i edited this post on accident

it said triceratops is not dead.

Down the Highway

Down the highway, the electric spinal cord,
the capillary-action bent northward, interstate 75,
automobile centrifuge, white nosebone beacons,
shouting stiff-eyes manifest, glares snoop halfcircling,
jellyfish tentacular, no bones, no nothing,
plasmids interface, turn signals into bleating hearts,
nervous kineticism, mufflered white noise,
vertical glass windsheer liftoff, dusty sterile modular,
tarmac surfactants, systematic minimized functioning,
square-bodies, gas jumping, the Cheerio effect,
magnetic fields, hyperinflated plant growth,
toroidal intestine exit ramps, disappear rapidly,
buccal caverns, empty world sonicscapes,
maxillary sunsets, dashboard scaffolding, orbital metrics,
photomosaic instant rereferencing points, seconds later,
philtrum-ridge amnesia, over the hills and backwards
through the folded esophagus, out into the breastfed tongue
of the many-mooned night where sheer invisible clouds
of yellow-city smoke were ejaculated, harsh backfired, energy
in the naked inarticulate voice of the running motors,
through the veins of great earthy America, the bodywomb, the preganant canvas.

this is not a poem...it is a PSA or something roughly the equivalent of a PSA

triceratops exists. it exists because we exist and therefore it exists. i would feel uncomfortable saying those two sentences out loud because i would inevitably fuck up the word exists somehow because i put it in too many times. the other horns of triceratops and the boy who rides on top/ armor plate spike/tail are talented writers. they deserve multiple forums. this is part of the reason triceratops exists. triceratops is a blog. it is poor man's technology. fuck rich man's technology. i am riding a shitwave of debt. i am making up words in this post. there might be ten people who have seen triceratops. this is ten more people than have seen a poem i wrote that is saved as msword document file and archived unceremoniously on my desktop. this is a reason why triceratops exists. young poets need more community. i am not identifying young poets as some 20-40 yrs range necessarily because that makes me feel like i am losing my already tenuous grip on words. i am 20. i think i am the youngest. the gap is minimal though. we are not hawking books. i do not have a book and i dont think i will anytime soon. we are celebrating community. triceratops allows for revisions but my gut feeling says "no do not make revisions because triceratops has a small brain and revisions are the product of large brains and dont betray your dinosaur nature and do write run-on sentences and fuck commas because someone needs to and this is the internet and we are our own bosses and nobody is paying us and likely we will never be paid for triceratops because it exists in anonymity and this is ok." my gut feeling is a wordy person. if you are not one of us four that writes on this blog and you just happened upon it and somehow by the grace of some divine being have survived to this point of the post leave a comment if you hate/like the blog. we are not important. you are not important. let us be unimportant together. i write shitty things and i put them on here because i just do. let me know if i suck. triceratops exists for everyone. this post is convoluted it is ok. write a poem in the comment section. buy budget saver twin pops from the grocery store. buy good books. write good books. color on good books with crayons until they are as colorful as budget saver twin pops. tell your friends triceratops exists if you have friends. it will make them feel either benevolent or angry towards you or something in between and you will have changed the world. join our community. dismantle our community. make your own blog and link us and tell us and ashley/god will link back to you i think. we are friendly. we are not elitist enough to be mean. triceratops will roam the earth again. the day is coming when it shall be so. i am getting inadequate sleep. thank you.

Love You Forever

II.

He was growing sicker, sisyphus

and i taller but not enough yet

to see god and ask about things

sisyphus was telling me. lay me

on the railroad tracks, neck on

cold steel waiting for stampede

he coughed. you are in books my

friend you are already forever.

and if i grew taller to see god

i would love him for existing &

loathe him for not answering my

questions, because sisyphus was

my only friend and he is laying

himself down in his own shit in

a cramped studio apartment with

paper walls that play the sound

of reproduction all day long to

remind sisyphus that god forgot

him when the regime changed and

he is out of context and out of

time. sisyphus cried on my hair.

I Can Pray !

Lindsay Lohan uses a net to tickle Robert Altman's beard. Robert Altman dies. Everyone is sad. Lindsay Lohan is sad. She listens to Devendra Banhart. She doesn't cry until 4 day later when someone hands her a Red Bull and accidentally touches the side of her hand. Lindsay Lohan watches "Short Cuts" 5 times in 9 days. She downloads pictures of herself and glues them onto paper bags to make puppets. One of the puppets says, "I am special." Another puppet says, "If you eat a staple you will have to go to the doctor and drink something that tastes like chalk." The puppet is lying but hopes no one notices. A third puppet says, "Lindsay I love you." Lindsay, says "Let's all close our eyes." She breathes, dangerously, like she would in the presence of freshly-cooked pancakes. God is smiling. He is touching Robert Altman's beard. Lindsay feels this and laughs a little into her left arm.

statement regarding ryan downey's poetics...i think.

1. for some people poetry is useful, for others it is not, and for most it is probably some kid with a beret in that stupid fucking eatery on Saved by the Bell the name of which i can't recall.

2. poetry derived from children's book titles can be used to pierce the hearts of children.

3. all americans are children.

4. piercing the heart is actually the easiest and most humane way to show someone you care about their health.

5. poetry can be created, or discovered, or invented.

6. poets define words such as created, discovered, and invented.

7. statements regarding one's poetics ought to be convoluted.

8. dinosaurs can be leading representatives of the young-young-poets movement in some cases.

9. young-young-poets is a label i just created, just like poetry is a label we collectively create.

10. there should always be ten parts to a statement regarding one's poetics.

Love You Forever

There is a bridge running across a river I want to jump off
The bridge is so high that it crosses over the cows
And when people drive across the bridge they close their windows
Because the cows are lowing dong dong dong and it doesn’t matter

The cows can’t hear the cars on the bridge because they are deaf
And like in an airplane when the emergency air masks fall on our heads
They can only watch the cars like men who watch the sky
In the seventeenth century, crossing in the dark an ocean, and panic

I am eating Haribo gummy bears and thinking about marijuana
My aunt’s name is Rosa and she decorates her house with colored birds
The birds in the field below me are yellow and diseased
Because they have eaten too much chewing gum thrown out the windows

When the cows panic they gather into a circle and start to cry
When cows are happy they fuck like two footballs rolling down a field
When I read the book Love You Forever I was five years old
And I memorized each page, said it in my mind, and went to sleep

When I was a baby I didn’t know how to read
I watched my dad go to the war in his black boots
And then I played in the backyard with my dads brown boots
And blubbered baby boo hoo hoos to the cars driving away

Then I said to my lover take a picture of me
Driving across the bridge with my knees on the wheel
Should I have asked my mother for directions to Red Lobster?
Sometimes the ones we love are the ones we forget to notice

toes, ears, and nose!

I.

we were riding a carousel, sisyphus and me

and humming our favorite songs which did

correspond with the tune that wafted out &

into our inner ear space from the tin circle

dotted with holes that passed for a speaker.

sisyphus had been trying to inform me now

for many days about his rapidly spreading

gangrene and the effects it would have on

our revolutionary relationship- it was such

an arrangement in only the basest sense &

therefore not worthy of such admiration as

the music afforded us but our senses can be

and must be altered in paradoxical ways so

that we might remain on this ride and think

about things unrelated to suicide or bright

colors swimming in our nasal cavities and a

splash of red seeking a low pressure front

moving into our area but not quite out and

why we are so content to name an uprising

with such blasé names that suggest a thing

quite the opposite but then we forget this &

lose specificity, that we never really had at

all junctures or any at least, and we are lost

with a sense that we will not get out of here

and now without amputating the diseased

section which corresponds with our minds.

sisyphus coughed a little while i hummed.