Egg Boy

My god, time passes!

It looks out the window,

yawning very strangely.

Hitler and Himmler

and other H's drift

past and yet the wind

also blows by,

yipping and yapping

and removing

the finish from the

furniture. O, it's so bare!

My seats, empty of

their patina! Shit!

Love, I want

you to sit with me

awhile, not unlike

the egg a baby chick

kicks at!

I'm Doing Some Reading This Week!

A little tour with my pal Michael Schavio starts tomorrow.

In the Future

I get super nervous. Like nervous in

a spectacular fashion. Such that my battered

brains get so bubbly that I just can't

help but take it out a little on the world.

So in this way, I am flawed.

It's like that Space Shuttle that blew up.

It was flawed, too.

But humans get these softer flaws, these

fleshy little plump flaws, that one could

almost suck on like a woman's nipple.

But it's not nipple at all. It's not even a

human. When the years

begin to choke the squirrels from my throat

I believe I shall be moved to the window

where I will open it and say something

absolutely very important.

What May Happen

When the time comes to transfer

the funds from the less stable what-ma-thingy

to the more stable whipper will, please bring your

paper towels and the bleach. Also, it might be nice

to have those surgical gloves. The interesting thing

about gloves is how they provide a layer, a boundary,

a fence (if you will) between the weird yard of your

skin and the weird yard of the thing you're touching.

Often, on lab days, when no one's around and

the secretaries are at lunch, I will open the scroll

that reads, like, like a menu of torture methods. I always

stop about mid-way through, fatigue mounting

me into a prison bitch. Lazing on the sofa,

dreaming of the time change, dreaming of the Jedi,

dreaming of the weird dreams of sleepwalk. Still,

to relieve the pressure, I'm going to have to

move quicker than I am accustomed to. I am used

to being very slow and snail-ish. I'm usually

proud of my sloth, but these days, with the economy

how it is and with all the regular bullshit

of regular living, I find my normally stable brain

is teetering and then, like a tiny bird egg, I'm somehow

lost in the grass and the perfect vegetable for a snake.

Having Real Ideas

No one cares if this is written or if I say

something or nothing. No one cares if, for once,

something happens or doesn't. I know people

who have strong feelings, but very few

of them know my initials. I have parents but

they have no bullhorns or cheer routines. No

one cares if I move on to something else, or if I stick

to something for a long, long, lengthy time.

Time gets very stretchy, like warmish taffy.

Time possess a similarity in sweetness and plasticity.

Also, there are wars and rumors of wars.

Also, for god so loved his something.

Also, there are different allusions that could be created

and many of them could be biblical in nature.

For instance, well, I think this has been covered.

For instance, fear not, for thou are with me, be

very afraid because I'm not easy to find but

I'm watching from a vase of fake flowers!

Nothing to Do

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Gotta do this fucking poem!

Cheerleader

The big danger here

is lying

and not much to

say about it, but that

that danger is real

and, dude,

I could lie

or not lie

but the danger

is real.

So, when

you can,

change,

and, well,

if you can't

don't but

just

blame

yourself,

yea.

Car Ride

I

hope

I ain't

that

bad

a dad

cause

I try

but

it's

got

hard on

it cause

life

is

not

for

the

new

people

like

me

Realer

I don't believe in ghosts. Meaning,

I don't believe that spirits live on or something

and then kinda float around knocking things over

and causing water pipes to make extra nosies

and/or maybe making semi-scary moaning

sounds and/or appearing as bright orbs or

something in the background or foreground

of photographs. I know people say they've

seen ghosts and heard ghosts and felt

ghostly presences and all of that, but I don't

buy it. I think all of those people are in some way

mistaken. I don't think they're lying, I just think

they're confused about what happened. Have you

been confused before? It's an unpleasant sensation.

To remedy this sensation, human beings come

up with explanations. These explanations vary

in their degree of believability. I myself have

believed stuff before. That sensation is much

more enjoyable than the sensation of confusion.

Confusion feels funny in your bones. It might

shift around a little and make you feel as if you're

on a boat. That boat may be in a storm. That

storm may be causing giant waves to crash on

the deck. That deck needed to be cleaned anyway.

The death of the sailors is like the death of all

ghosts, sinking to the floor of the ocean and waiting

there, patiently, for something to make them realer.

The Rescue Operation

I told the girl I would try one of her

funky poems and I will, but not now, because

funky poems are hard poems and this

kind of poetry here is easier and more likely

to cause my mind to wander. I keep thinking

of the beasts in the field and the soil in

the earth. I also think of the yolk in the egg

and the egg in the belly of the alligator. I can

imagine the air lifting the leaves and the

trees teeming with certain grubs. I keep

thinking of the shellfish in the sea

and the water that it takes to move

a large, large ship through the ocean. I am

barely thinking of the girl now. Barely

imagining how she forms words with her

mouth and with the words she forms

whole rotations and spins. Sometime,

in the dark volcano of clocks, something will

rise up and up and, like a bird or a

paper airplane, sail out of this joint, into

the box where the rest of us are waiting

with our tied, tiny hands and our gags.

Big Auto

I've got this thing to do, see,

this thing to do, see,

see, I got this thing to do.

You know man, I've got

activities, man. Really,

you should pay attention.

Really, seriously,

I've got this thing to do so

I do it. Or it's midnight

and the largest car

on earth is just starting.

New PPP! Review in H_ngm_n!

"Peter Davis is able to say so much without saying, essentially, anything."

Bird Hopes

This is the sort of joke

that doesn't have a punch line

so I only mention it to make

some point I'm unaware of.

Shanna was talking about

training parrots and I'm down

with that and I'm sure others

are too. We all want to rule

parrots and make them

do our bidding. Ruling parrots

is the essence of humanity.

Also, I want to ride a jaguar

to work and, on arrival,

I want to enter my

office on the back

of a turtle and use some

sort of dinosaur blood to

endorse my paycheck,

Tina.

The Spirit World

I'm searching for the answers

and they ain't appearing no where

and so every redneck

with a guitar will do just fine

by me, seeing as how I've got

nothing to feel good or bad

about and not even a chance

or hope for salvation, just more

dead rabbits and unmended fences

and bridges that can't be built

without the help of seasoned,

alien workers, and scabs and scabs

and scabs on all of them and on

me and on you, I'm guessing. What

else is there in this universe but

a disco ball of doom and a DJ

who won't play the song you

want, but won't quit playing

all the other songs? That DJ is

called DJ GOD MUTHA FUCKA

and he can rock your shit for

a while, but, eventually, he's

going to leave you and you're

not going to get a chance to

say goodbye and, when you

get home, that night, you're gonna

cry cry cry because you're

his silly little bitch.

Facts, Tina

I don't want to do this and that's

pretty obvious. You and your thick

bones, your poof-y hair

and your insistence.

I hear you,

I'm just bitter about it.

I know exactly what you're saying,

but I think you're wrong.

I hear exactly where you're coming from,

I just think you're ridiculous.

You can stop now, or, if you want,

you can go on and on and on to

no one listening.

A Sonnet for Tina

Well I wonder how it happens that the weather

where you are isn't exactly the same as the weather

where I am. I'm no meteorologist, but it just seems logical

that the weather would be exactly the same everywhere

and yet, here we are: you in a very warm

climate, me where it is brisker. I also find it interesting

that not every single human being agrees completely

with all other human beings. In short, people have

slight variations, which seems unlikely, to say the least,

and yet, again, we find ourselves surrounded with

certain evidence. I don't know about you, but I used

to enjoy crime dramas. Also, I've played Frisbee and

rode a go-cart a little as a child. It's starting to

come together I think. This mystery about the weather.

B-Boy Ideas

You should accompany yourself with a radio

so as fill your brain with stuff so as to travel

more distractedly and thus more easily like a

quiet child, putting things away in an efficient

manner. You should bring extra radios

in case you must present one to a stranger

or leave one in the blank hands of an Amish boy.

If you are a person who enjoys horses,

then bring a horse or two. Or if you enjoy

baking, bring yourself baking supplies

and a decent sized portable oven. I can't know

all of your interests and beliefs, but use these

examples as examples of the kind of material

that is permissible, even encouraged in

small pockets of the population. Still I'm sure

the most important items are not transportable

and can't be folded into sections or unassembled

and really, besides, mostly we don't want

that shit, which would ultimately bog us down

into those muddy swamps we've been trying

to evolve from for, like, at least 15 minutes.

Seriously, it may have as much as 20 or 25

minutes. I'm old school. I think like that.

Quick

And I'll miss Friday too if I don't do something quick.

Missing Thursday

I missed a poem yesterday and

I feel really bad about that

because I know you, my dear, sweet reader

really missed the poem I missed yesterday.

But I swear to you and I mean this sincerely:

You missed nothing. My head was full of

baguettes and my soul was stuffed with olives.

My legs and toes were crammed with that

pink insulation stuff and my chest was

heaving drastic teardrops that fell as far

as a hundred feet or more before

dissolving into a pool of all the

teardrops that have already dropped.

Seriously salty up in this mutha.

Obviousness

One drives a car because the car is a set of functions

that requires a person to activate it. So you

activate that shit and you pull out of your driveway

and you follow various signs and you direct

your face and auto toward something that isn't

immediately available. That is called the future.

The future, as I understand it, is a concept meant to

indicate something that may or may not happen

in an hour that is to come. All of the hours that come

seem similar to the hours that have passed, except

for when they deviate wildly, causing very strange

sensations that cause readjustments in the attitude

or outlook of your mind-eye. Jesus, Tina,

seriously, you should get this. All of your time

studying various philosophy and yet you still look at

me all gape-mouthed? It's simple: certain concepts

instruct you pretty much so just by thinking them.

Tuesday Evening

It's not that I don't know what to say

it's just that there are too many options and too many

rules and a truckload of misaligned shit that has to saddle

up with it and keep it all together while moving it

forward in such a direction that is progress, if not entirely linear.

Most of my life I've been very confused. The amount of time that

I've spent confused is equal to the cold strangeness of hunting

very small animals. I know most of us know what I mean. We

know the feeling of stalking through a field

in an olive green hunting cap, with rust-colored boots, and

flannel trim on our gloves. We all know the buttery rush of memory

and the half second of Death springing into the wounded torso

of some furry little situation of small animalness.

Who has not yelled to the gods? Who hasn't screamed to a million

unseen fences and tossed rings over hundreds of human heads?

Everyone has these same messy nightmares, except

some people don't know it. I'm of the type who is confused and messy

myself. All some small animal situation myself. You know how

this goes back. Before long, you're consulting your mother

about your uncle who is a tall gentleman with a wide, brown mustache.

It gets gone almost before you even get there. It's like you

wouldn't notice but you do. In that position, you wake, put on your

clothes and reach into open air. By constantly changing the

empty space around you, you feel like a rich man for micro seconds,

and that's good enough, or, say, sorta.

A Letter from the Past

It is not good news to get bad news, especially

involving words like "degenerative" and "chronic"

and "analogy." You have to adjust your ears in such

a situation, so as to loosen the vibrations a bit,

and allow them to trickle toward your innards. My

innards are powerful lonely and my teardrops

contain a little jewel of the past. To imagine

the decisions of childhood matter! That there

was never any house money! O, honey, I wish

I was a new culprit of dawn! I wish I could dredge

the dregs from this soupy mess. As a kid, you have

eyes which you use to imagine and as an adult

you have eyes which you use to re-imagine. The

pattern isn't perfect, but it's close enough to

remind you of home. And where is a home for

someone from the future? In your bones, idiot.

In the way they hold themselves in your body.

One Problem with Children

The only known solution to a lost child is to

find the child and return the child to wherever

the child is from. There's a girl lost in the neighborhood.

There are children all over the world who disappear.

There are children everywhere that are being mistreated

badly. So much so that nobody understands the

nature of, say, even a basketball game. We look like

very stupid faces when we get on TV and try to

predict the course of the future. O, the future! That

vibrant little package of hope! We are unwrapping

it even now. Even now we are unwrapping it more.

It keeps unwrapping and we keep speaking about

our faces and how stupid they are. Even very stupid

writing poetry! I mean, of course, poetry. The parts

you don't count on are what sticks from the past,

that vibrant mercurial beast of Cling Town. From those

cages whole hosts are unleashed and breathe forth

with biblical happiness. Which is hardly happy but

at least able to set fire to cities and kill, say, everything.

My Brother

My brother rode whole teams of cougars through

the mall, screaming, his long blond hair ribboning out

behind him, his legs hairy and ribs hard

as asphalt. When he drank, he held jugs of water

before himself and let himself pour the water

into himself before himself would devour loaves

of bread and so many biscuits that the bakery

held 4o0 X 4 bakers, there were two dozen workers involved

in the washing of bakers' hats alone, there was a break room

filled with message therapists. There were days no one

slept more than a couple of hours at a time. My

brother would eat for weeks, but when it was time for

a battle he'd eat less. He'd still eat, but they'd close

the third shift. Some people missed the overtime

but most were just glad to work a regular ten hour day,

have a couple of drinks and play with their kids. By

the time I reached junior high he walked as if on a

trampoline. Springing up over the shoulders of the largest

men on earth. He was tattooed from the tips of his digits

through the vast ocean of his back and the wild

plains of his abdomen. These were brutal times in a way,

the way cavemen were evolving and beating each other to death

with big rocks. The tribesmen sucking on the marrow

of a bone, etc. a whole course of sagging evolution happening.

My brother's ear lobes were giant horse shoes and his

pelvis held a mint of silver. He boots were made of

leopard fur and leopard leather and laced

together with the intestines of a giant. He was a site in the

supermarket, eating a bag of onions while whiling his

way through the produce. His autograph was the size of

a guitar and his eyelids were like peach-halves.

But that's all done with now, anyway. Long live the Captain

Spider of Love! Long live the Beloved Blow Torch of Coma!

Happy life to the Supreme Star Super Power of Odessa

and the Earth! All hail Lord Owns It Suburbia!

New Review of PPP!

We who are about to die

Real Stanzas

You can't become a monkey just because you want to.

You've got to earn your way to monkeydom. Likewise,

You can't become a person just because you want to.

You've got to earn your way to persondom.

You can't adjust the valves of your toilet without

certain kinds of tools and your own opposable thumbs.

You can't sleep soundly and warmly in a bed made

of discarded slaughterhouse animal products.

One needs a warm blanket and a pillow, or two

warm blankets and two pillows.

Some people may end up with four or more of each

and maybe even earplugs, a cat and long underwear.

One can't just wish themselves to have a certain color hair.

One can't just make sense of the universe with a book.

One can't climb into a basket and expect to be picked up

and delivered to the correct address.

These expectations lead to lots of disappointments.

These disappointments rise up with greenish teeth.

One can not just make monsters out of an empty heart,

the monster has to be real enough to smell monster-y.

The Thursday

For this poem, I shall release the hounds!

What the hounds are likely to do is any body's guess.

Sometimes they attack the attacker, sometimes they

nap on the porch, often you can find them upon

their paws, watching a fly or something and occasionally

tilting their heads. This poem is so much more than

they can imagine and so much less.

At the same time, this poem is frightened and full

of fatigue and emptiness. The type of fullness

that is wasted in echoes struggling to conquer the universe.

All day, a chipmunk of doom crossed over my insides,

gnawing like a word you consistently spell wrong. I

have known tiny, teardrop-shaped caves and have slept

in the bad bed, bunches. Even now a tiny galloping is

happening across my insides and a field of animals are

stamping and glowering and pacing. In my life, I've never

hunted wild game. In my life, I've never set foot in Africa

or seen a lion maul a member of my family. I'm ignorant of tons!

I have seen animals on TV doing lots of stuff, however. I have

also been an animal my whole life. So what I'm saying is this:

I believe that some of my thoughts are valid. I think

sometimes my perceptions jive with reality. And, in that case,

I'm at a strange loss and also itchy. You know,

Tina?

Old Problems

My wife calls on the phone and I answer it. Have you

received phone calls before, Tina? Do you know what

this is like? Well, then why don't you keep your

mouth shut for a change and let me explain. The phone

is this device that allows one human (or a group of humans)

to communicate with another human (or a group of humans).

You hold it against the side of your head. Imagine

that it's a banana and you put one end near your mouth

and the other end near your ear. When you speak, the other

person (who could be as close, say, as a near neighbor, or

as far away, say, as all the way around the earth), who is

also holding a "phone," can hear what you say and when

that person speaks you can hear it on your "end of the line,"

on your "phone." My wife calls and she's lonely so she's

calling me to say so. I respond to her with some sort of

reassuring statement, like, glad you called. This kind

of banter continues for a few minutes and then it's

over with, I'm back to being off the phone and back to

helping you with all your dumbfuck ideas. So cool it!

Just take a step back, relax and put the ABBA record down.

Options

I never know if the mail I receive is really for me. Sure, some of it is signed,

"love, Mom" and some of it personally addresses me with salutations like "Hey Pete"

or "Dear Peter" or, even, "For my beloved, Peter" but mostly it's all

pretty ambiguous. The mail carrier won't look me in the face and when

I call out to her, in a good natured way, like, say, "Excuse me, Ms. I think you

dropped an envelope," she never responds with anything but a purple glare.

I should say too that that shade of purple is not meant for a face. What

confuses me most are the addresses which rarely actually indicate the street I live on.

I live on Grant Street, but most of my mail says stuff like "Grum Street" and

"Grime Stipe" and "Gutter Humper." The area code is rarely correct and many

of the actual packages I receive are clearly meant for others because they'll say things

like "Dear Margery" and "Hello Sven" and "Good Evening Mrs Turnbuckle."

Still, this stuff winds up in my hands and I'm left to consider the possibility that

these are for me, that I might be Sven and live on Grum Street. But, here's the thing,

I know I'm not Mrs. Turnbuckle and, even if I was, I'd hate myself big time. So, all day,

everyday, all I do is think about my options.

The Alsoness of Living

One good thing on the television is chef Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares program

in which he rehabs bad restaurants. First he breaks the will of the owner/chef/whoever

of a bad restaurant by belittling them and the operation for a while. Then

he watches them work and tells them what a fucked up job they're doing.

And finally he changes the menu, redecorates, re-trains the staff, oversees

a successful dinner service and, poof, he disappears into the back of my television. This show is so, so good because the way all of the stuff that happens

in it happens is always really entertaining and thus fun and real good, you know?

Other interesting things include certain branches of science and different pastry shops.

I also am a fan of zero calorie flavored waters that usually come in plastic bottles.

Some people really like saunas. The world can be like that. I've noticed that some

men enjoy wearing gold, silver, or platinum bracelets! It takes time to notice, but as

the weather changes during the course of a day, the temperature may vary slightly, or

drastically. This type of circumstance can be appreciated for what it is. I enjoy wearing

shoes, but some people don't like them. Once, it occurred to me that

people have various thoughts regarding sex and that one person may personally really enjoy

a certain sexual idea that another person may enjoy too, but to a lesser degree. I

find the whole event of being a person is a tad bizarre. Just today, returning from

an errand in my car, I noticed there were other people out there and that, by and

large, they look different from one another! Everywhere I seemed to look, there was

a person and that person was different in appearance from the previous person! Wild!

Coming into my house I noticed the evidence of animals, perhaps birds or chipmunks.

I thought, there are bats hiding in dark places right now. As I understand it, other people

have thoughts as well. Some may have seen the evidence of animals too!

Saying Something

Along with my Bloofmates from Bloof books, I am writing a poem a day during the month of April for what is commonly known as NaPoWriMo. Just thought I'd say something. That's what's going to be going on around here.

Death Urge!

People get upset about PC language because they've had it

their way for so long and got to determine the good and

bad for so long that they feel something's been taken away from them

when someone else says, hey, I think I'm going to assert myself

into the language too. It's just these tadpole ideas that grow into real frogs leaping

with slippery death legs, an egyptian plague that was promised and

now there are piles of frogs everywhere and everywhere one steps one

steps on an alive frog or a dead frog. All this stuff in the universe, including the

young couples that stroll through neighborhoods, the joggers, the various

killers of humans, the etc, like, say, the extra movements of the trees, the rustling-dealeo

we usually mention when we mention the wind causing these extra, twitchy movements

in the trees. All of this stuff is like something taken away from someone else.

All of this stuff is like something awarded to a pumpkin. Every sin I am in love

with is in love with me too and we get together and get some real love on!

Salutations!

One has a future or, perhaps, only a minute

or two to go, but in either case

a person has an idea which is pretty much the same thing.

What are you possibly thinking, that I wouldn't

be bogged down with the weight of weightiness? Unbelievable!

Just now the sun bellyaches its way into the room

and the folding chairs at the stadiums begin to swarm

with insects both alive and dead. And in countries that I've

never been to and don't know what, say, the name of their money is,

or anything of substance except that I'm pretty dumb, in those

countries people are really getting fucking bombed. So good morning,

new day of future ideas and stupid poems! O stupid poem, you

lovely little darling! You cute little jump suit! You often

admired chunk of happy! I salute your weird beard and the

coffin you happen to ride in! I salute your curly-q desire for

lunch! I am proud to have galloped at your side in the

whiskery dawn of impromptu suffering! I am neither sad about,

nor unimpressed, with your emptiness! I care not about

your terrible results! You furry rodent of doom! What up, G?!

Who's in the mutha fuckin house?!

Like, Something

I find the rain like a reminder of something, like,

I don't know, Holy Crap! It's Friday and in one room a child

is flushing a toilet and singing and in another room a

another is making lots of whooshing, zapping noises

and my dog is under my legs and my legs are up on the table

and someone says I'm looking down at the ceiling

and down there is danger that has the face of a, like,

deep down clown in a distance. Following the sound

of distances, yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck!

Yuck yuck yuck yuck I say to my head because my head

needed a talking to. So I talked indeed as I was cozying

up with a blanket, a beanbag, and another blanket.

For some reason I get extra cold sometimes. Have you

experienced the sensation of being chilled? It's not like

you're freezing to death, but something unpleasant is happening.

I know long ago in different scenarios I imagined new ways

to cope with various sensations, but each time I have to

pull out the blanket I seem to lose a bit of my life.

It's hard to describe in detail, especially since you can

be such a little bitch, Tina! I'm trying to say something new

about the universe and all you fucking care about is

padding your sense of security. You can be so petty.

Enemies

Max and his friend were in their lair in the basement. Stella and I were in our lair in her room. We hid under the blankets. We received this letter. So we were like, bring it, bitches!

Better Person

Perhaps I could drink less or do the laundry more. I may be able

to more frequently extend gracious gestures to strangers.

I could be a better teacher, father, husband, brother, and son.

I could be a better musician, lover, graphic artist and writer.

When at a restaurant, a person could always leave a larger tip

and I am certainly a person. Today, I saw a person flagrantly

litter and I did not

get up and retrieve the litter, but I did condemn her

in my mind, thinking, I was better than she was. I could be a better

person than that. I should probably be more gracious

with my forgiveness and should probably be less

hopeful for apologies. I'm really awful on the whole.

I should probably purchase less gas, less energy, less water.

I should do so much less. I should do less so much more

often. It's impossible to catch the guy who is leading

this race. But I could try harder. That's what I'm doing, Tina.

Motherfucker! What do you think this is about?

Meeting Arrangements

Arranging meetings is part of life and must

be attended to with

the same diligence applied to other aspects of life that are likewise

attended to. First, there must be a person elsewhere and

he or she will have to find a spot in the universe

coinciding with your spot in the universe

and at a specific hour, etc. In a perfectly namable

set of coordinates. How nice it is to have numbers! or not, especially

when they mislead you

into thinking an equal sign that might not even be possible.

You have hopes!

You make phone calls!

You do this stuff in anticipation of something, man!

This isn't just good times until it becomes something more.

A whole lifetime happens and is gone, in a sad way,

out of the door over the dirt floor.

You are alone with memories and voices through communication

devices

and just a small, still drop of water falls through

your beard.

A tear in your beard is a very great country song.

Though the education one receives about song-yness

is lacking, one must trust in something

to be pure about. Without some sense of self-rightousness

we'd all be naked little imps with no hard on.

Believe me, I'm open to certain possibilities! Trying!

Loving the Affected

I was standing there, like, no way! I'm not fucking kidding!

No way!

But there was another reality and that was a real deal happening

that was, like, not "no way," but, like, "yes, man, do it."

This terrible place in life that we move into, it's not ours for the taking,

rather, it's just ours.

Imagine the way police cars screech through traffic in a 1970's cop movie.

Imagine the reality television shows that show you humans who are worse

than yourself.

When you really consider the details, it's staggering. Or not. How do

you appreciate an older movie star actor or actress?

Do you like blue jeans and strut? Or satin and suave? It's not an

important question,

but not asking it would be a dereliction of duty. Course, there is

no duty, only empty fainting sounds.

The whole cast of faintees is semi-upset by their involvement, while

they understand there is no choice.

The ape in the circus is fake!

The cape and the top hat are fake!

Your little moon is beautiful!

Around the Area

The area around the area is the place

you're trying to find. You want to find this place,

lay down in it, rest your head or whatever

and then, man, you just deal with it.

This area, this placed area, is between the

verge and dirge of something else.

Many lonely people have witnessed and wrestled

with an extremely fast blue grass song, so much

so that there's nothing left at all to hear, even

the fiddle player who rattles in a number of

different directions at once, even that sound

couldn't be emptier. My whole life, with

people around me, many of whom I love a lot

and some of whom I get very tired of, we are

like cabins in a forest, drifting through the woods

only because none of us are real. Dear red-headed

children, dear lost little robins, dear poor deers,

rabbits, strong avian types, and whiskery cats, please

hear these problem I am trying to pinpoint. You know,

consider yourself a fucking dobro if you have to,

but the point is that you elaborate toward

something very funky and right-thinking. It doesn't

matter to any of us if you live or die. That's

not really the issue. There's something more to

consider, just understand what you're getting into,

Tina.

The Crime

Being a criminal is situational. Either

the situation or the act happens or

other things may happen. It's often awfully

ambiguous. The situation or action is

often palpable but also possibly not

happening. What doesn't happen happens

often. Often, the non-happening is happening

so frequently that you can't even feel it.

That's when the law gets involved and

they start hassling or not hassling you,

or taking you into to custody or not, and,

my friend, there you stand as a regular asshole.

Not alone in the world, but not exactly as

part of a team. At those moments you freeze

into an idiot that nearly everyone knows. If

they don't know you, they think they do or

want to. It's all the same. Meanwhile,

a goofy quilt of sameness seems ill-formed

and loopy. Like stupid after-dinner mints

and other ideas that aren't good or bad all

on their own. I just make it up. Like you,

a poor imagination.

Videos! Music! Animation! Just Click!

Little Bird, Little Church

The Bombs

No Cure

Yes, Dear

Something Under

The Scary Hinge

Devil Overcoat

Above are youtube videos I made of songs from "Horses in the Chest". You know, I know nothing (other than what I learned doing these) about making videos or animation, but it's been a terrific way to waste tons and tons of time!

Hurts

There is an action in the world referred to as

suicide and people take this action from time

to time and they leave behind friends and family

and loved ones of other colors and then those

people live with the loss of the person who used

the suicide action to leave this place for something

better. I don't mean for heaven, or nirvana, or

some sort of beach resort where there is always

an open bar and open buffet and parrots saying

words and beautiful people walking around in

angelic bathing suits. The something better they

are after is simply something not here, and so

they go, to see what is not here. And what they leave

behind is what is not here, anymore. They leave

this space that was once full of humanness but is

now full of a complete unfullness. And we, the people

looking at this unfullness, feel anxious and scared

because it was all so simple and so easy to accomplish.

To watch the world drain and become empty is easy.

There is suddenly more air everywhere. Everywhere

you look all you see is more air. And air is a good thing

but more air is scary and so you try to breathe it

all in as quickly possible. There is this idea that you

can convert it to life. And you can. It just hurts.

Kent Johnson Has Ideas about Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!

Kent Johnson was critical of the fact that I allowed some of my poems from Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! to be included in The Best American Poetry 2010. So he wrote me an e-mail and told me. I appreciated his interest. Then he asked me if it'd be cool if our exchange was published in a newish, very cool, journal from Micah Robbins, Sous Les Paves. I said, sure, okay. So that is what is above.

Good Morning, Poetry

Sitting at at table writing a poem beside

one of my favorite poets while there are birds

and birds and birds making birdy noises and

pidgins on the fire escape and, further into the

distance of the window, there is rain falling

and cars driving and more fire escapes and

more pidgins, (I imagine, though I don't see

more pidgins I'm not afraid to speculate). Besides,

who cares if I'm right or wrong or lying or telling

something that is sort of like a truth? It doesn't

matter. In all of New York City there are only

one or two people, and both of us are here. The

rest of the people who aren't real are out there

and they are living their lives or dying or getting

extra attention from a loved one or getting no

attention at all from a loved one or specially

ordering food, asking that the restaurant not use

this or that sauce, or to add such and such cheese,

or to remove a certain vegetable which is unwanted

or produces halitosis. But my favorite poet friend

is also typing but I'm not sure it's a poem. I'm not

sure this is a poem. I just don't know a thing about

poetry, except that it happens, and then, when it's

over with, we either feel more relaxed or more

uptight, or like a colorful bird trying to find it's

way around the corner and back into the bedroom.

A Political Poem

Now that I've made my super arrangements,

it seems obvious that I need a change of direction. I would

hate to find myself over a canyon, moaning like a disco, wanting

something very holdy on to me, like an elephant-sized suspender

hanging from a cloud. Lord of mercy, these words are out

to kill me. Good grief! Is there no relief in effort?

Either way, I'm only whining because I have the time to.

If I were struggling in some revolution somewhere, chanting

my little neck into a clogged sausage, I'd probably be

more die-y than whiny. It's awful what the human heart can

accomplish. It can take years to decide what's best, but it

only takes a few moments to let your kids into the basement, where

you might be trying to say something with one of those

fancy suspicions, and meanwhile, triggers are clicking and

people with meat hanging from their knees are trying to stand up.

The Boxed

The stuff I've said could be stored in a jar and

jar after jar could line the pantry and each jar could

be stuffed full, with word after word. And the words

I haven't said could be stuffed in cans and canned

and frozen and put in the bottom of deep-freeze

refrigerators, or boxed in cardboard boxes and boxed

into a closet or left underneath some basement stairs.

The point is how impossible it is to say anything

worth listening to and how easy it is to try.

Many times, when I was a kid, I felt as if I couldn't

be heard and was rolled into a dough of silence.

My little robot ears heard failure in every sink of

drained water, in every jingle of the car keys,

in every dresser drawer opened. My, my ears were

alert! They were really jumpy! And now, all adultish

and brutal, I still hear my childhood in my whispers

to my children. I hear them walking about the house

and I feel lucky. I also feel stupid because I haven't made

sense of anything and here I am thinking.

8:51 in The Evening

I should work. I mean I need to get some work done. There's work

I need to do. Like, I should do that work that I've been meaning

to do. There's all that stuff that I haven't done, that I need to do, so

I should do that shit and get it over with. I need to work on

stuff that is related to my job. My job is always requiring me to

work. I mean, seriously, it's always saying

"Dude, get your shit together. Do your work. Get

it done." And I say stuff like, "Yea, I know. I know. I know." I don't

know what to say to work. I mean, I look at it. I think about it.

I know it has to get done and it does it get mostly done, but, then, sometimes

I guess it doesn't. I mean, I know I should do it, but it's hard. Why? is

what I wonder. Why is working on work so hard? I mean, it's

only work. Why should work be a big deal? It shouldn't be. And yet,

every year my annual report is due to my department I think,

my god, you are simply work that is unworkable. I can not deal

with your inconvenient necessity. I sit here thinking about

the work. Thinking about the work. Thinking, what is work?

What is work? Thinking I've got to do work. I mean, I've just got to do it.

New Stuff

Nice reviews of Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! at Amazon

At Ekleksographia two songs from ATTILA!

Nice thing here from Alyssa Morhardt-Goldstein

Thing on me done by Ball State Students on Indiana Artists

Shout out from Booklist Online

from Bradley Sands, at Big Other

At Strangely Beautiful Things

Just barely made the list of No Tell Motel's Bestest poetry Books of 2010

Made Bruce Covey's list

Oded Carmeli is translating Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! in Hebrew. Yedioth Ahronoth is the press.

Very Funny

My daughter talking with her dolls

down the hall

and my son bouncing around making whooshing

and blasting sounds from, like, laser guns or some

sort of weapon noise. And then the Pokemon cards

not to mention the road of doom outside

with all the ice frozen on ice and, then, there's Friday. And that's

a day when something can happen. Often

tragedies become necessary to avoid certain aliments

or certain futures which aren't ever real

but are possible. And what bothers me in this particular

scenario is the great deal of time it takes animators

to complete certain animation cartoon movies. I mean

you most likely have no idea what that's like. That's

like a bunch of time to animate a fucking movie.

And now the weird feeling comes when you

feel outside of your body but not perfectly out of your body.

It's like a dislocated shoulder, it feels very funny.

Living the Life

It's possible for a dartboard to quiver

in the fashion of a fish, quivering in the fashion

of fish quivering. This isn't exactly something

you want to try and make a living at. Good god!

Even if you try to adjust your collar

so as to make yourself more understandable

to the neighbor lady (or something like that) you

don't get better at anything by practicing the

piano. I mean if you waste all your time with

that shit, you won't get anywhere. You should make

room in your heart for people who live elsewhere

and, if possible, you should allow perfect

strangers to sleep in your cabinets and all throughout

the house. This idea of protecting your family

is nuts! Seriously, by the time I begin to wrap

my head around the thing, it's already unwrapping

and there I go, perfectly off into nothing.

Crazy

When it snows, the snowflakes just fall

out of the sky and every single one is identical.

That's the thing about snowflakes, no variation.

And the snow accumulating, like baked bread.

I've never understood why God hates yeast so much.

He's always, like, "make that bread unleavened, goddamnit!"

He just fucking hates the yeast. He likes

his bread flat and his meat burned. He likes the

pleasing aroma of a barbeque. There's so much I

don't understand. Like why it snows at all or why

there are seasons or why Gary Coleman had to die.

This stuff is never explained. Instead, we're expected

to just accept it, bury our heads in the identical

snowflakes and come home all frozey-headed. And

there are countries all around the world! And there

are people who are actors and people who are manual

laborers and other people who are other things!

It's fucking crazy! Meanwhile, a saturday afternoon

happens and the snow just falls and falls and finally

lands, on earth, like everything else and just sits

there looking blank and all stupid.

Country Music

New journal has new poems (some by me).

Video!

Haven't felt like writing but been making videos for Short Hand songs from Horses in the Chest:

The Bombs

Devil Overcoat

No Cure

A Translation

My poems in Hebrew. This one goes out to all my Hebrew readers, o yea!

Brand New Short Hand

Short Hand, Horses in the Chest!

Me In New Lamination Colony

Me in new Lamination Colony.

New PPP! Review

The Southeast Review.

New Review! of PPP!!!

Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!
Peter Davis
Bloof Books
9780982658703, $16.00
Midwest Book Review

As demonstrated by the pieces that comprise Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!, Peter Davis is a master of the prose poem format. A kind of one-man poetry slam (the titles of his poems are as unusual as the poems themselves), the quality of his work is nothing short of impressive and highly recommended reading, especially for those with an appreciation of his contemporary avant garde style. "Poem That Belligerently Addresses People Who Believe I'm Self-Obsessed Or Something Like That":

Well, you have an enormous ego too. That's why you're reading this, you narcissist! Get over yourself! Sure, you're smart because you get what this poem is about and how cool it is, or you get how crappy this poem is, and you know why, but you're still just another reader. So, don't look at me. You're the one obsessed with yourself!

Equalize This! (via Michael Schiavo)

The Equalizer is a lit zine edited and created by Michael Schiavo. It's good stuff. There are more issues to come soon (the 3 issues below have all come out in the past few days). Pass these links around. The passing of these links is The Equalizer's distribution method. Today, I am a distributor. Read these good poems and you will want to distribute them too.

The Equalizer 1.3

featuring Joshua Corey, Stephanie Anderson, Buck Downs, Shanna Compton, Laura Carter, Peter Davis, Alana Dagen, Reb Livingston, Cody Walker, John Cotter, Craig Santos Perez, and Chris Martin.

The Equalizer 1.2

featuring Matt Hart

The Equalizer 1.1

featuring Summer Block, Jim Behrle, Macgregor Card, Mark Bibbins, Emily Anderson, Aaron Belz, Don Share, Cody Walker, Christopher Salerno, Amick Boone, Adam Clay, Buck Downs, Stephanie Anderson, Owen Barker, and CAConrad.

The Face

The Baby Face
The Calm Hitler
The Nose Bleed Hitler

The Ex-Cop
The Mitch
The Butcher
The Almost Jewish
The Spitball
The Lemmy
The Dali Lemmy

The Civil War Vet
The General

The Bloof Tour, 2010

Day 1 in Muncie, Indiana, reading with Jennifer L. Knox and Shanna Compton and my former student, Cody Davis. It was good and books were sold. I was still home then, sleeping in my bed that evening and waking up the next morning to kiss and hug my kids, and then to play guitar and wait for Jen and Shanna to pick me up and then—off, to Nashville, TN.

Day 2 in Nashville, where we couldn’t access our floor, the eighth floor, of our hotel room because of something to do with the Tennessee Titans who, we were left to imagine, must have used the entire floor in some sort of visit. But, we learned, we could use our room key to make the elevator work properly and elevate us to the appropriate altitude. The reading at the bookstore wasn’t worth our time, but there it was, and there was our time, and so, it went like that. Afterward, we appreciated drinks and company at a Mexican restaurant. A filmmaker dude named Elvin explained his movie and we enjoyed that explanation immensely. Jen and Shanna took to calling me Pony Ann.

Day 3 found us in Atlanta, passing a statue of MLK that didn’t look like MLK. There we met Bruce Covey and Sandra Simonds and had an excellent reading at Emory University, where we sold books, met kind people, and bought alcohol from a hotel bartender who let us buy alcohol even though they were closed and she wasn’t suppose to.

Day 4 and Jen K. took an early flight out of town, heading to her cousin’s wedding who happens to be a member of a Burt Reynolds tribute band called Hooper. Bruce C. replaced Jen in the car and off we drove to Tallahassee. Good times and homemade food (courtesy Sandra S.), and a very nice hotel staff, who gave me a free Sprite. We read that night at The Warehouse.

Day 5 was a long day, with no reading. Bruce folded his somewhat immense body into the driver’s seat and drove Shanna and I back to Atlanta, where we left him, in the same parking lot we found him in. Then Shanna and I drove somewhat recklessly all day, arriving in Raleigh, NC around 11:00pm. By then we had eaten at Ruby Tuesday’s 3 or 4 times. Good salad and very average cold slaw.

Day 6 brought us to D.C. I was driving as we got close, but my eyes got so sleepy and tired I had to pull over and make Shanna drive. We found the spot we were suppose to find, and found my former student, Shaun G. who looked like he could have played in the The Hives. Buck Downs, Mel Nichols, Cole Swenson, and Reb Livingston were there, amid others. Reb’s son Gideon was there and he happens to be five so I read him "Poem Addressing Boys Age Five." He gave me a thumbs up sign, which I appreciated. Books were sold and drinks were drunk. After watching the Colts kick the shit out of Giants with Maureen Thorson’s husband, Jeff, I slept like a rock and woke the next morning and went running with Shanna around the Capitol building. Just before we left we discovered the car had been moved, by the city, a few blocks away. This initially caused us to freak out, but it also caused us to be relieved when we found it forty minutes later. Thank goodness for relief.

Day 7 meant reading to a practically empty bookstore in Baltimore. Baltimore was like how a person might imagine Baltimore, except a good, old friend was there and so he drove us around some and paid for our dinner. Thank goodness for good old friends, especially in Baltimore which felt exactly like Baltimore, or how a person might imagine Baltimore.

Day 8 brought us first to Shanna’s house, and then to Philadelphia, where we reconnected with the fabulous Ms. Knox, and where we read in a very old bar, selling books and meeting good people like CA Conrad, and then back to Shanna’s house where I drank much gin with Shanna’s husband and where we laughed, with the lights out, to Louie C.K. I had briefly napped in the upstairs room that afternoon and that night I slept up there again with the TV on, before waking to turn it off, and sleeping more and then sleeping a little more. Pony Ann was missing home, but happy to be in a home that wasn’t a hotel.

Day 9 took us not too far from Shanna’s house, to the college of New Jersey at Ewing, where the student creative writing organization, ink, hosted a really nice reading in a nice room in the student center. Those students were attentive and thoughtful and asked us actual questions about poetry and us being poets. We were like, “well, yes” and “sure, that” and “sometimes, this” and “really, thanks.” That night, at a vegan restaurant, I stuffed myself with food that didn’t come from an animal. What was good about it was the taste, all non-animally and tasty. The night was windy and leafy and, in a distant way, lightening shook the darkness, causing us to think of horror movies and to rethink the words of the old man at the liquor store who said, “Raining yet?” in a somewhat David Lynch-y way.

Day 10 and we were in NYC where I read at the Best American Poetry reading with lots of poetic hotshots. It was fun, but the most fun part was meeting up with my sweet wife, who had dropped the kids off at the grandparents and had flown in, meeting me in Brooklyn. We took the subway to Manhattan and almost didn’t find the New School, but then, wandering almost aimlessly, we saw David Lehman quickly rounding a corner and I said to my wife “There, David Lehman! Follow that guy!” So we did, making it to the reading in plenty of time. After the reading, we were lucky enough to speak with Amy Gerstler at the after party, which was in an apartment that was very swanky and millionaire-ish. Amy and my wife talked about the failures of American sexual education. Jerome Sala and I discussed the NFL and the greatness of the Indianapolis Colts.

On day 11 I woke in Brooklyn and took my wife to Manhattan for a conference she attended, went back to Brooklyn and slept some more. Then back to Manhattan, before returning again to Brooklyn. Then we attempted to locate Rose’s Live Music for a few hours in the hot sun. Listen, just because Rose’s Live Music is on Grand Street, that doesn’t mean you should actually exit the A line at the Grand Street station. That’s just stupid! But, later, when we did find it, we found kind people like Greg T. who hosted the reading, and other kind poets (youngish and older), sold books, etc., and we were tired by the time we reached the hotel, worn out.

Day 12 was the last day of me reading on the 2010 Bloof tour. That afternoon I read at the Boog City event at Unnamable books. But then, after my reading, my wife and I hustled uptown to attend a reading by Ada Limón, Jason Schneiderman, and Jennifer L. Knox. And Jason and Ada were amazing. An excellent reading. And so Jen Knox, who was the last reader that evening, really let out the last gasp of the September 2010, Bloof Books tour. And it was a very kind, hilarious gasp. I laughed and felt like laughing more. I ate more cheese and drank more beer. I hugged Jen and Shanna goodbye and left mostly buzzed. Stopped off a few blocks later and bought a pair of burgundy and light tan, suede Pumas.

Via Bloof Tour, Readings I'm Doing Soon!

Muncie, IN Bracken Library 104 @ 7:30 9/14

Nashville, TN Davis Kidd Bookstore @ 9/15

Atlanta, GA Emory University, Few Hall @ 8:00 9/16

Tallahassee, FL The Warehouse @ 8:00 9/17

Washington, DC In Your Ear at DC Arts Center @ 3:00 9/19

Baltimore, Maryland Cyclops Books @ 8:00 9/20

Philadelphia, PA Fergies's Pub @ 6:00 9/21

Ewing, NJ The College of New Jersey @ 4:00 9/22

New York, NY Best American Poetry 2010 Launch Reading @ 7:00 9/23

New York, NY Earshot Series @ 7:30 9/24

New York, NY Boog Festival, Unnameable Books @ 3:15 9/25

Seriously

That's Better

But It's Too Small!

A Person May Have A Mustache

Belts!

Max and I are yellow belts!

Haiku

Lighting struck my house.

Shit burned out. A sizzle flash.

What I love is you.

A Thing Up

I've got a thing up here, at Ships that Pass. Mine is called "You Drove Me Crazy."

Too Hard

Sometimes I don't even want to live. It's just too hard.

Blogging

It's hard to blog!

"the best part of my day"

This is a movie by my former student and good movie guy, Ben. Watch this movie, you'll like it. Then, follow the linky things and find your way to the page where you can donate money for his new project. Become a Movie Producer!

http://www.vimeo.com/11923130

Something I Read: Father's Day

Something I Get: Father's Day

Because, when returning from Denver, in the Denver airport, I realized I'd not bought the kids any sort of memento, I got Max a luggage lock at the airport. He's had lots of fun with it. The idea of the combination code is very appealing to him. So he got this one for me.

The Question

Not only has Mr. Davis dispensed with meter and rhyme, but his prose also does away with alliteration, assonance, consonance, dissonance, euphony or any form of syllabic cadence that one might identify with prose poetry. This drastic deparature from the conventional might remind us of a great poet who once did the same, Walt Whitman.

---Mark Kerstetter, from a review of Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! at Escape Into Life

What then, exactly, makes this poetry? I'm not saying the work isn't enjoyable or well-crafted, but I don't see how they qualify as poems. (And the comparison to Whitman is a real stretch.)

---Joseph A., in response to above review

Feeling Some Love

at We Who Are About to Die

Review of Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! at Escape Into Life

Mark Kerstetter writes me a poem

Review of Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! from Benjamin Dewhurst

New poems at The Nepotist

Bug Me

Two Dislocations

Dislocated Shoulder Worm
Dislocated Human Bird

Horses in the Chest!

Wait!

Noticed Stuff

My daughter is inventing her own language and she walks around

going "oakka dopea whoe ee coo con." And I know she gets it from

me. I mean, I don't hardly speak unless I'm saying nothing. Like,

now. It just blows.

#1

The ultimate artistic put-down isn't "that's bad" it's "that's not even art." As in my grandfather believing that rock and roll wasn't even music. It's a stupid way to think about the appreciation of the arts, but lots and lots of people do it. This is the problem then about people making definitive statements about art. As in stuff like "poetry is an inward exploration of such and such" or "a meditative experience of blah blah blah." None of us are in a position of authority. We are all in a glass house.

Feeling Some Love

New review of Hitler's Mustache

At HTMLGiant

At Sean Blog

AT The Timeworn What

Bad Ass

Two Days

David Copperfield was horrible as far as Max was concerned. Roughly, I agreed. We left a little more than half way through. Today we played Ninja Should and he ran across the tree-park with his arms back and screaming. He fell down and pantomimed injury. We caught one of the escaped bounty hunters. We have to catch four more. It won't be easy, especially since they all have apperating devices.

The semester is over with and I'm aware of that. Actually, I can imagine it even as I write this. So, there is a certain pleasure in certain awarenesses. You could probably understand more about how I feel if you weren't me, instead, you'll just have to make do.

Cake! Cake! Cake!

What to Do Sunday Afternoon

There's this (he's a magic man, an, ann ann ann. Oh yea, he's a magic man! mama, he's got magic hands!)

Watching the NBA Playoffs

A person has a life. What

can you do about that?

You're a person.

You have life.

It's like the whole semester

is a springtime. When

it comes

and is over with

you think, What classes?

What life do I live?

You don't have answers.

There's the TV and a bunch

of bullshit on it.

Me Reading Poems by Me

Courtesy the Writer's Community and the Writer's Center.

PPP!!! Reading

If you were at the reading last night in the BSU library, as I read from Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!, then I really appreciate it. That was nice of you to show up. If you bought a copy of the book, thanks again. If you weren't there, what I want to say is a few things about it and some of the following hours.

Tyler's parents were there and that was very sweet and also some kind students and colleagues and friends were there (some serious overlap in these categories.) My sweet wife Jengi had a cake made with the Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! cover reproduced in the icing. It was cool. I'd have a picture of it if I knew where her camera was and I knew how to operate it better and I wasn't so lazy. But, also also, Kelli made poster of the cover, largely composed of Starburst candies.

And, afterward, there were many drinks and toasts and whatnot. Meatballs and hoo-ha. The kids were gone and so we could be loudish and discuss the early days of British metal. That's called a good time. I was, like, Think Lizzy! Thin Lizzy! But people also talked about Bon Scott!

Crazy.

And really just kindness, which is good. And people say, Well, what about poetry? And you're like, I don't know, but something.