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.

Poem I've Just Read--Dug

I just read, at the poetry journal Octopus, the poem "Hymn to Death" by Robert Fernandez.  It's fairly lengthy, and makes good use of its length.  Many of the line-breaks capitalize on the energy that can ensue from adroitly working this facet of prosody; at times, in the opening, I get a William Carlos Williams sense of the line, though that's a bit misleading as Williams had more than one sense.  These ones of RH recall Williams poem with the horse carrying its load and the nostrils jetting breath-fog like the twin jets of a car.  I am not usually much attracted to art whose explicit subject is death--especially when death becomes more like a trope or metaphor than the actual biological dynamic--but this poem has plenty of energy present, and plenty of literal death in the form of, frequently, sumptuously sensual non-human animal details, so I'm liking it.  And I am obsessed with marrow, and the poem ends entering marrow, so this makes me happy.  My only quip is the part that goes into something like choral refrain; I think the permutation meets narrative meditation macro-structure works better.    

More Samples From Ossuary

Would skin and bones
Crowding

Bone-crunching be better?

We fry

Skinny

Girls for bait
Baskets at this fish shack
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[This one has a title]: As Water Warms More Jelly Fish Threaten “Red Tuna”

 Love is not the future;
Love is the eviscerating
Heat of the present.

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

I’m smart but dumb.
At the thought of knows how
My cortex goes numb.

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

I’m a tourist walking
Vernacular streets.   
When I’m most
Clueless yet desirous
Crossing
Cerberus is wheezing:
Willing and squeezing
That I may get by.
But of course if I could see
My confidence clearly
I’d almost want to die.
I’m the head agent
For secret agency.

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

Skies are an impossibility of letters. Wavy locks. Optics. Coptic phrase stitched into the border of a hanky. No more panky at the bank. Satisfactory Action! Activation necessitates savage ken. Doll why didya do that.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Where has
My jubilance gone.
Other than what I know
What’s wrong.

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

...and oink just
Done through
With the pinky pink
Bolt unfurling satin Straight
Jacking any normal
Woman’s sense here’s a jacket.

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

Gourds are stuffed with
Freshly slaughtered goblins.
The fun stuff evades
Like pounds of flesh.

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

The birds are stranded. Everything can be done to help. This affords little hope. How hard does it have to become before there’s generous action.

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

Like any good
Tom she can tell
A nearby hot mama

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

Cracking bubbles, smacking
Gums, tender
Attempts at
Smiling, frying off
Fear, to see what clarity
Ensues once world’s...

















































































 

Timidity

I really want to write an essay--assay--whose subject (no, topic) is White Supremacism/Supremacists, but don't yet feel such an attempt could tenably be in public because my position is extremely distant (it is bell hooks who has massively aided me in my changed, more accurate understanding) from standard notions of what constitutes this wretched phenomenon/a.  But I should probably rethink what I mean by public (discursive/written) spaces: one which is not White might be simultaneously freaked out and heartened to see my stance. 
 

More of Not Enough

Here are some snippets of some--have composed so many more, so the some is no sum--poems I've written in the past seven or so months; I'd provide the entireties but it seems most publishers count blog postings as grounds for disqualifying for their stages.  It's unlikely most of these pieces will find those stages, so my careerist concern is likely unnecessary:

from a section of a manuscript I will likely title Ossuary, which will probably be the title for the whole array:

Note--titles are missing

World, worldly obsession
Threatens
To turn my purls into a pearl
Handled scoop
With which you dish my cream.
It hurts badly and
I’m not allowed to scream
Or I am but
Not if my master’s
Me. Could this be?
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

So that there’s beauty
We must put her to bed.
Sleep sweetest dreams.
If you feel chains
Graze your ankles
Roll over.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;;

Let’s shake our asses
In the Jism Dooms Room;
The Room Dooms Jism;
Girl Juice
Gets you more 
Than can marry to merry.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I bleached my backdoor and common
Sense calls me an asshole.

Friday night
Cherry pie.

To stay safe
No cream
Pastor ain’t approved.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Brand the burn.

Hot sauce
For one.

Hottest box.

Pepper breath fogs
Windshield.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

All the trees
Are cinnamon.
Perhaps high seas
Are more of them swaying.

Currents carry meats
Killers mince.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Corn grows. Hormones
Escalate. There are too
Many of these babies.
There can never be
Too many babies.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

...These lovely ethical
Beliefs are imprisoning
Me, unable to see
The full turn of emotive degrees
I value. I am
Damnably stagnant. I need to
Uproot. If I stay
Here any longer
I’m liable
To lose all sight of sugars
All the while suckling NutraSweet.

More Excision--How Exciting!

Blue for the blood which is not blue, for the many, many,
Constitute its magnitude, compassing vortex. Maybe by writing
Relation to painting, to sculpture, I can make such matter materialize
Even as just giving canvas un-ameliorated self-conscious tries
Seems ridiculous: I want to paint what I want, not what I have to
Because I lack sufficient skill to dance through the medium’s declension.What I want for initiating spell may bring
Out necessary skill forth from me but what about next;
Painting and I are not a matter of now, rather protracted past fumbles present.
I am not Picasso, believing I paint, if not think, better than Velasquez.
There is a poet on the internet; his italic seed assassinates.

We should take him off, in order to get into
The spirits of fresher dangers. No, I should
Do this for me. The gun glows
Coolly, like the edge of a Blue
Fin.

Having no
Time is an impossibility,
The painting, oily
Pigment priming poem.

I copied the “crudest scrollwork”
In intricately pounded platinum,
Then tried to figure out what color
Would do for the pinchhit for the platinum 
For the canvas. 
Economies determine the definition and ontology of what happens. This is not fully a matter of money.
The freedom so
Scrambles
Itself with
Conventions. If
This could be
A color
Exactly less than
Approximation
We’d have our
Stand in for platinum.
One of these days, when I’m established enough, I will enumerate my numerous poetic flaws, or tally the tributaries within a few key travesties. I overstate, but elegantly. The élan that’s pattern can trump afflicting someone’s episteme at its root: terrifying motile matrix, hamhued loam rocks like ears of bats bump out of.

Let me celebrate my lack of means,
My stark
Body sun can’t help but
Cast silver, elver
Noon, especially at midnight,
Never fails to
Arrest.

Economies, no triage unless one
Counts the most kinetic braiding,
Confers election on
This counterintuitive construction.
I doubt any of these ratchets will get re-sewn into my canzone. I hope some will. I am such a fan of modification. Tension is when there is no revision. Sense is not always sound, which is a truism and rusty nor freshened by me, but where this “plank in reason, broke,” strokes my ego, crawls its sirocco thorax around my right eye, then, via the terrifyingly tender space between and scalding bridge, my left. Naturally, I close them. Naturally, I can still see enough to be all panic.

I wish I’ve got the nerve to sincerely pursue bullshit. This state would make me making visual art tenable, sustainable, even as entering such a baseline seems unattainable, that which I can think but not imagine, imagine but not touch. 

I am in the market looking for
A venue to market my works;
I am so caught up in the market;
I am going hungry in it; I am
Pursuing it like calories, licking,
Licking, as if in prayer there’s
Bone and, more so, marrow.
How could I tell you
Straight when
Right in front
Of my eyes there are
Patterns bubbling from
Superheated stone;
The drag on
Lashes is
Gnarly; there
Are abundant other
Ways to
Put this; let’s
Go get
Embroiled in
Hyperventilated embroidering. I can almost imagine painting in pursuit of a part of an installation-piece which is not strictly painting, not properly so, but there is still an electric scrim keeping me from contact. I write to paint, and pant my preparation slow.

I am preparing for bastardization. I am in favor, assuming consent, which is constantly difficult crucial discernment, of what, the phenomena, the dynamics, the terrible word miscegenation signals. I am comfortable with my homely flings into the worlds of writing. I feel entitled to play language’s games. I feel survivable.

I to the I as it loves a good prunes. Backs are for pats. Where’s yours. If the question’s not clearly, don’t mark it. Persons play musical positionings. What was I supposed to do except say we were moved.

A kind of clouding, clearing where why limpidly lies. I want this document to be twenty pages again. I want these pages to be as good as when there’s no doctor around and none’s majorly the matter but assurance helps. I want hems hemorrhaging lines. I do not want the world to do what I write unless I’ve nothing to do but be incidental. Ethics are important. They are gnarly; they enlarge one’s visages the way thunder perfect surf does.

It was a major interruption, not what can ever be subsumed into seduction.

The way to navigate the matrix is this: adroitly manipulate, matriculate, “perfect gibberish.”

Better than ever is never. Bling should be recognized by Microsoft Works. Vuitton is not either so at-least there’s not duh classism which, too, is born with a red line by the time every letter‘s been breached.

I do not
Know who you
Are.
Who are you.
Just because
You tell me
Does not
Mean I’ll
Know.
Sometime
I would like
To
Do
The mode Scalapino
Did through
Does 
The way schwas
Don’t stop
Echoing only they’re so
Many purlings out.

“Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio”
Cannot, now, be, other than a rhetorical question if it’s being contemporaneously asked, not the performance of a masque, mascara on yet more presence.

My sampling is so wide within its narrowness; freedom is qualified.

Lateral diatomite, depending, profile without predicate.

Did this do to me. Where would ever. Everyplace, obviously.

I smashed up crackers. Rice powder dusted stanchions.
There is no way to predict when this will satisfy. There is only

Easing into satisfaction. Satisfaction gets this. This boredom
Gets why it’s necessary to groove in. Love profiles preterit.
I am not fit to be critic but am better than couture for critiquing his theories, his gags he takes seriously while all sorts of slow fatal choking’s go ignored, or mentioned that they be mocked, turned knicknack not resonant chamber for contrafining faith’s fact.

I made it out; what is it; what is it not; it is the predicate; it is the knot; it is the braid at which reality frays and makes sight legible.

Who cares about reality, it’s the realness of the ethics matter more when necessity makes that narration tenable.

Slow, through, one, and to, but where, plus under, screwy, lovelorn, bubble reflects a horn, cold heat, contrary, capitulates capitol, aptitude, aphasia in an afternoon, followed by silica, flecks from a river used to run through here, Sandra, Seamus, images like action, sights zoning in on sounds, resonant rescues, grounds, missions, saints for satisfaction, self for living through leaves, loopy critters, glittering chitters, chirrs honchoing Cheshire, chemical intuition, intellect and its legislation, barb, carbonate wind carves, chthonic tamping when, when worlds rely on words for their import, opportunity knocks, jimmies gasoline from an obscene amount of Duran Duran arcana gets this car I wouldn’t mind being in all the way to Vegas.

My poems are far more dependent on painting, its existence, than painting, the discipline, is my poem. Well of course, my poem is the object, and the subject surely would object to its take on paintings matter, or perhaps grin agreement if it was witnessed that I’ve stated I am extremely aware what I don’t know how to do. I could slowly, slowly, step by slow step, learn to harness minimums, deploy them in bright activity. I wish, though, if I try painting, to wallow in I am so amateur, not even applying for my membership to Primitive. This wish, as practice, feels, cognitively rolls, through me as unacceptable. Or am I only cheap and lazy, unwilling to procure canvas and paint, brushes and a palate, that I may start an installation. 

In my hands, words can do what paint can’t; with a pat that is no speech I can give the sapping circulation hue, which dew can then dispel if this be a proper epoch, glitter-dirt- and-there-goes-the-skirt five exits west of Peoria.

Eggs are important, even if they’re not always a big deal. There are eggs in the river. No one gives a shit about the river, and gives the river so much shit.