Anselm Berrigan


deanimate squeaks harmonize for hula hoops, evolving
squabble, I’m constantly almost smacking perma-fear
into, we almost knew each other’s variation, fire’s
on screen, the tender’s bag is blowing pipey wind
iconoclastic in the submergent future, another one
was the phial, any snakes nearby, they even moved
like you, puice in the ghosthouse, retinal anecdotes
their backs, skywritten, are turned to you, next to
being ridden dimensionally, you’re the eohippus
the D is the jockey, since my groom loon’s doomed
on the glass, he’s flat, ready to be inverted into pictures
the filth-ridden Titan phone booth a few feet north
to the right lives in fear of painterly execution, efficient
Boozer adjusts to role on bench, following pseudo-
pseudonym, a grasshopper swimming with grasshoppers
old dirty classic of the period, imaginary dingleberries
stank-optional, I need these things out now — I might
be dead later, I’m not expecting fragment bump, fall
away bump, pile on & still exude bump aura, reverse
the outer corners until specific arrival mandates itself
into existence, hi Satan, your schemes lack gmos & bpas
& rbis, & contested amphibian blunt imitations, yays
the re-ape for the Divine Mystery of the Universe is an
open secret, as I just got told by a firm, a rapid, a very
agreeable transparent, no, flesh-colored premise


image productions sells us our meltdowns, we con
ourselves into participation, coming on an of at ages
laughter is very very good to the coeval populace
disfigured via comparison with flow, I don’t know
numerously, flattened impact players mounting real
madness & ending anti-heroically, even sanity ain’t
sane today, disinvited to play Dragon City please
snipers gotta stop ripping off pigeons, first vision’s
the vulgar one, sadness tones given by the dark
dominant, a self-portrait all ash-colored, true para-
sites of the object, glad I figured out how to be kinder
to my brother, outside of any unfortunate art please
accept all my regards, zapf explains, your rethought
got rethoughted, or verily skate-ragged & rebesotted
neutrality in shadows, misuse of shadows, when you
put camouflage on I can’t see the bummer’s rehab
eternal, if to be is the object of resurgence merged
with insurgence, we’ll be a nice menu memory
druggy in huggies, replacement level topless vatican
protestor who stole jesus free, I used my transfer
drawing to hop on unlimited lead heads from behind
the practiced shadow in a form of public, shape
contains form & moves for listeners listening to
how you say you see walking get held on the aves
the sides the gaps the co-flats the blocks the hoary
periwinkle tune symbols shuffling down into locks


too tired to be the monster, every thing’s the wrong
words, blind spot warning mistaking the comforts
of legitimacy for ambition, naked lovers of wisdom
hoists a three, amazingly few movement motives
used, confession use, vanity divinity caress, a helmet-
to-helmet blow, which involved no helmets touching
red purgatorial tire swing making angles over leaves
out of spin, the leaves gently raise ground as names
of convenience fail to reappear, names vanish into
sound, a walled-up camera disappears into condo-land
mildly fascist brunch snuggles with livers, complicity
traitor favorited live, fleetingly, no time for poems
with all this e-sociology poised to bite in disparate
need of absolute paragons, dressed on the cheap
like warmth installed, reddish bunny balloon metal
worth lobby millions plants its non-ass here, to be
seen through allowable glass, pen explosion hair
getting a touch of the old iron filing, receding into
a shammy cottage playing at industrial parquet
reserve, stick a flat bug fiat onto prosody plane, call
it sub-local divinity for lack of a common affect
to disabuse of its urgent withdrawal, we are in view
through diamond cut into theater site privately torn
down, brought to the shop to enliven assigned elegies
all potential seeing things run themselves, like, away

Anselm Berrigan’s recent books include Come In Alone (Wave, 2016) & Primitive State (Edge, 2015). He is the editor of What Is Poetry?(Just kidding, I know you know): Interviews from the Poetry Project Newsletter 1983-2009, due out this spring from Wave Books.
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About Posit Editor

Susan Lewis ( is the Editor-in-chief and founder of Posit ( and the author of ten books and chapbooks, including Zoom (winner of the Washington Prize), Heisenberg's Salon, This Visit, and State of the Union. Her poetry has appeared in anthologies such as Walkers in the City (Rain Taxi), They Said (Black Lawrence Press), and Resist Much, Obey Little (Dispatches/Spuyten Duyvil), as well as in journals such as Agni, Boston Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Conjunctions online, Diode, Interim, New American Writing, and VOLT.