Abraham Lincoln’s Uncircumcised Penis

too much of a Metalica urethra, though
to really matter;

We had the delicious cherries of Door County
sloshing around our Vicodin suppositories.

let’s face it: The only Joni Mitchell in town.

Zapping various organs along the

county line artifice;

a clown’s head got big and
we had to act.

Now there was a new Joni Mitchell in town
reeling down the grocery aisles
a real adventure in subterranean living;

and a lesson in bifurcated government forms
a subtle rash along the pubic area.

Hand dribbling or Corpus Christi luxuriating
outward of the orange turnstile’s
dilapidary code;

coffee cups atop benches
with overpraised vocal chords etc.

When etcetera means instant boner

for the new Chief of the boner patrol,
an ebony Joni Mitchell.

And perforated oceans won’t stop us...

our own love might though, it’s on the way,
but the perforated oceans, with their
perforates

or gloom in the form of snail pie...

prob'ly not.

Sigh.

Watch Your Mouth

I like the idea of stopping a conversation by saying "Watch your mouth!".

Mike Is Pathetic And Loves No Age, Finally, And Believes The Generation Right After His Is Probably The Emo Generation But He Likes People Who Sing Out of Tune (And He Knows Alot of Emo Dudes Are Way Not In Tune But He Likes Malkmus not-in-tune as Opposed to Conor Oberst not-in-tune, There's A Huge-ass Difference)

So how is this No Age band doing basicly the same thing that at least alot of other indie bands are doing, and yet their music is so fucking good?

Take "Cappo". Off-kilter guitar and drum stomping: Check. Loping teenlove tempo: Check. Two people in the band: Check. Sort of introspective lyrics: Check.

Sorry. It's not them, it's me.

But it all sounds so, I don't know, youthful. Kind of like if the Ramones were born 30 years later. No, if the Ramones grew up on Dinosaur Jr. No wait, if the Ramones grew up on Sonic Youth.

Oh and I only have half of Nouns. You know... and there's half of Weirdo Rippers, a more open-ended affair, psych-....

Man that one Flying Saucer Attack song "Come And Close My Eyes" used to really make me wish I had a girlfriend. It's one of those songs that makes you wish you had a girlfriend. Let's see, "Let's Save Tony Orlando's House" that's another one. This can all be googled.

But "Come And Close My Eyes" is in a peculiar wish-I-had-a-girlfriend or WIHAG category, which is the post-apoclyptic wish-I-had-a-girlfriend category. Pretty much, listen to Sonic Youth say circa Sister and you get my drift.

Maybe someday all of our girlfriends and boyfriends will post-apocalyptic girlfriends and boyfriends is all I'm saying. And we can listen to No Age, then.

Salacious Banter Update

I haven't informed Karl of this yet, but Salacious Banter Readings from now on are going to take place here.

Dream Punt

I've always been fascinated and perplexed by how to act. As in the "...don't know how to act", "how you gonna act".

I'm gonna go out on sort of a limb here and put forth the idea that whatever this "knowing how to act" is, that knowing how to act is a way to get your work published, whatever genre. Publishing in the Small Press world is essentially knowing how to move in within groups, how to connect and get one's work published is it not? So I've been thinking that getting the work placed is a social skill. So does that mean that whoever happens to have been influenced by Robert Creeley and was the Prom Queen in High School is bound to have the most chapbooks published?

There is a part of me that dismisses even the premise of that question, and another part of me that thinks that's an exaggeration but says Yes that's kind of the case. But what kind of a person carries around some supposed wounds from High School and applies them to poetry? What could that possibly be other then some kind of passive-aggressive projection.

I've figured out by this point that there are certain basic steps in getting the work published if you don't wanna go the Emily Dickinson route.

1. Correspondences: write to writers; saying what tho? omigodyourworkissoimportanttome? How did you write your books? How did your work get published? How is Bob Perelman?

2. Publishing in a number of literary magazines, thereby letting others get acquainted slowly at their speed with your work, letting them wade into the pool of You waistdeep. (But then is a person their work? Of course not. Goddamit... Fuckit...)

And yet I'm still kind of perplexed at how all this happens, but I'm actually not, I'm just angry at it. I don't know.

After Lisa Jarnot and George Michael

I think there’s something you should know
I think there’s a shadow over your face
from the sweater-print I think it’s time
I told you so

I think that all we have to do now is take
these lies and make them true and make these dreams
into transactions of faith and make these wishes
closer to you and better by me and wish for
the transmutation of the sweater to tell us

something beautiful about the weather at the zoo
and the fashion show and
something beautiful about the weather
in Air Force One and the weather on the tarmac
and the sun which leans in to confide

it’s thoughts about box office records
and quilting in the south and laughter on the fringe

the mania of thus on city buses
feels like the road to heaven looks like
the road to hell and thus the failure
to make us laugh or make us dance
our failure to quilt and sing and
make love in otherwise unorthodox ways

that logs on and simultaneously out
I think I’m back down to earth on this
I think we’re through with singing in the rain
I think there’s someone with a transfer
I think we better ask somebody

After Lisa Jarnot and Scritti Politti

where the money flows toward
the ocean where the money is ready for love

because of the 1980s
that the world is mystifying
and conspicuously passionate
fortifying and with an emphasis on production

leafless done down
bloodless all but the most delicious sequins

comma holding tanks for
conscious elegies rammed forth
by teenage boys and the aunts
and sickly farm implements
and the animals that operate their

solar panoptic contingency
where the money flows toward
the ocean where the money is ready for love
in the ocean and the sequined tears

and the poor old boats
or said contingency in homage
and the brain which is key which is
mysterious and says perverted things

that flood the oil tankers with love that flood
the oil tankers with artificial snare hits

How To Be Lazy Writing About Poetics

I don't know I'm thinking about a crustal abbreviation now for the text. Or the poetics of that smurf-dandy secretion are here already.

Knowing tools or like function. An excitable sex position or classic SNL quote, but either way a bumpkins foot stool for thinkin' rowdy stuff round said secretion. Militant anyway attention span of the already always there wayward passive clicker finger.

To surmise, write poems in war crouch and gangsta slouch.