--- B O B   P E R E L M A N

The remote isn't that big a deal

But I'm asking. Do you have the remote? It was right here 

Are you sitting on it? Check 

Look under the corpse. That's where it usually is 

You just don't want to get up 

I don't need to get up. I'd feel it 

You are becoming a serious corpse potato 

I'd feel it 

I would love to see what else is on 

It's under the corpse 

Pathetic. We both want to see what else is on. This is terrible 

But "terrible" doesn't automatically mean I'll want to see the thing you think is 
unterrible 

Isn't that another reason for you to look?

It's another reason for you. In fact, why don't you look for no reason? 

Just get up and change it then. Are you too paralyzed without the remote to get up 
and do what the remote does?

No, the thing about things is that they remain things, if not always just the thing
But a person, perhaps playing with a thingee perhaps not it doesn't matter 
even if one has a thing about certainty 
and still can appreciate the mutability of the whole thing
It's a good thing and therefore 

STOP

	CURRENT POETICS

Going into Iraqi refugees was the last thing on most investors' minds 
but suddenly that was where all the money had gone 
First thing anybody knew the sun had really set this time, gone down for good

It has the unshakable presence of a bad dream 
except you can feel pain 
a monster telethon with no mute 

Bad preaching and worse theology 
a marriage everyone should have seen coming 
with porn the only commodity still behaving itself 

Somewhere in the extreme back yard 
the fastest machines are rattling the cage of the enemy nation state du jour 
even as our own is being rattled 

There's a noble symmetry in human endeavor. Two hands, two eyes, desiring mouth 
All that's desirable desiring

But this other thing is not viewable 

	secret fraternity torture with all details in denial 
	but apparently shot on site 

That's the current poetics 
You can't imitate it and it doesn't have a plot 
The present is where they bury people and where people are born
--very young, as Zukofsky says and he would have known

	dream narrative with the usual neocon displacements 
how the head pronoun was forced 
		to gather shrieks of enemy combatants in a golden cup 
 
		THE REMOTE 

Lord's willing only to obeyers
	roped in a circle
	parents watch for the scantest things
humane hate 
	based on group gods

	Heaven understands the catalogue of methods 
		Shock as burning good
			with a hot Messenger
	irons dripping acid		 the skin is where Its will alights 
		torture prayer of that private Iraq

			And with the new 
				elected of course 
			cutting out tongues for personal rape strength 

	THREE COINS IN A FOUNTAIN

You may understand the meanings 
but these words 
are beyond anyone's control  

The words are all good 
it's the meanings 
that aren't 

Troops part of holiday scene 
as primal anxiety parts waves 
paints them red 

swimming into speech 
with characteristic splashes 
but leaving something to be desired 

Please return to your sets 
we are encountering 
nation states rending flesh 

A second trip 
to the store and still 
the bank is muddy 

Placard scrawled with old headlines 
hung around the neck 
of the dying outsider 

Reception's the only religious concept left 
the terminator's face personal at last 
corrections page 2 next day 

It's easy to save things 
on a computer 
anywhere else is a problem 

Pixilated centerpieces 
with our enraged siblings 
we have lost the social portion of our meaning 

Force at a distance 
annihilating all that's known 
to a Diebold vote in the Green Zone 

	SUNDAY MORNING 

Complacencies of the money shot 
as she or he, whichever is wanted
robe loose, lazily rubs the poor box 
while the decor stands as still as 
the forest primevil in medium focus. 

The viewer turns around in a controlled mental circle 
like a dog getting ready to rest 
but more advanced, thanks to evolution 
and the intelligent design of the couch

FINISH THIS

	the empty store
				glimpses of bruised, twisted, torn out

Get organized or is just plain "is" the only verb allowed anymore? 

If I "am"
then you "are" 
Or we could compromise 
We "might be"
"if all goes well"

	HOST 

I make my signature gesture of including you
by underlining my solitary position
here in the center. How are you
—not all of you—just you, there in the yellow? 
What's your name Rosemary I mean your real name? 

Water? Walter. I'm sorry.
Not that your name is Walter. 
It's a perfectly good name. I 
wouldn't say great. Walter
Cronkheit: now that's not bad. 
News is literature that stays 
news. Not bad. Applause. 

Walter, you say you open books
to find out what's going on? Don't 
we all. Now here's a question: 
Is the world is natural? 
Rosemary? Evangeline? I guess it's 
going to be a long night. Whoever
you are you have no idea? 
You're not either I bet. 
Natural. Laughter. 

Hand me a question will you, Ed? 
And I know it's Ed. 
Laughter. They're not laughing at you they're 
laughing with you, Ed. 

Okay, here's one. Why aren't there any women torturers? 

Because there aren't any women.
Oh, there are now? 
Who writes these anyway?

OK. OK. Why aren't there any men torturers?
I give up. Because there aren't any
men? Laughter. Sorry, Walter 
I forgot about you. 


	MOSUL

There's really nothing on.
A conveyer belt with packages on it 

This particular lunch is free 
but you better watch everyone's mouth

The master serves a free lunch without sequence or consequence
all you can eat it's edible 
there's ice water medics available 

And after lunch there are a certain number of hospital beds 
but there's nothing on 
Instant replay's useless 

Our master is an angry god 
behind the face very angry 
someone's done some very wrong things 

Bodies given over to orgies of obedience 
with gas in the tank always 

And the entire region watches the operation before the Super Bowl 
Republicans completely tender toward biology, patience to hear the details 
the screw holding the bones together while the ligaments learn to knit 

The operations out of Mosul are virtuoso 
tedious avant-garde tasks that someone has to do 
reconnecting senses reactions abilities to read gestures make decisions pull triggers 
all shredded into fried rice 

That's for the avant-garde medics to deal with 
Let the experts publish their articles in their itty-bitty journals 

Fried *rice*, just a metaphor a mashed up body 
social ribbons of information as delicate as yours, tattered and ripping 

He went "into this period"
"praying for strength to do the 
Lord's will," praying that he be 

 "As good a messenger of His 
will as possible," adding that 
He prays also "for personal 
strength," And not forgetting, 
finally, to ask "for Forgiveness." 

	BEATING THE BUSHES

Evolution started in the 19th century 
No real reason 
And stopped in the 21st 
No real reason 

So now we have to go back 
and defend the past 
which has become such a dump 

Grab your bananas, men, 
and squeeze! 

Bang your chests
when you hear beats 

he's playing good shepherd 
on the pig farm again 

Why do nameless trees 
under the mindless sky 
of the precognitive president 
always have to take up the slack? 

Of what? Why does now 
have to be history's 
nap time the ferocious sleepers saying anything 
to keep hold of the monetary public which is everybody 
so they can hunt in private 
bombing the extras 
smell of burning profit in a plastic fork

To the faces behind the screen 
he makes the secret sign 
to eat what's there as it disappears into some unseen account, 
trading good views 
for shows of force 
racheted up 
by the eternal boredom 
of the entertained, fleeing 
the future, sulking in the reruns 

And if you can identify with that
then you're already to Expert level 

where your only nemesis 
is random storage 

and your modus operandi 
is a news story 

denied, a detail a day 
weeks sucked down 

minutes sorted by Up Yours 
into episodes of Gotcha 

as told to Fuck You  
a presentation of You Already Swallowed 

And so 
clothes on 

or off 
the cliff or on 

live or tape 
delay  

life delay or 
now 

never 
missed the boat 

or tossed on the high pitched seas of megalopolitan systematic chance 

what's to lose 
telling power 
to leave its names outside? 

This is when 
the doors are open 
Offer good today only 

No loopholes, nothing 
you wouldn't want 
to be in the same room with 

The chief forensic pathologist told me Jamadi was alive and well when he
walked in. The SEALs were accused of causing head injuries before he
arrived, but he had no significant head injuries-certainly no brain
injuries that would have caused death

He had injuries to his ribs. You don't die from broken ribs. But if he had
been hung up and had broken ribs, that's different

Asphyxia is what he died from-as in a crucifixion 

The plastic bag could have impaired his breath, but he couldn't have died from that 
alone 

If his hands were pulled up five feet-that's to his neck. That's pretty
tough. That would put a lot of tension on his rib muscles, which are needed
for breathing. It's not only painful-The muscles tire, the breathing
function is impaired, so there's less oxygen entering the bloodstream

The hood would likely have compounded the problem, because the
interrogators can't see his face if he's turning blue. We see a lot about a
patient's condition by looking at his face. By putting that goddam hood on,
they can't see if he's conscious. It also doesn't permit them to know when
he died