i've wandered the stacks indefinitely in my past
once i ran into becky
she should cutlass
she was there with john
who i have had this complicated relationship with
like what happened was
at the first reading we ever did
in dan's basement
he slapped me in the face
it was weird but i was super fucked up
but didn't get angry or cry
then later at the graduation party in republican city
he slapped justin in the face
& i was fucked up then too
but that was a big deal when it happened
then like
for some reason i had a room with john one of the nights
and the next morning we both woke up
& had this weird hungover conversation
where we talked briefly but meaningfully
about the weird shit we tend to do
while super wasted
that's the only time i ever spoke to john
but once i saw him in the library with becky
& he was very reserved but friendly
& i guess maybe becky hangs out with complicated people
but what they hell do i know?
i've been saying/thinking that more lately
"what the hell do i know?"
i'm not sure if it's a good thing to say/think
but becky should cutlass
there are maybe a lot of people
who should cutlass
& we should get them to cutlass
how many people
have read every poem posted on this blog?
i haven't
but that's because while a cutlass is going
i don't read any cutlasses
except for the cutlass
that precedes mine
then when the cutlass completes itself
i read all the cutlasses in that cutlass
in reverse order
then i read all the cutlasses again
this time in the order they were posted
from first to last
that's how i read a cutlass
how do you read a cutlass?
how do you eat a reeses?
how do you talk to your mother?
how do you examine yr own existence?
how do flies know which direction to fly in if they don't have brains?
i've become thirsty
for a glass of water
last night me & neal & moss talked for awhile
about swearing in front of children in public
i like swearing in front of children in public
in my car i remembered the line from international players anthem
dump dump in the gut raw from the giddy up
you better pick the right one or pick pick the kiddies up
it was funny
is what i am made of
it informs
my breathing
& the motion
of every moving thing
inside me
there are rules to all my poems
invisible rules
that are often ignored
but they are the sky
that makes singing possible
i sing
of strangeness
latching on
to the spikey path
i don't know where it's going
or what shape
the dying feet
will take
they have frozen
in the icy ice
there is so much
cadavering to do
to say
to wait for
to play
to be bitter about
to be my anger
over the world
someone said to me
no more metaphor
no more simile
no more this
no more that
no more nothing
and that's a fact
that's waiting
to be played with
i want to send a book
about a teenage girl
who gets drunk
& gets piercings
& gets tattoos
& gets her tongue modified
to my near
teenage cousin
so she can know
that feeling fucked up and wierd
is less fucked up and weird
than it feels
lightning bolt
lightning bolt
lightning bolt
into the stone
that reads
everyone be the kind of friend
that somebody
needs you to be
do this
by being yourself
gosh golly
gosh golly darn it
darn it
i'm out of practice
as a writer
my good talents
have swam away
taking a break from poems
was a dumb as fuck idea
as though i can't finish the old
and new the new
as though i have to doubt
my very existence
every move i make
what a terrible way that is
the doubting way
i never doubt my me
when i'm running
or eating
or doing this
because i'm the best
& everyone's idea of me
is very wrong
i'm quoting a beautiful version
of alice notley
when she wrote
"no one is smarter about another person
than that person"
defies death
& defiance
cures cancer
& dumb lines
are moving
into a craft space
i am beautiful
but unconcerned with beauty
which makes my eyes
unable to see
but that's ok
godly goodly
there's a beautiful moose
drinking all the water
have you ever heard a moose bellow
while taking a nasty shit?
ever ever ever more
i am stretchy and made of glass
like my heart is made
of a strange
autoomatic blood
that ticks
like an immortal clock
a beautiful thing
when i met mary
i was going on one of my great straight edge bits
it's this bit
where i explain how i often refer to water
as "the only liquid worth a damn"
& eventually i got to the part where i say
"water is the only liquid worth a damn"
& mary said
"what about blood?"
& that's a beautiful question
& when i wake up in the morning
i turn on the tv
& leave it on as i do things like
write poems or clean dishes
or tie my shoes
or everything i own/am
is fucking gasoline
because when i was putting
$43 worth of gas
into debbie's car
the gas like
kept flowing
after i pulled it out of the tank
& it got on me
& now i smell like gas
in my room & everywhere
the stench is there, existing
like this weird cd
that sits behind my
which isn't really a dresser
it looks like this:

i keep my clothes on it though
in neatly folded piles
when i began having to
keep my clothes
in neatly folded piles
i was pretty annoyed
but i quickly became
because i developed
this new layer of awareness
this thread
that goes through space,
time, and the things i own
& connects them
into this single mass
that in it's singularity
i comprehend it more
than i ever could have
i felt like i was cured
of a disease
the disease being
an avesion to neatly folded clothes
this is seriously the shit
that is the most interesting to me
i don't know
what this says about me
what i've been trying to do
is stop saying nasty shit about myself
to myself in my mind
i feel like that has helped a lot
i guess
i can't get over
this poet
telling me
he "hates"
i mean
i get it
he is consciously
posing or something
being this version
of a human
that possesses
the necessary
loyalty and hatred
to matter
as a thinker
on this earth
but i don't get it
check this out:

i just watched it
i've watched that poem
many times
in it towards the end he says
"every time i speak i wanna shiver"
i like the idea that words
can do the same thing to our bodies
as the bitter cold
even though words
i think
are partially a thing we invented
to be better able
to conquer
the bitter cold together
to live in a society
with language
but without property
would be a beautiful riddle
all i want is a bracelet
that matters to me
that i can toss
into the volcano
i am the who
i am the rock band of my generation
people like to put me down
i'm a leather clad machine
uncaring about the
outside glares
i am a liar
i am full of fantastic shit
there's only so much
i can take
there is hair all over my body
i think i'm boring & decaying
just like everything else
& i hope the words i write
convey that essential nature
in some essential way
so as to relieve the pressure
of the air
from my shoulders
or something
alpha omega
wiping away
the slate
is clean as fuck
let's shoot some stick
let's store ice away
for the day
where this poem
is about nothing new
nothing green
nothing borrowed
nothing blue
it's not about this
john deere pen
a christmas gift
that is now behaving
as beautifully
as a gift should behave
i don't know
my back is resting
at a fucking broken angle
sitting indian style
on my bed
writing writing writing
being boring and aware
there are clouds
that are disintegrating
is named
"moby dick"
or who knows
what weird shit
is in all the bellies
like earth
is a claw machine game
& we get grabbed
from the sky
& opened up
to see what objects
are resting inside us
us is
you and i
and the whales
and the cheetahs
& everything that looks
when together
or alone
or i don't know
or who does
that's why
i'm anthropomorphizing
so hard right now
something about the way
my arms
are moving
something about
making more and more air
for the chocolate breathing
we are yearning for
something something something
about all the yous
and the yearning love i feel
when i think about yr crackling voice
i love
being around you so much
i feel like am breathing in
everything i'm not
& changing
in some beautiful way
& it's just
& in my mind
it tastes good raw
in that way
that only dough can
like everyone knows
how good cookie dough is
but bread dough is just as good
but more like bread


out came jamba sluice

goodbye seine hello hudson.   water is   rarely everywhere.  so we   look out for spigots.     we do without.   shower curtains.     we like the water more.   everywhere.    i said "bath toy."   you were swimming     i was taking a swim test.    you were swimming in a tree.    you stopped swimming when you became a prune.    falling.   into electric vaginal folds.    8 hours away or lonely.      75 hours away or dead.      in the out of doors you find.   construction.   ruins.   looking without swallowing.       dipped samurai sauce.  otherwise.     what to know is what to know is what to know.   i'm getting bored of you but the sky is blue peekaboo a friend.    i like alexa but she is gone every day in may.  the effort to make it interesting makes it hard to focus. maybe the only way is to hide away in the library for a whole.   weak.        debbie is less depressed.    but more stressed.   but that's ok.   'cause she's the best.   what do you sing of.    providing a meal.


Bath Time

There is a bathtub in a tree
and there is lightning
water everywhere

There is broken porcelain
de-clawed feet
and cold water comes out the hot spigot

but it doesn't seem like anything is wrong

Wrongness is a funny joke
or a bath toy

People who take baths have prune-y skin
and use words like "sluice"
a knife of a word

The point of a bath is not to feel clean
just smooth
and maybe to smell nice

Not that anyone noticed
Not that anyone else was electrocuted.


Stoned in this bath and you melt
Lavender smashed petals slick
Every tanker spilt now
Does not ground bird flight
As you

Not noticing lines as you biting
Your apple actually the wet core
There is skin not flesh and thinking-
Green skin too loose a precision

Chemical moves around our laughing
A sticker some grocer abjects in code
In variance of small lines- On its apple
Your naked as the sticker consumes to
O nakedness clearly lines consummated

There is a man-name                       John
That loves still a man-name         Dana

Long before you enter in this bath
And old grass- that wind still beaus
Still grass blows and there is space

There is a terrible thing in apple eating
While your prospect is still before me 


i'd do the same

the scorch entry is
buried in hair.
it couldn't be worse.
where the knees were touching sand
there are patches of glass.

didn't its eyes flash up
to see that glory light
was coming home through it?
no, or they had been what burned.

brain: done.
lungs: done.
blood: instantaneously scabbed,
all of it.

this melt on the ground
shows us where
love followed
the whole blink down.


Post title

Flash sideways-
It's scorching out 
You say it could be worse
I can only see myself in your glasses

Flash back-
You follow me
Aware, I do the same
Our red hands are numb

I am so fucking green
If Einstein is right-
Then the deed is done
And done
And done 
And dumb
And numb

I hate that I love coming home
And I love that I don't think you have eyes



push then

history aims an attack
punching out star shapes --
my ticker

slung splat against
the far white wall

engulf regularly
in our
hoofboil rust reduction

halted on these flats
cupping each other's faces
in the circle pan

we were model sheetghosts
for sure

when was that
when did that day

like glory

it could only be
devoured in shards

wrung sockets dry
                                 at least

had to keep warm --


from a
horse bath
shaking out
to favorite
the sky
horse skin
to that
on a
in the where
house of
om nom
nom hall-
on a black



The distortion of history is
the key of it.

His closed fist, that was years ago.
How the evil queen ate the dripping red heart.

It is necessary to become
frightened in the wilding forest.

All of us, here, landing
brand new stances.

I love you in my hair.


Happy Groundhog Day

Tie both hands to that arrow-stick
Get your dirty paws off my new skirt
"Shake out that tangled hair mess"
Then we can go sleep under the tree-tent.
I am fearless-
Today I ran from everything
Later I will look at art
Tomorrow is the stomping ground for the groundhog-
"What happens when he sees his shadow?"
I hop you'll love me even more
I hope you'll help me wash my hair-mess. 



Shake out that tangled hair mess
Mangled knots that were once white flowers
My favorite branches are your firm limbs
The kind I climb into like coming home

Like finding my feet in liquid core
Screamcrying, “OW” &  “FUCK”
The world is imploding!
Can melted streets move you?
(as quickly as light can travel)

Look at the sky bleed
Magnum searing off horse skin
The smells of friends dying and pissing themselves
And I’m just imagining
You coming into me,  
Like your dead earth intersecting with my swollen sky


Finding Feet

Finding Feet

Mind strung out from a
days on end horizon.
Rest stop sink showers, horse bath,
shaking out tangled hair in travel center lights,
the smells of friends sublimated
to white noise.

Coming home, the streets
a melted sheet changing beneath each step.
Ice storms and an apocolypse may have come and passed,
and I’d never know.
My favorite branches covered in white flowers.

The dull ache sets in as I come back to an eager poise.



4.Jenny Drai
7.Thomas Flaherty
9.Matthew Truslow
16.Joy Von Ill
17.justin ryan fyfe
18.Alisa Heinzman
19.an antler
23.Jason D

remember the idea is to reply to the poem before you in some way. but also there are no rules. just poems.