Do mythic pair double-u

skip’un is damn bangladesh fashion hive sniffin essex (skee’ole! so) surly fuss and oboe boas. Sis flew modeless fair sat sofa faye, “Ham puff lit pass ajar edges.”
“Glow shack is this damn officer?”
“Sensei’s fib sob,” hide kazoo.
“Zoe wrote hat?”
“Erode.”
“Dandy sops paid, end five fellow ices.”
“Rotor sap dishes broke?”
“Dishrag do,” Sofia said. “A real ox soap.”
“Weep eh? e-tard. A prêt. His trachea heckle minnow. Nice pasta sifty beefy access low!”
“Hush! Half-raid! Wore!”

On November 19th Mei Mei Berssenbrugge and Tao Lin are coming to read in Baton Rouge. They are crazy people, who we are lucky to have. Mei Mei is a very well-recognized and unfortunately soft-spoken poet, and Lin is a blizzard of funky gizzards. This reading is part of my move to make the Baton Rouge literary community not a piece of shit. We're spending some money to have these two high-caliber poets come and read in a very nice venue with the hope of really opening our community's interest in writing. .

I have decided that my Bruit Flow project is Baton Rouge. I would like to give a presentation in the future on my work developing the literary community here.

Sam

Mei Mei Berssenbrugge is the author of ten collections of poetry, including Fish Souls, Summits Move with the Tide, Random Possessions,Sphericity, and The Four Year Old Girl. Her work has been described as "spiritual exercises in physical form." Ms. Berssenbrugge has received fellowships from the NEA and two American Book Awards from the Before Columbus Foundation.

Tao Lin is the author of two collections of poetry, you are a little bit happier than i am and cognitive-behavioral therapy, as well as two novels, Richard Yates and Eeeee Eee Eeee & Bed, all published in the past four years. Gawker magazine has called him "maybe perhaps the single most irritating person we've ever had to deal with."

(for Laura)

Dr nun Watson, he jests rotund from feasted prey, in flight from cyst pruning. Dolts like him feed on grits. The escaping wren discos denim, a stunt lard-bled at duty’s end. You are free from his wall, pride, and junk. Ballet to your ford pronto and have a rare thing—a thigh in your face, nude to accept your smut. His wish was to jinx us (the new dolt) to sum that stunt. Your gun bang charged free punting in manners of brass rutting calves. The all-world cast panting his jingle (a trim "prick-gag" comes to mind). End your iffy simulation noting the bits and throbbing fists. You razz that jingle up full mast, a pubic foci, three seconds sleepless. Ship-rend the nun and his gob, the naked stud. Dunk and crack for them in the stands, ratty as nudes rotting. Never stepping from quarters, you rule so like Tut in hell, students waking in this jailer’s reaping hut, for fields of wrecked expertise. They are knotted together that your stalactite laced tenors ferment rinds, flies lining up in numbers and numbers. Three seconds of a century in ruptured tipsy scud with the product of their jailor. Perhaps you have not censored dread and dust with that wild crass shield. He pants rasping dry, scarred by you, the theater child, grandchild or reverent writer, held together and given to throbs. He tenderly typed one block of text and he’s spraying servo juice, the product of reassembled companions. Five days you considered casting his public ruts to light, considered what might master flies like. I highly approve your nippy report, a snarl.

(This is a spell-check poem based on a letter one of my professors wrote to Printing Services for me. It's not a usual spell check poem, as I didn't actually use spell-check, I mostly corrected the spellings myself, occasionally taking inspiration from the checker and adding to the syntax as I felt necessary. I'm so happy that it developed into an address to the professor herself. I'm going to read it and the original letter tonight at the Delta release party.)

tumor and the wolf

fished wolf
west prowling but the morning
such a fad
passed the dry-cut belt
the first, hard mother
sees her child cut
wall threw the window and
the wolf shall to the wolf sty
all dying to drive
the van
hard the sum win
fondling her child and sing: cut new
and the Wolf shod cowl kills him.
to wolf,
hang these words
want him
gong with clad and hungry
sad or thoughtless

toad the frog

drinking place, trod bard
frogs and crashed
them ditch the mother
coming and messing her suns
nard his brothers
what had bum him
dad, dry mother
flay in new jest
very best with fray
grit fetched the place
crashed in ditch with his clan
alto frog puffing herself
the best west big
that nard smotherer
puff self sad snob
and knit angry
fray weld sir
sir burst then successfully
mitt the hens that monster

missal things can’t heap ten and try