BLIND COLLABORATION WITH ZACH LP
cut a warm carcass open into space!
I thought this was a t-shirt store but I guess not
rough warm sweetness in the dark
all this red, white and blue is tacky
fingers pressed into warm salt
but I don’t want to talk about America anymore
you fogged up the mirrors months ago.
people die. what can you do?
fractured and fuzzy
Nixon got pardoned. Maybe there’s hope for me
soft like seaglass, tumbling.
BLIND COLLABORATION WITH Zachary LP
Portrait of a girl with hands covered in pollen, Act I
this is the meaning of the evening’s boring struggle
my mouth burns with the taste of it!
a musk of sorts, all over the pillows, behind the couch, in the rug
microscopic organisms don’t care about your jizz.
the sign on the door said open but
dirty tablecloths drape your ugly chairs as it is.
I’m worried about the friends who’ve just left
I run my tongue over my teeth.
like a whale singing in the sky––well, not really
saliva dribbles over rocks like seawater
in boot cut jeans and white loafers
dust stuck to the furniture like algae.
Sometimes I remember every part of my dreams
BLIND COLLABORATION WITH ZACHARY LP
I told Mother to “go fuck yourself. fuck Wanderlust.”
but I’ve heard brown liquor will kill you twice as fast
Jimmy and I raced out the door. “Leave the power crystal.”
watch! they are all going pink and ruddy in the face. The people here
lives are fast! short! Jimmy blew smoke in my hair.
a green star is rising over the state of Arkansas, a miserable ghost
the car crackled and groaned through the purple hills. Fast. Fast.
well what do you know? I was born a wolf, now I’m a camel
the radio whispered a balled up sports broadcast. I spit my gum out the window
their fancy cars go by and I couldn’t give a damn about the symbology
sweaty thick thighs make you forget
and Nabokov hated music, allegedly, the dweeb
grimy ankles on the dashboard and matches in the cupholders
what a curse! I’m on my ass again! Listen:
what the fuck did we do?
I realized I wasn’t actually finished with the project so look forward to like a zillion more things !
[this is an experimental piece based on found text, false translations of English, Icelandic, Old Norse, and Latin, and misheard language.]
you were born on Christmas Day, 1932
throughout the first half of the 20th century, you were involved
in the poultry industry,
you gave us a
a chicken in every pot and an old man
razed to the ground with his palace
Vineland, Millville and Bridgeton are the three principal New Jersey cities of the
Vineland-Millville-Bridgeton Primary Metropolitan Statistical Area, which encompasses
those three cities and all of Cumberland County for statistical purposes and had a population of 156,898 as of the 2010 Census;
but who dies a pauper at 104 years old?
A replacement is not available because the building,
called the Palace of Depression is no longer there in its original form
It was destroyed long ago by a fire
It is now nearly completely gone
a replacement can no longer be obtained.
And so the Palace of Depression is still an existing building
you changed your name in 1911.
George Daynor claims that he was guided to New Jersey by an angel
Pray to us to deduce the insular recitative
echoed by oceans:
”Quake!” dictates Vineland,
”for eons of lives spent sleeping,
under vinous celestial ferneries.”
giants used you as stepping stones
the tooth of time
I am not worth cities in front of you
the gout belt of the lower balkans
has a tub of cracked televisions in the back room
descriptions of insular aquilines
and photocopied material of every
ancient Danish king really account
for the burgeoning successes of coldwater boat tours
Did you know Alaska has an aquarius highway route
most people who know this are people who have been on cruises
I haven’t been on a cruise but most of these people had a good to mildly interesting time in Skagway.
They visited the gift shop
They visited a rock
most food is served cafeteria-style.
I know this because I was trying to find out if it was okay that linguists use the word Eskimo to describe the Eskimo-Aleut language family.
it pretty much is.
You went missing in 1962.
someone should have shot you at dawn.
I have a boyfriend who will google-image-search the Brazilian flag
and stare at a .jpeg of the Brazilian flag
that is how much he loves Roberto Unger
I could have tamed a worm-proof boat
where the waters of ocean flood in
and blend into a history of blight
worn my fingernails down through a polar ice cap
and into your scalp
“It is almost too simple, too conciliatory, to take from the start a name predicated on a negation, a simple opposition. Perhaps it were better to espouse full-throatedly a LUNCHISM by which one aims to negate by making disappear, a Yes whose movement supersedes the No we cannot not say in view of those abominable categories whose algebras we reject.
Propaganda as needed, which is both ways at once, doesn’t do much if it doesn’t push you out of the car to cure you of your journalism.”
I can smell my own blood!
Oh my God I can taste my own blood!
the majority of the people have not been the
Olympic juries but
I still can’t draw hands as if I died from
the Spanish Flu
why can’t I dedicate a life of art and crime
to my nipples?
kiss me in the demilitarized zone
kiss me in the DPRK tonight
let them tell you to hold your comrade’s hand
and answer a beige princess phone
kiss me with a dial tone
how many gin and sodas does it take to consider sex
in the public bathroom of a Ukranian social club
she had a body like a wet sandwich
and legs like miles of splintered steel
I had a dream that the trains’ horns
were an oratorio she recognized in her sleep
when did they start naming winter storms?
when was the last time you stored thunder in a jar
or poured salt on a doorknob to keep out witches
we follow the crows
we crush lemons
your breathing like heavy wood,
juice stings your cuticles.
I trace them with my eyelashes
you taste as soft as a bruise
who out of anybody
can see a stop sign
and feel anything but to kiss you
out of steel you’re cold
and you’re like apples
from inside my bathtub it sounds like nuclear winter
I water down my paint like whiskey
angry and rattling
the bodies in the pipes
are at it again
the shadow of a plant reminds me
of the underside of your breast
and I realize all of my poems
are either too mean
I’m never gonna be dead or
queer enough but
there is a certain amount of rapture in synthetic flowers
as it is