Walmart and the Mime Workout

[this piece seeks to dialog with Stan Apps' recent post on Friday, March 28, 2008. This dialog is not consentual, but called for by the consent tabloids that are the definitive guide to objects one might send with love.]
--


they are paid to shop
until they cannot pick themselves up
from discounted boot strings
and then they are paid more
we laugh at how much they are paid saying,
“they have money coming out their ears, and of their eyes

They are shooting money at Drew Carey
and he’s getting in trouble about being excited and
she’s incontrovertibly mousey
housed in a large inky Celtic knot”

you grab a shiny thing, and you're thinking
there are more like this, it's oblivious.
Out like pudding. Naturally, I wanted both pair, I could only
Mean oblivious in two separate bedrooms with smaller sleep

means pushing one of two buttons wrong
options are always butter or without
a national championship ring

I always wanted until I had money. Now I just buy several
a showing of national industrial footing
and clemency faces of wonder open tubing of refills.

puppy dog tails

I find it positive that my brother won’t introduce his girlfriend
That every one of us needs a colon in our pocket
Racing, the big truck in line to hand you flowers
It’s all about you. Sea enemies
Open and deny entrance to germs
about you. Taken to task
A raccoon will fluff a better pillow
Than your brother standing in a heart shape
Allows his system to corrode a close girlfriend
One of your best shopping pals not introduced to her now boyfriends

Climax about time you reached a safe zone
That mocking throat swallowing of the exerted engine
And friend indeed to stranded game wardens
Who are we but warriors of different sages
Clemens is nothing but a showboat and apocalypse
I will sell my daughter for Clemens’ return.
But first you must introduce your name.
You must allow others to genuflect into your parish
It will resolve itself in Mariah
And will reject all pulp as originating material.
Only antimatter will focus on the spaceship
Whose cast told a deep tale of personal growth
Eons spent crammed into a tiny vessel
To become known as nosebleed seating.

I will sell my lassie for batter and rice dream.
The supermarket grants and the most honest men wish
Critters stir off into the bedroom, but here
Under the sedative fluorescent capsule, a yearbook
Nikes and Beverly Cleary share potency next December.

A shake composed of two parts biofuel is no match
For forest fires! Destroiters of unlucky family planning!
Grimacing surefire regimens against wetness endangerment
Keep your composure a warden says, Tories
The old guard can’t see far away blimps
Rising to nonoxinal-9 status in gated communities

And you, O, shallow bro shielding
Your girlfriend will introduce hers as apocalypse
My tale about fresh seating
Will break the ice until you’re old enough
My dump truck will ice dead your golden calf

Your Most Sought-after Career Path

I mean, it's just about filling a niche.
and if you can do that, well cool
I don't expect to ever get paid for doing what I love
I think that's the most practical stance, since
the majority of people in the world
write poetry on a small thing, not made to be much to the world
but it’s about filling a niche. I hope
to fill that place. It means that I’m heard
and that voice will truly ring
to a few choice people who will hear me and perhaps
set aside cooking for my work, so that my work
may eat and partake in the same breakfast hour partying
that is the reason why poetry isn’t famous
but it’s also the reason that I can share my life
with people who don’t envy my job
because I can’t buy them dinner on good nights
and they don’t see my clothing and think, “wow
I need a niche, too. I wish I had his niche.”

Granma Claus

The orangutan will actually search various compartments
Before feeding intensely, and once remedied might consort
With markings and listings under similar name categories
Ones you might get mixed up
When looking for the best God there might even be

I can sit on your lap how many times,
Juan, at arranging the flower basket
I'm busy arranging your face jam.
I'm convinced in evil: the news
Sampling a photomat imagining proper recipes
At 10, he's got some more flower
Arrangements, a millions ways to hang on to your trooper
Coming back for more and more,
A guilty pleasance; won't stop barking.

You'll have to isolate and tolerate the essence
Which involves two fingers and me telling you to strain
Enveloped in certain cannery DNA trustworthy

He works full time. He discusses his job.
A photographer of nature, killing heads of state for a living
When their guard is down and in uniform, of course playing golf.
When gloves are least suspicious. And if what sticks out
The FBI can open my can of tomatoes
I have a cell phone shaped tumor
Playing that one-handed.

A C L U

Dear Ryan, you are greater than Mel Gibson told us. And without you, there would be a freedom-stealing, Constitution-defying George Bush’s desk right now. I don't have to care first you have to care first. If you don't care I don't care about stealing and defying and mongering.

Maryland-DE Shared Truckstop

The ozone hole is made from rockets
Which are made by labor
And only one can hurt
As one of the cards, oh made so lonely
Boy, spied hair
Draw an island and put what you can’t live without there
A new eyeliner
Handmade by rockets and in shape
Crispy little cupcake hands,
The crushed pieces of the band
Out of tune and running out of field
Ozone made kitchenettes, to blame?
This surface has continuance
me describe ozone to my father
It helps to breathe
Because literally the air in the room
Is oppressive talking pills

They wanted us to defend them who no voice
But I said the lions are hungry.
So we threw them. And no one bought it,
Sewn by environmentalists
Ancient Irish trust funds
QVC air trouble
If opening the sexy value
I can let miserly ships clam

stripping down, ozone out
how much can you fish in my pocket?

Embryos

Fertilized embryos are not the same in terms of rights as people. We cannot accept their measurements. Note that terror unaffiliated doesn’t mean non-religious terror. A heathen shoestore. Keep always crayola at arms length.

Remember to feel connected? First learn how it is on your own and in your own calling region. Hello + + warning! Is it that people want to call you? Measurements? If not, forever be formulated in the 18-29 age group.

Respond clearly to the statement, then plan to vacate. Of course activity in religion declines as those who can help are left out “in my sexual advances,” as in any omitted clause.

Who needs sex when church is within arms’ reach.

I’m full of it because I don’t call a bldg. my house.

But, what’s under the concrete but
creatures whose efforts combine to throw off GPS?

How dumb do you think you can move no spotter. I don’t spots at least. I’m sure I’ll end up in some copyright hell.

Not many, to answer your question. How many of these Franken-children do you regularly suit up?

Mission Accomplished

What I’m against is legion. I’m against narrative. And I’m against using narrative for war. I mean, rationally, what has a story we all have inside to do with war? Each person has one good book, not one good war. That’s why I’m against narration. It leads to one good book.

What I’m against is encephalitis. I’m against the feeling of feeling filled. A fullness equals a contentedness. And outlook cannot correct past mistakes in other flawed pre-discount platforms. I’m against platforms that seek a discount contentedness. I’m against feeling that fullness leads to connectedness. Connectedness leads to charging, and charging leads to shedding.

What I’m against is flaccid. I’m against slouching. When you’re not excited, all your organs squish down into your upper leg regions. This is science and has denied us many outlets we need for health. I’m also against any form of slouching health.

I’m against diagnosis. I don’t believe you should check both ways. I disagree with knowing what’s hitting you. It should be left up to independent bodies, appointed by what’s about to be hitting you, to diagnose without flaws. Flaws cause platforms to backup which then results in pronounced calves.

What I’m against is viciousness for today. I’m seeing many things, but because most haven’t happened today they are objects that you cannot see until their publication date. These things I’m seeing are off-limits, but they kind of suck. Don’t you too hate things you cannot see but that kind of suck?

What I’m really wholeheartedly against is fetishism. Fetishism is what’s left of a consumer driven center when you take away the chains. The object is left to me who’s wholeheartedly not hearing it. How lucky would it be to be an object who’s not hearing it?

And it’s these earless objects I’m against frankly. You can’t tell me what music is? I don’t want you at my table. I’m contra that. I’ll defend many things. But not objects that just don’t have an ear. Let’s be firm about what surrounds us.

Many People this year will venture to see your more interesting sites

Tourist is a feminist term. It starts off strong but grows
Siberian rockets!
Glamorizing the shooting off and shooting up
Cannot be said healthy, but glow
Reviews, glow. This health appears

Bronzer runs.
Systems of toil, truly interacting
In our nation when the moms are angry
There is no way of stopping and what they might do
Creating nonviolence using parentheses

A mom detonated today alongside a convoy
With signs, with greatness, with decent wellness
“Let’s let cannabis decide?”
“Don’t violate the circle.”
And “From this moment on, Mom’s Take
Camp Singlehandedly.”

Discussing how we can celebrate the violence of pocket rockets
Commemorating teams have a big job ahead
Such as “Manly Ambition Creates Barnacles”
“Juicing the Idea is our Own Max Champion.”
And “How to appear Feminine but Take the Game Over.”

Grams of nationhood put their opinions in
Our Suggestion Box overfloweth
And therefore cannot handle this much suggestion
Without perhaps homemade glossolalia for my opening.

When Ted picks me I'm the mostest

Rrrrroar. Godzilla. Ted
Kooser. Blanket parties
Launching photo nuclei
Out of his hands, poet
Laureate oatmeal, pincers
Big Georgia tittie

I sing a song of men.
My song lost in Georgia bras
My long lost men bra Giorgio
Two teams fight as one
Kooser licks the milk residue
And purrs in consumption

I sing a conjugal meeting
I never met in circumstances not conjugal, juice and
Answering incorrectly pokes out
I’m answering when the pope enters:

Rrrroar. Godzilla. Ted
Kooser. Balzac part.

A few things about Doctored Bios

Has anyone ever had a bio doctored/edited by a magazine? As in, added to?

I offer the below as a sample:

Ryan Daley is a writer after the hearts of those of us who aren’t particularly interested in stuffy poetry and rigid form. He creates his own languages and forces us to read between the lines. Ryan is a crabby hermit who lives in a sometimes version of Florida, 7.0, which seems to be prone to crashes around/during Presidential Elections. He also lives in what is otherwise known as a stupor, in Providence, Rhode Island. When we last caught up with the writer he had this to say, "Writing is a god to me. My only begotten sin. I am a four letter word." After relaying this quote in graphically mouthed smoke signals from his now defunct habit involving an on again off again usage of Camel Lights, he retreated to the other side of the tinted windows of his running car, and ran.

Now, most of my bios appearing online are "silly" yet true. They focus on tidbits of things that I find fascinating --believing that these morsels reveal more than hair color, height, books I like, etc-- and some even attempt to edge into literary territory themselves. But of the above, two sentences were added that I didn't write. I don't know how I feel about this, even after the two years since this particular bio appeared.

I would probably never write, "Ryan Daley is a writer after the hearts of those of us who aren’t particularly interested in stuffy poetry and rigid form. He creates his own languages and forces us to read between the lines." And with good reasons: I don't claim to speak for anyone, much less those who aren't interested in "stuffy poetry and rigid form," and I don't know what it means to be a writer "after the hearts of those of us who." I don't follow hearts n' minds. I don't know what I follow.

Let's beg it a bit: what is stuffy? What is rigid? I mean, what are the characteristics of each, and whose definition are we going to use?

But I'm also not interested in forcing anyone to read between the lines. I want the lines. The space between the lines is space. It's still the lines you should be focusing on. Geesh.

So, what to do? In this case, and because that bio was published "long ago," there's not much I want to do. But in general...doctored bios...what say you?

New Review at Galatea Resurrects

Found here,

...wherein I fail to mention this:

CAConrad wrote this book of 19 poems and then worked to have it translated into German. The implications for Translation Dork 2000 (me, duh!) are huge. A twist to end your own twistee straw: alternate translations happen, though in the same order, from source langue to the lenguaje you're now reading. This is different. The process has been reversed, though we're none the wiser. This very well could be Frankenschpiel's Poetzie translated by CAConrad, for all I know.

Parking?

I’m riding tractor shotgun. And responses
I am now remorseful for calling it a stupid little tractor in the beginning
I trace stupid little tractor in mud when nothing caught up fast
Cars, ticket to really nowhere family
Some drunk actor caught fire on me
Cool Jet Rocket Tractor
Feel the heat
Feel?! I’m feeling no responses yet, these jobs
Firing.

Yasusada

On NPR this week, Scott Simon had his moment of Yasusada-dada, comparing the "Yasusada Affair" to the most recent literary hoaxes.

Certain 'journalists' prove a misunderstanding of work that isn't easily categorized. But I don't pretend to answer as well as this does, but here goes nothing:

Simon seems to have either missed the point --and he's not the only one-- or ignored the implications of hoaxes.

I was discussing Doubled Flowering last night with another friend of mine, and we agreed that the origin of art (to us, at least) is moot, since the primary "effect" takes place on a level of viewing, i.e., if you like it, if it hits you, what does it matter who wrote it?

The implications that origin matters are serious, and somewhat eugenic, in that it claims authenticity is hierarchical, that there are voices we should and can listen to, and then there are voices that we should ignore because they aren't capable of rendering a clear version of "reality" (since, it seems, to get on the bestseller list, it's just this one "reality" we need to be able to render...). I think that most media miss this idea in their discussion of the hoax. But who's asking for exhaustive reporting?

Clinton v. Obama

Other, greater hacks will write volumes about Clinton strength. I will grab this, from an anonymous poster over at The Progressive.

Here's the real 10 reasons Obama slipped:

1. Republicans got out and voted for Hillary because they think McCain can beat her but not Obama.
2.Republicans got out and voted for Hillary because they think McCain can beat her but not Obama.
3.Republicans got out and voted for Hillary because they think McCain can beat her but not Obama.
4.Republicans got out and voted for Hillary because they think McCain can beat her but not Obama.
5.Republicans got out and voted for Hillary because they think McCain can beat her but not Obama.
6.Republicans got out and voted for Hillary because they think McCain can beat her but not Obama.
7.Republicans got out and voted for Hillary because they think McCain can beat her but not Obama.
8.Republicans got out and voted for Hillary because they think McCain can beat her but not Obama.
9.Republicans got out and voted for Hillary because they think McCain can beat her but not Obama.
10.Republicans got out and voted for Hillary because they think McCain can beat her but not Obama.

They might be heartless but they're not stupid.

Amped Up

Below, see GLP, First Take,

Amped up: noticing a wedding limo with a string a' skulls trailing and Toadies' Possum Kingdom blaring out the Kicker (TM), or similar joy and pain, Sunshine...and rain.

God's Livestock Policy, First Take

by Stan Apps

I really enjoyed the logical turns of the language, the kind of way I'd imagine that God would argue, just because s/he can be a lawyer sometimes.

Tonight I was reading a passage with my TOEFL students in our gigantor exercise book and it hit me: TOEFL reading passages and GLP are very much alike. I almost dropped the book (500 pages+) in the middle of my reading, and was forced to pause.

Both readings draw my attention to the repetition of certain words, flavoring the language with "this should be a main idea and you should take notes on it and talk about when you are made to speak." Also noted is that moment of near-duh from following and drawing out metaphor to its far reaches, destroying the metaphor in favor of plain parlance, no more high falutin' intellectshul talk, but preacher talk amped up.

The metaphor becomes a reason that I (& we?) continue to listen: to wait for its very destruction. Our love of endings makes us hurry to read Revelation.

And because you can get good prices at the award show.

Cue music.

(to be continued...)

Permanent Address

Do you have a "permanent" address in another state? If so, you could be eligible to skip hassling new state of residence (Rhode Island?), probably-money-in-cash-format, extensive procedure of being able to visit beautiful downtown Providence in the car of your dreams in legal fashion!

With secret, yet totally understandable "permanent" address out-of-state, students and other temporary residents of Providence (hereafter "Your Fair City") may drive with no police difficulty over registration while continuing with confidence that fees makeup no part in stolen car activity finance in "Your Fair City."