My Vocabulary Did This For Me

is blob love something that never goes away?

Do You Remember Some People Who Looked at the Spirits

let’s never forget about Thomas Bradwardine

let’s never forget about Jean Buridan, 

who was in that Villon poem and whose horny level never waned

please never forget Albert of Saxony, less horny literally,

but his eyelids were twitching ecstatically

let’s never forget Robert Grosseteste whose eyes were fucked up beasts and he invented them

don’t forget Nicolas of Cusa in general

If you even think about forgetting about Sylvester II I will hunt and chide you brutally

do not forget about his Armillary Sphere

please

a big bowl of artificial cream underneath the earth

told about over and over in giant fibs

fake stories about Ovid, ho hum, do not

forget about Sylvester II, no

let’s not forget about Jan Brozek

he studied bees in Krakow

let’s not forget our saint, Albertus Magnus

or his bones which kept moving repente ex asino factus

philosophus et ex philosopho asinus well

I don’t know if that was true

let’s never forget about Sacrobosco even though history forgot when he died

forget about Berthold Schwarz, a disingenuous man, screw that fucker, who was killed in Prague, good

I could never forget about Nicole Oresme

let’s never forget about his incredible livre du ciel et du monde

let’s never forget about Luca Pacioli the father of bookkeeping

let’s never forget about Hermann of Reichenau

we will sing salve regina and manufacture astrolabes

he had palsy and could barely speak

his mouth didn’t move

hey

remember Prokop Divis—?

and his lightning rod and his denis d’or

and the ways he was better than the rest across

the sea and his imitated sounds?

be like Kepler and never forget Erazm Clokek aka Witelo

let’s never forget Vincent of Beauvais who wrote the book to never forget about Vincent of Beauvais

let’s never forget the book of Vincent of Beauvais

that permanently remembered Vincent of Beauvais

a wet leather sack on an anachronistic bus

a crossbow imagined at night

exquisite spiral bound artifact of scholasticism

with a drawing of bees on it

these are some people who looked at the spirits

some of them Jesuits

some of them otherwise

@DWP

I looked at your blog and I’m glad you’re either reading Raymond Williams or at least fantasizing about others reading him. Sometimes there is one good thing in this piss universe— Raymond Williams. 

Someone is cooking hamburgers right in the middle of the intersection of 52nd and Larchwood. 

biothermeneutic:

I can’t think of a book I’ve read most of that I have less of an opinion about than Bill Berkson’s selected poems 

I always get him confused with Bill Bryson, who I wish had slept with O’Hara because come on. 

(Source: snfprtch)

Master Christopher Schaeffer’s Lament Upon the Rejection of His Poems From the Well Known and Respected Journal

I have been to the mall and I have seen

the dust-colored 2009 Chevy HHR w/

vanity license plate “MACOSX”

there is nothing else I can offer you

but this or the consummation of the revolution

in the triumphal gesture of me texting

David W. Pritchard about scoundrels

the goal of all alchemy is material

social progress

check me out

sooo many poets at my wedding

I’ve quaffed the main potions

and congratulated myself heartily—

 

Christopher J. Schaeffer:

taller than an ox!

Prouder than the selected nations.

Broader than the broad seams

of silver in the silver

mine!

Brown shoes! Hair-

cut. You know

the drill.

For Jangle-Eye (a hymn outworn, tryst be shed)


I have fixed up one of the worst poems in the English language through the magic of anagrams:

——-

I palm a damn clue, sink  trenched red spirit members;

Cede a honed lock, kill a quirk.  Slim progenies

Yelled into darkness, “teach not, hog swill,” that ballet pled of her ear:

And she, a fed lancet behind the thorough light,


Ran, in awe, polyp-within-heptad:

Her mess rants ambling, watch bird-lengths throng

A sheathed wren’s thigh;

Devil spears, their whiskers unsigned, tos’t

a gold and very melted sun under the beach-rose anthills.


Oh, when she was fleetest, acedia crushed Dawn’s phosphor hunts

Unto a farfetched horn livened

as wrens grace their knight’s cap, a

gentler thirst carries water.


Thereupon May’s arrows o’er

Like an adamant wing spin away. Oh, fire’s king,

The sweet foisted sons cannot console me,

Nor a goldsmith tilt the hewn town shut.


If only I could feed, sir, upon thy gloomy

Edge, as my limiting, my predatory mink.

Via the magpie rose the sparky sword of my love: 

I, with a throne, tints rightism,

Neither harlot nor fever.

Mothman to Mothman, Eight Hands Around

John Keel was the kind of guy

to write poems about what he didn’t know

I don’t know if he really wrote poems

John Keel steered the car with one

great hand

he steered his car

a cool drink in one hand he stared

at the bridge collapse

and phoned his friend Mary the 

journalist she said “John?”

he said “Mary I’m

not getting through to you”

 

The big payoff for wrong life

is good bods.

O Kundry

O Amfortas

I’m fat and decaying

OK my wife

says I’m not fat

but I am decaying

how is it that Gottfried

Benn says “culture crisis”

and how is it he says

“pop music”—? “Eine Schlager

von Rang”? Huh, how weird.

But there are other options

for interfacing with the times

as an all-consuming deformity

on a surface that has not been level.

Hence 150 years of giddy UFOlogists

citing the same revolving set of

bioluminescent sacks, lights

pouring from a fissure,

black blood seeping from

an animal’s ear-drums.

I’m clear on where I stand

vis a vis heaven

or politically loaded

representations thereof. 

 

The mothman, a fat thing without

a mouth to speak of,

could not communicate except

by hovering over blasting grounds,

chasing the sheriff into

the bunkers with the Point

Pleasant teenagers of note.

His speech that is manifests

as tactical. The mothman defers,

but John Keel is ever practical.

He hides out there with rifles,

which pains me in its earnestness.

All the primary figures spoke

by way of effacing speech.

When John Keel answers the phone,

what he hears is the sound of himself

breaking into the utility closet

to tamper with his own private wires.

Red and yellow wires

with illegal clips across their necks.

A sinister agent is reported eating Jell-O

incorrectly, and later, an alligator

for no coherent reason walks

across the field of vision.

 

There’s a reason Charles Fort damned

facts even as he hugged them

to his breast as dried insects hugged closely

to a wall.

There’s a reason they marched for him

like tiny little baby armies.

 

Mothman learned language when

the bridge collapsed

and the cars drew away

into murkiness and silence.

Since then, flown away.

What’s that thing Jack Spicer

forgot to say: oh yeah.

“All political speech is

me, in a chamber, hitting myself,

in the head, with a hammer.”

That’s why my vocab isn’t as, uh,

gossamer as it could be, perhaps.

 

It stings in that aporia between

bitterness and articulation,

in other words, that feel

when Benn says better

than you would everything wrong

with Rilke but he says it

as only a full-fledged nazi could,

but you hate the luxury anyway,

the good snacks, the duchesses

and the dukes, et cetera,

sitting there reading that,

you could be knocked over

with a feather. My diary,

will you call it for me,

Incidents in a Series of

Traumatic Concussions.

Enjoy my eyeballs

while the vessels in them

swim about.

No, I’m not taking care,

not really, but

I’m rereading Robert Lowell,

more carefully this time,

shirking and receding

into conceptual heaps

of real garbage.

Yes, I heard you the first time,

clearly, “my mind’s not oh,

whatever

Four Different Spirits From Four Different Exemplums on the Practice of 19th Century Mourning

i.

Annis Stockton endlessly revised

her song about death until she too died

the people said “hey, we’ve already read this poem”

as in the one about her mortal thatch of loam

tilled and tilled perversely in a stalled dialectic.

Today we like our hermeticists slightly more eclectic.

 

The loam was some dirt.

The dirt was confusing.

I was reminded of the pot-latch.

Annis Stockton destroyed her books

to bury papers from Princeton

in a thatch of loam

I couldn’t tell you why

I couldn’t particularly care

British soldiers stuck their bayonets in

looked around, left

her husband died of cancer of the mouth

everything after was loam and bile

everything was worded beautifully

and tending infinitely towards an aufheben of grief

but Annis Stockton died

and what am I supposed to do about it?

Bring her back to life?

 

ii.

Nobody is surprised Benjamin Franklin came back to the earth

almost immediately after his death, appearing angrily

in a poem by Philip Freneau

in the interest of destroying the edifice of poetry

the name of his horrible machine was

“To Repel the National Index of Mourning”

he was indeed he who turn’d the lightnin’g darts aside

as in an earlier poem by Freneau in which

the world is not really abolished by dry heat

but in my mind is.

 

When he came back again

it was in an even more horrible machine

his tongue was two white flashes

he appeared over the black tablecloth

Robert Hare was confirmed in his purpose

the whole thing was stupid and sordid

the machine went clicking along

rails in farther spheres

god it’s pointless

he wanted to have both history and

universality at once

Benjamin Franklin make up

your hideous mind

propped upright dead

like a haunted rock

in a false forest

invented by the news

 

iii.

Nobody in America has ever grasped

Klingsor and nobody ever will.

Present company included.

If I had a magic spear I’d keep it locked down

and if I had to use it, you’d know it.

 

Harpoon-wielders of America,

wield your weapons closely.

Bind them with your sea-ropes.

If you meet me on the road,

jab me thrice in the throat,

a dozen hawks descending,

a red sign from antiquity

described in the penny press.

The harpoons are domestic and corporate

where the spear is sacred.

Whoever heard of a free spear?

There’s no such thing I bet.

 

If I had a magic spear I’d suspend it

in an unseen hand, but a hand in any case.

 

Kingfishers of America, if you see the spear come flying

grab it with the gestus your mothers gave you.

Spear up high—

Spear down low—

Spear

too slow.

 

iv.

The machine he built to teach ghosts to spell

which nobody has understood.

Paul Scheerbart, too— I mean,

these drawings on paper with no

clear logic.

The ghost or some faith presses down

on a counterweight and a lad with

a cow-lick makes his zero expression

this is the rude physick this drawing

has conveyed to me.

There is a moving part

involving immersion of the hand in water.

In Scheerbart the mountains crawl

to make way for glass sky-scrapers

gliding over the ocean on

perfect frictionless engines

and in the caves, colors.

Robert Hare taught the ghosts to spell,

and to drink better beer.

They told him he was a good boy.

The machines fell apart.

Along the further spears, he met the fathers

of his earliest days

pulling levels and gathering

the diverse municipal sluices.

It all tasted exquisite,

I promise,

he says,

I can’t wait to show it.

Translations of David W. Pritchard’s Manuscript Poems

1. Denmark, Ohio

I do 

intuit I,

errant, dark

inside the


fox Armada

2.

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


3.

Enough, u !

Handwriting;

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.


5. VOWELS

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.