First thought I had today, was that I would
    Buy a gun
    Tomorrow
    I’ve picked out a tree on the hillside
    Outside my window
    Under which to shoot myself.

Choice is painful,
Occasion but a drag.

When Poetry is pure you wake up with it by your bed!

DOGS OF FEAR
    “I had nothing to tell them;
 I was talking to their dogs.”
                -- Philip Whalen

with men as with caterpillars
nothing was chanced

“Hello,” she lied.
She was dressed in black with
enough piercing to swing a compass needle
at five paces, some
real Mexican prison tatoos
and a voracious appetite for an astonishing variety of
extremely dangerous drugs.

Cariño, tu eres
mi nena propia y
no me importa cuantas
buenas putas lesbianas
te dedian en publico despues
de dos cervesas.

at dawn no
really at dawn
aubade or not.

Romanian poetry, like Romanian film, is quite the rage these days, in translation or written directly in (interstitial) English. “Foreign” or vernacular-interstitial-creole poetries are gangbusting the well-manicured lawns, the faux-romantic hollows, and the fractured dictionaries of current AmPo, like ruptured oxygen tanks. The barbarians are here, Seferis, and they are so-o-o-o cool. Here are a few by George Vasilievich, Magda Carneci, and other dark-sound vocabularists.

I have been a long time in this story of where I am.

my past is a field of sleepwalking majorettes
too poor to buy white boots

—Frank Stanford

Ice. Air. Heads fall.
Red snow, half eaten
cows. Crawling horses.

But what the fuck would a man with a silly name like Ouspensky fuckin know huh.