The Youth

I saw the youth beaming,
long-haired, their pants painted on,
quoting "You've Got Mail"
and listening to CDs on a boom box
ironically. What treasures will they find
relevant, running full-circle
from bad to good? Out imperfections
unintentional ornament, cheaply manufactured
and unavailable for retail sale.

When Ice-T came on the radio,
from his Gangster Spring,
spitting rhymes about the streets,
thugging, bitches, dealing, chains,
they thought of Law and Order
and wondered what it means.

Bigfoot

Look at those flippers!


You know what they say
about guys with big feet?

They have big shoes hahahahaha

Good Lord your feet are huge.

So is my cock, but that
is purely coincidental.

I would give anything for half
of one of those.

I looked down and he had no legs.

Williamsb(e/u)rg

The blacksmith
has a mustache
ill-proportioned to his face.
His bike is made of old horse shoes.

Lately, he has disturbed the ambiance
by referencing pop culture
apologetically and with the utmost seriousness.

Stay in character
they tell him.

Writing Future Histories

I am writing future histories:
unborn ideals that have yet
to hold a hammer for one hot moment.

On a shelf on a shelf on a shelf-
now fast foreward and enhance
to see the synaptic branch extend
in cerebral bloom, then wilt
to be mixed with the earth.

Then this muddled speck may be picked out
and left within one of many canyons
where it is quickly coated in layer after layer
of nacre and, like a lustrous tumor,
pressures its neighbors for just one cup
at a time while the host asks for one minute
to show off something that shines.

The first shot is something to behold
and if it were to miss instead
of lodge itself in someone's breast
we would surely put it on a pedestal.

Punked

Margret Thatcher snatched your milk,
but also changed your nappy.

Briton's children couldn't bilk
and so they sat in ennui.

Sid Vicious shed his shit-stain silk:
so proud that he was naughty.

Now he has a tattooed ilk
whose dance is like the sea.

Water Elsewhere

Let's leave the old world behind
climb in our space ship
and start a better life

And when our rocket ignites
spewing white flames into a
blue midsummer sky

I'll want to hold you tight
we'll be the first in flight

Then, when we land, our fragile hands, they will be trembling
What gave us life would then become an emblem of remembering

This is a transmission
to most everything that I love
its depressing

but you have the strength to go on
like we couldn't

Citizens of tomorrow's world
what place do you call home
When it is over there will be scores
and you and I will
be alone

Citizens of tomorrow's peace
what do you dream of
when you're asleep
Is it the horrors of yesterday
or is it only electric sheep

The Talk

I asked a girl if she was a virgin.

She said she never gave a fuck.

Hipsters

Vacuous collectors of culture
place what treasures,
procured from fresh burial mounds,
upon the sepulchral table
or the sepulchral book shelf
or the sepulchral mantle.

Holy, holy, holy,
more self-appointed priest
of days past
than rebel, inhaling
even the smell to consecrate
your supple bodies.

From dust to ashes
in the sepulchral tray,
anoint your forehead
with a nicotine patch
to preserve sacred youth
or reinvent your faith.

Preventative Measures

Kill me
if I ever start

The Sun Sets

Every fifth year Jesus walks into the middle of Times Square and, with a colt revolver as a guarantee and blows his brains out. It is never the same time of day, but always on January 1st so all day residents avoid the square, usually staying in altogether because there is always a chance they will forget what day it, walk through the square, and ruin their favorite coat.

Tourists, on the other hand, pack into rows upon rows of seats, fill the balconies, or pretend to be searching for something in the Disney store while keeping an eye out for a man with long hair and a 45. This is surprisingly hard to nail down considering the number of imitators that, whether it is religious fanaticism or celebrity trend-following, choose to take their own lives after growing a full head of hair. Consequently it has become a noted sign of severe depression to have hair past the shoulders.

On occasion one of the more traditionally devoted spectators will attempt to talk Jesus down as he pulls his luxurious hair back over one ear and clicks the hammer into place, but, with a look of dull courtesy he always responds, "See you next time" and it is over.

Carry The Scars Of Your Weekend

This aching sunset etched in my back
will peel into the muddled waters
of our rippling youth and yet
the glowing crescent,
permanently affixed and smiling
in its quiet mountain landscape,
fails to leave an impression
when the city lights,
in their misguided splendor,
drown out its face.

Our Soft Focus Life

I'm looking into the future,
ten years or so,
into our cottage
outside the city,
with a study for me
and a room for your hobbies;

our endless present's
edges become feathered.
The colors run together.
We are impressionistic.
Golden light seeps from the corners.

Suburban Gloaming

Your ash-brown soles on the dashboard,
seat reclined to the napping point
as we coasted through nowhere and stopped
to eat out of a basket in the cul-de-sac
where I first felt the pull of the moon.
There is no scorched earth, only scorching
pavement, yet lions squeeze through the cracks
and ants pool around any dropped morsel.
When I said this you threw the salt shaker
out the window. It shattered into a glinting
constellation and as each piece was carried off
underground we drove away.

Allen Ginsberg Aboard the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln

Let the President execute his own desire--
I claim my birthright!
I call all Powers of imagination
in every direction.
I lift my voice aloud,
reborn after the vast sadness of War Gods,
published to my own senses,
approved with pleasure by my sensations.

Let Congress legislate its own delight
and pronounce words beginning my own millennium;
blissfully received by my own form:
destroyer of battlefield illusions,
of human kingdoms to come.
Let the States tremble
when our trembling bodies hold each other
on the bridge over the Republican River-
The feeling from our faces
burst into animal beauty
15 years ago--

Let the Nation weep,
O but how many in their solitude weep aloud like me--
the bodylove emanating in a glow of beloved skin,
visible on the horizon
reborn forever as long as Man
who loosed the bomb that's slaved all human consciousness.
Manifestation of my very thought,
this Act done by my own voice,
I here declare the end of the War!

Beach House

You make me nostalgic for somewhere I have never known:
Miles of grey shore stretching out past a gloaming ocean;
the sun ripples the skyline; an aching wave catches me
with its spray. Once, I was in the swell, felt an upwelling
motion overtake the locks in my throat and spill out
till I was a river with my own coast
by the moon, its invisible arms embracing my limp form.

Heroes and Villains

Oliver fiddled with his cape as the school nurse prodded his swollen eye with her gloved finger. Across from them, occasionally releasing a small sigh, was the principal, "Having trouble at home, son?" said the principal. The boy turned away defiantly, closing his eyes, "Nothing I can't handle," he replied cooly.Now smoothing out the wrinkles in his tights, Oliver requested the old bra he had been using as a mask. The principal declined, saying Oliver's father was on his way. No sooner had the principal finished talking when a man burst through the door. He had on a metallic black leotard, studded leather gloves, and a headdress of poorly-glued felt. His mouth contracted into a cruel sneer, "It's just like you to ask for outside help." At that Oliver's hands transformed into rocks and a river ran between them.

Ambullience

It's red lights' throbbing glow
soaked into a bandaged night
as I spied
through two frames
the face of a woman faintly
pushing fog against the pane
of her mask.

Her breath flowed in waves,
blossomed like frost,
as her eyes, bobbled
to each spoken statistic
which hovered,
ephemeral and lucid,
in an ever-expanding haze.

I followed them for some time
through a neighborhood
shaped like a grate
till we reached a small embankment
and, with the utmost reverence,
they lowered her into the numbing arms
of the river, lighting the stretcher on fire.
It burned like a hearth.

I knelt in the tire tracks,
back to the flames,
and tried to make out shapes
in my billowing words.

That's Not How You Do A Knife Fight

I thought we had to light candles,
shake hands and say the magic words;
then drink the blood of a recently deflowered
high-school dropout, spitting the last drops over
each others shoulders simultaneously to ward away
hurt feelings. Then the crowd would cheer and sing
the chorus of some ancient opera while we stare into the depths
of our opponent's blades, savoring the moment like the fine scotch.

There should have been music: heavy on the brass and violins like murder;
a crescendo as I nearly missed his jugular, leaving my soft body unprotected.
There should have been a crowd, spaced evenly in a circle, all holding hands
and thirsty for blood,

but instead there were two people circling each other;
one with a gun, the other with a roll of quarters clenched between his teeth,
carrying a motorized scooter that runs on honeycomb runoff with a belt
and one of those things you shouldn't handle without gloves and they just
circled each other, knifing the air, knifing the air without a care in the world.

Over the Door

A tiger's stripes
tessellated
voluminously.

Its body wooden,
headless,
flecked white,

standing absently
in an ocean
of spotted gold
like a fraction
between the dim,
coarse night
and itself.

Nacre-Laquered Camera Obscura

Shades of blue
and blue and white:
a column
of ascending death
tangles a swath
of light, refracted
upwards as each peak
rejoins the swell,
churning, caressing
the rough face
of the coastal shelf.

Everything is difficult
to place, blurred as
in the first dewy waking
moments. I yell,
"focus," try to adjust
in the absence of bent light,
close one eye to flatten
the overlapping images,
but I am too taken
by my rainbow-tinted
screen to greet the chemical
taxis with our rhinoceros pores.

The Gentle Bouncer

The gentle bouncer
lives in a house
full of probably ghosts
three-quarters of the time.

The other quarter
he is probably a ghost.

Select gifted people sense him
through vibes;
through the resounding floor boards
that bellow into a space
full of glass
full of space
and rain water.

Teen Wolf

At the end of Teen Wolf,
during the celebration,
if you look hard enough
you can see a man
exposing himself;
That is what I want to be:

obscure and aware
of a world through the lenses,
beyond my hour
and a half problems,
jubilantly flailing
my most vulnerable of areas,
offering myself
to an indifferent public
as a private joke.

No Homo

When we won it made me feel.
As the Gatorade container of my eyes
was overturned on the coach of my heart
I rose with the stands,
arms encircling the jubilant meat
of my buddy's hulking frame
and on the screen: a wave of pats:
back pats, head pats, butt pats,
everyone patting tenderly, lovingly;
with a gentle violence acknowledging
the muscular buttocks
of our victorious warriors
so far away and yet
close at hand.
The phone rang.
I tried to answer, but there was a
game-winning touchdown
lodged in my throat.
John's voice broke over the phone,
"We fucked them, Eddy.
We fucked them in the ass."

Thought I Was Depressed, Turns Out I Had The Blues (Song of Myself-ish)

Before you're an old man
let your hair grow long
and sing your reflection
a sad, sad song

cause I won't forgive you
for all you do is harm
the only girl
to ever bring you calm.

When you cracked your torch upon my winter hearth.
When the waves in my veins make their way to the heartland.
With your worn iron mantle
and your oil slick sheets.
When you decide not to go,
but slip underneath.

When the rats have gone away
no longer
rejoice for your ship will soon follow them down

singing O,
go gather your steeples
we'll pierce the bleeding heart
and then we will know-

singing O,
good will to all people
except all those that
mean to do us some harm.

Ice age;
divine plague;
I regret
what I've made.
I'd start it all over,
but it's too late now.

We Left Everything Unsaid

I did an interpretive dance to explain why
I had to leave so suddenly and why
I was never coming back,
but you took my arms,
held away from my body
and making wide arcs above our heads,
as the sun and my lips,
pressed in a thin red line,
as the horizon
and my legs,
blue in their denim,
swaying back
and forth
as an enormous mythical shark,
old as time itself,
creator of earth, sky and sea,
swimming powerfully through
our lackluster plane of existence.

You built a shrine to that shark,
lit candles every day without fail,
bit everything that looked like a seal
with the ferocity of a streamlined oceanic predator.

No one could reach you by phone,
you wouldn't answer your door;
the only way to make you notice
anything was to bleed up to
a quarter of a mile away.

Once I saw you in a shopping mall
buying new shoes and moving slightly
to the drone of conversation. You looked
like millions of years of evolution had shaped you
for buying shoes; as if this was what I had
been getting at all along.

These new developments made me come back,
and stand at a comfortable distance
with my lips pursed as if I could kiss you
at any moment. I caressed your back the right way,
placed my lips on lower left of your exposed neck
and stayed there: away from your mouth,
away from your rows and rows of teeth.

I'm Not Starting Yet

Sometimes I talk like
I'm reading a poem
so a select few
will read into
what I'm saying
even if it's something
deceptively banal,
like the inner workings
of our government.
Or maybe it's because
I see a slash
after the last word of a line
and take pause
to catch a breath,
collect my thoughts,
and mark any internal rhymes.

Drops of Sound

Cicaedas ring:
a twin engine plane with one missing.
Two suns strike me:
one eternal;
the other dilating white hot:
the past's foreign horrors
pasting sunset shrapnel,
numbing down my right side.

-, -, -, +

Walking home from work,
late at night, with a light rain
and a high fever.

The New Cellphone

It has a shoulder you can cry on
that has hands-free bluetooth
and one blue tooth as a joke
that can perform laser eye surgery.

The keypad is beyond a keypad.
You can't imagine it,
even in the future,
but it works with your hidden desires
and undulates pleasantly.

"It" is actually a he;
they are all "he's"
except for the queen
and she is a transvestite.

In their incessant anger,
which they deny when asked
they disrupt the earth's magnetic field.
All the birds and fish move
in unsteady circles,

their eyes already corroded
by squid people venom
if they aren't robots already.

Hearth

there is a fire which burns within my chest
sometimes i forget it is there for the skin
has blistered and hardened a thousand times over,
creating a cloistering effect. so now,
for the flames to lick my windpipe or, even more,
climb out and stand erect i have to become
the president of the world. from there:
something that can't exist like laser vision. expect
a deadening; me going "pew, pew, pew" while holding
my favorite headless action figure like a deposed idol,
eyes split between the prize and the next best thing.

Oceans of Bright Tinsel

The phrase, "There are plenty of fish in the sea"
will be replaced by, "You killed the fish.
The fish.
Now we have to try other animals"
And we will, ushering a new wave of fetishism
that sweeps the nation like a dance craze
with names like,

"Do the half-man, half-bear"
and
"Squid-person step"
or
"Shoop a loop wop (My momma
was a bitch
my daddy was a dog"

and everyone would move half their bodies
because of the world-wide stroke.

Modernity

What was the new,
the brief and temporary
was the modern,
then the post-modern,
then contemporary
the the now,
which was confusing
so we tried to drop it,
but it was so damn catchy
and confusing to those not in the know
it would remain that way
till earth became a barren wasteland,
which didn't necessitate a new name,
but made everyone feel stupid,
which they were
and are
and will be.

The Great Lakes

Bill Murray changed
his middle name
from "fucking"
to "making love,"
laundered all his suits,
and commandeered every drop
of tequila in Texas.

He made a crater
with his fist
and I sat in the wedding
band indent to watch
a single tear traverse
his pock marked face
and land in my cup.
It tasted like tequila;
like something something something.

Our Future

is the one envisioned by the past
because, when it finally arrived
we were still in blue jeans
and white t-shirts just like last year.

Though we felt silly
in our shining metallic jumpsuits,
our fishbowl helmets introduced us
to a strange new world, stretched taught
between earth and sky, that quivered
around our collective stare.

This was the distorted wonderland
promised by men of reason and dreamers
asleep at the speed of light
in a decade from then.

This was the technicolor entrance,
crumpling the senses;
a miasma of reflected light,
a kaleidoscopic crowd inflamed

in sensation, each heart thumping
feverishly, their vibrations reaching
through the air, imparting
the impression of closeness.

For one electric moment
we ceased to notice all the space
and saw our writhing mass
from the heavens
as indistinguishably human.

Practice Makes Perfect

She said she wanted to sew
like the clothes she can buy in a store.
I said, "Sure, I can help you.
Get in my basement. I'll cut
you a break. We can pretend
you are a slave child
and I'm the master. I'll cut
off any idle hand and you'll learn
to love the pavement.

God, the original G (Mashup of 3 Seth Rasmussen Originals)

I took no pleasure to egg a blind hermaphrodite to death last Spring;
dissect it with one cut, but there it stands, budding,
typically -just scratchin balls.

I feel what he feels. Between us, a cold veil of air,
but I had to believe in lingering warmth.
Where I’m going, it’s easy.

“Have I been lost inside a dream?”
I asked, knowing I was out of line,
which is almost true.

and though I hate to bear the cold-
shaped halo of rot,
the apple becomes the worm.

If you want to know
I’m all allegory and he is almost real.
Stuck in a slice of film,

the poor solitary segment thinks he’s me.
The film becomes the apple.
I am the worm.

Application For A Beard Permit

I am not a man of a mountain, but a mountain of a man
and my beaming, chiseled chin must be concealed,
lest it singe the very eyebrows of God.

Every day from dawn till noon I shave, dulling
twenty razor blades as my pike-like stubble
can never be contained by mortal instruments.

By five o'clock my shadow is a beard and my beard
is two beards intertwined in a thicket of testosterone-fueled glory
requiring new words like "beardsplendant" and "other-beardly"

But, O, if my fertile stumps, my stunted seedlings,
my clear cut swatch of prickling hairs were allowed to grow unhindered,
you would most definitely agree with my doctor's testimony,

"Upon examination of this young man's chin, I was transported,
to a bushy wonderland so splendorous one must muster
every ounce of human strength to not gouge out their eyes in its magnificence.

Wind swept through each majestic follicle like a poem,
their melodious rustlings whispering secrets of the ages,
their scent: an odoriferous bouquet of masculinity.

I would gladly quit my profession to backpack around this wondrous face
mane, acquiring sustenance from morning dew and the odd cracker crumb,
keeping a journal to record its downy splendor, but that would not do.

My own measly life, squandered in dedication to this outgrowth
of perfection would be but a droplet in the infinite hollow basin of tribute
it deserves. So I beg of you, let this beard grow."

"Pop" Like A Party Balloon

In an awkward conversation
about politics or something
a murmur of agreement
runs through the crowd
as if to say, "yes,
this is the best party ever."
Face-first in a vodka tonic
I try to do the wave.

Already fidgeting,
my anxious bile wants to go
to another room, chewing
at a mucous membrane:
ceiling, floor, and four walls
continuously regenerating
though a dull ulcerous ache
penetrates my stomach.

I'll feel better over my dead body,
but more like when and within;
the drapes, carpet, paint
will be singed, licked clean
by my corrosive dread, then,
when my excuses, sticky at best,
are eaten and there's nothing left,
microscopic bodies begin to exhale

carbon dioxide: bi-product of my body's
desire to finally get to the meat.
My cavity inflates, creating pockets
around my lungs; my last, last breath
is dust, unsettling a cocoon of the same.
The pressure builds; my physical form
cannot hold what death has in store
so it blows open:

a) hole, no larger than a dime,
being raised from a well,
unzipping a body bag,
birth's first slit-shaped light
comes shining through. I am finally
free, the world is permeable;
I make my way not knowing which way
is up, which is down, which to go.

b)lood and gore line the inside
of my coffin; life begins as it does
for symbiotic organisms without
a regular host: uncomfortable,
riddled with obvious question.
There is plenty to eat for now,
plenty of bacteria to squirm over;
you could even call it a party.

The Highest Rung on the Ladder (I May Fly In The Next Life)

To die

over and over;

no time for error;

a moment to find

a same-species lover.

Alight on the water

among the gray cloud;

deposit your savior;

repeat forever.

On The Coast

Bits of kelp,
baked by the sun,
cling to rocks,
their long arms stretched
across the beach
like chalk
on a blackboard.

The Legend of Arthur Rimbaud (Part 2)

Since his arrival, ten years had passed
and the boy grew, drinking only the finest

spring water and consuming the most potent
of herbs. It was time to reveal his portent

nature, securing his place in history.
Now was the time to meet his contemporaries.


2. In Which Our Hero Meets His Contemporaries


"Have you heard about this Rimbaud boy?"

"Is he crying for his favorite toy?"

"No,
he won the contest over breakfast,
claimed his prize
and shouted, 'who's next?'
and if I'm able to guess
I'd guess that he meant us."

"Good for him. How exciting.
How quaint and uninspiring"

"Don't you know that he'll come here,
call us names, recite that queer
style of poetry that borders on prose?"

"Yes, I see. How deriding
for our art and for our earning.
I suggest we go down fighting
and put an end to his rise."

"For the sake of all that's holy
I suggest that we hide."

"Why?

From a boy?

He can have your trembling "hide".
Do you know what I did today?"

"Do tell"

"I wrote a sonnet for a lord,
a sestina for his daughter,
then I got a little bored
and drank some mineral water,

but it didn't end.
Those cretins pretend

to know how to compose
verse. As I lay in repose,

cursing Phoebus, they had
the insolence to ask

whether I was sleeping
or if I was working."

"Shhhh! Keep it down I hear he has
excellent hearing.
Oh shit, here he comes."

My name is Rimbaud and I am rock hard.
Lock up your sons,
but you
can keep your daughter and I
came to earth with dearth, curt
to spread to word.

I lay the hurt with mirth,
bitch,
you thought I wouldn't find you?

Can I blame them?
Shall I shame them?

Pinned to the table I pity
their fixed position,

their neckties pulled too tight
they're stuck in some perdition

and all they can manage is
to write in introspection.
The post they've been tethered to
does not allow creation.

Your lord and master was not chosen by the muses,
confusing silver spoons as proof that is conclusive.
I don't know why he stood aside and let you do this.
Your gift was wasted,
now it's vacant,
consecrated by your maker
and He takes what He has given
with no trace of human feeling

cause the bourgeois don't care to be immortal,
their work still living when they
exit this mortal coil.

You're a novelty
of society.
Typical trinket for those
of notoriety type.
It's not right.
You should be the one to get the hype,
cut the tripe:
the fat cats,
those hazmats,
controlling what you have of a life.


"And give up our toast and tea?
This is the 16th century.

Would you have us in a field
or better yet prepare a meal?

We would much prefer to keel
over dead than know what's 'real'."

This is what you choose?

Sitting in a tea room,
eating all the good food?

Where the starving artist,
hungry for new ways to impart his knowledge?
Oh yeah,
he just up and left for college,
lost all the fight in him just get a wage.

I take large bites out of life because
I can't afford to.
Measure in tea spoons?
Hah!
How bout a revolution?

"See here young man.
Mind your manners, watch your tone.
The style you employ is not
something you own.
It's origin speaks in a
primeval moan.
The meter you break may be
a human bone."

It's not broken, you see
it's still moving, you see
I'm not moved and, you see
it's only syncopated, related
through evolution, you knew
this day would come

when a young man would speak up
and tell you that you're done.

"You think this match is won?
You think that we are done?"

Fun as it is to converse with has-beens
my rhythm has corrupted your minds so I win.

"Where did you get the thought that we were beat so easy.
Your rhyme scheme
is sleazy;
your choice of words is measly,

and all you can manage is to-

Oh...."

A Fly On The Wall In Palestine

In my living room the television blinks
vehemently, confirming a reality
worlds and words away; compressed
and delivered in northwest English.
I cut the volume down to a low hum:
something comforting to go with my tea.

The seeds sown in spite must serve
some greater good like children marching
around the neighborhood under one flag.
It's understood there will be no
compromise, no reprise; promises
linger in the air, exhaled
by different lips every year or so.

My stake is on the news: half
a child's body draped across concrete
slabs; hazardous dust obscuring my view.
It is news that stays news.
As the image is exposed to the outside world
it oxidizes over. Now a story on potential
epidemics. Why isn't it covered every day? Time

on a global scale barely fits within a
God's window let alone sandwiched between
talk show hosts with commercials that go, go, go
though I'd rather see something I want than something
someone else needs. Call me a realist, a gymnast:
too squeamish to address the cancerous abscess

I contort my understanding, whiting out
the more colorful areas of my compound eye till I
am left with a blank canvas and I look wide-eyed
to the world: a stunted crying child
fast-awake and dreaming from all sides.

Can I have a stunt double to fight
in the war I saw on t.v.? To be brief:
no, but knowing is half the battle.

Close That Wound Or Keep Bleeding

See me standing here
holding a bouquet of red
hot irons. You say, "No, no, no,
okay." As if a heart
can be cauterized half-way.
"Stay," your hands find me,
mine are miles away.

You say we are only two people in a sea of people
in an ocean of humanity, ever-expanding toward
our swirling mirror image, yet caught between
chemical desires as our molecules were charged
to form the double helix and, step by step,
stored preferences for feeling, communicated
our deepest thoughts, yet left me guessing.

You are heavy-handed,
but keep the iron at bay.

Careers for Sad People

You could do nothing
and not make any money

or your could become a poet
and not make any money,

but have something to show
for all of that time you spent
being sad.

You could be a mortician
and contemplate death all day

while dressing it in nice clothes,
but people would think you are creepy
rightly so.

You could be a tiger tamer,
tempting fate each and every day

and maybe seeing them in their sad
cages could make you appreciate life
even temporarily.

You could be a 9-5 cubicle worker
if you like being sad in a numb way.

You could run a suicide hot line
and have a level of sadness to aspire to.

You could visit a third world country
and achieve new levels of depression.

You could become a recluse and create
your own world where you are king

and, in a way, you will be happy, but,
in a way, you will be much, much more sad.

A Art On Pike

"If you keep yelling at me, I'll have an orgasm,"
my back suddenly stifled,
my mind reeled for so long
I reached my wits end
and it went flip, flip, flip.

Because her error was palatable, it throbbed
between my temple
for good over a week.
Why do mistakes sic
out while wit flows?

That poet on Pike Street found the secret
to the memorable line:
something on key
with "scuse me while I kiss this guy."
or "hold me closer Tony Danza".

Not a rehash, but a miss-hash.
Have faith I made it
with the meaning in mind-
as if I can effect
its established shape.

Can one over-do the fox mistake?
The poetic mind places
each phase within
context, defining where
is what and what is not.

Reputation can only pave
over literal shortcomings
for very long so I fail
and supersede.

In the mine, words are
dessicated by sound,
meaning assigned,
giving one half an orgasm
and the other an aneurysm.

Motherfucking Birds

Hitchcock:
the birds struck,
were struck,
were sucked
into a jet engine
effectively canceling
their winter trip to the tropics.

The plane: once a steely monument to indifference
wept flames from one side,
claiming there was only something
stuck in its eye.
Now in a nose dive,
shrieking, pleading
that it wasn't so high.

The pilot speaks calmly
over the intercom, choking
back an emergency fifth of whiskey
shaped like a black box
and if that box were recovered
from the wreckage
it would say,

Echoes

Caught in the continuous loop
of a doo-wop tune,
"Shoop, shoop, shoop..."

A Man of Such Exquisite Emptiness is Ground for Fine Flowers

A man who long since
emptied out the contents
of his cavity
noticed a cable hanging
from his midsection
and traced it back,
hand over hand, to his core
where he found an antique engine
running, burning blood,
black as_______,
that leaked brown smoke,
dripped from his chest
forming a lake
on the ground.
He tore it out.

and now his lack is intricate.
It doesn't_________, it
won't_________, it
can't_________,it's
not_________or_________and

when he steps, a hollow drone,
as if the nothing in him grows
or a something made him home.

I Love You Like

When we were picturesque,
and the paint was fresh,
you traced the lines running to
and from my heart.

I lost all consciousness,
traveled without rest
as if I never knew
how to depart,

but if I must digress,
using my own brush,
I'll say the greatest truth
to you with art.

Drunk As A Poet On Payday

Though the day may never come.
I run.
I run.

Our Town Turned Into A Prison

It was shortly after we finished the mini mall
we were declared a town you could enter,
but not leave.

That was okay.
We all had jobs,
but there was crime-
imagine that. There was crime

so on our city square
we built a cage
and as we grew
so did our center

until we began to worry
it would engulf us.

Our Prison Turned Into A Town

An ice cream truck
to keep the children happy,

then a carnival because
the winter months get so depressing.

Our town hall was constructed
as a formality; an assertion

of authority as well as some
comfort for the guards.

We already had
a laundromat,
a cafeteria,
a gym and
health and
dental care.

Everything else was just luxury.