home news store events about tweak job

Sunday, May 1, 2016


They made a long true crime movie about my hometown
and it took over a week and half for them to show all of it.
It focused on how hard the local men were looking for a rapist, 
but then a series of twists revealed they were all rapists.
They were all unique individuals.
Each had signature way in which they hated women.
One scrawled letters to his wife in which the words
got bigger and bigger, while another wrote his secretary tiny, even,
pinched little notes. He bought a house three times the size
of a normal house because that’s the exact square footage at which   
employees could not resist fucking him. Because of these math skills,
he was put in charge of right and wrong.
Still, the big, convicted blonde guy was the real fan favorite.
He’s totally gonna kill you when he gets out of jail.
Until then, though, just down the road, his innocent brothers are waiting.
They like leg irons, snow fishing, arson, and you.
They weren’t ever near anyone’s painted nails, they’re just always
covered in scratches. Who knows what happened
because, just like every night, the nephew hauled all the loose shit
to the burn pit and stuffed the rest in the burn barrel.
The women were nearby hiding, I guess, in the burn house
under the burn bed. The inevitable conviction proved hasty because
some guy lived next door and regularly beat some woman
who apparently lived next door with him. Everyone agreed they didn’t know
who the hell those two were or where the hell they’d come from
or where the hell they’d gone. Everyone agreed
they wanted to open a bar nearby and call it Reasonable Doubt.

Saturday, April 30, 2016

29, 30

Then I was digging out the
watercolor set I got
when I was eleven or
maybe twelve and throwing out
the colors that had hardened.
How'd they end up way out here?
Some tubes stayed squeezable these

long decades and those I kept
and used to make a painting:
peach, grey, brown, yellow, deep blue:
desert sunset, or study
in salvageability.
Goodbye to the girl who chose
art: as for me, choose again.

FF 30

By Farrah Field

I could never be bored moving through the rooms

No one gets caught doing anything in woods this thick

By the large yellow radiator we fed kids who came over

All the sore subjects going around the table

When she thought there were intruders my mother

turned out the lights and waited by the upstairs window

Searching by satellite without an address

Where is your sister where is your sister you keep asking

Where is the hill with snow

and the neighbor’s yard where we looked for our rabbits

My sister’s friend told my mother the tea was too strong

I gave up and went to the attic

If I had my sister back I would love her so much

Two of the men were veterans of Waterloo

Not every stone structure can be modernized

but the renovations uncovered the sealed upstairs room

What will I return to now that April is over

I will not have a conversation with a house

Months are just months

I’ve never been to a birthday party quite like that one

She wants to be bubbly she should watch tv

Sitting in her room while all the girls went through her stuff

I still have the shirt she loaned me I am still the quiet one

27 for 30

And that's as close as I'll get

tonight, the last one in April

with some of the windows open

but the heater turned on. It seems

like only a few days ago CD Wright

passed in her sleep, but it was ages

ages ages in which she wrote more

poems in the beyond we'll now imagine

when we read her into the future

she and we should have had. We can

imagine her there, in a group of venerable

women, some of them with scarves,

all of them the poets we hoped for, finally.

A sway long, a swan song, or the geese

at least, with their gangs of goslings.

We took a new route through the green

tangle of the river valley between

New Jersey & Pennsylvania to

a park full of feral cats. One little one

tangled around the neck with a torn

baggie—I couldn't get close enough

but could tell by the red zipper the brand.

Someone's feeding her, feeding them

all. I stopped counting after fourteen.

I wanted to text Jen at the end of the film

while the song was still playing, Clint

Eastwood behind the wheel of the white

Caddy, driving to who knows where,

thinking of Lightfoot's tongue so soft

like that, an infant in the cradle of his lolling

head. But I had to come write this poem,

and twenty-seven's pretty good,

considering. Of these, our half-trapped,

half-wild, wholly vulnerable things.

[♥ Thanks for writing with me, Bloofies! ♥]

JMN day 30


Hera’s pumped full of longing the watch laid across her tongue 
there is time and there is cake and she’ll split-sies right to the last 
crumb but her learnéd excess made two paths in the woods and 
Hera took the one thinking you would follow every sign she made 
up every cheer pom-pomming your face with the exact same 
resume but what is in a name Hera she loves you she still loves you 
just let go of her leg for one sec c’mon she’s so proud of every 
single thing she’s done but when Hera holes up and makes cookies 
so she can eat the dough its only a dead balloon of a dream she 
had about eating each other in perfect balance you lose some 
Hera’s gonna lose some you both get sweeter she wants you now 
she wants you now Hera wants you now folded into her body like a 
frothy egg and if there is nothing to rise under the heat lamp then 
its time to make an anthem of cartwheels in tennis skirts its time to 
lick the spoon down to a nub if there is nothing to long for then 
Hera says time forever spilling out of us where she pulled off the 
ovenmitt you know she went out of her way you know she got 
gaudy in her affection and baked just for you Hera ironing her 
apron with a glass of Chablis how many manila envelops can you 
fit Hera drink a scotch and get liberated what were you wearing 
when you first called her a bitch

The headless Lauras make me hungry for Brooklyn heat---

It's like I woke up in the afterlife, the dog curled
against my lie, C shuffling papers in the next
afterlife. There isn't one dimension to being bad
but when I fell asleep I wept for the badman's badness
terribly finally real. I allow myself moments of purge
before I reel myself back, the toilet flush an ablution
this I call control. A leaf falls to the ground (the infinite)
A leaf falls to the ground (isn't working right now) as I lurch over the can
and spill my contents, gently, gently. I keep my eyes
open because I promise this is a heaven. We
harbor our secret damage as trees do roots. I can't
believe I'm still writing poems about trees when the world,
the world. I'm alive I'm ready to eat to be screenshot
the dirty heads of chewed chickens. I almost fucked someone
because of the way they said carburetor. So often I am
filled with intent, the germ of any poem is the weekend
in which time spools a little sun into grease. Grace
I mean is a kind of money. I don't want anyone punished for the type
of body they were given but I have treated people poorly
for no good reason. Ergo, deceit. Ergo, my deaths
bear no tragedy. I scrub my body with the ligament
of my debt. I close my eyes in the wrong afterlife
and it is always mine again. Missed so much of my safety
I failed the safety of others. I wonder what it means, to turn
sweet while I dream torture, the way the fire spared me
so I could fake forgiveness. If I could speak I couldn't
ok I write poems ok to teach myself ok not sorry, my endless
famish yea. Because ears only pitch when I say Big Bang Theory
when I say I'm just a girl unplugged. I dare every iota
to not laugh. All my Saturday night plans parody comportment
as I loose my greasy fingers into headless holes. And yes
you should know how scared I am of these amateur dimensions.
How my jaw my mouth my throat shall never disengage.

26 on 30

A photo posted by Bloof Books (@bloofbooks) on
convene/contest (the root is with/together/jointly)
—lettering poem for Cara Benson​
#napowrimo #visualpoem


your head
for beauty
you were throwing rocks for so, so long
your body became
complete action
destruction           nobody is trying to harm you
yesterday was bad to all of us
it didn’t discriminate
anyhow the fabric is the same
the blanket covers all of us
some parts are old
and just see-through
if I were you I would
bury some things
practice the long wait for them to pop up again
in the meantime
hold the expectation
they are there to grow, feed 
or live for a while
with all of us
all of us

25 on 30

Why so much

in regards to regard

The poems are

& are the same

wherever you lay them

One could make a practice

of squirrelling

a verb hoard


in a series

of gilded holes


what reputation-enhancing

winter does that imply's

in store

Like, what

are you saving

those unread

thought strings


24 on 30

The fitness in the phrase

almost also its ruin

Cut for now

an ephemeral allowance

Personal best

as public betterment

Resist summary

in diffuse/faintest/fading/

resonating music

Remaindering yourself

Reminding each other

Regarding each other



beyond abrupt & narrow


23 on 30

A photo posted by Bloof Books (@bloofbooks) on

ENDTIMES hard-on (nearing future)
—lettering poem for CA Conrad

Jens for day 30

 Zone 9: All the Village Idiots

were gone. In every empty tent,
beds were made. In the mess hall,
all the plates were clean and put away
and the all cabinets filled with full
boxes of sugary cereal. “Has this
happened before?” I asked Stan. He
shrugged, obviously disappointed.
We’d spent days preparing our speech,
charging our prods. “Someone
must’ve tipped them off,” I said.
“Or something,” Stan said, pulling
a spray bottle out of his backpack.
I hit the lights and stepped away
as he spritzed the wall and words 
arose like ghosts: WE PRETENDED
TO BE DUMB      Stan stared at them
awhile. “Can you read?” “No, 
but you gotta love that Luminol.”

Friday, April 29, 2016

FF 29

By Farrah Field

What is American work

Writing poetry is hard work for me

but it is easier than speaking

Germans work the least amount of hours

When I was a teacher I didn’t use the bathroom all day

When I was a teacher I thought what I did mattered

How do we know when something is never learned

I dream I swim with belugas

I dream I am the offspring of a poem

American yesterday

Yosemite condo

The suburbs will ruin us all

From where will Las Vegas get water

Do you think America can scratch its own nose

Once while home alone all the lights went off for a minute

Someone I knew was murdered darkness scares me

Are people as violent as the past or worse

A country founded on whale blubber

A businessman running for office

Parents are the deepest part of me

Yet everything in me is unattached like books that don’t touch the shelves

Influences on the market are youth and strange rocket science

Where does this come from who made it how much were they paid

what happened to the packaging how come bananas are always in season

My life is small but my dreams are vast

Love is so simple

Democracy American fake out

JMN day 29 (flu poem)

 This is an old poem I wrote after having the swine flu . . . since I have the flu again and can't make any new poems, I thought I'd share

Yesterday, I met Death

In high fever, I stumbled to the bath
to bathe my face and there he was –
a woman in a red flounced skirt
hair done up in a black bun.
She sat me on the toilet
and offered me a pill
between dry brown fingers.

“Poor dear” she said
“be comforted”
and undid the ribbon at her breast.

My face flared blood –
her dress the pale tile
dull rose light
the tainted white of her eye.

I longed to lay my cheek to her bare chest
for the red to leak away into cool shadow.

Only her tongue, thick grey slug,
shivered my breath.
I had seen her in another dream
an old man with knobby hands
licking shut the eyes of the dead
like a mother cat. All those souls
nuzzled under his calf-skin jacket

suckling at his ribs.