My Vocabulary Did This For Me

is blob love something that never goes away?

Translations of David W. Pritchard’s Manuscript Poems

1. Denmark, Ohio

I do 

intuit I,

errant, dark

inside the

fox Armada


vulgar lead wife?

why do easy things?

 & why get armistice sis

ate for comfort

weedle eight productive

wrens to envelop a vent

and cull fleurets


Enough, u !


I was going

(finally!) to Star-

Water Francais,

we’d go way hard

eight stars are best.

4. Elliott Smith

and you’ll love

the gamy hand with a tip,

a mere wand.


I’m not canopic ‘til I’m green

I’m Wet-Chip Sarabende,

What an inferno it was,

mating owls in American theatre

I’ll worship Texas in my

garland of lime. All handwriting

as the suave Overwriting:

I’ll cathect onto the maxi-cetera’s

insect vowels— yeah I’ll

raid Proust’s pantry, no I

didn’t need it within its original

virginal eurrhythmia, you slim

helcopter tenant &

moral failure. Dolphin soup

or a salad & NILSSON is Gone

West. Ed Said is “criminally owlish,”

"Memes," "highly sly Stephen."

Up goes the ice box. Hard to

stem this wound, my inquiry agent.

rumirumirumirumi said: I’m surprisingly pleased with how it’s turned out after all this time. I like your bits more now, tbh, but it’s still good. I kind of want to write more poems with you if you’re into it/have the time

Like a stew or a chili, it’s better after having been in the back of the fridge for awhile. I do want to write more poems with you but I’m going to be way busy til the wedding. Let’s talk about it in October. 


And I hate to be pedantic about 25 year old video games but even though the whole project is Sensible Soccer oriented, I think there’s a lot of one of Sensible Software’s other big games, 1993’s Cannon Fodder, in there too, thematically and tonally. 

Also: unfortunately all the bar reviews were lost when I deleted my other account, sorry. 

PS. Another ambiguity about talking about Sensible Soccer is that, rereading it, I’m not 100% sure about who wrote what. I mean I have a pretty good idea usually but I don’t want to step on Jon’s toes. 


I’ll be honest I felt weird about the War Poems in Sensible Soccer because I feel weird about war poems and anti-war-poem poems, and yet for hte most part it was a rousing success AND totally dumped on War Poems so like, sign me up, when’s the sequel, whens Sensible Soccer II: Reviews Of Bars To Watch Baseball In coming out 

If it’s any consolation here are two things to remember:

1.) The section “Great Wars” is largely only obliquely about war per se. In addition to the constraint, to begin with, that we were writing around those four particularly odd team names/rosters within the game Sensible Soccer, a lot of Jon’s material came out of his engagement with drones and object oriented ontology (IIRC?) and a lot of mine came out of the part in Proust where he becomes fascinated with tactical aesthetics. 

Appropriate for a poem based on a videogame which dreams of a monism of soccer, “Great Wars” is more about spiel than krieg, and in any case is almost always (as I read it at least) about metaphorizing and restaging rhetorics of war (ad bellum purificandum or w/e) than it is about anything else. Although to be fair, like you and Jon, I did feel leery of the section at times, and honestly the long, long delay on putting the whole thing together probably unconsciously hinged upon my ambivalence about the section. We were both also reading and picking from that very long book about war games around that time, I forget what it was called, but it was huge and long. So it’s really dealing with mediating simulation, without, hopefully, being merely glibly about simulacrums. 

Although for all that I never went into it with the intention of “dumping on” war poems or whatever. I’m not a big fan of them and I don’t really think they’re ever successful but just between you and me there’s very, very little polemical intent, at least in any of the parts I wrote, in any of the poem. 

2.) For the sake of arguing, let’s pretend that all the parts you liked, I wrote, and all the parts you didn’t like, Jon wrote. So at the end of the day, geez, I’m just really good. This applies to every text you’ll ever encounter in your life. 

(Source: 20yardsoflenin)

It feels good to have Sensible Soccer out there and to think about all the onion rings we ate while writing it. 


If you love soccer but your TV is broken and you aren’t allowed to go out in public, feed your appetite with Sensible Soccer, the long lost 2013 chapbook by me and Jonathan Schoenfelder. Share it and crave it, the masterpiece of this age. 

Notebook Belonging to Mikey Grimes

Be more bad birds, be more bad strength.



At my age come no new friends per se, you get married, or begin to date 40 year olds, or move into the abandoned schools, or die. Be more bad birds stood on the corner as Nimrod stood Shinar, when he cometh into our land, when he treadeth within our borders. Pecking crushed donut with imperial violence. reshit memelketo ad nauseum, etc., a mighty hunter in opposition to the road, fall down in planes unto the well-lit tunnels.


Who used my phone to look up body dysmorphic disorder? Who bought this shirt. My therapist, a Buddhist in a purple cape, says I should say “sa, ta, na, ma” which I can only pronounce as “Satan AMA” which really only makes me feel worse. When I got home to my shame pit, my dog had a boner, so I left him alone forever. Be more bad strength. A hunter on the earth to hurl my dog an antler, and afterwards, he threw up on his bed and ate it.



Repentent on public transpo, I drank sweet potato and radish juice and regarded St. Francis as potent thinspo. Buddy, I’ve got problems. I know I’ve got problems. When a bad pun tore from the spirit the spirit faltered, and another bad bird threw its bones and feathers at an oncoming train. Death looked neon so people wore death casually. The men and the women were drawings of men and women. I bought more red pens though I’m “hardly working,” I saw the spirit moving through the turnstiles illegally. Draw the citizens with their mouths open slightly and with bangs. Looking fun and flirty for the coming dispensation. Coin to ring a slot with, coin to drop down dirty stairs. Be more bad faith peering partway down a tunnel, ring a careful person into being in another person’s notebook. What powerful animals breed in holes or birth spontaneously from discarded meat. A thing of beauty is a jawn from bee-holes forever.



The people I liked to see on the subway were the people who looked the way Inio Asano drew the people, nervous and sacral. Little apparatus around the mouth to push vowels out— grace line here or here. Or here. To mouth a little “eh?” “huh?” or “oh?”. People crowding my private fortress the way Steve Ditko drew the people, murdering my body for its moral weakness. In my youth, sexy like a creme brulee, ie., brittle without strength, tasty to destroy psychically and spiritually. Now I part my hair like a warlord accidentally and people cross the street when I absent-mindedly swing a saber in a wide arc around my head.


Who drew my head the way my head is drawn, to look a little Cro-Magnon, like a proto-power on the proto-earth? A thing a spirit chewed to gristle in the first several forests? Habitually I lean just a little too far over the yellow line onto the tracks. I’m looking down there for rare mice. My dog’s favored antler has fallen through the sofa and into a crack and is forsaken forever. My dog makes vowels of grief and renunciation. Like he goes “gnarr gnarr gnar.” Like he goes “ruu ruu ruu.” Be more bad dog. Be more buried in the center of the earth.



I found this small red notebook on the stairs going down to Cecil B. Moore near a guy on the phone with his mom banging his palms against the blue tiled walls. I’m using it now. It’s mine. I stole it secretly ‘til it was mine. The inside cover says “Mikey Grimes” so my new universal Law is “avoid any guy who looks like a Mikey Grimes.”


Mikey, if you read this, leave me alone. You wasted this notebook potential for sublimity by filling two pages with tables for tipping. You’ve written “Mikey Grimes” three times in increasingly elaborate cursive. Mikey Grimes, I’m coming for you with good occult munitions. Sleep with one eye open, pray to your god for armaments and stallions.



If you believe the prophecies, you believe my specific spirit is custom-built to sport summer cleavage in regalia on an aboveground train. My spirit is ontologically beach-ready, it is rising and rising.


JK! An amateur magician has actually locked my spirit in a novelty sarcophagus. The magician cannot catch the catch. The magician has accidentally hexed the latch. The spirit is trapped. Guys are whaling on the snare with hammers and chainsaws. The spirit and the body, boy, these kwazy kapers are par for the course basically. You can gaze at the spirit at home from a window, sidelong, gaze at the shoulder of the spirit in profile ‘til you or it flinches.



There’s a secret guy on the trolley whose power is to be desired by men and women indefinitely. His forecast is “object permanence.” I’ll never forget the sound of him sneezing on his neighbor’s egg salad platter and the unmistakable look of immediate forgiveness. The secret guy looks like a Ron or a Gary. On the horizon I see him taking Mikey Grimes’ hand, slapping him hard in the face, a brutal karate chop to Mikey’s throat. Tender Mikey is adrift in the battle of spirit against spirit. Tender Mikey missed his stop, big fat tears mysteriously viscous.


I wish I could be him or the white pocket of his shining coat he slips phials into. A halo on top of him. A serious corona, vain as a bird in the square about to prance around its precious slurry, held aloft to its private sun, a work of the hunter on the earth to preen about. Be more bad Mikey Grimes, sacrificed on the public slab speeding swifter and swifter towards the City Hall and past it. Be more bad City Hall, pointed like an arrow at the coward sun.



Just like Ron and Gary and  Mikey to live thus in a psychic bullet, exploding up into the sun at City Hall. Millions dead. Millions more smiling gently at the action and comedy. Stood bird caught at a go, totally absent when I start to feel sorry for it. Vain bird perched on a nutritious mash of certitude. It’s warbling its little psalm to security. While Ron and Mikey (and me) go swift in rills towards swifter channels. The dog digs out its antler, it says “I love you all.” Oh, his name is Davey. He’s a mini schnauzer.

Let me die in the mouth of the vain bird bored by the proceedings and functionally ignorant of the goings-on underground. It hops on a string without understanding. Not too exciting but intensely invested in gumming and digesting. It’s profoundly disgusting. High up, slightly wiser than myself, huge beak full of man-like teeth. Basically hungry. Already flown off when you turn to see it.

every limb & apparatus is a death, pass it on, heard some guy holaring as such outside Jin House, where they sell candy at night