April Poetry Month (Day 29): Mike Hauser

[April Poetry Month 2015 Table of Contents]

author pic

Mike Hauser has lived in Milwaukee since 2002. He has curated reading series such as Too Close For Comfort, Salacious Banter, and currently, Ineluctable Place. His work has appeared in West Wind Review, Bright Pink Mosquito, and Delirious Hem, among other places. His most recent chapbook is Psychic Headset, appearing 2007 from Mitzvah Chaps.


 

Determination Of Ambulance And MTV

Whole lots of what is in us determined. Determined corrupted. What is a determined mass-gathering. What is the hyphenated backdrop of all the masses of people.

Determined coming up through glimpses some hard baseless ass freezing it’s ass. That we are asses freezing our asses and then a little alone, someone has pizza, and someone brought soup with mushrooms and wild rice in it. Someone has bottled water in the trunk.

You could go dumpster-diving for water anywhere.

That they determined we would need it. That here we are willing, were where determined as this needless ground we are farming our lives for and for them. Living in that cornucopia of knowledge which surpasses us, deposits in our boxes that we touch when we are separated and anxious. A lone quiescence the wrapping, the formed speech.

Resonating I alone resistant to this. I alone love you. It’s not a coincidence that I am thinking of MTV and then I’m joining the march. Chants begin in one ambulant formation then proceed to others or just aren’t picked up. My memory makes connections without immediate meaning, so that when I join the group go behind, falter where I falter, or we are a little like touching and loving. Where are we touching and loving?  I’m a deer behind glass succumbing, or ahead of that watching, not taking for granted. We’re loving a deer in here where some are becoming aware but this just feels self-congratulatory somehow. It’s how some like me are just feeling like a bump on a log. And waterlogged by salty solution lubricates the eating cake with. And sadness that we’re just seemingly as so much cake width.

We’d might just as well pay homage to a “lost culture” by eating venison stew.  I admit that sentence did a poor job of articulating what I meant to say. But saying it is important too.

They are simply blocks, inarticulate whorls of, thereof, and always the blank expression as they approach.

For what is granted be sucking of this moment. Red baked surfaces mass produce sweet anointed little alone glimpses, glinting a lot like how I walk alone with mail and pizza. Walking with mail and pizza through a small cavernous wilderness. And thinking how “Feed The World” is the anti- “Wilderness”. Here’s a YouTube to demonstrate.  [link] and impress upon you how the wild fucked thinking at the center of our making cakes to eat and, soaking other baked goods in salty solutions produced by the body and still others letting go stale, for lack of what is found there.

But then someone brought little alone glimpses to our tribe. There was suddenly music. Suddenly everyone was dancing and laughing and sharing the bottle somebody bought in their trunk. Suddenly there was a lot of cuddling to keep warm, a lot of cuddling in these cruddy spaces. I’m imagining all of this. Easily manufacturing it for my poem. But even though my words are cliched, it is true. It is true. And even if weren’t true, it would still be important to say it.

(But in the manufacture is where I lose faith. Where there is severance and doubt. And where all friendships go inward for miles of psychedelic, poisoned dotage.)

Releasing us from our cruddy remembrances, releasing forth evident systems of sharing, evident malfunctioning of commerce that creates new spillways of being among others and accidental refuge. Just trying this sensing it is like suffering a massive stroke or elliptical born out of it’s own cracked remembrance. The reverberation of sucking is sanctioned, but we invade the red surfaces, which are all here as we are. Never has location so poetic as this occupied. Suck red surfaces.

Never has not been bringing pizza, or other hot food since 12 hours ago. Since 23 hours ago parts of us were wet that now are dry. Since 54 hours ago parts of us were there being crushed against barricades.

Glass separates me from you, a rambling in place that became so not poetic. And but it’s not not poetic. Either. Or so there’s that. That became so poetic out here.

Unautobiographical Poem

The waves of leaves
blowing from dad’s yard
Comport the neighbors in looking
toward our skillet
Local dad known for his Xbox details
luncheons with the USSR on the moon
Does proletarian file compression
zip said
Sandra Abbate opposes
annual & serial myths, and other leverage
Ggroth ought be different down
lo-fi by default the Eighth I am
snow blow’s a can do later on
The expressions self-martinize
it shares Pop’s eggs with the
Guyyyyyys down in the well
HBO at the DMV or what
In soil, utterly stateless
Loss as roughage device
To preempt diverticulitis
Losing hydrogen eg and
It’s a svelt CCCP
Uttermost the buyers
need a few
Feelers open, out there.

 

[April Poetry Month 2015 Table of Contents]

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