POEM

Life doesn’t pass like a fiction.
It puddles up like new oceans
in facts that seek signs, convictions,
directly to the bone upon the mild flesh—
a Pathos as Frosty as Robert’s
Natural World; an Index glossing
all deaths into darkness. She tells me
that she feels trapped in her body:
If one tells that to just anyone,
they may take you & throw you
out of the window; your spirit
braided to theirs; an encounter of grace,
splattered blood & guts that resembles
dried brownie residue. Sawdust flakes.
Back into the earth goes one’s remains.
Let me keep you, snug, closer, like
an atom bomb frozen to a Japanese sky,
plunging to a purposelessness; a way
of muttering, “What’s really in a Picture?”
The Mind, from the East to the West,
is a wind that never calms.

POEM

I overheard someone say “fingers preceded forks”.
The mouth dictates what a cell phone “hears,”
as if Big Brother is more than mere All Eyes on You,

an origin of cute things that turns bitter cold,
syphilic, like a daunty moon-stroke
with one wing gliding down frantically

like a rotten vampyric stench
that comes to you like a shadow of death
or a plague that bruises with a violent violet tint—

a clawing, a scratching upon a chalkboard
of a vulture’s liberty, the way that a paleness
can be both beautiful & uneasy.

Midnight, a hush falls through wounds of gray.
My ears hear the unsayable—amazing, amazing!—
the way clarity of attraction walks by;

the way one can refer to death & then think of
all-things-heavenly. It’s no longer October.
The ghosts are all now in Forgiving Mode.

It’s November & unseasonably warm
like a hot avocado salad stirred up by a hot glue gun,
stuck to the belly like a man’s senses

when a leggy woman walks by wearing
blue jean shorts that may as well not be on her body.
Caricature rashes are exploiting my Persona.

I’m a pretender, stepping free from the plateau’s toes
to no true substance, floating inside of my own body
as if my spirit were conscious of my own soul-thoughts

re-considering what spacious emptiness loosens the gills
& quiets the mind like a disabled telephone wire.

11-5-14

Bare winter trees
as if looking through a fractal telescope.
A belly-button inverted to reveal
the innards of an astronomical digital simulation.

Holographic are my desires.
The constellation of Today is like the sky:
partly cloudy and threatening.
My eyes are the two O’s in Orion.

If you could see me like I am right now,
just think of reaching out to pick up a butterfly—
an inexplicit emotion like a weightless ballerina
spinning upon the choreographed features

of a prehistoric pleasure
dropping from the heavens like a heaving
heaviness.

Old ballgowns still blow around where the walls used to come alive. They still do  in a Matrix in flux. Leaning upon the air I do lean now like an old pirate, limping around with a cane of ebony to keep him sturdy. Silver light throws angels through screens in this scene. Just before you turn to feel the touch of it, what you see gliding by perhaps makes you uncomfortable, like the red wasp that I saw land on a woman that moved up her arm like a fake fingernail gliding up one’s fleshiness, then breaks off, rolls down the arm. Go on and feed me to the snide lions. Throw me into the Snake Pit. It doesn’t matter. I’m only the narrator. But this night is cold! Feel it pulsate like the cold heart of The Arctic that has a mind of burning thoughts. Misty Mysteriousness at the mind’s perimeter is a myriad of pyramids. Am I there yet? There when The Dead Sea was still “sick.” There where you can watch me in a vibrato sandstorm eating mountains of gulped air.  

Am I in myself / a private function of Identity? I am overthrowing the Ozone, this instantaneousness to be or to always be because I feel that gargantuan breathing of my Past just behind my shadow, as if my Future is intimateless and undefined, vanishing alongside the light that borders my fragile body in the sunlight as I move out of it. A body disappears with Death, but the phantasy of the Spectator is replicated by the imagination of the Creator when one concentrates on the emancipation of the mind—dared to be identified with Another? like bits of statuesque “Microbial Clouds” in words that touches only the outside of the ear like a whisper, unheard, felt only by breath, like fragile levees delicate before the break.

SUBCONSCIOUS DRIZZLE

Twined, thrashed loose
in the hungry part
of the day

(every day), slowdown
before lopsided
leftovers taste like

sweaty concert-goers
with china-thin mentalities
& dare don’t diddle.

Turmoil beckons
Plato’s ghost,
recomputing

deaf thermospheres.
I’m outstretched
here in this silence,

eating bread, drinking water:
& these days
that’s worse than

Prison Food.
I wasted
my youthful heart

on repressive
loops) mercifully
unintentional.

I’m a thistle,
a repeatable worm
in an earth, squashed,

a mystic
shattered by
accentuated wholeness

in frosty tombs
of frantic churchyard
fallopian tubes

where passivity grass
is beaded with
euphoric sheltering.

Africanizations darker
than that, I go
undefined like

eerily lifted oil lamps,
savor the savior,
manipulate the modest

of C’established
formalism disengaged
forseeable whooped

the keyboards
to Thessalonian times.
Thoroughness.

Brightest Thinkers.
Brightest Tinkerers.
Rollback? We are

downloading ourselves
into absolute
annihilation.

Watchers’ drawls
knot in a butterfly anyplace.
Outsourced sorcery.

The basics
where I awe
at all engravings.

I wrong
the somersets,
whispers to bacon,

geometricize mayonnaise
as if to justify eating
as monstrously as if

aborting Thai
or Indian or branding
myself to forbear

being an earthy poet
to feed Thoreau-thematic-like
in sample-sizes.

Storing thirst
in a Timex. Worn
wallet flopped out

onto the floor, kicked
accidentally by an infant,
in fact. Conjured

comedy specters
versing their sensitivities
like “overgrown infants.”

Money, money
money. Calories
truckin’. Obey

where you ripple
your own arena.
Coo’d algebraically,

late bloomers
like muskrats snarling
& snotty-nosed

like mistreated
angry bulldogs,
one drenched upon

by mucus, teeth showing
all of the shapes I felt
like History, debunked.

DOWN THE PIPE

Last night, only light
in the dark: cell-phone glow.

A small insect flies into
the luminescence,

essence to jumpskip
suddenly into my throat

it goes! as I gaghack, awful
cough, swallowing as it

clawed, kicked to reach
the light at the end

of my O-looking lips.
Swallowed, down the pipe

into my acidic pool, then
the thought of protein?

nutrients? what good
for the anonymous speck

in my belly but to think that
it thought that it had died

& gone straight to heaven,
for Absence of Body is To Be.


 

POEM

                                 for L.M.


Could it be that I was living
in your song? Could it be that I
was at The Pink Flamingo?

The foul-person crowd
was stylish-looking
but I heard backstreet sobbing.

Faces were beet-red
& pesky-necked hand-clappers
banging to the blare.

Was this a Square Dance
or a Triangular one? I thought:
“The Cake Walk is not this.”

Megabass through a windstorm
brewed. Comin’ up a cloud.
Cluster of men picking on Telecasters

where fairweather forecasters
dared not tread. A slant-headed
man in a tight-white t-shirt

with eyes like knuckles popping
& engines shaking, demanded
that I give him my First Impressions.

I stood there, silent, as if in
some interrogation chamber, until
the man & I burst out into a laughter!

like you & I when we laugh with a
wildness as if we are still in The Old West
telling tall tales around a camp fire.

CHAOS IN THE STREETS

What savage beasts humans can be, become,
    a relentless swell of fire-breathing
on streets where blood spills, ebbs, flows, electricity
    of every atom, of every beating vibrating
body, angered, hungered, as bullets
    with anyone’s name upon them
dance with the salivating lips of the kiss of death
    blazing angrily through tense air
where tears flow from tear-gas, transmitted,
    polars shifted. Where are the Patriots & Protesters
in Chicago? where are they to cry outward
    into the Illinois sky where murder
after murder reigns supreme? where are the
    curb-stompers & wide-mouthed screamers
stirred like hellacious hives, where are the
    spiders in the webs around the Media’s
blackout? Self-portraits in a National Guard’s
    eyes!—red red red—dead
to what? Every inhale is a balloon that lifts
    to capture one’s attention, but turns away
dully as one feels it stubbornly shift in a direction
    that is less appealing. The darts of an exhale
is the pop! The Global Economy bursts out
    like a zephyric ironclad rain, steel walls
of re-imagined Berlin-like barriers, a curtain
    like machinations scalping the globe
perhaps the universe as chemtrails spitfire
    as if a kind of Wormwood of nuclear fallout
became our halos—the glass of it breaking in
    a stagnant light, poignant, like sharks on a pier
pulled up by fishermen, escape back into the ocean
    where ships go silent into the underworld
of the shifting liquids where mermaids are maids
    of tempests, beyond mythology, beyond
the imagination into hyper-awareness. Look
    at the heartland of America—the streets
are not golden. The streets are cluttered with venomous serpents,
    headhunters, musky rats with chains in their hands,
quaking boots to rattle the magma of the earth,
    a rising phoenix slips below the horizon,
ashamed—streets of broken spirits, aching hearts,
    tumbling down the American Red-Bricked Road,
defunct, a cold wind in the veins, this mess that we’re in
    scatters our brows by open-ended barrels.
Who to target next? An intimidation as if
    the devil smiles in the details, as if the devil
is really in the cakes, in the hams, in a rotten egg, greyed
    like the slate sky of inhumane leagues
of locust-infested destruction tearing down the
    shapelessness of a country’s stalk, where
crisis wolves claw with skinny torsos along the red red red
    roads, a doggone dogging for a new route
in these dog days of August, where the words of
    MLK, Jr. have been muzzled
as if now capped in some Forbidden Zone in a desert,
    an alien-like Area 51 anonymousness
where mouths drip sands where time-lines go to waste,
    where dreams go to die up in smoke in the skies
in skid rows of battle cries, to the eyes
    an Inferno of the Unforgiven & Desolate:
A world seemingly inextinguishable, ablaze!
                                                             
                                  (unedited, written 8-20-2014)
                         

THE WAITING

No one likes waiting, unless your patience exceeds expectations. Patience can be like a questionable heartbeat of some Herculean Moral Struggle. Ossifrage mattedness.

Splitting hairs so as to see the fleas flee. Jaw of glass, shapeliness of hourglass,
“pretty poison” with “bicched bones” (Chaucer) (ie., unlucky dice).

Why is it that I can see through rubbish, but there are instances when I cannot see through a fog of seemingly conspicuous answers, as if I were a member of a gang that can’t shoot straight?

Nothing has to make sense as long as it sounds pretty, like a Crooner, crooning.

SOMEWHERE AND NOWHERE

Somewhere and Nowhere simultaneously in the mezzanine, waiting
on the plot to turn in on itself. You

are defined by dangerous reminiscences, without a clue what is human
and what isn’t. Is there a difference? What is done is done?

Meet me in that mezzanine, where there is no There.
We will interrupt the scent of perfume rising from Flesh.

We are not prickish, but we are recoiled in our decorum. Oh look
at the black light of Eye and Light!

It wasn’t the sibling of holiness until Silence (a distant relative)
separated our homeliness for flowers at night,

shakily deteriorating with the wind where the wind
wears its own crown

in this unlit setting I seek to fulfill with the illumination
that you left for me to remember you by.

COFFEE EXISTENCE

Coffee is the only evidence that I exist.
Gentrification arsenals could be this:
“Venti” “Fettuccine” “Lamborghini” —

Requesting “Small” “Medium” or “Large”
could get you the stank-eye in this
societal espresso of artery-thumping rushes.

The mermaid jumps out of the sign, be
-mused, moo’d, entirely linked to
Outside Forces? I look up:

Black Coffee Down! I look around:
Jungle Fever Frappucinos. Do not frown.
Pants are cutting off circulation

& that is the true meaning of butt-hurt.
“He’s half of a fireman,” she said,
bc warning labels were missing on the cup.

Coffee slaves smacks of an impressive
third of them at the fresh-point
where medication wears off,

as if one could reawaken like Sebetos,
then those supposed “special discounts”
that I never received, & I might just riot,

I’m going to riot like Egyptians, like
hipsters busting off backpack straps, bc
I’m fluent in Baristanese & I’ve realized that

Everything that is “completed”
is “ready at the bar” (except for the
coolness of jazz; a future torturé to codify).

Listen to your heart quoting fortuity.
The lamp-oil burns & everything that we are
is abbreviated. ST for Strawberry. C for Cream.

That is what I heard him say, but I
believe it. “Don’t make me feel old.”
Coffee freezes when lovers are together.

SECRETS NO MORE

i.

Dark secrets live and breathe
behind every door.
Staggered like a dagger, in pass.
What I am is full of crass.
Cheeks gleam like ovens,
sweat pours out of canyon pores
From fresh-faced lovers
with impressively-passive sass.

ii.

I am frolicking amongst 
the metropolitan coral reef.
Youthful concrete scenes
still taunts at my bedside table.
Happy is the one that dreams
where the moonlight beams?
An envious Tooth Fairy
thinks that all of this a fable.

iii.

Look at the Greek gods
wearing colorful, itchy sweaters.
The Greenhouse Effect is retained
in their invisible bodies.
Honey, you are as soft
as the silkiest of feathers
But your zipper is down...
a purposeful tease to be naughty?

iv.

Urban Dictionary diction
buckles my succulent vocals.
Deft fingers like microdots
in a spot in the ocean.
Odessa on the map, are we merely
the yokel locals?
Some fears ago, our boats sailed
together with devotion.

v.

Sergeant Gerheim in my ear?
Bacteria inside cells.
Miracles, like watching a serpent
jumping over walls.
If you see me again, I want you to
ring all of my bells,
Sail all of my sails, but please
do not be appalled:

vi.

Because roses aren’t really red.
Because rosaries are alive & breast-fed?
Because Art spied on color
& braced itself for innovation.
Because what remains is our raw imaginations,
colorblind, I said
Like Color waiting on its imminent
monochrome decapitation.

vii.

Me oh my of my eye jumping through
all of these hurdles.
Think not like the bungee jumper
thinking of a weak rope.
I’m preyed upon, prayed upon,
like giant sea turtles.
Why are you so difficult to reach?
she said (thinking there’s hope).

viii.

Watch closely towards
the belltower before midnight strikes.
I’ll be there, eating GMOs,
but nothing will ever faze me.
She said, I’ll watch from a forest
full of towering pikes
Because we’re in the perfect Age
to drive one another crazy.

THE GOLDEN UNCHI

The Golden Unchi
should be a mascot
the way that

prominent nipples
appear
on the tops of Bishops’ heads

in Chess.

I want to be
a mascot called DramaFever.

Where is Golden Memory
& what is Love (baby
don’t hurt me)

when it isn’t behind
the dumpster
or in

The Hall of Very Good
or Only So-So.

Some kind of soft & mushy
heart, like
forensic scientists

that can use DNA
based on some Goon’s diary.
I am one bad

result away from the assault on
the dreaded

VOTE OF CONFIDENCE

in the hope that I might
prove to myself
that I can be

what society wants me to be
as I lick my lips
& think of

succumbing
succubus-like
to the vampires of the world—

that sweet smell of caress. You
should aim for an
healthy Unchi keychain. Like

my post?
Tag me, bro. My heart
is dancing like a

bobcat that is on fire. I wear
my unchi
on my sleeve. See? I’m proving

my worth to you, to society. I will
Instagram it all
for a minuscle percentage of the world
to see. I’m

a remnant, disappearing faster
than Myspace.
A spoke on the wheel that keeps
spinning & spinning.

My Space
is where you should
be. My love

is a dolphin. Think
about it.

TALKING LANDSCAPES

Talking landscapes in silent films
are like ghosts walking across
a crowded proscenium.

Mind, full of fragments:
Cubist props. Vigorous energy
like being aware
that an artist is in the room.

I’m contained in a jet-stream:
naked & clothed at the same instance,
embodied in an unbound Unbody.

I’m an undying Hamlet-figure in a windy
Shakespearean echo—
Ethereal, haunted, ipso facto.

CIRCULAR MUSCLE

A circular muscle surrounds
all-things the Euthyphro dilemma, so
Hume is where the heart is

siphoned, swept up & away
like Plato inventing the first alarm
clock, a fleck touch

& a surface of whitelight
receptories in the Waking Hour.
Now, I say, crank up your soul, dear,

because the jukebox is still playing
like a late 19th century Phenom
who could sing with his sphincter.

Don’t be scared of poetry: don’t be
scared of where poetry may lead.
As with anything, it depends on one’s

druther, with thoughts to follow, like:
Do paramedics ever dislodge heads
from asses? Only ask in Poetics, bc

“NO ONE IS AT THE CONTROLS!”
No, no one, except the one
controlling the strings, controlling

the 8-ball, somewhere where the
sidewalk never ends, but Look,
I don’t want you to get offended

but weird things happen when
you’re dragging like a slug, baking
in the dragon-breathing summer sun

of a tightening yellow balloon knot
in the esophagus—deathly, like
some plutonic relationship

where your body, soul & mind
are pulled through clotted kinks
hammering you through the murk.

Perpetual chip on the shoulder?
Suspicion is never quiet?
Eyebrows raised, but licking

your lips is the contemporary way
to paint the perfect romantic picture
because Michelangelo was a minion

& should have lived in the Now
instead of the Then?
I am coming undone. 

Secrets reveal themselves
in dark holes but not everything
has to be clandestine. Voices

trapped in jars that your ancestors
still feel. I am those jars
without the lids fastened.


 

PAINTING

Eye balancing on the whole shebang.
Shebangs cognitively good-nosed tug
On m’heartballoon bc Time’s wasting
Away on odor-scent of wonderlanding. 
Wonderlanded cortex of olfactoring.
Sensory glancing is a muscle of aging.
Metaphorical lightning begins flashing
After ominous speech. Robots denying
That they’re robots.  Eyes syncopating,
Frozen to the eye-piece of a quivering
Telescope. Mind in a Medieval setting:
Theaters where toes tiptoed, inhaling
Torch-smoke. My identity, just jawing
With Archaic swerve. Prehistoric singing
I exist in, hums of mental housekeeping.
Aging of linear backward imagining.
Plots loosen foam of thicklessening.
Anthropomorphic fusions comparing
Paradoxes memorialized in testifying.
Seeing larger objects: maggot defying
Grass. Smaller, transparent nothings
Agglomerated in bibbles of xertzing.
Martyr of the Lilt of Things, reversing
Rejection by axing an axis, collapsing
The mock effigy of cultural trampolining.

HUMAN EBBING

Naked ungovernable
cahoot. Human ebbing,

desire evanescing,
exactly feckless, frail, in

-flexible transparent
spirit-plucking plectrums.

We are all abstract
mathematicians, sky of

tissue tempt to tear
the year away: can’t win

for losing. Nothing to lose,
bruise the fuse, inclued puzzles

included in the eye of
the aggravated aggregate. Agape

is the tune, anxious teeth
clinched, [sic] or sick

dogs of dialectique
sicking them onto

my mind’s lips of crisis ellipses
to awaken in a portrait of wholly snip.

POEM

                     for Rikki Osborne


Each day I confront Reality
    as if I were a bee
                            with biceps
in a roundabout commerce of excess
amassed inside of the achy abdomen
        of American caskets,
            obscured by fogged glass—
                                               the heartbeat of it.            
        What does one say in a poem
    after a Midnight rain, after
what one expects to eventually come to an end?

Whoever invented Finality
            should fall into a mysterious Abyss—
                                catch a skyline
                                    in the fleshy fruit of some
                  silent lightning . . .

        picking up The World
    by the blankness
of its meaning,
         perception like bookshelves
without books.
                                                      
                      Scottish accents
                 are the complete opposite of
        German accents (the phlegm in the
larynx is less heart-melting & amusing?)
           
Scottish accents
               cloistering you
                                to become
                    St. Smitten—
             words held in your gaze like a kitten?

True feelings disarm the reader? 

                        The hips of this poem
             are moving
                                            the way that your
                     favorite baseball
      player’s hips
                     rotate when in his
                                       batting stance.

                                             As you think
                                 of some picturesque Mankind,
realize that I’m displaced by a HOWL
                                 (ears to hear, tears to spill),

                           so remember that all that I feel 
stares out like oil-painted minds.
                        Pure

anonymity.    
            I’m after penultimates.

                         The statue blinks in the garden. 

                    Apiphobia
                destroyed
        sometime in my teens.

Snippets of life:
       you drove around
with friends around ’94, listening to Nirvana
perhaps in a state of nirvana

& do you dream in color?
          I meant to ask you that
                               before the summery-flames
of our collaboration
                                paused at the semi-colon

            of our synaesthetic
        stare-outs (your scar
as my scarf—
    your possible stigmata as my
            possible rhythmic hypnosis).
Paris, 1921. Remember? I’m there.
        You pose, with demure,
            to exemplify the appearance
as if we were there. You’re there.
                   
                    Imagine

            if the “male gaze”
    were destroyed
by a mind
                 that is no longer solo.
                                                        Imagine

                                 the Folie à deux.
          We’re bloodier
than the geniuses of the world,
                                  half-mental,
                                          half of the world
                                                in a summer-zone

     with 8½-celluloided bodies, red as beef—
           those Mastroianni flames of stiff upper
     -lippers
        where tonight, tonight I HOWL
to a dance in the background,
                    yanked around

                    by the shoulder
                                        to cast an eye
on the foreground of my yesterday.

                      Still, yet,
                         the universe melts around us;
                the stars are soft like warm wax.
               The stars
                                  glisten
                                     to be heard? I feel

                  the wind
                     in songs of trees
                         which are like bees
                                in the middle of seas.

Where do we go when there is
                               nowhere to land?

                  Clarity is a bird
                      of red pleasure right through
                 to the face,

flamboyant, buoy I float,
easy to be labeled as “a full-blooded American”
            & true,
                    but my ancestors were vikings
                                           & noble Englishmen
                                    in unsterile lands
               where the earth still groans
from spilled blood,
breathless assaults, out of branches

the albatross stands in the air . . .

                          my sails await a wind or a window—
                   a tongue growing in the soil of my silence.


In August the days always seem like 3 o’clock.
In August, the garden houses spit-up blossoms
dotting an air                              that becomes
nightmoon                                     chalk.  Our
seasons,                                            more my
-sterious                                        than sea
-bottoms.                                 Maybe we are
already  beekeepers in              Gardens of The
Future surrounded by
labyrinths                                  & breathing statues
that stare
                                holes
       Abramović-like through             our bodies
like honeycomb,                        chiseled away
day-by-day, keeping hope             alive, or frightened
                                                    like liquor spilling
            over pampered flesh—
                    jaded, jolted, dark,
                              a thickening voice
trembling to make me tremble to treble
the gushing forth.
                                                    Is this what you meant
                                        by asphyxiation
                when your headspace
needs room to breathe?                         Life
                                                                 sways
                                               like a broken lampshade

but Ideas as Objects of our consciousness
                                                                 listens to us,
like the iridescent insects that we spoke of
that                                                           listen to you,

that have                                                   recurring dreams
like you,                                                    that show you
what is truly                                                inside of you:

                           Think of galaxies     
                                    like bruises on legs
                                                  or like your leg   
                                                             that was bleeding     

                                                             torn by the thorn
                                                  or the thorn out        
                                        of my side          
                            like Adam’s rib?
                                                                                     
                                                                   (


                           Yes, the sky breaks open, but for you. 
                           The sky becomes like the shallow-end
                           of a pool breaking open to swallow up
                           anyone that detests or harms you.

TREMOR

late to sojourn upon the lathe to nowhere
on the fingers of every world citizen’s
vibration-fracture stench of ammonia-acidic

cat-piss in this room of dreamy lands &
muddy labyrinths where granules of litter
is strewn about where mold is melding

with the walls to impressionate my airwaves
spores gliding through phantom lungs
ghost-limbs encircling wind twisting

TONIGHT in this very tremor of night
the room you’re in is sanitary & sweet
like garden tendrils curled around your

legs soft where you leave stones upturned
underneath like flint in a river like
the insects’ movement like what “squeezes

my spirit” ravaged before sunrise &
what I am now is but a shredded mummy
that you unwrapped in the dust of your

memory-temple in fragments left dismantled
but here in this cafe in this chilly tomb of a cafe
where I’m expecting to meet someone new

(newfound in this meeting-place in puffs of
blue smoke-fogged flickers where
my nervous urgency never fades

like flash bulbs) you’re no longer near
except when I think I see you in someone
else & I arrive at places like this as if

seeking to make my own way
tumbling or falling I come snapped
through the ceiling of the muttering

leaped into our bones of a slowly closing
casket but there I see the new face appear
coming through the door looking around

I’m stir-crazy hatching new thoughts
to remember you like a sad tomato
or a busted Valentine

______________________________________________

What lies
in a pool of

White Lies
is an Invisible Cloak

that can never be found.
Finish the book

that you are reading
before you find

yourself
lying there

in your own
puddle’d staring.

My heart
is a broken bee

in a still-active hive,
like 

a perpetually-breaking
hymen, hymn

to sing left giggling
in the humming

of honey. I’m inside
of your book’s

Naval
to suit the whims

of the fantômas
that left dramatic

monologues
in a hissing

harmony.
Finish reading

your book
with a Lisp

of Higher Criticism.
I’m a Hangman.

The Harassed
Personality

of the Year (Award) is
To be Toothsome

ere long
to give in to

sophisticated cravings.
Laureates

at Laundromats
weeping

as their lives spin
into the next

guaranteed taboo. I
watched and felt

her eyes 
slantingly glue the

Cyprus-sap
of her squinted stare

onto my visage.
Then,

I became something
other than Me:

A humbler Me
landing on the mouth

of Aristotle
in an air that’s startled.

BACKWARDS RAW

Everything             backwards
                                                         in this world
like witnessing
                                                         Jehovah’s                  in
-sistences                                            
          trees         uncarved             caskets
      literature                   unfolded            trees re-enter
                             the ground
Backwards                            world       
        like seeing Lucifer
            the opposite of a cobra                                                            ascending
                                                                        up and past

not-yet-exploded                            supernovas
   
Backwards
like brushing
                                                                               your teeth
 causing cavities                                            or the depravity


                           of gravity
                                                             still causing brutal calamities
   

like when
                                                            the parachute

                                         fails
More strange than seeing snails

                                                         running faster than rabbits

on bunny trails

                                            Leaving imprints
like
                                                                                 radiohalos
                                                                                 in
                                                             clear
                                                                                      diamonds

a climate full of
                         tension                                                        like a land
                                                                full of hungry lions
Intelligence of elephants
                                                                            easily amused            Visuals
that
                     e                   x                p                    a                  n                    d
                  
 and                   stretch                    out                   our                        IQ’s
 
                                                                                        Don’t let the blues
weigh on your shoulders
                                                                                heavier than horseshoes