homeyou know what that means
Penulis : Unknown on Tuesday 21 August 2007 | 09:20
Tuesday 21 August 2007
Last night, I almost started a grease fire, which made me think "man! I had better start writing stupid and bloodlessly surreal story poems!" So this afternoon, I got straight on dat shit.
WE ARE JUST BELLS IN THE SOUP NAZI'S DREAM
and play that 'who can be the more audacious
dumb.' Yet these swamp minnow years made me
so cheap, lies I tell on trains don't even
sting. What else? Well, the strip mall
is still a neighborhood, full of busy
bodies, where the mattress saleswoman
watches football in the Dominos forever,
up until a 4th and 13 punt arcs up and up and
hits her, jaw-abouts, shattering a strudel of
brain that had slipped there when she was
seventeen, hot shit behind a Spearmint veil
and faking hip drawls for branchwater (which
sounds a lot more badass than it tastes),
hiding from the bouncer with quarter
after quarter into the bull's lever.
Ride on O someone's little sister!
But, that extra brain so dislodged,
she is free to quit the mattress factory
(keep up, bitches) and sue and lose
to a technicality with a combover
who checks Craigslist every weekend
for Soviet telescopes. They marry
in the laundromat, splurge for a
Nickelback cover band, and delay vows
while the drummer's cigarette break
is besieged by high collared visions
commanding that he relapse to tractor
something something and an ulcer-shaped
duty to hold his hat at that tummy level
bespeaking a solid dearth of hubris,
then sobergulp his way Back To Town
and fess up his ledger: a daughter,
curious! Her Minny Mouse eyeglasses chip
when she pirouettes off the swing and heave
-ho's: she can't find them or remember to
cry, what with this fine all--limes!
the White House!--turning a cautiously
awesome red all of a sudden, the color of
when a glass Coke bottle mouth is blown across.
I will give you a second if you need it.
Then your own daughter calls to say
her own daughter's learned in school today
the names of bones, eighty-odd, new ones that
Science just invented. Why, she even
knows how to swim now without holding
everybody's breath. Isn't that everything?
You are now a lot more cool than before.
WE ARE JUST BELLS IN THE SOUP NAZI'S DREAM
and play that 'who can be the more audacious
dumb.' Yet these swamp minnow years made me
so cheap, lies I tell on trains don't even
sting. What else? Well, the strip mall
is still a neighborhood, full of busy
bodies, where the mattress saleswoman
watches football in the Dominos forever,
up until a 4th and 13 punt arcs up and up and
hits her, jaw-abouts, shattering a strudel of
brain that had slipped there when she was
seventeen, hot shit behind a Spearmint veil
and faking hip drawls for branchwater (which
sounds a lot more badass than it tastes),
hiding from the bouncer with quarter
after quarter into the bull's lever.
Ride on O someone's little sister!
But, that extra brain so dislodged,
she is free to quit the mattress factory
(keep up, bitches) and sue and lose
to a technicality with a combover
who checks Craigslist every weekend
for Soviet telescopes. They marry
in the laundromat, splurge for a
Nickelback cover band, and delay vows
while the drummer's cigarette break
is besieged by high collared visions
commanding that he relapse to tractor
something something and an ulcer-shaped
duty to hold his hat at that tummy level
bespeaking a solid dearth of hubris,
then sobergulp his way Back To Town
and fess up his ledger: a daughter,
curious! Her Minny Mouse eyeglasses chip
when she pirouettes off the swing and heave
-ho's: she can't find them or remember to
cry, what with this fine all--limes!
the White House!--turning a cautiously
awesome red all of a sudden, the color of
when a glass Coke bottle mouth is blown across.
I will give you a second if you need it.
Then your own daughter calls to say
her own daughter's learned in school today
the names of bones, eighty-odd, new ones that
Science just invented. Why, she even
knows how to swim now without holding
everybody's breath. Isn't that everything?
You are now a lot more cool than before.
omg rhyming--he's like an obnoxious cell phone
Penulis : Unknown on Sunday 19 August 2007 | 11:12
Sunday 19 August 2007
It takes me some of these sometimes to "build up" any "steam."
THE CON MAN'S THIRTEEN CONSTRUCTION BALLADS
These games were built for solitude,
These tricks were built for whores.
These belts were built for hipsters
And these wide roads built for war.
This face was built for lotion,
This discretion built for shame.
These hips were built for holsters,
And these cherries built for cranes.
These barges built for musket nooks,
These cousins built to leech,
These neighbors built for sugar
And these lemons built for teeth.
This shampoo built for rock'n'roll,
And this country built and stuck.
These last meals built theatrical,
And these orgies built by luck.
This seat was built for wheelchairs,
This storm built for balloons--
This Sunday built for bourbon,
And these grace notes built for you.
This coonskin built for irony,
This joke was built for keeps.
These vineyards built for assholes,
And the cellars built too deep.
These vows were built to sample
And these gods built to entrench,
This snowman, he was built too late,
And friends built by coincidence.
These la-las built for choruses
This velvet built for palls,
These oranges built for clover,
But they may not mean to fall.
This grape was built for sorrow,
Then this dollar built for milk.
This sun was built for loggers
And this game was built to tilt.
These strangers built for bus stations,
These others built for fries.
This waiting room was built by me,
For I was built to gawk inside.
These hemlines built for woozy pleas,
These bike trails built from glass.
This last call was built for winnowing,
And this doghouse built to last.
These hands were built for headaches,
And this pace was built for Doug,
This cool glance built by callouses,
And this bullshit built by love.
These trains were built to bless us
But the whistles built for cows.
These concessions built on second glance,
And your grace notes built for now.
THE CON MAN'S THIRTEEN CONSTRUCTION BALLADS
These games were built for solitude,
These tricks were built for whores.
These belts were built for hipsters
And these wide roads built for war.
This face was built for lotion,
This discretion built for shame.
These hips were built for holsters,
And these cherries built for cranes.
These barges built for musket nooks,
These cousins built to leech,
These neighbors built for sugar
And these lemons built for teeth.
This shampoo built for rock'n'roll,
And this country built and stuck.
These last meals built theatrical,
And these orgies built by luck.
This seat was built for wheelchairs,
This storm built for balloons--
This Sunday built for bourbon,
And these grace notes built for you.
This coonskin built for irony,
This joke was built for keeps.
These vineyards built for assholes,
And the cellars built too deep.
These vows were built to sample
And these gods built to entrench,
This snowman, he was built too late,
And friends built by coincidence.
These la-las built for choruses
This velvet built for palls,
These oranges built for clover,
But they may not mean to fall.
This grape was built for sorrow,
Then this dollar built for milk.
This sun was built for loggers
And this game was built to tilt.
These strangers built for bus stations,
These others built for fries.
This waiting room was built by me,
For I was built to gawk inside.
These hemlines built for woozy pleas,
These bike trails built from glass.
This last call was built for winnowing,
And this doghouse built to last.
These hands were built for headaches,
And this pace was built for Doug,
This cool glance built by callouses,
And this bullshit built by love.
These trains were built to bless us
But the whistles built for cows.
These concessions built on second glance,
And your grace notes built for now.
train poems
Penulis : Unknown on Thursday 16 August 2007 | 09:28
Thursday 16 August 2007
Most written downstairs in the lounge car. I should tell you stories but I would rather tell them like they were on a sandwich menu. Please ask if you would like the story selection.
IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING
You got mustard all over,
dumbface. Careful, or you
melt into the old drunk
of flinches who promises
promises he won't pin,
saddles up and whispers
how he hung his white
blazer on a sure thing
in a May apartment. This,
then his rest cure is over.
He knows maybe of a girl
who sold his legal name.
Gone back for it with
a discount magnet and
know how to hold it right
on in over there. That's the
spot. Sweet, too. Well,
once, sweet on some of
us, famous as sagebrush,
the jerry-rigged scenery
of our commiserate theatre.
Who is he talking to? Like
Tootsie Pops: the world may
never and so forth. The sun
sets in the Utah desert like
a stranger who knows what you
did but aww, waves you on.
HOW I SCORE
My mad Russian looks
and how I carry tunes
like hobos on my back
from a YMCA on fire.
My tendency to piss standing up
in a calm and anti-racist stance.
The French rail star tradition:
the downer always goes first.
Among the junipers and werewolves,
I can boil a staunch off your
scarf, cauterize your wounds,
and whistle hubba-hubba hoots
to call any night train others
might happen to call home.
All as sold to me by a bassoonist
in Nashville, the dreariest town
for hot bassoon bassoon action.
I AM NOT LYING INSIDE OF THIS POEM
for Joe Massey
Spent most of
Colorado with my
lips open, on one
line. This me dumb
stuck, and only a
little too young
to die. Thank you.
You can go now.
WON'T YOU NURSE THESE
Everything go? I'm one and I've got
a heart in it. Looks like there's
people left, left them all, maybe
others now? Maybe. Right. Too
friendly. I'm looking forward to
outside. The leak is on, too sweaty
for me. Oh man. Why weren't sunglasses
about the second or third thing ever?
THE COMMUTER'S SONG OF HOPE
I believe I have it all
planned out so perfectly
I believe I believe I believe
ARE YOU UP
Want to play
cards, saw
dust, teeth
tango, Ohio.
I MET THIS GIRL AMY BEFORE CHICAGO AND SHE WAS INCREDIBLY CUTE AND SMART AND
Yeah.
IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING
You got mustard all over,
dumbface. Careful, or you
melt into the old drunk
of flinches who promises
promises he won't pin,
saddles up and whispers
how he hung his white
blazer on a sure thing
in a May apartment. This,
then his rest cure is over.
He knows maybe of a girl
who sold his legal name.
Gone back for it with
a discount magnet and
know how to hold it right
on in over there. That's the
spot. Sweet, too. Well,
once, sweet on some of
us, famous as sagebrush,
the jerry-rigged scenery
of our commiserate theatre.
Who is he talking to? Like
Tootsie Pops: the world may
never and so forth. The sun
sets in the Utah desert like
a stranger who knows what you
did but aww, waves you on.
HOW I SCORE
My mad Russian looks
and how I carry tunes
like hobos on my back
from a YMCA on fire.
My tendency to piss standing up
in a calm and anti-racist stance.
The French rail star tradition:
the downer always goes first.
Among the junipers and werewolves,
I can boil a staunch off your
scarf, cauterize your wounds,
and whistle hubba-hubba hoots
to call any night train others
might happen to call home.
All as sold to me by a bassoonist
in Nashville, the dreariest town
for hot bassoon bassoon action.
I AM NOT LYING INSIDE OF THIS POEM
for Joe Massey
Spent most of
Colorado with my
lips open, on one
line. This me dumb
stuck, and only a
little too young
to die. Thank you.
You can go now.
WON'T YOU NURSE THESE
Everything go? I'm one and I've got
a heart in it. Looks like there's
people left, left them all, maybe
others now? Maybe. Right. Too
friendly. I'm looking forward to
outside. The leak is on, too sweaty
for me. Oh man. Why weren't sunglasses
about the second or third thing ever?
THE COMMUTER'S SONG OF HOPE
I believe I have it all
planned out so perfectly
I believe I believe I believe
ARE YOU UP
Want to play
cards, saw
dust, teeth
tango, Ohio.
I MET THIS GIRL AMY BEFORE CHICAGO AND SHE WAS INCREDIBLY CUTE AND SMART AND
Yeah.
oh okay
Penulis : Unknown on Wednesday 15 August 2007 | 09:29
Wednesday 15 August 2007
Now I am in Amherst.
To my left:
"Sharply criti-, um, criticizing the environmental --"
"Oh yeahyeahyeahyeahyeah."
To my left:
"Sharply criti-, um, criticizing the environmental --"
"Oh yeahyeahyeahyeahyeah."
noo journal musical soldier contest results
Penulis : Unknown on Sunday 5 August 2007 | 13:22
Sunday 5 August 2007
NOÖ just posted the results of their famous Musical Soldier contest.
This is a travesty.
I edit the goddamn magazine and I wasn't even a finalist.
I didn't even know the contest was afoot for Christ's sake.
Somebody should call Foetry. We need a recount. I should be there somewhere, and so should Obama.
This is a travesty.
I edit the goddamn magazine and I wasn't even a finalist.
I didn't even know the contest was afoot for Christ's sake.
Somebody should call Foetry. We need a recount. I should be there somewhere, and so should Obama.
i am the applebees of contemporary poetry
Penulis : Unknown on Thursday 2 August 2007 | 16:52
Thursday 2 August 2007
Today's hypothetical question: what toy makes you sad to be too old for it?
Unrelated eulogistic hash below. This poem is about an imaginary person who dies because he is anti wiretapping or some shit. It is very relevant and inexpensive.
REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE THE SIREN?
Remind me again why we need you for this last
trick? Anyone can call it like it be, argh, unravel
arias gagged, then trip ass wise off a gangplank.
Good job. Your last. Sure, you'll be missed, you were a
good man, just like we found him, officer. I swear.
Belly full of axle grease, head a library of matches.
I did not trust you, no, next to certain flares.
Folks can tell between sincerity and contortion.
You had that "let's give it a go! yee-haw! fo sho!"
kind of thing that nobody bought into and I bet that
blew. You kept lecturing us down from a sorrow we
wanted (no shit) like the weird teeth of the cool kids.
But I do remember seven things: your shower sandals,
your model railroads, your irrefutable evidence—
okay, this is adding me back up. Not all of you is right
here, but I will miss our epic sojourns which I was very
bad at. Basketball, omelettes, pimping. All of it.
Officer, I swear: I will miss him. I will I will.
But I've organized these songs by emotion, so I'm set.
Now, if I can just find where I left his name.
Unrelated eulogistic hash below. This poem is about an imaginary person who dies because he is anti wiretapping or some shit. It is very relevant and inexpensive.
REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE THE SIREN?
Remind me again why we need you for this last
trick? Anyone can call it like it be, argh, unravel
arias gagged, then trip ass wise off a gangplank.
Good job. Your last. Sure, you'll be missed, you were a
good man, just like we found him, officer. I swear.
Belly full of axle grease, head a library of matches.
I did not trust you, no, next to certain flares.
Folks can tell between sincerity and contortion.
You had that "let's give it a go! yee-haw! fo sho!"
kind of thing that nobody bought into and I bet that
blew. You kept lecturing us down from a sorrow we
wanted (no shit) like the weird teeth of the cool kids.
But I do remember seven things: your shower sandals,
your model railroads, your irrefutable evidence—
okay, this is adding me back up. Not all of you is right
here, but I will miss our epic sojourns which I was very
bad at. Basketball, omelettes, pimping. All of it.
Officer, I swear: I will miss him. I will I will.
But I've organized these songs by emotion, so I'm set.
Now, if I can just find where I left his name.
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