These are some poems-- or pages from a longer poem called
"Wobble Factory."
Applause performed only in fist bumps,
Why does your desire for language
always manifest conservatively in private, oh,
hustler of accessibility?
A little gold-painted stapler to staple pages for bugs
together forever.
The cups should be a photograph.
The studio goes outside for a stroll,
But there is no sidewalk, no path,
no concession to the plight of the pedestrian.
And yet, one goes on looking for signs of life
on foot in Cookeville, Tennessee,
Eating rows of crumpled napkins,
An honest emission trapping thinking and tricking it
into the feeling of release in public, in pocket.
I do know you're ready to think for me.
They do well with friends,
The thoughts others want you to have,
A little to the side of art historical expectation.
Is this inviting a legibility so threatening
from across the room,
Anselm Berrigan?
Did Petsfit Dogs Carrier Backpack
For cat slash dog slash guinea pig slash bunny
Durable and comfortable pet bag
Meet your expectations better and cheaper
Than humane complicity,
A brand's tactic to live in montage time during real time,
To create the overlay of commonality,
To mud wrestle or soil wrestle with the assumption
of commonality,
The necessary calcification of the greater good.
Oh, Kevin!
A painted bottle of leaves
Floats out into the center room,
Ruined into possibility by words.
I have to love how many tones
You let make use of you in order to move at all.
Yeah, boy.
Human--
I only said that because I just decided right this second
I'm going to read this poem that I turned the page to.
Might be a mistake.
Humans are much more interesting when
they're open about what they don't know.
Or at least my I thinks that's the case.
Working centimeter by centimeter,
Expression admitted but cordoned off,
Recognized and defanged,
Breaking against the dismantling of real strangeness,
Idiosyncrasy, and unpredictable defiance,
This profound, solemn occasion is also incredibly boring.
The gravity, the conscience, the unwavering attention,
To that which is severe and poorly rendered in the names,
Change subtheories fall out of local vat,
Hang two bobbing-- don't do that.
Actually, don't.
Peace sign flashed across way to lantent bening (latent benign)
enemy.
How go public with the after all of existence?
The planet isn't dying.
It's getting rid of us.
I put the rubber dragon,
The green, yellow, white super ball of river lines,
The soapstone zebra, the amethyst regular rock,
The sharp facility, and the poem in tied up book,
On the purple poetry criticism volume,
For all the fellows in the fellowship to write out of,
And semi-freely ignore dead link publishing.
And if you're so smart, how come sophisticated and trained,
you're not poor?
Your scale's not nearly as intrusive as your feathers.
Let us disembark from the parenthetical,
The monetization of our righteous unknowables,
Needs blown into the suture of the human goldfish action.
I imagine a motto of moratoriums,
Launcher suicide, a review question,
A violet fall off a non horse.
Why no more than what is said about what was said?
The world of real estate pleads for more real,
Amidst the granulations deregulation.
You want to wait on spicy off bears arse.
The whole fragile structure wobbles into picture planes.
Our platformed degradations
When all that is
Is another malleable concept,
Another front for giving in.
Don't you need to be prepared in the conversation you're
uncomfortably having with a wind?
Which wishes to be named.
When my brother punches you with a fist full of roaches,
I wonder if the correct response will resonate eternally,
Before selection is forced upon me.
I wonder if I talk about myself secretly,
And now I must o weep,
If not parenthetically, than between the streets.
Keats was a traumatized ocelot who predicted TV.
Why is my little man shaking?
I should glow better.