Hello, Bound Collection of Ink Imprinted Pulp!

The new book is here. It is called Poet's Bookshelf II. Like the first Poet's Bookshelf, it records the thoughts of poets about the books that were important to them as poets. I don't know to what extent I'm contributing to the world by doing these books. I think of them as reference books for people looking for books to read. That's a decent thing to supply the earth, I think. Books are good and poets are too. I'm glad to get this done and very grateful to Tom Koontz. Some people are simply more beautiful than other people, and Tom Koontz is one of those people. You should probably buy this book.

My Friend Scott and Me, in Paris, August 1995

And the world has changed. The world has moved into the future. The future is this spooky, black and white thing. I am hanging by my heels, thankful for the good friends I've had, and have.

Deal

There is a deal.

One Week from Today

The new Poet's Bookshelf should be ready for AWP.
O, God, AWP! You're thinking this if you're a human who is aware of the Associated Writing Programs.
O yes, the book will appear at the Associated Writing Programs
annual conference, this year to be held in New York City.
My wife and I will attend.
Our sweet kids will be at the grandparents.
Sweet.
I am imagining my beautiful wife and the curves of NYC.
Perhaps you're slightly wondering.
Or not.
But the distance isn't as far away as it seems.
Even around her waist, I can feel a memory
or two from Michigan. Those
lakes flood!

Changes

People, there are changes in life. Changes. Face off!

Coconut!

Coconut Eleven—featuring spicy new poems by Liz Waldner, Carla Harryman, Dorothea Lasky, Chris Pusateri, Peter Davis, Melissa Benham, Amber Nelson, Kismet Al-Hussaini, Kathleen Rooney & Elisa Gabbert, Anna Fulford, Marco Giovenale, Michael Sikkema, Sun Yung Shin, Maureen Thorson, Jordan Davis, Mara Vahratian, Philip Metres, Janet Holmes, Fritz Ward, Susan Scarlata, Jeni Olin, Jon Link, and Rebecca Hazelton—is now live on the web.

Sending a Message

That's our dog, Hank. She is my dog mostly. She has a male name, but she doesn't mind. That's a young Hank. She's much bigger now. Something else newer? Well there's this: Vast Mirage Tearjerker #77! It's terrific in it's puny way! I am grateful for your ability to click on certain links.

The Perfection Universe

And of course both of them are presently sleeping safely upstairs. And there is nothing I'd prefer other than what is absolutely now. People, I am living a life that is full of correct photographs. Yet, in a way that isn't detectable, even this sentence is slipping into the past. Good gracious, I want to add, the mouth that is my mouth whistles at the sweet girls!

In the Living Room Then

That was a year or so ago. My dad took this picture. Max was perfect then and is now. What was I thinking, I think. What was he thinking, I think. My dad has always loved photography and now that he's retired he does it a lot. He does it well. I'm a human, I have to remind myself. My kids are human too. Everyone is someone's kid, even when manipulating their arms into the shape of a triangle.

The Truth! (part 4)

O God, at this particular moment,
in fact, multicolored dead human cells
that somehow manifest themselves
as hair are still emerging
from my cheek, chin, and upper neck
pores.
They are slowly pouring out creating
and ever larger and expandering
structure of face-area coverage-fur.
Is it real?
It is. It is like the realist (sic)
thing in the universe.
As a forest, it is sparsely and
densely populated.
What is interesting about this circumstance
is the way
that it catches my eye.
The way I notice it glistening.
It's strange beauty
is, like, 100% icy
and flicker-happy.
The way it bounces in the sunlight-
throwing light comma's
into the universe beard sentence!

The Truth (part 3) !

Now, the cheeks once pinky
and youthy are furry
and even velcro-y.
The beard arrives as if pubic
hair, yet more acceptable
than puberty and the showers
that happen after gym in junior high.
This thing
comes with purpose, populating
pores and surfacing
in ways made strange by absolutely
nothing.
A beard isn't a note-worthy
situation. It is a natural action
of male face skins. Yes, I can
lightly stroke it and caress
it with my tippy fingers.
I can even imagine bees bouncing inside
of it! O, beard! You are here as are
we all. We are all here for you
O, beard! Yes, most of us are united
in our quest to welcome
you warmly and with extreme
humility. I am no ancient Chinese poem
but I have a life too!

A Small Parental Cut-Out

Twice Today

Kyle Preposition Kyle

Kyle Preposition Kyle

O, people, this is terrific. One of my students did this. Regardless of anything, it's a lot of fun and cool. But also, the accompanying song is from my CD "Toward Orange." The song is called "Changes" and the beauty of this video, for me, is how funny it makes the song. Much better than I can imagine. Nice work, Kyles.

And to remind you of a standing offer: Would you like the new Short Hand CD "Toward Orange"? It's free. Send me your address and I'll send you one. artisnecessary@yahoo.com

I Didn't Want to Tell You This, But I Have To

It must be very disappointing to
find yourself reading another poem.
O god, you're probably thinking,
how did I end up with this
again. Imagine me,
writing this, what must my life be like?
The terrible, terrible, horrible nature
of life. The damp awful blanket of life.
The horrible swarm of insects
bean jumping in these terrible, horrible sheets.
I might or might not
hasten to add the loony way my religions
crusade through my middle east. Many
of these conversions are forced
so do not necessarily
believe the numbers from
the church.
What a dream all of this might turn out to be!
What a dream!

The Tuesday Plea!

There are a chunk of ideas in my noggin.
On the one hand I want a horn
to blow a few names into the air: Tom Koontz,
Max Greenstreet, and Kate, and Jen-Gi, and
whatnot.

There, in the rainy windshield, the news
sort of tears apart like foggy bread.
Remiss I would be if I didn't mention me.

On yet my fifth wide hand, I find a wheel
that spins in the manner of a spoked,
spinning wheel. This wheel makes me
nervous. It bothers me not a great deal,
but always, and seriously.

For this reason,
the night moves forward and
the day keeps beeping
as it backs
up blondly through the ally.

Oh God, Thunderstorm! Save me from
this Poetry! O release me from the
the dewy grip of this Insane
Language!

Certain Strangers Are Perfect!

Have you received postcards? Did they make you feel good? People, there are people in the world who will tell you what they think and mean it and be much appreciated. Some of these people will even send you a postcard, elaborating, etc. This is one of the mistakes in the universe that is perfect. You say to yourself. Once you try to get in touch with Jean Valentine, and later a guy who has your son's name is appreciating your drumming in his kitchen. This, people, in the end, is nothing if that guy doesn't tell you that he is appreciating your drumming in the kitchen. Now is the good thing. That's what I'm talking about. He says something. That's what I'm saying. I'm saying that because I'm saying something too. Also.

Trying to Identify the Thing without Writing a Poem which Would Just Be Stupid

There is a thing called Sunday evening.
There are many evenings
and in some of these evenings you attach
the day of the week.
There is a dark vibrating medallion of beef in my chest.
It flexes. It flexes more. It's flexy!
Beneath it's low girly voice is a hum.
O Jesus, you say, you get ready.
You are tired of jokes
and of expanding important ideas.
This is all Jello.
All Jello
It is all Jello, even New York City and
headphones on headphones
on people at the Y.
Even active women in sensible shoes.
The inevitable has a good
name for itself.
Despite medication, the symptoms
persist.

And in the early moments of the new moment,
forced to consider poetry, handbags,
new illusions, selfish obstacles, you become
stuck on the pin
of pierced life, wiggling impaled, like, uh,
blah blah blahfrock, whatnot, pick
your history, whatever. Like, very
much so whatever.
In this shrunken head, I am
considering using a metaphor.
In the boogie bag sack, I'm
carrying a sort of useful handbook.

Every day of my life I have waited
to say this and and am now
a bit disappointed.
I thought of something
called conclusion, or
at least, 70% off.
Instead, I am sitting on the bench.
The bench is a regular bench in the mall.
It doesn't matter if it's true.

The top button of my shirt is
called envy.
My throat isn't worth spending the energy necessary
to describe it.
Reading the newspaper doesn't make me a rat, but
it does sorta cause me to sniff.

There is always the first day of school.
Max talks about kindergarten
which he'll go to
next to he'll go.
Anticipation is the only candle
I burn when I burn shit.
Even using words like burn, is just
fucking stupid.
I love my family, but I resent the time I spent
in church as a kid.
That whole time, in a dream world,
the real world was planting me
in front of this computer. All this
about vegetation
alone makes me puke.
But I don't puke.
I just tell you I do and
then tell you I don't.

Target Snail (also)

Open Mouths

To

everything

there

is

a

season.