Leave Lyndon B. Johnson

I saw an exhibition (called Sleeping By The Mississippi) of Alec Soth's while 
driving from Boston to New Orleans and writing these poems. See a bunch more 
at http://alecsoth.com/photography/.

Soon After Easter 

Here in New Jersey
I ate a chocolate
I found in a dead log

One of many dead logs
Weighing down the acreage
That was appraised for me like a credential
By my host
Who revealed himself over dinner

To be a republican

It was inside a green plastic egg
Still not found on Thursday
Disappointing to the parent
That had overestimated its own kid
And that valued
Diligence and industry

(Afraid I imagined
The kid
Was still looking)

And if it had known
A disappointment to the kid too
The yolk it was meant to have
Was coconut flavored milk chocolate
By Lindt
Wrapped in reflective silver and blue
Itself egglike

I ate it after several minutes
Of having it in my pocket
Wondering what might hatch


we search shorn badlands for what’s there
and find
it’s not great work

we spread the word of a very different gospel
one that is twisted in the middle
but frustratingly won’t
fail to find itself in the end
like a möbius

it starts as a profession
of dark love for dark things
the animals and air

then into yet another purple sky
thin impersonation
of the night it brags about
seeing just beyond the horizon

there are the two of them
advisers of a different way
exceptional strategists and
from each to the other

like hysterical documentarians one lurks
near the terminal where night casually waits
like a Japanese teen for his bus to arrive
as if day were Boston
and he wants to get to New York

and follows him on
fearlessly he
boards the animal tube

no one else notices him
sit among them
and pull in their grease

it’s obvious he’s worrying
about his performance
having both been glory
and been unremarkable

he’s just some guy
with a job bigger than he
thought he could do
and now doing it
he realizes anyone could
if they’d just shut up
about who they were

being one of the guys in a city
lost among the lost coins and
slack herds mushing forward
overcome with false purpose
he manages to feel apart from them
an individual
like many others
are naturally able
and to know himself as just a man a
ponderous onerous little idiot
who types and erases curse words
to exercise two powers

Haiku 44

Two people who walk
Home into complete silence
Strangely just blow up


Now He’s Hard To Get Ahold Of

Jamie was recently accepted to a highly prestigious graduate poetry program. I am truly happy for him and grateful that we have gotten to feature his work on this site over the past year and a half.

While that’s all well and good, I cannot help but be reminded of a story I once heard on This American Life (ep. 573 “Status Update”). In it, Neil Drumming laments the partial loss of his longtime friend Ta-Nehisi Coates to the licentious world of paid academic appearances and book signings. I also feel at a loss and left out, like I’m ready for the bright lights and superstardom that inevitably accompany those very few and very fortunate inductees into the fold of Modern American Poetry – so where’s my golden ticket? I want to be recognized on the streets, to have my lyric lines quoted back to me in unison by the screaming masses or to be gawked at in silence by fans floored that I retain enough humility to take the subway. I want to be on the late night shows, to sell out the stadiums, to drown in the excesses of grotesque wealth, to be swallowed up by the frenzy that hounds each of our beloved Bards as they walk along among us.

But it was never meant to be me. It was always him.

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Poems by Jamie Thomson 

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Three Poems for Posterity

Hello. It’s been some time.

The site is now accessible without the “.wordpress.”

I pay dollars for this so don’t type it in the old way – then where would we be?

Chris Mars, drummer for the replacements, paints these portraits.



by Rob Rice


No I’m still around
Reading different books
But not writing much
I did see a red pen
Smashed up in the street
I think it had been run over
At Stop and Shop
One cashier said, “I didn’t have a headache until earlier”
To which her bagger said, “It’s so hot. I didn’t think they’d let me bag all day”
The doops and beeps were general
Each exactly one aisle quieter or louder than another
All the way down
Stripes of beeps and doops and the clicking
Of expert hands entering whatever number
Means banana here
I began to understand the hypnosis.
On the sliding automatic exit doors there was a taped paper sign
It was over and over
Crushed when
Letting people leave
I wondered why it was on the internal,
Moving and not the safe for signs,
Stationary part of the door
But, truth be told,
As I watched it cycle,
I unfocused my eyes
And it seemed very natural.





Ever 1 
by Rob Rice


I stake time
at the gymnasium
among the open-ended
smells and the comrades
baring gore their fins their
shoulders. I get to swish down
urinals left full of piss full of protein.
I converse in pulls, grunting I fake it, reluctant to
agree: people like us because they feel bad for us or
people don’t like us because they feel bad for
I put in an application to have my head opened sagittally,
hoping to helplessly scream out narration while they’re uncoiling the ridges,
that canned tongue. Exasperated I admit, “Yes – we’re born – but for
the most part our organs remain in a kind of womb.”
Dine in tonight, moongoers, sing health at me until I live.
Bodies breathing well look like trips underwater, organized,
but with everything scandalously dilated on fresh air, a done flush,
forehead a mess and chest a red huff.
eating up humid rooms their sheets newly wrestled into good rope.
Cardiac nodes gulp and click like static,
crimson; our gamey crotches
where all the muscle’s bound.
Great class in the flat stretch of grass yard, drama that daring one
tree. Don’t worry, we’ll not score you to collect sap in pails.
feast weeks end in real sorrow, us all blinded white
eyes welling up with cholesterol.



chris mars painting


by Rob Rice


I dig the ground
Searching for water
But find pipes

Warm Water






Warm Water

by Rob Rice



jazz drummers are in the business of letting us know

exactly how many right nows there are per second


creased at the eyes

face like a book

dog-eared anthology of dense smiles


how satisfying it would be to rip

a medium sized tree out of the ground


if you were a giant


i know you’d liberate

the little breath trapped there


is the city like a chandelier

arms folding like a thin fingered fist

in maybe by magnet


a hanging spider’s legs

that gather miserably around

the caught can for a hopeful second

be interpreted as loving


in a way it is


a surprise then

affirmations of sadness

like yeah


this is experience


study it


shop thought talk of the dead

isn’t qualified

but definitely

they can sleep anywhere

if they’re depressed enough


electrical energy amassed

enough in the shoulders

to critically ablate a brain tumor Veins lit through skin

filaments that take a second to blink away go

migraine grey

as an afterthought




our whole culture is driven

by that shit

it used to be

a small town




the statistics



negotiate this


people enjoying the company of their dogs

say off hand

we need to add minutes between the hours


that’s their plan

to get away with it



Green Need





Green Need

by Rob Rice




A notice arrived

From the almond willow


A consensus sourced whole from the Salix

Community -integra, babylonica

They wish

Generous in consolation

For us to know

They need us


That they love like we do

In mushy drooping gestures

Mealy and partly of


and apple it is

To say that

The children hiding in that skirt

From their future

Their one common boogeyman

Have found a place to hide

That’s worth it


And that

Glamorous apple

Skin already like candy

Or an ornament is

Spiraled off with work knives


That thumb eating beauty of


That too

Is worth it


Despite then

Surprise Malus

Poison avoidant domestics

No knowledge

Of that

history Us children of cultivars


We’ve seen

A graceful field with tall birds

All that individual grass

Reedy and wild

Full of time

And maturity no wonder everyone is still a girl

In the woods


But just

Cross talk of cold air

Brittle-skinning old trees

Who blossom anyway

They’re going forward

With sexy abandon like a woman

Who doesn’t let it get to her

Who you still imagine

Bringing the sun in on her skin

And letting you have some











by Rob Rice





Sweaters set

In sync with the leaves changing

Highways in New York and Connecticut


Their charm

In disrepair

The asphalt feels harder and more brittle


Like cold ceramic

Something in the families and water

The leaves that stink

Like creek bed and salamander

Fungal threads

Walks with dogs long since dead

It used to be

That you couldn’t make it once around the trail

Even in your imagination

The trouble of nutrient rich childhood

Weighing you down

The cold cheeks of a fat kid

Patchy red and white

The whole face is cheek

Brief exceptions


New York and Connecticut

You’re a visitor there

What is it

It’s too deep


Grain the wood of those saccharine houses

And huge of them

The intricacy of the family systems

Not giving back

Like a forest

In a German fable

Wealth obfuscating everything

Disorganized and teeming

It’s so hard to lace

It falls asleep

into myth

Defeated lazily

into myth

Sinking with a smile like the French woman

It would take your whole life to understand

And then you’d try to explain it

And ruin everything

The natural

Exists right up until you press it

Then the domesticated

The museum

No one looking for proof ever witnesses magic




You stand there

Your sharkskin muted in the afternoon lights off

The apartment so well arranged it’s hard to speak out loud

The wall with one arm and bowing your head

Musing about what it would be like to be her

A woman your wife

Is this the first time you’ve thought like this

You think

And how exciting that could be

You could have an affair

She could have an affair

She’s still so beautiful

You’re so dark now

So late in the afternoon

A good hour since it would have been fully undepressed to turn the lights on

She could have someone over

Someone career army

Glass eyes don’t give

All belt and pleat

And he’d snap

Or he wouldn’t

But she’d know he could

He wouldn’t even have to

It’d be so obvious

You lost that

Or never had it

Your power’s gone

It’s out

Who bought this apartment

Where is she

How did you two meet

Can you remember

She can’t

She’s not even home

Enjoy your wealth

She has him

Or might as well

You could find someone

With all that

But you couldn’t hide the power thing

The lack there

Panacea Politics





Panacea Politics For The Relevant Poor

by Rob Rice




It’s insubstantial empathy marshland

The greens are going brown

Wet tan foams

Wake with each step as you introduce air

As if you have the right to


Your hand is

Thumbing the lifeline

grip returns a sulcus

a think tank for conceding to mud






A knocked loose tooth

Spent on two more chews of hard water candy,

salt taffy carousels a movie

made in the image of war


A king and lost kid lie frozen by the same storm

A body can come up with the flesh for a whole other body, somehow

More than once, fray, the body bank writes loans


You can raise a family on humiliated shopping carts

Shuddering back into their pens

Skulls full of electric worms

Nervous in their own societies


I spoke the words of neuroscience for the making of service

I clasp and listen to the news and it reads true, don’t let it down


We feel hard crabapple wet and like our own jelly

Happenstance of spread

A kink and wallop of cream

Shallots stripped bare and brutalized into stink and sweetness

Plating a modern meal


The food was good

But the waiter was awkward

Is what I’ll report to god








Cardboard box packed with little

Bags of caught rain

Poor family daughters like white cheese

Somewhere between ricotta and mold

In their stare and in how it relates to mother

Whose massive sloping bosoms still hold such water

Their shelve tops oddly flat like a left and let dead thigh

Heat from life cooling against the floor as it rises

Leaving that mold


Chaperones on day trips to reenactments of life before war

Dancing the way they did

Steps forgotten completely by the civilian most

Wrecked down by loads that creak rouge knees

Courting just one quick shuffle or dip at a granddaughter’s fifth

And last before it’s too late to have her

Grow up with it


Half trails cut and stuck standing

Upright from the mass of walls and collections

Of one day saviors searching for themselves


It’s a house lost to its owners

Mauled by a sign on the door asking

Stay out


And why shouldn’t it ask

Richness enough to deny the filmsy pools of our character

Portions that set us back, up

Find us there pleading high crime

For games harder to play

Than when she is young

And sleeping


Some cities are becoming too difficult to use

Tubs of what I can believe it’s not

Street signs stuck resident yentas

Other herds thinning out

Red dick tech

It’s all porn










Knees and modern hate

A killer bands together with a master a mistress of power in cognate

A flower woven through a fence, lianas like a drowning man

Drowning the man who saves him


Procession of whitebike memorials

A minister a prole a neonate

A closer a showroom a glass patch

Affluence a miracle of here and there


After too, now where would it be without our

Oars they layer folds

Smooth liquid showings up of

White sky and a mobbing of panicky limb ends

Through flooded jungle glades bloodlines

Boasting tox spotted flowers yelling out

Panacea politics for the relevant poor


None come to serve the outside worker

Raking the dead from the coops

They’re often in the back


Between boys and the men they’ll become

Girls and the men they’ll come to resent as figures of waste

Figures and figurines

Archeology of progress and a wet smack like

Clay on clay












Mental work borrowed pro bono

Self support by sabotage and gavel


Defined by the winners they laud and lost to



Of buildings

Sick of identifying patterns like it’s great to

And corporation as human

Spit back in the face of the movement

Here’s that for your picket and choose


News people bored for words

Sit perched in the hot southern sky and glare down at cars

Heat distortion

We see some

Piecemeal from their predecessors

Necessarily no longer them


Leftovers from the time before they wondered which the war

Key links

Between lakes and their kettle beds


Just wandering off like sublimation











We all believed the machine reached this “deep space.” No problem. We listened to the spooky noise and heard the NASA guy when he said that’s what it meant. We barely cared. We barely noticed. Who would care, a thing like that. And that’s how we let it slip by. Just like that. So who are we now. We sped it down. More than a thousand times slower, signal flayed from noise. Signal, that’s who we are, we almost missed it, but then here it is:


What does it say. Listen. What does it say?




Part II of tonight’s double feature. Maybe they’ll like this better.




by Rob Rice


You get to know the size of a room best

As you’re sweeping it

You feel it’s mapped flat and physical

So hardtop obvious


They kept a bazillion records of faithful people

Acting accordingly Models

of interpreted force and lust built like water

An ice monument melts in a pond and the water surrounding it becomes unswimmable

And irresistible you feel it inside your ribs between beats


“I hope it isn’t much longer”

Captured in real cassette tape

That inert sound it makes

Scudding your thumb across

We have a strong blood together knowing

The microwave makes the milk flag


Where the dream starts

At the verge of the room

Toeing over to bed and getting in with you

It’s a dream of a little girl

Standing skewed on cement at the right edge

Of a flat slab room

The moon shining in through crossbar windows

Exaggerated and loose

The only light and it makes a spectacle of her shadow

Pure long black and creeping up towards the wall

Getting faster

Until it whips around and out

The car passing

And the dream gone with it


The thing with death is

It’s forever right away


There’s a tree in Maine

Much like the others around it

Medium sized and just grey

And that’s all that can really be said of it

Other people’s work

Featured in other people’s work

Is hard to fault

Failing dissertations

Even using moon samples

But about before, the tree

The hard part it’s like you feel it in your teeth or appraise it there

There’s some function that deems things edible that it engages

And no, it’s too hard

We’re bonded by the ways in which we’re mutually disadvantaged

A nook in space we share bother in and warm

I saw personality templates

Reused out

near Nash Cabins

Who could think of anything else while

passing Pond and Gendreau

in Naples Maine

near the school at Songo Locks

Lauded hub tangle of great northern docks

Unenthusiastically buoying the day trip of stumbling émigrés

Dusting off their laps

A confused and joyous congregation of cars

At the Gagne family home and place of business

In simple unperverted well drilling

For clean water by men who don’t mix their velleity and concupiscence

But about before, the tree

It’s so calm and androgynous

Inaccessible but somehow

Warm enough in the winter

Holding its breath until the huge spring exhalation of leaves

The silent relief

Release that lines the scenic route

Itself a gentle reprieve

From the highway

Where an engine inhales a half-mile



Part I of tonight’s double feature. There’s something for everyone so show mom and dad.




by Rob Rice



Faithfully and

All over spacious America

Our criminals are ripping pedophiles

Apart in prisons


It’s steady work

For steady men wordless

About their broken backs


And sticking up for our

Or their

Maybe at any rate someone’s

Intact morality


Or stratified morality

Just the idea of the thing

They’re keeping it alive

Generative in those furnaces


Regularly interspersed among the windfarms

And rolling lulls of corn orange

Reactors that keep our American decency

In stock for if we need it


That real violence moves us

The motivation in

The argument

To make relative their own misdeeds

Or our own


At any rate


While state reps send aides out to score Sodium P.


On the blank streets they organize and redistrict

Slinking in the alleys reluctant Dane and Roma people step

Bringing something home for pop to pray over

Then admin Back pats all around




And the search for it in small things

Pallbearers wetwinking at secrets they think He’s in on

Context boys gesturing at the ceiling not called anything

Without intersectional ideas motivating technologies


What happens as everything catches up

Cancers and strange base psychologies coaxing waves and

Drives into tonic grand malware

Applying themselves

Calmly seeking the same ancient sate

Of maligning systems


Server farms come down with datapox

Towers felled by bad blood

Reach into the news and extract the wet present

Remotely the ‘castersadness and plainness of living

In homes that fear


The synthetic grooming and clustering of cropped

Dot buzz hijinks

Misery of puckered vision

That works through grimaces to wager questions like

What can trick us into regression and

As a comedian generously allows an audience

To be satisfied by misdirection

What will send us back to the small communities


Ice Iron

Bronze Man


Without a ballooning commotion of pride like

Red cream clouding up lucent blue coffee


Freakish research and restaurants

New wave and

Undulating assfat in squat capital D due thighs

Isolated and frozen

Cheaply individuated with a candid look of surprise

But lasting and walking and introducing

And hating like scumsunk beans in water brought watched to a boil

Salted Explain and coin satisfying universal terms with

Definitions only as applicable as they are ambulant

While ingredients through the alphabet and back

Cost prohibitive


Too soon to bloom

Divorcing the past in daily tranches

Waking up unsurprised and comforted

To encounter once again

The fetal position


And when you start to wake on your back

With your hands laced prettily on your chest

You don’t notice

Because solace is solace is solace


And maybe there’s some honor in being the first the defining

Progenitor burial in a formerly functionless plot

But it’s negligible


Dying men of the flat night

Debriefing already dead sons

Saturating them with secrets for the grave

Secrets are currency there

They can swap them at the hellwait card table

For some simple jerky to drape over their collar

And recreate the skinfeel

Or a rotten peach to finger fuck

And let sticky the bone dribble

To attract flies

That then they all gather around

Giddy to praise life

In its mechanically full forms


Hard exampled irrefutable life

Not just spectre and memory and its progressing haze

Coming in hissing like rain curtains blottingout over the counterfurious ocean

Each story becoming less believable as told


And even though the audience is motivated to endorse

They are starting to itch with worry

Precautious to fully engage with What even is it

And they wonder which of them is still sure it happened

And defer to him


Let blond the black sap

Disoriented passenger-conductor

Like a citizen-soldier

Mock lost after a nation building exercise


The wonder of edgeless dull blockage

A whole sleeping calamari core of brain

Calling on

And getting nothing but clammy potassium slick

White matter’s breathy sweat sent

Out at pressure Nothing that feels hardcast but molten

And washing

And of soap


It feels like an expanding tinny aphasia

Leaving us without the proper words

That area having been overcome

That area having been overthrown dirty and hallow pained

Tried too much and too little

To have an effect

But they don’t


So TV persists

We think

Pleasantly At least now they’re including makeouts

Whole wet ones

In commercials about tech dating

The real and the super real

They’re worked matches


So they makeout

In the commercials

And I guess the logic is

Also in real life


Until eventually in super real

Matches and marks

Similar and often overlapping friends of the cause

Duped into daddyhood and mommyhood

Some worse for it

Some fed by it

Will always have

That mutual record


A shame foundation to accuse the other on

Persistent in boiling back up

Years after the early apartments

The natural laughs and parks and uncannily seamless vacations

Dixie cones plugged fat baby hands

And striped ice cream was thrashing around the stroller’s workbench like mercury

Taunting barometric augury was

Missed When they drove to Phoenix and

That bizarre night they stopped in Texarkana


But now the house is bought and the long

Yelling dullness

The vertiginous extended eternity and super eternity

To wait love and endure eachother through


There will be nights of creampure accusation

Where that basis will underlie each taunt

And they will abuse each other’s

Real or otherwise love

For its being bought on an instant

Neurological default to gameplay like cards


For sad and individual men


While inexhaustibly still

Spoilt on admiration

Cataract skyscapes peacock

Espousing they’re fully blind

Begging at least that for their son’s sake

They be entombed in oil


And Jokers

Pervade decks

Pervert them in sinister and mocking laughter

That’s sticky and smells

Shading the grain

Outing the creases at the dog-eared edge

That superimpose character onto quitting muscle

And again argue for age


Movement and concert

Spinning is to cones

As bones pose as all matter of things

Half buried in red desert sand

Half in red desert sun

Bleached waxy yellow

The fat still grinning

And fed from the life it had


In Massachusetts

Innocent dead kids stand by

The rites of chemical passage

A duty

They feel

Whining a gift of imaginary context

To those responsible for them

That lets poison into their memory

Like smoke drawn across the moon

And into a mouth


And out in Arizona

They’re unaware of the other

Too focused on the laced X’s

The scoring of their sleeping ankles

The viscous slowly evaporating spit from a

Copperhead’s tongue having thatch-licked hexes


Gratefully crosscutting that well organized chickenmeat

Tender against the grain and

Committing it to muscle memory

Bodies outfitted with the means

To tentpole electrofinance

Self-sovereignty as routers and

Conduits subliminally participating in

Redirection And trafficking in commerce and signal

Counterfeiting data as status

Completing the transfer from society to market


Sensual bad news when that sweet Thai food smell

You’ve been tracking with your mouth watering

Turns out to be the default funeral home

In the midst of the cooling unit emergency that will finally shutter its doors for good


I am just not interested in your blood

Like I am mine

There is no great fascination

It just looks vaguely dangerous and flavor-poor

While mine is pomegranate and impossible

Exceptional in color and content

Flamboyant and evident and

Minerally opaque

Surface tension tents pools upright

Must be magnetically floating cell rafts saying north


Too much so to dry and grey

Fibrous and supporting scaffolding of an interstate bridge

Straddling an unnamed and municipally nuisance waterway

Silent and humiliated and passing with its head down