Sunday, June 26, 2011


“The head is the hardest lesson. Giving and receiving.
It works overtime to confound, to present you with conflicting but
equally plausible approaches. Like how many licks make a system
of owls? Fewer than its teeth, greater than its barnacled scooter.”
~Sycamore Jimmy

My Arrhythmic Menstrual Spellbinder Test (excerpt)

I am unwittingly pledged.
You are a vintage coupe’.
We are convoluted, adducing
chickens and porcupine jewels.

I am eternally uptown.
You are a draft.
We are bored seeing, see
for yourself.

I am bureaucracy for no extra charge.
You are into bug dancers.
We are that hinge, thudding but alas
no answers.

I am enchantingly retrograde.
You are a security guard at Target.
We form a sarcophagus that is both
ardent and knows what makes this tic.

I am the CEO of a major Catholicism.
You do jokes for change.
We are a cozily monstrous butte
who's subsidy depends on a guy called Cliff.

I am spherically huddled.
You do the paid jerk.
We are a superb young phylum, jouncing
her girlish brand as if the drums are watching.

I am near you.
You are a near life experience.
We both require that your openhanded spraying
provenance be simple subtraction.

Let god blurt out the rest.

Hey, what am I doing with my life?

I am acid of Osiris, refutation
of the last election, of enchilada
entire, the stylist of the hydra, foot-
notes echo where my soul was optional,
I wear mesh to be a lessening unguent,
I am your personal policy sanitizer
dispenser, flippered and thick
with the itch of humankindness.

Thirsty was fun, thrifty was insufficient, thirty was an acceptable insult.
My ring could fetch the paper and remove it from your windpipe once I’d had you.
This thing we could have is a giant standing next to a fridge.
The test hasn’t started yet.
I’m learning martial arts, I’ve always loved working with objects.
Is it predictable to test someone for diseases from other dimensions?
This is where I inevitably infatuate.
To be a chef in a house of whirligigs.

Many are Called, Most are Booty

If I could spit you out just, say, half the time, I would
gladly stay wide open for you and find the jewels
in the toothpaste between periods.
If only it came from your soul.
I would not get too skeeved out or, for example, return
it to the source.
Greedy, me? I swear I’ve left more wilderness
in the wild than otherwise.
I’m rich with the stolen toothpaste of a compassion
based on bicycle parts reassembled into a sort of kinetic
hurricane monument. There’s nothing left to be found.
Differences are what make us different, similarities
are what make us Easter eggs, but I will not leave you
until I lay all the gamblers in Atlantic City and set aside
a grateful stipend for your bout with the big FO.
if you let me in before they get here I will give you a piece
of the Avalon.

What’s More Compelling Than My Melanoma Sour Apple Lipstick?

My jerkwater threshold.

You’ve Only Made One Mistake Fewer than the Sioux, and Yet You’re Leading Your Division.

The gizmo.
I will have it if it kills you. I only know how to tell stories, and even they’re not good.
And at the end of my arm I keep a device to keep your attention fixed on my inattention.
It’s a full blown spiritual quest, it stands alongside the freeway and lights up cool at night.
The old couple there is teaching a course in miracles.

The Geopolitics are Starving for a Kibosh

Flameflower again.
He was the one, no question, still. And he actually said,
“I slaughter that I might one day demilitarize, thematically.”
First you garble, then it’s spring, then you taste the Latinate.
Get wise and tilt.

Little Further Issue

At first the owl was made of lace.
Then butterfly in straightjacket.
Now I can’t call up anything but normalcy.
if you flag down a whale in a rage the skid marks
will last until Monday, latest.
When I aim my mouth monaurally it becomes
telephonic. But metered without race interference
it gets up a head of impossible change.
Posed thusly I am steadying.
Thusly and I am your journey laid flat.
The fish you do like you do your sleeves, playful
in the arcing light of the microwave.
That’s your terabyte of history, this is me not interested.
I tried a gobo on my chronic sleep, but it left me visibly spluttering.
How I know that my life will be blessed.