Wednesday, September 17, 2014


I thought I had lost you in the storm.
I was afraid I had lost you
in a completely different part of the lot
on the totally opposite side of the mall.
I bought stuff I didn’t really need, AGAIN. Thinking
of her, and how you forget to remind me of her.
She reminded me of the major year-end sale
of my life, the one I still think about all the time,
the infinite pull of two monsters moon docking
each other in the back booth at Stuckey’s after practice.
It hits me mostly at night when I’m too fucked up
on anxiolytic properties and alcohol machines.

I thought I needed her.
you told me I didn’t need her anymore.
I should just go down to the park and find someone
to give it to me hard because I needed it hard.
Run her through a spin cycle then call the purple heart truck.
Suddenly I remembered every word I’d said to her
was total bullshit.
All those things I’d ever felt about you were straight
total bullshit, then I got the little man cleaned up
for Sunday school.

There were two figures in the rain trying to walk
to the porno store a block and a half or so up,
a tangle of wires, massive black change-your-life
Cockzilla rebuilds downtown Tokyo.  Seattle
can sink or swim, yall don’t really give a fuck.
We were all listening to the radio,
you could see it coming through the walls
like Houdini, his appendix or whatever,
reports of the typhoon or whatever it was then
turning 180-degrees on its wheelbase
for another unforgettable trip to happy city!

That was total bullshit, asshat,
yah, me and my homeys went boogie boarding
off the top of the statue of liberty,
unmotherfuckingbelievable! At least one of us
feel like dying each time they play that mandolin.
Like a buzzsaw in my skull, love makes you do things
I would normally handle easily with a glue gun.
The entire enormous bush got yanked
in my eye before I had time to blink or put up
a new one exactly like the original excepting memory.

The building was lifted slowly off its foundation,
flipping around the other way, it’s another Fisher Price
fresh view of the missile silos reflecting absently.
But who thinks ecru wainscoting and Spanish prayers
for salvation on a floating armature is safer?
a 1979 through 1989 Operation Cyclone
hatchback in excellent gently driven condition
smashed out the supposedly bulletproof plexiglass 
testicles of the pitbull, Amputee Lifeguard.
Police speculate it was gang related. Act Of God.
Stand up comedy renaissance.
“Those trusts have some odd balls under them.”

Witnesses to the execution observed
the execution was flawless but overall it lacked fire.
When the all clear was eaten by an Italianate marble
vestibule where Washington had once been feted
to radical temperature fluctuations and now common
total fucking bullshit.

From the sensitive uppermost tip of the foreskin
rug, hand tufted, no child labor that we’re aware of, to
the unwinnable argument about GOD as all knowing all seeing
condiment no more than twenty seconds long or it hardens
and becomes indelicate, you can’t take it back and then oh! no!
He will find what he hadn’t lost.
Is it ok if I call you mine?
Is it ok to wear white to a black wedding?

I was so afraid.
I was afraid I hadn’t lost you.
You lost a lot of water in those first four days
just incase you hadn't heard,
you lost a prometheus and artemis,
and the artemis was drunk as hell.

There isn't a particular reason why 
I hadn't lost my virginity until four.
Whether the person has passed away,
contact was lost, or the strength 
of the mechanism was both
too much and yet not enough. 
If you hadn't taken your own life
I would have taken you out for pancakes.

When I saw you, I was afraid to meet you...
When I met you, I was afraid to kiss you...
When I kissed you, I was afraid to love you...
Now that I love you, I'm afraid to
think you’re going to break that newborn? 
You’re not alone. Someone you love is addicted
to abusing Journey. 

News flash: Not having a job gives you a lot of time
to help the poor, losing their balance in boats. 
Only love is a moron gluing feathers on a flume.
If I hadn't lost my job in advertising
I never would have lost my Virginity.
I never should have gone anywhere near NPR.

I was so afraid she’d ask me out. 
I was afraid to have a girl, because
I was afraid of worms.
I knew she wanted me badly enough
to destroy an entire city block.  Her dreams
of becoming an inspirational wheelchair
free success story were only realized when she
became a rockstar with edema in the right foot and ankle.
But others, especially in the United States, represent
what American readiness to challenge logical explanations
is all about. Americans call history textbooks stumbling
blocks to unity.

Some think that “The First Thanksgiving” wasn't really
a thanksgiving, resembling a tea dance. As a matter
of fact they call it “The 1621 Harvest Celebration”
because they agree it was more like what you might call
a harvest celebration.

Historians call this comprehensive type of information anti-
systemic data.  Though none will admit to being open
anti-systemites. They just enjoy some ‘you’ time and a hot drink
from a king’s head, thanks to chemistry!

Some of the most prized domestic teas took years
to accomplish it, while others take only minutes to kill.
This party is made up of both varieties.
A female-only gathering of cannibal chieftains and their
sharks where participants learn about and buy sex
toys is a type of party plan similar to Tupperware
massacres in prohibition, or any, era Chicago.
Watch Bambi with a genuine sharkskin Monster Dildo,
our most popular baby name for 2012.

What does my dream mean? 
When cats die do they go into hiding
waiting for the chance to reorganize and recruit?
I waited all night outside in the storm but she never came.
I was afraid of that.

Last update ... 
I was afraid the Lock Nest monster (sometimes called Nesty
or Nest) was not a real hokes. 
but I don’t know what you’ve got to lose your rag about.




ANNCR - The screeching subway cars collided
in a tastefully understated ceremony,
the young bride flying as far as a hundred
yards in either direction and embedded
in the tunnel walls.  Some of the tile dating
back to the depression era was handmade
by giant terminal ants.  A single ant can carry
an entire show on its back despite a poorly
developed script and characters.  Yours
is the one gay color.


When they die they continue to sing for as long
as seven hours.  Some things don’t need to be
explained, like the meat you dream is wearing
your meat tuxedo and appearing live on Access
Hollywood in your place so that you can sleep
late in firing position, the lazy curl of the Fosterbird’s
lower abdominal piercing. African Variegated
Amethyst Kidney Stone. 


Let’s go to the perineum and get the particulars from
animatron Mickey Bungsplitter…
“ two minutes thirteen seconds into the ninth, 
winner by technical knockout and still lighter than air 
Unitarian champion of Bra World:

The Guatemalan Tungsten Rooster,  
Jesus "Five Sleeping Eyes" Iglesias!!”


You may blight the internal landscape with baby jam.

I now have the honor of presenting for the first time,
Mr. and Mrs. Laugh or be Dry Brushed Celeste Velato.



Some species are known to mate for life. 

Gibbon apes
barn owls
bald eagles
golden eagles
brolga cranes
French angel fish
sandhill cranes
red-tailed hawks
prairie voles
black vultures

But this couple has a thesaurus.  

(MUSIC – Mendelssohn’s “Monthly Blood Featherer” UP AND OUT) 



tobogganing over a transplant medalist, she hypnotizes miners
from their trousers, teases toads into toad vessels, each a tame volvo,
when flipped a fishcake, without the humidity to sling isotopes as rope
tricks, molding asparagus of their rinse (saddle-sore,
u-joints and exciting theorem on a hair within a hair in a lunarium
in a fort) sonneteering chrome seals, the heaviest reborn moose hits the silk
first, all wrists of digits in the eye to lick, it’s that adenoidal nexus, Al, that
cannot modify pain or fullness or co-star with Minutemen in orifices, eat
Vitamin Water and you’re back! Nazi cycles of the Who Shoved Thor winning
a cake in the Tower-de-Prance, always in season, never an ally, alivest where
they deaden deeper trim, carbomber makes Louis Lopez the Cali Kid
                                    swizzle, he being that ornate—
a seamstress moiré on the goddaughter in too far to itself (it has those
eater layers) a Satyr’s Miata of strenuously polygonal pacifiers, gone yogic
sending into the slit (a whimperer) now I go arrowing you in a kibbitz I wanted mis-
spelling itself to afford gangrene-- this is the feel of the dome removed and still
the sky has a magnifier. This is the shenanigan of snakebird. He brings his own bin,
gets what they opine. Parochially so special, only maybe four are polyvalent.
The enchanter viscid as unlined stomach skin, yellowish powder at range.
What you deliver is to be changed.  Unless a new rule is messier.  And cans of April
fistula by the goal.
Goalless but artificial enough for heterotrophy, magnets in pairs of one. So this
placenta a witch intuited gawks itself, plunks good cash on a cardigan, offers
perpetual lube but refuses to duel on the common, more of the aftershocks of biceps
not where she thought she left them, under the keys to the Dreft. At Coal-Black
an’ de Pulverizer’s prizes they hurled a serenade in two cats. Deppity Short
and his band of the bed retired, pumpkin of touch-type salad, it stresses
an unbeknownst bull’s eye on the porch, just as Itchy is the Japanese for Trout,
in an insularism like a Methodist in a tryst with Thaddeus Rex, friend to dinosaurs
in Wapakoneta.  This, this is what I salaam too pronto, coffee nostalgia, this non-
refundable pulse. And if I eat stake, gastrosplinters make me headmaster? Kick me,
I was slouched like lilies, pasties drizzled on a Gorgon comma nothing. It was honor-
able the popsicle I did. I eat rosin deliberately to set the clock. In inertness I am veggie
sandwich to go and I can no longer avert my imperial cervix. bitchslap on the one
to this. bar-b-cue. It is a delimited altoid spoilt on my pelt. mallwork: spoon time.


I know I’m not the Emily Dickinson of poetry but

I hate poetry; even the 1% that doesn't suck

as much as the camera inside it.

I can recall only two poems that I've actually ever really liked

(Muskrat Love and Commercial Trash Dumpsters).

1 Star 2 Stars 3 Stars 4 Stars 5 Stars

without the tears this is so where I am.

...just sayin'

I'm a little confused...

you use some phrases that are a little

At the last minute a word is waiting

for another application to complete.

I deny all technology but my comp

and this poem sucks like monkey butts,

keep working on it and work on your self-esteme too.

So what if it's difficult; writing with your feet is difficult

This doesn't suck exactly but it is confusing and random,

make it sound like something a person might say

not heard that way before and not to be

something that rhymed but didn't suck:)

Have someone else who isn't your best friend 

just say it already, we’re dying here.

And the basic principle is –

the less you understand it; the better it is for all of us.

The better it looks, the better it sells.  

Kind of like modern art:

The better you solder it, the better it works.

Songs are better than poems, but for me

only because of the music part. 

No amount of prep will matter or be

repeated or ever be remembered

because you will see the signs and leave

when someone mentions Black Veil Brides 

in an everyday conversation. 

When you understand how to apply

the principals of hypnosis 

in an everyday conversation,

you will become a master of influence

and one of the most powerful one billion

teenage poets in the world.

Can you answer this question?

Would you use the word caveat

in an everyday conversation?

It is still shocking, though, to hear

a little nine year-old girl say, "Asshole"

or "Goddamnit" or "fuck" or one of the other

four words of worship,

one that always had been a household word

like poet lariat or televised hanging

used in speaking of the ordinary.

i guess it worked.

 face to face is best I think, for anythings,

everyday recurrences of living

in a hole in the ground with

someone else who isn't your best friend, 

not newly chosen or long considered

among the most revered of contemporary writers,

the grand blessing of life, the basis of every virtue.

How long is a baby considered a newborn?

Or a matter for comment afterward?

Read your poetry back to you and ask yourself

Holy shit, I’m an Indie Motherfucker!

Who would ever have thought it was the one

telltale sign of grout erosion due to leakage. See

if it sounds natural, and if it doesn't, how you could

fuck with their heads, messing with the

saying itself from the beginning through

the scene featuring the destruction of the green

planet by powerful subsonic waves.

An interesting way to get people to read it,

I guess I just wanted to see if I could write

in time to the words.

All its uses and circumstances to

donate for a substantial write-off, ask one of the Nuns to

read your poetry back to you and ask yourself

am I the writer I want the world to think I am, or can I

win big at the poker table!  Or take a chance, go all-in, and

utter at last that meaning of its own

“I Can’t Believe it’s NOT EVEN Not Butter!”  GOD!

for which it had long been the only word

you have previously suggested here.

though it seems now that any word would do

shitty poetry isn't defined yet.

Well my peotry got published so mine is good

and i want to see your lips move

with over thirty books of poetry

it's depressing to see so many people

waste so much time on being...INTERESTING.

Friday, March 30, 2012


The night's work was over.
Most of the workers sensed the real life.
One could not embrace the intention
of the heroes. Next day, no scooter.

So the whole craze about the artist
went over his head, since he fell asleep
half way through the predictable plot.
Then came the planes and swiffers.

Danny DeVito waited in the baggage claim
with a sign that said "DeVito".
He was clinging firmly to his coke zero.
It only showed in a single frame.

"I'll be right back" everyone
in the world said to the space station.
"I mean, who doesn't want to be velvety-
rich!" said the station master's buttered nuts.

That seemed weird, the way she drowned
before that movie began. Anti-anti-climactic.
This is how revolutions are fomented. One
pint of blood on a corn muffin at a time.

Now the internet is turning young girls into living
conditions, staring doe-eyed at the waving crop
of yellow bonanzas, wielding butterfly bows, cupie
lips on porcelain denoted by black hail.

One gave his last muffin to a young girl
and she played flight of the bumblebee
with a butter knife crusted in his precious nuts.
The red balloons aka her muffin will not be televised.

Hey you! you got white stuff in your hair!
Is this product placement? Too much white product?
Was it what you expected? How do you get that white
stuff off your tongue?

"I'll be right back," his wind rattled.
The construction site had a bright banner
that made it an exiting construction site!
That eight foot ball of filling blood was answered

with a meteor, with a fire safety manager,
with a portable in-ear war thermometer,
with grease to prevent the dance floor
from rising into a cavern of its scars.

The pod, when they blew it open, was filled
with the most beautiful sounds. Sounds of
rejected sinks. Laughter of retards writing
all of Mozart then playing with C-4 and a Colt

45 Malt Liquor and a 45-rpm of Mozart "handling"
himself in a tricky situation involving blacks. The blacks
don't care about tongues. They're just tongues.
You trade one in at the clinic for a real-life Barbie

then you bow her until she breaks out
in Keep the Home Fires Burning.
Love at eleven compromised the plaster
looking like striations of Acai juice or invented blood.

The blood squeezed out of a Plymouth.
C-4 requires a binder to work. Something to bind it
to work. The Cars That Ate Paris released in the US
as the cars that eat people. But ya gotta drive.

In space no revolution is possible without corn.
In space no young girl can be sexualized until she's a doll.
In space no amount of blood can fill any ball.
In space no one can hear you bathe your eyes.

No one ever hears Mr. Bubble coming until someone
loses an eye.  The teacher with the ruler with the metal edge
bought us one nut each then left us to get home on our own.
The ending ran backwards before the opening credits.

It blew. Hitchcock walked.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

You Are Not a Boy

You are not a boy but pimples don’t let you live free?
in glad tidings we greet thee oh Roosevelt of the coal chute,
and surmise that Satan’s scowl has deepened your butt crack.
Deepened the tub to accommodate same, deprogrammed all
your independent swing dancers, daughters of the Reddy Kilowat
forgetting generation, but me. me? me, say, how dare he play with us?
Work for your supper while recognizing the kitchen of our Slavic
youth, recognize its brilliance in Spics, Sambo.
Abortion Clinic Length Fuse Deluxe by Hasbro.

Patrick, Are you ready to please your BFF on Valentines?
How about your BBF? Your big feinting cork on the wall?
Need expert consultation with your cork control?
Gain some extra strength and be ready to become
an advancing army of the red state sexmachine!

Real Estate Sex with a real Realtor
who’s never had sex till this very moment
in the suspension of quality time. Sex After 50
is the new Sex after miles to the border on foot.
No Piranhas, no noblese oblige, no blems
in your finish – Earl Scheib.
You must use your my First Utero Creamsicle
by Fisher Price, loaded with warm hot big huge hard stiff
loads of compassion by the Helsinki Vicodin Quartet, an agrarian
age without the required Evinrude Human Resources Tennis Prrrrrrro.

Their eyes dropped onto the table a short while after.

Against that wall of on-demand binding
riddling the whole Heidelberg inquisition
with Stephen King on bass, rendering Tuesdays
With Maury in potato buds, the undead as a Nazi
mosquito brigade advancing on the crowds in Fireplace City.

Flattens his tongue on that sphere,
skull fragment cocked in a quizzical dog
attitude, he presses an alphabet into her
until an accessory has been born and sucked
its contents dry for trying tofu made of veal.

Pequod over the netting of the Juliette
of the Sportscenter Central West, trapped
at the mouth of the pass and all that harderer.
Arnold gave his life to golf, it just won’t end yet.
Give of me my cold, my hungry, my thin pleasure
found in boards unshuffled upon on the quarterdeck,
the Enterprise was destroyed before any of us were born
singing, destroyed by the evil that lurks in the hearts of men…
destroyed like so many eggs and ham (not any known shade
of green) Then the Pleasure of nice weather no longer rhymes.
Just like it never did.
Question: to every black man who dreams of a white woman in his bed,
would you elect this Cadbury Goat? Question: to every god feigning man
who rides a white horse in his F-150 with stretch cab, would you?
Engineering types the casing took on the look of told us what we needed
to know; man is a chameleon with only one color and pattern to his name.
The promise is not Das Kapital with Johnny Action by Marx. (it must be
good, it’s by Marx!) The problem is in your radiator cap too willing to blow
for just overheating on the pledge drive.

ones weight exists to enter it in the contest to not lose faith.

I can devise work on my palm.

Get ready with the I in I am about to be
Going Easy And Swift With U-Boats Up the Canal.
And see, you step into the prescription canal
and find it made of oil. Oil and the gel of the Alleghany buck.

Make sure they think you were in the freezer when the deal
went down, then take a cab over to Morgana and get busy
going down on Morgana’s miniature Italian greyhound.

The kids knew only its initial properties and killed it for meat.
In that forest of beers and subjects under torture yet there was
nothing more that needed to be entered into the official report.

What Is New Jew? Jew, If nothing becomes you
but the black dress of the hologram, how does that
set on tilt the world of anesthesia? There’s a second
world of anesthesia? Hiding beneath the bed of the first?
Stabbing me in the back at the slippery lipped source
of all life slopping its intoxicating smelling chili.
It was/is life, what he said she said about you, not yours
to take back for credit. That portal into the entrance
lobby, that eight to ten inch causeway, spread
its chili across his back and down.
If he had been a better sci-fi writer he might have
left a better will.
And he might have gotten the chance to direct.

How Often Do You Feel Blue?
Maybe it's your unrecognized depression?
Maybe the too many ess’s in your name?
Two sons who, nobly following in his footsteps, have taken
to reciting, like cloning chimpanzees, the prefatory
negation of all things unrelated to A True Story
About Thee Gods Of Love And Their Mastery
of shipments of primo weed unpacked on the tarmac
of the curve of your lower spine.
This was of course impossible without delay.
Boloney, Febreze, sequential sentient ants traipsing
their way to the islands where they roosted,
or soaring leisurely to Simply Order Top Quality Generic Pills
scattered to the cloud of bees. The bees know. The bees
don’t tell, it’s how they preserve their information sources.
Balancing death by Nestles Crunch on rope, on bridge, on
Poison, on Blitzen, on a snack assortment that was heavenly,
the stuff of a hundred million gleaming nightmare hooks and ladders.
The nest spontaneously feathering.
Cradling it on its side, feigning mesothelioma
when the plasterers union finishes up stuccoing Lincoln’s eye.
Anything, they’d have done anything, just so the holograph
wouldn’t have taken any shit.

Or taken any away.

One was large as a tong.
One, a familiar tune.

Shocking results on your body regeneration search
taught even a woman at the information meat counter
that nothing would nestle not holographically fizzure imbued.
Not, at least, until after they snatched her anyway and reexamined
and retitled and rebranded and reintroduced the same hole
into the same receiving line. The bride bled water from her seat.
Was I going to die when released from the trap?
I was going to continue to die trapped.
They clapped for themselves, so I clapped.


What does it mean when your baby Is born
with Blonde Streaks? I don't know, but my daughter
was born with the longest consecutive win streak in NFL history.

Some of them bear the silvery streaks of birth.

Mini cunt lice has a spectacular aura
(another more detailed examination to follow)
but he wants me to flower it in my tent
so he can have a bonsai bud.

We’re so good together
I have to cling to him until the panic subsides
but who here is hazardously wearing their fatigue?
at most it’s a numerosity, a gasket, momentary
disarray, a carry-on cot in the already Radon fuselage.

So I stick to misspelling words like “Organising”
and sucking the monsoons out of parties
posing fetchingly as Larva Croft by a fence.
Free-style dancing across soundproof pleats
in my silvery-streaked burn-scarred nickelplated nickels.

My son wants me to legalize his bronchitis. I said sure.
His dad is an autocratic friend of my enemy friend.
Am I milling correctly? Is this the pre-debris-trail-plane?
Cassocked johns are dancing, free-style, around
my titanic hairball roadside mausoleum. It’s real,
my titanic, and the choke response, and the resurrection.
It’s you who’s the display case.

Friday, January 27, 2012


Give me one full ridicule example
using the regular baby as a bar.
Give me a newborn reflex action.
Give me a pregnancy AND a baby.
Give me one regular with grief
and one regular hold the grief.
Extra reflexes on both.
And one medium soft target.
And one water, no cup.

Grief is really just relief with a g
where the l used to be. Or closer.
Or less close.
And some redeployment.
The hilarious phases of pain.
Phase of the moon as the shape
of the elegant burn on your calf.
Happy Reenactment Day, baby.
Name your pie.

I took the Ell once.
It was in Chicago.
They made me give it back.

I threw out my back in Chicago.
It was opening day.
The ball never reached the plate.
The spork was on permanent backorder.

When I swapped the New York City skyline
for a sandwich sliced like dinosaur teeth
everybody died. Not the least being me.
The least being all of the senseless fucking
dinosaurs at once. Who saw that coming?

When you say you are willing
to give your life do you mean
the kind of thing that men are
afraid or ashamed to do openly,
and by day? How much are you
asking for the histories?
The ones that are over
on that table by the hose reel.
Which do you think suits me best? The green?
Will you take less?

Jesus said “Let the least of you
dinosaurs come unto me.
I’ve got the only ball. It’s my mother
scratching party now.”
That was back in the summer of ’65.
Whichever hundred and sixty five.
Later he revised his position.
More sandwiches for the crew.
Fewer fossils per capita.

So, aside from everything else, Mrs. Lincoln
MKZ, how do you like Detroit?

There goes that slow, exquisite build.
The ball moves faster than the heart.

They buried him then hung him next day.
He got himself hung however.
Does the order of events, ultimately,
have any impact on the events themselves?
Did The Great One need that last goal?
If his supermodel wife were to die
of a mysterious kitchen utensil
tomorrow would he need another?
Would he shave?

Here comes the show down.
The beating faster heart gives up
entirely before it’s reduced to a lousy
recessive pulse in an identical
though somewhat smaller scaled shaft.

I won one off of Kevin Grabasski at recess.
Was he pissed.

The distortion, the machine
that produces the sole
supply of large jungle cats.
The distortion is in fact
an intentional distraction
from the gathering moisture
on your thigh. I still love that one.
It hurt me so I couldn’t forget a thing.
Similar in style to the split between
tracks that were originally joined
in memory, divided
by trains, then by numbers
in a list, then by whatever
you say next.

I remember this song as the first song
of the best show I’ve ever
died a thousand times.

By this time next year sex will
have become all you ever needed.

I always try too hard, like a blue reindeer.
Like a lone blue reindeer in JANUARY.

Remember Janet Jackson’s titty
holding court? The only manmade thing
you can see from space?

Now we talk in terms
of orchestral arrangements
of various inedible geniuses.

No, we don’t.
We don’t talk at all.
Not at all.
We just repeat what he said.

A smile, is it? A record
shattering dry spell
with only a classic iPod
to loosely date this moment
of dreamy

There was, seriously, nothing
funny about that first date.
It was perfectly quiet.
We had carrots.
We spoke via body language.
Now I no longer know
which season is longer,
the snow season
or the season
with the missing snow.

I’m still quoting lyrics
to try to win a woman’s affection
or win a man’s rejection of a woman
affecting an attitude of musicality
in an upward firing bat tornado.
Neither one makes sufficiently
little sense.

Do you think you’re a dinosaur?
Do you think I am in need of assistance?
Just because I am saying goodbye
with my mouth while my words are
saying play me some loopy fiasco?

Their sense of dusk is uncanny.
That bridge is the last thing standing
between us and them. Between this
lunch and some sort of duck embryo
delicacy you might find
in the back pocket of any seven year old
attached to her rising market share
by a neo-classic iPod.

I have a new girlfriend I’d like you to
be. Stay right here, I’ll bring her over.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011


Listen to Me

Before becoming something I can put in a can and sell to myself at cost
please read the "You should defile me if" section at the bottom of my auto-
erotic snake aquarium.

And while we’re pleasing me…

Please demoralize the grass under my anus as I’m slipping a finger anywhere
but where you think I’m thinking of slipping a finger. Then take your sin
and silence it, you amplified falsehood. It’s my obesity, they’re my glaciers
and I can see for miles and miles and miles and there’s nothing for miles and miles
and miles. The demoralization has to do with confirming a theory I’ve had since
the day we met, roughly three months from “gentlemen, synchronize your analytically
alien itsy anal probe watchdogs starting the second before…now.”

No, Seriously, Listen to ME

Did you know that the same chemical that’s released AFTER you have sex
is also released AFTER you have sex with a dog? And that the dog understands
this fact? And pretends to enjoy it? Did you know that thousands of dogs
in the same mass grave can read the word “defilement” and each come up
for air at a completely different moment? AND ALL the males will be immaculately
neutered? The females, of course, will be sprayed. And pretend to enjoy it.
But only six, naturally selected, like, by nature, will be wearing my logo thumb-
screws. And that’s how I decided to be a psychic on TV. It beats doing squats.

Here’s a poem I wrote to make men (people, too) want to fuck some of me:

you are indirect, a thinness
at a mid-sized squat station
chosen by your peers to die
unshod. my inclination, though,
is to paraphrase Isis,
“I am my mime, as much as my mime is me.”
consciousness, another word
for sulking, sulking another word
for slut, megawatt. I rule my realm
with a lamented malted hoovered
down too fast for the guilt to attain
maximum entropy. time for a breaky.
kiss kiss. arthur is rimming my doorbell.

(I love how “megawatt” fits right in there
like it was made for the job. now I just
have to remember what the job was.)

Now Hear Me!

OXYCONTIN! That’s that sex dog hormone stuff!
So, I’m all about writing about things.
and noticing how many dogs within a 20 mile radius
are secretly (or not so secretly) thinking about releasing
theirs on me and pointing it out in the media.

Finding a dress that intends to look like a puptent.
Finding a coat that makes me look complex, long, located.
Eating the most ants at the family picnic.
Eating the most garishly decorated spring-roll
at the family picnic then crushing one off the high board
to the song I want to avoid getting married to.
I laicized a priest once before realizing what it meant.
Twice, actually.
Did I say spring-mattress? I meant hold still while I do my finger-roll.
Running my sipper straight through the dreams of your switches.
I did read a poem, once, see?
Now I’m going to have a three-way with some dogs
and a fresh batch of leeks.
Feel sorry for me, don’t feel sorry for them. I love leeks.

Headwear: there’s a question. I just bleed at the hair when it rains.

Then I appreciate windows that have never opened.
So, now, do I do more than just correlate you with my icecap?
Or do you covet my leek?
I’m constantly running just ahead of heavily armed appraisers.
My biggest Asset (get it?) is this Sikorsky six seater Valium.
Second biggest is my dreamless patchwork gayness.
Third is my static Valium with patchwork gays removed
and replaced by dreams that consist entirely of black sleep
margins. I’ve written, among one other thing, a treatise
on cooperating with trees that don’t elect to cooperate with
my Assets. Then I patchwork them.

What Do You Hear? Do You Hear Me?

Hear my hair being red.
Listen to the rustle of my smile.
My unsoundable carbon.
My grin doctor.
That poem I said was the essence
of summertime but I am a platypus
deputy gringo grinding away to bum
your piddling melody plow?
My pre-stung allergy?
The cello I gave to a bum
to horn in on your theory of air
in the skulls of the Yucatan, where
every man who’s a male is also a male
anal despoiler?

My sleeping soundly.
My termination of your dream.
The fumble that I am gathering
on a run toward the mile marker?
With a spitwad beneath my skunk flower?
I bit that bee that he might be a lens
through to the minus column
in your undreamt of insinuations.
I left my original misgivings at an alternative
country gig, hoping to tease their skulls
back to the Yucatan to finish my great
American navel.
So I got thwarted. I’m not finite.
I’m just your current issue of Paranoid Times
shoved under the smoke door.

We All Love the Music of Me!

For Christ’s sake somebody get me a catamite!
Or any silly formulaic defect I can show to the board of directors.
Books are bullshit unless written at night while I’m sucking on…oh, forget it.
I’ll suck on just about anything. Especially a symbol. Most especially a symbolist.
My favorite symbolist is Efrem Zimbalist. Junior.

Watch Me Think!

Why does every man my age seem to want to spackle my stone-
dead tail to his wand like it’s some kind of medal sport?
Why are there so many psychiatrist babies?
And why do they all sit cross-legged
when beating me at “Who Can Lose More Interest in Biography?”
It’s all so slender, isn’t it?
So airily slender?
Cruel, in a way, but still capable
of creating a foremost vodka.
A mission to set fire to another agent’s mission.
Terribly slender and sad.
Like babies.
Like yesterday.
Like a twit.

Then a gust of availability blows all your dayglo babies sky-high.
Does that veal you can drink indispose you? It seems my approaching
seems to cream to the sight of you riding me like a draft, like kippers
in heat, breast-deep and born to swoon. I pretend otherwise but I don’t
know how to lay. At least not how to lay a PEZ dispenser of Charlie Tuna.
This begins to feel like a charity ball for the disabled baby shithead you
as opposed to the jollier you I automated in my blog monkey’s anus.
There’s a breeziness about it all.

In steerage the Jews lost many of their numbers across the wide ocean.
Why should that make me feel jawless? Why thresh about it?
My fleetness of anus seems to have taken the wind out of your sling.
This brings me back to the militarization of babies.
To the tenses I prefer in the rain. The taint of the rain is fruitful.
Let those babies leaf through my portfolio. Let them become Germans
with thumb-screw patents pending. I’ll never be late for that dance.
I’m a specter, an inspector, an open but off limits sphincter, like you
need to visualize a velvet rope or electric fence. In the rain.

You’ve got fins, learn how to stop using them.

Quit Watching Me Long Enough to Listen, This is Good

I wrote a story once about how you petted a polecat.
You were very pretty. I threw you into a pit.
It was amorous. I wanted to see you suffocate
in the Antarctic with your suffocation serum
just out of reach of your cane.
I bought you a Persian lilac.
I threw you to Prussians.
I tore off your Prussian Disguise goggles
and sent you to Atlanta to serve out the rest
of the season in the minors.
I did a miner once. He liked it like they all do.
Like a pity. Like the foodless. Like my figment
turning to ink. The seizure you mistake
for a caesura because you know there is no such thing.
It irks me when you know anything so I send you
to the Angela Davis Advisory Board for epic pity
and to be sloppily sodomized by those who’ve
sloppily sodomized me in my dreams.
It always happens under an overpass next to a salvage yard.
The killers drink tea then decapitate an advertising exec.
This is usually the point at which I begin streaming.
You just sit there.

Now that you’ve heard my story,
now that you’ve herded my tail,
you turn into a random static pattern
that defies itself amorously.
It wears a fat suit of perfect flannel
and slaps me as if I were young.
You, meanwhile just sit there, jubilant,
thriving in flannel, dashing off poems
of anything happening anywhere
there’s a threatening metal Yoda.
The tension is spooky but you
fine-tune me until I misperceive
a gimp as a potential teammate
and stick my stems in a threaded jar
then flick boogers at your happy meal
with the veal shake.
The frostiness is almost funny but
it bothers me and has since I was
sodomized in a frosted vase by
Mayor McCheese, he’s a man too.
All men like you are specifiable
by the silver in your kill scopes.
Now you’ve gotten up under me again.
Now I think I’ll grab a TV dinner made of
actual TV’s and eat them like I used to
when I was never a teenager, examining
each individual sliver of glass to see
if it shows any signs of having sent
a happy birthday satchel bomb
to my anus.
(A girl can dream. But a girl is another story.)

Sunday, November 13, 2011


My wife tried to make you a hurricane pancake,
but I think it just looks like meatwad dancing.
Dancing is forbidden. Blueberry eyes that cannot see
are not eyes even symbolically, they’re adorable slut wear.

Bless her heart, those plates are hideous.
Morning laughing fishes hideous, to get the troop
ships to look like a chicken trying to escape.
The road is precisely a step too wide.

This plate is Finnish design: Arabia’s Paralysis
(Paradise in English) Yes, Finns are coma crazy.
Once you reach a certain wife level there, you stop wifeling.
Just take up your maps and go home to the crab boat.

The pig has stopped breathing. But not shaking.
Once broken apart it is embarrassing to reassemble
the pig in view of a public that wants more heat, more noise.
Pigs are doing their duty. Who told them what that looked like?

Forgive that pun, I was overcome by your pancakes, sir.
I think your wife is trying to distract you from the mixed
breed strychnine diet she’s putting you on. Look to it.
There might be a book there.

Ice on my fingers and my toys, and I’m a Taurus! Jesus!
Dancing is stupid. I would say re-wife her but the ship is too
confused, the world has the same plates as my childhood.
My entire relationship with my plinth has been based in lies.

Flexing sun pancake thing showing off its “OH face”.
Do I look professional? (shakes out hair)
That dishware makes me want to slap you
into a sex retreat for spectrum couples.

I want Goliath to slap you now. With a wind
that starts out still and splits into various hurricanes
with drumsticks, taffy and sleeping jerks.
Insert a celebrity name-drop here, I’m bored with it.

Give his boat chocolate chip eyes, give the sand
a carpet of marshmallow anus. Large pile of mustard.
Meatwad wants a stupid turkey to slap back that chorus for him.
Meatloaf for dinner music again. This is every man’s lot.

It’s the path that’s laughing, the voteups get the money, the bitches,
the hour is the same hour as the wisdom of drivin’ in my car.
Something else is pounding. Something else standing.
A black cloud on the horizon. Burnt flannel batter. Grunge-ola.

Here’s a fruit roll-up. I was gonna make you a casserole
for your loss, but uh, but, I didn’t. A no eyed girl is waltzing,
whispering “Porky…” to the potted miracle product.
Genderless creamy pink puke that spreads like ham-like food.

Huddled in long black coat, low drawn hat, disfigurement.
Probably himself. Wanting to eat himself.
After eating those (cellophane) feedercakes.
You should have seen the 9/11 french toast sticks.

A noise like a boot coming out of a bucket of cum.
I have to admit, I did have fun
trying to put the chicken back together.

Now go home and wait forever for it.

when a hurricane pancakes over a church
it’s a government sanctioned form of incest.
When a pancake forms a close cropped afro
over a whorehouse fronted by the Pelletier Touch-

Free Carwash in Pelletier, VT, it’s breakfast
for non-poets with ID, eggs your style with choice
of two bacon strips, sausage patties or links and two silver
dollar buttermilk handjobs. (pork based death cycle on request)

The Pelletier Touchfree Carwash is technically
in Barre. Possibly how they get away with
the fuck yourself empty here signage.
Possibly money has changed hands under the booth.

We thought it was a sense of place in time, but weather
is the clue we’ve been missing all along. Preferably weather
outside. Something with a temp and breathable in the minute
before the mushroom cloud pancakes over the Pellitier

psychiatric hospital in Waterbury.
It’s always obvious, in front of your face, always
the nose right over your thing.
And I am a big nose man.