Back again. (Best of 3.)

On the other hand.

Try some.

A good warrior lends me generations of love.

So I’m in debt. It’s everyone’s creepy fault. Even a tremor of you.

We’re going around in concepts. There’s a big, strange pulling apart shmooshing the semiotics of escape. So lets bring things together, kilt wearer. Look me in the eye. Or when my story gets told you’ll be on the wrong end of it. Prepare to turn earth-nasty.

I’m just commenting. Your touch reaches a point at which time management is unleashed. But there’s something else fantastic, piquant, against the grain, a piece of karate with top notes.

NY-Boston poets, mostly, are putting on a Boston Marathon this Friday, 7:00 p.m.-10:00 p.m.; Saturday, 12 noon-10:00 p.m.; Sunday, 12 noon-5:00 p.m. Friday it's at Pierre Menard Gallery, 10 Arrow St., Harvard Sq.; Saturday and Sunday at Outpost 186, 186 1/2 Hampshire St., Inman Sq. Everyone gets eight minutes. Friday I'll go second. I'll read "Poem with Hannah," starting at 7:08 or so.

Because always I thought was possible

a quaff-off voice kept us happy.

My partner and a friend came home with a guy

they met at a bar. I was asleep but joined them

while I got my feet clean in flavors

and the balcony’s floor, so it happened again.

Can’t see a broken bottle on the street and not pick it

I really wanted to lose consciousness, can I ever?

Let me in, I loaned it, I think.

Once there was vitality in diffusion and a crutch like levitation. Levitation got modulated. Modulated is like coming out to play, sampling the masked hostility and indecisiveness of our environment and backing it up with inexact beats and multiplying sounds from what we were doing before the procedural took hold.

Crimson scaffolding hovered in the interim, instantly recognized as identity. Identity and hardened m.o.’s, identical then evaporated. We invented from silences, lies, and feral senses of the cornered in a soulless piano season. We were/are resigned and re-acclimated to generations of processed shock of the simple, the safe-zone simple, where infectious pop is authenticated, highlighting weak spots.

Wherein a smirk presses on — mass culture destroyed, life-changing sex.

The movie in which I am about to speak is modulated. I carry cash and deal with the cops but I’m no killer. Lack instinct. A musty dynamics. More than musty it’s foul.

Movies are a visual medium. The first word is without words. How can it be effortless if I tell you what I’m doing? A friendly warning, pal, you’re too self-conscious.

Show us your papers, fly!

Just in case we are impressionable enough still to think a particular subgroup of hardened poets alone-together owns outrage and satire by mining the internet, meme-ist and culture columnist Rob Walker’s piece on the ROFL (rolling on the floor laughing) net phenomenon, “When Funny Goes Viral,” fills us in on the lovely sophomoric impulses that are ubiquitous in English-language culture, among others. Walker sees ROFL belonging to a slew of us of college-age and a generation older or (gee) older, even “marketers” (aka conceptualists), and that’s “because it turns out that some people are taking the pop-material dimension of ROFL seriously by building businesses around it.” (Businesses include Cheez Doodles and art careers.) Anyway, other than the easy-come-&-go notoriety the Web offers its ‘users,’ there’s a meta-scrim of awareness in the collective irony and humor, awareness that the perpetrators of processes and procedures toward the premise “everything is worth making fun of, nothing should be taken seriously” are missing something, that is, missing bits of themselves and the facticity of their own agency. (Huh?) Walker captures the length and unrestrained reefer madness of the ROLF zeitgeist:

Sometimes the pointless-seeming jokes that spring from the Web seem to be calling a bluff and showing a truth: This is what egalitarian cultural production really looks like, this is what having unbounded spaces really entails, this is what anybody-can-be-famous means, this is how the hunger for “moar” gets sated, this is what’s burbling in the hive mind’s id. But the real point is that to pretend otherwise isn’t denying the Internet — it’s denying reality. In some cases, then, maybe the payoff of ROFL isn’t just the pleasure of laughter, though that surely happens. Trickster expression, intentional or otherwise, doesn’t propose a solution but jolts you to confront some question that you might prefer to have avoided. Like what, exactly, am I laughing at?

Ourselves, among others.

[4] Even without puppy Scorpio
is in my knee, cheeky, exotic —

ease is the law,
an audible ink

I’m moving to the top
shelf, blue and tan of course I’ll

stuff in cameo-
passive, lengthy

plastic hard to handle — plaaastic —
an overcooked ear, Madonna or a rose

onrush of thickened weather on my face.
At some point I had to approach the pile;

well I can’t help that
hound below the sound

the purple aggressive, the double sink;
nice I saw

deeper on the other side
puppies after puppy.

[Poem with Hannah] Halloween restores my faith.

Clouds're in slacks by the apparatus (touching my two elbows behind my back) for undressing gravity. It gets to be a habit they can’t keep up. But the police are still baffled. They go on a breather

Escalating disappearances

where any guess takes gravity outside the house aesthetic smoking clouds.

To put it together, the yews wear hand-me-downs making what’s inside disappear with our bed in it the last day we ate. Together and beyond

then they subside again, turning bright green.