everything for sale

we're all just fishing kittens
more is required
josh is typing
flickering galoshes over puddles
on asphalt drip money girls
sweat honey men grab shovels
the young open sodas the homeless
are hovels, begging coins
and sentences, the streets are
poor, the streets are rich, the people
are color, the windows are
reflections, the goods
are for sale

CHANDELIERS INSIDE THE PYRAMIDS

Tuesday nite at the Moon Til Rise. The man 

plays sax in his boxer briefs, perhaps some

sort of undershirt, "rollicking"

is rolling and licking or rocking

and licking or rocking and rollicking.

How will you spend your first day

of freedom? Love had to happen

somewhere first once; the first love

of the world. New shirts. Just being ready,

owning it. There are still komodo dragons

on this earth. Realistic demagogue of no

actual conscience. Juicing the rabbit

was never one of your better ideas.

Things were buried, Capsules! Place 

is an activity too. Choo choo choose

the Cleopatra in you.  

Be all that you can

believe. There's a thief 

in you. Some smiles

are intentional. 

Tyson Chandelier is a maverick. For President. Forever.

Realistic dialogue of no consequence

Guy: What's up with you? 

Girl (insouciant lips, suddenly aware of her pert breast and at once setting them aside): Nothing, I'm just leaving the office, heading to the gym.

Guy (in low volume praise): Look at you! 

Girl: Yeah I was out at this thing last night, because it was my birthday yesterday…

Guy (conversational handshake): Oh, happy Birthday! 

Notes from about a month ago, some needless retrospective words and a poem about dementia

1) "Look up: --Jared Fajersk1,
dir. LifeBr1dge Health and Fitness, Baltimore
Study called "Life in the day of a towel" that I read about in the WSJ"

I got the WSJ delivered to my girlfriend's
We broke up and I never read it / we broke up i'm ever bleeding
( neither thing true ? )
I'm afraid of clowns I'm afraid of small towns
I'm afraid of small gowns
I'm afraid of payment
I'm afraid of clouds

2) "Drop off bone." []
afterward realize you should have put it in a bag or sack
instead of handing it bare & boney to the doorman
at your expensive friend's place,
who looked at you like a saliva-clad chewtoy.

3) Verses (A 'poem,' maybe)

healthy figs & dementia
and priority club seating & dementia
and club soda, ginger ale,
potassium tablets, astrocyte awareness clinics,
lung gyms, verbal ice luges, & dementia.

definitely hermetic     sealed   stone vases and tablets
Rubriks d'or, Dior and Hommes blood (a Hermes product)
incalculable matrix, charms & oxen blood
     (and oxygen, blood)
paste of mercurial kidnappers   Vitacraves & oregano

some stone and tablets
and a bladder of dried seeds
to make a pleasant noise.

4) Forgotten calculation of immense value:
4.5 = 9/2, * 9/5 = 81/10

enthusiasm

war with a yacht
candy bubble

bugs in free time
bugs in jail
bugs in grassland

Novelty has a shape
as does firewood
and her shackles in the basement

blood levers the cement floor or her turnpike with the concominent noise of turnpikes closing.
My blackness is my sin my blackness is Muslim.
My women are warming my women are morning
my women are alarming
My winnowing is alarming
My pillows are harmfree.

eat what you did win

Kirk Kavendish and the Abundant Boy Parade

Kirk Kavendish & the Abundant Boys
tied for 3rd place
at the Immokalee Constance Nun's Parade,
coming in just behind the Pirate Barbs
(a group of women named Barbara,
festooned in fake boas and
Somali cut-throat garb).

There are a lot of words on this page.

a lotta words on this page
a lotta birds in the cage
a lotta rage in Nick Cage

damn kid, too many onions
gunship, yesterday, bunions
ate too many funyons

wrong spelling right kvelling
it's wrong to yell when your Spelling
the famous Tori not Joe, Joe Tori hits the road

Joe Camel and a toad smoke lavender to Depeche Mode
(fragile)

hurry style keep up and make me explode
not really though i like being wholly whole
one full piece like a soda straw

unperturbed wicker baskets
the third degree, not of a burn but my family
member that's a cousin,
don't know any of them.

A terrible and half-hearted impression of the second part of Ginsberg's Howl

Out, Moloch! Sin of dustless life! Tragedy and shame like twin bed shadows grow on, the fire growing! 

Moloch the bedazzled fucking of lusting arachnids shedding! Off Moloch, these robes of designer feathers and wireless braziers! 

Moloch the messianic virtue of a dream come to light! Now sunk, worms and stuff, Titanic! Why such vaingloriousness down here! 

Dangerous & Unreasonable (Introductions)

1.

"Hi there,

I'm dangerous and unreasonable. 

What's your name?"

2. [as host of oyster party]

"Hi there,

I'm dangerous and unreasonable,

but more so than anything, 

I'm dangerously unreasonable. 

But also don't forget about the 'danger'

part.

Oyster?"

3.

"I'm dangerous and unreasonable,

and I'm mildly attracted to you." 

4.

"I'm drunk." 

Pompous display of affection

1.

"I'm irreparably fractured &
we will not die together. I have
lots of problems, but I am a
good person, I guess you could say."

"Does anybody care if you're a
good person?"

"That's what you take away?"

"I take away breath.
What do you take me for."

2.

He said:
She said:

3.

I am as open as the door
on her refrigerator
in the middle of winter
after it's thrown away
--languishing underwater
in an old quarry, say--

("entombed in ice," a lesser
writer might say)

years later,
rusted,
cold,
but yes, open.

quick and disoriented

there are people in the world
who have bodies. pale nepalese clouds
of bodies, already high up, &
wispy. bored little sultan's daughters,
tossing & turning, a heat engine
is like a hurricane. spinning
that empty eyehole forever upward,
looking at heaven, this wind-shear
is uncomfortable.

The Search Continues

Dream: I'm drinking from a cracked glass.
Don't remember the rest.
Civil unrest.
Always yearning for meaning
all at once purposeful
and lost at sea.

Lost it, see
everything so clearly
but not soon enough.
"That was stupid."

So goes the refrain
and I'll refrain from elaborating
because this could mean anything to anyone.
Music to my ears.
Or it could mean nothing to someone. My greatest fear.

realize that my greatest tears are not so great
at least not in a positive way
though crying is mighty in its own respect.

Someone will cry tonight, I suspect.
And I'm not sure whose fault it is.
Certainly not mine.
Well, I'm certainly not trying
to gamble away my time.

Our glass is your glass - hourglass.
Sifting sand
shifting sand and
Change is on the horizon;
portent, important, pregnant
with a certain quotient of emotion
and devotion to success
ideally in its most traditional sense
which is probably not what you think it means.

my most important revelation recently

is that i don't know anything

Still sitting at the Toyota Dealership

My murderous rage no longer sarcastic

Just Sitting at the Toyota Dealership

Just killed a fly that came to rest on my left hand
with my right hand
and flung it into space
nobody noticed, which is fine.
But people are idiots.

Just brought my laptop closer in
so nobody can see
that I called them idiots.

Just watched a guy scope out a euro girl
walk past, around the room, then come back to sit next to her
odds of him speaking to her are slim to none
odds of her responding in fluent english are nil, in any case.
He is flashing glances at her computer screen
Thankfully he can't see mine

Just like that, she's standing up
and walking to a different room,
laptop and euro swag in tow
Hope this weird guy doesn't start to cry about it.

Just come tell me my car is ready
for the love of God
Come tell me my scar is deadly
I will kill everyone

Just brought my computer even closer
since that last line is pretty fucked up
And my screen is exposed to the masses

Just blaze
is what I should have done
before coming to this place
Everything is better in a haze
What was that sound?

Just the Asian guy, he just woke up
looked around, indubitably startled,
now palming his face and going back to sleep
Nice fucking moccassins, dude.

Just smiled at an older lady
as if I'm not writing depraved, murderous words

Look at me again and you die

Scribbles, mounting horror and warring insides

"Barely optimistic like I'm only one run up /
Smith and Wesson in a vessel--that's a gunship"
   ---Greek Proverb

This is a hectic account of perhaps nothing that occurred to me--to my insides--on April 3rd 2012. Sometimes it's too hard to approach the subject head on. It's like a bus hitting a deer. The deer's dead. The impact was large. The bus is damaged maybe but it keeps going. Can we reflect on that singular moment; the deer crouched beforehand on the shoulder, its eyes darting, it ventures across the road in an angular path, thinking in its deer way of fresh green shoots; bus approaching; a whiff of cement all-around; deer frozen; adaptive failure; "adaptive management," lingered a term on the lips of some academics around the nation, on their minds, even in this instance; woodsheds; fragmentation of habitat and skein; and the impact---the deer dead, the bus stops, the children not-even-shrieking thinking ??? (besides “!!!” and “[toys]”).

Rivalries dashed to smithereens. Sardines, maybe, (obviously) studies suggest, shouldn't be eaten so much. Leave some fish for the (other) fish to eat.

Others obviously. Others, is what it’s all about. (Sort of.)

Sort of not really, kind of okay, doing fine thanks how are you, just another day, another peg, another Whiteboard Calendar Day X’ed out like my old girlfriend Jess did, before telling her parents about it, who were to their credit horrified. She quit doing that but never quit worrying—and by God, it will take her to the top. You’ll never find a peaceful man there in the upper echelons, I swear. You’ll never find a peaceful woman

This is a hectic account of nothing in particular that didn't happen. A gross man in Bangladesh offered up a sordid account of his status as a man in the world in 2012, even in April, maybe monsoon season. "This is not what he said," he said. "I'm thinking now. I'm fat, unlike many of my countrymen, and the goddam sea---it just keeps rising. Change? I think so--and no thank you. Climate? Change? I don't know what carbon dioxide is. I couldn't be asked to understand it. It isn't visceral or real to me. All I know is a flame gets brighter and hotter when I blow on it. This gas that makes me live makes the flame dance, but not too much. That makes the dance end. Not too hot, not too cold. Also maybe medium isn't okay, but who's pinching your shayna punim now? Is there a significant Jewish population in Bangladesh?"

Academic queries drop like tears from his eyes; an irate pirate cutting onions on a gunship. Facing a court martial (& impartial, God knows) in an unknown country that couldn’t possible let this piracy happen without some ulterior motive. (Seriously.) Throughout history pirates have never been a huge problem in highly trafficked, well-defended shipping routes, like the Gulf of Aden, one of the busiest in the world. We’re using it as a pretext for more military presence in the area. At least that’s my assertion. (Compare historical pirates in remote, poorly defended backwaters, like in the Caribbean or Barbary (Tunisia)).

That aside (“to the left, to the left / all your things in the box to the left”) there are as usual more questions than answers but such is life. God has the answers. People have the questions. So excuse me while I'm walking around all: "???" I'm a human after all, with a child inside, let's please assassinate the concept of an "inner child" while indeed reveling--nay, worshipping?--the idea that we are still obviously products of those eager young children we see on the streets & buses everyday, (we were them, I’m saying) brimming with subjectivity & boredom & hunger & inquisitions & curiosity & questions questions questions. A need to run around, be embodied animals, maybe run into each other--little kids need a few scrapes now and then--throw objects, chase skirts, don skirts, talk about skirts, look up skirts, prevent people from looking up skirts, giggle, be ashamed, be made to feel guilty, be made to feel free--what a concept--made to feel alive. The last is not necessary for little children are nothing if not alive and being alive is being unafraid of constant questions & wonder & a lack of anchored rules about how to act.

Be made, or make yourself.

So much for avoiding head-on: girls I've dated have routinely said I act like a child, "You're such a little boy," to which I respond about how not all of me is little, even so showing that childlike grossness & wonder for bodies & sizes & situations that are strange, strange, normal. Strange--the new normal--the new word for what? These words don't make sense & never have. Normative tingles of strange headiness. Those are really my lips? I thought just a few hours ago looking in the mirror. Maybe I should meditate more. I don't mainly because I fear it.

(Elaborate? No thanks, except: the dream of carrying an awful mat, beholding strangers bodies (excitement, disgust, embarrassment), being TOO aware of my own, & my breathing. As it is I’m happy when I can carry on WITHOUT thinking about respiration.)

Confessions, confessions again. Still somewhere a Catholic youth. Made to feel guilty--and I bought it. Maybe it'd have happened anyway; probably, though that's impossible to say.

A gulf of impossibility when confronting the counterfactual---is anybody else confounded by this problem?

People everyday & of every color & intellect say things like, "If I only…" "I wish I could have" "What if" etc. Each day, I too. I want to rewind, rewind, rewind. Will I ever reach a sandbar where I can say: I have used my day as well as possible, urgently living and unafraid and lacking regret completely.

I know that I hope so.

What would I dream about then? Dreams would be sugar candies & flying without the continual current fear--when flight comes to me in slumbered fancies--of falling, not flapping my arms right, not being able to overcome some physical limitation… but all my limitations now are mental, it seems, all mental, mental. I can do things with my body. This is of course good—I am not disabled, I am not injured, etc. (Pause to be thankful. I don't care who you are--it's important.)

Outside the sun shines nicely & warmly like a stranger’s backpack warning you about his political preferences. Does this please? Don't wait.

I live in China. Don't belong here. Fine with me: I've never felt I belong. Any place.

Outside sun & a man driving a forklift back & forth. A massage parlor with a gregarious limpid sultry TV screen of hands kneading a back, or impeccable feet. It took me nearly a year to actually pay attention to this site and realize what it was--previously I had thought it was a TV with sports on, a sport I couldn't really make out since it was so far away, & I thought the establishment was a sportsbar. But I never connected the dots--if I had (oh great fallacy, hello) I would have said: "I am going to go there."

Funny how something so familiar, glanced at daily, was never really CONSIDERED fully, I did not GLEAN WHAT IT WAS. And then one moment I looked more carefully. AHA. With exclamation. I thought. A massage parlor. Later I went there after drinking and asked if they gave "full body massages." They could tell what I was; I left with a business card and met some New Zealand girls at a bar. This was a Thursday in maybe February.

Now it’s a Tuesday definitely in newborn April and I’m not doing the work that I have told myself I would. Except this.

A Tall Boy Named PBR

from afar

i saw him standing

tall dark handsome

smiling, winking

begging me

to take his hand

to drink him down

to be my man.

Decisions

this one or that one
over here or over there
how now never
maybe baby someday.

movie, nudity, food

naked watching Sopranos
at one thirty after midnight
thinking about Baked Lays &
suicide & the sewers outside
filling with a gray sluice of
rain mixed with trash & dirt

nude watching Vanderbilt
men's basketball

home alone without clothes
watching Home Alone, then
City Slickers 2--The Legend
of Curly's Gold

Meet Caleb and Ashley

I've been a bad door, opaque
and impenetrable. But what are doors for?
Tomorrow is for living, today's
to plan, yesterday was the moment.

Open the future and glance back
at your driveway if you have one.
The moment now cannot exist.

The door, the door--the door of
Caleb's awakening.

Walking through one, meaning opening
it, he knew all was about to change,
and in the next moment, it did.

In my dream I icefish
and count my companions as
carefully as my drinks at Cupertino's
(a bar named to remind us Northerners
of warmer, more innovative climes).

I invented the iPad in my sleep,
years ago, but I didn't write it down,
& forgot. I invented Caleb
just now, thus jotted, but until I say
more, he's just a brownstone
unknowable, smooth as a doorhandle.

Be my Caleb, I'll say, to a
subliminal power, who'll raft in
a suite of characters that make a
wraith a man, & figments into
full-blown legends and college theme
parties where nubile blondes shall
use the occasion to dress more
revealingly even than Ashley, the
saucy waitress from chapter 2,
who's role becomes much bigger
than imagined.

I don't think this makes sense, but I did write it, after all.

Elongated substrates
make gates from hedgerows
& bullets of arrows. Aaron

told me that in Autumn;
now it's March and spring's
just beginning to
leap through the woods.

Arrowhead lake, the way she
said it, meant she loved me.
I didn't tell you not to
leave me be.

Forgotten Title

I've been a bad dog
I want to know the truth.
What do my dreams mean?
Cause they have been weird.

Restless times call for desperate measures
treasure the hours you are alive,
and awake.

Spirit.

In my dream I icefish
it is surprisingly loud and warm
and I am doing quite well.

the youngster's song (too personal)

i'm a sad frog
beneath the hills of the mudswamp
& the leftover rations for the needy
i skate upon piles of remorse i
don't need these plans i do not
need a horse i do not need a party
i do not need a closeup i need a book-away
i need to burn all these books away i need to
carefully count my creations i need to
carefully arrest my hesitations i need to
look at all i've done i need to realize what's done is done
i need to dance i need to pray i need to strive
harder without striving harder just doing i need to listen to my soul i need to live like God intended i need to believe i am capable of my best i need to love myself i need to leave well enough alone
i need to avoid unnecessary idioms
i need to avoid swimming in shoals of uncertainty
i need to love
i need to move on
i need to grow up
i need to hang on
i need to blow myself away from time to time
i need to be green like pastures of insane purpose
i need to slide away
i need to come back
i need to find peace
i need to be myself.

sad poem

there's a man in burlap
sick of being there, sick
of being examined, like a
dead football brain, sick
like a dog, a dying one.

i am tired of my cold school
the old wool things in my closet
and the goddam festering belch
the closing door at sunset.

there is a flute in midwinter
that plays songs of despair
tongs or spoons chiming in
like ghosts of mid-air
tang, the drink--spilled (crazily, then sadly)--or the bird
(happily recalled, now tearful)

   brings to mind [some party?],
   the icy sadness that follows the present
   punchbowl now meltwater
   then a chore, to clean? -- now something
   almost precious to remember; throw it away,
   it's just a dirty paper tablecloth

<>

 gnats on overcoats eat expensive holes,
      in wool; drugs,
being taken by everyone present. being taken
to the rodeo, i haven't   been, but want to
i want to be ;  i want to   be taken ;   i want to
   go 

   maybe, (also)
my body, you know--it's a wonderland, my
boys, you've heard, precious as woodlots,
   (hello foresters) (they are)

   i think it's
drizzling,    every day, (i'd tell them) i have
to keep hammering the sturgeon
trails (rivers, roads) until my back is split
and everything broken, spills
out, gilled and fucked out.

Washroom

Debbie wants a different dog. "Yep, an alternate animal," she confirmed in a telephone call with her editor in Budapest. "I have no clothes on. I'm literally nude." Every time the buttons are revealed he pushes them without thinking, and snorts rails of turmeric before her very eyes.

Quantum Quandaries

Every time I get deep rest I become depressed
And when I think about space I am elated
yet scared.

Fear change but don't loathe it,
love parties but don't host them.

the hostess with the most swiss roll cakes
wins - a lifetime supply of swiss rolls,
plus kudos (the candy bar not the accolades)

Afraid of accolades but played with acolytes
as a child, so ceremonial on my serotonin flow
Yung Dopamine dope like [chemical bro
ther]e's a band we haven't heard from in a while

electronic ... uh ... well, electronica.
Put that organ in your mouth - harmonica

organic broccoli, green cauliflower
cloroform, chlorophyll, more gardens
gnomes from the hedges
make homes on ledges

Stevie Wonder can hear everything you say about him
That's not what I (environ)meant
What I meant is he can read minds.

That bear is bleeding

That bear is bleeding! Should we help it?
"Can we help it (?) may be more apt of a question, Mark.
Without being mauled, I mean."
"Good point, Anserr. Have you got any honey?"
"We could be mauled, Mark. I think that bears repeating," Anserr repeated
"Repeating what? I never heard him say anything in the first place!"
Never one to question Mark, Anserr deferred: "No, I haven't got any honey."
"Rats," said Mark. "Well, have you got any money then?"
"Not that either," answered Anserr. "Not for you at least.
Mark, mark my words - you'll never get a dime from me."
What the fuck am I talking about
What the fuck am I? tal king a bout
This bear's repeating.
This bears repeating.

that part / bears repeating

i have silently

plotted terror, he 

prays,

wings folded, 

continuing: 

i am deadly ;  

nightshade,   her eyes, 

   lowered. egrets 

also, nearby

hunting crab

in the estuary. that part 

bears repeating. 

computer monitors & brooding (it's all deleted)

1. this is how the world ends:
with a blog post. i am hog,
i am a hog host. bellowing like lips without words
a host of ragged cog tweets, aligned as Brazil.
sexualized people all, butts and stuff,
high opinions about their low morals.

2. the boy at the pool was a retard. i don't
mean this in a mean way, you know, it's just a description.

3. here's another: in the room without windows Delores
shudders under her blanket. it's very warm inside,
but outside the stores are closed due to the cold
which even creeps in, on the shadows and with
dust sputtered by sparrows.

(sparrows stutter dusty words to third children:
yaaaaaas, they say, i've heard you are my daughters
 ---such are the pilgrims thoughts
     about insanity---)

4. breeze weeps tides of dung beetles
in on the horizon, here they are, with words
for once in meter, on the third and firth beat
of every measure, every careless lidless eyeball
beseeching beJesus just do something
about the jutless jutting jaws of spoontown
the color is lacking from their eyes, cheeks
     freaks on dope & amphetamines
& screwball hotties --- daddies from up high
sent to (or down below, they come, maybe)
to murk up our barometer, princess . . .

5. last year from down by the shed
i saw two butterflies hover (maybe over! closer!
redact hover, write sputter)
mixing dust with their butter & better yet
telling of tales abroad about their flutters - - -

6. military robots

7.

8. this is an infinitely small & hopeless romance
about how it concerns me that all we can say
about the robot in our studies
is how she's like the butterfly
    (i mistyped this and left it
    ghost of a mistake - - - deal with it)

what i mean is
we study butterflies to make drones
that will kill people
without trial or justice

none & all, butter & the fly-watchers,
everyone will die like toads stuck

(& then, proving maybe there is a God,
or at least a divine humor, Thad will replace
the ailing/shot fuse in the blinkering headlight
with (what else?) a bullet (nothing else fits)
which will overheat, explode and fire
directly into Thad's heart.
the buggy -- of toad hunters -- crashes,
killing all of them)

(this was a Darwin award)

(except now there aren't fuses in cars
it's all GEE WHIZ electronic computer
manuals-you-gotta-read-tew-understand-goddam-it
computers connected w/ robots w/ lightbulbs
no room for human decency
enough to ungraciously kill yourself)

(it's all deleted, inside, it's all
a blank computer monitor
it's all

Ever been to Rio?

A bazillion brilliant Brazilians
resilient civilians living like lesbians
lisping about Lisbon and Portugal
Portly geese speaking portuguese:
"River of Janeiro - you ever been there?"
Rupert thought to himself: "No. I don't speak goose, or hispanic. But you look good enough to eat."
"What's the matter? Goose got your gander?" taunted the geese, still in portuguese.

Samantha's dark words, terror, etc.

"Drake firebombed Poverty in the face.
Her heart melted and her face sloughed off
scattering white-red-black bits of stone and molasses
onto the dirt path she trod.

One formed a slime mold, which scurried
off in search of butter and marmalade.

Another formed a teacup, which instantly
cracked and filled itself with tea leaves.
   (Delores! Oh! Another teacup tragedy!) 

A third formed an inkwell, which brimmed
over into the internet
and formed this malevolent post
on a "blog"
that only two people and several dozen
spambots or illiterate foreigners / denatured
worthless malingers of the English language
happened upon if they
Google weird shit.

A fourth formed a revision to the bot-hating
sentiment just expressed, a fifth joined the NAACP
(the Russia & China chapter, for the all the
computers) and a sixth

grew into a tree, that will one day be set
afire by my cancer, just like my skin, my eyes,
my face, my breasts.

This is how the world will end. Drinking
black milk and howling."

   --Samantha

the disagreement began

our bodies are bubbles
baubles, really, bouncing &
floating like teacups designed
by portly neighbors who do
not want to brag about their
caches of candy and acne &
breadmeat, true to the marrow
a real & nourishing shadow
of the blunt that once sliced
through both rind and ribbon.

this is sharp -- no it isn't
and so the disagreement
b e g a n

lawless colors

our ancestors
lawless colors all
are manifest --- folds in a blanket,
     some extreme, like gunpowder ---
ripe but for the fresh intervals of nothing
a cow leaning against a calf, his
mother, grooming, not noticing this once
(as always) the imperceptible halt of the slanted sun
her afternoon rays gracing a meringue, left out to dry
we are sad trumpetfish, drying also, hung in the wind
saddles

our ancestors
lawless colors all :::
but the law of less color
thus colored, draws
some variety of picture not worth infusing
with hope or a rapturous goodbye
between fishermen a winter dock
casting rods

our ancestors
lawless colors all
do delude us, recede
even as we chase them
their memories
like tourniquets choking off blood
to the torn hearts of tomorrow

our ancestors
lawless colors all

ours the land of lawless colors
green gray and sunshine muted
a grassland of treacherous thieves
& gunhounds

pt 4

We live in a pumpkin
(pump it pump it)
We live in a pumpkin
(party's thumpin)
I'm outta my gourd
I see God
walking towards
Him now
Heaven, it's hot
but hell if I care
Hello there...did I mention I'm a munchkin?
Munching pumpkin seeds (for lunch)
monkeys punching me (crunch)
low on funds
but high on fun
I still have a gun
On a ferry with my Godmother
Cinderella story
Fairy tales are boring
stepsisters whoring themselves out

Congratulations, you're a rabid racist.
Rapping about stars
rapping about mars
wrote a verse about planets
came out just how I planned it

pt 3

Watching TV in Costa Rica makes me feel guilty. Pero los deportes en TV son el mejor "way" a aprendar espanol. Next up: I figure out how to say "way" in spanish.

We're on the ocean
motion
We're drinking potion
lotion
all tan everything
tan buttcheek
tan slutfreak

Josh Jones is deaf
middle name Jeff
or Jean, like Wyclef
whose charity in Haiti
is a disparity, lately
this salad so carrot-y
hilarity, hilarious
nefarious - do I care? yes
no
too many cares in the world
too many bears in the woods

freestyle pt 2

Vasco de Gama
yay-o
Galileo
Pico de Gallo
Cinco de Mayo
Maya Angelou
Oh my
Evangelical words
Umbilical Cords
Biblical swords
point em towards (someone else)
you're something else (obviously)
we are all matter
we don't all matter though
we are all matadors
universal truth: the universe is huge
this verse is a deluge
I makeup words - rouge
So well-read that I'm blushing
I'm mushing baby food
I'm a baby, dude.

Transcribed freestyles

from costa rica
which look better in print

Part 1

"I've got a story for you:
I've been to Willy Wonka land
I've been to Mars
I've crossed into the land of Ecodeath and returned to tell the tale..."

that was Erik's intro, I can't remember what his actual story was about.

cold-weather question: open window screenless?

 are  there  maybe  no
insects    outside    yes

cipher & Mexican voices

[unspoken introit:] [note to self: memory's
the mother of the muses] bloom-forth, old Mexican
twins of labor & obscurity / contentment

1. uno [voz primera]

--thought maybe the Navajo mother-of-two  to herself
also Mexican
her now smooth and flattened womb, her hand atop,
    (her stomach,)
on Sunday morning, after finding an old caramel
her children had not eaten     for Christmas:

i am      a Mexican     in blood & labor sound
i am     a marvelous being   si   in blood & constitution
proud, this new nation   new   i shall not fail
   to make proud
   to make, my children

2.

she is [her]    a MEXICAN   a motion supported
 ( like South against Yankee North )
by the belief : bigger = better   , REALLY IS
 
   [thus trumped is, her hold on the manacles
of the body politic,]

   [in the background,   Arizona,   this new land,
   of neighborhoods & Cacti]


   [new & not new, like love
   in it & out, pregnancy & hope, marriage, divorce,
   tragedy and maybe murder (...maybe), hopelessness,
   at once. of course,
   at once.]



3. dos [segunda voz]

I am a Mexican
with no rapport
& no reports
on positive developments.

Robot readers [01001010100110 :: hello]

Most of my readers are robots
or spam boozers or clandestine monkeys insane / undignified / as calcified
as brother barnacles.

The romance between the caldera & the camera crew.

The lame bus babies & the busboys
look incandescent --  puzzling, she says to herself,
tending to a sprig of burning sage -- who are you? --

These are the
boasted-out posers on the edge of limbs, cancerous mellifluous munchers
of popcorn & pizza luncheons. Like tunics draped over the sedges of women
around which they hiked together, in the drab cold, (planted here,
a hedgerow) these men are the moonshine
& their children are monsoons.