Kurt Schneider Jan 2015

If fools could speak of geometry,
you would be the right angle,
while me, obtuse,
I find light in the darkest places,
where the glint of the moon turns back time,
I look back,
And find you cloaked in fog,
traipsing towards me,
with no rhyme,
strafing while they bleed,
we are cogs in the handset,
we are all lost teeth,
broken and shattered,
fallen to those underneath.

Mo Frederickson Jun 2014

There's something about you,
Like a Vonnegut tale,
A beautiful thing
With odd little quirks
Around every corner
And in every page.
A glowing light
That sometimes flickers
To black.
There's something about you,
My dear,
That's just out of reach.
So it goes.

For Trevor
Mike Jewett Feb 2015

Let’s bomb Dresden
with the black fire
of thousands
of bookmarks
with poetry
of poets
far and

-so it

side is
with verse;
flip flopping
through the air
each to land on
Dresden’s ghosts.

andrea bush Sep 2010

so it goes, he said, over and again.
and she knew he only said it to remind her
of her own duty dance with death
but she still wished she had never given him that book.
yeah, well, she said, i want to stay
as close to the edge as i can without going over.
yes, he said. big, undreamed-of things –
the people on the edge see them first.

the several excerpts from the works of vonnegut are, obviously, property of kurt vonnegut.

— for the American Mustang

Strung up on one leg, bled dry while alive,
unloaded off trailers crammed full
of the crippled and blind —mares
giving birth on three legs, foals trampled
by stallions, and a wave of fear
hovering over tossing manes
like the sea after Moby Dick surfaced
for the first time. Last year,

135,000 horses died —

rounded up in hundreds and sent
off to slaughter like feeder goldfish,
three stops from Canada
or Cabo, displaced from plains
once revered for their livelihood.

In 1969, Vonnegut
wrote, “And so it goes…”

In 2061, our children will ask about the wild
horses who used to live in their backyards
as they catch the last fireflies and bottle
them up in jars, flickering and dying
like tired bulbs giving up on electricity —

2015 sees Henderson, Nevada grasses paying tribute
to power-plant-lines and a suburb built
on Tralfamadore fiction: house-mounds
and picket fences caging domesticated dogs,
curb-lined streets and caution signs, billboard
warnings of humanity’s fixation with progression,
combined like coffee with an overabundance
of half-and-half and too much sugar — only 99 cents
at Dunkin down a little ways, and home
to the dreamers who forget the word freedom.

JDK Dec 2015

Some people endeavor to portray a persona.
Some people perpetuate the beliefs of their parents.
Some people pretend to be somebody they've seen on TV.
Some people have trouble accepting that they're actually existing.
Some people perceive themselves as being unlike anyone else.
Some people have an aversion to personality profiling.
Some people just can't help themselves.
Some people feel a need to place everyone they've ever known into categories.

"Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand."
Vince Chul'Theg Jun 2013

Life can be painless
Provided there is sufficient

For a dozen or so rituals
To be repeated simply

Your genius does not fail you
It allows you to understand the
Truth of the situation;
Which makes you--at times--
more tragic than ever

And your genius,
like all geniuses
Suffers periodic fits
of monumental

Where is Grace
When milk and blood
Are about to be added
To the composition of the
Stinking ping-pong
Balls being manufactured
In Grand Rapids?

The sound and appearance
Of the word fascinates

It sounds and looks to me
Like a human being
Sneezing in a blizzard of

This much we know:
You made yourself hideously
Uncomfortable by not narrowing
Your attention to details
Of life that were immediately

And by refusing to believe what
Your neighbors believed

Let your imagination continue
To be the flywheel on the
Ramshackle machinery of the truth.

But not the ‘awful’ truth

The ‘beauty’ in truth

Because we are a part
Of a system that is very
With people tearing around
All the time

Every so often,
somebody stops to put up
A monument

Ours is a country where
Everybody is expected to
Pay his own bills for
And one of the most
Expensive things a person
Can do is get sick

Because if we stay here
We’ll do one of two things
(or both!)

Build a Commune

Or do like Collin Heise did:
Make the main thing that we
do be this:
Move seventy-eight
Thousand pounds of olives
To Tulsa, Oklahoma

Even if we can’t
Improve the quality of our surroundings
We’ll do our best to make our
Insides beautiful instead

Piebald Roadtrip-writing, baby

You are the turtle
able to live anywhere
even under water for short periods

With your home on your back

A particular comfort in
Realizing that it so often feels
There is no order in the
World around us

That we must adapt ourselves to
The requirements of
Chaos instead

We are healthy
Only to the extent that
Our ideas are

To you
To me
To ourselves
To We


*Inspired by the words of Kurt Vonnegut in "Slapstick" and "Breakfast of Champions"*
Kristine May 2011

I was young
and you gave me words
and thoughts
and entertaining plots.
I spent so much time
looking at the way you write
and looking at the way you phrase
and wishing I could do the same.

Now I have my own phrases
and plots
and thoughts.
All because you planted want.

So I am about to be a free man again, to wander where I please.

I find the prospect nauseating.

I think that tonight is the night I will hang Howard W. Campbell, Jr., for crimes against himself.

I know that tonight is the night.

They say that a hanging man hears gorgeous music. Too bad that I, like my father, unlike my musical mother, am tone-deaf. All the same, I hope that the tune I am about to hear is not Bing Crosby's 'White Christmas.'

Goodbye, cruel world!

Auf wiedersehen?

A passage from one of my favorite kurt vonnegut books mothernight i just felt like sharing a passage of his if you havent read it then i would highly suggest it as well as slaughter house five
allen currant Nov 2014

billy pilgrim knows
knows what will
happen to me he
breathes down my
neck warm and
gentle my skin
prickling like
stepping into the
cold post-rain
autumn desolation
there is no why

plaids and dead
sheep have appeared
skin shields shilled
by the new age saviors
mellow melancholy
as everything crumbles
around me meat hooks
and bungee cords
billy pilgrim has
come unstuck in time

every look is a story
every story is too short
unless stretched to
translucence porous
and fragile tangled
in my hair like cobwebs
or a month of wearing
the same black hat
a bug trapped in amber

i am my legs eyes and
mouth and a broom
sweeping invisible hairs

Pearson Bolt Dec 2016

they say god is perfect.
that holds true for me, too.
no concept contains me in totality.
Stirner wrestled with the undefinable:
an indefatigable Unique,
lacking category.
Camus perhaps said it best,
"i rebel, therefore i exist."
i strive to personify resistance.

i find the answers
in harmony with Counterparts,
defining The Difference
Between Hell
and Home
"i am what i am
and i am an outcast."

an outlaw,
a nobody
akin to Nietzsche,
returning infinitely—
stretched like so many grains of sand
on time's flat surface, orbiting
eternally around the creative Nothing
at half-past 3:00 in the morning.
a singularity,
Derrida's Différance.

a nomad on the margins,
wandering aimlessly,
roaming perpetually
with Deleuze and Foucault,
an astronaut arranged
along the endless frontiers
of an ever-expanding cosmos.

Vonnegut recognized
the periphery affords
a radical view
to the few who choose
to embrace that which cannot be Known.
a zero-sum game
between Death and me,
staving off manic-depressive ennui
if only momentarily.

‪"The lyricism of marginality may find inspiration in the image of the 'outlaw,' the great social nomad, who prowls on the confines of a docile, frightened order."‬
‪- Michel Foucault ‬
Kelsey Bohn Jan 2015

I would like to start out saying thank you for all the work you made
for thoughts side comments in your books that make me want to have met you
I would just like to let you know that people are still reading your books
and if I may say you are a true writer that will last past my death
and you inspire me to be the same
so thank you
                           a true lover of your work

James Christine Nov 2016

bearing our souls
barefooted, our soles.
bearing the weight
of only our bare
naked souls.

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