I have privileges beyond my understanding.
I have poetry.
I have flown a kite.
I have seen a beetle on its back go frantic and then, somehow, right itself.
I have a great deal of violence.
I want this to be the sort of relationship in which we kiss each other’s eyebrows.
I want post-apocalyptic humanity.
I want storms entirely of grayed yarn.
I want a diorama of yarn storm and one tiny mass huddled around one tiny fire.
I want hairs, always.
I want then, baleen.
I want to be swallowed by whales.
Against the reality of being swallowed by whales.
Against the room nodding at itself.
Against secret handshakes.
Against the sky.
Against his own ignorance.
Against one great mass huddled around one great fire.
Against the movie they’ll make about it.
Against settling.
Against scales and weights.
Against himself.
In the name of old Portugal.
In the name of Bill Knott.
In the name of the man talking down the man standing on the edge of a very small building.
In the name.
In the same creature.
In the tame of her hair.
In the taming of.
In the wilding of.
In the wilderness.
A wilderness.
For the verbing of nouns.
For paradoxes and also.
For the houses.
For the walls eating sleep.
For the future machines.
For wandering like buffalo.
For being killed off.
For killing off.
For the shoes slunk over the telephone wires.
For their mazes of tread.
For any small cruelty.
For me.
My father, the tuna fisherman.
Because my mother can’t.
I apologize.
Although my poems won’t recall taking them off, it will certainly be the case that my poems are no longer wearing pants.
There is no such thing as incoherence.
Smooth isn’t.
Karate isn’t.
Self defense is.
Poems are charming mistakes.
Poems are apologies.
Poems are starving animals.
Poems are distance.
Poems are portable, fully collapsable.
Poems will let you know we are trying.
Poems want for the person you care about most to die, so that they can comfort you.
Words are like coat hangers.
Sometimes poems are found hanging in closets.
Sometimes we become eerie in retrospect.
I sometimes refer to myself as we.
We swear.
We are all trapped.
We exact great violence.
We hide.
We are searched after.
We are two caves touching into a tunnel.
We are my favorite poets.
We are photographers.
We are aged film.
We appeal to our senses.
We are all in love and dying.
We hope inconsolably.
We hope a hole in our chest.
We hope to be found floating, for the fish to look up and find the moon fit precisely into the hole in our chests.
We sway in the current like squid.
We say our poems will wash up on a beach year’s later.
We say something about a baby.
We say, we’ll change you.
We say whatever’s left is beneath my fingernails.
We say whatever’s left is my fingernails.
We say whatever’s left.
Any little thing.



Filed under Uncategorized

3 responses to “MANIFESTO

  1. Pingback: manifesto of the naïve / confessions of the neoconfessionalists / a design for the new romance | detail collector

  2. Bill Knott

    in the name of me,

    all my books of poetry can be downloaded FREE at:

  3. Pingback: Something like a manifesto (mine). « panache, perhaps

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s