BulkNuts

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.)

HOW SCIENTISTS WEED OUT WAFFLES

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.
Suddenly…propeller.
I have to admit, I did have fun
trying to put the chicken back together.

Now go home and wait forever for it.

Postscript:
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.

LeMorteD’Liza

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.

Miscreants.

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
anymore.”

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.
Certs.
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.
....um 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,
yeah!
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.

FukwitPlatformFader

I’m feeling things you can see.
I’m feeling penetrable today.
But my impetus is daffy.
meh.
What brand of car did you used to smoke?
Minefield?
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.
snort.
I’m really a real goose, not the ghost
of the goose you tried to gate.
Gating is so eighties.
yawn.
The first of the scriptures was good
but it needed something.
A-1.
The second was better but the patient
died of things.
People.
People usually die of people,
eventually.
Why do emotional feelings register
in the general area of your last
nurse?
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
borrow?
Watching men do men?
The Comedy of Joe Louis’s fist
as some sort of historic dry
erase marker?
Apostrophe?
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
pretty?
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.
Why?
You are green, like a skilled tree.
Seemed a harmless little fuk.
And I quote.

I MISS NOT SEEING YOUR MONUMENTS

I got your note about the nightmare
that someone cut your mouth open
and that that was the future of America.
Having trouble deciphering and having
a nightmare that you were a blonde t-shirt.
Or was this the one where the ceiling
was the falling triangle of life?
Was it the one about the live pink dress
and the enormous Olde English D?
How they’d sneak into the ballpark after hours
pretending it was a police station
and “water” the morgue with Olde English
crop circles somebody sent in an attachment?
Attachments work because you need them to.
If you begin to feel attached to this message
or your vasovagal syncope returns stop, step
away, take a walk, lie down, die, get some water.
When the feeling passes resume the operation.
Operations work because you want them to.
A whole different thing than a dream. And
in practical terms impossible, so safe. Safe to relive
your personal Vietnam in a way that entertains
but similar enough to canoeing to make no dent
in the natural attention deficit. It’s like making
love in ways that only a point-n-shoot and some
rousing singalongs can. I saw, in my dream,
a man like a troll at the mouth of my bridge
to heaven. He was holding a pair of ball
bearings slightly out of round but no less
intimidating, no less the symbol of a nation
on the brink. I had my own water, crossed it
and went home to vomit a paisley sunset.
Sunsets work because you insist on making them
do the dirty work for you. You’re lazy and stupid.
Hope you're having prettier dreams tonight.
Have one for me. I’m currently riding a tiny
white man like as if he was Seabiscuit (the cereal)
and all around a landscape of oranges and orange
boneless people in the shapes of their initials.
My dad is definitely dying now. He kept saying so
for so long but we treated it like a poem.
He’d finish it some day then we’d stop
watching The Deadliest Catch.
Poems work because you fill them with gas
and pray that they’ll rise and carry your ID
past security. Those dudes are sometimes huge.
Nothing works like a huge dude works, I read
that on a TV once along with a picture
of someone contracting live pink cancer
marshmallows. In a crowd only the crowd
has a presence, a body, need of a bath.
A crown is almost identical only encrusted
in irreproducible gems of lowbrow “genius”.
You can make a crowd work for you, but a Crown
Victoria will run 200k miles without changing
the oil then explode and vomit out the remains
of its driver and any passengers in the shape
of a crowd collecting under a vomiting sun.
So if he’s serious about dying this time stop
treating this like it’s some poem or I’ll have
to kick you squarely in the canon.
Canons work because you want to blow off
as many dangerous limbs of a crowd as possible
at once and you don’t care how you have to spell it.
I bought a blue dog just to piss you off
cuz you said I reminded you of its childhood.
Dogs don’t work for shit against crowns.
That’s the whole point of being a dog, otherwise
why bother? That’s why you need a point-n-shoot
and some steel balls. Get in there, mix it up, show
‘em you’re made of chemicals, take pictures and email
them to your friends so they won’t have to see you
taking the pictures in person in your second best
pink skin party frock. Dodging cops at f11, happy
to be alive at such a pivotal moment in the history
of the controlled demolition of a building, a building
that left itself days before the crowd realized the car
had exploded taking them all across the bridge.
Buildings work because they fail to work eventually.
I dreamed I was a child labor felled tree toter out
in the country near mountains and a drowning king
in some country on a planet you made up at dinner
as a joke. Spinach stuck in your tooth ha-ha-funny,
not the my dad is dying weird-funny. The funny
that inevitably ends in a kind of three-way hell.
Hell works but not always, it’s a dice roll at best.
All hell's done broke loose here, or's about to.
As of tonight I'm officially at that point
we've always known would arrive, when I can
no longer hold my fingers together in that sign
of unspoken solidarity or back-the-fuck-off
or whatever it’s supposed to have meant.
I have no idea what you’ve been talking about
and I have RSI and I don’t think that’s working
for me anymore. The incommunicado approach
requires a much stronger hat. Intimacy and sharing
require more robust hats to last. And your glasses:
they’re corny. Like a non-geek pretending to be
pretending to be geeky. Or nerdy. Or whatever.
Words don’t work. They aren’t about secrets
anymore. Secrets were always the only things
that worked. Don’t ask me why, it just illustrates
your stupidity. But it’s a very intelligent question,
it isn't about secrets or no secrets, not even about trust...
it comes down to simply letting someone else order
the fish that will choke you in death, choke you in revenge
for supporting the fish killing industry and thinking
you can dodge those nearly invisible killer bones.
For watching The Deadliest Catch which, funny
irony, isn’t even about catching fish, per se.
Fish work because there is nothing there but scales.
Fish scales work because you need something
to weigh against the sunset you know is seizing up
inside the crowd, its colon swelling against a pink dusk.
It’s about speaking the same language, language
of the moment, language of the mouth, of the heart.
That had to have been intended to say “of the moth.”
but this is an all-smoking building.

SleetTankCommandant

My self-summary of someone else smearily similar to myself

So my life is a total bitch, and I can’t wait to meet her.
Like an awesome PBS show from the eighties when your set’s
set on autodimple. Does anyone awesome still say something
is on the blink? I do! Not that I’m ready to go Dolby Surgical
Labia Dongle shopping with you yet, but if you meet me it will be
just like we’re starting already at season 5. The one where
the premise is all played out and the writers have moved to a new
town where an identically awesome diamond stuffed Pelican or midlife
uglyfruit struggles with his ne’er do well brother in a neighboring
snowmobile universe. A haunted carnival instead of a hospital.
The crack-me-up sound of a book pile lighting itself afire instead
of a Cowper’s Gland by Cover Girl recital.

It's fun to be me, PBS-like, I was oddly conceived out of
focus and naturally awesome. You might not think it very
awesome that I sell peeks at my steam-punk fuchsia mongoose
to Flipper (he has Melancholia) for nickels, but once you've gone lame
you’ll never reframe they say. The genius is in the indefensible, the shuttering
of the new-wave school for the blind just as that awesome U2 song was about
to be rereleased on department store salami.

I'm a native eating New Yorker so not much de-phases my head’s spine.
I don't let the littler things I step on get me down and the bigger things
that might step on me I just walk around, limping a touch in case. Last time
I forgot to be awesome I was left with only one left hand per compliment.

I am only slightly sinister (a Latin pun I learned on Telemundo), creative
but notched like a post on a bed, I’m a party I’m always awesomely throwing,
I have a very awesomely sexy voice and use it on my furniture almost hourly,
yet I can't sing Ghetto Dreams without a full chorus of pigs in shades.

But it's my humidity that makes me so awesome...I dream, moist, of things
that are bigger, then wake myself up and make my stomach dizzy with the
conspiracy. I practice self-hypnosis on my fashion sense, visualize my head
in outer space then make the moon happen again. It takes a lot of practice.
If you want I’ll teach you how to practice and you’ll never be able to do it
or anything ever. But wanting to do what we can’t is what makes us awesomer.
That’s some truth you can fly in the face of sans shame, sans signs.

I Shoot the hip and spray lead at the arts with my heart. Being quick on my feet
is a dangling idea, banded collars make me instantly Asian and when I’m a Negro
I don't miss a beat. I like to be. (and I am, just try stepping on my buzz and see
what the gypsies who bought up my option feed their plasma dogs tomorrow)

I can always be found being stabbed on a street, dashing off to show someone
my gashes, truthful until I speak at all or if not, thoughtful as in I think about how
awesome it is to be thinking about how awesome I must seem to you.

I tend to piles of leaves of elderly nuns outside a dilapidated inner city convent.
Some of them have been there since the original tree, the one Adam West ate
in that cartoon about a guy who comes to Earth to save everyone's stamps.

Questions? They’re a mark of weakness and I can sell anything that fits under
a dome. Don’t miss this shit, it won’t happen again for another fifteen microbeads.

I know you know I’m completely awesome and that means I’m complete
with floor mat and suggested positions but I still dream of finding someone
to be awesome with in a catalog. Preferably with exemptions built in.

I have a lot of friends, many are lifers. (the system is a deterrent to crime but
nothing like Purim dinner with no inhibitions, I’ve laid out my imaginary tools
in front of my imaginary family).

There are many sides to me. Seven if you count each foot. Many sides to my life.
Three if you count each exhalation. I spent my life learning to beat the house.
If you are my house, the home for my heart, I hope to find someone to beat you with.
That would have awesomosity I haven’t even unwrapped yet.

What I’m doing with my life keeps edging away a few more feet just as I’m about to get in
and it’s cheesing me off like I can’t even tell you

Travel is a bitch who travels. I travel for work. But I have some nice free time
when I’m in traction. Free time is a bitch with a watch. I like to spend time with friends
when I'm not working on projecting my image onto the side of the building next door.
The entire hospital can see me from any window on the North side plus all the traffic
that wrecks on the street. Supply and demand. New York had a lot of things to do
and I did them, places to go and I went there twice, and things to eat that I ate.
There is now a crippling shortage of All Stuff.

I also am in a cattle town talking to a western marshal about the state of the cattle
arts and I teach it to orphans as well. I’m building an awesome army for the future!

I’m really good at one line meanings

I am not good at one line meanings, worse at meeting your bipedal expectations
and I hope never to be in a room with a view that isn’t facing North. (I should never
be called before dinner, I’m busy in the boiler room carbon dating vagrants from the
other kind of depression, nothing that happens here is as good as the real world).

The first things people usually notice about me pass through one of two slits

I was told by a gypsy orphan once that I would grow up to be a gypsy and one day,
if I was lucky, I might be an orphan, too, or a pupa with no butterfly to press against
the dome above the capital J. Why is everyone’s middle initial J? Is there something
wrong in here and you’re keeping it from me because you’re afraid I might awesomely
fix it? Or take you down to the boiler room with your mom and the dormant killer bees?

I was told by a gypsy once that I had no eyes. That they’d been there when I left
for lunch but were gone when I arrived back five minutes late. They had just failed to reappear.
Then my smile. But even so I can also can various types of fruits. Tomatoes, beets, relishes.
Then I’ll pull out my key and start up a conversation with any one (this is more of a soup dish,
it comes in a powder, you just add water then wait for the pigs).
(but no Soylent Green or long form pig).

I…

…see thin things other people miss because of my super narrow vision.

…look at my self in the mirror as well as my self live with the thin things
I stuff and/or mount.

…would like to find love or sex but I have lived with out having some one
in my life for a while and don’t seem to be missing much. Except you of course.

…guess I will have to say I like my friends. They aren’t very hip.

…crave a mosque or mosquito tent or muskrat hutch or mausoleum or a quiet place.

…think it's nice waking up to irrationality, malaria, shit, eternity, less noise.

…don’t like clean things being “clean” and clean sheets “not” being sticky.
(Not that getting sticky can't be fun but staying sticky for long is a bit of a drag.
I hot tar my entire interior twice a year on both Xmases so I know)

…read poetry a lot and deny any growth on my abdomen and any change in my
sofa and any sofa in my life that doesn’t look like Rectimus the Wonder Divan
from the first season of The Complete Works of Raymond Orifice.

...spend a lot of time thinking about trying not to think about cake.

BEING A SCRAPBOOK CONSULTANT IS EASY (Part I)

I looked deep into my heart to write and found
concept art of proto-Bob Barker the antagonist
of Bram Stoker’s famous novel, One Hundred
Years of Tuna Abstinence, set in the undersea
mountains of Mule Lick, NV (not far from Berlin,
NV) where the cold war is kept on ice when WANG!
a book of explosions and experiments went off
fragging my commanding officer, a near mint pussy
complete with original box and instruction manual.
The manual offered detailed instructions for each
experiment. It included a geyser tube and balloons.

Nevada scares the fuck outta me.

I thought about calling Brad for advice but
Brad scares the fuck outta me.

People often ask, “How can I change my last name?”
“How can I control my face?” I considered looking
for the answers to your painful questions on Facebook
but the new Facebook scares the fuck outta me.

Fitness questions, for example, as they pertain
to the poor. The poor lack the wherewithal for
basic everyday resources like bottled water and
leopard leotards. Not because they are by definition
poor (profitable!) but because they inconvenience me.
Hates that.
Nothing scares the shit outta you more than
a mosquito you can hear but not see. Amirite?

Lon Chaney could contort his body into the shape
of an invisible airborne parasite and motivational
speaker John Basedow, gay-straight friendly TV
personality multinational Pakistani razor brand
and Holy Cow Shark Milk resistance band mascot.
(A portion of all shark milk goes to rebuild the poor.)
The recipient of numerous humanitarian awards
delivered via totally ripped and smokin’ warhead.
Only the YOU ARE STILL NOT HERE marker survives.
Mall of America scares the fuck outta me.

It begins to be like living in the real Minecraft.
Armor can mitigate damage from mob attacks,
while weapons can be used to kill enemies and
other animals. The game has no set goals and
cannot be won. My virtual goldendoodle hides
under the abandoned ammo dump, her tail
a rip in the sundial I spent all night hard coding.
A train-wreck is coming.
A train-wreck is coming.
Minecraft scares the fuck outta me.

See this guy right here? This guy has a green beret
and can do fourteen trillion push-ups. He paid six-
hundred bucks to say he wrote All Apologies,
he’s a modern day goldsmith Mannerist sepia baby
eraser in a blog café with unlimited papal mint refills.
This guy scares the fuck outta me.

And then I realized something that transformed
me in a way I hadn’t expected or prepared for:

The future scares the fuck outta me.

The crack of dawn scares the fuck outta me.

The basement hall scares the fuck outta me.

Your background scares the fuck outta me.

Snow death scares the fuck outta me.

Skeletron scares the fuck outta me.

The Pope scares the fuck outta me.

Dr. Who scares the fuck outta me.

Mrs. Pac Man scares the fuck outta me.

This shit my Mom has outside the house
scares the fuck outta me.

Noodles: Just the thought of that
scares the fuck outta me.

Cindy McCain scares the fuck outta me.

This pic where you stare at the screen till
sumpthin’ scares you scares the fuck outta me.

I know he lost most of his jaw to cancer but
Roger Ebert’s “new face” scares the fuck outta me.

The earth just scares the fuck outta me.

Melissa Dettwiller: This chick scares the fuck outta me...
but I'm still strangely compelled to plow her in the dirthole.

This new automatic Febreze sprayer we got
scares the fuck outta me.

I hate when something scares me
when I’m trying to drink something.
My hands and feet go cold, I get pale,
like seeing a life-size Barbie the Malibu
Climatologist giving birth to a classic
50’s Barbie in a c-section hootenanny dress.

The cost of a baby is roughly the same
as the cost of having your arm fat siphoned
but twice as much as a full-price rhinoplasty.
It’s cheaper to be circumcised in the Midwest
than on the east coast, cheaper to buy than to rent
a national park. (Give her a birthday she’ll never forget!)
These indelible images of our glorious history
will last forever unless one of us drinks enough.
Child birth scares the fuck outta me.

De ja vu scares the fuck outta me so I try and stop it
on purpose, like if I feel it happening I try and not do
what I did in the vision, if I can help it.

That zipper scares the fuck outta me.
who says we have to give up our innocence?
I heart the beach.
I wanna live somewhere that snows.
And when I do, I think it's a damn shame that we just
don’t all call Charles Lee Ray and ask him nicely why
so Lee Harvey James Earl Sirhan Serious?

Look, I may have been 14 when The Lion King came out,
but the hyenas are obvious Nazis at the one minute, forty-six
second mark, no matter what people say. Those are Nazis.
And Nazis scare the fuck out of me. I blame the copious
amount of Nazi Germany documentaries I’ve watched.
I don't fear the Reaper, but Christopher Walken
scares the fuck outta me.

De ja vu scares the fuck outta me so I try and stop it
on purpose, like if I feel it happening I try and not do
what I did in the vision, if I can help it.

Meanwhile, at Burger King...Burger King scares the fuck outta me.
What can I say, I'm an all consuming vortex of homosexuality.
Big shit still scares the fuck outta me.

I like lots of different kinds of movies, that’s why I started
this fever resistant strain of the virus, sweating and loss of
caramel color, the scare spread quickly, virally, cancer
in the public interest. A laugh-riot egregious attempt
to blindfold the testers and switch their selections. I love love
stories the best but love's hair scares the fuck outta me.

AHHH, I see a giant yellow frog
who constantly says its name,
and forcing kids to have fun
on a sunny, constantly-happy island...
does this island make my fat look like an ass?
It’s got Elias Koteas in it and he always
scares the fuck outta me.

Space scares the fuck outta me.

The thought of getting old, living alone and possibly
never having sex again scares the fuck outta me.
So I try to enjoy what time I have by talkin to people
like Kirk in a transporter mishap talking with Lumpy Branum.
Or one of his minor lady-loves. He asks her will you make
America a Sanctuary City? The nineteenth century or
the stone age? Is this the way to Simi Valley or a hole
in Pismo Beach? Plato’s stepchildren sired by Bold Ruler
out of Somethingroyal.

Shatner scares the fuck outta me.

They’ve been storing the hunks of twisted building
and half crushed fire trucks in a hangar at JFK. Maybe
we'll find out it was totally acceptable for a lady to
envision all the critical elements of her wedding day;
long before she meets the person she will marry.
Maybe she’ll take a wrong turn and marry a half
crushed fire truck, thinking it human remains.
For a young woman to dream that she is preparing
vegetables for dinner, foretells that she will lose
the man she desired through pique, but she will win
The Super Bowl, The World Series, A Championship Fight,
The Masters, Wimbledon, The US Open, The Stanley Cup,
The World Cup, and a pair of purple acetate sunglasses
fused to a pair of traditional wire aviators in green
just moments before she utters her final words,

“I ask that you please stop sitting
on the wall, it scares the fuck outta me
when I come outside and you keep setting
my motion detectors off.”

Cleverbot Chertoff Fat Girls Laughing Leftist Whispering
scares the whatever out of whomever you see making it
all look easy. Like Betty Crocker said, (in the pan) “I never
existed in your active chamber, but in a corner of the gun
closet behind the minks the ghosts of a once vital industry,
the pulse of America’s collective neck, scares the fuck outta me.”

I dont wanna die knowing that you’ll cry over me but
if death means watching The Biggest Loser or reruns
of terror bloopers replacing destinationless circling tourist
monomonuments with his-n-hers depressions and a urinal
or never getting over being with you, I might as well take
my own life letting a structure jump out from under me
just for the caloric boost. Death scares the hell outta me.
Hell scares the fuck outta me.

So I’m all good.

This is my favorite sweater because it scares the fuck outta me.

It’s homemade, like if an alien were to fall to Earth, meet a girl,
pick up a guitar, and retreat to a cabin in the woods, it’s possible
his first record would sound a lot like MY HAIR FUCKING SCARES ME
by Tool and I ALWAYS THINK THERE’S SOMETHING HORRIBLE
CRAWLING ON MY ARM by Tool, too. I’d be being tea-bagged
by the Muse and strangely at peace with my lot.
The Muse no longer fucking scares me.
And when I say “Sharks are my biggest fear” I mean the words
“sharks” and “milk” and “are” and “my” and “biggest” and “fear”
and “I” and “mean” are my biggest fear. No wonder it scares me
if I don’t wake up! Or if I wake up without you in my phone.

p.s.
I hate the sweater you re-regifted me on our last Xmas together
because it used to scare the fuck outta me but now I just think
it’s warm. And that scares the fuck outta me.

p.p.s.
Call me, Brad.

AntietamMakeupArtist

"A true hotrodder wouldn't be content
until he had created a car so violent,
so hairy, so totally sick that the very
act of dropping the hammer would
result in instant death. Anything less
results in the need to go faster."
~ Tony DeFeo


I am a very communicative person.
That is my hobby. But sometimes I think.
What about you, are you a communicative
person? I communicate myself.

At what age did we stop talking in pictures?
When did we start to just write instead of
communicate? Why is the airbag light on
in my car?

What are you communicating?
Do you have healthcare? I don’t care
about healthcare, what I care deeply about
is this issue of the heavyweight division rankings.

I like to live with nature
at a distance where I can keep it
from doing anything jerky that might frighten off
my precious flights of free time.

I like to traverse the spaces between
your total ignorance
(doesn’t ignorance = hate?)
and my pumpkin orange beanbag chair.

l married my childhood
relaxation therapist
and he laid there for two hours hyperventilating.

I said it was love, the real thing,
on a sinking ship with one lifeboat too few,
the word sabotage never came up.

I’ve never minded falling in love,
my only objection is the fact that
I had to repaint the terrace, twice.

I have been getting divorced
for nearly thirty six years now.
I think it's time to find a person
to have a relationship for me.

I have a body and soul connection
you’re more than welcome to
burrow into and remain hidden from predators
on alternate weekends through Labor Day.

I smoke
as a rule.
I was born with an extra
thumbnail generator.

I work as a book keeper,
mid-century room divider,
it’s very scary when you compare it
to being paired off with a ghost.

I was with an auto mechanic for six months
when the damn thing just went VROOM!
That had me doing the dance!
I’m highly adaptable company.

We were talking about movies that make no sense.
Why in Brazil there was nothing about Brazil?
I love movies that make me think
about Brazil.

And suddenly I find myself
having to say I’m from Brazil!
In Brazil we practice new sports
medicine techniques on our elderly.

I try to run almost every day
like a bitch on heat.
I’m in good shape and just looking
to have a healthy and long life together
role-playing as a strategy that fits within
the social family of models.
I really like my job
detailing how people feel about their jobs,
characterized by bending forward,
raising the knees and extending the hands.

The eye is like a backward window,
they say the smile is the window to the heart,
the leaning suggests a certain reluctance,
a finely tuned and toned body and symmetrical
vantage point on the body from above and to the west.

They say I'm elegant.
I looked out the window yesterday.

God I can’t wait for the spring,
God I can’t wait for the summer,
God I can’t wait for the summer to end,
God I can’t wait for the fall,
God I can’t wait for this winter to be over.

I am 40 years old with dreams of a girl
permeating my nostrils,
permeating my consciousness,
permeating my mind.
With this said, I am also convinced
we can know the season
when having it all becomes too much,
by its mottled, exfoliating bark.

My best friend is a cashier at Dollar Tree.
My bird is trying to mate with his toy?
I heard this big crack and I thought “Oh God,
Don’t let it be that 400 year old tree!”
The concept of a bird family has no universal definition.

I believe that family and friends
believe in freedom of expression;
I believe that family and friends
can destroy one another.
I live in constant pursuit of images,
powerful images of leaving friends and family.
Images of birds in flight.

Why does it feel like I haven’t known you
my entire life? Are you that same man?
At the first of the two demonstrations
of his affection, there was something else
just under the surface, a kind of tension,
a call for more firepower in a combat zone.
Without thinking about it, it just sort of became
a nation of whiners, some sort of tattoo design.

Someone was telling a story about their pets
then everyone started telling pet stories.
When we took him to the vet he was almost already gone.

Since I turned twenty one I live fully in the present, but
I’ll never forget those trips to the factory.
Raw, voluminous American imagination.
I have high expectations of the future.
That’s where I’m going to have left my watch.

THE POINT OF SINGING

I.

I am two special characteristics


I wonder something you are actually curious about


I hear an imaginary sound


I see an imaginary sight


I want an actual desire


I am the first line of the poem restated


I pretend something you pretend to do


I feel a feeling about something imaginary


I touch an imaginary touch


I worry something that really bothers you


I cry something that makes you very sad


I am the first line of the poem repeated


I understand something you know is true


I say something you believe in


I dream something you actually dream about


I try something you make an effort to do


I hope something you actually hope for


I am the first line of the poem repeated

II.

I am two special characteristics

flatworms. the 32 Signs of a Great Man.
being in love with two people at the same time. helium.

I wonder something you are actually curious about

what are the characteristics of an accommodating person?
can you name some “best friend” cartoon characters?

I hear an imaginary sound

how are you interpreting it? how was it supposed to be interpreted?
what was the nature of the assignment?

I see an imaginary sight

small ghost of woman reclining on cutting board reading a book called
“How to Make Small Ghosts”

I want an actual desire

on the other hand a person can engage in sexual activity.
with mascara being one of the many requirements.

I am the first line of the poem restated

over the past couple of years we have begun to grow.
now to the point where we are HUGE.

I pretend something you pretend to do

my comment was made off the record and shouldn’t have been
published. the party was supposed to have been a surprise.

I feel a feeling about something imaginary

I am feeling a person through telepathy and I do not understand.
what does it feel like to have an organism?

I touch an imaginary touch

I want my skin to stop burning for just 5 minutes so I can know what
that feels like. I want to be alone but I can’t be because the world is here.

I worry something that really bothers you

or even better one could say, “I am happy with everything!
which would batter the situation with positivity!”

I cry something that makes you very sad

buy a car with bad credit!
go ape idiom!

I am the first line of the poem repeated

extracted from a large collection of miscellaneous collections.
a woman torturing a small man.

I understand something you know is true

among other common lies we have the silent lie,
the deception one conveys by simply keeping still.

I say something you believe in

humanity has known the earth to be round for a few millennia
and I have been meaning to revise that video.

I dream something you actually dream about

do you know how to turn the world into a turntable?
Mozart wants you to bake it in a cake.

I try something you make an effort to do

our greatest glory is not in never failing, but in
finding the best way to fail in real estate.

I hope something you actually hope for

the string game creates what looks loosely like a cradle
unfolding within a pregnant woman’s womb.

I am the first line of the poem repeated

III.

RedeploymentPhase

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.

Great.

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.

CapsuleSeason

Never go to the mailbox without a flashlight

SO I GUESS YOU CAN ONLY USE ONE ZIP CODE AT A TIME.
FUCK.
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.
WELL, THREE.
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?
LOVING?
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

MY DIMPLES.
MY CURLS.
MY LAUGH.
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.

JoyDispleasureAdvertiser

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.

SlapTake

Tear-Open

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.

(sometimes)

Funka

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
suddenly crawling.

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.

Jawfish

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.

Joystick

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.

OPPOSITE INSTRUMENTS

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
totally screwed.

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
Autogiro, Architects.)

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.

LemonyTechnicalities

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?