As if in completing a sentence there was death—
But I have seen death!
A funneled myriad,
an aggro crag in white;
it hands the world
to me compressed
and smeared, the whole
rosary of everything
a too big morsel in
my throat. Someone
says we all just be, don’t we?
Of course, in practice,
we'd all rather orgasm.
All that bombasm and
at last that last moment
not a climax, but the
edge of a cliff; a breath
not a gasp, but just breath.
Still as all the numb
comes home I wonder
why it feels so good.
I studied here
back when I used to study
in long gone days
of naïveté, this poem should be
"on the death of me."
don't quite know if 'death' would be right.
I've seen everything
My cousin, he makes fun of poetry.
"My mind is dry like the southern sky," he says.
Yesterday I laughed
Now it sounds pretty good;
Am I on my way there?
I’m done with calculators
and want to be somewhere though here I sit
Twiddling toes in powerlessness,
Full-fat, with eyes
greased off of Chinese.
But they don't know how I live life, boy.
These bushes, stirring,
There's a rat in each of them.
And I push like a shaker of salt
Even the rice falls out.
I see a floating woman in my eyelids
She says, “Succumb to me”
But it isn’t her.
It is me.
I imagine that these are an old lady's hands,
wrinkled tangerines on the edge of the walrus field;
and time, my love, is not discrete, it is
a continuous flow and 'moments' don't exist.
Inconceivable it is --
we are all bits of fiber
in a roll of unending yarn.
All I want is for the maggots to eat away at me
because there is a multiverse, and it is infinite.
I exist out there, as my duplicate,
and every decision I make, it makes the reverse.
I wish she never came in that dream and told me.
Let's imagine that these are my grandmother's hands,
sowing my 21st century cynicism into the dirt --
maybe even bury me too grandmamma.
O father above I have no hands,
and the naked girl next to me in this brothel,
she eats bruised bananas.
Where are this old lady’s hands?
Squeezing at the sand on
A waveless shore in
Her face was apple red and she told me that if we end it means we've never begun.
damned myself long before you
found me here, looking at the world
from a branch.
If it could be
we'd fly out to black holes. I'd promise
to just live and never observe anything again,
and I'd finally cry with the cessation of my laundered grievances.
My obsession with dust to dust would be over.
written 'goodbye' in so many lines, a
favorite word, in attempts to assert:
I do not exist
to coddle your thoughts.
I do not ask
“Where have they gone?”
And “but where have they gone?”
like ripe to rotten
For a second, though,
I would like to dream of my coat
falling behind me off of my shoulders,
the Seraphim catching it, and
only the raw feeling, uncooked logic of fear.
happiness today yes
a muay thai with chess pieces
four halves of throats
who do all of the dead lotto tickets belong to?
a jade elephant
thirst for sure
one completed crossword puzzle
who does this metaphysics belong to?
maybe a unicorn
some other thing in the empty set
lots of knuckles
a fruit fly
The sum of your body parts
Cloth composites like style
The unripe banana of yesterday
Words I wish I could forget
My apprenticeship of your stature
Fluid you draw from me
The ripe banana of today
Furniture of tree shards
Scratches on skin
There is nothing but gumption. Your skin is a bag
to your body of nerve and I feign unnerve.
The boy to whom the first penis I'd ever seen belonged said,
"You know, there are no bones, just blood and flesh." I, today, feel
comparable, suspecting lies.
Still, what one thinks must be the case must surely be the case sometimes.
At best I have some gump, at best four paces short -
The only person I'd rather be with than you is myself, so
your choked throat will be salved by Chloroseptic which is me.
Lost in your synesthesia, I taste like everything and look like nothing -
This all makes sense, like I've known it before; and
When I sell myself I price discriminate like a motherfucker.
To The Birds
At no hour am I lost.
Save these fatted hens! It’s a go on the apocryphas,
God’s a basket of elephants playing with an abacus –
People are hangers.
Yesterday my mother and I were bound by a fruit loop,
At night she told me to rip roar.
And you awake me,
Lusty I vibrate as you put the air back in my mouth.
Come, I say, I want to spoil you.
Since you came in
I’ve been a little more lonely
Every time I’ve been alone,
Crying at the unmatched clothes:
Blind it’s all blind and a dark sigh singing breaks an appending blow a beet bringing and a blue thing not a diamond but a black thing, a blue thing and a black thing.
But when will something legal retoxicate me,
I think of what to say too late and let it go
Words though grown go unnoticed.
My outside hasn’t met my inside;
They try real hard I guess.
The slobbery lungcases killed in coolness, they wear soot.
Birds finally assert themselves and are the sky
A million pecking hopefuls but what chance have they lotted,
I haughty have never wanted a ‘chance’ anyway, nor got it.