Tuesday, January 20, 2009

poem of the #4


Sorry, I don't eat virgins, but I like how they taste.
I am wasted again. Someone threw me away without
squeezing out the last bit. It hurts like a sun-monkey,
this unpeeling and retrying. Momma won't you hit
refresh? Pet me like a snowstorm? Moose me like a
moose cub, raise me with a lick? Bear me like a bear
cub, falling down the avalanche--if it's okay with you.
All the blobbiness of the earth keeps worsening,
somehow. I know that it cannot get worse, right?
It can only turn to wassail and I'll be your sexy clove.
The river is outside, unable to leak, and your face
oh your face is not a botched moon landing ah
but it is! That's okay though. Really, it is.
Have you ever got horny on the moon?
Crater lotion and helmet fog. Squinchy
is how the eyes go when you die, overdue.
Feeling is what makes it worse but fuck it:
the chorus of empty keeps shouting at me
It's an anthem, but it's got addendums.
Addendum #1: This ease of the heart-throb.
Addendum #2: Things that cannot break.
Addendum #3: Midnight. Fucking. Ham.
Addendums #4--∞: The morning after, oh hell.
Addendum #∞: Oh jiminey and the wrens.
Addendum #∞+1: Blah, blah, blah, blah.
I have nothing left to say. Come here.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

poem of the #3


I pushed all the shelves down in the library
like that one movie with the threads of sugar
where the DVD laser circle-things should've been.
"Fun is dinosaurs getting fucked into all body parts,
you book place! You moth sock!" I was screaming.
I'm a dinosaur. I am a blizzard. I'm a head loop.
I am hopeless. I am hocking what I have
to feel like I have something. It's like I'm writing
in whiteout. It's like I'm growing hair on Mr. Clean.
Do you remember when I was terrible? A day force?
I could've spun the world into a falling harplessness
What would we be without the harp to string us hopeful?
I know they divide the scales into West and East, but
all our mouths have different tones of huff and ache.
I know because I put a microphone under your pillow.
Oh my god, my ears still bleed when I think about it,
but the Sun is always listening to me. I am not a God.
I'm a dinosaur. You, I've Googled. You're a member of
six social anxiety and shyness groups that never meet.
You keep joining new ones like "this time, honey, it's
different." But there is no honey. There is no honey,
honey. This amplitude keeps repeating in my ear.
This hollow is indefinite. Falling through is a repeating.
Oh my god. You'll want to know where I keep the
blood. Well, I don't always even keep the blood,
but let's take the batteries out of the flashlights.
Let's take the Pringles out of the cans and visit
the libraries where hope is a desperate thing
that will love you and where all the holy jangle
spills away in all the holy angles of the face.

poem of the #2


Your body looked like a radio jingle from the 1950s.
The last time I heard the universe speak was in 1949.
You didn't exist. Bolo ties, ring pops, and hard-on fever,
until we all sat in tubs, soaking soap into our pores like
tennis robots. Who else has sat on a couch alongside the
freeway, eating a carrot, roasting their own thumb,
arranging dead bees to spell their honeymuffin's name?
I could cut out the names of everyone but yours.
We still smell like bee shadow soaking the eternal
glow of stores that stay lit all night to spook robbers.
Can you please umpire my next trip to space?
I feel like all I can possibly throw at the sun
is balls. Can you please tell me I'm not worthless.
I have heartache on the thumb, thanks to this
Wii Love game you left in the box with your
suicide note. What's weird is you still email me,
but it sounds like a spam bot, a spam bot that
really likes me, which I'm trying to want. All the
confidence I can muster is a fact about the Civil War.
William Tecumseh Sherman marched through the South,
dick in hand, heart on sleeve, marching to the the ocean
with mucus on heart, heart in sneeze, ventricle Kleenex,
chambers of heavy just beating like syrup on dirt,
soldiers behind him with birchwood 1860s mops
for the tears. Finally, at the ocean, Sherman saw
Sherman after Sherman: clones of himself but made
of tissues, bobbing and floating all the way to the sun.
And, at this point in history? All we can say is "Shame
on a brother!" All we can wipe is pus off a mirror.
And heartache is the sun, and love is still a mythic
pair of Aviators from 1968 that may not exist, so let
the world fall out of the deep, dark dust and through.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

be happy today! yes store go!

poem of the #1


Trust is just a feeling that you have - Paris Hilton

This is a really big waffle. I don't know
if trains need help, but I do right now.
Last night I was watching the teeth leak
on my favorite channel, the mirror,
in the holy hour with the hard light.
Probably I left it on the iron all night is why
it tastes like shadowboxing a Muslim.
But it's better than popcorn at dawn,
my girlfriend's new idea of sharing time.
It's the off-season. I feel like a pair of hunters
lost in bear country. Tomorrow I will tattoo
exclamation marks on each of my knuckles.
I want the earth to know how I feel
as I pummel it with my fists. This waffle
tastes like I have the wrong sunglasses on
but no one is laughing because there is no
hey-to-hey connection. Everyone is just
drinking the water of the eternal-handshake
and I am afraid of getting touchy-touched
in my mouth uterus. While I am dying,
Rodney is dying too. Fuck Rodney.
He is never here when I am weak.
Now I am dribbling waffle into the
trash compacter. Hi down there.
Oh, hello up there. Thanks for the food.
This is the way I talk to God,
when I talk to God, which is never.