Sunday, November 6, 2011


I have the feeling that nobody will ever notice me.
But I have a compliment for my haircut.
I read it on my zoological chart
when the turban wasn’t attending to my triceps.
I saw where he wrote “whatnot” about my cupcakes.
I learned what it meant by not doing anything,
not even ruffling air.
As I learn myself how best to be tangy shy
of acquiring anything above the knee,
so am I gratefully Adrienne Fromsett
seeing you only in bruises in mirrors
as you wail away, "I am so struck by
the turtle in your haircut!” Don’t think me culturally
indebted to your wildlife thumping anti-anti-brutality
resistance fund. This is the test, the contents
of your stomach reveal what a fireproof
curtain ate.
Camera eye! Stapled to a Kahlua
of snot-puce slime and the river Spleen.
I taught one how to drive a beetle
then all the beans in the world grew.
I am so fireproof. Try me.
That’s what he said just before donning
the thong.
What’s that you think aloof? My testicular
frolic, my rate card for mowing myself bi-weekly?
What if we find out this is all only a mint?
What if you find out too late I was truly
the gentleman you sought for questioning
about the missing flab?
Kissing you is like kissing my still drippy
dead great aunt the used Puffs.
Staple one to a microchip, the other
to a microchimp and see if you can tell
the future in a finger. The drop-and-unroll
of spring. You do not make me board.
It’s all about your life as a gorilla in the tub,
the thing you say you can snap like a rubber.
I’m betting you think you can but won’t.
Too many gangplanks for not enough
klans, too many yanks without definition,
I’ve been to the gym, I’ve scented it, I know
how the lame sires roll.
Doing funny faces and not having any picture
that is not moved.

The Jason Alexander lookalikes really seem to be
enjoying the shrimp.


The girl in the horse head suit, stealing her tenderness from Jack
with the badge and the eyepatch.
And of course this headstrong dung squirrel.
And of course this headfirst face-down derivational element
in retention deficit profile and how to stop thinking shoes.
The teetering shot when she wonders if the haircut also bought
itself a second free bowl of soup.

All such stories end in a blistering three-way flautist, sleeplessly
oh - mercifully? Lest I use the word fume in a much too spidery
train. I likee that Narrow Margin you’re waving as you walk away.
Thwacking infinities from my Robitussin…wait…that was YOUR
Robitussin? No wonder I can’t shake these misgivings.
And no wonder you tease at a shit cake.
Like Ginger constructed from unborn steel, weened on Miami Vice.
Frankly anyone in his right mind would rather do the jerk.
Better that than your slow-lane energy bar.

I once ate an entire fleapit by myself, just to slicker some rubes,
and what menacing, terribleness befell me then? Only the most
unjust rush to fudge. The fabulous miseries of a horse with a face
like a snapshot, stoop shouldered? Slope shouldered? Fashion gas?
Nine-to-five banging on the same dud with the same short
handled rusty dead father sledge.
Sure I’m a spendthrift, it’s woven in my balusters.
“Luke!” he keeps on crying in my waking.
Head, I can’t fine it!” she yawps in her eight hour nightly coughing jag.
The pee of the thunderstorm spelled out finis.
In marvelous coats of splendiferous wondrous worm skewer
on golf tee.
Sirenia misting my glasses with that pre-cum that robs you
of souvenir cozies. I’d jig if I thought it’d do any harm to the crops.
But once having swung it’s a thing you can only get back
by swinging again this time with equal but flattering starvation.
Like your pretend friend the FUCK ME!!!
I make me miserably tee.
I make you miserably tee-hee.
I make me the me that makes redhots
of your miserably glib merit badge chastity tie.
Stave in your silly-skull I’m busy forging
flatteries of my own to take to the thrifty morgue
where the jabber completes your death rejection threat.
Once he slew the monster that flattened him
like a miserable BVD, once slain the monster bit me, but
had also become me wearing my slain merit on my Funk
N. Stein inscribed copy of the eponymy of the closure
of the grand spinning trench you shoved me in
in your Dad’s Super-8 porn reels instead of lunch.
One can spin on its nose for a month.
One is a chronic tercentenary.
One thinks books are ledges.
Which leads to the question of magic in Korea.
Can’t you just remove yourself into the ghost
of the train the odds say must derail by the time
on your leg lump watch?
The path of a train has only one purpose.
The rest is metal and spit.
Trailing a bulbous bad skin jowly dorsal finish.

“You are not afraid of saying ‘I Love You’ to a friend if
you are not afraid of saying ‘I can’t keep going with this

More movies please. More movies about places from which
I can leave you more frequently. Like tearing open the steerage
in the USS Jealously and watching all the Murakamis flood
into the glutted workforce. But that unbuilt train was number three
of the pair, the phlegm a mish-mash of unpredictable situations.
That slimness you see behind the bruises in the mirror you’ve never
seen. It’s too mellow, too tersely he, too much like the fruit-eating
specter in your orthopedic campaign slogan microchimp greeting card!
Geee I thinks I gots it, geez it’s a sorta illicitness shaped like a ‘59
Thunderbird, fired for insurance, connected to you by the world’s
skinniest ever thread of Alien drool.
I'm totally into sixfolds, ready for a seven-up anytime, mired
in ideas that make me want to lead you into the promised tee
stamping machine. We can germinate, make starworts, joyride
in your thrill-pussy until the feminist joie de fever lives up to its name
by taking another westbound asshole up to Stowe.
I don’t know if I need to admit this but my personality test said:
I’m “less sex driven”.
Sometimes I forget to feed the turtle.
I flash the neighbor’s turtle and wait to get slapped and wait and wait
and wait and wait and wait.

(No one care enough to slap my metal covered densitometer, to gag my split-pea
as it emerging from the sweat bakery.
I am busy avoiding pain and complications. I use my enormous calf. let me think, people is always surprise that i know how
to do so many things, sound –
oh yeah?
well i think the same, but actually i know how to do so many things,
sometimes suck, but i do funny cakes, healthy cupcakes, i love to cook
cakes, and what else, getting you to make me writhe on time.
I'm a total nerd and English not even.)

Once they burned a Latter-Day Saint.
Once they burned a fine-tuned vehicle.
Once they burned a burly thick necked wax effigy of Uncle Warwagon.
You still can't fine-tune a term without the necessary sinter.
I bought a boot you could park Abe Lincoln’s birthplace in
and still have room for the derringer.
Does this perforce make me The Mystery Log? The Teammate
to your anorexia alcoholism anabolic puke bunny?
I swath them in gin to sidestep jarring my kids too soon
into something resembling my grease forehead sketchbooks.
Tell me that’s so threadworn. Teach me how to be wise.
Do without mc-reading/flexile/slipperiness/melancholy/tessellation
for nearly a full turn of the dung-weasel moon.
Do without Skype.
A club is forming around your frostiness, specifiable faces
and lightly dusted die. Any thumb that is under another
thumb that is firm enough to run a sentence through.
I am peri-minstrel. The rhythm of this has bored my turtle
now I must teach him to expire. A stray teat kept coming
to the back door, begging for milk and a warm spot in the garage.
I gave it a geometrician instead. The starkness of the logic just
blew through the wall clear into France where we flailed
for weeks without any more than basic gestural skywriting.

The sky and I are of like metric size,
I’ve never understood how that can be.
This tenement, though, is only a game
and a game is only a sport to a sporting
gashless crack beacon.
Like, say, Coriolanus. :)
On a thwarted finger held I am
mislaid, enjoying the teargas of gilt
steepening, jihad and bacon
three-decker fleets all vying
for the last available minstrel-cycle.

The territory is lighting out for you.

Possibly why I favor the slightness of movies where kids die,
and movies with the kids on the point of death, or memorably
watching themselves be drawn to the edge of the two-way turtle.
The frustrating speedboat liberalism I'm the undertaker to fire.
I have sixfold lacks.
I misadvise to a tee.
Any Minnesota, any flexion, any jungle jar partners.

He found the formula: can’t live without sandwich.

And me watching movies with me.