magic (poetry by a spiritual teen)

like the atheists think
maybe there's indeed no
magic in this world

but if there isn't
may God strike me down
because i believe

in something beyond --
beyond science, beyond
the immediacy of reason

i believe in the spirits
of trees, in the holiness
of nature, that love

for example isn't just
chemical, that bonds
don't expire in death,

that memory, moreover,
can maybe last forever
that our ancestors

are still with us,
perhaps begging for us
to be better.

short declaration

I'm the VP of Congress Avenue
and I have a shot
of winning the whole neighborhood
merely by unzipping my fly
and showing the whole world
or at least a small part of it
my above-average dong.

bejeweled fountain, applause

the first instance of many
junks plying the seas was
in japan many years ago

the first mistake was
walking to work

the man in the Ichthyosaurus
shirts is all smiles

the pure, bought briquets
were made to burn

the boy in baby blue
is priceless

the devoid penumbra
of her luncheon umbrella
smolders

your flame, on a towel
in the park

leaves no mark
but in your heart

left a note for her
at breakfast in the lobby

she didn't receive it.
denote your interest

by investing in her
dad's company.

yessir, Bryce, i think
it was, i've come

far enough to know
that i'm not going back,

and i've drunk too
many times

from the bejeweled
lip of that fountain.

Here is the monstrous myth

Here is the monstrous myth. This is the Buckley Family.
The offspring: Susan & John. A Hallow's Eve joke plan:
neighborhood children to chop a dummy's head off.

The Buckley children thought it would be hilarious to
actually  kill. Maybe they did, and maybe they didn't.
Either way somebody's been tricked. Here is the

monster: here is the myth. There is the shadow
of cold in your memory
of the real cold in your teeth. Clinching it like

a pen ready to write with. Ink, solid
soldered parts of your already-bought-car.
Night's out at the lake with her dervish

delivered as handy. Cool, cool, clear
water. She gave you what she wanted;
She gave you her hand. You shivered.

A title better than the body -- revisit

Isle of Pines (Youth)

In our youth we were pines,
all of us islands connected
underwater by archipelagos
& si, no está muerto,
está ojust comenzado. Esta
bueno.

<>
Little is known of the pre-Columbian history of the island, though a cave complex near the Punta del Este beach preserves 235 ancient drawings made by the native population.

<>
One of the biggest factors is luck.

<>
In our youth we were pines
on islands. In our youth we were
not yet how we wanted to be, we
didn't know how. I still don't
but I am no longer a youth.

<>
In our youth we were
inland, made to be another way,
in our youth we were pirates,
the long dugout canoes
of American crocodiles.

<>
In our youth we were pines,
we were pining,
blooming invisibly,
seeds that require wildfire.

The page

The page is the space where the bone is erased 

and replaced with black ink that bleeds not 

but charts a course of hard life, lived in the Earth 

by tubers & roots. I believe I believe I believe 

in the moon rocks beneath the feet -- in the 

skeletons in her house, in the monkey's 

resting place, unpretentiously hidden 

in the corner next to the palms. 

The marauders of thought are afoot 

and let's not mention that they are slowly 

falling forward, placing one foot in front of 

the other, a run to the place in the park where

the bamboo shoots grow, and everything 

is in its place, sacred and vegetable. 

Laden down like a latent frown turning 

over and into a clown's 

wedding clothes. I opened her bloom

I took note of her petals, 

I planted her rose garden. 

the reef at the edge of the world

the reef at the edge of the world
the inborn impulse to strangle one's
sexual partners. the reef at the
edge of the whorl. the finger waggling,

the hand of God. hand on a Bible
like a rifle positioned downrange.
downwind, unhinged, boxes of wheat
crackers. the joyous sound she makes

in the morning. focus on that--the
girl you haven't met yet, her beautiful
hair and her beautiful body wrapped
around you like flax becoming lace

becoming silk, maybe. everything evolves.
even sentences into paragraphs and
relationships into prisons. business
is who you know, business is ethical

in the American moonlight empirical.
"i am not curious" and i never will
be but i'm electronic like curtains
ne'er shall be. i'm online and incurable

like a virus on the website about Neptune.
you just wanted to learn about the
solar system. the whole world & its vales,
the whole world for sale, wholesale.

Caring

science vs. fiction
*shrugs*
precious little matters, litterbugs
truth vs. consequence
and being selective is tough

I wish I took fewer electives in college
and did more things I didn't enjoy
intellectual laziness is a curse
registered for classes as a nurse

Not really.
I CARRY A PURSE.

Not really. Lips sealed or worse, zipped
locked, bagged up and thrown out

grown out of my jeans
patchy memories of outfits past

loud last actions
clouded judgments
resounding failures
no buts, just move forward
from the foreword

which lasted longer than I expected.
like a bad best man's speech.
Toast with jam
too much on my plate
not too late to share
too much of a burden to think about
but not too great to bear.

Sometimes I care.

Return to Trigonometry

Doberman
it's over, man
hits and misses
hugs and kisses
permission to admit evidence of incisions - dismissed
I would be remiss if I didn't mention - I'm listless
yes, something is indeed amiss.

I miss something I never had
I want to be a dad
but am not even close to ready
diapers cost a lot, you know,
and kids wear them til they're like 10 years old.

Everything is an accident
nothing is an accident
coincidence is just love and hate at the same time
deja vu - an interesting concept
flash all the way back to a past life
so fucking rad.

I saw it already
it's familiar to me
so why is it so difficult
why does it feel new?

what do I want and what do I need?
why can't I google that?
what is "the internet?"
Argh.

14 August 2013 bits

not the Mets but the "Quick Mets"
<>
"Activism" is a word that's been on the tip of my tongue recently
<>
the stop-less pause of rain has passed
and now the living sun is out
<>
Writing about a Fresno arborist and I remember the time that I was at Carle Park, I think, probably with Mere, and I was playing on a pretty extensive, multi-level playhouse, which was really cool. I think we played beach volleyball after that. Definitely we went swinging. I had on a hat. One of those colorful careless hats of my youth. Maybe not though.
<>
hypnotic color-correction

15 August 2013

a DAY THAT WILL
live in infamy -----------
Ronny's not my friend.
<>
that's how i like 'em, Quick & Sad
<>
New York, New Jersey, Maryland, Delaware
& Virginia.
<>
twig & the half-moon
<>
baby black bear 40 lbs
the wolf is full-grown:

a bullet, 24 pork steak$ wrapped in paper,
& a soggy salad in shark stomach
<>
a STORY IDEA

a video as a poem

What you just said is
one of the most insanely idiotic things
I have ever heard.

At no point in your rambling, incoherent response
were you even close to anything
that could be considered a rational thought.

Everyone in this room is now dumber
for having listened to it.

I award you no points
and may God have mercy on your soul.

some stuff

land-use
pavement
mission
confederation
recognition
needed,
money,
wanted.

i want it
i need it
I've held
it in my
hands and
behold,
life again,
arisen like
palm-fronds.

Does it matter
what we're doing
to our minds?

The recognition
of the world
is not what matters
but the hope that
you are doing
what's important,
and what's important
is being done.

Defensive Position

Defensive position. Defensive posture.
Moons, squared over the sun, recalcitrant.
Oh hey, man, here's a landlord, covering
his tubers in rootworms, I mean cement.
Cold coverings of words the remind me
I meant it when I said HATCHET.

Crooning no-goods. Gooding and the boy
gods. I know that this -- our together-
ness, touches -- meant something. This
gift is figment, this motion is deliverance.


Measuring 5,840 square miles

A quick red poem

Females as divers
sponges delivered
Nail count -- watermelons
Coked spiraled down-towns,
corpulence withered to talons
basking fish or women, womyn
misers baking sodafins or
maybe i'm about to jet
four-square of these, fists,
holding knives who
are staring, satirizing
your flesh-to-be. Cut.

one small part of the inexpressible problem

old thoughts. new rhythms. cold, cold, cold hands.

the same sitting-around. the same "newsroom." the 

same meek children who think they're adults. i pity 

you sad fucking people. (i really do.) (thou are god.)

the same faggots and Vespa drivers. the same need 

to explain the last sentence's subject: I DON'T HATE

GAYS, AND IF I DID, FUCK YOU.  cybernetic 

hate like worms eat your composing shit, & 

that's favorable. sad fucking people. fuck you.

the sad newsroom. the lack of expressing things. 

in your own head. i'm not writing verse when i say 

that hazardous waste is put in your water, & you 

drink it while thinking it's "not that bad," and celebrating

poor kids. at least they dont' have cavities. 

i can't take it anymore. ADHD, depression. i no longer

suffer, but why? i have seen the light. 

i'm officially fucked, i'm officially saved. i'm like 

an Army Sergeant seeing the light, writing in banal

semiotics. "My girl, that bitch fine." Scratch the bitch 

word, but we're all being honest. I can't hide it, 

I can't hide it, I can't hide it. 

in the millpond / leave

swim
does the cat
in the water

pool
does the water
in the millpond

will
is your millpond
to change

hunting & marijuana

sometimes Matt smokes marijuana
& goes hunting. sometimes he doesn't.

Muffy, of God

Here's Muffy & she's no shepherd
but a woman (of God)
full of vim & vituperative
words to be bandied about.
yessir i'm rugged as antlers
are to deers' heads. i want
you as much as a bullfight
wants reasons to end. not
wanting, never enough. too
many papers to read. not
enough spectacles for burying
the words under, underneath.
sedimentation.

modern life

the sadness of modern life

is almost sometimes too much

to justify, to live with; as an otherwise

nude ballerina removes her hat

and squats in a warm bath--

the door closes. 

yes, I'm afraid I've arrived w/o

booking my room ahead of time.

I'm just here, is this alright?

can we see each other still?

crossing her legs, she smiles. 

my love, but why are you here? 

I've arrived like twilight on the eaves

of your mother's house, post-midnight,

before the June bugs came out.

I've arrived like a warning from God

to be merciful & to follow instincts. 

This is how you got here:

This is the way home.  

Wistful Thinking

I don't dance
at least not like you do
at least it's not raining
I like the rain though

but only sometimes

bugs n drugs
and locks of love
palindromes
infallible drones
flown over
everything blows over

sobering twists -
"hey mystery mister,
this is a sorority
and i'm the sober sister"

twisted cause I kissed her

enlisted in the army
got a blister
and took aleve
of absence

wistful thinking
winking + winking = blinking

carry on

tigers in the bottom of the barrel
sunglasses-wearing felines &
fallacious arguments about science
kids w/ rocks 'n pasta, postboxes 'n
sandwiches w/ swans. i met (truly,
Ulysses) a mercury-sweating
caldron in the lobby with Margaret,
boy, she was acting funny.

it's like the lights-out w/o the lights
on, she said that's what depression
is. "Depression, call it depression, it
goes so, what are you gonna do about
it, that's what I'd like to know."

take off your sweatshirt when you're
talking to me, honey, i've got
my beeeeeeeads on

& again with proctors and the Lancelot-
lovers, the corn-muffin bakers & the
ice-queens whom dance in the corners

yes i was also a man once, when the
circumstances allowed it

but i tried, Dan, i tried i tried i tired,
like i'm looking in a glass here, the
mirror opening like the moon becoming
a body of water in which to swim
a cold hard woman that's looking
to knife you.

i believe in foster children's toilets
& magma machines & pushups.

please carry on.

Dan's morning routine

Dan's home was practically a museum, built out of white marble slabs and featuring low-slung windows that looked like those in a post office. Indeed the whole monument had a feeling of a civic gathering spot, as opposed to a house. 

Dan woke up in the morning in his king-sized bed, draped in purple satin and redolent of potpourri (his maid, Linda, who he had a crush on but had been afraid to ask out, loved the stuff). Plenty of swords and medieval weapons adorned the walls. There were also several televisions, most of which he had never turned on or set up. 

After rising at 10 a.m. – an hour that never deviated – he brushed his teeth and strolled out of his cherrywood doubledoors, emblazoned with silvery chicanery (objects, symbols, political gain, chevrons). He strode across the strip of grass along LaBoutain Boulevard known as Dan's Park and then entered the Refinery, his sem-private "lunch club," where a team of doctors and surgeons waited to examined him. 

His bladder, kidneys and tonsils thoroughly prodded and interrogated, Dan sidled up to the breakfast bar, where Lorraine (his kidney doctor's wife, a real gem) ceremonially asked, "What can I get you, Mr. Fontaine?"

"Eggs Florentine, ma'am," he replied, as always. 

His eggs came bedecked in spears of asparagus and slathered in Mackerel Sauce, which contained equal portions of Clove Oil and Spearmint. Dan really was a maniac. 

After the eggs came a hunk of whale blubber, as well as a tidy bowl of pure ASPARTAME chunks. He loved these, and loudly made suck of them. 

Then, the salad course, which he never ate. 

Finally, desert. Rat-tails crusted in real sugar, opossum eyes and arrangements of gumdrops made to recreate scenes of mastodons fornicating. 

After breakfast, Dan was often frisky, and he went into the basement of the refinery, where Jill and Jo were waiting to tickle his scrotum with ostrich feathers, and stroke his cock until he ejaculated into a pot made of baked mud. The pot was never emptied, a point about which Jill had complained, only to be stricken by Jo, who was a violent and dangerous woman, and whose arm-grip strength could choke a pregnant buffalo. 

Sated, Dan then sometimes went out back for a game of tug of war with a pack of measles-infested children. Dan was oddly immune to this disease, despite never having received a vaccine. Predictably, the Fontaine's loathed vaccines, almost as much as they loathed diseases. They didn't mind rats, however, prone as they were to loving the darkest and foulest corners of our human-created world. 

Jim DeBelsh, Dan's foreman at the cemetery, would then usually give Dan a briefing about the daily body-rearrangement ceremony, and the grave-digging initiative. At 12:30, Dan would plunge his head into a bowl of cold water, and yawning, retired to his bed at the civic center for a nap, and, occasionally, quaaludes. 

thirst

Sometimes the border of the cliff isn't enough to keep people from going over it. Here is an exhibit: a man with sandals playing basketball and tweeting about "the horse-race." By which I believe he means the race of actually equines in the next county, but by which he could also be referencing humanity. It's hard to tell what a surgeon is thinking.

But that was yesterday, and this is today. I've dropped my stuff off in the lobby and to be honest I can't tell whether we are discussing the elegant flames painted in the bathroom tile, or the purses containing amphetamines that somebody stashes beneath the bleacher seats at Times Square. The moment you realize your alive you're already dead. That's a joke of course.

Evenings with Gladys were among the best I've ever experienced, truly Julie. An orchestrated, balmy evening in the bowl of a stadium with winter wheat stocked up in our coats, crowing about unicorns and fancy de-palmed believers. Did you know that they can erase your signature after all? They can erase your fingerprints, your Social Security Number, and your make-believe identity. Sometimes I sweat laying on my bed at night thinking about the turmeric lobby and all it's done to wrest power from the powers that be.

And just like that, another German on spelling vacation, licking his wounds from the last come-uppance. I swear, Julie, I could've beat that n-----, and if he'd looked back at me one more time…

Just now walking down 17th street I was saying "Preta" to myself (reading aloud, upon seeing sign for the over-priced deli of the same name where I often eat breakfast because it's the most convenient option) and looking at my reflection in a shopwindow. I noticed a girl passing by staring intently, smiling widely, like she was very interested, or amused, or both. Or she thought she knew me — but she didn't say anything. I looked back at her and she was glancing back at me. What are you supposed to do in those moments? I swear on all the vital organs of the continent I should have ran after her and come to understand her, made plans to see the symphony, grown old with her by a lake, but I just kept walking like a foolish ordinary human being thinking there's no other option but to keep on.

Then there's the part where you're all out of plans and you're thinking about Wisconsin, or talking to a girl down by the jetty about signatures or dopamine. Both are pretty individual to the person that makes them, and how do you know my brain's chemicals are like yours? I don't think it's obvious we know anything about what makes a person decide to get out of bed in the morning, or enroll in an expensive preparatory school to become a clown doctor. 

The Whole Earth (pt 2)

The Whole Earth

is wholly property, 

you see, for him & him, 

but not for me. Don't you 

see, don't you see? 

Power doesn't answer, 

nor ask questions easy. 

Don't you see? Don't you see? 

The whole earth, the whole 

infirmary. A cold collected 

purpose for this purpose, 

incomplete scenery. Writing 

about the proverbial sand-storms 

or the sand castles, like a chaste 

woman (for the first time) in 

a fraternity. 

Please, if you'll bless me, 

don't make me again recount this 

goddam rosary, the "first time" thing, 

virginity. 

I've suffered enough for never 

having made a woman suffer 

through my indigence, 

my superiority. 

Over-ripe fruit, that! what a waste,

what an egg-shell too many. Here's 

Dom Maize, crowing about his 

virtue when he ain't got any. 

(Slippery boulders somewhere 

related two-and-two, becoming 

four like her concern was for 

free.) You really like me, you really

get me. You really don't understand 

how important it is to notice the 

scenery. (Sure kids, just keep writing 

on and on, like there's a recursive voice 

here, something made and collected 

and broken again into pieces that 

jade up the whole works, that 

make a man more brave than he probably was 

already, that make a man really want to 

roast something, whether it's his best 

friend, 

or a whole new tribe of actual people. 

Am I talking about nuts? Yes, let's fetch 

and eat them as soon as, believably,

one could, though not greedily.)

many reasons

there are many reasons

why i'd like to move on 

the sea, for example, 

continues her midnight reveries 

dark and immaculate in her waves 

the fish sleep as they swim along, 

daybreak the sound of bubbles rising 

and anchors descending, and history 

ending. 

i've had dark carcasses on the mind for 

weeks and maybe (, bless me, ) i could 

have been colder than an April shower

[]

icy reigns withholding her tumultuous, 

cavernous reason. yes i've held breasts 

in twilit hours, grinning, and yes i've progress(ed)

perhaps as far as the spider is spinning 

her web, and the web's beginning. i don't 

know how to slope it out of the park--i'll 

have to hit it. i don't know how to make this

aroma any darker--i'll have to quit it. i don't

know how to make a lager any quieter, 

so come back in the afternoon when it's lighter. 

a flame to the candle to burn 

and a mantle with candles to burn 

a mantle with a man chanting sunscreen 

clouds in front his eyes, Indigo Bunting 

shimmering waves

shimmering waves 

all around me       :::  

a pegasus wiping his 

tears, confounds me--

this madrigal girl, w/ 

a heart like a calculator 

beaming his bird brightly colored 

up -- 

toward heaven, or to 

her nemesis :: wives in

the kitchen and Connecticut

from Beverly to Hilary are heavenly. 

backing up now, away from

the straw, away from her manic 

abbreviations of wood. my body

makes water like papyrus 

made scrolls -- except the plant 

was not ashamed of what he 

shed off. Grooms and Latter-Days

and boys without spittoons, shining

Mexicans' shoes with ribald glee. 

If you want to know the truth just 

ask me and I'll tell you, I'm in charge

here, In charge of everything, In chase

of this moment likewise, like this is 

how a person begets betterness. 

I don't like cloves or garlic but butter

is just right, now. Like borrowing or 

robbery, I tell you what I think --- 

nice scenery. Expecting some kind 

of better judgment to seize me, but 

I'm disjointed and breezy. Gaps & 

windows open, a slow lonely purpose. 

I've kind of lost my steam even though

I can still sort of keep it out. Of the trees

again, the false presence or the false 

dichotomy. Broke her back on the back 

of the fraternity. I wanted to make it 

easy. For somebody. To remember me, 

this parcel or this empty bassinet. I don't

believe in locomotion, I believe in parsimoniously 

telling the truth--and the spell is over. 

The Films of Nestor Kacinsky (conceived 10.24.07)

1.

The films of Nestor Kacinsky

are like watermelon babies, borne

into water apiary: this pool is a birthing

zone. On Summit Ave., I become a

metaphor, and I have long since doused

myself in redolent cologne. Before

moving on, the past explains itself—

or doesn’t, so you wait; she wasn’t

perfect after all. Even bees appease

nobody, disappearing strangely,

nevermore. Nevermore, a song too

appropriate to avoid being sad. Never-

more, so many people and things,

since-extinct species, the sky itself

once described by throngs of regrets,

passenger pigeons, deadspeak. Alcohol

once was illegal. Melancholy is medieval. I

am tired of one line endings, sadness.

Therefore, write something, and the ceiling

will become more bearable. Perhaps being

nothing more than transparent to sunshine.

2.

In the bay at Summit Ave. I have met

people in earthenware circles, here, there,

hiding behind shrubs, in alleyways and

on balconies. I have tendered green in

swank hideouts, brave rooftops and--

the first time--ducked-down tennis court,

Clark Park. Mass emails don't contain,

anymore, special thanks to kind churches,

but they contain instead references to

another kind of Good--a plant's discovery

of a foreign land, where you forget how

normalcy works (but not entirely). Pain--

think about it--is the hardest feeling to

summon from memory. My brain knows

how to forget. My mind plumbs always

more these times, un-listening. So I will

put flowers un-pollinated in a glass cave,

burn them, and relinquish, something suddenly

undeniable, though undeniably not-a-thing.

This is why I end singly; That is why religion

is a twice endless stew. Social lives are at first

quiet & isolated, then made to order: meaning 

is finally brought to bear. Peoples, countdowns. 

Dr. Kazinsky's Mind-Cleanse

Cleanse your heart
Purify you mind
Eat mushrooms
One at a time.

wealthy conspiracy buff

[A missive from a wealthy conspiracy buff's  

masseuse (october):]

existential body club 

bodies and cubs are withstanding wholesome 

fourth cubs of running hubs & 

oh-my-gosh-whom-when-how are these pale-bonnetted 

lasses investing drums 

dumb, can't collect the cold pipes can't 

even when the whole wild world is culling 

corpuscles or properties, hmm? taste these 

word processer hands, leeks, these pale watered

down petunias of tomorrow backslaps handslaps

culled empty, hi

Hades, nightshades deadly, block out the evening-dark 

blooms of her mushroom's daybag

her bloody neat-o-rama bookshelf, or, 

I-don't-know, somebody's oatmeal being 

eaten recently even if you're not your 

best self all the time, seek silence 'n 

craving 'n style points 'n backlogged

hammers, like a marathon beast of best-logged

policies and cold frenetic bones held together

with ligaments 'n ferry decoders 'n damn digging machines 

caustic colliding raiments, fragments of code 'n 

cooling towers with fucked-up fish 'n stacks of 

draining drawn but drainable powertools. domes,

damn, doors. water under the brigade / loop / send 

empty chucks to the dancefloor with ideas 'n doped 

sentences that-go-like-this what? are 

things, doves, wore, war, or warhammer, like 

day-glo candles banking brandishing candles candles 

cankersores cores bored & boarded corporate dunces 

Dung, Dang, dingers fucked 'n boarded 'n bearable

(boring sleeves man) 

built from a PC launched at the Apple Marathon 

for goats, non-humans are the next market for 

computers & Mars flights. Humans are the next 

ghosts. Folders & Viagra forever, I keep 

thinking it's Thursday. Thanks a lot. 

Pineal Melatonin: Cell Biology of Its Synthesis and of Its Physiological Interactions*

Phone Convo

"Where do I work? Well, that's such a loaded question. I'm a "graduate." I have several alma maters. I have several daughters. I'm a member of C.L.A.Y. - Capital Letters Association (YOUTH). It's open to young acronym enthusiasts everywhere. I'm 42 years old. The thing about C.L.A.Y. is it's malleable. Pottery is more than just a hobby to me. Without pottery I couldn't have ever built my granaries, for one thing. My third daughter was conceived in a grain elevator, but I thought of the idea of conceiving her long before - at a C.L.A.Y. meeting, actually. That was in Denver in 1975. I'm actually way older than 40. But it's rude to ask a woman's age. In fact, it seems like you are really trying to get a lot of information out of me."

"Um, I just wanted to know if you'd be interested in a health insurance plan that offers cheap dental-"

"My teeth are just fine, thank you. The only plaque I have is on my living room wall, it says "'Molder of C.L.A.Y.' - participant, 1938-2013."

"Jesus, how old are you?"

"I refuse to answer that question, you little shit. In fact, I have half a mind to report you to the authorities. Back in my day, if you even raised your voice to a C.L.A.Y. counselor you'd get gutted like a fish, and scalped like an injun - oh, it looks like he hung up. Well, I suppose it's time for my dentist's appointment anyway..."

Flintstones Meet Jetsons

Wilbur, I'm home. What a charlatan web we weave.
Every snowflake is unique, unlike every time that phrase is used.
My knife is my baby- my baby is my knife.

I've recently taken up weaving - bought a hair loom
really threw my family for a loop
swoop and pull. The kicker? Laces were out.
Lollipop, tie a bunny's ears in knots
and put it in a bin with the other loonies.

Better late than never. Too soon forever.

Yours truly,
Trevor

Piecemeal Survival

Every piece of meal is an act of survival. At the revival factory,
things wound.  It's true that we ate each other's food. It's true
that we too were just cubs.  There are men with knives

who like to caress their knives.  It's hard to picture
them as pink little dumpling babies. But we get old
and live in specific neighborhoods.  It would be too much

to survive all at once, like a deep sea diver rocketing
on a camel near Bluto.  You turn me right, round.
No human can be dancer.  It's true that we dance.

Lumineers

Them boys are nothing like the lit-candle kids. Lumineers
is basically glossy smiles on middle-aged moms, & have nothing

to do with the sun.  Some people would strum on your ass all day.
Some people are in the "alternative energy sector," which is noble

actually, energy activism, you know? A kind of unfucking of the whole sport?
Random guys and acid parts, intestinal fortress men? Our Heavy Deeds

& the "better life" if you would. Would you? Fuck you. Would you?

Pie a la mode

"Close the shutters!" screamed the bellhop, "everybody scream!" Circuitous misdirection, you see. There was no one outside, nothing to be seen inside. It was an unannounced game of Simon Says. A game the bellhop was scarily good at. Over half of the guests unwittingly lost went they raced to close the shutters and the rest were out when they began to scream. There are only so many shutters in the hotel.

Horizontal Vertigo

"It's clear as mud," bleated the goatboy, through the thick, dense fog. "Nobody knows what you're talking about - just give up" - a quote attributed to nobody in particular. It was really foggy. And damp, yet not exactly raining.

Foggy days are full of potential. Pontoon boats. Frogboy's in here somewhere, let's come back to that. Eleven is actually too big of a number to spell out. But who's counting?

My favorite fruit is lemonheads. My dad likes alligator pears (avocados). His name is Crocodile Dundee. Not really, but you can imagine how stingray that would be if true. Stingray is an adjective loosely translating to "pantalones," or "flash photography."

Sister's brother is calling me out to the pasture. Must mean dinnertime is over. More later.

Nautical Anyway

It is a Hemmingway of sorts, a "true brute," dare say,
of a craft: all hulking post and heavy brass. You steer

towards a foggy patch, of course, greenblue too yes mm hmm.
You can taste the hush, gliding in the fluff. Suddenly, a goatboy

whinnies shrilly in the distance, & your neighbor is suffocating
you with his sack. You could always have a heart attack.

In the unspeakable dark of the deep ocean, there are electronic fish
pulsing Bangkok-bright. Think of how much sand gives to water,

the magnetizing lull you know too. You want to hear the sirens.
As with other curses, a choice first. And who should stop you.

Love in the Time of Waco

A goat on a ledge is always safe
& precarious, unless about to be kicked
or there is a large unavoidable boulder.
Nothing short of catastrophe can keep us together. Would you mould her?

In the compound, I imagine the people
to be Amish, & feel ashamed. I wonder if Koresh ever played Tetris.
We watched the compound burn. Because we watch things burn

there is not an insignificant chance
that we will set something on fire
for the viewing pleasure of others.

We welcome stories about cults because we are relieved to outlive one doomsday. There are buildings on fire, now.

Four Horse Woman

M'lady's a fourhorsewoman, a quarter more 

for you and yours; The Giver is bearded

& white as any white god. Adam Smith

& the Ouijas. Electric, current. The horseboy

rocks in the chairlift pit of the video still,

blowing. Measure your life in tape.

The Whole Earth

I've been away. I've seen the whole earth.

500 men met me at the first gate. I've held

many, many babies. Maybe your bones

are something like a shuttle. Maybe the shuttle

has bones; in the bone dark of space, alloys.

One day in our lives will be the greatest day

in our lives. Space is absolutely breathtaking

via lack of oxygen. I have studied a broad.

Onward.

The drake couldn't stand the ashes falling from the sky. They were all over him. He didn't know what to do exactly. What was he doing? Please don't be afraid that I'm going to Disneyland. Please don't be afraid that I'm going to Hawaii. Please God, Pray for me, I'm like a helmet here, what am I guarding. I want the lungs to behave like a fish; I want the body to round out my hammer. I'm a Thor-kid, one of the wonder-ones. A calculated spacecraft examining batteries. A self-loathing loser with a head full of amphetamines. I did once and I do now; relinquish this time-space for a walk in the nether-regions. A calculated outpost of mourning; A singular phantom of Nature. I exist like a lamb in the sweatshop--I put out like a tired cat yawning. There is no time to rest, now--there is only time to procure. Onward.

untitled #12

whoop! goes the
heady youth,
up go the
breadbaskets.
whose
asks the guidesmoke
then
says the timeline
him
asks her deadpan
if
says the red pen.
never.

14 lines

i'm terrible;
nobody noticed.
her get-well card's
lost again

i'm greedy, kids
what a pill
whose wet blanket
vacates the subway

all dash no
answer, all verve
no banter. no
calls to no actors,
no pulse, no dancer.

"predictable cloth gown"

i'm really inspired
by her damn good tits,
said the man on the commercial
under his breath anyway.

this is a segment called
"predictable cloth gown,"
where a model who's not a model
wears a cloth that's not a gown,

spins around, & we marvel
how celestially it wraps her frown,
meaning her body.
oh yeah, you heard it hear first, kids,
her gown really hugs those curves

then she leaves on stilettos which
are actually made from a rainspout
& carted here by some sad Nigerian
a racist example of fictional man.

force me to be pregnant, she'd say
later, to her first fiance, who never
existed.

once gone, Molly & Misty &
Miserably really let her have it,
(all worthless t.v. people, once redundant)
gouging her badmouth & her
busted body shape, which is

(it turns out) not even a model's.
she's maybe a McDonalds stockgirl
or even a descended soda jerk, like an
undescended testicle, waiting to pop out
like a murderous uncle from a

curtain in the corner. yes, she's
a real fraud, we'll say, remarking
about her lack-of-looks while cunningly
knowing that we're better, far better,

than the sad fucking cheapskates
who score our collective mind deeper
with every sadlist day, with every
pan of the goddam camera.

i'm still watching.

5 + 5 + 6 (revival's a sin)

revival is a sin. what's lost is lost.
what's dead is dead is
well maybe undead but this a hiccup
what's dead is redblood
boys without makeup. biceps anyway,

i've worked on 'em. i love you
without the rain, i love you
if even you've cared hard.
too late to be a breaker, too late
to spot the moonfish. this is a

question without a raisin, this
is a therapist without clients,
a special about rich people
handing each other golden globs.
it's no wonder there aren't children,
not anymore.

merry cougar's breadline

please don't take this too literally,
i'll ask you, if i'm out-of-work but
overpaid. i'm trying to adjust this
sentence. the car is washed i've told

you, but it damn well doesn't help.
i'm trying to do this, so many things.
sometimes the end of the line is the
end of the sentence. looking over

like a gram of rain falls on continent.
no articles necessary. a bead breaks
on her forehead like sex is
a damn good excuse for foreplay,

sentences structured like so many
gunwales protect a boat or a fortress.
maybe a marine project. these beds
(as they're called) of seagrass are

marvelous. fish & turtles & diving
ducks do this, eat green rain, spoon
boogers (bored, they are) to each
other. why not? a million reasons

to exacerbate the soul, a million
raisins to precipitate my strange
blood, in a saucer where it fouls.
sure let's make it a verb, i'm

nautical anyway, when words
are landed daily by the fishkeep
who keeps refilling your quota.
Maine's the best start to a northeast

adventure, if you've got Canada
but New Brunswick. getting
obtuse like motions obscene or confused
alerts the ref and the cameras.

literally the worst post yet

did you flip burgers in the Cretaceous?

are you a gracious one

are your flowers
prone to wilting

have you done it?
like in the pottery shed
do you have one

do you have a body,
can i look at it
do you have a number
can i look at it

can i dial
a dum-down, a diary

my calf isn't waiting to contract
it's pretty much already contracting
i'm walking after all
walking & blogging (naw knock it off,

gnaw your pocket (chew your ear out)

get in his ear muffs (find some dandruff,
Piers) blow out seaweed

(your nose is fine, rusty plumbing,
sunburnt clothes))

talk to your dad about it

bricks on the sidewalk

underneath,
rudimentary graveyards
of ants

Pickup Lie

my little sweet potato fry
you're the apple of my eye
i'm incapable of lies
(yeah right, not really)

spit-rage (make money online!!!)

[This idea came to yours truly in a dream, introduced to me by a weird co-worker:]

It's a whole new genre of experimental theatre, ladies and gents, called spit-rage! Instead of "Mothra vs. King Kong," it's "Mothra meets King Kong's creator and reams the ever-living marrow out of him for his appropriation of the of animal-revenge oeuvre."

Spit-rage is mad daddies and absent mothers, unscripted bitching about bitching and hamsters letting loose on each other, perhaps unaware of sentience. It's this sentence, except ANGRY and italic, without the crudeness of italics. It's... It's... fucking garbage can lids on fire in a movie, snitches! It's a biodiesel bulldozer deciding to blow a tire iron out its tailpipe. It's corn on the cob outlawing silk.

Spit-rage, you pimp! Spit-rage, sugar-dads! Spit-rage, the bane of halfhouse loonies, huffing ponypaint. Spit-rage, the last vestige of humanity in an otherwise arachnid planet. Spit-rage and dingo-queens getting queer about the fiscal cliff, dooming and preening themselves like ovenware fresh off the assembly line.

[This message brought to you by #SpitRage Trending Topic, LLC]