What Sparks Poetry is a serialized feature in which we invite poets to explore experiences and ideas that spark new poems. In Language as Form, poets write about poetic language as patterned language—how words as sound, voice, sentence, and song become elements of form. Each Monday's delivery brings you a poem and an excerpt from the essay.
Vincent Toro
…third rail plasmates break spraying boom
                                                           formulas across Boogie down
                               get slung and stunned by prince clown
                                              Robo Moziz’s web of doom
               plotting. Necro wealth got no room

               for hybrid gente, see, so we
                                              invoke the equation, the Zee,
                               to loop life and lab synth ultra
                                                           magnetic MCs y otra
hylozoic mech entities.

Hyte wild styles un cosmic flush time
                                                           machine, un Ikonoklast rhizome
                               of spectral ritmo portals minds roam
                                              to snatch back the islands of dimes
               empires embezzled and primed

               for mass snacking después they crashed
                                              on chill reefs. No grandmaster flashed
                               their Alpha’s bet stance with so
                                                           much Ionic coconaut glow.
What other script toggler could splash

craniums of taxed mta
                                                           surfers with petrol glyphs retooled
                               to cure rubble trauma and school
                                              fly whelps on how our emigre
               elders become asphalt runways

               suns sashay upon. El Robo
                                              Moziz clan plan blasts barrios
                               for mas billboard space y detains
                                                           electric lexicons. Sly brains
always possess the option to

harvest flamboyant avatars,
                                                           trap entropy in 808
                               states. Sir Ramm don’t die, he gestates
                                              into junk math and Bolivars
               white flight of fancy, crafts lodestars

               from soil of soul clap gang duck speak
                                              for transhumanoids til the break
                               of dawn. Ill Moziz evictions
                                                           bend borough blocks for land barons,
bureaucratize extinction quakes.

But All them faux lords sweat the Ell’s
                                                           technique. Won’t stop cats who future
                               the fossil, remix selves, suture
                                              stitch a red lego tux, rebel
               with ecstatic chaos tech spells,

               ride gettovett riff sub routines
                                              into eighteen trillion silk screened
                               dusks. There is no afterlife, y’all.
                                                           No before. It’s perpetual.
Just polychrome goth future dreams,

Latinerd chrono mutinies
                                                           of garbage gods in an uprock,
                               upcycling Plutonian schlock
                                              for the Brown pantheon party
               spurring eccentric ecstasy.

               Mozizm otra vez be slayed,
                                              quantum slanguage byways get made
                               of siphonophonic cargo,
                                                           un regalo del hombre who
swore he was an average jose…
from the book HIVESTRUCK / Penguin Random House
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Color image of the cover of Vincent Toro's book, Hivestruck
What Sparks Poetry:
Vincent Toro on Language as Form


"Form is not merely shape, it’s concept. It’s not merely a concept, it is a vessel for culture that transmits the values and ways of a people....When our own forms are marginalized or entirely ignored while an oppressor culture forcefully imposes their own forms on us, some of us are going to act reflexively to such an action, and some of us are going to make it a mission to reclaim our own forms and create space for them to be appreciated and respected in equal proportion. This is, in part, the reason for my devotion to the décima."
READ THIS WEEK'S ISSUE
Color image of Phebe Giannisi's book, Chimera
Ricardo Jaramillo Reviews Phoebe Giannisi’s Chimera

In her new book, translated by Brian Sneeden, Giannisi writes of the Vlach people, a nomadic minority from Northern Greece and the Balkans. "It is, in a sense, a 'documentary' book, scaffolded by three years of fieldwork and rigorous archival research. It is a lyric book, a book that wills to stray from itself, driven by music over sense. Most of all, it is a polyphonic book, a compilation of 53 disparate 'voices' who collaboratively meditate on the Vlachs’ goat-herding practices across time. 

viaLOS ANGELES REVIEW OF BOOKS
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