Take ya clothes off.
Natives, surreptitious sneakers, pilots with the rust, riders of a shaking frequency, ( I like how you define all my frequencies ), read some of Blake Butler's "Cake" at Sleeping Fish.
Also, was the vibrating heatworld pleased, did I see 'poetry in motion' ( a culturists brainchild doubtless ) on a bus and then never again? I want more, guerilla poetry in busses, on busses, on busmen, no jury in cultured lands would have me do community service for already having done the community a service.
Here's for a bus or two, John M. Bennett's
Here's for a bus or two, John M. Bennett's
"Blow Away"
the crusted wind I covered with
eyesight the wind and tooth
lost in the bottom drawer there
was a wind I nailed to a board
in the splintered garage the wind
of numbers fogged in my pocket I
shaved the wind from my trembling
coat dogged the wind with my
tongue gagged and soaked with
wind your glasses retained my
sandwich hollowed with wind and
my undershirt a coughing towel of
wind I cornered in the loot
hidden in my closet the dribbling
wind caressing my face I shoveled
my ashes behind the wind and
twisted around to the front of
my wind a moon sunk in a bucket I
cradled a wind in a darkened street
in St. Louis 1961 the wind was
a throat I strangled and opened
was a sea its lunging mountains
where I was the wind
in 1948 I was a ship a small grey
wall quaking and clanging
in the circular wind
eyesight the wind and tooth
lost in the bottom drawer there
was a wind I nailed to a board
in the splintered garage the wind
of numbers fogged in my pocket I
shaved the wind from my trembling
coat dogged the wind with my
tongue gagged and soaked with
wind your glasses retained my
sandwich hollowed with wind and
my undershirt a coughing towel of
wind I cornered in the loot
hidden in my closet the dribbling
wind caressing my face I shoveled
my ashes behind the wind and
twisted around to the front of
my wind a moon sunk in a bucket I
cradled a wind in a darkened street
in St. Louis 1961 the wind was
a throat I strangled and opened
was a sea its lunging mountains
where I was the wind
in 1948 I was a ship a small grey
wall quaking and clanging
in the circular wind
/
These are the mad hot days, this Independence I have been stabbed upon the breast by a spider, I'm listening to all the Of Montreal, Frog Eyes, Velvet Underground, Women I can get my hands on... Off ( ! ) to east Nash to see who I see and smear, and eat, drink, music, dog, chicken, fire, un-work, flag, fire in a bottle, compressions of affection on me.
