Stuttering Cop

the poets slop over the till. They muck about in sand and mud, real flossy bosses and querying glances towards the back door of the bar. From there, snuck or boldly, a guidance system missile formation. What were you wondering in the little store where cigarettes turn into mounds? Did you need a bottle of surveys? The coast wasn't even clear, it was murky, yet you coughed up this dream emphasis, and made it a rage. Rage doesn't work well. Not here, in the gloaming of the perfect tunnel. One place exists so that another place can, balanced thus. Reference is for kids, mostly, but adults, as poets, can gather their trodden with a verity of tradition and lies, all waxed nice. The coffee they drink will surprise. So you say Ted Berrigan died?

He died. He was readied, pleased, something. A short drift across the natural river, a loan of some trouble, then cross to deeper waters. Forever, even, sweet as that. It's not the dying who care so much, we like to claim. It's the growing readership, and their friends in the phone book. The phone book may look anachronistic, but at least it is orderly. Each person constitutes some universe of beginning and end. Then you go to the library. Then you quietly approach.

But the biography of Ted Berrigan becomes more hesitant the more one looks. Why should we include each name in our debts? Doesn't injunction carry some colour? Will the whole process become moribund before we even have a chance to try? Alert and creamy, that coffee tricked up so nicely will be important in the annals. It will be cited as the monstrance for 'quite a day'. Ted Berrigan, you know, did this and that. Famously. It seems like it all becomes our second nature. And you can point to evidence, just as daybreak starts so real. Starting now always sounds wonderful in the light of morning. You should pay that much respect.

Meanwhile,
Bernadette Mayer dusted off a few things. Life is the colour of tremendous items, each organized toward processual delight. Delight then is a tiny button on the exclusive machine. Trust a blossom of hurdy gurdy readiness, plush carpet field of dandelion loss and comfort, all tied to a radial beginning. Are we met with stipulations everyday, or do we just adjust our tuners to conditional response? Bernadette Mayer will grow a story over old and new, likely as that sounds. Our libraries will exceed.

Walt Whitman, then, and following on: what a tradition of tripe! Bosh at the door when you arrive so formidably. The cops got us surrounded. Frankie, they plugged me. Tell Lola I love her! and so a life of crime for our Good Gray. shields are down. The beachhead has been made into pudding, lovely effect of sprinkles on the crown of sauce or vision. Eventually you resist the throng of emphatic violations and instill a right perception via tear ducts, ramparts, delivery trucks, beach umbrellas, dorsal fins and more merriment than a bottle could include. Such vitality could be a beginning, a chance for the old professor to show some stuff. Yes, it is stuff.

Walt Whitman rides it high, worth extra points. His coffee is smack. We like to point out the little things, and how they vary with the wind's chucking sound (out goes 'another'). Chuck this, and the brothers and sisters of the same.

A reunion vote, a plectrum institute, a votive merger, a causality machine, a membrane word, a vent preen, a cup society, a chandelier umpteenth, a squawk wallop, a desperate keyboard, a verb choice,
and that is how we inhale the hovering. Sample of Anne Waldman at work, rustle of New York and so on. What a trend to invent, while worrying about the institution as a hole. Those simple reading bookstores were just down the street, clean as covered but just for a time. in that suffering, much went into trying out. You didn't forget Alice Notley or James Schuyler did you, as you looked for a book? You were angry only when things found arrangement without your hand in the deed. No one criticizes with complete pictures, what would be the point? The city has its guttering flames, as do we all. Church choirs effect some rational difference, likewise those ridiculous trains running over and over the same news. Everything is quite screwed up, and more wonderful than ever. Thus a piquant version arrives via delta formation every few years. And erstwhile stories radiate something fresher than companionship. Oh but love, inside the least version and never surely just the childhoods served. A likely explosion will save New York once again. And we'll have a generation, all to ourselves.

It is that simple.