Lumineers

Them boys are nothing like the lit-candle kids. Lumineers
is basically glossy smiles on middle-aged moms, & have nothing

to do with the sun.  Some people would strum on your ass all day.
Some people are in the "alternative energy sector," which is noble

actually, energy activism, you know? A kind of unfucking of the whole sport?
Random guys and acid parts, intestinal fortress men? Our Heavy Deeds

& the "better life" if you would. Would you? Fuck you. Would you?

Pie a la mode

"Close the shutters!" screamed the bellhop, "everybody scream!" Circuitous misdirection, you see. There was no one outside, nothing to be seen inside. It was an unannounced game of Simon Says. A game the bellhop was scarily good at. Over half of the guests unwittingly lost went they raced to close the shutters and the rest were out when they began to scream. There are only so many shutters in the hotel.

Horizontal Vertigo

"It's clear as mud," bleated the goatboy, through the thick, dense fog. "Nobody knows what you're talking about - just give up" - a quote attributed to nobody in particular. It was really foggy. And damp, yet not exactly raining.

Foggy days are full of potential. Pontoon boats. Frogboy's in here somewhere, let's come back to that. Eleven is actually too big of a number to spell out. But who's counting?

My favorite fruit is lemonheads. My dad likes alligator pears (avocados). His name is Crocodile Dundee. Not really, but you can imagine how stingray that would be if true. Stingray is an adjective loosely translating to "pantalones," or "flash photography."

Sister's brother is calling me out to the pasture. Must mean dinnertime is over. More later.

Nautical Anyway

It is a Hemmingway of sorts, a "true brute," dare say,
of a craft: all hulking post and heavy brass. You steer

towards a foggy patch, of course, greenblue too yes mm hmm.
You can taste the hush, gliding in the fluff. Suddenly, a goatboy

whinnies shrilly in the distance, & your neighbor is suffocating
you with his sack. You could always have a heart attack.

In the unspeakable dark of the deep ocean, there are electronic fish
pulsing Bangkok-bright. Think of how much sand gives to water,

the magnetizing lull you know too. You want to hear the sirens.
As with other curses, a choice first. And who should stop you.

Love in the Time of Waco

A goat on a ledge is always safe
& precarious, unless about to be kicked
or there is a large unavoidable boulder.
Nothing short of catastrophe can keep us together. Would you mould her?

In the compound, I imagine the people
to be Amish, & feel ashamed. I wonder if Koresh ever played Tetris.
We watched the compound burn. Because we watch things burn

there is not an insignificant chance
that we will set something on fire
for the viewing pleasure of others.

We welcome stories about cults because we are relieved to outlive one doomsday. There are buildings on fire, now.

Four Horse Woman

M'lady's a fourhorsewoman, a quarter more 

for you and yours; The Giver is bearded

& white as any white god. Adam Smith

& the Ouijas. Electric, current. The horseboy

rocks in the chairlift pit of the video still,

blowing. Measure your life in tape.

The Whole Earth

I've been away. I've seen the whole earth.

500 men met me at the first gate. I've held

many, many babies. Maybe your bones

are something like a shuttle. Maybe the shuttle

has bones; in the bone dark of space, alloys.

One day in our lives will be the greatest day

in our lives. Space is absolutely breathtaking

via lack of oxygen. I have studied a broad.

Onward.

The drake couldn't stand the ashes falling from the sky. They were all over him. He didn't know what to do exactly. What was he doing? Please don't be afraid that I'm going to Disneyland. Please don't be afraid that I'm going to Hawaii. Please God, Pray for me, I'm like a helmet here, what am I guarding. I want the lungs to behave like a fish; I want the body to round out my hammer. I'm a Thor-kid, one of the wonder-ones. A calculated spacecraft examining batteries. A self-loathing loser with a head full of amphetamines. I did once and I do now; relinquish this time-space for a walk in the nether-regions. A calculated outpost of mourning; A singular phantom of Nature. I exist like a lamb in the sweatshop--I put out like a tired cat yawning. There is no time to rest, now--there is only time to procure. Onward.

untitled #12

whoop! goes the
heady youth,
up go the
breadbaskets.
whose
asks the guidesmoke
then
says the timeline
him
asks her deadpan
if
says the red pen.
never.

14 lines

i'm terrible;
nobody noticed.
her get-well card's
lost again

i'm greedy, kids
what a pill
whose wet blanket
vacates the subway

all dash no
answer, all verve
no banter. no
calls to no actors,
no pulse, no dancer.

"predictable cloth gown"

i'm really inspired
by her damn good tits,
said the man on the commercial
under his breath anyway.

this is a segment called
"predictable cloth gown,"
where a model who's not a model
wears a cloth that's not a gown,

spins around, & we marvel
how celestially it wraps her frown,
meaning her body.
oh yeah, you heard it hear first, kids,
her gown really hugs those curves

then she leaves on stilettos which
are actually made from a rainspout
& carted here by some sad Nigerian
a racist example of fictional man.

force me to be pregnant, she'd say
later, to her first fiance, who never
existed.

once gone, Molly & Misty &
Miserably really let her have it,
(all worthless t.v. people, once redundant)
gouging her badmouth & her
busted body shape, which is

(it turns out) not even a model's.
she's maybe a McDonalds stockgirl
or even a descended soda jerk, like an
undescended testicle, waiting to pop out
like a murderous uncle from a

curtain in the corner. yes, she's
a real fraud, we'll say, remarking
about her lack-of-looks while cunningly
knowing that we're better, far better,

than the sad fucking cheapskates
who score our collective mind deeper
with every sadlist day, with every
pan of the goddam camera.

i'm still watching.

5 + 5 + 6 (revival's a sin)

revival is a sin. what's lost is lost.
what's dead is dead is
well maybe undead but this a hiccup
what's dead is redblood
boys without makeup. biceps anyway,

i've worked on 'em. i love you
without the rain, i love you
if even you've cared hard.
too late to be a breaker, too late
to spot the moonfish. this is a

question without a raisin, this
is a therapist without clients,
a special about rich people
handing each other golden globs.
it's no wonder there aren't children,
not anymore.

merry cougar's breadline

please don't take this too literally,
i'll ask you, if i'm out-of-work but
overpaid. i'm trying to adjust this
sentence. the car is washed i've told

you, but it damn well doesn't help.
i'm trying to do this, so many things.
sometimes the end of the line is the
end of the sentence. looking over

like a gram of rain falls on continent.
no articles necessary. a bead breaks
on her forehead like sex is
a damn good excuse for foreplay,

sentences structured like so many
gunwales protect a boat or a fortress.
maybe a marine project. these beds
(as they're called) of seagrass are

marvelous. fish & turtles & diving
ducks do this, eat green rain, spoon
boogers (bored, they are) to each
other. why not? a million reasons

to exacerbate the soul, a million
raisins to precipitate my strange
blood, in a saucer where it fouls.
sure let's make it a verb, i'm

nautical anyway, when words
are landed daily by the fishkeep
who keeps refilling your quota.
Maine's the best start to a northeast

adventure, if you've got Canada
but New Brunswick. getting
obtuse like motions obscene or confused
alerts the ref and the cameras.

literally the worst post yet

did you flip burgers in the Cretaceous?

are you a gracious one

are your flowers
prone to wilting

have you done it?
like in the pottery shed
do you have one

do you have a body,
can i look at it
do you have a number
can i look at it

can i dial
a dum-down, a diary

my calf isn't waiting to contract
it's pretty much already contracting
i'm walking after all
walking & blogging (naw knock it off,

gnaw your pocket (chew your ear out)

get in his ear muffs (find some dandruff,
Piers) blow out seaweed

(your nose is fine, rusty plumbing,
sunburnt clothes))

talk to your dad about it

bricks on the sidewalk

underneath,
rudimentary graveyards
of ants

Pickup Lie

my little sweet potato fry
you're the apple of my eye
i'm incapable of lies
(yeah right, not really)

spit-rage (make money online!!!)

[This idea came to yours truly in a dream, introduced to me by a weird co-worker:]

It's a whole new genre of experimental theatre, ladies and gents, called spit-rage! Instead of "Mothra vs. King Kong," it's "Mothra meets King Kong's creator and reams the ever-living marrow out of him for his appropriation of the of animal-revenge oeuvre."

Spit-rage is mad daddies and absent mothers, unscripted bitching about bitching and hamsters letting loose on each other, perhaps unaware of sentience. It's this sentence, except ANGRY and italic, without the crudeness of italics. It's... It's... fucking garbage can lids on fire in a movie, snitches! It's a biodiesel bulldozer deciding to blow a tire iron out its tailpipe. It's corn on the cob outlawing silk.

Spit-rage, you pimp! Spit-rage, sugar-dads! Spit-rage, the bane of halfhouse loonies, huffing ponypaint. Spit-rage, the last vestige of humanity in an otherwise arachnid planet. Spit-rage and dingo-queens getting queer about the fiscal cliff, dooming and preening themselves like ovenware fresh off the assembly line.

[This message brought to you by #SpitRage Trending Topic, LLC]

The Markovich Bros

[THIS IS A MOVIE IDEA]

The Markovich Brothers: Only one can win.

They are two dueling designers. But also brothers.

One designs a blazer that is designed for pot smokers.

The other makes a blazer for firefighters.

Each thinks his design is better -- and dismayed the other brother made a "blazer," too.

But only one design can change the world.

A high-stakes showdown is in the works.

#BLAZERS

"It's Blue"

[THIS IS AN ADVERTISEMENT]

Got an empty water bottle full of urine in your room because you're too lazy to get up to use the John? No problem. With "It's Blue" you'll be fixed in no time. Just put a few drops of this non-toxic, herbivore friendly dye into your piss, and it will turn it blue. Now you can just explain that you're keeping around bottles of antifreeze in anticipation of drinking it to commit suicide.

"It's Blue" -- we don't solve your problems, but we do give you new ones!

Dreamland

I'm at a local enclave, which reminds me of the student center at Wash U, sitting with new friends and old. Some are real and some are not. Some I still talk to, some not. The restaurant/bar is dimly lit, probably because the bar/restaurant I went to in real life last night was as such. The table next to us is the only other one I can see. Behind my friend Drew's head I see a girl get naked. Our waitress is blonde.

We are drinking, and I order some food. The waitress drops something of mine, perhaps a piece of toast, on the wooden table. I don't think much of it, even though it falls right on a particularly grimy patch of something disgusting. We continue to converse, and I wish I remember more about what we actually talked about. If you can't remember it, it's not all that important though. Right? Tight.

The meal, I suppose it's dinner, finally comes out. This time, the waitress drops part of my meal on the table again. She actually rubs it on the grimy spot several times before putting it back on my plate. All of a sudden I am furious. I take the item (a curved bright yellow slab) and fling it across the table at the waitress, and say "I want to talk to the manager." She barely acknowledges with a grin, and walks away. Another boob and nipple are out behind Drew's head. This one is brown (the breast) and the nipple is pierced. Nice, nice. I casually point it out to my friends.

The manager is not forthcoming. People are finishing their meals, while I have refused to eat. A brunette curly-haired girl with nice skin tone talks to me briefly. I guess I think she is from the table next to us. I get up and walk to the front of the bar. No one is there, so I proceed up a couple of stairs to the staff/kitchen area. There I ask the brunette girl for the manager. She says "I already told you there's nothing we're going to do," and is very curt. My fury increasing, I follow her when she storms back to the kitchen. I see her talking to a tall skinny guy with a sleeve tattoo - the manager. I stand there as she says " there's this guy at the bar, he's being an asshole to (insert blonde waitress' name here - maybe Lara or Mara) because she messed with his food, I don't know what he thinks we're going to do about it." She has a mocking tone, and the manager is smiling as well.

I am officially livid. I make it clear that I hear everything they're saying, and approach the manager as brunette waitress walks away, and someone that looks like the blonde waitress walks by with a tray, still smirking like before. I tell the manager what happened, and he basically tells me to fuck off. I respond smiling through my rage - "ok, but I'm not going to let this die. I'm going to post this in the student newspaper, tell everyone I know, and generally rain hell on this place." I realize that I am flailing and feel pathetic and degraded, especially when the manager is unfazed by my thinly veiled threats. As I walk back down the steps towards the entrance, I decide that my airing of grievances was not enough, and I have a moment where I think to myself "Just be the bigger man. Go home, think about it, and you'll get revenge later." Instead, I fucking lose it. I start to throw things - luckily there are many jars of candy on the counter and other buckets of things to destroy. I decimate the entrance area in a matter of seconds as people around me start to take notice and alert the staff. Before anyone can approach me I take off running.

I'm on the Emory business school campus, sprinting as fast as I ever have. Wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt, I don't even feel the cold because I am absolutely flying.

Then I wake up. Just another dream reflecting my insecurities and tendency towards rage, but hopefully not an omen of grave portent.

Nonsense

Day to day misuse
generational issues
no added effects
generation X

poison gas - sarin
equally apparent
in the air apparently
heir apparent

a parent of a kid

a parent of an adult
ancient Egypt
ain't shit awful these days?
(yez)

despondent despots
non-respondent
refuse to expound upon this
because I am a psychologist

embarrassing alchemy

I rest my sore ankles in the cold

water of a copper urn, 

lined on the bottom with unicorn teeth. 

 

The magic leaches 

from the mine; 

It comes back like pine needles 

getting cold again, come winter. 

Winterwillcomethepineswillgrowcold

thepineswillsurvive

thepineswillthriveagain

 

t h i s is a l l about rebirth,

and using Androgel 1.62%, 

this is about fucking up

and finding the way to say

hello, i'm in mourning, 

early signs of puberty in a child,

maybe he's using my product, 

(PLEASE BUY 

OUR TESTOSTERONE 

SHAM)

 

hey baby, get out' my grotto. 

pain during sleep

wood clots in the legs

 

the television laments us

with TV dreams and insane nichrome 

wires, heating our goddam spleens live

silver smithereens, a broken pipe

discovered when you step 

on a glass shard. 

 

Only then. 

this is what's happening THEN--

Oh man, traffic spikes,
like a dike breaking and molecules making
their way down the culvert to the other side
of the hill that separated the waters.

Meeting people is like saying hello,
my favorite color is yarrow--your favorite
flavor is yellow. "My favorite weed
is Jimson--eat their seeds &

you're Jim Henson--people become
muppets and their heads become puppets--
strings held by somebody whispering
words of their own, snippets really,

about a game on television regarding
basketball that you are watching, but
not completely paying attention to, because
you're writing. That's what you do,

that makes you." 666-6666. For wherever
you want to go--right call now, be on time--
six six six, six six sixty six. THE NUMBER 6! 

A commercial just now interrupting my
thoughts like a fucking virus. 

Is This A Question

It sure seems like it.
Why the long pause
after saying what you said
?

Is this even a response.
yes: yes.
Do you see what I see
?

Upside down question marks
hablaramos mañana amigo
tenemos soco y amaretto, y como se dice "lime"
?

3 miller lites y una piñata.
chips, salsa, tequila con whiskey, fiesta 
chili con carne
!!



pterodactyl
terrible - redact
pteronadon
and on and on 

Lepidoptera.

Adoption Era

brown ankles

the brown indian girl said
the straw was itching her
brown ankles but really it
was her
over-starched socks. madre
esta nuevo,  has an amigo,
hasta la cervezas mas fina.
hasta la vista. hastas in the
backyard, water them.
hastas & columbines. vines.
she think not too much
about thee, socks.

anymore. the heart, she says,
moving on,
is never ending. it is a bla
nket woven into a shroud
that's circular. si senor. the

frog & the fish are, how do
you say, amigos. they drink
cervezas in the dugout or
argue about sobriety. i told
you, i'm not using, ever
again. i just want back in
the business. (who doesn't.)

was this a story or is this
the conversation we're
having.

who is her body
needing, nobody asks any
more.

is this a thought or a request:
fuck me like tomorrow's
never coming.

i'm getting tired of all the
second-guessing.

white ghost of a fish

a staunch ally & his sister were eating
she said: i'm really breathing aren't i
here ribs were rising & falling -- yes, then,
he said, gritting his teeth & gleaming up
(meaning looking) at yon moon ha-
rumph, up there. another afternoon will

come with it's inevitable clomp of boots
on the sidewalks and now, another glass
of wine, another
ball of twine just-here-now gone, dear
mother, your son's in a sweatsuit & has
taken up postage stamps. you know,
he's (you'll find him) going to various

postal stations throughout the nation
with his hands held out siphoning stamps
from the feel-good daddies, who are
singing songs of lamps & glue, days
& nights spent fingerlessly staring
(with tweezers) inspecting; carousing
the nebulously bureaucratic ghosts of;
licking & sealing; paying & pumping;
weighing just right; adorning with trim
& bunting; these sacred parcels hereto-
fore undelivered and then magically

-- like a white ghost of a fish
out from the green water of a
December shoal --

appearing!: a gift from mother.
happy halloween

Few words re: dreams

Many sad faces bad places

emory memory erasers

shots no chasers

shows with no lasers

shows with lasers

activate the phasers

of the moon,

phase 2: beginning soon

you can play through. 

if you sing in tune

out of touch 

with the earth

you put your faith in mirth

and happiness,

but what happens if

the end of the world is near
Mayan Christmas 2012 this year

Fiddler and the Elf coming in 2031 though
when the world doesn't really end
and people hopefully don't freely pretend
or feebly attempt to blend in to be normal
conformist conference, very informal like an
infomercial, immersed in diversions. Virtual
versions of me you see on TV
not really, I don't watch TV it's so trendy
i'm on facebook so friend me
you're in the digital age I'm at Wendy's

this should be a rap

Rations

Oceans are waterfields
Nicaragua
grunt, harumph
sacrifice bumph
glucose strudel
leinenkugel,
chicken noodle

all over the place

the strident light is fading

I smoke menthols. Stop hating.

oh, yeah what of it?
holier than thou haiku
like you're above it?

descended from heaven, irreverent
irrelevant.

Arrowheads are fossils too, man
I think I found a GEODE in the riverbed
but maybe not, hey-
maybe I find them a lot.

but I don't really.

I am Lake Erie
hear me swim
Great but not superior
wait - not inferior, just not
lake superior itself

getting weirder as i get wearier

fear me - er- beer me -
hear me out
hear ye hear ye
announcement announcement

announcement is the frenchest word ever
or not (whether).
or whatever


birds of a pleather
plain yellow sweater
the lady at banana republic called it "bahnahna yelloh" 

for she was a jolly good fellow

two lovers

i wana be in your bubble
i wana cuddle
i wana dance with you in a rain puddle
i wana be your partner in crime
and cause trouble
i wana
i wana be your life line
in the middle of the night

when youre in the dark
i wana help you find the light

i wana be your quarter back to back you up
when you struggle
i wna be in your corner
whenever you fight
i wana be the corner that supports your structure
and the glue that hold the ship together
if the hull ruptures

its all good baby
you dont got to rhyme to flow with me
just do what you do and be who you be
you always know the right words to say to me
to calm me down
to help me see
and youre the ocean that inspires me infinitely
ill be the air in your sails
carry you safely out to sea
you be my lotus flower and ill be your bumble bee
your sexy metaphors are making me lusty
take my pollen, make me honey
that i can taste endlessly

thats hot mommy i feel the way youre sweatin me
make some brekky in the morning
use our love honey in the black tea

are you real baby cuz this feels like a dream
my mind wants to be one with yours
im getting weak in the knees.

everything miraculous

everything's miraculous
haven't you heard
the beard salesmen told me on 3rd
and 13th street. a man w/ a beard
who made beer from his body hair's
yeast. this is actually true and not
something i made up. i'm prone

to it though, lies like voracious
grubs inside of mushrooms or
walnuts. once it's open i'll
lay an egg, hello offspring,
these dour self-recordings

spin too many rhythms out
the door, instead of holding them
like an ear, and digesting. a
venus fly trap here, acoustic,
acid-wise trip-wire shuts upon
an insects wiggle. what the fuck.

our bold luncheon aside,
this trip's been miraculous.
stevie wonder's blind & i
(some sad pale luncheon kid
with a hex arm-band on in
the west village, robbed recently)
confess to receiving mediums (media?
recently? fuck all!) from ham-fisted
sailors nocturnal, tweeting &

fucking all night on their
social media sweathouses,
boldly floating the ocean
the world over.

i hate pepperidge farm
lunchable and i've always
wanted to kill.

Im sorry baby

fizzled dreams
unwatched memes
my babys gone or so ive deemed
lonely bed cold no hand to hold
we've only just begun but somehow
it feels like the end is near
say it aint so
pull my sweater til it comes undone
play me weezer til i cut and run
or keep my feet planted
if you dare to try
fears a bitch ya know
and all i want to do baby
is run from the unknown
im sorry baby, more than ill ever be
im sorry baby, there are things you cant see
im sorry baby, wish it were just you and me
im sorry baby, nothing is what it seems.

love & other triangles

   love and other triangles
are felt here. her lips. between them,
after the boat ride, you know,
God I miss you, and everybody needs company.

There are two hearts. Two hearts, two malls, the kids went to:

There are three words. Heaven sent them.
(Heaven's scents, hymns)

The kids, will I ever have them?
Can we be children again
I love this part of you
your arms & the butterflies above us even now, looking
at each other through a window pane,
   an insect love ballad
   like little flying foxes, flying mates, meant for each other.

I pretend it's not happening. The flow of the immaculate moment,
when she comes, Oh God. I transcribe   (Oh, God)
everything, thoughts and hairdos & lifetimes of irregular waiting
in lines & people to compete with, people to move about,

and thinking now about it, I love you
more than I have ever
or ever should have.


Please let me find my
flying mate, (perhaps my) numb lips
find themselves saying, please, please,

Grave Gnomes Ii

Green Gary, Green Grove
Green Gary Green Grove
Free Frank
munson
free fran frahilla
sus as a bus
fran fraschilla
(King Kave)
buggaloo, future me meets past you

Suxatrim
medicine for my grey skin
buffer up buttercup
yup - grisled.

DRUNK POETRY

We almost lost dat

Creationist- i am one

evolutionists are so reckless
always wanting faster horses
and more of everything
reverends balling ever so hard

Krayshawn the 7th
KR JR
Donkey Kong SUXKSKS

temporarily lost connection to chat
last connecton
2007

love face

Let your love face
lift off.

Let your love lift
face off.

Let your lost life
drop off.

Let your alone face
bleed young.

Let you love face
phone home.

Allow your moonbeams
to swing on --

Allow your body
to feel home.

Allow your mind,
this is our phone.

Allow your body,
this is our womb.

Allow us this:
we are a womb-bound.

Let your love noose
never touch the ground.

Allow your moose hunt
to end before supper.

Let your mother
know your crimes.

She will repent
for you.

Let you mother know
your heart's answer.

Listen: the dog's whine,
her owner's dead.

Listen: a knifefish fumigating
his immaculate home.

Listen to the love-bump
prison, where love is hidden away.

Hide your pride inside your mind
but leave your heart on your sleeve.

Let your body hug (or be huge by) the shore
or let the shore undermine your ideals.

The shore is here and the river is there
but we are together, wow.

Let your love face
list off:

One, Two, Tenciltown.
Three, Four, Fordham-bound.

This is the story of a young man
with a passion for cooking.

The story of a youngster with locks.
Looking for the perfect barber.

Looking for the cozy home;
looking for the only home.

This is an immaculate prison
in which I've never been.

Hey chick, I'm at a loss for words,
but maybe you can lend me

a boot or a paper to shoo the birds
like pigeons.

This is as cozy a bone
as I've ever seen bleach white

in the [ dread ] Mojave sun.
The animal once lived

and now it's dead.
Let your love face

lift off. Let your
love life

brace open. Let your dimpled
heart mourn more openly

or instigate crimes for a
lack of budget. Let your hope
die where your tracks do,
in the river.

Let your body roll to the stove
if in life you cannot find

an answer to your riddles. I didn't
mean that last part, I didn't

dream the sex scene with a sister.
Somebody's, maybe, but not mine.

I heard we've all been kids before,
I've heard all kids of things.

I've heard there are drugs for
people like me. "There's something

peculiar about you, kid," but
I'm not trying to say this.

Let your body open
like you're about to cook.

Take this jar, honey, and
give it a twist. I don't

know how many sentences are
left. I don't know about the metaphor

where words are murder. Bars of
jail are windows of soul, narrow,

released from their place by
a shimmering sound of a burden

being lifted. That was too hopeful:
being dropped. The man falls out

of the home he built with his hands.
Of course they're his own.

The man falls out of favor
with those he's given allegiance.

Is there a sadder story? Try this:
it happens every day. 29 years old,

reticent to appear a seamstress, a beautiful
woman died yesterday. She was 29. She was

walking down the stairs, high heels and a
day bag. I have died like this before,

in my mind, hoping for something I can't
find. I have died before in the motions
of doing something, never done right. I've
made too many furrows to get out of this spot.

I really believe in reading in to what's meant. I
believe that words having friends, is part of it.

I believe that doing this matters but
not all silent like a bobcat, but a bobcat

has dignity. This is a principle that I've called
a virtue. Principles have virtues that birth

whole homes of people on welfare. Left
or right we find ourselves eventually,
let's say it has something to do with closet space.
You cannot be too careful about what you pay for.

(Or work, you
pray for.)

I have never donated to a single cause
and I have no boys or blankets of my own.

I'm the shop-owner type, w/ my 5-year plan
and some croutons baking in the stove.

You know, vegetarian. Practice tai-kwan-do
on the weekends in my Prius. Got a daughter?

Yeah, I bought her. With a lighter and some
legos at the Shop-n-Smart. Saving while you're

shopping smart. What more could you ask? I believe
you'll read into this whatever you like. I can't
stop. I believe you'll read whatever your life
's like. I can't stop you. Let me. Your face.

Hold it. Your eyes, emboldened. Think about *her*
again, trying to use italics in an all-text

art-space. Her again, a decade later, your
first love can still kill you. Too many
deaths. Too many harpoon fights. Too many
wounds, right? Too many cocoons tonight

to lay and to set,
up as traps. I can't let you. I can't

love you. I can't deny you. I won't try you.
Please just stop it, please just

maybe let me know. Let me know. Let me go.
I'm trying here, baby, my lovely,

I'm really trying. Maybe you'd admire
the effort: but I'm leaving. Like the train
to the sunset, the whistle from it. Not
like people mean it. My own way.

I'm leaving. I never loved you. That's a lie;
or, curse the day I doubted

myself. Just a fucking hairpin turn anyway,
into an alley with the Omega crowd:

Alpha, cats, dogs, Romeo, chocolate,
Galileo, telescopes, censorship, apprenticeships,

moonlighting, Juliette, you know, the fable,
the life spun wrong from the silver chains

to the fumigator, again, in the corner.
The people who have embraced steamers. I'm

really trying, honey. I'm really trying.
It's good to know this. I'm really trying

to notice me. Let yourself go. That's a moonbeam,
again. Again a notice. A soft felt item. Something,

you know, you wear. Let your love lift
your face off. Let your love life

take it's own heart. Take it's own life
seriously for once, this is our heart. This is

our heart. You and me, one in the same person.
I'm a crowd of bone diggers, realistically.

Let your fight begin. Light your mind and spin.
Just add an onion. Left and right and let's begin.

Let your love face
lift your home down. This is our time;
this is our crowd. Let your love life
make your face red. Let your love home

become your gem mine. Let your love frame
hold your face right. Let your camera
cloy your back shut; anger; sadness; white
brights and darks again. Bugs and temper(ature) and
seduction. The immaculate beating steaming
dreaming car-pile of American sunsets.

I'm bereaved baby, let's eat. Let your love
life, make your face heard. My body's talking
but my wife's home, and I've yet to find her.
Searching biscuits and cooking spoons,

in a boiling baby breeze.
This is real life;
now live it.
Wildfires.

South Dog Pole Suns

South Dog Pole Suns
Starring Hank Paulson

1.
On August 16, 2012, numerous wildfires burned through coniferous forests in Idaho.

2.
"Share? Share what? What do I not share enough of?"
"Everything," she said, dejectedly.
"I can't share everything."
After a long pause, she started crying. "Then it's over."
At that moment there was a knock at the door. The ruse was decidely NOT up.

3.
"Yeah, she's got a hot little piper bod, I'd say. Up for which it's definitely worth staying."

4.
North of it, a collection of wildfires known as the Mustang Complex had charred 134 square miles (346 square kilometers).

Susan + diamonds + parts

My step-sis derived from diamonds and amphibian parts. She is a goiter on the seam of the world; a salad where dessert is desired; a soreness where calm is needed.

She is a pimple on the fold of the nose where you can't reach without damaging your ducts.

Step-sis Susan, indeed. In the course of her nuptual dance she skidded to a halt and began sobbing, telling all assembled that she'd made a terrible mistake -- she had had sex with a bar wench in Bavaria. At first it seemed like a sick joke; this unnatural act with another woman, some hears hence likely when she was last in Bavaria. (I get regular updates on her location, ovulation schedule and March Of Dimes donations.) Surely, it was all a charade.

As it turns out, it was. She turned her frown upside and the man with the trombone in the band went, "WHOMP-WHOMPPP" to singal the jab. Everybody whose teeth were alread gnashing began soon to laugh, sure, but the damage was done. Donnegal, her dearly beloved -- and quite a man, if you ask me -- was only two hours married, but he was done. He dropped her like a bassinet three weeks later, by which time she was already pregnant... by the doorman.

The baby was to become a beloved laborer in the court of H.L. Mencken's sister, in the third realm of Alcatraz.

I have since cut off contact with her, though she has written by a long scrawled letter in blood which I will read at my earliest convenience.

Lazy Days of Summer

"Flush it!" yelled Drago, "Fucking kill it, dude!"

Shimon was frozen, momentarily paralyzed with fear. Racing around the sink at 100 mph was the biggest damn cockroach he'd ever seen. "Don't rush me," he pleaded, "these fuckers can fly."

Olliver, standing nearby, did not take kindly to this revelation. He quickly and quietly walked out of the kitchen, through the garage and out the side door, never to be heard from again.

A banging noise followed, and then a loud shattering of glass. In his eagerness to corral the monster bug, Shimon had swung at it with a rolled up "Vanity Fair." Unfortunately, the roach was too quick - it escaped under the other dishes in the sink - and in the process Shimon banged his left knee against the handle of the drawer under the sink. When Shimon reached for the counter to balance himself with his left hand, he missed again, violently knocking Drago's "I ♥ Huckabees" mug to the tile floor. 

"You're a dead man!" screamed Drago, clearly overreacting. Drago picked up the jagged handle of the mug and brandished it at his brother-in-law. "I ♥'D THAT MUG!" exclaimed Drago as he sent a flying right hook crashing into the back of Shimon's head.

Meanwhile, the roach scuttled merrily down the sink drain, chuckling to itself.

Swagstone Ltd.

Here by way of over-explanation is my idea for a sick new (fake) company called Swagstone™. Basically it's the coolest motherfuckin' joint you ever seen, kid. Swagstone™ is just a bunch of swagged out, big-dicked landscapers the like of which the blessed Earth has never seen, and will hopefully never see again. For a hefty fee that few people can afford, they will come to your house, bring "bitches" with them, drink your alcohol, ash their filthy blunts all over your house, invite their rude and dangerous friends, throw a party, and also haphazardly lay random flat stones (which they steal from various quarries under the cover of darkness) in your yard.

THIS IS AN ADVERTISEMENT: 

Call Swagstone™Today. Why wait, unless you a bitch? Swagstone be basically the most big-balled, hossed out party joint this side of da Mississip', ya heard? We be flossin’ so hard all up in yo grill just settin a playa up, dig? We got primo flagstone, call it swagstone (cuz a playa can’t swag without Swagstone™), and lay it ALL up in your yard, see? And at Swagstone™ yard work ain’t gotta be no chore. We bring hot bitches—to your exact specifications, of course—to help us swag out on a playa. Tiki torches, brews, Cristal—you name it, we bring it. Also stereos and da freshest jams to make a playa wild out, son. Just a crazy party up in your crib while 10 or so strappin’-ass brothers hall in some Swagstone™ and lay a path around your yard, so you can be goose-stepping like a champ from the garden, to the bird bath, to the herb garden, et cetera. Hallowed be thy name—Swagstone™.

(Swagstone™ makes no guarantee as to the quality of it’s flagstone, nor guarantees that its stones are “flagstone,” per se. We reserve da right to use sandstone, feldspar, and assorted sedimentary rocks so you can holla at your geology knowledge and expand your dome, son!) 

she said

i am sprinkled with boys and boys and babys and babys
sleep is a welcome jackrabbit -- grave -- poems -- slate
roofs -- i know where they're from -- i have canoed past
sloughs of impossible sediment -- oh wow life's sentiment
collecting at the bottom -- an accident of semantics -- an
accident of blind fury -- an accident of bodies -- an accent
on the bones of the day -- this morning is wash -- everything

(s)

heretofore unnoticed are bellies upturned looking at each
other like what? this is the clock ticking and i'm trying not
to waste your time here, really Margaret, i believe in your
faith, i believe in your dripping head, i believe in the cart
that you lead about you, i believe in your pennies, i believe
in your stocks, i believe in the bible       you worry so often
about obeying      i worry so often  sometimes  too  we are
just wandering kiosks, anyway, like purely imagined bones
in a hillside so long ago, we can't even keep track of where
we put our heart, and where we hid the bottles of lotion
whose commands we slathered on our skin, nave romance
& all.

i believe in the bible      you worry  so often
about obeying
                         , she said

FIRE WHERE

this is your   fire where?

this is your fire wheel
this is your father deer
this if your fire's here

<>
there is no heart
where the heart is

FIRE WHERE

fire where there is a hereness
shutters & shutters & layers & layers
and dawn, piqued and drawn,

   (a cocaine model on burlap couch
    a brown women picking buttercups)

lies clutching at her Neptune curves
her sleek body, tits aching w/ pure juice
the cane of lust & it's imaginary counterparts


FIRE WHERE
fire where the heart is