A Unicorn Walks into a Grocery Store

The desert floor, Olsen! Keep fucking your syntax! (verse)                        Project!
Open doors. Margin creep.                        Evolution forms in fall.
A pinnacle rolls in waves                     resurfacing as weapons,
Spin,                                     who, who hold the sold out stone.
                                Be the magical beast. Smell like horse,
                  Hold your horn high.
                                 Go straight for the apples in the
                                   Produce aisle.
    Shout into doors & walk away.
Be a deity. Any particular deity. Fuck as deity.                      Illusion, illusion

                                                                                                           It’s okay.


 The past few days have been a hairy animal. Drunk in solemnity with the apes of junkyard astro-punk. Sitting with a prairie & face of stone bowl, laughing nervously when the vicious speak over the radiation in the air between the air:

I will do everything! Believe me! We don’t want THEM in our country!Syrian refugees, no way to screen, OBAMA!Blood spilling over the borders.Law & Lawful Order, Believe Me!The day I take the oath, America will wake.Escape. Almost. Impossible. I will make us RICH! I will make us rich!I will make us rich! I will make us rich!&We’ll all be rich! We’ll all be rich!We’ll all be rich! We don’t want THEM in our country.

I want to turn it off, return to prairie animal. Poetry will not let the animal forget itself. A good day for poets in the Mountains, yes? Please, no one say the word Trump. There is an election in the mountain—The best approximate of that vicious fly wins. We laugh again. Are doomed.

Begin again…

We didn’t know where to drive from Nederland, but I knew of a poet who sells rocks in the town center. We asked him the way, he told us first how he’d worked the prisons with Ginsberg, then of the Caribou beyond the Fire House. A Unicorn, we were to discover. When we crossed beyond the hedge, a marker of the barrier between the marketplace and the listless body of Ezekiel, my travelling companion fell silent—placed himself on display as fruit in grass in shade in sun. One of the beasts would come to pluck him up, I was certain.

As it happens, there was a magical primate in the circle who insisted her magic was just all very regular.

A werewolf preached the promises of the church of Unicorn.

An examination of the eyes, I could not tell what went on. I was hungry for an apple. Drank a tomato. Smoked for the aspens, feeling close with them. Politics.


[“When Doves Fuck” is the album. Political Primate, our sudden leader, is the band.]

Literary Freedom, first question of the day—on the page or off?

On/off? Process/practice?

Publish/private?                           Something tells me I’m thinking about money again.

Freedom seems a freedom to. A freedom to suggests a liberty upheld by institutional pillars. This sort of thing I don’t know about. I don’t decide about this kind of liberty; that’s someone else. The big dumb brain of the everybody, talking like a shoehorn. I don’t understand you, you’re in a shoe, just doing the job of an absent foot. The freedoms I own, which are with me, are not held in service to the leather, do not maintain the object for fitting. They either exist or they don’t & I am not sure which. It’s okay. Literature is a long word. On or off? A book or a poem: I’ll take one of each, on the page & off. There I’ll feel free.

All of Making


Paradox     (to)



Build alternative.

(look for the source) (the sources) (the source)go this way

(look for the source) (the sources) (the source)

What is administrative about a beast?

The conditions of my life are the forms of my work.


Dear Magic Primate,

I found








To an extent/an ear.


A spider was dangling from my pen (a political platform of unnamed birds)


We’re looking into the window.
That is our privilege.

Our politics—any body(s) that’s defining us:

Say, the aspen & the wind—
When we’re speaking with them, we’re in politic.

I have been luring creatures onto the tip of my pen, now, for several minutes, so I might look at them. A sea green fly enjoys to creep along the conveyor of the pen that I spin. We listen together, I & this fly, each within our separate languages at least, to the language passed between the trees—all the weight we carry, it is too much. It weighs a lot to hear.

I need to hear it, but
I can’t go on
this way.

It hurts to hear.
The hurt of hearing is
Invitation to  understand.

Let us follow
with understand.

I’m broken now with you
as you asked.
I’ve broken here for you,

Let’s hold hands
be vigilant together

for example

we will be
cognitively dissonant together                        & when we shout

we may also whisper

& eat together

we will remember this
is possible. it is possible.

when we threaten
we are responsible about it
we will devote ourselves

to understanding this
we will never understand this
but         we will devote ourselves
to understanding this
time.                                                                      we will.


we’ll sing beautiful songs
for our sorrows
make them ancient within us
between us.

(:) we will always
start over when
we need to (:) (x3)

we will never get things right we will take as long as we need to heal, but
what will we do when we are threatened?

(little sea green fly got tired of listening—flew the fuck away)

Six Dumb Words


Making early
the coffee
If I hurry maybe I’ll make Boulder late tonight. I don’t feel in a hurry. But maybe, if I start to, I can be with the poets. I’m about halfway through a first pass of your pomes so they’re hanging around like unfinished novel in my sleepier hours. I meant to wake & write a six word poem and found news of more dead on the people’s day–when the fireworks late make to like celebrate the heads off the french aristocracy (tis not an unviolent thought to begin)–across the ocean. What good are my six dumb words? There is a struggle going on somewhere & everywhere & not anywhere for the end of all struggling, & I suppose this may mean death. & I hope that it means life. But most I think the poetic of shower masturbation–the way you know if a poet tells you his habits regarding jerking off, he’s being straight with you, and if he tells you his habits of not even jerking off when it seems most honest, you know he doesn’t know where to go with all the honesty. Self-healing becomes sick-sounding. A list of hipster concerns, I’m not even with me. The yearning for better questions, the right questions, the ones that will actually heal somebody somewhere, & not just display the contours of political allegiances. But you put yourself in the fray in some forward way, & I don’t know what I mean by this. The “struggle” & how the sound of that word at this moment to me is like two men in the dark gripping one another by whatever seems will kill. How the struggle is still the sickness. How the antibody & the fever may themselves kill. And how a stupid six words about the coffee & the road, how can these not be delightful in their insufficiency to address even one of the ills that plunge us to our troubled depths? Man & unman.
& I think you at least are there, where it’s happening, making a record of the human soul as it most earnestly yearns. As it finds itself blanketing the gears of the machinery. As it were a child caught in them teeth.
& I am in this Cloud of Unknowing:  ‘…he alone understands the deep universal reason for sorrow who experiences that he is… He alone feels authentic sorrow who realizes not only what he is, but that he is … never does he desire to not-be, for this is the devil’s madness… he rejoices that he is…at the same time, he desires unceasingly to be freed from the knowing and the feeling of his being.’
& I wish I could have thought about the coffee & the road & that would have been enough.

How to remove the you from the lecture?


How to remove the you from the lecture? You do it better than most, but, verily, it is an impossible task. You lecture “you,” and maybe this other “you” learns that you were right all along.

But no one argues what they truly believe. What is the point? Truth needs no converts.

I love this piece. The writing: bright and swaddled. The argument tightly ladled. I do wonder the counterpoint(s) — maybe you will rankle some more on a different day.