DEDICATED TO BRADLEY SANDS NUMBER ONE
This is my theory of poetry: no,
really. I don't know in what
order or whatever. Line breaks:
you open a packet of cloves but
oops: a tiny Alice Notley's in--
six tiny Alice Notleys, sorry,
gift economy and sundry shit--
there instead. I meant theory of
my poetry, or this stadium of it.
Where I'm all giggle raped by
1) weird line breaks, 2) slight
rhyme, 3) a churning Levinas
concern i.e the i and the eek:
you. 4) "Sundry" up there was
"all that" a few seconds ago.
Sure, I scoot away from clarity.
Clear people are boring, good to
help evacuate a barn on fire. That's
it. Would tennis be fun if it made
sense? "Please explain that net."
I want people to meet "sundry"
again for the first time. Corn
Flakes said that first, I think.
A wonky word gift mission. Words:
sundry, giggle, blowfish, shit-
house, abeyance, dizzy and yolk
excite me like yes and should be in
Joshua Clover's poetry, and mine.
This poetry rehearses "feelings"
but leaves most in the tea bag.
Wait, Kenneth Koch said everything
crownable and then some other,
slightly funnier shit. Okay.
When I say "said everything
crownable," I don't have a hidden
MEANING. "Everything crownable" on
insurance billboards--dude, what a
shitkick! "Everything crownable" is
just something I'd find funny in
real life, if I saw it on a sticker.
When I read James Schuyler, I learn
hymns to life in an arbitrary fashion.
I am pretty much not ready for
peak oil, which is why I read
poetry, Bradley. About fadeouts and
schmucks, cuttlefish and paddocks.
I have no desire to save you. Or:
I'm not really into that right now.
Even if you don't know Alice Notely,
Alice Notley is still a cool thing to
say. Al hiss. Not Lee. Entertainment =
intertwine. The more I make what is
fun to me a little fun or sort of
fun to you, the less I want to
kill you. That is basically
Levinas, but you should read him
yourself and don't let anyone tell --