My screamiest teacher said it’s something no one coughs
so I made a chatter movie and filled the land-
scape w/ witty organists, treating the script
like a mixer of delirium layered between thruway
flies through the air, boom, poop, balling

postcards suspended from outspinning and
then pulled back in shots of isotope-as-suburb w/ agile
minds besotted almost, overconfident / overconstrained
by the rhythms of the ponies and gnats drowning in wet

cement poured by provocateurs that rotate the back
frames, tipping them in vast politico-riptides, imploring

anamnesis, addiction-resonant w/ their inner lives off
screen as eco-environmentalists carrying bobcats
into an icebox that.

Photograph untitled. Permafrost time-tested,
reduced. Sex come of age. A big pleasure long-
stood. Helium released. Populations drenched.
A circus loved or moaned. Sour cabbage

not eaten. Canoe returned. Genocidal maniacs
rested on the shady beach. Freehand fabricated.
Volatility weighed. Clumpy workhorse walked.
Plastic repatriated. Vibrato banshee-d.

Poison multi-tracked. The honey gatherers
misgrouped. The knack gotten, flipped. Brunch
taken at night. Brain-body experienced.
Exercises enlarged. Whiner designated.

Cookie looked for. Ears pinned back.
Your face written and scratched on.

Cynical realism burrowed, laid waste.
Marine animals entered. A reputation had.

Debunking agitated, reproached. Ride given.
Dogsleds seen, covered up. Havoc reeked.
Acrylic fiber overgrazed. A pig’s mouth
pierced. News performed, disappeared.

A tongue tied and mailed. Sherbet dolloped.
Ruthless tolerated. Flow boiled, hardboiled.
Counterpanes unelevated. Divination closured,
improved. The oasis filled with swill. So-

journers hung. Tableau sponged, spackled,
burst. Mangrove gripped in saliva. Anything
kicked, chug-chugged, immersed. Swimming
synchronized. The bellicose slunk back.

How can damaged goods be flight
risk saying “exactly” in a torso vice
that’s gone full circle. (I had no idea
about the fall-off.) Later

I gained because of despair,
getting close I saw I was a schmeer
of pie & I could do this — tight
fingers wrapped around Lalique

— bar lights, team eyes drinking
undressing snails for Jacobeans
to monetize on the surface
(a game for the uncanny-chic)

crayoning hearts & smiley faces
inspired by knee jerks & police.

What’s a shrinking phase
was mistaken for authentic or, worse,
aristocratic — the neck you’re stick with
soaked in a Mars invasion.

Thrown in reverse it’s behavioral economics
without hotshots to read the hoax.
Triangles & throats, emotionally wounded,
won’t wait. I’ll be right down.

Fumy quotations in the surf.
How did these happen? To revolt
is justified musical collision
playing at a junk ballad.

A shopping spree is a migratory pattern.
It gets disrupted but never lets up.

Alfred Starr Hamilton has been on poets' short lists for the balcony edge for 40 or more years, but he's undergoing "rediscovery." A stack of Hamilton's letters to the Montclair police is "the year’s least likely literary find." The letter excerpted in The Times reads like poetry. Anyway, for counters of endurable fame, it's another 15 minutes.

I have nothing to say about the poetry marathon three weeks ago. I showed up as the second to read and fled the scene after. So what do we know? In retrospect, we think it odd to organize or, rather, quasi-randomly assign eight-minute slots to so many loosely-to-totally unaligned characters who happen to live in Boston or New York (or, for a few, places between). The minutes I witnessed felt remote-controlled according to old-timey socialist customs. Remote in that I’ve never been on welfare but something redeeming was to emerge from the make-it-snappy, invisible sentiment.

But there were highlights for me. One is being handed Gold Star by Brendan Lorber whose everything is not invisible. The first poem begins, “I want to shine what do you do?”

It's instructive to be exact.

Voices in our heads are paranormal. They talk the talk about our bodies to the co-op wrapped in steam.

That said, the very time we get off the phone, the fog enclosure switches back. I don’t think like that. Don’t believe that, impetuously. That never happened.

I can’t tell you don’t care, I’m a weeping cherry on the inside.

Outside, a panel membrane floats me into the past, desiring change. I have something better to do than pump out to your grasp. A life with submerged artifacts takes traveling and feels like a party. I’m going to lose you if it kills me. I’m a co-founder.

How far is it to the casino, I'd like to know. It’s curtains for the prom fitting. The toys are asleep. Injecting their blood is just crazy but I was dwindling down the drain and would have gone off schedule.

I’m from costive stock. Count the lottery tickets.

Social progress is in a pickle, a horrible mess. It wins all the half-eaten take-out on the table. 40% of obdurate voters like you and me. And how long can you live folding, unused, perpetually minimalist verging on chance and circumstance? Who isn’t in one?

[Edit, from below] There's a mood taking a fall, whitening, configuring the take, “We found lovers wasting time, though redeemed by euphoria, swollen pinpoints in a story about takeoffs. We miss the good looking small-town drummers chanting in time or as John Waters writes, the upper-lower class women from a dark place on a hillside, covering the globe with their comic pedigree. The problem is, did they ever smoke pot? They're stress-busting purveyors of desolating surfeit, solar decathlons with nothing inside, turning their smiles up. Cue the highlights why space and time exist at all, made of wriggling strings. Speaking of the pure land, we have none. We swim in it.”

A technician of snappy flotsam writes, “I found my two lovers wasting time. I miss the small-town drummer, time, and as John Waters states, his upper-lower class woman in a dark place on a hillside, covering the globe with her comic pedigree. The problem is, did she ever smoke pot? She’s a stress-busting purveyor of desolating moods, a solar decathlon with nothing inside, turning her smile up. Cue the highlights why space and time exist at all, made of tiny wriggling strings. Speaking of pot, I have none. I swim in it.”

I have been 12 years old for a very long time.

Before I kill, yoga is fantastic.

The parabola intersects the World Trade Center that was. What’s mainstream? Gestures are precise. Bright eyes, sparkling motions, a huge lollipop.

Climbing down the outside there’s a new mainstream-underground that merits a visitor’s gaze — we — some of us — avoid it.

It’s hard to be objective, yet pressure is mounting. Mm-hmm. A big tone of political realignment is authentic now, at this hour of the hyper-ruffled whose mantra is too proud to admit the squalor juxtaposed by the obscene milieu. So let’s start with the rectangular coordinates, understand pleasures of the neck, chest, and eyes. That’s the first half.

Poetry culture is a quad divided.

We never come across it.

First authorized Flarf Anthology©.

I believe I can see into the future.
There is a civilizing process to space
entered into by spotting it first. It’s
a clear new world where character
offers liberation, supports you
from underneath. You
can go right in. They have an
open table. Everything is for sale.

The no-fantasies plan has 30 subscribers.
After ecstasy it’s taster’s choice,
A most civilized dichotomy, a long crème
De la crème boosting performance.

Music filters out at the crack of dawn
All the airports are just fine.
Day to day breathe utterances. We’re going
To be here as long as it takes.

Six weeks running, bankrolled by Bravo and producer Sarah Jessica Parker, art judges, art contestants, art lovers, everyone deserves this and maybe more. For six hours on air, now, with the exception of the Geico commercial narrator, there is no humane element, not even a fleeting, life-is-possibly-good moment on Work of Art. The collective, unachieved hauteur flaunts its wrinkly dogs as in a poetry marathon with trembling readers who walk up to the dais rustling dark pages stretched into transparent mop fiber and rolled back into overly prefixed, scavenged opacity again, from the inside out.

I’m brusque. It’s urgent.