Ryan's Bumper Sticker Poem (& David Shields essay)

Hey, I don't think we can comment on peoples' entries, but I just wanted to say that there is an essay called "Life Story" by David Shields that also uses bumper stickers. I think it's great and here it is:

Life Story
by David Shields

First things first.

You're only young once, but you can be immature forever. I may grow old, but I'll never grow up. Too fast to live, too young to die. Life's a beach.

Not all men are fools; some are single. 100% Single. I'm not playing hard to get; I am hard to get. I love being exactly who I am.

Heaven doesn't want me and Hell's afraid I'll take over. I'm the person your mother warned you about. Ex-girlfriend in trunk. Don't laugh; your girlfriend might be in here.

Girls wanted, all positions, will train. Playgirl on board. Party girl on board. Sexy blonde on board. Not all dumbs are blonde. Never underestimate the power of redheads. Yes, I am a movie star. 2QT4U. A4NQT. No ugly chicks. No fat chicks. I may be fat, but you're ugly and I can diet. Nobody is ugly after 2 a.m.

Party on board. Mass confusion on board. I brake for bong water. Jerk off and smoke up. Elvis died for your sins. Screw guilt. I'm Elvis; kiss me.

Ten-and-a-half inches on board. Built to last. You can't take it with you, but I'll let you hold it for awhile.

Be kind to animals--kiss a rugby player. Ballroom dancers do it with rhythm. Railroaders love to couple up. Roofers are always on top. Pilots slip it in.

Love sucks and then you die. Gravity's a lie; life sucks. Life's a bitch; you marry one, then you die. Life's a bitch and so am I. Beyond bitch.

Down on your knees, bitch. Sex is only dirty when you do it right. Liquor up front--poker in the rear. Smile; it's the second best thing you can do with your lips. I haven't had sex for so long I forget who gets tied up. I'm looking for love but will settle for sex. Bad boys have bad toys. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me. Live fast; love hard; die with your mask on.

So many men, so little time. Expensive but worth it. If you're rich, I'm single. Richer is better. Shopaholic on board. Born to shop. I'd rather be shopping at Nordstrom. Born to be pampered. A woman's place is the mall. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Consume and die. He who dies with the most toys wins. She who dies with the most jewels wins. Die, yuppie scum.

This vehicle not purchased with drug money. Hugs are better than drugs.

You are loved.

Expectant mother on board. Baby on board. Family on board. I love my kids. Precious cargo on board. Are we having fun yet? Baby on fire. No child in car. Grandchild in back.

I fight poverty; I work. I owe, I owe, it's off to work I go. It sure makes the day long when you get to work on time. Money talks; mine only knows how to say goodbye. What do you mean I can't pay off my Visa with my Mastercard?

How's my driving? Call 1-800-545-8601. If this vehicle is being driven recklessly, please call 1-800-EAT-SHIT. Don't drink and drive—you might hit a bump and spill your drink.

My other car is a horse. Thoroughbreds always get there first. Horse lovers are stable people. My other car is a boat. My other car is a Rolls-Royce. My Mercedes is in the shop today. Unemployed? Hungry? Eat your foreign car. My other car is a 747. My ex-wife's car is a broom. My other car is a piece of shit, too. Do not wash--this car is undergoing a scientific dirt test. Don't laugh; it's paid for. If this car were a horse, I'd have to shoot it. If I go any faster, I'll burn out my hamsters. I may be slow, but I'm ahead of you. I also drive a Titleist. Pedal downhill.

Shit happens. I love your wife. Megashit happens. I'm single again. Wife and dog missing—reward for dog. The more people I meet, the more I like my cat. Nobody on board. Sober 'n' crazy. Do it sober. Drive smart; drive sober.

No more Mr. Nice Guy. Lost your cat? Try looking under my tires. I love my German shepherd. Never mind the dog—beware of owner. Don't fence me in. Don't tell me what kind of day to have. Don't tailgate or I'll flush. Eat shit and die. My kid beat up your honor student. Abort your inner child. I don't care who you are, what you're driving, who's on board, who you love, where you'd rather be, or what you'd rather be doing.

Not so close—I hardly know you. Watch my rear end, not hers. You hit it—you buy it. Hands off. No radio. No Condo/No MBA/No BMW. Don't steal; the government loves competition. You toucha my car—I breaka your face. Protected by Smith and Wesson. Warning: This car is protected by a large sheet of cardboard.

Luv2Hnt. Gun control is being able to hit your target. Hunters make better lovers—they go deeper into the bush—they shoot more often—and they eat what they shoot.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do own the whole damn road. Get in, sit down, shut up, and hold on. I don't drive fast; I just fly low. If you don't like the way I drive, stay off the sidewalk. I'm polluting the atmosphere. Can't do 55.

I may be growing old, but I refuse to grow up. Get even: live long enough to become a problem to your kids. We're out spending our children's inheritance.

Life is pretty dry without a boat. I'd rather be sailing. A man's place is on his boat. Everyone must believe in something; I believe I'll go canoeing. Who cares!

Eat dessert first; life is uncertain. Why be normal?

Don't follow me; I'm lost, too. Wherever you are, be there. No matter where you go, there you are. Bloom where you are planted.

Easy does it. Keep it simple, stupid. I'm 4/Clean Air. Go fly a kite. No matter—never mind. UFOs are real. Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most. I brake for unicorns.

Choose death.

Southern American Portrait #1 (Lament for Ignorance)

I'd rather be killin' comuniss.

I'll apologize for slavery, if you apologize for rap music.

Born to hunt, forced to work.

Nuke their ass, and take the gas.

Anyone found her in the evening, will be found here in the morning.

My wife, yes. My dog, maybe. My GUN, Never!

I want YOU, to speak english.

Kiss my rebel ass.

If you can't feed'em – Don't breed'em!

I'll keep my money, freedom, and my gun if you will keep the "change."

I'm busy. You're ugly. Have a nice day.

Guns don't kill people.... I do.

Gun control means using both hands.

Drugs lead nowhere, but its the scenic route.

The shortest sentence is "I Am." The longest is, "I Do."

Keep honking. I'm reloading.

Jesus, take the wheel, I've been drinkin'.

Jesus is the man!

God, Guns and Guts.

Keep America Free.

Ignore your rights, and they'll go away.

I love grits!

Judgement Day. May21, 2011.

Those who beat their guns into plows, will plow for those who don't.

American by birth. Southern by the grace of God.

Real men don't shoot blanks.

I'd rather be killin' Yankees.

Liberty and Justice for Y'all.

The South will rise again.

Cat. The other white meat.

________________________________________________________________________

Ryan Blum-Kryzstal Found Poem Assemblage from Southern Bumper Stickers

5/9/2010

a’merica

(This work is in dialogue with Allen Ginsburg’s poem “America” written 54 years ago in Berkeley, California. Aspects of the form are borrowed from him as a means of dialogue, as a means of launching. The apostrophe in the title signifies fragmentation.)

a’merica, you are not the only America.
a’merica this poem is longer than Allen’s because it has been adjusted for inflation, so grab a knee.
a’merica I’ll warn you now that I’m not as funny as Allen.
a’merica three dollars and ninety-nine cents February 15th, 2010.
a’merica all has been given and all is still not yet to be.
My mind cannot stand me.
The human war has shape-shifted.
It is live, in hi-definition.
You have relished the taste of gunmetal and nuclear war.
Fuck you and your Patriot Act.
You reek of racist filth in every corridor of your language.
What the fuck does that do to someone’s consciousness?
a’merica the crusades still burn in the projects where the children are lynched by your education.
What’s it take to get a decent grocery store ‘round here?
The children read from rotten books, books eaten by mice, digital books that glow in the dark, books on tape that read to them while they stare…
a’merica ketchup is still not a vegetable.
a’merica your farms, your rivers, your coasts - are dying.
a’merica you didn’t steal the votes this time? But it’s never too late.
a’merica congrats on the new President, lets sell an aircraft carrier and build some schools.
You continue the Crusade in the East –
the ancient semen of fascist papacies and Constantine’s sword.
Here’s Tom with the weather.

I feel actual hopefulness so please don't bother me anymore.
I am writing this poem to get into the mind of you at this precipice.
a’merica will you always be the demon-angel wannabe savior of the world?
When will you stop hating your sex-flesh?
When will you stop laughing at your penis and your vagina?
When will you swallow?
When will you eat your mirror?
When will you find worth in the multitudes?
a’merica why are your libraries vacant?
a’merica when will you stop being America?
I'm nauseated with your verboseness.
I am trying to forgive you, but I have not forgiven myself.
a’merica when will I be able to afford the good-looking food at the supermarket?
a’merica the next world approaches and you are ending.
The Maya tattooed it on the stones.
Your machines are ventriloquists.
You made me shed the notions of saint and sinning.
You can not even bare to smell your own shit rotting in the mountains of Afghanistan!
a’merica is one American life worth more than one Pashtun farmer?
Spell p-a-s-h-t-u-n with your google.
The only way to settle this argument is not to settle.
Ginsberg is in Jersey with the worms only to return as Uncle Liberty.
Are you the harbinger or is this the charade?
There is no point that I am coming to.
There is just this attempt to report to Allen the state of things.
This is an obsession of becoming.
a’merica the seasons come later and later every year.
The newspapers malfunction into blogispheric oblivion.
Somewhere, there is a symphony of mass shootings.
a’merica do you know how to make a mixed tape. The plastic kind?
Do you even know how to listen without pushing the button?
a’merica every bomb you drop is a nail in your coffin.
a’merica have you ever heard about Rome?
You can only play it close to the chest for so long.
The closet is bursting with skeletons for everyone to see.
And you do nothing.
And I do nothing.
All I do is type and judge.

a’merica the Mountaintop has come home to roost.
The Promised Land is a human heart.
It has grown up to take the reigns without apology.
The old guard is falling and I can hear you whimper.
I breathe the air every time I can remember to take a breath.
I leave the house to wrestle with the forces of ineptitude.
When I go to Texas I get high having gentle orgies in a feast of love.
My brain is not made up of mind.
You should have seen me reading Zinn.
My shrink feels like my life is a creative process.
I will say the Kaddish and then take a bath.
I will not pledge my allegiance.
I have second sight and astral projection.
a’merica you shot my brother in the face!
You shot Fred Hampton is his sleep.
You shot Amadou Diallo through his wallet.
Sean’s Bells ring in your stale ears.
I am addressing you!
Is it even your fucking job?

I am obsessed with Democracy Now, Wax Poetics and The Economist.
I read porn every week.
I lick the faces of every People, US, Oprah, Living, plasma screen.
Their jovial covers shout to me every time I pass by the homeless guy.
I try to read at the Library of Congress, but they never let me in.
So I read standing up, or on the shitter, or on the computer, or naked in bed.
I read my student loan bills and the numbers are serious.
My undergraduate degree is the cost of a Senator’s monthly mortgage on a second home.
I'm getting serious.
I am you a’merica.
Myself is talking to you – myself is.

Asia has risen, and is it OK. I'm fucking sick of you paranoia.
They torture and sell just like a’merica.
Economic nationalism is the new Kool-aid.
I got about enough of a chance as China does.
My natural resources are comprised of musical instruments, balls of cat hair, kisses, multiple
orgasms, both given and received transmissions. A love supreme, leagues of un-publishable
poems and un-singable melodies that stretch the imagination traveling at the speed of light!

Is it time to reevaluate your two point two million prisoners?
Department of correction is a contradiction in paradox.
My Uncle Scott just got out and can’t find a job.
He yells at the checkout girl at the grocery store.
He was a Talmudic genius – but he fried his brain in your prison cells.

Your ten million homeless?
Your forty-eight million uninsured?
Your 'hypocratic' oath?
a’merica do you know the definition of insanity?
I have not abolished anything but your cynicism.
a’merica your label is sticking out of your ass.
a’merica how to wax poetic of your holy hollow hallows and your jovial hosannas?
Does my body make me a bad boy?
I will continue like Rupert Murdoch my stanzas are as thieving as his intellect
more so they are multi-dimensional and sexless.
a’merica I will ebay you stanzas fer $2,666,666.00 apiece.
a’merica the dollar is worth less that it was in 1971.
a’merica free Leonard Peltier.
a’merica free Mumia Abu Jamal.
a’merica you reek of the same hypocrisy you seek to oppose.
I am not my sister tending to her husband’s post traumatic stress disorder.
He was a true believer.
He killed for you a’merica. He shot Cambodian’s in the head from a thousand yards.
He undercovered copped his way through the drug war.
He brought home the bacon.
You took away his pension. He held his partner while he lay dying in your streets.
He still flies his flag, but not for you.
It is for the concept.

a’merica I am not Lawrence King. Ramona Moore. Abdo Ali Ahmed. Pamela Waechter.
a’merica do you even know who they are?
a’merica slavery has not ended.
Women and children are being trafficked like kilos, like waste, like oil.
a’merica the shell-shocked soldiers are lining up our streets.
a’merica your wars are not video games.
Your wars are not businesses.
a’merica it's them Talibansz and them Muzzlims.
Them Jewzz and them Erabs. Them Obamaz. Them Sheiks.
Your television is like a fifties rerun with new pronouns.
You just want all that oil.
That ‘erl’ as we say back is TayHass
That black gold got you hooked.
Uncle Sam is a junkie strung out on oil and money.
I hear Lady Liberty’s turnin’ tricks to pay off her mortgage.
And them poppy fields of black tar keep the C.I.A.’s umbilical chord from choking.
a’merica do you know what “blowback” is?!
Our filling stations are taking in other forces of nature.
a’merica you are melting away.
a’merica
We gotta keep their feet to the fire.
Resistance breeds suffering.
The sum of all parts does not equal the equation.
A’merica I'm putting my bony shoulder to the axis mundi.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Ryan Blum-Kryzstal, February 15, 2010 – “Brooklyn, New York City, where they paint murals of Biggie.”

next week!

next wednesday!

5/19 8pm $8
st marks poetry proj
AMIRI BARAKA & MARK NOWAK

mark nowak wrote "coal mountain elementary," for those of you who took documentary poetry with jill last semester.

this sounds like it should be a really great reading, it's after finals have ended so hopefully some of you will be able to make it.

more info here: http://poetryproject.org/program-calendar/amiri-baraka-mark-nowak.html

cheers,
katy

Boog City

Boog Literature

351 West 24th Street, Suite 19E

New York, NY 10011-1510

www.boognyc.com • info@boognyc.com

T: (212) 206-8899 F: (212) 206-9982

This is Boog City, a community newspaper from a group

of artists and writers based in and around New York City’s

East Village, either physically or spiritually, and sometimes

both.

This is Boog City, a group of people who question

authority, and create amazing art while doing so.

This is Boog City, a community of New Yorkers,

Americans, citizens of the world, who flourish everyday amid

every reason not to.

This is Boog City, hop in the front seat, and put your

shoulder to the wheel.

David Kirschenbaum,

editor and publisher

Boog City is a small press now its 16th year, and East Village community newspaper of the same name. The press has published more than three dozen volumes of poetry and various zines, featuring work by Allen Ginsberg, Anne Waldman, Ed Sanders, Eileen Myles, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and Bernadette Mayer among many others, and theme issues on topics ranging from baseball to women's writing, to The Ramones and Talking Heads making the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame.

rockstar

And all of the wind that filled my sails

just blows right through me...

I think I’m in love with myself.

I’m not who I thought I was.

I’m stoned and I’m watching T.V.

and I’m thinking

I don’t wanna be a rockstar anymore.

I don’t wanna be a rockstar.

I don’t wanna be a rockstar anymore.

I don’t wanna be a rockstar.

I don’t wanna be a rockstar.

I don’t wanna be a rockstar.

I don’t wanna be a rockstar.

And everybody looks like some body

but nobody I know.

Everywhere I think of going

is somewhere I don’t go.

Every time I say I’m thinking

I’m thinking that you knew

that there was nothing else to do.

So, I think I’m leaving you.

I’m learning to lie to myself.

I’m thinking about my health.

I’m wondering where you are and I’m thinking

I don’t wanna be a rockstar anymore.

I don’t wanna be a rockstar.

Major Matt Mason

Evening with the Financial Report

A chicken cooked under happy circumstances

Is a chicken that lasts forever.

And these various monstrosities that balloon

Under the quelling moonlight reveal the bleakness

Of the two-sided day, drive me to the fringes

Of this cylindrical existence, as we sit

On our tattered couch, futuristically naked,

While bunches of flowers hang

Upside down above us to dry throughout

The length of this long, intelligent season.

Ever ything here seems reducible to the sawed-

Off light of the candelabrum.

What does it matter if everybody is buying

Out everybody else, who reels in the general

Recession, who pillages, who divests,

Which holders savor the dismal pleasure of 1970s

Supermarket music as opposed to the prurient

Thud of disco pumping itself out of corporation phones?

Tonight I do not see beyond the shiny images

Undulating through your straw-colored hair

Like ants in an anthill, while your chiaroscuro

Eyepatch wanes and finally drops.

At this moment I do not know

How your or my hair will vanish,

How our vows will scatter like November,

How false empathy will be wielded

Like a blowtorch through a box of cake mix

Toward the one of us who survives the other.

What difference does it make, who leaves

The earth first, or second,

If we can continue to catch some of the coin-

Colored reflections of stars turning in the dark-lit sky?

Because that’s all we ever wanted

In the first place, and these withered rooms

We rest in, replete with all the small

Comforts of home, will themselves seal

Their warm shadows in envelopes of sunlight

With no return address, scorching over the streets

Of circuitous amplitudes like a firewalk.

“During WW II Bausch and Lomb produced

Over 3 million pounds of optical glass

For the war effort,” you sigh.

You, who have always known that the stars

Are the first television, as you fall asleep

With dinner on your knees.

Noelle Kocot

Oberlin, Ohio

blowing up the spot, sorry

i've been working on my poetic statement lately, and i find that the form it started in is slowly eroding. i don't know if it's a poem or prose, or really anything at all, but i think that conflict and ambiguity are important so i figured i'd post it here. i'm using underscores and dashes a lot because the internet world doesn't like caesurae or large amounts of white space. sometimes i mean to use dashes though. hm. i think this is just my brain regurgitating. bear with me!




no longer shouting into a vacuum - - - - - i am
engaging or at least __ ____ ___ exploring different
perepheries- - - - - poetry is a conversation it is a polyvocal amorphous electric organism it is -- alive-- phosphorescent--
the fiber in all beings.
my bricks are poetry, -- - - - my bones are poetry - - - -
in the Great-Big-Wide-World sense of things____ poetry is the marrow
it is the filaments that fill us ------ connected and flickering-alive-
poetry is----alive. poetry is----everything---everything is----alive, an
interconnectedness---extending. seeds have become saplings- - i am growing
an oak tree in my chest ___ and one day__ we may all bask in the great shade. .
i am using my hands- - my hands - - to build- breed- birth my brain i am located
in a network-- a web-- a series of constellations a system- - i am connected. i am
no longer shouting into a vacuum- -- i can hear the reply___it is in breaths-
the breadth - - of everything-- sings back to me,
__ "we are, we are, we are."

Marina Abramovic @ da MoMA

About two weeks ago, my friend Laura and I were standing in the Lang courtyard, sharing a cigarette and catching up on what we’ve been up to since arriving here. Laura and I went to high school together and have long followed each other’s interests and achievements. When she began regaling me with a story about a recent museum trip, urging me to go, my interest piqued—Laura told me about a woman whose performance art pieces focused on everything from public spaces and contact zones to mortality to personal history to the art world. Laura said she was one of the frontrunners in this unique world. Last week I decided to head uptown after class and see for myself.
I have never liked the MoMA. It is entirely too expensive (yes, I get in for free, but I think it’s somewhat tragic that a person off the street has to pay $20 to view these works of art) and it is filled with Upper East Siders who float around absently and condescend when interacted with. I love seeing the works of art—and there is something to be said for that—but often I feel like I am at the zoo, looking at these beautiful, wild creatures that have been trapped in a quiet room with white walls and “Do Not Touch,” defended by menacing guards. I braved these somewhat annoying conditions and located Marina’s exhibit.
On the second floor of the MoMA, THE ARTIST IS PRESENT greeted me in huge block letters. The room (if you could call it that, it was so large) at the top of the stairs was sparse, barren, but for bright white lights that shone down into the center—a table and chairs. On one side, sat a woman in robes (perhaps it was Marina? A lot of her works were being re-performed, so I am not certain if it was Marina or another artist—but it did look like her) and on the other side of the table, immediately facing her, sat anyone. The point of the performance was to invite anyone who wished to join her at the table for the duration of their choosing, in silence. Two women sat with their arms folded, looking into each other’s eyes. The woman in robes was still, completely solemn—not stern, but somber. She seemed relaxed, but disciplined. The other woman seemed thrilled, but slightly nervous—she blinked often and I caught her fidgeting a bit. It was so refreshing though. This did not feel at all like the ogling at artworks I had come to dislike. This was participatory, open—an invitation.
I made my way to the sixth floor, where things were slightly more abnormal than on the second floor. The first room I walked into was dark, but for a bright spotlight shining on the wall. A naked woman was on display within the circle of white light, arms and legs extended outwards. She was high up, about ten feet, and she looked directly ahead, completely stoic. I was at once struck by the power of the image and the experience, and I was amazed at this woman’s courage and discipline. I imagine it takes a lot of courage to strip down naked and hang herself up at the museum like a work of art, and a great deal of discipline to remain there all day. As I progressed through the exhibit, there were more pieces like this, and some that were very different. In one narrow doorway, a nude man and a nude woman stood facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes, completely expressionless. There was a narrow window of space between their bodies and the artist encouraged viewers to try to walk through the doorway, to pass through the naked bodies. It was such an interesting approach to contact zones and comfort. Another naked man lay stretched out on a table, a skeleton draped over his body to match it precisely. As he took each breath, the skeleton breathed also; their chests rose and fell together in perfect alignment. It was an approach to mortality that was based in the practicing of Tibetan monks. Often, these monks meditate on the beauty and power of life while in the company of death. In breathing with this skeleton, I think Abramovic accomplished something similar.
Other parts of her exhibit were more autobiographical. On the walls in one room were many stories written in very vernacular prose. They were about Marina’s upbringing, mostly, and also of her family history and experiences. Stories such as “The Story of My Big Nose,” and “The Story of My Father and His Sister” portrayed a tumultuous upbringing for Marina; at once they were darkly funny and also heart wrenching. I really liked that these pieces were there. They were very different from her performance art, but I feel like they helped me to get to know the artist better, and I think that rarely happens in the museum forum.
I was most impressed by her performances “The House with an Ocean View” and “Rhythm 4D.” “The House with an Ocean View” was a twelve-day detox that Marina did in a gallery. She lived in three compartments, existing only on purified water. She showered three times a day and spent most of her time in meditations. Her objective in the performance was to attempt to achieve purity through self-discipline. The ladders she used to climb into her compartments were made out of knives to ensure she could not get down and leave until the performance was through. That kind of piece takes such an incredible amount of commitment and conviction. It was inspiring. “Rhythm 4D” was a piece Marina did where she lay 72 objects out on a table, everything from a gun to a piece of cake and stood herself in the room, declaring “My body is the object. I take full responsibility.” She also said that she did not wish to die, but she wished to take this as far to the edge as she could. Looking at photographs, and seeing those same objects on the table, was very powerful. I am awestruck by the fact that she stood herself in front of a room of strangers and as both an artist and as a human, completely relinquished control. So often, art is a spectator sport, but this was so participatory it felt revolutionary. Oddly, this surrendering of control seemed empowering.
Sometimes with poetry (and a lot of art) I become frustrated because there is a power imbalance in the relationship between the creator and the audience. I feel like Marina’s pieces completely abolish whatever power relations are occurring and bring everyone together to make a kind of collective artwork happen. Certainly some of her pieces have a more rigid audience/artist division, but I feel like wholly her pieces encourage people to think and take it to heart. Needless to say, this was the kind of experience I needed to feel better about the MoMA. I was inspired by the Abramovic exhibit; it was refreshing and almost rejuvenating.