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.