my love affair
with birds
is a private
love affair
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Found Poem by Juan Carlos Reyes, Brandi Wells Review Biggest Fan
"i AM bird"
by Larry Bird
poets shut it
you don't know you just can't say
by way of this Bird my birds
you don't know what it's like to be the Bird
draining chasing long distance erasing
three point arcs tasting facial erasures
macing your eyes deleting trophies and banners
game winning hooks I eat all-colored plumes
with hunger enough left to swallow your pride
you can't love this you can't hold it
your heart's atria burn to be schooled by this
so watch your windows at night
toss tumble and tremble at night
pull your blankets up past your lips at night
lest I shatter the bedroom glass
crack the mirror and doom you seven years
trample your evening dreams
chew spit and shit your love
all up inside the pillows and scream
YOUR MIND IS MINE
by Larry Bird
poets shut it
you don't know you just can't say
by way of this Bird my birds
you don't know what it's like to be the Bird
draining chasing long distance erasing
three point arcs tasting facial erasures
macing your eyes deleting trophies and banners
game winning hooks I eat all-colored plumes
with hunger enough left to swallow your pride
you can't love this you can't hold it
your heart's atria burn to be schooled by this
so watch your windows at night
toss tumble and tremble at night
pull your blankets up past your lips at night
lest I shatter the bedroom glass
crack the mirror and doom you seven years
trample your evening dreams
chew spit and shit your love
all up inside the pillows and scream
YOUR MIND IS MINE
I am Michael Martone by Juan Carlos Reyes
Call me Michael
Martone, the earth's crust
I am the tectonic plate left jagged
by the rumblings and shakes I
cough up daily after
a breakfast of pigeons and turkeys and
ostrich
birds sucked whole by the sucking sound
fwoop, and you'll know ever more
Indiana was here, Indiana's fault
the Indiana Fault line of my cranium
I am at fault
call me Michael Martone, I
am the tyranny of evil ink
I am to blame for the coughed up feathers
in the kitchen sink
Martone, the earth's crust
I am the tectonic plate left jagged
by the rumblings and shakes I
cough up daily after
a breakfast of pigeons and turkeys and
ostrich
birds sucked whole by the sucking sound
fwoop, and you'll know ever more
Indiana was here, Indiana's fault
the Indiana Fault line of my cranium
I am at fault
call me Michael Martone, I
am the tyranny of evil ink
I am to blame for the coughed up feathers
in the kitchen sink
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Dara Ewing is a Famous Poet by Dara Ewing
Dara Ewing is neither pelican nor pigeon nor poet nor friend of yours -
do not eat your poems we will not have feather pillows.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNNl_uWmQXE
do not eat your poems we will not have feather pillows.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNNl_uWmQXE
Friday, March 25, 2011
Paint My Unicorn by Laurence Ross who has goddamn great shirt flowers
Rainbows Steam
Punk Rock
Or Roll Me, Bitch
Do Or Die.
Dear Romeo,
Where Are You Now?
Pop. You’re Dead.
Doves (Poets) Don’t Cry—
At Least They Don’t Cry
For Me.
Punk Rock
Or Roll Me, Bitch
Do Or Die.
Dear Romeo,
Where Are You Now?
Pop. You’re Dead.
Doves (Poets) Don’t Cry—
At Least They Don’t Cry
For Me.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
What I thought when my cat jumped onto my lap and stared at me
Sometimes I
get
skep
tical
about poets
who
indent
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
"what?" by Shannon Peil
This morning I was happily using a qtip
but then shortly after I was unhappily using it
because I think I lodged a piece of gunk too deeply
and now I can't hear out of my right ear
I tried to blow my nose or shake it out
I think maybe one good punch could fix it
or maybe a nail gun
but I dunno
I thought I felt it pop during a nap I took this afternoon
but I was just dreaming and now
I have to sit on the right side of my girlfriend to hear anything she says
I hope I don't die like this
but then shortly after I was unhappily using it
because I think I lodged a piece of gunk too deeply
and now I can't hear out of my right ear
I tried to blow my nose or shake it out
I think maybe one good punch could fix it
or maybe a nail gun
but I dunno
I thought I felt it pop during a nap I took this afternoon
but I was just dreaming and now
I have to sit on the right side of my girlfriend to hear anything she says
I hope I don't die like this
FRANCIS BACON by Janey Smith
It is morning. There are bottles everywhere. You think “why
does morning after party look like war zone?” You take beer bottle,
empty it, put your head under bathroom sink, then kind of tie yourself
to copper piping with elastic hair band, leave sink on. You think that
song “ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.” You put the bottle there.
It hurts. You keep confusing “knocking one over” with “rubbing one
off.” When you get to “69” you lose interest.
does morning after party look like war zone?” You take beer bottle,
empty it, put your head under bathroom sink, then kind of tie yourself
to copper piping with elastic hair band, leave sink on. You think that
song “ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.” You put the bottle there.
It hurts. You keep confusing “knocking one over” with “rubbing one
off.” When you get to “69” you lose interest.
Monday, March 21, 2011
One more Poem by David Kummler
My love for birds
is like a sack of flour
that someone loves very much
because they are going to make pancakes.
I love birds.
is like a sack of flour
that someone loves very much
because they are going to make pancakes.
I love birds.
Some shit I did not read by David Kummler
A Hypothetical Review of a Hypothetical Review Hypothetically Republished in the Brandi Wells Review Hypothetically Reviewing the Brandi Wells Review for 300 Reviews
The review of the review previously published by 300 Reviews reviewing the Brandi Wells Review needs to be reviewed. And thus I re-review. One read through the review previously published by the Brandi Wells review concerning the Brandi Wells Review makes abundantly clear that the reviewer failed dramatically to actually view the Brandi Wells Review. His views are untrue, rude, and at times rather lewd. The attitude of this dude who claims to have viewed the Review disgusts me and makes me blue. He wishes that the Review would eschew policy to refuse to choose to lose even one submission.
This, of course, is downright laughable.
Further, our reviewer claims to have reviewed a slew of reviews from Black Warrior to Blue, but I appeal to you, dear reader, my muse, to peruse the reviews of reviews this reviewer has reviewed. The reviews are obtuse and certainly loose, centered on a few views concerning only how reviews choose to choose. I feel bruised by reviews that choose to abuse reviews for their decisions to choose or not to choose. But what offended me more was his views on the Jews and his disgusting attempts to place them in pews. The Jews can choose how they feel about pews, and for that matter also about brews and booze. But this is not about Jews or brews or booze but about reviews. And I must say tha reviewers who write reviews of reviews that have problems with Jews or problems with booze or problems with brews ought to be bruised and abused. People whose views refuse to let others choose or choose not to choose should not write reviews.
This, of course, is downright obvious.
I’d like to conclude by urging you to review the review of the Brandi Wells Review republished here after 300 Reviews. And after that, please review my review and choose whose review you would like to eschew. But know that who ever you are, Gentile or Jew, my review of the review of the review is written for you. <3 xoxo
The review of the review previously published by 300 Reviews reviewing the Brandi Wells Review needs to be reviewed. And thus I re-review. One read through the review previously published by the Brandi Wells review concerning the Brandi Wells Review makes abundantly clear that the reviewer failed dramatically to actually view the Brandi Wells Review. His views are untrue, rude, and at times rather lewd. The attitude of this dude who claims to have viewed the Review disgusts me and makes me blue. He wishes that the Review would eschew policy to refuse to choose to lose even one submission.
This, of course, is downright laughable.
Further, our reviewer claims to have reviewed a slew of reviews from Black Warrior to Blue, but I appeal to you, dear reader, my muse, to peruse the reviews of reviews this reviewer has reviewed. The reviews are obtuse and certainly loose, centered on a few views concerning only how reviews choose to choose. I feel bruised by reviews that choose to abuse reviews for their decisions to choose or not to choose. But what offended me more was his views on the Jews and his disgusting attempts to place them in pews. The Jews can choose how they feel about pews, and for that matter also about brews and booze. But this is not about Jews or brews or booze but about reviews. And I must say tha reviewers who write reviews of reviews that have problems with Jews or problems with booze or problems with brews ought to be bruised and abused. People whose views refuse to let others choose or choose not to choose should not write reviews.
This, of course, is downright obvious.
I’d like to conclude by urging you to review the review of the Brandi Wells Review republished here after 300 Reviews. And after that, please review my review and choose whose review you would like to eschew. But know that who ever you are, Gentile or Jew, my review of the review of the review is written for you. <3 xoxo
A Pharmacy Tale for that Bird-Hater, Mandy by Jenny Gropp Hess
A Pharmacy Tale for That Bird-Hater, Mandy
(A poem I have been working on for years)
Mandy, here’s a cream
for yr bird allergy, this
poem-tube with a picture
of boss on it saying “I creamed
the corn of that jimmy crack-
ed corn-cracked hyper-jimmied
bird-shake(r) with jimmies
so squeeze here & rub & get yr
feckin’ freedom fighter fingers
around that bird bump and pop
its lungheads free for everyone!”
($3.99)
(A poem I have been working on for years)
Mandy, here’s a cream
for yr bird allergy, this
poem-tube with a picture
of boss on it saying “I creamed
the corn of that jimmy crack-
ed corn-cracked hyper-jimmied
bird-shake(r) with jimmies
so squeeze here & rub & get yr
feckin’ freedom fighter fingers
around that bird bump and pop
its lungheads free for everyone!”
($3.99)
Brandi Wells is a Mountain of Tar by g. houser
Brandi Wells is a Mountain of Tar
Brandi Wells is probably,
made of sunshine,
dipped in tar, then,
shaped into mickey,
mouse ears
Brandi Wells is probably,
made of sunshine,
dipped in tar, then,
shaped into mickey,
mouse ears
Birds Don't Make No Sense by KATIE JEAN SHINKLE
Birds Don’t Make No Sense
Dr. Phil says to carve kids out.
Cutting kids is not OK—
boxcut, a cut inside a peanut
shell, two pods of potential allergy—
this product was made in machines
exposed to wheat, soy, gluten,
cockroaches, blueberries, fat girls
in pink dresses. Yes I just said
fat girl. This is not a sizeist poem.
Don’t even try it.
Dr. Phil says to carve kids out.
Cutting kids is not OK—
boxcut, a cut inside a peanut
shell, two pods of potential allergy—
this product was made in machines
exposed to wheat, soy, gluten,
cockroaches, blueberries, fat girls
in pink dresses. Yes I just said
fat girl. This is not a sizeist poem.
Don’t even try it.
Another Silly Poem by Joshua Helms
Another Silly Poem
The other day I was making a sandwich.
Some of the jam got on my index finger
& I mistook the jam for blood.
I wiped it away & inspected my finger.
I found this tiny C-shaped scar from when I was twelve.
I also found a freckle & we had a conversation.
The freckle told me about how it feels to be alone in a field of flesh.
I grimaced. I told the freckle that sometimes I forget I’m human,
sometimes hours pass & I can’t remember breathing.
The freckle said it knew how I felt.
I forgot about my sandwich.
I woke up an hour later & my teeth were sore.
This happens a lot when I nap.
I have to stop napping.
-Joshua R. Helms
The other day I was making a sandwich.
Some of the jam got on my index finger
& I mistook the jam for blood.
I wiped it away & inspected my finger.
I found this tiny C-shaped scar from when I was twelve.
I also found a freckle & we had a conversation.
The freckle told me about how it feels to be alone in a field of flesh.
I grimaced. I told the freckle that sometimes I forget I’m human,
sometimes hours pass & I can’t remember breathing.
The freckle said it knew how I felt.
I forgot about my sandwich.
I woke up an hour later & my teeth were sore.
This happens a lot when I nap.
I have to stop napping.
-Joshua R. Helms
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