wake up, rod

You don’t use words like that. Imprimis, bring it in this, within this slit. Ditch it. Pitch it. Immix with it. This iridic ink is incivism, indign. Sing it. Itch.

Rod hath bequeathed a new assignment unto us. Revel&rock&roll my pookies: Exercises In Limits: Along the Oulipean  style of things, construct a poem in the style, length, and subject of your choosing, BUT: 1) You may only use one vowel and that vowel is the letter i 2) You may not write the poem in the first person 3) Y is a vowel today, so don't even try any funny business Struggle in dem dere restraints.  It's better if you've bruises to prove it.   Tis due 10 days from today on 3 October.    

Hey kids, The title and topic was inspired by a wonderful babelfish translation Mjr. Gn. Bea Mao gave me once. section ii is entirely round-trip spanish translated in babelfish, which means that the original is lost (though I will say that one of the original lines was from a book i read about pedagogy, saying that teaching creative writing was equivalent to "putting wings on the invisible." guess which sentence it is! it's like a treasure hunt). the poem's pretty crass and ridiculous but i think it's super fun and stuff. Sorry for the lateness mi nalgas de cigarrillo son su nalgas de cigarrillo 1. expletive deleted We buttfucked at her house which made me uncomfortable but you said it was the only way you’d get lit in this wind. Between giant pulls from a jug of Carlo, we talked of rumps and junks and badonk adonks, but never addressed that if you burn from the ass, what goes up to your lips? Nips of whiskey all around, but when “all around” is two people alone i...

: two truths | and a lie : I am a liar : bracketed in the unwieldy, the unyielding, a liar |for love for a|rt, : hungry : desperate : but apart. + A little thing. It was more but it's better less.

Escape from New York I was born to die here. To stretch away and snap back. All love is elastic, the snap is what stings. All my memories die here. Bridges whisper into tunnels, the river wishing, washing light across the Hudson’s fractured face. It’s not enough to just live here. The city is two boroughs, all else – a beggar – a polite half-smile, a quarter cup of orange juice. The sting is what snaps. How can one sleep here? The sky is a grey noise, the streets for days run their fingers along our soles and speak. There are two boroughs, all else. I was born to die here. In a quarter cup of orange juice, snapping swaying across, under, between. The Hudson rises up and nothing needs to be said. And it is elastic, the way it reaches back toward me, the horror and nothing needs to be said. How can one sleep? The way it divides, us and two sorry boroughs, the way even love spoils. It’s not enough. The sting. The snap. The city dies and I crawl into it to stay warm but cannot sleep ...