Why I Am (Not?) A (Pro) Feminist [Man Poet]

There is some thoughtful writing over at Delirious Hem. But it’s been bothering me alot lately that I really don’t how I might be a (Pro) Feminist [Man Poet]. I don’t know what that means. I don’t have alot of actual contact with women. There are issues involved with this. I felt like I’d better either post something of this nature, since I didn’t do so at Delirious Hem or try to get the piece taken down. I considered emailing Danielle and asking her to take the piece down, but I don’t want to do that so I’m posting this.

Let me be clear. I am Pro-Feminist. I am in favor of equality, of the inclusion of previously marginalized voices, of what a man can learn from the experience of being a woman. I was asked to contribute to this forum. But I almost immediately had conflicted feelings about it. I probably cannot honestly identify as Feminist. Their are alot of women who I admire and have huge amounts of respect for, who’ve shaped my life. But in all honesty I have deeply conflicted feelings not about Feminism, but about my own relationship to Feminism. I do feel that as a White Man I’m afforded and exercise more kinds of power in more contexts than I can even know about. A problem is being stuck in the mindset of seeing Feminism as something that’s “all about” women. It isn’t. It is about opening our public (and private) fields of discourse and exchange to more modes of thinking and being than are currently (readily) available. Some of the most important of those modes happen to have been developed by, and perhaps were known all along to women, but of course their voices have been marginalized.

Marginalized by people like me. In the sense that I am a White Male. A White Heterosexual Male. There’s a Louis CK bit where he is ironically extolling the virtues of being a White Male. It’s true. White Hetero Males are the most privileged group in the history of the planet. And it is a direct result of benefiting from a history of oppression and unspeakable brutality. We ought to at least bear witness to that.

I try to, I guess, compensate. I co-curate a reading series where I live. I try to invite at least as many women as men to read and attend. But then what am I saying here? That a poetry reading is a Male environment? It’s up to me to include women? What kind of position of power might I be giving myself by saying that? But then it is true. Poetry readings, English Dept’s (tho I haven’t been near one of those in a while), and various agencies of Literature are historically dominated by Males. And men do have to account for that.

The way we behave creates a wake that reaches everyone else. Men with rejection issues, with latent loathsome attitudes, latent misogyny, seek power. I’m no exception. I’m not anyone’s boss, anyone’s abusive partner, but that doesn’t exempt me from some shared responsibility.

I’d thought about writing about something I’d noticed, about how there seems to be a different codified behavior that is acceptable for a man than that that’s acceptable for a woman, say, in the context of a poetry reading. That it’s more acceptable for a man to kind of “not give a fuck”, where as if a woman takes on this kind of flippant stance toward it, she’s perceived as crazy, menstruating, or a bitch. A friend advised against this.

I can’t separate what would constitute a worldview that is Feminist and Male from how one might act in private. What things are permitted? What things are ok for me to do in my own place of shelter? What things are “ok”, in terms of dealing with these fucked up issues. I’m not sure what for me would constitute an active public Feminism. But I feel like I have to say these things if I’m going to signify as a (Pro) Feminist [Man Poet].

I would like some feedback here.

Blogging Is Painful

Blogging is actually very painful. Ok, laugh now. I dressed as Indiana Jones for my preschool Halloween party. Sound of a thousand babies clearing their throats. Programs seem to be as good a way as any to talk about this, which I’m not talking about and won’t be talking about. But what I want to say is that when a person blogs and they know that a few people might read it, and relate to it or not relate to it, and all the things that come with that, there is a pain in being aware of that. They make me cry, and knock my lumpen head on blind wood. Blogging is a means to connect to others, but it's also definitely a disconnect. We need to shift the warlike energy associated with politician's names over to sexual energy. Why shouldn’t a person be taught to love? You are looking at flickr pictures of your friend with Terrence Trent D'arby in Cancun. You are thirsty again. You get up to leave the house to buy Fresca.

It is a lousy substitute for social interaction. Not sure what in it exactly I'm referring to but yeah... But it is painful because it is done, even if unconsciously, in an effort to connect with people one feels disconnected from—possibly a geographical disconnect, or just a peculiar social disconnect. Like two murderous clowns masturbating each other. It is painful even when done anonymously. I'm actually lucky to have been born when I was, because if I were kid now, I would probably be on every ADD drug under the sun. There are probably as many kinds of disconnect as there are blogs. Of course art does cause change. Or maybe I just don't care as much. The geographical disconnect might include people who live too far away to be physically touched. Then Perry Farrell all of sudden jumps off the stage and next thing I know, dude's fuckin suplexing me like I'm some fuckin cornish game hen. And then I'm layin there with fuckin asphault-encrusted yogurt all over my face, and Perry Ferrell's all back on stage and he's flying down, a tap-tapping his elbow, which is The Flying Elbow smash. I like the type this way after all, it’s like viewing the poem through a pair of binoculars. I kind of don’t care about that thing from before there was this thing. They would be driving a golf cart along side me yelling encouragements while I'm on my daily 10 mile run by the sea shore. So built and not demonstrated, it lassos the comely moon. The social one might be peculiar, say, in the guessing that goes into who reads this, or who reads that who can't be communicated with in any other way. They send out signals that mingle around variously patterned salons of intelligently synced-up pattern-holes. I couldn't find what is supposed to be my own blog! And yeah there is some measure of importance to be considered.

Blogging might actually be the least cathartic form of publication. What should I have for lunch? This could be affected by alot of variables. I hated the Chicago Bulls. I might be totally wrong. I also subscribe to a loose idea of being committed enough to the process that one is willing write things that are potentially stupid, embarrassing or even petty. But the transmission of a blog post carries with it an expectation of not only an instant readership, but one that will instantly (because this is the Internet after all) reply with a counter-transmission. Will you please reply? In no time? Like, Richard-Dreyfus-obnoxious right now?

Is it necessarily only achieved through google-sculpting? I wonder if the other patrons can hear me under my breath. Very naughty, and yet the listener can't decide its naughty without a certain amount of presumption. One could blog in a completely nonchalant way. I came over 900 times last month. One could really have absolutely no expectations about being found out. Would a salad believe this? Do you ever find yourself asking this question? One could blog in a completely utilitarian way. A dream where I'm on tour with The Arcade Fire, and I think me and the blond one are like stranded in a McDonald's parking lot somewhere, until Marx comes by with his Hummer to pick us up, so we can catch up to the rest of the band on tour. So I'm left with one less way to get myself out of the house. One could behave in a completely sociopathic way, or indeed be blogging at the behest of some psychotic intent. But what’s the point of bringing that up? Either voluntarily or not, they are a part of their own consciousness of it.

Believe me when I tell you that blogging is not to be taken lightly. This is cathartic: I also watched LA Law on a regular basis. More likely it was because we just couldn't remember. I would like to now bifurcate that sentence a bit, and just say that the blogging of literally billions has implications which almost completely eclipse the implications of blogging itself. I wrote this in an essay in Health class and ended up being invited to help keep score for the Basketball team. But maybe all of life is beautifully harrowing. And the implications of communication? Of the digitized message-in-a-bottle that any blog really and truly contains? Aphex Twin is playing and I’m writing this and I’m looking at the monitor with part of the words covered by a smudge on the monitor. Blogs are meta-containers, like Russian dolls, and do require maintenance. I should know better and I do, but I go around loving every thing. I wrote a thing where a kid is murdering his father. What is the appeal of black metal? Don’t get me started.

A dream where I had to go back to my dishwashing job, where somehow I was obligated to and there was no way to get out of it. And looking in The Sports Section at an article about how Steven Wright is actually a really great athlete. There's a picture accompanying the article that shows Steven Wright's rifle-like tennis swing. And also an article about a local couple who were involved in the Avant Garde in the 1930s and 40s, posing nude with their parts strategically covered. And I'm yelling at Ross in my father's living room, loudly complaining that there's no way I'm going back to that job. He's trying to explain to me how the person they have now comes in late, calls himself "Mr. Bumblebut" and uses the wrong exit to leave. And I'm getting really upset but then I wake up. And I'm very relieved.

How would a serial killer’s blog read? A dictator’s blog? A phenomenon of the late 70s and 80s. I once masturbated in the back of a bus in Ireland. (This will be the only Item here that involves me masturbating.) I mean its good and necessary to have a philosophy. When I was a kid, I had a staring problem. I do "creepy" pretty well. We are nearing the end of summer, when the blogging is dumb and the living, it's easy.

How would a virus’ blog read? I don't quite understand when people say, "well I haven't written anything in a long time". If a virus could blog, we would not understand it. Er, I mean we would not be invited readers. I'm not good at knowing whether someone is joking. That would be too lateral, passive. There's a level at which this is all rhetoric. What a virus wants, of course, is direct contact.

I've always dreamed of being in a band of misfits where we play our instruments by not learning how to play our instruments. But the format dictates the expectation of the kind of shared experience that's peculiar to the Internet. Today is my day off, what should I do? I think I have hemorrhoids. Today is my day off, what'll I do. Does blogging remind anyone else of shadow puppets? Why do I feel like someone out there is about to “break it” to me? Please be gentle!

Joker

Accidentally once I told a joke
these guys…
ooh ooh the sky…
but not that
jumpy I’m sorry
I can’t get my bearing
but I’m like
ooh ooh!
Shut up! That’s boring!
I’ll say it you write it down
Verne Johnson… he fixed my bike once!
What? No.
No!
No more peanuts for you!
I was like…
put it in your hole
put it on your bowl
and Verne said… Yeah! Flannel!
Totally red and brown colored
but I didn’t get it
I was like… Whaa?
Just tooling around…
Verne said… Whaa?
There go my powers
Ooh ooh
Did you see that?
Verne kept singing like…
yeah…no…
Undies? How the hell
do I know

The Eggo Bus Blues

Try having my year
plugging up the incandescent
maternity singing
rumble tilts
That will get you
to cleaning your sinuses
as they rough and tumbling
felt lines
a thong spare as
the curt direction
given through tidy links
remedially after it
clenched I tell you
the waffling truth in those
circumstances
the crickey blandishment
absolution of the apostles
or betterment of
retreads ye take through
garnish for
sun-out
stares at the
sly and peaceful buzzing

Try havin my year
served with fennel in a
green plastic Pinocchio
bucket, hiccuped from the
infrastructural shepherds
with brutal lazer-toyed
beneficence
and plainly Americans are
worried on their stoops
breathing as animals
caged in film trailers
leaving smokey
perfumes

now you need release
getting used to these Towny
ways shying away around
plots of inherited binary
Smokey the Bear peers
outward from the
luminescent skiffle
pink visor
locking down
must-see
hardships, pen-whipped
lapidary as all get-out

I’ve been at this all year
shining deer in my
punk fashion
sufficing through
brutal relations
of seed
and whipped curls
to towns down-
grading collapsible
tents in the non-
functioning sun
spending absolution
through doubts of
demonstrative
star power as the lift
toward formality
reeling pant-leg
exclamations
in the final honking
good party

try this tuner to use
for anal relief Trucks
no survivors Plane down
the board of life-like
drinking contests warping
around the child-like
fertilized eggo waffles
burning in the Supra-addict
where we store culture
refuse to sneeze in the
disheartening new climate of
Toy box brokerage

or try this plant your
gardens slantwise
catch newly renovated
sun disposal as Hell
to feed the capital’s
distant passive abuse
with long curly locks and
forced receptions of pasty
figurative pulls on
soon-to-be captioned
desperate gestures
counseling pour
stork jokes or cold
grief whinnying
Ouch! disheveling
folks’ electoral
area attitudes

Some More Tasty Omelets

brush cutting of the not-strictly factual?
garlic? and sauté?
(third-person singular
simple present sautés, present participle
sautéing, simple past
and past participle
sautéed)

BCC has to crack a vault
or melt completely—

serve a perfect golf swing
into the homemade no-frills
heroism of the Net
yeah, it’s a little of the
tongue-depressing quality though—
ranging from feta and spinach, to ham and cheese,

ranging the alps in a nifty Vespa
w/ Richard D. James
what a body’s on now
getting the résumé out of my intestines, just
a little twinge of the “chaach”
you can eat brunch as you explore
the Men's Auxiliary

Artists must submit a written and drawn
omelet proposal: taters,
NEEDLES ETC ETC.
Before the parade, Artists must
report for inspection
The menu will be
Darren Dean, Scones, and waffle station
Weekly at 8:15am

when, out dashes your Disney tour guide to
vandalize Elk River Parks,
submits a hard copy of your cover letter,
a minimum commitment of fourteen weeks,
then collapses
under the weight of the omelet bar

Lego bacon cheeseburgers
sprinkled throughout the province
like crepes sprinkled on the county economy
run through to the daily xtra Muffin of sad sadness

I’m a better judge of massive omelets
than I seem to be
The National Honey board bears
an extensive kissing revenge on Joe, in the end

Each day they must wrap up the omelet
another day older
resumes more so in disrepair
sprinkled throughout the province

like it was so much egg white
standing erect
“under the tutelage of Randy Tutelage”
a study in foreclosed color schemes

a pragmatism rhapsodizing
it’s own undercooked urethra quality
nevertheless great transportation options
more than enough face-time w/ Mr. Tony Shaloub

this is what Heaven was looks like than—

a Lego breakfast table in El Rosario
an ice-cold campfire
a bachelor's degree and a few years of experience

scrubbing away the omelet residue
seeing home—

Some More Tasteful Outlets

I just can’t sustain
EATING THAT SHIT...
all this porn is at Defcon 1 its both
a me worse person
under Egyptian tombs
common with the dry forest
the movie War Games
after retirement
leafing throughing the geological
dontcha
evolutionary reptiles
common with
nature’s next can’t sustain
prone concentric meat doth like what
you say to contiguity
common with generating relief
what it always is—

SHED OF LIGHT
the upholstery within
concentric spires keeping
my A.C. squeaking
just plain more
alive that night surrounded by
bending animal of Dutch
frozen pizza common with
how bees will be nature’s
imagination
reptiles common with
philosophy’s basic and needful Magic Christian
cadaverous into the used
John Elway of
upcoming
extent
Defcon 1 common with
history’s belief
which I’m telling you and if
in a mopey
SO HIGH HEAR THIS
cease may cease
of my heat
upturned from under murals
in a tie-dyed
leafing through
common with
a me worse
a motherfucking alive person

Timeshare

I feel enjoyable
as if I were King Tut
basing this baffling
position
you seeing me
I or you
on a tinfoil buttering
Aztec visers
handing off the beat
to which I eat
a Roman in guilt only

why even I get
tired of writing all this
I oughta know then to
pair my wit with
your exotically based
window view

even admiring lots
of pulling porks
focusing the lemon gravy
an obvious pun
I oughta build or
at least tear it down
elegantly clinking
my hopes toward
aspiring away from
cheating the gov’t

a sound noise
or veritable
pocket rocket

you’re never gonna stop all the
teenage leather
sex neither nor
young marauding
guitar clinics
sexing the suburbs
in their pained delivery
circa ‘84
through ill-relaxed
window panes

don’t take the brown caulking
it’s a matter of fact massage
bunting out toward
Waukesha or one’s
warlike symptom in an
obtuse sex organ

when we say that
we mean liquor cabinet
the common lyric here in
the Highlands
in the foreground of a
turkey being slaughtered
the shameless lyre acquisition
down through history or
y’know against all
this vague inspiration

we say generating the
truth as a historical imperative
wakes up badly
stick in a toothpick
you pull it out doughy

here’s what you do
sing ectoplasmic gossip
around a hairball’s
autobiography gee
wouldn’t that not for once
be utterly boring

or a non-milk-based prose
a Vulcan Valkyrie
who once managed
the Velvet Underground

this poem is making me itchy
too much Robert Lowell
in my bathwater
those shoes that improve
jumping capability as memoir
lessons recede

I watched a fish die
and that was it
my inconsistent autobio
fueled by airy kissing
under thought ramparts
where horseflies put in the hours
this pre-mulder & scully
when I was but a scuzzy fantasy
a young girl offered
to let herself
be transported to

now I lick women
their lengths
they lend me their
remote love & sensuality
clap the hands in an
all done motion

I need my heart clapped
or at least three views
of the opportune siesta
these adamant
sobbing onto my handlbars moments
come all too easily
I oughta maybe share
an efficably-dosed margarita
with Kevin Shields
at Martin Scorsese’s timeshare
constantly losing Tina Fey’s
number in the most
pleasurable possible way

my face is becoming numb
the sun is rising
it’s a living
it’s a final doodle of tonight
it’s a soft reprimand
it’s a poignant detox

My Philosophy Of Life

Look out! foreign selves
collecting Nero’s mind
as a clean sheet, the rhyme a cleavage
across from it’s knot or,
straight into it’s deep, deep shadow
desperately, endlessly green
piles any space into the chest
around the little harp God—

pass door or, wanting to begin
the gossiped Queen Anne’s embryo wings

the various grays have Shut up
for a walk
out the window & true to feel
your third floor equivocating eye
no chicken scratching on spectacles
to be found out or, burst!

Occassionally now thick panels
like to be so beautiful

What is sad also
tunnels down my amazement!

this blue chair
ha! to see
the flower of the awesome

The Great Earth crouches, has found you
a passing dog overlaid, particular
howling and tending a deck of cards on Mount Olympus

Only he don’t come down
nakedly treading a handfull of his audience

We stand in the rain
ready to become seargents
so obvious and thereby silly
the long Penis dissolving
in the sky of clear dark blue

Somewhere above Tonight
standing on man’s eyes
the corners of her studio wear the good time
today—

children play and yet have quit
did not know what grows outdoors

saw with their green eyes
the scrupulous system between the columns
on a chart, is only the sky
hard arguing to the left—

those level miles
about itself

[Source text: A. Poulin's Contemporary American Poetry anthology. This and With Mercy For The Greedy are two from a manuscript possibly still in progress called, well... Contemporary American Poetry]

from Poems To Be Inscribed On VHS Tape Labels


Bob Dylan said what was on the minds of Americans

“I hope we win the Vietnam War.”

With Mercy for the Greedy

the vines are beneath the cement
informed by the glimpse spectrum
shallow water coming until unraveled
oh sweet vision of the great tent in heaven
like conversational prose turning the beaches pink
five dollars, like a bar,
defect to the typewriter silent, on the hill
(as clearly it had moreover served faster prints among the rocks)
my skull heard dusty laughter from the family king cat
onto the freeway shoulders, to come
on a happy ending
from a walk of so able or galled
a philodendron’s penduncle
velvet drapes come to music the velvet fog
the fatuousness neither warm nor friendly dark
knowing the usual, unreliable fuckless days and nights
thought, form, impulse, the sperm whales feeding
are concerned on your shelves
and though the sharpness suffuses the frogs like a psychiatrist
their dusty laughter on a great falcon hunt
eyes the flinging arms of a country and western band
where you’re hiding from monsters, dream still dark
a trace on the no happiness like mine
so the lumps on my knees study for a decade
beggar bold! cannibal dynamo!, extravagantly slow
premonition of the fall, but felt your leered teeth
would pierce our heart, a small fuzzy pipe
fallen naked as snow, deconstruction
one whole year the windows would swivel
it was the dingiest bird, all that sweetened purpose?
that smell of difference still situate, entertained
who’s got to blow the man’s arguement in the used car lot
walk around with almost human knowledge
swing low sweet sexual holy land on my porch stoop
sand paintings of this present
a commotion of common metaphors
if it’s thinking is not having bones
a day spring turtles hate most
no peace as round
a sapped thing without hope of landscape
men call me old scratched isingsglass
alien eggs that simply stake out in diagonal darts
like stars published shrunken
with weary satisfaction of my flesh, often comedy belies
a pure pane of sweetened brilliant water
a religious octopus grenade
slowly calicoed with wet wind
bark of the enterprise where the brightest light
has held you in their bushings



[Source text: A. Poulin's Contemporary American Poetry anthology.]

Post-Everything Barker

that deluxe remnant
wind took your daughter

to a far off rockaway
of the jigolo
selloff

     where the scary is
     more sincere than
     the sincere music
same bill blake type
shit the wind’s 
ensconced in

we were there
at the broke pump
in Wisconsin

talking about the 
times we sensed it might
get broke 

Area Man

area man an important gold arm
vs. an example such as area man
or area man in a bittersweet glove
of wind like area man finally
succumbs offers succor to the asian markets
or paydirt in a plastic look
area man ooh yes
area man oh maybe lets stop
playing around
area man tongue us on our balconies
have a taste for birdflu area man you
recombinant mutant you
area man, man in an area
farther away yet toward where
the form fingers the function
the same principle as you reach
your robotic hand farther down through the prizebox
romance lies in wait for a housewarming
gift is a likely stunt
a lovelorn end table of promises
area man will never keep
only the cream of area man’s promise is real
only the measurement of luck
is one thing we’re out of
area man didn’t leave us any, let any out
area man takes me and you off his phone
he posts a grief along the tubes that draw up
the bingo machine being romantized
holler at you later
to pick up that area man
at the airport
save the zinfindel pasted
cards pasted F6 or try F8
younger than we struggled to believe
is area man having a brand new heart attack
a fascinating reception for his wake
along the coast
releasing the bubbles from the froth
from the ether from the freezeframe of the
world’s fantatstic grip and commodity fetish
sheltered reams of gold
punch up the imp in the cloud
the area man of the respectable courtship
sharkskin vs. the natural ways of man
what sounds as familiar later the vortex
was glanced into is all
an embroidery of prayers around
area man’s abode
the troubled psychedelia of his gait
later a pirate’s booty was shook
to shake out the fissionable material
the confirmed or most likely reducible
love which hangs from
area man’s hangnail lame as fuck
which is what we do in slo mo
the laughter of area man in sound booth
or mattress-coated suburban rec room
the softcore of sobriety society
the vague science of lucidity
the tame tune of newly washed hatchbacks
their glimmer in the sideways american morning show
a highly rated foot-race job
whistling on your gps
don’t name it’s location
melt it in your mouth
in your handmouth area man
poor means of your lovemaking area man

Sample

A Shamrock shake
hit the window of our love.
The window was already fogged up
from the heat of our lovemaking.
So what effect
would the cold, cheap
mass-produced Ice Cream drink
have on that?

if the squirrel is over there
then the Yanks are comin'
but if the scraps sink down in the verbiage, Ok,
Gregory Hines is not contributing to this improv at all

I say enough with the salty language and self-love
self-serving relief sorta thing

"Gregory Hines is not contributing to this improv at all"
this should be a line in a rap song...
hawking Capri pants by the Yangtze
Yes, I'm gender-exclusive if that means excluding all genders

it is love
makes us pant
in the skanky light
[Chromakey bluescreen] & green-screening the barges
antithetical verses overlaid
with a sad dobro remix

and non-Communist forces in the dobro talkback poll
contribute to the Shamrock Shake’s velocity

so then we’re left with this little conundrum:

At maximum velocity
the Shamrock Shake achieves the Look Of Love.
We want to know where it’s commerce went but
it’s nowhere where we can see in there;
full o’ tuft & whimsy wrestling with it’s own ridiculous
matriculation in the Look Of The Market Place.

another thing: Why are we now reaching back
farther than Gregory Hines in a Payton jersey and Hammer pants
farther than the man’s poor improv skills existing
in obviously stark contrast to the man’s gift for Tap

back to where, behind the greenscreening of barges
before and around (really just around) simultaneity
with the garbage masher function;
where there are web videos in the moonlight & 80’s teens tonguing:
back to where the future let us down again
put-zing around when we wanna take a day-trip to Wisconsin Dells
and express ourselves with go-carts & other tacky velocity?

One's thing's for sure. We're gonna be a hell of alot thinner.

Summer Babe In This World Of Poor Mutts
Malkmus/Ceravolo

I saw your girlfriend’s sub-equal brightness
Everywhere we look there’s just another meal
but she waits there panting
the restaurant is never gonna come
Everytime I sit around I find
Everywhere I look I’m across
Ixtpalapa green canal
you’re my summer babe
gone in in in flew
with a plastic-tipped cigar

I fight and fight in the levee wash
I got alot of things
I want to sell but
collected someting warm like friends
a picture of not here babe
passes through me babe

everytime I sit I find I am a
white summer man-babe

I leapt at the caribou in lust
the fruit-covered
tripod of despair is
still there
won’t break the door
Yes! they end on the shore

I got a heavy load
not a gorged begin
to an orgy
ex-magician still knows
the tricks
never rides home
in the levee wash

beneath the tides
or fruit-covered nails
in in in lust

I am the only one searching for you
and you do not know it
I got style
as my hair stands

miles and miles
lice in heaven

so much Oak that
it’s wasted
in the shade
in the levee wash

I’m peeking out
and you do not know it
the pattern’s torn
and you’re leavin

I’ve got style
Bow wow wow
and you do not know it
this pattern’s torn
and your leave in
in in in the levee wash

you do not know it
I am the only one searching for you
I am with you forever
between style
as destroyed as moving

Some Notions Of Lovemaking

I wouldn’t eat that if you were you
or if you were me you wouldn’t eat me
in the fashionable US horizontal band
placating Other Species • Mold and Lumber •
when you expect to make love or book a conference center
just make love then book a conference center
to get health authorized be of an active orientation

use iron-on FDIC love
to ensure making love gets you regular
keeps you in the loop
helps you make more Americans make love
in some easy Euro show-through step-by-step process
stitch in order to exercise PCI DSS and ID Theft
gets you more regular than human really

if getting regular is as human as making love
lovers handling customer card data with kit gloves
you can have a major impact on almost invisible fabrics
but if you’ve never done it before with a provisional cast-on
before us making love in the open air
all legal and ethical requirements leak refrigerant across industries
all of your notion patterns and quilting make a difficult love happen

Drapery Fabric, Upholstery Fabric, Bridal & Dancewear Fabric, Faux Fur
but the use of these opinions is no substitute for a kind of legal love-making
to help Boston’s disadvantaged students to quilt baskets and zippers
Wet-ring vacuum pumps generate additional water flow
which in turn compensates for the lack of love-making in forlorn area codes
here’s a link to interfacing large and varied notions
including Simplicity through reasonable love-making

a female witness to a pocket watch theft once made love in arrears
quilting patterns and coaching an invitation away from the skankier cast-on
minimal or managing a large selection of art supplies and zig zag machines
the best place to comparison shop for a man’s notion
used to be a bunch of barely visible AEQS online shops
which now applies to all parts of a project
to quickly wind any thread or yarn into a delicate torpor

as making love is a delicate proposition
so bottom line requirements behoove our arreared fantasies
to open up shop in the cybernetic casting of small sensuality-tinged
quilting or zig-zagging methods into a demarcated sigh or request
bloom colors may vary from a functionality and scalability
scarcely remanded for the synthetic-based mud we once were using
recently imple- mented emerging from a more basic need

which finds us tenderly coaching and quilting the market
cornering the handbags and duffelbags of emotional commerce
which compose the notion we’re after
utopian since the breakfast and a notion toward growth to boot
the right delivery system thresholds environmentally sustainable
not to mention adorable curvy obsession in the atmosphere
unabashed as an ambulance passing through the movies

you will need if you want to make more notions
a process for love-making that does not disregard bottom line requirements
some goo that offers a site for quilting
not to mention on the whole an air of familiarity and friendliness
whelming patterned notions against making love on quilts
bedspreads and drapery aching in the stern notion that is established
a kind of yet supple believability as lovers on swings in the park at night

agreeing I wouldn’t eat that if or before I were you
swinging in the late years of an empire subsumed by bottom line requirements
a yet not to mention compostable compunction believing in itself
establishing lights as a mere drapery transposing very human disgust
not to mention lust for a notion that won’t give
an embroidery we can in an orderly fashion carry with us through the desert
divining important predicted ribbon from a market

from Keeping Up With Elliott

hand on his arm
a stuatue
rake your neck
sturn out them
zakc som check
that what you ome to
expect
needle
in the hay
little
int he
needle
in the
hay
swaering your closed
beg down your toes
know what did
two idio kid
don’t havea clue
calling me out
your pulling in hime
thorugh
needle
in theya
nidle
in they ahy
needle in the ahy
hele a n bus
nearly theyere
disturbing ythe tree
falling out six and out
six and my teath
donw
down
staris to the movies gonna
make it ok
taknig thein cure so i can
be quiet wherever
i wnat so me alone
you atouth
bpurnd that i’m getting good
marks

your hadn on his heart
his static chamr
ram our neck
call in some friend try to
cash some check back what
come to expect
needle in the
heya
eneel
in the hay
neddle in the hey
swear in your cltheos
pick down your toes
a reaction say
know what ou did
you idiot
kid
you don’t havea
clue
sometimes just cet gauta
in the eye your pullin me thorugh
helen a bus
hear me touch me
when disturbing a tree
falling out sixth aond howard
dead sweat i my teeth
down down
stairs
to the movies
ai can
be myself and i adona’t
wanna talk takin ga ure
so i can quiet whereever
i wal so leavie
me alon4e you ought to beparoijnd
that i’m getting good
marks
neeafdl;ae
in thy ahe
needle in the heya
needle in the hay
needl ein the ahe
needle in the hay
needle in they

neddle
in in
your hand on his heart
his dad charmed rack your neck
sturngin a out a fee
call i n some friend
zack didnt come that s what
come to expect needl;e
aoint he y
nedle
in they
needle in the
hay
needle in they hay
swearin gthe clothes pick
down the toes say know what
did
to idiot kid who dont
havea clue
so omeotimea
you ust get couaght in the ire
needle in the hay
needl in they ah
needle ian they
a
needl ein theyah
helena bus
fear lee touching his dirt in three
falling out six and out
dead sweat in my theth
walkd
wlaklk
wkalk
donw
donw
down
starings
to the movies gonna make i tok
take it cure so i can quiet so
leave me alone
ou roughta
be purond that i’m gettin ggood
marks
needl eian the
hay
needle in they ahy
needle in they hay
needla
intey
needl in the hay
nedle
ainti
needl eith inhay
needle in theahuy
needle in theahay

No Ideas But In Pangs

through our gestures
taking up space
we present impression
how illustrious tucked
judged it takes
according to a happening—we
Poundian, scrunching toes
taken with one woman, the woman
I don’t know if that answers anything
deeply engrained nightmare scenario
micro-expressions (sorry PBS)
high-culture “mirroring” ticks
men at a frenetically (panicky?)—pop culture, y’know
My Two Sons
they’re not around as much
retreating to the restroom (unlike fiddling)
The Best American Poetry
pad assures not a comprimise
your ideas the mimicking present tense
yourself allows a sort of hobby
cross pile gait
mixes the poetic and the quotidian
doctrinaire first impression
holding many attended cues
growing or broadening, mmm boy...
...and note the difference
try to do still-watch voice, unlike
fiddling—the person you are sitting across from
having alot more to do, um
...scrunching your toes in order to get ahead
a grim picture...
you don’t neccesarilly shut down
tend to point, panic, Watergate, Vietnam
um well we are at a meeting and pay attention
videotaping presentations—Gestures are terrific
Capital H history
point and see no reaction
point and see no reaction
we can’t read what’s happening in your work
tonight we tend to coach
work ethic we tend to sprawl out
an inch or pike I guess I should say
projected through many parents, materials
A: its a mistake, the rhetoric
misinterpreted as sessions
a cue from ancient times
intimidating expunged variety
beforehand “mirroring” to communicate
videotaping impact
specifically tucked into a Volvo
better that I taught them than that I didn’t
55% percent of that ankle
is a cue from ancient times
brilliant so frustration
unwieldy materials neatly Unlimited
present tense says of the table
hadn’t your hands unarmed
imposing laughing firm totally have been
a random tactic grateful to the other people
honorable Calvinist body language
alot of neural RAM
William Carlos Williams made an early decision
that non-verbal fresh flirting
was in fact reconaisance
are an are are only a nerve
I’ve lost my Avant Garde card in the laundry
all that kind of thing
a table upon us of taking up
perfect hygiene and all
visual ticks common to women
people in San Fransisco absorbed it
if they only are common, unarmed
post-Language conference table—
a cue from ancient times
we can’t read general truth
right next to
above the shoulder

[Source "texts" are "Seven Common Body Language Mistakes" off the A.P., and Bob Perelman's Studio 111 session with Charles Bernstein on PennSound]

Sample

it was like, Hey Weird Baby Boy Name
the rains down in Africa
can't keep ammo in stock
"hurry boy she's waiting..." No, No,
N-O to the enjambed blooper reel indices
combined with the talking Kangaroo Wall Street Journal
the emotionally determined tablature winks,,,

it's supposed to sit out on my porch tonight
but it mayn't diarhea
or the hooligans in our bloodline reunite us
be dapperer than making out before
but still romantically briefed and clinging
to your out-sourced sighs
O let me go down and learn
working toward an advanced curriculum
in this fucked-up pluri-felt of feelings
ridiculous images flood the boat in two
hand-held MP3 bridge quivers
and the longer voice-activated
the non-essentialist orgasms

_____ said all your moves are in volumes
you are volume-centric
& I say volume-concentric
I hear the rains down in Africa just like you

Sample

& I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues
that this laughable demeanor may tuck in
to yet more desert meals
Never Be Stumped For A Tree Shot
Each UXO/mine secret
section of code to embed
v.32bis 14.4kbps onto the image
the bear climbing the ladder out of the skate pool
...is love, even if the Fixed-Core guide wires loose
all sensation for their stems
spinning on the filmic pier in my dreams...
only post-dream description available was
crypto-keyed, rudely-withdrawn pregnant art
& I got a piece of it stuck under an application
for an absentee... I keep a starving pit-bull
and put on a pair of easier-for-you-to-enjoy
steering wheel fluid--harvesting absolutely
the most offensive visor from the portal

Sample

recieved a supple examination
of my strudel del fuego
in the keening light
spying on the movements
relaying signs and sighs
which softened up the lieu
not vexed and finally

do the squirrel's healthful paws
at my window
signal "Goodbye to you"?
can they in some way mask
my unhealthful intentions around the
dissemination of these songs?
are the squirrel and the ladder-climbing bear
both finally waving "Goodbye to you"
releasing some booster-chair endorphins
we had not experienced since
early days at the Ponderosa?