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Thursday, September 17, 2015

I am X... Be Y... Blessed is the Z...

I am X… Be Y… Blessed is the Z…

And these one and all tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,
And such as it is to be of these more or less I am.

I am a girl… I am a passerby… I am a Cylon…

I am a giraffe… a wimpy baby… a dentist… a narc…

I am an ecologist… a “party in my tummy”… a radio station… a philosopher…

I am a philosopher in gym shorts… a mollusk… a personality disorder… a hygiene problem…

I am “nobody’s beeswax”… “everybody’s beeswax”… an ear infection… a virus…

I am a martyr… a saint… a scientist… a tank… I am a creature… a sandwich… everything… nothing… I am a “portable luxury goods with flowers”… a train station with trains—

Be passersby... Be strangers… Be Samaritans… Be gangsters…

Be flavors… interlopers… followers…

Be self-inflected… Be self-infected…

Be tourists… travellers… strangers again…

Be redundant… Be DaDa… Be something new called MaMa...

Be anonymous… Be strangers still—

Blessed are the monotonous, for theirs is the kingdom of boredom.

Blessed are the trolls, and those who live under a metaphorical bridge or overpass, symbolically.

Blessed are the train stations, where trains come, and sometimes go.

Blessed are the trains that go, and don’t come back.

Blessed are those who are not favorited, or liked, or followed. Blessed are those who have no profiles, or whose profiles are poorly made.

Blessed are those who were not born, because they did not want to be. Blessed are those who say, “No thanks,” and go back to sleep.

Blessed are the telemarketers, and spam technicians, and those whom no one wants to talk to on the phone, or over email.

Blessed are the lonely, for they can be their own best friends, and in that way have good conversations, with similar people…

O you lonely, you can favorite your own tweets, and like your own posts, and start new profiles, and like them again… Then shall your liking return to you sevenfold…

Blessed are those who care for ideas more than personal hygiene, whose mouth is a nest of visions, but whose dreams are very well-groomed—

Blessed is the oppressed, for hers is the broken kingdom.

Blessed am I in my loneliness, mother… Blessed the way I am best.

I am a dinosaur… a donkey… an elephant… a walrus… a carpenter… a hologram…

I am a robot… a dark robot… a “troubled youth” who is also a robot…

I am a soul… an electrical pulse… a finite erotic grasping creature… a fishbowl… a hieroglyph of the living grasses…

I am a think tank… an endangered species… I think I died a long time ago… I am a suicide artist… a suicide prevention hotline artist…

I am an apologist for cannibalism in certain scenarios when there is no meat… not even human meat… or humans to eat the meat…

I am a sad billionaire with no money… I wrote tiny messages on my dollar bills and used them to replace the internet… I gave my dollars away… I called it the dollarnet… I sold it for lots of money…

That is how I made my billions…

I am a BOGO sale… there is only one of me left... I am the last of my kind... I am half off…

I am a subatomic event… a cold war… a hot war… but mostly, I am a lukewarm war—I’d prefer I was a hot war or a cold war, a lukewarm war I will spit out of my mouth, electing to chew gum instead…

I am an information age… I know nothing… I can move whole souls with my thoughts…

I am an elitist… a populist… a terrorist… I am a person killed by a terrorist… I am a person killed by the people who are trying to kill the terrorists… and I am not a terrorist—

I keep forgetting to be boring… to plagiarize more… I keep forgetting to just transcribe… to copy and paste… not to think… not to read… I keep forgetting not to breathe… I keep forgetting I am dumber than a robot… I will be more boring in 2016…

I will read less in 2016… repeat myself more in 2016… be more self-absorbed… eat more fried foods… vary sentence structure less…

I will use more predictable sentences in 2016… consume more processed sugars… make more frequent use of “positive self talk”… transform my life by “positive thinking”…

I will build wealth and peace of mind by tweeting more in 2016…

I am a space program… a bumper sticker… happenstance… I am meant to be…

I am “true love’s kiss”… an app killer… omg… I will be less charitable with others in 2016…

I am Mildly Cyrus… I will bathe less in 2016… omg… more processed foods in 2016… procrastinate more… 2018…

I am a real human person just like you… a Congressperson… Senator… a corporate mogul… I am a tiny baby and I am a real human person too...

Congressmen are people too… and billionaires are people too… and corporate moguls people too… and tiny babies people too… and corporate moguls babies too… and tiny babies billionaires too…

CEOS are people… Tupac is alive… Books are billionaires… Words are alive… Be passersby…

I will eliminate distractions and focus on social media more in 2016… try less in 2016… “keep it simple”… “lose my cool” in traffic more in 2016…


That was me “losing my cool” in traffic in 2016… because babies are billionaires too…

Blessed is the bipolar, for he shall be sometimes depressed, and sometimes the opposite of depressed, for stretches at a time.

Blessed is the malcontent, for he shall speak up about his lack of contentment; and when he speaks, he shall be heard. Blessed is the contender.

Blessed is the unemployed, for he shall have more free time.

Blessed is the broken, for he shall go to sleep.

I am a cowgirl… a space cadet…

Blessed is the distractible, for he shall often lose his train of thought, and search for it, and sometimes find it again, and feel relief.

Blessed is a billionaire with no money, for what is a billionaire with no money? He is a broken thing, a rag of light.

Blessed is a rag of light.

I will be less original in 2016… I am a proud non-speaker of words… the Logos awoke in my skullcase… a proud non-breather of air…

I am a fictional character who exists… I make things up by thinking about them… declare lame fatwa on banality… write from the perspective of a vampire hunter to an audience of vampires and vampire victims…

I am a vibrating scar of miracles… above the cities of the voice… a virus of belief and money… an alien producing a virus… a soft delusion… of soft whispers… I don’t exist… I exist…

I am the voice within your voice… the one who was within me… the smaller dinosaurs within the dinosaurs… I don’t exist… but I do…

Be passersby… Be protester… Be police…

Be malcontent… all things to all people… Be all people…

Be nothing to no one… Be no one…

Be atom bombs of justice power… Be empty alarums of space and time… Be Ghosts of Hanukah Future…

Be saintly… Be bright… Be nowhere men and nowhere women…

Be shadows of rocks and sticks… Be the rocks and sticks themselves… Be fully awake… Go back to sleep…

I used to be a person… I worked 7 years for a PhD… my children were on Medicaid…

I became fully broke… I went back to sleep…

I am the one who was within me

Become fully awake… Become finally free…

The tinier dinosaurs inside the dinosaurs…

The tinier babies… the billionaire babies…

The billionaire babies inside the babies… which is really just broke babies…

Which is really just you and me…  

The space cadets… the time machines…

The atom bombs… the jellybeans…

Wake up or go back to sleep

(c) 2613 the moon

Tuesday, May 26, 2015


for john guzlowski

Lee Sharks is a person, as real as you or me.

Words are a person, as real as Ezra Pound.

Ez Pound is a person, too.

The silence waits for all words, all people.

People wait for the words that will wait for them, to take them home. 

To the silence. Afterwards.

After words. To the silence.

Somewhere, Ez Pound is alive.

Planet Mars, America-in-heaven. Somewhere else.

Ez Pound is alive right here, inside of me. I carry his words around. They carry me.

They are sorry they said those things on the public airways while Dachau plugged away. Sorry is not enough, but modernism just lives and lives. 

In the silence. After words. Modernism's rough breath. Ez Pound in a metal box. 

Big machine. 

Small ghost. 

I am sorry, small ghost, but you must live on.

In the silence. In Ezra Pound. In modernism. In Sharks.

Modernism is not a planet like Mars.

Modernism is a planet like Pluto. 

Pluto is a name I use to make modernism mean more than itself. It means other things, other people, too. 

Pluto is a tiny planet where they put the bones of dead writers. 

When they put the bones of all those writers there, Pluto starts to mean more than itself.

Pluto means the past and present and future, too. 

I am my own mother and father. I coughed myself out of the bones of the earth. I was old and waning, inside the earth. I wanted to make myself happy and new. 

Pluto is not a planet, now.

This makes me feel ancient and sad.

Where will the bones of the writers go? Will they just lie there, in the ice of an oversized meteor? 

Why would they do that to all those dead writers? 

Why would they take their planet away? Why would they make them grow old in the dark? In a metal box? A big machine?

When I shucked off the dirt from my eyes, I saw Ezra Pound, a body clothed in light. 

A stranger in a strange land, but I was stranger, still.

The meaning of life as a ghost on Mars: outer planets. Silences. Waiting for people to tell me things.

Ez Pound, are you dead yet? 

Why make yourself to be more than yourself? Why make Pluto to not be a planet? Why keep all those dead writers alive? Why make them say terrible things?

Ez Pound tells me things, and I forgive him, over and over.

Who am I, to forgive Ez Pound?

I spit in the mud and rub it in the eyes of Ez Pound.

Can you see now, Ez? Do you see why I couldn't come back?

He nods and we climb sad new Plutos, out through a grave of bones. I brace against the rock. 

Read the words on the wall. Read the words the hand writes. Read the sequence of numbers. Repeat it. Silently.

"Leap!" and the mountain shivers.

(c) 2015 lee sharks, property of planet mars

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

ARK, Jack Feist

Jack Feist

written in the margins of “Sunflower Sutra”
2/18/15, evening, Glenbrook, MI

to be a poet @ the end of time, when the salt has lost its savor, and sensory details have grown thin, & the outward expansion of lust for particulars dims, & flickers, & offers no flare of starburst irruption or remission from unwaning daylight to the light-sick, light-lorn world—all is the same, all is heavy, weary, tedium, sameness, repetition—
& there is no mode yet which might intone in an ancient syllable the limitless dreary abstractions of our inward flight—

my life is almost PURELY engorged w/ electronic devices, books, alerts, dings, moth-bitten blips of finger-swept text, stray images, absorptive abstractions of daydream thought, self-talk,
staged systematic orderly dramas of silent conversation—the whole thing scripted, walked thru, a thousand forks taken, shortest line plotted each time
from among the limitless known pathways, all things surveyed,—all of that, in my skullcase—

tighter & tighter the circuit winds down in a coiled linear singularity, a single thing, a rose, a monochrome cosmos of TEXT, gathering its coiled kinetic potential—

within it all of space folded up, available, arrayed most orderly and lovely a shrinking limitless rendering of continent & region,—language condensing, too, itself gathered eager tense hair-triggered for a final leaping miracle pounce
into its single hallways, mother tongue & sister tongue converging, resurrection from life to life, tongue & nation transfigured, undone, remade, a body of light & zeros—
outward no more, the greater leaps & lesser leaps inwards, the outer things charted, transcribed, reduced & magnified, rolling inwards, ever in, all of the planet and many planets, archangels and nations, the greater & lesser lights, the rolling skies, even poor Jack unshaven unkempt unmoved from the couch in days—not still, but moving, growing, expanding, all particular
motes of earthly light & dirt roll inwards, lifted, the upsurging waters, Time is a flood, on a Noah’s Ark of data—

with me, you ancient voices!
with me, you particular sons, you disparate daughters!
with me, you two-by-two, you rainbitten types, the multiple species—you giraffes and snakes and muttering things, you upright, black and white, you rain-driven last-of-your-kinds—
you ancient ones and future ones, you mighty voices—baritone, bass, complex, and rolling like these waves, you thunderers—with me!, you moth-bitten whispers, umbrellas leaking, threadbare—

a remnant is enlargening inwards, a preserved new tiny aggregate, pluriform and total—multiple, ambitious, large, unbeholden to nation or creed, beholden to ALL nations, creeds, the truth of the emergent living being, source of disparate branching creeds—
sons and daughters of Adam, Ishmael, Abraham, Cain—the heart of the thing, whatever its form—

© 2015 Estate of Jack Feist

Monday, May 11, 2015


from Human Testament, ms being prepared for New Human Press

     "The angel Gamaliel instructs Jack Feist"

The angel Gamaliel said to me, "Repeat!" 
I said, "But I have something new to say!" 
so he drew me close, and whelmed me,
so that I could not breathe, 
and released me, gasping,
and commanded me, "Repeat!" 
and again I cried, "I have something new to say!" 
and again he drew me close, 
and again he whelmed me,
and again released me, gasping,
and for a third and final time commanded me: "Repeat!"

And so I did repeat, and say what had been said
with the words it had been said with
and the same was new and lovely
and the same was ancient and new:
the world in its image. 

(c) 2015 an imaginary air freshener

Sunday, May 10, 2015


of the Good Gray Poet.

I claim this mantle: King of May.

(c) 2014 lee sharks

from Pearl and Other Poems:


"Dinosaur Whitman," (c) 2015 emily eissenberg

from Pearl and Other Poems

Restless, I entered the chat room with Jack
distended in speech & hyperlinks
& lonely from solo work of scouring

vast archive of internet banks &
Google Books & encyclopedia sewers

& hundred thousand fibers of
work-frayed hair & scholar hat

& bleak-slouched shoulders &
motionless butt of sitting, numb

& flittering thoughts of argument
moth & outbranching
vain bibliography brain

colorless emotional & restless
for love

& the formidable robust muscular
                  bonds of human text:

for Sunflower Allens &
rose-sick Blakes
asphodel Williams &
blossomdeep Annes

but in the chatrooms & forums
                  & journals & blogs

the text was too abstract
                  woven layers wan & flavorless

soil too thorny or shallow
                  or deep:

no proper soil for the work
to seed

the only ones who could read
                  were Jack & me

& me & Jack, & our reading was a lovely
                  tekatak plant.

I am a lovely tekatak
                  I have no history or culture

a flower of no particular nation
                  relaying my clean fragrance

no asphodel or poppy

no gingham print patch of sassafras
or Appalachian sawtooth grass

no shield-flat plains of Asian paddies
or rice-ripe rows of sun-red grain

no chickadaw tree of tan savannah
or arboreal star of trilac plant:

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed
I wasn’t one.

When pearl-wet hair of willow draped
I wasn’t there.

My wet fronds wave in lavender ponds
                  in seas no eye has ever seen:

Indian Sea, Atlantic stretch,
Corinthian bays, Mariana Trench:

All earth’s oceans are too deep
                  its plains are far too shallow

even rarefied air of moons
is too blood-rich & thick

for tekatak’s tremulous branches

I spread across every continent, and across
                  every continent’s origin

and at every continent’s conclusion,
                  there I am, a tekatak blossom:

luxurious and single,
                  particular, disparate,

a disparate particular layering of
                  single luxurious fragrance

alike to each who smells me,
                  whoever smells me, respiring

the singular unique sameness
                  of each to each his single
                  breathing—this—this breath—
                  this breathing—

the breathed out perspired flavor
                  of his diet & habits &

the scent of these things each
                  to each nimbly parting
                  the individual fibers

all truckling to sunk-down
                  shoots & roots &
eager to receive

the tekatak-lovely tekatak stalks
                  & tekatak feet &
                  tekatak flowers

Of all particular continents,
                  flavors, diets, climes,

& also the ozone husk of these,
                  invisible distillation

the produced offspring of everywhere
                  & nowhere, native alike

to canyon-sediment nomad pasts
                  & passed over oral traditions

to musk-bright neon modernities
                  & homogenous rows of Tai Pei

to refugee camp futures of displaced
                  workers & pidgin-ambivalent
                  lingua francas

to furred ashtrays of dank
                  Alexandrias & machinegun tons
                  of child Crusades

to spaceship moons of forbidden books
                  & Caribbean classrooms of colonial

to crowded streets of Bollywood screens
                  & traffic-thick lanes of Bangkok

to North African ports of island palms
                  & Jerusalem mosques of desert

Among all this, remarkable fact:

I have never been seen, no
                  soil bears me

Everywhere-wide is too thin
                  Nowhere-thick, too deep:

except your marmoreal branches, Jack,

                  the tekatak plant wouldn’t BE

(c) 2014 lee sharks

from Pearl and Other Poems: