Poetry New York

[CA Conrad. Paper held horizontally, long lines, reading at an easy pace. Laughter] 

 Am I ever so proud of not knowing how I feel your body produced a child that built a school my architect asks me to stop referring to her as my architect shopping without money is tricky with the cameras passover hangover chuck norris needs to have a candy bar with huge nuts chuck in the mouth it's so delicious and it doesn't even exist yet the occupation still shapes the existence after the body count fuck and fuck and fuck the prayer of fucking intrigue of nothing hear ice in malice not a hiss every poet they read was dead I'm sick of it I like very much a ghostly shark three pianos long if I may be so bold detergent be scared of yourself the real self is really scary just as real lonelyness gets into the the real thing in you this fucked up attack subsequently censored I hit this zen spot after I got censored it was a little odd because I don't know about zen I always think I'm winning something that isn't there spend one night in his bedroom capital 'H' thick spired egg seeker fired from his knightly shaft what a riot elvis once stood still for five minutes in a way that no one knew how to get there if I stood still long enough I'd be a place that's been a man too long darn why doesn't my son have a cunt thankful for the ride but knows most trucks have semen stains when I was a boy I stepped into the sky and was a boy and not a surrealist sensory experience I'm afraid of shitting orange but I know it's inevitable everyone's good old days death runs fast on e-mail Whalen's dead we cheat everyone else to give you the deal I will purchase the lumber myself for his second crucifixion is there no big sad history here?

  [Larry Kearney, paper held vertically, reading quickly, I wonder if there is a regular pattern to the lines that my hand chose to/were able to take down]

those unsung cats I work in books as a unit around 25 pages largely dictated bones sweeping as stars we stop on the ridge the light behind it if you pay mangled attention the flesh creeps backward where am I here's the plac3e that wasn't before where is the poem that is breaking isn't real in the tissue the ghost of familiar is every pace of whta youre really know knowing death and sunset equal the light streaks from the alley and we are all alone in this with or without the flapper last and list and rust sweet declension there I wrote and rewrote hid there with my stories the closest I get is no that isn't right this little piggy know the market is all of the ghosts the pearl was rolling through the black alley getting longer the sun was underneath what a great alley the sun was riddled with moon we put one thing on all and the light comes through the light shines through compulsive erasures this is how the world grows through all it is this is how the world grows through the full text is written out in the penal colony one voice two voice baby needs a new pari of shoes the ocean the big bad fist to fingerprint in the empire of light all of these happens a sense of destination as in a sentence an inability to touch itself halfway here halfway in halfway out know how to do and give it up back up the car and the landscape just sees will the memory persist everything persists call me anytime you know where I am it's one sitting I know as little as anyone big flow crap in garbage 1958 whatever hope exposed like a windup toy wind goes thud into the microphone be in the now they say though the now is the past and a ghost the poet who doesn't wound means nothing to me round by the river chunks of fluid time and who's our darling anyway I pray for nothing here it comes now the particles more one to another all with the gaze of the sacred the smart said comes to nothing impose the rule of flying sheets and shut the fuck of for going down for a paper barbary had legs like you wouldn't believe had soul out of the vision of the mother where trees eat brain the ghosts in this song filled a suit a squid trying too hard the lights on 84th are hard indeed the chest of the old dead kids grunted hip and ugly the present isn't much less and less I should care and I do snow jaws painted red grow ahead I dare you compassion is the rule that's fucking it no karma no re-up these places have been in the face of things carried headwise where the toys were arranged in a radio dream which is no dream no hell no soap no radio there isn't anything to know o captain my captain.

 [My thanks to Zhang Er for inspiring this technique. please point out what I'm avoiding/assuming/afraid of putting down]

[hugs,

will]