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.

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