IF WALT WHITMAN CAME BACK AS A ZOMBIE AND ATE MY BRAIN I WOULD WRITE THE FOLLOWING POEM

"He Only Wanted Attention!"

image (c) 2015 emily eissenberg

IF WALT WHITMAN CAME BACK AS A ZOMBIE AND ATE MY BRAIN I WOULD WRITE THE FOLLOWING POEM
from Pearl and Other Poems

I am very sad America because you make me sad.

I am sad because my despicable poems.

I am sad because you charge me with unemployment fraud and take away my money.

I am sad because I can’t write poems like luminous smoke and suffocate your courts with glory.

I am sad because you will not hire me.

I am sad America because I have no money

and very large sums of credit card debt

and very large sums of student loan debt

and also I write poems in an unemployable way.

I am sad America because you ban me from your poetry websites because I criticize your rules

and delete my poems

and tease you about go start your own site by writing in a Jesus voice inventing poetry sites in heaven.

I am sad America because Walt Whitman went door-to-door selling books, a regular salesman

but when I spam the chat room with my poems they ban my IP address.

I am sad America because Walt Whitman is alive in my heart, walking door-to-door in my heart selling poetry books

and I am buying them to give to friends

but I am sad America because I have no friends.

The point I am trying to make is could a new Walt Whitman sprung up from the dirt sell zombie poems on Google?

Vision, America, is what I mean.

Commitment is the point I am making.

(c) 2014 lee sharks

from Pearl and Other Poems:
http://www.amazon.com/Pearl-Other-Poems-Crimson-Hexagon/dp/0692313079/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1429895012&sr=8-1&keywords=lee+sharks+pearl

Call for submissions

 

A/I:

literature for cyborg messiahs

image (c) 2014 Henry Bogle

Call for submissions

Preparing first issue of A/I, a new literary magazine. 

Publication policy = anonymous / pseudonymous

Issue theme = broadly apocalyptic / visionary

We are interested in daring new prose, critical writing, poetry & poetics, visual art, mixed media, translation, and hybrid genre.

Send to aiaiaimagazine@gmail.com

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image (c) 2015 henry bogle

My Little Poemy

(c) 4216 alka-seltzer AD, a person with 13 shirts

An Elegy for Howl

AN ELEGY FOR HOWL
from Pearl and Other Poems

When the last forgotten recess
of your ultimate weary drawer of dust
coughed out the yellow petal
of its one remaining folded rose
and the sheet of blood-smeared paper

smeared with poems like ink
at last gave up its ghost:

I saw nothing.
There was nothing to see.

The best minds of my generation expired while little more than seeds.

You did not see.
You were not seen.

Poker-faced hysteria starved in silence
and exhausted itself in lame dysfunction
to be pinned insensate to a cluster of symptoms
as a matter of course
by moth-dust fingers of DSM lepidopterists
in formaldehyde rooms of science:

I heard nothing.
There was nothing to hear.

The eli eli lamma lamma sabachthani cry was drowned in words.

You did not hear.
You were not heard.

Jaded sincerity choked on its tongue
and shook with neural crescendo of seizure
in pig s**t halls of knowledge.
There was no mouth to take the sigh
and the final rattle passed
unremarked.



(c) 2014 lee sharks

from Pearl and Other Poems:
http://www.amazon.com/Pearl-Other-Poems-Crimson-Hexagon/dp/0692313079/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1429895012&sr=8-1&keywords=lee+sharks+pearl

from Human Testament, ms in preparation for New Human Press

"I AM that I AM are BELONG to ME"

image (c) 2015 R William Lundy

Y ou do not know what you just read: It is

A document typed by shadow people

H ung from the mist in my bathroom mirror

W hich beings of light and moth dictate

E ach a creature of great age, fell kings

H aunting Outer Cranium: So each word

I S

A S IT

M UST BE



(c) the future

On Politics: The Kingdom of Pygmies

On Politics: The Kingdom of Pygmies

Some of the masses came to Damascus Dancings, fomenting unrest, saying, “It is time to rise up, and throw off our oppressors—Damascus, isn’t this your message, what you’ve said all along: “I am coming to make things new”?”

And Damascus rebuked them strongly, taking the gun from their hands, and breaking it in half on his knee, with a grimace.

As our prophets have written,

To the States or any one of them, or any city of the States, Resist much, obey little,
Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved,
Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth, ever afterward resumes its liberty.

As a ghost, I'm not allowed to claim citizenship in a nation of enslaved pygmies (no offense, pygmies). I beamed up from that place about a thousand years ago, directly to Wikipedia.

Seeing no real greatness in all the world, except in dead things & ghosts, I too have become a dead thing and ghost,

Claiming citizenship in America-in-heaven.

No, there can be no peace.

How can there be peace, while a single decent man or woman remains unmurdered? 

For a very long time this world has murdered its sons and daughters for the crimes of bigness, and courage, and goodness of heart, and love of justice.

They murdered Socrates and they murdered me and they murdered a bunch of others, too,

And they'll murder me twice and maybe you, until the whole species is a crunched, bent thing, and knows to keep its mouth shut, and crawl around on broken knees.

Against such does a decent man or woman war. How can there be any peace, while a single one remains unmurdered?

There can be no peace.

But we do not war for this kingdom of pygmies, 

Or with guns and sticks,

Or even with genetically-engineered tigers with nuclear canons in their mouths.

We war for nation of kings and priests, where every man and woman is a creature made of moths & light, 

& bent things learn to walk, 

& pygmies get shot with a reverse shrink ray, and grow,

Unless they prefer to remain smaller,

But even if they do, it's only an outward smallness,

Because inside my heart the pygmies are riding huge genetically-engineered tigers with nuclear canons in their mouths, and beams of moths & light are shooting out of their eyes,

And the pygmies look really tall up there

On the tigers' backs.

Point is, we're well past armed revolt,

And always have been, for a thousand decades,

And so we cede these pygmies (not the ones on tigers, but the other ones, the inward pygmies) their kingdom of pygmies,

And murder their smallness and guns with murder and smallness and pygmies, their own,

And beam up directly to Wikipedia

Claiming citizenship in America-in-heaven, Planet Mars, Jupiter's 17th moon base, home.

Bob Kaufman, Abomunist Manifesto

BOB KAUFMAN

ABOMUNIST MANIFESTO

 

ABOMUNISTS JOIN NOTHING BUT THEIR HANDS OR LEGS,
          OR OTHER SAME.

ABOMUNIST SPIT ANTI-POETRY FOR POETIC REASONS
           AND FRINK.

ABOMUNISTS DO NOT LOOK AT PICUTRES PAINTED
          BY PRESIDENTS AND UNEMPLOYD PRIME MINISTERS.

IN TIMES OF NATIONAL PERIL, ABOMUNISTS, AS REALITY
          AMERICANS, STAND READY TO DRINK THEMSELVES
          TO DEATH FOR THEIR COUNTRY.

ABOMUNISTS DO NOT FEEL PAIN, NO MATTER HOW MUCH
          IT HURTS.

ABOMUNISTS DO NOT USE THE WORD SQUARE EXCEPT WHEN
          TALKING TO SQUARES.

ABOMUNISTS READ NEWSPAPERS ONLY TO ASCERTAIN THEIR
          ABOMINUBILITY.

ABOMUNISTS NEVER CARRY MORE THAN FIFTY DOLLARS
          IN DEBTS ON THEM.

ABOMUNISTS BELIEVE THAT THE SOLUTION OF PROBLEMS
          OF RELIGIOUS BIGOTRY IS TO HAVE A CATHOLIC
          CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENT AND PROTESTANT
          CANDIDATE FOR POPE.

ABOMUNISTS DO NOT WRITE FOR MONEY; THEY WRITE
          THE MONEY ITSELF.

ABOMUNISTS BELIEVE ONLY WHAT THEY DREAM ONLY
          AFTER IT COMES TRUE.

ABOMUNISTS CHILDREN MUST BE REARED ABOMUNIBLY.

ABOMUNIST POETS, CONFIDENT THAT THE NEW LITERARY
          FORM "FOOT-PRINTISM' HAS FREED THE ARTIST
          OF OUTMODED RESTRICTIONS, SUCH AS: THE ABILITY TO
          READ AND WRITE, OR THE DESIRE TO COMMUNICATE,
          MUST BE PREPARED TO READ THEIR WORK AT DENTAL
          COLLEGES, EMBALMING SCHOOLS, HOMES FOR UNWED
          MOTHERS, HOMES FOR WED MOTHERS, INSANE ASYLUMS,
          USO CANTEENS, KINDERGARTENS, AND COUNTY JAILS.
          ABOMUNISTS NEVER COMPROMISE THEIR REJECTIONARY
          PHILOSOPHY.

ABOMUNISTS REJECT EVERYTHING EXCEPT SNOWMEN.

[Bob Kaufman. Abominist Manifesto (broadside), City Lights, 1959.]