I got the imprecise gaze breaking down again, other

times I paint it then I see it, plus the written owl

typos, in time, like I’m not supposed to be here,

doing my this this way, but I am, but so what, &

that’s some uncanny two-faced scar-art business

puny somethings, tell me a story so I can fake

sleep a little better, Panthers getting toasted, kneel

unseen on shade dark sunk head turned back un-

changed, back sudden gone sudden, hears pipes in

these legs, legs hear swipes in these pills, progress

busts our irradiated chops post-school, too many

costumes of information, inflotation? infoefoam-

ation?, pumpkins freak me out, in this abstract way

cause nothing concrete freaks me out, exactly, some

folks are turned on & out by exactly, which is a form

of pumpkin you suppose, edge can’t, flesh of blind

spot, crow jane systems, nice mild flame reflection,

u.n. assembly gridlock alert, warmups were really

good, hey baby, the world hates us, long vowels

riding thusly out of speakers, crosses enunciate with

emphasis, there’s a lot of hits by car on screen tonight

lots of fights to wade into the popcorn with tonight

investigation of incidence, white letters blue screen

mission to mars still ahead, I was broody like a splat

now I’m saying its all ok, I wrote about it at length

after looking at it from a distance, I have to blow

I have to blow now, for a thousand smears, that’s

the pathmark, tomorrow knows land’s end, eh curly?




not breakding down to a stop in front of paper

whales, purposefully disappeared toys rallying

at airshaft’s bottom, oily day stone spasms

raindropping on a stadium seat, crayon & pebble

& ripsnort & fissured ceramics on the windy

surety of Troy, eating prickly pear cactus with

owl eyes in a logical broth under backlit volcanoed

democracy, pink fracking drill bits for the cure

a long slick yellow leather slob ticket w./ blue

spanch across snoopy, forgetting to cover stain

with paper birds, forgetting to spit – ptui! – on

my c.v., my misattenuated bollocks on sale for

free, dude I barely don’t know starts following

me, only my phone knows, buffalo lube, little

maroon box filled w/ spills here, turning over,

eaves dropping barrel bombs, lying up, current

continuity notwithspeaking, seeking moderate

opposition guns in the mid-middle just for ‘the

record’, cardboard pillow pain tube & other

materials, canvas on canvassed, becoming deco-

rative parakeet goache, arriving late to date with

mercompany, accepting hand sanitizer from

well-dressed bumhaters, failing to cut a small

bird from swiped typing paper, posing wilde

beesties in front of fleeced paint, hanging

brains on speechiness, letting lips fall apart 




I heard nothing but a pneumatic hiss covering

the A’s for the chronicle, between pinches of pink

houses & half a life, jersey 14, unsteady among

the retains, investigating the handsomely paid

swaddle state tigers, ready to eat on paper, on

delacoixtic others, analogies on radio checking in

with prudential halos, cardboard spine saggy

baggy’s broader concepts of depth & versatility

meant having things sticking out of them, “I have

no reaction to my own texts,” sold to sell shifts

from essential to dispensable, told to take a line

for a walk & colour it in, municipal residual waste

rig wet & rolling by, oldly bathed raygun turns the

corner, spins past one defender, o benevolent ones

enfold me lightly, now I see I’ve had concentric

wrong all these times, a certain nausea sets in on

our outer rim, is it emerald, lime, sour apple

chlorophyll, or ochre plains circa Red Cloud’s wars

in white man’s books, snack request attacks the

sequence, neon evergreen pizza sign behind low-

hanging avenue leaf scatter, brightlingsick green

abandoned tote on dark green granulated rubber

ground spiked with gated play, acidic toddler hands

ass poem for a wipe, transparent puke orange bud

bus ads itself along, cased color no-bothing line



Anselm Berrigan has written approximately eighty-six poems since March of 2014 under the titles "Pregrets", "Regrets", and "Degrets". Nineteen of them are collected in a booklet published by Vagabond press at the end of 2014, called Pregrets, as part of the Pam Brown-edited deciBel series. Another nineteen poems were in a notebook that was lost somewhere between Paris and NYC, and were never typed up or reconstructed. Two of the poems are called "Egrets". A self-published volume entitled More Pregrets may be released later this year.