ASO warming up for Beethoven 9

that thing

"shit is hard."

and I too feel that. beat. hate,

the words I

use because I can feel them

stuck to my hands.

im getting turned down

and over

and off

and getting spanked

for being too much

in too little a space

that I can’t or won’t leave

and I can’t and won’t love

like my hands pressing something that isn’t mine

into my chest

that thing

thump

one. two.

I’m getting turned down by smiles.

why does she try?

when I don’t and won’t and

it’s that we both.

lied and though

I knew

and she knew

what it was

it is still

a surprise everytime,

that thing.

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."

I don't believe in God and I feel like the universe is full of malovolence, if not merely indifference.

"Spring" of "The Five Seasons" from "Court Composer for the King of Jupiter, Suite for Solo Guitar"

Hare Krishna

All these symbols
relics
of a past

threatened by threads,

shunned &
shunted

sign at the bottom
giving hints

label
these ghosts:
"iron wrought vacation"
"tricolor scooter"
"what collided with last fall"

anthropoplasmic
disconjuct

save it
for
something meaningful
working at a bank

trying to reassemble
torn frequencies

to halve
and hold
bivalve lover
my cherry-blossom
saint scaling white
blood-flung
tongue
tipping chairs
from their heels
face-first
forgotten forever
oblivionic temporeality
clutching brain
decidedly immense
swaddled in marrow-lust


felt which
example
was
kinetic, which static,
and possibly
errata of possibility
shatter-storm
of crustaceans
"maelstrom carapaces."


at this point,
no congealed soul
would swim
not even
given a glimpse
back into reverie
nor would
animals, microcosmic
representations
of selves, or totems
all of our trivial
collections
lose purpose

some one kick
out of this
dream

and shove us
off our stumps!

and all of a sudden they were gone!


the letters the font the sounds and tastes

of them

each had a home. family, and a pet,

except for “k” who lived in a box and wrote stories about himself.

behest

this is me writing about pelicans soaked in oil, the death gasp of the Gulf of Mexico, bubbling

this is not a work of fiction

ill never eat again, he proclaimed, because there's hardly any world left.

the air and earth burning

and the sun like the moon

void.

Today I will be inside me (ongoing)

And walk in feet of glass. Terror floats on tiny boats of wood and diamond dust.
My nose, a resting place for a time from the unfathomable hole in the center of the earth. That strange thing, the vortices; blind heights and depths. Close your eyes. A rabbit. It always was. Waiting for me. The romance of beasts climbing trees. The hot breeze sagging. In limbo, breathing, we touch toes. She is herself again today. A sigh of relief.

She is hot on my body, my disembodied house. She is moving my lips with her lips and teaching me love speech on a dirty sheet. The rightness or wetness? The daylight on leaves? My mind was bigger than that moment and that has always been the problem.

She gave me monkey kisses. Her tongue thrust in my mouth tastes of iron solace. The boats pass and come like hours on beaches in grains and dusts of heat. The optimistic light, the wet, the liminal walk between sand and water, flesh and air and finding the exact middle of myself.

Eyes twinned, ears twinned, ass and breasts. A mouth, a nose, a cunt only one.

Pulp: Juice

Love is what makes cars cars. Experts rate an array. Better homes consumed by infinity. Regenerists say, "Au Lait." What if the person of your dreams was free? Communications like intellect and midnight. Original great bonus dollars.

Today I will be inside me. I'm in Thailand and I've just landed a 400 pound scientific team. They did experiments of all sorts on me: terrifying slashing. I've been defeated before. Violence and bloodletting is a way of life. The region is lost in the dark heart.

TAR ARCH TAPES!

Genital Accent Piece by Tar Arch Tapes

Philosophical Event

Exist. Then, don't.

Patriotic Event

Gather together the flags of all the world's countries and burn them, then eat a carrot.

Nine Malic Molds

Nine Malic Molds by The Cake Dancers

This is a work in progress. It's one of several tracks on the upcoming album.

Almost Naked, Who Showed Her Vulva In Exchange For Small Nails

(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.)

10 comments:

Emily said...

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April 27, 2010 1:18 PM

Emily said...

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April 27, 2010 1:19 PM

Emily said...

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April 27, 2010 1:19 PM

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April 28, 2010 9:26 AM

I Am Bells said...

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April 28, 2010 10:25 AM

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April 28, 2010 10:28 AM

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April 29, 2010 1:40 PM

Rev. Lester Tisdale IV said...

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April 30, 2010 8:31 AM

Rev. Lester Tisdale IV said...

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April 30, 2010 8:33 AM

Rev. Lester Tisdale IV said...

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April 30, 2010 8:33 AM