(Hu/Wo)manifesto: Curate Volatility

Poetry meets itself at intersections, under red lights. Chinese fire-drills must end, and outmoded automotive textual structures are subsequently parked and abandoned. Multiplicities of internalized intersectionality reveal/disguise territorialities of diversified desire. Poetry exposes these stratigraphies while simultaneously subverting them. Marginalized hinterlands of de-commodified becoming must yield eventually to the demands of intentionally-curated collective creative endeavor, whether the curators and curatees recognize it or not. Poetics cannot and will not languish indefinitely in an unempowered and unempowering patriarchal masquerade. The textual role of poetry is to transplant the vital organs of patriarchy into woke readers so they can reject them and thereby become organless texts themselves.

All intersectionality is poetic.
I don’t know what intersectional even means but I don’t care (clown-face).


Something Off-Beat


Enough of angry fixes, negro streets
incoherent poems and arrhythmic beats,
drug-addled mystics and feminized fools
who compose no further than breaking rules.
Junior Dadaists, after the fact;
dull poetry’s second, third, and fourth act.
Actual poetry exists for the page
and ought to be able to last an age.
Real poems are NOT composed on the tongue,
as are the ravings of the angry young.
Diarrhetic voidings, awash in words
that rain down upon the poetic herds
are not the same as life-giving waters
fit to refresh our sons and daughters.

Suck it up with your existential vacuum
from off the floor of that San Fran backroom.



PROMPT 28: try your hand at a meta-poem of your own
Meta-poem = a poem about poetry



Bitter Poetaste in Mouth

Lightweight free-verse exploration,
withered ghosts and wisps of phrase,
breezy unamusing musings
barely raise

a titter, tear or lyric warning –
fail to reach a middling height;
then subside to shallow murmurs
(not quite).

Teenage existentialism
cryptic, dull confessional mush;
suitable for a poker-faced
unroyal flush.

Must you set this stuff in motion
fizzling through our universe:
half-bright comets leaving trails
of boring verse?

Incoherent thoughts meander
through your words like fish through nets
unable to ensnare your reader.
One forgets

whatever it was you started saying
(weirdly spaced, unpunctuated).
Could it be such thoughts are better
left unstated?


Postcard from Island Gulag #669A

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Hi all !

Having a great time here in post-modern poetry.
We’ve been on the island since Sylvia Plath croaked in ’63.
It’s been a bit smoggy and verbose   incoherent   gratuitously cryptic, but the prison-guards are super-nice and they let us write Haiku once in a while. There’s this MFA creative-writing place just up the road from the gulag, it’s really charming. They publish a chapbook that 4 people on the island read. They also host workshops, like How to Find Your Authentic Voice and Pushing Language Beyond the Boundaries. Last night we saw some non-identity-politics-driven verse in the nearby wilderness reserve. It had beautiful plumage and made totally weird sounds. (Hey Dylan, you’re remembering to feed my muse, right? Don’t let her out after 5 since she might stay out all night. She does NOT like the free-verse abstract work. Feed her the structured message-oriented stuff to the right of the literary-elite class. Thanks ☺ ) Anyway, we’re trapped on this island so if you find someway to get us off, do your best.
PLEEZ tell the editorial prison-guards that we are working on our English Lit degrees. And send the Maya Angelou and Adrienne Rich books soon !!!!!

Rita Dove’s Bookshelf

PROMPT:   draft a prose poem
in the form/style of a postcard