Reasons

The reasons can't be broken down into, like, say,

this is because of this and this is because of that

and, you know, whatever. So, here, in that place,

you start thinking about history and a whole

host of horrid abortions of love. Then, things

don't change, but they take on a certain aura.

That aura is one that welds the faction of the

universe that is involved hope with the faction

of the universe that is involved in power.

Then, people, the very real possibilities

become realer and the people who are willing

to stand up, stand down and a large bowl

of shit goes spinning off into the distance.

Our Hearts Were Hot

The Worsters Gang

Having Life

As they say, one man's eyesore is another man's cool

hair-cutting place. It makes sense when you've seen

it firsthand and can understand the inherit problems

in isolating the exact problem. So, something else

happens that must be mentioned. I hate

to get into it, but we'll have to. Deep in the black night

of deep blackness, no one can witness the invisible.

I remember, years ago, when you had those issues

with the high-schoolers and the kids at bake camp, you

would find yourself up way past midnight, pressing

the buttons of a remote control so deftly that you

thought you had found a calling. Those were heavy, heady

moments. Those were the good times. But, it's hard

to feel the urgency in a damp hug. I don't even enjoy laying

beside dead bodies. Never, not once, have I wanted a dead

body sitting in the passenger seat of my car. My car

is for going places and places that are gone to don't deserve

the dead. O, no. Something different. Something

that requires a scoop of iced cream and less death-y.

Good, Little Stuff

Me reading at a Vouched Books reading.

Which leads to a review.

The Funnest Ton!

this is the Haaret'z weekend edition "judging committee". PPP! made the high-good corner last friday,

alongside the elections in Turkey. the text says "irony is the funnest ton to read".

Thanks to Curtis Perdue

Got me some new poems in interrupture.

Hebrew!

Get the Hebrew version! You know you want it.

Below is the Google translator version of what the above book page says:

Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! Wild and puzzling book of Peter Davis, is the funniest books of poetry written in the genre notoriously gloomy seriousness.

Davis, poet venom - first pathetic, has won cult status in contemporary American poetry scene. His book, his second, can be read as a unit consisting of dozens of introductions to songs. Davis just wants to write a good song, but the percentage of performance anxiety is moving manic depression, megalomania deployment, and beg the reader's love, and per visitor estimates of full professor. Peter Davis's plea touched our hearts, so we decided to bring the Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! The Hebrew reader, translated by Oded Carmeli.

---------------------------

Song that relates to readers from other countries

I do not know how, but I believe that this song applies to you and your country.Although I myself from the United States, my song is not an American song. Actually Ithink in many ways is a poem anti - American. Not really his first two sentences, nor in this case, but I think the third sentence proves it well.

Paul Violi

I was trying to organize my shit tonight when I came across these two postcards from Paul Violi, who died recently, of course, and who I've never heard anybody ever say anything bad about. I didn't know him, really. He contributed to my Poet's Bookshelf book, and I sent him a copy of Hitler's Mustache, just because I liked him and his poetry so much. So, we had a little correspondence. He was very kind. He sent the first postcard in response to receiving Poet's Bookshelf. It said: "Just to say how much I'm enjoying the Bookshelf--So many amusing, interesting, surprising overlaps in the lists--all very revealing. Thanks for including me--Paul"

The painting on the postcard is from "A Rake's Progress" which is about Tom Rakewell, as painted by William Hogarth (1697-1764). This Hogarth painting depicts the scene as Rakewell "loses his second fortune at the gambling tables at White's Club and rages at his ill luck. All is confusion for the house is on fire and the Watch have just broken in." The second postcard depicts "The Arrest": "Having wasted his inheritance, Tom is arrested for debt on his way to St. James Palace to celebrate the Queen's birthday. Sarah offers her purse, hoping to procure his release." He sent this postcard in response to Hitler's Mustache. On the back he wrote, "Thanks for the Encyclopedia --or you've done for Hitler's Mustache what Christopher Smart did for his cat Geoffrey--All my best, Paul".

Seriously

I've got no real power

but I'm working on that

shit cause, like, man,

that shit is on fire in me.

And I've never meant

to hurt a single one

of you, though

I've done it I know

and I know

that I've done it. Just,

listen, man, forget it

and let me know later

or not, no matter

just whatever because

well, jesus, doesn't really

matter anyway, anyway.

How Something Isn't New

I'm trying to grow into something

bloom-y and pretty to the naked eye.

I want to be a bigger engine and to hum

louder than a novelist or a baker. I have daydreams

about what could happen, what might

manifest. In my chilled night hours, alone like

a wasp at a window, I buzz strongly and feel

likely to move into a new dormitory, where lunch

and dinner are served with dark bloody gravy. But

when nothing happens, I think of my children,

learning to be themselves and falling in love

with everything new. They are smart,

good kids. They make these high-pitched tiny

sounds with their mouths and laugh in bubbles.

They don't know the gravity that falls on the earth

or the lungs that power the body or the brains

which scramble the too much info. They are

just blind moles of love who shuffle quietly around.

I think of birds sometimes.

Other times, without thinking it through, I notice

my surrounding and the terrible colors.

I feel spooky, Tina.

I feel deadly and flat.

So Long

This nonsense about the applesauce

and all that horseshit about the petitions

and all that crap about the articles

in the brochure and then there was all that talk

about the birthday, and how what's-his-face

screwed you over when it came to the bake sale,

and, in all seriousness, I hardly know

what to say. Tina, you're a terrible person.

I've spent years justifying your insecurities

and your violent displays of power, but, listen, I've

grown up, man, I'm not that kid I used to be. There's

no way I'm going to change the program at this point.

I know it's killing you, but I'm not changing the

backdrop or the postcards. You can have the stuff

in the fridge and you're welcome to remove all

of the samples you provided, but, beyond that,

it's over. No more late nights at the lake, no more

Sunday gifts and calls from the highway. I'm not going

to remove the tags anymore or spray the apartment.

As far as I know, everyone else feels

the same way. You can ask, but I don't know.

Whatever. Whatever. You say you have my best interests

in heart, but the a evidence is a touch bleaker

than that. I don't know. I don't know anymore. It's just

lonely now is all I'm saying. Jesus, Tina, try to step

outside of yourself for a moment or two! You've

got to make changes! You've got to give up the Nazi shit.

You've got to change your hairstyle. You've got to move

on Tina. You dragging us down like a dead clown! It's

time to let childish things go! Grow a fucking pair!

We Pull Up Our PJ'S

The People that Exist

A person has a car, they use it to drive

places.

A person has a voice and so they use it, they

sing or talk or grunt in funny little ways.

People use their mouths to maul

their food, or to kiss a loved one.

People have friends. They call friends and say words.

They exchange glances and noises.

One person buys another person dinner.

One person has an idea and they ask another person

for an opinion.

Life is always moving into a new event.

Have you witnessed the nature of popular movies

and the always changing into something that is the sameness

of pop music? You are probably aware of the passage

of time and the little anomalies.

That's not the sort of thing I'm thinking about in

this particular event. Here, I'm addressing

something both more primitive and

stranger. To me, there is such a thing as a swimming pool

that swims in you.

Imagine the way neighbors have to negotiate the fence

between their properties? Do you see where I'm going?

In spite of everything, it's tiring using

language to get to something.

Certain people have certain strengths and certain weaknesses.

All of this stuff comes to light sometime.

Or it doesn't. Who knows?

People know about mysteries or they don't.

People understand mysteries or they don't.

A person can look at a cloud and see a shape

or they can't.

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!