Monday, June 30, 2008

Glamazon Thong Song

Gramazon too old
Dot da bom Glamazon
Glamazon unleashes flatten
Glamazon your mom
Glamasaurus woofs
Over the wooftips of Glamazonia
Paypal at
Behind the wheel Glamazon

Glamazing Glamasaurus
Glamaster Gash
Glamazon and Butthead
Lookout! For Botox Glamazon
With big eating, must feed all of bloodwork
Glamazona, jumping frog in Glamazonas County
Asked of Glamazing difficultly asked if quitting
GlamDepopulated for sugar!
Not until Botox Patch services all of London
And London’s Glamazon heart
Did you learn nothing of Glamazoning Western Music?
Two days ago, I emailed, asking about their not-so-subtle advertising campaign. So much for participatory consumerism. Read below.

My question:

Ticket Information:
Ticket #: 5415-5938975
Date Created: 6/28/2008 11:42 AM EST
Details: Original Email Information

Subject: Your ad on monster
Purpose: Feedback

Why does the cigarette look like a giant penis? Are you suggesting that smokers are obsessed with penises? So much for subtlety.

Their reply:

Thank you for taking the time to express your concerns about the EX® program. We take all feedback seriously, and we are always looking for ways to improve our program. As you know, when it comes to quitting smoking, what works for some people may not work for others. Thankfully, there are many resources available for people who want to quit. We encourage you to continue looking for the program that's right for you. When you're ready, we know you can make a change and become an ex-smoker.

We wish you all the best,

The EX® Team

Saturday, June 28, 2008

Not-so-subtle (quitting) smoking ad

I'm not making this up, from a site called [Ad taken from And yes, I found this while searching for jobs.]

Friday, June 27, 2008

becoming toxic, the manager
tastes so that we might enjoy
arms’ reach and pick our poison.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

a belief made in Switzerland just says healing

Does this **** creep come with majonnaise?

Brazed fillets
Soufflé brazed, mass

Poems analyzed for meter, imagery, and going along
with vacation figurative language: meaning will be heaped
and burnt, treated with the acid that poems deserve

Holdon, griefstrike
A4, casing your tubular rampart craning
Have you felt exacerbated? Releasing jelly

View of symbolic razed?
Plumed majonnaise, serpentine

The fifth holder maya nasa

Xmas greeting
*** called me stupid with *****

Fruitcake interpretation:

A belief made in Switzerland just says healing
It’s just fruitcakov, I abhor

Does open source
Grotesque examples

Hand held
In a way that assumes fond
Or exactly! Mouse-like rinse

Post-intermix finds uses
For camp

Sprouts rob grout
Kitsch stars inner camp lace
Grimy arm rests

Mr. Potato can litigate
From fresh perspectives

Monday, June 23, 2008

Invisible Man (Ellison)

"Somewhere a machine began to hum and I distrusted the man and woman above me."

Sunday, June 22, 2008

You should figure out a way to not let this get away

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Tuesday, June 17, 2008

The Local

By way of a recent blog post, Stephanie Young seeks (at least part of her essay deals with this) a more local internet, only to end wondering just what do we mean by local.

The local is anything readily accessed or paired with. I'm near, it's local. It's anesthetic! If I'm part of a local scene (images or codified stimuli that have more meaning for me than for others) then I'm easily located in the space of that scene. If that scene is located on the Internet, that scene, for me, is local. I can loco there, a quack doesn't echo- I can maneuver within that space. This works regardless of whether I'm part of a burgeoning scene from Sydney, Australia, or Trieste or New York City. If I move within I'm loquacious enough for the scene to become local/localized to me. Locality, localness -- en loco parentis with screaming Al Pacino masks -- has changed for me, and mostly for us, with access to what I'll call "the locality acceleration" (sounds right out of Logan's Run) of the Internet. What is should be of further curiosity is how the Internet changes the sense of locality in my own head. How is it I empathize with those souls of Sydney by belonging to their scene, since I know nothing of the city? Is my assumption of the local merely localized to a specific group of interests?

Have our chances of experiencing localness multiplied or moved out of the way?

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Caca de cara

Caca rara caca
Cara de caca caca cara, cara cara, cacaracha cara
cucaracha caca
Caca cara, cucharada cada cara caca cara
que cara Caracaca, racacara
Caracas cara caca caca cara cucharaca macha
Caramucha macha, caracara cararacha mala caca
Cara mala caca racha cara caca
Macara caca

Cara caca rara
Cara de caca caca rara, cara cara, cacaracha rara caca
Cucaracha rara cucha
Caca cara, cucharada cada cara rata caca cara
Que cara Caracaca, racacara
Caracas cara caca caca cara cucharaca macha
Caramucha macha cara racha mala cararacha caca
Cara macha mala caca racha cara macha caca
Macara caca rachara cacha.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008


A great article anti-slam/spoken word by Heriberto Yepez can be found here

To my most honor and able man friend

My Yankee of Periodic Elementary and yet the other day debriefs to my soft explains. This will I do in type. Let’s rassle. Here a rickshaw melody targets a fossil city. Quell smooch. I bet my ugly buttress on ancient Greek. Finders helter into blissful heliports. I have outreached dicing stasis. This very moment a teller cant down a building. Crashes and bums in the metro to fill the nightclub with amore. So what, I say, I guess. I, lick the men who cull you, what intestines taurino feel. Each name wraps a SHLDR and never learns your trouble sports. Nothing but police in our sexuality, we forsook after great lengths forsook thoroughfare. What keeps me is a jerk of wheel. Oh these days jamb halter.

Yours, in a Loamy SEAT,

Southern Hocky League

Monday, June 09, 2008

Armored Elevator

I finally put my book, Armored Elevator, online.


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from here

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Sunday, June 08, 2008

Ann Richards, former Texas Governor

"Poor George [Bush, Sr.]. He was born on third base and thinks he hit a triple."

sarge says coolit

levels of backup do not
prof. windshield

talking the field you
candidate for Klepto besides

trooper don’t press any
bottom maneuvers

police pick up the outfield
custody no homerun

a sting product, regards trammel
with osso bucko, Grant

I let your brothering
I work solo chili willie sucky sucky

in on my little secret
about my V-card


[Note: I wrote this over a year ago and never posted it. I met Mel during the Flarf Festival here in New York, so I thought I'd post it.]

-after Mel Nichols

your priest catch me
steaming, his long mane
growling, blest
winning at powerball

the doctoral mangroves around us

Pauly retells his nations of harvest
yet ShurSave won't carry Urdu yams
the yam washing pre-culture
pulls up for the knutes

Tuesday, June 03, 2008


[N.B. In yesterday's comment box I mentioned that I hadn't mentioned the term "capitalism" in my post, Beckett. I was wrong because...

Oh wait, I DO mention capitalism.

My reason -- for forgetting it, I suppose -- was this: capitalism has less to do with how we judge things than our desire to always judge things according to the same criteria. Do we like it? Are we kept interested? Does it makes us want to return it? 'Buy' it again? Would we come back for more? Etc.

You cannot judge something that lacks the success/fail basis (how well it works or doesn't work for all buyers, like a product) as "working" and "not working." I mean, you CAN, but it doesn't make much sense, because poems have these things called audiences -- unlike products -- which aren't all the same. Audiences have different dreams, even though they might all be after some poems.

It's because of poetry's effect on each reader/listener, and not our judgments of the work (i.e., you can't hate this poem because it's subjective and I wrote it and love it to pieces) is why poetry is deemed subjective. But that's another post altogether, silly ryan.]

Monday, June 02, 2008


Fail better. And again.

Failure in poetry is an interesting concept. Because inasmuch as the idea of failure/a poem's failure is bandied about, I'm going to call bs here.

What? Really? Can I actually be effin' serious? I don't think a poem can fail?

No. I don't. I think workshopspeak has invaded our lingo, that this idea is ghosted by other, bigger ideas that occupy the idea of failure, that the idea of failure is too firmly tied to object failure (not abject).

When something is supposed to work and it fails, it just doesn't work. The object doesn't cease be there, sitting around not workingg. But our capitalism is hurt. Our sense that money can buy progress is shaken, and waivers. And goodie goodie. The object works so our money works. The object breaks, our money breaks.

I'm very suspicious of the idea that a poem can fail. Sure, some poems get at their objective better than others; some are more precise, more poignant, more acerbic, funnier, more ambitious etc. Some even have wide audiences. But this notion, that a poem can fail, really only seems written into writing that doesn't make the bestseller list after getting big fat advancey paychecks.

The reason I'm interested in this idea is because it betrays (is treasonous towards) hubris and certainty. Just when you think you've got it, a downward spiral. The ambiguity of failure means another poem and another, which isn't failure at all. No writer can really know whether or not something isn't failing until it works. But if there's no one around, there's no forest, and certainly no failure.

So failure might exist, but only socially. Nothing fails in and of itself. So, for today, dear reader(s), I'm going to write something that fails, and not because I'm looking to make The Times list, but because I'm going to write something that fails and fails good. Like this, perhaps.