Friday, July 31, 2009

Bureaucratization Is an Ever-Changing Process

All the bloggers congregate and create
a density from which light cannot escape.
Spumy hack and flog whumped
around the portholes.
Are we not human beings?
the horses ask as they trot into the surf.
It's a long time
that I've loved you,
the moon tracking through its phases,
clouds scudding across the night sky.
This always makes me move more quickly.
The sea is digitized,
compartmentalized into one division
of Google Earth and Sea Digital Libraries.
Ditto here about the moving.
A whole whirling buzz of asterisks.
Once, you sneezed, sending a dozen
or more ravens from the trees.

Bureaucratization Is an Ever-Changing Process

First, lay the fish out on newspaper.
I strongly recommend a kitten in your lap,
a few dirty dishes
left soaking in the sink.
To be too fastidious
signals a certain lack of imagination
others will interpret as like
totes dull.
The oak out front
swallows another kite.
The circle of life.
The beagle howls after the fire engine:
not bad!
I also recommend whispering to the river,
listening when it whispers back.
It's telling you to jump.
Of course it is.
It likes the splash,
the rain making tiny dents.
It's telling you to listen to the kitten
telling you something else entirely,
to the wrinkle of the kite
in the oak, to check out that last
glimpse of red flashing through yellow leaves.
It sounds like a hug.
The oak bends and shudders
above a dozen parking violations.
The storm moves in like a ninja,
telling you to listen
to nothing at all.
How's that again?
In all my dreams, the storm
blows in through gigantic picture windows,
beautiful and terrifying,
saying to everyone, hey, I know you.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Bureaucratization Is an Ever-Changing Process

Wrapped and wracked up in the warped flux,
what's a little boll weevil to do?
Red pen -- streaky.
Here comes a ghost I almost recognize.
Another nicked knuckle smearing the hardwood.
Look at this:
a stack of books, never read.
Smoke pours from them.
Smoke purrs from them,
settles into the corner,
the stack of cardboard slowly losing
its structural integrity.
Here comes a thirty-year see you later.
What could possibly be cooler than being an undercover cop?
That's easy:
Writing a book about it,
calling it Decoy Cop
and including 18 action photos.
Where's the broom, that boom-boom-boom?
Right here as always, dummy.

Friday, July 24, 2009

A Short Note From Management: The House of Bognanni Open to Visitors

Peter Bognanni is a short story writer, a humorist, has done at least one journalistic type of thing, and is also a novelist. The House of Tomorrow, his first novel, in equal parts about R. Buckminster Fuller, punk rock, and the difficulty in acquiring your sea legs in the world, is due in March next year (2010).

Let him enrich your life. Check him out here.

In addition, don't forget to check out H_NGM_N and Ex Cathedra.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

A Short Note From Management: NEW H_NGM_N OMG YES


Like, it's night time & there are these two guys & they're all like, I'm gonna break into this BANK, yo. To steal the MON-ey. And the other guy is like, yo, what about the H_NGM_N? Like for realz? And the first guy is like what - that tired old washed up old guy? Like no one has even SEEN him for like YEARS or something. Guys probably dead.

And the second guy is like yo. And so it was that there were guys straight up robbing banks all over the city & when I say bank I mean JOURNALS PUBLISHING BAD POETRY & then there's like this quick cut, right, where you see like SOMEthing on a balcony or some junk, like high up like looking down all bad@$$ & then these two guys are like about to break into the bank still? By which I mean BAD POETRY RUNNING RAMPANT all up in the grill of the fair city? And what?

So that's it man. It's like yo - H_NGM_N #8. SWOOP. And like everyone thought he was dead & yo & like that was it? But he's here & cleaning house & by house I mean THE LANDSCAPE OF CONTEMPORARY POETRY & by cleaning I mean like straight up cleaning.

So it's like not only for you but for the city & banks & POETRY & also for yourself that you must needs click yon link & spread the word that, like, if you were afraid to go out at night? Or read poetry? There is no more reason to fear ever now:

yrs ever & always -

n8 & crew

PS follow the 'M_N on Twitter for updates -->

Saturday, July 11, 2009

The Platypus Will Eat Your Face (Or: Your Probable Future)

You'll like it.
Scratch that:
you'll love it.
You'll be wearing
a cowboy hat
and maybe waving
a big foam finger
and it will be like
getting dunked
in a vat of
white chocolate.
Above you,
the panoply
of stars whirl,
whizzing out
gas, light, heat.
In heaven, everyone
gets a grilled cheese,
another perfect
Your dog is also here.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Brad's Got a Mouthful of Blood

My windbreaker is so sweet.
You'll fall to your knees in envy.
Or is that w/ envy?
Never ever do I wish for an iPhone,
to be up late pondering my portfolio:
how much diversification
is enough, exactly?
Should I look into
moon rocks, how dust motes move
through bars of light
and shade in late afternoon?
Probably I could be richer than I am now,
hired by the super-duper-rich
to spit blood on the white fur coats
of other peoples' enemies.

Brad's Cultural Revolution

All the survivors will be herded
into pens and pumped full of
sunshine and bunnies.
In the schools, the desks
warm throughout the afternoon,
which lasts 65% longer.
The cacti care nothing for our plurals,
our tiny yearnings and pride.
Fights over nomenclature erupt.
What are you, an idiot?
Fish another clot of hair from the drain,
another clod of sod from the fields,
fry up a kettle of fish
underneath the same moon.
Metaphors are mixed thoroughly.
The boat moves through the passage,
its holds as dark and chilly as your heart.
When push comes to shove,
you'll fire, I'm sure, the first shot.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Poem In Which We Finally Arrive at a Brave New Understanding

The rank-and-file fall in line.
The double-plus good Two Minutes Hate
is three hours underway.
Absolutely no one was surprised.
The end of the story was in sight before
the cardinal swooned
and dropped from the branch
and onto the asphalt where he
was accidentally beautiful.
All beauty is accidental
but not all accidents are beautiful.
Some are a total wreck,
pure and simple,
see, for instance,
last weekend's horse show.
I've never seen so many wealthy people
so distraught, at least not since
Barbaro neighed by the light of votives,
incense burning with the hay.
It was disastrous to be sure
but now that I'm thinking about it
also kind of beautiful
so I don't know where that leaves us.
In another story, the son
rats out the father just as the father
burns down another barn,
then the son walks into the forest,
alone. Such is our reward.
When baby squirrels grow up
they are known simply as squirrels.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Instant Fishbowl

I'm fostering resentment in the rocky wilds,
inadvertently spurring agreement and growth
among the fractious tribes.
I'm used to all the hatin',
this is what happens when
you're kind of like a big deal.
Fragile sovereignty: no one needs reminding.
I'm reading the paper
with my eyes closed.
We're all just a bunch of dumb kids,
each blameless in our own ways.
Didn't see that van.
Didn't see that guardrail,
that glass building, that big bad heart
beating in the dark sky.
Have a Red Bull.
Have two Red Bulls.
What a bunch of bad dumb kids,
multiplying in the scree
and philosophizing new technology into being.
I am ex officio, a blood pressure miracle!
The ant colony merges with another,
inadvertently carried across the ocean,
not fifteen feet away
from a pod of orcas
tearing through the nets.
Chemicals tucked into antennae
like scribbled love notes.
When I was younger I needed
a box with a pinhole in it
in order to catch a glimpse
of the cosmic flux
but not so much these days
where I am my own walking, talking
eclipse scattering the birds from the trees.
Sky shot blue and white and green.
Everyone else got old and into Wilco,
everyone else got over it,
hieroglyphics burning in the dark.
That's all right, screams the eagle.
That's all right, too, screams the fish.