i got me

Flat Corner/Corner Blues

I need your love at this flat corner corner
I got the flat corner blues

You left me at this flat corner corner
I got me the flat corner blues

I’ll wait at this flat corner corner
I’m livin’ the flat corner clues

What I’m Listening To:

“Behind the second curtain, a life of poetry
There ain’t no bread unless you bake it yourself”

— Brnda / “Perfect World”

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trilogy of quatrains

Through the Onion Trends

He’s the social steamroller of a lifetime!

Reminiscent of a walking mature apocalypse—between tugs and kisses—few audiences have experienced this level of patriarchy and cake. Nutritive as cyanide. Planetary caskets put to use at an alarming rate. Off-site training of fiends and brooding strangers. It’ll drive the masses to sploot like overheated squirrels.

Through the Onion Trends. Though the mesh of higher forefingers and bureaucratic systems consistently locked in hegemonic melodrama and wanton death. Google misanthropy and ye shall see!

He’s a trilogy of quatrains in pentagonal packets told in lyric couplets.

(I miss my right arm—my finches have eloped with said appendage—in its stead all I have is this onion. Each successive layer an eggshell of penury.)

Unfortunately, the petrichor now smells like Ayn Rand, a Coke, and a runcible smile.

What I’m Reading:

“The heartbeat of our alternative vision is still a fundamental and necessary truth: there can be no love when there is domination.”

— bell hooks / Feminism Is for Everybody: Passionate Politics

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i wish i

fens claimant

her strength seeps through newly installed calm
she calls “ohm” to distinguish tuber from field—
her namesake breaking into a smokestack

he’s a pianist with psychological funds pitting
an inconvenienced perch against the hook—
no fish more foul in his mind but the forlorn
mermaid in the fens

the maid does not sing for either one of them
busy fending off poseidon’s sweaty mitts—
she’s slightly claustrophobic & smokestacks
nor pianists her concern

there is one pivotal element in this gordian knot
none of this matters—there is no meaning here—
but the one you

What I’m Reading:

“… right or wrong, you will think what you need to think so that you can get by. So find some reason here.”

—Ottessa Moshfegh / Lapvona

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string of drugs


a streamline of aching and passageways to the heart
between plectrum and mandible
between grace and opprobrium
between tumor and perforation
a string of drugs and narcotic resets

What I’m Reading:

“A regular asks her to stir her finger in his coffee, and she will
hear in him blue grass and a murder of crows,
hunger’s sickle sinking deep”

— Diamond Forde / “Rememory”

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love of life

The Best Stuff I Read This Week

“It is clear that reason and facts alone no longer suffice to move people and society to action.”

— David Suzuki, Tara Cullis, Miriam Fernandes, and Ravi Jain / What You Won’t Do for Love: A Conversation

“It was a culture constitutionally inclined to sacrifice the future in order to satisfy the present.”

— William Rosen / The Third Horseman: Climate Change and the Great Famine of the 14th Century

“It seems to me there is a surplus of terror and delusion in the ether, but spare few visions of how you and I, relatively ordinary people, might live otherwise. I believe the future of the world depends on those visions. If our descendants are alive and well in a hundred years, it will not be because we exported our unexamined lives to another planet; it will be because we were, in this era, able to articulate visions of life on earth that did not result in their destruction.”

— Lisa Wells / Believers: Making a Life at the End of the World

“I grew up on the border and though I left
I have brought it with me wherever I’ve gone.
Its line guides me, this long, winding thread of memory.”

— Alberto Rios / “Border Boy”

“Our social world, with its rules, practices, and assignments of prestige and power, is not fixed; rather, we construct it with words, stories, and silence. But we need not acquiesce in arrangements that are unfair and one-sided. By writing and speaking against them, we may hope to contribute to a better, fairer world.”

— Jean Stefancic / Critical Race Theory: The Cutting Edge

“Man, the egregious egoist,
(In mystery the twig is bent,)
Imagines, by some mental twist,
That he alone is sentient”

— Elinor Wylie / “Cold Blooded Creatures”

“My love of life is tentative so I write to ensure my survival. I try to write well so I won’t be caught shitting out of my mouth like a politician.”

— Jim Harrison / The Search for the Genuine: Selected Nonfiction, 1970-2015

What I’m Listening To:

“If we don’t grow outwards towards love
We’ll implode inwards towards destruction”

— Bjork / “Atopos”

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a kiss under

Two Butcher Boys at Division Point (Tanka)

Revenge parable:
A dispute careens off-track—
Shattered eyeglasses
Blind and brambled in the weeds.
A kiss under the blood moon.

What I’m Listening To:

“Hope is a muscle
That allows us to connect”

—Bjork / “Atopos”

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belches and squelches

First Casket, Secret Casket (Flim Review for a Non-Existent Flim)

First Casket, Secret Casket is new film about a benighted romance between a Cuban-American sugar cane harvester and a seldom-acknowledged singer in a punk band. The former is a political pessimist spewing the obloquies of the late 1970’s to an uncaring world, while the latter belches and squelches profane lyrics—beneath a rapturous red gravity-defying mohawk—in and around Miami’s Little Havana.

The film is liberally intercut with outtakes from Scarface, but with all of Al Pacino’s scenes excised. Pacino’s dialogue is left extant—resulting in 2 hours of clear or black leader interspersed with the scenes from the 1983 remake.

Remarkably, the director achieves this without cleaning the film gate during filming—and, in fact, purposefully gunked-up the internal camera woks, during shooting. Resulting in layers of chapped celluloid and incidental detritus building up on the images, creating a Brakhage-like palimpsest redolent with possibilities, but ultimately imbued with failure.

The layered soundtrack which is a random assemblage of Mr. Pacino’s laughably poor take on a Cuban accent mixed with found recordings of the internecine tactical meetings of the Symbionese Liberation Army, the proceedings of Miami-Dade County traffic court, and Balinese gamelan rhythms prove exultant—like aural toxic shock.

Imagine subcontracting your prefrontal cortex to fermented fizzy lifting drinks. It’s genius. The film’s lone redeeming feature.

Here, we are introduced to the masterful intimations of boilerplate pop constructions at their logical end. Imagine dipping a $75,000 fur into a punch bowl of Sunkist and Pop Rocks—it’s that astoundingly effervescent, empty, and bereft of any trace of intellectual heft.

Do you remember the 18-minute gap in the Watergate tapes? It’s nothing like that—nowhere near as satisfying.

The story of a recent migrant to the land of rape and money is seen as dredger seduction—all disco, punk, and inflationary pressures without the cowbell and horn flourishes, 3-chord anarchy, or regulatory meddling by the Fed.

This film is analogous to Ed Wood meets Jean-Luc Godard—both on their lowest “off-days.” If you recall Godard’s observation: “It’s not where you take things from — it’s where you take them to,” you’ll find the raison d’ê·tre for this epic voidoid—without the justification.

The film is a stunt by a timpanist who lost his pen, and a teapot without a dome or the scandal. Bound for the shredder and the kickback bins of film history.

What I’m Reading:

“Poem in which I have a father.
Poem in which I care.
Poem in which I am from another country.
Poem in which I Spanish.”

— Paola Capó-Garcia / “Poem in Which I Only Use Vowels”

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but with heave

Workshopped Word

I am an agglomeration of symptoms—
purposefully askew and tinny.
Closer to your interior benchmark—
akin to brainy and quicksilver—
but with HEAVE!

Diffident ain’t the workshopped word you’d use,
closer to big shrimp without the sea.

I really don’t know what I’m going on about,
but there’s something here I want to convey
about a dark impulse, black mold, and slow discord.

About density. Decency. About freedom leaking. Deflating.

(Then we clank to a full stop.)

What I’m Listening To:

“Our differences are irrelevant
To only name the flaws
Are excuses to not connect”

—Bjork / “Atopos”

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patriarchy and cake

image: thomas deernick

Poorhouse Vista

Good Morning Resignation.

Bub Linkman is a downer. We are not a good match. We are unable to scheme moves, sketch delphiniums, or libretto overtures. We are unable to accent our annoyances and poorhouse vistas.

Please call me the manageress novitiate of butcher despair for my dispeptic requirements.

Bub Linkman has assured me he is a journeyman working to resolve this itch as quickly as possible. I don’t believe him, or believe in him.

I’ll thank him for his patriarchy and cake and be on my way.

What I’m Reading:

“Deceit,” I said, quoting our leader, “is the ice pick in the kidney of trust.”

—T.C. Boyle / “SCS 750”

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nostrils for plague

Back Home Tanka

Back from the sun’s glare—
Fog obliterates the sky—
It’s good to be home.
The birds shroud their songs in gray—
We swab our nostrils for plague.

What I’m Reading:

“Eat and write or die.”

— Jim Harrison / The Search for the Genuine: Selected Nonfiction, 1970-2015

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