Not all are masterpieces, but there are some gems here.
Out in the cow field of life, there's lot of poop to be found. Some is fresh. Some is wet. Some is old. Some is round. Even if you catalog them all, and describe every detail. The main thing is knowing, how not to step in one.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day.—Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art.” Poetry Foundation. 1979.
living in the doom, catastrophe paranoia of the psychoentirety, a trash fire, landscape lighting florescent, sick room architectures broadcasting dead news to unwitting recipients, dream/nightmare remnants, black anxiegenic chemistries awaiting, reagents and catalysts, parlor epidemiologists and physicians, a confederacy of a billion clowns, narcissists, fascists and a mule turning paranoia into public policy mystics of the stream, waterflesh bubbling personal microculture, the best swims between the net, fishing, the pitiless puta, thrusts his smooth skinned erection towards the wild, the permaweird, memory-wired, on the float, uplifting imaginary vortex, against a loser's catalog: black jerseys, bum guns, and jack boots - stomping an exogenous shock, giving birth to a thin, grim newness, destined for the trash of civilizations
“Be skeptical about all opinions, but try to see some value in each of-Ron Padgett, “How to be Perfect.” Poetry Foundation. 2013.
A collection of life lessons, most are good.
…Police-state crematoria…Cyberflesh…Life must be boring before it can be lived…Because language is the most important aspect of death, they taught themselves to amputate in silence…the hallucinated futures of a lunatic…Walt Whitman didn’t kill Che Guevara.”5 ANTI-MANIFESTS — ALIENIST MANIFESTO
I may not understand the words, but I get your meaning.
What you see is all there is,
a closed ideology fakelore, a mazeway garden,
fruiting failed perspectives and shared paranoias.
Quant illusions, analysis is paralysis.
Divert and subvert. Launch determines
orbit for every apex, when the monkey bells
the gorilla they call it jungle justice, a harmless
bruising, the shot before the anesthetized heart.
But, the kakistocracy provides: 24 hour water,
electric fusion fleshlights, a wankbank, weird
excretion dependent, generative of natural-adjacent,
CRISPR life, selected for a skidmarked sky.
An unspoken quale, smells like nothing else,
deep in the boojum and bafflegab, counterphobic,
insufficient evidence of normal on the weirdo safari.
Quis potest sapere audere?
Man is born free but everywhere is in comment chains,
assembly-line production "memes" in social media-ready
baggies for your unnourishment, the whole world,
a sad maze of thinly disguised press releases.
The future is here and everything needs to be destroyed,
salt the field, plant your seed in the sucking wound of need,
harvest, pack in two lost matching suitcases, left circling,
forever on a carousel going nowhere being eaten by flies.
“Publications are listed in order of submission period(s)…”
—MeiMei Xu, ” Best Places to Submit Poetry 2019.” The Adroit Journal. August 21, 2019
In the deep, a subterranean cache,
drip echoes, hardened magma flows
turned rivers, unseeing fish splash,
the earth's heart is on fire, blows.
Aquifers, filtered-moisture fed
flushed, a sucking river vortex
pulled, underground caldera bed,
formed before the prefrontal cortex.
Gardener's vision, compulsive
separating out the amoeba shits,
from the snail's slime, repulsive,
drowning in what the mystic omits.
Love me, love my amoebas, gross
we came, why, reality is blobby,
mess is not something to diagnose
the only certainty: its sloppy.
Sea change, rich and strange
pour yourself into strange waters
our many lives are frozen, deranged
paper Jesuses offered up for slaughters.
If only, I.F., I'm fucked, too,
quale, a different cell, all
different moments, a different you,
same behavior keeps you a thrall.
Suffering. Dismiss the teacher,
sub-human, human, minor god,
in our luggage, every creature
carries the mask of self, a facade.
Can those in the Black Iron Prison
be saved? What of the Palm Tree Garden?
New life, from pain, is risen.
From lessons, there is no full pardon.
Somewhere, above, there's another
underground. Do not despair.
Wait in the depths, unseen Other,
a new sea/land awaits, I'll see you there.