Mat Laporte's Blog, page 36
April 18, 2015
April 16, 2015
April 13, 2015
records-ancients-matters:
C O M I N G S O O N ANCIENTS No....
C O M I N G S O O N
ANCIENTS No. TWO
a photocopied reproduction of a stack of paper, featuring collages, drafts, drawings, dreams, emails, essays, hair, notes, poems, receipts, and trash, by Amber Atiya, Sarah Boyer, Sam Christopher, Phil Cordelli, Dot Devota, Thom Donovan, Yanara Friedland, Ally Harris, Christine Shan Shan Hou, Jared Joseph, Purdey Lord Kreiden, Carrie Lorig, Feliz Lucia Molina, Caitie Moore, John Niekrasz, Christopher Rey Pérez, Kit Schlüter, Ben Segal, Robert Snyderman, Yosuke Tanaka, Michael Thomas Taren, Cassandra Troyan, and Jackie Wang.
Cover photograph of Midori Shimoda. Limited Edition; print copies available soon. See Ancients No. One (2013) here: http://bit.ly/1w04zI1
I try to think of youand can bring to mind
only the great parabolic bridges
in whose shadow you...
I try to think of you
and can bring to mind
only the great parabolic bridges
in whose shadow you live, fist-sized rivers
of red iron, buoying above
the molten stream of thought
into which
each day you are thrown!
(from “a letter to hammertown” peter culley)
April 6, 2015
The poet is the amphibian of delirium. It is not given to us to understand the truth. It
is given to...
The poet is the amphibian of delirium.
It is not given to us to understand the truth. It
is given to us to understand the erratic.
Poets are maximum errors. In them the human project
is ripped apart. Each of them is an Icarus-esque descent, a hazard of Altazor,
precocious precipitation. I say precocious because we—all of us—will
precipitate. But poets do not wait for death to occur in order for the collapse
to occur. Poets lose hope. Poets encounter the precipice promptly. That
precipice, when it is not the precipice of death, is a ridiculous precipice.
There resides the value of their adventure.They
have dared to crash.
from Empire of Neomemory by Heriberto Yépez
April 5, 2015
–planned that way. Nevertheless you won’t die & you will work.It is that time again, up...
–planned that way. Nevertheless you won’t die & you will work.
It is that time again, up north, out west, inside the netting & the
tattered canopy, inside the menu. Proud to be living on a planet.
yeah you bible managerial. Trash out in Cache Creek can’t wait
for its first rat tenant. Belongs to an entire community of reluc-
tance. to be living on a planet, that talks to itself. Snitches call
this number. Stacks of obsolete sit-com laughtracks,
in the storage area.
from Pause Button by Kevin Davies
But here’s a piece of hope
I keep having encounters with older white male poets who
feel free to confide that the reason they never got [tenure, a big prize, the
recognition they deserve, etc.] is because of women and minorities taking these
things instead. Then there is the older white male poet who has
suggested that…
April 4, 2015
"Where is the true impermeable community of the second human whose arms do not easily arrange..."
- Garments Against Women, Anne Boyer (via foralanguagetocome)
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