This weekend was good. Popsickle, the self-proclaimed "first monster literary festival" in Bushwick happened. I felt like we were sitting inside of a hot bucket—i.e. the hot bucket that it is contemporary Brooklyn (i.e. Bushwick) poetry.
How about some highlights.
1. The heat index:
2. The organizations representing organization:
I have this to say, Something was going to happen
and then it did. Our gestures exceeded
the speed of light. They were practical
efforts. Practical efforts, such as raising chickens.
Such as, someone buying many hotels!
Such as, standing and standing. Processing
information in your sleep. When you build
a fire in the snow it's a speculative treatment
of certain problems. I feel better when I feel
better. Let me explain the agreement. Or else
you explain impossible colors. Impossible
colors are a catastrophic visual failure
and not impossible. Not a ship sinking. A shore
out of shape. Some things will get lost. A neck.
The circle running. A true yellow blue.
There are always competing signals from one
system to another. There are options regarding
the ice. We can lick it or cross it. Further information
when you want it. Information always blinking.
A chime that rang. I fluctuate by night. I fluctuate
by night. In my head is a station where you
practice landing.
4. Egg Pizza.
5. That damn train in the window.
