this american life
So.
If anyone is in the Midwest/Ohio/Gambier/Kenyon/College on saturday. . . then come over. . . cause MEDESKI, MARTIN and WOOD are play at my school FOR FREE.
I have been writing and stuff. Chris and my chapbook is coming out in a couple months.
Chris is on the right.
We went to the James Wright poetry festival in Martin's Ferry, which is the ohio side of wheeling WV. We were the youngest people and Chris accosted one of the keynote speakers at the goodwill. She thought said poetry was dying and sounded like graduating seniors who act like it will never be as good as when they were there. I bought the suit I'm wearing for $7 and pretended I didn't know Cris, which is impossible.
We bluntedly wrote this poem sitting next to each other. The first section I wrote, as Chris, as an ode to me. And Chris wrote the second part as a response to the first part, acting like me, but aware he is writing it, to himself, be really to me. This poem is about self-fellatio and how much better we can blow ourselves than each other.
[SOMETHING ALREADY SAID, FOR SOMEBODY]
Doted
Inoculated through
scatter’d design
Apparent imperfections
unnoted
Grey mispleated nipped tucked fretted
mind
These recants spoken not songed or oded.
Those determined detriments.
Remitted against yourself
Though not precious nothing
still
samed.
My Gracious nest!
Depraved shouldn’t mean ugly
Or naughty
though eating rotten fruit
Haughtily grinless, grimeless.
TIGHTLY WOUNDED BY INVISIBLE THREADS
VACUUM CLOGGED THICKET RE-ENFORCED
SUCKED UP BB’S TEARING NEW A-HOLES
In the bag. Exfoliating dust up your
Angled septum.
So crooked
Right half
working double
Left left
in unsnored
My Useless nest!
-Chris Miller
Havocation
Reaction is a ragged tear
Like you tear apart your lines
And how you move in notions
With occaisional thrash and havoc,
I'll write yours you of mine.
You were probably loafing around
Said ''poetry; loaves and wine', man,'
Ready to prick your ocean: sun:
:rusting olympic typewriter, it was
Morning and you'd risen, not dined.
Snickering on the sofa, odes,
'Ridiculous, just another mine & thine,'
You were thinking to yourself in Pacing,
Ampersands, lone quotation marks, and smoke
Your eyes flashed with the ode's twist’d resign.
-Alex Hiatt
-by Alex Hiatt & Chris Miller
If anyone is in the Midwest/Ohio/Gambier/Kenyon/College on saturday. . . then come over. . . cause MEDESKI, MARTIN and WOOD are play at my school FOR FREE.
I have been writing and stuff. Chris and my chapbook is coming out in a couple months.
Chris is on the right.
We went to the James Wright poetry festival in Martin's Ferry, which is the ohio side of wheeling WV. We were the youngest people and Chris accosted one of the keynote speakers at the goodwill. She thought said poetry was dying and sounded like graduating seniors who act like it will never be as good as when they were there. I bought the suit I'm wearing for $7 and pretended I didn't know Cris, which is impossible.
We bluntedly wrote this poem sitting next to each other. The first section I wrote, as Chris, as an ode to me. And Chris wrote the second part as a response to the first part, acting like me, but aware he is writing it, to himself, be really to me. This poem is about self-fellatio and how much better we can blow ourselves than each other.
[SOMETHING ALREADY SAID, FOR SOMEBODY]
Doted
Inoculated through
scatter’d design
Apparent imperfections
unnoted
Grey mispleated nipped tucked fretted
mind
These recants spoken not songed or oded.
Those determined detriments.
Remitted against yourself
Though not precious nothing
still
samed.
My Gracious nest!
Depraved shouldn’t mean ugly
Or naughty
though eating rotten fruit
Haughtily grinless, grimeless.
TIGHTLY WOUNDED BY INVISIBLE THREADS
VACUUM CLOGGED THICKET RE-ENFORCED
SUCKED UP BB’S TEARING NEW A-HOLES
In the bag. Exfoliating dust up your
Angled septum.
So crooked
Right half
working double
Left left
in unsnored
My Useless nest!
-Chris Miller
Havocation
Reaction is a ragged tear
Like you tear apart your lines
And how you move in notions
With occaisional thrash and havoc,
I'll write yours you of mine.
You were probably loafing around
Said ''poetry; loaves and wine', man,'
Ready to prick your ocean: sun:
:rusting olympic typewriter, it was
Morning and you'd risen, not dined.
Snickering on the sofa, odes,
'Ridiculous, just another mine & thine,'
You were thinking to yourself in Pacing,
Ampersands, lone quotation marks, and smoke
Your eyes flashed with the ode's twist’d resign.
-Alex Hiatt
-by Alex Hiatt & Chris Miller