Life is a great belt, but often too tight,
so tight that chubby bellies poke out even more;
zeppelins in the burning stomach, hot air balloons
rush out of the mouth. If men were
more nurturing, women would be scaling
a new landscape, like slaves in the
old days rushing to the Golden Gates
of the north.

Life is a great belt or a clear plastic bag
that has been washed. If only we could
wash the dry dollar bills & pull them out
as modern architecture. There is a reality
in parallel worlds, because

life is a great belt. A sense of reality is
advanced from things that would disappear
like looking through a clear plastic bag.
Who is brave enough to venture to say
what life is like?

A body like ancient Rome, a sound
of thunder irreparable, needles in the
stomach where "hope" is a jump-rope
that I tie to my ankles to gain a consequence,
to destroy the expectation that I may tumble—
a threshold of incorrect rattling.

Life is a great belt. A Grandmother
softening you up with a smile. Snapshot facts.
The way dust is sequestered, becomes
a singing atmosphere of a beautiful voice
that comes & takes you away.

Life is a great sweltering jolt in
a maternal jewel. To take part in conversation,
to see it destroyed slowly over time...
so slowly that it cannot be neglected.
Behind every island, someone is attempting to
invent a new future. This is not life, because

life is a great belt, tracing the roots of
ones mid-sectional sophistication
like freeway traffic. Life is doin' the twist,
a particle of a narrative, a never-ending plot
trudging against our aging bodies.



Perhaps now life is more than a newborn.
Moment of the important eyebrows in a pile,
wrinkle-winged, replica of your lips
(not just notation). At twenty-seven
my eyes cling to words like the oceanic-sand
gripping anchors, presumably skull.
I memorize prisms of metropolitan mornings
with sharp ears. Our glands are disabled
on a fast subway train. I would like to narrate
the details of your leaping from rhythm
like the words after a murder, Who shot ya?
Tupac returns in 2013 and iceskates
over everyone. Frankly, I need to daydream
or else the night is like a cold Mexico road,
the wind whistling in my ear-sockets,
cycles through, my head where the beard itches,
and she said that she wanted to be covered
in blankets tonight like hiding behind shrubbery.
In my heart nothing is kept silent
like Grandpa Munster. Speech will not play back
the words of the heart, no indications nor functions
can be carried out, do not even try, as if being
occasionally warned of speed cameras in the mind,
going to unknown places imagined, photographing
the unseen at the seams.



The poet
has a little sentiment
together rubbed
with acute passion
for the spirit’s needs
with a reality that says that
all of us are forever fleeting.

The poetNON
is addicted to aspects
that are all valueless;
commonplace with
muddled sources solidified.


Cat-hair floating around, as if from tailpieces.
My nose is chalk, my throat caffeinated.
I have two perverted uncles, both in their eightees,
who stare at women's breasts. Sexualized gazes
of youth--does it never diminish? Our visualized
culture of hungry vultures causes breasts to
function as masks. Eye-lust for the heifer.
I am trying not to listen to your jungled mouth.
I cut glue off of random objects to see them
become themselves again. This, like the atrocity
of pressure. I prop upon props. Vantage-points
can become limited so I will kinescope, in black
& white & color, what cannot be seen until
it shows itself. The end of escapism.
Your television has a name & so does your vehicle.
Illusion is insulated for the Insulatable Everythings
within the realities of the world in which we live.
Thus, I stick my head through the holes in the
atmosphere & shout to the heavens. Holograms
groaning deep within my ears; these little
caves of mine, I'm gonna make them shine.
Grind out the text of a poem, falter at the starting point,
reiterate what needs to rotate when contemplation
sparks itself into a flashlight-happening,
little tears in the baby's eyes fall to the floor,
this is like the puddle I slip on, this, the puddle that
is slipped on, filled with the tears of the world gone by,
books on how to cry, which way to cross the intersection
when your feet are heavier than lead like a boxer's hands
during & after a bloody body-blowing bout.


The (read, that it should)
at play (indisposed)
ceaselessly listen (swerve, but)
O you
steep as the as (postulate)
and as gorgeous (for the times present)
if loved if I (not to)
you are (delay the last line)
when we (in the same degree)
O you
And accordingly (cannot)
everything is (against reason)
covered with these (otherwise of my self)
full-bodied (cold imagination)
Of (for earthly)
I'm you: afterwards (watery)
you are (unto riches)
invisible among (noble friends)
a brilliant landscape (the loves)
I have the silence (bundles of straw)
of a furious heart (devoured with next day passing)
beating (of you)
I have two minds (streams through islands)
one for "Me" and the other (double weight in silver)
as my self-portrait (to abide incision)
I have distance and difference (ripening affection)
doodads and two dads (on behalf of gifting)


Attention-tension given to children,
a margin of error +/-5% depending
on the GPS in the theoretic-body.

Think about the Le Petit Dummy,
be prepared to Pay-per-click,
be prepared to begin every sentence

with "From Wikipedia." Vein-cue
in the sensory-analysis: You sound
like a poet. Pay attention to me!

Most of the time we live in an
ick-blipped world that could be
avoided very easily by only eating

naturally, the way a newborn baby does.
EYEFORMATION: your heroines
are prancing around in tiny shirts.

Every day I'm in love, the body's
vocabulary cannot be like dead wasps
laying on my floor-cape. Never touch

the stinger; it's like a vampire salivating
over a pale female nape. For centuries
the ideal toot has been like "fog-bound

doubt flouts" and how it often
"blankets out all hope." I am draped along
your coastline like sparkling trouts

or like dead cold leaves. Let's forever
face it or deface it, & in the basin you
find me as if with the eyes of God,

cannot erase the memory, this is like
Lamentations. I could never be obscured
like the Pope on ABC or a color-blind computer.