Jibber Jabber

Scones with currants
special events only
we call them
currants events

It's nighttime
dark day
a moon shadow
Nature's canopy

with a billion-hole punch
I knocked you out
You saw stars
and Mars

I palm your heart like a basketball
you let me drive even though
I don't know how to drive stick
Is there a manual?

my mission: transmission
but I can't get through to you
and not to be over the top but
those are my underwear

featherweight boxers
float like a butterfly
off the balcony
argh

Hearts of Palm

Those palms. They make some mean hearts.
I mean I don't mean to downplay
what we've already erected here - "an
allegory, sweetheart," he said,
making quotation marks.

But what it meant was just this:
every sweetheart dies. Eventually.

Sad Pete has a thought

I need a new heart
this old one, I’ve worn it out
in grottos of trash, banquets of sorrow;
the new ash tray in the lawn.
If you don’t understand how to move
then you just lament. Iron another t-shirt.
And we’ll relax. Just sitting here. Utter torment.
Perhaps terror. Maybe it’ll just turn out swell.
Probably not.

"My vocabulary is tropical"

she said, without a hint of irony
"Who are you, the Lorax?" I replied,
with a sprinkle of sarcasm.
"No, I'm Katie," she deadpanned.

This time there was irony
but she clearly didn't see it
missing the forest for the trees
for whom she supposedly speaks.

Not only did I think her name was Lucy,
but the twinkle in her eye made me think
that she was fucking with me. I pressed on:
"Did you know that hearts of palm are endangered?"

"Oh no!" she exclaimed, "are you serious?"
"Serious as a heart attack, Katie. And I fucking
love those things. A crucial part of any salad."
She turned away. I heard a muffled sob.

"Hey listen, there's other fun stuff you can put in there.
Artichokes, green olives...it's not the end of the world."
She turned towards me "I don't care about hearts of palm.
I didn't even believe you to begin with. That was a sneeze."

"Oh, well bless you then"
"Too late"
"What??? I retract my blessing."
"You're a jerk."
"Takes one to know one, Lucy."
"Why don't y--Hey! how'd you know my real name?"
"You're wearing a nametag."
"No, I'm not."
"Oh. Whatever, talk to you later."

I left her standing there, looking puzzled.
I, myself, was flummoxed too. But playing it down.
Wait til she finds out who we are. The royal we, that is.
We are Siamese if you please.

I'm my own twin
I share organs with myself
I have two dicks and three balls
and Lucy will be mine.

That was victorian

Bogus valedictorian
speeching
Kerrigans weeping
Thesis.

Hyper tension
I have A-D-whatever
drink OJ from concentrate
this ritalin is what I'm riddlin

Helps me focus
like a Ford I spin tires
and oregon tales
of oregon trails

and Chippewa trails
Island of the Blue Whales
(alluding to the Aleuts-
another type of injun)

I'm half injun myself
a Semi-Nole
My tribe is called
Quest

Just Above The Ocean

Out just above the ocean
bands of pale fire
reawaken from their daytime jog
across the valleys of the sky.

It sounds strange,
but the sun doesn't sleep on our time
but on its own: it makes time
with every sleepy puff of infinite heat
and light--blessed sunrays--streaming
from its celestial, inanimate center;
an unimaginable power.

A Distressting Thought At The Bank

Today I went to the bank to do some business when my heretofore calm mind happened upon a sign, garishly blasted on the wall of the bank, which read:

SAVE
is the new
SPEND

In bold red and blue, with an "attractive" man headlining the absurdly propaganda-ish tone of the whole charade. It really turned my stomach if you wanna know the truth. I really cannot say enough about it, by which I mean, I really have nothing to say about it. I imagined hypothetical protest signs to put up next to it:

WORDS
do not mean
SHIT

I thought, or how about

MEANING
does not
MATTER

or even

BLACK
is actually exactly the same as
WHITE

But even this exercise finds some redemption in the suggestion: "So, you're saying, black is white? Up is down? How can I possibly resolve this cognitive dissonance?" On the sign, is just a fat fart of an announcement, a sneeze, a petulant dressed-up slut now already gone on the street walking past you, leaving without the chance for you to make a salacious judgment.

Alas, distressing thoughts on a friendly bank errand.

Chimichangas

It’s amazing what people can do in an hour and a half long law class. I mean, tens of students, on their laptops, with INTERNET. Most of the guys are checking out their fantasy football team or the blonde ice queen in the seventh row, second from the left. Pretty much everyone has a solid stream of gchat or facebook conversations, periodically switching over to type something in their notes. Girls be shopping, girls be shopping. As for me, every time a hand goes up, my right hand instinctively moves the touchpad so that the arrow hovers over “Mozilla Firefox” (Internet Explorer is so 2000s – what, do you still use AOL too? You do?) and *click-click* fucking google.com. Having any other homepage is reprehensible, at best. It's not that I don't care what my classmates have to say, it's just...well yeah, that's probably it. Sue me. Don't.

One time when I was sitting just one row from the top, I could have sworn the kid behind me was playing a computer game. Judging from the sounds, I knew which one, too. I looked over to my left and whispered to my friend Drew: “Dude, this kid is playing Civilization I back here! This is unprecedented!” Drew smiled and chuckled silently, but clearly wanted no part of the conversation. I managed a glance back at the kid to see if he had heard, and to see if maybe I had guessed right, but he was engrossed with the screen. Probably busy deciding between building a granary or a catapult.

Ampersand Capital

Sometimes, as they say, Things happen. 
Meaning, I suppose, whatever you want it to mean.

I have several theses:

I. Pray

A pause encumbered
is a pause remembered.

Look at the funeral parlor. When Tommy couldn't think of anything to say--Heck! We couldn't even move on!--& so forth.

The point being:
I'm just the stub
on the pint (sporty)

like a goddam melon or a goddess
pretending to elicit nothing
from these Iowan Railroad bribes...

II. Transfer

The illegal motion
of blind women.

III. Hark

A herald angel
sings,
whatever She wants to
understand? She does
the polka, does the drugs,
the cocaine, the
party favors.

As if we didn't need the article.
As if we didn't need the needle
to thread the spot
between two wrong places
& the right one.

That's it--there. A cool lotion
breeze like a naked Brazilian removing
her top. Yes, in fact, writing can be
erotic. Like esoteric facts or
suns bents out of shape:
MAYBE YOU ARE NOT SO SPECIAL
after all, said the sun enthusiast,
bored (not bored) but jealous for once (as usuallly
he is)

spouting like Champagne flutes
in the town of Champaign
hub of internment camps &
poor (meaning excellent) water quality.

It's just another half-assed ending
of the type from a man (man? Manila?)
who drinks more than Peter Gabriel
may have disliked Phil Collins.

That's fucking right. Emphasize the profanity.

& so on.

About The Forest

About The Forest
by Austin Ames Cather

I’m lunging through the forest, grabbing at leaves and conifer-wind. There’s nobody chasing me and yet I run like a stray hound. Winding through the woods, I catch glimpses of marsupials and cheerleaders baying in the near distance. What are they doing? I cannot be sure. They seem to be surrounding themselves with strings of lights, shimmering like Christmas trees until they approach an utmost brilliance, near flame, and they immediately dismount into fields of bright solitude.

Eyes of the Word

The eyes of the word
are staring right at me
as if to ask the poisoned mouse:
what have I done that you wouldn't?

Let me out of your sleeve, I say,
if that's what you want from me.
A card trick. A shark doing the splits
on camera, for the first time.

Sometimes, there's nothing left to say besides
sometimes, there's nothing left.

That's a game I've played before.

Chickory, spun boys on parade. I won't
snow on your parade, snaggle-tooth in
your party. Looking like a little lady more than ever
these days. I'm not hungover but I'm probably
hung. I could be at least.

Eyes of the world

I took out my contacts
Don't take it out of context
I just don't like glasses
Especially not your ugly mug

Battlefield (Misnomer)

Of the living things around us, green,
algae, lichen, dreams: in the end
they all become us, they all become
coal. Bituminous despoils deep
underground, waiting to become
booty, the soiled trout of some
pirates quest for mid-Earth medicine.

Hello Sirs, they'll say, we've got us
some fuel here, Burn 'em up!

Coal deposits, you know.

Stuff what's left into a stocking,
over years it will become old.
And over the years it'll become
collectible, like a trashcan in Paris
imagine how many things have been
there; imagine you are your own helicopter
parent; i am hovering; waiting around;
wondering what books
will be able to describe us.
Someday you'll see, I'm no cannibal.
I just eat the hearts of children
and tell the Government about how best to do it
so as to not spoil anybody else's fun.

I guess it's pretty obvious this is a little dark
for Christmas. But then again sometimes the
mariner's rime doesn't match itself; it doesn't
understand where or when to place dublooms;
i have many friends at sea but few who have
seen the light shining at the end of the world
where pirates sink to the bottom and the whole
world doesn't seem to mind.

Plagiarism

Twas actually the night before Christmas Eve,
that's why there wasn't much action.
Friends, eat your heart out.
I'm gonna eat your hearts.

Smart children taste better than morons -
they are called gifted for a reason.
I unwrap the paper, cut out some
hearts (real ones), and dig in.

Stuff what's left into a stocking,
over years it will become coal.

Someday you'll see, I'm no cannibal.
I just eat hearts of children, babies.

Overpopulation is a real problem.
I'm the real Santa, motherfuckers.

Christmas Beginning

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse

Scorpion Exchange

Inside of the house is a bottle.
Inside the bottle--a scorpion.
With an idea: scorpion rebellion,
on a massive scale. Oh, hark!
The year of the scorpion is upon us.
All who bear witness to the Joshua Tree
flout reindeer with their hearts. &
so it is without fail--we all eat our
friends in the end.

Dishpan stars

Don't leave me, I think, or possibly
don't let me go. But in truth we do
because leaving is something that happens.

We are travelers.
We carry our belongings on our person
in the out-about wonder of an airport
people smile and carry arms
whom?
where's?

mom and dad are forgotten, but not forgotten,
these are new people here, blue and ready.

soldiers stink/slink between cities,
going home, chasing adventure, bold-
ness, as it arrives, shivers

like sharing snow-globes with each other
peppers or a bit of remorse or tears
i'm really crying here, she said,
i have remorse.

but the pills don't blow us up
and the sex didn't kill us so homebody
somebody take me or leave me. Leave me.

Post-robotic revolution.
Cyborgs on drugs. The acid people
skate on monkey-leaves and throngs of food
surround us when we want. We gather
together here, like this.

I made you something, I said,
trying to hand it to you. But it's a complicated
thing. A sail unfurling itself. Maybe it's
not even a sail. Maybe it's a setting
or a Kanamycin parade. Maybe somewhere
somebody is hurting, please.
So do not play with my camera, boy,
or look here when I'm talking to you,

i've just been to Jupiter and I must talk about
the moon, it's alleys, how the dust spoils
the (just-now) atmosphere already,
we are travelers.

I always wanted to be glad to have you,
which was true. And I was:
glad, at least, happy to have done that
which I am least able to imagine living without:
human touch, the myth of fingerprints,
love shared or love sold or love for sale.
Sharing without humbling ourselves. Lovers
are the eaves of tents,
milking it for all it's worth,
hiding in the dispatcher's booth
in a rainstorm; the morning's kettle;
the dishpan in the rain.

Not The White Man's Smoke

The plaid boy from Khartoum was anything but oblique in his praise of parsimony. "I'm a patron of it--partridges, that is. I'm a lover."

A lover or a leaver,
what's your favorite feather? I say
this white ink (fjiord) ain't for me
but then 'gain, how bout rain?
My favorite fever is desire,
my favorite cookbook is about despair
or noodles, probably the latter,
and the adder goose-flesh
or the reason we don't eat rodents.

No more
the white man's smoke for me. I want to
be the red parade on your street
the blue festival in your valley
trumpets of bright yellow journeyman trumpetting "Savage!"
tapes spinning and unspun, deadhand.

Another post called Murder

"No medium in history has ever survived the indifference of 25-year-olds."
— Web guru Clay Shirky, on the inevitable demise of print products.

Patty Lowell

A note to critics

To my critics--Lloyd,
most of all, always helpful with his sunscreen
and his glinting mane--
I appreciate your thoughts.

To Ivan: you're incredible.

To The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
I stole you from the apartment
of somebody in Sig Ep, I think.
Although I think thievery is wrong,
I'm not sorry.

Cellar-Dwellers
live in dank sub-bottom areas
I want to be near you, oh tangled
Bangalore bodies blue and knelt
between betwixt these are our hobbies
God himself like a lung inhaling
full of life, love, the pursuit of
perusal, halls long, expect everything,
expect Hockey Heroes and bitches and balls

Balls the elegant trappings of society
I mean a high-dining bunch with the finest
snint, misery, smint, made up words
Spent money negro ain't no PC word no more
no more a whore a pimped out lottery shag
Plottery Pots Inc what I named by lamp dog
hambone ramp shined as sheeny as the seamy
underbelly underwhelming helm the ship swims
sank - wins - worked - sawed
hewn - owned - grown - bait
the small bait, the little guys,
the flickering notion of the moment
which is thought: I think
that in this moment, oh in the incomplete second
next time, just me
a flea like a Nerf Gun shot but not hurt

Sharon's Couch

Sharon's coach was redoubt.
Her couch to the moment her heart
slumping & slumping & slumping
of the oh-in-grown joy and hammers thrown
we are our feathers or our father's thrones
remember remember: the lakes are forever ours
or our brother's friends
who have delivered their instruments
and look forward to fighting.

Not Worth Sharing

There are mechinal ducks outside
and I have to admit: I'm scared
scared of the birth and scared of the beginning and scared
of everything, thoroughly. I thoroughly
await my brains like a man
eating sledges and sledges of cake barrels,
laughing or laughing without laughing.

I'm Maybe High?

Hi, I'm Maybe
High. Maybe High
here, going to high school.
Who's metaphysical?
Scott eats forests and
Elizabeth smokes trees or
Michelle brandishes monikers.

Candle, Caviar, Heartbreak

1.
The candle is finally light. Over there.
In a place where
without our hearts
I could have said
“begone”

but you (where you instead) said: nothing.
Consciousness instead
like somebody’s lip-plug
who goes about snogging for pepper and grass
wondering why his fingers move this way.
Look, the longer you’re collecting material,
the better. It just keeps coming out
like this. Green balls of fire turn into
red balls of wire erecting
(erecting) walls sudden like splinters
(everybody’s Amanda winter).

2.
Mary’s sly negligence
is easiness. Easy smooth sunny
waters like flatlands a-breeze.
Hello, sunshine. Dig this broadcast:
we open stingers like inspectors,
looking for venom. We don’t
know what we haven’t looked for—
we only know the truth is out there.
hello sturgeon. tell me about your
life. you are old. dying now about
every year just to foist this lot
of caviar upon you.

falling awake

the world is falling awake
with every sleeping honk of its horn
mermaids and mesmerized camelots
eager harlots and harlots lost
come from between the miniature reindeer
fountain
to come upon some relief.

let's be honest with each other:
nobody suspects themselves. it's assumed
we wouldn't allow these things to happen.
you cannot mention what you haven't felt
or summertime, pretend it's cold.
it isn't.

& in these moments wait
the close, cropped feeling of being alone
a cold on the rise; the nose fills
with floods of unknown women. these
are areas alone; we haven't deserted
you; and yet, we haven't met.

Free Lance

I bought mushrooms from a man named Elaine.
They were oysters - now what the fuck do I do with those?
I only eat fungus if I'm sure it's going to send me on
an emotional rollercoaster, 4 to 8 hours long

I bought nutmeg from a guy named Meg.
I cooked it, made whatever you make with nutmeg.
Oatmeal? Cinnamon rolls?
I honestly have no idea.

I bought my car from this dude, Carla.
Where do I meet these androgynous fucks?
At a bar called The Vortex, great tater tots
but it's really dark inside.

I spent the summer on the Jersey Shore
Never again
got punched in the face
by a girl named Bo

My uncle's name is Celery
bet he got a lot of shit for that

I'm not high

We'll see how this goes.

Nice to be able to write recreationally

Finally examining my final exams

Double the papers, double the space

(I use parentheses too much) -

hyphens too, for that matter.

Punctuating at the right time

I am the punctilio of punctuality

(should there have been a comma there?)

Don't say there

Jesus, maybe I am high

this is turning out weird

Don't judge me

I have the right to a jury.

amegachurch

Suddenly America
isn't America
anymore. Suddenly
America is
what we
want it
to be:
a megachurch.

--Gabriel Horsen,
devout Mormon
(devoted douchebag)

Getting Weirder Every Year

I was waiting outside The Lemont waiting for Elaine to sell me some mushrooms, when a sparrow-like mother of (probably) 40 strode right up and occupied the phone booth right next to the place I was standing.

Looked at another way, I stood next to the telephone booth. I was thinking, "Man, I can't wait to get me some mushrooms from Elaine." Then this woman walked over. In any case, she began to talk.

"Yessir, getting weirder every year now. Last year it was all the crabs and moonshine parties out on the harbor with the porpoises and the drugs. I remember yesterday, just the day before this one, when we didn't let our little swimmers out into the moonshine until they got their paws wet for once! Know what I mean? ..."

It was probably the worst conversation I had ever heard. Later than day, I successfully robbed a bank and died from a cocaine overdose while celebrating afterward.

& Snow Globe: Paramour

the absurd wet calipers of the word
embryo
the spiders loom large
eggs of pillowy etchy gladstone mystery
a bag full of minnows
crabs & sparrows
Curel (implicated in Cruel & Unusual punishment
... ahem; )
blow globs backward
toward whom refrain
& snow globe:
Grover Cleveland.

Obvious Sun Tan / Obscure Pale / Sex Trees

stripped down past the bark,
our parents trees said to one another:

"do you want to have children with me?"

or maybe now they just think they did.
because us saplings are more likely to
leak sap like asking: here? now? us?

fine sculpted little sex addicts.
our true colors as green as
our dreams: sex? in your condo? apartment.
lip gloss. winter's orgasm.
Ashley's expression at sundown.
Heather's whipple bod.
Everything (sometimes) turns
like the autumn
(us inside out).

It's all to obvious to be interesting.

A conversation that will never happen

"Let's have children

with each other,"

I said. She was illuminated on literature.

"You didn't need the second stanza,"
she replied.

"It wasn't a stanza."

"This poem ain't a conversation?" (Her: coy smile)

(Him: touchdown smile) "Gimme some sugar mommy."

"Not tonight, darling." (A lie)

Next time (secret memo)

Dad city. Over here.
Less than five people
were involved. Pentagonal
cribs insured. Everybody
clearly insane, thanks! & a
mustard on your courtisan, like everybody's court,
everybody's coma, look like looking glass ass,
that's some good shit, tell Drake.

Green Dads

Green-blue flashes
from the deep
lechery of becoming up-
turned. An upward seahorse
immobile, because--let's face it--we
are all seahouses, our horses before us
villas stretching to the horizon
eyes wide / lashed / open

to the mantlepiece candelabra flash
expense traded to the flintdash
camera trained on me becoming me;
my life began before the internet
and it will end after it all
falls down / frame dope fish
open hope dish.

Promiscuous Hangers

on, such easy hangmen. A human is like a hen
trying to lay one true egg.

Posted like a blunt on the moon. What I do
well, it's pretty dangerous, think rare
Asiatic crustacean, pink shell poised & moist

for the kill. Secrets rest under heavy heads.
She's at the bar, call her Rosalita, the pink

lipstick's a dead giveaway. Peacock
is so in these days, so think that too, flash greenblue,
etc. Your life will end on camera.

Fishermen We Haven't Met Yet

I have a whale of a tale of you,
involving dinosaurs perhaps, let's just
say erotic luminescent underbelly fish,
electric nite-nodes flashing spastic
technology blasts in the ocean dark.
Grapefruit pink jellyfish play FIFA.

Salamander Leash

Orgasms in a stadium. Ogreisms diagnosis.
Let's air it out. If you could envision a war
over art. Everyone is native, so cheers

to our intertwined bloodlines, the crust
lines the pan like school girls line
the yard, browning. Yeah, brownies.

Mouth of the Bull

Arrives on the scene, nervous as a buffalo.
He sheds a wintry layer off his knotty strands
in the dank ass jungle of costa rica but not

really, it's in panama. Es la pata del diablo.
You can't kill a single living thing there.

Lonely little love dogs, bocas del toro. Archipelago
is pretty reckless of Ovechkin, at the same
time, I have a fireplace, I'm not afraid to use it, etc.

Yacht Rock

Come next Saturday to the Yacht Rock Party.
The strong lock, art motif. Your daddy did
dusty springfield under milk wood. Would

you rather? I'd gather rocks like an heiress,
a planet named Paris. I like my countries
neopolitan, I like turtle-green countrysides

in the fawn eyes of December. It was blue
lace on a black vase, I'm giving you winter,
mom. Next Saturday I'm going to Yacht Rock.

Stephen's Certain Speedboat

Nothing is brave. I'm so friggin' sick of all these goddam mutes
coming in here like it's a minotaur party. Hey! We aren't here!
More nuggets; more threads of flea bait. I simply do not want
to write about myself. Can you ask anything else? Why do I
like journalism? Tell us about yourself. Nothing sexual, or too
personal, or off-topic. Your favorite color probably doesn't matter.
Of course you have to play this game. Everybody does.
And everybody is full of it. Absolutely full of it. What can I tell you
in 750 goddam words that you couldn't make up?

"Born in Rotterdam, head full of drugs. Love cooking.
Never spent more than $3 on headache medicine.
Fell in love once--ended in murder. Decided on a
career in vaccine studies. Didn't get too far--disease
and mercury poisoining. Really tragic.

Anyway, I have three penises. Totally sexual deviant.
Likes: all kinds of chocolate, especially white.
Dislikes: counting things, and clocks.

First word: Trans-fat. I'm deeply concerned about my diet
and diabetics everywhere. If you have a heart,
free me from this prison, or I will firebomb
every Kinko's in America.

Please consider my application... I'll kiss your ass
all sort of ways if that's what it takes. But don't make
me write one more word of this shit. Please." 

Infomercial X

Eurasia
is where cats live.

Blastocythe
is not a word.

Combed-over
Were-the-hedge-rows
In-front-of-my-castle.

And there she goes.
A cat grooming is
a cat cleaned.

Lechery is spreading;
Catch the disease.