Leftie Dirge, by Mr Potato Head:

A day spent fixating on filth,
ads before news of comfortable, determinant
males gaining business insight by the numbers.
Shouting ‘lock her up’ from the market floor
the day after Hillary was defeated.
Her loss,
their freakout in wide release.
Robbing people of their health
care due to sly ethics if any, a bitter
incitement to find those that cheated.
His language hits a conference-going register, theological as Lyotard would have it. The argument is plainly empirical. A concept moves, “not ‘innovative’ ... but something unheard of”

— Tony Brinkley


You want to get real
to include the cosmos.

But there is a hairnet over the situation.

Inner retreat.

If only we could gloss
Behind the State Capitol

illuminating and still slurping

undertow from the beats.
A great goon won and kind of dumped on me and my country. (It’s a remnant from philosophy show-and-tell, a truly exaggerated enterprise.)

I never dump back. I hope his coming losses help him become a better entrepreneur and public intellectual. Or I wish him savvier gurus.

Planet Earth is an oligarch’s hell — ringed with grassy estates where that guy can tiptoe or fall further to avoid our laughter. Conflicted and conservatively dressed, we also choose to move comfortably, absorbed in desire to sleep with any clown in a storm, anybody great.
But a lot of these crises pass. Today and in a future of interdependence I write him out of our poem.
I added frontal motion to the story about those looks that intimidate, m’lord.
Visual surprise comes with an infrequent snow flake or ember
floating down to our nose level. That’s cool — creamed just for sleeping with you, blackmailed..

wandering into the new wrong theater guild

chopped into little squares of hypnotic drumming

and massive parallel vistas projecting smiles and learning

showing up invisible. Totally insane. Libido.
Yoga is as popular as what it is everywhere, definitely in bed. It’s nearly in your mind such devastating existentialism served in fancy pants.

Advice to a would-be gymnast: just be simultaneous.
We’re all buckeye strong.
Very disturbing.


Brass tacks, no essays.
The odd delay repeated.
Evasion foregrounds style, motives — the harsh gets exaggerated.
It’s been a driftwood century, valuing hoax.
Buddying you up has improvisatory depth added to despairing perceptions.
You’ll retain little that’s disbelieved.
Teaching this has just started..

Vicarious is not strong enough. I repeat, optimism goes under rewrite as you profess it, flips genres, changes minds while in sleep.


I believe you’re a flaneur. Sign within (above x).
It’s hard to do a mock-up & care.
That means you, banshee. Maybe I am foreshortened taking up prerequisites in criminal governance;

I won’t cry to lessen the g-force of my depravity, but I hear squeaks. It could be me reduced in size talking to you for crissakes.

I should but I won’t.

I can’t tell you I don’t care.
Tump staffer: Following orders
I show up to work drunk
yet I assert my 5th Amendment
privilege. My Rolaids keep it together.
A counterminimalist design ethos eggs on Steps: A Notebook by Tom Beckett. It’s one in a set of Tiny Books from Meritage Press. Publisher Eileen Tabios accompanies her poet as graphic alter ego, supplies drawings and handwrites his text, a duet then stepping onto their small stage in shared regalia to participate in what I might describe (unsneeringly) as an intense art dealership. The poems come inside a little page-turner, tiny even in chap terms — a 1.5-inch square thumbnail sketchbook with a cover jacket fabric in a colorful folk pattern. The poems come forward, sideways, and upside down in one or two words per line, mostly three lines or fewer to the page. They address ambiguities of their being composed, seeming parenthetical, always germane, as one page smack in the middle inveighs: “In / the moment / (be right there).” The poems comprise of suave quotations, sketches, and thoughts on writing, verse making, for instance, is like composing a music made of temporary flaws (“smudged work of Arias”) or like writing with chalk, “Looking / at blackboards / how many Ways?” Skepticism — “Advancement / is a kind / of ____.” If poetry is prayer, to paraphrase, prayer is programming in thought that’s overexposed and torn. To get beyond the conundrum of prayer, programming, etc., the art dealers work on each other and together. Beckett’s Eileen accommodates the torn thought idea on a ripped page and settles prayer down with a vapor of slants, blank lines, and empty boxes that enforce a silence. Tabios’s Tom returns, though, with a new quiet streak, “A / poetry of questions / (one answer).” To clarify, he qualifies, “When / I was / a young man.” Next page, “When / I was / a little girl.”
My style is no variation, a luxurious quest.
If you’re stagnant, you’re undead, pure metaphysical pre-evil.
I put a recalled toy in my mouth, more profitable than narcotics.


Sir Fric and Frac. Remember them?

Fric just called, said “We were swimming naked, a word I often use to characterize my falsehoods. I wasn’t looking when I came out of my laps and grabbed another human. I felt something strange but familiar.
To bring this up this late in the afternoon is totemic.”
I fell silent and wrote it all down.
Agenda: The love-it-’til it-bellows medium I assemble thru is about momentary ooomphs we’d overlook otherwise. No proof required, especially. A range of conversation impressed into uncluttered opinion, dedicated sentences.

Flamey asides.

A kitchen to heat pizza.
Wake up and work.
When you read this, it appears prior to who prompts it.

Not you.

We got wind of your discretion in our sleep, a line from Aeschylus.

We’re playing with a couple of new features and a few we move in any direction.

Not you.
Billions of highly intelligent beings with high degrees of morphic freedom bank with us!
But this interests me only so far. More curious — why we approach poetry trying to understand it.

As though propositions and semantics were key to poetry’s necessities.

Not you.
I’ll write travel reviews, pour over them.
The wind picks up my solemnity —
I’ll look out from my attic bedroom,
Watch others work, sounds they make,
Steeples, chimneys, masts over the gloom
The town burns to keep awake.
Sooner or later Chickee got uncomfortable knowing the gender question has a peculiar tripwire: in one tumble of silt and salt waves a queasiness signs on as gender is the one query no one ignores, also a quest ill-equipped to be entirely fulfilled.
Thus, Chickee is a guy.
core harmonic structure: call back when you want


— The world becoming flat and falling across

The telling (of)

(Instances of)

Citationality exceeding everyone’s old wounds, genetic

Streaks and — weird! — high wails of titanic fog, sifting down from

Rain ceilings (of)

The snow. The snowing. The across (falling),

It is (falling) across

Morton Feldman.
There is no circling the rink.
No complaints or sworn declarations,
Nothing frilly and glib,
No closure nor irresolution —
There’s not a single cudgel you can wield;
We’ve lost your name card and your name.
We have to know about the nose and its utility in poetry. One question, Among human organs, does the nose intuit — knnow — more lyric than the eye, know more than the throat, or even our ears? The nose makes English mid-alphabet consonants pronounceable — M and/or N. And if the nose makes mine pronounceable, it’s hummable, too, and that could just be the sloping tip — for the nose — in regard to its lyric purpose. Hard to hum what our heart or soul may be ‘saying’ — we can’t tell without sizing up other body functions, intuiting humming from the nose.
Roadkill would be the most empirical debacle turning abstract to date — a bumblebee
clocked into epic death by itself, on its own, having its own quarrel in
-side. I’m certain its lack of manners or historicity
was a flaw like vetiver too broadly smeared over a heartthrob, a Lebowski.

Not mad but apeshit, the bee shoots for an exit to the coast
hitting the surface in lithe shorthand coupled with a last
puffiness and black-to-yellow color of sane amalgamation.
There’s no description, the lion took the eagle’s wings yet kept his own name.

Then he had an idea.
There’s a description he kept inside.
I notice I haven’t said anything.


The inscrutable commercial vector coursing through — there’s nothing like it, business that’s more a film in wide release, a nocturnal thin man, uninhibited as in somehow succeeding daily. Timeless like leg warmers in both Antwerp and New York, which back then was more like Antwerp now. Men unwound to be children, their affection not unexpected, hungover, yapping at the top of a lintel’s worth of plankton. I’m coming back to New York. In the early 80s.
“I’ve got to get back to the city.” Why bother, Buddha imitator? Reeves is guileless, a pious, ethereal hulk in a collapsing bug life. He sneaked his junk across the border just to release his frustration, verbally sneering at no place to go in a natural voice.
Bullied into autocracy.
Hell is too big to fail.

Fire the lilies in the field.

This is a democracy. Hysteria as a rallying cry brings a revolution in ignorance and vanity.
The ousted president drops to his knees.
A sparrow close-range, a dedicated follower, packing a double large elegy of values, love trouble, last blinded by the sea tonight, this evening of the seals. Two old seals suddenly lifted in a renown wave, the same in each. Humming back, large as the beach staring away in too much light. When it goes there are too many ways around it sung. The wave lips onto The Neck floor. Like light, it goes for gladness reasons. Often no one you know, seals go mourning their orchard rounds.
If animals could talk they’d say, we pick our clothing by the rules. We can’t get you out of our thoughts? Handle it? Come closer, you’re scary.

We sleep at night with our eyes open and keep a diary, hastened by its agenda in one vein, pierced to the root by a confusing lunch. Flowers by the table, you, half a house (better than none), liquor and song. You came as a gospel singer. The sweetness outside not wavering in dusk to rain to a rational depth, we’ve got you in the crosshairs.

Freed from servitude wow, congrats... animals no more!
Exactly. But the hand-on-thigh thing... You know, to the outside eye, to the person... who doesn’t know what a forgiving, wonderful person you can be... this could look like you’re — per the Veda — confused. How do your readers feel about you living in this cesspool?
A twice quarterly tremolo fills the ground trailing off in sparrows, off to war everywhere but not here, a cogent ho, an earlier freer hum in a wash of other sounds and schematic petals and stems, where the mammoth goes after he drops a thread.

Ever since I was bullied as a kid.


Prognosis: As a citizen among millennials, it’s yucky, gross I live blow off my masterpiece, suddenly building a new narrator under my notarized certificate of vulnerability — Euros tumble. The sensual spy novel is amusing and telegenic for killing time, so let’s narrate that. And about that. The meta-tick-tock due now and pronto — calling in Cupid — the greatest emcee and dues collector of any new century, sullen, endearing..
I’m late for a gown fitting, weeping inside. Outside, I’m a prick,

I’m impetuous, from costive stock, unflappably happy, curt.

I somehow floated here; my toys are asleep. I voted for change.

Injecting their blood was just crazy but I won’t go off schedule.

Very late it began to rain.

Your foreign friend flicked on the lamp
to countermine zooms.
Her neck and collarbone are burning
to show their softness. Her hair seems partible
emitting an innocence that blasts.
This is a loose translation, drawing on pitch-black rumors about your life. You planted them yourself.

How was it to go on and record the full soundtrack, none of the script? Was it like writing from a retrieval search with lots of different data trees leading to ersatz acculturation?
Bad behavior, showing anger, more easily understood as work-
Permitted off time, sometimes a less polite form of the hole-

in-the-universe w/ a large beaker installed, promising variations.
Gardens sell, according to Le Bourgeois gentilhomme.
I also give a lily for what’s unavailable, a cabin in the launch for recondite sentiments,
Or I cry the boink out of whinnying for pleasure.


Variation : prototypes, scars, male processional battle
gear & skye terriers, new media & sexual
exercise under conditions surrounding our desire
to adapt compliments for insurgents to bind heartache.

That’s how you hang staring in the mirror —
these items don’t balance
until you think a way to scan, listening until you
nail the best into stressed & refined inelegance.
All informal — creepy — let us through.
Tough being away but you’re crafty and atheist long enough, you know how we leverage
missing you at a time when it’s least expensive for cosmos
and tomato plants at markets.

So a redraft: There’s transactional friendship, and it’s a job (like sloganeering)
and, more elevated, craft (making a sign for consciousness to observe). You see,
my job is to craft as sport is to haphazardly kicking down signs (ref. above).
A burst of daft tone substitutes for info of a lifetime.
Wait. There’s nothing.
No tone, no daftness.

I lower your voice to closest approximate parity
and we have the yard puffing with sounds..
to sketch sweet totems that “look pretty close”
with our eyes closed.
Field painting: I’m a neo-accepter of things, making and living in particles of objective misnomers, eating and breathing them, too, as the ideology-clean rhetoric of double quotes in acrylic burgeons on vibrating blobs and officially sanctioned conjecture. Indexing suspicion and objurgating.. the evolution of disquiet is cutthroat, a huge family fortune of junk, affixes and addictions to risk.
Modesty is unimpressive in itself.
There’s an either / or for attrition of affects, concision or eyesore.
And there’s a struggle to housesit too much information.


If this were untitled,
This is what then? The surface is bloody,
colossal — fun games, what they call trick arts.

It occurs to you or me

a trick has already been devised wholly
before it’s hastened onward

— it’s not utterly offhand.. rather:

it’s called a change of heart.

Began how far ahead
we liberate ourselves to oppose either

Social progress is in a pickle.
It went cheap in another direction. Al
-most curtains for the prom fitting, a horrible hot mess.
The shortest path from here ignited by havoc, honest
and exhausted tailors.
The dancers are perpetual winners I guess.
I wager
we win the half-eaten take-out on the table. Slashed 40%!
The inscription read you’re my business. This means the writing is clean, architecturally intact, mirrored in meantimes.

But calming down, there’s a dual rule of justice gone aground with top notes we won’t erase, some jittery appliance in the occipital lobe, active against the ‘human grain’ when touch management is unleashed.

I’m just commenting.

The inscription read you’re my business.
The cremation service starts, it often says, prayer behooves those who talk but no longer pray. I hope you are happy. Don’t be sad. Grab a good one. 
That’s an outline. 
We did one thing in common. Everyone bristled.

One thing. One time. Other times in tatters oneself are gimme-erotic, circumspect. (I’m just beginning to explore them.) Their symbolism weighs in as a shortcut, “I need me.” It’s a lovely tirade. (Jack Spicer)
Times (x) I’m pretending to be at your asinine behest, pet swapped, intimidating as a perfect stranger.

As a consequence doors open. & I’m auto-electrocuted.
Socialist by nature, cashing in analytics, we’re
Not sure discourse product pertains. Sacred axioms certify wealth and income
Consultancy, honing descendants into two dimensions on the surface.


Circumvented dance:

Gestalt-like comfort in disruption is one point of a number in our seminar on Six. Together, we define affability arcs of ironic self-ridicule in a series of no-fault disputes, Six-w-x.

Any abstract attitudes fsll below our strip down to stem cells — relatively unspeaking as tho we are all done with Six.
Body-snatching, the second point is you & I must rejoin the Six.
There aren’t any warnings. Tensions were apparent.

Voices in our heads are paranormal (if we say so). Diversified specialists dispatch our bodies to the co-op, wrapped in steam.

That said, the minute we get off the phone, the fog-enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. Never happened.
I can’t tell you I don’t care, on the inside.

Outside, a panel membrane, the third largest seller, floats me into the future, desiring vague change, like our plebiscite, better to pump out to voices’ grasp. A normal life with submerged artifacts accrues Pascal highlights.
I watched U & me dreaming in economics
affecting a radius of 2, 3 coasts. 4

what happened out there?
I started Latin 2 years late 2 be a classicist 2.

The survey said I made it 2 the 2nd challenge,
a winning session in crude instrumentation.

Looking into the camera makes this a document.
Which U are U?
Metaphor and life changing commerce, cities unknown but arriving soon.

Sugar Dust (you in a Bernini head replant) brings on the knowledge effect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching seasons float in willpower. I never understood insinuation. I never misunderstood it, either, a pulverizing divide teasing my attitude into admonitory tableaux sponged with your eyes...
Down interiors. And nice platonics. The he /
she and schema proliferating a fable
between acts of spinning themes, code hier-
archies, text over image, or is it just empty?