Tuesday, May 28, 2013

"Johnny Depp & I" by Pierre Bourdieu: A Critique

yo, happy birthday,

kylie minogue

don"t listen

let's go

to helen, ga


i love you



so so so so so so so sos  soooooooooooooooooooooooo


but still

Friday, May 24, 2013


In my professional opinion
I frown like a geology of trouble.

I've got sports injuries big as California
from all the earthquakes I've slamdunked.

Like Mike, when the tsunami hit
I drank it all up because it was milk

and I wanted to set a good example, plus get paid.
My bones curdled back into a craggy brow.

I'm so jealous I could cry
Out, "Someone give me mad cow!"

At least I'd die with beef,
my life one long fart greenhousing the sky.

"Johnny Depp & I" by Pierre Bourdieu

This spider living in my little necklace of hate
is such a heartthrob
I think I'll call him Johnny Depp
because he too is silvery with suck
like an abortion-vaccum.

Since me & Johnny Depp are web-designers
we join forces on a Tumblr called "Animal-Transcendence."
It's just fotos of Johnny Depp's dick filtered in different lights,
but it's very powerful and moving
like that boulder in "Raiders of the Lost Ark."

When Johnny Depp watches our tumbling boulder tear through the web
like a physical attraction taken to the level of a value-judgment,
he begins to cry tears into little spider-condoms
I throw from the roof of our oceanfront timeshare at passersby
who don't notice a goddamn thing
cuz tears are tinier than dicks.

I ask Johnny Depp, " hey man, how come you don't just
take a foto of yourself crying and show the world
you live inside a necklace of hate but can still totes cry
like a ricin-weaponized banjo if ya really wanna?"

Johnny takes the foto, but when he looks at it,
he cries more and says that it's too golden,
so precious for no reason they'll send a guy
like me into the folding earth to retrieve it
and I'll do it, risking life and limn
because that's what I do for him to help myself
have more value others can believe in.
"You're damn weak," Johnny says, "weaker than the rest of 'em,
you're my fucking Watson-Moses and you can't accept it.
Here's a filthy pen so write all this down you Indiana Foney."

Material Conviction

When this girl starts brushing her fingers through her ponytail
out falls 6 pregnant women in lascivious lingerie.

I'm shocked enough but not shocked enough, if ya catch my Tokyo Drift

When I see fighter planes streak in the sky I know its true
what the men at the gym say, "No Pecs, No Sex."

If only I had killed a man
maybe I'd get love letters too.
I wish I was a more apparent convict.

But when I got to Japan & I'm American
it will be like I have killed a man

I'll be such a goddamn man there
that at night I'll weep into my own bosoms

remembering those 6 pregnant women
belly-dancing and selling their soiled underwear in Ziplocs

for use of a voyeuristic electrical-socket
the fat voyeur in the corner is always hogging.

Memorial Day Thumb-Therapist Horrorshow

Suddenly you realize your therapist has grown mad at you because you have met his children and complimented him on their physical beauty.  Has he grown angry because now you have reminded him of the flayed god he has now become, a former shadow of his own physical beauty?  Perhaps you have in your compliment formed a dagger & thrust it in his sternum, twisted, and dug out a keyhole of grief? & what primal scene can you see through this keyhole?

Last year on Memorial Day (which is never a holiday for me), I found a therapist growing like popcorn in the callous of my thumb.  We decided to go see a horror movie so we could make a documentary of me being horrified--it would be all of my posterity, most likely.  He wanted a pack of Jr. Mints but I bought him an expensive bottled water because I knew no one can eat a whole pack of Jr. Mints without getting sick of them like horses forced to watch babies in their cribs.

When the movie started I started to feel pale and glittery and I asked my therapist to grow further inside me and tell me what he saw, but he grew so deep inside me I couldn't hear him speak much, all I could hear sounded like spiders in a distant bucket.  He had to write notes, fold them into paperboats ballasted with the cartilage of DSM-approved diagnoses and sail them across the theater on the jets of neckblood I'd been commanded to floodgate.  Some of the notes got caught by buzzheaded fathers in patriotic tees, but one note I caught said, "Hey jackass you've got bad shit going on here.  There's a lot of tax documents floating around in your bloodstream you haven't even signed and I don't think anybody's gonna give you a loan anytime soon."  I can't quite believe him, but I thought I might as well.  I stole a blanket from the couple in the second row and I swaddled myself inside.  I stood on stage, shivered, and became an open secret.  When the film was over, I woke up flailing shadowpuppets against snack advertisements.  There was a hole in my thumb where the talk had once been & looking upward I could see my therapist smiling at me in a full-grown sort of way from the projection booth & from the shadows someone was shooting Jr. Mints into his mouth with a 12-amp leafblower and his pants were down at his ankles & a heavy brown stream shot from his buttocks with such force that he guru-levitated steadily, legs crossed, & from under the seats an army of biohacked penguins raised chuckling upright and called to me, carrying plastic peonies like goblets I knew I must fill with glitter and pale, loitering bruises of television-bosshood.

oxpecker's delight

rummage around in a swath
of all natural meat placidly accepting
the electrolysis you bring it

clinging to wet cake, giddily
pumping coccyx to full function
and immediate regret, alack

booby trapped, taupe grundle wrested
from air pocket filling margins outsized
already to swole growths proportional

zigzag from rump to rump,
surfaces mismatched in chiming glory,
jacob's ladder lying about the bushes

the gristle slid under skin
prompting wistful dreams
as you massage your special manx

the end of the day

last effects of underwire
a shit show in the side

to navigate ruin with discrepancy
to launder the fiberglass drapery
with his drawers

astonished to agree to licking
the full gate of tears and itching
to rival, relegated to mere body

and so bodily decamped
there i said it

Thursday, May 23, 2013

nice guy

abashed by brickwork, estoppel by laches, among
turgid piddle held in your noggin-notch, with hoary
notched cock knackered gotten splayed between two
teeth of endless jawing as addendum to the misery
of others' private lives, which is laboring just as well

bleak for having been wizened, i'm going to be sure
to be dead one day, a plot to peer out, climes agog

you have longed
in the tooth

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

angelina jolie

give it to me straight
doc i don't know how to
see this spot and ask me
anything to be here for you

clotted marm trickling
all sounding: gluck a-gluck
and turn to peas for helpings

glommed forth on the face of it
snookered by browbeating
you indecent piece of trash
to have gotten but good what

dispirited and set by moon-eyed
chloroformed for a put castle
unto clawed-again roots in some wood
a shank to call a house a home

roll up jiggers into and roll out
a penniless daub of flat fat goading
to settle on the simpler procedure by fiat

a shot in the mouth

put rage behind you

tidings to riptide, go
make do, something something

to be one day so soon
in holding office officially

shift away to moving
story, lax in the bum

no more waddling
will one day away

years go
and do

my treasure island

salute! and mark presage towards crossing on here yet,
and so now harangued about the neck and beaten bit by bit into and bitten
who answered but what should with my streets cluttered up with answers again

how heavenward was wilting
a strong smell of almonds from mouth
to mouth about a slow one

one by one urine and cesspool creep along to you and after
to have once taken trousers back by ponytail as once you did
to have commandeered such rakish feat unto days and days all along

red-breasted by foes, declined in muck for much too much and so and so
and on, a drunkard tail wagging to the test and goings on, who has not
everything was at once put into light by knowing some thing put right to god before

devise miracles: and like some static-99 to undergo at all is to have already failed
bereft of anymore hours, you'd just as like to go on to some other island such as
a full-lipped manger cupping an ass could not have encumbered engendering such-wise

i will clasp you, here and wan
too long delivered now have heaped-up
and waited, crowed caladrius turning

fear sets the serpent to his fate and all
others to have done with what they choose
no: to take back my mouth from the mouth a-yawing

good too much to have agrieved
and so set tongue to teeth and edge
a despot upon two cusps churning so long

late night break beats, fix them in the morning

they are piercing needlepoint in the subway they are making it in chromakey green
they who are at what legacy, knowing what with notching tools on a long line for mcbee cards
they who haunt they who, rife with what work, string up soft stools of felted what they

and who on such malarkey and hullabaloo took to that too, i did with doggerel and the 'stach

now look who's knocky knocky and brandishing bowls of porridge for lot's wife, yes, i too
a crispin to the tanner, a shield leadened to equal the amusement of befuddled late october morning
and, yes, with what ho a how and i, too, took that to a flagon filled up with the pile-on, get back

you, what simpering shit, i did

now cuckold, a choo-choo, setting up knots was a sailor's art and her she comes 'round the
they who took that they who, sharpened, did not and stood by on some other in the children's whey
someone, they amassed a sizable recreational collection of bidets for the house guests they
they are terrifying and covered in glaze, at one a.m. in for a treat at the kreme and what ho

someone took to polishing turds but they

at what point do we put on the other pants and will you watch it, full up of curds and jingles
i have and they they do not with what how i do, yes, a frazzled mirror a-buzzing with poor joints

now laugh they are coming to

Monday, May 20, 2013

Stalin & I, Rocking Out

I'm in a bordello sampling luncheon meats with Stalin.
He prefers the low sodium roastbeef to the full-flavor.
He has expensive tastes.  It would be nice if we had
sliced bread, but most nice if we had us a toaster,
peppered Havarti, and some sauerkraut.
Stalin dismisses such a suggestion and orders
a prostitute who can turn her penis outside-in,
like a windbreaker, to bring us very flaky croissants.
I've learned not to argue & besides, flaky croissants are surely
no worse than simply eating sliced meat out of plastic bags.
We are joined by bald monks wearing leather-jackets & hospital bracelets.
They come in and set up stickered instrument cases on the stage.
Stalin & I crawl up to the footlights, dragging
two cases of bourbon tied to our feet.
At least 40 monks are now on stage
and each one has a different kind of electric guitar.
Flying Vs, Gretschens, Les Pauls, Stratocasters, Telecasters...
They each have a smallish tube amp, 2 cords, &
a wah-wah pedal.  At once a low buzz
drifts to Stalin & I eating roastbeef mayonnaise croissants
on the trashy floor.  The monks have turned all the
amps on and the roof of the bordello has retracted,
revealing it was a major sports dome disguised for the day
as a bordello.  The night is cool and the stars white against
that black sky look like a giant huffing white
paint huffed too hard and sneezed the stars
out onto the garage-wall of night.
In the freezer of Stalin's eyes, I find a forgotten
ice cold Nehi orange soda.  I crack it open
with the ring of sharkteeth I wear as a garter.
It is so good.  It reminds me of being
a child, with parents I still loved, on a trip to the mountains.
Stalin will never understand the low, old mountains
of Southeastern America or how I loved them,
their blue-gray fogs, their trees like frozen
fire in the autumn...
Like this we spent most of our 20s, and that was what it was like being a young adult in a country with vast wealth, even when the monks started to play and you felt the world become a thousand rhythmical, yodeling knives stabbing eyeholes into your barracks-full of masks.

Memories of 1940s American Cinema

I'm inside a homeless man, making the honey hollow.
I haven't seen any bees here, but that doesn't mean I won't
wake up tomorrow holding ketchup like a hand-grenade.
The honey is now empty as a full-time job,
except I've forgotten all my duties & grown titties
as big as engorged stormdrains furiously atwitter.
At a certain point I can only listen to saxophone
without vomiting up a sabbath of ink inside the homeless man.
Suddenly I remember my long lost mother sent me a gift
card that takes care of that sorta thing.

Before the law got so bad it grew wind out of its own parties,
she had been a nice woman, and I and her
had gone to a crazy movie where the land was covered
in wrathful dust and the poor had migrated
through the Western states looking for jobs
and somehow they all survived in the end and still had
time to tickle their children and sit under sinister trees.

all you ever do is talk

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Friday, May 17, 2013

Homeless in Atlanta

When night falls & I can't afford anymore
toilet paper, I begin to perpetrate things.

My wheelchair grows plaintive
and like a vision
I begin to sell windshield washes at the intersection
where beauty went to find a necklace of fake-vitamins.

A beautiful black woman wearing a headband & khaki shorts
passes me with an apparent apocalypse
crying into a Blackberry.

Thunder increases like a stockyard reverberating Easter through Panama.

A vision comes to me of a wheelchair made out of exploded children wearing candy-necklaces.

I hug a bottle of tapwater close
& remember a tennis game I once watched
in a hotel room near the airport in Cleveland,
& sure enough, the morning wheeling round opportunity
is found claimed by a rich white woman,
more luggage I could've used
greed wouldn't let them accept to lose.


I sit in a dark Mr.

putting feet on my nose
and a nose up my ass.

The dark is like hotbutter,
a sin of clarified limbs.

After eating a sneeze
I fart out a walk

and in between
I blink out a piss;

in the far corner
I wait for her

like a hand waits to hear,
"put it there, partner!"

Hungover, Waffle House, Early Afternoon

Day drops trow into Maxwell's House like a roachbrick
Morning-glory popping bacon-grease into funnybones.

I suddenly become attracted to the Waffle House waitress
Who smells like underwear drinking water through a straw.

These days life smells like a tree of cheap gags
But I've made a certain peace with liquid diets

And toothless jokes are just one of the many uppers
I'd buy for a dollar and some change

I know now will probably never come,
Since I'm not as good at fucking others as myself.

After work, I do my own work at other coffeeshops

Like a finger grown fat
I hafta work into this day.

Six years yet given
& all working for another's generosity

has given me
is the need to give what's given

back away.
I fear being rude--

poor now as I am--
to those who do the work I do

who hafta wake early
& bake their faces

into cheap pastries
unhappy women

dry with money & marriage
will tip a dollar for,

but I can't afford a home,
A/C or many friends,

so I hafta pay my rent
at a back wobbly table

& not worry about how
much I just spent

for the time & noise needed
to attempt what I'm able.

Thursday, May 16, 2013

Good Cholesterol, Bad Touch

Stop sexing
the geese.

Wild penises pluckily
losing out on philanthropic
endeavors: the pâté
was overwrought, perhaps.

Who put goofballs
in the mac-n-cheese.

A half-day wasted,
extracting salt from tears
just to raise the boiling temp.
of the water in which I
boil two plump dogs: I
do not reveal to you
this agonizing process.

In Brooklyn there is a store
that sells nothing but fancy
mayonnaise, a product
of oil and egg. Like a perfect
balance of l'homme and l'femme
(it's also a French word, which
I'm told is the language of love).

I know artists, I know poets,
who will tell you, "Oh,
I'm no artist, I'm no poet."
And I know those who,
insistent, say, "I am an artist,
I am a poet," with nothing
ever to show for themselves.
All of which is fine, but I
have never met the one who
never cooks who says,
"I am a culinary master."

I walk around with food stains
all over myself.
"You're a mess!" I'm told.
Indelicately, I reply,
"You should see my kitchen."

No one gets nasty,

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

I Had the Deep-Time of My Life

Of all the gasolines combustible
I loved her the best.

She had the kind of dirt a tsunami
sinks a volcanic inhabited island for,
and above that, even, she was ground
just like coffee you could stand on,
just like ontological grass softened for picnics.

She was that carpet of fire
which held you moving through still air,
through holiest desert-cities
like a blue-genie kept sidekicking
like a canteen sloshing love inside.

Like ice-cubes she rockily diluted the Scotch-
Irish in me.

She took the peat outta my drink
& made me thirst for the dirt she'd absorbed.

She was my fossilized hanky, my magic carpet
of trilobytes & deathsleeping waterbears,
& with her on top of her under her buried
I felt like a molecule surfing geological-time.

I felt I was dj-ed by a master chemist of time.
I was a song of rocks a song of dirt
I was remixed to stones I was remixed to paint
Yearning to roll police-like stones in a hinged ring
under her thumb of deathgrown fingernails

She was my bacterial fuel,
my coach, my car, the wheeled
skate i figured out how to roll
across the ice of my zamboni-heart

She was the deep-time of my life
my candle in the southern bend
of time's shapely nude knee


Among the laundrybones
we root a pink-day

out like a hidden-kitten
wrapped warm in our smells.

We hold it to our ears
hearing in it like a conch

the ocean-sound of our love
cleaning its own fish

of scales into ladders
we flesh over our heads,

making tents of each other's body
to keep the cleansing rain

from washing our love up to shore,
dressed dead in its Sunday best.

Long Walks

These days my calves hurt terribly
and the laundry remains so undone
I stink like a car dying into flowerbeds.

Against me, the bees assemble oilslicks.
My face slickens into colors
I fear are too productive for peace.

I can't help thinking the green of this field
is too much like a home to hope for.

To the bees I'll give that much at least
and start walking to meet them, betting one leg by one leg against a bright-dark.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Do Yourself a Favor and Never Leave the House

                                                                         "We could never equal Buchenwald.”
                                                                                  ~  Charles Nonon, on the closing of Le Théâtre
                                                                                      du Grand-Guignol due to decline in sales

Time for the fucking goblins again! Hey,
can we please all do ourselves a great big favor
and stop pretending the whole world is going to hell
when it is obviously just you?

Stuff your kitty into a mason jar
Stuff your cherpumple into your piehole
Pinterest it, see if I care!

Why write your congressperson
when they have so little time?
I'm not wasting my time with that shit,
I only write to lifetime appointments: e.g.,

Dear Justice Ginsberg,
Roe v Wade is not the cause of today's anti-abortion fervor--
you are thinking of bigots. Bigots are the cause of today's anti-abortion fervor.
You're welcome.

Now let's have another joke:

Knock, knock!
Who is there?
Ben who?

It's so hard to only buy a bag of carrots,
when they've already made the chocolate milk for you.
Now I want to change the title of this poem to "My False Flag Attack,"
but honestly I'm just too whatever.  OK.

Monday, May 13, 2013

Picture-Point Portrait of Steve & Single Sharlin

This is a plot about a 29 year old manchild who wants to be so beautiful he can spend his time getting dankdirty.

He used to have a pretty-face; slight vestiges remain.  But cigarettes, fast food, little exercise, alcoholism & sleep deprivation have all taken their bell-curved toll.  He didn't even start in the middle majority of physical beauty, but on a slightly narrower fault-rung level.  Even narrower, at that beginning, were his family's finances.  Having renounced family and marketable skills, this young man's financial straits were as tight as young Korean girl-boy seducing Mark Knopfler between a ghetto Scylla & Charybdis populated by cannibalistic shrink-wrap-headed NFL tightends experimented on by Rick Moranis in the early 90s.
In short, if beauty & money at their median balance can be visually represented as a sideways supine vagina on the dry erase-board of life's ECON 101, this young man was nearest American capital's blackscaled butthole, while Warren Buffett, Bill Gates, & the Koch brothers were up in that other dull, sharky narrow of the Liberty-bell-curve, tickling the capital-clitoris with their stubble-mustaches, NBA finals tickets, & PAC variegated enlightened oligarch politico-philanthropies.  So that's where this young man stood on the financial vagina of bell-curved brotherly-love, all lobbying power inert, more good as an movable-type exemplum for the type of political rhetoric native to the Koch brothers' waiting lobby.

As for the lobbying power of his beauty, most of the most attractive senators were immune, but a few whose beauty was greater than his, but whose time on earth exceeded his, could be filibustered into accepting his sexual-petitions, feeling, as many do, that youth's wealth of vigor & vim, even if he be not trim, was a wealth at least slightly greater than a cache of experience--which is such a heavy treasure-chest-inconvenience in these days of weightless, mobile & zippy banking.

This young man, one day, met such an aged senator of the local republic, a most beautiful senator, whose youth, though she possessed it believed it long gone, as if it had been a stick of underarm deodorant only good for one application nearly a decade ago.

It is an axiom in the differential calculus of social distinction that another's hygienic theories can never be understood, not even by close observation of their practical symptoms, and even less by keeping current with the purportedly nutritive, esteeming contemporary scientific "studies" exhortatively advocated in Freud-savvy, liberal-dietary, populist navvy-advertisable "women's magazines" and liberal populist fetish-masculinity-gizmo-health-geek-dad-empiricist-propaganda "men's magazines."

The weakness of this aged senator, who only had a diet left besides money's upper-middle-class university-gymnast power of elasticity-potential for travel, not going hungry, reliable transportation, and potential for procreating a provided-for-nuclear-familial-nucleus of wailing, shitting, hungry atomic-infant-units, was quite apparent, even at the beginning.  Such are beginnings however, easily ignored except as a whetting, a fanning for the dully cherubic sword of enflaming desire.  Such are beginnings, best forgotten!

The story of love is the story of an ape holding a tuna like a home.  It is a pink, clumsy story.  A story like a rabbit held kicking over a sewage-treatment plant bescummed with fetid carrots and moist, darkening lettuces.  His nose quivers, like a balyk left on the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier during the greatest earthquake that influentially affluent region has yet, most assuredly, known.  The story of human-like love is not an easy allegory, but if one were more or less than human-like, perhaps it would be an easy allegory, even with no ape thrown in the equation, an ape, alas, even beyond the pail of pale Poe's ratiocitational, quotable conception.

This young man's name was Steve, much like the name Steve of many named Steve you've no doubt known in those all-too-fragile, bubble-wrapped days--with their daily suns like quail-eggs and their nightly darklings like coffee for sleepless day-abortions--in which your body has, so far, felt cozily, warmly distant from need at home.

Perhaps you can picture Steve in your head.  He is vaguely heavy, like a powertool that you ordered online but which has arrived in a box as large as your front door.  You feel it is safe to know Steve, to converse him out of the box of his expressionless eyes, to share your enthusiasms with him in the hope that your hopes will shake the Etch-a-Sketched politely political expression of his broad, beard-hid face and reveal a truer hopeful face full of green-lit Gatsby-filmic American-slice-cheese-yearnings which you & he, over a beer, over a cigarette, over a coffee, will bond over, accruing interest by buying into the mutual-trust-credit-union of each other's friendship, a friendship which will join forces, like the Planeteers, like the elements combined, to weather a weather for two so safe, so good, that when storms come when floods come you shall have any insurance for any whether of weather imaginable.  Yet Steve's green eyes don't fall out of his face and fly across any known river to light the night with any visible distant fate.  His face is stuck like that, the sand behind it too wet or too absent to move by any force your lonely enthusiasm, your tentacled-love is capable of exerting--you, a low tide, more Pacific than Atlantic, you, a seismic occasion, more tennis-shoed footstep than aftershock.  From out of the express-shipped, cliche-wrapped box of his words, the cardboard-stiff geometry of Steve's demeanor permits, despite all your best-effort fingers, no single packing peanut seen, no glimpse of the sealed some-assembly-required baggy of his innermost person.  You are grown abashed, too soon flushing, like the first time you ever did any of those vices or virtues for the first time, as if you had just shat in the white public toilet of live but forgotten your own chronic dysentery, which noisily, immediately, made again its presence reknown, renouned, like a legal change of name to escape the infamy of a father's crime or the memory of a mother who abused your time--O!, our chosen names, the metonymies of our hopes and dreams, for which still yet we'd pay courts and bureaucrats to recognize, those metaphors we scream into the municipality as if our identities were an imminent rape or mugging, an emergency demanding an institutional response, as if a poem is not a poem until someone else known for publishing poems publishes it for you, as if we are not who we could one day be until we are free from all pain of the past and of the past of the pain, until we are passed beyond pain into a perpetual peace, a touchdown received from a quarterback's broken throwing arm numbed functional with pills and salves, and our old self, our old given name just a worn-out lemma of a quarter-back-fort/da proving himself by passing a touchdown to his own self, a touchdown which ends all games, like the POTUS' nuclear-football!  Ha! O life!  O self!  Everything is so -ish!  Selfish speaking English in the Similacral babyish-formulaism here in the, optimistically speaking, noonish o'clock of my waking life.  Elvish leaking Engrish in the simul-lachrymal baby-forms nearing now hobbled tears, sore on the evil heights of one-eyed Panoptico-Mythical, one-ringed towers, of Jupiter-sized Egos conceptualizing continuous self-identity via private property, memoirs, feedback loops, existential teleologisms perforated with typo-traumas porously membraned with viral-fogging contagious affect-clouds yet still glittering like fresh-paved mosquito-highways to understanding others as if simultaneously that car you driver where I-is-not-another would pass the correct emissions test.

Such was one way you pictured Steve or didn't.

In the Spider

In the spider of our wheels

A starfish holds us at night, demanding our body be still.
                    We still,
Like coffee poured into a too small astronomy,
Less alive than heartspoke.
                    Still, as grass slept wet with Sunday,
In the morning we rise low,
A bed of drunken moss
With split baseballs for pillows.

Creeping jenny bites the ankles off leopard plants,
And what falls back asleep is now orange,
Tasseled, & alive with smoke.

This garden measures itself with duct tape & sighs,
So stubborn, so bent on spiders having a ruler
And a will of their own to stick hard numbers to.
It's as if we were still small children hilled numerous as sky with sugar,
Webbed with cobbled-thumbprints and cookies to touch thumbs to;
                Imprinting sweet dogs back into the wild flail-teeth of the edible world.

It was your birthday then, so much your birthday we followed
The whole of the garden-map, even past the observatory,
Past the weddings and the wedding above the weddings,
Past every foreign flower thrown past the pathed-sight of frogs.

As a child gloved in oil and youth
I was purple as the day longs royally for more length
And I wanted the stars as my baseballs
To bat like eyes and prove a great park hit upon beyond,

                That I wasn't boy nor girl nor wink nor tear.

A bee held me these nights,
Salving my face with murderous sound,
               Yet still

There was so much rolling terror,
Broke-wheeled terror age whites out
& loses the strength to remember,

Struggling finally through a garden of airports
Which rain a network of spiders and dark-bloom webs
Till all the rolling luggage breaks like a grieved face into a green pond

Starve-littered like a baseball diamond wired-home with a holocaust of flies.
Even your friends' wives leave, like every dark yet known to flower,
And still you've only wanted what "men" want

And not even, yet still, with the tiniest dignity of a child, any person,
Seeking other eyes, a power of spiders restrained
                Heavenward as gymnasts above our spoke wheels.

Friday, May 10, 2013

Painting for Ben Rouse's B-Day

Fable of Two Sailors

Her father had had excellent mustachios, Muriel mused, late in life.

Once he had given her a toy mongoose with shiny, emerald eyes.  He had bent his head down and she saw his hair was thinning on top like moss in late spring.  He said, a grave is a place where one is laid to wait for medical students.  That night he died near an open window on the northside of the house.  Arduous days came.

Muriel became a medical student & soonish, a doctor.  Mother had long since embalmed her emotions.  Anymore the only phrase she uttered with the slightest emotional patina was, "The violet & rose are languishing, yearning for a simple, single nibble."  At last, she languished completely, nibbling lukewarm snowpeas on an October afternoon merely nine days after Muriel's second trial wedding had taken place.  Her face assumed in death a great placidity, as of a coffin for undocumented epigrams.  Many neighbors brought wreaths, candles, and folded hands.  Everyone assumed many peaceful things.

Addicted to utterance of truth and common-sense, Muriel knew a voyage must be undertaken and a ship commissioned.  Friendship, she knew, was a ship big enough to carry two in fair weather, but only one in foul.  She decided to undertake her journey as a lone wolf.

In preparation for the winter of her discontent, she dressed herself in sheep's clothing and Trojans.  At Woolworth's she spared no expense.

Across the sea, an accomplished blogger and amateur singularity theorist once lived on the 82nd floor of a Dubai high-rise.

His name was Keo and he passed his time in rigorous speculation and speculative rigorousness.  What he didn't think he knew about the coming singularity was hardly worth thinking you know it, for he possessed a monthly subscription to Wired (plus numerous backissues); and also, he had the Internet, a vast database of all that humanity had ever thought it knew. Thus, for his own protection, he needed to have a robot-dog, and the only place to get one of those, was on an island compound off the coast of Cuba.  Keo sailed promptly and laughed jollily.

Muriel was shipwrecked and loved.  Keo was shipwrecked and laughed.  At the last they both sputtered to the sky, "Will you return to me in a year and a day and become my captive, if I allow you to escape?"  Medical students make no trip to the sea.

Thursday, May 9, 2013

"Warren Buffett's Memories, Adventures, Philanthropies" by Warren Buffett

My face beams & glistens with a multi-vitamin glaze,
A balsamic reduction of redacted Gitmo-testimonials
I slick my hair back with the skimmed cream of supplementfucks
I buy dwarves and fatten their livers
with Chick-Fil-A minis
I make them drink and drink forties of Pepsi Max
And guzzle gallons of Polynesian sauce
Out of the plucked eyesockets of sodomized ventriloquist dolls
I make them quack and quack and attack anthills
with supersoakers full of bitcoins & buffalo sauce
I get pegged
When I get bored with the dwarves
I stuff them into an industrial waterheater with Ted Turner who is paid to gnostically cough up
scorpions, manifestoes, and boneless chicken breasts.
Ted fondues all these things
and demands fondling as his fond dues
I have no interest in what happens next & move on

I buy cargoplanes and fill them with multipack DVDs from Circle Ks and Kangaroos
To the starving children of Africa I distribute C-grade Westerns & horror movies
I buy 1700 yellow Hummers and lube their tailpipes with Ricin & Elvis sandwiches
I pay breeze-starved Sudanese women riddled with AIDS cum-tornadoes to fuck the tailpipes hotly
I am a creative thinker I get medals I get prizes
Making my own way
Overpopulation is a real problem in the world today
In Nigeria I give the natives Lincoln logs
and tell them whoever cannot build a house
will be shot in the fucking goddamn leg
and left to gangrene near the fucking marsh
and then I'll fucking turn yr head around on your body
and fill your mouth with the green green fermented pus of a thousand wildly frottaged, milkfucked orphans
You have 2 weeks, go for it
Fucking impress me you mild heathens

I brutalize a dark night with Twilight turtles & contemporary cinema
At a McDonald's playground I tape silly straws
to my penis and fuck tabbycats to shishkebab freddy-handed dickdeath in the stinky ball-pit
blonde children slip and slide
when the parents object I buy them a Taco Bell franchise and class-action-
silence like a litigation ensues
I am a creative thinker
I know what boys want...tickles & pickles & my impression of Don Rickles
I go to Nashville & Asheville & Seville & even yr fucking cheap windowsill
I go here there & everywhere
I litter the streets with beskeeted bedsheets
I pollute the air with donated real-hair wigs & philanthropic care
I buy my bathwater in the form of Starbucks bottled water
and pay cripples to heat it for me by boiling it over their own burning prostheses & MFA theses
I eat Reese's Pieces out of a dead-saint's leathered taint
The Pope tells me to stop but I say nah brah I cain't
Morning noon or night
you're the apple of my eye
and I'm coming to take my bite
I'm Warren Buffett
& you're gonna suck it
unless you like endless buffets too
which is cool with me and I'm cool with you
But till then you know you really pay too many taxes in comparison to people like me
I dunno, You should do something about that
Like standing in the street for awhile or whatever

How Everything Done Growed Right Up

Hypocrisy is an exercise book.
Silently our mother returns moneyed noisily with debt, swollen with

Flutes grown jealous of the physical coitus
We take like an enema
To dry the orchestral famine of our detergent noses.

I won't forget, I say, the border of the heart,
Where it slopes into a reddish nest

And birdly open its buttocks buttered as an defenseless olive.
Marinated in gently scornful sobs clattering
Like pain-brined money to an unforgivably capered counter,

Our dark tongues pass in their moldy hangings,
In these, these blue blue eyes given over to repugnance.


When a man eats a bird
Tiny postage stamps birth
Beneath his fingernails
Like scales mapping a fish.

He drives a truck around
Collecting endless letters
But never knows who to mail 'em to.
Who does that anymore?
Who worries about whom?
The sky flames,
Multi-vitamins in a guzzling embrace.


Grasshoppers glitch over the lawns
Bearing golf-pencils in their jaws.

It is so cold I apply mustard to the sky
And have nightmares of trench-mouth unlimbed.

Like a pink bottle of liquid exfoliant
The hemlocks take off their wigs of burnt grass.

What's dignified?
Under the couch, a scrap of fish.


It is in the middle of winter-break
And is still worried about timing;

Like a retirement home it would stand.
Joy is not telegenic; its lips curl.

Like a chest filing camera-glass,
This went on for weeks, surging.

We lust all consciousness
But raced on foot till it moved.

In the underbrush like beetles of whiteout
It skips in its CD-R form--

So many more responsible nightmares.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

21st century american poem

some people think "dzokhar"
is spelled "benghazi," thanks

Lena Dunham Hunts Apts, Williamsburg, May 2013, Doesn't Buy

I haven't seen you in so long, your teeth,
one unreal from a reckless young time,

One night recently I saw your horse, and
darling, you signed the note it carried 'love,'

You moved and refused several things, and
one was me, while another was some other

Let's start a 4.45 million dollar home together,
that's how it felt to me, and you looked around,

And you said,

True and real, that's
trill, that's dddoppe,

It is you, it is a horse,
and it is my home here.

Is it maybe too real?