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Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Dumb Cunt

It is okay to be left in culture’s prodigal hole.
When privilege is given a label, there assumes
guilt over a hole of privilege. The lofty creations
fall to creaturely habits, stalkpreysnuff the trail
for bleeding cunts. I am so illiterate I can only
scorn you, the beautiful country leaks from me.
Notley says I’m diminished by anyone’s refusal
to be equal, and I think her mobility, the Paris sun,
became a hole to place her gruel of away. I chew
on a thigh until I too become the raw gristle of beautiful
function. If humanity has a hole, we store shame there
and I’m capable only of humanity. The horror of
society is we still sometimes love each other.
There is always a first sentence to condemn us.
Men remove their airs, they put them on. They
put them on women who put on airs. Who don’t.
A blue rain interrupts nothing. Dumb cunt.
Paper pushes around a bad heaven. The city is
still warm. I can’t see a city without hearing Camus
conclude avec des cris de haine. With cries of hate,
I stuff myself full to silence myself. I think
resistance is the first devotion and something
large in me mildews in want of ascetic want.
I breathe a sour breath and something symptoms.
Dumb cunt. Dumb semi-literate cunt. Dumb cunt.
I label myself myself and I label the world what it is.
My hole vibrates. Another hole vibrates.
What glory! Holyholyholy. All over the world
lines shape the crystal and shit of men.

Alyssa Lynee Day 21

Interpreter of Maladies
[a re-imagining]

  Cancer –
It’s hard for me to muster up any sympathy for somebody that willingly lets others push them around. You’re letting them corner you.    [ i still function under the belief my body is for consumption, should i be ever so lucky]     When are you going to speak up? Bite. Growl. Sting.    [the consensus is i cannot hurt myself but i am fantasizing about it right now]     You’re not a welcome home rug to walk all over. Let them know they aren’t welcome here anymore.




She was so extraordinarily beautiful that I nearly laughed out loud.     [this appropriation is symbolizing the pie i ate for breakfast & how i pretend]      She … [was] famine, fire, destruction and plague … She was, in short, too bloody much [i fucked her because she wanted me & told people i was pretty]      …. Every pockmark on my face became a crater of the moon. — Richard Burton

[the rat becomes the girl who doesn’t shave but also the uncertainty of fingers & urge to yell I HAVE YET TO HEAL]
[the closest to nature i get is the man i watch on the corner screaming to repent during hungover cigarette breaks]






[this too is half true mine]








** photo cred Untitled- Ronnie Pitman (top) Tuseday, Turnip and Dan - Olivia Bee (bottom)

jenn mare of 19, 20, 21

 i missed a couple days of posting - but not of writing:


icon resting

melanoma sweetheart the swans

are sick with summers

our skirts blown temporary


so i stole her from the swineherd

his russet chignon destaint

humming a littling lullabye

his pretty popsicle display

lickt clean by mommy earth


what sweet hips

round stepping out his narrow

framewise among dandy snow-capped

brows pearly dripping


don't close your eyes

gal the god seed goes home

through your windows the pre

packaged winter gets warmer

and warmer each slunk


get right wit

swineherd the sugar man

two-stepping sunday to stunday

bless your pretty open mouth


bless your pale bloat

all at the bottom of the bay

your belly slut to you knees

bless your stopped-up song


*


so i stole so i tourniquet

staucht flow of fat blond curls

the glub glub dimple

cherubs stuck to the roof

of her mouth with chum


spitz them into my palm so

i stole the god's game

so i drank brine from her lips

but let the cherubs choke


so gone in slumber

the swineherd pillowed on silk

sleeping sleeve under the hundrous

limbs of oak under the citron

firmament pocked with stars


so i crept my anger

loud as shelves of ice breaking

into the salt sea still

his peaceful snooze rakishly lined


his mustard sack unclenched

what fear lives in a five o-clock shadow

when only other men go down

your girt loins flossed loose

so i made out



her eyes blinkt

behind my palm her teeth steadied

the first god chunks that sprouted

we would learn to love


the whole child


*


once you're dead

and just a head

immortal you will be

considering the king god's D

is just too big to fit but in your neck

Monday, April 20, 2015

Twenty


Memorandum pink

the magnolias

are currently remembering

every last spring.


Fog clung

as fog will do

to the hills over the river

in Owego.


I kept wanting

to put an s in somewhere.

I feel my mind 

like a buzzing hive

acrawl with cooperating bodies.


All the colors of the last weeks

bled into a single stream

of light from the headlamps.

Every river we've seen

the same river.


I'm as chipper as dime-store

but it's just as cheap.

I'm watching you

watch me & wondering

how to pose, how best

to catch & beggar

the brimming

of the river

alongside us.







* The italicized words/phrases randomly lifted from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.

Alyssa Lynee Day 20

veritas.

The face is mute
& smudging, sound
ripped apart. All
the roots looked like
animals while houses
gape blown open.
The invaders left
no exit wound on
me but every morning
they try to leave.

Swamp kid pack
believed me a threat,
a butterfly. Yes,
the body was dimpled.
It knew dirt condensed
& the itching start
of scars but I didn’t
jump. I took the
cigarette burns with
their molotov stares

when the face tried
to leave there was
the moon so the panic
was unwarrented. Fact.
There were four
premonitions of slime
therefore the teeth 
should not ache.

Mother my shark
heart will give out
first, we know this.
I can’t walk quickly
out the door without
leaving a small part
and her body became
grey as the invader
slid out. The face

is muted & smudging
the face has a twin
who is dying the face
was it’s lover before
it knew of well dwelling
or the definition of
falling. Not a 
butterfly, a half-
peeled rat love
with no way to

escape. 

Spell for Adulthood


pete's 20

4/20 Haiku

It is smoking pot
up against Hitler’s birthday.
Winner: smoking pot 

Twelve

Go



She held up the book to read the words, but the book was a mirror that showed her the coming of the smoke. When she turned to look behind her, there was no smoke, but when she turned back to the book, the smoke’s shadow still pawed at the page.

She shook the book, cleared it, punished it lightly. Cleaned it. Started over. It was summer. Again, the smoke’s shadow dragged its hair across the page. What’s more, when she looked up at the day that was responsible, she was mirroring the tree. The woodenness, the permanence, it was the same.

What covered her like a thick bark was her sight. Her limbs, even their smallest twigs, were covered with her seeing. The order went: her, the tree, another tree, and another, though she was also proceeded by trees. Something was shooting through the ground and erupting into form every few feet. It might be too much to say that the page turned into light, that it was hot, square, and compact in her hands, that she felt chosen, almost dropped it, and the overreaction shamed her. In the end, the moment came to nothing, her neighbors came home from work, so it’s even too much to say that the page was no longer a page.

It was summer. She was alone. The smoke was in the book, and the page was like a tray of light she was serving, but to whom? She held it on her porch. Her neighbors came home, started their cooking. Something—time?—erupted into form. It looked at itself—a woman, a tree—but it was still mostly invisible. Why am I telling you this? So you will go find her, caught between seeing and burning amongst the trees. 

margerykempething / for 20 April

margerykempething

not getting any closer to your grammar
margery kempe knows to move past desire
margery kempe hits into double plays
margery kempe commits a cynical foul
misses a header margery kempe finds
sunday to be an exercise in extreme
repetition it's ugly it gets done
your girl a glossary of common words
margery kempe misses churches not church
margery kempe alto-rent & mended
this creature hys wyfe      a ful good woman
you are 
no good 
wife again again

Spell for the Underside

Every spell for
might be a spell against

I haven’t brought out
my hexes yet

They’re the prize
for staying late

at the party, like secrets
and good weed

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Comfort Feast

Navigation of the ultimate self is difficult
primarily due to lack of selfhood. I wipe
this poem in the grass and turn my palm up
to see the blood it makes. Yet another reading
and another, the DC blossoms moved me
only briefly. I’ve become so Brooklyn
but I have always been so Brooklyn. 
L asked last night if she were crowding me
as she spoke about Bay Area claustrophobia.
Of course not. I’m dizzy too of place: settled
or stale, a flame licks up to singe it. Its fire
is a symptom of a spark and I resist comparison.
I wanted to see the blossoms but the Bolt Bus
has me now. I take the stories of others
and call this experience. We pass a bar 
called Argonaut. Why haven’t I read Maggie’s book
yet and why do I define the bus as “we.”
Ennui on we go. Wonder Automative, Inc.
Columbia Liquor (ramshackle). Valero.
I hate writing place into poems. My visibility
is not interested in districts but the harm 
of visibility. I can type while staring at the passing
arboretum, I can ever break a line as I search
for cherry blossoms. The Washington Times building,
the legibility of highways is what kills its animals.
I want disease to mean more than red lights
stashed under blankets, the body a protective
corpse against a corpse. I have no wisdom.
I read to a crowd again who said nice things.
The feminine body slops, is sloppy. And so
my syntax pulls thread from juiced failure.
Taylor Swift blares inside a sleeping cavity.
The sham in the attempt of writing the organism
as sole proprietor of anything. I sweat into pockets
and wince at smashed deer. The very deadness
of their limbs doesn’t even hurt me. The bus pulls
me in its zipper toward another district.
I have no choice but to know this is another life.
A chip bag rustles. How do I even.

Nineteen


One is the acceptance or rejection

of what one is,

destined recipient of

self-verdict.


I remember thinking

maybe I should call someone.


The last time was twenty years ago

& even then I bet I didn't do it,

opted instead to descend the springhead 

of a gaze.* I couldn't tell you now

how to pull it off.


Insinuating not

from another world*

but knotted in the loop

of ourselves, ourselves

repeating & emanating

through the chambers

we've accreted to achieve,

we just hang around

resonating.


Alongside the river

the great blue heron stalks

in & out of your understanding,

stark & beautiful

as the end of days,

as the brutal bite of March

before it collapses

into a jaundiced spring.







*Aimé Césaire loaned me a couple of phrases.



pete's 19

 Void in the Center

The system was not designed to
be used in such a cavalier fashion.
We also don’t have the luxury of
time. Time was not designed to
be used so luxuriously. The directions
don’t matter because the design
is not significantly cornered in
that sort of womb tomb. If
you open the plastic bags you’ll
find all the excess spiders you
can manage. In those spiders you’ll
find the clouds that roll themselves
into a mountain. In that mountain,
in that empty shell, the egglessness
everywhere!

4 from Maureen

cream                  to   a 
             distinct 
     mixture of hues.

Alyssa Lynne Day 19

 sexting
\

what's your like? instead of full breaths, let's say: beyond the binary.

Kirsten's 18th

they selflessly
took over
publicity. now I
just vlog
others’ tweaks
on my basic model.

Jen's for Day 19

 I’m My Own Grandpa of the Year

Thank you. The feathers in my armpits
are spectacular—their blindingly bright
reds, oranges, yellows and greens—but check out
my armpits—the skin underneath. Feel.
Really, really soft, right? I just found it.
Woke up from a nap and there it was. Like a
billion dollar bill in my pants pocket.
Would you like to feel it again? …Uh, then you’re
dumb. I’m 47 years old and these are hot pits.

Eighteen


Tight timeline

the alarm sounded

months ago & we just now

heard the hiccupping clangor


You make a loud noise

& I try to go louder

You leap across the divide

& I fling myself straight into the falls


Having a rough time, are we big wig?

What's the weirdest thing anyone's said to you?

Isn't this what you wanted,

the attention in deficit, indecent

in every gender


I fell asleep after the former

line. I saw a yellow house there,

like always. In the yard the girl sat

with her legs tucked back beneath her in

the expectation of some intervention

some nest


Saturday, April 18, 2015

Spell for the Perfect Soundtrack


Everybody else seems to just throw away their CDs after burning them onto external hard drives, so I guess maybe this deliberation is kind of retro, but since we’ve decided to divide the collection I wanted to make a case for why I should get to keep Sweater Weather’s What Changed Us. First because it was a gift, and even though I suspect it was the kind of gift that is secretly a gift for the gift-giver (you), ultimately I think I came to love it best. I remember it as a spring album, which seems funny since “sweater weather” usually means fall. But spring requires just as many layers. And there’s something in the lilt and ease of, say, “Takeoff,” that feels springish to me. Second, because you’re keeping the Yo La Tengo, which seems like a good way to divide the sweaters, so to speak. Third, because of the lyric, “Let me put down this broken crown,” which was really useful when I was feeling sorry for myself. I remember we’d take those miles-long walks to record stores in all the cities we lived in. It didn’t matter where it was, you’d always storm off a couple blocks before we got there, and then I’d go chasing you around. I’ll take the blame for (most) street scenes if we’re dividing those up. But if I could have a reel with all those clips on it, this would be the soundtrack.


(for the Fake Album Covers book project)

pete's 18

 
Playing Golf on a Day like Today

Do you have golf clubs?
Do you know where there
is a golf course? Do you have
money to spare? Do
you have a ball marker, a
golf ball and some golf tees?
Are you aware of the necessity
of wearing a collared shirt?
Do you have a collared shirt?
Do you have golf shoes?
Do you have a water bottle?
Are you aware of how good
of a day it is for golf?
Have you ever practiced your
golf swing? You may want to
practice it some. Have you
ever putted a golf ball with
a putter? Do you have a hat?
Do you have a golf glove and
a hand capable of gripping?
Can you stand, walk, adjust
your footing and bend your
knees? You might want
to try golf.  It depends on
the sort of thing you like.
Are you aware of what you
like? The possibilities? 

jenn marie of 18

 if not from her sunken belly

the babies proceed from the stub

of her neck once she is draint

retire to the daybed w/ daffodil


i massage her temples

slaughter roses and amaranth

until the gold edges of the chalice

run pastel a passel of whining

halvesies their god part still cloakt


i stuff them under her hair

lightning and monsoon baubles

why close her crimpt eyes

she is still producing


of course the children are crying

you gods get down

here the oak boards slict and rockt

i white knuckle our little white

duvet between her bloodied teeth

Danielle 18

Immune to these forms of self-flagellation you look for a field of nettles to corrupt with your untimely flesh

This single experimental arc
a series of blots and dashes, red as
the plane’s meagre cross continent
does no more than gray your vision.

Come here. / You say. / Slap me
with your hand so cool it stings
and soothes. / Come here. / You

From whose hair / have you woven
this mat / toss

From whose oven taken these
hot coals, the shoals slammed
with a coarse cream, the lover
who bit her tongue and again
she bit her tongue. She said

naught.

Not, come here fuckstick and give yourself
a tight squeeze. You might feel better.
Not lick it. Not stick it. Not suck it.
Not take it from me. Not give it back.
Not I do not love you, though she no longer
if ever she did, upon finding that where

there were s’posed to be / a you
there was a tremendous nest / fire
ants / acid running down her wrists
where she burst those blisters / half-
sterilized pin from your bygone / half-
punk / a house in which the mattress

never dried out.

You’ll never warm up.

Whose blood. Whose blood spilled
like bluud and not enough. Whose
blue tablet-crusted mouth went numb?
A number we dialed a number we
didn’t dial a text sed what r u doing?
Who r u gunna b now, mf?

There’s not a gutter iced
enough with broken glass and shit
nor a field of nettles fine
enough to create the sort of micro-
aggression your body thinks it longs

The songbirds / know the score /
keep singing / you scored / and scored
to found yourself a score / of lacerations
counted naught. Like every time before.

Have bad dreamz, be the other / thing.