Then the two artists talked about committing themselves to an insane asylum for the winter. They talked about how warm it would be in the insane asylum, with television, clean sheets on soft beds, hamburger gravy over mashed potatoes, a dance once a week with the lady kooks, clean clothes, a locked razor and lovely young student nurses. Ah, yes, there was a future in the insane asylum. No winter spent there could be a total loss.
We have been fighting a lot lately– / from our favorite tv shows, to what type of dog/ we might get, to which sugary cereals to pile/ into our cart with all these cheap products/ that don’t fit together: taco shells, toothpaste,/ store-brand mac and cheese– would you believe/ a month ago this place was stocked with everything/ we need? --From "Our Neighborhood Giant Eagle Is Closing"
So rarely do I approach the world/ as if it doesn’t have a lesson/ to etch into my skin.
There is a river that runs through the center of Kyoto: I first heard it here. A few have suggested it might be the sho, a mouth organ that is used in gagaku court performances. Wikipedia tells me that gagaku literally translates to "elegant music." That is a genre, which is also a judgment, which is also a historical fact.
How come I'm the only one here/who washes out the plastic bags
The method I used for writing these poems was as follows. I started by finding poems online, in French, by Arthur Rimbaud. After copying them to a document I would stare at them until I decided approximately what they might mean. Then I would write down that meaning in English. It might be important to note I don’t have any French, although I have watched a good number of subtitled French movies.
Some say it’s not the number/ of years in your life, but the number of beers/ in your years.
to try and fathom/ the absolute oneness of/ each moment in its/ infinite and deplorable/ succession,
When I think about spring and summer I think about all the Spring/Summer collections on the runway, I think about ice cream, I think about bare feet on warm sand, and I think about all the death that had to occur to bring us to this moment.
basically, it is simple, you just/ tackle your sister who/ is passing through the screen door.
Maps are to be happy in./ Where can we live/ but where we happen to be.
Jessy Randall, 46, has had diagram poems, poetry comics, and other things in "Poetry," "Story," and "The Best Experimental Writing 2015"; Briget Heidmous, 27, is a multi-media visual artist exploring the principles of ecology employing scale as illusion. Her work has been in solo exhibitions at the Manitou Art Center and The Machine Shop, where she was artist in residence in 2014.
And who is to say/ When we are here in our bed/ That we are not/ To rule/ Because you refuse to rule us
But back to the mother’s astute observation: somewhere along the way we seem to have decided that to be a poet is to be a Poet, as in some sort of seer or like a wise prophet, someone who lives among us but is able to Feel Bigger or Live Better, and so I suppose in this case, at The Pulitzer Centennial Poetry Celebration, held on Thursday, October 27th, 2016, at Cooper Union in downtown Manhattan, a parade of eleven of the finest and best Livers and Feelers, if you believe all that, were being presented on a public stage before an audience, to be lauded and adored.
The separation of dance and theater- this is a life long irritant for me! In my personal and very subjective time line, the distrust in Western theater of dance all began post-18th c. Since then, we audience(s) have been increasingly subjected to mind-numbing, un-ironic, unambiguous “reality” on stage.
For me all art is contemporary art. From Cave Painting to now; it's all in play everywhere at the same time. I think that our current teleological system of art history based on progress and art is mainly measured by formal moves "forward" via techniques, tools, etc. This system is already dead; it just doesn't know it.
First, you’ll lose track of the date,/ and then the days, and finally--/ unhitched from any purpose--/ you’ll judge each morning only by its weather.
The girls on Union Street/ wear black sneakers,/ logic loose like a/ highway without lanes,/ the graceful texture/ of new summer/ full inside the fist.
I’m still trying to figure out. Look/ at the sky. It’s so big & so full of color./ Imagine if it fell. Imagine if it hurt.
What’s your favorite kind, she asked./ Oh geez, I like them all, I said, I like/ the white sauce style from Alabama –/ that was started by a place called/ Big Bob’s Gibson’s, I believe – and/ I like the brisket-oriented Texas type,/ I like Kansas City burnt ends, I like/ St. Louis ribs, I like the way Memphis/ does it wet or dry, like the weather
In through the ears like violet dye/ Paints a path like an MRI
It is the nature of a droplet to be the smallest observable element./ I don’t know what to say about other people.
What did we know of death? Nothing/ but narcissus bloomed like hiccups/ in the front yard and/ we were the kingdoms and the questions.
Don't worry, the notebooks are all with the proper/ authorities. Such little things make life, and buttonholes / let it seep out. It can happen in no time and now it’s over.
so I returned to the salted road/ cruising past dark snow/ and trees no cars/ no other lights/ for miles just ice
So this girl messages me/ do you want to hang out sometime./ So I look and see she actually has a boyfriend./ The boyfriend as it turns out is a reindeer./ And not only that, a metal display reindeer.