Start with a basic principle: yauh peng, yauh leng - in English, inexpensive and beautiful. Empty, alone, a blank canvas five inches across, bounded by ears, separate yet susceptible, social mind virus. Catastrophe has already happened, from one view. Another angle, sees happiness, created whole-cloth out of disposition and a clean heart. Sense, nonsense and in between, a line can't be right, left and/or wrong. Layers, subcultures of lost, brittle men coalesce into reply guys, wienie wagers, and boojeymean lodged in the Callipygian cheeks of society, coprolite, surplus to requirements, in places normalized for deficits of wonder. Covering what stinks, habitual evidence of a lunch, long past Nature's Shitness Protection Program revealing God in what she's not, and what she is may be just another evaporated, dehydrated, Stone being. An unmagicked, McJunk world, three ring shit show, exponential, terrible, uncapable of bearing the intimacy of scrutiny. Changez vos amis, but there can be no separate survival or adjusted destinies. Truth comes last.
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 them.”-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