Prose is Writing Poetry

To each reader their own poem

28 notes

a poem that is my notes on the Internet from the beginning of 2011, reproduced here precisely


Notes on the Internet


homesickness for a virtual place/ a “not place” the pre-corporate, flush wealth of amateurism  

the dirty style, the vernacular web as inherently nostalgic, the use of irony

to conjure it up in elegiac juxtaposition    flarf as mourning

“digital poetry” which celebrated aspirational technology

and ignored, entirely, that which celebrated the vernacular reality of that technology

which had a resistance to the social internet in favor of the

aspirational code based art in its e-commerce awfulness, now kitsch

for its overreaching, innocence

the mostly failure of the “cold” technological future in favor of the “hot”

one of TMI, trolls, inflated passions, so much blowing air and

flashing, mixing, collecting

the way this manifested in art, and (barely) in literature,

which resists, always, that it has been freed from itself

into the screen

the way the internet was a giant, unfiltered affect machine

put on to feel




the internet as vast desubjectification apparatus  

desubjectification as land grab

irony as desubjectification

nostalgia for the future &

nostalgia for nostalgia &

nostalgia for:

1.  the book

2.  the city

proving the death of 1. the future 2. nostalgia 3. the book and 4. the city

a private counter-longing for:

the wide margin (the internet de-urbanizing cities, the city as sham, the

city as gentrified playground, the de-urbanization evidenced in the

predicitive exurban genius emerging in new de-urbanized vanguards)

language freed from the book (the open, endless vertical of the screen)


3.  also:


*WHAT IS CONTEMPORARY ? The blank space between the stars.

Filed under poetry

5 notes


Facebook has enough users to be
a many limbed country. Tendrils,
coils of throbbing pictures, beastly
advertisements fogging glass
with their heavy breaths. The census
says a billion citizens. The census
scaffolds a ceiling and warps Earth
to make a watershed of timelines,
some of the riverbeds dried,
fish heads turned up in the mud,
tipped like cairns skyward.
There are many farms and many mafias
but a nation of no-touch, no hands
pressed on a screen door or window,
just absurd birdsong leaping bough
to bough, biting off insect heads.
It’s a legislative process of likes
and votes but no bills are drafted.
An agency of shadows just tinkers
with the tap-water to control
the terms of service. Another Fact:
Facebook is really a hulking, hairy
beast clothed in closet shadow,
shuddering, tears glistening down
down a phone-screen lighting up
the dark with a dozen little notifications
and spiders bursting out the receiver.

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1 note

Freud (Lacan Revisits)

The rats fucking inside the wall are something like a language. Look at all the traps we set up. Still longing. Wash the hands. The sink cold. The world a mirror. Then we smash it. Then we pick up the pieces. Then we cut our hands on our reflection. Sometimes there is blood and a pool deep enough for drowning. Sometimes there is a home disintegrating. Sometimes a mouth like revolving doors. Sometimes we learn to walk and then never forget how.

Filed under poetry prose poem

8 notes

Freud 3

What you thought were skulls in the library stacks are really just femurs. A spider makes a rosary with a sleeping man’s teeth. She makes eight a year. A spotted monster of love presses down stalks in the jungle before plunging. A dream. A nightmare cymbal-clashing. Someone says it is the ex come to haunt, another says it is the dog. A bad snack before bed. Maybe even, a sun that shines in the window but wrings its hands and smokes another cigarette before buttoning up its tears and going back to work.

Filed under poetry prose poem

3 notes

Freud 2

Now build. An ant colony. Many monuments in red dirt—tiny children shoving black cats inside. Tiny pops and tin laughter running down the countryside. A country of ants. Channels in the dirt holding up houses. Subways in a city. All the skyscrapers fumbling about above ground. An ant on the tile floor, then a dozen more. Build a hole, now a system, a place for eggs, a spot to eat them. Somewhere everywhere pest control is called and everywhere somewhere ants spawn.

Filed under poetry prose poem

7 notes

Freud 1

Break it down. Parts of a hand. Parts of a stone. Flecks of gold in quartz. Granite inside a finger bone. Rivers and rivers and rivers beneath rock and break it down: blood beneath breath. Pumps and levees work the inside and the outside and the basalt still works in cracks to the surface. Magma flowers. An island chain in the ocean. A crescent scar on your cheek.

Filed under poetry prose poem

1 note

tiny little poems

New smell—same brand.
This place I’ve stood before
curled toes in memory, sand
or snow or stick-sharp grass,
page after page of love unfolding.


Saturday wrist aches, weather
flew at your face, twisted
screws into me, a pained
sense of where I should be
and a question of empty glass
on my table where your reflection
once warped and shimmered.


The deeper the sun burns
the brighter those scars show,
a trio of pearl bracelets
and a shame and heavier
scent of steel.


Tiny little poems
tiny little drops of blood
down a line of snow


Who gets the silver spoon?
The one of bone, polished wood?
The boys set the table, leave,
before satyrs take their seats.


The sun small and faint from Neptune,
the constellation of freckles on your shoulder
the last thing before Neptune turned its back
and the wave came roaring in.


The vines tangled repeating in tangles from the ceiling a hand on one a hand tangled a knot of hair a tangle of choke breathless desire head hanging from a window tangled wall tangled panes and tangled sheets the dream over and over waking next tangled up in your smell


The hot air balloon crash in the ocean
only not an ocean but a sea of memory
of floating upside down, your father
holding your ankles like a cartoon bully,
a laughter loud as blood head-rushing
horizons of green running over your palms

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0 notes

dafotology asked: Sex Tape, now in theaters!

I didn’t mean to send that video
to my students! Good thing there are no faces
or tattoos to mark us by, just endless legions
of spiders bursting out of the sheets.
One climbs the cleft of my buttcheek
and begins threading a web
around my bird-flapping genitals,
the others help her make a filament weave
until me and my partner are clothed,
breathless and asking, “Was it good
for you?” “Yeah” “You sure?” “Got a cigarette?”
Then the whole house burns down.

Filed under shit poetry dafotology send me something and I'll write you one

1 note

All I want to do tonight is drink coffee and write shit poems. Leave a word and/or subject line in my ask box and I’ll write you one

3 notes

"Mozart’s Concerto for Glass Harmonica"

There you are, at the gate of the memory palace
underneath the rusted teeth of the portcullis,
your hand raised in a puzzling gesture—
is it farewell, come here, get back, no blame,
or are you just trying to hitch a ride? But I’ve seen
that gesture when you sleep, as if you were saying
to someone, on the one hand … on the other hand.
Here is a memory to store in the palace—
You and I at the circus. The arena is dark
except for one blue spotlight. In it, a clown
stands before a table. On the table an array,
crystal wine glasses filled with different levels
of water. He’s dressed in white with a conical hat,
tear marks on one cheek. With a wet finger,
he plays music that was once forbidden
because it made musicians lose their minds.
There is a blank look in his eyes and he performs
perfectly, as if he were a mechanical clown.
Now look up, the lady on the trapeze
is dropping large blue crepe-paper flowers.
Maybe the palace is the size of a dollhouse
and my eye at the window is the eye of a giant.
Maybe the palace is in my chest and my heart
is beating too loud inside. I remember
when I woke but was still asleep and saw
my chest rising and falling on its own
and then I accidentally rolled out of my body
and there were two of me lying side by side.
In an alcove shaped like a scallop shell I’ve placed
a list of the way lovers have said goodbye.
Developer fluid heated up, passed off
as consommé, is a standout. As is GOODBYE
written in shaving cream on the dusty windows
of a row of abandoned cars in Baja. Just as I begin
to suspect what is wrong with this picture
I notice how lightly you step over the grillwork
of the oubliette, that terrible lace under which
men are forgotten. You raise your hand again
and now I understand that gesture—
it’s how you erase the distant mountains,
the palace, the sky, everything.

by Richard Garcia

Filed under seriously good poetry Richard Garcia

4 notes

Another boy another bad taste in my mouth
another disaster of the season another plane
burning down a speckled sky another gut-wrench
like worms in soul blending another earth
churning another summer descent in accents
of what of what another mind not unlocked
another park bench another woman beside me
another knowing by smell but no eye contact
another statue of a man bearing stone on
his shoulder another variety of flowers bloomed
another sense of where to be and go
and the horizons of nowhere in between
another good weather morning another bad day
another encounter with Jeff who is old
and bearded and not homeless but a neighbor
another parking lot renovation and cement
pounded to pebbles outside my bathroom
window another bowl of toilet water trembling
another mouse in the wall woken rattled and scared
another day of meaningless writing and exercise
in handwriting and another bird that flies into
the reflection of my darkened cellphone screen
another useful life for a battery-dead paper weight
another garden I don’t recognize another library
or road split in halves for renovations another
day of yearning to be the change not the static
another city morphing faster than the hatched robin
another aging in my hands for its first migratory flight.

Filed under poetry

17 notes

"I wanted" — Roque Dalton


I wanted
Roque Dalton (San Salvador, 1935 –1975) 

I wanted to talk about life in all the corners
filled with song I wanted to join a river of words
the dreams and the names what is not said
in the newspapers the agony of the lonely
caught in the folds of the rain
reclaim the bare parables of the lovers and leave them
at the feet of a child’s game
elaborating their sweet daily destruction
I wanted to pronounce the syllables of the people
the songs of their anguish
point out where the heart is lame
to say who alone deserves a shot
in the back to tell of my own country
lay down the exodus of the large
migrations that opened all the paths of the world
of love even dragged over there
by the ditches to talk to you about trains
and my friend who killed himself with another’s knife
of the history of all of the people torn
from the blindness of the myth of reefs
the century that will end with my three sons
of the language of the birds and the furious foam
of the great quadrupeds’ stampede
and I wanted to tell you about the Revolution
and about Cuba and the Soviet Union
and about the woman I love because of her eyes
of tiny storms
and of your lives filled with dawn
and asking people who saw it who said that
how could it be done I got here
before you
and of all of the things of nature
and of the heart and its testimony
of the last fingerprint before annihilation
of the little animals and of tenderness
I wanted to say yes all that and tell
a lot of the stories I know and told to me in my time
and all that I learned living in sorrow’s big house
the things that were said by the poets before me
and that it was good to know

And I could not give you more—closed door
of poetry—
than my own headless body in the sands of the ring.

(mexico-havana-san-salvador-prague 1961-1965) 

(trans. by Anne Boyer) 

Filed under poetry

0 notes


Sweat and another aftertaste Emily recognized as fear rose in the back of her throat. It filled in the absence of feeling, sweat-numb pressed against the boy’s chest inflating, deflating. A motor so mechanical Emily imagined hard metal beneath his skin. No muscle. No bone. Just sheets of stainless steel and hot iron. Above her the ceiling fan cut starlight and its breeze stirred the muggy air like a hand in bathwater. The stiff ache of her limbs told her that morning light was a held in breath she wasn’t ready to exhale. The motor against her cheek hummed and whirred. She wanted to move, to float away like a ghost or dream disintegrating in sunlight, but his arm held her in place. She was not afraid of waking next to him or how his eyes might look with all that machinery still inside beneath them. She felt something move within her like rats behind the wall. From the window the birdsong began.

Filed under flash fiction

5,329 notes



We’re seeking submissions of Young Adult stories with asexual/aromantic main characters! We’re looking for main characters ages 14-18 who experience positive character growth though the story.

Please see the information in the poster above or check our our submission guidelines.

See a more complete list of what we’re looking for at the original post. And please, give us feedback if there’s something you’d like to see that we’ve left out.

I will boost this as much as possible. Seeing ace stories when I was younger would have made a world of difference, and even now that I’m older and know what I identify as, there still aren’t enough stories about people like me. Kudos to HIP for being so proactive about the representation available through their publishing house.

(via bubonickitten)

Filed under submission calls

1 note

A Sonnet?


Empty paper coffee cups are strewn among flower fluffs
on the street in late June, I choke on the wind and the smell
of two carrion birds feasting on my dreams and my nightmares
All of which I, for reasons unknown to myself, have spilled over
the table and onto your lap, and you’ve welcomed them

Mid-July I stumble over words thinking about my tongue
and the way it hits my teeth as I finish the word ‘kestrel’
with two sugars and four turns of a spoon on Tuesdays
I don’t hate all people who take cream in their coffee

It burns my tongue and I can feel your words being etched
into the roof of my mouth, like some sort of closure
that you’ll be around if ever I need to say something valuable
despite the fact that I’ll never have the true commitment
to write a sonnet that may spill amongst birds or onto your lap

Filed under poetry