Seven minutes of early evening

I want a bitch with stiletto heels and no tears. She'll do her business and shift gears. "Want a sandwich?" She asks.

"Yes," I'll say, and just like that--ham & swiss. "Thanks baby doll." Then she'll give me a blowjob as I eat it. Afterward, she'll go home.

Such is the life of Gabe Crocker, a well-meaning gentlemen on the Upper East Side.

It is true that my fiction has no major prognosis. Just an arm with a sweatband on it and no known destination. Just floating in the reeds like an old boat. Or another type of vessel entirely.

The incalculable politics of loss. Nobody reads this stuff anyway.

An iron stove emitting heat. The sod house smelling sweetly of earth. Mother giving me a velvet bear. Emily slipping into the water like an undressing dove.

A plump robin washes himself, then preens in a nearby tree.

young women drinking

Jessica, I hardly
understand you,

said Amber,
laughing, of course.
From the other
side of the park
came sounds of
a more exciting
gathering.

James Dean, I presume

Regard the photo:
James Dean,
James Dean,
James Dean,
...
& So on, until
God himself
would erase the
"O" and thereby
become less
gentile--those
whom I have
always admired--

Oh, Daddyo,
she might have
well have said,
after she shot me,

goddam son, show me that pelican bite,
doggone mosquitoes these days
still hurt like piss-ants (what are they?
crabs?) but no longer spread malaria,
and for this, we are thankful.

That old hammer serves us again, like
neuro-marketing. It can be used for good and evil.

But I'm getting off-track. The point is this:
James Dean was a man, a bean-pole of a daddy-
dancer, a gorgeous cingulate amoeba
(America because Amerigo, Exxon &
Costco) flouting the length of every football field,
impregnating every teenage girl without foreplay
or sexual intercourse, Coca-Cola & rum,
James Dean. What else do you need to know?

twine-ball, basketball

how i met your mother
is women we haven't met yet
thinking on them (is)
how geese lay upon eggs golden

above imaginary things, in this case
is nothing more fictional, but a mind:
mine. growing which isn't growing but
unraveling like twine becoming

unraveled twine,
instead of a ball. this happens.

Pitt vs. OSU; thoughts

I raise & switch up my game
like monopoly on a lazy Susan
feeling lazy, Sue, Xan-
ax the spearthrower day
travels like no dribbles
THERE IS NO CRYING IN BASEBALL
or the basket ball, the sport's
game, the lion's not tame if it's
Walk-In-Lay-Down, crabgrass weed
chores, pull it out, throw 'em
down, composte for the future;
the biggest plants grow out of
detritus, despite us and all we do
to keep our surroundings sanitized
like antispectic mouthwash or pre-frosh.

sheer feeling

is sheer healing
with sidebear buddies growing
upon this weedy pasture owing
to the muddy ground a home
to grow in kneeling
where nobody understands
which is right here, always.

stop burning bridges:

you travel cross them. whoa, one thing

will put you out. you need to break free

everytime you break free. i would have

given all i had, apparently. seconds

bridge digits/those things we did

but did we ever possess. i wish i hadn't

almost done anything. this is general, sorry,

try this: a torch that can't burn anything.

the anemones haven't done shit to anybody.

bridges need you to need them. they're only

behind you part of the time. connections can

fray but not break. there are pieces of you

beyond your reach. i hope this is okay.

a glimmer in the breakers; i break open.

The one where I punch Cob

Today I punched an obnoxious kid in the face while playing pickup ball at Illinois' own CRCE. It wasn't undeserved. After drawing first blood (the field goal variety) on a breakaway steal, I remarked that the ball felt off-balance. One kid on the other team began complaining, saying, "It's a basketball. Let's just play basketball. It's just a basketball." And so forth (every sentence ended with: "...basketball.")

"Look man," I practically burst out, "please don't start talking shit already. The basketball is just off-balance." One former game against this fellow had demonstrated that he was a little bitch, so I decided it was best to nip this in the bud; plus I was merely ensuring that we would all be playing with a superior ball and thus enjoy a superior game. The only appropriate words besides none would be those of thanksgiving.

Instead the lovely gent--I'll name him Cob--kept mumbling afoul. They missed a shot and on our possession I drove hard to the basket and tipped in my own rebound in his eye.

"That's just basketball," I said, meant as a mild but potent rebuke. Without warning, he caught the ball and pegged me directly in the nose.

Taken off-guard, I fell to the ground. But in that moment--and for the first time in my adult life--I knew I was about to punch somebody in the face. So I got up and cracked him one good on his left cheekbone.

My two friends Dane and K. got in his face too after that, but he kept running his mouth. He soon irritated Dane, who is usually very even-tempered and moderate.

"We can handle this like men and go outside to straighten things out," said Dane furiously, "or we can handle it like you--like a girl--and file assault charges on you." (Cob said he was going to tattle on us in the midst of his continued trash-talking). The guy likes to talk but not act... sickening. In any case he eventually slunk out with his friend in tow. His other teammates had already mysteriously disappeared without saying anything... quite strange.

Then we waited for a while for anyone to play us... the bloodsport interaction (or was it merely a dust-up?) didn't exactly inspire immediate competition.

Eventually we took on five semi-fluent Chinese youth who traveled, carried, double-dribble and grunted a lot. We almost lost but pulled it out twice in two sweaty, God-awful ugly games.

A 9-Line Summons Unto Glorious Dong

perhaps i will go along with what you posit:
that goblins protect the gym in the closet
but if this were true, whence do theirs paws at
go the typewriter time when sentence's clause at

all just completely falls apart like a k-mart
plastic bag full of dime bags and crack
and bad videos become words like subject
verb object projecting constant
awe and shock to one and all.

Three of my favorite things

1.
The large fountain out front runs exclusively on champagne. At the stroke of midnight, each night, a pair of beautiful European blondes snake into the water—nude, of course—and blow bubbles while giggling. They are strictly instructed not to touch each other, a rule they usually break.

2.
At the top of the east castle is a pair of hobgoblins. They are exercise maniacs and you’ll usually find that they are operating on a number of synthetic steroids. If they were tested for blood doping, they would fail. But they know their business, and absolutely nobody is allowed into the top secret gym within the closet’s unassuming confines.

3.
Frank was mildly racist. He loved a good poker game and never shaved without taking 50 milligrams of speed. This would get him really revved up, which was a good idea if you wanted Frank to accomplish anything. Usually he just lay in bed, motionless, and moaned.

it was called the

SNAKE SHAPE HOTEL


One of the most popular snake party ideas I recommend, and I’ve seen hundreds of versions of it over the years, is the snake cake (See the pic above). Basically it’s just a matter of making more than one cake (which gives you the option of making more than one flavor for your guests to choose from) in circular “bundt” style pans. Cut the resulting circles in halves or thirds, turn them opposite each other, and viola! Snake shape!

Use creative frosting ideas to resemble an existing snake, or go for a fanciful “cartoon” design instead. For a realistic snake, consider making a rounded “head” mold out of heavy aluminum foil, and a tapering “tail” mold for the other end. Just make sure the end of each mold matches the size and shape of the cake where the two meet. For the “cartoon” version, it’s actually very cute to have the head and the tail be the sharp cutoff that results when you cut the cakes, so you don’t have to make the extra molds. A gummy worm split at one end makes a great tongue.

If you can find a circle mold that doesn’t have the “humps” that bundt pans do, so much the better. Snakes don’t come in segmented shapes. If I find a good example I’ll post a link to buy it with and/or tell you what stores carry it on my party page. Some types of ring molds will work, as will (I’m told) a large round pan with a much smaller one in the middle of it (the space between creating the ring) but I’ve never tried this idea myself.

Of course, you’ll probably want to decorate around your theme, and my party page will soon include links to purchase snake pattern paper, safari and jungle theme party goods (the closest thing currently available) Taiwanese Vinyl snakes, wooden snakes (also available as craft kits - fun!) and great gifts with a snake theme - like remote controlled plastic snakes and Egyptian snake armbands. Generally, most hosts opt for safari or jungle theme items, which it seems to me would also mean that crude natural wooden plates, cups and utensils would make a cute variation on this idea.

Two additional things to consider. The first is to do craft projects, either done by you beforehand or by your guests during the party if you have enough time budgeted for it, that make snakes out of common things. A favorite that you’ll find in one pic is white clay that hardens either in the over or better yet the air, paintable in colors and patters of real snakes (the usual theme is coral snakes vs coral snake mimics - different color sequences of red, yellow and black - be sure to use water based paints that wash out and/or provide old shirts to paint in if your guests are doing it.) Another you may have seen is paper plates, cut in a spiral and hung by the “head” end with string or clear fishing line, decorated with washable markers. Add a paper clip to the tail to resemble a rattle and help the finished snake hang more realistically.

My favorite had to be old neckties inserted with coat hanger or craft wire to stand up like hooding cobras, with little craft work eyes glued in place and red felt forked tongues - adorable.

Small Gem: Kunio Kato

Sank you, berry, berry much
said the gifted animator
upon receiving a little golden statue.
Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto,
he added.

And the sweater gospel crowd,
impatient for virtue, applauded.
Sank you family, Sank you academy,
he said; unlikely Japan in enlivened America.
Nothing is impossible.

Coypond

We let our moats be filled
with all sorts of animalistic Koi,
orange-and-white-and-
fuck-me-right-there


like sex-whispers exposed as colorful fish
practically milking the moment
enjoy the fountain, mind the sunset
they say, listening: this is a moment shared

with the sun-setters underwater
secretly ruling their own palatial world
which we see only as a rice paddy
or a conveniently picturesque pond.

Josh converses w/ nurse

...in the thumb-sprain hotel
every camera is a Quaalude.
& so I dine at dusk on mudskin;
There are no splints to call my own.

If it were not for the drugs
everybody here would be in worse pain.
That's why medicine is legal,
she told me: to help
people. To make them happier
when they were lonely, cold, dying, pained,
bloated, infected, bleeding. There are potions
for more than the heart concocts.

There are maladies for which there
is no cure--True, it seems. But the
opposite is also valid; That's what they
call a paradox.

Beginning of Match speech

He burned brightly.
That much we can say.
If this moment cannot be here dedicated
to trammeling up our dearest fire
than, dear friends, we are lost.

There was a match who got lit:
the rest is history.

Glowing ( I )

Behold the glowing poetry
for which you did not arrive, currently,
but accept in any case

Like an eighteen-year-old girl
crying after sex;
we've arrived unexpectedly
in a place not sad, but more melancholy
than we imagined it to be.

Oak Valve?

all her children
claimed exemptions
for their mudskin. like prizes carefully
arranged along a string of copper mines.
drape this out; make me mind.
<>
you've got me by the twills, no cotton.
<>
all her children were recalcitrant
retreating into mushroom rooms
with heads spun on and nighttime
kush-heads spinning grease ware...

that was the night i met her vagina
like a mandrake emptying a valve:
hello, functional part! let me sip thy
smooth chocolate romance

oh! on a boat of two waxed thumbs &
candy melodrama, these balls are our
hands holding a hand holding us back.
a hand is holding us back.
<>
nightly orphans. getting lit. these matches
us--they become our little group.

getting lit, ah yes... Foster's for Australian
wives. fucking Sheilas and getting pussy.
skulling beers and dropping acid. lecturing
groups of schoolchildren about Penicillin
and oak caskets: don't fuck sloppy; do not
die young. unless your coat slips. remind
me of my government. where do our faults
lie. beneath the ground she sighs. necro-
anything becomes a gross light like termites.
insects crawling into what was once termed
"hot." now just the literal heat and a sense of,
"what have i done?" clitoral rings and dings and
ding-dongs and bongs. our country becoming
ashes of American flags. Michael Phelps not
quilting but guilty of wrongs: marijuana orchard,
Mary Jane's ocher orchid of strong
men. Find one if you can and flee.

Green Start

you must get lit;
busted shit. musted over
blustery white pits
(fruitful;
full of learned doctors
...this is no longer a joke)

this is Germany, this is
Polanksy, this is the money
your rupees fathered. Farther
afield is a field of plenty. it grows
greener and shows:
life abounds.

N-i-j-i-n-s-k-y

In December 1917, Vaslav Nijinsky, at that time the most celebrated male dancer in the Western world, moved into a villa in St. Moritz with his wife, Romola, and their three-year-old daughter. His relations with Serge Diaghilev's Ballets Russes, the company in which he had made his name, were now severed, and with a war on, it was impossible for him to seek other engagements. So he and Romola had decided to retreat to neutral Switzerland and wait for peace. By the time of the armistice, however, Nijinsky had begun to go insane. His famous diary, written in six and a half weeks, from January 19 to March 4, 1919, was the record of his thoughts as that was happening. To my knowledge, it is the only sustained, on-the-spot (not retrospective) written account, by a major artist, of the experience of entering psychosis. Other important artists have gone mad—Hölderlin, Schumann, Nietzsche, Van Gogh, Artaud—but none of them left us a record like this, first published in 1936.

Turn on your love light;

Turn your lights down low. A light
bulb over your head in real life?

Torch, the British Flashlight, dines
at dusk on mudskin roads and 'opes.

You don't really know when you will
come back again; make back your

forth, and you're the practical orphan.
The law of matches: you must get lit.

Robot Boy Silence

I am robot grasped in plaster
but I do not move. Donuts in
the morning and the smell of
coffee & cold feet. It does not
bother me; I'm a statue
of robotic solitude. Frame by
frame::::does not matter:::stay
the same. Day after day. Strange.

This is More

grass Snake than Habitat; creative spelling
spells rabit traps. I'm robot grasped in plaster,
plastic please but I gotta get that paper paper.

Doug Main is more than Asia; sordid girls
we did, fruitstars paella. This is sort of
birth, which begs the again question:

your born-on date. I dreamed of date
showers, straight licking syrup for hours.
The things you and her devoured.

This---Is---War

We shall not now concern ourselves with the
grass snake, who lingers such,
above whose duckweed
we are remiss. Instead,

I delivered papers at daybreak
on summer weekends way::::back:::::when.

Red Radio Flyer
wagon down Green Street, not a car in sight.
Okay, she said, (meaning: my animus)
I'll admit to morning's stiff sacrament;

I am, after all, not a person above
inventing bangled lecticorns &
stealing ex-girlfriend's Harvard sweatshirts.

Can you imagine? No such brine shrimp
knows any such heaven
as blowjobs in the maintenance closet,
brackish wine just fine,
switching shirts like the time
is ripe for some kind of encoding:

this---is---war
not what we want it to be, necessarily
but more wonder than
one deer,
and I dare say: it strikes me the same.
It is more than enough.

A polite letter to Kurt Warner

Dear Kurt,
where is tonight's owl?
dwelling in a hollow tree

somewhere
a word who can stretch out forever
like a litter of puppies expanding
puffing up their chests at threats:
other dogs, cats or merely the breeze...

Love,
Drew Brees

Superbowl Expectations

Steelers QB Ben Roethlisberger dies at the end of the first quarter after being shot by Houston defensive end Mario Williams (who sneaks on to the field in Cardinals jersey). His motives are murky and are never resolved, although it's rumored to have something to do with Big Ben's huge rod and Williams' jealousy thereof.

A nation is wrapped in dim, briny tears... but the game must go on. Kurt Warner completes eight TDs to Larry Fitzgerald in the first half and Steeler nation is left hopeless. At halftime, however, Bruce Springstein's voice brings Big #7 back to life; Roethlisberger then completes TDs to Hines Ward, Willie Parker, Willie Mays, and runs it in five times in the final five minutes to seal the game for the Steelers, 75-74.

Caves & Bats

Insects in the forest / some do not return
donut-shaped rings / eluding keen birds-of-prey

diamond mine mind / espousing bonesmen's talc
clatter weird honey / honest honey top / exposed
vast bats exposed / a sitting "duck" bar tab

nightly onslaught / barely (the cat's population)
bats bat bats / the day-shift catamarans

Meal-Tab for the cave crab

3 million wrinkle-lip bats live here.
They produce something vital: vials
of slim rancid bar tab: guano
300 feet deep. Read about it.

This cave thrives on bat droppings
there are pelicans in this shit mansion
cockroach eating bats and crazy mice
getting high in the caves.

Your Vulva or Your Money

First off--yes, there are pirates. Been reading about
it (tee hee, Ramsey! Egyptian god-of-note) in the
Times "Sunday Styles." The point is (a question)

explain this: why are wolves ourselves? ...

Back to: your Vulva. Is it Vulcan? How does it want
to live--cleanly? Five baths a day? No ma'am,
not in America; You are no Hepburn's excuse.

Arctic Wolves

are also girls; there's almost a burglar
outside your window, lurking; I want
less doors generally. Wolves do not bathe

nor would I ask it of you. One man's murder
is another manslaughter. Wolves are daughters
of Native American boneyards; he named it

America because Amerigo. Exxon & Costco,
and the wolves with the oxygen pull. Flash
lights in the closet honey. Your wolves or your money.

Salad Bar Gangsta (Pt. 1)

new bag of grass
snakes in the lawn
sheets ain't gone
just dirty laundry songs
hoes on the washer
fucking with only heels on

how do you feel?
thanks for asking, mon,
rather like a wheel
rolling over discarded tongs

like an eel, full of
mystery and murky bongs
loitering in the deep
I done swallowed all these thongs

If it weren't for the pink child's bike, this wouldn't be borderline offensive

Dancers in the grass, pt. 0

(dale once thought: these high school
dancers are on you like your pants are)

But what I meant to say was:
never become a pinnacle unless you're
agreeable to us peninsula (plural)

we stick out like rural celeb vets
tripped out on acid
drinking from rancid streams
carrying corn's vain dreams
of dedicating without belonging
to the earth of thronging
things green, red and yellow
not monocultures of culture mono

grant us mano but deliver us macho
who think corn is bullshit;
we should plant prairies.

Standing in the reeds

red bull waits in the rushes
to be scrubbed
& awake like GOOD MORNING
us let's make big, make everything
open into another something
even bigger, a tired lizard
or a snake playing poker

TIS DALE

'Tis Dale! Mike Tisdale!
I cried upon seeing
his scruffyvisage

making buckets like coopers barrel
hunched over liked a miner at lunch
with a weird chinstrap a-munch

White-ass seven-footer
Chopping blocks like a shoplifta
Popping out on D like
a Jewish mother's eyes


Surprise: he can hit J's
like my bros and I can blaze:
all day like no way
other than the highway

all day, I say
again like Mike Davis prays SI never features him
again, because then the next
game, he won't play
and Tisdale gets all the fame
but we'll win the game.

Then, the next game, Davis
plays more, and we lose. Let's booze.

What happened from 4:50 to 4:57 PM the day prior, long and unedited

Quick play
Me or my
Surrogate, a game
Like a berry’s bush aflame
With all the world’s halls
Empires emblazoned like lame
Ducks going out
For the long one, just human, we’re just human
That’s all
Like gourds along the road
Ripe with emotion
Limiting ourselves to sharp angles
And broad strokes
Like bored storks, cleaning up our clockwork
Is like going home empty-handed, empty
Or at least without an idea
Of how to behave properly.
Yes, you’re right, I have never forgotten
Exactly how to imagine the world becoming
A smooth, glassy siphon
And sucking itself out into
Something restrained, it has become, a well-crafted game like
Bass fishermen going nuts
Getting creative on our asses
Getting their butt’s out of heaven’s way
And weighting it down like
Overblown cannon, outdated mongrel
















I have nothing left to vent about
This language is suddenly inaccessible
Just because it’s starlight doesn’t mean it is not soft
Like loaves of broken stardust
We arrange our bodies into strange envelopes and ship them

(It is not over, it is not even past
The past, that is, like a thermostat on a ledge
A collegiate athlete reaches for sunscreen
And he’s found the ground again, a whole
Shipyard of these strange characters
Not believing that anything is wrong
It’s just the culture, it’s all the culture)

If you worship the broken sunbeam,
Something is bound to alleviate
All the pain within

That pain which
Opens doors and clothes the urban poor; that rain which pokes
Its head out of the door
As if it’s saying good morning,
I had not realized I had spoken,
The morning laughter revisited,
All over again.

Gallons of dross
Poured onto the cement in hopes
Of some clever elves arriving

(at half-passed noon
Our half-amassed crooning
Has awakened our interiors and
Bespeckled disaster like Midnight!
Time’s up!)

These rolling peninsulas just unroll
Sometimes
Like clowns creating quiet
In the dark noobs of their own quiescent closets
Hoping for a stranger to linger
Or lend an arm, shop, laundry bin

Artichokes laundering themselves before mealtime;
Dusty helmets meet the breeze;
Forget about this:
Drake character, you’ve met before;
Spirits loitering like celery paper
Scribbling in intangible vegetables letters
Messages you had already received but not opened, not read, not cared about

Everything you had hope for
In a breed of crazed zombies
One type is right
The left-footed booby traps of
Nathaniel Hawthorn heritage
Opening toilet lids and pooping until
There is no tomorrow
But there always is, and it comes
ONE DAY
ATTA TURK

Super People of Dynamite City

France is thronged with knights
My ants are pregnant
Nights like wine grow with weight

<>
Your nights are my drapes

<>
Your thighs are my bright lights

<>
Home in the rain
Coda in the range
Toad bins enraged

<>
Your boobs are plants

Your window brooms

<>
Fascinating bubbles

<>
Steakhouse wine-stars
Super-people of dynamite city

<>
Freak show party
all over the dome-show
party party party
all night long
Danny had a sock fest
with his money in the tabloids
ate his own chocolate, looked in the mirror

<>
it may be your party
it may be my country

<>
quit wasting my time
i'm not a minority
monetaries are bombastic
who's got a big one
bigger ones are c l o n e d
twin boners are coners
cyclones in the moth
mouths
moths and fire-fighters
are blighters
mighty
mightier
might

<>
Name a celebrity. The blond anchor on CNN, for example. I would like to strangle her while fucking. Not to hurt her, of course. Just to assert my dominance. If you think I'm weird, then you've never seen pornography.

<>

gravy dads

gravy dads rave about their gravy

like

look at my soon porous son
poor us, suns-a-scant, sun skin
sun-skinted half-amassed, placed
placards in gusts at halfmast
have to blast that Shi'ite shit
too Sunni? to joke about muzzled
Arabica means
to make light of beans
& what we're talking about?
coffee

opens doors and hello
newspapers unfamiliar faces
familiar celebs, celery bogs, eat at the Ritz
if you a Jew
you cannot fool my, Carlton,
Fisk-tisk, a brand new task
a flower-making basket
splish splash i was taking a bath
in Bath
so un-Roman, regard my Ba'ath,
regard my temple, regard my empty
box of dead people:
that must mean they're still alive
so grow wise
and descry
poverty that is
stated: i might as well be wasted
if i'm not currency
currently working
murky

composte

I keep it more real than realty
torn born-again amigos like imbroglio
selling plots like Oh No, Yes Go
stop on red, flow growing green on grow
Legos floating into place so

catch me
selling fiction like pulp painters,
sculpted duct pipes exclaiming
GAS [comma]
T-H-I-S I-S W-H-A-T I A-M
many parts becoming whole again
on the roll again, buttered as cluttered
rooms of clergymen grooms: Yessir,
I stole the grain bin, robbed the bank,
except that it stank
there they stored rotting things
instead of money. It wasn't
a financial institution,
but an illusion. The pious
inscribe sacrament in their bodies
and need no cobwebs to
hide their dead.

Getting to the part about the cottage

[superfluous intro:
spinal bifida, which i at
first spelled wrong:
is it still a disorder?

sorry, no laughing matter]

like dispensed chocolate
already tastes good:
that's called a paradox

a pair of ocean-smooth
sandalwood sandals sit
on your cousin's sand-blasted
deck, overlooking the Connecticut
River, the deepest river in New
England, apparently.


Largest of its size,
I'm told, without
a major settlement near
it's mouth.

A silty river carrying
mud all the way from
Quebec. But naturally
muddy, like the original
Old Muddy -- The

Missouri, of course -- but without the Army Corps of Engineers
feverish channelizing.

All the silt made navigation difficult. Hence the important
wetlands and lack of a major city. Not easily
navigated, especially in the olden days.

The Connecticut. Where my cousin bought a house
two hours from Manhattan.
That's what I meant to focus on.

#43: NOT a boy

Darren Sproles: No Child Left Behind

D. Sproles lumbered into the end-zone
looking all the world
like a 12-year-old.

Unfortunately -- for the Indianapolis Colts, that
is -- he is a grown man, juking and steaming
his five foot, several inch frame into the end-zone
not once, but twice. And the second time, it was
for all the marbles. Game.