My Vocabulary Did This For Me

is blob love something that never goes away?

Thomas Gray’s Enchanted Forest

I said I would write this if three people at a party came to my reading tomorrow. If they do not, pretend I never wrote this. 


Thomas Gray generally amenable

to any and all objects limping

sideways with great rejoicing

from one end of the vista to another.

A beast with an antler is just a friend

with prongs. A tusk could be

a benison. Just try it out once.


Home examining the obscure and the known.

His amazing register of unlisted men

serving well through spiritual havok, good grist

for the ol’ mill, ska is back, he whispers,

ska is back.


He said the language of the age is never language,

never recurs, is a heavy heavy monster sound.

His vestments hurled into a bog at the behest

of friendly creatures.


O his landscape contracts. His citation

of the top ten common birds. Whipoorwill,

helicopter, other thing.

The last of the great pre-romantics

sharpening his recorder on the mean part

of a meteorite. O my gosh—

all his charming pastoral clerihews

soaked to death by magical ichor. 


Thomas Gray in the forest feels his age

  • the heft of toneless being,

clicking a button on the side of an apparatus,

and so on, hurling his vest into the fraught

bog of the symbol of a beast.


He’s, like, what’s a poem of place?

He’s existing simultaneously in and out of it,

his fun pilgrim boots are flashing.

He’s a problem of temporality.

Thomas Gray, still young to fuck,

bellows, bellows, he claims,

he insists on. His moustache,

the element of fantasy.

Gray feasts on small rocks

he calls “snake bread,”

sated on chocolate milk coaxed

from a side hatch.


In the night, woodland karaoke

and making every mute animal

clap at the end.

Beloved by everyone.

Washing a tin plate

in the creek, I uncover

a photo of him

in the mud

and go steady with it.

Guess what? I’m also

a professor at Cambridge University,

in England, curiously elaborate,

paid my weight in antique graveyards,

hoary-headed swain, little field of tyrant fruit,

bunch of scraps.



When both DWP and Amanda like one of my poems it’s always within like two minutes of each other. What does it all mean.

The real question is, what will you do when we both  ”like” your wedding SIMULTANEOUSLY right in front of your eyes 

well I hope everyone likes it. we want everyone to have a good time 

When both DWP and Amanda like one of my poems it’s always within like two minutes of each other. What does it all mean.

Sonnet to be Performed in Falsetto While Being Drawn and Quartered by the Horrible Edmund Bonner

Big Daddy Christ in the house iwis

to adjudicate thy ontological cloudiness

as good as obliv’d in wrathsome clot

like unto hell hounds guzzling snacks. So hot,

such glut, wow, torrents of artisinal vinegar

downloaded illegally and strapped to mine onager

(aka torsional force pinned to the wet floor by wind-lass

named after the animal, obvs, the titular bucking wild ass)

cathedrals blotted out via vigorous fusillades, forms overtaken,

alle Schmerzen, die ich gerne schmecken,

ja, Kulturkrise, Hexenbrand, big-ass Aufstand,

a complicated point in illegible hand,

the form of extinction prescribed by the most

highly qualified proxies of mine third-favorite ghost.

THE FACTOTUM’S TRAGEDY, by Donald Foote (1607)

In the archives I found a long-lost play by Donald Food’s ancestor. I got fired from my job for dripping pizza sauce on the manuscript. 




I cannot go to the gym today

because I’m always sick.

My body is in pain.

I put your hand on my head

and asked if my head felt funny.

I came to as one carbonado’d

my whole head impressed unto

two copies of De’Aggochhie’s

Dell’arte del scrimia,

botched and notched, etc.

My pecs are flabby.

Touch my body—

do I still have a six-pack?

Where’s my ripe blood at, anyway?


Flensed by my continental uncle, eh?
There’s no recompense.

I don’t believe in lightning, literally.

I won’t eat ‘cause my gullet’s gone.

Two sabres crossed lengthwise

and I just can’t stand it.


That part in Montaigne

where I fall into two halves.




It grieves me sore

to hear thee weep

so please leave immediately.

This mountain fortress

doesn’t have any windows.

I got in but I can’t find the door

again. A white sheet laid

with full repast.

I really can’t even right now. 

The honest history of a foreclosed body

picked clean by maniac birds.

The moral universe of this drama

is functionally totally demoralizing.

I don’t understand the usage 

of the loaded term “totalizing.”

You’re still standing there on weck w/ gore

& gaping neck. This play is boring. 

I need a lie down. I’m totalizing exhausted.

I need a white bone perched

jauntily in a gull’s black-dyed beak.

A protein shake. A scheme fixed

upon a swarm of agencies. 

A dumb show. A foot rub.

A bastinado administered

by a cheeky lad on purpose.

I paid good money.


I’m full in a fit of pique.

I’m flipping houses.

All shall die marked

with the mark of false aesthetics.


But father, I said,

I’m secretly Catholic,

and anyway,

in this exoticized quasi-

foreign landscape,

the legitimate heir

to all true marks!

FATHER (ghost of):

Son! Then


CHORUS (dancing skeletons):

primoque a caede ferarum

Incaluisse puto maculatum sanguine ferrum

FATHER (remainder of):

Oh! That’s Seneca! I

think. I don’t

speak Latin.






Exeunt all, to the public library, to read about St. Jerome

A Ballad

in my dream I overcame gender

with a large crystalline cudgel.

it was shiny and overtly masterful.

in my dream I possessed the power of muscles.

in waking life I did two chin-ups at once.

in waking life I was readied for an expedition.

in my dream I was the white walls of

an expanding crypto-organic city

I was the legs with the pattern

of a big dog’s tooth.

in my dream I was total Amfortas

with an atonal motif.

in my dream an architect is the murderer.

in waking life, somewhere, somebody

is breaching the perimeters.

in waking life a spear went flying

and cleft my head in twain.

your father, I said, bred

me grete annoy.

at the end of The Spanish Tragedy,

it is me, in dreams, kicking the leg.

my kicking leg radiates majesty.

my kicking leg is cast as Revenge.

my idle leg is Andrea.

in between revisions, they kiss,

they kiss, and then, in 1602,

they never do.

in waking life it was I, two masters,

warring vainly in the sewer

underneath your own house.

it was me, great omens,

blood from the refrigerator,

swarms of black air

from the faculty lounges.

Cuvier-Shaped Pancake in St. Augustine-Shaped Pan

wonder the organizing principle of my specific lassitude:

provisional, inept, raptured.

everybody is contingently post-medieval,

wonder of wonders!:

The Burger Tank is out of burger

Wingo Taco has no kimchi

I could have bought bulgar

from a barrel but instead went down

to Devon & Blakely for

$12,000 alfalfa sprouts

and cheddar rapture
of raptures

others before me have tried

to reconcile catastrophism with

the existential storminess

of the modern particular

wound up racist, broke, dead, &c.

when a vast cloud breaks I say

“this is of no interest to me”

performatively and all pain

trembles off like vague water

others have pondered what to do

in the last few moments covered

in ashes— permanently dunking,

sex in a coffin, human being

laying an egg.

a slight jowl twitch in extinction

gesturing at the Romantic moment

as a pterodactyl weeping

at archaic torsos.

at the day of judgement

I swiftly become conceptual poetry

oops. I die anyway.

that’s the name
of this show!

Death of the Man Who Forgot What a Sonnet Was, Folded in Half Fatally By Machines in Front of All and Sundry, Creased Like a Piece of Common Paper

drugstore to trolley stop some guy

rolling along behind saying he’ll

shoot me three times (x3)

and later he’ll bowl over

two old women looking at

a painting of a cow on

a wood board and a kid

I can’t figure out what xeno-

corrosivity means  history

itself is becoming queer

as it turns in on itself

that’s what I read in

this book about



St. Albert

knew what was

up. Me, I’m no great

success story, but in any

case endeavoring on blithely

as a silly, minor ornament, skeu-

morphic to the age as such.

I think its brave in a way.

I can’t figure out about contin-

gency but I keep trying,

it’s a category I invoke but

vainly, pierced thrice by municipal

arrows, bolts thrown, run over by mules,

engines, all apparatuses, trolley stop, & home

A G-G-G-Ghost!!

Have not updated in awhile because Poetry is dead. The new sport is called ‘web browsing’ and I am wearing a powerful letterman jacket about it.


Even the Spiritualists were reactionaries.

Their ghost was a coy object being white in public spaces.

It had a costume for this nation, and one for that one.

All of the dead were sorted into spheres

and the spheres were called Summerland

a mighty fountain with a fake spear in the middle

like Wagner on a Grand Canyon Vacation

everything was secretly the German Spirit

everybody was apologizing for slavery

but very insincerely.


When every bird was extinct the Spiritualists felt embarrassed

like when the European lion and the teleplasmic hand died.

But in any case, death was preceded by elegy,

was a generic coordinate in something already tropological.

The Spiritualists blushed when they thought about excess.

One of them already had his hands in the big bowl of wet sugar.


Like any poem, the elegy demanded blood in advance

of its becoming. The towns and the country fed bodies

to the poem. It tore down the trees with its teeth.

Out of the mighty fountain, milk.

The spirits caught the spear in flight.

One girl fell off her spirit horse from agony

and crawled off to cultivate the poem.

A man like a vile egg provided editor’s notes. Time ended.

Most of the objects were pretending to be other objects.

Most of the orating women were acting casually racist.

The men were caught guilty at naked typography.

They all died in one of four or five late floods

their shoes washed up together as floating fat bodies.

Their peers in the sciences stayed awake throughout,

so did ancient theologians, bothered about the feet

of the peacock and why they looked so gross,

why the spirits made the feeble and offensive organisms,

why the spirits pulled the cords in the dark living rooms,

all about the five thousand ways the rabbit

was so massively inadequate for the tasks it was given,

how it outran the whirlwind, why it bothered to steer from the rocks.  

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


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


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