misc.

2/9/2024

YOUR ANTHROPOCENE POEM — MINI-RANT — COULD APPEAR HERE; USE THE FORMAT IN THE FIRST EXAMPLE AND SUBMIT VIA THE COMMENTS BUTTON BELOW AND IF WE LIKE IT & REMEMBER TO DO IT — WE’LL POST AFTER THE SIG NEXT WEEK

It’s been quite a week — We were chased by a helicopter and in the second week of February the trees are budding — and the geese are heading north-south

WANTED POSTER: John Ashbery’s (American Poet, 1927–2017) Coat of Arms
Con/Jur/d, written in a coffee shop before 2/9/2024

We have a bone to pick with John Ashbery

Not the one sticking out
in the story with a doctor explaining the layers as she cuts through 
layers of skin, fascia, muscle
on a backwoods table

in lieu of an operating theater or the time, we saw 
pigeons eating 
chicken wings

And the retching, they sometimes do 
on realistic murder mysteries
when the body is found, still fresh 
enough for maggot food, the naif
is drawn in by the gold ring 
glimmering in the soft dirt
a single pale finger 
sticking out, from rich loam

a hint of robust decomposition moves the dirt


John was a wordy terrorist, like Lynch is
                              except with moving images and 
supple simple sounds, in DOLBY

Yes, Ashbery we label you: TERRORIST
since you kept blowing up
the space, other poets

WANTED TO BE OCCUPIED

And we're left only returning 
 the other side of the hole, 
which by now has some new growth, even a sapling
                               Birch

didn't know it was returning
despite the industrial abstraction, NOW
the sirens and screams 
only distant memory

And the locals act like the crater was always here, 
tell phony origin anecdotes
speculate what the three AM 
alarm means

And if you hadn't

I suppose there'd be nothing to tell
so despite the shape of your
left behind wreckage 
and the inconvenience

Maybe you're more royalty
all the violence committed in the past
WHITE GREEN & BLUE washed
trapped behind a well crafted illustration
inscrutable images

a dusty coat of arms
courtesy of the props department

marking the JUNCTION 

where we succeeded 
where we failed to

OUT OF THE HOLE COMES A WAILING

newspaper dust, and how you said it.

re:  the 18th century, “Here comes the twister, open the root cellar, Jon!” Sutra
Con/Jur/d, 2/8/2024

I have a friend, he said
who can't see 
in themselves
what’s very  clear to me 

We said

then it must be part of
you unseen, and  in hiding

They said

That's what worries us
the crowd in the basement
their

JUMP

scares, their weeping, their
wailing, their gnashing, and
moaning with rattling and unsavory
modern sound effects
a cacophony 
with intent to harm

That's why the
Buddha did it 

We repeated

I see

She said

Until you hear, touch, see, feel
the silence beneath you'll always 
be frightened by reflections?
                                               Boo, we said

Boo, they agreed.

“I title them "Two Bulls at Fifty" J. Sellers — 10 YEARS AGO — ONE OF THE LAST TIMES I SAW HIM

DAVID LYNCH’S DUMBLAND ep 1. BELOW

SO MANY UNWRITTEN POEMS

Unbound
Con/Jur/d, 2/6/24

In the whoosh, bang, screech, sigh
of the day, is hard to remember
the silence between dream
and wake, the moment of
not alive, certainly not dead
before the aches pains
bladder and bowel needs
have an owner, when
you don't recognize
a you, and you
are therefore

unbound.

Much, much love,

Con/Jur/d, 2/9/2024