I miss the days of blogging as a fine art. I mean, when blogging was part of the work I considered important.

Caudal Chords, Axial Cords

I realize that my friend never gets lost, and though I insist that we are heading in the right direction, I inevitably turn out to be wrong. What patience my friend must have, to again and again follow me down the wrong street and not speak a word. And it sucks to know how often I have to rely on my friend’s judgment about directions, urban and intellectual, as I try, each and every day, to make my way, worrying about cul-de-sacs, blind alleys, short piers and lost roads. I'm heading for it.

Hi Blog

Hello.

Tonight is cool, the weather is clear.

Ellis Is. Enuma

Preference has been moved to increase discoverability. Susceptible to giant news camera + million-dollar blonde in the bougie chelsea market I hold this slateboard as if holding my magical member cupped in hand at my crotch on the train where the trimmings and trappings of power provoke a kind of mental armoring. The news camera beckons me, as does the million-dollar blonde, while a plain Jane next to her shapes the discourse = budget and teachers in Mayor Bloomers flower patch. Lots of giant and crawling cameras here atop the highline park. Views, views, views. The iron spikey mental cardio shell of my emotional consistency means you, Mr. Bossy Commuter should not box me out like it's all basketball; and you, young reader with maedchen frills should let me lick your stomach like it was an unnecessarily rough-wrapped extra nice ice cream cone because I like you bunches and want to hear your pleasure soaked voice. Your freckles can only say so much while our tongues are so versatile here in late June, my j-june Janey. Loan me your interest and give me outright your affections and I'll read your hip back to you--what does it say..."Save Our Ships"? Don't expect magical budgetary manipulations to miraculously ameliorate the pitfall of this, the Whole Fucking Rented World.




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photos by & rights held by Douglas Manson

Poem

fondle and pull
recollections of a lonely wanderer
from a rotting bog of garbage
earnestly

the thinness of life
in consumerist complicity
well wish
hole in the chest
anger
books & space
weakness
thinking and forgetting
tiny cycle
small wisps around
the nerves of the brain
or whips
canned food
dry feature
compulsive
smoking
monitoring
Tuesday aubade
electric light
coffee & the men and women
who grew it, picked it
got it here

form foam
cartoon
cat and mouse and dog
and history
to be interested

the international phonetic alphabet
cultures and nations
living in temperate rain forests
and the ocean
rain

walking and getting wet
no longer having heart attacks
on a train, but thinking only of my book,
its words.
i used to look around searching faces
(as I do at my home
personalized computer society

mass arrests on the Brooklyn Bridge

Tuesday
October
cheese and beans
breath and hole in chest
the last barrier is
this red pouch I roll from

big black boots
boring clothes

I think about her every day.

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5th Annual Welcome to Boog City Festival

Scenes from the 8th Annual Small, Small Press Fair. August 6, 2011.

sunny.
august.
hot.

Evie Shockley reading from her chapbook of prose poems (Belladonna*, 2010). She also read from her new book The New Black (Weslyan, 2011).

Leigh Stein reads from her sheets and keeps the crowd in stitches.


Magus Magnus exponentializes his Heraclitean Pride (Furniture Press).


Helen Vitoria reads her poems. Sunglasses looks on.


Don Saddles' Francesca Capone played us the recipes of Cariah Lily Rosberg, featuring a kind of ice cream that includes cheap, raw meat and lentils.


After drying my tears, Brenda Ijima sent an attentive hush across all of Brooklyn with her poems from Glossematics (Least Weasel, 2011). Least Weasel chapbooks are letterpress masterpieces, made from the finest materials known to man.


Stephanie Gray reads her work from the new issue of Aufgabe (#10).


Rumor has it that Joe Elliot does all of his son's Homework (Chandelier Press, 2010).


Poetry in the garden courtyard of Unnameable Books.

On my way home through Prospect Park, I saw a young woman on a bicycle careening wildly across the Long Meadow, and was startled when the front wheel of her bicycle suddenly bent under her, and she flew longwise from her perch. I rushed over, and found her lying senseless in the grass.


After applying the gentlest of my healing arts to her most tender parts, she made a full, happy recovery.


"My hero!" she sighed.

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