Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
by Gabe Durham
Woof woof I want some smoothie.
This kid you don’t know, this cowboy
with a tattoo
of a smoking
loon was going, look at me! look mom look!
I guess now you think you’re some wet hot smoothie.
Two guys, one who drinks smoothies
and one who incants, smoothie… smoothie…
on walls of pulp. Look, said Jesus
which of these, in heaven, is more of a cowboy?
the one who smokes?
Right across my chest I’m getting a tattoo to
How do you commemorate a tattoo?
Get a smoothie
etched in smoke
in your smoothie?
Don’t you get all cowboy
Uncle Hammish I know that look!
It’s not going to be easy. America is fed up with tattoo
as usual. It’s not time to be a cowboy
offering your “smoothie”
to folks new to your “smoothie,”
just breastmilk and hotdogs, leers and smoke
IT’S OK OFFICER THIS IS NON-SMOKE SMOKE!
like a dude who knows where a guy could dip his smoothie.
You’d get that if your pink hide hid a tattoo
of my body but I guess some smoothies
are coming on pretty strong, eh, cowboy?
I said, Eh cowboy?
See you when your blowgun smokes
and your friends hock your smoothie
just to get a quick look
at the milk tattoo
I got of you on my smoothie.
Trade you your smoothie cowboy
for my smoothie smoke.
Look, tattoo: The American people!
THIS IS THE SPEECH I WOULD DELIVER TO ADVOCATE GRANTING MIKE YOUNG, A PEACE-LOVING NATION, MEMBERSHIP IN THE UNITED NATIONS
by Bryan Coffelt
don’t you hate signing up for things and then your trial
ends, like you trundled on so long only to find you are united
with nothing? like, the insides of your bones are black?
but i know that’s not how you go, you go off road
until you’re dying of thirst, and begging for a funeral.
you chug along until you find yourself in folsom, johnny cash
style. it’s not too far from where you’re from, you cash
money millionaire. one fuck up, you find yourself on trial
for armed robbery and failure to appear at a funeral
home. i know, you might have missed your flight. it was united
or wait, were you on delta? doesn’t matter, now you’re on the road
because there are no flights where you’re going. the black
sky digs in your veins if you let it. oh, and you left your black
jeans at the hotel in denver. i thought about selling them to get some fast cash
because i was super broke. but i was coughing up blood and the road
was onto me. i had a fever, my body felt like news coverage of the oj murder trial.
i thought to myself, has mike young ever said god bless the united
states of america? has he ever sat in on a marine’s funeral?
i know you’re a patriot — mike young is no funeral
dodger. but how do we know your blood is not black?
that you are not some kind of witch, and your coven is not united
against us? how do we know you’re not goldman sachs, absconding with our cash?
what do we really know about mike young except what we know from trial
& error? i mean, i could tell you he probably doesn’t like the film version of the road
i could tell you the man is maybe less than a fiend for road
side bars, that, like us all, he’s a funeral
waiting to happen. that when faced with trials
and tribulations, he’ll choose tribbing with a black
forest ham omelet. dude loves breakfast, no matter how cashed
his nerves. i hate sounding like i’m giving a speech to induct him into the united
nations, but i am. mike young and i were once united
as roommates in ashland, oregon. it was legal there, it was like a road
trip to the moon. i am writing this sestina for mike instead of sending cash
on his birthday. sorry dude, but it’s better than sending a funeral
home full of bees! my fantasy is to send you black
pepper mango sorbet or something. i shouldn’t have sent you that invite for a free trial
(cash free) of united flight 93 porn, obviously,
and i shouldn’t have asked for that road beer before my trial.
but please, please, no black magic at my funeral, okay?
SOME VALUES OF BREAKFAST AND HITLER, A SESTINA
by Maurice Burford
From a Spanish radio: 'pirate is spanish for pirate.'
Fruit activity and our Belgian things aside,
we are very happy being a waxen yellow
like how our parents felt when we fell out of them.
'WANNA SNUGGLE? SUPPORT LOCAL HITLERS.'
And sometimes we can't salvage eyeing from the fire.
I regularly try so hard to be an grey ocean on fire,
depressing the physical form of the ship's pirate
captain. The horrible ghosts shimmer into being: Space Hitlers,
who set a goat's magical foot on fire and brush aside
breakfast, ignoring the deck hands with boobs, yet sexing them
with a bravado of ghosts half their height and shade of yellow.
In Sweden, girls have all the fun, skating in bikinis over the yellow
ice of Lake Swedish Pop Duo. The paper plant, they call a crime, on fire—
rapid joggers, think islands, a clutch of sea—reflecting off all them
locals, dumb faced and crawly. No cars are allowed outside of Pirate
Town except taxis, rickshaws pulled by the albino Gamla Stan aside.
He, at his will, could assume the shape of nordic beasts, all except Hitlers.
Did we do all we could to raise awareness of rave loving Hitlers,
wearing black and red western cut shirts and ironic yellow
hats. 'Alex was on fire,' said Bryan, putting Alex out was aside
from the point. Crazy sitars banging out jams for all the tweens on fire,
wearing jumpy rainbow bracelets, making me feel dumb that I wore my pirate
outfit again. 'Pirates are so 2003 you ugly puppy fucker.' I still love them.
You could hear the rusty parts breaking inside each of them.
Their breakfast was a casual two slices of toast, a bowl of Hitlers,
and half a grapefruit (properly fucked, of course by a pirate),
yet when asked they could not get up, they could not pull the yellow
out their eyes. Something is perpetually lost from them, a fire,
the way their hair falls across their face and is then brushed aside.
And then a sleepwalking slide guitar swam icy lakes, garbage aside,
only to be blasphemed as 'No Langhorne Slim' by some of them
Northern-Light-Lovin'-Euro-Canadian Punks. The total garbageness on fire
in Sweden is like totally big, though no bigger than an Orca full of Hitlers.
They burn at first a kind of blasé purple and finish off a grand wizard-y yellow.
All this shit, my friend, is incompatible with the life of a pirate.
Hammerfall is the baddest band in Sweden, dude, and they are pirates.
Like real fucking killers of men, dude, with parrots, terrible yellow
devils. A real group of blood thirsty, neon pink Hitlers.
Ritchie Blackmore is gayest man in Sweden, dude, Herman Dune aside.
Every time he leaves the house two boy dogs hump, but he hates them,
for young Ritchie Blackmore can only climax when his partner's on fire.
I hope you spend
it getting laid
and smoking crack
in a hot tub
with a pair of blonde twins,
or if not twins,
at least two chicks whose looks and birthday
are close enough that, in the steam of the hot tub,
you might be fooled into spend-
ing the same amount you would spend to get a crack
at real twins when you pay to get laid.
You may not actually get laid
but hell, you can always crack
open some magazines that feature ladies in their birthday
suits, or spend
some time with a tub
of popcorn watching dirty videos, or soaking in the bathtub
with a Hustler centerfold laid
out in front of you, until you spend
yourself in guilty spasms of lust, imagining blonde twins.
I mean, it's your birthday,
right? If you have to crack
under the pressure of maddening sexual frustration, crack
today. Just grab a tub
of lube and say "Happy birthday"
to yourself. And while you're laid
out there, fantasizing about twins,
go ahead and spend
a few bucks on one of those "fleshlight" things, or just spend
it on more crack.
"Between the corrupt twins
of compulsive masturbation and porn addiction lies the tub
ride." T. S. Eliot said that as he laid
down fifty bucks on his fiftieth birthday
and bought some hookers and crack and a tub
of fried chicken from some twins and got laid
and that's how you also should spend your birthday.
i would like for you to please pull that cat away from your face
and put it back where it came from. you don’t want to go to hell
do you? you gave it some thought, you said you’d bring a camera
to take pictures of your favorite circle of it. where dogs vomit
uncontrollably on liars, or whatever. sarah, have you seen the pain olympics?
i mean, don’t watch it. instead, have yourself a game of quidditch
with some kind of special twist. microscopic quidditch,
or no, don’t do that. i don’t know, maybe do something with face
paint. what i’d do is i’d sit around and talk about the special olympics,
maybe make bets, but you probably wouldn’t do that. hell
if i know what you’d do. maybe you’d just vomit
all over the room until it was covered in vomit. i’d camera
man the whole thing, of course, because my face is a camera!
do you think they have a special olympics version of quidditch?
happy birthday, sarah — did you happen to vomit
while we were at AWP? the look on your face
said you could tell that one day we will surely hang out in hell
and we’ll sit around (dog vomit everywhere) watching the olympics
drag on — i’ve never won a gold medal. but i did drown in an olympic
sized pool. wilco was playing in the house, the song that goes “i need a camera
to my eye.” after i drowned, i knew i would have a hell
of a time swimming again, or crying. drowning is like playing quidditch
covered in thousands of wet blankets, and some water demon is trying to fuck your face
you try and you try to breathe, but you just vomit
no, that’s not entirely true. i was actually unable to vomit
because i was dead. i mean, i’m not fucking michael phelps, olympic
gold medalist. after i drowned i realized i had to face
everything that is between things, things we missed with our camera
when we were distracted. when you’re dead, there is no quidditch
pitch to fly around in on your broom. there’s just a hell
of a lot of angry wind. i mean, when you’re dead, you’re hella
wispy and pissed. you go around trying to vomit
on the living while they fly around playing quidditch
you try to piss on NBC’s dumb coverage of the olympics
especially that guy over there, with his camera
all up in the noisy part of usain bolt’s face
i guess i’m saying learn quidditch and start believing in hell;
that’s what we’re faced with. an eternity of vomiting
nothingness on cameramen at the olympics.
I have only poked around in it a little bit, but it has some amazing work. Here's a complete list of authors:
Shane Allison, Brian Ang, Nathan Austin, Elizabeth Bachinsky, Daniel Bailey, Dave Barrett, Franklin Bruno, Marie Buck, Clint Burnham, Dereck Clemons, Jordan Davis, Nick Demske, Tiffany Denman, Brittany Dennison, Christopher DeWeese, Andrew Dieck, Brandon Downing, Cathy Eisenhower, Laura Elrick, Phil Estes, Michael Farrell, Angela Genusa, Judith Goldman, Jack Granath, Rob Halpern, Morgan Harlow, Uyen Hua, Katryn Hurtado, Genevieve Kaplan, Nicholas Karavatos, William Knight, D Sprung Kurilecz, Reb Livingston, Adrian C. Louis, Donato Mancini, Adam J Maynard, Philip Metres, Carol Mirakove, Christopher Mulrooney, Sara Mumolo, Sawako Nakayasu, Lance Newman, Amy Ng, Douglas Piccinnini, Ernesto Priego, Jessy Randall, Nicholas Michael Ravnikar, G. David Schwartz, Marcus Slease, Dawn Sueoka, Andrew Terhune, Wendy Trevino, Anna Vitale, James Wagner, and Grzegorz Wróblewski (trans. Adam Zdrodowski)
To get your hands on it:
Send check or money order for $12 + $2 s&h to:
West Wind Review
Stevenson Union Room 333
Southern Oregon University
1250 Siskiyou Blvd.
Ashland, OR 97520
Below, I've posted Daniel Bailey's poem (from the new West Wind Review) called "cool sestina." I'm kind of in love with this poem right now. Scroll down to the bottom for a vid of his entire reading (approx. 10 minutes) at the Ampersand Vintage gallery in Portland. Oh, and buy his book The Drunk Sonnets from Magic Helicopter Press.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
There are 56 "a" Poets
There are 141 "b" Poets
There are 109 "c" Poets
There are 84 "d" Poets
There are 35 "e" Poets
There are 51 "f" Poets
There are 89 "g" Poets
There are 123 "h" Poets
There are 7 "i" Poets
There are 50 "j" Poets
There are 59 "k" Poets
There are 75 "l" Poets
There are 152 "m" Poets
There are 27 "n" Poets
There are 29 "o" Poets
There are 74 "p" Poets
There are 1 "q" Poets
There are 74 "r" Poets
There are 176 "s" Poets
There are 62 "t" Poets
There are 6 "u" Poets
There are 23 "v" Poets
There are 96 "w" Poets
There are 0 "x" Poets
There are 11 "y" Poets
There are 8 "z" Poets
"I admire the silent poets."
What the fuck is a silent poet?
"I wish I could be a graceful force in poems, driven only by the word."
Okay, Father Behrle.
"...other poets' grotesque whirlygig of nonsense."
As opposed to your grotesque whirlygig of nonsense?
"I have a huge amount of respect for poetry and it bums me out when people disrespect it..."
Jesus, really? Why?
"I still like setting up chairs for events--I always have."
That seems like an okay thing.
"Which is just a way of saying I do do some nice things maybe once in a while while no one is looking."
Wait, setting up chairs is a nice thing? I am confused.
"And why would you want to sleep with me, silly? I don't want to manipulate you."
I don't know. I am even more confused. The chair thing?
"Maybe I used to be too much of a drunken scenester, maybe I thought I could just be everyone's friend and the Poem would like push the moon out of the way."
And now are you a sober antagonizer / drunken blog apologizer? Mmmhmm. Like, push the moon out of the way. Sad face.
"Anyway, it's just poems and it's just art and we live in America, where no one cares about either."
At least you got that right.
Monday, April 19, 2010
I picked up One Hour of Television at the HTMLGIANT table at AWP in Denver and tore through it once I got home. It's terrifying, and goddamn, Kristina Born can write. I think the book's scariness is derived from the fact that it is not magical. Sure, there are things happening in it that defy reality, but magic is outlawed. Concrete entities do zany shit. An unmanned aircraft changes dinner. Giggling school girls wire bombs. Julia Roberts does Erin Brockovich-y things while we watch someone watching Julia Roberts doing Erin Brockovich-y things.
The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency develops unmanned aerial vehicles for use by the military. In fact I am, right now, a UAV in your home. Pyu. Watch it, lady. I am sliding terrible things into your potatoes. If I don't alter the face of square meals who will. If I don't alter your face. See if, just for fun, you can maintain a perfect unchanging expression when you explode. You asked for this: to serve me and for me to serve you. Let's do our jobs in silence. I have never been steered or manned in any way.You can order the book here (http://www.yearoftheliquidator.com/) and I highly recommend that you do.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
- bedsheets were obviously not clean, stains all over the chair.
- inconsistent amenities: one of our chests had a fridge, one had a microwave, one had both, and my chest had neither.
- my brain was not liquid, or it was not as liquid-y as i'd hoped.
- my room is a giant hard-on with spikes.
- wireless internet was mostly creepy stepdads trying to fuck me.
- we tried to use a coupon and the front desk seemed annoyed. would not stay again.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
the threat level orange
oh fuck the explaining —
give me a reason not to
be suspicious, give me that
iPod. You don’t trust me
because I touch the dead
all day. I poke at them with
Ben Roethlisberger. And
I know that popular
anticonvulsant drugs raise
suicide risk. I know that the
move is “devastating” to
America’s space effort.
That Glutathione is The
Mother of All Antioxidants.
I did something that was called
“unsafe” by Car and Driver.
I will issue software updates
soon. I summoned quarterback
Ben Roethlisberger and I said,
“What took so long?” But what
will you do? Will you retreat
from your earlier position that this
Mediterranean-like diet may
lower dementia risk? More moving
and shaking, but why? You were
teary-eyed Monday as
you pleaded guilty.
You were the Green Lantern.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
after Charles Bernstein's A Poetics
I guess nothing is formless. It must be, or it can’t be. Either way, we can’t really dwell on it. We have to pursue, tabulate, lust for. We have bodily fluids and heartbreak to contextualize. Self-loathing to floss out of our teeth. Maximums and minimums to live between. Either we have an imperfect god to stutter wishes at, or we don’t. Maybe it’s that we eye conformity peripherally and run. Or rather, there is no conformity, there is no real status quo. Prove to me that something in this place is whole. Maybe when we dart away from the masses and consensus, it’s because these approximations of a fullness disgust us. Maybe fullness is unnatural. Maybe the untenable space between all of us is there for a reason. The void: that’s why people hate puns. Stop trying to make me “get” you. Jesus.
to be apoet.
You should have an in-depth understanding of “the state of things.” Like an advertiser, basically. Let’s at least consider adopting the messiahs as our own. All of them. Jesus, McDonald’s, whatever’s the most captivating at the moment should be revered. Miley Cyrus. Lady Gaga. Allah. Kobe Bryant. Jenna Jameson. At least to get a better idea of where things are going. Look around you, what are the trends? All of these things will help us play in this impossibility.
Fuck the birds and stop trying to say something! If you must, speak in buildings and Big Macs. Fuck the yonders and fuck the twilight, let’s hear the minimizing of windows, the digital representations of (ha ha) the stars! Yessir, reliance on people and things is unsustainable. Apoets know that one day, people will think of Anna Kournikova as just “that ghost,” then “one of those ghosts,” then they will forget. Then no one will remember anything. There will be no ghosts.
And forget the packaging. Don’t use it to package. If a package is already there, yeah. But what use is dumping all these things in small boxes? It’s a miracle we can communicate as it is. Plus, there are already too many packages. People won’t be surprised by what’s inside anyway. Have you ever walked into a bank during Christmas? There are packages under the tree, but we all know they’re empty.
Not blind navigation of ideology, but a pounding at its walls. A constant re-imagining of the public sphere, and a constant contention there. The use of newly unsettled modes of communication. Text me when you get there. Text changed by catastrophe. Use of cognitive dissonance instead of a scalpel. Just look at the holes in this city, these people. What is whole (again)?
Do not forgive the unforgivably ugly, but grant them a seat.
Those signs that have been scraped but still cling to walls? Apoets know that what stood as semantically sound will not always be so.
Assertion of anonymity. My name is Bryan Coffelt, and I am no one! Writers like agents — no — writers like agencies. Travel agencies. Facilitators, operators. Why the animosity towards algorithms and the machines we create? Why the need for organic thought? There is plenty of organic thought to scrape off the walls.
And yes, reverie is nice. But what does it do for us? How is the reverie sought in poetry different from masturbation? Is this “joy” just a symptom of laziness? The result of an uncritical mind?