Saturday, July 30, 2011
My Me-ness Made Squeezy
I was born between a wringer and a treaty.
You know the type, they used them for torturing
the dirt out of things. Maybe that isn’t the right word.
Maybe objects d’art of seduction. Maybe trouser psychic.
I’ve decided to leave this space in a blank expanse.
This tells you I’m a great deal as just me as this person already.
As in I’m this person you don’t even already know too well to possess
the necessary lack of understanding to choose when saying no to sex
between saying “to you” or “with you”.
The fact that I inadvertently broke a treaty in saying so tells you more.
Sorry about that, treaty people. So sorry Treaty Man.
Feel free to stop converting your children at any time!
Personally, though, I don’t think simple tendernesses are healthy
snacks. I like eggs, they come from the ground, and everything
in the ground is beautiful…
until it’s seen by someone ugly.
Hats Again (and not the last of)
There was this awning once with a big rip right along the edge
and a man on the roof was working with heavy machinery
while the wheelchair children played right underneath him.
But I can be serious, too, when the situation calls for it.
I'm a collage. I’m made of sharp bits of refuse, I don’t profess to know each
bit or its ultimate purpose in me or tetanus risk, but there’s a plan on a sticky
somewhere, probably underground or in a safe deposit box in a satellite universe
bowling emporium west of the Sixgun Star, way way way up in outer space
where we’ll all be safe in love one day and without being able to give you a tongue
bath and the details simultaneously, let me assure you it's freaking awesome.*
*But I would say that. I've been on a diet of leaves and twigs found in the treads
of my shoes for a year.
I could tell you what I reach for in “those” moments, but maybe it's more fun to ask
that you guess with the blade swinging closer to your you know. It would be cool
if someone thought I were capable, but threatening is, for me, also a form of teaching.
I think of fear in the same chair I use when I think of chemistry while making up new
recipes for stew, the difference depends on your upbringing or the sun in your eyes
or a writ of something. Or something.
I also write.
I’m writing this now.
But now I’m writing something entirely other.
Even the color is not the same and your Glaucoma’s getting serious.
How well we function as a diorama of the battle of Frankenberry Ridge will depend
entirely on how willing you are to invert your belief system for me. Then we’ll
procreate, then we’ll see about twister. Which is what I am doing today.
But you are the cart and I am the horse and I hope you don’t think you can see
any specific long range possibilities in that relative positioning.
*I have a "doctor" in my name, but he isn’t fully paid off. I only use him on weekends
here and there but I only answer the phone when it doesn’t ring for at least two days
so there’s much to learn, like that and the ankle restraints, when my nurse is not around.
(which is, uh, never.)
I wish I could change it, because it's ridiculous, and I only did what I did because he called
me in airplane mode. I’m old enough to know what that means. I asked "Mr. Noodles" what
to do but his voice box wasn't available. But I can't say I didn’t enjoy the trip to Macroland, or even the bus ride back in the mask, and if that's a deal-breaker for you, well…
maybe someone just dodged a silver bullet.
I’m really resemblances
Some guy in the park just told me I look like someone someone might have loved once.
Once some guy in the park told me I looked like Princess Leia with my hair up (I didn't have the side burns then) but that's not really something I'm "good" at, is it?
Some guy in the park told me, yesterday, that I would meet some guy in the park
and he would tell me something wonderful about this city. I gave him my favorite hat.
The next guy that came by said I looked just like Princess Leia only a hat would make
the illusion complete. I have too many children. Most of their wheelchairs are painted
school bus yellow. I want them to feel driven to learn. I want them to beat their fathers.
For a long time, my stupider twin had a section of her skull reversed so people could tell
when it was time for spaghetti. She recently had it returned to its original orientation.
Now we don’t seem to have anything left to talk about.
Skill has a way of wearing you down. I’ve been living with a few things, as many as possible
men, though this is constantly changing. How can I be sure when I move back to the States after being in Lockdownia for five years that no one will have done anything without me?
All my past obsessions fit in five recyclable boxes and two order of protection cases. Now that I’m the nest itself, people keep giving me bits of foil, gum wrappers, undigested meat, like I’m the one who dropped in from a cloaking hoverer. Or flubbed the hand-off on fourth and goal.
So I need an extra box or two. I just told a cat to go to hell. Can cats even hear? In space?
What else? I think I have a nice singing voice. Like a wheel of original cheese hand tainted
by shirtless mastodons while a Belgian girl called Minimal Telecast cuts herself with a personal tank then I get told I am a lovely kisser.
But everyone gets to judge for themselves, don't they?
The first is the one you always forget the nicest
According to the staff at the coffee shop where I like to write “I’ll Drink Anything” on the stall
dividers, the first thing people notice about me is how "animated" my face is. They told me when it's slow it looks like a face going really slow and when they take turns watching me
suck on my iced coffee stirrer they become a groupthink strobe light. Apparently I get a cartoon nosejob from everything I see.
A book is a gift for Everett Sloane
“Welcome home, Mister Kane!” Well...any book with arrows that go, "look HERE, stupid" is okay by me. I tend to like the ethical stuff. Or "Wait, isn't this illegal? You have to stand in front of it to get why it's mind-blowing." Really, it's better as a story. Tortured girl received by a bunch of nineteen year-olds. Predictable. If you don't love old guys playing darts on bikes, or funny as fuck peep shows, I will give you your money back. Really.
I’ll watch television until they stop showing it. But I kind of don't want to talk about music in a roomful of dudes, that feels like a sucker's game or a math headache that stops your heart on flute. Like requiems when they bust out.* I've been reading a lot about concepts, and how these concepts are shit. It's for work.
*Wow to the prophecy, not to the fact that I just used YouTube as a verb.
Six dates of curing bacon
After some nervous mail from men, I feel compelled to say the list below is only meant to lower a roman shade, to fake you into thinking Extreme Dating is not some hobby of mine.
It's why I bought these steel gags from a comic shop in Saliva.
1. See Who Finishes First Date. Kind of like Bone-in Flight Club or Nipples, Italian Style.
2. Weird Foot Robbery Date. We steal each other’s feet in Chinatown. Similar to Antidepressant Roulette, but with massages. And in Chinatown. I would do the abnormal with you, but if someone else made me laugh, I would do it with them.
3. The Books Are a Bus Without Brakes! Date. This is a trick where you pick five books you think your date would steal like feet with the built-in expectation you'll be in separate cells. Only applies if the chemistry section is the only section not being mopped. Hilarity or etcetera ensues, etc.
4. The OH GOD WHY MUST I GET SHY NOW? Date.
5. The Nude First Date Date. We color in coloring books and drink hot chocolate. Technically, this date does not belong on the list.
6. The Sushi Date. This date is a euphemistic bowl of gazpacho with or without an idiot.
Most pleasant dates are idiotically themed, but dinner is nice and it’s too hot to eat anyone else, maybe Barry White or one of the Smith Brothers, who I’d happily eat again. But really, I'll eat pretty much anyone. Except Chow Yun Fat in a bun. A friend had him once, and said it was wack.
7. The Iced Coffee Transfusion Date. It makes up 97 percent of the blood stream already, so what's another emergency between strangers? Preferably in the best park in New York. Although I can be talked into going to the other one. I’ll meet you there now, I’m already here, how’s your day looking? Can you see a park from where you wish you were at?
Now change it into a party with hats. Now take your hat off.
I can see the party you’re thinking I’m thinking of
Right now? I'm thinking about throwing a Party in Iran. And the 2011 Arab Spring Break Uprising Gone Wild in my Netflix queue. Uprisings in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Syria and so forth. I'm thinking a lot about “uprisings”. And, of course, so forth.
In a different part of my brain I'm Venus. I’m mulling over two really interesting parades. Then I’m a critical patient. Then a racist sex pervert in exile. Cuz I get high on modernist arcs. Then I’ve gone totally primitive, savage, intellectual, modern. Like having lives as a second career. Like rejecting all beauty as Nico. Now I am about to be running. Now you are. I’m standing still in quotes, but you’re still pointed at the wrong park. Everything that doesn’t
happen doesn’t happen for a reason.
Where can I get a chimpanzee butler?
O! The times I’ve had on my watch
I was a thirteen year old named Jenny Xacto Knife. Then I was French
with spigots, draining my perfume to sell outside the will call at the annual
Grand Antithesis. Every time I read this phrase, that Loverboy song pops
into my head.
I can't be the only one experiencing this.
Then we came to the final oyster
I started Biting Hotdog Yoga in earnest this past January, and to my surprise, I'm really enjoying my lunches these summer months. But critics are definitely right: Biting Hotdog
can get really rank. More often than not, the studio smells like an old man's bitten hotdog.
Not that I would know.
Sometimes, when I am procrastinating, I look at profiles and mark men as 'favorites,' with genius notes like, "He's cute." But when the system asks if I want to share the information, I say no, because well, you know. And then I wonder if men are doing the same thing on their computers, and whether I'm on their lists, and if so, how we will ever meet, since neither of us will initiate contact with the other, and how that is a bit sad. Sad like a clown on Sunday morning. Or puppies in POW camps. Or me on the most romantic bench in the park alone with my hotdog, reeking of decomposition and Aqua Velva.
But then I go back to wondering what it would be like to be in Destiny's Child.
I’m looking for the answers to the questions you’ve already eaten
So, what am I looking for in a man? That’s a question.
So is who killed Buckwheat. One you can look up online. The other you’ll just have to ask
the morning after when it’s too late to not already have paid for the privilege of your
continuing ignorance. If you’d like to say hello, I suppose now would be the time, before
I’ve thought of the only possible answer.
Or it’s an idiot.
Youth of nation say, “Shout this semaphore, gasbag!”
You'd like to say hello, Anyway. And you believe that’s really my name.
And I suppose you think I'm cute, because that's how we sort the field hands
from the eggs they’re torturing out of the ground, right? The workers from
the queens, National Socialist Poultry Council board members from Nifty
Tube Sock Trick Practitioners, Inc. employee of the century, Orville Wilbur Edison Bell
the Second. The gatekeepers from their jobs.
Note: Okay, after a weak looking suit I made in Photoshop, I changed my entire fashion
statement to, “I have a dream.” I’m trying to expand my color palette. Stripes make
everything look either fatter or less fat, right? I’m sticking with putting myself in spots.
Next I need to add a caveat.
If the purpose of a note in a bottle is to let me know about your enormous predicament,
or how desensualized you became after the closed head injury, and/or your objective is
that farmhouse eight clicks east along the border of Free Range and Canadian Ham,
or you want to move to a phone , live in it and become our own contacts together.
or Siberia is only a sex position you read about in Premature Cart Fancier’s Monthly,
meet me in any park at dusk and I’ll waste my last best kiss helping you get into my flesh without the trouble of a surface encounter. There have been some I’ve bloviated but
I’ve seen that and I'm not feeling that. Likewise, if you have the words "failed to recognize disc" tattooed on any part of yourself, you've got the wrong tentative woman. And that's not because I’m the wrong tentative woman. It’s because I can't be dishwasher safe. And because I was burned in a cradle warehouse fire. It's really, though, because I won't be exercising for at least six weeks, and that is a quality no one can get around, except maybe your wife.
So, and to recap, and in conclusion, and summing up, and recorroborating the evidence,
and reiterating, and rehitting the high spots, and reviewing the troops until they’re ready
to go into labor as brain detached as a sunset by Max Factor: I like talking surgeons to death, I like strangers eating me out of house and friends eating me outside of the group home, and I love getting email delivered by hand, but the only kind of sex I like (and boys I like it with)
is otherwise impossible to be reattached until cryogenics has advanced significantly.
Individuals I choose to meet, and dig eggs with, and give email handiwork to in person?
I have to say no to your exceptional skill at clearing me of my bar.
I’m glad my car has anti-stop brakes.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Never go to the mailbox without a flashlight
SO I GUESS YOU CAN ONLY USE ONE ZIP CODE AT A TIME.
I LIVE IN THE SUBURBS OF VENUS.
IT’S MOSTLY NICE.
YOU CAN SEE THAT IN MY PICS.
I KNOW THEY’RE ONLY SO SO.
THIS IS ME IN A NUTSHELL.
THIS IS ME AS A CASE OF HEINEKEN.
I AM TRYING TO BECOME AS HAPPY AS I CAN BE.
IT’S WORKING I GUESS.
I WAS IN A LONG MARRIAGE BUT AREN”T THEY ALL.
TO ME, IT WAS VERY SUCCESSFUL FOR A LONG TIME BEFORE IT WENT TO SHIT.
I HAVE 4 BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN.
THEY ARE OF VARIOUS AGES NO MORE THAN MY OWN BUT NO LESS THAN MY BABYSITTER’S.
THEY GIVE ME GREAT JOY.
MY BIRTHDAY IS TOMORROW.
I’M SURE I WILL GET GREAT JOY AGAIN.
I STILL HAVEN’T USED THE GREAT JOY I GOT LAST YEAR.
IT DOESN’T KEEP FOREVER.
I WANT THEM TO THINK THEY’RE DOING SOMETHING RIGHT.
BUT NOW IT IS TIME TO MOVE FORWARD WITH ME.
I AM MOVING FORWARD WITH ME NOW.
STEP BACK, WE, I AND ME, ARE MOVING FORWARD.
STEP BACK I SAID.
I THINK IF I CAN MAKE IT TO THE FIVE HUNDRED WORD COUNT LIMIT HERE
YOU WILL LOVE ME AND WE WILL FIND IN EACH OTHER COMPANIONSHIP, LOVE
AND PASSION IN AT LEAST ONE DIRECTION AT A TIME.
IF YOU ARE MORE THAN ONE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN OUR ODDS JUST JUMPED.
I AM WRITING THIS IN QUICKSAND BUT TRYING TO KEEP VERY STILL.
IF I SETTLE TOO MUCH I’M FUCKED.
I LOVE TO MAKE OTHER PEOPLE APPEAR HAPPY.
I LOVE TO FORCE OTHER PEOPLE TO LAUGH.
I AM STILL TRYING HARD NOT TO SETTLE.
THERE IS AN ELECTRICAL OUTLET WITH XMAS LIGHTS PLUGGED INTO IT.
I THINK I CAN REACH IT BUT I’M NOT IN GREAT SHAPE.
ONE OF MY RESOLUTIONS IS GETTING TO THE GYM MORE.
I MIGHT ALSO ELECTROCUTE MYSELF, THE QUICKSAND IS WET
FROM LAST NIGHT’S RAIN.
I LIKE TO THINK.
I BELIEVE THERE ARE TWO HUMAN ACTIVITIES THAT ENCOMPASS ALL FIVE
OF THE SENSES.
I BELIEVE ONE OF THESE ACTIVITIES ENCOMPASSES HUMANS.
I BELIEVE ONE OF THESE ACTIVITIES ENCOMPASSES ALL FIVE TEENS
AT THE SLUMBER PARTY NEXT DOOR.
ONE IS ENJOYING SOME FOOD.
ANOTHER IS ENJOYING SOME WINE.
I CAN WAIT AS LONG AS NECESSARY, AS LONG AS I DON’T BREATHE.
I GREW UP IN KANSAS WHERE THEY RAISE THE TV COMMERCIALS.
I MAKE THINGS FOR A LIVING.
I WISH I HAD MADE SOME SNOWSHOES.
I CAN’T MOVE MY HEAD.
I CAN’T CHECK TO SEE WHERE I AM RELATIVE TO THE FIVE HUNDRED WORD
COUNT LIMIT OR THE TEEN IN THE TEDDY WITH THE WINE.
I AM NOT CURRENTLY MOVING FORWARD WITH ME.
ONE OF MY BEST FRIENDS IS A SUSHI MASTER.
I LOVE TO WATCH GIRLS PLAY SPORTS.
It really does flash before your eyes, who knew?
I’M SORT OF SORTING MY LIFE OUT.
I’M AIMING FOR BLISS AND MISSING LESS.
I’M ENJOYING MY WORK AS A DOWSER.
I’M EATING OUT IF YOU INSIST.
I’M MAKING OUT MY WILL ON A PIECE OF JUNK MAIL WITH A PEN I FOUND IN MY HAIR.
I’M MAKING OTHERS APPEAR HAPPY.
I’M ENJOYING MY CHILDREN EVEN THOUGH SOME OF THEM ARE ASSHOLES.
I’M COOKING IN MY HEAD.
I’M LAUGHING IN MY HEAD.
I’M LOOKING FOR LOVE IN ANYTHING LEFT.
I’M UP TO MY THIRD RIB AND ACKNOWLEDGING MY AFFECTION FOR ALL LIVING THINGS AND FOR THE THINGS I’LL PROBABLY NEVER DO LIKE THE TEEN IN THE TEDDY WITH THE WINE.
What’s more important, to be good or to be respirating?
MAYBE IT’S MAKING PEOPLE LAUGH?
MAKING PEOPLE LAUGH AT ALL THE RIGHT MOMENTS?
MAKING PEOPLE LAUGH WHILE COOKING?
BEING A LAME GUITAR PLAYER?
I’M A LAME GUITAR PLAYER AND EVEN WORSE ON BANJO.
BUT I HAVE THE GOOD SENSE TO NEVER PLAY IT UNLESS I’M ALONE OR DROWNING.
MAYBE THIS COUNTS AS DROWNING?
WOULD IT MAKE YOU APPEAR HAPPY OR LAUGH TO ENJOY SOME BANJO?
The last things to sink
YOUR APPARENT HAPPINESS.
I already miss my favorite food
I’M A HEDONIST AND ALWAYS ENJOYED THE FREQUENT FLIER MILES.
THIS SUBSET OF QUESTIONS IS ONLY FORCING ME TO RE-ENJOY IT ALL.
Things I could use to make things
MY CHILDREN IN A CHAIN.
COOKING FOR FRIENDS WHO COULD COME OVER ANYTIME NOW.
LOVE FOR THE RIGHT WOMAN WITH A ROPE.
WATER? NO, NOT WATER.
PASSION FOR THE BANJO THAT WOULD HAVE MADE ME
BRING THE BANGO WITH ME SO THAT I COULD USE THE BANJO
TO CATCH THAT LOW HANGING BRANCH OF THE LINDEN TREE
ABOVE THE OLD COI POND THAT I FILLED WITH SAND BUT
OBVIOUSLY NOT ENOUGH SAND OR I WOULDN’T NEED
THE FUCKING BANJO. (THE LINDEN TREE ATTRACTS BEES. GREAT.)
MUSIC, A SIREN OR ALARM OF SOME SORT.
I smoked too few of ‘em while I’d got ‘em
I’D STILL PREFER TO BE MAKING MYSELF HAPPY AND OTHERS APPEAR HAPPY.
On my last and most atypical Friday night
I’M TRYING TO DEFY THE TERM “WEIGHT”. I’M TRYING TO LEARN TO CURSE
IN SPANISH, THE NEW NEIGHBORS ARE FROM SPAIN I THINK, OR MAYBE MADRID.
THE ONE IN THE TEDDY LOOKS SPANISH, ANYWAY. AND THE WINE, NO, I CAN’T
REALLY TELL. MY EYES ARE NEARLY UNDER. I’M STARTING TO FEEL WARM ALL OVER.
THEY SAY IT’S TRUE THAT IT OFTEN HAPPENS THAT WAY, I’M ABLE TO CONFIRM THAT IT IS.
Rethinking the privacy hedge
I’M HERE! I’M STILL HERE! BANJO, ANYONE? CLOTHESLINE?
I’m gasping for
A GIRL WHO WANTS A HEINEKEN.
A GAS OR ELECTRIC COMPANY GUY ON THE NIGHT SHIFT.
ANYONE NEAR ME.
A WINE RUN NEXT DOOR.
A LOVE THAT WILL LAST FOREVER, HAPPY AND LAUGHING AND DRY.
You should rescue me if
YOU WANT TO BE MADE TO APPEAR TO BE HAPPY.
YOU WANT SOMEONE TO FORCE YOU TO LAUGH.
YOU HAVE I.D. THAT SAYS YOU’RE EIGHTEEN AND SOME SPANISH WINE.
YOU KNOW OF AN ALL NIGHT SUSHI BAR OR SOCCER MATCH NEARBY.
(MECHANICALLY? IS THIS A RITUAL? OR AM I JUST TIRED OUT?)
I FEEL NIBBLED.
TIME TO SING.
AMAZING GRACE IN PINK.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Seeks Cowfish With 20 Inch Horn
I work as a book. Not so much as an adaptation.
I remember reading once about a beekeeper, he was starving for company.
In Portugal they have no bees. I don’t really mind.
Music is harder than a bee, more porous than a placemat, less well versed
in the art of seduction than you who would like to get to know me
and play me instead of your favorite song.
That’s the one that goes too long
and rhymes with the land
we stole from the dead.
This just got heavy.
I love SPORTS!
My left hand practices sports regularly.
My right hand likes to travel.
I wear a bit at night.
Not cuz I need it.
I’m really a goon, I belong to a squad, it keeps me in good shape
and looking frightening enough to have the sort of healthy and long life
they sing about at funerals.
I really like my job.
My best feature is the eye, the smile, the lean body and luscious
tower array that follows my money wherever it wants me.
They say it’s coming true, can it? They can’t be original munchkins, can they?
They say I'm elegant. There are too many of them to argue. Can you?
A mare who has many foals, someone has to clean up the happy messes.
When no one is there a tree falls on the small one. One plus one tree
equals history. I know you, I know who is and isn’t happy. It calls itself
home for the supper. It has the same name. It has nothing else, no one.
Your name has you.
Many lack this degree of comfort.
We attend mass together, especially those
who have good clothes and are content with the brunch.
I enjoy a good god and the freedom of other expressions
from early top forty R & B along with my occupation, freelance
affectioneer. A bloody demonstration in a square and the loss
of breath. A ghost is here and says these are all good comments.
Feel free to agree, the ghost is holding your future.
I get off work in an hour.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
What can a spirit tell you about a person?
That a thought once lived in the shed on live
mice and retired laboratory monkeys?
That movements happen in the night without
your ponderous socks weighing in with an opinion?
How does grace have anything to do with amazement
in this 1/72 scale ballpark with functioning lights?
If questions cause you to ask yourself questions
I’ll rephrase the question: I didn’t come here
I was brought. I had a tight head, the metal camera
couldn’t contain the edges, the best ones got left lying
on the Kresge’s floor the year before they opened the first
Kmart in Garden City, Michigan. Early sixties, I think.
Same year my first crop came due and the nurses said
“She must be destined for crazy greatness!”
If you have a facial imperfection that you haven’t mentioned
I’d much prefer you didn’t.
Now I’ll make a face. This one looks much more like me than I do.
Did I just catch you thinking something about someone again?
Your layers are beginning to peel away, only the strangled cries
for a slurpy and your plaque that proves an America will remain.
I knew it. And I’ve been trying all along to explore it, like a film.
Jewelry made of actual film, and a teacup labeled “Shatter Me
on your Forehead!” As a student of the unknown my thirst for things
to think about knows some bounds, but after dinner we can
start back at the beginning. The part where you said, “Hey…”.
I stood with one cowboy boot planted firmly in the Suppurater Saloon
and the other on Obama’s neck that night, that special night. The mall
was practically empty, you could shoot off a gun in there.
I was frozen, time passed, I was frozen in time, I was frozen in the past,
Obama was frozen in the past, time was frozen in Obama, the mall was
I swore I would be swifter this time but dinner was all you can eat.
I wanted you but…all you can eat?
Each endless journey begins with a stumble and a mild sprain.
I swear I can order for two and you needn’t even be here.
What do you want tapped out? What occasion risen to?
It’s this effing intrinsic ordering thing, do there have to be deeper
meanings? Can’t it all just amount to a poorly written quick-start manual
that takes years to decipher? Like the story I read on here about a fly;
how it ate its family in three acts then rebelled against cannibalism
but only after discovering the all you can eat buffet.
There it is again.
The occasion rises to itself, you just need to be lying under it.
If I'm smiling, I smile. If I’m composed I’m made up of bits.
If a runaway carriage crushes me or at least muddies my bustle
I’ll pirouette to the infirmary. (lots of ballet classes when I was young)
It isn't at all my real body. The traffic that drove the events, that was.
Something in your pants is vibrating now. People also tell me I look
younger than almost everything that’s ever lived. I never know what to do
with my age. Never know what to do with a Sunday and no credit.
Maybe treeless light. Maybe a deafened mountain.
Maybe just another wondermeal.
Or a light in the sky at the end of the tunnel that is the sky.
Feelings, reading, water, air…just ideas. Endlessly better when eating.
The balance of a strike when you wanted a spare.
The universe, as such, sees a movie then goes bodysurfing.
In this case you are not represented by the brick.
the architect takes the shape of a creature, one
of my birthing hips, say, then drinks heavily and mourns
his lost opportunities as a pawn of the administration.
In the morning a building has appeared. Municipal building,
bureau of statistics, vegan juice bar, structures of enduring
use and importance are brought into being in the shadow
of a mylar kite in the shape of a fantastic creature, my other hip.
I saw this movie once where the guy said something and then
we left and the following decade is a complete blank.
A lot of fear, I assume, and erections having little to do
with the openness and trust of a two year old who’s already
I won’t stand over you. I won’t make you uncomfortable.
I’ll just make more mistakes. I’ll keep making mistakes
until you give me something I can waste in a small inelegant
structure. Pure function. No release. A hose.
So…I scared you with my sweetness and utter lack of guile
and my perfectly rendered copy of Fragonard’s Happy Accidents
of the Swing. The man in the bushes is me, the husband blind
to the man is me, the cupid observing a separate scene involving
a kiss on the infield of a demolition derby in the next meadow
over is me. We are, each of us, unaware of the other. We are
also unaware of you. The man will pretend to admire your pussy,
your shoe will strike the cupid in the eye and blind him, the cherubs
behind you will catch the swing causing you to fall and be rendered
lame, like a perfectly copied painting of a bucolic scene at dusk.
Only the husband, already dead, will survive.
(The grandstand structure was designed by the firm of Barren, Risk and
The grand prize was won by a 1957 Chrysler Imperial driven by Don Basile
or possibly Larry Mendelsohn. The fire rendered any positive identification
impossible. Pinky Tuscadero was called in as an expert consultant but was
herself, coincidentally, killed on the same day in a swing accident. Police
questioned several fireflies, a duck with mild apnea, and the artist Gabriel
Francois Doyen. No one was charged, all were released and the helicopter
revolutionized modern aviation and modern warfare.
The brick represented the serum. Nothing a week in the country can’t unfix.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
The Randomized Dream of the Selfless
I lead a flock of slipper sheep. That’s sheep that are raised for slippers.
I absolutely love slippers. I get to work at about midnight and leave
at about midnight the next day. I think slippers are brilliant when the sun
catches their edges as they’re being skinned. I should clarify here, slippers
are what we call the sheep, not just what we call what’s made from them.
It’s a way we have of making the whole process more creative.
I love things that remind me of slippers, like slipperiness – makes me think
of my old Slip-n-Slide from the backyard when we lived just outside
the Two-Headed Veal Hyperpiesia Atoll sublingual testing ground.
Some of my slippers you can spin-dry! I think that is my method of choice.
Outside lines are too untrustworthy. Drying anything chemically is kinda risky.
My family came from the ocean.
Certain days are more wordy than others, but fumigating a teeterboard
is always fun! Then you mince the meat of the sheered slipper and mix
it with some split-pea soup. It’s a legitimate source of protein.
I pick up piecework as a surrogate pigherd on a competing sandal ranch.
They feed primarily on eucalyptus and my leg is killing me. I lost a chunk
to a horticulturist with a grudge. Plants are useless unless fed to something.
There’s an audible secondary band, it’s playing the same anthem
as the primary band at the same time. The orchestration and tempo
are indistinguishable. One of the trombonists has a very peculiar dick.
Where are all the men who love to sleep on cots? We smile and pretend
we have cerebral palsy, but smart isn’t everything. In my email persona I am
a sensual transvestite with a custom footwear folder. Life holds many challenges.
I am dominantly candid, uncontrived, love to say boo to spooks, the match is always
half unlit, my days are far safer for you than your nights are for my amateur safari,
but I’m fitter than the others you’ve messaged here, and ready to go co-marauding.
Note to Bomb: Hold Off
Until you see the whites of my telescopic neck ... my spice … my mosey …
my glass when it’s bracelets ... the lipstick tidal waves in my water …
my guarantee of erections … me eating slugs and keeping oncoming …
how skimpy my jumpsuit looks in mirrors …
How I formed an opinion once out of nothing but SCUD components …
they came on the pretense of peace but were only here to starve
Jupiter and funnel him through an unwanted manhood … if you’re a
spilled out mummy with temporary tattoos of annotations to
the Spoilables by Rex Beach you can energize that veggie lasagna
and blast off into my grapefruit … I say this with all deliberate speech
and a positive outcropping on my “front porch”.
The Addition of Something New
Here is where I tick, down there is where I’m focally slick,
the only other spot you need to know is the one that makes me mew
ten times more than I normally mew, in which instance ... hmmm ...
+ attending hangings with friends
+ you (laterally)
+ a knot tied one & one sixteenth inches from the base of the shaft
+ my mistaken borderline identity
+ teatime on deck
+ a good gin and stegosaurus & Jerry Lewis on Ativan (does that count as a number?)
Know This, One of Us Should:
it’s one minute till my terribly excited superpowers,
if I steel myself against vice I will be thwarted,
if what I flay I call a “slant” metonymically I’m already out of Prozac.
1 in 8 terrorists are discrete and have families to go to games with
and spread out after a long day ...
I’m dictating this, tied to one end of my sketch, a misquotation weighting
the other like a tea-strainer filled with radioactive perfect dates, glowing
as stolidly as are the nearly totally blind architects & their thrift in assessing
the clustered junk of the former utopia planners & builders forcibly offering me
up to the king of the slipper warlords in a sort of sacrificial bar-b-cue.
This has gotten messier than flypaper on souvenir testes. I know.
And the ocean my family abandoned at the height of the market
bottoming out is now being renovated as a foot massage parlor for sarah
paleontology. In the locked case she has 2 tv shows, in a later revision more
like 20 million …
I’ll be the recapitation of you with my topically glancing energy bark, yes
it’s another superpower, if I centralize my spirit I can amortize your cold rods,
whatever you get you don’t owe me anything but the rest of your life in bed.
What they mean when they say holystone I mean when I say epic head,
a pure pluperfect hex, as in “he had done it when I came.” a hen with external eggs.
The best brunch in Arcadia
where on Wednesday nights at 3am families go hungry free. Ach mein schatz
you’re missing it, the marzipan replica of Zion is too masculine at the crux
to be a replenishable waterbird. The hearing of my heart’s plea can be widened,
wide as linen is cruel to cheeks, but a thin pelt of ambulance money, the morning
the night became itself…I think all this me just gave me a great concussion.
Where in the garden, darling?
Obediently boring into your deeper layer. Conveniently located near an arch.
You might detect a trance, might be a meager part for a walk-on semi-precious
gem with the megaphone removed. Plant this white Hydrangea. Build it a fork
of acid. Sit cross-legged at the feet of the pitted plum tree. Stone anyone who plays
a lute. This is not the way these deaths are supposed to be celebrated. With ducks.
I am no horticulturist, but I am a horticulturist.
The pom-poms will be blue as my eyes,
but only if you have the patience and acid
enough for the spring. The rest is immanent
and is killing me again, but softly this time.
What I Was Observed At
Up in a tree with night vision sights
Miserable and too ghastly for your formalities
Seeing The Thundering Fleas
It begins at a slow pace, then gadgetry spools it up
I will never be Finnish for you
But you may rebreak my teenage glass
You’ll find directions to the canopy on my outer lobby
Crying at your recital, made subtle by unexpected news
Rethinking beef as a form of communication
Getting the sweats right after years of registration
I’m Pointing to it Now
let's stimulate joylessly …
let’s find the threshold too suddenly ...
let's splice a little girl to a fissure ...
let's pierce my bush and watch my stagger ...
let’s knock back a dozen in the pitch-black ...
let's smack you on the pinpoint until fully compatible ...
let’s flag girls down during their first misconstrual …
let’s wound and medicate …
skid then throb?
Sunday, July 3, 2011
My Inoculation With the Sand
I am unlike anyone I have ever met...in a good way.
Although insensate ladies find me fatuously primitive…in a good way.
My butt is far stronger than you can possibly imagine...but try.
It’s seemingly me, ostensibly one of the last of the "Singing Acorns",
presumably hiding a tiny cone of pure NASCAR in a spider cage
under my breastbone.
I’ll keep it "evil" like one of those white blues songs, to keep things
uninteresting enough to blunt your being mature and serious, but seriously,
what heart still runs at an average of 8-year-olds per minute and displays
this kind of iron? Who likes to pull on your “pigtails” with his bridgework?
Who is very open-heart, upper-deck, full-frontal, and still honed like your first
really monster Bowie knife? You may see my gist but the reverse is something you
can’t escape without violating my right to violate your small parts. Earn me into
your private soul facility, I’ll clean up on the back end.
I carry my will wherever I go and revise it depending.
Like the proverb says, “Shit man, get off my back!”
But even if I love you like the Russian hooker of my dreams you still have the right
to do what I want you to. That’s the cross I have to bury, the rest I can burn
in the hesitation of a chemical fire poised at the point of a Jiffy Pop life or death decision.
There’s a line in the sand, you are the sand, you need to call and cancel your service,
with me here now it’s redundant.
I'm not peeing in everyone's cup, but if you’re the tea type take that bellywash and sell it
to the rednecks. I don’t want to know you, I have a TV for that.
Still, if you have the guts, then take a sip... I think you'll like it. There’s always
that look of realization just before Mister Deerhoof comes out to forage.
I am not dry, you are, I am good to go, you’re wilting, I am the fable of the dog
who sewed his own reflection into a small pox quilt for the so-called “guys” on Bourbon
below St. Ann. Like Chelsea with the fronts inverted to keep you staring at flowers.
What Am’n’t I doing with my life?
Spending my days (and odd numbered nights)
expressing myself like The Guns of Navarone.
In real estate we have the expression:
while figuring out what kind of waiter you want
let yourself be served by the waiter you get.
That’s the kind of troubadour I wanted
to be when I grew up. Now I want to suck
the world out of the pages of Maxim
Arm Chair General
Fire & Movement
Christian Music Monthly
Star Wars Insider
Blood & Thunder
Field & Stream
Open Minds UFO
Each in its own way makes me wonder if I am more of a writer-as-creative-type than writer-as-jerking-clavicle-twitch.
I’m a Startling Contrast With A Microphone and Corn Chips
I run nine buildings with ten tenants. One of them is named Ryan.
I don’t always share that story but I believe, like Gandhi, in an open book.
I can climb a mature blue spruce and come out at the top skinned with intact
memories. Socially, I am into laying blame and not only in a kidding way.
There’s a big one coming from the East, I can feel the Thunder in four
of my testicles. When I see something fine I sire it!
I AM miserable.
Don't gibe with me even as a tease, your steak can be returned.
But try training me and you get the ham spread.
Based on my experience, if I am jilted I will thresh you.
If not I will thresh you flawlessly.
The Fireproof Inflatable Nurse I’m Totally Genuflecting To
It's easy to be a complete f-up on a site like this and blow the chance at a roofie tryst with the hole in your cogitative trance -- I enjoy it breezy or flat and a little abrasive -- but at the end of the day, what I really want is a bond that transcends the limitations of one partner suffering a massive stroke and global aphasia, being rendered able to utter only one schizophrenic syllable: SMUM, when he had formerly been a highly successful author of children’s erotica. The devotion of the woman who records his work in this state, herself a noteworthy writer of books of poetry of house pets, for the entirety of his final fourteen months, is to me the most beautiful representation of something that approximates love.
... And I'm willing to wait for you to come.