Two Poems by Christine Kelly

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Christine Kelly, Apple 1 is an apple. Apple 2 is the idea of an apple, 2011

 

 

One or More Occasions


If the diviner,

when he wakes up to the sound

of his own trumpet,

or presents the

                        MUST-HAVE

 

in moonlight, the wrong kind of bottle

 

we belong in the monosyllabic new

the diviner won’t embarrass

on fear of exits (this and an absence of such

fear are both aphrodisiacs)

 

stone cold absence

then the diviner becomes crooked

a bendy-neck swan totem stands in for

subjectivity

and

a subjective everything

 

features:  

 

 

feature: handle

 

 

features:

 

 

feature: permanent hat

 

 

and guess what

 

this is a timeslot

a clutter among others

at which we marvel occasionally

 

 

sink

into clean and empty

sing about the full

about means around

or in proximity to

timespace designations.  Hey,

take it like a spittoon.

 

sink

into the bloated order of cause and effect—

cranial piping is how I arrived

at permanent hat, actually

 

resembling a column of smoke

 

puff

puff

puff

puff

 

coming out of the diviner’s hat

 

 


I Baroque It

 

“DOES sport imply sanctity?” was a sporting question, which through no extension

other than the yawny, tragic phonetiks surrounding someone’s (I bet) snowmobile accident…

…less likely than a skiing accident,

more likely than a competitive taffy pull filling the interior of a milk hood shared by two school chums

with vacuum trident

tongues 

hitchedup. 

Early incidence of dual ownership can create loquaciousness so drippy that it requires a dish.      

OBLITERATE        WET         GENEROSITY 

 

-----towel                  towels-----

 

Shan’t discuss human sexual attraction in this one, but know, just know, know what you know,

when you hear those angels trumpeting:  oxygen.  100% oxygen hands slip in from behind.

                $527 Cobra Quiz [win again and again]

Cobra the yogic asana. 

Cobra the health insurance for poor sods.

Cobra ...

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"Two Days Diary" by Lisa Oppenheim

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Alexandra Gorczynski, Bathroom in the Dark, 2011

March 23rd, 2011

Early mornings were never my thing. I mean, it’s not that artists are lazy. Or out drinking late most nights. Or not out last night, a Tuesday. Hungover. I go out with the dog.  It’s still basically dark. A kind of dark blue fog, super cold and grey. A couple are out early, two middle aged men bundled up and both smoking with thick leather gloves. They are sitting on a bench in front of the takeout place on the corner. It’s way too cold to be sitting outside.  I hear one say to the other as I pass them, “do you want the thing or the other thing.” And I think, this is true partnership, to have thoughts coalesce around the same object. Not a shared thought, but a coming together. The muffin or the bagel.  Privileging someone else’s desires for a subjectless thing. Generosity. Just as likely the better looking half of an egg and cheese sandwich. I go in the store and order one for myself. Salt and grease. 

Today in 1923 Tennessee became the first state to outlaw the teaching of evolution. Today in 1933 the Reichstag passed the Enabling Act, granting Hitler total power. Fittingly, today is miserable. Still basically dark, hail. The never ending domino fall of winter storms. 

March 29th, 2011

I live in America’s most bug infested city. There are bug infested mattresses all around my neighborhood this evening. It’s trash night and everyone has put the big stuff on the curb. Not just bug-ridden mattresses, also rugs, rotting Ikea cushions from a few seasons back, clothes of all kinds. I drop off my sheets at the laundry across the street and six o ...

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"Excerpt from my Novel Screenburn" by Lance Wakeling

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I start by looking for images of parking lots. I’m thinking about finding the perfect image, or making one. I have to see an image of a parking lot with over-layed text that reads “Social Network.”

Then I move on to looking at images under the term crash. There are cartoon characters, crash dummies, airplanes in pieces, bodies, stills from the movie, cymbals, explosions. I open a new tab: Wikipedia – Crash. I’m redirected to collision.

A collision is an isolated event in which two or more moving bodies exert relatively strong forces on each other for a relatively short time. ¶ Collisions can be elastic, meaning they conserve energy and momentum, inelastic, meaning they conserve momentum but not energy, or totally inelastic (or plastic), meaning they conserve momentum and the two objects stick together.

It’s this last type of collision that interests me most, the totally inelastic one—when the two colliding objects merge into one and conserve momentum.

While cruising through the images I’m collecting, I think of Jean Baudrillard and then J.G. Ballard, retracing steps that I took three years ago, all in perfect recall. I make a new folder called parking-lots and drop in images with filenames like 5781586-aerial-view-of-an-empty-parking-lot, grantham-parking-lot-0951, Lot, Tel_Aviv_parking_lot, and zoo_lot2-750149.

It’s getting dark outside and my terminal is bathing this corner of the room and the front side of my knuckles in bluish light. My fingernails dimly reflect the screen. All the tiny parallel ridges reflect light in opposing directions, causing the reflection to appear matte.

I get up from my desk, look out the window, decide not to close the drapes, turn around and glance at the cat, then sit back down. My fingernails are long and hit the keys before the pads of my fingers. I ...

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Sexts from Patricia Lockwood

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Image by altffour

Editor’s Note: “"Tricia u MUST join Twitter to network with Poets" *tricia joins twitter, falls in with a million Comedy Fuckers, forgets what poem even is*” — @TriciaLockwood, September 2, 2011

Patricia Lockwood is an actual poet—published in the New Yorker, even!—who has inappropriately touched the imaginations of a thousand followers with her “sexts.” Born around the time of the Anthony Weiner scandal, the genre congeals gobs of glowing poetry from networked life’s greasy stew of blunt spam copy, collaged pop culture, and constant little spells of titillation. This is a selection of Lockwood’s hottest sexts.

 


 

A ghost teasingly takes off his sheet. Underneath he is so sexy that everyone screams out loud

Do you smell like a mousetrap? I am a cruel woman and I simply adore the smell of mousetraps

A Teenage Turtle takes extreme pleasure from sticking his head in and out of his shell very slowly while a rat watches

Midnight. My wife and children are asleep. Breathlessly I begin to search for my favorite kind of porn: "Women Standing in Big Jeans"

THE BIGGEST WOMEN IN THE TIGHTEST JEANS!!! U WONT BELIEVE YOUR EYES! THESE WOMEN SIMPLY CANT GET ENOUGH STANDING AROUND IN BIG JEANS!

These jeansluts stand up really straight with their tits out, holding the jeans as far away from their bodies as possible! SO RAW

This girl wants a denim vest, a denim scrunchie, and denim Keds -- are YOU the sicko who's going to give them to her

You are miniature, and I put you in the bell of a saxophone and play a long soulful B-flat

I am Everest and I JO while a 100-year-old grampa tries to climb me. At the moment he reaches my peak I produce a thunderous rockslide...

 

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Poems by Erik Stinson

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Erik Stinson, untitled, 2010 

 

go upstream young man: drugs, guns, advertising and the nyc art world 1700-2010

 

i’m seeking a legnthy

ethics-agnostic history of

corporate america from

dutch manhattan to

google silicon valley.

can anyone help me?

time is running out.

i think i’m being

followed, my phones

are tapped and all

i want is an entry

level job

Erik Stinson, Untitled, 2011

 

executive microsystem

three small, harsh

cubes in

concert with

your massive

pulsing

ego circa

1998

 

teen dads let it all hang out

 

we went out

to the salt flats

with a 12 rack

of bud and talked

about new

young starlets

Erik Stinson, Untitled, 2010

 

Anonymous asked: why r u gay

whoa internet literary scene strikes again

‘for the fans’

 

 

 

 

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Letter from the Poetry Editor

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I keep hearing artists say they are writing. What can they do with what they have written? Leave it in the notebook, like a sketch—a trace of a private activity done in the studio. Get it printed in a literary zine and become a hybrid artist/writer. Attach it to the brochure of a gallery exhibition and let it function, like a press release, for the show’s promotional apparatus—an ephemeral accessory to a saleable thing. Make an artist’s book. By joining work with words and work with materials in a tangible object, the artist’s book leads an audience to see the two as equal members in an artist’s output. But what else is there?

The question looks familiar from Rhizome’s perspective. It doubles the one facing artists who work online. With internet art, as with writing, choices about display are wrapped in choices about distribution. At one point or another, many artists wonder whether what they do online is an end in itself or a public sketchbook, a way to work through ideas that will later be embodied in a work to be shown in a gallery. Furthermore, it’s harder to make work online than on a canvas without touching problems of language. The internet may be a medium of visual culture, but the keyword is what finds the image, the tag brings you back to it, chat spreads it. There is plenty of popular-science speculation on how these new everyday forms of language use are “changing our minds.” Until ways are found to measure these changes, art and poetry can tell us more about them than prose.

Today marks the beginning of a project to regularly feature artists’ texts, poetry, and experimental writing on Rhizome’s blog. Posts in the series ...

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