Archive for July, 2014
Flora Valley by Mark Young
My beauty has a Black Friday velocity. She replaces the pool water with pee. My beauty has the attributes of the Number 8, she made a temple out of tires for the Cat Goddess, for men and women who dance like birds and salmon herds, her red pyramids name the wind like a radio the South West Wind, The Maltese Falcon and Farewell, My Lovely. My email account had a dark and twisted fantasy about Walmart and sableye, antelope goggles, a helicopter, herbicide, a diary mask ammo kit. The moon is enough for us in Spanish, even when death goes undetected by Beauticontrol™. If you look up tonight, the stars have no makeup. Make up some statistics about them on the spot. His everythings were shallow, not a cough in a carload. Start a sentence with “a religion of doors”. But there were shy violets, birds – skylit, scarlet, nautical twilight, small wars smuggled like smart chargers, it’s so beautiful there, trees mistaken for transitional fossils and the trout are great. . .
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keeping in mind the words of the poet Pierre Joris, ". . . I make the arrogant claim that the poet is possibly the last, in Robert Kelly’s words, ‘scientist of the whole… to whom all data whatsoever are of use.’ . . . The prerogative of the poet is to steal directly whatever is of use, without needing to theoretically kowtow via analysis, explicatio, critical cloning or proof of pc allegiance."