My Factless Autobiography
The grammarian chooses a place in the open air for arguments fiction runs sweet in my nostrils I inhale a failing air fleet four of them for to eat the milky crab the pudding proof is found in
I am the Assayer of Weights and Measures I am what I am because I am not something else I hold a lily in my hands it is not gross As a fabric is a historic surface I am propelled I touch bone & traffic in salt like minefields & the people we inhabit
Who but the most despairing among us will dwell on that point tonight? Good [...]
The First Time I Saw My Mother Without Her Prosthesis
after Hafizah Geter
Like the smooth face of the cliff she was just thrown from, the left side of her chest was flat and blank, save for two tiny raised scythes. Not a half-carved turkey, thankless, but a woman.
It almost seemed as if her breast could be drawn back on again, as if the scalpel was merely erasing cancer, as if the right one hanging like a luminous brown tear wasn’t the lonely twin. As if this new lightness didn’t threaten to render her a widow of his touch, de-mother her somehow.
Is this a crystal ball moment— the [...]
Quit the Breaks
People are dying faster than even dentists are dying than even octopuses are dying than even elephants are dying What worries me is everything Flawed masculinity My outlook in bushes a wedding band the color of the moon breath mints between hips never touching feral The streets are crooked & that’s why everyone falls down I love you What I remember more people shot than a lane of bowling pins the drench of heat picture frames of basements There are ghouls inside me clenched fists !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The invaders used a non-vegetarian method of emptying the town of its populace.
What we see is a kind of attributed trembling, as with stars, or pebbles in the streambed of a brook.
He led us a dance, which ended in closed-mouth laughter. A brimming fountain in the middle distance spilled a willow.
The poem misses, and only by a hairsbreadth, being nothing but itself.
Windowframe. Branch of a red maple bowing the breeze, seventeen times.
Don’t call that cerise shirt loud. Colors, too, have feelings, they can hurt and be hurt, same as words.
Over a tall glass J. and I babbled of [...]
Cezanne’s Still-Life with Skull, Candlestick, & Book
Poor Yorick would speak a speech about fucking and how to run balls-out into the sea; how the rose once moved
this way and that in the breeze and how the pages were always turning towards the better future (and they were)
yet there’s no light half as true as the guttered candle; that’s the luminousness around the shadow which is a fact
or something dope like that with memory’s stagecraft here stupefying all vanities— Jake Kennedy lives in the Okanagan, BC. He and his BFF, poetcomicartfool kevin mcpherson eckhoff, are compiling a collaborative community western novel entitled Death Valley.
It was obvious. By March 2011, I was not projecting into the fourth quarter.
That very day, several juvenile delinquents kicked the locks off the shed door where I lived and I dragged them
all in by the ears and showed them Magritte’s umbrella collection. Then, from behind the rusty chipper, I revealed my “associate”
while puffing on my own gentlemen’s brand of cigarillo.
First Letter to David Berman and John Hodgman
Dear David Berman and John Hodgman,
In Bulawayo the bon-bon trees laugh and dance and smile in the happy giggle sunshine pavilion as the candy corn fields blush and bloom.
In the late afternoon, school teachers in white paper cones decorate the white paper cones they’re wearing with potato prints of cornflowers stained with oolong flavorings.
I sit nearby pretending not to notice.
Would it surprise you to know I wore a barely discernible worldly half-smile?
I installed a park bench out in the bush beneath an acacia tree boiling with black leather squirrels the size of Jots and squinted my [...]