Julian Talamantez Brolaski

COME CORRECT interrogates the origins and edges of writing and the writer. Writing becomes marks, scratchings, imitation, physical sensation, infection- and is continuously propelled. “I cancelled/class to write this poem I a little bit counted chickens.” This is at once coming from a transgressive linguist, writing poetry alive with diverse ‘englyssh’ which flows through deeply thought quotidian moments.

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SAMPLE POEM:

pyramidal, its certain form

pyramidal, its certain form

certain  it is a form    wittgenstein or anyone

can think of a stag in their mind

but not be able to shoot that stag

and where is all that everlovin antimatter

that matter supposedly co-creates?

at the end of the dream, the poem

at the end of everything  what else, the end  sighs sor juana

the doors have an 11 minute song called ‘the end’

which feels serious when you are 11 and stupid

six or eight or ten months later  nor did I offer up my own dream

which was a meadow in my cup    meadowtation ha ha ha

the shipkissed the sands of galenic shores at the buttressed

end of my dream where spectacles do not fear to interpose

long fallen out of the mouth of vishnu so long gabriel so long usen

now the instrument of my reflection no longer necessary since

the inside is the out   and I’ve jiggered the mechanism

such that my jackets always dry & clean & my

cock is hard only when I want   no more embarassing

sublunarities and my cunt is wet just as my lover thinks

of fucking it   cities appear golden to my gaze   a figure

empyreal arises in shadow  long for this world   aching on the

threshold of my upturned arse and my one

ways and means, lilified cloak enmaned

w/ tresses, baldly dignified, the cloak was

regal it did not speak, yet Diogenes lept on it, yet the trumpets

pointed one direction   entrained to a kind of roseate beam

the same pink beam Philip K. Dick saw

emanating from that fish necklace around the neck of

the delivery girl he saw in his doorway after he’d

had his wisdom teeth removed

that same beam that triangulated

w/ Arcturus, aka Alpha Boötis to flash up and

hit it smack in the third eye till it and we and we are bent sobbing,

having given up our library, having died of the

plague and worse,  having vowed never again to write w/ pen and

ink having inscribed yo la peor, I the worst, in blood

on the back of a dirty pamphlet, but oh what

unmiserable mind is this   no me miserum  noli mi tangere

nothing miserable   nothing touches me

SAMPLE POEM:

babyperson

            I’ve a thing for entitled urchins. 

-Kate Colby, Unbecoming Behavior

the offal of gold

—perpetuity anon

—embraced in parts

tech support in tatters

dont want the ppl who

dont want you

the actual potato

who on and off are not even listening

tied on

in ‘peace’

succumbing to subpar meat

effit on the avnue

to ‘keep it lo’

xe calls xemself a ‘singersongwriter’

allalong awwful // by shades

 mercy

as uttered by orbison

cherry cola to rhyme w/ l-l-l-lola

melodious offal, the kind of content you flip thru backward

one harumphs

uneasily along

who to hold doors for

 who to allow to hold

                    doors for

the way to be

a fool with a tool

who admit to not even listening

to thir own babyperson

going around adding –ess to nouns

lion-ess

poet-ess

that’s such a load

so that the daffydill yawns back

the one who taught me grk is dead

you want to put them in your lap