If love is to perfect the image of life
in the stillest peach as a discourse of existence
laid bare upon its spit with flesh heavy
in marbled pain and fucking, then at least remember
to call after your date if you said you would.
I’m against making machines work as art,
the cognitive discord of things stomping
and whirling to the beat of ideas a reverberation
of history that shocks my hands as I try to break
it with a sledge. Consider taking turns
misrepresenting the details until we’ve found a new
route to contemporaneous expression; I’m so sick
of forcing down hand-fed grapes and telling you I love you
by saying exactly so — if I could smash apart
the genders of each apparati dancing from the mobile
of the heart I would, instead of mucking up the articulation.
If you find me balled up on the kitchen counter, it’s no reason
to evacuate an opinion of me that isn’t reverent —
it’s just that after all the considerations we’ve taken
into account for the future qua present, I’ve decided
I need to melt and reform a bit before
I’m ready to stand fully within your gaze.
Yup, still filling your dash with stuff from Consequences because I want to annoy you with my gratuitous self-promotion and make sure you download it. Sorrynotsorry…
I updated my selected writing page to include the recent chapbook Consequences I did with my friend Kevin, as well as Fuck Montreal, which I wrote in early January for residueatlas and Stations Of The Floss, my poetic catalogue of my trip to DC back at the beginning of the year (and the site of the first time I ever used “GPOY” in a poem). I am posting this so you are aware of these things and click on them and maybe read them if you so desire, but also because maybe you didn’t know I had a page with my writing on it—both poetical and theoretical—and now you do and you can check it out. Or something.
Which now includes Consequences and the updated Rejected Consequences chapbooks. If you haven’t checked out Consequences, the chapbook David W. Pritchard and I spent a year writing, please do! It’s got some great (IMO) stuff, like:
Your dreams take place in the shape
of a motorcycle, ripe with sentimentality,
and you awake with a headache —
the zen of it being you must be dead
to be alive, and trying to wiggle your way
out of paying for dinner by saying
money’s a barometer for commitment
and you never committed to getting Chinese
proves all you’ve been doing to get
enlightened is push rocks around.
For those who missed it, here’s the chapbook David and I spent a year writing, which contains stuff like:
David W. Pritchard and I spent a year writing Consequences, one seemingly innocuous poem that birthed 99 responses. We proudly present them to you for your enjoyment.
As an addendum, I’ve also updated my Rejected Consequences chapbook, which chronicles 44 poems from this project that never fully matured.
And so, we’ve become a conundrum
of tissue in the absence of timely
bill paying — soon, our electricity
will be cut off and we shall
only gaze at each other through the bottom
of beer bottles — how green
you’ve looked, how far away
you’ve been, how convex
you are to me — I’d just like to close
the world one last time,
like an oyster drifting
through the desert.
(from “To Be Saved in Tin Foil”)