transitioning from Harry to Stephanie Potter her wizardry merry and death macabre explicitly marrying men of honour to sip this sweet sherry and read Chekhov’s words digging deep to bury the dead father these words but a glitch in the teleprompter inserting his prick in the president’s daughter and moving on up as Barack Obama this Odyssey with a plot involving us the suavity of a flock of swans or doves these fire lyrics survival of the fittest Darwin in the husband’s apology Marx in his yacht over choppy seas in the margins of Of Grammatology part of an affront against Nazis dismantling cop-speech philosophy black wings of honesty, honest beaks piercing their white ennui as, clearing the night’s autumn leaves, the robot resents our high station as postmodern friends, his libation for old gods invented by Satan this trickster, his endless mind racing as a rock through the universal night a globule of truth uncertain as light [Something Something Brax]: the mascot of this verse is a six pack of applesauce half a sleeve of saltines the master of all things shadowboxing in the dark punch drunk lusting for chain spot burritos that shits disgusting I only wear a watch when I wanna leave my phone at home ‘cause i’m addicted to knowing the time and I depict her as a queen on a throne in my mind but in reality she’s home from the bar hella late smelling like a pack of nat sherms with a new password a back with some scratches how did this happen historic bag fumblage it pays great if you can stomach it hunters gatherers burnouts and wunderkind flax seeds hella stuck in the counter grout never picked to win but never counted out never picked to win but never counted out never picked to win but never counted out ad infinitum haven’t met the kid but you look just like him ad infinitum haven’t met the kid but you look just like him

neologistic as his lexicon was speaking ill of the deadly fathers clearly skilled in the text he offers breathing in his medical marijuanas empty coffers with gold he absconds ready to rock as he rolls his weed long energy-fraught, this soul speaks from beyond telling you the sauce in this bowl needs more salt Why read? why speak such irony if the public library’s a magnet bipolar for crazy spectral rapping in ancient Greek? ectoplasm staining this teak furniture whose curvature we lazily lie upon as supine along this Euphrates he travails reading Paul Beatty as blissfully I miss calls, lately his invective versus that sexy Sadie sprawled upon this desk painted green growing gravid to say what he means dialectically like those swaying trees through demonstrably white teeth huge and monstrous as the Cyclopes gathered on the shore, Sunset Rubdown in the boombox at war with thunderclouds as they loom aloft as our hardy melody giggles and the party on Wreck Beach fizzles we turn from these dispersing nudists to the world of those clueless in clothes ghosts alive cocaine eyes old as the sky lives like the brief cases of temporary businesspersons scraping the sky for some residue of a simpler purpose draining reality of its colour as painting in balladry his wonder the poet plummets totally flummoxed as the goalie to the puck, this hole to your shovel, critic. This hole to your shovel, critic. This hole, to your shovel-critic. This, hole to your shovel, critic. This hole to your shovel critic this hole to your shovel critic tunneling as the sandworm through Arrakis hunting for flashes of true madness something of value among the valueless neutrinos tumbling as fact through the habitus developing letters ablur remembering when we were birds assembling with vicious instinct a vortex we enter in vivid pink Gore-Tex Corvette-red, this warbling pet informal as oral sex, these recklessly-conceived rhymes of a dinosaur, terrifying his terrier crying his reply beyond words as emotion muddies his rap conspiracy. Drunkenly studying affect theory. Drunkenly studying affect theory.

[Jouquin Fox]: Trying to raise spirits like the BearTooth sail encouraging your drink of choice if that'll help you achieve it. Scientific embellishments-- what I was raised on-- Gullible Thieves and Kendrick sparked by Trayvon Martin's death-- George R.R. Martin TV Show adaptions spoken While angsty me learned how to make potions out of valerian root and melatonin. Fiending for some sort of change of mind, prayer wasn't instant so I searched for the divine. End of 22-- almost certain nobody's got it figured out, and with each new day another moral compass demagnetized. Keeping ties with people who cauterize wounds and keep me alive. Just trying to do my best. Only stepping on fascist toes. Staking out against Bounderbys, neo-nazis, seedy hippy predators, we @ them on Instagram. But this past semester in class we all sat in silent shock when our classmate was misgendered and Henry the Fifth was allowed a place to bigot. A couple weeks later I saw the channel five Charles Dickens days doc, like when does this shit stop? Takes reference points and half baked plots, then heroes turned terf. Rossetti victim to anglo catholic constraint and the inability of the times to admit mental health has a place. Separating art from artist, she still wrote an anti-capitalist, pro-womanist poem. I guess as a stoner I can accept the plot, smile in paradox, I guess as a human with a brain I can register goblins and check the behavior. Guarding against people not completely put together, learning from the past, staying soft, and elbowing hate back-- just doing my fucking best. [Andrew Mbaruk]: as NASCAR the mind races the rapper bard scribaceous under Abelard’s divine aegis she had her heart dried and framed as the flowers grown in darkest Eden Alas, no hard feelings as Eve brings the fruit to her mouth a bite engendering the poorhouse Alas, the groan of constant capital gears beneath the robot’s Afro breaking it down as Lydia Davis redesigning insignia creative as the worms eating holes in your fruit your poetry devoted to truth this empty bed. He’s risen this MC intrepid as Tintin swimmin’ in it, this inner liquid swimmin’ in it, this fish fulfillment this strange ribbit of the lost frog arranging English in a hodgepodge this ancient critic, his soft spot for language specific to the ocelot leaving its scent on this sapid track as its summary or abstract

this scribbled verdure his verbiage caricature in service of hyperreal nerdy literature like the zeal of an earthly minister Whitman on your faithless arm swimming strong against the bards reading “Plato’s Pharmacy” the Kanye stans involved in ancient wrath their Yahweh’s plan a concentration camp a godless man with God’s way with math his architectural plot against the classical growing wings to fly over those following divine orders and dissolving rhyme’s borders diamond-florid, idle and formless auditing courses to conquer The Immoralist, The Counterfeiters more primitive than Pound’s literature, the cloud aglitter profound as scripture . . .

[Old Grape God]: Welcome to the shitshow, Can I get you anything to drink? If yo handshake that feeble, what am I to assume of your spirit? Klink the cheers like I’m tryna chew glass, you, me, and all our regrets watered down with hash and release after release. I’m just tinkering in a field of hats, gettin' my kicks off ignoring the rats nibbling what I deemed as trash. What I need last is more empty advice. those mice were blind when I met them, I swear. We bonded over not being able to read music as well as the room. You need better friends not amphetamines, but wanna be so Palahniuk-esque. I make music for people that used to put a wet towel down by the door crack and now just pay the smoking fine (that’s crazy). Clearing my mind is a fools errand but I needed to get out the house anyways. There’s many ways to make a record but only one way to break it: do better. Fuck is you waitin' for? Have somethin' absorbent to direct your anger towards, otherwise you just sound like that age you was stunted at. With a 9 o’clock shadow and piles of debt owed to the false hope of youth. Run this back and email me with any proof I stretched truth. I know not all imaginations make it past tongue tip. Pool of resources never got jumped in: “gang gang gang,” you yellin’ for people you never been in the same room with or shared a blunt with. Hmm, somethin’ ain’t right. I don’t remember all these cracks in the blade of my knife, I was too busy preppin' tomorrow’s meal to realize how hard I was forcin' the chop. Everything is perforated, you just gotta know how to find the crease. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m constantly clockin' the speed at which I’m dying and runnin' out of reasons to pump the brakes— I’m just hopin’ the ground causes the skid, so I can keep on living free, I’m just hopin’ the ground causes the skid, so I can keep on living free, I’m just hopin’ the ground causes the skid, so I can keep on living free, so I can keep on living free! [Andrew Mbaruk]: spinning into art the current craze spitting in the dark his burning phrase their fire blurry in the news report this vampire buried as the Human Torch and installed in his coffin a secret so small even God couldn’t read it involved in the moss and the tree tips these ghazals you gloss as the genius this crocodile phobia retreat involved in time’s unfolding underneath the clock’s style of knowing from the streets of Hong Kong glowing like the sea these moonlit heroes of literature these crooning Negroes a caricature. I spin the past into what things are in this my craft or sullen art I sang the mind made upright as the fist by Frankenstein made to write this untrue unfaithful to his likeness the sun is new every day Heraclitus and there is nothing new under the sun set as the booze under drunk upon the table, these drunken gods, their fables serving you the place, it’s ancient origin returning to the waves as Namor the prince of Atlantis

the poet pronouncing his basic quantum minuscule as the Cornel West constant elusive as the theorized Tubman boson he fucks with his clothes on, reading Hegel and Kant on naltrexone the beer nauseates at the sex show with a queer poly babe this special delivery from Zimbabwe this impregnable illiteracy strong as the waves watching the waves, these photons in the Wheatley diagrams as, rolling marijuana in secrecy, I Am as the physicist magnifies the Higgs thunder it’s not our thunder it’s Higgs thunder naming the particles Lothar and Gunther, it was evident someone had blundered and the Lord said, Let there be gravity and, Let there be a formless black sea and gravitons named after Fred Hampton and black swans arranged as the dead lanterns these ducklings in a line red as the salmon they cut with the knife these guts under white supremacy sliced deep cuts of the bright blue elegy for night these diurnal straight edge kinky ape men these minds turning ancient as radiation