Eightby Mike Hauser
Henceforth from that point where healthful
delicious breakfast becomes shameful imperialist
breakfast under a canopy of sadness
entrenched in a “pool of sorrow” does transformation impede
progress? So Prince died during the warmest global
April on record; grouches arise from your garbage cans!
Ugh so fuckin’ horny I couuuld erect
a mile high defense shield designed to spur
the Soviets into a spending spreeee ATM withdrawal
post-history bucket of wild despair
so hungry I could eat a huge investment in spurious
manipulation of the general morale of movin’ and shakin’
heat index on a spreadsheet of calamitous despair.
Balance held in dear regard by the aristocracy so I bound forth
into the shitty shitty world of investment. Whole lotta
cuckoo clock brotherly love, finally arriving by zeppelin
in Swiss bank amount devoid of a morel compass, watch their bellies
become abject in patience for the immediate removal of these pages.
We get warfare, terror, bloodshed, and murder in exchange for Leonardo,
Michelangelo, and the Renaissance of borderless capital, with
entrenched topical liberalism ruling the marketplace of ideas
with a balmy velvet fist, repeated and hidden under your mentored rages
several in islands are being misled by magical congress
under peopled disaster cities, tents and mobile charges of the Greats.
Borderless grief syphoned through hidden television on the bend
of the creek where the villagers mad love stunts and generous biology.
Disillusionment tops off the neighbor’s helping of your hand in the bush
bird in the handy man manual, manuscript approval, and made guys with bushy eyebrows.
They are sitting in burly offices decorated with animal parts and devising
plump accoutrement from metallic altitude. You get an interfering, well-wishing
suppleness out of these park-laid stretches of arrogance, hmm?
Text me your IP
I’ll have some Jimmy John’s
3-D printed in your vapor lock
I mimic a pool of chemicals
that solidifies, and as your mouth waters
a file is created through a summation
of generalities. A point to point
approximation of a Hunter Sub:
the beef must first have its glare
removed then the object may be created
layer by layer: baked turkey, lettuce, pro
volone cheese, avocado spread, Italian capicola
Dijon mustard, cola, cola, cola, cola,
FDA’s long-awaited 3-D guidance for
medical devices, a real applewood smoked
object from a digital model. A 3-D object
may shew corporate taxonomy suspense
based in the Village model of punitive
3-D object deprivation. What is important
here is that bloodlust be joined with justice, if
blood lust is really like a thing.
If you want our delicious sandwiches delivered
be sure to give us your full address. Contact, location,
phone surgically cut from the object of desire.
New music comes thick and fast
but without any real innovations
on the medium itself. I think I may have destroyed my toe.
Situational context, community panic, endorse the check
and hide the camera obscura from Dale.
Download this for later use as aid
in bringing self to climax.
Get comfortable with your own orgasm sounds.
Purchase organizer for daily orgasm sounds,
thoughts, prayers. Springtime, Future’s voice
trailing from a car, dopplers its way up Center St.
A film thought to be a mere alt-take on folk wisdom
turns out to be a well-executed jeremiad
against goats. Jeremiahs of culture will
only ever understand the logic of the troll.
Beats me. But it feeds me too.
A piece of music in the age of surveillance
is a semiotic turkey wrap, echolocating taste and preference.
It is a live bundle of influences and salty life-curios.
A lived curiosity expands one’s collateral familiars
in the same way that a doppler effect affects
situational awareness. Get served an affidavit.
Lunch is on the house. Vanishing Venice.
Climate protocols the effectiveness of which
gets debated in our journals. An anthropocene
militant New Thing in the development of post
modern electronica. Tools for use only in our
coven. Retrenchment of scenes, breakbeat programming
becomes oaky and tart. Without much real time
use, despite its eminent subtly. And yet, okey dokey, that’s it gang.
Fear of percussion: what the heck
oh that’s not anyone’s idea.
Build a fortress Jump N' Dunk Trampoline with
heart strings wonkier than annoying neighbors
Springless Trampoline · No Spring Trampoline · Rod Based System
beers from the refrigerator he did · weird things
but maybe the Guild will think crump 'ole
plugs and zippered travel pouch: If you don't keep trying to punch them
mousy Melissa · pretty brainy and pretty gutsy
for a plebe who makes washer fluid.
A don’t-think-just-act grape drink
money’s porcelain conscience and a plump check
attest Rob Artest’s mercurial form of thought.
The Persians invented a form of torture called “the boats” but total terror
of heart string momentum invented castigating organization
crossing an ocean accounting of it’s own meet cute sinus.
Do you pork massive loss in a languid decaying contraption
once known as your body? Annihilating solos of desperation
come in at this point, and I point to the poem’s
excessive force as the proof you didn’t know you needed.
I point you to Jerusalem, young exec, intrepid vegan.
It is not that I want to be seen in the altogether
ways untypical of gentlemanly conduct
who sings unawares of slipping percentages.
After all my shirt was only open, short
of any nighttime programming in the forest.
This was used on the soundtrack and it fucking
ruined it for me. A spooky wilting englobes the air here
as though hotels with bed bugs get a free pass from Mr. Guy Fieri.
See normalized reproductions of him all over the web.
Pink blue sky says not today but only in billable hours
and creaming the pants of fortune in the built horizen
designed by the proverbial Nerd Of Westphal
sipping Westphal’s ale, a torqued matter
that swooshes one’s tongue muscles over tactless insistence.
I really am a binding snob of party lines
a particle accelerator of mischievous charms.
Part of me is like, hey just accept your gf’s
friend request, right? You don’t need to prove you
understand direct contact more than others, you could just
have it with others, but if you’re already on here
you’ve clearly already sold out a bit
to the mantra of corporate togetherness
and connective tissue as market mandate.
Welcome to the Restaurant! Why, I have never been here except through increments and I have come to know it. I have a taste for endorsement, half mindedly choosing for myself. Do you know? You can’t, in these obscene coordinates, never not be realized, jeez, like manuscripted sorrow, or shoveling tears into a viaduct that unicorns had leased by straight edge pioneers. And these straight edge pioneers have excellent credit. Climb over here and I can panhandle some organization, and pinch off the Illuminati market capitalization exchange of days past. I am loosely typing out an extemporaneous drifting address, melancholy in the treated gloaming. This scenario is one that could go any number of ways. I finger you, my keyboard, brandished and smudgy object, and it becomes a source of awkwardness. Everything was aboveboard, as much as it could be even, with this patriarchal chewtoy in global equity’s maws. Consent sequestered through moistening potentials in ducks cranking out credit reports. And the boys, noise-boys, pain-boys, floundering dangerously in a courtyard, from day one never taught a way of moving on, treating rejection, bobbled beanbags before the Brewers game, tapping out perverse missives in conversation with themselves, fenced within an agency unmoored from gender’s law. As good a cross-section of Milwaukee as we are likely to find, if we’re this lackadaisical with demographic content. It is a segregated city, where the most oppressed came late, then got blamed for manufacturing concerns leaving the city, the main driver now being a light touch over each device propounding the new service economy. Sunrise biscuits reflected in dirty mirrors. The outboard motor of industrialization gets replaced by reuptake after reuptake inhibitor from the giant Cinnabon equity. Or not. I want to forestall digression here. O fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! Or, as the afore alluded to pathetic scribe, I am relaxing in the incurrence of luxury that I’m afforded, jiggling ice water containers within those appointed spans of time that occur at regular intervals for us and prove that sensible gun legislation can indeed gofundme some repetitive legislative functioning. Different for me, different for you. Highly-functioning legislatures will stop at regular intervals to fulfill a drive’s initial design, if only to bedazzle a population’s blinged out connectivity with a pattern of mud hens contrived in felt and bid sale. A jaw preserves the equity of grain distribution to angry birds. The economies of Europe, the economic models dioramas made of felt shown these meticulous already extant cultures, are tracing singular paths through their preassigned mandates, and if they are portents of belief, then one can’t but notice the torque of zingers beyond the scale of conscience. I’m still sniffing out the coordinates of this poem, dear reader, miniscule though my chances at finding love remain, a repeated choice fords no progress yet puts a penny in the muscles of wisdom, and wisdom’s jaw. I’m rubbing my antlers and forehead against the base of a tree, editing pull-my-finger jokes. This meandering only half-tried course will kind of remind us of the stopped turnstiles that drift in foggy connotation at the convention, where a small girl is lost in the palpable pragmatism. A sort of colostomy bag is imposed on the agency of the poor by the craven processes tapping at the window of democracy. Let us start here. I am sitting, something is connected, which I enjoy. I have forsaken these more natural pleasures, these primal undertakings, to be near you, and well here I am, dudes. And it’s like goodbye humans, goodbye language, goodbye crumby domain names.
So, Welcome to the Restaurant! I hope your stay is nice. And may you be afforded constant deviation from my plucked lyric odes which have already (and helpfully) been relegated to the area marked for pliant aesthetics and military attitude. My plaintive skulking is a digital pause button which I deploy within the specifically aligned dilations of rhetoric, in other words, the best words I can think of, I want a posh meat dispensary privatized but transcendentally available, but such that the “private” goes flush down a strong suction of empathy, if in my more enlightened parts I wish for the centripetal flux of heart muscles, then this proverbial nonchalance will continue with no perturbed neighbor chalking anti-RW24 missives. The Riverwest 24 is an annual bike race lasting 24 hours which covers 4.6 miles if one stays on the suggested route. On my walk from the Co-op, I pass several people taking part in its revelry and it is not an unpleasant sight to take in, and I don’t quite regret not taking in the full queer starlight of this festival of fun, based quite simply on the principle of a group-shared liberty and poise. The reason summer street festivals bum me out on occasion is my penchant for secretly indulging the more licentious hemispheres, refusing categories for my sin. This makes me feel guilty, like a creep who should go home. When one feels like a creep who should go home there is a complicated balance of narcissism, entitlement and rage going on within their feelings-complex. Like a Brutalist 70s highrise set aflame, I only glint in these corridors of geography and autopilot quintessence. I acknowledge that I have made some thoroughly embarrassing choices during these times when my body hides a formidable pantry of grief and ecstatic shoegaze browsing. What the eff is ‘ecstatic shoegaze browsing’? It is perhaps nothing more than an eclectic invitation to come the fuck into work early. The heck if I know. I do not want anyone here feeling uncomfortable. May this poem be neither a humidor to a neighbor’s bummed objectivy, nor a mallow repose hooked up to a PA.
Hello, ladies and germs... A pre-complied SQL on perma-funk setting.
Hiya! Hi!! This object can be used to basically work protocol until para-meterized. A prepared statement is a server-side object executed by linking efficiency to hidden tablatures, primarily a removed collabo with non-existent tabla. A black hole that performs wart analysis. Other language interfaces can provide support for efficiency types impacted within PL/SQL commands. Java is used to execute SQL query. Schwarzenegger still demurrs. What are the advantages of using prepared statements? How many differently-sized prepared packets of Schwarzenegger do prepared statements depart from any client? Optimizing MySQL performance requires the ability to inspect production query traffic. If you care about archiving Schwarzenegger-performance, inspect production query traffic and smash that like button for Commando, Commando: Arnold Schwarzenegger, Rae Dawn Chong. Don’t be caught with SQL at the optimization conference, settings placed on salutation, converging without sense in the word-salad style. This will probably change in the future, but in the meantime it is Commando (1985) Arnold Schwarzenegger that will garner the best results in terms of using MySQL to interface to server-side statements. Same result, but different flick. How do you get around this? This object can also be used to efficiently execute the statement multiple times. You don’t need to tear away. It installs a repeating command in your system, that splices wholesome content into pornography in the most poignant way imaginable. A hologram of Arnold Schwarzenegger from Commando in various sizes, also as poster, canvas or art-print, weaving through the airport like a real running back. The previous tutorial used simple CQL statements to read and write data, but you can also use prepared statements to lead an elite commando unit assigned to rescue an SQL INSERT query. You don’t need to tear away.
I’m back here, it seems like the only way to be in touch. Here’s a pro-tip. Failing powers. Of course. It pays to remember. I need to remember. Shows me to the door. Automatic remembering. It pays to remember. Everyone remembers this. Everyone’s memory has these places. It helps to go back to that place. And how that place is always in the same place. I pour all my efforts into this ventriloquized enthusiasm. It pays always to understand the powers of belief, and those powers that be. Remember that when people forge identity it is they who are lost. Without memories we are para-militarized, anti-meteoric, divvied through unit suspense, well, assholes. In my lost post, I sort of hinted at some big changes around here. Remember? How a murmuring flow of energy sustains them and their partners. It isn’t hard at all to understand. Check out good rates which can be salvaged by average citizens and principled stands against the push of history. “Push push in the bush”-- remember that line? To remember that at this time, when fog clears the abyss, time wrenches glory holes open, God shuts a door but opens a browser. Memory then becomes an instantiation of what physicists call when lunch is brought and thorough research falls just short of sensational. Down the spillways, and the old-fashioned tubes they used.
Listening to “I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues”. Considering the possibility that Luke actually did go over to the Dark Side. Tears come to eyes.
America! I've given you all, and now I'm virtually everything: a menu of continually implementing systems running routing protocols, mics, instruments, turntables, studio wizardry, by correlating the identifier (or key) between the curly brackets of the heaping representation of love. This was not a fair exchange. No? I've given you half of nothing and now you are driving the bus. Over a cliff! And a gorgeous cliff at that, which reproduces aching lyric. And a merciful ending to the scene in which I smooch a whole table's worth of the smorgasbord. In the memory come clean things. I'm not sure of their purpose. I know they are meant to be proposed and battened, and lightly battered in the gas station breading, as we call it, bonding, buying hair dye, falling down steps. Cooking in the oil, and the eye.
People! 50,000 dollars in student loans. I'm so tired of having responsibilities. I want them to grow little wings and fly away. Like why mention the celebrities who torture me with their image. But, then, like, why resist this sandwich-cake that is so delicious and that slices so fine and melts in the mouth like a half-formed culpability. We must have it or it spurns it's maker, like Richard Marx, comatose on landing gear inherited from the spinster's new hobby. My band now is called Spinster's New Hobby. I'm language poet extraordinaire Mike Dexter. Or Mike Dexterton. Have you ever had a skin tag? God, those buggers. Little buggers that are literally the excess you always hoped for. Today I wore these boat shoes My father gave me that were really painful to walk in and were ripping the flesh off my heels. Had I been a floater, I'd a been alright. Had a been a floater to be there in when the tongues are tied to promotional efficacy which I'm unsure is a word. But I'm sure that floater is a word, two definitions of which I can think of, or rather usages maybe, or contexts, are for when you are a turd in a toilet that won't go down, the turd not the toilet that is, and for when you are a person in a daycare facility who must go from room to room to room-- Red, Blue, Red (already said that), Green, Yellow -- as needed in order to meet ratio of adults to children required by law.
This is going nowhere, and I am sweating a lot. Leaning on the stall door of the couch. As in where lexically each new object in the poem will be assigned a stall door quality of varying degree, as it first appeared in Frank O'Hara, The Day Lady Died. Frank Ocean, the r&b singer and member of the Odd Future Wolfgang Kill Them All hip hop collective, came out as bi- yesterday, or rather he came out I guess as having had a relationship with, or crush on, a man, or of having been in love with a man? I've been in love with a man and I've had sexual thoughts about men. I like the easy transference and mildness of constant flights away from truth I don't like infectious disease or investment bankers, though I don't really even know what they are. I'm trying to figure if the above means I would marry a man. Fuck I'm on this which is not easy. And I wonder if the above means that I am the most repressive person in the world, only toward myself. Here are some things I know I like ________________. Big blank spot of commercial purpose. My comport which reads hard to figure obtuse mergers with unloaded content of Mueslix and cadaverous repartee. A mild luck reaming my hiding ass fungus.
Some of this is just wastes of words, I don't think it's about vulnerability really at all. And people won't fall in love with you under these shabby circumstances. So I think ok the circumstances need to change. No big deal, except sick humor is like a congealed substance in filaments of my heart making it harder to breathe. This is really the only thing I know how to do, here for you. What I'm doing.
Mike Hauser has lived in Milwaukee since 2002. He has curated reading series such as Too Close For Comfort, Salacious Banter, and Ineluctable Place. His work has appeared in West Wind Review, Bright Pink Mosquito, and Delirious Hem, among other places. His most recent book is Red And White Balloons from Adjunct Press. He has a full length book entitled Advanced Baby Syndrome forthcoming from a soon to born press.