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you murdered you: an elegy on the death of kenneth goldsmith.

(to be accompanied by keyboards typing)

I will never again surf the web, read x
or go to bed with a woman
without wishing that you were there
Kenneth Goldsmith,
naming my experience.
I find you reddit, or read not, as Warhol's sunsets.
Liking the memes with the keyboard buttons
wherever the Word and I make it quietly together
as the anonymous users only try to uh pun their experience.
When you died last month at the age of 54
of romantic subject lust,
We, the always young, tossed your last hope
of writing technology revolution.
But, we always knew our lyric
for your song of the internet doesn't exist.
Each of our phones perfectly overlays the other.
Such pre-determination is beyond my ken.
And only now, my eyes and brain are awake.
the stars stand around me like gold eyes.
I can no longer tell
how to say, think, or feel
what we wanted.
and now I'm breathing comfortably when you say
usually I throw away what I don't get right the first time
I beg you to please not write on this wall
I promise you that I will not write
on your wall.


you are in the news sheriff

There is something in you so cruel,
pointing at the best information, to stay silent.
But when common sense is bumped for creativity I hesitate,
I do not wish to add any more pointing to the ground in my time.

Timor mortis conturbat me.

Let us take the frontier out of your poem.
somebody is hiding in your sheriff’s posse,
get after him.
This is a poem to shine a light on
your inprint
possessing no light of its own, can shine only in reflection,
like pointing at Monet.

But in this poem we are pointing at what you didn’t write.
you write for dylan thomas
at the feet of a man whose name was your name-
you, who resets the type of book
into “new” types of faces
ink prints ink.
It is always already spilling into a rude pink color huger and more vast than the city you are suffocating.

Timor mortis conturbat me.

There is no new sheriff.
No news sheriff.
No new news sheriff.
Only each letter inked in blood, clothed in what it is.

I move my tongue against your dying light,
in and out of your frontier.


(to be accompanied by a picture of a house burning on a t shirt)

Imagine the writer as a meme machine
confusing the sentence

this shadow
is not distinguished from other shadows.

Imagine a poetry that is vast, paper thin,
and that always disposes of

this ground is not
distinguished from that ground.

imagine all the people
imagining all the people.

What does poetry look like after the internet?

all the world’s a stag
but I have prominence to keep
image all the people
with smiles that break before you sleep


a new sigh in equality

the gold of the global,
poverty, and democratic pleasure-
ill conceived by a technology
hyping electric cars,
with a science for attainable relief,
creating plenty and jobs
for the new spirit of corporation-

in the sway, the entire network generates itself.


You're in

the yell of
the public sector for,
more urine in the mission.

that's an old show on white ground.


Good morning America smiles at us

our manic of the mourning,
weed the crayons with their naves,
to help people mangle their relationship to mystery-

if you kind of crowd-source this idea,
newspapers become white bread,
corporate condensation,
whistle blow through tour systems-

and really well dressed guys will chop your office
pretending to be like animals…
and not the knife foundation…

Followed by episodes of violins,
Scratching like demonstrations,
speaking before egress…

four rural communities
wanted to have water in their chemicals
in time for fishing season.

it's tough to think and live these lives,
with a political axe in society's
billing systems, to fake our old people with robots-

in all cases the seam is wordless.


This is what really happened out in the ocean

Gasping through the sweat,
Our lips sold town to the city outside

A little wink to no response…

Ordinary white was thought up of
by blue printer faces…
(Watch how one can be two)

Speaking before congress with their coffee,
They pour it on a microphone

Do you hear the blues?
Or is it just an ordinary shift to nude by mistake?…

I hinder this facility and bury the witness
Of going yawn underneath someone

Becauses a few sick thank yous
Implore the booming tongue

With the notion of writing aloud
The actual sighs themselves…

It's like when the heat stumbles from the oven
And the rain pours over my echo