Saturday, February 12, 2011

What Happened With the Trees

We are an excess of bees.
We live within an electrified giant bee
Let’s call it a bee containment system.

We are vital little beats.
We are grating brats behaving bee-like should you
choose to vibrate on our wings’ wavelength.
So it’s a stinging system of some things
collected on holiday trying to sing.

What, you ask, is the difference?
What? You didn’t ask? I've been trashing
a wonderful path and you dare to fail
to ask what makes me different?

Research is the key. Read my new book on music and sound
and how they seem so similar. How many seeming coincidences
like entering one ear or the other.

But science has taught us to learn from me. Proximity to me
affects the body. As many have felt, the bees are living in interesting
super positions. The times they are a bunch of bees. Those are the times
I live for. To me, science is a fruit basket I’d like to eat right now.
As new as a newborn baby bee, that’s how my breakthroughs come.

And this is how they are reported to you.

Brand new technology built in the seventies
allows us to probe deeper into our own wells
of seemingly depthless beauty. The mysteries of our minds
and how they find me, our bodies with me
as the sole exception, and the surroundings the same
color as my hair this week.

Many musicians in the scientific community are coming
from places like Prague and the Hague and Montpelier National
Gleaning Preserve with fascinating research. Research I cannot help
but fail to process in any way but my own singular, signature
reinterpretation. Which is why I’m so filled with challenging ideas
and personal accounts and experiences of a bee.

I am not a bee. That was another test. Studying science and math
has given me ample grounds to talk until your entrée needs reheating.
There are, of course, many other disciplines but I’m not into that.
In order to make sure that what I am looking at is keeping me in a position
to be looked at, I need to make seemingly scientifically relevant sounds.

Given the most air up my tailpipe I always fly to Paris first. The bees
cannot keep up. To date I’ve humiliated over several dozen heartbroken
hombres with tiny bee sized penises. All of this information is available.
You can order it from my serious company. Try the serious web site, it’s free.

But I am also searching for some future
partners with whom I can part paths and relegate
to the ranks of the fallen
at the base of the hive.

Please forward any further inquiries to someone with an idea.

That we are bees is obvious. That we are being observed is obvious.
What we are when unobserved is tiny little rock stars.
We fling ourselves about as if we were innovative new technologies
from the seventies. Unlike you we continue to evolve. Soon we will be a nation
of indestructible, toxin emitting flying machines with disproportionate power.

The power to size ratio will cause you to lose your hypotheses on the spot.

In the bee controlled future. This is where all hope lies. We look stupid
and fly toward the busiest intersection where a crew is armed
with that forty foot shooting hornet spray. This is where they make
their fatal error. With all of their math and science and sound and vibration
and prerecorded backing vocals and introspective singer-songwriter coffee house
rock star rehashes, we are not hornets! Neither are we wasps!

We will grappling hook you to a place where science and spirituality
and the microwave pop hook all converge to have artistic intercourse.
Soon you will do our bidding in the world. Soon you will cease to call
it a nest. You already have the hive mind. Prepare to have hive being.

It seems to me that we are approaching
the tracks upon which a train is speeding.
If correct it will be my first time doing it
with a train.

What could one consider a third phase
after simplex one and two have passed
into the realm of cliché? A song about
science and medicine. Let me expiate.

The first phase could have been; take this pill
it kills the bees in your dreams. Back in your childhood
you must’ve been raped by some bikers. That’s the usual
criteria for becoming one of the cool kids.

Nothing you take will make me well.
Nothing I say will make you whole.
Nothing, therefore, is worth the taking.
Here, take this, it will make you well.

The second phase, which I believe
involves being taken up in a craft
and anally raped by alien bikers
we could be in now. It is beginning to reveal itself.

That means our mind may have a more significant role
in thinking up things than we ever thought possible
or catchy before. In our lives we see many things
and step on as many as we can but you cannot step on everything.

It’s inherent in our healing processes, the killing
of anything in the path between ourselves and what?
That, then, is the fundamental question. The answer is
the third phase: our minds as bee breeding ovens.

I have more significant things to say and sing and a more
important role in the healing of those around me than I care
to act upon at this juncture. Our eco-system is broken and you
can tell it I said so. It’s us against the bees.

Historically speaking, many breakthroughs in science began with a 'hunch.' A small
distortion of the human. History shows us that one bee can devote a lifetime to reading bullshit while another goes searching for queens and what might have begun simply
as a yet to be answered question will have now transformed itself into a race car.

History has it's own process of evaluating what was fast, and what was faster.
In the dawn of the bee age none of that is relevant, and whatever that song was
about was equally not.

Much information has been lost at the airport, bus station and taxi stand. But the bee he
carries his own baggage and travels as a self contained mode of conveyance.

Through our continuing use of the word cycle we expect to see increasing numbers
of biker rape survivors regress. All part of our plan of annihilation of a culture
that celebrates itself by raising it’s voice and slashing at wired devices.

We bees will see them all wiped out or forced to assimilate, but that's about
as likely as your mother being from space. Another subject we enjoy ignoring.

For the time being we can only say, the truth is a warped vinyl collectible
with minor water damage sold strictly as is.

I come from another time. I communicate, via my grasp of science, in a way
that you can only dream of, proving the validity of my 'hunches' and their benefits
package, which I keep telling them, telepathically, is generous. Which of the warriors
that spoke to me in that tourist attraction were telling me what is 'true'? And which
were coming to a general consensus about the way I was sitting?

Applying our current model airplane as one more 'scientific method’, I throw things
until one flies. Then I crawl back into my nutshell and think up more things to mean.

Is that the ripcord which can be tested?
Hypnosis may give us the answer I seek.
Parthenogenesis, the fucking of one being
by another which happens by natural selection
to be the same being on the same Harley is merely
one more method of testing the length of the producer’s

In my previous thesis my research
and testing were called something
different to make sure there would be
no confusion when the new product hit the street.

Now here we are, another year, another new hypothesis
and more research and testing, though this time we’ll rename them
Disney’s Information Channel and Mushroom Lenny. And so on until
I can afford a bigger condo.

New events: report to the queen. The hunchbacks are making their information
smaller and giving it every available tempo in order to subvert our revolution.
Most of them look ‘challenged’. I was at one’s confirmation and the guys with the cycles were there. The pattern of one continues.

We 'stand and sting the higher apples on the shoulders of giant sunflowers' and as we build our empire our understanding of the world that will be ours and our lack of concern for ourselves as individuals will ensure our ultimate victory over the darkness and the hackneyed but mildly ‘clever’ lyric.

Let us ask the age-old questions; who are we? We are bees. What are we? We are bees.
In what way are we connected to ourselves and the world around us? We are mother fucking bees. To take this one step further, what responsibility do we have toward each other
and toward stinging to death all electrified barroom raconteurs to save ourselves
the headache?

We are living proof: the 'New Renaissance' due the bee is largely
based on the amount of misinformation you can pretend to like to dance to.
Available and exchanged within the closed circuses and tent revivals that serve
a mean martini. This is how they practice. This is why our dominance is assured
on a global scale. They have the mirrors but never bother.

As I look into this mirror, of course, I am finding myself basking more and more
in the thought that you are even now reading this and only I have the key
to the locations of the Easter eggs. The answers to your questions.

There is so much to celebrate here, more than just a lifetime
of made up research. I am anticipating enjoying this process
of discovering myself and interpersonal communication
with me for many years to come. The rewards can only be measured

in the hours sold, the notes flayed and the bees destroyed en masse. I killed
a bee today. Today was a good day. Tomorrow I will kill more. Tomorrow will be
even better. Where I come from – Prague, the Hague, Paris, the brothels
of Norton and Triumph, we call that hardcore science.

So much of our lives have to do with my music and the sound that emanates
from me. Everything it seems can be connected to me, is influenced by me, and
is part of the answer to the question; what makes me more human? Everything
it seems can be connected to or comes from the vibration in my humbucker.

Which is a form of repressed energy? That which leads me to the hypothesis;
if I am indeed all of The Beach Boys with walkers or on the threshold of someone
else’s dated awakening, a reference vibration should help convince the DMV
that I am a superior being. Or is it that purely by virtue of showing a vacation
snap of me meditating in a laboratory of peaced out rats I become myself
the system? What has a loop in the restroom concluded so far as my test for Tourette’s?

Welcome back to YELW-FM.
This next question comes to us
from someone who signs herself
ED S. Ed asks, “When I was asked
to meet with a gentleman who is part
of a thinking man’s kink club I thanked him
and declined. He wanted to discuss his work
in artificial musical intelligence, not something
about which I am entirely lacking in anecdotes.
So I finally put on a pair of my nicer neural nets
and gave him my secret number. The one tied
directly into the systems that are most closely
associated with explaining music you don’t yourself
understand to foreign people in terms of music
that has been proven to be entirely neutral in cases
of remissive cancer.
His question to me was this; when we ask a computer
for a date for coffee, is there a separate program to analyze
a piece of, say, pie, that we can then ask to tell us
what the next note should or would be?
Why does this music coffee barrier exist?
And why does the music not 'sound good?'
From what I understand, this type of experiment
was developed to test the ability of a chimp
to strap a computer to it’s chest and program
the perfect mood. An “off label” effect
was the ability to ‘predict the future'
by analyzing human behavior through
human-chimp dating rituals. “
Sounds like we’ve lost our connection
with Ed, but if there was a question in there
I’d rather be drowned in a Starbucks cup
than take the steps to find it. No offense Ed, and I’m sure
none taken. More specifically, who is lonely enough
to call with such soul bearing that wouldn’t also be the most
inclined to commit a crime on the airwaves?
Programs like these are not only for you
bee wannabe’s, and Ed I can smell the hunch-
back on you all the way down this land
line, but for beings developed to levels
that allow them to grasp the inevitable:
they’re dead already and still walking
partially upright. Cold in the beats of the cold
ground but still propped in place and working
with what they perceive as great success. But I was struck
by the questions; what is it that humans are doing when they
create a self-image monster, an ED S. for example, then parade
in the sun all day? Is there an experience such as music shot
through a pre-teen boy by means of electrical wiring
that can't be recreated through anything priced as art?
Official intelligence tells me that it’s time to take a bee
break. Back after this from some shifty loner
who hangs on the fringes and begs
a cult to follow her.

First, we must accept my assumptions.
Many in musicology believe that art
is a tall black dancer with a potentially
crippling back problem.

Others adhere to the theory that music
is a reflective surface, like a stone punished
by the tide, or the curve of a vulture’s beak.
Or the heads of the cultists from Madonna University.

An interesting bipolarization is created. (my ex,
for example.) In my personal experience
as a busy professional woman a musician
is better qualified to make statements than is a real person.

And in so doing I consider myself a student
of all that upon which I might expound with
a natural inclination toward my own
surgically symmetrical view.

I have felt the joys of human emotion
on several different occasions. It was my job
to interpret the feelings of others and to put them
into musical forms of which I may or may not have
any sense or for which any aptitude.

Enjoy me while you have the chance.
This has not been a remotely altruistic pursuit.
I go fishing regularly. Catch and release. Catch
and release. The repetition informs my work
and it’s kind of numbingly therapeutic.

In many small venues I have found ways
to use Music (note the upper case M, it lends
heaviness to an otherwise floaty thing
you probably couldn’t hang onto, like a cloud
just above your head. Like this one above mine.)
as my teacher did when I was underage, a type
of universal 'language' of love expressed in the tactile.

I seem to have an aptitude for it.
Along with a deep unquenchable desire
to reveal myself as a carbon cluster fraught
with inspirational mysteries. If only you saw what I see.

I like to think that when I’m in the shower
with someone I’ve just met. In a perfect world
we would all meet briefly before showering.
We would all have the ability to compose
ourselves and think before speaking.

Let me put it another way:
In a perfect world
we would all meet briefly before showering.
We would all have the ability to compose
ourselves and think before speaking.

To speak in poetry whenever we desire.
This does not seem to be the world I built
from my Dad’s used toothpicks. How did the bikers
get into this picture? How did a siphon hose
become my first line of defense? What am I defending?

Bees, we are living in perilous times. And therefore the artists
must eat the poets, poets composers and so on. Such is the nature
of nature. Such is the nature of warfare. We bees have been left
with the task of creating a world that interprets our life in the spatial
dimension of times tables. I know mine. You know yours, or you’re no
bee I want on my side. Hopefully our struggle will continue until we learn
to speak as the hunches do, directly to themselves, bypassing all others and out
the ass end straight into the erasable past. I see a day when human musicians
are rolled in flour then honey then made into something infinitely
more taste tempting. As the creators of the new ground attack
approach to people’s lives I am certain that we will prevail
in our search for that location location location, the 'oneness'
of the hive on ladies night or at happy hour or half-price martini madness.
It’s right here in the heart of all of us. My idea is this: if I feel this stinging
sensation when I pee, it’s probably nothing to worry about so ignore it
and get on about the business of making something that smells deep.
We hold certain truths to be self referent: everyone enjoys the music.
I am creating something of lasting value with my name and face all over it.
And performing it to crowds of dedicated drinkers. I assume that others
aside from the bikers will feel the same and bow to me in recognition. To some
degree my life depends on it. If the flower should fail to bend to the bee, what
of the bee and his import/export business? What would Jesus do
for honey? or Prague or Paris (fuck the Hague) or Belleville?
Some have asked; are bees even important for our survival? I would argue that
it all depends on which side of the stamen you’re on.

there are many reasons to answer a resounding 'yes' to that question.
I just don’t remember what it was. A few days ago I lost my in-car
mapping service and had to get somewhere with no help. Just me and my sense
of direction. I ended up in a parking lot surrounded by many funny
smelling ideas. I will not be touching any of them soon! But I was powerful

enough to perceive my 'space' (remember when Ideal came out with Mr. Human Sonar!)
and shove aside those who were in it, interpreting the ‘vibration’ of others through
the electrons I have more of. And the hairy magnetic particles I have to shave from
around my spectrum. A small portion of which can be perceived when I wear something
sheer and the light is behind me. By us I mean me. As sound I prefer my own.

I will also be looking into boxes and other containers for answers to where it is
I came from and how I could exist in this form. The science behind the concept
of me is an energy center you could never afford to stand in, much less
get assigned seating. The body is known to many. But I play my chakras alone.

I'm not sure that 'music that is good for us' is necessarily anyone’s
music but mine. At least nothing else that 'sounds good.’
This is what I am determined to sell through my web site.
Research and more research and the semen samples of others.

I want to look at the intersection and stop the traffic just like that!
Just by looking at it and through the force of my luminance.
I have a vintage cistern brimming with these ideas in my great room.

If you’re using the anal plug-in you won’t get that genuine foggy sound, but
with a touch of nucleic acid you might conjure a new tradition: food that is good
and sounds good and that also enhances my reputation. Flake? There are always
a frightening number of naysayers whenever a new era of music is created.

Not that they should necessarily be castrated right away. To sound good
brings a concomitant grace that allows for something resembling mercy.
But I’ve bitten off more than my share, and my share is as much as I make it.
For the pure to float and the witch to burn is scientifically proven positive.

But what are the effects of age on the body? Could we be talking about
someone who shall remain nameless not getting better but going to pot?
Her…his…music becoming bland and barely functional, sort of a 'Soilent Green'
for the ears? Possibly even slipping into a form of dementia that sparks spontaneous
outbursts like “ACK!” and causes her…him…to neglect to check the correct
spelling of ‘Soylent Green’? Could this damn buzzing at bed time be some sort of music?

Or could it be, as so many have historically found, enjoyable descent into eventual obscurity? I argue, not. Which means I don’t argue. Or does it mean my argument is that whatever we’ve long since lost in the labyrinth of my previous statement’s mirror has some deeper meaning than the weighting down of this monitor?

End times! Mysterious drought and plague have altered the food supply! My food
is becoming scare! My populations less dense. The wares of my labor less wearable
and more laborious. Am I one of those Werewolves? Of course I remain more
concerned with filling those smelly ideator’s bellies with my special brand of trail mix.
Available now from my serious professional company on my serious web site.

As bees we are staying alive. As disco Broadway hopefuls we got over it
in the eighties. No breakthroughs in science do we require for a better understanding
of the affects of nuclear waste burned to a CD and given a blurry cover.

On this one sequence of points depends our survival and that of our ecosystem:
submarines go under the water.
The Sesquicentennial already happened and we were not invited.
Creases in your jeans don’t come out just because you ask them nicely.
Noting the thing that is a product of the other thing does not make the other thing a mother. Better to live in hell than to learn new farming techniques.
Better to be a cattle prod than to be faced with inducing labor on a street with nothing but yield signs.

Better to be a dead bee and bite Walter Brennan on alternate Sundays than to serve
sonic Cosmopolitans to a vastly mentally fattening population.
We live in an era where we now have incredible access to a greater variety
of the same sounds. We merely give them different blurry covers.
Stealing works. Generally speaking many of us are free to choose
to steal from multiple categories. With this ability comes great sadness.
If we are to create our own virulent strain of anything affecting the private
areas then we must be prepared to use the power at anytime, for any unfounded reason.
Don’t argue, Harley Meat. That we can develop a greater understanding of how to dress a hunchback for Thanksgiving means we’re that much closer to being through with science.
What affects of music and sound? Not only are we, the bees, becoming more discerning, but we’re taking bowling a step further; with a better understanding of the physics, we can develop new lanes that trigger explosives and blow down the pins with zero risk of ball damage! Now that’s what I call experiencing the world without the hindrances
of recycled sound and mawkish orthodontic music.

I will be looking for my image in the sounds of nature.
Those rhythms will be found in our ecosystem, despite
what the bees are now saying to me, which I can clearly
understand at all times, not only just before bed.

Watch for my signal.
Remain calm.
Possibly use your cells to connect
to my world.

I will look to the south and break a mirror a day until I’m through.
My studies are ongoing and arduous.
Remember me in your prayers.
I will consult the ancient dead warriors and get their feedback.
My body’s ability to calm itself has nothing to do with frigidity.
I just need to focus and to heal.
I need to teach my dog a trick.
I am looking at raising studs.
A mole makes a peculiar pattern in the ground.
There may be a system in it.
I don’t understand how we work.
I will include you in my detailed explanation.

the latest research indicates that the use of the written word
research is being viewed by me as a major breakthrough.
Those technologies I mentioned? There are only two: the brain and music.
One renders input interpretable, the other produces twitches.
I will include research (research) on the vibrations in my regions
and how music affects my body when nothing else can get the damn
system – not the idea or that bundle I mail ordered – vibrating
with any of the energy I expostulated earlier as being “in a vibratory energy system”.

Just so you know exactly what I will be doing
I will be looking further to the historical use of music
in ritual as an expression of culture and most of all
in healing ceremonies involving no bikers.

For those of us who engender the best and brightest of bee-ness, the joy of music
merely lends strength and support to our resolve in the fact that the idea that music
could be indeed good for us, if not for our use of syntax, is a notion worthy of mass
destruction. Bees! Bring down the musicians! Our goal is to be here when the rain of blood
has abated!

Then, following some tricky mopping, our purpose will be to educate
and entertain by pressing the thoughts from their heads in vices.
By provoking them with small but sharpened thorns, we’ll begin to amass
our own, new, bogus research. And with some stories and personal experiences
thrown in for good measure, we will finally be as finicky as the fuckers we just tossed.

My last word before the charge: file this chapter in your mind and pass it down to your offspring. That this will have been the day when all that is possible for us was swept aside:
noodlings on music and sound and the sky-candy of an enlightened future with ample lighted parking and bulletproof in-car mapping.

Thank you for being the bees you are. Now keep reading until this swells you to a thousand times your size, whether anything’s there or blank space. And as always, thank you for stinging someone.

Rest In Peace until the laughing lizards reawaken you for the engagement.

excerpts from Paradise No. 2


are you a vocal opening and noising like
the dual natures look at knives in bags
a sick deal to brutus he took to
but then they don’t talk in process
bury later tones in nudes
the doors all open and no one cheats
that covered the sex with something like a shop
the machine said one message
before it all got crated off to the simplest
she still hasn’t had any or been had by any
in burro factory
so naturally pregnant
if I know more I can solve that attitude
and bring you into the light
but in so doing go sand-blind at the PR
just a headache to maintain and my disbelief
that it’s all a fence of veins that’s so
now it’s hard in there and shooting on your speech so
causing your atoms to do the tighten up also


and by the cotload do we nightly avoid thee
or so this bite on the arm would have you believe
that’s thou for a pee in a sleepwalked library
by the border of half turned half mast gaze
glorious as halfsmart luck
in ancient foster grants
now nicaragua can finally afford the bobsled
time to get cut from the lotus team
as the suns come untied and dance sin into ‘em
as the flood comes in large groups
before any bless you
I give this advice freely albeit to a dumb bee
to the commoner pastry
here’s hunger and here’s duty
your door to stop as a mirror parcel insured
deafened by small degrees
sinks beneath the weight of all wet ideas
we’re flying now and feeling sick
and a lowering chin


at this time we are the best
we can be.

I am going there and taking all this
shit with me.

the announcer announces storms to
the armed services.

I will have sex before I’m through and you
know he will.

in the inside pocket of his vest a snack item is rubbing
a small raw patch.

your message must’ve gone straight to the save
file, he never heard it.

and other half serious situations, like a date
with a snaky bloodsucker.

late night has a new

every time I think of something I was born to
depose I see the sky and chill.

then the doors comes on and I’m royally
pissed again.

trying to order the terribleness, too hard maybe, too
much like volunteer fire-raising.

on xmas in the yard the spelling of everything will be
changed, for the good?

the club barter director locked it

they don’t exist, but they are absolutely
outstanding, those that were visible.

make it one hell-kite and one uphill only
skibob, charge it.

she has folds but it was dark enough to imagine them in
native patterns.

and there’s the national horse-

you may say whose baby you think it is but the fact remains
you’re going up.

not so much to be analyzed by such devices, more to remain
a voltage, observer.

had that purging issue, you know, the teen natives
thing, the bombovers.

hide and go to hell and back in and seek
the emergency exit, over and out, Pugh.

how did he get those beast images to stick, to man
a wide distribution beheading?

if it’s a stall it’s a series, if it’s a manger
it’s a director’s cut.

everyone’s a pro and knows a rube around
these distinct corners.

the phone at the desk is ringing incessantly with the pain
of a hundred odd duty slobs.

he just lays there, like a body, screwed by his
uncle the cork head supplier.

you can go through here and get your own
show in minutes.

in this code room we clarify daily
results by circling each other’s doubles.

I think you might
mean hither.

a sympathizer of whathaveyou

they can smell the stuff all the way
next door.

you cannot just frontally assault, first you must gilt
and finally, get demoted.

this accent is the way you become
a star; fluid and a spark.

the minute are always with us, like
reversible answers.

the log line cannot be spoken but I’ll indent
it in your driving pillow.

I’ll striate and you can
view me.

wear a fish with nicotine
teeth for my crown.

as the slant goes so
go the revolutions.

it all quiets down so it must be opera
for the tents.

it doesn’t know where it left

it does that under arm

they all do it but most especially blind

the monkeys that bleed at the ears get thanks
for the correction fluid.

you can tell the honcho by
his stripes.

and that would make all these goers
monkeys like

this standing eight count you’ll be
humming at breakfast.

going shhhhh.

and would you could make the cot in the back beat
for you when the drain is circling again.

so like a god squid dude shot
in a discount target.

the suit or the size
of it?

if we can get through this first year the rest is solid
gold bullshit.

by the loadless

running with firesticks to the anterior
of the national fret.

a dime store with a stolen cigar
store is no bargain.

they don’t make parts for it

unless you can prove
an indian.

where this genius moron called papp
gives his offspring a single digit
and the brave says shoot
straight into that door
of the spirits.
and dynasty barely
grazes in its contrasts with
the revolver where we’re pictured
with us-likes the prodigally un-
you can always count
on me to lie through my final drafts.

who forgot to use too much bleach?
am I really as hard as all that?

he asked these things and still
the real charges against us are
never with us like the rich would have
you taker of all dangerous rides
then folder upper
or come all at once
but for the secret agenda of a bargain
assurance agent but what durable
paint except in the strictest postage
senses is a threat.
where we all get to
begin as strangers fuck it up fast then
taco hour.
my day has just gone crazy.
might be anything at the door stays.
might relegate my drooping condition
to the homoerotic and the indian’s low


they got enraged
there they are patting and saying
win and digest and predigest and biodegrade
and don’t forget to churn like a bird
or stain the air like a clockmaker


a few of my tips for the natural life:

take up cycling on the grave
of someone you thought you might never get to meet.

draw a picture of a viaduct on rice paper
then make a cake of your dreams.

tick till someone notices.

always spruce up before filing
for an antler removal permit.

use your third spoon first.

monroe deserved some sort of reward for dying
like a champ, but that’s no excuse for you
getting maudlin about the black situation.

if you start out with a strong morel foundation
you have the makings of something born
in the dark and harmlessly fungal.

it pays not to know anything beyond
and/or pursuant to what’s read to you through
the bathroom door.

chew gum in case of copier.

if the chief says it ends in a dance, chances
are he’s seen something moving in the smoke at night.

you mustn’t be so literal with your pompadour nose.

don’t become a conclave of three unless it has to
do with not becoming a riot of two.

the firebug will inherit the thinking
saturated in the best fluid.

stay white in tents and adjusting
constantly in all other tallies.

insert a russet a day, if you float
you’re an iceberg, if not
you’re still a distracting episode.

go kiss al kaline for luck, he’s dumb and full
of the hope of the carousel.

say hello to feelings!

transversely go baldly as an amendment to the dimensions
nature attempted to imprint upon you.

make a mountain out of every thing, observe
your flock ignoring the mountains you’ve labored
to provide, then banish australia from the parentheses.

make yourself a gerund in the eyes of the divine, divine
in the sight of the bare and viable, invisible to the terminated, forfeit
to the squeegee of the beast, tar brushed mesquite virus to paris.

denote on my time, detonate on your own.


this is the man you’re to educate
and his windbreaker advance
he’s a lecher and an ally
to the dulcified and as genteelly a convent
fix-it-guy with tiny periscopes

it’s in the best-selling cook
that we find ourselves reflected most
aromatically and write poems of which
this paper column he said is too narrow to be
quite the farm animal of previous dumpings

his mom made soup and was predisposed
but only to doodle the heads off
replace them with a light toast
donating vast stores of underpants to the outdoors
and surreys to cops

now she is dead and will lie down
soon as the ode is a jam and
clad in old noah habit
the quiet of electronics and smoking overdraft
with the ears affixing to the mudslide as randomly


the cure for long legs
a target litter to keep anchored in
home as a tactical hoofmark
I can semi-move
I can hawk the meta-static
metastasize when the military met sally
there’s a pamphlet on how to tile in a blitz
the nature of making quilts and calling them
comforter the clang of the history of too late fire
and I take mine still with extra spice and highjack
and it’s all entirely legal when mourning
Stalin’s mama and the sacred blister capped
like that micro-fleet they kept rerunning it
till it became it’s own need for an antidote and it’s own
antidote the candidate as essential oil
a bag of micro rat shit you can absolutely tell
by the pattern of the wounds and freckles of the devil
on the jars in the shrink-wrap in the cases headed deeper west on
we stopped at a truck stop and that was the moment
she called me shaggy
I had headed for the throne
not my fault the yearbook photoshoot had had to be rescheduled
or that all three sets of parents were jet-skiing in Belfast
a personality is purely an ecology
a complete set merely weight to hold down a custom display case
and a girl who thinks she’s fat and is a stalemate
it was this sort of understanding that made him make himself a series of
actually of priests then all go waterless
eat his own obscure admittance form each
like this is to be his castle
and these the exclusive members
and the hate with which it was all presented at the fair
the kiddies love the big plastic bees and need the stories
how I got stung and had a reaction
the year it all became the alibi to glue
the year it became a published collection of puns on
erode to whispering about the days’ balance strictly
in the documentary box
for cat or cash or hat
as a kind of cavalcade luxo-rake
as the blew descends upon the simplified bach passage
or whatever peculiar inevitability was piped into that passageway
between the storehouse and the storehouse’s temporary
imprints in landscaping
had they waited for the bagpipes to stop or the cameras to
settle on a spot and watch it till a form fills it
then be reassured by the form’s inadvertence
then confer it a wingspan
the ground a certain credit
too all those who said what they said but were thinking
overdue or exact as construction in a slaughter
itemized for U-2 as a joint
the mangle and polish the subsequent decipherment
by the lungs in hour-top tons


I evict.
impound your scapes.
lower land and breakdown spoons full.
I take you off the forefoot.

I back you into a swimmer.
broadcast your grades.
proceed to the front of the falter.
I faith.

I get baby-like to orbit.
telepath your am-ex union.
box the old wraith.
I fly you to a bridge plan.

I non-issue on the paper.
launder all your televised guerillas in epoxy.
jar biliousness renewal.
I churn to you, potbelly.

I lay a siege numbed.
debrief in numbness.
blanch at the suggestion.
I lactate, ape-man of the storm, toned, at work.

I paper fossilized.
fountain as pricey, fountained.
gum up.
I smoke, I house votes, I vote till it collaborates, till you co-op.

I get deft when expected to get ferocious.
wag at not knowing the difference.
take stock and hose interrupter.
I castrated the band, they made me an honorary teamster.

I become expressway.
bog as marker by-product.
affix patents to such as unclasp, sharkproofskin, part-time jag plumbing.
I medicate I?

I plush it all by a gonad all reverential albeit omen.
care less than to cultivate a chemical ejaculate.
always envisioning dinner in the magic.
I trim hideously lovely, I reinvent the maiden as a direct synthesizer.

I wear long legs and walk you to a uniform.
lullaby by the fragment.
keep checks from a kinky mom with a bitterer teenager.
I know which side my hindquarters are contracted on!

I bang! on preserved time.
tan in costume with dog complement, devoted tooth, hysteria as investigative landscape.
torture that landscape into guy partitions.
I respect the story.

I go on record as such.
mythologize, bamboozle, flood (I made that ceiling).
rent snatch disco for a private function, defoliate it like a childhood pigboat.
I appear to snap to.

he is a cunning saint who politely reasons with embers.
arbitrates the calcium from a draft.
spells chimera as a seven year old spells supplement to nourish.
he will go the length of the immaculate, worm, abstract, combat, fractured.

he remains unfazed by the roiling dietician timpani.
demarcates ions by ‘razmataz’, ‘remittent’, ‘moneyed’, ‘perception’, ‘gallant’, ‘rim’.
a pressing need to return to the trove of etchers, to the repurposed chalet.
he collects top-grade heritage, lines his seat with marvelous loose inflection.

he connects the bacteria with the reactionary.
rebounds against mutes.
exits before the credits.
he can’t find silly.

he has no foreseeable ending.
but what a finisher!
prefers a salt pianist to cocoon.
he just put a coat on a woman’s superlative.

he used to be a professional hatter.
no conventional lungs makes hush-hush feasible.
stupefying journalism is just one.
he feints, cashes, feigns an orgasm, makes tracks for the fridge.

he can play captiously without teaching his conduct to be essential.
loves a midnight ham and operates his own invisible blood.
is a sucker for a pin curl.
he will have seen the maltese falcon eight times by the time this reaches nagasaki.

he rid himself of all sharpness.
had his head carved into a ship.
might’ve been pope had the shirt been any other shade.
he has the plan to end springtime in a fusible seizure.

he is the hand in the handstamp.
slept through the place instantly passed with no questions asked.
as a rule his general stupor is only a frame and tempting at that.
he fills his own jaw with enough color for a dozen seizures.

he will terminate when good and ready.
thinks a fit as romantic as the curvature of a gull or the light on a cobra at a bullfight.
wants to be known for having no monthlies.
he, unpopulatable, decides to get organized, revokes all future debuts.

he flies a swatter.
ducks the killer quack.
weakens momentarily at the sight of nipples.
he bucks up, gets pickled, expends.

he is preparing to transfer en masse.
carries optimum coverage.
deviates only long enough to pretend to fuck a mechanism then clears that crucial byte.
he gives the polar stripe a new name, point-blank, safely lifeless, kneeling to housekeep.

he circulates.
watches the bruise yellow.
he swallows the out-basket hole.