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Thursday, April 17, 2014

Catie #16 NaPoWriMo

I wouldn't say he kept showing up just as the smoke began to fill the town,
but he was always nearby, sitting unused,
listening to the whir of an uninvented machine.

He missed several of the woman he'd found in the woods over the years.
He told me that the one he grew to love could hear only bells.
He carried a beat-up box filled, I guess, with pieces of his different lives.

I wouldnt say his face was smooth or unscarred,
more that it bore too many words to make out any one of them clearly,
to say nothing of the slashed and whittled box in which he carried the burning.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Song of Yourself

With scissors and craft glue Peer cut himself out of cardboard a Poem for Cardboard for Cardboard Box for Cardboard Box Time Capsule

Remotely clicking a surveillance camera frame by frame

Yawning a cheerful arm around a shoulder

The door opened till the door came loose

I was staring at leisure all day

It is an underrated pleasure to be literal.

Like undergoing a voluntary procedure in other circumstances classifiable as torture

But only if I had to purchase each letter or cast them individually in lead would I consider this waste land uninhabited.

A bantustan I said. Like a bantustan. Feeling smart. Wild in the zoo. 

I still want to go to Disneyworld.

Can a root be smart and a tree be stupid?

A people made of words, a person made of letters


Every song has a particular most appropriate dance and eventually it will be located

That night he dreamt of writing down his dreams.

The actors forget their lines and I in the audience am the one who is embarrassed

This red is redder than that red.

This red is the reddest possible red. 

This red is ex-red.

This red is red only in the dark. 

This red is red only in other languages.

This red is not red. 

A city chlorophylled or a city chloroformed

My fist fits perfectly in my mouth

Thwarted generosity

Tranquility is my favorite emotion

Because it is not pragmatic.

We have different definitions of fairness

John Stezaker Talks About Collage (NaPoWriMo14: Kevin Sampsell)

We live in a world saturated with images
There are too many images in the world

It's what you remove
taking things away
hiding things
In order to engage the image
in a meditative relationship

I find the digital culture very depressing
for its lack of materiality
The way it flows away

I tend to work at night
because that's when I get tired
and when you get tired
you lose control

Sometimes I'm drawn to images that are
pulling apart
I call those betrayals

Marriage is a word I use a lot
I am trying to heal those divisions
Sometimes the bringing together
can be preposterous

Can that be art?
Turning a picture upside down?

It's not always to do with a happy marriage

When you look at someone in the face
you're looking behind them

The postcards over the face
is a mask

It is the face
emptied of "faceness"
reduced to the shell

Caves are spaces that are inside

The process of stillness
can be quite horrific

My collages are about making visible
what is blind

Perception is always somehow
one step behind
chained to narrative
in a perpetual state of partial awareness
dominated by
an unsatisfied desire for completion

That moment when I know it's right
is the moment when I'm somehow not present

It is there in front of me
and I see it
and that's the end of it.


Hand over the vessel 
after taking a drink. Wipe 
your mouth on your grubby sleeve. 
Flatten the look in your eyes 
until you're ready to risk 
the sharp assembly of the next sentence
she vomits into your lap. Already 
you are heavy and venomous. Already 
you are brimming with a poisonous lacquer, 
glossed from the inside. Number
your threadbare aches, your facsimile
expressions, and know the tourniquet
you keep in your pocket
can't tighten enough.


By Farrah Field

When you go into battle don’t forget your butt shield.

Dedicating this to your demise.
Bolivar at first a human character then a liberator turned dictator.

Post-reproduction phase longer for these mammals.
Killer whales as a way of life.

                        I think you’re depressed.
                        I think YOU’RE depressed.

All selfie means is distrust.

It was so mystical it was icky.
Playing ukulele during a sponge bath.

I’m so glad my yoga teacher’s cleanse is over.

Felt hat earth now.
Never forget the multivalent

definitions of words such as coin.

                        From something like necessity you read Kafka.
                        For something like enjoyment you read Borges.

We are going to have so much sex once I figure out where to put these oars.

Regarding the power of repetition what’s next.
Regarding the nature of color and imagery what’s next.

Your poetry is thinking.

Live on the Internet: A Diary (April 16)

Warning: Men Above

I have a bit of a preoccupation with missing matter.
As in I want to be worshipped
by a roving truck in an unfinished afternoon
by a scribbled-down bay, and I want
that truck as my maiden,
that little john deere of engines,
that voluptuous crisp of carburetor.

I have this manifesto on the emancipation of the emancipation
of misandry, which begins and ends
It is with a noble heart I beg of you to reduce me to singular properties.
Didn’t you know it I’m on the Supple in Wants tour

and I sing to a single white dress in a stadium.

Baby, we’re in for the long con, the con in which
I make you a village and you sit in my village,
I craft you pearl dentures and you simply bite down.
You wanted Marky de Sade for a nightdog and I gave you Eddy

Said, you little timebomb of transcendental homelessness.
It is just me and this whittled-out sky now,

me and pink scaffolds and no heads on no sticks.
What place will the weather leave out
when its plague snows under the tongue of no lordship.

Don’t ask me, my annotated manifesto scrolls on, we’re working up here.
Its erudite length convinces me
I need no convincing. I build a dock out of nothing, to look out of nothing.


Rain makes New York
Old New York

as if posing for a black-and-white

hot dog steam, Bergdorf Goodman
umbrellas and Prada

“as the enormous air of the avenue
lay pierced by rain”

I turn the corner and see Bernadette
on an Acconci reel

I walk in front of Nam June Paik’s

declare my silhouette the star of
Zen for Film

“That’s how you make conceptual
art in a selfie world”

As a nod to poet security guards

I wear my Silver Jews t-shirt
to the steakhouse

where the captains nod and hum
“Very good, sir”

I do this, I do that
Things to Do

The New York School vs.
The Pavement School

Heading toward Bedford
at terror twilight

We pass the stop called

Late night on Brevoort Place
the drops

in the streetlamp begin to float
and blow

kjk day 16 (#11)

Dear Prey,

      I will eat you. I will hunt you down and I'll
            find some sharp thing with which to

hurt you so bad its not hurting but killing
      called the bringing of death. I am the bringer.

            I will pull out your entrails like I am

a child with goop. I am in the thick of this
      feeling and will not allow violence against you 

            to be denied me. You say nothing. You have
never said anything and you will not. Sentience
      is not a thing for your kind. I am the decider. I am
                                                             the hunter. I am. 

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Poem for Rewind

It’s weird to be a father, like being a god but there are no gods

and watch the road would you? The car is hydroplaning and you’re reading in the driver’s seat!

In yesterday’s poem I changed the final should into a Rilkean must

The Angel of History is looking over her shoulder I’m back in high school again Farrah is a particleboard cheerleader Roman is a seahorse

The Story of the Cossacks.

A joke with too many punchlines.

A ten-year-old five-thousand-year-old story.

Anger that floods the mine fuels the yours

Daily I am learning to be a person

If it were the same person it would be Stalin

Who as a young man was a poet. All men used to be poets.

Their poems were written line by line.

Nick told me Andy the re-enactor was detained in costume on the MTA carrying his blunderbuss to Lexington and Concord

To fight for freedom

I think would feel like fighting for money.

Clubs I would join for the baby:

As he becomes me I become him.

But I’m not thinking about that right now.

Maggie once told me my life is my poetry. She might have said there is no poetics of poetry, only the poetics of poetics.

Rags made of robes, robes made of rags.

I’m pretty sure my country is dying. I’m pretty sure as I stand or sit I am watching its dying happen

but I’m not sure I wouldn’t have always been pretty sure of this.

Like a metaphysical documentary

It’s too late for thoughts.

Reader, how does it feel to be alive?

My friends tell me

Every experiment ends with a kiss in the corner of the room. I hope either no one sees us or everyone is watching.

Hand in skull snaps fingers

Mister Business

And then I died never knowing what you taste like

Jesse Jackson for President


I said nothing, I am not a vase, 
and it is not November. I can't help
but think you've mistaken me
for someone you remember,
but only vaguely, as if you'd met
her under foreign water or in the weird 
slack of space, perhaps each of your faces
obscured in bubbles made necessary
by the lack of atmosphere. It's OK. 
You seem familiar to me too, but
I know I'm also wrong. We were never
caught in the rain under that awning,
never startled by the chimes
from the boneyard over the ridge
as we walked the tracks in the dark, 
never hid the pistol in the trunk
of one old tree and these bullets
in another. Then again memory 
isn't amber like they say, and we 
are not trapped in it, immobile
but perfectly preserved, our eyes
gone gold as jewels.


By Farrah Field

A bird screaming into the window.
She rushes ahead to someone
far from danger. Decisions are so simple.
With his head tilted sideways.
Can we make a pact to talk about every anxiety
the cars are fine a tree didn't fall on us when the wind blew.
American angels represent public health.
In the city where you feel the hand of God.
Steven, Jared, and I connect in our sadness
for the teachers we have lost Paul Violi, Liam Rector.
It's like a zoo. The great escape of American humanity
is real humanity. Why don't you hang out with friends,
write poetry, have sex with guy in painting,
open the door, work five months in advertising
no marketing. A thesis is the myth of the self.
With no intervention I bought my first cell phone in 2003.
On page fifty-two social justice.

wifthing : a day late, a double


& other domestic laments
& other domestic services
& other domestic intrigues
& other domestic tragedies
& other domestic tasks
& other domestic devices
& other domestic secrets
& other domestic contradictions
& other domestic artifacts
& other domestic matters
& other domestic information
& other domestic interactions
& other domestic positions
& other domestic forecasts

& other domestic references
& other domestic privacies
& other domestic texts
& other domestic surveillance
& other domestic help
& other domestic histories
& other domestic animals
& other domestic coronets
& other domestic novels
& other domestic behaviors
& other domestic pigeons
& other domestic myths
& other domestic effects
& other domestic fauna

*& other domestic laments— I stole it from Shanna Compton.



you don’t
pay me
doesn’t pay

ban bossy
or language
or sexism
or internet

choose your

self care
and DIY
are back

a nostalgic
to the domestic
to unpaid

the same
every day
“I look
I say

but ironic
is in

I’m trying
to mourn

but my mask
of womanliness
gets in
my way

Self-Portrait with Selfie, Still-Life with Meme

We declare, not annihilate. Post, not speak.
The terms blur, the hybridity in identity debunks
meditation as a source of spiritual comfort.
Hi, multifarious being, does this merit a tweet,
a status, a tumbl. I’m fixed to a theory on Likes
in which the self ascends to bored phantasm,
religious in its visibility of choice. We move
away from confession to embrace hysteria’s
attractive drama: anxiety is easily understood.
Quip, understood. In my attempts to get me,
I darken each image to a neurological map,
I ask nothing of the map but don’t burn the map.
A monument can be archived at any time.
An archive demands nothing, I ask nothing.
Inside, the dark moves in mosaics, in the way
that symbols form words, words form characters.
Such wet, much freezing, yes doge. Doge is real,
comes from Latin to mean military leader.
Doge of Venice, Doxe de Venexia, wer ist das.
How do I avoid becoming a listicle when
what I have to confess has become episodic,
visibility of choice. The words in my throat
I need them differently now the way a woman
splayed on the hood of a car must ask about weather.
Throwback, follow friends, my hair clogging sinks.
I recommend you take this conversation off record
before corporate, before heartbleed, before semiotics. 
You were correct in how you chose to speak to me.

Dawn's #14 for day 15

It is 59 degrees. Through a pane of stretched steam, a crowd becomes visible. Wailing, women and men recite indecipherable verses to the tune of Here Comes the Sun. Children bite into sticks torn from fresh spouting shrubs. They pinch each cloud as it goes by, and then they themselves disappear, swallowed by anonymous dread. The air is subtle yet violent. The air is covered in scabs. In the nearby canal a woman drowns herself, her ghost, and ghost of her ghost. This is called the ceremony of hopeful thrashing. Short prayers are offered, punctuated by tiny explosions of puffed rice. The pope hops onto his popemobile and moves through the crowd, often getting off to pose for selfies with young people.

(a "collaboration" with Sylvia Poggioli) 

Travel Haiku

 Thursday, April 10, 2014

Have to come up with
a hashtag before we cross
the Verrazano.

In Staten Island
#blkmountainskl4girls strikes
us. Uploads begin.

Friday, April 11, 2014

Sorry we took your
Instagram feeds over but
North Carolina

had sun & trains &
thrift shops & kale cocktails &
Judas trees in bloom

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Are we going to
meet the President? Is this
the Big Capital?

We wrote a treatment
for a screenplay called George Wash-
ington: Party Girl.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Google says take small-
town New Jersey roads. Read from
Martin and Notley.

Let’s keep going. It’s
hard to park. There’s a wait. A
cool Brooklyn wind blows.

Monday, April 14, 2014

I went back south to
Jersey, as if to start the
trip over again.

It’s hot. Inside the
university they’re still
saying realism.

The Bad Gift (NaPoWriMo14: Kevin Sampsell)

It it very hard
to write
a beautiful poem
I keep wondering
why armpits smell

never you mind
about that

relight that cigarette
in the ashtray
as wet dogs limp by

I wrote you
an ugly 

Monday, April 14, 2014


Sometimes we know the end
before we begin, get a chance
to steel our selves against
or soften into our disappointment.
We spotted a million budding
elements today, but tomorrow
expect one late hard freeze.
Let it be kind, and final. Let it
merely sweeten the emerging green.
Tonight no foxes came yipping
through the valley, though we
went out in the field after dark
to seek them, and the cloud-ragged
full-on moon.



Japanese Newspaper: a remix of Mary Ruefle's Japanese Bloodgod (NaPoWriMo14: Kevin Sampsell)

I feed my sorrow through binoculars
made of hot submarine water
a cake of newspapers and starch
I fold my batteries flat
my sunflowers
I want to touch it
Scotch tape it 
to opium
burn the rising trash

I feed my sorrow 
with coins
fill the sink with it 
a Japanese Bloodgod

(Japanese Bloodgod is from Mary Ruefle's Selected Poems, Wave Books, 2011)


 By Farrah Field

I have news for you my therapist said you are not a killer whale
Counting, shapes, letters, it's all pretty easy at first
Your sister arrived with my coffee
Sometimes your family is very high maintenance but when you are
I am allied with them in the boathouse where no one is allowed anything
except the parents and I will still try to have sex with you
There is too much intimacy everywhere I go
Of our shared work you send a photo of yourself
If a book receives unfavorable attention were people not ready
He was personalizing the panther
Nationalizing 55,000 private businesses
In my journal I wrote about avoiding a certain something
and I remember what it was
Suffering never felt so good
On the gravel my crawl
I pasted this under your desk drawer
Cutting down the bush of your self-protecting ruse
We dressed up as chickens in protest

Poem for Distracted

White was white in 1937, was white in 532, was white in

A young adult crawls into my consciousness.

There is so much white in that white. The white of technology. The white of

At first I wrote about white as if white were blue

But the weather was different in the mall.

Clouds were suddenly moving across other clouds and I couldn’t crawl out of some buzz I woke up inside.

In the treehouse, in the sensory deprivation chamber, in the space shuttle, in the baobab,

Jason X.

My mom shakes the roots until Margo’s plant becomes two plants.

Working without noticing.

I put food coloring in water and fed it to the Queen Anne’s Lace.

The thing is dead, long live the thing!

FADE IN on a camera PANNING LEFT to reveal CURTAINS shaking themselves loose.

You didn’t write a book you wrote a genre.

One day you must replicate the life you led right now.

1! 2! 3! 4! 5!

Poems as instructions.