Lemony Snicket -The Reptile Room
May 24, 2013, 11:00 pm
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Nothing -Randall Mann
May 24, 2013, 7:23 am
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My mother is scared of the world.
She left my father after forty years.
She was like, Happy anniversary, goodbye;


I respect that.
The moon tonight is dazzling, is full
of   itself  but not quite full.


A man should not love the moon, said Milosz.
Not exactly. He translated himself
into saying it. A man should not love translation;


there’s so much I can’t know. An hour ago,
marking time with someone I would like to like,
we passed some trees and there were crickets


(crickets!) chirping right off  Divisadero.
I touched his hand, and for a cold moment
I was like a child again,


nothing more, nothing less.

Fooled Me for Years with the Wrong Pronouns -Gwyneth Lewis
You made me cry in cruel stations,
So I missed many trains. You married others
In plausible buildings. The subsequent son
Became my boss. You promised me nothing
But blamed me for doubting when who wouldn’t.
If  I knew how to please you — who have found
Out my faults. In dreams I’m wild with guilt. Have pity
Kill it. Then, when I’ve lost all hope,
Kiss me again, your mouth so open —
I’d give anything for one more night —
That I go without thought. Don’t bite. No,
Mark me. My husband already knows
Exactly what owns me.

Dirt Nap -Melissa Broder
May 17, 2013, 1:41 pm
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Azazel’s dead body rose
because Azazel was never
alive. I am alive
and this is also about me.
Highly sensitive persons
are angels. Let’s give a shoutout
to softness. Humans please touch me
until I grow an adapter.
Fetch my dopamine blanket,
the moon is in Aries
is in crisis. Azazel rose.
Azazel was colored bright orange.
The nozzle they twist on your lips
when you die makes your spirit
arcade off its hinges.
The body turns colors
that a spirit underneath
your spirit always wanted
to be. Azazel was
cantaloupe. Azazel was
tangerine. Break my spirit
I say break it now on a grave
or over the edge of
a casket. You will see it
was only a blemish.

The Great Figure: On Figurative Language
May 16, 2013, 1:42 pm
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“Perhaps we no longer believe in a world in which the poem always gets to say everything we want it to say. But we can at least believe that the poem is an opportunity to grapple with speech—as long as we strive to say, we cannot be defeated in the realm of words.”

-D.A. Powell

Emilie Simon- I wanna be your dog
May 9, 2013, 1:58 pm
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Friends Forever -Jon Leon
May 9, 2013, 7:29 am
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On cold and snowy nights I write the most pristine poems for you. I pretend you’re in my bed with me and I am touching your thighs, thick and white. And I am pressing my cock between your wet tits. Then I start to heave and have to listen to songs on repeat and think about you like you’re an abstraction. I have to escape the pain. I am not cynical enough to stop believing. I know you don’t live in Tahiti. I know you are alive and breathing. I know you aren’t inside of a film selling newspapers on the street. You are real, clap your hands. You are real enough to imagine you exist next to me. I try to sleep again. I see your face. I try to not sleep, I see your face. I try to drive my sports car, I see your face. I know you aren’t only inside of me inside of you. I know you aren’t where I left you. I know you aren’t in a gravel parking lot outside of a music hall. I know you aren’t drunk and texting me. I know you aren’t drunk and cheating on me. I need you to appear. I need you to lie down. I need you to lie down in this world in this time. I need you to know the source of all value. It is here. It is in my waterbed.