Patricia Lockwood, Balloon Pop Outlaw Black, Octopus Books, 2012.
Patricia's blog
Patricia's twitter
"There's a savage intelligence at work in this debut collection of poems. ... Lockwood's loping lines follow a Disney dream logic and dance like enchanted mops." - Chicago Tribune
"Lockwood's world is full of potholes and long rhythms, but it's most satisfying when the ideas are big enough to make the punch lines irrelevant." - The New Yorker
"Equally rigorous and insane. ... It invokes something nameless about why we try to create things, how those things we create feel about us, and the bizarre architectures in between." - VICE
"A voice like Julia Child mixed with Zelda Fitzgerald." - The Stranger
"The one must-see work of internet poetry." - Hyperallergic
Even all by themselves, the titles of Patricia Lockwood's poems reveal the sort of surreal, enigmatic, rhetorically-elongated world her sensibility inhabits effortlessly: "When We Move Away From Here, You'll See A Clean Square of Paper Where His Picture Hung," "The Cartoon's Mother Builds a House in Hammerspace," "The Front Half and the Back Half of a Horse in Conversation," "Children With Lamps Pouring Out of Their Foreheads," and the inimitable "Killed With an Apple Corer, She Asks What Does That Make Me."
“The year is 1960 and I am Cary Grant. Kinetic typography sneaks up and fingers me. It writes STARRING CARY GRANT all up in my guts”
Patricia Lockwood, whose “Love Poem Like We Used to Write It” appeared in the November 28 issue of the magazine, has close to four thousand followers on Twitter. That’s peanuts if you’re a pop star (@ladygaga has eighteen million and climbing), but for a poet, it’s pretty impressive. At the digital-art Web site Rhizome, Brian Droitcour has collected the best of Lockwood’s “sext” tweets, a genre she conceived in the wake of the Anthony Weiner scandal. Lockwood, who once told a reporter that she was ten years old when she wrote her first haiku, is a natural-born tweeter. A trio of examples below:
I am a mushroom in a forest. There are drops of dew all over my tip. Nabokov reaches down a hand to pick me.
You are miniature, and I put you in the bell of a saxophone and play a long soulful B-flat
I am a living male turtleneck. You are an art teacher in winter. You put your whole head through me. - www.newyorker.com/
Patricia Lockwood's Sext Poems Will Make You LOL
Once the love letter dominated the scene for writing your lover. But these days, nothing gets the blood pumping like a good sext. Like "Come over baby" ... or "I need you tonight" ... or "I am a living male turtleneck..." (Don't you dare judge us!)Poet Patricia Lockwood, whose work has been published in the New Yorker and The Awl creates poems that operate with the shocking and true bizzarre revelations of a genius joke.
And then she discovered Twitter. As you will soon see, magic happened as a result of this fortuitous encounter. Her 'sexts' are X-rated scenarios that bring cartoon characters, inanimate objects, rappers and politicians into the love den. If you were looking for an entertaining entrance into the realm of sweet prose, we urge you to start here.
via Rhizome, who has a whole different but equally LOLworthy collection of sexy and weird texts.
www.huffingtonpost.com/
Patricia Lockwood is my Poetry Hero.
I don’t normally read poetry. I have a few favourite poems (Adrienne Rich’s “Diving into the Wreck” and Al Purdy’s “On Being Human”) that I read when I need them.
I believe that poetry’s mostly subjective; it’s about a mood. I don’t really know how to talk about this book, so I’m just going to write a bunch of lines down that I appreciated. Sometimes it’s because of the way that the lines sound, and sometimes it’s because of what I want them to mean.
On drawing Popeye: ”The Body: Think of your paper as a pan of milk. A pan of milk will form a skin.”
“Any piece of paper on which ‘popeye’ is printed counts as a Will, as it contains his signature, his witness, proof of his death, a list of all the property he owns, and the name of his inheritor.”
“Inseparable things are easily separated, she knows. The name of the tea at one end of the string, the tea itself at the other.”
“As her idea of hair grows longer, she starts stacking it higher every day, first to make room for bird wings, then to make room for whole birds, then to make room for their cages.”
“and ends on a semicolon, and a gibbous pause rises into the sky and hangs there instead of a moon.”-
“Aaliyah would have been on Twitter. It is fucked up that she is dead.”: An Interview with Patricia Lockwood, Poet Laureate of Twitter Matthew Simmons
Patricia Lockwood is a poet. (A poet. A very good poet.) She also uses Twitter in interesting ways. Earlier this year, her series of SEXTS got attention from Rhizome, and then The Huffington Post& The New Yorker.
And I look at those tweets and I wonder, “How does someone do that?” Not get attention, though. I mean write those. How? So I asked.
***
So, I was initially pretty dismissive of Twitter. And then, at some point, I noticed how funny it could be and found it to be a mostly worthwhile distraction. And then—probably while reading the fake Christopher Walken feed—I began to think there could be something kind of poetic about Twitter. That each little update could be a joke, a persona poem, a zen koan.
Did you sense the “poetic” potential in the Twitter post from the beginning or did your approach to Twitter change?
It took me about ten years to join Twitter because, like old men everywhere, I “did not get it.” What is the … where are your mentions … what is hashtag … who is a belieber? When I did join, I spent my first week livetweeting the movie Bambi, focusing specifically on the puberty of Bambi and Thumper, and was subsequently unfollowed with extreme prejudice by the few poets who had charitably followed me in the first place. (This still happens! A real writer will follow me and then four days later be like “what the freak is this” and it is goodbye. CAN’T believe you wrote a tweet about Jesus jelqing.)
OK, so scrolling back, I see that one of my earliest tweets was “I want to see the Beethoven movie where Beethoven finally manages to tear his way out of the dog’s body and play something good on the piano.” About two weeks later I sexted for the first time, like a teen. So it wasn’t so much that I saw the possibilities right away as that … Twitter is the perfect way to disseminate the kind of writing that comes most naturally to me.
When I first signed up, I was aware of a few accounts that I thought were really funny, like @gregerskine and @extranapkins. I followed them, and discovered a bunch of other people who were writing what could only be described as Literature. There was no doubt in my mind. Subjects were: toads, bogs, jorts, gender, Animorphs, Chingy, wasps, “im gay,” Kate Bush, crieing, and pizza; but the tweets themselves were Literature. I was writing in a separate aesthetic, but it dovetailed so prettily with what they were doing that it was easy to enter into conversation with these people, and begin writing the Communal Book of Twit.
You say that they are producing “literature.” Would you call it a kind of “poetry?” Or is that form a little too well-defined at this point? Does the tweet get its own category? (And, heck, is it the tweet that is the achievement, or the whole of the gathered up and examined feed that deserves the title?
WHAT IS POETRY. CAN SOMETHING THAT IS NOT POETRY … BE POETRY. IF IT IS POETRY, CAN IT NOT BE POETRY? In this interview I will answer the question so good that no one needs to answer it ever again! We will lay it to rest like a little baby … who … is dead.
I have no problem thinking of tweets as poetry, because the really great ones function in the same way that poetry does to me. They are clear and cubic thinking, and they repay obsessive thinking-about. 140 characters is just about the right length to get inside your head, so if I walk around all day chanting “apnews: an girl go back in time to shhot cow that start gret chicago fire . cow say “i expect you” shoot her an start fire with i’ts cigaret” to myself the same way I walk around chanting “The milkman came in the moonlight and the moonlight was less than moonlight,” I see no reason to make a distinction, because I’m not some sort of taxonomy psycho. Honestly, when I think of the question “what is poetry” I picture Linnaeus and David Lehman absolutely making out, hands up each other’s shirts, while everyone who participates in modern American poetry watches.
BUT at the same time, I like to call them tweets because otherwise it’s a big waste of the stupidest term that has ever been invented for anything. If we don’t call them tweets then what are we gonna call a tweet, a bird’s sound? Please. Let’s be reasonable.
(taxonomy psycho. heh.)
I understand the SEXT series came out of the Anthony Weiner situation. Did you see someone else post one? Or did you see a void and fill it? (The fact that that question appears to sound like a sext is purely coincidental.)
TAXONOMY PSYCHO, COMING SOON TO A THEATER NEAR YOU, STARRING SOME GUY WHOSE NAME I DON’T KNOW
I wasn’t specifically thinking of Anthony Weiner when I first started sexting (no one, I hope, is specifically thinking of Anthony Weiner when they first start sexting.) I had a long-standing fascination with the media panic about SEXTING TEENS and MARRIED SEXTING and ARE THE OLD SEXTING, IN HOMES? Newsweek was losing its mind with terror. Stock photos depicted crazed sexual geezers* leaning against trees. Headlines were all things like: “Majority of Americans Now Getting Turned On by Misspellings of the Word “Pprenis?” Anyway, so one day I was on a long, long car trip to Key West and I was bored as hell, so I asked people on Twitter to send me sexts, “physically impossible sexts preferred.” I posted a few to start that established an absurd precedent –
Sext: You ask for oral. I get between your legs and whisper the alphabet repeatedly until you scream
Sext: I insert myself into a fog and thrust back and forth until I eject a small area of denser fog
– and then @gregerskine sent me some, including the incomparable “I HAND U A PANINI AND U OPEN IT UP 2 SEE THE COMMAND ‘ORGASM’ WRITTEN IN THOUSAND ISLAND” sext. From that moment forward the form seemed to be set, and other people took it up — it was simple, it was empty, it was elastic.
So yeah I stuffed that huge sucking void.
..
*Please note that if you like “shocked senior man gets a racy, sexy text message from his wife,” Shutterstock also recommends “shocked senior woman with a towel,” and “mature burned electrician.”
Do you draft your tweets or are they spontaneous? I’m curious about how much deliberation goes into them and if there’s a certain headspace one gets into to create, say, your Sext series.
I’ve noticed there is a certain dark, surreal tone that runs through your tweets and the ones of some of the other folks you follow and promote. DogBoner, say. Or FamousCrab. SPERGERS. Fart. Is there a certain Tweet Wiring in your brain? A path you follow? Is it a similar path to the Poetry Wiring?
I draft like crazy, because: I do most of my tweeting with my phone, and it is so so different to write with your thumbs. Have you noticed this? I often enter Thumb Fantasias where I just move my thumbs around for ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, rearranging elements of joke and text and scenario with my stupid thumbs. It is a part of you that should never be writing — eight elegant fingers? Yes. A pencil in your mouth, or between your toes? Good job. Dictation? You are rich, and rich people are known for being good writers. But thumbs? No. Writing with thumbs means all rules about content are out the window; it’s such an unnatural physical act that it requires an unnatural vernacular. It is enormously freeing and enormously frightening, to be a modern thumb writer of the cyber age.
(I made all this up just now but it actually does seem plausible.)
Why the darkness? My eras are the 17th century and the apocalypse. So, elaborate conceits full of burning tires. Everyone is having sex, but so are their fleas? What a magnificent chestnut horse, let’s eat him. Ahhhhh, the gorgeous colors of the sunset are killing us. I believe that any skill that serves in the writing of poetry can serve also in the writing of jokes — the path is the same, but the vocabulary is different. The impulse too is the same: to create something symmetrical, something that shuts to or clicks closed, to make parallel forms with unparallel lines. To make the hugely unlike lie down together, as they must at the end of the world.
Why bring them together — the poem and the joke, or the joke and the prophecy? The hybrid is compelling, always and perennially. It’s the desire to make fucked-up dog breeds that live longer than either of their incest parents. Or if they don’t live longer, they breathe weird and are illegal. Both outcomes are interesting.
Do you have a favorite joke? Is it better than your favorite poem? Do you have a favorite poem? Is it better than your favorite joke? Do you have a favorite tweet? Is it the better than your favorite prayer?
Favorite joke is THE ARISTOCATS, a very funny movie about jazz kittens in France, they are a family and they do the FILTHIEST things to each other, it is almost too much to be believed.
Which is to say, I don’t like most traditional jokes because they seem calcified to me. I like jokes that present a form you can work within or distort or turn inside out. When people tell me jokes I tend to look at them like where the hell do you get your hair cut, Shear Genius? This is a failing on my part. I remember directing such withering looks at uncles who told me knock-knock jokes that I’m surprised they didn’t die.
I go back to “The Glass Essay” a lot. I go back to the Holy Sonnets. I go back to “Fresh Air” and “The Boiling Water.” They’re not better or worse than anything. They’re rocks, and stones, and trees.
This is the closest thing we have to a canonical tweet, and it’s probably the one I think about the most:
YO AALIYAH DONT FILL UP ON ALL DAT BREAD GIRL…..GOT A BIG MEAL COMING WHEN WE LAND Really makes ya think. Eat the bread everyone. Namaste.
When I think of this tweet my thoughts go like this:
Aaliyah is dead and that is fucked up. I loved her voice a lot, I love the light-touch singers best and she was the lightest light-touch singer. She had the ability to just barely land and still feel the note — she was Princess and the Pea with the note 8 mattresses under her! I think of her technique as being trusting, but I think of it that way in retrospect.
If you don’t want to look at tender huge graffiti of her face on big walls all day every day then I don’t even know how to talk to you.
The quieter, the sweeter, the especially intimate voices — is it natural to feel that they are more ours? That the people who own them have more to do with us? Is that why we feel the way we do about Aaliyah?
Why do I feel the way I do about Aaliyah, and if I feel that way about her then why do I laugh at this tweet?
Well, “laughing” is not exactly what I do. More like, “sit staring at it with a sort of appalled reverence, wondering what kind of person I am.”
The reason people like @graeyalien are funnier than “twitter comedians” is because their tweets operate in two more dimensions. They consider who is speaking the tweet, and they consider whether the tweet looks funny. They create a character, and they apply small systematic derangements of punctuation, spelling, and capitalization appropriate to that character.
The recognizable speaker of this tweet is … a white aunt in Manitou Springs?
It makes you picture an Olive Garden moment on a plane that has entered into myth. The dishonesty of myth is that it makes you forget that the Olive Garden moments ever took place — not on that plane, not on that day, not between those two people.
If I think of the people in my life who have told me not to fill up on bread, it is an intimate circle of people. In my life only the people who cared a great deal for me have told me not to fill up on the bread.
Who is speaking? Who is telling her not to eat the bread? The voice is … paternalistic, which seems right because that’s how I remember people treating her even when she was alive. She seemed to arouse more than usual feelings of protectiveness. Protectiveness, paternalism are complicated. But somehow it always sounded nice when Timbaland called her “baby girl.”
But Timbaland would’ve told her to eat as much bread as she wanted. Oh my God. Timbaland would have baked bread for her himself.
She didn’t seem like the type who would eat all the bread. Maybe she really loved the bread! Maybe her handlers didn’t want her to eat it! Maybe she didn’t want to eat too much of it because her stomach had gotten so famous at that point.
Remember when we were all showing our stomachs, and wearing like enormous cargo pants and sports bras outside in the daytime? What the hell was that?
Actually that was awesome and I wish that it would happen again.
But not at the cost of eating the bread.
At some point she got abs? Which because I am visual always made me think of her breath pouring and tumbling down inside her like a cataract of water, over and past the boulders of abs, and the notes having to climb up over them on the way out.
Wikipedia: “In 1998, she hired a personal trainer to keep in shape, and exercised five days a week and ate diet foods.”
I was not allowed to show my stomach, at that time. I probably wouldn’t have showed it even if I HAD been allowed, because stomachs seemed so vulnerable to me.
It is tempting to view a person who died in a plane crash as being entirely vulnerable, even in her lifetime.
Neither was I allowed to listen to hip-hop. Well, it wasn’t so much that I wasn’t allowed as that — hip-hop was seen to be somehow ridiculous, and as having nothing to do with us.
But that is what I loved the best. I could give a fuck about an electric guitar.
I was 18 years old, and she was 22, and for years her music had been everywhere, and I didn’t mind at all.
Not all of this information is present in the tweet, but the tweet walks arm-in-arm with all this information.
The art we like the best is generally the art that has the greatest access to us. So. This tweet has tremendous access to my feelings about Aaliyah. Aaliyah’s voice had tremendous access to me.
Aaliyah would have been on Twitter. It is fucked up that she is dead.
Eat the bread everyone.
Namaste.
Verbal Paintings of Cartoon Dogs Sexting
Patricia Lockwood has a brain seemingly designed to blow up Twitter. Her feed is full of cartoon tween j/o bait and hyper-fantasy sexy stuff like “I am a living male turtleneck. You are an art teacher in winter. You put your whole head through me,” and “I go up to heaven and open God's Bible. It contains only a single sext: ‘Im hard.’” From the same brain now erupts her first book, Balloon Pop Outlaw Black, which is covered in nude Popeye dogs walking calmly in a blue horde. The book is equally rigorous and insane, squashing deep into the squishy curves of the unconscious, where all that childhood cartoon sound and whale-sized dreams of death are housed. It invokes something nameless about why we try to create things, how those things we create feel about us, and the bizarre architectures in between.
Here’s some more about Patricia:
Blake: Favorite cartoon/show as a child?
Patricia:GUMMI BEARS, which I watch to this day. What you have to do is get the reddest juice you can find and put it in a salad cruet and then GULP IT at the exact moment the Gummi Bears drink the Gummiberry juice and then you get a great feeling like you have done something exactly right for once in your life.
Favorite cartoon/show now?
DuckTails, because even though I do not like money I want to touch millions of a thing at once and be touched by millions of a thing at once and only Scrooge McDuck in his little bathing suit seems to need that as much as I do.
What did you want to be when you grew up?
Always a writer. Though at one point I got the idea that that was impractical and decided to be “a voice actor” instead, which lasted until I realized what a truly terrible saxophone I had for a voice.
What is your favorite part of anatomy?
Cowlicks are the most textual to me.
What is your favorite planet?
Trick question? The moon, idiot.
What position do you sleep in?
Completely facedown like I'm trying to sink into the center of the Earth.
Song you remember for a particular reason?
“Knees Up Mother Brown,” by Raffi. What's going on? Is Mother Brown a prostitute? I just have no idea.
Do you like candy?
I do NOT like candy and the people who eat it deserve their sticky nasty hands. And I hate them.
What book have you read the most?
I've read The Berenstain Bears' Trouble at School probably 100 times because there's this really mysterious moment in it where Brother Bear walks into the woods with his grandpa and his grandpa shows him a wagon that he pushed into a swamp a long time ago because he "made a bad decision." It makes no sense. Why would he push a wagon into a swamp? Little tiny Swamp Thing fingers are drawn all over the wagon grabbing every part of it and refusing to let go and gothic slime is hanging everywhere and it doesn't even LOOK like a wagon anymore because it's been transformed by the horrifying hug of the swamp. Brother Bear looks at it and somehow learns a lesson about how he shouldn't make bad decisions. It's so good. I read it again and again because to me there is no other moment in books that is so completely closed to my understanding.
Do you have a recurring dream?
I DO. I have a dream every month where I'm trapped in a mansion with all my high school friends and a serial killer in a leather jacket with fringe is picking us off one by one. The fringe swings. He shoots us. I've had that dream since I was 15 years old. It gave me a strange sense of houses. - Blake Butler
Excerpt from Balloon Pop Outlaw Black:
It is the house of your childhood: rooms hide, merge, relocate, paint themselves during the night. The same route never works twice—you are the force that sends a live hallway shooting out of another hallway. There is a never-ending bowl of oranges in the kitchen, always the same oranges and never the same oranges; the oranges section and eat the weeks. The dog’s markings—black on white ground—change whenever we want them to. Some seasons the lawn disappears out from under you like a tablecloth, and you’re replaced so fast you hardly feel it. And it is the house of your childhood because she lives here.
In the kitchen, one cupboard refuses to open. It thinks it is another place, it thinks it is the land of spices.
A house in Kansas is made of Kansas. A house in the jungle is made of the jungle. The house here is made of there, is made of the air that a house displaces.
Her garden flourishes: a row of little signs that say pumpkin, a row of little signs that say lettuce, a row of little signs that say radish.
When she wants to pick one, she gets down on her knees and grasps the name with both hands, and tugs, and it will not come, and tugs, and it will not come, and in the other world her son cries “Carrot!” and she feels the taproot go tense and then snap.
It is a good place to grow things; the thermometer on the front porch registers always a human temperature.
----
Last thing she knew he lived in the west. When his name appears in her mind, it is written in lasso.
He always liked a good lie about storms, so here, when it thunders, a stampede of horses is flattening her son.
And in the morning her trails are washed away. The ground here is a dapple animal, it won’t stand still long enough to let her pull a bridle path over its head.
And where is the west now? She tugs down the map to look and it flies up again like a windowshade.
At the edge of the desert, she discovers a rich vein of Detroitite—a “stone” made of the layered paint that streams away from car factories. She takes a pickaxe and a shovel and begins to dig. She dynamites the color deeper and deeper. She lives away from home, she rides a gray donkey down, she eats sandwiches in the mine at night. It is her Grand Canyon, and she sleeps in a long silver river at the bottom. Above her, new layers keep arriving; they will run here from the other world as long as there is somewhere to go. Then the vein is inside out, and she wakes up one morning in her own bed again. The house is suddenly one floor deeper, she feels a room of basement rocks below her.
----
One shop appears when she needs it: a model train store. It sells everything a town needs, from portable tunnels to instant road, but she lingers most over the miniature “You Are Now Entering ” signs. They have one for every city you can think of, piled together in a clear glass jar. She slips one in her pocket and lets it burn a hole there. When she wants to travel, she sits on a bench in the middle of nowhere. The scenery train pulls out. The scenery train pulls in. When her ticket is right, she will leave on it, and ride to the end of the line.
She is always on the lookout for lines here; the line is her only natural predator. If she let it, a line would swallow her whole and then lick the corner of her lip, and lay in a black earthquake on her floor, and draw itself in black boxes all over her calendar. It would ride out to her yard and draw a tree full of grasshoppers until there was not a leaf left, and still not be full. The line says, “When I draw a stomach around all of it, then I will have eaten.”
Her son keeps a line, she remembers, and feeds it a mouse once a month. As soon as the mouse is fully digested, it appears here in her house, a long tail snaking behind it. Sometimes a line disguises himself, and goes house to house with a paper and pen asking for signatures. She refuses to answer. He raps, then knocks, then threatens to put a shoulder through her door.
----
She sends her son a book, with her pop-up house between the pages. He sets it aside and lets it gather dust. She raps, then knocks, then threatens to put her shoulder through the door, but still he does not open it.
She brought all her books with her, too many books. She makes bookends to hold rows of them together: geodes the size of her head, sawed exactly in half, all gray crystals on display.
The line would like to cut her up and hang her from the ceiling. If he did, you
would see a clean white portal in each piece, like a hambone. She is tempted to
let him do this—like all good cartoons, she believes in an Afterimage, where
her colors will become their cool opposites. Where her hell-colored ham will
become the blue sky.
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Editor’s Note: “"Tricia u MUST join Twitter to network with Poets" *tricia joins twitter, falls in with a million Comedy Fuckers, forgets what poem even is*” — @TriciaLockwood, September 2, 2011
Patricia Lockwood is an actual poet—published in the New Yorker, even!—who has inappropriately touched the imaginations of a thousand followers with her “sexts.” Born around the time of the Anthony Weiner scandal, the genre congeals gobs of glowing poetry from networked life’s greasy stew of blunt spam copy, collaged pop culture, and constant little spells of titillation. This is a selection of Lockwood’s hottest sexts.
A ghost teasingly takes off his sheet. Underneath he is so sexy that everyone screams out loud
Do you smell like a mousetrap? I am a cruel woman and I simply adore the smell of mousetraps
A Teenage Turtle takes extreme pleasure from sticking his head in and out of his shell very slowly while a rat watches
Midnight. My wife and children are asleep. Breathlessly I begin to search for my favorite kind of porn: "Women Standing in Big Jeans"
THE BIGGEST WOMEN IN THE TIGHTEST JEANS!!! U WONT BELIEVE YOUR EYES! THESE WOMEN SIMPLY CANT GET ENOUGH STANDING AROUND IN BIG JEANS!
These jeansluts stand up really straight with their tits out, holding the jeans as far away from their bodies as possible! SO RAW
This girl wants a denim vest, a denim scrunchie, and denim Keds -- are YOU the sicko who's going to give them to her
You are miniature, and I put you in the bell of a saxophone and play a long soulful B-flat
I am Everest and I JO while a 100-year-old grampa tries to climb me. At the moment he reaches my peak I produce a thunderous rockslide
I am FWB with Scrooge McDuck. He asks me to pretend to rob him. "IS IT A BEAGLE BOY," he gasps, as I break into his money bin
"I'm so wet," you murmur. Marmaduke raises his glistening face. "That's because I'm famous for drool," he laughs
Easy-Listening Dracula drinks the blood of a saxophonist. He smiles and feels the mellow blood spread through him like smooth jazz
I am a Charmin bear. You are a bear trap that is baited with a soft roll of toilet paper. I step inside you and "lose" my "leg"
I am a mushroom in a forest. There are drops of dew all over my tip. Nabokov reaches down a hand to pick me
I teach an African Grey Parrot to sext. He sexts at the level of a two-year-old -- "mama, mama, mama"
I guess the number of gumballs in a jar. I'm off by just one gumball. "I'm pink," it whispers, & then leaps into my mouth & chews me
I repeatedly crush dollhouse furniture under my feet until I feel "big enough"
A leprechaun sits in a pot o gold. He removes gold pieces 1 by 1 to reveal his nudity. At the end he tears off his beard. It's a woman
An elephant picks up his 1000000th peanut. Whoops, it is the orange candy. He sucks it up his trunk and tastes sugar for the 1st time
The year is 1960 and I am Cary Grant. Kinetic typography sneaks up and fingers me. It writes STARRING CARY GRANT all up in my guts
I am a living male turtleneck. You are an art teacher in winter. You put your whole head through me
Rainbow go into a prism and it shoot SO MUCH white light
You walk into the bathroom and see a baby in a tuxedo peeing at one of the urinals. He turns around and smiles. It's Jordy
You unzip and begin to tinkle like a man. Jordy looks over and his eyes get huge. He begins to cry. "It's hard to be a baby," he sobs
I kill a big wasp with an Animorphs book. When I turn the book over there's a baby leg stuck to it! Animorphs are real
The word "gaylord" falls in love with another word that means the same thing. His dad Shakespeare CRIES with joy when he tells him
I play Whac-A-Mole and all the moles let me whac them. They rise up to meet me, they desire nothing more than to be whac
You get a Tyra Mail that tells you the date of your death. You scream uncontrollably in the voice of an excited model
Mavis Beacon bursts out of the computer and shows me where to put my fingers
Mavis Beacon urges my fingers to move faster, faster, and ever faster. "80 words a minute or your money back," she whispers
"Type this random sequence," instructs Mavis Beacon. The letters T-E-A-C-H-E-R W-A-N-T-S T-O F-R-E-E-K appear before my eyes
Mavis Beacon's neck gets long & she bursts out of her clothes. She was a bronto all along. "Type my new name APATOSAUR," she thunders
I read "The Monster at the End of This Book" to you. Together we turn the final page. Surprise, I cut a hole in it to put my d through
I go up to heaven and open God's Bible. It contains only a single sext: "Im hard"
from Balloon Pop Outlaw Black
Killed with an Apple Corer, She
Asks What Does That Make Me
For all her life she did piece work
on the orange assembly line, she tied
awful flesh knots at the ends of oranges
to separate one from the next,
(her father was the same, her father
squinted at blueprints of bulls, and built
them up room by room, and then sent
them into the fields
to graze on pure
thousands instead of the grass,)
she lived in the squarest state, she was soft
as map creases are, her lover, one floor
above, worked to make things themselves:
steel driven home in steel and shoehorns
shoehorned in, he lost piece by piece
his whole body that way;
until she no longer wanted him
and took a lover one floor below
who brought game after game to life—when she
told him, “The forest is as tall as a paper mill
tonight,” he took her walking there, and they
envisioned each tree as a bundle of cues, or horseheads
set on endless Ls, or a deep sleeve of letter tiles.
And when he was unlucky too, he climbed upstairs
and raised a right arm that suddenly seemed to be
missing,
and cried, “Machine beats man,” and finally
fell at her feet, his wounds pouring red rolls of the dice;
and then using her terrible skills, she tied him off from her,
and then went to the man who made things themselves
and lay down on his line, and he said her name
like industrial noise but finally it meant nothing,
and “What is happening?” she asked,
and he leaned down and told how the air
drilled a hole in her to breathe,
and he leaned down and told how the red
spiraled off in one neat piece,
The oldest living cartoon character is the word “popeye.” A cartoon
character works this way: it is written so many times, with minor
variations, that it appears to walk, to cast a shadow, to eat green
leaves. Here are the known facts:
His pants are not white, they are empty. His face is not white, it is
empty. His arms are not white, they are empty. When we say “pants,
face, arms” what we mean is “where the ink ends and the rest of him
begins,” or, “the him that the ink contains.”
His parts are letters. Letters make up his mind, and also emerge from
it. And the point where a needle touches his thought bubble to burst
it is a letter also.
When he fights his number-one enemy, he undergoes a transformation:
he smiles hugely, his teeth turn to rows of movable type, and then
rearrange themselves to form an ultimate insult. The enemy then
begins to cry, and “popeye” is the winner.
He does not eat, exactly, but the existence of bite-marks in pen-andink
apples is enough to keep him from going hungry. “Grainy,” he
often complains.
When he develops goosebumps, when he forms a knot on the head,
when his legs fly apart and form a fast-moving cloud, his line suffers.
When his line suffers, it is said that he is “in pain.” Whenever he is
“in pain,” a doctor appears and injects him with a straight line, and
he sighs with relief.
Much as gold injections are used to treat lions with arthritis.
He has never worn a mustache, because he is not capable of growing
a mustache. This is because he lacks both the letters M and W.
What does “popeye” mean? The doctor swabs the inside of his cheek
and smears it on a slide, and looks and looks and looks.
He wakes one morning with amnesia, and when one doctor asks his
name, and another doctor asks if he knows where he is, he will only
say slowly, “My name is ‘popeye,’ I have no other English.”
“Popeye”: An Outline
1. Opening: First draw him a mouth, to ask “who, what, when,
where, why, and how?” Then fill the mouth with ink.
2. The Body: Think of your paper as a pan of milk. A pan of
milk will form a skin.
3. Closing: There is a small gap between where the arm of
“popeye” ends and the fist of him begins. Please join them
with your pen.
Eyebrows are his most expressive feature. He himself, straightened, is
someone’s eyebrow.
In moments of grave danger, his bicep turns transparent, and reveals a
sizable ink-clot, with small rivers of ink streaming away from it to
form his outline, day after day, year after year. This is to reassure his
viewers, who continually fear his death.
“Popeye,” in his adolescence, goes through a period of floating off the
page. His father sits him down and recommends an anchor tattoo.
Although he is “drawn,” and although he is “a place,” he is not a
map. If anything, he is a “cartouche”: the area of a map that encloses
information about the map itself.
He is often captured and sentenced to slave labor, always the same: to
row oars in other moving words, and be whipped within an inch by
ascenders and descenders.
Watching him works this way: he walks the length of your vision until
he reaches the end. You gulp like a gangplank and he falls into the
drink.
Or: He disappears into the sunset, riding a little
killie over and under the waves.
Or: His enormous boyfriend is named Perspective;
he ties him to train tracks again and again.
Any piece of paper on which “popeye” is printed counts as a Will, as
it contains his signature, his witness, proof of his death, a list of all
the property he owns, and the name of his inheritor.
Occasionally a schoolgirl will write “popeye” over and over with a
pink pen, and it is then that he wears a dress and pretends to be a
lady.
Depending on the decade, draw seams up the backs of his legs.
Parts of his body exist only when he is looking at them. He uses his
shoeshine to stare up his own skirt.
At the school dance, “popeye” feels a pang in his belly and an urge to
push. “Why me?” he wonders. “Why now?” Alone, he disappears
through the door marked & and does what he must do.
When he is angry, a frizz of black ink appears above his head. No,
forgive me. That is not ink at all. That is the least favorite hair of the
typesetter, the one that emerges from the thought of his mother.
The Ongoing Crimes of His Mother and Father
His mother reaches out, hatches ink under him,
and commands him to stand and walk.
His father bursts into the room, screaming,
“What is the meaning? What is the meaning
of this?”
His mother rushes to explain, and feels
the pain of a strikethrough fly through her.
“Popeye” famously wets himself—the worst
mistake a young image can make.
His father lifts a ruler, brings it down hard
on his “boy,” lifts a paint-stirrer up again.
“Popeye” is an extension of the human arm. When driving horses, lift
and crack him until your horses break into a black streak. Then set
him upright in the whip socket again.
He is famous for being always on time; he arrives at his destination in
one second flat.* In one minute flat. In one hour flat.**
*How? We suspect that he lives in an atlas, where all distances
are collapsible.
**“Flat” is not the word. Say instead, there is a limited
amount of him, like water, and it seeks its level.
Is he “made of paper”? No, he is papered like a hallway. Is he “made
of ink”? No, he is a ghost who had ink thrown on him during a fight,
and as a consequence is now visible.
Regarding ink, why black? Black because something was extinguished
there?
When rain falls on him, it falls in interruptions, incompletes, brokenoffs
and bitten-backs—it is true to its typographical nature and never
touches the ground.
Every second Sunday, his mother combs kerosene through his hair.
The lice that live on books are not the same as the lice that live on
scalps, and “popeye” has them both.
Occasionally he is left unfinished—that is, winter comes and snows in
the page while his mother still has three fingers left to knit.
A poster called “Phases of the Moon” is tacked on the schoolroom
wall. It shows his face in shadow, half in shadow; in light, half in
light.
Page by page the “popeye” calendar is torn away. Page by page he is
sent through the shredder, and finds himself in long days like the
year.
“Popeye” goes hunting and brings down a 12-pointer. He drags the
body to a clearing. “Thought bubble, thought bubble,” he says
meditatively, and eats the lungs.
Were you a carnivore before you saw him? You are a carnivore now.
He is served in slices. He is served bone-in and skin-on.
While he sleeps, “popeye” dreams of being eaten by the lion, the
tiger, the leopard, the jaguar. All the roaring cats appear to him, and
he dreams of being spoken backward through their strong black lips.
And being reborn on their backs as: a pattern on a solid-color coat.
And being shot, skinned, and laid out on a library floor. And his
mouth forced open to seem always to be speaking.
“Popeye” stars in a revival of A Sensation Novel. He stands on a bare
stage and delivers everyone’s lines. Between acts, all-in-black move
back and forth and break down the scenery behind him.
The purpose of a shadow is: to put “popeye” where he is not.
Shadowed he stands, like a stencil letter, always next to himself.
His protruding “pop-eye” is a world-ending button. When its dark
outline disappears, you will know that the button is being pressed.
His other eye a crow walked closed.
“Popeye” loves all literature; he keeps hens for their scratchings and
chickens for their prints.
One flipbook depicts him walking out to his garden and watering his
own buried body until a white cabbage grows from him and prettily
presents its outer leaves. This book is perpetual, and flips back and
forth continually.
This flipbook is so thick that even the strongman cannot tear it.
Instead, he tears a phonebook filled only with the names of “popeye”
and his descendants, and the page numbers that are their addresses.
(Of sick numbers, it is said, “Number one is: number one on the
list for a transplant; number two is: number two on the list.” The
first and oldest “popeye” waits for his living donor to appear, and
takes comfort in the knowledge that there is no death in his
phonebook, and there are no unlistings.
Picture his impossible funeral: hundreds of him, laid out
in the little coffins of the prepositions: under under, over
over. In in.)
So many mouths to feed! In a permanent kitchen, in a permanent
corner, he stretches a single meal as far as it will go. Slices and slices a
transparent pie.
After supper, he sits on the porch with a long black shotgun and waits
for a buffalo to wander into view. He uses every part of the buffalo—
he uses them down to their eyewhites, he uses the very lines that
make them up.
He walks to the city to be counted in the census. A wind gets itself up
and ruffles him relentlessly, but miniature monuments hold him
down.
His paper is usually neatly stacked, especially when still in original
trees.
Lives where? In voices: hills and valleys. Lives all in the alphabet as if
it were a rowhouse. Lives at the peak of the tallest chalk hill.
Or lives: nowhere at all. He wanders the desert, written on
old skins, moaning, “Where is home, where is home?” And
waits for a tent peg to be driven through his skull.
He walks to the edge of his very country, he walks forward till he fills
his profile completely, he walks into the water of Marblehead.
“Popeye” sits on the riverbank and sends himself sailing into the
water: he is a good graphite rod with a strong fly line; he sings away
from his reel.
His occasional girlfriend, doodled in the margins, cannot have
intercourse with him; she suffers badly from vestibulitis.
A disorder of her entrance.
She faints every time he tries. “Popeye” reads the dictionary out loud
to revive her. He reads, “Syncope is: a blackout, a loss of consciousness.
Syncope is: the loss of one or more sounds from the interior of
a word.”
While her eyes are closed, he must suppress the temptation to spread
her out and pin her like a map through a single place. For her skirt is
cut to here, her blouse is cut to there!
Notes on His Movement
He is photographed in the still old style, wearing
a shirt patterned with white cartwheels.
His pants patterned with instructions for a two-step.
The old music players have a strong solid base like the base of a
statue, and a flowering-out above. A statue of “popeye” rises in the
center of the song that is playing:
Popeye the man is no longer standing!
Popeye the man has been killed in the stomach;
his French horn spills out and out!
“Popeye” drops from the sky. The townspeople gather to watch him
fall and wait to see his imprint in the pavement, but he reaches out at
the last moment and grabs a branch—of what?—of the clock tower.
He is suspended there still, hanging off the hour hand.
Or:
In a town with no clock tower, “popeye” falls from a great height and
his thigh-bones are driven up into his body, click, like the first length
of lead in a mechanical pencil.
Or:
Past, present, and future: “popeye” falls in a painting. In the foreground,
a farmer pays no attention, and binds bales of newspapers in a field.
“Popeye” will limp to him later, and ask to be splinted with rolled-up
dailies.
(A broken leg is often fatal for a “popeye”;
one blank to the temple will take him out.)
If the dailies succeed in prolonging him, he will heal into a new
configuration: his body will bend and twist and seize; he will become
a living monk’s cramp.
“Popeye” is the priest, and you must confess to him. There is a black
grate where his face should be.
What does he worship—the Cross or the Clean Line? The churches
here have lines for the pews to sit in, and the Bible here is Dürer’s
hare.
And who is his higher power? From time to time, he feels the glass
hover above him, feels magnified, feels “read,” and feels it move
away.
Believes he walks on a beach, but above him, a lens is ground and
ground.
And what was broken open to reveal him? In his world, all visible
things stand up on the half-shell.
Correction: “I do not live in a world at all,” “popeye” says
indignantly, and tightens the equator around his waist.
And does he fear death? He dreams he is a brand that sits in the fire
forever.
It is impossible to know when he was born. A fragment dating from
500 BC refers to him; the title is translated as “Popeye Wavers a Little
in the Heat,” or alternately, “Popeye Lives in a Hell of Line Boil.”
Many have attempted to translate:
A pencil ship is difficult to wreck, but “popeye”
manages every time. The sun shines directly
above him, he floats on a raft of reflection
all the way to shore. He is caught. Cannibals
carry him home on a pole, and cannibals
cook him alive in worst-hot sketch-water.
He lives in every mouth now,
he cannot call himself his own!
Or:
A ship drawn only with parallel lines will never
reach its destination, and will sink if it sinks
only straight down. “Popeye” sails for the horizon
because it is all he can see: he lacks the vertical
stroke I. He sails and he sails, tied to the mast,
the ocean boiling over below him,
feeling his own head turn to a ham,
feeling slices turn over one by one.
A long book of him is called a “brick,” and a long book of him is
called a “doorstop.”
When it came time to put these pages in order, I laid them all out on
the floor, creating the appearance of a city of rooftops seen from
above. And “popeye,” who lived there, had climbed to each one.
And lay on his back reading “The Myth of the Bookcover.”
And stood up like a writing tendon, and said, “Why did you leave the
book open? Anyone could have walked in.”
-
let’s all write about cartoon characters dang
He Marries the Stuffed Owl Exhibit
At the Indiana Welcome Center
He marries her mites and the wires in her wings,
he marries her yellow glass eyes and black centers,
he marries her near-total head turn, he marries
the curve of each of her claws, he marries
the information plaque, he marries the extinction
of this kind of owl, he marries the owl
that she loved in life and the last thought of him
in the thick of her mind
just one inch away from the bullet, there,
he marries the moths
who make holes in the owl, who have eaten the owl
almost all away, he marries the branch of the tree
that she grips, he marries the real-looking moss
and dead leaves, he marries the smell of must
that surrounds her, he marries the strong blue
stares of children, he marries nasty smudges
of their noses on the glass, he marries the camera
that points at the owl to make sure no one steals her,
so the camera won't object when he breaks the glass
while reciting some vows that he wrote himself,
he screams OWL instead of I'LL and then ALWAYS
LOVE HER, he screams HAVE AND TO HOLD
and takes hold of the owl and wrenches the owl
away from her branch
and he covers her in kisses and the owl
thinks, “More moths,” and at the final hungry kiss,
“That must have been the last big bite, there is no more
of me left to eat and thank God,” when he marries
the stuffing out of the owl and hoots as the owl flies out
under his arm, they elope into the darkness of Indiana,
Indiana he screams is their new life and WELCOME.
They live in a tree together now, and the children of
Welcome to Indiana say who even more than usual,
and the children of Welcome to Indiana they wonder
where they belong. Not in Indiana, they say to themselves,
the state of all-consuming love, we cannot belong in Indiana,
as night falls and the moths appear one by one, hungry.
The Feeling of Needing a Pen
Really, like a urine but even more gold,
I thought of that line and I felt it, even
between two legs I felt it, the legs I wrote
just now, a panic, a run-walk to the private
room with a picture of a woman
on the door, or else the line was long, too long,
I barged into the men’s, and felt stares burning
hard like reading or noon, felt them looking
me up and over, felt them looking me over
and down, and all the while just holding their
pens,
they do it different oh no they don’t,
they do it standing up, they do it at the window,
they do it so secret in a three-hour bath, they do it
aloud to someone else, their wife is catching
every word and every word is gold. What you eat
is in it, blackberries for breakfast are in it,
fat atoms of Shakespeare and Hitler are in it.
The sound of water makes me need to: Atlantic,
Pacific, Caspian, Black. I feel it so much because
I am pregnant, I am pregnant with a little self,
all of its self
is that spot on a dog that causes its leg to kick.
It kicked and I felt and I wrote that last line. Even
now it’s happening. I eat only asparagus like arrows,
I am famous for my aim. I get almost none on my hands,
almost. Under my feet the streets, under the streets
the pipes. Inside the pipes a babble sound.
would see a clean white portal in each piece, like a hambone. She is tempted to
let him do this—like all good cartoons, she believes in an Afterimage, where
her colors will become their cool opposites. Where her hell-colored ham will
become the blue sky.
Sexts from Patricia Lockwood
Editor’s Note: “"Tricia u MUST join Twitter to network with Poets" *tricia joins twitter, falls in with a million Comedy Fuckers, forgets what poem even is*” — @TriciaLockwood, September 2, 2011
Patricia Lockwood is an actual poet—published in the New Yorker, even!—who has inappropriately touched the imaginations of a thousand followers with her “sexts.” Born around the time of the Anthony Weiner scandal, the genre congeals gobs of glowing poetry from networked life’s greasy stew of blunt spam copy, collaged pop culture, and constant little spells of titillation. This is a selection of Lockwood’s hottest sexts.
A ghost teasingly takes off his sheet. Underneath he is so sexy that everyone screams out loud
Do you smell like a mousetrap? I am a cruel woman and I simply adore the smell of mousetraps
A Teenage Turtle takes extreme pleasure from sticking his head in and out of his shell very slowly while a rat watches
Midnight. My wife and children are asleep. Breathlessly I begin to search for my favorite kind of porn: "Women Standing in Big Jeans"
THE BIGGEST WOMEN IN THE TIGHTEST JEANS!!! U WONT BELIEVE YOUR EYES! THESE WOMEN SIMPLY CANT GET ENOUGH STANDING AROUND IN BIG JEANS!
These jeansluts stand up really straight with their tits out, holding the jeans as far away from their bodies as possible! SO RAW
This girl wants a denim vest, a denim scrunchie, and denim Keds -- are YOU the sicko who's going to give them to her
You are miniature, and I put you in the bell of a saxophone and play a long soulful B-flat
I am Everest and I JO while a 100-year-old grampa tries to climb me. At the moment he reaches my peak I produce a thunderous rockslide
I am FWB with Scrooge McDuck. He asks me to pretend to rob him. "IS IT A BEAGLE BOY," he gasps, as I break into his money bin
"I'm so wet," you murmur. Marmaduke raises his glistening face. "That's because I'm famous for drool," he laughs
Easy-Listening Dracula drinks the blood of a saxophonist. He smiles and feels the mellow blood spread through him like smooth jazz
I am a Charmin bear. You are a bear trap that is baited with a soft roll of toilet paper. I step inside you and "lose" my "leg"
I am a mushroom in a forest. There are drops of dew all over my tip. Nabokov reaches down a hand to pick me
I teach an African Grey Parrot to sext. He sexts at the level of a two-year-old -- "mama, mama, mama"
I guess the number of gumballs in a jar. I'm off by just one gumball. "I'm pink," it whispers, & then leaps into my mouth & chews me
I repeatedly crush dollhouse furniture under my feet until I feel "big enough"
A leprechaun sits in a pot o gold. He removes gold pieces 1 by 1 to reveal his nudity. At the end he tears off his beard. It's a woman
An elephant picks up his 1000000th peanut. Whoops, it is the orange candy. He sucks it up his trunk and tastes sugar for the 1st time
The year is 1960 and I am Cary Grant. Kinetic typography sneaks up and fingers me. It writes STARRING CARY GRANT all up in my guts
I am a living male turtleneck. You are an art teacher in winter. You put your whole head through me
Rainbow go into a prism and it shoot SO MUCH white light
You walk into the bathroom and see a baby in a tuxedo peeing at one of the urinals. He turns around and smiles. It's Jordy
You unzip and begin to tinkle like a man. Jordy looks over and his eyes get huge. He begins to cry. "It's hard to be a baby," he sobs
I kill a big wasp with an Animorphs book. When I turn the book over there's a baby leg stuck to it! Animorphs are real
The word "gaylord" falls in love with another word that means the same thing. His dad Shakespeare CRIES with joy when he tells him
I play Whac-A-Mole and all the moles let me whac them. They rise up to meet me, they desire nothing more than to be whac
You get a Tyra Mail that tells you the date of your death. You scream uncontrollably in the voice of an excited model
Mavis Beacon bursts out of the computer and shows me where to put my fingers
Mavis Beacon urges my fingers to move faster, faster, and ever faster. "80 words a minute or your money back," she whispers
"Type this random sequence," instructs Mavis Beacon. The letters T-E-A-C-H-E-R W-A-N-T-S T-O F-R-E-E-K appear before my eyes
Mavis Beacon's neck gets long & she bursts out of her clothes. She was a bronto all along. "Type my new name APATOSAUR," she thunders
I read "The Monster at the End of This Book" to you. Together we turn the final page. Surprise, I cut a hole in it to put my d through
I go up to heaven and open God's Bible. It contains only a single sext: "Im hard"
from Balloon Pop Outlaw Black
Killed with an Apple Corer, She
Asks What Does That Make Me
For all her life she did piece work
on the orange assembly line, she tied
awful flesh knots at the ends of oranges
to separate one from the next,
(her father was the same, her father
squinted at blueprints of bulls, and built
them up room by room, and then sent
them into the fields
to graze on pure
thousands instead of the grass,)
she lived in the squarest state, she was soft
as map creases are, her lover, one floor
above, worked to make things themselves:
steel driven home in steel and shoehorns
shoehorned in, he lost piece by piece
his whole body that way;
until she no longer wanted him
and took a lover one floor below
who brought game after game to life—when she
told him, “The forest is as tall as a paper mill
tonight,” he took her walking there, and they
envisioned each tree as a bundle of cues, or horseheads
set on endless Ls, or a deep sleeve of letter tiles.
And when he was unlucky too, he climbed upstairs
and raised a right arm that suddenly seemed to be
missing,
and cried, “Machine beats man,” and finally
fell at her feet, his wounds pouring red rolls of the dice;
and then using her terrible skills, she tied him off from her,
and then went to the man who made things themselves
and lay down on his line, and he said her name
like industrial noise but finally it meant nothing,
and “What is happening?” she asked,
and he leaned down and told how the air
drilled a hole in her to breathe,
and he leaned down and told how the red
spiraled off in one neat piece,
WHEN WE MOVE AWAY FROM HERE, YOU’LL SEE A CLEAN SQUARE OF PAPER WHERE HIS PICTURE HUNG by Patricia Lockwood
The oldest living cartoon character is the word “popeye.” A cartoon
character works this way: it is written so many times, with minor
variations, that it appears to walk, to cast a shadow, to eat green
leaves. Here are the known facts:
His pants are not white, they are empty. His face is not white, it is
empty. His arms are not white, they are empty. When we say “pants,
face, arms” what we mean is “where the ink ends and the rest of him
begins,” or, “the him that the ink contains.”
His parts are letters. Letters make up his mind, and also emerge from
it. And the point where a needle touches his thought bubble to burst
it is a letter also.
When he fights his number-one enemy, he undergoes a transformation:
he smiles hugely, his teeth turn to rows of movable type, and then
rearrange themselves to form an ultimate insult. The enemy then
begins to cry, and “popeye” is the winner.
He does not eat, exactly, but the existence of bite-marks in pen-andink
apples is enough to keep him from going hungry. “Grainy,” he
often complains.
When he develops goosebumps, when he forms a knot on the head,
when his legs fly apart and form a fast-moving cloud, his line suffers.
When his line suffers, it is said that he is “in pain.” Whenever he is
“in pain,” a doctor appears and injects him with a straight line, and
he sighs with relief.
Much as gold injections are used to treat lions with arthritis.
He has never worn a mustache, because he is not capable of growing
a mustache. This is because he lacks both the letters M and W.
What does “popeye” mean? The doctor swabs the inside of his cheek
and smears it on a slide, and looks and looks and looks.
He wakes one morning with amnesia, and when one doctor asks his
name, and another doctor asks if he knows where he is, he will only
say slowly, “My name is ‘popeye,’ I have no other English.”
“Popeye”: An Outline
1. Opening: First draw him a mouth, to ask “who, what, when,
where, why, and how?” Then fill the mouth with ink.
2. The Body: Think of your paper as a pan of milk. A pan of
milk will form a skin.
3. Closing: There is a small gap between where the arm of
“popeye” ends and the fist of him begins. Please join them
with your pen.
Eyebrows are his most expressive feature. He himself, straightened, is
someone’s eyebrow.
In moments of grave danger, his bicep turns transparent, and reveals a
sizable ink-clot, with small rivers of ink streaming away from it to
form his outline, day after day, year after year. This is to reassure his
viewers, who continually fear his death.
“Popeye,” in his adolescence, goes through a period of floating off the
page. His father sits him down and recommends an anchor tattoo.
Although he is “drawn,” and although he is “a place,” he is not a
map. If anything, he is a “cartouche”: the area of a map that encloses
information about the map itself.
He is often captured and sentenced to slave labor, always the same: to
row oars in other moving words, and be whipped within an inch by
ascenders and descenders.
Watching him works this way: he walks the length of your vision until
he reaches the end. You gulp like a gangplank and he falls into the
drink.
Or: He disappears into the sunset, riding a little
killie over and under the waves.
Or: His enormous boyfriend is named Perspective;
he ties him to train tracks again and again.
Any piece of paper on which “popeye” is printed counts as a Will, as
it contains his signature, his witness, proof of his death, a list of all
the property he owns, and the name of his inheritor.
Occasionally a schoolgirl will write “popeye” over and over with a
pink pen, and it is then that he wears a dress and pretends to be a
lady.
Depending on the decade, draw seams up the backs of his legs.
Parts of his body exist only when he is looking at them. He uses his
shoeshine to stare up his own skirt.
At the school dance, “popeye” feels a pang in his belly and an urge to
push. “Why me?” he wonders. “Why now?” Alone, he disappears
through the door marked & and does what he must do.
When he is angry, a frizz of black ink appears above his head. No,
forgive me. That is not ink at all. That is the least favorite hair of the
typesetter, the one that emerges from the thought of his mother.
The Ongoing Crimes of His Mother and Father
His mother reaches out, hatches ink under him,
and commands him to stand and walk.
His father bursts into the room, screaming,
“What is the meaning? What is the meaning
of this?”
His mother rushes to explain, and feels
the pain of a strikethrough fly through her.
“Popeye” famously wets himself—the worst
mistake a young image can make.
His father lifts a ruler, brings it down hard
on his “boy,” lifts a paint-stirrer up again.
“Popeye” is an extension of the human arm. When driving horses, lift
and crack him until your horses break into a black streak. Then set
him upright in the whip socket again.
He is famous for being always on time; he arrives at his destination in
one second flat.* In one minute flat. In one hour flat.**
*How? We suspect that he lives in an atlas, where all distances
are collapsible.
**“Flat” is not the word. Say instead, there is a limited
amount of him, like water, and it seeks its level.
Is he “made of paper”? No, he is papered like a hallway. Is he “made
of ink”? No, he is a ghost who had ink thrown on him during a fight,
and as a consequence is now visible.
Regarding ink, why black? Black because something was extinguished
there?
When rain falls on him, it falls in interruptions, incompletes, brokenoffs
and bitten-backs—it is true to its typographical nature and never
touches the ground.
Every second Sunday, his mother combs kerosene through his hair.
The lice that live on books are not the same as the lice that live on
scalps, and “popeye” has them both.
Occasionally he is left unfinished—that is, winter comes and snows in
the page while his mother still has three fingers left to knit.
A poster called “Phases of the Moon” is tacked on the schoolroom
wall. It shows his face in shadow, half in shadow; in light, half in
light.
Page by page the “popeye” calendar is torn away. Page by page he is
sent through the shredder, and finds himself in long days like the
year.
“Popeye” goes hunting and brings down a 12-pointer. He drags the
body to a clearing. “Thought bubble, thought bubble,” he says
meditatively, and eats the lungs.
Were you a carnivore before you saw him? You are a carnivore now.
He is served in slices. He is served bone-in and skin-on.
While he sleeps, “popeye” dreams of being eaten by the lion, the
tiger, the leopard, the jaguar. All the roaring cats appear to him, and
he dreams of being spoken backward through their strong black lips.
And being reborn on their backs as: a pattern on a solid-color coat.
And being shot, skinned, and laid out on a library floor. And his
mouth forced open to seem always to be speaking.
“Popeye” stars in a revival of A Sensation Novel. He stands on a bare
stage and delivers everyone’s lines. Between acts, all-in-black move
back and forth and break down the scenery behind him.
The purpose of a shadow is: to put “popeye” where he is not.
Shadowed he stands, like a stencil letter, always next to himself.
His protruding “pop-eye” is a world-ending button. When its dark
outline disappears, you will know that the button is being pressed.
His other eye a crow walked closed.
“Popeye” loves all literature; he keeps hens for their scratchings and
chickens for their prints.
One flipbook depicts him walking out to his garden and watering his
own buried body until a white cabbage grows from him and prettily
presents its outer leaves. This book is perpetual, and flips back and
forth continually.
This flipbook is so thick that even the strongman cannot tear it.
Instead, he tears a phonebook filled only with the names of “popeye”
and his descendants, and the page numbers that are their addresses.
(Of sick numbers, it is said, “Number one is: number one on the
list for a transplant; number two is: number two on the list.” The
first and oldest “popeye” waits for his living donor to appear, and
takes comfort in the knowledge that there is no death in his
phonebook, and there are no unlistings.
Picture his impossible funeral: hundreds of him, laid out
in the little coffins of the prepositions: under under, over
over. In in.)
So many mouths to feed! In a permanent kitchen, in a permanent
corner, he stretches a single meal as far as it will go. Slices and slices a
transparent pie.
After supper, he sits on the porch with a long black shotgun and waits
for a buffalo to wander into view. He uses every part of the buffalo—
he uses them down to their eyewhites, he uses the very lines that
make them up.
He walks to the city to be counted in the census. A wind gets itself up
and ruffles him relentlessly, but miniature monuments hold him
down.
His paper is usually neatly stacked, especially when still in original
trees.
Lives where? In voices: hills and valleys. Lives all in the alphabet as if
it were a rowhouse. Lives at the peak of the tallest chalk hill.
Or lives: nowhere at all. He wanders the desert, written on
old skins, moaning, “Where is home, where is home?” And
waits for a tent peg to be driven through his skull.
He walks to the edge of his very country, he walks forward till he fills
his profile completely, he walks into the water of Marblehead.
“Popeye” sits on the riverbank and sends himself sailing into the
water: he is a good graphite rod with a strong fly line; he sings away
from his reel.
His occasional girlfriend, doodled in the margins, cannot have
intercourse with him; she suffers badly from vestibulitis.
A disorder of her entrance.
She faints every time he tries. “Popeye” reads the dictionary out loud
to revive her. He reads, “Syncope is: a blackout, a loss of consciousness.
Syncope is: the loss of one or more sounds from the interior of
a word.”
While her eyes are closed, he must suppress the temptation to spread
her out and pin her like a map through a single place. For her skirt is
cut to here, her blouse is cut to there!
Notes on His Movement
He is photographed in the still old style, wearing
a shirt patterned with white cartwheels.
His pants patterned with instructions for a two-step.
The old music players have a strong solid base like the base of a
statue, and a flowering-out above. A statue of “popeye” rises in the
center of the song that is playing:
Popeye the man is no longer standing!
Popeye the man has been killed in the stomach;
his French horn spills out and out!
“Popeye” drops from the sky. The townspeople gather to watch him
fall and wait to see his imprint in the pavement, but he reaches out at
the last moment and grabs a branch—of what?—of the clock tower.
He is suspended there still, hanging off the hour hand.
Or:
In a town with no clock tower, “popeye” falls from a great height and
his thigh-bones are driven up into his body, click, like the first length
of lead in a mechanical pencil.
Or:
Past, present, and future: “popeye” falls in a painting. In the foreground,
a farmer pays no attention, and binds bales of newspapers in a field.
“Popeye” will limp to him later, and ask to be splinted with rolled-up
dailies.
(A broken leg is often fatal for a “popeye”;
one blank to the temple will take him out.)
If the dailies succeed in prolonging him, he will heal into a new
configuration: his body will bend and twist and seize; he will become
a living monk’s cramp.
“Popeye” is the priest, and you must confess to him. There is a black
grate where his face should be.
What does he worship—the Cross or the Clean Line? The churches
here have lines for the pews to sit in, and the Bible here is Dürer’s
hare.
And who is his higher power? From time to time, he feels the glass
hover above him, feels magnified, feels “read,” and feels it move
away.
Believes he walks on a beach, but above him, a lens is ground and
ground.
And what was broken open to reveal him? In his world, all visible
things stand up on the half-shell.
Correction: “I do not live in a world at all,” “popeye” says
indignantly, and tightens the equator around his waist.
And does he fear death? He dreams he is a brand that sits in the fire
forever.
It is impossible to know when he was born. A fragment dating from
500 BC refers to him; the title is translated as “Popeye Wavers a Little
in the Heat,” or alternately, “Popeye Lives in a Hell of Line Boil.”
Many have attempted to translate:
A pencil ship is difficult to wreck, but “popeye”
manages every time. The sun shines directly
above him, he floats on a raft of reflection
all the way to shore. He is caught. Cannibals
carry him home on a pole, and cannibals
cook him alive in worst-hot sketch-water.
He lives in every mouth now,
he cannot call himself his own!
Or:
A ship drawn only with parallel lines will never
reach its destination, and will sink if it sinks
only straight down. “Popeye” sails for the horizon
because it is all he can see: he lacks the vertical
stroke I. He sails and he sails, tied to the mast,
the ocean boiling over below him,
feeling his own head turn to a ham,
feeling slices turn over one by one.
A long book of him is called a “brick,” and a long book of him is
called a “doorstop.”
When it came time to put these pages in order, I laid them all out on
the floor, creating the appearance of a city of rooftops seen from
above. And “popeye,” who lived there, had climbed to each one.
And lay on his back reading “The Myth of the Bookcover.”
And stood up like a writing tendon, and said, “Why did you leave the
book open? Anyone could have walked in.”
-
let’s all write about cartoon characters dang
He Marries the Stuffed Owl Exhibit
At the Indiana Welcome Center
He marries her mites and the wires in her wings,
he marries her yellow glass eyes and black centers,
he marries her near-total head turn, he marries
the curve of each of her claws, he marries
the information plaque, he marries the extinction
of this kind of owl, he marries the owl
that she loved in life and the last thought of him
in the thick of her mind
just one inch away from the bullet, there,
he marries the moths
who make holes in the owl, who have eaten the owl
almost all away, he marries the branch of the tree
that she grips, he marries the real-looking moss
and dead leaves, he marries the smell of must
that surrounds her, he marries the strong blue
stares of children, he marries nasty smudges
of their noses on the glass, he marries the camera
that points at the owl to make sure no one steals her,
so the camera won't object when he breaks the glass
while reciting some vows that he wrote himself,
he screams OWL instead of I'LL and then ALWAYS
LOVE HER, he screams HAVE AND TO HOLD
and takes hold of the owl and wrenches the owl
away from her branch
and he covers her in kisses and the owl
thinks, “More moths,” and at the final hungry kiss,
“That must have been the last big bite, there is no more
of me left to eat and thank God,” when he marries
the stuffing out of the owl and hoots as the owl flies out
under his arm, they elope into the darkness of Indiana,
Indiana he screams is their new life and WELCOME.
They live in a tree together now, and the children of
Welcome to Indiana say who even more than usual,
and the children of Welcome to Indiana they wonder
where they belong. Not in Indiana, they say to themselves,
the state of all-consuming love, we cannot belong in Indiana,
as night falls and the moths appear one by one, hungry.
The Feeling of Needing a Pen
Really, like a urine but even more gold,
I thought of that line and I felt it, even
between two legs I felt it, the legs I wrote
just now, a panic, a run-walk to the private
room with a picture of a woman
on the door, or else the line was long, too long,
I barged into the men’s, and felt stares burning
hard like reading or noon, felt them looking
me up and over, felt them looking me over
and down, and all the while just holding their
pens,
they do it different oh no they don’t,
they do it standing up, they do it at the window,
they do it so secret in a three-hour bath, they do it
aloud to someone else, their wife is catching
every word and every word is gold. What you eat
is in it, blackberries for breakfast are in it,
fat atoms of Shakespeare and Hitler are in it.
The sound of water makes me need to: Atlantic,
Pacific, Caspian, Black. I feel it so much because
I am pregnant, I am pregnant with a little self,
all of its self
is that spot on a dog that causes its leg to kick.
It kicked and I felt and I wrote that last line. Even
now it’s happening. I eat only asparagus like arrows,
I am famous for my aim. I get almost none on my hands,
almost. Under my feet the streets, under the streets
the pipes. Inside the pipes a babble sound.