is unsure of itself.
She is a brute of an ox.

Daybreak smiles
as soon as I am out

of her sight.
It is like being naked

in a stranger's sight
or anyone's sight

for that matter,
the way the body feels

bruised, the way I feel
like walking out into

the snow & rooting out
a worm so that a bird

does not have to.
Birds need Googlemaps.

Nevermind instinct.
I just want to help

nature & wildlife
before the Surest Death

becomes too certain
of itself, before it catches

an all-too-familiar
glimpse of itself.


Here's a clue. Take it & smother yourself.
The heart is gray. Why am I nervous
day to day, night to night. Why am I not
an extra-extrovert like say Jay Leno
who drives motorcycles wildly as if he
were a Hell's Angel. Why can I not
at most have the arrogance of Obama
who is like a Drill Sergeant that spits fire
through his coaxing lips. I have done thirty
in a sixty-mph zone while feeling pressed
for time, pressed to the chest. I hope
that I become more attractive the older
that I get, perhaps it will start now.
As soon as I am finished writing this
professional poem & enlightening
the world, I am going to go look into
the reflective-glass & diaphanously reflect
like a sty, dumb with horror, staggering
yet grinning.


I roost at
a favorite spot
by the heater.
I am still,
silent, real.
The sea
is a torch.
is frozen poetry.
I am both of them.


QUESTIONS arise, like Augustus Simmons
in my spambox, wasted energy, who creates
the time to send spadonic spam of paralytic
& bat-like blindness. Waste. This is all that
it is. Waste & more Waste. America, brave
& wasteful, peddled, straddled & unhinged.

Arthur Rubinstein died the year that I was
born. Polonaise-fantaisie in A-flat. Rusty
magnanimity, the floor this winter day is
damp. The snow glows, even on the darkest
of nights, speaks in a foreign perplexion
like some lunatic in an impromptu script.

A scurfy maiming of mind. Marat/Sade.
If I come back before I return to this
ideology, please tell me to wait. Puff-pasted
non-clouded skies. Turbo love. This is the
unmoving surge of cold that laughs like an
exhausted vocalist, scruffy throat, nearly

goat-ridden. Now, a final letting go. Cellist
of sight. I scratch & sniff the bottle of
Recluse juice, straddle it, flip it up, turn myself
inside-out for the wrong reason. Look at my
innards. All Nerfed. Touch me like an electric
piano of ragged neglectedness; re-invent
my second nature, like a Star Wars geek,

& take the breath right out of me so that
when I return myself to outside-in
my lungs will yearn, will burn with a passion,
to be swayed aloft from your thieving my
air passages. I am a crocus that blooms
in the shade, keeping my petals closed.
Don't move. My heartbeat is a shutter lens.


Pizzazzly Possessed

Love is all I bleed.
What is sharper:
curvy roads or blade swords?
I hunch forward
like Glenn Gould would
over his piano keyboard.

What is cozier than fireplaces,
can it be any nosier?
Like going outside in spring
& thinking of Mary Moser.

: when I think of flowers
I think of my grandmother
& Mozart & Satie;
: when I think of being a man
I think of a Swiss airplane
that crashed off of the coast of Nova Scotia.

Ah, dear justice of peace,
your experiences are
peach-fuzz puberty (lacking).
I live to bring out
the best in others.
Who could ever love like Patton?

My mother recently told me
that she overheard a little girl
tell her mother that she is
afraid of automatic flushing toilets.
Tiny aspects of life like a missile
in the wind-swept sands
of the Middle East.
A duellizing engagement!

My sister tells me that she
is lounging within
the spiral of boredom.

: when I think of boredom
I think of Christmas Eve
& the day after;
: when I think of meeting new people
I think of brushing through anxiety's hair
& an iconic “Iron Curtain” speech.

Do not worry if you feel as though
you will not be found married alive.

Look on the bright side,
into your own inner-sky.
Sing yourself into a
carpal-tunnel audible-tone.

Our world is wire-affiliated
& wireless-affiliated;
an enormous angry cur
hiding beneath the soil.
Transition, transition is
happening now.

: when I think of transition
I think of a two-faced vampire
& an aneurysm in the cheetah-gut;
: when I think of brainy chicks
I think of lugging around loose paper
& unreadable Python codes.

Recently, a five year-old boy
fell down an elevator shaft.
I heard the echoes from here.

I recently saw a photograph
of my father. We have not
spoken in years. Seeing his
pale, plumpy flesh, like
spongey adema, saddened me.
I could throw a pledge
but I am out of breath.



I remember a friend
in my science class
who asked me if
I had gas because
he felt as though I
"resembled nervousness"
by the way that I was
acting before preparing
to make a presentation
in front of the class.
He was very much right
but I denied it.



Yesterday I stood at the front door
with runaway eyes, not a metaphor.
I thought of you, perhaps amongst
the regalia of the forest as I dwarfed
along the perennially naïve notion
that you would appear in more than
my head---a drum's hallway. I am
inside of your roman à clef, an exagg
-erated egg in the yoke of these
"burning bitters." An astonishing flower
-ing of the overly familiar. & still,
no metaphor. & still, I stand at the door,
the back door where the moon-rays
drill holes in my sockets, arm-hair rising
to meet the illuminance, the way sorrow
rises in the heart's unstitched jungles;
rainforests of Borneo, an abandoned
bird's nest, & now I niggle when I
should be nestled in silence, in peace,
à la the tiger moth in a bright, neon
green garden.



Mother-of-pearl perhaps derived from Renoir,
a songbook, a radio station playing the same-o
same O! my blistered units, the curtains are
nonexistent, inducing fields of light. I hear breath
-ing, I sense antlers within the eyes of certain ones.
My dear darling, your mirror shards were free
to fly, flew directly into this heart.

This film has ended with odd harmonic
collisions, the rain fell & fell, your onions peeled
into my eyes, standing amidst the topless sky,
swelled to reflect, to refract. What have I become
but the stars that crackle in the night, a lamenting
smoke, a clogged aorta of a silhouette in reverse
infused by the giant ink-blot of your rubbing me out.


The shapes of the words in my mouth
Are heavy glows.
A garland of unweighty indistinguishable

What happens to the diameter
When the tonsils act
As a Blockade---
Words bursting through my throat,
My heart swelling like a sealed environment
That becomes like a dangerous draw-bridge.

Life can be snatched from our midst.
A cockroach "catches" the mist
On its back; spins & spins, rotates & battles,
Curls & flips; confusion between the shell.

Geography should be "personal"
Like fifteen minutes of fame
For everyone including the Unborn.
We could bend rivers
Into small populated places
& like God, we would know
Where dust settles.
The pursuit would cease. Cat
got your lung?


Nevermind the mainstreamists that
misinform the world about poets;
we leap like paintings from frames
on walls, we raise our eyes to threaten
& interrupt certainly not a Sisyphus-like
torment, not all with poison fangs
& fiery breath at the very root of hell,
but instead we’re like dinky
grandma patches—heavy globes
become weightless under our thoughts.
Peel the layers of earwax from your
audible-gates. Pity, not Hatred;
Admiration, not Disgust; & where
is Fear but within the foul fiend?
Look beyond these lunacies! One has
made a trumpet of one’s rump
when one has grown savage, even in
thought. I have eyes sharper than
Leonardo, my poetry has rendezvous
with me & I could throw it all to the
wind, laughing, scarcely suited
& privileged to know nothing.