At dinner last night with a brilliant poet, we shuffled through the encyclopedia of poets between us. I noted the brilliance of Anne Boyer; she noted the recent “Good Apocalypse”; I revisited today. Yes, for you, two below from Anne Boyer’s “Good Apocalypse” and vital parting advice: if you don’t know, you don’t know. So go. Yo.
I LOVE LITERATURE
I was attacking Culture.
I have seen her and she is so big and so beautiful.
Pulling a thirty-six-inch strip out of Language
and eating it,
she has given me an opportunity
to pattern gothic specialties, small farmers, and starfish
out of the reddish-brown essence that implies a native land.
Outlines of legacy are a minimal-production glass creature.
I worry it’s too much like voice and structure.
What’s better is when we can eat our fermented hurt
and someone gives a seminar on Kathy Acker’s
regional, agricultural, and mining sectors.
I am not free to be mad.
When I smell Archer Daniels Midland
it is as if an oligarchy has dived into the wreck.
Yes, I love Literature
but what I love about it is
the reproductive organs of Capital.
Bunnies occupy the same
semantic field as question-begging.
KEEP MOUTH SHUT.
Ours is no vigorous religion–
packages from Acme piled up under the stairs.
The problem of distribution:
How do you want to die?
Not in the course of self-examination,
but in the loop
of the public discourse:
shaking the razor,
shaking the shipping container:
serving the cause
of the common error.