rad poetry #24: for amanda sabo

RAD POETRY THANKS JEREMY BAUER FOR HIS GENEROUS DONATION. FYI: THE MUG'S NAME IS LUCY BUT HE IS STILL A MAN.




IF I SAID YOU HAD A BEAUTIFUL BODY WOULD YOU HOLD ON

for Amanda Sabo

A man, duh, will do the things of love he
learned from his favorite songs. Often, this
involves him spilling a bag of red lentils or
losing your cat, then turning to lines like God
is a place you will wait for the rest of your life
for advice. Forgive him. At thirteen he wore
pooka shells. From this it takes decades to
recover. Other times he will sew a tambourine
skin with your face on it from the pages of your
favorite children's book, which he found your
copy of. You guessed it: forgiveness. On planes,
he won't even put his phone in flight mode
in case you call, even though your father's a
pilot and you've explained over and over how
precariously information contains itself in the
air. Let's say I do this, you say, kissing a tissue,
ripping it up, tossing the shreds his way as he
ducks. You sigh. He takes your guitar into the
bathroom and closes the door. Yeah, but listen
to this, he calls. He is in there playing. He's in
there and you can hear him but he's not
staring at the mirror, I swear. He's between
the song and you, with only a little ways to go.

rad poetry #23: for kathryn gordon

RAD POETRY THANKS KATHRYN GORDON AND THE BEWITCHINGLY TALENTED RYAN MACDONALD!

rad poetry #22: for james haug

RAD POETRY THANKS JAMES HAUG AND PUBLIC DOMAIN FILMS!



THE WORLD IS NOT AN ARGUMENT

for James Haug

The world's not an argument
The world's not a hair salon
(Where) you're not allowed to bring your dog
Even if you're blind

The world's not an argument
The world's not a tennis match
Gray hairs in your mustache
You shave one at a time

And I'd like to say the world / is a rowboat full of apples
Drifting toward some island / that doesn't have a shore
And I'd like to say the world / is under the lid of a Snapple
A quip thought up by copywriters / on the umpteenth millionth floor

But the world is the world
And I'm sleeping near the door
The world is the world
And I'm sleeping near the door

The world's not an argument
The world's not a county fair
Pillow stuffed with horses' hair
That the store will not take back

The world's not an argument
The world's not a bowling league
The world's not a guy named Steve
At the pool swimming laps

And I'd like to say the world / is a joke about a ghost
Delivered by your murderer / who's funnier than most
And I'd like to say the world / is a coupon for some cheese
A kind that no one's heard of / and snow chokes all the trees

But the world is the world
And I want better dreams
The world is the world
And I want better dreams

rad poetry #21: for stephen pemberton

RAD POETRY THANKS THE AWESOME STEPHEN PEMBERTON AND THE AMAZING TALENTS OF BEN HERSEY, WHO HAS CONTORTED HIMSELF INTO VARIOUS PEOPLE TO BRING US THESE IMPROVISATIONAL MONOLOGUES



"Nighttime at the Prayground" by Ben Hersey

for Stephen Pemberton

rad poetry #20: for beth thomas

RAD POETRY THANKS THE VERY PATIENT BETH THOMAS AND THE VERY AWESOME RYAN MACDONALD (briefepigrams.blogspot.com/) FOR MAKING OUR FIRST EVER RAD STORY FOR THE RAD POETRY SERIES!

"Retirement is a Flamingo Pond" by Ryan MacDonald

for Beth Thomas

rad poetry #19: for christy crutchfield

RAD POETRY THANKS CHRISTY CRUTCHFIELD, CAROLYN ZAIKOWSKI, MAUDE (OF COURSE!) AND ANNE HOLMES & LILY LADEWIG, AUTHORS OF THE COLLABORATIVE CHAPBOOK I AM A NATURAL WONDER AND SCHEMERS OF THE I AM A NATURAL WONDER PROJECT



I AM A NATURAL WONDER

for Christy Crutchfield

I

A wonder is the name of what we pass across the table. My face is you tell me.
What there is: wonders collude with stub-noses, with reduction,
with meals in boxes. Nothing is shaped. Hard work pays. And pays.
We pay in our own names, so tell me mine. Wonders are trivial pursuits
like putting a flag on the moon. A table pretends that things exist between natures,
no, wonders are the bird overfeeding on soap and stool by accident. Some naturals include lazy
pitchers and suicidal mathematicians. There’s no design for a wondrous mouth.

II

Wonders are trivial pursuits like putting a flag on the moon.
My face is you tell me. My skin is like a comment box.
Wonder is natural because it comes and makes me
me. There’s no moon when there is plain. What there is:
wonders collude with stub-noses, with reduction, with
meals in boxes. We pay in our own names, so tell me
mine. A wonder is the name of what we pass across
the table. A table maybe tea lights maybe sunburns,
when really there is all this wondering.

rad poetry #18: for michael trocchia

RAD POETRY THANKS MICHAEL TROCCHIA AND DANCING CAROLYN!

(We are actively raising funds to help us print NOÖ [12], so if you'd like your own videopoem, we'd really appreciate any and all help. Find out more here. Thanks!)

EXCUSE ME, I THINK I LEFT SOMETHING

for Michael Trocchia

If you sleep inside the water, the water stares back.
I was tempted to split that clause with an Oh. Which
O/h? The kneeling or the reeling? (O)ne means I'm
moved to rhapsody upon witness of my conditions,
and the (o)t(h)er means I'm prepared to make a slight
newness of life. Now the bus only costs five dollars.
They're selling fuzzy crosses in the banner space.
This season isn't as funny as that season, but they're
fake, oh yeah, so they only care a little more than us.
If you back into the water, the water draws your back.
The house across the river has a spokesman. Do you
remember that episode where K. becomes Moviefone?
And then the real Moviefone visits K. at the end?
And this is a moment of terror for everyone except the
studio audience? I have never been in one of those,
but I have reassured people by saying "It's okay, your
name is on there." What am I supposed to do, just
forget the feeling of so many headlights in the other
lane at night? Thanks but no thanks. One story had an
enormous M&M cookie in the glovebox irrelevant to
itself, and I found this very realistic. And did I want to
weep, oh yeah, but there was nobody around to show.

rad poetry #17: for emily toder

RAD POETRY CELEBRATES THE IMPENDING RELEASE OF NOÖ [12] WITH THIS WAY OVERDUE POEM FOR EMILY TODER!



DO WHAT NOW

for Emily Toder

We are things embarrassing, strange, and hang around
feeling everything things, things, considering beautiful
that which does not consider anything. Are we? Strange
and hang embarrassing, things around, beautiful
feelings. Consider everything. That which considers
we are. Feeling feeling, not beautiful. Hanging things.
Everything we are, strange, which does not feel. Strange,
that which hangs around feeling. Consider beautiful
embarrassing anything. Which thing? That thing thing.
We hang around embarrassing our strange everything.
Consider feeling. Are we? Beautiful everything, we that
does and does not. Hang strange, things, things feel.
We are. Everything feels that strange which feels.
Everything that strange which feels. That strange
everything. Which feels. That strange beautiful
anything which feels strange and embarrassing.
Are we? That hanging strange and everything which
feels considers that we feel, things, hangs, things
and feeling everything we are. Oh and not who.

rad poetry #16: for erin fitzgerald

RAD POETRY THANKS ERIN FITZGERALD AND DANIEL BAILEY!



ROCK OF LOVE BUS: THE TORNADO EPISODE

for Erin Fitzgerald

I held a tornado
let loose amongst the people
who keep blood in their veins

for too long.
Beverly called it lifelines,
but Mindy called it french fries.

The longer it sat
in my palms the more paths,
Taya said, I could take

with my life.
Then she said it could be like
in a bus or something. And I could bring all

my friends. And I
said what if I hold the tornado again?
Wont we all die in my palms?

And she said, Yeah.
But it wont be that bad.
It never is.

rad poetry #15: for michael jauchen

RAD POETRY THANKS MICHAEL JAUCHEN AND ELLA LONGPRE!



JAKE SAID NOT MY WHALE AND WE SAID OKAY, WHATEVER YOU SAY JAKE
(written one word at a time by Ella Longpre and Mike Young)

for Michael Jauchen

Home trails in a gorge.
Slate tiles outlast my flat
notions, upscale neighbors
disapprove. Meanwhile, our
growing congregation of talcum-
colored cacti lay untouched and
depraved. Careless! Mobile,
lifting patches, ranking wayside
skinheads.

This time, the whale wouldn't gesture
to anyone, but maybe she expects sympathy
or revenge. Eh!

And, thankfully, the less we notice this
backasswards nostalgia, this imminent
mealtime snack, this understated crunch,
the bigger our luck. Windy, mulchy, barren,
swamped. It's a timeless turbine
that performs. But frail as passing.
Faulty signals, fitful returnings.

rad poetry #14: for nicki-poo demske

RAD POETRY THANKS NICKI-POO DEMSKE AND FRIENDSHIP COUNTY (FOR DELICIOUS PROMPTING)



EVERYONE'S A LIGHT SWITCH IN A SUNDOWN TOWN
(as read by Carolyn Zaikowski)

for Nicki-Poo Demske

We moved and mom took the pylons.
We reconvene, sinister ventriloquists,
cliquey as a microbrew. Sure I get down
hill, but I don't use skis. Is there anything you
know that you didn't find on the wet underside
of a Snapple lid? Thanks, but no. Thanks, I'm
good. We moved and mom put the pythons in
expensive Tupperware. My dad worked in a salt
mine and then he worked in a lighthouse. My dad
works for nothing and then he'll work for love.
I don't sit, I study. When we move in together,
you're not allowed to bring the setee. Hard candy
and Skoal. Cum and photo chemicals. We sat up
all night writing blurbs for cereal. Sandals and dust.
Prayer cards and piglets. I would care about the world
more, I think, if it would meet me with the things I think.

rad poetry #13: for roxane gay

RAD POETRY THANKS ROXANE GAY!



JUDGE JUDY AT THE GYM
by Carolyn Zaikowski & Mike Young

for Roxane Gay

In walks a robe we all know. It covers
leotards we don't. In walks a known we've all
robbed. We will never know a cape. We will never
cowtow a charred knoll. Is there justice
in a hot mama? There is no fallacy in a can.
If you're on TV, is it ever a real gun?
It's never, ever a toad of steel. The way
I see my problem is this: if it's not my
problem, I'll accept a smaller check.
I don't have a Sam to worry about nor do I
take Deborah well. It's not like I'm paying
for these seats. This shampoo's got a
hole in it. Frig. How many reps does it take
to know yourself? About a quart, we said,
about a thimble knock. If I was a judge,
we said, I'd be mostly in it for the wig.

rad poetry #12: for jono tosch

RAD POETRY THANKS JONO TOSCH, CAROLYN ZAIKOWSKI, AND—OF COURSE!—MAUDE



SONNET? I DON'T EVEN KNOW HER!
by Carolyn Zaikowski & Mike Young, starring Maude

for Jono Tosch

Sometimes you cook 'em the big trout.
Daddy eat my sugar. Daddy clean my bark.

Don't you gimme me that looking get.
Daddy eat my sugar. Daddy clean my bark.

Grandpa pair of dice swooned for the pork.
Daddy eat my sugar. Daddy clean my bark.

Don't marry that kale before you know her.
Daddy eat my sugar. Daddy clean my bark

Tow your bride to a burn pile.
Daddy eat my sugar. Daddy clean my bark.

Don't pinch an itch on the side of the tweeze.
Daddy eat my sugar. Daddy clean my bark.

If you don't take your breath, agreed?
Daddy eat my sugar. Daddy clean my bark.

rad poetry #11: for mel bosworth (by mark leidner)

RAD POETRY THANKS MEL BOSWORTH AND MARK LEIDNER!

rad poetry #10: for matt jasper (by jimmy chen)

RAD POETRY THANKS JIMMY CHEN AND MATT JASPER AND MATT JASPER'S BOOK MOTH MOON ON WHICH THIS VIDEO IS BASED!

Moth Moon by Matt Jasper from jimmychenchen on Vimeo.

rad poetry #9: for tim jones-yelvington

RAD POETRY THANKS TIM JONES-YELVINGTON




WILL I GET A HINT WITH THE WHO
(as read by Dorothy)

for Tim-Jones Yelvington

Life, friends, is a very large cabinet.
And you, you must lift it by feeling
from the knees! Life does not belong to
life. Life is very much yours. Treat it as
a cake given to you gently by a kangaroo
with a pouch full of milk and Bisquik
dropped in your lap over many
nights, often the nights you do not
want to wash your face but you do.
There is, for this cake, no oven.
Life is not an oven. Life is a cabinet!
Quick! You must catch it! Even now,
blue paint for hair, mouth crammed
with lightbulbs and Coffeemate, life is
asleep in my bed. I must know you.
It is okay to be shy with your friend.

rad poetry #8: for darby larson (WE HAVE REACHED 100%!)

RAD POETRY THANKS DARBY LARSON AND EVERYONE WHO HAS HELPED US REACH OUR FUNDRAISING GOAL: YOU ARE THE FO SHO OF THE MAD SWEET SHIT. WE STILL HAVE PLENTY OF POETRY VIDEOS TO POST AND WILL KEEP DOING SO UNTIL WE'RE DONE, AND YOU CAN STILL GET YOUR OWN POETRY VIDEO FOR ANY AMOUNT YOU WANT TO GIVE US




TICKLED PINK

for Darby Larson

How can a person have a problem
When their body is a breath machine?
I want to own a house, no
I want to meet a tetherball queen.

There's a ladybug in my Cheerios
But it doesn't even creep me out
And though it rained all on my xylophone
That silly thing was never even really very loud

I / need you / more than you / need you
If you wait wait wait then you'll know that's true
If you wait too long then I'll dream of you

You never bite my hair when I
Really want to bite your hair
I been to Nevada but I've
Never overpowered a bear

There's a little lamb skull in my microwave
But I'm saving it for my roommate
There's a hitchiker in a Superman cape
But I wanna drive alone and sing along with all the rain

Oh oh no: don't listen to me
All I do is walk around confused and tickled pink
Oh oh no: don't listen to me
All I do is walk around confused and tickled pink
Oh oh no: don't listen to me
All I do is walk around confused and tickled pink
Oh oh no: don't listen to me
You oughta get some pizza with Motown Benny

rad poetry #7: for t. leaven nympho

RAD POETRY THANKS T. LEAVEN NYMPHO AND BRYAN COFFELT



No One Ever Works On Trying Anymore. There's Just Too Much Sun Or Something.
by Bryan Coffelt

for T. Leaven Nympho

I.

The rise and fall of physical media -- an Xbox + Camus.
A creed is dripping on my shoes a little. The doubling of
the heart finally happens as the sun is directly above
Old Navy. It's like you've chosen to ignore God's AK.
Now we must bear all consequences of the lack of
God's AK.

II.

Um, a priori, "finding out Hot Topic is not for you."
So we learn to "conquer ourselves," conquer our whole
Comic Sans bible study. You will become pregnant
with two sharp blows to the head. Call them
Husqvarna and Fox Racing. These will be burned
to discs and stored in your safety deposit boxes.

III.

Choosing an attitude towards bearing children --
maybe a "switching off." Stashin' the nina when
the cops are in my heart. Like watching a
chat room happen and saying a/s/l all the time.
Wondering (all the time) what Ellen Page would
actually look like when she's preggers.

IV.
Choose one of your children as the coward
and one as the hero, and, um, well, they'll
choose if you don't. "Camus will have
none of this anthropomorphism." The
jailhouse of Kantian eBaynomics. The
friend-shaped keloid scarring disaster.

V.

Existential stumbles / in line at Wendy's.
Your conception of condition and freedom,
your Baconator. Your filthy obstacles, your
backwards numbering. Your scientific truth
is the washing instructions for your new
Banana Republic jeans. We will name
flowers after you when you die.

rad poetry #6: for matt bell

RAD POETRY THANKS MATT BELL



YOUR FOREVER SHAKE AND YOU

for Matt Bell

There's something wrong with a voice.
How any word is just your air massaged,
whether you compliment a new scarf
or read a son's name off a telegram.
How we borrowed the command for quiet
from wind, so when people say shhhh,
what they want is for you to feel cold.
How, when caught by light, we shut up.
What any voice is out to say is wait,
over here. And once they can see you,
who cares to make sure they heard right?
Still, you turn up the jar boy's wail.
You shout goddammit to the white
out on the freeway. The phatic function
of language changes like taste in rhythm,
so the parents go If, gee, say, a zebra
and my girlfriend says It's all like, like
calumniation of original intent and shit.
She's right. Praise is no more than a
pinfeather and prayer has no color but
a space for color. All enough to make you
feel silly ordering people to feel better
and too self-conscious for long distance sex.
But you talk. Ta-talk. Hock up phlegm just for
enough room to spit out no, that's not what I
meant. And then you talk about headless
girls naked and asleep in a fleece of pine sap,
or the price of Milk Duds, how you made out
with a cottonmouth bite, precious instructions
to barbers and pepper wielders, all your opinions
on all of the sky's insurmountable whims.
You plead and cavort and joke and affirm
and lecture and mewl and bray and slip in
and warn and cheer and clarify and say
good night which means I want to be alive
more and I want part of that life to be with
you. You look out over the crowd and say
Thank you, it's really great to be here!
which really means it's great to say
what you've made to say, like to say
The sentence is a house of language
that wants to be such a good home
no word ever leaves. But everything
lives, if it can. You scream a name and
creekbeds answer. You learn to go
hum down the sidewalk just for you.
Whatever you do, you don't interrupt the
phonebooth band. In parkas and shoeless,
the members hunch all over town with strings
of digits, and they whisper come on now.
They listen for someone to hear them.
Most of what they do is tap on things.

rad poetry #5: for j.a. tyler

RAD POETRY THANKS J.A. TYLER (AND ALL THE PEOPLE WHO HAVE BEEN SPREADING THE WORD THESE LAST COUPLE DAYS) (EDITORIAL COMMENT: I FEEL LIKE FOR SOME REASON THIS VIDEO SEEMS ANGRY BUT MAYBE IT IS JUST TIRED OR THE POEM IS MAYBE VERY SAD, WHAT WITH ALL THAT ARK AND NONE OF US THERE: HAPPY EASTER!)




THE MISSIONARY POSITRON

for J.A. Tyler

is the name of a personal ark
christened by a lava lamp
and Calvinist by discretion,
which means empty. We all
drowned. Inside, there are ovens
full of cushions and lightbulbs
illustrated with Bible scenes.
Thousands of jackets but no
buttons. Instead of blinds,
power strips. Everything is dark,
except now and then a pink light
strobes the floor like a cockroach.
All the bedrooms smell like licorice.
The shower spits wriggles of paper,
each one offering a clever reason
for the last. Everyone you love is
represented by their thumbprints on
silverware, none of which is ever
washed but soaks eternally in buckets
hidden around like Easter eggs even the
parents forgot about. Open the fridge:
it's just frozen latkes arranged to spell
the time. Each room is through a room's
fireplace, so maybe it's a good thing
we're dead already, right? You're right:
sometimes I think of my brain as a
coked out deli manager, running around
with pumpernickel and ham in a juggle,
screaming BE MORE RADICAL! at the
sandwich artists. Life is a lot of
clarification and limited-time options,
which is why it's good to listen to
real people and turn everything they say
into a family of origami frogs and hide
under that person's bed, arranging frogs
forever and letting worry do its heavy thing,
like some kind of mega dumbfuck at the helm.