Jason Nelson


(The sounds and dialogue of the film Dumb and Dumber filtered/translated through a 'speech to text' program and then carved into poetry.)

one is the hot unknown

"They have to buy all the scenery."

Who, all solar, is The Ireland.          an anonymous-year-old
          into a story, in general or yet human is Christmas
      or Christmas is as meaningful as a real job

A pound out my prayer and I said Michael protest.

Or yet I canceled the rehearsal,          a receivership moment
          in insurance       a guarantor for the usual and especially you,

an associate is a contingent, the testing sandwich of the littlest high school.

She seemed to be an angel connecting human and home to the hot unknown.

Edit a help. Edit, edit her air in the law.

The editor owns each year as a whole world destiny. Instead there was
                              going to be killing as a result of big events.

And into the cable a long hole           into the air,
                              blanket brochures for a credit judiciary.


two is a wounded contingent

"Your wants are reported, a high price to shut off."

Box people killed, but you cannot lie down in the front seat. You
                    pay it off as a dancer for mentally and digitally feared works.

The specialized are selling more parts,           killing parts
          plus the higher end of what might be "Berlin Marina Mary".

Awaiting the report the contractor, the vendor pinpoints the age
          known of what is matter and only to the riparian procure.

The goal of any hole is the guerrilla's meal and property supply.

                              Main against the fingernail.

Pay for half-inch     first-place is an overhaul, a single town
                                               while 40 hours was left for the killing.

                                                            a in the or a us

Born in an unknown moment, a wounded contingent loses
          what a painter and what we, on corporate dollar, endanger
to do so is a right, a good, a raw motor encouraging the dead.


three is believed jets

"They are selling your head for a renewal."

Try to buy all of Idaho so we know you aren't judgmental and well-known.

You're not forgotten, died in the circuit, tired of friends
                    and an inch into human's small stand.

By choosing what is known, the hotel, the household, why did any
                    who grew the end tell you terrible states,

                We don't know anything corporate
                              managers on air.

       The dead do well in Idaho.

Talk and tell.          Unpleasant children are entering and believed jets.

A sum was offered in ages, another hitter, the identity of ulcers,
                              the goal for what weapons suggest
all about all a little pumpkin pie airtight.

          A high mile shot before you tumble.

Including the judicial dead, they cannot know orders,
                              their indebtedness ferrets out a girl, stainless and indentured.

For gloves are when clothes disappear a hole in case of going,

to lose all of going. In the world, in Florida,
                                        listen, the editor condemned only what most in the state
screened financial in the grenades and well-known,
                                    a redundant end-to-end way to end-to-end air.

You won't do well at home,
                    and are not good for the ingredients,
          your errors are the goal of unusual provisions.



Your species was tremendous. The editor's most important.

Yet I know that science
                    is one of those creatures, more accurate in detail

and resistant to digital.

  For our entire mother, and her waiting area expertise, is in the hole,
          loved until trained to pay.




Using speech to text software trained to my scratchy and yet (in the afternoon) velvety voice, I process the worlds of media (movies, radio, music, crowds, the ocean). The software, as all technology, is an imperfect and jealous lover that misunderstands explosions, or ambient noise as text, and retranslates the sounds and dialogues, finds hidden words beneath what we (and it) hears. Think of the process as an interpretive dance, a jittery technological oracle for our electronic boxes that shine out uncertain media prophets. These poems are the first in a series of noise to poetics experiments.