What is to be done

The curtains have gone, has the show begun, or just ended?
Staring into the mirror and asking if you had met before, so hard to understand, I can’t describe the reflection once it leaves me and it changes every once in a while, everything seems farther away no matter what.
A search for ladybirds means that there will be none to populate my hands, an aimless stroll and there will be tickles down my neck.
Where have they all gone, I did not seem to find them anymore.
Catch them to set them free, why, because it makes me happy.
Nocturnalized, adapted to avoid the dreamy clasp, the name of the Game.
In the name of self-care, but they have villainized selfishness.
On hotter nights, a head sprouted out of the window drawn by the flashlight of a night-shift employee, joins the solemn dance that echoes the stars.
We have taken something and made it into something else and this may never stop. I knew because it came to my head.
No fussy, self-absorbed flower bed to catch me, only wild, sturdy sprouts, it was a question of preference.
Preference meant alternatives.
But they have all gone!
Present although I could not reach them, does it matter that they were there, not so much.
If only I understood the ladybird’s cries, were they saying those words that I must have skimmed before, “only let go of our hands, don’t clutch at us…”
What does it mean anyway, he writes and I had been thinking of something else.
In lieu of a solution, an elaboration of a bunch of things that have been labelled an issue.
A slow build and I fought to care where it was heading.


Artwork by Joan Mitchell, “Ladybug” 1957.

A Documentary Poem: Stand Up Comedy is Not Funny.

Stand up. To stand. Not a stand. Stand up. Up, as in, two feet ironed into two straight parallel pieces of flesh with feet. Not feet up when sitting down. Two feet up and standing. Comedy. Two feet up and standing and comedy.

Unreliable Narrator[1]:
Gatekeepers of ugly behavior
In smaller rooms that close.
The boom goes bust
When a brassy voice
Doesn’t feel sorry for:
——————————————————-[Chipper of self satisfaction]

Chihuahua–pug mix
plays duck, can play a duck.
But a duck cannot play
a Chihuahua–pug mix.
Proliferation of outlets
for a crowd. A crowd is
not part crow.
But a crow can be in
the audience when added a ‘d.’
“Where my bitches at?” the
crow[d] loses the letter ‘d.’

All stand up acts are a riddle: Who am I?

The comedy[2]
—————————––ladder can be ugly, because
It’s no good. Its subjective
You have to feel
With these types of
must not feel sorry for these types of
—————————————–A pulp. A good pulp. Pulps that, the mail-comedian, has to ————————————————deliver. Punch–up the delivery. Spark. Spark and talk back.
—————————————–To the television of people. The tastemakers of surprised jokes.

Interviewer #1:
Stand up comedy.
I do.
But it can be stupid.
Frustrating to see
People forcing it.
People making things
Not funny, trying to make it
Funny. Try to.
If I knew the comedian
I would go.

——————————————–Interviewer #2:
——————————————–Depends. Yeah I do.
——————————————–For same reasons.
——————————————–It depends.
——————————————–Really smart and well
——————————————–performed; its funny.
——————————————–Raw; Not funny.
——————————————–Very particular skill.

Systematic Sexism:
Is a pool of performers
But amongst the bookends
is Sarah Silverman
Offended once through radio
As a: Racist Jewish[3] Princess.
She is the ten of a ten,
But is slightly mystifying
Aggressivity helps her way through,
But people never forget she is a jew
And neither does she.

It is still when the echoes come about and the walls collapse. And the laughs bring about some form of social criticism. That within itself is an irony. And the scent from between each letter, sentence, joke, and then laugh, intensifies into hypocrisy. It has to be offensive, like a bed for people to sleep and place their head against an internet that tries to democratize itself. But it’s okay because it’s: only Judd Apatow, Dave Chapelle, Jerry Seinfeld, Seth Rogen, Sarah Silverman, Kumail Nanjiani, Kevin Hart, Trevor Noah, Amy Schumer, Patton Oswalt, and a couple of nobodies. But it’s okay because these are stars on earth to people. And nobodies have [no] [bodies].

Born with it[4]:
Into the hum, and if not
You are an ‘or.’
He was crying because
He was doing a dance
And no one laughed.
They all necessitate a
Fourth grade class on cult
Of personality. Halfway there.
The cult of being excited to
Say words that maybe should
——————————-–be exactly what?


[1] China dolls, gnome like persons. Cleaning lady, cleaning what, cleaning ladies cleaning clean. Students and rastafarians [rastafarian students]. A liberal household for conservative anxieties said through a narrator that is not their own.
[2] To laugh is to spray milk on the floor and see yourself. What does it mean to humor when an [or] is taken away from humor, and the rest is just hum. To hum and solicit a laugh. Then place an ‘or.’ Then you have stand up.
[3] Jerry Seinfeld is not funny. Jerry Seinfeld’s success is as mysterious as the depths of space.
[4] Depends. To [De] the [Pends]. Is what my memory brings; a friend’s philosophy. I am happy. You are happy. She is happy. He is happy. We are happy. They are happy. So it depends on happy. Always on the self she says; happy on the self. To stand behind a mic, and stand a few feet off the ground, and be happy and say:[Racism] [Sexism] [Religion] [Politics] [Grotesque][Chipper of self satisfaction] is to be happy? To my friend. If they are happy. Yes.



Artwork by Rene Magritte “La Clairvoyance”

The Dancer

My head is a cloud of hairspray and bleach
My arm a paper’s edge in the spotlight
Inside me there are bones I cannot reach.

Heart flutters like the insect we did teach
Caught in the glass; I shine into their sight
My head is a cloud of hairspray and bleach.

After the show I know that they will preach.
Steer me wasting away from public eye
Inside me there are bones I cannot reach.

They ask me did you eat, their words a screech
But ink and glitter pool over my eyes.
My head is a cloud of hairspray and bleach.

Try diet coke, a cube of cheese or peach.
The world is black with little stars… knees shake–
Inside me there are bones I cannot reach.

Did you notice how small my wrists were white?
The lightest.  Did you notice how they cheered?
My head is a cloud of hairspray and bleach
Inside me there are bones I cannot reach.


Artwork by Gina Kiel