:: Article

Dubuffet Attica & other poems

By Emmitt Conklin.

Dubuffet Attica

there are things one
can do micro-movements
in the progress of stalemate

atmospheric nails that are nails
and not folks from the ink bubble
firm in the stalebate of process (some pseudo

virginal continuity) lacking evidence is
one way of going about it. Another is
soon who won’t come (may balance

commit us to dying long distance)
what for glandular vices may be
detrimental may be gravity spoken in

domestic malls (the mini-counter)
the Dubuffet attic (or attica, depending
on the color of stone) but not raw drawings

(gondolas) no mast-heads either: more like
dune relations (gone drawings) more like
vending the sentence in a pat, meretricious
tone (ransacking the heaven of xerox)

for now be clear (what do you need) and speak
clearly, selling nothing to someone (glass coins
within the counter) who had made motion
of the myriad things (nomad cathedral cane)
being careful about it strongly active or doing
absolute manicures for whom (for some) some
once treasured the cancelling of oil slicks once
naturalistic and drawn always hinting at the
circumference of a world that meant to have meant
but was turning as if towards a dry foaming star
or a conditional bulb, as in actors laughing
in the alley, even then, biting through
the trees of things as a living gesture, ironically
not a passion stance limb a rouge hip a lettered

raft from what (from before) could not be real
white heat, could someday be a timeless form
of salt, no plans for revolving how the slow
chorus spins towards a more lasting apparition
or a hand in which to sit, stare, drip, wait, wilt, soar, wait

Off Line

the would-do can’t-not apparatus
spread loss-lots on the lag,
force glistening between our jpeg’d
formica platelets, potentiate fields
of thoughtless word-soon, plain and through
onto the top and over-bottom of east asia as-in west
sudan, if the passion-fits are cooled in coagulant
seems then who the fuck are you, esperanto swift:
michael portmanteau’s .doc file oxycontin feast for
the who-had-said” instagrammatological b4 enfants

the who-of YTPMV economy
slashtag assonance for misted latency
hashfag cont. mellifluous outline was please-towards-sent
for tree-top decadence and the all-but-only-seen shmearing
of lipstick for PLEASE SUBSCRIBE flay-tan aperture
when used-to-ferment the forest please OFFLINE neocracy
when used-to the dust-cover inhalant mask, pulse after “sameness
) I COULD after all suit rain-man certitude on GO OFFLINE infinite weekend
but such would only seek lashes on the pixel-place, coochie-coochie in the Verizon
such would only ask itself to cloud-burst an arid cost of social net work and sip time

Emmitt Conklin currently works as a bookseller in Venice, California, having received his B.A. in English Literature from San Francisco State University earlier this year. His writing has been published or is forthcoming in Lotus Eater Magazine (as a Pushcart nominee), Straylight Literary Journal, Burningword Literary Journal, great weather for MEDIA‘s 2017 anthology, among other venues of literary publication.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Friday, October 20th, 2017.