ATTENTION PEOPLE OF THE OH SO MANIFEST WORLD!

 

//a dispatch from Jamie Thomson// 

 

I spent a lot of time this summer helping my family’s neighbors, Lester and Lella, clean their attic, which was great, because they paid me, and because they are among my favorite people to spend time with in Northampton. When we weren’t sorting through things, we sat on their porch and drank juice and talked, slowly and easily. Up amongst the things we found was a series of family scenes from the 1950s or 60s, perhaps intended to teach a class, though the material didn’t seem so clear to me. Instead of bringing them to the dump, I tried my best to decipher the lesson.

 

(1) using the laidlaw charts.jpg

 

American Dumb        

     by Jamie Thomson 

 

(2) life is pretty much always happening.jpg

(3) meanwhile the beautys everywhere around you.jpg

(4) they were busily making new meaning.jpg

(5) they were all out validating each others' mondays.jpg

(6) touch me hold me happily ever after.jpg

(7) it was yet another good talk.jpg

 

(8) it was actually a sort of funeral.jpg

(9) one more dream was coming to an end.jpg

(10) and then you remember it forever.jpg

(11) held together by some fragile rope.jpg

(12) we go fast so as to more readily forget.jpg

(13) when i win i feel good.jpg

(14) but what about alone at night.jpg

(15) devastation can also be slow yet equally painful.jpg

(16) learning is fun but also may serve to illuminate the rigid class structures that define us.jpg

(17) wishing they never left.jpg

(18) a happy family at play.jpg

(19) it's been missing for so long.jpg

(20) never to be heard from again.jpg

 

//-//

 

 

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

















PULLING GREASE



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
there


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
navigators-without-fail
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
before


he’s just some guy
really
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.

Screen Shot 2017-04-07 at 4.11.36 PM.png

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.

696a7fd520e713fac231d68ab62a4139

 

Update
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
That read, “NOW HIRING SHIFTS”
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.

 

 

77cb757e53b29e1962fc8035eca2af65

 

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
themselves.
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.
Pores
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.
Nomatterwhat
feast weeks end in real sorrow, us all blinded white
eyes welling up with cholesterol.

 

 

chris mars painting

 

Epitaph
by Rob Rice

 

I dig the ground
Searching for water
But find pipes

Warm Water

 

wnd_799aa12e276971c1fb3b11df89ea880f.jpg

 

 

 

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

like

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

right

this is experience

personality

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

 

impression

 

our whole culture is driven

by that shit

it used to be

a small town

 

thing

 

the statistics

will

anyway

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

 

Salix_integra_Hakuronishiki_10163_11596_1280_1280.jpg

 

 

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

Regret

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

Wedges

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 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

 

 

 

Outandin

 

9e21cf_c25f6fbca210445fbc82138a48a8d7a9.jpg

 

 


 

OUT AND IN

by Rob Rice


 

 

Outside 

 

Sweaters set

In sync with the leaves changing

Highways in New York and Connecticut

Surprising

Their charm

In disrepair

The asphalt feels harder and more brittle

Loud

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

Expressions

New York and Connecticut

You’re a visitor there

What is it

It’s too deep

Grade

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

 

Inside 

 

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

 

IMAG0828.jpg

 

 

Panacea Politics For The Relevant Poor

by Rob Rice

 

One

 

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

 

 

Two

 

 

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

 

 

 

Three

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

Four

 

 

 

 

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

Unions

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

 

 

 

 

 

Five

 

 

 

 

 

Mental work borrowed pro bono

Self support by sabotage and gavel

Losers

Defined by the winners they laud and lost to

 

Tops

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

Aloof

Just wandering off like sublimation

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Objectivity

 

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:

http://hosting.soundslides.com/37zgj

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

 

 

Faithful

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

IMG_3129.jpg

 


Faithful

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