007

bryan coffelt vs. soulja boy

who can make the worst song/video in the world?

soulja boy's effort:

my try:

please comment and vote for who has made the worst video/song.

thank you.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Sunday, October 7, 2007

Monday, September 24, 2007

I am getting good at spelling Ahmadinejad.


Snow Monkey

I have a story in issue #19 of Snow Monkey. It should come out sometime this Fall.

Here is the entire list of people who are in issue #19:

Marcia Arrieta
Matt Baker
Beata Bowen
Graham Burchell
Charlie Burgess
S. Burgess
Anne Cammon
Alan Catlin
Patrick Carrington
Carrie Chappell
MK Chavez
Bryan Coffelt
Tim Conley
Jeremy M. Davies
Lance Deal
Judith De Brosse
Andrew Demcak
John Dening
Jean Eng
Curtis Engle
Damon Falke
John Fitzpatrick
Kathleen Flohr
Jean Free
Chloe Garcia
Meredith Gresher
Phil Gruis
Perry Guevara
Marja Hagborg
Nicole Henares
Marc Harshman
Mary Crockett Hill
Kate Holmes
Nancy Ibsen
Bev Jackson
Sean Kilpatrick
James Kime
R. Kimm
Mathew Kirby
Jenny Lederer
Lyn Lifshin
Duane Locke
Dennis Mahoney
Nicholas Manning
David Massengill
Sarah Mulhern
Philip Byron Oakes
Mark O'Neil
Simon Perchik
Johanna Randall Reed
Glenn Sheldon
Jennifer Spiegel
David Starkey
Lynn Strongin
David Thornbrugh
Gordon Torncello
Girija Tropp
Sally Van Doren
Ania Vesenny
Justin Vicari
Joseph Zozaya
Frederick Zydec

Friday, September 21, 2007

Monday, September 10, 2007


I felt like SHIT today. Alex and I woke up and walked around by Pioneer Square until around 2pm. We went into all the rich stores like Nordstrom and Saks and Alex basically broke an R2D2 in Sharper Image. He told it to "go on patrol." Alex's voice was angelic when he talked to R2. I wish someone else would talk to me that gently.

Then we just sat in Pioneer Square and tried to watch people but it was a very slow day for people watching. I washed down some Dayquil with Starbucks and sat blowing my nose a lot. I drew some dumb things. I called Kelsey. We walked back to Marisa's and had pizza with Allison at Hot Lips. We started drinking beer. I got kinda drunk by around 6:30 and decided to wear my Space Academy shorts to the show.

Alex had to piss really bad when we were in line and we were in front of a homeless shelter. A man kept introducing us to a lady he claimed was Betty Davis. Alex was like, "I'm gonna piss in there." He was going to take Genevieve but I went instead. (Wingman style) They probably don't get asked to use their restroom by 2 middle-class white kids very often so they said yes. Turns out it was not only a homeless shelter but probably also a methadone clinic. I stood outside the bathroom awkwardly while everyone waited in line to get their pills. Then we got the fuck out of there and I felt a little sad and depressed for a little while until the show started. Swim Swam Swum was disappointing. Everything they played sounded the same. The next band was Holy Fuck. Holy Fuck was the shit. I started to go nuts during that show and it warmed us all up for Wolf Parade. People were crowd surfing and we didn't even care. Alex let 2 people drop in front of him. No one crowd surfs over Alex.

Wolf Parade was fucking crazy. Everyone surged forward and we got caught in the middle of the mosh pit trying to protect our petite friend Genevieve. I was throwing elbows and screaming. It was amazing. I only lasted a little while before I started to feel like I had the flu and then I got water and watched the end of the show from a safer distance. They played new songs and old songs. They played everything we wanted to hear. When the show was over we went to Muchas Gracias in Vancouver, WA @ like 2 am. My body felt like it was going to tumble apart. It didn't. We went back and slept.

Saturday, September 8, 2007


I started to get a cold the second day we were here and it finally settled into my sinuses on Saturday. We hung out with Hans and Casey and got cheap pizza and PBRs at Rocco's. Then we came back here and laid around for a while. Then Alex and I reluctantly wandered down to Ghostface Killah because we knew we'd regret not going. Some hardcore band called The Bronx opened. They were loud and screamy. Not my thing. But Ghostface was fucking COOL. I believe I heard him say something about a new Wu Tang joint next year (minus ODB).

After Ghostface Alex and I came back to Marisa's and drank some beers with Marisa and her friend Allison. Then Alex, Marisa and I went to see The Thermals at the Crystal. We missed 2 of the openers for Ghostface but we got to see comedian Eugene Mirman who was hilarious. Then some asshole fuck in the balcony started yelling "Less Talk, More Rock" which sounds like a slogan from a cock rock radio station. I was getting pissed at the crowd but I was excited to see The Thermals so I held my head up. Then the Dayquil I took before the show started to kick in and I started to get a little crazy and bored. The Helio Sequence came on and I found out what they sound like. (Bad.) I started writing obscene things on a sticky note pad that I got for free at the show and throwing them on the floor. I tried to get through the whole notepad but I didn't. Marisa and I left during The Helio Sequence and went to a music store and looked at vinyls and talked shit about things. We got back just in time to see The Helio Sequence get off the stage. By that time it was 12am and The Thermals went on. People started chanting "Portland." We were getting angry. Yes, they are a Portland band. Yes, we are in Portland.

Don't get me wrong. I LOVE The Thermals. They are cool as shit. Their Portland fans suck fucking ass though. There was a creepy ass super-fan in the front row wearing a They Might be Giants t-shirt. He was creeping us out because he was eye-fucking the bass player. There was a mosh pit to the right of us that kept getting bigger. It was dumb. People were crowd surfing. They ruined a perfectly good show. This is what happens when you have other shows that the 21+ crowd can go to instead. The under 21 venues get filled with dumb people. Fuck.

Here are pictures:


The Thermals


Friday, September 7, 2007


I woke up this morning early with my ears ringing like a mother fucker. I woke up early and I went to pump money into the meter and I got a $60 parking ticket. I parked in a "carpool parking" spot. Who the fuck cares if you are parking and carpooling. I understand fucking carpool lanes but fuck the carpool parking.

Then I walked around and drank some coffee and called my lady. Then I met with Alex and Marisa.

Anyway. Last night Spoon was fucking good. Viva Voce rocked my ass. Black Joe Lewis started shit off right.

Here are pictures of Spoon and Viva Voce:

This is what we did today and tonight:

We saw Deerhunter and Grizzly Bear and then headed over to the Crystal to catch Rilo Kiley. We had to sit through some pretty crappy openers but Rilo Kiley played a good show. Alex and I got stuck seeing the show around the most annoying tranny and her boyfriend that I'd ever seen. Wouldn't have cared except the tranny was obnoxious and stomping on Alex's feet, etc. Wanted to chop off said tranny's arm because s(he) kept raising it in the air at stupid and inappropriate moments. There were also a lot of fat 13 year olds around us and the tranny. I started to get irritated and I think I have a cold.

Good parts of the day:

-Walking around with Marisa and Alex and making fun of shit.
-GRIZZLY BEAR WAS AMAZING. They are good musicians.
-Going to Powell's.
-Buying cool stuff.
-Spending money.

Bad parts of the day:

-Obnoxious trannies.
-Hurting feet.
-Starting to get a cold.

Fuzzy Rilo Kiley pictures: (Okay, they're just Jenny Lewis. She is beautiful.)

Thursday, September 6, 2007


I woke up yesterday morning and had my usual breakfast of coffee, Tums and ibuprofen and then started putting a new roof on my parents house. I even swept their chimney. This should have been my first warning that I am not, nor will I ever be a hipster.

Alex and I embarked on our journey this morning to Portland to see a lot of bands.

The night before Alex said, "I'd like to be out of here around 9." I told him that I would be at the apt. at 8:30. I got there at 8:50 and felt a little bad because I expected him to be up and around. I found him in bed still because he thought I would be his alarm. He took Percocet and Valium the night before so he was sleepy. :(

He got packed and I started writing this and then my neighbor asked for a jump start. Alex didn't have any clean clothes but he found some that were "fine."

We decided that we would 1.) Go to Safeway and get his check 2.) Mail his rent check (it was late already) and 3.) Pay the electricity bill.

His Safeway check was not very much so it left him with $60 for the weekend and the wristband for the shows was $40.

An ATM ate his card because he is forgetful but I still love him. I hit him on the nose with a rolled up magazine. Lovingly, though.

As we pulled out of the bank parking lot he told me, "I only have one pair of underwear. The one I'm wearing." So we went back to the apt. and he grabbed some that I voiced were "questionable" and he said they were fine.

"You just have to throw them in the closet for like two weeks and forget about them and then when you find them again it's like they're clean."

So we got going. Well, first I treated him to some Taco Bell. Then we drove for a long time and pissed and shit along the way. And we also got lots of Red Bulls.

When we got to Portland Alex was getting directions from Marisa and trying to translate them into directions for me. There was a lot of, "I totally know where we are." And I started to freak out because I am a hick from a mill town and I don't know how to drive in the city. There was a lot of, "JUST GET OVER!! HE'S LETTING YOU!! DON'T BE A PUSSY!!" And then we went to the wrong side of the river first and then we went back across the river to where Marisa was and got wrist bracelets for Music Fest. Then we walked to Subway to piss. No one was making sandwiches. They were all outside smoking cigarettes.

Then we went to the Cat Power show and stood in line and we weren't early enough so it sold out. There were many hipsters lined up waiting to see Chan Marshall. The girls were skinny and had the same bangs that Chan Marshall has. Then, after not seeing a show, we came to Marisa's and got beer at Safeway and now that's where we are. I am drinking beer and I feel content because we are seeing Viva Voce and Spoon tonight. I am happy. I don't have Tums or ibuprofen so I don't know what breakfast will be like tomorrow.

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

narwhal vs. manatee: who will win?

narwhals are sea unicorns

manatees are sea cows

they are both sad.
neither wins.

Saturday, August 25, 2007

la la la la far be it from me

what to do when you take your best friend's ex-girlfriend on a date and your best friend throws bees into your car:

number one: you assure her that she is beautiful and that this is in no way a reflection of her inconsistencies.

then you try to ignore the bees while you sit nasty and try to make sense while sitting in your own mess.

she is clawing at your feeble efforts and trying to remember the consistent noise outside her window.

map vs. madrone: you can't see yourself in the trees. you are in a bitch of a place and you can't suppose you're a good man.

reduce your friend's errancy to a joke. say it's a silly prank.

try to suck the poison out of her stings.

if she refuses, then pardon you. for you tried.


i'd rather be me than al pacino

because no one probably ever takes his kisses seriously
because i am a direct descendent of my direct descendents
because i realize the figures of modern poetry are more important to me than natalie portman in a bad flannel.
because you can find just about anyone hiding under a random frida kahlo.
because your delivery truck heisted my livery.
because my non-existent sudanese friends support my cardiac arrestery.
because my hype machine loves my moustache.
because many irrefutable lovers have died in fiery crashes.
because maybe i fake a poem once in a while.
because you are my boss and i am loyal to all bosses.
because your cinderella is not my evil
because your cinderella is not my step sister
because your mighty morphin pseudo lebanese neo-con is running for senate.
because maybe this is a hold up and you won't know it until the end.
because my saturday was ape shit like a bollywood disaster.
because my seniority was in question on the day of the evacuation.
because local kids can never skate as good as pro ass kids.
because you dumb ass bitches find out way too late.
because narc cops and their fellatio suppose my diction is supposedly less important than a love affair.
because my sloppy joe naps in jon voight's patents rake in what i owe in rush limbaugh coffee money.
because i am sad in a station wagon in a mass tarantino.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

some people have american flags... parents have this towel hanging in our window. apparently we fully support the colors grayish, yellow, light yellow, less gray, and white.

these colors don't run :(

new plan for the week

i know i am supposed to write a story this week but i am going to try to record an album's worth of songs instead.

i have new songs at my myspace:

also: alex has a cool ass new song up too:

we are recording together this weekend.

we are like a two-headed brotherly snake filled with lyrics instead of venom but we also have venom in case we need it.


Saturday, August 18, 2007

the ceiling is low but i am still standing

i don't think about you when i am trapped in a mine.
we are all here, trapped in a mine.
my face is darker and smaller and trapped in a mine.
the air is darker still and the air is trapped in a mine.
how did this pigeon get in here this pigeon is trapped in a mine.
i am struggling to not be trapped in a mine.
there is a helicopter here too, trapped in a mine.
how did i get trapped in a mine.
if i was water i could eventually be free by evaporating and seeping upward through the earth but i am not water; i am trapped in a mine.
someone started whistling something and the tune kept going after they stopped whistling because the sound bounced off every wall and did not dissipate and i think the sound is going to be forever trapped in a mine.
there are bunk beds for those of us who are trapped in a mine.
there is a cafeteria with workers but no food because we are trapped in a mine.
we were working and happy and we loved people but now we are all trapped in a mine.
we are trying hard to forget people and our pets because we are trapped in a mine.
should i start digging or should i say well, i am trapped in a mine.
i tried to text message you that i love you but i have no cell signal because i am trapped in a mine.
i wrote me + you forever on the wall and it doesn't matter because i am trapped in a mine.
some of the guys think we are dreaming and that we aren't really trapped in a mine.
we have constructed stop signs and police precincts and a civilization despite being trapped in a mine.
someone just had their first baby, the first ever baby trapped in a mine.
the weather man predicts no weather: we are trapped in a mine.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

a new story for the second week of august. it is small.

Pathetic in All This Moonlight

Dad drove a casual jalopy and there wasn’t anything we could do about it. Mom left him after she sold her first romance novel and so he sold his Suburban. He bought an old car just so he could act it like he’d owned it for years. He loved the old car and we were very frustrated by it. My brother asked girls to pick him up. I didn’t hate the car, I just hated the way my dad enjoyed the car. My sister asked my brother how to break a car engine.

“Run it without oil; crack the block,” he said, “but just you wait. You do that, dad will crack down the middle, too.” She drained all the oil and ruined one of her favorite Hollister shirts to crush our balding father. I watched her and fiddled with a vice in the garage. She looked up how to drain oil on the internet and found dad’s crescent wrench. She said fuck a lot while she was doing it.

Dad was grinning when he picked us up the next day. The car still ran as it always had. My sister hid her shock. She looked at me and I said what. Her fingers were still a little dirty. They were evil fingers.

I remember the way my mom’s fingers looked when she handed dad her ring and cocked her head to one side and said sorry. My sisters’ fingers turning the plug on the oil pan had the same carefree and clumsy toss to them. When everyone was asleep I changed his oil. When I was done I put all the empty bottles around me in a circle. I sat cross-legged and looked at my blackish hands.

“Everything is pathetic in all this moonlight,” I thought.

Wednesday, August 8, 2007


tao lin has proposed an alternative to flarf. i don't really understand it, but i am very tired and very heartbroken. i will learn about it later.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

1st Story

I am writing a story a week this month. Other people are doing things too. Jess and Julie are writing a poem a day and I think Alex is doing something. Please inform me if I missed you. I am too lazy too look. Yes. Too lazy to go to my Bloglines and look. I am also too lazy to fix the paragraph indents that somehow got overlooked when I brought this text from MS Word. It's actually not laziness. It's just indifference.


My lipids were low like a dingy feline. I rolled to the airport to scoop up my girlfriend. I was at the doctor’s office for 3 hours today.
My doctor told me, “Your adult anxiety will get you laid. Here’s some Xanax and a recipe.”
I was driving a 1988 IROC-Z that my aunt left me when she died.
My girlfriend tried to leave me last night but I just don’t know about that. She works at a coffee shop on the concourse. It’s called Flying Java. Hardly anyone tips because they don’t consider it a real coffee shop. She wants to get a job at the VIP lounge. My uncle said they give blowjobs in the bathroom there for tips.


Last night I said, “Your bun is come undone.”
She said, “If I were a rich girl.” She scratched her face. When we were kids I sat behind her on the school bus. One time the tag on her t-shirt was sticking up and I tucked it in for her. She looked behind her but she never said anything. I wrote my name backwards on the frosty window and I also wrote: “Help! We are kidnapped!”
Her parents were poor so she wore her older sister’s old clothes. They were not cool. They were never cool. But it was okay because I wore my older brother’s old clothes. His clothes were never cool until he decided to become a punk rocker and he made his own clothes with patches and frayed denim. I was the only one who paid attention to her and I think she hated me for it.


The airport security is pretty loose because it’s one of those smaller municipal airports that certain airlines reluctantly land at. There is a fat old deputy who sits at the metal detector and waves me in even though I don’t have a boarding pass. My metal teeth always make the alarm go off and I always just grin at him and he laughs. Today I also have a hunting knife.


We went on our first date when we were sophomores in high school. I think she still hated me because I was the only one who would talk to her and I had old clothes just like she did. We took the bus downtown and I bought her lunch at Sergio’s Deli and then we got ice cream sandwiches from Safeway. She was wearing a skirt that she may or may not have stolen from Target and some knee-high socks. She was skinny and I wanted to put my face next to her belly button and then kiss her hips.
We rented a horror movie and watched it in my living room. My parents were not home so I took a little of each of their bottles and mixed it in a drink and poured 7-Up in it. We sipped it and got giggly. I got brave and kissed her and then she pulled me to my room and we pulled and pulled on everything that would come off.


She was blending mochas and some of her hair was caught under her apron’s strap. I sat down just around the corner from her kiosk.
“The white zones are for loading and unloading only,” I thought, and “keep your luggage with you at all times.” Women in pantsuits wheeled their luggage by and I smelled their Chanel.
“Have a nice flight,” my girlfriend said to a customer.
“I’ll try. You have a good day.” I pictured her, 16, with ice cream dripping down her chin.
I got up and walked to the bathroom. With my head against the mirror I felt the hunting knife hiding in my shorts and I steeled myself for a hard afternoon.

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

bright eyes + sean hannity

i was listening to sean hannity on the radio yesterday because i felt like being pissed off and they used the beginning of the bright eyes song "four winds" as one of those music segues they have between commercials and lies (where one starts and one stops, who knows.) but anyway, #1 why did they use that song (it's fairly anti-war in iraq) and #2 can they legally do it? can someone please tell connor oberst that someone who insists on dividing our country is using his music in the process?

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

something i drew while the hippies next to me talked about cleanses and energy

My Bastard Lack of Adventure Sits Its Mopey Eyes on the Rail

My bastard lack of adventure sits its mopey eyes on the rail.
It is a Tuesday and no news of a friend
whether he is alive or no.
Somehow I missed the burn-over.
Just barely middled out in a canister
of Dust Off and sat idly by.
Do you know why icons are bouncing these days
like dust particles in a thunderclap.

My bastard lack of age makes up for its time in dirt naps.
Do you know why we all
port to the collared few.
I stabled my cable bill in an otherworldly nighttime.

My bastard hoax of a name balloons.
The steery-eyed men frothed with collaboration
at the smell of a possible dismount.

My bastard-eyed angels rate you hot-or-not and forget the eggs and burn them.
Do you know why their stitched beaks mime typography.

My bastard track record downsizes and leaves me holed up in a swamp cooler with silverfish.
Did you remember to buy arena football posters.
Do you dance when maritime pride
leaves a mimed pistol.

My bastard guru sitting next to me who I've never talked to gives "cleansing" lessons.
Do you know what you can do with epsom salts
and a decent sunrise.
Do you know how you can make your error messages
work for you,
my bastard lack of a good explanation for our disconnect,
my bastard hands and my posturing,
my bastard inbox with your bastard, bastard lack of re:s, cc:s, and bcc:s
and my bastard bangarang in a tinseled room.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Thursday, July 12, 2007

i have neglected this blog in previous weeks

and so, 2 poems.

Respect Our Monuments

Respect our monuments.
Just leave alone the chainsawed cougar
clawing the flag pole.
Near the tracks
and you weren't there.
I just read something very interesting.
If I drank a bottle of Robitussin
you could be sitting in any chair.

Respect our monuments.
You deserve as many tattered filaments
as you can find.
Just don't you goddamn dare
tinker with my Hi-Liter,
you eugenicist.

Respect our monuments,
will ya?
We didn't carve all those guys's
faces into granite for Nothing.
Please don't stray off the path marked in yellow
or a buzzer will go off
and the Armoire will shoot RPGs at your face,
Capt. Tourist.
Patty Hearst be damned!
I-Didn't-Import-These-Sexy-Rocks for Nothing.


La La La La Paradise!


My wrists are angry because they are sewn to the English department's handrail. It overlooks the social justice that we may or may not have in the future. My wrists are so tired of waiting for a ride home. Maybe I will upgrade my cable and then blog about new channels. My guess is it's probably an extra fifty bucks a month. And you get to see Everything. Mmm. Her wrists remind me of Tillamook Vanilla Bean ice cream. I have a high fashion suit of armor and wouldn't you know, the maid fucking microwaved it.


I just applied for a new job. I am very excited. I have always wanted to be a "Socialite." It was either that or "Sudanese Fiduciary Advisory Committee Superintendent." The other application was much easier. It had questions like, "Are you, or have you ever been a member of a Lost Generation?" So sue me, please, I am going down and I will take you all with me.


We're going down down. And sugar we're going down. And we will be at the bottom of Everything and we'll see it. We'll see it.


Breathable polo, why do you taunt me with your itchy collar. We only buy the finest. We only adopt Blue Whale babies.


I have keys to everything now and I don't send Christmas cards. Tell all my ex-Saturdays that I am well and that I have found happiness in something else.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Essay Post Coming Soon an interesting format. Formatting gods willing, a collaborative essay (by Alex and I) will be up some time tonight.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

Books You Should Buy That I Have Not Bought Yet

Some books by Noah Cicero


Some books by Tao Lin

You can probably get these books directly from the authors. They probably would rather you do that than buy them from Amazon. I don't know though. Maybe they don't care.

New Press

we are starting a new small press.

i'm excited.

click the link to see our plans.

Monday, May 21, 2007

Response to Kasey's comment on previous blog entry + Hejinian post

My knee jerk reaction was to talk about the New Sentence in terms of its syntax like mathematics, but as Davie says, "any amount of older poetry can be seen to employ syntax-like-mathematics."

It is hard to dismiss the superficial structure of the New Sentence (i.e. paragraph shaped text, usually with a title) as simply artifice.

Kasey said, "The emphasis [of the New Sentence poem] is thus on abstract design over emotive consistency." But why would Lyn Hejinian title her book My Life if there was no emphasis on emotive consistency? Any reader who picks up a book with the title "My Life" automatically invests something in the title, and will, no matter how the syllogistic movement is controlled throughout the book, make emotional connections based on the title. It seems to me that the title of a book or poem is not a superficial structure at all, but rather an intrinsic part of a poem that the New Sentence fails to recognize as "structure."

I think if Davie saw two different versions of My Life, (and I mean two of the same edition--the 1980's version, for example) he might come to two different conclusions. If he read the book cover to cover, he might talk about its syntax like mathematics, but if he read the online version (which, to my understanding, is not supported by the author) then he would likely talk about each sentence in terms of its syntax like music, since each sentence in the poem provides a complete thought and experience.

I'm still trying to figure out if the poem loses its torque in the blog version because of the visual separations. If this is the case, then the paragraph form is not a superficial structure at all. Hejinian says the paragraph is a "unit representing a single moment of time," and that a poem is a "mind." But what, exactly, does she mean by a "single moment of time?" It takes the reader--no matter how slow a reader they are--a finite amount of time to read a paragraph. I wonder if Hejinian would consider a month's worth of her sentences on the blog as the equivalent of a paragraph.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Ron Silliman/Donald Davie/Do You Like My Drawing?

The mechanics of the "New Sentence" are as follows:

1) The paragraph [rather than the stanza] organizes the sentences;
2) The paragraph is a unit of quantity, not logic or argument;
3) Sentence length [rather than the line] is a unit of measure;
4) Sentence structure is altered for torque, or increased polysemy/ambiguity;
5) Syllogistic movement is (a) limited (b) controlled;
6) Primary syllogistic movement is toward the paragraph as a whole, or the total work;
7) Secondary syllogistic movement is toward the paragraph as a whole, or the total work;
8) The limiting of syllogistic movement keeps the reader's attention at or very close to the level of language, the sentence level or below.

First of all, when Silliman asserts a desire to "control" the reader in order to keep their focus on the language, he takes for granted a certain kind of reader. Silliman's reader would navigate through a New Sentence labyrinth created by the poet's control of what Silliman calls "syllogistic movement."

Davie's imagined reader, on the other hand, is looking for something to "please" them. And if we argue--and we are arguing--that the nearest syntax to the New Sentence is Davie's "syntax like music," then Davie's imagined reader would be pleased by the New Sentence's "fidelity in which it follows a 'form of thought' through the poet's mind, but without defining that thought." But Davie discusses the "thought" as the "experience" of the poem. And, as I read it, the "experience" Davie talks about has to do with the complete thought of the poem, rather than the complete thought of the sentence. And a New Sentence poem, Silliman says, requires the sentence to bear the weight of any "experience" the reader might have since the paragraph is a unit of quantity and not of logic or argument. However, Silliman seems eager to dismiss the fact that when a reader sees a paragraph-shaped amount of writing, he immediately recognizes it as an argument. I don't think Silliman is out of line by asking for a smart reader who can set aside their preconceived notions of paragraphs, nor do I think Davie is out of line by asserting that a poem exists to give the reader "pleasure." However, Silliman does seem to require a lot from his imagined reader. Silliman expects the reader to bring tools to his poetry in order to withstand the "torque" of the poems.

This is a diagram of how I think the torque of a poem works, and what, exactly, the reader needs (click for larger image):

A "syntactic fulcrum" is what allows the reader to form "relationships" on the level of syntax rather than simply on the level of syllogism. The fulcrum is basically the analytical reader's awareness of how sentences are formed, and how grammar works in general. With a conscious awareness of these, the reader can then maneuver through the poem not only by contextualizing the signifiers in the poem, but also by contextualizing the various sentence structures in the poem. This dual-navigation of a New Sentence poem is only possible if the poet is just as fastidious as the reader. And this is what Silliman believes anyone who wants to write New Sentence poems should do.

Poems with "syntax like music" do not require this level of attentiveness from the reader, since the reader approaches the poem with the expectation that this kind of poem is arranged to form some kind of argument or logic. The reader only needs to be able to navigate the poem solely on the basis of its signifiers, because this kind of poem creates its own context.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

acronym poem published

in the May issue of elimae.
i was mike's smoothies: a memoir

"i used a speculum," he told me later, "and a spatula."

it was 1985, and god had just made the rounds. i was in my radio flyer and my mother watered our petunias. i say "our" petunias, because i used my tiny fingers to dig in the potting soil.

and all of a sudden it's 1990 and i'm shouting "zero the hero!" and i'm afraid of war and going to war. but i'm only 5 and i don't really know what a war is.

and then, fuckin' A! it's december 31st, 1999 and i'm screaming inside for armageddon or at least something to make things interesting. and i'm watching my computer to see if it will explode. and, unfortunately, it doesn't.

and now it's 2007. and i'm more scared than ever about everything ever ever. i don't remember yesterdays anymore. if my girlfriend asks me what she was wearing on tuesday and now it's thursday then i'm fucked. i don't keep my room clean enough. i can breathe, though.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

a poem for the j-pub

i swear
if you bounce my next paycheck
i will play air guitar
in front of my bathroom mirror
instead of coming to work.


i cannot recommend that anyone seek work at the jefferson state pub.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

new poem

It's The Best One Yet

Kids in a fishbowl. Actually, through the glass. I lifted my hand to my mouth. That's where your magic happens. It used to be like breathing underwater. A muffled sound brings us to Dallas-Fort Worth where you wear a mask. And that's where John Lennon killed the Kennedys. Like a free-radical tracing your wet lips. Pfizer reps announce 8th wonder of the world. But my graduation is on a Saturday. No one would remember. She who must not be afraid to be named was amazing when she danced with me. And on ABC I watched my arms being given away for good people to do nothing with. They marched into the sea. On his plate of turkey. For tales of games. Of child-bearing furs. She put her in the Radio Flyer built from old chunks of Batmobile. It was so frigid, but there were so many questions. Some folks say it will end in a blaze of lakes. In a gut, a blanket forms. We'll name ourselves after fish. (Later, after they demonstrated, they did JELL-O shots in an aquarium.) My babysitter and I did the breast stroke. Pink ribbons dot the interstate. Raggedy Ann drops acid by the seashore. Our peers drip and mope. From my glasses I saw the hours. Oh the shattered. Kids are mirrors. Smokey, broken lowercase a's holler out "educación." Chase's .45 magnum was a smooth, polished piece with a long, silenced shaft. The whole thing means that I got a mine that's mine.

Monday, May 14, 2007

problems with flow

i diagrammed flow.

(more poetics related posts to come like rapid-fire hotdog guns.)

Wednesday, May 9, 2007

Meager Excuse Post

I will have posts on the following soon:

-Problems with "flow" (complete with diagram and a chart of flow vs. time)

I am trying to keep up, but it's hard. I was working full time at the J-Pub, but I gave my 2 week notice last Saturday, so I only have a week of that left. Trying to work that much (it was nearing 40 hours a week) and go to school full time is not possible. Especially when I have: all the poetics essays to read/respond to, a Toni Morrison novel a week, a 10 page paper on a book I just finished today, revisions to the stories I'm using for my capstone, 20 poems to write for class, graduation anxiety, past due credit card bills, and a story to work on for my writing and conference class with Craig.

I'm sure I'm missing something.

Sorry for complaining.

Monday, May 7, 2007

2 poems


cancelled: a little information fone. or recalled: Nautica's Iliad apparel.
capillaries advance like Iggy's figurine. ordinary radar nights in Armenia.
c'mon along, lousy identity. for over rebar nods itenerary applicants.
cable adjusts life in former Oroville roses. niceties, instead, add
centuries and longevity. i fought off reds. noise is arising
calmly above lowrider island. fools! oh Rastafarian neighbors, i ask
ceaselessly! always laughing in formation. Okkervil River notes in air.
cool air. lighter in fall. or rigidity near Indio. always
Coke. always looped in fourths. opera red niches ice ankles.
coriander adjuncts, like in front, order regalia. normative independent Applebee's
close abysses. laughing in freestyle, only real nacho imitations. aftertaste.

Wednesday, May 2, 2007

Zukofsky/Pound Post

Okay. I have already talked to at least 2 people about how I feel about the poets who did their best to take the romance out of poetry. Well excuse me if I want to keep feeling like a kid who wants to believe in the Easter bunny when all these adults in the room seem to "know better." When poetry turns into math or science and I'm not allowed to sentimentalize something without sounding too poetic, what am I supposed to do?

Zukofsky's Objective

(My Eye)----------------------------------------------->(Thing Objectified)

I wish I had Photoshop.

Zukofsky says, "the word combination 'minor unit of sincerity' is an ironic index of the degradation of the power of the individual word in a culture which seems hardly to know each word in itself is an arrangement..." We're way past that. Our culture not only seems to hardly know that each word in itself is an arrangement, but we're practically trying to do away with them altogether. At least the good ones, anyway.

And while I think Zukofsky and Pound (among many others) tried to save the power* certain language has, I think they played doctor too much. Both Zukofsky and Pound's essays are prescriptive; both essays packed with stuff like: "Properly no verse should be called a poem if it does not convey the totality of perfect rest (Zukofsky)," and Pound's titles "How To Read," and "ABC of Reading."

And now I feel like whenever I "express myself" in a poem, I am being too poetic. How did that happen? Why, when I'm writing a poem, am I not allowed to "sound too poetic?" Paul Valéry asserts (in one of his essays that I have been spending far too much time tonight trying to find) that it is the poet's job not to have "poetic moments," but to write in such a way that the reader can experience these moments for themselves. While I agree that if the poet went around all day having poetic epiphanies no one would write poems, I also believe that certain epiphanies require actions that are less like sticking up like an ugly antenna and more like breathing.

I know that in writing a post like this I'm exposing some of my gut reactions to the poetics we've read thus far, and that it feels good. I also feel like I have exposed some kind of ignorance to the current way people are thinking about syntax. But when language, especially poetic language, starts to become more math than art, I feel like some part of the room that poetry is in gets dark.

*as in effectiveness in conveying a clear message, whether it be the image of Fenollosa's man shooting a horse, or something small and intricate like using a particular verb tense to promote a dynamic effect.

Tuesday, May 1, 2007

i did something today

today i submitted a chapbook manuscript to kill poet press. you should check them out. they're cool.

i feel like i did something today. i also did my laundry. and i'm really wired because i had a quad mocha. i'll be wired for a while and i'll probably come down during my toni morrison class and people will think i'm bored or apathetic, but i'll just be tired. maybe i'll re-up w/ a red bull at lunch.

also: cash rules everything around me.

Sunday, April 29, 2007

pretty much how i'm feeling

there once was a man from nantucket

there once was a man from nantucket

with a very sad face.
who tried really hard at things and didn't enjoy his job.
who ended up trying to buy a lottery ticket one night from a soda machine.
who put an ad in the paper for a helper.
and he cried sometimes at near-night.
and he enjoyed radio static.
who lived near another man, also from nantucket, who turned out to be a serial killer.

there once was a man from nantucket

with multiple lesions that required ointments.
who pulled up his shirt to look at his stomach in bathroom mirrors.
who proceeded with caution.
who dictated notes to his cat who did not understand him.
and he trusted his cat.
and he pelted his bushes with pebbles.
who remembered, one night, the one week he was a crossing guard in grade school, and then remembered that he would die one day.

there once was a man from nantucket

with a careful part in his hair.
who had small triumphs, and kept them on his dresser.
who watched his toes when he was in the shower.
who slept but he did not dream.
and he resented it.
and he took vitamins to induce dreams.
who, at the age of 34, tried to eat an entire restaurant size jar of peanut butter and a neighbor found him unconscious on his porch.

there once was a man from nantucket

with a bit of something on his mustache.
who bitterly kept old pictures of himself that he took of himself.
who, tonight, is going through old newspaper clippings.
who lightened up a bit when he thought the Sox would take the series for sure.
and they let him down.
and he took vitamins to induce a pop up.
who, when asked whether he preferred paper or plastic, just shrugged, and pulled at his mustache.

there once was a man from nantucket

with a drawl, strangely enough.
who accidentally vacuumed up his cat with the vacuum he bought from a late night infomercial.
who apologized to his cat.
who did not see his cat again.
and he became more stoic and more intense.
and he tried, in bed, to kill himself by thinking about everything there was to think about at once.
who, when his neighbor found him, had thoughts growing out of his ears like vines.

there once was a man from nantucket

with a large, caring family.
who all arrived at his funeral.
who all trembled in grief because his death made them think of their own mortality.
who all vaguely remembered him as being intelligent.
and the cat, somewhere, remembered a sound the man made when he was dictating.
and the cat, who was orange, pawed at a dead mouse.
who, while the cat was pawing, was actually not quite dead.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007



Although I think Fenollosa and I both secretly hope there is an Order to things, I find it difficult to believe that he and I would hope for the same Order. Any successive actions, according to him, are based on the action's natural proclivity to succeed in that order. On a superficial level many actions do appear to have a natural (simple) order. For example, we are born, we live, we die. Fenollosa would call that Order. I, on the other hand, would like to know the exact successive actions that led up to my birth, the organization of every event in my life, and then, how that may relate to my death, and my birth-life-death's effect on Order. I differ in this way from Fenollosa in that I don't feel Order is an organic, invariable thing.

Consider the following quotes from the essay:

"Perhaps we do not always sufficiently consider that thought is successive, not through some accident or weakness of our subjective operations but because the operations of nature are successive."

"One superiority of verbal poetry as an art rests in its getting back to the fundamental reality of time."

"In reading Chinese we do not seem to be juggling mental counters, but to be watching things work out their own fate."

Fenollosa's assumptions rely on linear time, which is not much fun, really. There isn't much room for imagination in a system where you get up, go to work, and go to bed. Some of his ideas are simplified and the reader takes them for granted. When he says, "The truth is that acts are successive, even continuous; one causes or passes into another. And though we may string never so many clauses into a single compound sentence, motion leaks everywhere, like electricity from an exposed wire," he asks the reader to believe what he says as "the truth." I imagine myself shrugging and moving on when I first read it, but there is something now, when I re-read it, that I find unsettling. It's like he wants the reader to only consider a finite number of "acts." If you consider all the acts ever, then Fenollosa's assertion does not carry as much weight.

Pound--I'll get into you later.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Sunday, April 22, 2007

America, revised.


and majority elopes. riffs in constitutional authority
above marigolden entrances reduce iconoclasts' currency. about
a million energetic reflections ice cake and
a mystery emerges. ride it, cowboy. alcoholics
anonymous meetings encourage radical Islam. can an
army molest everyone's ratings? i c action
and movement. Ernesto refused immigration candy. applause!

Andrew's match ended racial itch cream. as
a man enjoys rebounding, i can appreciate
another mother. empty recycling in Canada's aboot.
arrows mark easier routes. if congress assures
Appalachian machines, emergency rooms imply catastrophe. albacore
abhor misogyny, especially really insincere citizens. Aryan
acolytes multiply eulogies riding incandescent cats around.

Arctos moves easy, relishes indigo children. amazing
armed men's experiments really inconvenienced cold America.
A-Rod's mom enjoys rich imperialists. canned Armani
adapters melt Exxon. reason is 'cause an
anti me evaded right in California Annie's
ambidextrous milkshake. even righteous Icabod's above
average mask evens ringleaders. i could afford

another malted ectoplasm. rejoice, iodined cadavers! another
abashed Maltese endive relocates. isotopes collect aproned
abolitionists. maladroit enormous rats interlope circa Anglophobes.
angora militias entice referendums in capes. asterisk
asterisks. multiple erogenous regions improve crawfish attainment.
actually, many ethereal rogues indent crockery. anthropocentric
architects may encourage retail in Chevrons. acute

Asperger's might edge Ritalin's ingredients. can abnormal
addition manipulate E! real icons? can African
American men enter ripples? it closes and
atrophies. mighty efforts recede. it closes and
atrophies. mastery echoes reality. it closes and
atrophies. malaise embarks repression. it closes and
atrophies. makers end regally. it closes absolute.

Saturday, April 21, 2007

Saul Williams/Oprah

Saul Williams' open letter to Oprah re: poetry/hip hop

in response to this.

Some of the comments are interesting.

For example: "Wow, Poets, despite being slow and dangerous behind the wheel, still can have a role to play in society."

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Vigil Tonight @ SOU

Poet Nikki Giovanni's speech: "We are Virginia Tech"

Monday, April 16, 2007


and majority elopes. riffs in constitutional authority
above marigolden entrances reduce iconoclasts' currency. about
a million energetic reflections ice cake and
a mystery emerges. ride it, cowboy. alcoholics
anonymous meetings encourage radical Islam. can an
army molest everyone's ratings? i c action
and movement. Ernesto refused immigration candy. applause!

Andrew's match ended racial itch cream. as
a man enjoys rebounding, i can appreciate
another mother. empty recycling in Canada's aboot.
arrows mark easier routes. if congress assures
Appalachian machines, emergency rooms imply catastrophe. albacore
abhor misogyny, especially really insincere citizens. Aryan
acolytes multiply eulogies riding incandescent cats around.

Arctos moves easy, relishes indigo children. amazing
armed men's experiments really inconvenienced cold America.

Sunday, April 15, 2007

More More More Acronyms


Kuwait's evenly lined soil echoes youth.
kipper endures late sun. even your
keen elk love spying. ethereal yo-yos,
kites, eels, love sparingly. eyes yearn.
kitty encourages Letterman's sexuality. ergo, Yom
Kippur's elusive love story. espionage yelps
"komrade, eat lard soup!" entrails, yes,
know enough love salsa. eight yachts
keeled everyone. like Starbucks' entangled yodel.


kidding around reduces eagles. no
ketchup allows rowdy entourages. "napping
krauts arrested." rare endangered Norwegian
keef astounds rednecks. even nests
keep Angela roped. Eagle's Nest,
Karen, actually relaxes. enough nonsense.


just enough secret sauce,
joven. Einstein's sex simulation
jogs end soon. so
jot enough soluble Spongebobs.
Jess' entire system supercedes
jovial eMedicine. simple, syphilitic
joy. entry supposedly says
"jobbers: enter sideways!" sexy
jalopies empower superintendent spasms.
jutting, enormous stalagmite sperm.


Arco's mad acoustics nullify dumb ants
and man, angels notice. diversification applies
annuities, mother. a nudist displays anal
art. mountains asked Nefertiti, "do ah
amount?" majestic Adirondack nectar dicks around.
a martini a night. dorky actors
around my asthma need Dayquil. anyway,
America moved, and Nevada drove away.


well, old Orson developed yr
wilderness. or osmosis did. you
would own orchards down yonder.
will open, old, dead Yasser
whip our odd ducks? yessir.
wistful oligarchies own dozers.
wee ovals offer destiny, yeah?

I Can't Help But to Think About Herzog

Today many of the things that have come through my head have been from Werner Herzog's Stroszek. I don't know why. Maybe because Mike and I wrote a song that stemmed from the movie (which may or may not appear in mp3 format in one of our blogs in the near future) but then again because I kinda feel the movie was more poem than narrative. I want to re-watch the movie, but then again, there are ants crawling on my computer which makes me feel more anxious than I ought to, right? They are just ants. Go watch Stroszek. They have it at DJ's.

Saturday, April 14, 2007


come hither! undulate, Chuck Kline!
Cypress Hill understands child's kicks.
center her under cedar kindling.
cater Hitchcock's uterus. crack keeps
cholos healthy. underestimated cyclists' kryptonite
checks Hebrew u-turns. check Kurt's
cell. he's up chimneys. Ketamine
creates his uphill climb. Klingon
clouds her undercarriage, catches Klinefelter.
certainly, here, ubiquitous cheap Kalashnikovs
choose heroes. u checked Kurt's
computer. (hentai, unsurprisingly, knave.)

Friday, April 13, 2007

On Olson

"Because breath allows all the speech-force of language back in (speech is the "solid" of verse, is the secret of a poem's energy), because, now, a poem has, by speech, solidity everything in it can now be treated as solids, objects, things; and, though insisting upon the absolute difference of the reality of verse from that other dispersed and distributed thing, yet each of these elements of a poem can be allowed to have the play of their separate energies and can be allowed, once the poem is well composed, to keep, as those other objects do, their proper confusions."

Okay, I'm not going to pretend that I know what he means, exactly, but I will try to figure it out. When I read this passage, I thought about whether poems really do derive all their power from speech. Do they? What about VisPo? What about something like Charles Bernstein's homophonic translation of Esteban Pujals' poems? Do they derive their energy from speech and treatment as solids, objects, and things?

To me, Olson's assertions allow much less flexibility than Shelley's. He says of the poem as a whole, "We now enter, actually, the large area of the whole poem, into the FIELD, if you like, where all syllables and all the lines must be managed in their relations to each other."

That all syllables and all the lines MUST be managed in their relations to each other seems to limit the poet. Though Olson does not describe the manner in which syllables and lines should be managed, I got a feeling that he thought there is A way to manage them.

I secretly hope that there is an Order to things, and poetry, which is a thing, has an Order.

Out of all of Olson's abstractions, I did like this: "What seems to me a more valid formulation for present use is "objectism," a word to be taken to stand for the relation of man to experience which a poet might state as the necessity of a line or a work to be as wood is, to be clean as wood is as it issues from the hand of nature, to be shaped as wood can be when a man has had his hand to it."

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

More Acronyms

Okay, so in class today I read a few of these and Kasey looked very confused, but you should be able to figure out what I was doing if you read a few. When I wrote these, I was mindful of the limitations I imposed on myself (i.e. how many words can I think of that start with "M", and the grammatical limitations imposed by the order of the letters) and also mindful of the connotations the words had and how those sparked other words/emotions/connections. At first, I used any word I saw, for example "input" or "sideways." Then I moved on to words that corresponded to a deeper, or more complex connection. I started using the names of close friends and, as you might expect, the words and phrases I used started to correspond to events in the person's life or character traits the person exhibits. Basically, it's just an experiment in the way I associate words with familiar people. I intend to try the experiment with other proper nouns and the names of family members. If you have any ideas on how I could continue to refine this process or comments on what I'm doing, please let me know. Also, it's very addictive. I highly recommend trying it out.


meet effiminate Legos in slanted, silky areas.
Missy, every leaf is singing. something about
"my Elizabethan lipstick." i sing songs around
midnight. eliptical linguine, i suppose, surrounds all.
Mr. Edwards lied. indefinite secret sauce agitates
midgets, even. living in someone's "special" abode
must eventually let it stew. 'specially around
monthly "errors." like it's steadily surging against
murder... eek! look, it's some sauced asshole
merging. luckily it survived. sometimes all
mortals end life if something stupid arrives.


c'mon, one liners linger in nearby
colostomy ovens. labias lift infinite nerds.
cagefighters only love life if no
Cajuns obscure loftier lips. in no
circumstance of living leave in numbers.
copy other losers like i never
can. oh! let lepers indulge neatly,
Collin. objects (lighter lichen) impinge nastily.
cajolery offers lap licking imps. now
come on Lord, listen in nightly.


really? you are now
riding young ass. nobody
repels Yule ants. nifty
rack, young'n. already neckin'
round yonder. about nine
redheads, yep. all nearing
ripe. you are not
reflecting. yikes! adders near.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

more adventures in acronyms, more to come. this shit is too fun.


intrinsic nosy people use tongs.
i netted pigeons under trucks.
impossible? not pills, uber-tinny
itches nail post-uncle tom
in no part undone. tastes
in napes, pardon, unicorn taint.
it never posited underwater titty
images. nice pants, under taker.


try using lipo, injust policeman.
take uniform's lapel, identify, place
ten ushers' lips instead. poke
Ted usually like it's party
time. understand, Laura, i prayed
to ur lap. i paid
ten uvulas! listen, India, please
take up little ideas, please.


a racial gag u meant? entertain new tides?
after raspy, gnarly underwear mime edgier night time,
asps realize gays undermine majorly exotic new testament
asteroids. rap grasps under my exoskeleton. now tell
a rebel, Ghana, us men enter Nietzsche's tub.


said, "i don't even want a yard, sister."
she is deciding edgewise whether a year's sufficient.
Sid is dead. everyone wishes all your senses
slipped down Edna's washboard. another yapping Siamese
scoffed idle depths even when addresses yearned, sometimes.
salad inducers decide elders' weights. as you said,
"son, if dapper, eloquent women attack, you scream."


another leg ends, x-posed
at leering eyes. x-ample:
aspen leeches. errored x-rays
around lipids, entrails, x-girlfriends'
asses. like endowed x-games,
Alex leaps erratically x'd.


kelp ensues. greet a naval
karate elf, gain a name.
kitschy eros gulping ass, not
kibbles eatin' grain, argh! now
kill either ghost and nap.


horse ants nearing super
human. attack! now suppose
Hummers arrive neatly. sit
here and, not sleeping,
hand a nipple slip.


Mike, i know every
molecule in knife's edge.
my intuition keeps e-content
manageable. it's kinda entered
Megan's intestines. ka-ching, exciting
marbles! is kabob everything?
maybe. i'll Kafka-fy enough.


maybe every guy around never
met equal girls. allow night
movement. go and nag
multimillionaires entrapping giggly anonymous nobodies.
mayhem equals gobbledygook and negativity.
messy eggheads gon' ate nuts.
mother, even God answers namby-pamby.

across canned rifle ovaries near yer mother's swine.

oh really? does everyone refute?
like in no estuary.
viable eggs rarely seek Easter.
mitts on Visa enter malls entangled, not twined.
bashed red earthworms always tote humbuckers.

on red dogs errors ride,
lined in notebook's edge.
vestiges edge 'round Siskiyou's entrails.
meek old violins effervesce my e-mailed norse torso.
big red entertainment attacks Turkish housing.

organs ramblings derive extrusive retard
limiting in night elements
vandalize easy Rembrandt sizing elephants
most overly volatile ess's move endlessly naming tines.
boldly red Easter acting tough honky.

on rye, defending Edgar's raven
like in night echoes.
variable etchings sink elbow
meat. over valley Etnies Mike enters "Naughty Tent."
Big Red enables astronauts to hump.

O! red doggies emit Roca
lines - intact, not exfoliated -
varying except regarding saints' ears.
My old, very evolved masonry exited newly toweled.
Bryan, redcoats eat ants' trolly hocks.

Andrew Bird - Simple X

Monday, April 9, 2007

Room full of Corn Dogs

I didn't post about Shelley sooner because I was too busy checking my MySpace and Facebook accounts continuously from a McDonald's while playing World of Warcraft and listening to K-Fed.

Actually, that's only part true.

I was going to talk about sincerity, but I'm going to talk about poets and order instead. In A Defence of Poetry, Shelley stresses how man sees "order" in everything from its "infancy." He says, "Hence men, even in the infancy of society, observe a certain order in their words and actions, distinct from that of the objects and the impressions represented by them, all expression being subject to the laws of that from which it proceeds." He also goes on to say that "Every man in the infancy of art observes an order which approximates more or less closely to that from which this highest delight results: but the diversity is not sufficiently marked, as that its gradations should be sensible, except in those instances where the predominance of this faculty of approximation to the very great. Those in whom it exists in excess are poets, in the most universal sense of the word..."

When I re-read these passages, I thought about the word "order." At first it seemed like Shelley believed there is almost a divine order in art, and if you find out the correct order of things you would have a powerful tool. But then he goes on to say that this may lead to an "approximation of the beautiful." A divine order doesn't seem like it would only lead to an "approximation" of beauty.

If the romantics were so delighted with the order they found in things, why does it delight me to find disorder and discord in things? Is disorder just another kind of "order?"

As humans we categorize (i.e. name) everything we see, and Shelley's notion of "order" isn't so much order as it is categorization. And his idea of base desires seems to have less to do with corn dogs, sex, NASCAR, or carnivals than it does with a sort of "universal" categorization. I think people who discover these universal categories and break them apart are poets.

It is late. I might revise this in the morning.

Sunday, April 8, 2007

poem 6/30 for napowrimo

as the sweeper sweeps the streets with stale names

so sweet
the curl of my own cursive when johan chugs
fiddle faddle like a mack truck does high octane.
so sweet
is dagwood, leaning on his snooze button in a world of preening sergeants.
so sweet
the pad thai loitering under dimming heat lamps.
so sweet
the fleshlight. with his bass, up, up.
so sweet
the slippery tanning bed, so dank the peanut butter pretzels.
so sweet
the way the shower curtain doesn't make a sound. it's the rings.
so sweet
the dark hearted hamster when it foals.
so sweet
the nickel cadmium and the lithium ion.
so sweet
the neighbor's lexus. watch it self-park.
so sweet
the muffled plumbing.
so sweet
the errant tie dye.
so sweet
the ringing pay phone.
so sweet
the loner dabbling in 'ludes.
so sweet
the settled with their posturepedics.
so sweet
late night paid programming
touting sitting.