Monday, May 10, 2010


basically, i am a rambling lieutenant
basically, i’m fine
basically, according to
basically, um, uh, what
basically, steal the middle passage
basically, alternatives
basically, i’m find
basically, what they read, um
basically, the beginning
basically, creeping into a lot more
basically, it wasn’t a problem
basically, what’s best
basically, fancy schmancy
basically, do we not heed them
basically, this, of course
basically, here and there
basically, unh, guidelines
basically, he said/she said
basically, oh, okay, after the first few times
basically, muh muh muh

Tuesday, May 4, 2010


The conceptualism/flarf debate has been "raging" lately, and Kenny Goldsmith reminds us, once again, that "writing is fifty years behind painting."

Today, I took a shower. It was a pretty good shower. Here are some things I thought:
In painting, a tangible object is rubbed upon a surface of another tangible object. In this way, what does a painter do but mimic the clumsiness of the universe? Even "abstract" or "non-representational" works are hardly difficult to solve — an artist rubbed some stuff together.

In poetry, intangibles. Remaining intangible. Remaining frustrating, and entirely contingent.

For any poem to exist, The Entirety of Human History must first occur. And abstractions remain abstractions.

Why, then, do painting and poetry constantly get lumped together? Can we blame Williams' "considerations" of Brueghel? Poetry lives and dies through the imperfect nature of language and thought. Painting stumbles along, tries its hand at physically conveying, but comes up short; in this way, paintings are just vulgarities.

Poetry always fails. It never reaches the level of desperation that painting does.

Monday, May 3, 2010



by Bryan Coffelt

when an impulsive tendency towards some important object is frustrated
when the consumption of mates loses an element of sweetness it may mean

a loss of market share or it
just might mean what i already thought

that sorrow, no
that pity is not a compound
made of sorrow


the common voice that hides
inside of things and
busts out saying

the 80s was a motherfucker

which may be difficult to comprehend in an objective or conceptual way
in this regard, the concept of the 80s is subordinate
to guilt in terms of its emotional intensity

many people find themselves
wishing they had done something
in the 80s

i myself suffered
mass production of railroads
and the first skyscraper in history

i watched you endure
Duran Duran you were
a high-concept
heavyweight champion
of the world



by Maurice Burford

handicapable killing machines
the brain-monsters invade the power plant
the ensuing eruption of meat juice
trickled down from his mouth
forming a nearly perfect PS2

and lately I've heard people
speak in fonts

this dirty old man on the F train got a little more
'low pleasure' from Josef K and Orange Juice

a broth of vodka and olive juice
but you need a catchy name
or it doesn't qualify as 'Super Bowl Gay'

it puts a little more juice in the room
when you are burning film

I am depending wholly on the idiom of "green"
with for you than drinking
a can of that bullshit death-juice

ketchup on her, trying to get the stink off her

Bono's wonderfully poetic wine
with a hint of Fozzy the Bear's ball sweat
(they were never meant to be collectable)

people from the BBC are incapable of driving sober

it's definitely minimalist---the characters
are dressed romantically but
in no particular period's fashions---full of heart

hear me in the harmony
reflected in a car wreck

lord of beer, give me strength

while waiting for the light to change
at the corner of 14th and 3rd this morning
a girl blew cigarette smoke in my face
while I was taking a swig of juice

Lake Lady Bird makes you sweat light
but even Saxos will rub it in your face