Wednesday, November 30, 2011


Listen to Me

Before becoming something I can put in a can and sell to myself at cost
please read the "You should defile me if" section at the bottom of my auto-
erotic snake aquarium.

And while we’re pleasing me…

Please demoralize the grass under my anus as I’m slipping a finger anywhere
but where you think I’m thinking of slipping a finger. Then take your sin
and silence it, you amplified falsehood. It’s my obesity, they’re my glaciers
and I can see for miles and miles and miles and there’s nothing for miles and miles
and miles. The demoralization has to do with confirming a theory I’ve had since
the day we met, roughly three months from “gentlemen, synchronize your analytically
alien itsy anal probe watchdogs starting the second before…now.”

No, Seriously, Listen to ME

Did you know that the same chemical that’s released AFTER you have sex
is also released AFTER you have sex with a dog? And that the dog understands
this fact? And pretends to enjoy it? Did you know that thousands of dogs
in the same mass grave can read the word “defilement” and each come up
for air at a completely different moment? AND ALL the males will be immaculately
neutered? The females, of course, will be sprayed. And pretend to enjoy it.
But only six, naturally selected, like, by nature, will be wearing my logo thumb-
screws. And that’s how I decided to be a psychic on TV. It beats doing squats.

Here’s a poem I wrote to make men (people, too) want to fuck some of me:

you are indirect, a thinness
at a mid-sized squat station
chosen by your peers to die
unshod. my inclination, though,
is to paraphrase Isis,
“I am my mime, as much as my mime is me.”
consciousness, another word
for sulking, sulking another word
for slut, megawatt. I rule my realm
with a lamented malted hoovered
down too fast for the guilt to attain
maximum entropy. time for a breaky.
kiss kiss. arthur is rimming my doorbell.

(I love how “megawatt” fits right in there
like it was made for the job. now I just
have to remember what the job was.)

Now Hear Me!

OXYCONTIN! That’s that sex dog hormone stuff!
So, I’m all about writing about things.
and noticing how many dogs within a 20 mile radius
are secretly (or not so secretly) thinking about releasing
theirs on me and pointing it out in the media.

Finding a dress that intends to look like a puptent.
Finding a coat that makes me look complex, long, located.
Eating the most ants at the family picnic.
Eating the most garishly decorated spring-roll
at the family picnic then crushing one off the high board
to the song I want to avoid getting married to.
I laicized a priest once before realizing what it meant.
Twice, actually.
Did I say spring-mattress? I meant hold still while I do my finger-roll.
Running my sipper straight through the dreams of your switches.
I did read a poem, once, see?
Now I’m going to have a three-way with some dogs
and a fresh batch of leeks.
Feel sorry for me, don’t feel sorry for them. I love leeks.

Headwear: there’s a question. I just bleed at the hair when it rains.

Then I appreciate windows that have never opened.
So, now, do I do more than just correlate you with my icecap?
Or do you covet my leek?
I’m constantly running just ahead of heavily armed appraisers.
My biggest Asset (get it?) is this Sikorsky six seater Valium.
Second biggest is my dreamless patchwork gayness.
Third is my static Valium with patchwork gays removed
and replaced by dreams that consist entirely of black sleep
margins. I’ve written, among one other thing, a treatise
on cooperating with trees that don’t elect to cooperate with
my Assets. Then I patchwork them.

What Do You Hear? Do You Hear Me?

Hear my hair being red.
Listen to the rustle of my smile.
My unsoundable carbon.
My grin doctor.
That poem I said was the essence
of summertime but I am a platypus
deputy gringo grinding away to bum
your piddling melody plow?
My pre-stung allergy?
The cello I gave to a bum
to horn in on your theory of air
in the skulls of the Yucatan, where
every man who’s a male is also a male
anal despoiler?

My sleeping soundly.
My termination of your dream.
The fumble that I am gathering
on a run toward the mile marker?
With a spitwad beneath my skunk flower?
I bit that bee that he might be a lens
through to the minus column
in your undreamt of insinuations.
I left my original misgivings at an alternative
country gig, hoping to tease their skulls
back to the Yucatan to finish my great
American navel.
So I got thwarted. I’m not finite.
I’m just your current issue of Paranoid Times
shoved under the smoke door.

We All Love the Music of Me!

For Christ’s sake somebody get me a catamite!
Or any silly formulaic defect I can show to the board of directors.
Books are bullshit unless written at night while I’m sucking on…oh, forget it.
I’ll suck on just about anything. Especially a symbol. Most especially a symbolist.
My favorite symbolist is Efrem Zimbalist. Junior.

Watch Me Think!

Why does every man my age seem to want to spackle my stone-
dead tail to his wand like it’s some kind of medal sport?
Why are there so many psychiatrist babies?
And why do they all sit cross-legged
when beating me at “Who Can Lose More Interest in Biography?”
It’s all so slender, isn’t it?
So airily slender?
Cruel, in a way, but still capable
of creating a foremost vodka.
A mission to set fire to another agent’s mission.
Terribly slender and sad.
Like babies.
Like yesterday.
Like a twit.

Then a gust of availability blows all your dayglo babies sky-high.
Does that veal you can drink indispose you? It seems my approaching
seems to cream to the sight of you riding me like a draft, like kippers
in heat, breast-deep and born to swoon. I pretend otherwise but I don’t
know how to lay. At least not how to lay a PEZ dispenser of Charlie Tuna.
This begins to feel like a charity ball for the disabled baby shithead you
as opposed to the jollier you I automated in my blog monkey’s anus.
There’s a breeziness about it all.

In steerage the Jews lost many of their numbers across the wide ocean.
Why should that make me feel jawless? Why thresh about it?
My fleetness of anus seems to have taken the wind out of your sling.
This brings me back to the militarization of babies.
To the tenses I prefer in the rain. The taint of the rain is fruitful.
Let those babies leaf through my portfolio. Let them become Germans
with thumb-screw patents pending. I’ll never be late for that dance.
I’m a specter, an inspector, an open but off limits sphincter, like you
need to visualize a velvet rope or electric fence. In the rain.

You’ve got fins, learn how to stop using them.

Quit Watching Me Long Enough to Listen, This is Good

I wrote a story once about how you petted a polecat.
You were very pretty. I threw you into a pit.
It was amorous. I wanted to see you suffocate
in the Antarctic with your suffocation serum
just out of reach of your cane.
I bought you a Persian lilac.
I threw you to Prussians.
I tore off your Prussian Disguise goggles
and sent you to Atlanta to serve out the rest
of the season in the minors.
I did a miner once. He liked it like they all do.
Like a pity. Like the foodless. Like my figment
turning to ink. The seizure you mistake
for a caesura because you know there is no such thing.
It irks me when you know anything so I send you
to the Angela Davis Advisory Board for epic pity
and to be sloppily sodomized by those who’ve
sloppily sodomized me in my dreams.
It always happens under an overpass next to a salvage yard.
The killers drink tea then decapitate an advertising exec.
This is usually the point at which I begin streaming.
You just sit there.

Now that you’ve heard my story,
now that you’ve herded my tail,
you turn into a random static pattern
that defies itself amorously.
It wears a fat suit of perfect flannel
and slaps me as if I were young.
You, meanwhile just sit there, jubilant,
thriving in flannel, dashing off poems
of anything happening anywhere
there’s a threatening metal Yoda.
The tension is spooky but you
fine-tune me until I misperceive
a gimp as a potential teammate
and stick my stems in a threaded jar
then flick boogers at your happy meal
with the veal shake.
The frostiness is almost funny but
it bothers me and has since I was
sodomized in a frosted vase by
Mayor McCheese, he’s a man too.
All men like you are specifiable
by the silver in your kill scopes.
Now you’ve gotten up under me again.
Now I think I’ll grab a TV dinner made of
actual TV’s and eat them like I used to
when I was never a teenager, examining
each individual sliver of glass to see
if it shows any signs of having sent
a happy birthday satchel bomb
to my anus.
(A girl can dream. But a girl is another story.)

Sunday, November 13, 2011


My wife tried to make you a hurricane pancake,
but I think it just looks like meatwad dancing.
Dancing is forbidden. Blueberry eyes that cannot see
are not eyes even symbolically, they’re adorable slut wear.

Bless her heart, those plates are hideous.
Morning laughing fishes hideous, to get the troop
ships to look like a chicken trying to escape.
The road is precisely a step too wide.

This plate is Finnish design: Arabia’s Paralysis
(Paradise in English) Yes, Finns are coma crazy.
Once you reach a certain wife level there, you stop wifeling.
Just take up your maps and go home to the crab boat.

The pig has stopped breathing. But not shaking.
Once broken apart it is embarrassing to reassemble
the pig in view of a public that wants more heat, more noise.
Pigs are doing their duty. Who told them what that looked like?

Forgive that pun, I was overcome by your pancakes, sir.
I think your wife is trying to distract you from the mixed
breed strychnine diet she’s putting you on. Look to it.
There might be a book there.

Ice on my fingers and my toys, and I’m a Taurus! Jesus!
Dancing is stupid. I would say re-wife her but the ship is too
confused, the world has the same plates as my childhood.
My entire relationship with my plinth has been based in lies.

Flexing sun pancake thing showing off its “OH face”.
Do I look professional? (shakes out hair)
That dishware makes me want to slap you
into a sex retreat for spectrum couples.

I want Goliath to slap you now. With a wind
that starts out still and splits into various hurricanes
with drumsticks, taffy and sleeping jerks.
Insert a celebrity name-drop here, I’m bored with it.

Give his boat chocolate chip eyes, give the sand
a carpet of marshmallow anus. Large pile of mustard.
Meatwad wants a stupid turkey to slap back that chorus for him.
Meatloaf for dinner music again. This is every man’s lot.

It’s the path that’s laughing, the voteups get the money, the bitches,
the hour is the same hour as the wisdom of drivin’ in my car.
Something else is pounding. Something else standing.
A black cloud on the horizon. Burnt flannel batter. Grunge-ola.

Here’s a fruit roll-up. I was gonna make you a casserole
for your loss, but uh, but, I didn’t. A no eyed girl is waltzing,
whispering “Porky…” to the potted miracle product.
Genderless creamy pink puke that spreads like ham-like food.

Huddled in long black coat, low drawn hat, disfigurement.
Probably himself. Wanting to eat himself.
After eating those (cellophane) feedercakes.
You should have seen the 9/11 french toast sticks.

A noise like a boot coming out of a bucket of cum.
I have to admit, I did have fun
trying to put the chicken back together.

Now go home and wait forever for it.

when a hurricane pancakes over a church
it’s a government sanctioned form of incest.
When a pancake forms a close cropped afro
over a whorehouse fronted by the Pelletier Touch-

Free Carwash in Pelletier, VT, it’s breakfast
for non-poets with ID, eggs your style with choice
of two bacon strips, sausage patties or links and two silver
dollar buttermilk handjobs. (pork based death cycle on request)

The Pelletier Touchfree Carwash is technically
in Barre. Possibly how they get away with
the fuck yourself empty here signage.
Possibly money has changed hands under the booth.

We thought it was a sense of place in time, but weather
is the clue we’ve been missing all along. Preferably weather
outside. Something with a temp and breathable in the minute
before the mushroom cloud pancakes over the Pellitier

psychiatric hospital in Waterbury.
It’s always obvious, in front of your face, always
the nose right over your thing.
And I am a big nose man.

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.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011


I’m feeling things you can see.
I’m feeling penetrable today.
But my impetus is daffy.
What brand of car did you used to smoke?
Why do emotional feelings register
in the general area of your dog?
I’m doing the nasty with my pocket
wife while writing this underwater
livestock report to your ripe
lolita head.
I’m really a real goose, not the ghost
of the goose you tried to gate.
Gating is so eighties.
The first of the scriptures was good
but it needed something.
The second was better but the patient
died of things.
People usually die of people,
Why do emotional feelings register
in the general area of your last
Dead people usually notice me.
The lone long dark hair.
One of the reasons I'm getting rid of
my syphilis collection. It makes me
seem pretentious, not bored enough.
Better build a convention hall
on top of that beauty before
she bores me.
Sure Johnny Depp had a costume
of my death. It follows. Sure
I have too many favorite boots.
Like Nihilism.
Why do emotional feelings register
in the general area of what I like
to call my “Spock”?
You suddenly shift an inch in my
estimation and it moves me, shows me
Man’s Search for Nimoy as a form of blues
music you can eat on your lover’s deathbed.
That was grim, like all food.
Man's Search for Calamine Lotion
as a means of provoked masturbation.
In a light, lifelong coma someone
is studying The War of the Worlds
hoax. Her feelings are all right
there, available, checked
for scratches.
We run a stutter-free business here, bud.
Why do emotional feelings register anywhere
but in the pants of a bent wooden Indian
with the face of a Shetland vacuum
minus anything even relatively pink?
The Stranger.
Welles's work is difficult to attribute
to Welles without an annoying apostrophe.
The absurdity of the truth engulfs
and warms even the most hateful
parts of my electrified socket system.
You, on the other hand, have soothed me.
Your hand reached into my “olive jar” hair
and told the Whole Story to someone
of no particular beef cut affiliation.
Like a fifteen minute O.
So spawn already.
Too late, I’m bored erect by your red,
reactionary triangle.
Are these the dark hedonistic
proclivities you said I could
Watching men do men?
The Comedy of Joe Louis’s fist
as some sort of historic dry
erase marker?
Isn’t that a form of stroke?
Rorschach wants his pen refilled,
you arrested heap.
But your characters are brilliant.
Why do emotional feelings register
in the shapes of light and heat?
I do not watch olives on TV.
Although I work out my problems
in wrought iron fencepost dildo
gewgaw rage. In the fashion
befitting the age.
I’m having a fit right now
and you don’t even smell
like my target demographic, I find
that incredibly sexy. I find
you incredibly feh.
This City is a show about movies about
abhorrence melted down with a rare
aged gouda suffocating the last
of the minor birds.
Dash dash, dot dot, dash.
I’m the same as the bird, prey
are selfish, superficial, ignorant
spoiled sausage aficionados.
Kiss me if you like this show, we will
probably not get along
until I’m at least an inch
and a half.
Same thing probably goes
straight into my satin slip and roots
for a flower of some forgotten
Oprah there.
But for differing reasons.
Why do emotional feelings register
under assumed names?
Gnostic. This is not a word, it is
a word trick. There are no words
that start with G N except
Gnosis and that is a word trick, too.
Each is daffier by a specific percentage
multiplied by signs hidden in nests
in trees.
Tree Scene No. 1: Orson Welles
mistaken for a big eye.
Tree Scene No. 2: deafening songs
with whispered, beautiful, fifteen minute
orgasm loops instead of lyrics.
We miss the hoopla, the nude singalongs,
the phantom sleep of the coldcut.
I crave color.
I crave it a lot.
I can see that it’s a lie.
Books about olives drown me
in your scent. Chanel Number
get off, get famous, get slept.
End. End again.
Pass me a Holstein, I eat mirth
like a newborn mother
drowning in conversation.
I can charm an entire room.
You start with the gates
and work your way down
to the core. The cheesecake
and the home-made you-wish.
Two little red hens in a girl.
She’s wearing an environment.
She needs change.
She clowns on the side.
You could be 100 years old
and I’d still consider you short-term.
Why do emotional resistances
feel like currents in the veil
of your lost time?
Why is this so inappropriately
The mother is sending the signal
to the bird but the bird is preoccupied
hammering the anvil into the shape
of a Jesus filter.
Original people made of pulled-pork.
Pulled-pork girls with bonnets
of pulled-pork. Pulled-pork
pen-pals spilling their environments
like so much seedless tree.
I’m in love with my first mentor
and the girl underneath his cloak.
I am soon to marry.
Please do not be another man.
Please pull your pork in the
designated areas.
The environment is for accessing
rare materials and licking
is for members only.
Please do keep this in mind.
Why emote at all when you can
just feel within a limited sphere?
A rare steak, she was barely
four foot ten. Ripped
from the pages of a stiff, congealed
spine, a custom feelings
register with fresh nine volt
batteries to alert you once
you’re burning.
I admit it, I smuggled her
inside when no one was looking
at the smoking car.
You are green, like a skilled tree.
Seemed a harmless little fuk.
And I quote.