Theme: Poems
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fuck the son marry the spirit kill the father fav if paranoid rt if they're definitely talking abt uRead more
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It was a kind of thatched hut. Outside, cars whisked past on the never-busy road. Or perhaps it was not a hut but a house made of wood. Small, mean. Maybe it was stone?Read more
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Once there was a man who filmed his vacation. He went flying down the river in his boat with his video camera to his eye, making a moving picture of the moving river upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly toward the end of his vacation.Read more
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- Did you get my email? - What email? - I sent you an email. - I delete all email before reading it. - That doesn’t make any sense! - Welcome to the world of Postmodern Poetry.Read more
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Since this is a paper about the computational context of literary writing, and to some extent poetry, I have invested heavily in metaphor, at least as far as the title is concerned. Taking key terms in no particular order: by end I mean not so much terminus as singularity or convergence of opposites, that defining, indefinable point where turn becomes return as one state gives way to another; from the imperative lift.Read more
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Maybe the reason Michael recites poetry whenever we are in the natural world, rather than, say, when doing the dishes or taking out the trash, is to attempt to narrate, to hold within the bounds of language, a kind of beauty, joy, fear that we will never completely understand.Read more
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I didn’t see it coming. My cup was full and overflowing. You picked at your food staring over my head at the big screen in the corner playing old movies to an empty café.Read more
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In Bushwick we partied. She liked to brag about Stuy We drove together in a U-Haul.Read more
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The anthology of love poems I bought for a quarter is brittle, anyway, and comes apart when I read it.Read more
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The shovel’s rising and falling. And everyone’s screaming: bodies gorgeous, leathery and hauled out like turtles, punctual as beaches. And (Hallelujah!) you appear like an outbreak of bones hatched in the nightmare night. The light’s hard as a long twisting beak. And it burns away at our eyes. Read more
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She does not much care to daydream of blue though when she sits naked in the window, she is silent always of ghost. Read more
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We hear their songs no more, sung by a people put to flight, hymns from a village destroyed by war.Read more
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"I grant you ample leave To use the hoary formula 'I am' Naming the emptiness where thought is not; But fill the void with definition, 'I' Will be no more a datum than the wordsRead more
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Schnackenberg’s best poems play form against theme, to the point of subverting form altogether. They are virtuoso creations that mock their own virtuosity, exposing the hollowness beneath the dazzle. They remind us that even in a postmodern, post-Einstein world, the norm in our lives is an illusory order: a coherence we construct and believe in until tragedy gives it the lie.Read more
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Mother came to visit today. We hadn’t seen each other in years. Why didn’t you call? I asked. Your windows are filthy, she said. I know, I know. It’s from the dust and rain. She stood outside.Read more
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