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I WANT A POETRY So tired of reasonable art, of calculated verse, of the funneling of flat lives into safe attractive preformed strategic decisive career-driven marketing confections by those who see poetry as a form of poetics and not a form of life and light, no longer poets but poeticists who advance poetry for the sake of poetics —

I want another poetry, an incipient poetry, one that does not serve the slavish wants of men, but lives to make its own world, own roots, own strange sap —

I want a drop of life before I snap, dry twig, into the mute oblivion of the self-concerned, full of dry words and minds dry river beds like the man said always made up and looking for only able to look for the same thing same thing same time-proven “experiment” —

I want a poetry that doesn’t have to be 8½ x 11” 12-point Times New Roman or we won’t even look at the fucking thing —

I want a poetry that loves every font, even Weltron  Urban, Jokerman, and chick —

I want a poetry that runs off the page, across the wall, around the corner, onto the floor, leaps out the window and into the street where it goes for a stroll, meets new friends, takes a wrong turn, and finds something shiny on the curb —


I want a poetry that SHINES —

I want a poetry that jerks my eyes, opens my mouth and crawls inside —

I want a raw poetry, a raw meat poetry, a live perfect song to eat for the future of everything poetry, nutritive blend of satyr and aesthete, subtle breath and roaring blood — your future my future —

I want a living poetry — we’ve heard this before, of course — of the same course in which a species thrives — we hear it every time a poet bears a child, imbued with the next writhing lovely flesh mind seed —

I want a sexy poetry—what other kind is there—one that knows its urge and damns all else, the kind that says LET’S JUST TOUCH —

I want a poetry that says hello no matter what, that does what it does because it does, that doesn’t give a shit who I am or what you are, that doesn’t try to tell me who you are or what I am, that just says HELLO, that just says LET’S TOUCH, and parts the vestigial veil —

I want a poetry that tears the veils, shreds artifice, bashes bombast, batters preconception, that cracks the walls long-taught by those who gain from human separation, that UNlearns the craven crackhead hate, UNidentifies with shape and face and blood, and finds the greater bond —


I want a true mammalian poetry, charged with compassion, successful in community, patient with clash, and bored with the mindless drool-soaked wanna wanna wannabe lizard throatlock me big gimme gimme baby googoo competition caca —

I want a poetry that shuns the dangerous infants and walks on into a clear field, post-rain sweet being air yes this is IT —

I want a poetry that runs out into the rain, arms flung wide, whirls mad in the spray, and stands panting soaked and soaking, finding its feet in the solid world —

I want a poetry that takes a dump in the woods, smells dirt, loves flesh, and charges into space not mauling and crawling but with the sheer certainty of the alive, cocksure and confident, calm and secure and in motion and, when the bullshit falls, rearing and leering —

I want a poetry with gall, with torque, with fire, with heart so big and trust so strong that it grows my heart, my trust grown so timid and lodged in its rut that it needs a speeding truck, careening train, a poetry with torque to knock it back to firm resolve and dauntless joy —

I want a poetry that kicks my ass, not because it wants to, not because it craves the prey, but because it has no choice, because its very nature, pure and effluvious, is to knock one upside the head, back into the stream, to kick one into the next life —


I want a poetry that kicks living ass —

I want a poetry with epiphany, that breaks my fast, that has epiphany for lunch, dinner, and several midnight snacks, burps epiphany all night long, and then goes on to dream an epiphany huge and bursting, birthing a hundred more….. —

I want a poetry that spews all over the place, makes you dance around if you don’t wanna ruin your shoes, makes you run for cover if you don’t wanna change, overtakes you with a new song, seduces you with an untaught sense of right, and gives you leave to lead yourself back out into light —

I want a poetry that flops on the floor, mouth gaped, eyes shone, uvula ululating, all the world pouring from its core —

I want an epiphanic poetry.


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