Holy Crap You Guys I Don't Even Know Right Now

SUMMARY: 
1) We're over at letpeoplepoems.com now 
2) You'll need a WordPress account
3) All the stuff posted here is there too, and the project carries on


So, a thing that has come to light is that Blogger only allows up to 100 authors per blog. We are already more than halfway there! That is awesome but also terrifying. Because of this, we've decided to move to our own domain! http://letpeoplepoems.com/ features all your poems and comments up until this post, and has no limit on the number of posters allowed! Every person alive can poem there if they feel like it! Even dead people if they got to a computer in hell or something!

However, with awesome news always comes news that pisses you off. For example: you'll need a WordPress account to post at the new one instead!

So, because of this bullshit, we'll be sending out invites to all the currently-listed email addresses, and if they're not found in the WordPress database, you can let us know (again) at letpeoplepoems at gmail dot com when you've registered with WordPress, meaning, follow the same process you followed to post here, but with WordPress instead of Blogger.

By doing this, we can stay an open community of posters, and not become an elite cadre of first-comers who were first-served and are stuck with each other forever.

We hope that you'll be understanding with the situation; after all, it's all thanks to you that we have to do this! In fact, we blame you for this mess! Go on, get out of here! And don't come back without a WordPress account!

smoking and skinny jeans by omar de col

i want to write a zombie film
where the main character quits smoking
the same day as the zombie apocalypse
then in the trailer
the tag line will be (in a dramatic trailer voice over)
"he picked the wrong day to quit smoking"
also
the main character will be wearing skinny jeans
and they will become highly impractical
after 2-3 days

My Feelings by R.Lindley

Lover,

you say I talk about my feelings too much,

so I’m going to write them down for you instead:

I love you… and I fucking hate you.

You call me annoying, but I just think you’re weak.

You call me cute; this pisses me off.

You think I’m immature? You can’t even slap two pieces of bread together and call it a sandwich.

Yeah, a hoover for my birthday was a great gift,

I could use it to eliminate all the crap from my life.

One swing and you were down.

I’m glad you forgave me for that though, everything’s better.

Now we can get on with the rest of our

fucked up, beautiful life together.

the pains of being alive by blake west

i feel nothing while listening to rainer maria 

after you have fallen asleep 

i can still see you on my computer screen

i am tired and will fall asleep

‘next to you’ soon

i search the internet for an old ‘emo’ band

i saw in chino hills, ca, as a kid whose name

i can’t remember

i can't find the band

it feels like summer is close and i want it to be close

and i want to be back in your bed and i want to 

sleep forever 

A fart cycle. by rod naquin

I will not make any more boring farts.

A very interesting and institutionally reified fart celebrated by all critics and benefactors in all stations of the proliferating artworld.

You cannot see me because I am a fart.

"To see something as art requires something the eye cannot descry—an atmosphere of theory, a knowledge of history: a fartworld." Danto

I am making farts.

"A certain social institution (the fartworld) has conferred the status of candidate for appreciation." Dickie

A fart not found.

A fart infinitely expanding; a circularly manifested and argued fart residing in manifold silence. A fart modified and exquisitely detailed.

A way silly fart.

A fart I can't even stop laughing at cause it was so dumb and it really sounded funny, kind of like an animal noise or something.

A fart you never even heard of but that's sort of why it's really, really cool.

A really expensive fart.

A fart implicitly considered as art.

I'm starting to think that all the things a fart does are all the things an art does.

I'm your resident fartist!

Why Art Is Like A Fart

I was going to do an art for the kids but turns out there ain't nothing better than a fart.

We join our farts together and do not claim them as our own.

A very serious and philosophically principled fart preceded by years of technical study and supported critically by agents of the fartworld.

A fart that started as an art that hence has fallen all apart and ought regard a thought as naught accordingly as all the smarts had taught.

This is all your fart.

This is all your art.

It's so funny the way your art is; it's so funny the way your fart is.

That fart was so hilarious.

A fart to troll them all.

An art to rule them all.

A whole world made of farts is a child's fantasy.
A whole world made of art is my reality.

Welcome all serious artists! I am sorry, I am merely a silly fartist.

A fart that rhymes; a fart straight from the heart.

A real sexy and provocative fart that is at times unnervingly arousing and makes one question the very nature of a sensual aesthetic.

A fart that's so wrong and inappropriate but that's sort of why all these people started talking about it in the first place.

A fart you didn't even want anyone to hear even though you knew it had to come out but then you were surprised by its musicality.

It wasn't a fart that you thought would go over well but it turns out that you were wrong and all kinds of people appreciated it.

A fart you didn't even like when you expelled it and you still don't like it but for some reason all kinds of people really dig it.

A fart that was an afterthought.

A fart that is a product of procedure and perhaps chance operations relating to its audience through a theorized interstice.

A fart that was documented and will be studied for years to come as an exemplar of a highly developed style and a vessel for a teaching.

A fart that was never owned and cannot in any way imaginable be sold.

A fart that is never, ever finished.

It was a fart,
Or was it?

Hi guys! I just did a thing!

That thing was to add your names to all the titles of your posts! That way, if people are browsing through the archives, they'll know whose poem they're clicking on!

Also, if any poem here is gonna get nominated for a pushcart, it's only gonna be this one, so don't get your hopes up!

Bye!

i never name names but you know your own and that is enough by poncho peligroso

i am trying extremely hard to be rational
because i know the alternative is worse
but i am going to publish this poem widely
as a passive-aggressive means of revenge

here is how i will publish it widely:

i am going to perform a conceptual stand-up comedy routine
i will tattoo this poem onto myself in large script on my torso
this line is instructing the media to print this in my obituary
there will be no audience or stage or microphone for this joke
i will put on a white full body spandex suit and nothing else
i will quietly lie down in a snow drift during a blizzard

get it

2011 poet laureate

Steve ROggenbuck by steve roggenbuck

wait so are you currently in love?

No, not at the moment. I do like someone though.

transdermal by derek lessard

sheet of solubility; sheet of sheerest misery. smashed to bits with hypodermic purposes in mind. transparency of tissue. was benign. seethrough glass, satisfied. disappearances into oblivion eluvia; returnal womb.
subdermal soars. climbs to higher heights. newborn novelties in amniotic baths. underwater swims. eyes upturned, looking through an augured hole to epidermal godlight. island peaceful. eye this miry storm of me, berg divisions. follow of trailbroken bloodpaths through snow. melting point becomes a puddle. erasures like watermarks. comfort in all that is thermal. warm. sweetness of a voice’s answer through a current of caloric calm.
a snowman’s desperate tries solidify, liquidize to quick, clutching cold remainders, infernal grasp in grip.
body
temperature,
unnavigable.
analog to language
chasing its own tale,
never telling hot from cold.
icecap to icecap,
bipolarized.
the arctics,
the antarctics
of a thermostat.
syringe in midmuster of its blood.
trust’s invest in oncoming cone
of headlight flooding tunnel
during time
of scheduled track maintenance.
a seat awaits you
in a train station terminal.
compass rose invades
a sheath of human camouflage,
needle prow set low
no matter where
its motion goes.
somehow,
always found
again inside
this house,
freezing
wreath
of frozen
sweatdrops,
following
spotwelder’s bead
to mesh tornadic sex
with algid water,
sneaking up
the cylinder,
solution dyed
in graduated
crawls
up
fractions,
toward
identity
with
self-
an
identity
of
one.
sexual congress
of blood with water.
alkaloid comminglers
on the sneak,
spiderlike-
up the microcosmic tunnel,
microcosmos
of me,
squeezed in the vicegrip
of one quarter
of a cubic centimeter.
fractional space.
matter of division
into brittle parts.
mattress admits me,
accepts this
fall into,
drunk with mania,
cupped quiet by
a clammy fear
of jawbone chatters.
I,
sole
survivor
in a family
led by
its sharpest point,
strike of veins
instead of nerves.
the
devour
of
delicacy
after
delicacy.
This is my body, given for you.
This is my blood, shed for you.
The sun shines through
the ice summations
on the picture window,
starts a fire slowly
on the hardwood floor,
reflects the glowing,
twilit red of sunset
over the Canadian border.
This poor livingroom,
once so fresh and clean
when mom was here to keep it.
Now, all’s taken on
a dingy,
funereal aspect.
Dust layers accumulate,
minutes staring down
the oven clock,
counting minutes
as if how many cigarettes
are left,
counting down
the minutes
of this dying death.
how many
will be wasted
in its wake,
in what
is left?
disillusory nothingness
of none.
disillusory nothingness
of no one.
not even
the invisible type
of emptiness,
not even the kind
you can inhale.
sometimes,
I think
they’re still
sleeping
in their bedrooms.
I go into
the fridge
to find
the slicemark,
the suture cut
down the middle
of the ham slab-
find that reliable,
dependable cut,
always there
for me.
I always use it
so they can’t tell
I’m still eating
them,
eating
their meat
in secret
freeloads;
parental
discretion.
I then continue
living what I call
this
highlife
on the hog.
I,
the
glutton,
live
among.
all
that’s
left
is
what’s
already.
I’ve eaten it all.
I’ve eaten everything.
a stomach’s growl sound,
reminder
of the this is life
or this is death knell.
when a fridge
is layed
on its back,
facing up,
down on the floor,
you see
how well
it would fit
a body-
just can’t believe
I’ve nerve enough
to continue usage
of the surname
I’ve shamed
with such free will.
how long
can you live
on innocence,
inherited?
my entire life,
only one arm:
one for receipt,
a phantom limb,
an offering-
given.
cheated
out of half
the proverb’s metaphor;
from
birth,
severed-
never gave a thing
to this family,
never put in,
only took
anything,
everything
I could.
I was supposed
to have two arms-
one for receiving,
another for giving.
removal.
repast.
just give a glance
to the bank accounts.
recent transactions:
transgressions
masquerading
transcendence.
took, took, and took
all of what was
transient,
temporary,
temporal
march
to
the
rhythm
of
its
ticks.
landfilled
gifts,
abused.
no presence.
only
bygone
hadbeens,
foregone
futures
never
will
be,
blood-obsessed temple
of the hands
of this sutured
body clock,
right hand stolen
from the God
who created
me,
a
lefthanded
clock-
in
your
image,
half
of
your
immanence-
black
hole
vacuums
up
this
temple’s
plenum
of
embodiment.
how long is the night?
a question
that can state.
how long can I live
off bestowments, laurels
of parents long since dead.
how long must I live,
left lonely
in this ghostfilled house,
rebuilt in form
that leaves
God
out,
unwelcomed
by this wicked house,
where measured desperations
embrace a shadow
of my dad
or my mom
or my brother-
disappear amidst my arms,
mist clouds that were never,
leave me standing there
with nothingness
I
well
deserve.
those
hungry
ghosts,
full
of
empty
bloat.
anything
you can have,
everything
you can have-
can never have
what you want.
sunset
Minnesota
crashes in
to mock me
with divinities
long ago abandoned
for a practice
that condemns me,
Godless-
with
nothing
of
the
rationed
food
I tried to time just right
while it was still there,
in the fridge-
can no longer open,
find in it
an
almost
boundless
stash-
eat a meal. collapse. fullness and wholeness and everything that is good and wonderful in all this world and think about the warmth of eating what my mother left me and hear her voice hear an answer to the prayers met by the torturous silence with which God damns me and now even all the leftovers are gone and I’m left with nothing but what’s partially invisible disappears so fast before my restless wakeful eyes and how long is the night halved by a tomorrow already coming approach of 12:00 is it lunchtime is it noon no matter how much I eat I can never feel full hell it could be midnight for all I know and why did I have to live the longest and why will I among them all die last.

We Are Cold Under The Vapors by cassandra troyan

My grandmother is watching a talk show.

A woman in the audience excitedly claps and smiles and mouths,
Yes!
There is belief in her eyes.

Went to Meijers.
There were three men in
full army fatigues buying donuts.
One had little glasses perched
on the edge of his nose,
inspecting a cruller.
He seemed pleased.

I walk to another aisle: ice cream.

Frozen yogurt? Really?
Who am I?
Will I eat this?

I will
eat this
against my will.
I will find a
way
to transpose
belief back into my eyes
through
the dry hinge of
my mouth.

thessalonia by derek lessard

earthquake on stilts.
foundations of stone.
and as for
ways we go:
they one,
I other.
young family;
lithoid talc.
backsplash
of history.
tearing,
wartorn
Rome.
shake,
shiver.
my journey's reach
for the other side
of night.
African horn.
crescent fang
blows muted air.
When I hold it
in my hand,
it tries
to disappear.
Hellenize the distance
over oceans, over sandbars,
over zeros absolute;
hurricane-proof.
series of kenoses full.
circles asking where.
zephyrs directionless,
sailing kitelike
through inertias

of the air

Glass Toe Alien Probes by basqui simone

“I stopped reading Nabokov when he shitted on the Russian Silver Age poets.”

“Do you ever think about aliens?”

“He gutted Akhmatova.”

“Like if they probe people?”

“Doesn’t she look like a Russian Virginia Woolf? Akhmatova?”

“Who?”

“What were you saying? Aliens?”

“If they really probe people?”

“When I danced at The Kennel Club, aliens probed me. Norwegians. Pale pigment. Visible veins crisscrossed up and down their arms like bruised whip lashes. One had blond arm hair. When the club’s fan twisted our way, the cool air shook his arm hair. I remember his arm hair looked like wheat sprouting out of snow covered soil. The other was a redhead. Red freckles dotted his arms. So many freckles they bled into one another.”

“So what happened?”

 “One alien stuck two fingers—”

“In your ass? Where?”

“Yes. Two fingers. In my ass. His nails were filed translucent triangles. The nails dragged over my shaved skin nudging a few bumps. Those little bumps that sometimes pop up after a fresh shave when the razor peels off the cream and scrapes the skin.

“You shave your ass?”

“Well, you know. Anyway. Deeper. Much deeper. The fingers slid in. Then the fingers expanded like someone stretching scissors until the perpendicular blades morph into a near straight line. The second alien, the bleeding redhead, blew air between my ass cheeks.”

“Cold?”

“So cold. A surprise cold. Like when a petite, dull icicle plops on your neck when you step outside, slam the door and shake the rain gutter. Doesn’t hurt but makes your skin shriek and echoes down your spine shaking your back bones.”

“What did they probe you with? Just fingers?”

“No. They started with fingers then added glass. No. Not that kind of glass. I’m sitting fine aren’t I? Blown glass. Shaped like a large toe. A giant toe.”

“Scary.”

“There are scarier things.”

“Like Big Foot?”

“Oh, that guy.” 

"/" by derek lessard

breakfast
bellring.
Animal.
lunch
bellring.
Animal.
supper
bellring.
Animal.
hungerdrive.
cigarettes after,
follow suit.
Orchestrated call of food.
Stride of shame
through cough gauntlets,
strength in numbers found,
spent on campus yardgrounds.
Smoke breaks cornered
in their rooms,
walled-in coordinates.
Empty spaces cloy,
glottal stop divisions-
starving vela long,
surfeits in shifts
to not become
one half of
a before and after photo,
bloated with success.
Still, I eat a third
from every fractioned meal
each day,
square pegs
fit evenly
into round holes,
circularity of days
obedient to rhythms
of resetting suns,
Circadian.
Living
for the weekend,
dying
for the week.
Differ from,
defer to
God,
all in one
sunrise.
Body
clock
ticking,
biologs
last noshes.
When a back is turned to light
its front is cast in shadow,
and its other half
is night.
By our limitations of design,
though we begin and end,
time continues
to be time.
Miraged oasis,
remoteness
of the snack-
“I’ll eat just half.”
Slimness still so far
from feeling whole,
bisects being
full.
Belief in fleeting distance
zeroes on a close-
must go further,
still-
just to
reach again-
always only yet.
I’ve heard
cold turkey patients
got fat-
but we’re not
so different
when we’re seated
in the same room,
talking up
a single appetite.
Wholly divided
by each other,
suspended
over
the chasm
of a quotient’s separation
from a passing future,
we find repast
together,
in this bitter fast
of soluble holes;
puzzle pieces
hidden in
another
word.

Play with Me by cameron mozafari

It is like
you are in a dull world
with dull landscapes
fighting dull monsters--
sometimes a T-rex
and BAM!
you uncover a clue
that leads you to a death-train
or BAM!
that tower that looked dumb?
Odin was there.

It was like a dream
where you played cards
and you went to school
and your teacher was hot
and she whipped monsters
and your school floated

But these demons come from nowhere
and you are forced, at the end, to convince yourself
that you are not dreaming.

meditation on life and nature by zachary whalen

i like breathing

taking big breaths

it feels pretty good

i also like when the wind blows

making my hair look all cool

guess i'm really into like wind and air

stuff like that

i wonder what it's like to get old

probably it's bad but like

do people care as much

like about what you do / how you behave

seems like people wouldn't care

about having goals or being ambitious

just be able to chill out all the time

do a really bad job of everything

is that what it's like when you're old

not having to care about anything

or do i have to care about things

do i have to care about things forever

Survival of the Sickest by derek lessard

Darwin falls ill
by appointment
only;
quietly
devastating
nausea plateaus
across the span
of an installment plan.
Can’t have
both,
can
only half-


convenience
of the handicap,

almost nears
a laugh,
for largely part
of being sick
is the need
to prove
you are

the sickest.
“I’ve the power to kill,
but I haven’t
the power
to die,”
a recluse said

to half her life

that stood
a loaded gun-
staying safely,

simply-
in her bed,
staying sick,
cuddling her biography.


Some live

so others
may die-


yet, how can we

be any different,
all seated
in this room,
waiting
for a God

we fear,
asking why
we were

chosen
to be
here?
Now opens
the door

to the
upstairs

meds room,
fountain spilling

from an open mouth,
reluctant shyness
of an eerie winter light-
a secret quiet,
kept-
half-relent
of glimmer’s struggle

through dustcake gathers
on the dimmest glass.


A room,
waiting
for God.
What’s it like,
inside?


Is it silent,
is it loud?


Would I remember

coming out?
I’m afraid.



What’s the something
there,
in the attic-
past the door?
Just what is it

we’re all
waiting for?

XXXX XX by josh vanmoor

as a very young person I was very discontent with my surroundings and the faces of my neighborhood vendors, neighbors in general, went to the bus station and went up to the woman behind the counter and said please give me a ticket to Omaha, I will not be back, her face didn't look up

youre already in Omaha better get used to it kid

went home and destroyed my Lego village

opens by derek lessard

such a thing,
seeing kitten families
acting out a skit
of tailpounces
amidst a playground
of rejected mattresses
and dumpster refuse,
a play on garbage
in the dark.
they,
so vibrant,
warm-
so colorful,
a kind of calico
you'd die among,
so young.
and I, here.
clewed into ball,
under spotlight, cold.
alone.
an old man,
senescent-
falling in the sleep
held by his
own arms

Terrorflarf by Jess Dutschmann

Based on the zip code you entered, the number of guests (100-150), and the items selected, the estimated wedding cost is between $19,551 and $32,585 for a Unique wedding.

i'm just glad you're paying attention by poncho peligroso

glare accusingly at a woman

touching an interactive art piece

and whisper that she's ruining it

as long as you're making that mortgage payment

has emma done well at the beach

have you taken her into the water

or into the waves as they come up

- poncho peligroso

2011 poet laureate

of the internet

by verdict of google

Poemkemon #1 by kim calder

Its fire is put out when it sleeps.
The fire burns weakly when it feels sick.
Its fire never goes out.
Because it is very proud. It hates
accepting food from people. A poor walker,
it often falls down. It doesn't like
to be taken care of. It lives alone,
away from others. Apparently, every one of them
believes it is the most important. It lives a solitary life.
Its cries are very strident. Because they are weak
individually, they form groups.
However, they bicker if the group grows too big.
It has a savage nature. It never stops attacking
even if it is injured. It is known
as an industrious worker. It flees
while the foe is momentarily blinded.
Using its psychic power is such a strain
on its brain that it needs to sleep
for 18 hours a day. If one is nearby,
an eerie shadow appears on TV screens.
Seeing the shadow is said to bring bad luck.
In the distant past, it was somewhat stronger
than the horribly weak descendants that exist today.
Brutally vicious and enormously destructive.
Once it appears, its rage never settles
until it has razed the fields and mountains
around it. It attracts prey with a sweet aroma,
then downs it with thorny whips
hidden in its arms. Its sweet aroma attracts prey.
Then it spews poison. The more toxic it is,
the sweeter its aroma. As a result of its pursuit
of faster, yet more silent flight,
a new set of wings grew on its hind legs.
The transformation of its legs into wings
made it better at flying, but more clumsy at walking.

sometimes its kind of hard to be a single dad lmao by michael inscoe

sometimes its kind of hard to be a single dad sometimes

except when i meat hot girls at the park lol!

jk ok it is very satisfying to know that i am responsible for the future of this beautiful world

except when the games on no crying!lol

jk seriously who will love me now i mean jason is already 7 months i don't know what to do when i am crying and vomiting from changing his diaper trust me ive done that more than once lol

i dont think i can do this on my own

why is diaper spelled like that

Poem Made of Titles from Poems which ‘I couldn’t make work’ - Alexander J. Allison

He liked to check old love-letters for spelling-mistakes

I can’t date a girl without dental records

Lonely magnets come in pairs

How many can I put you down for?

Please refrain: please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please

When we are naked enough

Fabergé by derek lessard

feminine plural I,
with bloody body
shaking violent
as a paintmixer,
sipping font
of adoration.
drawn as we are
to a sheen, twinned
on hooded ovary
of Russia's imperial’s egg
through ova collapsework,
glairwhite-
tunnels marble veins
of vanity countertop,
finding balance
on the shoulders
of a trickledown
became a mistress,
no matter how unwittingly,
mopping up the weekend
off her kitchen floor,
melted evidence invisibility,
icicle as murder weapon
listing its indignities
on an otherwise blank sheet of paper.

I Will Spawn The Revolution Against Everything I Don't Like by P.H. Madore

When I was young, I was taught that my feelings don't matter
& when I got older, that became less than popular, and my feelings began to matter

I realized I was in denial last week
& have been introspecting my way through it since
But I don't consider that introspection literature
& I don't ask my friends to publish it

The love of my life asked me why
& asked me a lot of other things
Shortly before we broke up last time

I want to illustrate something in clear terms
But that only brings the fervor of mania
That only brings the frothing of anonymity
The fear of real violence, because they say I'm a very violent man

I don't want another ten years of this

& your melodrama won't sound good outside your own head
Your melodrama won't taste good outside your own mouth
Your blog posts make you seem like the kind of person
That people pretend to like & talk about when not around

One day we'll admit that 2011 was a bad idea

-P. H. Madore