Which decrypted is of the rhetoric monolithic institutions linked to capital and the imperial state, academy they became complicit in spite of its aversion to definite poetic statements, can nonetheless be character
The disappearing colonies / are no longer buzzworthy.
How it floats with flagrant privilege / And feels it can ask any question
like just standing in line / at Whole Foods or Purgatory
I type Beyoncé into my phone / five out of seven days a week. / That’s because I am a woman.
With shutter clicks, his noted moments pinned
There was an old man from Beijing: / You couldn’t tell that guy a thing.
That’s not an angel, it’s an ad.
Here is a corridor too thin to be able to walk two abreast.
My white light / will bring forth the garden.
I want to say “trust me,” but let’s all have a drink first,
slow and soft / fumbling with / the light switch
she points out the new
here the only monument was a border, / the only magic sounded like a pop song.
I stared into that space / wondering if a part of me / was empty, small, / of no importance to the city,
Scroll. Scroll. The dawn is breaking, war is starting,
̑ = ̑
Flowers / Have a monopoly on flowers.
I passed through the lip of the shell
As you read this,
then it spoke to Lianne. Everyone was astonished.
The fire ladder is important.
If she loved you, she’d escape!
I was alarmed at how stark his mien was.
I feed the cat and clean out its litter box. This is the good part.
and the children get bored so fast
Books begin piling on my nightstand.
Of course there are circles
within circles, but that’s everywhere.
We have a problem:
Is that a fever’s rose / or rouge, do you suppose?
(you could add other isn’ts to the list),
I inscribed it I really did to no one
In the car you tell me your reticulate dream
you feed it something small, / during transportation or at work,
The rich were interesting and smart instead of just obscene,
Did you want me to cackle.
Who will feast on the brainworms
Go easy on me, nun
There’s a story about my great-grandmother
the high noon sun
for John Cage
the diamond-clean clinical glow, the whitened piss-yellow fluorescence
beyond fraying clotheslines and loose-leafed copse
as a half dream of leopards and doves, as falling asleep,
Not without reason did the stone break away—
The spoon in the bowl / was the glass on the table,
Summer is over, too quick
One side was age; the other, looks.
some days, we’ll sound a lot like mom.
Is he one now? Is she one too?
He is such a crucial babe
What kind of tiny fly
And nailed a black tongue / To the door of Eleven Wall Street.
i will adjust my sleeping position / to accommodate the space
or it’s the moment he finds you in someone else
the scenic route / the Pacific object / the industrial heroine
and for once it feels right to say / it is as if my entire life up until then / had been in service of everyone else’s dreams
Love will be compulsive or not at all
FIG. ( \ / \ / ) (MANTA RAY GUN)
It’s just me in the kitchen. / Me and two jars of kombucha
It’s a pine tree.
I think it’s been raining.
the de- / Haussmannization of the mind on an October afternoon
or walking as interactive cartography:
Yep what a story.
“make an end run around darkness,” / someone said.
Conceptualism is most usefully understood as a form, specifically the form of new forms.
G: Can you state your name and, serial number for the audience here?
B: I … I don't really eat cereal that much.
Thus political poetry is, somewhat paradoxically, language that makes us aware of those qualities of life that are beyond language.
But the critics, especially major critics as intelligent as they are tenured, should know better—know better even at the cost of purity. It's for that, if nothing else, that they exist.
dead metallic -- crop / crop into the brightly zoned / animate debris.
little cousins, little citizens of death / unnamed along these distributions
Critics frequently ask the polite question of a poem. They ask how it is written when the rest of us might more radically wonder why.
The lone mule kicked, murd’rous.
Merely clumsy, me, / I hit the brakes, I save / a skunk.
You / can have a treatment and / a treat too
or for saying, / The cage is roomy but / the rent is too high.
the image of a person / above all else, whether / handsome or grotesque
it was easy to get into.
like cross-dressing / or separating green glass / from clear,
who did he call / and who came?
The cupboard kills the knife. / The knife smothers the cupboard.
to see All the World in a Box.
there I am / feeling crowded
I am a Trümmerfrau of language.>>
“Across the Boss’s Desk” is not a confession but a revelation
you are, like, a hurricane
against the gravity of down
and holding fast
in dream to where the wall
will let me hold fast
to the wall.
For innovations in shame.
A pink weld envelops
As thirst climbs the esophagus, rings a bell in the head.
The red clay sang to them.
I would put a flame to a face.
We are determined not to fall behind.
A man in uniform of fleets unknown / Herding the unwilling through
(It tugs at us / To be the ones finding out.)
Warrior-kings came through the window / Stained with parables.
The re-creation of yesterday park.
Through concords of sexual death / And the avant garde.
To another crystal, doesn’t much care / For reform.
Now has become sooner.
park bench desk the less I disturb, more remain
unloved like dry wall shards, glass and lint
as fall is an effort of trees
cruel to my own tsar heart
found like a feather on my pillow in the van
so we didn’t use words in that moment
armadillo red ember echo picnic
fingering the dream catchers
before the Safeway moment / hand on a cold fish, mango in my pants
I wander along the ice cream stand
your friends get naked and read your poems
the beginning of the song is therominy
in this city of challenged passion
“Space is the place.”
Tombs cradle awakening tombs
Kinsella does not shy from the underside of poesis, from the negative operations that associate, talismanically, the figures of the past with a malicious present.
I am yelling through a cracked phone.
The slurring of choices into a singularity: / the baggie lying on a glazed blue saucer with chipped edges.
Sometimes trees talk back.
I put on a smile like snow and snow and snow.
a chipped mirror, a teacup, an arm to grab. / A patch of sky worn thin, gold.
the sound of a boat loud with waves / when there's no water near.
Sometimes lying is better.
gold lemon grafted in the orange roots and worms
never carefully enough
The light in summer holds almost too long.
stream of consciousness
meditations on death / interrupted by the / empty shampoo bottle
Just know that somewhere in Atlanta poems are created / And somewhere deep in Georgia poems are destroyed.
I'm good at math. I set the three above the six.
The junk fleet sank / Into a subway with the possibility of destination,
that everyone was / really everyone without exception—
the useful path to take is / Gratitude for being rendered into / Content.
whatever works / For you.
without focusing— / glass shells clear / up the opera
Now, an artist statement,
Where are the Syrians of yesteryear?
The gloom that manufactures / White leaves and red ink littering the crooked axes.
that’s a solution destined to poison
along the moving walkway to Terminal C.
Ass in the air / for you
half-seen and trill and ululation
I accept Skills, measurement
Pantone Solid Coated
No ideas but in
I think to be a poet is a very beautiful thing / Because a poet wants to be right but does not want to win