These poems were written to land you on a government watch list. And published at $14.95 paperback (hardcover edition unreleased) by an impostor of Faber & Faber of 1232 NE Prescott Street, Portland, inside a warehouse formerly occupied by six pinkerton deserters in this year of our lord 2015 the year of “the accident.” Or maybe to throw a brick through the wall of the White House and no note attached is their business. These poems come pepper-sprayed for your health with dirty words particularly on pages 3, 6, 23, 40, and 83 and were written by D. Schoonebeek an oftentimes troubled and defamatory young girl living among the worst generation of profiteers in balaclavas and who keeps herself violent through love. Or maybe to start a riot inside the insurgence inside of the skirmish is their business.
Their weight is 9.356 ounces, they will travel 732 feet in 12 seconds when fired from a trébuchet, their burning temperature is Fahrenheit 451, and they were printed in the United States by Mcnaughton & Gunn of Saline, Michigan. Or maybe to smuggle the anthem back inside the chrysanthemum is their business. On the day of its publication this book would buy you 3 loaves rye peasant bread, 8 white bootlaces, 1 liter vodka filtered through cheesecloth, 5 lbs. goose feathers, 0 theater tickets, 6 single rides on Manhattan-bound bus lines, 3 boxes baby diapers, 11 yards steel chain, 0 paintings, 3 cartons eggs, or a starred review in Publishers Weekly.
What else do you expect for $14.95? No really: what do you demand of your money. What is the function of police? Their International Standard Book Number is nine seven eight one nine three six nine one nine two five four and this is the number of school shootings since 1986. This is the number of school shootings since you were first broke. This is the number of school shootings since you were last fucked. This is the number of school shootings since you lost the use of your left. This is the number of school shootings since the so-called accident. This is the number of school shootings since Flight 370 vanished. This is the number of school shootings since god said I defect. This is the number of school shootings since you laid down your weapons. These poems will offend a number of people who will refuse to ignore them, some of them people with fathers,
fathers in law or fathers on Capitol Hill, and men and women of influence with fathers of money in Iowa. Their commercial potential is laughable, the Big Five publishers will spend zero money printing these poems, zero money ordering cured meat for the book party, the ruling class will read them but only on days when a family member is assassinated or during nationally televised tragedies, and they will tell you the middle class is vanishing, but the middle class will beat itself to death with this book, the middle class will call this young girl a woman of hatred of men, the middle class will critique her, the middle class will call her a national treasure, the middle class will market her, the middle class will interrogate her about her sex, they say the middle class has vanished but it’s the poor of this country who should rear up and throw books of poetry through the walls of the White House and no list of demands attached.
These poems are dedicated to no man or woman who’s yet been born, to the slugs that will never leave your gun, to milkmen Miss Universe snake oil salesmen Russian volleyball champions grave diggers bribed congressmen waste managers astronauts deserters zookeepers mega-millions lottery winners knife collectors ex-military tax evaders careerists doomed politicians musicologists bread and butter men buskers anti-defamation lobbyists government shills bad feminists okay feminists slander enthusiasts postal workers wall street propagandists gunrunners unfamous poets advice columnists javelin throwers failed nuclear warhead designers beauty school dropouts spam writers cocktail artisans viola wunderkinds Brazilian crust punks mall cops secret service men taxidermists web hackers hypnotherapists stunt actors card sharks bible thumpers porn stars manchildren fire eaters lumberjacks bodyguards and whistleblowers conspiracy theorists hijackers children born without throats hung juries and hangmen and whomever death will not love.
If these poems don’t throw themselves through your windows burn them. If you are the same person building himself a ham sandwich in his living room after you finish them shoplift every edition of this book you can find tear out the pages and burn them to warm your house through the winter. The time of writing books that don’t send us to jail is dead. Drinking vinho verde under the harvest moon and puttering our lines is dead. Asking yourself and asking yourself why a poem is the enemy of money is dead. If you will leave this book on a wood slat and gaping down at the world throw it on the floor instead. Or instead burn it. Instead fire it out of a trébuchet at the White House. This book was written to terrify the fucking.
Like the last poems you read before the hostile takeover. Like first lines you speak when the plane disappears. This book was written to break the back of the sawhorse between you and the police. A book like the earth you might salt if you warred against you.