My Vocabulary Did This For Me

is blob love something that never goes away?

Let’s Try Anti-Depressants Poem, or

I became so mad at poetry

That I punched myself in the face

Repeatedly with a startling strength!



I think as a moral imperative

We should probably kill ourselves

Tomorrow, or stop reading poetry,



Or cut off our hands and mail them

To poets we don’t like, or loot a Dunkin’ Donuts

And pour all the donuts down a storm-drain.



I recently was instructed to close my eyes

And pay mindful attention to each part of my body.

I hated each part and wanted to obliterate it.



I realized I don’t know what my nose looks like.

Let’s agree that my body is repugnant

In a completely non-aesthetic way.



I think as a moral imperative

The proletariat should come over

And carve my repugnant body up with knives.



When I desired to know my future,

I searched for the tarot cards I purchased

In Vermont to understand Charles Olson,



But I quickly remembered that I’d lost

The “three of sticks.” Someone said, “hey,

It’s not called the three of sticks.” Someone else



Explained that it was no big deal.

The three of sticks is insignificant and marks

An onset of a venture, or a venture’s delay.



I thought about it and foreclosed my omen.

I felt ok about that. I thought, If I can’t take a train

Down to Rittenhouse Square and mug someone,



Why am I alive? Let’s imitate the body with horror.

I hate this book I’m reading intensely. I think a bad way

To review a book is to write down the exact opposite



Of what you really think, and keep a tally of all the people

You tricked. It’s a technique that makes me intensely anxious.

This and other techniques make me long for insurance.



In my dream, I said to David W. Pritchard

“some of your ideas seem wrong-headed or obscure,

but many more of them don’t, let’s disagree,



but overall it’s ok because you make me laugh,

you’re cool to hang out with, etc., let’s go

ride bicycles all the way to Chadd’s Ford, PA,



enter into the Casimir Pulaski Memorial House,

and either dance like wingnuts or smash up the joint,

or have some kind of trance reading a la Cora Hatch.”



Hey, poets—! Instead of being inscrutable,

Please come to my house, bring a gun,

And destroy me materially and totally.



I fell asleep reading about Andrew Jackson Davis,

Who ran around the entire country believing completely,

The law of his body on the earth and the law of his ghost,

 also, on the earth.

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