would like to go on date(s) with you, england

will be in you october 1st-11th
would be sweet to hang out w/ you
would be sweet to do readings with you
or like just do whatever it is you do, england
would probably put out a usa certified organic chapbook or grassfed book if you are a person & we like each other enough
would hang w/ you in the usa if you ever came here
do whatever it is we do here
book you a reading here
would encourage you to come here to see old, sad, doomed america
would encourage you to drink orange gatorade and walk my dog while everyone else is asleep or trying to sleep 
would provide references of usa ppl who like me & recommend hanging out with me & doing a reading with me
would like that, england
hmu, england?


poem for waking up not angry

you become awake to the sound of tires resisting themselves outside your bedroom window

you think of the person who made the sound

how suddenly they had to have moved their muscles

how everything had to have been hooked up correctly in both machines, body and car

how all the nerves that carry signals, all the tiny synapses of circumstance, had to connect just right to allow the sound to come together how it did and where it did to cause your waking

you open your eyes towards the ceiling and blink a few times

you think how these are your first thoughts on this particular day, at this particular time, and how, though it seems very much not unlike most other days, something very large may still happen—the death of a loved being, some relationship at its end—all the skirmish of opinion—even with the day so miniscule, so dormant, still

you forget what you are thinking about and look at your hands

you raise them in front of you so as to warn your muscles you will be using them soon and groan a bit and move your arms away from your chest slowly

and you stand up with your failing body—its coats of rust, its fluids leaking—and look around the room you are paying to live in

you look at the things in the room—your things—the piano, the books, the computer, the clothes—and make sure they are still things

and you traipse down the stairs and look for the faces you know, the limbs and shapes you have been seeing for what may be called a substantial amount of time now, and smile at them and greet them at least a little pleasantly

to be sure, they are looking back, sharing in the recognition of the various nouns that surround you, drinking in the day, transforming the shape of their eyes to allow more or less light in

there are moments when no words are used and these seem comfortable enough

and as the footsteps you have come to know, the rhythms of behavior you have become acquainted with, move a large enough distance away from you, you carry your body to various rooms and sit it on a bed or a couch or a chair and curve your lips around a cup and stare at a carpet, which is a kind of bleachy thanksgiving brown, and you imagine being someone else, in some other place

and you think about this, the facticity of a self, of surroundings and immediacies, about the names you have given things, about the moments you have forgotten, about things that have forgotten you, about the inconceivable sum of time called “the morning” or “the day” and how it feels difficult to add any more language to it than this, and somehow, how you have become able to understand this way of understanding as a truly gentle thing

and to know, you will grow beyond even this

that still, something is incomprehensible, uncertain, always-already unresolved

Bowker’s (the company that sells ISBNs) options to the question why do you write?

Bowker’s (the company that sells ISBNs) options to the question why do you write?

Tenth of all. Fuck the propelling of sand from the bottom of the ocean floor in a high arc so as to construct new islands. Fuck that this is called rainbowing. Fuck any sort of dredge. Fuck how racehorses don’t get to fuck each other but instead the stallion is trained to mount a dummy mare made of plywood and fuck a heated plastic vagina. Fuck the prince of any country ever fuck Palm Jumeirah and Palm Jebel Ali and atrazine. Fuck everyone who has bought a big bag of ant poison because ants have a social stomach and you are one selfish motherfucker if you can’t let them have the very small amounts of food they want to share equally among themselves. And fuck this list with its mixture of environmental destruction and popular culture smugness and fuck every one of you that laughed at that rock banjo joke and fuck us all for writing it. And fuck not just the Googlebus but the Googledoc this poem rode in on and fuck us for sitting here reading you a rock banjo joke while the New Mexico meadow jumping mouse went extinct. Fuck that this happened two days and twenty hours ago. And fuck that next up is the Sierra Nevada yellow legged frog because we’ve always liked frogs their vulnerable skin our vulnerable skin.

Joshua Clover & Juliana Spahr, from #Misanthroposcene, 24 Theses, read the entirety in a pdf here