In line for a kiss, Beneath the moonlit touch Of a hooker’s hand – Of course she’s a loved one – Loved one, loved all: French kisses on me, in her Favorite women’s room IN THE ABATTOIR — SLAUGHTERHOUSE: The sky is a walnut, A prune, A lady in waiting For yet another Eruption, Another immortal moment Inside the rock, ACTING UP, ACTING DOWN ACTA VICTORIANA; AND ALL THAT BAD LAW, LIKEACUMEN, IS AN EMBER. Hard-eyed, I tell you Love, never a code word, Forbad Words of experience That sounded similar to “I love you… Every night, a little more burned out, Sons of sex maniacs and whoremongers Sons of coming and going with booze Daughters of the milking breast Daughters of the hammered hemorrhoid Fathers of future disease Fathers of freedom Mothers of need and greed Mothers of the wash room Grandfathers of progress Grandfathers of mass production Grandmothers of silent watchfulness Your fame and glory Are candles without wax, (wicks floating in oil) On the night-club sceneADRIFT HE IS A FAT FOOL Fat fuck — Got fat, Doesn’t fuck. I HEAR HIS FAT SOUNDS. Mourning eyes Make my memory Her tear-stained dress Distresses my skipping Slows me like a silk kite Anchor ” (THAT’S ME!) Had a man who couldn’t please me, Didn’t even try to tease me, Needing, as I do, a spank and a whack When I scratch his brother’s back Night plucks it strings For a phantom musician Whose chords invade The 3 A.M. Siren-sound, shot-rhythm air. Ever-set Everest Is so much higher Than a boy on a bike Can be, Especially one who Stays on the streets Hand above eyes, Squinting, I search the ecliptic For words in precession, wobbling Along the Van Allan Belts Like a toboggan ride down the dark dandruff Of a permanent wave (the kind you go back to get redone) SWATTING ASTEROIDS,AERIAL FLIES FLY IN THE FACE OF REALITY. OKAY, JUST Statisticate to be unlike meaninglessness GO AHEAD — GO AHEAD AND AESTHETIC RAPTURE — THE FIVE SENSES Smoking is all there Is as your lungs grow old, A beat or two at a time This heartbeat is the proof As sucked air gets thicker What keeps me away An obese woman Once a prisoner of fad Now retired to a feast Tiny bits of the best In the flatlands under the mountains WITH HERAGASSIZ AGENDA SITTING STONED How will you complete the soaring flight of thought Your bird sense, like songs on high, over skyscape skyscrapers, Resting on concrete cracks where beautiful seeds hide In dormancy, unable to reach fertile ground The young complexity That never was me Jams my strawberry Memories I ride the jam-biguity Down the gullets of Ganymede Dressed in icy froth Along horse-brown paths Of panting Ice-cream saliva, Miracle-whipped To speed the dappled Sugar Homeward It’s where the serpentine Constriction of Summer Squeezes the hot iron lung Of the still, humid air, Mr. Potatohead in the drawer Growing eyes in the dark Waits for the dust to settle So he can see some place To root, suspended and stabbed He has no bouquets, in pretty positions To sweeten the smell of putrefying thoughts Poverty has taken his indignation, He savages himself into submission Keeps fertilizing his dreams with manure To, maybe, grow a flower To place on her grave. Inside the camera, We watch the shutter, Safe for emotion, Film touched by light, Briefly, But destroyed if drenched By the subject’s tears Your tree has more circles, Knots from broken branches, leaves that left, So I use my chain-saw, cut you down to my level, Sculpt a galloping stallion for friends to fawn over And leave a giant clearing, too empty for does in Winter. In the mud-puddle of metaphors I dig for the wettest bottom dirt Remove it and squeeze it dry Sculpt an image of a snow queen Who gets her gossamer dress wet Passing by me, dirty, wishing for snow I am modeling myself in porcelain Half-baked highlights, re-rounded And re-routed in the runny clay, The glint of light does not enter me As I shape the outside of my poetry The condo cries with lonely abandon When they move on once more, Is soothed by the caress Of the paintbrush and spackle Another color, yellow this time, To cover the water-stains and wrinkles All over the Lower East Side Art spills into veins Is guzzled down gullets Tangos with terror And then is forgotten A stranger With lake-blue eyes Traded food stamps For cigarettes and soda Her grandson drank, Ashamed of frailty, Avoiding her eyes Lobster inspiration Antennae and eyes In a high pressure, blood, Red-surfaced world, Without other lives To live vicariously Or other- Wise The phantom musician Was silenced by truce South Park lies unbothered, for the most part, By gunshot ….. or guitar glissando The incandescent sprinkles of distant stars Are porch lights in patterned mythology Guarding yards where families went super-nova HOT SUNAMBIT GAMBIT SUICIDE GAMBLERS BUNDLING FARDEL BURDENS My cyan indignation At cyanide coloration Of craft and capability THE POISON IS AMELIORATED BUT NOT BYAMELIA ONCE MORE I HIT THE CLOSED DOOR OF ACCEPTANCE Hitting my flu-filled head with the heel of my palm Moving my jaw to massage an itchy throat Trying to clear my ears to hear the sucking sounds Of Sucrets IN Speedy swallows Sneezing projectiles like darts in an ocean Of Rhinovirus I try to skew time To cure a radish nose Cher(ig)noble care In waves Radiates from you I’M THE AMERICAN COLLEGIATE AMERICAN COWBOY POET AMERICAN DANE AMERICAN KNIGHT The road looks like a ladder In median point perspective The black backward, the deep horizon Ahead, the painted lines Take my attention until a truck- Wake washes me in road mist and diesel blast Horny hitchhiker-housewife Waves beauty in the wake of trucks Pieces of poetry scatter Like a storm cloud, billowing Backward into the past My mother hates my arsenal She hides my Ouzi Reads from books that lie – Outside, real flesh (smiling Out of gaping wounds) warriors Fight for freedom, teeth clenched Under mossy rocks Under (water) pressure In the muck miasma Under the big toe of poverty The sponge Dreams starfish darknesses And separation STRANGLINGANACONDA SLITHERINGANALECTA DELECTABLE EAT IT! Garbage glistened in the round receptacle Frost glazed the morning meadow Flies made babies, not knowing The trash men come at noon. Death spares nothing Entropy always Worms live within us Hope hangs in there Like red meat Ancient grave site Angel orange Granite lilies Any old sky Bah-boom! Why so few shootings heard about? Because grief and fear of grief can turn to rebellion, Retrograde projectiles aimed backwards up the trajectory? Juxtaposition Allows me to let out The anger, you know, At new platitudes Because dreams · Worth dreaming even when Not “preserved” Even if they only quell The twitching temporarily Being the Janis Joplin Of philosophy, I Scrape my perception over Well-strung screams My reality plucked precisely Far enough into Death to wail God’s anthem Posthumous accolades Are better than being forgotten, Rotten, swamp succor In the everglades of the immediate Handicapped vocal cords Scrape against hot breath. If I thought you wouldn’t be bored I’d just say “I love you” until my death I remember waking up With a bad poem in my headache Coughing up cupie dolls Words worried wasted when The man fell on his face Into the warm wet gutter Of his woman’s disgrace How to think in modernity Make existence a greedy glut Of low-dollar barrels, rolling Out to sea. We don’t all get Bombed but all need energy The Iris is black When tossed away. “Never agains” So “can never go home” Impregnated So sure No miracle will re-occur, Sit down, so settled You A city frozen Under ice So that you won’t Need to put up With pity For the chilly mollusks Creeping into your heart So, so the so-so’s Sip some monks’ ale And each try their hand at An Autumn’s tale The jeans have his father’s bulges Are worn down at the knees and thighs, Craftwork jeans embroidered with Double-helix spirals and sixties paisley …… And what you do to friends is shatter the illusion THOUGHTS Skewed chronology and permanent brainwaves — You don’t need Sly metaphors of satire For satire, To call the U.S. of A. A parasite monster Feeding upon starvation and suffering There is an hormonal haze In his testosterone soul His heart a rutting beast, Over gonads, that searches For its next beat Don’t disparage the drone — Look, The sly part is that those New York drones don’t need A queen BOUNCING HOME THEY LIVE ONBANK STREET WITH RED PORT AUTHORITY So stay off the street And wear a sweater Sit on your arse And cherish an appetite For looking at the solemn, the foolish, Looking for the dark spots on the sun, Retina-frying Ham-hock, sirloin, Filet, shoulder, Butt and Chuck – He separates his lovers Into parts Fig yesterday Cicada cast Long legs lured My baited breath Worm cast Plaster cast The whole noisy Play of fig-eating, Loud, insect actors With broken spirits And brittle-marrowed souls. The lost snail Slugging along the bricks – Slime sister on concrete What abstraction is defined By the door itself? Mystical acid queen Becomes Blind, mute – Secret herbal Donor of flightless Frustration Picking contagion, Cleaning like slaves, Born to janitorial joy Without mops or Spic and Span Without really loving man The maggot makes its living On a quest of germ destruction ‘Sleepy eyes, dark hall, The dull sound of lines and then A brother calling with thunder From the lightening street Too rich to drive Myself away, I stay, sitting Sad, a tad tipsy, Isolated like The litter’s runt Name the news event Blame the blood Versify variations Of Voltaire’s — What Frenchman Was it? — maggots Growing out of a cat’s Vagina; telling the whore “That soon will be you” And hit the stomach The groin, the heart The brain, with one Tiny, little, rose-colored stain. Somehow, the maggots And oatmeal Connect By my scorn Tries to put a hierarchy Upon the food chain Tries to separate the superficial From a shotgun facial Sickly — drowsed Sickly — heard weeping Sickly — survived To write Sickly — verse Children Running naked Egg shells breaking oh, joy! enjoy on joy. enjoy joy. enjoy joy on joy. on joy, enjoy joy. Ageism — all old men don’t have loose teeth Serpent-sight — most pines are straight Fear — of more than just “frictions” Children are always throwing death In their parents’ faces AIDS aides Should we breathe the same air? Should we care? I never saw (not, “I’d never seen”) Someone already dead, smiling, so brightly In their Spring flower bed. We planted love In rows and mounds around his house But the Fall came early. Your jello is unformed I sit in the cold To help it mold That’s the way Baking Delicate delights No noise in the kitchen Ingredients and temperature Just right, perfect texture On the cooling tray And someone with a sledge hammer Comes in to smash The table and counter The cookies and sink I know no philosophy That can not be abused But who ever said We shouldn’t have As children because They might get raped? The grass is the cousin Of my ass She is the motorized hum Of a lawnmower She is the growing Prune-doctor She is the weed-eater And sod-layer She is the trimmer Fingernails pulling at me I’ve got a chair and a stray dog That comes by for food. I’ve got trees diing, Invaded by insects. They belong to the city, Both larvae and leaves, and the air Comes in stinky from Pasadena; It rains white ash flakes, Late at night when no one is supposed to notice When the smell is only registered upon aloe-vera dreams. IN THE DARKENEDBLIND ALLEYS All towns are prostitutes Compromising virtue For the false comfort And pleasure Of being held, And serving (in)dignitaries THE BLIND BEGGAR SAYS “IT ALL LOOKS THE SAME TO ME” BUT I STILL SAY THAT POETRY IS NOT A MENTAL ILLNESS Sometimes truth leaks out Of Winter’s broken pipes Unintended The house cries Through tissue-paper walls And tells the water-stain Story of aging glory, Painted over, repaired, Listing a bit, but still standing I spit into the cold Dark corridors of your soul To lubricate the vamp you were BLUE GUITAR Player with blue fingers Plucks pensively, painted For effect, he watches t.v. Frets about t.b., drips Blood from his finger-tips, Examines his sperm, his life, His worth during daytime.BLUE LIGHT Houston has its Blue Light Cemetery With silky ghosts and Spanish Moss Mythology, appearing in weak moments, Every so often, blue vapor phosphorescence Explained away as swamp gas My cat needs a license To drive your prey wild There a difference between chewing up children And not stopping the cannibals So, America is timid, a bystander wussie, In horror, numbed to complacency by compromise LIKE A EUNUCH BLUE UNICORN WITH BLUE BALLS SUGARED AND BUTTERED Self-conscious I Still see Depth In her newmade Love poetry The swan flew faster than ever For fear-frozen fish, Dived and then BAM!!!! Headfirst it glided through clear ice, Outside the Pyrex factory; A feather landed in the snow I’ll bet there’s a poet Today Living on the docks WRITING THE CHEWED BLUELINE She thought New York Was a state Of mind Room, bed, body, poems Repeat: I own this rectangle Lists of lost references Like my Books in Print And my Statistical Abstract Of the United States for 1969 You give yourself too much credit To think the bank Will keep your records and give you a history After all your debts are paid. I bounced off of men Like the drunk I was To the player piano rhythm Of dentists socializing Feeling the spikes of their approval Like pollen-masked migrant workers On the side of the highway Kerchiefs flapping against the napes of their necks Garbage bag dragged in one gloved hand while the other Speared the litter on the edges Of my vagina. “Na na na poo poo Owwwww-her Jazz Is better than Yoooooouuur Jazz!” And I call it finders-keepers poetry But you do see the deep meaning, don’t you? BUCKING BRONCOS ELECTRIC BOOMTOWN KNOCKING YOU OUT OF YOUR BOOTS FOR FOLKS WITH THEIR BOOTS ON GUARDING THE OPEN BORDERLANDS ….Sometimes we sat A train might pass….. ….sometimes we sat …sometimes we…. Show-up toe-up Often, awake, I see Mice and rabbits Running across the page, Knowing that your poetry Understands The seen better than the dream My poetry Makes You nuts Falling from a Poet tree IN A WAR ZONEBOSTON BLUR THEBOSTON PHOENIX ( SPRINGS FROM BOSTON BOTTOMFISH You keep falling deeper Into suicidal bliss, Imagining how pretty All the red will be Against this season’s fashions Sleep tight Blanket’s big enough To ward off Fitful images WELL DONE WITH THOSE BLACK AND BLUE-LINED EYES DONE WITH BOUILLABAISSE Promenading Names Tappanzee Spanning soggy lines To bridge the watery gaps Between the high-and-dry truth Promenading Names Tappanzee (wasn’t that all I needed all along?) BEEFY BABES BOULEVARD Barmaid tit-mouse With a pocket full Of cheese Doesn’t want to sell Much more than sleaze AND THE BOUILLABAISSE, BEEFY BABES, BOULEVARD ANTHEM BIM BAM BOOM BOOMS IN THE SOULS OF TESTOSTERONE BIMBOS Famous people Pop into my Poetry So some fool reader Might hope to find Their secrets -penned Or – Endowed Someone died Are you going to get laid Down with them? Would not an Einstein If descended from beer steins, Loving beer, but full of fat fear Increase the sales line By adding some fine wines? BRISTOL HOUSE TIT MOUSE READS A BROADSHEET ONBROKEN STREETS The go-go girl Came To sit on His Saturday Suntan Went without Waiting For (money) day BRUNSWICK BECOMES ASH WHEN THE LOVE-WAX WANES Stones sit Giving the brook A choice Winter Cicada- Silence DNA tells Of shape, not soul Becoming “I” Moon and willow Evening shade Over cool grass Wind in my hair Turning the weather vane Spinning gnarly CASHED GREEN Cash crop Confused Corn- A- Cop(e)- Ia Sperm suspension Without suspense How far underground? Under the underground? Even the underground Is dug today. Dig it? They forced her to pose In that way with them She’s the one with the cocaine Eyes, strawberry thighs And a mouthful of Muttered, fluttering Obscenities INFRINGING UPON CALLI’S CALYX RIGHTS Oh! Freak me fucking out! A poem about a woman with grey eyes Reacting to that very same poem! How deep! Wrong French there Wouldn’t talk Parisian to me I never did get a job Went home to mommy We peg for points Look for pairs and threesomes Double-skunk when we can Play listless Play How pretty they are Before the pellets hit them Freckled kisses? Spit reflections? Spider beside her? The lovers unleash The dogs; A voyeur spies the movement and motion Of starvation, finally being fed, And thinks it is sexy Love that heals Has to be Like regular meals In place, permanently And the time it takes When love’s alone When forgiveness rakes You to the bone Is a kind of reprieve For the kindness that made you forget to grieve CARING About movies When pictures Remind of Cool hands Caring Still CARN EVIL NINE CARNEGIE MELLON STILL YOU TURN ME IN Poetry lives as long As pen meets paper In any gutter or penthouse Where there is feeling to express Or thought to share But good poetry goes Where great poetry doesn’t dare And will until the penthouse pet Kisses the gutter dog with glee And calls the barking “great poetry” Taut horizon Pitted face of the moon Rolling, round hills Licked by lightning Fancy cat claws The Blue Jay Feathers in its Frisky little Mouth The boy is eating breakfast In a place to be called “The house of cracked eggs”CATHARTIC PUSSY DAYDREAMS Sex queen Starved for psychic Salivation, Lips licked, Eyes popping out, And other Manifestations of A sex scream “More! Bigger! Deeper!” TO INFECT THECAT’S EAR Nobody is home When Nobody is foreign But I’ll bet I’ve had some boyfriends Who could make a foreigner out of you. Crotched random Fucking Baby Sucked Out Caveats and screams Sign on door — “Gone here” Your “rage” will Upset the rhythm Of the message Of the massage Of the masturbation Huff and puff away, lupine bitch …… Huh? I can’t HEAR you! Warm worm? Wanton fate? Before the fortune cookie? Chinese won ton? Perversions For Plantations NO FORCED CHASTITY NO MOIST JAZZ TITTY Everything Progresses Better into Proud putrefaction Explode into soy sauce Oh, my pork-fried soul Explode into bowel movement, Into vomit, to exorcise Those nasty sin balls He grabbed my hair And pulled And pushed The horny light post standing guard Sometimes I know how it feels It seems to be morning, Sour Puss. You don’t need to purr Until you get your coffee In the kitchen and suck it down Karma clowns From a guilty Planet CONSPIRE FOR THE SAKE OF THE LINE CLIMBING Bootprints Up the Face WALLET WATCH CLOCK WATCH YUPPEES YUP, YUP, UP The magic hidden inside us is not a trick So, Suck on this syringe As I speed AIDS-infected blood Into your mouth All I see is the ugly, Pretending so hard to be pretty. I am pretty. I am. CARELESS LEWD LAUGHTER LIKE LICKING LADY LUCK, SNORTING DIRTY LACE COKEFISH Blood-deep coke fish WASTED SO MANY HAIRY DAYS I cry honk Without any rhythm MY FATHER ASCO-LABORER METICULOUS Women grossed out By their children COLLAGES AND BRICOLAGES OF EXISTENTIAL SERVITUDE Don’t believe a word I say? From a seething pool Of industrial pollutants Grow pretty, little flower mutants Go ahead! Tell me you know More about war Because you went to a school That taught you French by Cyan Here: Punks turn punctual In DADFAD tuning, slam dancing, loose teeth, Eye shadow dried, conceiving new hairstyles, Studs, safety pins, earwax, spit. Indifference was my way, too, With isolation from a half-employed nation, But it did not do a bit of good The children did just what they thought they should. Held back, socialized to attack, reentry Blamed them, burning like inflamed, though tamed, Tiles falling from the shuttle. My child Now weaves ugly baskets in a world of smart silicone Dreams and seems to blame me For closing the door, wasting my taste and time And might, refusing to fight For peace with my piece of mind Instead of leaving it to them and theirs. “Who cares?” Fell upon them like a fractured missile. Find your truth in fantasy And when you do Tell me what about it you see That is not real or true. “There is no wealth here!” (Starch-fat straining) Tinkle of spent beer Against asphalt and scuffed shoes CONJUNCTIONS OF FLESH AND METAL Justice Is Just Ice In this desert Melting for money Bug carpet leaves Sail on the wind Multiple visions Of a grey-brown Day, insect eyes That don’t see “The Bottom Line” Lah di dah So, you get to fly sometimes. So? And you blame your wife For dustpan inspiration In a nation of roses And false posers And lonely, wrecked lives? Trinkets of erotica, shattered romance In twisted love dance crystal Of diminishing frequency Refracted into an infinity Of excuses Certain times New-born certain time In timeless now Times within the now Oh, yeah, and love moving universes Celestial music and “Calm” fucking “the storm” I will seal some strawberries In the hubcap of my orneryness And throw them in the pamplemousse pudding, Like fate with a twist of lemon, For your mother to eat Flowerless husband Bearing bulbs Removes his wife’s leg From his flatulence. Outside, bed bugs Run to the warmth Of hot air Under satin sheets WITH COUNTRYMAN Raven keeps its bill clean Snowy crocuses Snowy crow cusses Hatred as the only sin In all its manifestations Entropy and the hermit’s ears fear has been that no fir Would grow, and Summer heat Would beat me down under fallow ground Cirrhosis Seeps in But she’s always late CRAB CREEK Hah! Travelogue — …Å tell you Stuck stories Of small motion CRAMPED AND WET Salt lick suckers Froglike toads Weather or not We wear our thick skin CRAZYHORSE I’m going to say Some really nice Sensitive things And then say, “Hey! Trust me.” Looking deeper into dawn I see that “God’s Peace” Includes mollusks crushed By those same seagulls And crabs clawing at Each other A sewer-side chat? Your fertilizer falls Unto other people’s lawns In a Cadilac world Nymphs attend Another painting On the lip of your K-T boundary I count 26 million years With my fingers WITHCROSS-CULTURAL FLAVOR Side to side In front of me Swinging Up and down For fantasy Senses tuned to wild life She was alone EXPERIENCES CRYSTAL RAINBOW WAKE-UP CALLS Gain to regain CUMBERLAND FARMS Bubbling udder juice Yellow, like me The heart’s a silent suffragist Boatloads Miracle bodies Display children DANDELION STEM PLUNGES THROUGH TIN FLOWERS OVER THOSE POCKETS YES, There still are pockets For the jingling change Of your dreams and desires Don’t get on the page — Being truthful A poet who pulls words From her alphabet soup To make noodle art, To make it a Crashes to spill More than crackers WITH DARK NERVE DOPPLER EFFECT Epileptic Take off Into the mind’s Miasma PHASE SHIFTING TO THE DARKSIDE And we are happy With shit-encrusted babies Sweat-wet spades Sperm-dodging eggs Swollen malnutrition bellies And gravesites that make Life meaningful Falling down Under-grown garden Did you think About it? Contemplate? Plan? Peck away At the termites In the tree? DESCRIBING A golf and orgasm instruction video Well, bigger than you were, Duckface Every asshole Has an edge DELIRIUM Angels dance In the poison pen-prick Love cuts, The tears of ignorance, Dried In the gossamer (again, gossamer? Again, again?) Wings, tears falling withered Into endless questions Human nature Is human’s nature Web, thread, spun, tongues Carpet, ceiling, soundings Rhetoric, ideology And all THE DEVIL’S MILLHOPPER A RETICENT PILL POPPER Drawing angels On every spare surface Acid paper Infects the rain ENGAGES INDIALOGUE Of foreign intrigue From a flower vision Familial ties Your crest on your chest Baretta behind you Smoking in the brains Of your alien words’ Bullet marks You heal Or You die WITH DIALOGUE About other senses — For the blind poets The flowers have different meaningDICKEY Turtle-neck Power Of the questionable Meaning DICKER, DICKER, PICKER PICK HER; SHE’S A GOOD TROPHY The elite, Bored Trying to this poem up, Another oily feather falls GOOD FEATHER-BOA BIRDSDIE YOUNG. ONLY THE LONELY DIE FAST FLY PAST You Twist the words Like mountains, To fit a faceless Sky (But, why?)DOC(K)S Wharfs Where podiatrists Becalm, walkingTHE DOLPHIN LOG INTO A BERTH OF STARSHIP SEQUENCES Adults stick their noses Into the sweet smells Of child’s play Did you want to kill it? Stomp on it to see it suffer? Did you want to cut it To see it regenerate? Did you want a starfish love Or just a Sunday bird-watch? If towns are born hookers Then boats are born fleas On the sea and men born Sperm in double-helix furyDOMINION HELD, Looking for parallel playthings Head full of hair He grows protein In rows and peas In patches and Lady bugs help. AT THE DRAGONGATE WITHDRAGON’S TEETH INTERPRETATIONS OF DRAMATIKA AS DREAM INTERNATIONAL ARCHETYPES BUT STEREOTYPES Walk on a paisley pattern Run to exercise the dragon Invent flame alchemy So the smoke falls like snow Under dragon-breath rain Invent a city maze to amaze Yourself, wish spatial variety Travel the tenuous borders Kissing children, crying rainbow Colors, filled with all Like an unpoppable balloon Casting no shadow on the earth A hemp head hidden in hyperbole SECURE BULL DYKE DREAM SHOP AROUND THE CLOCK BUSINESS BUT NOT Mering meringue DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES Eckenkar conformity Floating out from all around me Remind me of the razor For your simple delight. The candles can now do nothing for you, Sharing hollow night. I know when the blood comes out. Stare into my eyes. The horror hacks knees, lacks impact on me. Your cold cruel cuts get old and tired; The rusty razor holds no surprise, But the soft, reoccurring warmth of the candle’s glow, is the one great surprise I know. It’s nice To remember The street singers Who sunk Into the quicksand Of society, Past the subway gates And into the underground Unfolding face Drinking the “rivulets Between my breasts”, But then he had to go And chant and pop out Into “night”, “earth”, “time”. Blessing Poverty politely But boiling because People Believe People Movies inspire Celluloid delusion One wino or maybe two Turned Richard into a bigot, it’s true Seeing a stagger in every impoverished shuffle Seeing lice in every stubbled face Set, safely on a dust-free middle-class shelf, He finds unruffled plumage for himself And justification for his view of the race. DUSTY DOG GRABS AT Skulks Cemetery Silence Progress sucks, basically Stasis sucks, basically And now the happy medium is the “radical center” So, basically, enjoy what you can. Eating seeds Silent Falling eggs cushioned By crunchy snow Maiden form Frescos The multipline shallots Of midnight secrets Between maiden spinsters Are replanted to keep Men from sharing In virgin contact Saving them for all the evil Vile things women don’t want The smell of, garlic onions That overtake the garden To keep away the rabbits Worry is wasted mental time When over a woman unloving, wild, Out, and free. I knew I wouldn’t stay With him for longer than a whistle-stop But wanted him to please me hard, Completely, slutless, Firm grip on my loose bosom, Arms hugging my writhing waist (no, not waste) Give up your virgin Land Or we will pull out our Germs And a director for the moving parts Mostly for the scenery and action Not the acting Not anymore FOREIDOS EROTIC ENTERTAINMENT FOR WOMEN Hey! I want my first seventeen in ribbons FOR FLIGHT FROM THE EIGHTH MOUNTAIN OFEL BARRIO Factories don’t neglect Children with guns I could mention my lost lovers’ Names if they alone told the story, If they were in the rhythm of lost Love poetry Your P.A. was a public address Improvising on a latex fruit The squishing sounds of evaporating consonance Lubricated by light tinkles on the tin roof And a romantic motif, barely remembered Your lips lost in smudges of strawberry stainELLIPSE OF UNSPOKEN LOVE Eagle And owl together – How fast are birds’ heartbeats When they fuck like rabbits And peck each others’ eyes out? Too painful to be a lie I puff and wail at your belly-up swollen boredom Try to find a chuckle on your earlobe Yeah, right — all old men With “spoiled milk” eyes Are beggars and drunksEXPLORATIONS Sometimes worth the money You paid THIS PAGE FOREMOST MUST BE GOOD MUST GRAB THE ATTENTION MUST BEGIN AGAIN FRESH LIKE THE UNDRESSER FROM ODESSA WHO TAKES HER CLOTHING OFF FOR THE TEN-THOUSANDTH TIME BUT MUST MAKE IT NEW AND EXCITING FOR THE LONELY MEN WHO LOVE HER FAITH IN HER LEGS The freeway is a toll road Trees grow from seeds People kill each other; all Family homicides are devastating Bah-loons Six pense Wad-eyed The perky nymphettes Stir and snatch their Spring Drools, while I, boss, task it out, You play, you work, you get laid, you Collect cucumbers from the garden, You shear the weeds and Bobbits It is enough to be alive…. But then…… Needle-tracks Porcupine pricks Nose running Always about father’s leaving He left over pavement Left you two thousand a month I pray you never have to know The forces that drove him away We are here Well, You are there But I am here This is my picture painted With words for you to look at. Do you see it? Do you feel it, At least? … the mood — you know? There is something here… Well, not here. …here. ON THEFIELD OF BATTLE LAIN WASTE, ‘ Stabbed in the gut with an icicle Melting and mixing with tomato effects Strangely vacuous, thinking is an event Thinking that thinking is an event is an event Funny way to drink ice water Oh, I healed and heeled But that’s not the end of all these events Couch potato events and versifying events And then one needs imagery to justify And it is a necessary event Unlike the event of writing that thinking is events So, here’s a picture, too An avalanche of rings removed from divorced fingers Rolling down and lighting up the lake bottom With sparkling knives of memory….. events Dripping cold under my dress, over pantyhose Shock flashes, stars of pain, icicle memory, Spanking me, yanking the nipples of an idea. Bullwhip lust Cat’s cradle musk Moribund Malfeasance And not turpitude, Yet NOFIREBRAND ON HER RUMP COULD BE MORE DEGRADING Take me to bed I’ll give you a hickey AUTOMATED TEST TUBE TAKES THE JERK’S JERK OFF HIS HANDS, BECOMING “RECIPIENT” 5 AM FIVE FINGERS WRAPPED AROUND A DISCOUNT ACCOUNT I regret nothing I’ve forgotten nothing I’m not a baby anymore I am nothing but human – Oh, my gosh! Not We eat to live. Are we sinning? Not the way the cookie crumbles do I go. ON FLIGHTS Ancestry impales? Memory pulls us into place? What mirror cracks In front of ˘face? The soppy side Of a sloppy ride Oh, gosh, how much, how terribly much, I do miss. The good, old, sentimental verse MAYBE, IF IT ISN’T TO KEEP LOVE ALIVE, I WANT TO BE THERE WHEN I RETIRE Popping them turns the sliver of light At my old bedroom door into voices Skinny dipping with an Angel EMPTY, FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS, Dream Horror, Nightmare gifts Your big fucking words That enfold mistaken meaning The detritus of premature ejaculation What about my teeth? Will they soon be lost? Poor poet gums gracious garble, Kiss-ass words, hoping for reprieve While poor poet warriors with braids And only bad teeth, worsening, cry against Neglect, trying to keep that snowflake With a warm heart (“cold hands…”, etc.) Kvatch! Blame your lover if he knew Blame analogies for things kept secret Blame authority Blame lies Blame me, for all the good it does. There’s as much blame as there is Virus Life without life Death From pseudo-life Pseudo-love Pseudo-blame Pseudo-suits of armor With cashmere cloaks and ribbed edges THIS JOURNEY GOES ON Moment sharp Keenly perceived with Nothing realized Head in hands Whose head? Whose hands? Doesn’t matter Does it? SEARCHING OUTFRONTIERSPeople are the candy Sold in city buildings Shot — Swarming Scold Metaphor mal-fixation Polygamists of that type Don’t waste the fertile top-soil Have a plethora of unbarren Land for the planting of seeds What pain you like — What pleasure is to you – Stinging truth about sensation I’m local and crude. Who am I? Black passion Jungle fever? Pet a dark animal To find out where it eats? Gigilo gentleman Gets his hands On a monkey’s mind Pops it open and probes With flea-searching fingers For hemorrhoids and any changes He can find with which to toy. Neither monkey nor minister Should ever forget that some Folks think of monkey brain As a consummate delicacy. They wait drooling with their Machetes. I say we’re more like waves That pull away the beach And keep coming back for more I say we’re more like wind Which winds its way Anywhere it wishes I say we’re more flexible And, even though the dreams I had didn’t turn out the way I’d imagined, my father was right, “You can be whatever you want to be It’s all a matter of what you’re willing To give up”GOING DOWN SWINGING Isn’t that what swingers do? Fuck any considerations of anything poetic, Throw in Tina and What’s Love Got to Do With It? Ascribing greatness — Like gifts — to the moon With a crack in the middle Starving circle Shares me With its disconnected innards GOLDEN GOLF MANIAC GETS AGOOD GOOSE Life is a thousand minuscule mind-altering Amazements every fucking The soft edge of acid The warm glow of delusion My best friend keeps saying She doesn’t want to live But means she wants to be spoiled More like a roar against silence And a whisper replied, “I don’t love you” He tries to widen her certainties ……. We comply Our deaths are less than cums Or cures for sale — this salty sulking – The soul (misunderstanding all of that) Frantic pleasures to wither Without the withering For nothing that lives Phone translations Grainy photos Lonely homesick traveler Lost, with some numbers and half-tones Making a hero Of heroin For his hunkered-down Heroine Minutes shuffling Or days falling from calendars Are a movie’s way of saying That that fallen time Didn’t matter: didn’t matter? Didn’t matter. How now Brown cow? The homeless women I have met Would discuss philosophy Would improvise poetry That floated upon cold air Like the warm mist of life – Cake and crass burblings Of ignorance were never A shelter to hide themselves in They lived the true warrior life In the renaissance or re-nay-saying And human carelessness Do you really pain? Real pain? Really???? You embrace your nightmares Write and talk about them To hide deeper fears About worlds you didn’t save Into the music After the concert The whistlerHALF TONES Brown ants on sidewalk chocolate Melted fudge stick and Arachnid babies squiggling out of a squished Spider in daylight dazzle Pearl-handled revolver turns So, wash the walls with moonlight Sewing poetry like mis-matched socks I leave buttons off I wear away the bottoms of long pants Until they fit Etc. Of words for the sound Of a floating whip, etc. Before the stinging Queen bee Lies about the honey Were sipping dandelion wine, Talked, got drunk, I watched the time, Fucked her and left, remembering. Silence would have filled the space The music came from You’re not half done yet, hamburger, Don’t make me eat you raw Secret sex is a thrill If you like dishonesty Picture poetry paints Pretty lies of sunset sex Sometimes, soothes Licking words like loins Pushing nose closed Developing a brussels sprouts taste For the bitter side of the finger In a trash can not The Culinart The ice is chaste Floated upon By cutting skates The city at night Hides the hazy pace Of a prisoner released For widows — I will kiss The walls of their Disappointment With yellow paint and A pleasant yellow smile Algerian men tell me All western women Are whores paying with fantasy For painted, private Thoughts; You think that’s romantic And want to marry one? Who’s a Hecht? That’s okay Any memoriam of yours Is a memoriam of mineHOLMGANGERS GANGBANGERS GOING WILD, WITHOUT SUFFIXES Icy hole cut For frozen fish I grow green, deprived of midnight Milky skin with rainbow wings. The trucks scream cranberry, bounce Pebbles backwards. Neon blurs my sodium- Yellow lenses. The wind pushes us Like a drunkard. Leaves, paper, plastic slaps Against our faces. A twenty dollar bill Gets stuck to your shoes. Money was never the problem. Houston has a law which says You can’t ask how much heroine costs Murder Planned Karma Cracked Up The light Public Streets Of my history nah– Up the light Public streets Of my hosiery Odorless Blind Deaf Feelingless Tasteless People Nooo!! Mmmmhh! Hhaaaaaa! Hhooooo! Tripping under well-traveled Bridge, the car lights confuse The eye, the shadowy sleeping bags Grunt under my feet Metal click of a gun Warm breath mist “What do you want?” “I was getting in touch with nature And fell over you.” “Not under this Bridge, you’re not. We’re full.” Great grit Echoes of swollen Footsteps Cicada Crazy legs Chirping Into my tortured brain Frustration Even the shotgun Won’t silence Cicada Incipience What was it about the flowers being clothed? Canned ants Dipped in chocolate Canned aunts Served with sour cream Fanned “Can’t”s Brighten flames of alien Edibles Tighten my gullet Around a chirping Swallow Systems succumb To the hauntings Of hunger MAKING You go round In triangles, Bear-cub, Slapped back and forth Between food for thought And thievery INTEGRITY GRITTY Pansies in Winter Beauty’s still extant Life’s not your boulder If you’ve no shoe with which to stub Your toe against a rock that doesn’t hurt The thigh of the dancer tender Smooth to my touch, a smile for a while But no table dances Not girl for girl Just youth remembered In tactile desperation Her body is ripe But I don’t pick her Beauty In a box A dark box A cold dark box A closed dark box – If it were all we had, We would create beauty in a box All the goods are mean Heplophobes Try to outlaw My feminine mystique THE TRUCKERS GATHER IN PACKS THAT’S WHAT MAKES THEM FEAR LESS Yes, I recognize The soft touch of your slipstream As we waft past each other MARMALADE TYPE JAM TO-DAY MEL†¿NGE TILL DAYLIGHT BREAKS THE MYTH OF LIGHT And planets explode In her hungry mouth Night is a buffet Shock the monkey Lank, For a second, I thought I had spoken For the third time With an inch between my legs Indelibly wounded Abstract expressionism No! No! No!JOURNAL DISALLOWING THINGS MY OLD BOYFRIEND SAYS AT WORK LIKE, HOW ABOUT A LITTLE INSPIRATION FOR THE CONVERSATION A LITTLE FINANCE FOR THE ROMANCE A LITTLE GREENERY FOR THE SCENERY A LITTLE CASH FOR THE FLASH A LITTLE DOUGH FOR THE SHOW A LITTLE TIPPING FOR THE STRIPPING Wipe you achtung ass/ papa’s got to come Cinderella, shoes In hand, ready to trade Random thoughts On a lazy Sunday Lick my oil painting? MEET AKANSAS KID ON GLASS SPLINTERS She died on a couch you could see? Were you watching a movie? Or could you have helped her? Green tongue — Ought to see a doctor Nothing satisfies The line Searching for a period Death Is not a freak show Oh well, to the living, Death’s whatever one wishes I’m underpaid Under wear Poetry to capture Smells And dribbles So street clothes Can stay clean Lobsters still claw Bluff backwards Under rocks Before they are red, Embarrassed on ice, Under glass Free-lancer Is a doctor Who doesn’t charge to break boils Last salt-lizard A sex lick Slick sex On the slippery slope Of the passion levee Filled with the power Of the hard swat of waves Along the warm, lapping Of the ocean’s edge Walking home in a blizzard Tears got stuck in my eyes Chainsaw-me Oils the tree To cut deeper Into its heart Walking along the shore …….That’s all. Umbilical Amniocentesis So much poetry is from the belly Lah lah lah Lah lah lah You do put down Your own thoughts Put-down pudding Lah lah lah Tapioca Philosophy With runny eyes Lah lah lah You swallow Anyway SNEEZE SQUEEZESLIFTOUTS PRELUDIUM A LOSTLIGHT Some days deserve A good spanking Yeah, right, all the good ones are already dead Might as well give up then, huh? I can not tell A truth I hid my axe Homey hexagons Are not enough reward For the wax-worm crowded Queen Bee The rainbow hit the concrete With a splat of fractured color And all that ever was was washed away In the warmth of summer rain LIP SERVICE FOR LOSERS LIPS CHEAP It was any morning I woke up with…. Whomever Three horses galloping free Two had socks on One had me My boy isn’t born Death will not steal him today Got `em Wore `em Ripped `em with my teeth (Used `em to polish my shoes) You turned on Your stereo to imitate The rhythm I couldn’t match You sat And shaved……. So, fucking Yesterday Is a highway Strewn With exploded toll gates Syringe THIS excuse for the word syringe! AND NOW THE ONLY SPOTLIGHTS GLOWING IN THE NIGHT SKY POINT, WHEN FOLLOWED DOWNWARD, TO THE TITTY BARS OF THE AREA TO SUCK HIS EGO UNTIL HIS WALLET IS EMPTY AND HIS PANTS ARE WET MAHOGANY AND MOLASSES Mount her good name Swimmers, lean, Dive Into the same lane Music, tongue Aftertaste, Brandy dream Sticky dress, Silky Hot piano An anonymous roll or muffin to tempt us On those same mean streets, Separate, running from and looking for Each other, how much does your daughter Charge? How much do you pay? MASTERCHARGER, VISA HOLDER SITTINGMELLEN DOWN FOR MELON BALLS AND STRAWBERRIES Pretend emotion With a pseudo name “And away go troubles down the drain” WITH NEON DANCES SOUL-TRAIN BEAT WITHOUT SOUL-MATE STIRRINGS JUST SHAKEN DRINK MIXES I’m a saddle-stapled Matte card Cover girl Fuzzy but fun Marriages Only a certain Amount of syllables My mother said some beautiful things One of them was that nothing is wasted, Not in a human life of learning and love Woman, buy your seeds in a Burpee Catalogue For all your fertile attempts to cultivate That belching, incontinent man Like a whole bunch of things that sound really good It’s what follows that counts on a menu The price tag that exposes the lie OFNAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS NAUGHTY LINGERIE Those bugs drive me toward Frustrated insanity In Summer’s insistence Stuck here in Houston, Without a fresh Spring Hummer gives a change of look You can’t copyright pictures you create In other peoples’ heads Hope is in the fact that we refuse to be defined for ever Paint your woman’s walls With meaning and truth TO GET BACK AT THE CROWDS THAT LEFT I think “Fuzzy” did too much LSD Funny pop machine Popping hilarious caps Into my head The smallest rose in the world was his gift the house, the inheritance, the fooling around Didn’t matter so much, after he was gone. Night drops the drapes Lights out Engines humming in the sky The shriek of falling secanols I won’t tell you You must see me Flashing you but I love that look Of surprise Flashing teeth And dental shields Open But not unprotected Circle-jerk, daisy-chain kisses Using slang metaphors as metaphor, Homey plasma ain’t geeking for the beat Evil playgrounds waiting Niagara calling Wave crochets the wind Earth blushing, frost crawling And I sit writing, frightened, Inundated, undated, dated, ate D Ted Ed DK
DHK
DI I’M A HIGH SCHOOL YEARBOOK COLLECTING QUOTES ALLOWING THE WHOLE WORLD THE HONOR OF WRITING IN ME. I won’t keep a single one Flat and burned Twisted Uncooked bubbles With liquid insides How nicely farted the moon an orange fog, But “poached” encroached On the Cutty Sark mist, Eggs running catsup, Wrecking the bouquet, Had him stumbling into a bloodshot day That’s a lie! You weren’t wandering. You were casing the country, Looking for booty … I mean (beauty) — I mean, beauty Pyromaniac Match Fiery Sex Nymphomaniac No porno, honey-tongue, Just fat women, left, for littler ones Mobius Stripped For his pleasure Stuck saying those same damn lines Over and over, operatic, it Is immortality Of costumes and scenery more every now and then, for a few minutes i do get to be myself again Dickweed Peckerwood No line to remember Just another list Of picture words, With “I”s like hers Tight voice Luminous Drippings of dew Off leaves Dawn Drenched in muted Cock-a-doodles Clothier Zipping up My miniskirt Blanched Eyes Jerking His breathing Gratitude Munch, munch Eat a world Lunch, lunch With a girl I don’t care How much you weigh I’ll lunch and munch you everyday The same essential stillness — A brassiere cutting off circulation One little piggie Got slippery HOUSES CLATTERING AROUND ON RAINY BRAIN-STORM DAYS Boot follows The beat Of the dancing Vein OURPERCEPTIONS ARE TWISTED In wishbone configurations Stretched wings Resilience Doesn’t have To be Concession “Get your fish here!… yes, We have no hot dogs.” Bird-brained lines But still, but soft Fly over my mountains; I’ll be your baby Flighty heart And whole being Buy a ticket on a jet plane Fly an ache to EcktarK
DIK
EI The Grumbler Sweat crack Texas chapped Dick To Withstand Sliding dew Darkest stars touch Moon-eyed crescent hill An endless girl On could-not nights Of a gentle handK
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DI Touch my sad Forsythia Older, I endear them to me, Me to them, with Cuddles and massage I feel too bad to feel like a dirty picture I feel too bad to write about how bad I feel I feel……K
DIK
EI Pom-poms and poems On pretty legs In pretty lines of Please, release me! Whose waves crush? Hose waves crush Hose aves rush S ave r us S ave us Save us from mothers who write poetry About leaf-demons that “stir young boys’ blood” Softening the blow, tones, touch Of yielding to impending sin No, Of yielding to an offending son No, Of yielding to my display of spinning pasties No, Of yielding to the waiter’s tray of pastries FUCK! THIS IS JUST A MERCY FUCK, HONEY, DON’T GET ALL EXCITED. Gambler’s paradise Gives them the only hope They have ever found And been able to hold onto Dawn pushes down; Darkness drops into the West Warm dark Worm dark Warm dirk Worm dirt Wart worm Dark work “Rock me like Hypocrisy! Oh, yeah.” Bambi met the X-men On a Bohemian Rhapsody With Garth in a bath Of mail to Wayne’s World When all of a Vanna Was spread out with staples To tempt Tony the Tiger Into meaningless Cher care Products for hair and skin And I’ve never met them And hope to forget them And at least save some memory For me Bounce off of her Champagne-stained gown. A drunken nose sniffs her cleavage During a short waltz – Arms and shouts all around – 2 seconds to go. 1 point down And Akheem throws to Samson…. — Missed alley-oop(s). Let’s go, you and I Like a yo-yo and a dodo To the brink of our love Or maybe to the Stop and Go A sip of tension lessened — Left lifted, absence took us, Our glasses left grazing her Thundercloud toockus To smell you is to Want to sneeze and cough, Hold perfumed fingers Under my nose, while Escaping My men call me goddess So they can believe themselves gods Wants Patient poets Who are voluntarily committed Or in tents but accessible (With a phone or mailbox) So they can get in tush They do not dare you to pick them, They dare you to name them “Hit me rather than ignore me” I’ve got lots of bruises Dueling scars Are no longer In fashion Nor shorter Naked (And new knitted flesh Doesn’t put up much Of a fight anyway) People-watching Is more than Fan- Fare Fan- Tasy I love you still Shriveling, losing rigidity Or turgid tonnage, filled with life fluid. I wet you down and purr to you And say how pretty you are But I never seem to treat you Nicely enough To get you to buy that new, yellow car But the rich pay For translations Of the poetry of poverty Cocaine stapled There’s snot Much in The baby face She’s a high-classed hooker gets a paycheck I called your name. It was an answer So beautiful It had no question The bitch asked me to blow away Her husband because she didn’t Want to leave him ( for a dyke ) Gull Makes passes at me Screaming Obscenities Bad is not “bad” When it eats itself At the void’s Edge The campfire » “Lain out naked and long” Without a good bun I wished there were catsup, Mustard, but most of all, Relish The sun’s a disinfectant For your crass crybaby wounds Fly jokes inside Cracked fortune Cookie Moon The Moon isn’t out tonight But if it were it wouldn’t be A festering boil or a simple boil on the bottom Before it bursts because The moon has sharp edges Even in the haze; A boil is soft And squishy when not aroused Zapper bulldogs A mucus-wet sky Won’t release the harvest moon Does the best poetry Speak “best With its body?” Popping poetry Like it was Pills The bullet stuck under his dick. He lived flaccid I’m tired of people dying!!!!!!!!!!! What do we have here? – Words to remember People Or People To remember words? Unsheathing and masturbation He carries his walking stick like a bow A Native American in the shadows Concrete under his feet Over his liver – no Over his spleen no Over his pancreas. On the return trip He balances a comfy chair On his head. Hey, hand me a twenty, I’ll give you a wink. For thirty, I’ll wink At you …. in Spanish. Too wide to admit Darkness He’s an economy-sized Asshole Life Is a missed Tree Weep not for Argentina Angels’ echoes Angels, angels Flock of seagulls Descending angels Down to the depths Of my crazy, little, manic Up/down ma, man, manic, maniac, maniacal, “N”-“U”-“T” spells “Nuts”, Poetic heart. Hey, Masochist! I’ll give you a sharp kiss Cryptic conclusions Tryptic-folded illusions Chipped dick delusions End-trail conclusions A lah lah lah A dee dee dee I want to be Frust- rated AS GOOD AS ANY, I’M TAKING THIS EXCUSE TO BE TOTALLY FREAKED OUT Over grass meadow, Mirrored birds, Breathless, She went Barefoot to the Buffet Our protozoa Dance together Circuitously Not always tongue in cheek but Tongue in twat poetry Barbara sees “Twilight polka dots,” Vases n’ Pottery Shards of clay Lying broken on broken shelves Like living in an archaeological dig An anthropological ghost town of an industrial area. Pimp stays a respectful distance away From his hooker. This uniform is the only thing which distinguishes me From the girl beyond the fence – And the fact that she’s her own boss. Her pimp is like a therapist. I listen to them fighting, Late at night, after business hours. She’s the boss in partnership. She’s the boss, all right; She brings home the pork. We avoid each others’ eyes, across the fence, Each thinking the other criminal Or at least negligent of thing The other does without, but we could . We hardly ever see those shadows Throwing dead bodies into the Dempsey Dumpster; The smells are the first signs of invasion, this Summer. The insects conduct the funerals for those Smells. The pimp sees my feathered ear-rings And calls me a dinosaur, winking, at a distance; Illogical leftovers of the sixties And the only logic for the “homeless” Squatting on toilets with no running water, Walking the streets at night, Patching up knife wounds with clear plastic packing tape, Is not to read the polka dot twilight As deep or brooding “`Cus that would be a bad trip, And not to lay our bodies down for too long. I sit against the building I’m guarding, as day fades, And wonder “How long will it take for the fire ants to find me?”PSYCH IT God only knows where I would be If not with him, all those years, abusing me, But there’s no time to look back there And only bad, bad, bad, black memories Ultra-radical Big, bad bully, Littering Little pay-checks Along the roadside, Free radioactive pennies For children to pick up I met a maladroit? Do they really say that? Really, do they?K
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CH ON THE TORTURE RACK I GET MY INSIDES SMOKED This head is a big head nuff saidRAG MAG BLACK HAT HAIR — FORMAL, THAT’S ALL Frigid dark Frigid dark Frigid dark They dump their waste on us Saying, “you want the good life?” Hide maps of contaminated areas Like they hide their combination safes Inland revenue (for the children) Pay tax To play clean They dump their waste on us Saying, “The reason it smells funny, like that, Is because it’s art” Some, twisted, turn On the memorized road Of “for a nickle I will Blow up the toll gate.” Didn’t need to go to Times Square To see Confetti silk Incipient stone Cat-fight clammor We’re both in love With the same woman, Inside us Images in the flashing light To avoid what things mean to me. Is it enough? Is it enough To let the heart know it means… something? Isn’t that something like a moon without a sun? Like an asteroid in a black hole? Perhaps, it’s a ball game The sun is out He scratches balls, rolls bat in fingers Before making love Lying minds Was Cezanne a peeping tom, Highlighting bather’s breasts? Was he not a man? Dream shredder Talking Tolstoy to justify Common Bovary’s Stretching Zola stocking-stalkings Christmas cowboy Stuck by his spurs In the chimney These bubbles glistening down My bosom are toys, my treasure, My perimeter. These baubles glittering On my bosom are ….. Men want them Removed before they see me Lick my coins? Turtle crossed the road And …Å know why SA-DE SADISM OF SACRIFICIAL ALTRUISM FOR SHOW IN These new laws like “The Freedom of Access To Bathroom Entrances Act” These new laws are deadly Are killing my business Retort! Re- Tort Retort, but all there is Is retarded reaction, Reticence to move the legal Mountain for this molecular Tart who screams out into Blank lust, “I would fuck The whole world for freedom!” This tart tastes the tramp Trickle on my tongue I can’t blow the jobs back In this foul, flatulent wind Of world order wishfulness I bow my head, beaten But will bounce back…… I’m on the attack! Charity begins ….Who cares where? Hubby-bubby You’re a Happy anniversary What there was of daybreak Dribbled Over skyscrapersSALMON RUN LIKE STALKING MEN Prego, prego Too much salt in the waffles And I thought the best Ingredient, the big-name-chef- Ingredient, was supposed to be love Okay, if I agree That there’s no use That all is lost, Will you still strive To be a cunning linguist? Will you test your talent on me? Can’t get ahead Can’t get head Can’t get my head On crooked enough To make some real money Like they say, Bullshit walks, But they don’t mean The kind that just sits there, Steaming The memory A million mouths Salivating over me And now I call myself Know how few men there are To control your man, Fake frustration Loaded pistol That’s all It just sits there I came to the conclusion That anything human Is too tainted to touch Slap that bat’s ass If it eats your wristwatch Leave it alone, If it only wants insects But do ˘love those old men in the park? Or does it take a real God to do that? Movement between tension and release — Music, like that, encounters Xeno’s paradox Corporate power Is the perfect tyranny With no succession To kinder kin And no queen, there, To let love sink in BUT, BUT, AT LEAST…….. THE BEAUTY OF SHAKESPEARE OVERCAME BODY SMELLS, STILL DOES. TODAY’S POETRY IS FRAGILE THAT IT CAN NOT STAND TO BE PISSED ON. TODAY’S DELICATE POETRY DOESN’T DARE EVEN ‘THE NOSES OF UNDERGROUND MONARCHY – I REBEL MORE WHEN I STRIP OFF MY CLOTHES THAN DO THE IMAGES OF PASSIVE-PAINT-POETRY. USUALLY A WAITRESS, I HAVE TAKEN OFF MY TOP FOR MONEY AND FAME AND IT MAKES ME MAD THAT IF YOU ARE AN OBNOXIOUS,ANTISOCIAL, UNCOMPROMISINGLY SELFISH, IMPOSSIBLE-TO-LIVE-WITH-BITCH WHO GETS PREGNANT, YOU AUTOMATICALLY MAKE THE 8-DOLLARS-AN-HOUR THAT PAYS FOR THE BABY-SITTER SO YOU CAN DANCE TABLE DANCES ON AND UNDER THE TABLE, AND EVEN HAVE A GREAT EXCUSE, ANYTIME, NOT TO SHOW UP, TAX-FREE, TO WORK BUT MOST STUPID OF ALL, WE DON’T HAVE OR NEED JOBS TO SUPPORT OUR CHILDREN. THEY’RE FLOATING IN THE INTERNATIONAL WATERS OF THE WORLD BANK AND THE MONETARY FUND, RAISED BY EXPERTS, THE SAME BREED WHO SAY WE NEED, BUT WON’T FIND, ANOTHER SHAKESPEARE. Tis the truth Of these places that are make-believe SMALL WORLDS THAT WANT TO BE BIGGERSHARING THE VICTORY You claim the crack-dealers As your army I want mine hooked On poetry The black dog of my guilt Eats your white cat Nah, just kidding Good poets need not say “fuck” But what the fuck? I always had problems with authority We, welfare mothers Can not live on minimum wage Turn the page, turn the page SIDESHOW IN CRUEL GARTERS Did I hear you correctly? Did you say “Sing a song And suck my cock?” All boundaries are lies And the bullet is a lie And its whistling is a lie And the pain is a lie And falling down Inside some boundary is a lie You gave your life to The dream you dreamt of me I did too So sorry All love is precious SISYPHUS SISSY PUS Bitter about the bitterness? But you don’t feed your man on the right diet Of love and exercise and tenderness Ah, well, who needs sugar? You can always buy it. BUT WATCH OUT FOR SKAZ SCAGS AND GERMSSKOOB SCUBA DIVING FOR MUFFS SKYLARK TONGUES Damn Yankees! Planting early To remind us of life, Hidden under Winter (`Cus we can’t seem to remember There’s life if we don’t see flowers) There is no “other side” to my biography. I’m open to all Dawn Arrived Like a smile (But not like a simile) SKYLARK WING BRUSHES If you’d been doing your job She wouldn’t need picture-books About pregnancy She would have read from lines like mine About what a GRAND time It is to be on your knees, pumping out sperm, On your back, ingesting injustice And how we’re made to pay and pay and pay For the pleasure SLOUGH SLOW DANCER At my poetry readings I do a table dance to pronounce The beauty of the line Of my legs and hips To accentuate the body of my work, Because men (and most women) will listen to nipples Stuck out in the middle of a tee-shirt line Let me blow my hot air Over your Conifers I don’t even see Yesterday Though these tears Sucking bronze statues, I lose the flesh features Of the man that he is, Deny him his humanity By denying the truth Of beauty Objectifying metal Like men aren’t able to – They’re the romantic ones. I don’t care about flowers, Just like to watch them pose And crawl No one was ever nice to me — Not the way I wanted them to be The magic snowflake of art Melts when the drummer Stops sweeping his jazz-brushes Across the roof ’ Licking all the sweetness Off of Your sugar-daddy’s lust He waited in my fox hole All day Knew of nothing else to do A good mount Does not hang, after being hunted down, Dead, against the wall, Sometimes, isn’t even horny I ask men for their secrets To expose them Before they expose themselves “Up mine!” You have to admit is crazy, Completely insane, Hopelessly lost in the ozone, So, let’s fuck, huh? That man with blond hair Bought a sport’s car With my money and ran, Was riding in the rain With his new girl, Jane, Cruising along, under A railroad crossing. In the glare of night He didn’t see quite right Didn’t notice the underpass Was overfilled With three feet of water I guess that taught him, Maybe even taught her. The car came bubbling To its eternal rest. She hit her head. (I liked best) Now, you see? was poetry. SQUEAKY WHEELS Squeak, squeak Squeak, Squeak We ought to take a trip together, Maybe to the beach. We arrest you for having “no I.D.” That sounds like fascism to me. I write these lines to tell You I had a bad year, Feel like a paint-by-number Cardboard clown With the colors mixed up SWALLOW! A MAGAZINE NAME! — AT LEAST IT’S TRUTHFUL ABOUT WHAT MANY MEN MEAN “SWALLOW, BITCH” All this concern about The lost children The invisible children When the cut comes When the cute ones Are in such demand That it’s called kidnapping To adopt them incorrectly And even the ugly ones Are attractive, cute To some extent (by comparison), to someone Bubbling over potential, but People, like me, pass by The old lady who sits With her shopping cart As a barricade, outside Of Dot’s coffeehouse every night They’ll let her feel safe But not safe enough to sleep; She sits hidden in shadow, round, To the side, too proud or discouraged or scared To beg My old father Is my conscience My new father Is my ego But I’m still Looking for my Birth father, My id First edition Parole replacement Nah, He ripped open the That never again was shut And turned his lover, Poetry, Into an aging slut Tramp tree Out of mythology Pulls up its roots And leaves SO THATTUCUMCARI (WON’T CARRY THE LOAD ALONE DO KERRY! , HARRY! DO KIM CARRY? SHE BE STRAPPED? SHE BE BAL, BABY! So B.Z.’s been to Paris, huh? Bedazzled piano keys To a stripper’s rhythm Lock Out changes For one famous Name’s sake To recognize Another’s talents In the broomed sunlight Of infidelity I’m not allowed to be sick So I pop pills, wishing I could Fly Away 1 The editor didn’t “Understand” The street names I knew I eat meat That’s meant to hang Have a taste for humans But am no cannibal Not quite my cup of tea; When bloodied, the children have to be Given a reason for a decree (If not da crow on my backyard settee) Which makes “meat” merely Flesh eaten Not sucked, nor kissed, nor beaten Into riding submission. He puts on my panties and fishnet hose And makes a moist hole to hang the ring in his nose. He’ll see stormy tongues licking gutter-dogs See bitch leavings Loving the money He hopes to see a spider-net stocking crawl Along the floor on long legs When the sac gets drained, maybe He will see water, plunging through pipes and see Man seeping in, some gamete, But he speaks for himself A year before he died, My grandfather didn’t say anything To me and I didn’t call him. I was far off and working on a Call-girl’s career Daisy chain Of Herpes/syphilis (spirochete) Genital sandwich Of HIV crystals Norepinepherine Minus one Oh please minus one! Dad explained How hard it is To understand. Electromagnetic Speed-of-light Shit-burgers Golden parsley Hide from Momma She’s been shopping, Got a bag full Of . VISION SEEKERS Psychic turn-down Psychic turns-down (Psychic turn-downs ) Psychic turns down A two-way street A westward highway With lost hyphens Under a highway With lots of hyphens. The hot house of my Winter Was a guard shack And fantasy Was the delicacy of my womb The algebra Of a soggy Greening brassiere Then I had to put my face Into the couch BUT WHORES AND SOME POETS DON’T KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN “WHAT THE FUCK?” AND “FUCK THE” It’s August in Atlanta It’s Spring in Siam It’s May in Madrid It’s Easter in Rome It’s October in Malasia It’s Christmas in Somalia It’s January in Jamaica It’s March in Moracco It’s April in Formosa It’s September in Boca Raton It’s Winter in Brazil It’s Autumn in Bosnia It’s November in Vietnam It’s February in the Big Apple It’s June in that jazz bar on Bleeker It’s Summer at Fenway It’s December in Anchorage It’s Chanuka in the Ukraine It’s July in Greece (It’s always the season for love) It’s October( the) 18th at 2:03 AM (2:30) On the lot where Nissan Sales are killing Oldsmobile ( I’m alone, sometimes frightened, The watchperson here. I work for Bulldyke Security And I’m underpaid And alone And underworked And alone And my baby never came And there’s no toilet. Citizens of the Arroyos Compete for fame with yo-yo’s yoyo ma never comes by to visit Toyota buys up prejudice With tight green money-buds Violence is easy So you use it Because you’re lazy Fuck me with Metal head steel tips Tear the throat of The entire fucking You call yourself “Amused” Snake swallows Billy Now I love snakes The monster den With monster men We keep putting them down They get up again Shin splints Warmup shoes Trojan lubricated mixed metaphors can be excused in the jumble of picture painting Clarity turns to water-color mud And that’s the purpose To hide the fact that The poet really wants to expose His beastiality How he likes to be licked By the family doberman Likes the tooth danger Mistakes avid attention For salt-lick love All dogs are bi-sexual writer’s heaven– a pyromaniac’s justice I Never realized How brightly Your lines would shine Until I heard them crackle And saw them Ablaze In my midnight Campfire ‘Dancing together On the outskirts Of costumed frills Hemming and hawing About the proximity Of petticoats Is me – See? (tempered with humility) Of course In streaming thunder Turf of scuffed hair Chestnut thudding black Girl’s brushed like A young race horse Stamen (sta y men?) and pistol stuff Gun-toting-poets Who don’t leave their wives Why do the wee old men hide? Is it something inside They don’t want the children to see? Oh! Injury! What could mollusks Mean to me? Oh! Injury! Insects are swatted By the sea Oh! Injury! Fish taken breathless Uneaten, rotting Oh! Injury! How terribly trite Compared to the way you treated me Oh! Injury! Heroin poets on the roof Describing what’s around them Because they can not move.