THE NEW ENGLAND POETRY SCENE

Read now of my poems from the book and since the book. I am, of course,
aware that the New England poetry scene is much rich with master upon
master upon master. I certainly recognize that as a possibility. But
eskoozme, although no Mayflower blood my veins suffuses, I claim title to
equal honorarium. Of human and inhuman bloods. But one must abandon
conventional notions if one wishes to form intellectually responsible
opinions about the nature of things. While I’m talking to you and you
listen to me, nothing matters to us except for poetry. The chalfting in my
knuckles with I like a text that I can put behind me. I’m doing my
sleepable best. Drapes vikram merdallion, again praddle and what you being
inslope leftwing of here is mindedly severed and glissome. Because zebeto
returns daily, and suffers for his poetry but not for lack of funds. And
what next, what happened next? That no hard to describe. The traper ninkle
clarped and the betterleg chowelled and mowelled cordighkly on the bailvies
of the gower. Drome laristic, mardifle across bettri gartri lams and
droofled past an litomlden plail. Anada! Anada! Anaaa... daaa..! And lenk,
ebertio, tendrilations lourve the bodel, graimed, graiming binsepf to
gabbed, to flarfed. Abtor leri, mutri laendelcarsting loni, ems lari
terringle, ems lopt, ems betriffle. And not gelf, but silman terdet the
somnally lycropian toller, veddically ablamsting the mandaliers. An questel
littertly. The zogd, emerly mortible, leamed, narg, gowding out into the
nedro-gooters. An mebd paured, "Hooner or baller mavn bend dirgle, then
lanx too recmildent." And with an weqwell: "Maiki neri!" But heder
tirfalle. The tean-luzded mahn zedded at the whoyle in front of iham. Ahas
beler, elak abdoptally out, and which can under the sicumstances penetrate
the fergatl tollgate. So by the time we got out of there it was to go back,
technical, but we didn’t. So all the marzeboddle hemfer to its lepanda, and
not, in principle, against the possession of the New England metaboller
scene, which has recently come under attach in criticism. Old money have
some argued the Fergus poems best likens to the thermals, but such a
proposition is untenable in the face of a journal with a tradition,
dedicated to ferdzallen hober in reptangle, as well as a representative
selection of new and emerging poets on the periphery. Have reached the
number seventeen. Merquando-listitrations. Fulcrum as lurch of eye
comprises sheer / Extroverted anus, nebulous as blue jays! And you wanna
hear some further, here it comes. I dye a dry wallet green. Have nothing
better to do. I converse with a tureen. Have nothing better to do.
Exaggerate salmon to shark. Have nothing smaller to do. Belittle a star to
a spark. Have nothing bigger to do. I spread the tablecloth wide. Have
nothing narr’wer to do. I reveal what I hide. Have nothing gladder to do.
Fantastic dreams drums past modulo reality into a clockwise twist against
itself to recollapse, to recollect itself barges approach barges, approach
from nowhere into the moonlit shine of unshepherded waves recline any which
way you will never know the pleasures of oblivion for you have been cast
crescently across the tresses of the milky, path but the barges, can still
reach you there. Or else what? I have been trying to recast my act,
essaying to reset my focus, mainly, and again smoking like a skunk and
vainly meaning to renegotiate the pact of the emotions. Hell’s seasons are
all inherently ideological, because their fluid forms inform the basis of a
mimetically grounded poesis. But take for instance verse that’s avantgarde!
Its cataclysmic flutes too have their seasons, as collocations, reaching
for their guns, revert to sense, hoist by their own petards. Hello, hello,
the wordy barricades! Goodbye, goodbye, the capitalist season!



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