I'm giving you a compliment

no exceptance, no expectance.
Accept it.
April rains bring May grass

The bloomers are flowing
lowering
blowing

We're gonna go bowling
eat banana splits
listen to a record

We're gonna fucking bowl
We're gonna get there soon, son
we're gonna burn it down

Douse it - that's it boy. More fire. Gasoline.

"Arson" is a gerund.

Burn the bowling alley til it's gone.

rocks, glass

i am everything (i have)
ever made. we are more than
their rocks and glass. we are
our own kind of support. we
are water after all, water
(shining through) the fish glass,
or the glass fish. the eel-grass
as it was in May, for example.
how the crane tiptoes through
the swamp, after all. doesn’t it
feel great to be alive? doesn’t it
just fit, right in there, when you
burn down every place you have
ever been?

Illegal Blog Moment

BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG

BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG

BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG

BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG

BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG BLOG

The Tattletale's Postcard

I got this postcard from an old friend who had been going through some troubles with addiction.

“Stumbling upon
a choir of work-a-day nuns shoveling coal

was watching lethargy
burn in effigy.

Effortlessly,
Eric.”

I wish I knew what he meant.

A Terrible Thing To Overhear

[LOUD GASP]

DONNIE DARKIE: SOMEBODY TESTED MY SPACESHIP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

DONNIE DONNIE: Not your SPACESHIP???????

DONNIE DARKIE: YES, YOU IDIOT, MY SPACESHIP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Poison Promise

poison make you happy
heppy and ssssssad.

Verrrry heppppy end veryyyyyyyy ssssssssad.
No pueblo, senioritas, I said,
biting into a cordita. Thing is,
it was a sandwiche.

::::::BITE SPONGE::::::::

The wheels at midnight turn
on every capered owl, hour
turn the sly snow glass sly
turn the bye-bye jug of Noke away.

Snay bye' Numero Dos

Sssssssnay-bye' make you say bye bye
she say
ssssnay bye' make you feel guuuuhd
poison make you happy,
happy and ssssssad

Goodbye snakebite
good day spider
spinster god
original splinter
my eyes are clouds

SODA, red rum
el capitain morgan
private stock
such a backwards label
MURDER, a dos

Es espanol for murder of two
somebody get snay-bye tonight
someone get snay-bye reeeal guuuhd
somebody gonna get dead
bit in the neck tonight

Snay bye etc

Sna’ bi hurt, he said, lisping an insane voice into the jungle darkness.

(Pronounced Snay-Bye).

Sna’ bye make you say guuhd-bye, she said again, sinister as the snake she was

rapidly becoming.

Lessons of nature: there is no sin in abundance. Just ask the trees and rivers and frogs.

The softly murmuring shepherd to his neighbor to join

in some humble ceremony.

Nature's Lesson

There is no sin in abundance.

Dessert Shore

1. Time for tea at the airport

If I haven’t fully growled
(may hap I haven’t growed up)
it’s because I’m an animus
an omnibus of Beth’s truck
d r i v i n g  i n  t h e d i s t a n c e
…scattered lines of light…

2. My stances

My stances may not be pretty, Amy,
but they sure are great. They have never been greater. I think about them like little sisters and clothing and chocolates. My problem at this very moment is that I don’t have enough to write about, and it’s really a problem.

3. Okay

Possible feelings:
--the man has got me
--the man does not
--I am free now
--I always will be
(freedom, as a tree frog)
--I am my own dog
--God is my savior.

Certainly, though:
Love never fails.

4. Love never fails;

else the sidebar.
the intractable highcar
phrased over thattaway
from the frames by the grain caveway
(((…don’t go cave away,
cave-way…)))

on me like Ponzi
schemes … I mean … to dream
faster that masseuses massage my large
knuckled bulges of triceps
is to really begin to gleam. 

5. Shhh, Massachusetts

Or then Massachusetts looms large like broom sets
put out for passage at the loyal, Polish bell.
(They sell these things like telephones!
… tell-a-phone; …telly-fones… )

6. So

When I hear fire I break skates to the wind,
so their skate pieces may whirl;

7. Prints

my how my presence leaves clues that
i was here! ? ! (They’re just finger pads!)
becoming whorls on specimen 100420 A
I’m down the hall, #B, in the morgue:
a man with a specimen (((a man w/ a lantern)))
illumining my fingertip ridges:

behold no whorls but thumbs with double-doops
and all loops ulnar save one
which is indeed radial.

I know this because as Boy Scouts
we studied fingerprints & heard
from a police detective. He was an
articulate man. That was before I
became an Eagle… 

((( we studied comic books
in grade school; said the man
who sold elementary dross)))

8. You will

find me
underneath a tree
besides a rug / a drug / a bear
or left laying stolidly in the silver lining
like something coming out of the woods and combining
with another shape like ramrod
geez, my stakes are large now,
I can’t let them talk me out of what
I deeply wanted. 

9. Lizard

I want a lizard for Christmas
or somebody’s habit to plead for ankles;
in the old West, the staircase banisters
weren’t see-through (for reasons of
chasteness). They were
shored up. And yet so far
--in the dessert--
from the coast.

Failed firebombing

I went into the bank with the package. Determined to show these bastards who was in the wrong for once. Woman waiting in front of me in line. Gray hair. What is that I detect? She smells. Foul like New York City garbage or an arrest warrant stored up some cop's ass. Dunno why he'd do that. Goddam cops.

Focus: firebomb the Kinkos--Bank, I mean. Blow this bank all to heck. I'm gonna do it. Oh Brother!

Next thing: talk to attendant. Damn she's a hot young piece of ass. Guess I'll withdraw some money and go to Kinkos. NO! It must be done here. I'm sweating. Don't know what to say. This girl is milking me with her eyes, her sweet slutty sultry slutty eyes. She wants it. Right here. Right now.

I take down my pants and shortly get tackled by a dirty security guard who smells of aftershave. Never did get to detonate the blast. Guess I'm going to prison.

Final Draft

I'm sitting here on my couch at 1:00 a.m. on Monday morning listening to Congratulations. And it's not because I just overdosed on Ambien and snakebite meds, though God knows it's a realistic scenario given my predilection for uppers and serpents. No, I tell you, it's because I am engrossed in newly listening to Congratulations, and I think we should all give it another chance. In other words, you've been punked: it's actually a mad chill album. Literally it’s cool and uncool at the same time. It’s the embodiment of strange opposites: dark, bright, serious, carnival-like in its absurdity… at once tawdry, at the next exquisite…

Yes, I've lost it, you'll say, but after a few listens, expecting to dismiss it (like I did Metric's "Fantasies," which is in NO WAY worth purchasing) it made its peace with me, and I couldn't help but return to enjoy and inspect it, bizarre and darkly jaunty though it may be. Ironic wino pothead donkeys rule the desert at one moment, while at the next a parade of pipework queers takes control of the nearby bellshop. Somewhere in the midst surfing and tantra are involved, but every rock stars have strange ascents.

Exhibit A:
"It's Working" -- This song is about ecstasy (http://74.125.95.132/search?q=cache:TzaVhpzGYDwJ:www.rollingstone.com/reviews/album/32862565/review/32906679/congratulations+MGMT+%22it%27s+working%22+rolling+stone+ecstasy&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us&client=firefox-a) Saying that simply makes things easier. Before, one might think, "Wow, this song, being bald-facedly about ecstasy, has an earnest "raison d'etre" and explanatory, inclusive feel ... hmmm, that's what all the drughead hipsters out there would say… guess I better hedge my bets and now say that my possibly positive judgment of the song in no way makes profligate drug use acceptable behavior for us respectable young men of conduct.”  Now, one is confident to say: these dudes are weird. I'm going to examine them.

This was Rolling Stone's take:

'With Congratulations, the knowing smartasses of Oracular Spectacular seem confused about what's next. The result is a hazy, hit-and-miss album that will likely alienate some fans of the debut, but one that also testifies to MGMT's restlessness as songwriters and human beings. "It's Working," a song VanWyngarden describes as about the drug Ecstasy, mixes surf guitars, harpsichord glitter and bong patters with some less-than-ecstatic lyrics: "I see the signs of aging/But if I try to feel at all, I am deceived," VanWyngarden sings.'

A pretty good assessment, I think. Anyway, in this penultimate paragraph, I’d like to sum up my point: Congratulations is at least weird enough to listen to again in full (preferably when baked as ciabatta), IF NOT TO REVISIT COMPLETELY BEFORE PRAYING FOR BETTER JUDGMENT.

Thanks for your time and brave lifestyles.

Your Father,
Douglas

P.S. It feels like someone’s listening…
It feels like someone’s missing…

First Draft of E-Mail

RE: NEW MGMT ALBUM(EN) [_yolk_] ;

Slogged-out as rebellion, or the choice of eating sturgeon for dinner, I'm sitting here on my couch at 1:00 a.m. on Monday morning listening to clips and phrases like "electric juicer lining" and "ice cream hose to kiss" emanating from Congratulations. I'm not going to be pretentious enough to stilt this into a "real" music review. But I do it from that spirit when I say that perhaps MGMT has "punked" as all here with this one. I think it's pretty chill.

Well, I'd like to write more, but I'm gonna take some ecstasy and set off on my moped now, listening of course to "It's Working" (which is, of course, about MDMA)

From the article:
"With Congratulations, the knowing smartasses of Oracular Spectacular seem confused about what's next. The result is a hazy, hit-and-miss album that will likely alienate some fans of the debut, but one that also testifies to MGMT's restlessness as songwriters and human beings. "It's Working," a song VanWyngarden describes as about the drug Ecstasy, mixes surf guitars, harpsichord glitter and bong patters with some less-than-ecstatic lyrics: "I see the signs of aging/But if I try to feel at all, I am deceived," VanWyngarden sings."

Well, eat a dick, guys! Congratulations rules! Mad chill!

Fluent in Finland

I'm FLUBAR
the Finnisher
the Pirate Jew.

Coinbox Anonymous - go to
Shifty Guys Bank (SGB)
101 N. Soandso Avenue.
Meet you on the street
I'll be wearing gold basketball shorts

You'll be all out of sorts
when I rob you,
of course. but don't worry.
at some point we'll discourse
in morse codes

The lost episodes: myriad explosions
imperial foreclosures on erosion
coastal waves of emotion

Is the type of thing I will write you
in morse code, so if you get it all
that's amazing. Well done.
But this doesn't really tell you much.
Which, granted, is by design.
Alright. Talk to you later

definitely having nothing to do with influenza

1.
today i'm a buzzpost
a lecticorn of unicorns
like a bus puppet i'm reminded
of public transportation willy nilly
ode

2.
today i'm getting on a boat
and canoeing down a river
my canoe is my prancer
my shoes are in the water.
if they weren't, how would i haunt her?
of all the motion flowing / fluid / growing
i haven't looked at the camera in years
i am usually more polished

3.
cognitive shoe
walking ground toward
the thought: here i make
a decision, and stick to it.

like a flu letting gas through.

4.
magic

lather

 it's unclear to me
how anybody
can anymore take themselves seriously ;

it takes
joy ;

the joy comes with mourning
deep rich mourning like the lather
of aftershave--I spread it prayerfully
on my face, maybe even dollop
some old spry cologne on my nape
if only for the mention or touch of that part
...wholly for some purpose... ;

woodwinds on the winds now
(( ...birdsong!... ))
too warm for the chaparral
or the Cleveland streets about which
I'm hung up on ;

dry worked-up chorus girls
stingy, stringy; working for hours
each morning before toil ;

what i meant was
in the joy there is deep morning
steeped rich morning like immersion
i carefully enter it to expand my features
fighting back as a saint against the apocalypse
not of time ending but of people lying
sweltering stowaway ships
-- IN WHICH THIEVES HIDE --

lies, lies, lies down the river,
so common they become commonplace barges
nothing to see here:

we cannot imagine an empty present;
we cannot fathom a clear conscience.

((America thinks thus romantically
about the stowaways. Freed slaves,
maybe, or nautical airwave
pirates, sauntered and screwed into the hull
like the mouse sound of silence exigence
bleeding away in the water, frail
freed ink off the wainscot ways
of the church cotton.
We pray these ways after all. ))

Don't Read This!

orchards
of purposes
are marching toward
a place where
hen's abound.

that's right hens,
we've all eaten chicken before.

Shining Time Station

feathers feathers
float like a bee
sting like the police
know what I mean

french hens
nosoberty: not drinking
// C3P0

P.O. Box 666
say ten, back again
the devil's in there

The dog's in there
I mean god
aren't there any American shepherds?
to herd the goats or whatever

Yeah, it's whatever, bro
Now is never bro
Name's Trevor, bro
Nice sweater, bro.

Nobody

Nobody hides
in plain sight
of all the world
vernacular

surely only present
in the mind; else,
we couldn’t see
for nobody, all around.

Nobody thus present
only in the mind
                (her gifts he
                did not take)
as when I say, “Nobody’s here!”
not noticing my hidden companion

(now a sea-captain fearing
the bane stowaway).

Nobody thus exists,    persists,
revealing of himself:
ghost of the railroad past;
wolves a-prowl in the snowwhite
either side the careful tracks,
neither one nor several.

Leaving us with, at the very least,
an insane proxy for solitude, or,
more likely, a spirit of staunch longing

amongst us
each & every moment.

Nobody his own best friend
as god to dog to man
real because we made him
real, only really there
when truly he is not.

Drake says to a girl

i can give it up on the first date
i don't have to exist outside this place
and you know that i can't change

but if stars should shine
the very first time
then dear it's fine, fine by me.

--from "Stars," by The xx

Dèyè Mòn Gen Mòn (Beyond the Mountains, There are Mountains)

Baby we were born alive.

All the mountain ever wanted

stalls hardly beyond the climb.

Strike it like you know the difference

of plaintains; wherefore art

thou factory farms, where is thy

mechanical grass. Stay off the tracks.

The path has been beaten. Covering

a geyser with a fountain, it rains.

Creating the old again = creole. Creme

of some improbable Haiti, sugar-steeped

in brown-backed maiden-thieves.

The earth opens & it is filled

with nectar. Plasma and magma

ooey gooey, mallow in the fire.

Green Beans Salad

MMMMMMMM. THATS WHAT I HAD FOR DINNER. I WANTED CREAMED CORN, BUT DIDN'T HAVE ANY. SO I MADE GREEN BEANS SAAAALLLLAAAAD. YUMMY!

For lunch, I had mexican food. tex-mex, really. The 3 Enchiladas lunch special, Santana playing in the background, got the $1.00 soup but never received it. The waiter, who was either surly or an antisocial moron, brought the check at long last and then asked me if we were Emory students. "Yes," I replied.
Waiter: "that explains a lot."
I snapped back: "What does that mean?"
Waiter: "Oh, nothing"

He disappears into his kitchen-lair, and I explain to my friends what just happened. All 6 of us were indignant to say the least. We started to figure out who owed what. I threw down ten bucks in the interest of speeding up the process. The waiter came back, looking either impatient or like a dull robot fuck who doesn't know how to correlate emotion and expression. I think it was the latter but you really can't tell sometimes.

"Do you need a pen to figure this out and write out the individual prices?"

At this point, I am furious. This food was nothing special, and despite having 10 people in the restaurant including us, this fucking joke of a waiter was trying to patronize us. Either that, or he was a martian weirdo from outer space, and doesn't know how to interact with humans.

"No, we go to Emory, bro" was my retort. My friends laughed. The waiter stumbled over his next sentence

"Uhhh, I just meant that a lot of times kids that go to Emory like to split up the checks because like, they might never see each other again."

He went on, saying something so insignificant that I already don't remember it. What the fuck? Is this guy kidding? "What just went down?" asked my friend Neil, returning from the bathroom. "That guy's tip," I replied. Although in the end, we left him 14%. After all, he might have been sincere in excusing his comment. Or, he might have been a misanthropic, desolate, alienated aberration, a clown. Who am I to say?

How many posts does it take to get to the center of the

Midwestern front?
Frozen tundras. conundras,
barracudas, rotundas
Dolph Lundgren's verandas
Miranda's panda
endangered black/white Santa
Santa Bear with his
Christmas Claws
Christmas Clause: Kris Kross
litmus test: crystal balls
coal colder than a stocking
stuffed like a po'boy
Chippewa is so soy
green beans salad
yeah

Local Man Arrested For Blogging

Champaign, Ill. -- A Champaign man was arrested today for "excessively reckless and senseless blogging," according to a statement from the police department.

Though the police declined to release the man's information, the police chief was quoted as saying, "At no point in this individual's insane, foul, disturbing commentary did he make one iota of sense, and we are all stupider for having to had to endure it. May God have mercy on his soul." 

because it's also a plant,

she says, with a sly little fuck-me grin,
sly american soda this girl sips,
tell me about your mexican trip,
i say, no thank you, i'd rather not

so she says
how's about we go in the back

i say
sure, can i bring my friends?

then they all pop out of the woodwork
and speechify their disaster, saying thus
"OH OH OH OH OH OH YEAH!!!"
making appalling noises,
right,
so, he says
begone ye spirits of the netherlands,
then Ronald Reagan appears, says,
THEY AREN'T DUTCH, I AM
him, you can barely hear him finish,
as his voice and face disappear into the
dying past where he lays
& dreams of secret collonades of grass
wherein the ketchup farmers stow their lotto
& invest in the fruit of the future,
just over that-a-way in the near east.

i meant holly

i meant holly, like the jingle jangle
of your speedbump balls a-wiggle

(((transfer the blur
quickly, noise)))

cohesion deploys insane
matterific verbs of hot damn
kids these days::::::The boys!
& the girls

two creepy stanzas, dedicated to heather (the plant)

my eyes cannibalize the sound
from the creatures coming
growing out, becoming dense
as boughs full of holly.

my eyes cannibalize the sound
from the creatures coming
I see the ground, the footsteps too
we hear the spirits humming.

band names pt. 8

The Crableg Sisters
Me & Spider
Ankle Kids
Snow Youth
The Barely Here (tight, bro)
You Will Like Us
Always Ogling
The Snoogs
T.W.I.N.E.
The Holy Smoot Society
The Asheville Dangercats
Bowling For Murder
Soup Cancer
Gangrene Pete and the Specialists
Bobby Pins
Lost in the Tress
Pinewood Derby Pussy
Sno-Caps (possible trademark issues)
Glitter!
Actual Killers
The Drunk Motorcycle Fags
Lil' Miss Michigan and the fang-proof blinders
Glass (so indie)
The Welfare Twins 
Stay Away!
Scared Girls
Snakebite

drab cornish, obvi

a drab Cornish
is a hen nonetheless.

as in, "I ate yer
crab sandwich, mister,

and by the way, you've got a
Cornish up the ass."

Doesn't matter
where it falls,
it's still shit.

Strange paths

(Note to self: look up the word “wroth”)

((Note to reader: This is about a walk and random
corner-store encounter...
it's significance may be elevated beyond discovery))

(((wroth)))

moffed (meaning lowered) brow
or certain picayune discovery
walking from ledge to ledge along the uncertain
delivery of phrases: here’s a block, here’s a house,
herein the home OF A CENTRAL MAROON’S CHEERLEADER
like an advertisement for unwanted? loitering, malingering…

squirrels, their houses clumps of leaves-in-tree, sparring
with the world, saying: skkkkkkkrriiiiiiiittttttt! squeak!
and so forth.

past the old savings & loan to the corner store, where we meet
a florid youth, quite out of his head, acting as if he were on
a high dose of amphetamines, but that’s only how I could understand it,
because I cannot understand it—Tim is clearly insane, says he’s
23, picks up a hair tie off the ground and says, “I could need this,”
and then, “Oh, that’s my hair.” I ask him how he ended up here (says he’s from New York, been here 10 years) and he only replies, “Yes, I wash my hair everyday.”

And “good god, there’s no advantage in it, good gawd, working their asses off, student, worker, good gawd…”

I try to understand him, share a smoke, cut a heater, and he compares me to somebody he knows. A smartass, probably. Either listens and gives his opinion like he doesn’t give a shit, or just stands there, smoking (you know, wistful wafts of smoke out the mouth, like) and doesn’t listen, just seems to, but doesn’t, doesn’t acknowledge.

And that ain’t the worst of it, just hanging around, my friend don’t even have a place, probably just sitting under a bridge a long ways that way toward downtown, not givin’ a shit! Good gawd!”

Hair—bad—day! Understand? Hair—bad—day, Good god, that’s not a good thing. Understand?”

He said most of these things. I observed him, long hair with random too-many hair ties, hair stringy, long, maybe dirty, puffy, he looks like a crazy man up a bridge sheering…

but then he is just himself, a self-acclaimed crazy bum, not a bum but somebody like a bum, bumming for smokes, lights, chastising, elaborating, proclaiming, waiting, spitting, smoking.

He crouches in the parking lot, hawks a good one, and spits.

“That’s my brain.”

I cannot disagree. When I leave he shakes my hand (I don’t like this, but I do it anyway).

“Nice to meet you,” he says. I never tell him my name... just one part of the strangeness.

w i d o w s p e a k

After several days without words,
I find them again, not by magic, but instead
with the deliberate clomp of heels on march
the deliberate cold the widows catch
because, why not? they seek a reason for sleep,
a reason to seize upon bedrest and the covers
covering them, of course, a cold widowed hand
grasping another, the sound of one hand
being silent.

Yes, silence. The pale spit of words
fires no more upon the galleys, staid,
forlorn, a white mist rising out of the sea.
How many pains can a body catalogue?
The body politic, the warmth rushing out of her tongue
and into a cold cup of tea, its heat now gone.

But what of her ferry delivers?
She’s alone now on this island
for how long? nobody knows. That usual rogue state
wherein the mist howls fully aware of its ignorance
about matters of war and taste.

That’s how we veil ourselves, anyway, as languish
covered by a pall. We are
outside ourselves once more. In tune
with the turning seasons and the trumpets
(forlorn) about which the captain wrote.

Another stop: the captain. The constant shrine
around which you revolve, revolved, still
yet you chase him. But with weariness,
now. He isn’t in the boat
any longer. He’s far off to sea – you know
that, now – and yet, you keep looking
every morning
toward the bright gray dawn.

Band Names part 7

Partial Nudity
Fresh Fish
Scared of the Sun
John Willis and the Schmucks
GUN
The Gun Club
The Black Smiths
Freebasing Skittles
The Muffintops
Bad Sandwich
Rick Shaw
The Kingfish
Bulbous Fixtures
Doctor Gravy and the Soup Kitchens

Stay off the grass

That's what my mom told me
Not talking about our lawn
after all, what are lawns for?

Stay off the crack
in the sidewalk
Grandma will appreciate it

Stay away from fables
and old wives' tales
old wives are liars

Aesop was a vampire
a bloodsucking killer
morals like Gilgamesh

quarrels like a quarry
talk show host Maury
Florals. Epic Story.

Grass: First Take

and that, father, is why I take tea:
to set the grasses sweetly a-rustle
in my balm-shop mind; home of
hopeless impediments and even more
struggles that aren’t struggles, but diversions
and there’s a reason I won awards for hustle

I am a gambit; a maven; a practicing
witch-doctor; my friends and I build
mazes for hire and stun doctors with
flavored oils: here, smell my cinnamon, dads,
become an ocean again, from here to Sandusky.

Gray Soap

Gray soap can be
fun to play with. Like tomatoes
or sweaters on the new boys.

Brain soap. This is a weirdly
afflicted bath. Brain soap. Brain rope.
The stain between the stain between the
strained dopes
casting about for drugs like pirate fishermen
angered.

love, or whatever

i used to be touched by every type of
love. the fossil, the functional, the alien
like the curling embrace of a foxglove
in the spring moonlight entertains again
thoughts of rebellion.

her tender horn of trailed-out suffrage
pointed, like an argument, to her plot,
where bulls run through weeds, & oilrags
litter the gulley beneath the gunwale.

There we raged the night away,
not as one might later fret, on standby,
like an old refrigerator chugs 
at last in the backyard,  disassembled.

& all this slowly fades away, like thoughts,
a slow drink of something that tastes
the way perfume smells: American.
That’s not what this is about.

Brain Soap

we yeasayers, yeah.
And no -
we don't want no scrubs

we wash our brain in tubs
loamy lobes delousing
sinning synapses

Alice's dialysis
the perils of paralysis
blistering mind callouses

dilly-dalliance
malicious parliaments
kingly jackalopes
drinking lemonade

now I've gone insane
feel no pain
I have a discman
but no headphones

take a risk, man
use the red phones
dial 9 to get out
then 911

Don't let the saucer
bother you
we're on good terms
like a glossary

Do not confide in cute animals

WANTED:

Bunny. Indicted by Federal Grand Jury on 50 counts of mail fraud; wanted for his alleged role in money laundering in the late '90s. Thought to be fleet of foot and fond of grass. Prefers meadows over tussy hillocks; may hop unpredictably. "Bunny" is an avid reader with an interest in history. He is known to frequent libraries and historic sites. Approach with caution.

This has nothing to do with Jessica

sometimes ::::: we ::: have ::: been ::::: known
to unlock each other's doors at night
taking a bath with candles at each other's throats
(our hands at) (who's looking here?) (only descend once)

throbbing cursory censor: once denuded some
but lived on. made the most of the fabric
as the chairmen say. made the most of all
the quilts at hand.  we really did.

but of course, says the thankless mind again,
you know what i mean: the aspirin tablets.
thankless ankles. a response to a spooned question
dolloped: here's the answer: WE HAD TO

the wind blows | my dreads sway
he had hair like war | like "wait!"
please slow down hurricane

as a vast melting of words has been a stove
--recently as today-- 
was a melt water cooler now a well
then a candy now a chocolate
first a lover; later, a cantilever

& don't i just have it all up the
ass & so forth daddy. i'm a day-glo
bratty kid with sunscreen and a kiss
to give to you whether you like it or not.

i've known some kids, and some of them were nice kids
i've known some shins, and most of them were skinned
at some point, god knows. i can't even keep lower case
without offending heaven -- moreover,

i cannot keep kosher because i'm not Jewish.

Promising start

Here are the brains washed.
Beside the basin, in the bin.

(I don't care what nobody says
we gonna have a baby

taking off in a Coupe deVille
buckled up all navy)