NOW ENTERING MANUAL BREATHING MODE

The night's work was over.
Most of the workers sensed the real life.
One could not embrace the intention
of the heroes. Next day, no scooter.

So the whole craze about the artist
went over his head, since he fell asleep
half way through the predictable plot.
Then came the planes and swiffers.

Danny DeVito waited in the baggage claim
with a sign that said "DeVito".
He was clinging firmly to his coke zero.
It only showed in a single frame.

"I'll be right back" everyone
in the world said to the space station.
"I mean, who doesn't want to be velvety-
rich!" said the station master's buttered nuts.

That seemed weird, the way she drowned
before that movie began. Anti-anti-climactic.
This is how revolutions are fomented. One
pint of blood on a corn muffin at a time.

Now the internet is turning young girls into living
conditions, staring doe-eyed at the waving crop
of yellow bonanzas, wielding butterfly bows, cupie
lips on porcelain denoted by black hail.

One gave his last muffin to a young girl
and she played flight of the bumblebee
with a butter knife crusted in his precious nuts.
The red balloons aka her muffin will not be televised.

Hey you! you got white stuff in your hair!
Is this product placement? Too much white product?
Was it what you expected? How do you get that white
stuff off your tongue?

"I'll be right back," his wind rattled.
The construction site had a bright banner
that made it an exiting construction site!
That eight foot ball of filling blood was answered

with a meteor, with a fire safety manager,
with a portable in-ear war thermometer,
with grease to prevent the dance floor
from rising into a cavern of its scars.

The pod, when they blew it open, was filled
with the most beautiful sounds. Sounds of
rejected sinks. Laughter of retards writing
all of Mozart then playing with C-4 and a Colt

45 Malt Liquor and a 45-rpm of Mozart "handling"
himself in a tricky situation involving blacks. The blacks
don't care about tongues. They're just tongues.
You trade one in at the clinic for a real-life Barbie

then you bow her until she breaks out
in Keep the Home Fires Burning.
Love at eleven compromised the plaster
looking like striations of Acai juice or invented blood.

The blood squeezed out of a Plymouth.
C-4 requires a binder to work. Something to bind it
to work. The Cars That Ate Paris released in the US
as the cars that eat people. But ya gotta drive.

In space no revolution is possible without corn.
In space no young girl can be sexualized until she's a doll.
In space no amount of blood can fill any ball.
In space no one can hear you bathe your eyes.

No one ever hears Mr. Bubble coming until someone
loses an eye.  The teacher with the ruler with the metal edge
bought us one nut each then left us to get home on our own.
The ending ran backwards before the opening credits.

It blew. Hitchcock walked.

You Are Not a Boy

You are not a boy but pimples don’t let you live free?
in glad tidings we greet thee oh Roosevelt of the coal chute,
and surmise that Satan’s scowl has deepened your butt crack.
Deepened the tub to accommodate same, deprogrammed all
your independent swing dancers, daughters of the Reddy Kilowat
forgetting generation, but me. me? me, say, how dare he play with us?
Work for your supper while recognizing the kitchen of our Slavic
youth, recognize its brilliance in Spics, Sambo.
Abortion Clinic Length Fuse Deluxe by Hasbro.

Patrick, Are you ready to please your BFF on Valentines?
How about your BBF? Your big feinting cork on the wall?
Need expert consultation with your cork control?
Gain some extra strength and be ready to become
an advancing army of the red state sexmachine!

Real Estate Sex with a real Realtor
who’s never had sex till this very moment
in the suspension of quality time. Sex After 50
is the new Sex after miles to the border on foot.
No Piranhas, no noblese oblige, no blems
in your finish – Earl Scheib.
You must use your my First Utero Creamsicle
by Fisher Price, loaded with warm hot big huge hard stiff
loads of compassion by the Helsinki Vicodin Quartet, an agrarian
age without the required Evinrude Human Resources Tennis Prrrrrrro.

Their eyes dropped onto the table a short while after.

Against that wall of on-demand binding
riddling the whole Heidelberg inquisition
with Stephen King on bass, rendering Tuesdays
With Maury in potato buds, the undead as a Nazi
mosquito brigade advancing on the crowds in Fireplace City.

Flattens his tongue on that sphere,
skull fragment cocked in a quizzical dog
attitude, he presses an alphabet into her
until an accessory has been born and sucked
its contents dry for trying tofu made of veal.

Pequod over the netting of the Juliette
of the Sportscenter Central West, trapped
at the mouth of the pass and all that harderer.
Arnold gave his life to golf, it just won’t end yet.
Give of me my cold, my hungry, my thin pleasure
found in boards unshuffled upon on the quarterdeck,
the Enterprise was destroyed before any of us were born
singing, destroyed by the evil that lurks in the hearts of men…
destroyed like so many eggs and ham (not any known shade
of green) Then the Pleasure of nice weather no longer rhymes.
Just like it never did.
Question: to every black man who dreams of a white woman in his bed,
would you elect this Cadbury Goat? Question: to every god feigning man
who rides a white horse in his F-150 with stretch cab, would you?
Engineering types the casing took on the look of told us what we needed
to know; man is a chameleon with only one color and pattern to his name.
The promise is not Das Kapital with Johnny Action by Marx. (it must be
good, it’s by Marx!) The problem is in your radiator cap too willing to blow
for just overheating on the pledge drive.

ones weight exists to enter it in the contest to not lose faith.

I can devise work on my palm.

Get ready with the I in I am about to be
Going Easy And Swift With U-Boats Up the Canal.
And see, you step into the prescription canal
and find it made of oil. Oil and the gel of the Alleghany buck.

Make sure they think you were in the freezer when the deal
went down, then take a cab over to Morgana and get busy
going down on Morgana’s miniature Italian greyhound.

The kids knew only its initial properties and killed it for meat.
In that forest of beers and subjects under torture yet there was
nothing more that needed to be entered into the official report.


What Is New Jew? Jew, If nothing becomes you
but the black dress of the hologram, how does that
set on tilt the world of anesthesia? There’s a second
world of anesthesia? Hiding beneath the bed of the first?
Stabbing me in the back at the slippery lipped source
of all life slopping its intoxicating smelling chili.
It was/is life, what he said she said about you, not yours
to take back for credit. That portal into the entrance
lobby, that eight to ten inch causeway, spread
its chili across his back and down.
If he had been a better sci-fi writer he might have
left a better will.
Seriously.
And he might have gotten the chance to direct.

How Often Do You Feel Blue?
Maybe it's your unrecognized depression?
Maybe the too many ess’s in your name?
Two sons who, nobly following in his footsteps, have taken
to reciting, like cloning chimpanzees, the prefatory
negation of all things unrelated to A True Story
About Thee Gods Of Love And Their Mastery
of shipments of primo weed unpacked on the tarmac
of the curve of your lower spine.
This was of course impossible without delay.
Boloney, Febreze, sequential sentient ants traipsing
their way to the islands where they roosted,
or soaring leisurely to Simply Order Top Quality Generic Pills
scattered to the cloud of bees. The bees know. The bees
don’t tell, it’s how they preserve their information sources.
Balancing death by Nestles Crunch on rope, on bridge, on
Poison, on Blitzen, on a snack assortment that was heavenly,
the stuff of a hundred million gleaming nightmare hooks and ladders.
The nest spontaneously feathering.
Cradling it on its side, feigning mesothelioma
when the plasterers union finishes up stuccoing Lincoln’s eye.
Anything, they’d have done anything, just so the holograph
wouldn’t have taken any shit.

Or taken any away.

One was large as a tong.
One, a familiar tune.

Shocking results on your body regeneration search
taught even a woman at the information meat counter
that nothing would nestle not holographically fizzure imbued.
Not, at least, until after they snatched her anyway and reexamined
and retitled and rebranded and reintroduced the same hole
into the same receiving line. The bride bled water from her seat.
Was I going to die when released from the trap?
I was going to continue to die trapped.
They clapped for themselves, so I clapped.

StuntHope

What does it mean when your baby Is born
with Blonde Streaks? I don't know, but my daughter
was born with the longest consecutive win streak in NFL history.

Some of them bear the silvery streaks of birth.

Mini cunt lice has a spectacular aura
(another more detailed examination to follow)
but he wants me to flower it in my tent
so he can have a bonsai bud.

We’re so good together
I have to cling to him until the panic subsides
but who here is hazardously wearing their fatigue?
at most it’s a numerosity, a gasket, momentary
disarray, a carry-on cot in the already Radon fuselage.

So I stick to misspelling words like “Organising”
and sucking the monsoons out of parties
posing fetchingly as Larva Croft by a fence.
Free-style dancing across soundproof pleats
in my silvery-streaked burn-scarred nickelplated nickels.

My son wants me to legalize his bronchitis. I said sure.
His dad is an autocratic friend of my enemy friend.
Am I milling correctly? Is this the pre-debris-trail-plane?
Cassocked johns are dancing, free-style, around
my titanic hairball roadside mausoleum. It’s real,
my titanic, and the choke response, and the resurrection.
It’s you who’s the display case.

a CRUX a KLUX some CLIQUES

Give me one full ridicule example
using the regular baby as a bar.
Give me a newborn reflex action.
Give me a pregnancy AND a baby.
Give me one regular with grief
and one regular hold the grief.
Extra reflexes on both.
And one medium soft target.
And one water, no cup.

Grief is really just relief with a g
where the l used to be. Or closer.
Or less close.
And some redeployment.
The hilarious phases of pain.
Phase of the moon as the shape
of the elegant burn on your calf.
Happy Reenactment Day, baby.
Name your pie.

I took the Ell once.
It was in Chicago.
They made me give it back.

I threw out my back in Chicago.
It was opening day.
The ball never reached the plate.
The spork was on permanent backorder.

When I swapped the New York City skyline
for a sandwich sliced like dinosaur teeth
everybody died. Not the least being me.
The least being all of the senseless fucking
dinosaurs at once. Who saw that coming?
Kraft?

When you say you are willing
to give your life do you mean
the kind of thing that men are
afraid or ashamed to do openly,
and by day? How much are you
asking for the histories?
The ones that are over
on that table by the hose reel.
Which do you think suits me best? The green?
Will you take less?

Jesus said “Let the least of you
dinosaurs come unto me.
I’ve got the only ball. It’s my mother
scratching party now.”
That was back in the summer of ’65.
Whichever hundred and sixty five.
Later he revised his position.
More sandwiches for the crew.
Fewer fossils per capita.

So, aside from everything else, Mrs. Lincoln
MKZ, how do you like Detroit?

There goes that slow, exquisite build.
The ball moves faster than the heart.

They buried him then hung him next day.
He got himself hung however.
Does the order of events, ultimately,
have any impact on the events themselves?
Did The Great One need that last goal?
If his supermodel wife were to die
of a mysterious kitchen utensil
tomorrow would he need another?
Would he shave?

Here comes the show down.
The beating faster heart gives up
entirely before it’s reduced to a lousy
recessive pulse in an identical
though somewhat smaller scaled shaft.

I won one off of Kevin Grabasski at recess.
Was he pissed.

The distortion, the machine
that produces the sole
supply of large jungle cats.
The distortion is in fact
an intentional distraction
from the gathering moisture
on your thigh. I still love that one.
It hurt me so I couldn’t forget a thing.
Similar in style to the split between
tracks that were originally joined
in memory, divided
by trains, then by numbers
in a list, then by whatever
you say next.

I remember this song as the first song
of the best show I’ve ever
died a thousand times.

By this time next year sex will
have become all you ever needed.

I always try too hard, like a blue reindeer.
Like a lone blue reindeer in JANUARY.

Remember Janet Jackson’s titty
holding court? The only manmade thing
you can see from space?

Now we talk in terms
of orchestral arrangements
of various inedible geniuses.

No, we don’t.
We don’t talk at all.
Not at all.
We just repeat what he said.

A smile, is it? A record
shattering dry spell
with only a classic iPod
to loosely date this moment
of dreamy
catastrophe.

There was, seriously, nothing
funny about that first date.
It was perfectly quiet.
We had carrots.
We spoke via body language.
Now I no longer know
which season is longer,
the snow season
or the season
with the missing snow.

I’m still quoting lyrics
to try to win a woman’s affection
or win a man’s rejection of a woman
affecting an attitude of musicality
in an upward firing bat tornado.
Neither one makes sufficiently
little sense.

Do you think you’re a dinosaur?
Do you think I am in need of assistance?
Just because I am saying goodbye
with my mouth while my words are
saying play me some loopy fiasco?

Their sense of dusk is uncanny.
That bridge is the last thing standing
between us and them. Between this
lunch and some sort of duck embryo
delicacy you might find
in the back pocket of any seven year old
attached to her rising market share
by a neo-classic iPod.

I have a new girlfriend I’d like you to
be. Stay right here, I’ll bring her over.

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.