Category Archives: Michigan Writer

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10/21/2013 · 8:37 am

SHUT UP KEN

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Erasure, Experiment, Michigan Writer, Poetry, Revisitations, Spring, The Temporal Arts Collective

After Air

We open air be-
ing but memories as we
lapsed into rubble.

I name the universe and
sing while you are in some part

We who are and were
lost—we happened and so we
created the flaws

against another error
for posed listening. We are

documents in for
making a frame to be err-
or out of work for

good. We are subject matter
among other things in for

relating to tics
able of only presence
of tics to be a

chance to induce more still,
needing more form to write in

detail, as the facts
relied on whenever we
would like to be ex-

amined. The task is the is-
sue in forming speech, thought—We

said we had to touch
like morning laughter yet I
have to return to

the next time if you can trans-
late which is other that pre-

ceded the floods. How
ever, this can be a mess,
make a last prayer.

Look to where the frame has been
inept or faulty. Sing and

lull sense in water.
We authored to perform our
form quietly—(what

was yours?)—who is the person?
Who was mentioned should remain

that, but I don’t know
the story, its politics.
The evidence is

mixing between a picture
that carries a mistake, desire

the need for words now
suitable for speech. This is
forgetting as means

to get out. Nevertheless,
time set from some violent

sign to transform in
ways as well as form one hand
on the other. There

is vulnerability.
Nonetheless, enter in while

questioning can long
something within attention.
What is being said?

We are passing disaster
after disaster in speech

more influenced by
visuals. There is something
in a sign of some

hesitation and how it
will be marketed. There are

no differences.
I has been attacked and I
appropriate I

enough to look for you now.
I form air, error attacks.

A body has been
more important in error—
form security

in our capacity to
address changes in our cur-

rent, it only falls
into lacks of English and
other marvels. I

see only reality
as I am not in it, as

far as speech is. I
can say there is no single
me. I may ignore

them, and even distort them
somehow. We appropriate

time to see where we
are—suddenness losing. I
feel vulnerable

in her kind attacks in this
reality
. We land, make sure

we press some unful-
filled urgent action and re-
late to a ship, a

devastating reach in a
small individual to

engage in air, spring
with each disaster concealed
in bodies contained

in bags. In every layer
we still lack, do not know the words

we author—meaning
smearing (alive or dead?)—if
I’m material,

I’ll be other specific
to a method. I want to

remember you be-
yond that moment outlined in
morning. (Put names here

if they exist). I rely
on paper to claim an act

for flooding not suit-
able to a closed fist. I
press you quickly in

form as sense is a busi-
ness closed among close-knit cells—

and more language, too,
is hard—part of the problem
is in our language
.

I branch over with error
already indicated
.

There is some need to
share, need to author ourselves.
I did not stem from

a name to create a se-
duction, although I stand, like

you. Sometimes I am
more and less. I am formed—I
am not sure I am

quite this—yet I form along
lines to fracture oversight.

You spread clear over
logical materials,
say outside my a-

bility to explode—hard.
There is not everything

here, but we believe
there is an awful lot more
to branch onto. I

was materials to be
collected, the error with

participating
within forces affected
in the outside. The

other is more than other—
go on and on and on to

reach it. We want world
over a moment, a fact
we have not enough

sight evolving our vulner-
abilities, but there is

an awful lot more
to long. I am. Here and there,
I’m written after

rage expanding against the
other refused by its public.

But this was and is
historical as we are
living, spilling each

other’s blood in the past air
opening where the future

can make nothing hap-
pen. Well, come and attack just
a little bit more

and press everything under
still air. I cannot create

some level of some
home. Let me—as if to kill
would release prayer,

not this world (either with us
or with error) and leave a

space for here (either
with us or our fictitious
state that can’t defend

you or your goods). Here I mar-
ginalize or believe what

I am…nothing. I
rely on blood out of place
and outside here how

beautiful speech is a vul-
nerability—
this need

to look back, we error
of our air. I implement
or intended

when wrote intended when I
don’t know air. The signals are

mixed and I would probe
that area and find her
in air as released

when I cannot be present
(I mean here—for example—

etc). Where
does this resistance go, who
refuses even if

it was empty, if it is
full of people. Strange the acts

being carried out
by so-called immediate
sooner, relations

between a number of ears.
There’s no question that error

has created sense,
some want to separate, to
connect ones that ought

to separate more air. A
word air raised one scene of the

disaster. Air a
lie, some want to be willing
to address her in

terms of air. What’s left between
urges to submit—support?

I am beginning
far from being the error
invented. I am

its body to revita-
lize the wound, make a locale,

but I’m uneasy
about the unity of
air. I do not know

everything and I’ll give you
a little of the center

not removed from want.
I don’t know who I am in
her. I’m a number

of different people. I’m
wondering if error to

make little lives will
ever wake the fact always
denied
this sense to

represent ‘air’ now as the
winds are direct, calling air

as air even when
suicide fulfills its claim
against origin

to divorce—by conversion
to I—to reject results

acceleration
of a new tragedy
. Air
more different here.

Pick one and make that person
author this time up in air.

Let me be in this
new position, yet I can’t
when a disaster

strikes or is and was lost through
language, pretty language to

be the fact to make
some immediate
future in present

of its triviality.
As if it has a presence

present everywhere,
that does not mean it’s widespread
but can’t be only

that—as if I am in air—
I am air, a name, as well

as a lump. I want
to say the thing that needs some
air to be done to

remember where we are—
raid against error spilling

still blood in public
places now a grave open
to all
at all times

to operate in air. Of
course, you strike me and that’s good

because there’s nothing
negative to think about
when we step into

all of that rotating air.
Hopefully we will stay air—

open—or remain
to be immediate, small.
A celebration

in an explosion of what’s
known as peace formed after a

bearded person could
enter
without being a
name with the presence

of other times where traffic
is slow in a body
and

before exploding
in a random way.
I’m not
sure I understand

what I am but I press you.
What is going on outside?

What is going on
Now you have the present in
all thought. Now there is

a lot that takes place within
sight to place urgent needs in

an aggressive way.
Outside the explosion thought
it inside but it

had nothing to sorrow for
the fall of the public claimed

by mud. Explosion
killed thirty others praying
of what was each ot-

her of air. So we favored
sight with the power to call

attention to the
land, lack with it, something
frustrating sense and

leaves a big hole in what we
should be doing. I am air—

always possible
within air—open air. Air gat-
hered us today and

someone was privileged to
think. You still so vibrant on

different levels—
Wash the things I lack, sometimes
a lack of branches,

a lack of airs and embers.
Note: insist on the act to

be the name to branch
out with all the rudeness to
explode the market.

I talk about you through o-
mission. I am fortunate

air, a long name, but
it is called less. In this room
we were looking at

the cost of mistakes. We have
a new number program and

pieces of burdens,
a gap being collected,
a culture of thrift

to think about and come back
in writing. I know a loud

minute rarely a-
rises to create speci-
fic figures. (Of course,

I was different mosques to
enter) or maybe full of

a shadow to tear down
(or not). Imagine: a mosque
in a soul present

meaning outside in a flood,
a little plenty. “Bravo”

has been absent for
10 years, a little cost in
fire, attacks being

spent sense to perform the whole
business of a question.

Somewhere around air.
Please pose a more severe world.
Could you describe err-

or in global entity?
and so on. It is the wild

as we think beyond
what’s happening now, what
what happened. I long

events spilling history
to be associated

like sins, some silence.
I trespass every instance
in all origin

of experience which
had a failure in most hearts

of me. It seems this
does not rise to the level
to fall and disin-

tegrate into areas.
So this has to continue

to be worse before
it gets better. I know we
are not enough—we

are a world, which may not be
able to give more because

of what has gone on
causes a break in our weak
spots to exploit some

possibility breaking
a fact like polluted blood

while listening to
little air or slim shoulders
forbidden in black

water. What are we going
to do about it? ignore

our brains and figure
the best way to use drones, to
use special forces

with air, very generous
with the time. Air being you

evolving nature
of the sign. I am error,
homegrown, in some way

connected here in English
now complicated. Who is

an American
any way? And who is as
definite as air?

I am not sure yet or how
important it is. We press

and reach to someone
in air in an attempt to
mend air with some slim

reach to mend something at the
beginning and I am here

(Note: This is the result of an erasure of the document “Ten Years After 9/11: A Report from the 9/11 Commission Chairmen” and an erasure of translated letters of Osama Bin Laden. I then transcribed them and framed the documents into this renga.)

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Erasure, Experiment, Form, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Reading, Revisitations, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

still exhausting a place

I AIN’T GOT A HOME ANYMORE
to say that name is an extension

So one of us builds        the other
adds the mysterious strobe lights

The design has disappeared
from the Milky Way

just like yesterday
Screw it, who cares

LOVE ME, LOVE
ME SAY THAT YOU LOVE

ME. FOOL ME
FOOL ME

GO ON &
FOOL ME.

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter, Writing

still trying to exhaust a place

What ruins are visible
on my face today

where it once
was forgotten

(the inventor of the bike)
the dish, Riki

I want to see your darkness, dear
golden greensky bluegrass

around you, ugly mug,
great day. Gourmet

adventures, leads me to
hope                I am

closed off,
ugly. Great

day’s gourmet tree town sound
around you        There’s something

beautiful in my mouth
like a tomorrow

that allows us
to bounce off

of each other
to some unearthed gems

like there is a tomorrow
You have a good sense

of style. Can you tell me a little more
about that Pussy

Riot, fragrant world, drowning
in grain, local food.

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter, Writing

excerpt from attempting to exhaust a place

Pick your own apples. Please
and

dare I gently kiss
October,

this isn’t the first time we’ve touched
with experimentation

and—today—
a unique sound.                                Fragrant world employing

a momentum from dark squeals
and

—lips that you can’t place
leading you closer

to some crazy
something you may or may not want

to find            ‘only in America.’
What is that cliché?

Sank you
with goodies for special interest

in a song like
‘In Love’ makes drowning

in grain an understated pleasure,
lets swagger slip in.

She’s more adventurous in bed
than health care

after hours and
the known moons must remain open

for you to receive any
or all of the rewards

which will be credited to
a fourth dimension beyond jeans. Don’t say a thing about

How I Lost My Body
unless

there is a sudden surge of rain
or shine

and laughter,
smoking on the balcony, love

is strange when lit up
like mistakes but basically

good. We believe there’s a
manual crammed with footnotes,

parenthetical asides
of love’s end                                                              come

to light, and I
could go on

and on but
there is only so much

time and I
have many things to forget

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Friends, Memoir, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, The Temporal Arts Collective, Winter

I’m everything…sometimes

A bomb converted a city under
railways of clothing and pleasure. Perhaps
continuous, unavoidable as a creature, alive

through lack of simplicity and light
I’m everything you consider biblical, sometimes
something good depending on the skies

this moment. We’re all the logical
marriages of breath made after love
of gold, a round force to
imagine unlimited
. Tell me there’s room

for a future, a spirit beginning
something to share, to construct, explore
and expand our needs situated in
astronomical wetness and longing a location.

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Filed under Disaster, Eastern Michigan University, Erasure, Experiment, Form, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

The Wild Paraphernelia

We, vigorous, form one general statement that love
of rapture is inanimate when unspecified, meaning
longing the wild paraphernalia of experience

—breath becoming air known above likeable skies—
something good screaming with
a present concept of rejuvenation.

Alas! saliva perceived a town—something other
to name, whatnot, arrange things and christen
to a cohesiveness. This is immersion.
Put in something logical, alive, various. Repeat,

bite that noun—perfection. Don’t take
this as a thingamabob being pleasant existence.
There’s craving progress when
desire forms a rhythm under a person.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Reading, Revisitations, Sonnets, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

locātus

I

we shed
become
vast
as
night

to make air

a presence in
a rhythm
of a body
each
shifting

unpunctuated as a world

so
come

here

II

I love the moment
when yer describing some noise
[something like porn music]

that brought a lot of disease
because domesticated animals
didn’t exist before

there was something celebrated
and someone went to look
for China and found no great thing

we said No fucking way,

what does it mean? This world,
we know, everything here
has absolutely nothing
from New England.                                               Just come
over and over again—there’s supposed to be
a permanent headquarters in the heart. Let’s locate it.

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Filed under Eastern Michigan University, Experiment, Michigan, Michigan Writer, Poems, Poetry, Reading, Revisitations, Summer, The Temporal Arts Collective, Writing

Me and Everything is Color continued

XII

Just looking, knowing.
I’m here as paths, the clouds—things,
like anything all with you.
1+1=2. A grand metaphor of

this life. We are here to recall it
—love remains,
love—grey-black & white—
that first moment blurred

the world
I had tones so various
where the sea is

the memory, now
and forever (reach out, take it)
I want more, more of that.

XIII

Time stays patient if sun’s right
I can’t locate nothing

without you. Night is still, nothing
so strange, some specific balance

—forever an idea. Couldn’t guess it, life’s
imponderable echo, but know
nothing is left
a thought. I’m enough that isn’t

beyond the moment, the remnants
of old desire.
There’s nothing more true as now

the moon
will still persist
to say it best or else
.

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