Shall I Compare Kenning to a Ted Kooser Reading?

Environments: one of comfy youth sitting in a circle to one of upper- class olderish folks auditorium. The emergent forms reading was interactive, not to say that Kooser’s was not. I too have sat on a porch and watched the grass. Oh I’m there with you Ted, but in terms of artistic interaction. . .(If any Kooser fans find themselves on here, it’s ok, I’m sure you won’t like my poetry either so let us go sit by some trees somewhere and not talk about it.)
Thinking back to the emergent forms reading, Jesse’s style was one thing that stands out to me. His poems, as we have discussed in class, carry somewhat of a chant- like feeling with them. I still stand by this after hearing him. His tone was somewhat melancholy, dare I say a little sad and it flowed with the words. His poems very much represent sound over meaning although he might say something quite different.
We already touched upon this in class so it might seem redundant but what fascinates me most about Dolores’ pieces is the way in which Jen then translates them. Translating any form of literature or language in general is quite intriguing because every culture values different things. Language defines culture and culture defines language. How can we ever get a poem to carry the same meanings as well as the same sound? It is impossible and watching Jen and Dolores confirmed that with me. Their reading styles where entirely different and therefore gave me two different perceptions of the poems.
I would have to say however, that the Hannah Weiner performances were the most "inspiring" if that is even the word I am looking for. Her works lack of inhibitions with regards to what poetry should be are outstanding. She brought to the forefront news ways of looking at poetry, at words and their sounds and everything else that is encompassed in this art form.
So what of Ted? He certainly knows how to document what he sees. The stereotypical tattooed man, the hung over college student going to the library and even a nice day on the farm. All I can is, Ted, I’d hug you on the street if I did not think you would assume me to be another woman awestruck by your poetry.

Dusty the Oncologist

So in comes Mary J Face
and she’s walking like
she just had a sex change
and she’s screaming
at the top of her lungs,
"I don’t molest children"
and sure enough Mr. Packenbush
is sneaking into all the
bathroom stalls,
spitting on the toilet paper
and no matter how often I page
Dusty and Dusty says,
"Mr. Packenbush, we can’t
have you spitting on the toilet paper,"
and he’s always like,
"I need my last kicks!"
which we can’t argue with
so now Mary J Face is smokin’
out of something that resembles a penis
and Dusty’s sighing because
"this isn’t his job."
"Mrs. Face, you know you can’t
smoke that here,"
which sends her in a tizzy about the time
her grandson built a seven foot bong
called Kilimanjaro and
what the flying fuck is wrong with people these days-
can’t appreciate true art-
blah blah blah.
So I give her an apple to calm her down
and it’s a real juicy apple so it works
and everything is quiet.

Until Dusty comes blazing in
and he’s shooting rubber bands at everyone
in the room and Mr. Packenbush
takes one where it counts.
And Dusty’s really lost it this time.
And he’s startin’ to sound like
Mr. Packenbush’s brother Randy-
he comes in every Wednesday to visit.
He fought in Nam or was it Korea? and Dusty’s
gathering everyone up to build "the trenches-"
calling for us to "bring out the dead,"
which I can’t let happen,
we’ve got a wall with
stars and glitter
and pictures of all the kids
and what if one of the kids walks in-
we can’t have Dusty
flippin’ over couches,
crouched behind them flinging
rubber bands so I grab
good ol’ Mary J Face’s penis bong
and throw it in my purse,
army-crawling it over to Dusty
who surrenders at the sight
of a white tissue I am waving.

So Dusty’s sitting in the trenches,
hitting the MJ
while Mary J Face sucks
on my juicy apple
and Mr. Packenbush is back to scaring
the ladies in the bathroom,
crawling under the stalls and spitting
on the toilet paper.

Oh There's More

Tell me what it is
you big steamy mess

I Once Saw a Merry Turnup

Its flavor does progress, while venting, go
ye think. Knee guard sir, attorney ended
no crime while lions lurk and pigeon gypsies
piss on fruit forts and elfish cement hearts.
Lay on no queen, the nuts of lame elves are
not real. Entreat vial villain lards and eat
lame poets who nay entertain where once
pin marked lancers championed antique towns
and in corners, vortexes of trumpets
cease aging and turn autumn lavender.

And Then There

Bound to sequence,
I cannot find the citrusy
flavor that once creamed my youth.
Taste buds lay on
lady bugs that fall from
old, citrusy rooftops.
The coughing stomach shakes
with nerves as crooked panda
stares and keeps on
so I exchange 1:
I’ll lick your hand if you lick mine
and we can call ourselves learned.
And what if I told you
this is growing up?

This is it we say together.
World of feathers
evolved into carriages
carrying crates and
crates covering dry sex.
We shouldn’t let them decide,
those processionals of
elite paper-penners
documenting mediocre conversations
meanwhile salivating memories
of fresh watermelon seeds.
The Graduate swam beneath
fading glimpses of post-this love
when rimmed glasses were
much larger and omnisexual
became a legitimate question.

Professional word dyer of sorts,
we morphed into a bad Western
fighting against the wind
to stumble into an empty home.
If I said that "albondigas" were
there waiting for us,
I’d be a lousy friend
with no means to confess but
break into art museums and stare
at white walls- until

The smell of this world becomes
spring time,
becomes fresh rain.
Drinking down mucus flavored mornings,
I watched a prism elongate
into an evening portal
as my heart beats with the
speed of two humping rabbits
not wearing protection.

Ron Silliman Reading

(In collaboration with Nichole Hermance)

It’s the hands
and it’s the sitting
and it’s. . .
it’s the hands.
What’s that?
Oh that’s the mud.
But the mud,
it’s the oil
and the oil,
it sticks to the leg hair.
And it’s the green grass grew all around,
all around,
and the green grass grew all around
the hands,
and it’s the sitting. . .
and the hands.
And it’s the gasoline in my mouth
sweeping the nation,
oh the gasoline
and oh the sitting
and the 7th grade comfort,
with the hands. . .
sitting.

New Sentence

Spinal tap fluids. Girl sitting in waiting room opening gum filled atomic bombs. Vines that reach seagull lands and trash invested shoe collection boxes. Muscle relaxers. Castle building dummies. Technical jive fills report cards. Essay unfinished, never to be finished. Clock ticks friend’s phone number. Baseball lost the entire season. I cannot open the handicap door. Free condoms. Black crow dives for love and bracelet breaks. Growling stomach. They lost Tina. Arrows pointing to mountains-to father should be here. Rainbow marked files of living situations. Barbie dances to psychedelic football chants. Sorry lunch box, backpack, carrying overload lady. Some people reduce breast size. Do screws come attached? Bad, oh introduction. I keep dig. Was there but no. Lick pen. So it continues past morn and onto the lagoon. Mickey no, bad guitar. I have your sweatshirt buried in clouds. Antithesis may pertain in questions of when, who or how. Hocus magic, pork belling dancing lovemeister. It could have been Gorilla’s photogenic night. Are you strong enough to skeleton walk? Fermented pear bread, I thank you. Crossed palm leaves of glory whisper too young to not more. One letter and yep, so long.