Tomorrow the sun admits it’s queer)
Tomorrow Annie gets a D&C. As the club footlights groan out,
when gas jet technology falters, an oil leak amusement ruins a fowl)
when fire breaks out in soft shoe, when the window sees only what you seek,
this repeating pattern in anvils become the cloud)
this is your reporter from downtown Unisom and I am
here doggie, enjoying your stolen meat stick?)
here on the street in the heart of this is not a test. Singing
bundle of tuneful merriment, abuse me!)
bundle these sensible faggots then pocket torch the wagon train. Singing
of all cows and songs sung by and about a cow)
of all the Dick tattoos a Crookback mutt most closely represents
Escape Me Never named on pain of torture starring Errol Flynn)
escape from the impossibility of anti-self-inventory
wrapped in your lossy tissue, puff?)
wrapped in an enigmatic underwire on one hovering noodle
up all night asleep as a well and chased)
up until now just powder burns from a backfire gag, bucolic
in safety against a major shift awakening)
in a spot a freak may seem a beautiful mistake, a program stain.
lights control all of the power, always)
lights believe in your density, are not your friends,
and and and this clutter on my head!)
and as if on cue a lead Cossack fucks a nursery hunter blind.
canvas and dope, the two fundamental elements of flight)
canvas your neighborhood, it’s made of cranberries.
is a word important enough to ruin fruit?)
is there nothing, then, I can do to make you choke funnier?
nothing save extract)
nothing a stops out trip to Club Pet couldn’t worsen.
but for the give of a drooping fiberglass overhang)
but to admit your speech creates a field in flummox.
a fill-in form within a ballast)
a field balanced on the simulacrum of an empty chicken.
field hands love chicken anytime)
field after field recognizes you, looks away, does not laugh much.
once is never a belly flop enough)
once the big question had been poured in concrete. Swinging
more stressed metal than literal threat)
more than the need of a meal was the need to be ratified, swinging,
when with those hips is a right time to reject the elephant?)
when to be real means the word least like you eats your aura.
the ticking around your waist)
the chalkline around a missing monster rod, albeit
carnival has the best discount packages, bar none)
carnival barking of a dog in shoes could not lure it out -
has read a book is not afraid to eat it)
has this ever not happened to you? a serially murdered victim
yanked an unfortunate euphemism)
yanked is a state of mind. you yanked at it and threw it out,
up where the air is petroleum cake, yellow, tenuous)
up to a point it was that deliverance cabin with your kinfolk,
stakes are higher the less fellatio and dictionaries under the table)
stakes all around – still stumped that it recoiled at your sight?
and to hold until we call each other’s assholes asshole)
and we can make him un-gay! it’s all in the capture rate:
we’re the car, we are not the clowns)
we’re a collective dread, we stand on each other so planes can see us.
nothing beyond the carry-out horizon sagging under its waste)
nothing more serious than a little soreness in the morning,
but the race to pretend to be good at dancing and o the skinny fat pants!)
but everything pants represent, flip-book face into rearward swinging door,
taillights sink, a tanker disaster, the coelacanth of your brownie troop)
taillights in your figurative shape, striations and sympathy peel-out marks.
once thought of as stretching, always stretch ready)
once I played it “Slim style, with the back of a single finger. I get much higher now.”
you are all the world to me minus all the world)
you were far less spacious the more monolithic. I wonder, should I?
wash day is every day, you’re fucking kidding?)
wash my mouth out with anyone else’s multiblade foam to the tongue?
the old north tower, for example, could not support a light)
the scent of Revulsion by Carol Duval took months off his hard up time.
cotton instrumental in the development of the phobia canon)
cotton panties make the worst semaphores, all you can see are the balls.
candy diorama of sugar and lethal allergens. he waits to breathe.)
candy skunk cabbage, hay sedition talk, apple brown beaters after school.
out of these three mega-hits which would you suck to?)
out one good driver but only your hybrid egg was hit, or deserved it.
of thee and of thee and of thee thee sing)
of all the eleven fifty nine reprieves at the little green door of debit
your order has been shipped to The Palace of Albumen Holes)
your commutation was a hallmark upsell with scatting chip implant
one is all you’ll ever intone)
one is the onliest number for a kissing booth missing its war concession.
good as the barmaid on my modern architecture)
good as this bargain meat might be for light gesticulation, you’ll have to
dress as a thinner, thinking, third world odor)
dress it up pretty, Teresa, he - they all - said if you expect to ride it to Wyoming
and break it for your gayer half)
and give it that desperate teal at the heart of your caloric scheme,
the sky a riot of pinks and dearths)
the silhouette of duck and pig duking it out for luau exemption,
toy that speaks! that screams! infects!)
toy black boner suctioned to your doublemint Disney mania fairy.
soldier on, my proud white funkwit)
soldier by soldier they knock, thinking you a door, get knocked up.
your ribbons lowering in deference)
your kid, meanwhile, Harvey, is a lifetime rejection notice.
kid a guy about a dog, some meat, a dream, go on)
kid by erroneous kid they repeal you for causality.
won me some funny words at the fair, ain’t I?)
won a prize hog down in Mills Bore, y’know? nary bigger than a pygmy.
at last count the pygmies were ahead)
at last count she still had her original plastered mud inserts.
the lights come on to that blonde again)
the thing that makes a house a home, the lights blow out at once,
milk from a breast is easier to reach in an upright freezer)
milk goes off on cue, a stage the size of your foot cannot be filled.
can the milk, it’s still bad diary management)
can can dancers juxtaposed with bags of razor jacks, now C.B.,
pitch white and blindingly dark, the night of a thousand stares)
pitch this to me like it’s seriously tragiconnective, like it produces
breaks itself off even)
breaks in the monotony of this solo voce rally. welcome shriners!
when will I be unloved enough?)
when will this weeping can become soup?
your guess is a ticket to the big time)
your pet hog is outside pacing on your new timeless wind up watch,
calendar roll backs don’t work, crazy!)
calendar subsidizing, lighting his gasses for poetic gravitas, these
blanches, anemics, annoying diagonal eyeholes)
blanches are just the spaces between your trunks, Dungbo,
back up another baby step toward the head shot sweet spot)
back when there were already hopeless reasons to shove in hope.
into each rain a little light must relieve itself)
into a gravitationally southbound chest it now all pulls, inexorable,
empty as the suicide bowling league)
empty of the usual anti-tragedy bathos, the tasteless milk of human
squares, if that’s all you know to draw)
squares of chocolate we, inky like Squiddly reported dialed,
when does the shrieking cop?)
when you make such a convincing jacket then fill it with your sucrose
the little things it is that make all the difference null)
the lines come off like a Moliere full bore into a retainer abutment.
stink you said. and seriously.)
stink of the hobbyist, a field of ‘em, stink skinned external?
of thee and of thee and of thee thee stink)
of the rest of who all knows you’ve flipped over this new coffee?
hogs. and seriously?)
hogs, that flat out slaughters me at this hour.
won’t your parents be wondering why you’re alive?)
won’t be long before the seizures get Dolores, the drama mellow,
scrub the foot from under your chin)
scrub to the substrate with your splinter resistant Uggs
out of spots again! damn thou aspiratory!)
out there in the dark one can scent itself coming
of thee and of etcetera)
of an age or body we can say one is for the disco inferno, and how
your borrowing blowpops is not channeling transcendence)
your brow defines you. but everyone here learns…Wanda Cisneros el oh el.
hair is another of those surface tensions)
hair, i.e., is actually the hair of a super cute model, and now
when he’s finished crossing her tees)
when the planets collate and a discrepancy emerges
the explosive natural compound the myth)
the fashion sense will be found to have been a loaner,
tractor culture back on the upswing!)
tractor beams and anal duds better suit a new potato.
coughs are your only reliable barometer)
coughs in the gallery are gathering director by director.
it’s jet lag in a cowpoke’s souvenir hat)
it’s a gala with the emphasis, fire the building’s only hope.
last time you’ll remember I was already gone)
last week the one night revival of pay-what-you-can
and there were no books worth stealing from)
and a floor to fatally leap from failed to break even, but
the anguish you felt felt like real stage anguish)
the artist’s family’s seats are a steal, and when in doubt
bank these victimizations for a pamphlet)
bank on potluck turkey. Dear Auntie Gratuity, he never
calls into a fog of ghost bafflers)
calls to equalize my gift. All my invisible friends say hi,
to anyone but present company)
to be honest the international charges are gutting my estate.
inquire without for entrance)
inquire at your convenience for the terminal bags of your faith,
about as deep as Lake Xerox)
about bonus points you can earn by just remaining inert, also
the flagship of the perpetually burning fleet)
the premium owed your crutches, isn’t it nice getting something?
flagging and observation over a period of several years)
flagging on the walkway tatters, the groundloop stars, to them
mortgage is all you can write)
mortgage is an eight letter word and you’re the ort not in it. lights down
and lights down)
and we all come at once to free bird.
we dance as if we mean to damage earth)
we elevate a derelict track to accordion off.
are you there?)
are there any more prayer lines buried in your dramatis persona?
riding to the end of the same line every line)
riding one abreast and one spare to fuck on a weedy clod,
the things about fucking you don’t know)
the things you could see from space; your lost hose,
bills you send yourself, birdlike)
bills of impossibly cooperative rapist monsters…
that this might also be a piece of timed art)
that species you tried to trade in on a late model monkey rider. the paper
lined in dull viscera)
lined your cage now we both lie in the steroid expose’. you in
your legs, move them until I say to stop)
your travelogue, “My Journey Revealed as a Dry Erase Marker”, me in
pockets were designed to contain)
pockets of ill fitting energy and the art that is sequel to slapstick.
yesterday you fell on a whole banana)
yesterday is where you leave your keys, today is a mail order master,
across 125th street I see you under a bus)
across your street they’re putting up a Siberian moonrise, spooky.
a crowd is gathering, then bored)
a committee will need to be formed to look into your fitness,
whole parades of you on wires)
whole fun fairs of splay eyed clucks disguised as rabbis,
map that triangulated the cartographer)
map the things you need to position more earthward,
of thee a bust of salt)
of the rest we can take a partial inventory,
state by state)
state their names as they file into the chute:
lines, ephemera, dross, void, bust, consistency)
lines, links, licks, lacks, sacks, sucks
gypsy-blooded. I have no usable sexual tension.)
gypsy-blooded are the few brave enough to say gypsy-blooded
and still you’re saying goodbye to something?)
and not expect a horse to follow them. from the parapets of Rotten Salami,
long as the day is elongated)
long may they keep their hole punch collection whistling,
gone as your last insertion)
gone are the days when the air was all there for the sweetening,
where have all the dogs gone, Maw?)
where the floods have inadvertently missed their mark,
will they come back do you think?)
will is a thing that must be stolen from a preemie with a higher sex quotient,
you mean we have to hunt for ourselves?)
you won’t know your life till it haunts you with scissors. must you, really,
be? where will I be? on the porch howling at tin?)
be? weren’t there some low scores worth jumping off?