Monday, June 30, 2008

How To Be Lazy Writing About Poetics

As ridiculous as the dream where Rowdy Roddy Piper is telling Robert Creeley to stop making friends.

Into feelings burgled without and not-in the bounds of your Grandma's depression. Builds bleek food conspiracies into hovelable cock-eyed clinching fingers.

A man stood a bison or weathering his top-spin of simpression. Dupression. Synechdotion.

Happy birthday envelope.

Cold climbing down through a gender specificity.

Joints pooling there corners and curlicues and trying pass on the traditions of haberdashery.
How To Be Lazy Writing About Poetics

It is hard to imagine how poetry in it's own mind. In what wondering filling up glances nervous-like Your Grocer's Shelves.

How to hide green poetry grocer reducer, or find fissionable material for that matter, is poetry's Poetica Ashante Sashe. Poetry grounds finite observations inside little baby human dryers.

That's fucked up. Or that's come into it's weatherable ass-face architecture.

And in blank spots finding new avenue cloisters banana talk spores through forms or reprisal. A ticket god, y'see.

Human squirrel!
How To Be Lazy Writing About Poetics

In the near constant-gathering coming up poetry will who-knows what it thinks in it's own mind.

Sunday, June 29, 2008

How To Be Lazy Writing About Poetics

Poetry in Social Star Wars is ultra-complex Jedi training in Jedi training relationships between Jedi jumpsuits in Jedi perpindicular spaces where you earn the right to help so & so hem in so & so's ultra spandex proto-Jedi more fixedly within the globo-not-fascistic-utra-cool-Jedi realm.
How To Be Lazy Writing About Poetics

This blog has become steadily more opaque. Which has been become its format. Which is me trying to articulate myself then essentially musing on some idea of what is essentially dicking around.

If dicking around brings up the rear, it takes on whole other connotations. It could become ego-trippin. But if I ego trip for awhile I seem to invariably end up out of my depth.

Standing tall on the wings of my dreams. Slouching under poetry's wing, which smells like curry and old spice.


Saturday, June 28, 2008

How To Be Lazy Writing About Poetics

Is there an alienation effect in the company of poets?

In other words, should a poet not be "chummy" with their audience? Making it all a little inside? A little too inside?

A little tutu aboard a whaling ship?

Poets should probably talk to their audience without assumptions. But don't assume we don't know who Jack Spicer is jack-ass! And conversely, Don't assume we know who Jack Spicer is jack-ass!

Just explain who Jack Spicer is and then say, 'y' know... Jack Spicer' And be prepared for Jack Spicer to stop talking to you.

The audience does not want to see the poet talking to other poets, they want to see the poet talking to other poets.

Like, flip it around on em. Yeah, and since you're using a whole bunch of words I don't understand, I'm gonna go ahead and take that as an insult.

This is directed at anyone where I've ever woken with their hand in my pants, when it should be in my poems. This is implicated in my style. It is an assumed Spicerian eye-roll. On a Spicerian California roll.
Does poetry have to have an indentifiable matrix to be written about?

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Salacious Banter Reading Series
Thursday, June 26th

Jess Mynes
Michael Carr
Dana Ward

Food & Drinks @ 6:30
Reading Promptly @ 7:30
900 S 5th St.(5th & Walker / Enter on Walker)

salaciousbanter AT gmail DOT com
French Coat

Aphasia is a byword of patience
a trick feeling, to have compensated
in odds of disturbance. Consent
and mingled popularity

become details to
handsome mercy, the aritillery of
the women in my life. A person of
quality will understand

showing judicious license therefore
not be treated with indifference,
maybe you would have
overt concern if there's such
thing as compulsion. Being welcomed

in a large city gets cold
in my eyes, relying on selective help
one might not credibly avoid.

As sober bait I mustn't be qualified
projecting on what may have
happened within an aquifer. They abandon
the parking or add dependent on enough

double access; the welfare of
a personal condition makes it worth
replying believably or a credible
witness's safety. Waiting for a stretch in the
kitchen while outside

someone is sent to guide them to the
address. Immediate
response gets in the way of visible
excess, as a voluntary buffer
I was determined to listen. Behind on

new year the empathy lines
seem punctured because of
foreign movies.

--Michael Carr

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Salacious Banter Reading Series
Thursday, June 26th

Jess Mynes
Michael Carr
Dana Ward

Food & Drinks @ 6:30
Reading Promptly @ 7:30
900 S 5th St.(5th & Walker / Enter on Walker)

salaciousbanter AT gmail DOT com

Thursday, June 19, 2008

for Publico 2003-2008

"not sinking into the ground, mysteriously,
but in the Roman sewers, forever, our home town"

--George Stanley

Aphids are
whatever feeds on the
emptied momentum that
tastes of white pine. Bang it
in your car b-bang it
in your truck
The Easter
LV on a Luis Vuitton bag
explodes with engorging neutrinos and I
see its dove-meat that's gene-spliced to soft Beijing leather.
False fathers husbands believers--moonshine
pours through the dikes, Animiniacs
who? They're the false husbands fathers, believers
aphids leave honeydew
crucibles deep in their features until they're
like astrolabes tending immobile stars.
But you can't judge the Universe
wounded pride blooming like lake district summer
flushed soft & fast down the fucking brass ring.
Golden retrievers explode in the verdure
who can put dogs back together?
Big Dad in Valhalla
the boatman named Sex,
my collar & tag start to hurt.
Tell me dad what should I do with my pleasure?
destroy it, confirming its own malign life
or embrace it by means of
deformative play? It ends well, in war
you learn how to catalogue ships in the dark
describing the plant lice that feed on couture,
where, because we are impure & live
our reveries aren't overcome. But they are
dad I saw the raw data, the tombs flaring
various prismatic fires
their Oceanside camps between Clay St. & Main,
sweating a vicious armada.
No dad we won't eat you
the lights in the Mediterranean, lights in the high
blocks of Over-the-Rhine,
we've been here a long time
amid the Emerald City, amid the walls of Troy
Penelope Nokia Telephone
rings many suitors
with fabulous answers & lies
whisper comely things through the receiver. Hello?
dad the aphids invaded my
arm daddy what should I do I would chill
son &, drink. Recreational love-making
inside a project space
in theory & fact.

Yet later
the aphids have gone
& the goddamn garden goes
on with the imporous
posture of some

I come to this altar piece
Clear eyed and mean
from deep in the mind of a parasite
teasing your dad for his ambulant lock
derive in reverse
a real Sasquach without any
frothing pulling teething
in the mouth. Its only the North Pole honey
its only the summerless agony
how will we
how will I remember

I cried again
in school today, they
asked me my feelings for Polaroid pictures
for me they're Victorian things
fairy tale mice with a
sun-ruined Cheshire life gutted
color wheel light for their unstable sign.
I saw their tombs in the dawn (basically)
cradle with all of its blisters in tact
beckons like bubble wrap, pop
the encasements of that
& the honeydew pours out in torrents of pixels
floriated like love's will in "Asphodel", nothing
to drink in what's now just decor.
Sutter Home here
in your Venice, the many-canaled
hollowed out neural city
lasciviously broken
down like the church yard nativity, piece
by delirious piece
until there is goose-flesh
all over the Virgin.
I feel it too
in the end of the song
& the lights coming up at last call, that

-Dana Ward
Why The Simpsons Will Never Get Old

"Texas Cheesecake Depository"

Tuesday, June 17, 2008


Web's sheer
above leaves
spasms to breeze
witch hazel buds blister
blossom yellow pinwheels
sewn threads
lack reluctance
fall forth to froth
of verdant fallen

Morning sky steeps
to smother seconds
after sunrise wash
ashes November snow

white animate
scatter shot

Then again later


Sunset 4:23

-- Jess Mynes
Salacious Banter Reading Series, situated snugly in Milwaukee's beery underside, checks in with reading number 2 on Thursday June 26 at 7:30pm, as Jess Mynes, Michael Carr, and Dana Ward invade the Saffran Loft Manse bearing an incense of poetry and rapscallionry, with much jollity to follow.

For more fleshed out deet's on the event, check here.

Meanwhile I'm gonna be posting some nuggets from these pote's respective troves in the coming days:

Monday, June 16, 2008

Segway Invite

lets go rent segways
and act all badass

insulting my credit debt and such
as we look over our shoulders

checking for the cops
and for my loan officers

the whole while snorting lines
from The Godfather

such as “You talkin to me!”
“Attica!” “Who is your

daddy and what does he do?”
You know em all and

you can recite them all
but only to geese because

these geese are tripping balls
and you know that in this state

in front of anyone else
You lose your composure

You start sweating, comparing Kenneth
Koch with “duende”

and I have to warn you again
not to go around doing that in front

of the bigshots at the Universitay.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Check it.
Out of Pocket

I been hangin around

without the exact change

in the orbit of what

to lay down

around and in

money troubles being

a close second

within 2/3 of ecstatic


just the waiting for

who cares how many

really desperate postal workers

to deliver issue

3 of TIGHT

to my door starring

me and Lisa Jarnot

dodging the weather cells

and drinking the drinks

with specially made shoes

to bump up trouble

by losing thoughts

to the mumbling of

the corrupt referee

who comes around again

having lost alot of money

on the lilacs in spring

Thursday, June 05, 2008

I mean wouldn't it be funny if...

Now that he has the nomination, Obama unveiled an androgenous Ziggy Stardust-like alter ego, named like Lance Chlorozone or Jill Absinthe or something...