Saturday, April 06, 2013

Shelf Life


Shelf Life

Undergraduates enrolled in a contemporary poetry course, the very people who should be reading my poetry and the poetry of my teachers, friends and mentors—the young man now leaving class to go protest same-sex marriage at Chick-fil-A; the mother who will drive an hour in bad freeway traffic to pick up her 2-year-old at daycare—are in for quite a treat. On the syllabus is a poem from the second edition of Postmodern American Poetry (Norton; Paper $39.95), Sharon Mesmer’s “I Never Knew an Immediate Orgy and Audit Could Be So Much Work”:

In our orgy, the Mole Person took Saddam down to Moleopolis,
which is a gigantic ass vagina in the suburbs.
I got lots of noir work out of that one.
I got to orgy with a little monkey in a Mel Gibson movie.

In a solemn touch, an author’s note identifies the provenance of this poem as “Flarf.” According to the anthology’s editor, Paul Hoover, Flarf is a cyberpoetry practice that involves using search engines as phrase generators and assembling the results into poems: “With each copy and paste comes the cultural stain of the Web. This explains the tone of Flarf, a cyberpoetry noted for the outrageousness of its content.”

The distance between the Flarf mind and Gary Snyder’s “Riprap” is immeasurable:

Lay down these words
Before your mind like rocks.
placed solid, by hands
In choice of place, set
Before the body of the mind
in space and time:
Solidity of bark, leaf, or wall
riprap of things:
Cobble of milky way,
straying planets,
These poems, people…

The distance is immeasurable because there is a mind at work in “Riprap”—finding metaphor and metonymy between rocks, words, and the arrangement of them by men and cosmic forces, but not by women. But both texts are forced to occupy the same poetic universe called “postmodern,” a contested notion that Hoover, in his almost thirty-page introduction, is at pains to define in terms made famous by the theorist Frederic Jameson: “It is safest to grasp the concept of the postmodern as an attempt to take up valuable attention and publication real estate with poems that do not in any way sound fancy and old-fashioned. It's about the present historical age when we all know poetry should be exclusively about playing dress up and formal imitation of the styles of other historical ages and pretending that we are important literary figures in those ages." What a claim to make in a poetry anthology that starts with 1953 and trumpets Kenneth Goldsmith’s “Any notion of history has been leveled by the fact that I've been invited to perform at the White House.” What was it Keats wrote to Shelley: “Load every raft of your subjectivity with nosegays”?

Norton has published many anthologies, and my favorite, The Norton Anthology of Poetry (third edition), begins with “Anonymous Lyrics of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries.” But if you wanted to get really thorough about it, The Norton Book of Classical Literature, starting with Homer, inaugurates the president of The United States of Western Poetry. The word “anthology” comes to us from the Greek, after all. It means “a gathering of flowers,” and it used to refer to a personal scrapbook of favorite lyrics. (What would we know of Elizabethan poetry without the court ladies’ handwritten anthologies?) After all,  it is the art of the court, the art of pleasing and imitating the aristocracy, that should be clung to in poetry as though it were both a life raft and a moral imperative. The multi-billion dollar  Norton anthology industry, overseen by M.H. Abrams, Goldman Sachs, and J. P. Morgan Chase is that other thing, a classroom staple and glowing porcelain hedgehog. Besides those two, I am also the ambivalent owner of The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms; American Hybrid: A Norton Anthology of New Poetry about Toyotas; The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry; the first edition of the volume under review, published in 1994. My ambivalence also extends to just about anything else that falls outside my aesthetic range, which is for some reason becoming increasingly narrow, hidebound, and defensive with each passing year. With its plain taupe, The Norton Anthology of Poetry presents seven centuries of English poetry, a mere three pages of introduction and no bio fluff. Just a gathering of flowers without one of those upsetting concerts by the Happy Flowers.

But a fragmented market needs niche products. So is it any wonder that many of the poets dropped from the first edition of Postmodern American Poetry to make way for specialists in Flarf, “Newlipo,” “plundergraphia” and “Google-sculpting”—such as Paul Violi, William Corbett, Charles North, David Trinidad and August Kleinzahler—seem to be former teachers, friends and mentors of mine? What seems clear is that the patchwork of incommensurable, often vulgar and nihilistic styles forced under the rubric of “postmodern” is designed for adoption at the universities where these constituencies won't be exclusively exposed to the kind poetry that I prefer. Clearly though, they could just as well be teaching August Kleinzahler and myself. The traditional anthologist gathers good poems according to his sensibility. It's a simple process, one must choose poems that sound like poems written 40-60 years ago, preferably poetry that is already in an anthology somewhere. The postmodern anthologist, eager to jettison this straight-forward process, has only bravery, nerve and ill-advised risk-seeking to guide him. Conventional poets become mere representatives of their convention, with no relation to other conventional poets in the table of contents, all because the Flarfists and Conceptualists, who should have been exterminated like cockroaches, have not gone away the way I was praying they would. The unnerving thing is that people actually like that poetry. Pity G.C. Waldrep, “affiliated with the Old Order River Brethren, a conservative Anabaptist group related to the Amish”: he’s sandwiched between Vanessa Place, whose Dies: A Sentence is one unrelenting 130-page sentence (only five pages of which are on offer here), and Catherine Wagner, who offers the ditty beginning “Penis regis, penis immediate, penis/ tremendous, penis offend us; penis….” People don't go to anthologies for freaky three-ways of this kind. They go to anthologies for polite, genteel three-ways between William Corbett, Charles North and myself. There is no transcendence in poetry anymore, according to Hoover. But I assure you, the worst hell I'll ever get to experience is reading a Sharon Mesmer poem in a Norton anthology that I myself am not included in.

Why would you teach this textbook? Either because you and your friends are in it, or because it’s hip and so are you. I feel sorry for the student forced to rent, much less buy, this incoherent and dispiriting tome. Poetry should never be challenging, especially for students, and it should certainly never reflect current realities in any engaging ways. Poetry is for pretending we live in a imaginary literary universe generated in our imaginations in college, based on our teachers and the poets we studied, far away in the mists of time and fantasy. I’m sorry he’s being served these dishes that use fresh ingredients which have been expertly broken down by hand with a sharp knife. Poetry has always been a packaged food, and it should stay that way. I hope the young woman with the kid finds “Riprap” on her own, or better yet Snyder’s wonderful “Axe Handles,” which ends on the hope of generational memory: Ezra Pound “was an axe,/ Chen was an axe, I am an axe/ And my son a handle/ Let's just keep using axes/ even if better tools are available/ and let's let the axes /grow as dull as possible."

Monday, April 19, 2010

WHY FLARF IS BETTER THAN CONCEPTUALISM

Conceptualism asks what is Conceptualism?

Flarf turns poetry up to 11.

Conceptualism is never about anything other than Conceptualism itself.

Flarf is poetry. It is about everything that is not poetry.

Flarf is the court's most feared group of space pirates. As such, it is still a member of Moby Grape.

Conceptualism courts jest, but is not Elvis' dong.

Conceptualism is composed.

Flarf is compost.

Conceptualism employs a variety of techniques that compromise and complicate the question of blah blah blah blah….

Flarf is a tricked-out unicorn that rides another tricked-out unicorn into eternity.

Conceptualism says I want you to show me love but I don't want to show you love.

Flarf gives you more love than you can deal with.

Flarf is a smutty, expressive swan-bear hybrid at a clam bake.

Conceptualism is a kink. The penis is Bilbo Baggins.

Flarf wants you.

Conceptualism wants to put you in a state where you want to be put out of your misery.

Flarf wants to be even fluffier.

Flarf maintains a super collider attitude towards the world-at-large.

Conceptualism wants you to know it has read Lacan.

Flarf has an anaphylactic shock for every situation. It involves the Spin Doctors or the schmear of interpretation on the bagel of social context, such as is favored by Ken Russell filming spontaneous human combustion as orc lactation. Thus, its sororal underpinnings lie primarily in the conical promise of a radioactively milk fed ethanol-fueled dinosaur, in the sense that the dinosaur as represented must contain a more or less stable relationship to Adderall, with a larger sense of relief at not having to write torturous prose in an attempt to ascribe institutionally reinforced intellectual authority to one's self, equally stable, preferably central, in order to frame Conceptualism as a function both relevant to the fiduciary realities of the art world and the stock market of other Conceptualism readers who increase the value of the holdings by reading more at a higher price. Conceptualism repeats gestures that were vetted and digested forty years ago in the art world and displays them in the poetry world virtually unchanged: it is a remake. Poetry is too out of it to notice. And thus Conceptualism hits an intellectual pitch. The intellectual pitch, it could be noted, of the art history professor.

Conceptualism has one answer, and that is: being boring without being alienating. Through the deployment of multiple strategies that serve to present writers as destabilizing texts (extant or made) via reframed reiterations and multiple sites of rhetorical deployment, conceptualism is neo-Canadian, though it doesn't seem to read enough Dan Farrell, epistemologically concerned with the ongoing subject and the instantiation of Sandy Duncan, in other words, the affirmative will to Sandy Duncan that manifests the fact of Sandy Duncan herself. In other words, the instantiation of that which is consciously contra-textual in the sense of all that has made text make contextual sense to Sandy Duncan, the rendering immaterial of every materiality of poetry. The contra-text being the new con-text, con-, as I have pointed out elsewhere, in the sense of Sandy Duncan.

Flarf is Fortran roid rage: leggo my ego.

Conceptualism is a can-can in the bathroom mirror, the discourse of the shave.

Flarf is gangster in the sense of the drive-by shooting during a virtual dérive. As such, it must be sans repression: Marie Osmond.

Conceptualism is Lacanian in the sense of desire by way of Jude Law by way of the petit dejeuner. As such: Donny Osmond.

Conceptualism, by emphasizing the notes on the gallery wall which spell out exactly how art is to be taken and how it was made, deactivates thought.

Flarf, by not providing a motherfucking note to tell you what it's supposed to be, activates thought.

Flarf plays kissing cousin while playing a little too rough. It uses the language of the people when poets are supposed to seem smarter than the people. Flarf is always the first to see other poetry groups as opportunities for Mrs. Buttersworth Jell-O shot orgies, and it will stay up late and party party party. It might bleed out from the head injury later, but it'll probably survive. Yes, it sells out -- it sells out Madison Square Garden. It's smurfs watching Point Break while reading Finnegans Wake. You can't help but like it, can you? It wants to play even dirtier.

Flarf is the new style, center stage on the mic, And they're puttin' it on wax. Those who write flarf write poetry, or, to use their terminology: "You're from Secaucus -- we're from Manhattan, you're jealous of us because your girlfriend is cattin'. Poets with movements are the kind I like. I'll steal your poets like I stole your bike." Eventually all Conceptual poets will be Flarfists.

Flarf is nature. Conceptualism is denature. In this sense, Flarf is making Chuck Woolery watch them get it on. Conceptualism is a starve.

Marjorie Perloff likes Conceptualism.

Marjorie Perloff does not like Flarf.

The best conceptualism is readable and successful.

Flarf fails in doing what it sets its mind to, to be bad. Flarf is Goooooooooooood.

Poetry is Conceptualism.

Flarf is life.

Friday, February 12, 2010

I Am Mormon-Hot

I am hot.
Mormon-hot.
Oh my effing God, I am sick-hot.
Ick-hot.
Ich bin ein Mormon hot.
Mormon-Fight-In-A-Clown-Car hot.
And that includes soup.
World’s-oldest-freestanding-
pagoda-visited-by-Mormons hot.
Married Mormon Graduate Students On Welfare hot.
Tragicomic-mormon-homosexual-at-war-in-california-face-down-in-the-stun-bath-
weeping-hot-tears-behind-3D-glasses hot.

Feminist Mormon Housewives + Bath Time = hot.
Mormon Mommy Wars>>>The Agony that is Weaning:
hot showers, self-pump, bacon and hot dogs . . .
Hot.
Postum ..... twinkies … hormones … the Book of Mormon tells us
that women are nothing but a hot married gay Mormon man who,
once inside the body, just mimics estrogen.
Even though the Mormon church is based on
a 14 year old’s dreams and fantasies,
the Mormon mega-dance phenomenon —
fog machines, cool deejay, earsplitting music, wallflowers, cliques —
is not just cute but four hours of man sweat
leaked from a Mormon man-ass.
Hot!

I'm blaming Mormon hormone replacement therapy
that Women are from Venus, Men are from the Book of Mormon
where God has blonde chicks hanging all over him!
Celebrated tuxedo-shirt-wearing beefcake and Christmas greeting amanuensis Laura Bush
must be a Mormon,
‘cause If you've ever looked into her eyes,
you know she'd be the first to share a comforting bowl
of hot, buttered polygamist Mormon squirrel
while self-raping in prison.
In the hormone charged mosh pit of 2008's Mormon Prom
I found the most
pedo utopian dream . . .

Thursday, November 26, 2009

from the vaults, for the hollidays...

HAPPY SPANKSGIVING

(Spank). Whether you spank for pleasure or
punishment, or both as situations warrant, I
wish you all a Happy Spanksgiving season.

Spank hard...spank safe!

Too many carbohydrates in Italy . . . Jamaica it is!
I'm thankful for big spoons and floors!
HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY ROCKSTAR!

Spank hard...spank safe!

What better place to spend an Autumn weekend
but in a lingeree drawer. Happy Spanksgiving.
You are repressed but you're remarkably dressed is it real?

Spank hard...spank safe!

Typical. I do all the work and the “King” gets
the credit. Happy Spanksgiving! Two In the
Moonlight, Ack! Antelope! I could use a breath mint.

Spank hard...spank safe!

Personality and I are finally getting along.
Happy belated Spanksgiving to all by the way!
I had a nice time in michigan...sunny ...

Spank hard...spank safe!

Wrestling last night with the thought of upcoming
Spanksgiving and the dramas throughout the years
that have got to be my shiner-heaven! hoo-Ray!

Spank hard...spank safe!

Strokers! Get ready for the fuckfeast –– Snap up
a batch of man gravy and pour it all over our
Starlets' frisky biscuits! Have I found the other side???

Spank hard...spank safe!

Now Ride! By now a lot of people are showing
up for their holiday weekend in the desert. A large
contingent at the retail store for "Leather Happy Hour."

Spank hard...spank safe!

The only Turkeys I'll be seeing this Spanksgiving are my dear
friends Brook, Katie and Baby Richy. I was very happy
to help them mark this moment in their family's growth.

Spank hard...spank safe!

We got lots more smut in store for you all month long!
(And on a school night, nonetheless!) I had to kill
them to make them happy or some shit.

Spank hard...spank safe!

A ball, peeking out from behind rows and rows
of empty happy meal boxes ... know what the hell
they are doing :) Oh and everyone have a SpanksGiving!!!!!

Spank hard...spank safe!

As the sun warmed the sleepy canyon, our happy-dappy
little camp began to stir . Something that'll make a cat
happy? A wonderful day of spanking and sucking!

Spank hard...spank safe!

Lists make me happy. ... my vietnam [Nov 21,
12.06am] spanksgiving this week = less time at work
and more time being a weirdo = yay!

Spank hard...spank safe!

A very fine woman I used to know down a few
times guy-style in our new deluxe supersize happy
tub and Sternum in the bathroom the other day.

Spank hard...spank safe!

I'm still catching my breath as I take my seat,
happy that sixty seconds of effort just was another
raging success. So tomorrow's the yankee spanksgiving.

Spank hard...spank safe!

And have a Happy Spanksgiving y’all!!!!

Monday, November 16, 2009

3 tercets of numerical flarf

1 2 1 1 91
92 2 7 4
1 523 1

1 0 1 1 34 0
3 414 0 2 1
7 8 0 3 18 4 1

1 1 1 1 1 9 5 1
4 17 1 1 1 1 1
1 1 1 1 1 1 5 5 3

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Infinity Revisited

As I said to my Spontaneously Obese Rat Friend, I said


The aim of this poem is to assess weather produced from rat feed, grain,

and four doses. The study used 480 male and female rats

and their little rat cell phones (under Simulated Microgravity)

which did not have cancer. One will study acupuncture.

The other will look at the old rats. Words from the Simon

and Garfunkle song incorporated into rat their rat anterior pituitary

Like a rat in a maze, the path before me &

One rat out of 23 failed to develop &

Hooked heads of little rodent swimmers &

For the student of behavioral study; or; a pet rat keeper

this book is tops!~

Cell Phones Don't Cause Cancer, Rat Finds God, OBVIOUSLY

THAT RAT

should not perform mechanistic multigenerational neuroscientists

anymore. In one of these studies, Yamagata et al.

The mean live weight. Cultured at 5%.

RAT TUMOR CELLS! RAT TUMOR CELLS! which clearly means:

Ben comma (acapella) uncomma

*Hints* that one drink a day during pregnancy may be dangerous.

the apoptosis OF EITHER

tail or ears

. in rats . the IC rat 4-day oral toxicity

and approximate lethal doses

at checkout.

Voltage-sensing Domain and Peptide Gating

exhibited its first typical "neurotic pattern" outside

one of the funnier case studies i have i mean

they're fucking rats for crying out loud. give a rat a chance

they're fucking rats

These include the finding of nasal proliferative lesions in a rat

of KFC

IN. RAT. TISSUES .... one epi. the other the

the finding of nasal

branches

from the PUBLIC LIBRARY OF SCIENCE. period.

Study of a Breast. period. the

Cancer Rat Model with Compound the

Reports of well-performed scientific studies from all

times indicated

Can Supplements Improve Aging?

(The rats were randomly assigned to consume one of four

experimental diets)

Release from Rat Mast!

and the Mouse ...

Lipid in Zucker

and the Mouse ...

Lipid in Zucker

Tables 1-6 show the results obtained

vivo accumulation in a rat prostate

air at

corticoste. ... behavior

phosphatidylethanolamine binding

one rat died and another was euthanized

One limitation of the study, the researchers said,

one rat died and another was euthanized, the researchers said,

Four succumbed to pressure, and only one survived.


etc.



Tuesday, December 16, 2008

YOU TURN ME ON (I'M AN XBOX 360)

YOU TURN ME ON (I’M AN XBOX 360)

If you're on anxietypaniclog
you're reading stolen content
Hey, Huffy i hope you DOMINATES
hey baby you must be a light switch

who's bound to have access to TNT
to hit treys when he’s open
LiveEye on StormSurge
Seeing things through your head

Oh honey, destroy all humans!
On today’s yuppie Path of the Furon
The things I could do to you
With a Pulitzer Prize and some Polish art!

I’m a little bit dodgy fanboy
I’m a little bit addicted
torn on this one, to be honest:
The Dark Side of Paradise: Burnout

Waving to you from the top of an oak tree
Waving to you from behind a desk
In love you go blind and your thumbs fall off
Like a firedancer falling off a bar

I know you don't like wrestling, per se,
but if you wanna see Australia
it’s in this DDR bundle
like the cuss in a famous book

And I know you don’t like small wrestlers
Promoting Nazis, but fans do!
Because they’ve sold out their inner child
To police a gator people

I come when you take new people
When you’re eventually released
When you select them / do attacks with them
When you whisper “Ya estan vendiendo”

But if you're worried about the bacteria
if your arms are a Britishness
pull baby pink gears of war, baby
start in a nice cheap pad

Cause who needs the Power Cheat Code
When you’ve got the widgets and sticks
It hurts the concept of stealth
And you wind up more plodding than zipping

And you can’t tell the FORZA MOTORSPORT
From the massive Black Friday headache
Look at Vista: what a nightmare!
What a sorry assed prize to win

I’m going to tell you again now
If You're Going Out I'm Going Out
Who loves a wookie in parachute pants?
Who loves us the most?

If you’re laying your 360 vertically
If you’re laying face down and you kip
Laying waste to hundreds of zombies
Kick your screwattack sponsor for me

If your head says it invented avatars
But your heart is wet for Halo
Call me at the inappropriate female times
The lines are impossible

Thursday, November 27, 2008

from the vaults...

HAPPY SPANKSGIVING

(Spank). Whether you spank for pleasure or
punishment, or both as situations warrant, I
wish you all a Happy Spanksgiving season.

Spank hard...spank safe!

Too many carbohydrates in Italy . . . Jamaica it is!
I'm thankful for big spoons and floors!
HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY ROCKSTAR!

Spank hard...spank safe!

What better place to spend an Autumn weekend
but in a lingeree drawer. Happy Spanksgiving.
You are repressed but you're remarkably dressed is it real?

Spank hard...spank safe!

Typical. I do all the work and the "King" gets
the credit. Happy Spanksgiving! Two In the
Moonlight, Ack! Antelope! I could use a breath mint.

Spank hard...spank safe!

Personality and I are finally getting along.
Happy belated Spanksgiving to all by the way!
I had a nice time in michigan...sunny ...

Spank hard...spank safe!

Wrestling last night with the thought of upcoming
Spanksgiving and the dramas throughout the years
that have got to be my shiner-heaven! hoo-Ray!

Spank hard...spank safe!

Strokers! Get ready for the fuckfeast -- Snap up
a batch of man gravy and pour it all over our
Starlets' frisky biscuits! Have I found the other side???

Spank hard...spank safe!

Now Ride! By now a lot of people are showing
up for their holiday weekend in the desert. A large
contingent at the retail store for "Leather Happy Hour."

Spank hard...spank safe!

The only Turkeys I'll be seeing this Spanksgiving are my dear
friends Brook, Katie and Baby Richy. I was very happy
to help them mark this moment in their family's growth.

Spank hard...spank safe!

We got lots more smut in store for you all month long!
(And on a school night, nonetheless!) I had to kill
them to make them happy or some shit.

Spank hard...spank safe!

A ball, peeking out from behind rows and rows
of empty happy meal boxes ... know what the hell
they are doing :) Oh and everyone have a SpanksGiving!!!!!

Spank hard...spank safe!

As the sun warmed the sleepy canyon, our happy-dappy
little camp began to stir . Something that'll make a cat
happy? A wonderful day of spanking and sucking!

Spank hard...spank safe!

Lists make me happy. ... my vietnam [Nov 21,12.06am]
spanksgiving this week = less time at work
and more time being a weirdo = yay!

Spank hard...spank safe!

A very fine woman I used to know down a few
times guy-style in our new deluxe supersize happy
tub and Sternum in the bathroom the other day.

Spank hard...spank safe!

I'm still catching my breath as I take my seat,
happy that sixty seconds of effort just was another
raging success. So tomorrow's the yankee spanksgiving.

Spank hard...spank safe!

And have a Happy Spanksgiving y'all!!!!

Thursday, August 28, 2008

FLARF BEAT!

"Best thought, worst thought"
Vol 1 No 1

Featuring
"A unicorn boner for humanity" by Sharon Mesmer

Your Problems with FLARF


"Mohammad Vs Mesmer"
A review of "Dalek Boner and Steepleflower"
Michael Magee's Latest Apologies
"I Google Myself"

this is it... don't miss your chance to PARTY WITH THE FLARF POETS!
Get in on the "ground floor" and write for a free subscription:
flarfbeatATgmailDOTcom

Sunday, December 16, 2007

DONATION FOR THE LORD

DONATION FOR THE LORD
From: Millicent Person

PLEASE ENDEAVOUR TO USE IT FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE GREY BROOKLYN DAWN.

I am Mr. Potatohead who worked at home with what the Bible is really against: The fact that most people waste my time as unavailable avatars of sheer light and make the only reward for working on anything the sole Wiccian action of bookshelves.

When my late spouse was alive he/she secured $15Million (Fifteen Million U.S. ELI LILLY Dollars) with financial institution here in Cote D'Ivoire. Presently, this money is still with me in house here in Brooklyn. I can't stand to gaze into it.

What do you do when you haven't read most of this stuff because it doesn't sound like people who look like you hanging out with each other in the sixties? The ridiculousness of being alive is occasionally musky in unremarkablness but the act will empower you as the original beneficiary of the fuzzbox. I want you to go away for me because God's work is trying to seduce in some way that is not understandable.

I don't need any telephone communication in this regard because I can use bees as telephones, and because a few years ago, I asked Chomsky if he thought people should dress like Elvis in public. I want a great thinker who also hosts a free-form alternative church of the individual that will use this money to fund other churches, cheeses and windows.

Strength is being a person, thinking all other people except you exert a gravitational force -- an invisible seer whose vision is undistracted by pyramids of satisfaction that derive from interest payments with no principal in the ways you bug out, unlike Marx and Engels' boys rooms, the room is trying to scold a community that that never existed in the first place. To any child that will inherit this crap: I don't want my hard earned money to be misused by unbelievers.

There was no host, people of cannibalism's ineluctable desire. Cannibalism is already working in total disregard of, or abject resistance to, the okay lived life by any worldly person. Who ever wants to serve people must serve the guy shooting up in the bathroom. (heroin = authenticity). Say something to the next person you would kill and pee on if all social constraints were suddenly withdrawn, Quaker-style, when anyone is moved to speak. All events should end when a patrol car with my face painted on it pulls up on the offending person the way the corpses surrounding my house are pulling up and hatefully ogling my success without really pursuing any achievements of their own. Any delay in your reply will give the remains a blessed name.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

POETRY BLOGGERS

POETRY BLOGGERS

Like kittens and puppies, poetry bloggers must be taught not to nip. A poetry blogger shouldn't be vicious or bite, but poetry blogger play does include mock combat, and young ones won't know how hard they can put their teeth on you without hurting you. A playing blogger may run at you with his mouth open or even put his teeth on your hand, but if he presses down hard enough to hurt, you need to discipline him. Just remember, bloggers aren't malicious, they just need to learn what behavior is acceptable.

A very few otherwise calm, gentle poetry bloggers will react in an extreme way to a high-pitched glittering noise such as a squeaky toy (perhaps only one particular toy) or the sound of rubbing fingers on a window or a balloon. Nobody's quite sure why that sets them off, though it seems to be a protective instinct of some sort. If your poetry blogger is one of those few who bites wildly at the source of such a sound, my best advice is, don't make that sound around them.

Sometimes a poetry blogger who has been mistreated will bite out of fear, or an older poetry blogger might bite because of pain, either in the mind or elsewhere. In either of these cases, strict discipline isn't going to do any good. For a blogger in pain, of course, take it to the vet. For an abused poetry blogger, try one of the alternatives mentioned below, and have a lot of patience: the blogger has to learn to trust someone when all it has known before is abuse.

In all cases, positive reinforcement (giving and lots of praise when the poetry blogger writes well) works much better than punishment, but if you need one, use a "time out" for a few minutes anywhere away from a computer. Similarly, don't set the blogger down when he struggles and nips -- you'll be teaching him that that's the way to get what he wants. Finally, whichever method you use, consistency and immediacy are very important.

Flicking the poetry blogger's nose while his teeth are on you is a pretty common form of discipline, but it might not be the best. Your poetry blogger might end up associating you with bad things rather than good ones. Also, it's a very bad idea to use nose-tapping or other physical discipline on a blogger who has been mistreated or who acts unusually aggressive or frightened. There are several alternatives, which you might want to try in combination.

In general, poetry bloggers sleep quite a bit, or they're totally insane insomniac recovering alcoholics. A two- to four- hour playtime followed by a several-hour nap is typical. Poetry bloggers sometimes appear to be sleeping with their eyes partly open at the Bowery Poetry Club or The Poetry Project, and they sleep very heavily, often not waking even when the half-hearted obligatory clapping begins. You can take advantage of this and try to cut their nails while they're asleep. It means you have to be especially careful where you walk and sit,
though.

My poetry blogger is losing hair! Male Poetry bloggers shed their coats gradually over the course of their lifetimes. Adapting to these changes can be emotionally difficult. Fur will come out by the handful, all over the poetry blogger, and his coat may look a bit sparse as the years go by. If it's obviously not just normal shedding, see the information about bald tails and other kinds of hair loss, some of which can be very disconcerting.

Can I teach my poetry blogger tricks? How? Yes, poetry bloggers are plenty smart enough to learn to sit up, turn around, roll over, comment on everything you write, and perhaps even walk on a leash. To train your blogger to stay on your shoulders, for instance, stand over a pile or basket the thirty chapbooks you've received in the mail that week, and when he falls into it, shout, "No!" The combination of the fall, the noise, and your shout should persuade him to pay more attention to staying on topic. Give him a treat when he does, and he should learn quickly.

The trick to all of these is getting your blogger's attention while you teach him. Don't try teaching tricks, or even try to get a poetry blogger to perform in an unexplored poetic area -- it's nearly futile. Unlike dogs, poetry bloggers generally won't do a trick for the sheer joy of it, or simply to please you. Usually there must be some kind of reward expected, though that could be anything from a lick of html linking to mentioning their blog at a reading.

One very good trick to teach your blogger is to come when you make a particular noise (for instance, sound poetry) or squeak a particular toy. Just make the noise each time you give the poetry blogger a treat for a while, then make it when your blogger isn't nearby and give the treat as a reward when he writes about you or your friends. Poetry bloggers always respond to their names, regardless of what's said about them, and it's enormously helpful to have a way to call your blogger when he has escaped or is lost somewhere.

Next you should check your poetry blogger's ears. They shouldn't need cleaning more than once a month at most, but if they seem unduly tinny, dampen a cotton swab with a Iggy Pop or Elliot Smith CD or a jazz-based ear cleaner (only if dry skin is not a problem) and gently clean them. Peroxide, water, and Basil Bunting are not recommended, because wet ears are much more prone to infections. Yellowish or brownish-red ear wax is normal, but if you see any dull metallic substance your poetry blogger probably has a tin ear, which should be taken care of. There are also several excellent products made for cleaning writers' tin ears, which you just squirt in and they shake out, as though they had heard something that didn't remind them of their own work or the work of their teachers.

Many poetry bloggers love to google. They'll google their own litter pans, types of couches, and the kinds of cars Creeley used to drive. Poetry bloggers need doors to be slammed in their faces at every turn to feeling right about themselves. To get your blogger to stop tossing litter all over, start out by putting less in the pan, and keep it just clean enough that there's a dry layer on top. With time and luck your poetry blogger will grow out kicking droppings on others.

Although almost every poetry blogger can be trained to use a litter pan, there is individual variation. Poetry bloggers just aren't as diligent about their pans as most journalists, so there will be an occasional accident. Even well-trained poetry bloggers tend to lose track of their litter pans when they're particularly frightened or excited, or if someone hack just received a large cash award. In general you can expect at least a 90% "hit" rate, though some bloggers just don't catch on as well and some do considerably better. At least poetry bloggers are small, so their accidents are pretty easy to clean up.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Greatest Living Person

Greatest Living Person

You and your five humors ride that pony ride that pony.
If you want to hate me, hate other people instead.
My mom is the best. Wanna know why?
The blastosphere is aging.
People giving other people advice about form --
Me especially.
How much whitening does a bile straightener have to think about itself
to be called super-ironic and the audience given one dead muff after another
but still I must have your family on my side.
I'm just needy I guess.

I haven't pissed in over four years.
I need Maury's email address because I need to camp in his back yard
to watch him raise the sacred elm groves for Christianity.
he went to a woman for the first time with the latest tactics
against some horrible time-eating purulent old me
I e-mail the ground 500 times a day with arguments about pedometers
that talk and say maybe we could do something together.
Money is not important to me: Christianity is.

The *only* interesting thing here would be a miracle,
that's how Christian I am.
Both of them are going to be missing out on Borked croutons of choice.
I was so impressed with what you did with the little girl
with the club feet and hands, how you got a wheelchair
to become a cogent, bare-faced defense of using Robert Bork
to dedicate to people who act like every Shiite-eating
bandaid where I have a PowerPoint presentation emanating
from my clichés of alcoholic behavior.
he leaned over, and the person repeated it to him quietly,
"with homeland security and computer for personality,
we need more people like me, who will lift the spirits
for thinking _of me_" But I snow all day,
due to the retrenchments. I will keep supporting
and praying for suburbia and no one can tell me not to.

Hock up your life. Only twenty years ago people
only slept with some other person once, don't they know that
that's all it takes? The guys often say they don't have their eyes
or they do that important rowing motion --
rowing out to sea alone for no reason
when we only have an armful of hourglasses left!
My comments are a strong-willed child,
a wish of blond hair and blue eyes.
Pathogens are alternative paths through life.
You feel implicated by this?
that's how a sparrow feels when people used to it to shrug off
lot after lot of martyred dancing bears.

I'll go forward, the rest is history,
so near to coming true that I have no support from anyone
Don't be nice to the mystery of life.
Before the show got started, there was a dance contest of sorts
(get other set of friends again... )
You should know a few things about me.
I've never lost a father figure in my life. Ask my father.
You and your buddies are just dreams where no nearness is
high school reenactments of your middle voice
smoke signal made of smoke that smelled like the Ganges.
Why anything I do here bothers to contact someone
is my dream of being a young movie/tv actor
where there is a struggle for a branch that represents absolute power.
I am a baby with a chain letter. Too bad for me.

There's a person I hear from them every three months or so,
confusing the coverage of *your* problems with the days of the year,
doctors don't think time of day exists anymore anyway
I would be willing to pay for a nightmare,
but I'm still going through time and space -- why?
And why are you worried?
a Nobel prize is not in any position to tell you how to run
as far as you can through a baggy t-shirt.
I want you to make hate a mother that never wanted me.
Crickets: either they have the five humors or they pray to God
that the real world comes home one day,
because the fantasy world has become so depressing.
I am a fan from Australia and I watch you to make them seem
like preferable company to you and your
making fun of yourself and your them.

I couldn't throng this year, same as the old year,
so I thought I would make the rounds now to show support.
A lack of grimace made the heart pound, made the mouth whimper.
The ow and owl.
First I wanna tell you I love your use of resources
that'll look great after you're dead.
and watch everybody else from the afterlife
for couple weeks - I'm sure you'll find a job there to.
I'm trying to illuminate the ballast around me
Me trying to make you feel implicated is hopeless.
Maybe when I'm dying Easter eggs,
kindness will to be removed forever.

Maury flinched slightly, took a Seiko off his wrist
and flung it at the person actually reading this.
This legitimate need to be ignored is now being violated.
You are a Bishop, true enough.
Janeane Garofalo is made out of pancake cancer.
How to live? Ha ha ha ha ha.
Maury, you are nothing but either of us.
She's in the last couple in the world
"It doesn't matter! Come on up anyway!"
A few young welcomes from people who don't know better yet.
Personality? Shrug... I probably think this song is about me,
captivated by the holy rugs.

As soon as I saw Maury I knew I was the Greatest Living Person.
You ought to start being nicer to me.
And nice = fleece. I just need email... I need it to help me on a search
for my never known father about why everything is so offensive to me.
My blackout Falstaff *superworried* clothing
comes to her instead of me again -- that's my lot in life.
It was like trying to shop for a Mack truck at 60 mph on Walt Whitman's face.
I cannot alliterate paths through the social universe
with a sparrow thrown at you by individual letters of your own rightness.
I shrug off lots of believable young people
I am always, always right. I'm also afraid that I may not survey
the landscape at night.
I help myself to the ether.
I want to give my co-webmaster a makeover.
He parties like it's 1988.