Aero                                  die                       anima pumpkin

Dug drought                          archive                         so lute         solo lint

Genius                                 dooms me                    meadow           sweet

I candle                                  eructates ax                      omnivore and ipecac

Aero                   dug drought        genius I                          candle                                    

Eructates ax                          dooms me                    archive            die

Anima pumpkin so           lute solo lint          meadowsweet omnivore and ipecac

Gap                  closure                      loose eye                       ordinal threat

Does this                        through ewe                     parallax               riparian

Make twee                       larynx sews scree                incipit              stone tang glows

Crotch pine nepenthe                cross spine limps         sump                mustard foison

Mustard foison                           gap                           ordinal threat               make twee

Through ewe             stone tang glows                  crotch pine nepenthe      loose eye                       

Incipit                 does                  this cross limps spine                     sump sews

Riparian threat                   scree parallax                 ordinal closure                gap parallax

Lucas d Lima

Except for the last three lines, I really like “all i wanna say is that they don’t really care about us” up at the PEN website.  It's the most engaging poetry I've yet read by de Lima, whose penchant for all-caps lettering has never sparked my interest.  These poems are not stylized in that manner; rhetoric, rhythm, and image do their do--work--carry through.  All-caps, often, appears like a voice yelling from a stage and it's not strong enough to carry to the back-row--aka opera singer who lacks sufficient skill.  It's lovely to see timbre both delicate and possessed heft.  Hear-here--here-hears; cheers!

Howdy

Here's a description of a manuscript I very much want to get published:

Hello, it's Adam Strauss. I am submitting an 81 page (title, acknowledgements, and section pages excluded) poetry manuscript titled Braided Sand Country. Both sections of this collection--Braided Sand and Country respectively--primarily consist of sequences, but these strands are not ordered sequentially and instead constantly interrupt and/or twine one another. This dynamic has been chosen in order that relation be emphasized but not simplified, turned step-by-step--elegantly straightforward--rather than web, matrix, field of lapses, overlaps, integers, gaps that turn into rungs, ladders for lungs to scale and set circulation free. The content of these poems works to define as fully as possible what country means: how the term compasses the "natural world," fields, mountains, streams, coastlines; designates the small-scale, the local, the "provincial," and the large stage that is the nation-state; how geography turns into geopolitics and framing for culture. In the pleated reality of this term, mountains are no longer solely mountains: they are zones for extracting product for export, for GDP growth; they are contested territories--shadows cast by their peaks are themselves shadowed by ongoing eructations constituting nation-states' (or, sigh, perhaps only states') identities.

I'm Unsure

if it's Lowe or Low; I've read it both ways--but am guessing it's Low?  Purposefully unfixed?
I don't want to disrespect her through incorrect spelling.

T Low

 I like her Hunting Season performance that I just watched at Jacket2.  I don't think I would
want to read it, but it's delicious to watch.  The only bit that fell flat for me is the end--which
makes perfect sense: it's in many ways very much a continuous present mode, so any ending
is bound to ring dully.  It's very artifice-laden, but it does what performance modes almost
never achieve--to register as actual event/eructation, sans script; I didn't know the start was
the start: I thought it was her introductory remarks!  Too often, when I see people read writing,
they seem to act like they're following how they think performance should come off and what one
gets, for me, seems like an imitation of performance rather than performance; hmm, or am I
just detailing how shitty acting ends up?  Anyways, Low's performance doesn't follow this
dynamic.  And Yah, I seem to be privileging reading performance which actually seems like
someone speaking in a way that could even remotely plausibly occur outside that particular
stage scenario.

What I Have Read This Past Hour or So

Frequently, I find author/artist's statements/explanations of their creations tedious/grandiose/self-serving, obfuscating/misleading and, most devastatingly---boring! This is not the case with Monica Youn's essay which regards her poem "Blackacre" which I read a few months ago while at the Barnes and Noble on US 1 in Fort Lauderdale, FL (I love going there for coffee so I can read magazines while I wake up).  I immediately felt/thought the poem terrific: I love thinking of Milton as a poet who makes other major poets look comically minor (in other words, I love thinking of him in rather cartoonish figurations) and "Blackacre" writes not through nor over  but rather with Milton's sonnet "On His Blindness," a poem I'm not even an idolater of.  And now having just read Youn's exegesis, I know what Blackacre means, and that the poem stems/circles around the fact that she was infertile.  This makes amazing sense once she's written to me, but I totally never imagined that subject when I was happily going through/with it at B and N.

I also read #Actual Asian Poets, a collocation of homages up at Literary Hub.  I find this to be exciting in terms of the general cultural contours it creates, but not (with a few exceptions) cognitively engaging in any specific way: mostly it reads to me like an anthology of blurbs.  Perhaps quite contradictorily, I ADORE blurbs, so don't mean to cast undue aspersion.

Finally, I read Mia You's essay-at the Poetry Foundation blog--regarding her pregnancy and specifically her attempt to establish what constitutes being in labor--what timeline most accurately contours the experience.  I love this piece.  Most notable, for me, is that it is--though ultimately the work documents markedly difficult realities--quite funny in places, and I sense that I as reader have been led to carry this response due to You's fully intended effort.

Quoting a Plum--or Perhaps Chestnut--by Joshua Corey

Here's a funny allusion to F O'Hara by Joshua Corey in his poem "The Barons":

"I think I’ll buy a malted for the writers in Ghana these days"

--New World Writing indeed, lol.

Cynthia Cruz

Below is a response I just posted regarding a poignant sentence in Cynthia Cruz's essay "On 'Amy' and 'Ex Machina' up at Hyperallergic:

adam strauss • 8 minutes ago

This registers to me as terribly accurate: "At this point in our culture, in order to simply enter the conversation, a woman must pass certain basic aesthetic standards." For me, the crucial term here is "basic"; it's great to read someone who recognizes that aesthetic enfranchisement more overwhelmingly exists at this basic requirement level rather than the rarefied hyper conventionally attractive strata. My question is--can this reality be other than dead-end? If there are basic aesthetic requirements to enter public discourse (hello to the fact that so many public feminists are totes normatively attractive), then women have to be complicit--and so this theoretically means that resistance--refusing to do the unmarked and assumed labor of intensely grooming ones' self and in the process reproducing the notion that a natural woman is hairless in all the "right" places, etc--is rendered ineffective. My unrealistic answer is this: the more humans embrace the human part of the identity human--and not the infinitely more powerful male/female pinch-hits--then the more likely it is that world-views produce more parity in terms of minimal aesthetic requirements. If there is no freakishly sedimented notion of men to embody contrast to via the hellaciously sedimented notion of women, then hopefully the humans formerly bonded by being women (I am working via the warrant that women and men are linguistic realities that should not be seen as identical to human organisms and their chromosomal characteristics) could relax the physical self-disciplining. Or of course everyone could just end-up having to meet new crazy high aesthetic standards for what it takes to be a public human.

From "Grief Abstracts," Julie Carr (Boston Review, 2009). I love how, despite being a prose-poem, and somewhat fragmented, Hopkins' timbre rings clear:

Grief of fire in its final flash and
                                smolder. The weight of her speaks spark’s brief ire become ash,
                                                                                                                                    become
ruinous food full of dolor. To recall her laughter is to grow older. Fear’s rife in
this filial order. If molded, I’m fodder for air, and I’m colder. Since I lost her I
stored her like ore in my form as if later I’d find her, restore her.

Here, too, are some lines from Joyelle McSweeney's Contagious Knives (excerpt from the Poetry Society of America):

Devil (to Swan, amiably)

Have you heard the buzz?
Each screen is hot with it, each watch and pocket.
How the kid enlistee cowers in the dumps
He looks like this one, narcissistine,
Stripped naked, as he's a threat to himself
on a very high level!
His name is Bradley Manning.
He's a puppet and a larva, a pupa, and a ghost
A ghost orchid, moth, I mean a goat.
If we were tragedians
we'd play his slit throat,
We'd play the ghost pipe, the bag & faggot,
the bundle of bees. On my bundle of knees.
But alas we're only tatties, falsies
we live in glass bottles
we report and you decide, deicide. 

I particularly like "play his slit throat"--"play" makes for such a wonderfully sinister verb-choice!  And the "goat"/throat" rhyme totally echoes this amazing moment in Elizabeth Bishop's "Crusoe in England," a poem I LOVE:

"But then I’d dream of things  

like slitting a baby’s throat, mistaking it   

for a baby goat."

 

Bishop's lines are actually quite a bit more sinister: with McSweeney's poem one is clearly in the realm of play (and this work is from a drama!)--albeit that which is deadly serious. 

 

Finally, I dig JM's "we'd play the ghost pipe, the bag and faggot."  In this line, fire--bonfire of the vanities?!--burns, sends its smokes, its signals, and limns--ghosts--bag-pipe and the smoking body of a Gay man under immolation.  Smoke as like ghost--that makes sense to me.  And, too, the spectral bag-pipe makes sense: surely sucking--"blowing"--cock could be deemed akin to playing that gutsy instrument.

 

 

  

After a bit more leafing through other Hyperallergic pieces, I am fortunate enough to meet this bit of absolutely awesome--an interview with a photographer and documentary maker named Zanele Muholi:

Depicting an Existence So Far Violently and Blaringly Erased

• by Claire Breukel on January 17, 2012

This notice from Hyperallergic 2012 is sooooooooooooooooooo wonderful!:

Small Town Gay Community

• by Alicia Eler on November 15, 2012

 

I should probably write an essay on why I am so moved by this piece/the artist (in this case, photographer) and realities it features, but for the time being am going to silently be stirred.

I really like Sandra Simonds' poem "I Am In Room One Eleven," which appears in thefanzine.  This piece is longish, and I like its irrepressible quality.  Too, it seems much closer in timbre/lineaments to her wonderful first book, Warsaw Bikini, than many other poems of hers I've read recently, which cheers me--as the poems in that volume still strike me as her best.  At any rate, I recommend checking out the aforesaid poem, as well as her poetry in general--which tends towards the terrifically lively, and engagingly works talky/talk-like/talkative tones...a mode I think tends towards being rather blah; so I love that Simonds is able to create energetic stagings via an aesthetic I am, oftener than not, not a fan of.  I think I like this talkative quality, in the case of Simonds, because she is not actually trying to transcribe speech--to merely imprint a page with what's already there/made: she--rather the poems--likes grand shapely stanzas, likes dynamic line-breaks, likes sound and play--in other words the poems take advantage of many of the elements that traditionally constitute poetry.

Submitting Book Manuscript Question

Is this pitching--to Black Ocean--of a manuscript titled Smoked Marrow Scream Cream engaging or off-putting/makes barf and bile fountain up one's windpipe:

Hello, it's Adam Strauss. I am submitting a manuscript titled Smoked Marrow Scream Cream. It consists of two sections: Feminist Pig, and Blue Ossuary. This collection is not long, but aims to pack opera upon opera of wallop. The poems contained within it are aggressive, jocular, plain and plainly ornate. They aim to devastate and be devastatingly funny--friendly-Grinch smack to femur. Put another way: they're Homosexual Prophecy, but with prophet cindered. I would be thrilled--and then more thrilled than that--if this manuscript is deemed apt match for Black Ocean. So far, few of the constituent poems have been published, but the following pieces do appear in Cricket Online Review: Work We Do For Hegemony; Glass Of Milk With Apparitions; BloodHot Mineral Planet; Lungs Are Grammatical.

I Like This

from Feng Sun Chen's Ugly Fish:

I don’t care about poetry. 
I slap it around. 
Poetry is my bitch. 
I put a collar on it. The collar has a bell. The bell is pink. 
Fuck bitches.

:::::::::::::::::

:::::::::::::::

:::::::::::

You cannot tell when I am lying and when I am not. 
That is because I am sincere about my lies.

Sincerely Mockery

HETEROSEXUALITY

THE COW has been called a heterosexual book.  THE COW is not a heterosexual book.  So far, however, the world is composed of people who exist because a man and a woman copulated and a woman got pregnant and gave birth.  Sexuality, the sex act, desire, and what it takes to make a human: I should make a Venn diagram, because they aren’t all the same. 

THE COW is concerned with maternity, not heterosexuality per se.

 

Sexuality, the sex act, desire, and what it takes to make a human: I should make a Venn diagram, because they aren’t all the same: OK, sure, fair enough--but also wonky, as not all the same does not necessarily mean wholly distinct either.  I kind of like the distinction between maternity and heterosexuality, but also find it disingenuous: the world--every country in it--is quite happy to equate the two (though maybe the Netherlands and a few in vicinity are starting to erode this equation?  It has sure as hello not reached sufficient "mass" in the USA); many countries can barely fathom the phenomena as not one and the same.  Basically, I think this statement of Reines severely underestimates Heterosexuality (not capitalizing it is one clue; it should be capitalized--it's truly major, and majorly connected to Capitalism).  I get that she wants to divorce her Cow--cunt, as a wife has?  Cute if we're dealing with a Stein allusion--from Heterosexuality, because Heterosexuality, although totally sexy and mm scrumptious and sexy and sexy and sexy and seductive, is gross, HEGEMONIC, cruel, crueler than that, then even crueler--oh but yummy, yummy, so good, mm!  Biceps, pectorals, perfectly bodied manly men--so delicious; and tall itsy bitsy blond--died, duh--girls with tits (pert, pretty jumbo, it's all good) and perfect make-up and silky hair, yay for Anna Selezneva, though her beauty seems quite natural, the superior rigged kind: natural men and women are more often than not going to be aesthetically inferior, and unless I'm talking to you, who cares how you think compared to the way you look!--but if you are a screaming Heterosexual (and though I have not read The Cow, I have read other Reines poems, and they are very Heterosexual--which is to say, at the least which is more than most, very human), I vote for wearing your hegemony on your sleeve.   I think that'd be rather cool--much more so than THE COW is not a heterosexual book...snooze: CEO logic. 

 

Sketchy

I just drank a beer.....and this isn't a new feeling--but...I am suspicious of Queer epistemology.
It strikes me as, for many--not all, never all--a great way to avoid coming out, to ever fully confront
difference and its insane glorious pain and isolation.  I think it's through Queerness that Heterosexuality will succeed in, again, subsuming all sexuality such that it's status as baseline, normative, unmarked, never fritzes.  As far as I can tell, queer wants to erode boundaries twixt Homo and Hetero.  I certainly see how abrading a major binary has appeal--but I think this is the wrong tactic in service of an appealing ideal.  My, arguably, number one beef with Heterosexuality is that it's un-marked--there's no need to declare it unless one's in a scenario where there's any risk of being identified as otherwise.  This un-marked status wreaks hell for Homos, puts the potential stress of coming out on them and them only (though them only never makes complete sense), thus any episteme which wants to contribute to further un-marking Heterosexuality (by positing that Hetero and Homo limn rather than separate, that they should not be distinguished, be seen as operating with radically different power valences) seems dubious to me.  In somewhat redundant conclusion--via Queerness I have a hunch Hetero-Hegemony's perpetuity will be guaranteed, as there's no greater power than maximally un-marked dynamics: there is no questionable power rigging, only element as necessary as thoroughly oxygenated air.   However, if one is willing to abandon, in all "real world" instances,  genitals defining biological sex, then I am so cool with Queer: no more demographic tallies asking M/F; no more being born a sex rather than a human--as currently one more often than not has to have a sex to qualify as human.  So my revamped conclusion is--Queer epistemes are awesome if they're willing to be as radical as their implications already are...but blah to those strains that seem mostly to locate salvation through evasion. 

Warrant for the above: Judith Butler's claim, in Gender Trouble, that Heterosexuality predicates sex distinctions.

Note: I don't think it's practical to wholly disavow Queer as world-view, and I don't believe it will always engine what I suggest are its likely results.  Hopefully I'm really wrong--Homosexuals won't go extinct as recognizable demographic and Queer epistemes will brilliantly retard its ebbing wholly outside legibility. 

Another Viewpoint on MG, Blah To This

Naizgroth 1 day ago

"This is the reason why men tend not to respect women... decades of dumb slutty shit like this, that has indoctrinated good women into materialistic whores.. She's basically calling herself a prostitute.. Buy her shit, than she'll fuck you... Stupid.. I feel bad for those who live by this creed, always seeking out men with money to fulfill that never ending void via materialism which never works... WHy couldn't she have died young (preferably before this song) like all the other dumb artists.."

 

I am too lazy to respond to all the points raised here except for the final musing: "WHy couldn't she have died young (preferably before this song) like all the other dumb artists.."  My response to this is--because she's so smart she's lived and lived and lived on.

 

 

MGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

This is a comment I posted on Youtube for a Material Girl video--this view it totally old-hat for many friends who have heard a version of this in person; and it may be repeating a prior non re-paste post from way back whenever:

           5 months ago             

"This song is brilliant; it may be the best political pop song of the past twenty five years.  This may seem counterintuitive; here's a reason or two: if it's truly pop, the politics should not stand out, just totally be there; if you hear a message it's protest not pop.  This song gets this: the girl, the shallow blond, becomes emblematic of the world at large, or at-least the USA, and its materialism; one can't dismiss the girl as vapid etc because in fact she's ground zero for where some of the world is totally at--to dismiss her is to dismiss real politics.  Put colloquially: Bitch (finger points at dude), you think I mean nothing but I'm really at the very pulse of what your world means."

 

On a different, but related, note: I love the word-play happening in the title "Like a Virgin"--which, too, is a great song; isn't a Madonna a virgin mother?  So like a virgin like a virgin mother--lol.

 

OK, back to MG: I like the video--apparently it's the official one: M on a staggered/stair-like stage, in a long pink dress, with lots of cute guys in suits--but think this would extend the politics wonderfully:

 

M is overseeing an assembly-line chute chockfull of packages containing man dolls, and tossing the packages with damage...and scrutinizing how they should be displayed at toy stores....and doing other things clearly linking male bodies to Capitalist profit.  As it stands in the video, M is still a consumer--but she doesn't control the means of production.  With my fantasy version, girl does have this control.  Hmm, and then to play with cultural cliché of girl on stage being "bid for," we could have male execs fight to bid to buy her man-doll company!  My acedimazation of this song feels like such a no-brainer to me, so hopefully someone, or manyone, has made a version of this hypothetical video.

 

Oops, Blogger did not maintain GN's lines.  It's testament to the poem's quality that Blogger's prose-poem looking version is much inferior.  Here's, hopefully, restoration:

Lachrymatory

Geoffrey Nutter

Remote controlled substation no. 10,
a utilitarian structure down by the tracks

that run past the ruined marina,

was built in 1931, and is now being

renovated. Scaffolding has been erecte

dall along its sides. A big coil

of damp rope is lying in a pile

of broken concrete, brick, and plaster.

The topmost row of the chain-link fence

that runs along the river

is twisted into barbs, and shredded

plastic sacks are snagged in the barbs

as far as the eye can see: dirty gray

and shredded, flapping in the wind.

A candy box, once green, has been

bleached out to light blue by the sun.

Silent gray boulders are lapped at

by waves. What’s that

in the mud where the tide is going out?

Buttons; bottle caps; small bits

of styrofoam that look like shells or coral;

a few dead crabs; a cracked porcelain

vessel from the Victorian era

for containing the tears shed by those

who have survived the death of loved ones.

Signs are posted to warn against

the consumption of eels by children.

Poem from Gulf Coast

I bumped into this poem when looking up whether Gulf Coast is accepting submissions, which it isn't--which is a-ok.  I've read Nutter's poems here and there.  I sometimes semi like them.  Starting this one, I thought I wouldn't be jazzed, but I totally am: this poem is so saturated in the work of Elizabeth Bishop--not via direct allusion, but through overall echo and approach to observation.  In Lachrymatory, I do perhaps hear "The Bight" more than her other poems, particularly in the end, whose "Signs are posted to warn against/the consumption of eels by children" reminds me a bit of the "awful but cheerful" "untidy activity" of that poem's concluding lines.  And, in a hazily specific sort of way, I hear the end of Moore's "The Steeple-Jack."   I suppose one could take points off for a poem where its goodness stems from its resemblance to someone else's greatness, but I don't feel this way: it's lovely to feel like I'm reading a rivulet of Bishop, and though I can't conceive of GN being anything like great, this poem makes me far more optimistic about other poems of his: 

Lachrymatory

Geoffrey Nutter

Remote controlled substation no. 10,
a utilitarian structure down by the tracksthat run past the ruined marina,was built in 1931, and is now beingrenovated. Scaffolding has been erectedall along its sides. A big coilof damp rope is lying in a pileof broken concrete, brick, and plaster.The topmost row of the chain-link fencethat runs along the riveris twisted into barbs, and shreddedplastic sacks are snagged in the barbsas far as the eye can see: dirty grayand shredded, flapping in the wind.A candy box, once green, has beenbleached out to light blue by the sun.Silent gray boulders are lapped atby waves. What’s thatin the mud where the tide is going out?Buttons; bottle caps; small bitsof styrofoam that look like shells or coral;a few dead crabs; a cracked porcelainvessel from the Victorian erafor containing the tears shed by thosewho have survived the death of loved ones.Signs are posted to warn againstthe consumption of eels by children.

Brief Reactions to "High Wire Acts"

   [I thought I'd lost this post; it was written before the one just before this one; and I was sort of glad for its disappearance; but I'm happy too to see it still exists and have added a bit more] 

     For the most part, I find this roundtable dull/repeating the same old mid 20th to 21st century truisms about the sonnet.  I have a hard time taking seriously discussions of sonnets that don't involve rhyme whatsoever.  From 1350 to 1950, sonnets largely rhymed--so the form lived and, inevitably, changed, morphed, for those 600 years, but rhyme wasn't tossed.  For around sixty years it's been, in America, tossed.  The sonnet has died and been replaced by 14 lines.  Or a few more or less depending: Gerald Stern, etc.   Why, why, why won't poets just embrace that they write 14-line poems but that they're not sonnets!  Poets--shuck the residual glamour/cultural capital of centuries past!
     Sure, someone could do some extremely sophisticated alluding to sonnets without end-rhyme--I agree.  But I can't think of any poem/poet in the past thirty-plus years who has.  I guess this would constitute the topos of the almost dead but still being revitalized stage of the sonnet, not its for sure death-----OMG, I am so dumb: Karen Volkman's Nomina is so sonnety, as in end-rhymed, and with Petrarchan schemes, but totally 21st century!  
     I do like this bit from Michael Robbins: "The sonnet is as adaptable as capitalism."  This partly sings/zings me, but also seems a bit off: in all its adaptations, Capitalism never seems to get lost, only scrimmed.  The sonnet is now so lost it will never be regularly found.  And I feel bad for largely dissing this exchange: I think Sandra Simonds is terrific--as electronic correspondent and POET!  And her Sonnets have inspired me to write Noncenets: 14-liners which are decidedly not sonnets.

Note: from around 1960 to the present, there's a clearly demonstrable tradition of the unrhymed sonnet.  At this point, it is very much its own deal, a mode (form doesn't quite strike me as the right term) which whether I dig or gripe at totally exists and is very much more alive than what I believe sonnets are.  My beef is totally losing.  I am cheerleading corpse form not living nerves.      

Howdy

I suppose posting poems is dumb--who wants to read other than prose (aside quotations) on a blog?
Oh well--I feel so much more comfortable posting poems--whether they're bad or not doesn't bother me.  But I'm more than less scared to post prose many may deem stupid.  I mean I kind of want to gripe about poem rejections, post stats for how many Submishmash rejections I have amassed--but yah I also really don't want to go there because I already so thoroughly am.  Well here's a poem I wrote yesterday, which is not part of any manuscript.  Often I write poems having a sense that they do make a manuscript, but I also crank out floaters:

Short Lines

By that time we
Were out of
Seconds.  Silver
Throats.  Camellias
Bloom.  Arsenic
Studs stems
Spindle length of
Deck.  Depth
Deceives.  Wreck
Recalls initial
Slip.  Lips purse
Ripping apart
Imperfect and
Perfectly
Necessary witness.
For every
Split there are
Ellipsis
Orbit astute
Skips smooth
Favoring fen where
Once one
Learns to do
Without air
Breath comes
Naturally. 
Read my
Hips.  Screen its
Blips.  Lean
In or
Let go.  Forget
Going that
Gong may
One scorcher day
Set snowing.

Problem(s)

I, in prior post, poem, failed-post maybe almost ok poem, wrote "twat."  I like the sound; but I hate the meaning.  If this and other epithets vanished, I would not rally for their recovery.  I like restraints, so excising words from English strikes me as lovey not censorial.  I adore syntax and this gets me into trouble: I didn't/don't mean twat, or not in any comprehensive way; it emerged out of a desire to write, write basically anything, write a logic that has no life outside of itself, but if so then I should be doing Zaum (sp?) not American vernacular.  I am cool with the letter T, and W, and A, and T, but not when they're turned word.  Stupid word.  And even worse as acronym.  It's kind of terrible how writing not meaning is what grabs me most.  As if writing has no meaning even when none is intended.  And then there's the Heterosexuality claim.  I do believe that, do mean it.  But I also mean this: if the world suddenly turned Gay as Gay as Gay as can be, the issue of female having dubious cultural status would not disappear.  Heterosexuality is everyone's problem--which isn't to state one has to be aware of this--and I don't imagine any one demographic could lay claim to solution.  I hope one year I figure out how to pull off lucid prose.  I suspect it will be when I stop being me.     

It's Been A While--And This Post Is No Reward

There was a rat, there was and there was.  Rat was and was rat there or ranger.  Was range present or at a distant ridge.  Was and was and was and passive.  Without voice.  Was voice rangy yes no maybe more of that pastoral tune would do but not now nor then and Zen zeroed out in ginger.  Who do you want to fuck Ginger or Mary Ann or do you want to marry her and her who is she.  She is the point.  He is the Doberman thus sun comes between.  Day after day divided by bray brings us away from fucking and fucking brings the world right here to this spot this hot plot of panders.   Words come so slowly.  Passive reigns.  Regicide passes out on the sidewalk.  Twice then thrice then twat.   As long as there’s Heterosexuality misogyny cannot be wiped off or out and out of this box there’s jack.  Heterosexuality cannot be disposed of unless the concept of human is tossed out the tenth floor window.  Which is good.  Without it there’d be nothing to look at.  Look at him.  Strip that grin.  Those clothes.  Lasso his cock.  Tell it how it is.  Regis is fucking a babe named Leandra.  His contract has turned a blind eye.  The eyes of this spider are beside her.  Every room romanticizes bestiary.  Without rhetoric what could writing do than be dull as some dullard but then he’s dead and in an uncanny position.  I’m enthralled.  Dead men rock.  Men are like geology as seen through a shattered mirror.  Men are and passivity is and these two nodes are congruent.  These words are inspired by Ariana Reines even as they bear do I mean bare no close connection.  I wish this could pass as prose.  It can’t and I can’t and can’t is and is at times passive but who cares who cares who cares not even I do though I don’t matter but oh you are mega.