troubling news guys just got word that yahoo is going to use all of my tumblr poems to make a golem capable of throwing shit + piss everywhere
ends with a violent femmes lyric
which is pretty awesome tbqh
basking in post-poem ennui, listening to vampire weekend, thinking about the elements of burg construction (interior bun as caesura?)
was walking through all seventy degrees
of early May the handles of an empty
laptop bag in hand to make myself appear
importantish enough to wear a tie and thinking of
a drink a Courtyard Marriott an album leak.
Across the street the patients who have been
released recline against a short brick wall
possessions balled inside a bag inside
a bedpan heads to pavement waiting for
the bus. I say this not to anyone but you
and I deserve to be undone by entropy
and plastic bins of bulk pistachios
red-handed in the dark the lights are strung
on Ellsworth Avenue and this is all we have.
Namedropping Orpheus into
a double-wide explosion, fire
snaking out like snakes,
exhausting all the breath
inside a twenty-mile radius
of birds and trees.
The sky is clear as sky,
or ice from restaurants,
and I have nothing else
to do except to waste your time.
Anonymous asked: do you think there any good books on poetry writing
i honestly haven’t read all that many, so take this with a grain of salt, but the one that was formative in my own writing was a poet’s guide to poetry by mary kinzie, available on amazon.
i’ll note that kinzie’s approach is a fairly rigorous and mechanistic one but to me it’s the skeleton beneath the flesh. i studied under he in college and she was a formidable presence. we dubbed her ‘the harsh mistress of poetry’ and that is some indication of what is in store for you in the book.
that said her biggest lesson is a simple one: write a poem as if you’re reading it; read a poem as if you’re writing it (with all the wonder and exploration that implies).
so clearly this is all a metaphor.
This morning I woke up and it had rained
again, like my entire life, and gulls
were circling in some mystery of wind,
some blood of sky, some breath, some bone,
some wing. Would it be wrong of me to say
I empathize with any wounded thing?
The gutters fill with little seeds
that I will not be cleaning until May,
when all the mute tornadoes have been stood
against without the expectation that
a single one of us could possibly deserve
to be upheld so long in arms above the earth.
*whips out ridiculously complex board game and a pint of whiskey* let’s roll
completely by surprise. Okay,
so here’s my strategy:
pretend the moment hasn’t passed
despite the overwhelming evidence
and all the classic teens
who don’t have time for this.
Step two: describe the things I wish
were not outside my window:
houses, trees, and oxygen.
We send Obama to the moon
but then the North Koreans
move their missiles to the coast.
It’s broadly understood
that they are capable of anything,
including altruism, if
we shoot the person who is needful.
Updates say we’re closing in
by blocks, by haunted cars,
by laser-guided dogs:
but no one can explain
what still possesses anyone.