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    Fauxhawk
    Fauxhawk
    Fauxhawk
    Ebook92 pages29 minutes

    Fauxhawk

    By Ben Doller

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    A politico-linguistic problem, a conflicted hairstyle, and a conflict-bound drone, Fauxhawk works in the space where dissent becomes materialized, ironized, and commodified. Engaging drone optics, redactions, renditions, comedy, and cinema, Ben Doller wrenches exuberant music from the drone of the everyday. The citizens in these poems are fraught in their passivity, both ashamed of being and of being surveyed. Occupied by the material forces conspiring against poetry, Fauxhawk takes on the economics of writing, university bureaucracies, and complicit injustice. The poems in Doller's thrilling new collection attempt to find their own tone amid the blare via formal innovation, carving a space where presence is signified, in hopeful and clarifying resistance. An online reader's companion is available at http://bendoller.site.wesleyan.edu.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWesleyan University Press
    Release dateSep 15, 2015
    ISBN9780819575876
    Fauxhawk
    Author

    Ben Doller

    Ben Doller is the author of four books of poetry: Fauxhawk, Dead Ahead, FAQ, and Radio, Radio, winner of the Walt Whitman Award. Along with the poet Sandra Doller, he has published two collaborative books. He was also the recipient of a Hellman Fellowship and a Sony Scholar Award, among other honors. He is an associate professor of writing and literature at the University of California, San Diego.

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      Book preview

      Fauxhawk - Ben Doller

      THE FAUXHAWK

      don’t go squawk in the forceps shop

      go (up) (get born) amok!

      rundown your block in a toque or in a flock of spots all tigerlilylike

      or just stop giving order

      to don’t go get shot

      you’re not and never

      will be hawk

      rather one of those delicious birds

      who chooses walks

      I taught I taw tis evening evening’s cotillion, thing-

      craft as a comet complex, copper-cropt-cop buzzard, in its sliding

      through the slipstream sonic boom booms the freon-drawn air, and wilding

      right there, how it sang upon the scene a careening screaming

      in its targeting! Then on, on on it flings

      as its steel hurl rolls hard towards a compound: the remote eyeing

      reset the map-scale. My flesh in writhing

      groaned for a drone,—the R/C of, the detachment of the sling!

      Bully booty and power and tact, oh, flair, guide, BOOM!, here

      Rubble! AND the pyre that breaks into flame then, a zillion

      Times told shinier, more mushroomy, O my musketeer!

      No wonder in it: vaped bods make Cloud-cowed civilian

      Ka-Ching, kids disremembered, ah my dear,

      the report cannot be independently verified.

      my stooges shirt

      my stooge

      popular iggy peanut butter

      I wear my stooges under work shirts

      to stage rage to play

      a little ditty to raw power

      to passenge alive in

      sweatwater bathtops

      in heroin hats

      the white rats

      covered up

      half shaved

      primate

      curing a common

      cough

      RUN

      1

      The word is a verb

      but the word

      is a noun

      I noun you

      I noun pronounce you

      now pronoun you I do—

      I am my wife’s wife.

      I wive. I wave the news at a beetle

      who must die.

      It runs into and out of

      this house

      of mine.

      2

      The verb is a word

      but the verb

      is a noun

      I’m deverbing you

      I just gerunded

      Excuse me.

      Words are free

      I am not.

      The news is good

      not so good and terrible,

      it runs at least

      a hundred

      pages old.

      3

      I run from myself

      I am faster this way

      I do run myself, oblongata

      this sentence

      runs on

      plant & animal

      protein

      it ruins the mouthfeel

      the best feel

      for it feeds as well

      I have a secret

      I don’t know what it isn’t.

      CYBERMONDAY

      #

      flexibleemeralds  spermicidalketchup

      petrochemicalbags consistofwhattheycontain

      deadscents sentexpress madeMEDIA

      omahasteaksubscription Foremangrill

      testosterone&zeranol droolsthroughthespout

      clabberinginthetunacan  fromamazon

      arisesthecorrugation fiberboard ingoosestep

      entombing agooselivermaskofaman

      Iwillwear thisrest therestofmylife

      Iwilltaketherest ofmylife uponasettee

      brandedafter  aspokesmodelcloud

      #

      letusnowpray  totheexplicitsentence

      theunequivocal inorder tojiveorjibe precise

      theprivilegeofpunctuation spitstaintheorder

      thecolonoscope   decrieswherewego

      isitbadtobeevil    ifsoyouareborn

      isiteviltoapostrophize sacrosanctcenotaphs

      it’sjust Ihavesomany leftover excretions

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