wake up, rod

Infinitive 1. past Joe and Shari fuck in the back of a Boston Market. They go there for the roasting smell, that chicken all-spice. He rub his hands on the inside of those ’92 jeans – bedazzle, puffy paint trip his fingers, a tone-arm dig and skip. Hands stuff into stuffing, into buttery hips. Insertion quick, smooth, cold steel pressing perineum, thrusts segment quads with wide chill lines. Hot chicken cook on thick rods like pyres, altars, meat-scented candles pipe mood. Nirvana play on the Discman, treble shrieks. Shoulder blade on Tupperware, jagged little growth mark near his pubis. She touch it, squeeze it, press it, pick it. It go nowhere. They go nowhere. Later, they take the chicken scraps outside. The cats let it rot. 2. present The second gyration elicit a hot flash. He hide the Viagra. He don’t take it – it be the loosening, the slackening, of things inside him and inside her. He spend too much time think about the record store clerk in Toronto, tattoos and cords under gian...

White boy 1. statement of bias Privilege, I used to think, is monstrous. Pink meat, spoiled in white tyvex, coiled around something more essential. These male parts, preventing transcendent understanding, cursing progeny, progenitors, the presence of preference. Privilege, I think, is monstrous – but monster knows best. 2. the conflict is a conflict of interest How presumptive to pick up the hatchet. The hatchet cuts wood, I need no firewood. Others need wood. Others hate wood. I hate wood. But I hate it because that tree should know better. Still, I keep that maul in paw, lend my strength to those mid-cut, pray as lumber falls that similarities don’t attract. 3. discursive proof The white boys listen to Hot 97. As primary consumers who bought the product they do with it what they want. Let’s put a advisory on money, saying “Buying shit entitles you to nothing.” Let’s teach that “Owning money is enough of an entitlement already.” 4. pilgrim’s progress What’s the net utility of the priv...

I've got a problem with being told what to do, so here's a choice of two: (1) Write about yourself as a middle aged or older feller/gal/trans/pure energy.       The piece must take place in the home.       Don't skimp on the details, on the physicality of the place and how it is to be in your body. (2) Write about the last thing that happened to you/you did that you didn't want to tell anyone about.      Dive in. Due Monday, November 23rd.

We got stoned so we wouldn’t have to go home, the hour growing hours. Viscous. Go on, you can tell me, you said. What’s unspoken: I’ll lick yours if you lick mine. Your sister’s murder in Melton School cornfield :: the button pop before he bored into me. No matter which way you stick it, it’s still a cunt, you said. No. This rip is riper than whatever you’ve never had. Forgive me an example: My ex-girlfriend. She used to tell me, Whenever I get close to coming I see a white-tailed doe bleating by the side of the highway, a whip of magnolias browning. I begged her, Pare it back. There’s promise in the act. I’m scared of everything bigger than me. How the boys write their biology under Dalton bridge. How to rip a finger from a fist: straight outta the socket. Still I know the thickest bone, the weightiest fleshblanket is what can throb me through. Cover, cover, I need the hair on your knuckles. I need your mouth. I need your every rotting ounce. Fuck, I kn...

It speaks for itself. For Dogs What's the difference between a soldier and a dog? You cry when they shoot dogs. Is it funny? Did you laugh, snicker maybe? No? I'll try again: What's the difference between a soldier They shoot dogs. Sorry, the punchline came too early and the joke is too heavy. We talk instead pile platitudes, perfect paeans to service, they shoot soldiers too the joke suggests. It's funny because it's sad when they shoot dogs; service when they shoot soldiers. Perhaps it's a question of quantity - question: 4680 dead soldiers, dead dogs, is it funny yet? No? I'll try again. It's either funny or it's not, the balance doesn't fit on a credit card, a teleprompter or a gravestone, but it's roughly bullet-sized, so why aren't you laughing? I'm telling you a joke.

Assignment #9, the gauntlet, the proving ground, the bildungsroman, the trial by fire: SOMEWHERE IN FLORIDA VOTES ARE STILL BEING COUNTED. Its simple. Write a political poem. Write a political poem with deference to performance. Write a political poem that's performative, but not pedantic Write a performative political poem that avoids the easy, and avoids the pedantic. Make it something as fun to read on the page as it is to hear. Make it something new. Use any politics. This is it, folks. Due Friday the 13th. If he's not woken up by then, he'll probably go into hibernation.