Boe Barnett

The pain of a house collapsed
is caused by the growth of a
long sound, like in lag, like

in saying, say, increased activity
is a will to credit, a means to
get it, regardless of the market

and crunch economics. As goes
the decline of recessive gross
ifs, so go ethical forms of risk,

September expansion and
the predilection of December
for baroque expectations.

Back when would-be energy
still associated with the weak,
fitness was the highest house

from which the chief would 
downgrade outcomes, cast out
any lethargy of recent notice

and slowly come forth from,
but only after the tribe was less
sluggish than before his cool

lookout began. The president’s
quarters ought to contain such
truck. One in three or three in

five appearances before congress
ought to start with the panel
remaining still, like the growth

of good federal services, which
one can expect to be rendered
unlikely by the value price of

cheerful music, as compared to 
when greater than fifty percent
of the final week of the first

quarter was kissed, and when
put on the wall was your face,
a symbol of national excess.   







I’ve lately been writing poems using a copy of my local newspaper, The Fairbanks Daily News-Miner. The process consists of transforming an article into a poem through a combination of erasure and anagrammatic movement. I don’t recall the exact nature of the article that resulted in this poem, but I can say it was more fun to write the poem than it was to read the article. The world is a damn mess.