Bouvre

Thank you. I like it too because it hides the inscribed words of the final prophecy and that happens to poison my NB dating game.

Is it really as big as you say it is?

Yeah buddy. https://instagram.fzty2-1.fna.fbcdn.net/t51.2885-15/e35/18299050_291849871253484_6094813636771971072_n.jpg

Not gonna lie, they fit me, but they don't fit my phone. Eldridge pants.

It absolutely is, but purses are bleh. I'd rather just have a backpack for the rest of my life and look like a 60-year old community college student when I hit the appropriate age.

I wear light jackets for the same reason. But yeah, women's pants have pockets, but they're really only good for hiding half a handful of applesauce.

From a Vice article on somebody who can perform it: Be thin, loosen up, get hard, pick a position, get somebody to assist pushing down on your legs or back, and be prepared for the taste.

I fucking hate not having pockets though. Why are pocket-less dresses still a thing?

I feel like I'm ten again.

It's almost a sonnet.

I'm actually also glue because my body contains an excessive number of dead horses.

I got married for particular benefits, tax and otherwise. (Priority housing selection while enrolled in grad school was my first incentive.)

Holy fuck I didn't think it would ever happen.

My favorite side-effect of not eating is something cracking my exposed skull.

A poem is often strongly benefited by the poet reading it. Robert Pinsky's reading of Creole, accompanied by Laurence Hobgood in the album "Poemjazz", is magnifying to listen to. The poem's text can be read below the spoiler:

What music did you put on it?

The Gate

What a great title, too!

It's the final day of National Poetry Month. It has been especially the cruellest month this year. Thank y'all to putting up with this thread appearing at random intervals throughout the month. No One Ever Fails in A Universe of Tables, by Noah Burton no one ever fails in a universe of tables where nothing ever falls off without falling onto another table so we hold everything and everything’s held by us and we are held by all of it so we never fail to keep a table top ready to hold whatever else may come then I’d gather we’d expect it to be another table but here we are propped up cleared and all standing surprised together that it’s a table

Max Ritvo struggled against terminal cancer for several years, and in that several years cultivated a deeply personal style that made him, in the only untimely way possible, a rising star in the poetry world at a young age. His poem, Poem To My Litter, was originally published in The New Yorker. He died less than 2 months after its publication and before his first collection, Four Reincarnations, could be published. You can also hear him read it here: http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/06/27/poem-to-my-litter-by-max-ritvo My genes are in mice, and not in the banal way that Man’s old genes are in the Beasts. My doctors split my tumors up and scattered them into the bones of twelve mice. We give the mice poisons I might, in the future, want for myself. We watch each mouse like a crystal ball. I wish it was perfect, but sometimes the death we see doesn’t happen when we try it again in my body. My tumors are old, older than mice can be. They first grew in my flank, a decade ago. Then they went to my lungs, and down my femurs, and into the hives in my throat that hatch white cells. The mice only have a tumor each, in the leg. Their tumors have never grown up. Uprooted and moved. Learned to sleep in any bed the vast body turns down. Before the tumors can spread, they bust open the legs of the mice. Who bleed to death. Next time the doctors plan to cut off the legs in the nick of time so the tumors will spread. But I still have both my legs. To complicate things further, mouse bodies fight off my tumors. We have to give the mice AIDS so they’ll harbor my genes. I want my mice to be just like me. I don’t have any children. I named them all Max. First they were Max 1, Max 2, but now they’re all just Max. No playing favorites. They don’t know they’re named, of course. They’re like children you’ve traumatized and tortured so they won’t let you visit. I hope, Maxes, some good in you is of me. Even my suffering is good, in part. Sure, I swell with rage, fear—the stuff that makes you see your tail as a bar on the cage. But then the feelings pass. And since I do absolutely nothing (my pride, like my fur, all gone) nothing happens to me. And if a whole lot of nothing happens to you, Maxes, that’s peace. Which is what we want. Trust me.

The Day Lady Died Frank O'Hara It is 12:20 in New York a Friday three days after Bastille day, yes it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner and I don’t know the people who will feed me I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun and have a hamburger and a malted and buy an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets in Ghana are doing these days I go on to the bank and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard) doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine after practically going to sleep with quandariness and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT while she whispered a song along the keyboard to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing

I'm back with haiku by Issa: The man pulling radishes pointed my way with a radish. A dry riverbed glimpsed by lightning. New Year’s Day— everything is in blossom! I feel about average.

Make A Law So That The Spine Remembers Wings Larry Levis So that the truant boy may go steady with the State, So that in his spine a memory of wings Will make his shoulders tense & bend Like a thing already flown When the bracelets of another school of love Are fastened to his wrists, Make a law that doesn’t have to wait Long until someone comes along to break it. So that in jail he will have the time to read How the king was beheaded & the hawk that rode The king’s wrist died of a common cold, And learn that chivalry persists, And what first felt like an insult to the flesh Was the blank ‘o’ of love. Put the fun back into punishment. Make a law that loves the one who breaks it. So that no empty court will make a  judge recall Ice fishing on some overcast bay, Shivering in the cold beside his father, it ought To be an interesting law, The kind of thing that no one can obey, A law that whispers “Break me.” Let the crows roost & caw. A good judge is an example to us all. So that the patrolman can still whistle “The Yellow Rose of Texas” through his teeth And even show some faint gesture of respect While he cuffs the suspect, Not ungently, & says things like ok, That’s it, relax, It’ll go better for you if you don’t resist, Lean back just a little, against me.