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Anne B oye r

Free P oems 20 06 -2 00 8

Anne undoes the clip, pulling out the papers.

Anne undoes another button.
Anne undoes the social

one more button comes undone

and he treats them bad
and Anne undoes all the bad things he does.

Once upon a time, undo Anne from the table

and take her back to the bed.
I watch as Anne undoes.

I clearly see the dark blue veins under the skin

as Anne undoes
the slowly her mature girls engorged tits

thumbs come into view.

I clearly see the dark
I want

as Anne undoes her Station:

Finish it
as free pictures pornstar Anne undoes.

I pull back the sheets and lay her
on the buttons in front of her top.
John had decided to join in

and approached Anne undoing.

Anne undoing her blouse but she just told him to relax
and let her do all --

themes of sisterly love and rivalry and women obeying.

her and his upending of law and religion.

After hearing a sound later I suddenly thought I had come to die.
Anne undoes the clip, pulling out the papers. She looks around at
the desk and brushes aside the clutter. She sets down the papers
and looks around at Anne around the corner which is how was it
that in the hideous, spare figure, and in curious grotesque
silhouette, and in telling him the events in connection with the
arrest of the gentle Anne the last words of this passage were
“long fingernails and hair give rise to scandal.”

She shared this indomitableness of the whole to defy nature and

die standing.

To a cold corpse this was my farewell with my last words I

seemed to leap and quiver not unlike a wildcat in unkempt
shagginess, but who had heard of this?

The relatives give her a doll. Things start falling. The young
student felt himself falling, falling as if he reads a pulp horror
novel and she pretends to be interested and then engages in a
bizarre kind of foreplay in which she pretends to be a sort of
impersonal interior contrasted against the heavy rain.

Suddenly, there is a crash. In addition, there remains his lineage

and his entitlement, but she could not move him by appearing
unable to remember part of her campaign. As clothes fell out I
pretend a lot of the mutes and amnesiacs were in this category—
the box tumbled to the ground. You wouldn’t want to marry a
wicked man, would you?

But there are parents—several that I’ve seen—who don’t want their
kids. And oh, two different parties want it, so they make a copy
and sell it to both. When do I get to the part where Anne
pretends to sing the wedding song and they break David‘s bed?

She is not as yellow as celebrating geography is apparently not

She has a yo-yo that she is spinning up and down but also points
out negative implications like barriers to entry. Later she tries to
rid herself of her worst affliction by dying her hair and indeed, she
looks forward to new subjects, but now she thinks he might have
been staring at her, so she agrees to the marriage.

The meme is to culture what the gene is to physics, mathematics,

biology, and materials science, but eventually the pair must make
choices about where they belong. Upstart, roused amid the
doldrums to excess, fury is a routine repose, sent without.

I remain very interested in the biology of rules of engagement.

Anne looks at her watch.

Most are geography. There is no creativity involved whatsoever.

I’ve mainly stuck it on the map. Yet compelling as such knowledge
would be, it’s how the world might end:

the site of the scaffolding that saw the end of the fight at the end
of Anne—

corresponding to who told her she didn’t know how to do it then

with a strong undoing of their embrace, pushed back his heavy

The end of Anne’s sentence was wordless ecstasy and the little
parlor robbery spree

and everybody is doing super-well only to go into eclipse for the

next half-century.

I Lo ve Lite rat ure

I was attacking Culture.

I have seen her and she is so big and so beautiful.

Pulling a thirty-six-inch-strip out of Language

and eating it,
she has given me an opportunity

to pattern gothic specialties, small farmers, and starfish

out of the reddish-brown essence that implies a native land.

Outlines of legacy are a minimal-production glass creature.

I worry it’s too much like voice and structure.

What’s better is when we can eat our fermented hurt

and someone gives a seminar on Kathy Acker’s

regional, agricultural, and mining sectors.

I am not free to be mad.

When I smell Archer Daniels Midland

it is as if an oligarchy has dived into the wreck.

Yes, I love Literature

but what I love about it is
the reproductive organs of Capital.

The B arbaro us Pe ople

This was a barbarous land.

The barbarous people

showed no little flair

and as there are often horses

in these movies

when the horse does not show

a screen is made to blink in the desert

and blinking
in the course of this disease

is blinking
as if the disease

inherent in waking up

is only the end

of the world.

That was Omar Sharif
starring in The Opportunity

a survey of the conditions

of luxury and

the eyes of good people

on the production
of pleasure

over the course of narrative

dull and disparate

who charted the influence of the conveyer belt
on a spare child,
some typing,
Omar Sharif.

We have been square.
We have taken their flocks and ponies.

We have woken in the morning


We don’t know the news.

The reservoir of the species

drank the juice of pears

and fearful of walking among the trees

and fearful also of knobs, cocks, church smells
and fearful we cudgeled a sumptuous city

overriding the sirens,

the divans,
the third month of the year.

I am a river to my people.
Mine are a fat grim people
in a flat grim town

counting the legs of turtles

and counting the legs of turtles (4)
also counting on roofs made of shingles

a fat grim people know

a method of attainment

a people who claim

“We know full well ruin.”


We want goats and horses,

no Semyonovsky Square

or backed against
bearded men: a holler—

“We’re tired, etc.

and the walls are white”

Who taps in Morse sadness?

The old ones claim

“catastrophe is convention”
and fold / unfold their metal chairs

Stoned and inconsolable

who knew

everything about execution—

threw the kingdom down the hall

Brot he rho od

Falling in the arms of miscellany

the entire world fell

in love, also, with romantic themes,

a series of stalls, plagues, spacesuits,

and tales of insurrection performed

near the green water of a small pool.

We were Celebrity.
We dressed in Karl Marx.

We revived our emotions in the Catholic tradition

and diminished our reputations by overeating and melancholy.

We were pretty, rich, and digressive.

We were a Capital Crime.

Pauncy, stepping out of the helicopter,

said all the girls in Rio like to expose their bodies.

You were a 62-year-old fisherman.

You cast my nets off Laguna.

I was an art collector in Belo Horizonte.

I was famous in Brazil.

Fuck Re ality Ch o king

What makes all this “fun”

instead of dark and threatening
is a brawl between Pompeians and Nucerians
in and around the amphitheater.

Our city has a quiet head

We come bloodied up.

After the weather holocaust

let’s harvest
a gaggle of cocks, a helmet,
a scapegoat, some dolls, and Daft
who used a search engine
and mocked the living end.

We’ll riot in pajamas with princess tents

and make the cutest victims.
If anyone starts anything
Katie has a posse to kill them and I,

the poet,
lounge on my divan, reading Italian Vogue.

Sti cky S aid

Sticky said
You’re tired.
Stockholm is gay.
Better hunt. Better get out a pie tin

He holds his out—

a houseful of rescued wiser.

This is the part

where I didn’t pull my mattress stitch.

I ran outside and yelled

“I am tired.
My soul is tired.
I’m tired, etc.”

He tried to mate with my elbow.

He attached himself to my other.

I fell and developed a disease—

that caught my attention.

The void was something one grew to understand,

badly strained, hung limp.

There are many ways to do these things.

And one last cent—

wasn’t drunk
but it was as if

she had floated,

there, waiting—

Jo urnal of t he Pl ag ue H o ur

Life is so slow
when one is a shiv
honed hazily, all
summer decoding

tom cats,

or I am a criminal
with no window,
could say a number of things about

Old Creepy,
Pretty Boy,
& this calamitous heap.

“The air so thick

you could climb the stink of it.”

Then the rumble of my domestic

the brimstone,
the rats.

Pri apism

I was locked in an armoire and loading my chair.

The locals said


& you should be dead for good:
red, fat, old, yo

or they laughed
at my theories from the Institute,
inserted stock footage, stock giggling,
stock rickets, stock guffawing,
stock villain,
stock title: RAGE.

Yes, I’d take a vowel for every lost year.

Then I didn’t pay attention—

same bland cinema: everywhere, here.

Th e M aj ori ty

Jack Rueful, bepitchforked, appears in damaged homespun.

You want a balled-up ten note bounced off Vecchio’s brow?

That white man would pick it up every few seconds,

then blow off cold
Jack Rueful, who appears again, folds the marketing terms:

“No, sweetheart, it’s the proud SECOND generation

scattering seven-pound axes on the barn floor.”

Red runs up and down in front of the sofa—

clean whiskers and half a pound of lead in his butt.

I had to hand it to him: he combed the hayseed

out of his Microsoft Word.

I tried to tear away from it, but reddish-brownish liquid bested

the arts again /

sm all ye ar

In a fractal Hanoi we have hunger

& spreadsheets.

You should try other rare styles—

or so says the problem

population notorious
with natural example.

I write like bards & Vikings

or embroider a diamond tiger friend

who plans to hang arithmetic

off Dante Alighieri.

monotonically growing,
I add my way towards rabbit,
flashing light.

Bro ke

I am so broke now or broken last night

She still had $300 to her name
bought a rabbit

Irene heard them at the window

“hand me that gun”



For $300 parrots

combine the mental abilities of a human
with the Emotional Kingdom Assignments,
ice blends, quiches, Bavarian donuts and éclairs

Yes a bunny trying to shield her child

I need a job
When the hell is he gonna give me my money
Damn it I am so fucking broken
Listen broke poet with dirty bedding

the six-year-old who’d turned

woods-cultivated roots with some chemical residue
knew the difference

She is my sunshine!
I am so broke it wouldn’t matter
I am born this way

Trav ail Me ch aniq ue

Bunnies occupy the same

semantic field as question-begging.


Ours is no vigorous religion—

packages from Acme piled up under the stairs.

The problem of distribution:

How do you want to die?

Not in the course of self-examination,

but in the loop

of the public discourse:

shaking the razor,

shaking the shipping container:

serving the cause

of the common error.

or " the agit ated lif e"

This crime presumes


disrupted scarlet

(43 with deformed brows).

Cases of meanness are not

so well known

as bionic grudges

giving head
to the stereographer

of the disappointing park.

The wealthy

match leather to motor

scooter --

“only the finest”


J uggli ng t he Lesse r

My lovely fame –

stinks of nothing
going on.

As for me I live on a rock.

I turn chalky
& fear quick cars.

I am known well
enough for my muse.

I keep myself as a planet

in my belly.

I keep my muse
as the planet’s war.

Little O nes,

Certainly is a range of intra-species animal intelligence.

Only a few days ago she saw a little rabbit lying dead on the side
of a road. Why build your burrow in the center of the lawn?
White/gray fluff around the hole, ants in and out. We stand over
it. I agree that bunnies are hilarious, but there needs to be more
to it than a bunny, in a burrow, in the middle of the lawn.

The rabbit is the most astonishing and visually audacious, the

most blunt and oblivious species. We understand your feelings.

Rabbits brag about their “razor-like, totally unbiased, absolutely

objective” judgment, which is expressly unaffected by emotions.

The adult male rabbit never moves—it poses. It is forever

patronizing, condescending, forgiving, or patiently teaching. Being
an animal of mystery enhances its grandiose sense of self-
importance, omnipotence, and omnipresence.



Everything that had gone before with the rabbits was done in
ignorance of The Way Things Really Are. The bunnies were merely
another player. A new empire was established after, and all of
rabbit history is a matter of these small and pernicious wars.

Because they did not know each other and know their specialties,
etc., it would have been impossible—without encouraging the worst
of my nightmares—that all those factions would unite, befriend a
rival tribe of horses, and blood would be shed. A short rose, then
came the plague, and many of these mills and houses fell into
disuse. We lump down on our leather bed, a stupid human feeding
error. Yet to a controlling species, this is not the point.

However, I do think of open rebellion against the rabbits, mass-

terrain terrorism or many ongoing wars and crises / will stay
awake now / can’t go back to my dreamland again. After all,
cocktails aside, professors come back to teach Monday morning. I
just think of the way these levels disgorge thousands in festering
sores, fatal rabbits—how these agents in the field were sacrificed,
of snail-skulled little rabbits who are in turn kidnapped, making for
the meeting of wonder and matter-of-fact. Nothing fundamentally
cursory here.

On April 20, 1979, President Jimmy Carter was attacked by a

rabbit during a fishing trip in Plains, Georgia.

After everything, the rabbit has again proven debilitating. There
now appears a chance for a single commander to take control of
the corrupt species preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited
success, power, brilliance, beauty, or ideal love.

The male rabbit uses a False Self to regulate his labile sense of
worth by the extraction of attention. The most conflicted of this is
an understanding of the house and that one wing, or, knock off
any traction, continue to be a fragmented mess.

The more potent the pellets, the more efficient the rabbit is at
keeping strangers at bay. The very acts of sadism to be consumed
by the rabbit tend toward sallow, pallid, or milky white in
individuals with light skin color.

Obviously, there is no substitute for taking your bunny to your

rabbit-experienced veterinarian. It is a pose often assumed by
singers and by religious leaders. May be beautifully well formed
with flourishes, but non-perfectionistic. May be illegible scribbling,
especially in male.

Non-symmetric grin or grimace. Sardonic smirk. Frozen, toothy but

non-gingival grin. Half-open-mouthed grin. Grin with short repetitive

Popular is the Joan of Arc pose in which the individual’s eyes are
directed toward the heavens.

Period rectangle, irrational winding numbers, undertone series,
tangram set, star polygons, star octagon, rhombic triacontahedron,
a long-wooled rabbit, pure length is voice / irrational:

“i notice a lot of rabbits. i guess i can see them to a point, but i

feel more or less just fed-up. we had no idea. it was all so
brutally clear. it’s like when they shot old yeller, as sad as it is,
we have to just cut our losses and go forward. i’d have to

question the weather, it’s that bad knowing what the real problem
is and has been. i feel lucky to be getting out and knowing that it
wasn’t my fault, that there really was nothing else i could have
done. it’s like a burden has been lifted. it all rolls off my back.
they can’t hurt me anymore”

Wh o is A bj ect F ull of L ove and Hist ory ?

Mine is a biography of the man

who stood as a subtitle,
who stated it succinctly,
this way I inflicted male love.

I like anyone who sticks it.

Sperm can make the romantic abjure.

This applies equally to the trend of money,

to the so many coded instances of my failing,
the textual productions of my misery.

I get it into funks in monographs

or in comparative analyses
also more Romans have fled
and for whom is this volcano
of love its stifled eruption?

History availeth not

nor love nor calms
my nerves nor allows
that I have some
questions of history.

And these limbs a document that belong

never to its founder and to this end
these are the most striking,
these habitually revamped adorations.

Oh how can we love the body,

Napoleon Bonaparte?

He H at es My Life of A rt and Be auty

He remains the master,

but I am a keen reader.

All my life he hates the work of capturing

He hates to fathom my living.
He takes my own life.
I can get that.

He's trapped in a need to watch and just be like wow,

life is not something,
like that he hates parting,
like that he has stated he hates my specific reason,
like he hates to see a pattern like my own life.

Here he hates out of the deep instinct of the species;

in this hatred there is a God, because God loves
this ratio of power.

He hates my life because it is

the person breaching,
the only time I’ve ever been,
it’s terror.

He is dubious about the validity of my concept.

He dipped a dainty vocal melody.
He is the proverbial silo.

So I am human after all

albeit he hates my human manner.

This reminds me of one of those conceptual art pieces:

How I will be frequently deceived.
How I will be led.

If I h ad P owe r, Be auty, We al th

I set out to look after my beauty.

Anne has an ache in her wealth.
I have a deep power of the rifle.
Anne shoots the rifle at the criminals
as they swim toward the fat of the land.

We could end this with penetration,

the tongue as a centralized power source
the hand armed with Roman law.

And every wood her regiment,

possessing all elements
of adornment, each building a self-conceit,
this most powerful ordnance --
the new sea.

Imagine the quiet of these first visions,

the lack of industrial infrastructure,
my materially produced brute force.

I could not die!

Anne could dry her own veins!
Make herself the superlative!
The leap from impoverishment would ring!

Hope this helps out okay --

this tongue framed with meat,
the voice as a charm of bulls.

Excellent for sleeping,

my grievous form of wealth,
this so-called artistic representation,
my sufficient ransom -- pride.

O n a Torre nt Virgi n Pl ai n

To see you naked Kansas

winter lawn mowing

withholding from the Shaman King

episode lists
how to cook a rapist
in a northwest church
Fresno of electric blue

headlands oceans
dried up just like that

to be witnessed in the privates

of my country

distinguishing the language

the very simple language

the natural in others

and that she has chosen

the book originally to have been called
A Completely Different Person

new values sort of unhappily inhabiting aesthetics

generated from the emergence of terrorism
to console and redeem
outlier repair
hosiery Sherwood Anderson
paxil frat fuck

the Left cannot talk

Kansas your ancestor was out in the woods hunting
when one of them redneck grabs his logic

then I would laugh every time I heard

nearly every Mennonite

stupid fucking rednecks—
they do not believe in science (which is evolution)—
then they in Kansas is everything hick—

phyla are body plans

the rivers of Kansas will be safe from the godless
after six months of dormancy

they prefer to be known as physicists

of course they fall

where anti-God
where apes
where the flat
done froze our brains

I did not then measure
up to my stature
and the man who for you put aside chaff
and water
you confused with an invertebrate
and food for many animals
or a killer
eating part of his own head

I had a set opinion

we should be the one who is dead

blood was drawn from the femoral vein

and placed in deadly washes
blood from animals from several landscapes
blood from deer and elk in Wisconsin
blood from captive industries
blood from farmers selling grain

Silence is the law of the luckless

though for these treads
the rest are suffered well

We are Bleeding
only much much more so
in Kansas a great deal

that it does not require the added sweetness

that it turns out wheat farina
that these are temporary shifts in the wheat market
that a wheat producer will move with each breeze

plump plump blue sky reel big fish blue sky

a conceit
of the un-lame
new arsenal stadium beast of the earth

little children in the carts remembered

the blind should see and the sick be
required to tie dye-soaked strings around fat jets
until becoming an expert population of farmers

William Allen White was black

with coal and chaff
and tears were striping his features grotesquely

the palsy of terror loosened its steel bands

a white terrorism is horrible

“the huge abhorrence” includes

how to produce a great point about power

who owns democracy

and lots of bare, undulating land
succumbs and loses her voice entirely

but I can’t ever recall having been slagged

using these gifts as lures

It was played to death
and its remakes are crap
but still it sounds okay Walt Whitman

then we get lost and poorly written

for this we can principally thank suffering
and the foreskinned/unforeskinned sons of mothers

plus ça change, plus c’est compost

or a combination of bugs and overwhelming war

I guess there is nothing more to say

probably decades of slovenly affections
probably a circuit debate
probably comes another raw poem about monkeys

I will shoot a tiger!

Walt Whitman is gay!

I had a sort of dream-trance

in which I saw an imposing Kansas jail
with the ambiguity of language

every cell had a stenciled arrow pointing toward Wichita

every slick majesty cost me an arm

Exi t Lef t

Poor poet at 12 degrees

who hates the folks
and listless fibers

but loves

the reddish brown unhappiness

that loads this vein
with ore.

If she’s a cuss
let’s watch her flounder

blow by blow with scars

who wants an engine/

to scuff across her floor.

A gesture’s snark can ruin

the ruined
as can clouds and doors.

Clouds and doors

support no Sistene.

No Sistene –
converts – unmoored.

Ma Vie e n B ling

The lovers have themselves photographed in harmony with the

State. One lies down on the other and holds it. Hello, I am here
to volunteer my money from these accounts:


This is huge. I write it over and over. DISCOVER BANK loves Anne
Boyer. I remember Wachovia. We call a wreck a Romney. We
excuse ourselves from the ordinary digital manners of our time.

and terrorists

fell in love with me

from the start

the Latin I’d taken

was adapting

and the truckers

stuck on me
worked a little

everyone was going to jail

for being

who can get in trouble

who are not orphans
who should have known better

And you should worry

in a version where the girls are older

in that version where the girls

are old men

this network is crawling –

unseen volunteers

It proved to be
a human kindness
we didn’t like the period style

in Helvetica
we came
to cover their faces

I’m just trying to stay modern

I never thought we could keep it
the piece of ice

a bed of teenagers
with friends spontaneously
combusted about the rucksack

we lost the plot

for god’s sake
when you wanted it

like a miner
our eyes were open
but not brave

In a series of gun fights,
bank robberies, property bombings,
& implements

we missed the aspect of being

a glimpse of the unearthly strain
of all on which beauty is hinged

this human capital

is a corporate fashion

and divides so one might

multiply all attributes close to gossip or war

in this life I made mistakes

slow to structure
and after speech,

so near to valor
and in accelerated ruin

lol so I licked it
eating at various palaces
I gave a wink

spilled some delicious turkey

and I would have stayed with you
my ever stiffening

though I wasn’t and shouldn’t

wash and this time
we looked that fierce

being fed an experiment

cold water dripping
in alpha patrol

the anchor drug all night

when we woke up
I cried and it was wild and crazy

why all night

I suffered
in the alley

I smelled you
when I saw your blog
your honor offered

the train ephemerally marked

for this place
like a gangster

Soldiers, sailors, the war office,
prelates, statesmen, and monitors
caused, exactly, months
of practice

able to tell my powder and powder

fever grew

I killed everyone
and was sorry for it

(the nerve
to be a terrorist)

but I don’t know what I am doing


just Napoleon
or triumph:

get a weapon, lose head

The city all night
would rest and start over

it was goodish
the sufficient grammar

of the spanking bench

got back to it

We said “I love you

I love you.”

I was not about to let it go

all they were doing

was doing it
it was gross

to rest and start over

so easily I was gentle

it had me
this was my story about how

we had fun and would phone first

every which way

The foundation of authority
went tottering
so I went to get the mail

what wolves the prior

made supine and whorish –

I feast
in the time of plague.
They feast when it’s plague-lite --

each grain of millet


The best grade men
are landschaft systems
flooding the ritual credit
markets with hybrid texts
of metal superiority.

I want to lead the glamorous life.

I don’t need a man’s touch

but without money

who has a mathematical feeling

standing in the section marked
“if you have to ask, you can’t afford

to speak”?
After the seventh wave,
she has the legs

on which she stands

and forged from some stupid
model kit

the sultry terror

of each brown ship
who shares with rats
her quarantine


S alt Be as t B al l ad

O ash the flesh – the local end --

the weakest beast, the sour --
the lesser licking meteor –
the muscular -- the hours

the grim origination ate

the grim of poser’s mire –
This salt not salt: nor we have fuel
to freak the meat -- the fire.

Most of these poems were published in chapbooks including Anne
Boyer’s Good Apocalypse (Effing Press 2006), Art is War (Mitzvah
2008), and Little Ones, (Abraham Lincoln 2006). Other poems were
published online and in journals including Tig ht, Lo cus poi nt , and


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