WHERE DID IT COME FROM,
THE DOUBLE HELIX, DROPPED
INTO THE OOZE OF AMMONIA
AND PRIMORDIAL COAGULATION?
DOES CARBON EXISTENCE MAKE US
DESCENDENTS OF GRAVITY’S WONDERS,
DANGLING OUR TOES, SITTING, NOMINALLY
ABOVE THE BRIDGE? (94)
Bad poetry is a miasma of molten mulch, 91
Making more muck grow in the dawn
Of unrelenting reason and foregone promise.
On the ocean, the waves should purify 91
With wasteravenous fauna,
In diamonds and froth
Every night, a little more burned out, 92
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 nightclub scene
Mourning eyes 91
Make my memory
Her tearstained dress
Distresses my skipping
Slows me like a silk kite
Anchor
SWATTING ASTEROIDS,
AERIAL (94)
FLIES FLY
IN THE FACE OF REALITY.
Fatfaced editors consume your time 91
With rejects, unmetered rhyme
Your sage advice and printed slime
My poetry, here, sits safe, sublime
The young complexity 93
That never was me
Jams my strawberry
Memories
I ride the jambiguity 94
Down the gullets of Ganymede
Dressed in icy froth
Along horsebrown paths
Of panting
Icecream saliva,
Miraclewhipped
To speed the dappled Sugar
Homeward
Until Winter Pops In For a Visit 94
He Reads
A Postcard From Iraq for Christmas
The people snub us
But to surrender. Send toothpaste.
Met many terrible, smelly men barracks crowded.
Great to be on shore patrol, off the ship.
It was a long four months at sea.
I may be home after a second wave
Of blood soaks the sand. Baby’s due
In July. No contraceptives or abortions
Available. It won’t have your eyes.
Your loving wife,
Chastity
Held up 94
By the builder’s cement
Stuck
Together
Up to our groins
In love
He has no bouquets, in pretty positions 92
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, 92
We watch the shutter,
Safe for emotion,
Film touched by light,
Briefly,
But destroyed if drenched
By the subject’s tears
By Twit Nevershare 91
I am modeling myself in porcelain
Halfbaked highlights, rerounded
And rerouted in the runny clay,
The glint of light does not enter me
As I shape the outside of my poetry
Grow only? 94
Grow only to … (whatever)?
Not my children
They grow up
Even if they smell
Of fish
Scumbled sky 92
Steals the color
From the room I love,
Pasting rainbow reflections
Upon the soaped stains,
Browned against the yellow
I wanted, now darker
Graffiti in a wash
Of orange and purple sunset,
Dimming the yellowbrown
Creation I paid for
The dust of Summer filters over furniture 92
And snows inside the house. Baby cockroaches,
Weighted down, can’t smell the manure
Cruise the carpet and get their little feet wet.
The brown on my rusting crack 92
Grows like a puckered wound
To expand into meaning where Papa sat
As Grandpa waits to unroll the paper
Waits outside the door
Waits, wincing, for me to hear him
Porcelain yellows 92
With the thinstreamed truth
After the love juice
What if he, like a flatulent hero 92
Blares in your face, his finepointed part
“You’ve no violin, you petulant Nero!”
Adding an F to destroy your verbal art?
Hitting my flufilled head with the heel of my palm 94
Moving my jaw to massage an itchy throat
Trying to clear my ears to hear the sucking sounds
Of Sucrets
IN
Speedy swallows 94
Sneezing projectiles like darts in an ocean
Of Rhinovirus
I try to skew time
To cure a radish nose
Get up, do it again 94
Don’t just douche it with your pen
Sweat the paper must be stained…
And not with blood
AMICUS (94)
BRIEFS
BROWNED BY HOT AIR WITH PARTICLE JUICES
Garbage glistened in the round receptacle 91
Frost glazed the morning meadow
Flies made babies, not knowing
The trash men come at noon.
His tush 91
As good as gravy
His lips
Were wide awake
Her tush
As good as gravy
Her lips
Were wide awake
Death spares nothing 94
Entropy always
Worms live within us
Hope hangs in there
Like red meat
And the snores trumpet 92
Juice dreams of daring
But you, with your legs
Parted, are my fantasy
WORN PATH
APPALACHIA (94)
WILD TRAIL
WITH TOILETS
Sometime later, Grandmother’s wind spoke to me 91
I remember waking up 94
With a bad poem in my headache
Coughing up cupie dolls
ALA PRINE
Their “brains thrown into a hurricane” 92
The nipple will summit up
The hair will enter a test tube
The genitals will fall like baggy trousers
Disengorged
The soul/will
Entering or exiting
Must be resolute and pure
Of this, at least, I think I am sure
This toilet 91
Has a stain
I’ll call it
“Brown throne”
Never more
When I notice
The speckles on
The door
There is an hormonal haze 94
In his testosterone soul
His heart a rutting beast,
Over gonads, that searches
For its next beat
GLUTTONY
OVERHANG HANGOVER
Adult things you noticed as a child? 94
RUIN AND OUR LEDGE
OVER AN EPINEPHRINE CLIFF
HIS LEFT
BALL SIDE O’ FRIES (94)
Up your ying/yang 93
BROKEN OPEN
And Dickie breaks, too 92
Telescope illusion
Of coq au main
Always something miniature 91
In the mind when a lover’s absent
Sitting in froth 94
On a cloud of sloth
Floating,
My mug is cracked
The lost snail 91
Slugging along the bricks
Slime sister on concrete
DOING THE MENTAL
BENCH PRESS (92)
THE PECK BUILDER
NEEDS WEIGHT
BENEATH THE SURFACE (94)
UNDER TOADS
UNDER MINING
UNDERWEAR
TO ELIMINATE
ONE EXTRA STAIN
Branflake farts and dirty dishes? 93
UPSET
over the constipation 94
boy, you are sure
a pure
asshole
fusing modal patterns of solids and gas
musical notes and all (analyzed)
your tritone farts are melifluid
your dissonance is divine
(and a bit of a chuckle, too, mess pas?)
I spit into the cold 94
Dark corridors of your soul
To lubricate the vamp you were
BLUE GUITAR (92)
Player with blue fingers 92
Plucks pensively, painted
For effect, he watches t.v.
Frets about t.b., drips
Blood from his fingertips,
Examines his sperm, his life,
His worth during daytime.
Gotta give you something to see? 92
The canoe glide describes the real me
The gilded leaf my golden thoughts
The creamcolored corn my segments
The blue fetus, unborn, my past tense? (is that it?)
CUDBALLS YELLOW
THICK, GUMMY MUCUS GREEN
LIKE BUBBLECUD BROWN
THE NAMED
COLORS
SQUEEZE LIKE A
BOA (94)
Sperm suspension 94
Without suspense
CALIFORNIA STATE (91)
WITH
A film on your eyes 91
Like cataracts
Watching My Father Piss 94
He, who tinkled tremendous
Gushings beside me from eye
Level and whipped it in after
Shaking it off, made me linger
Would I find a thick one, brown and long?
CANDLESTONES (94)
(OR GALLSTONES),
SELFISH LITTLE SURPRISES
Freckled kisses? 94
Spit reflections?
Spider beside her?
Lick a guava for luck 93
Melonmush 94
Is the honeydew
Green or orange?
Is the daughter seed
White inside?
Is the poetry 94
Lipid or water soluble?
(entering the heart or the brain?)
CHANGING MEN
Curry and oil? 93
Farts and fellatio?
They refuse to breed any more assholes 94
On a theme of incest or not
Being concerned about family planning
His brother had to stop buggering him
Perversions 92
For
Plantations
Everything 91
Progresses
Better into
Proud putrefaction
Explode into soy sauce 93
Oh, my porkfried soul
Explode into bowel movement,
Into vomit, to exorcise
Those nasty sin balls
Smells of syntax 92
The browncolored images
Floating logs of imagined journeys
The shiver and sweat, sometimes,
When reading, the tingling
Of fallenasleep thighs,
The flush after rejection
The fertilized mind, somewhere,
Down the (sewer) line
Orgy or children’s storybook 91
Puzzle with two pieces
To piece and sheets
To separate sweat dance
Dribble from burning friction
And overhead fiction, outside,
Looking down, crispening sheets
And smoky smells to stoke
The fire of revision
Blooddeep coke fish 94
Down by the Colon 94
by Cyan
Here:
Punks turn punctual
In DADFAD tuning, slam dancing, loose teeth,
Eye shadow dried, conceiving new hairstyles,
Studs, safety pins, earwax, spit.
Why not frame the remains? 92
Bronze the toothpick he used;
Put the wine glass under glass
With a touch of red wine and his dribble
Still inside, vacuum seal it.
He comes; he goes.
You don’t desperately need him
He comes; he goes.
You won’t leave up the toilet seat
He comes; he goes.
Why ream the rim 91
Before you get the ball in?
Why play your first game
In dirty socks?
Finger, you “obscene” silly symbol, I watch 94
Myself blaming you for this expression
Now you won’t pick my nose or enter her crotch
And my hand gets the blame for this digression
“There is no wealth here!” 94
(Starchfat straining)
Tinkle of spent beer
Against asphalt and scuffed shoes
Flowerless husband 92
Bearing bulbs
Removes his wife’s leg
From his flatulence.
Outside, bed bugs
Run to the warmth
Of hot air
Under satin sheets
CREATIVITY (94)
Your fertilizer falls 94
Unto other people’s lawns
CUMBERLAND FARMS
Bubbling udder juice 94
Yellow, like me
The red pen’s not the best 92
Tool
If you want to draw
Blood
And we are happy 92
With shitencrusted babies
Sweatwet spades
Spermdodging eggs
Swollen malnutrition bellies
And gravesites that make
Life meaningful
Every asshole 93
Has an edge
Donuts 92
With words
Slipping through
The holes
Soaking the edges,
Brown, like coffee
Adults stick their noses 94
Into the sweet smells
Of child’s play
If towns are born hookers 92
Then boats are born fleas
On the sea and men born
Sperm in doublehelix fury
By The Rotten Eggs Man 92
Cave dweller
Surrounded by perfect moisture
And no new caverns
To perfect the river’s burrowing inward
To form tributaries
Eating seeds 91
Silent
Falling eggs cushioned
By crunchy snow
Maiden form
Frescos
Your calamari living 91
Your scungilli life
Your pasta vasule
Your clam character
Your fettuchini sex
Your egg foo young legs
And your mayo shark mentality
Splat
Against those same damp
Dining room walls
The catsup smells homey 91
The way Grandma did
Mony, mony 94
Baloney is bad
Cus you have to chew it
With those squishing sounds
Summer 94
Too full
To stay cool
Gargoyles 94
Don’t grab
At your gut
But give
You excuse
For vomit
Words and curses
EVIDENCE ADRENALINE
EM SHOCK (94)
EN PASSANT (93)
What you smell is sweat 92
Sweet sweat
Slaves and workers
Sweat the same
But which one is sweeter?
Yeah, right all old men 94
With “spoiled milk” eyes
Are beggars and drunks
The Art of the Fart 94
One blow like that
Pushing you through the house
Like a car that won’t go into gear
So many sounds
Your empty lips will vibrate the air
Or release a whistle in cold harmony,
Alone but not monotonous
Pushings and pullings of pores, 92
Evacuations of follicles
Love is puking out its guts 92
Over selfpity’s toilet
Take me to bed 94
I’ll give you a hickey
AUTOMATED TEST TUBE TAKES THE JERK’S
JERK OFF HIS HANDS, BECOMING “RECIPIENT”
SOPPING UP
SOT WEED FACTORS
The baby vomited 93
Giving life to lots of yogurt
The soppy side 92
Of a sloppy ride
Her breath was heavy like death 93
Smelled, as well.
Your big fucking words 94
That enfold mistaken meaning
The detritus of premature ejaculation
Gas 91
Wheezes
Armpit poops
And raspberries
Old connections 92
Named monuments
Pictures of fountain
Crowds in pissy water
Gigilo gentleman 92
Gets his hands
On a monkey’s mind
Pops it open and probes
With fleasearching 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.
Over ambiguity? 92
I’ll never get over ambiguity
Or underpants
Ascribing greatness 92
Like gifts to the moon
With a crack in the middle
Piss poetry 92
Effluence
Yellow journalism
One of my dumps is my dinner 93
One of my dumps is for reading maps
One of my dumps is for trash the city won’t take
One of my dumps is for pleasure
Another is to avoid standing, remembering
what I look like in the mirror.
Speckles in frigid nose hairs 92
Winter dusk and warm porch lights
Glowing on the same old crozier
St. Martin left behind
And a puppy’s tongue 91
Doesn’t taste like dog or shit?
And a cat’s tongue
Doesn’t taste like canned cat food
Grainy to the same touch you revel in?
And now, years before, to precall dry dirt,
the skinny, solid, darkness that stuck,
that separated around she and me(I?)
Evenings (She and I evenings?) old times, overripe,
sinking to the whore, neither being the last Eve,
found or lost not to forget, to spit bitter bile, sperm
Out of the hard void
The air is full of birdshit 94
My piss is a poem 93
I see her bend to smell 92
Crinkled nose
A clipped Rain Lily
Licking words like loins 92
Pushing nose closed
Developing a brussels sprouts taste
For the bitter side of the finger
In a trash can not
The Culinart
Shock warriors shaking 94
With pyromania
and Phlegm
Pigeon 93
Poetry
Pecking
The pavement
(do they coo or only poo?)
For widows 92
I will kiss
The walls of their
Disappointment
With yellow paint and
A pleasant yellow smile
In pregnant respite 92
She flows familial
Spitting out words
About selfishness
About the bitter taste
Our baby finds
Antacid frustration
And no Mozart
Now, “Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout” 94
HUMAN (94)
HUMMINGBIRD (91)
Living like there is no outer space 91
Hovering around a landfill flowerpot
Hummingbird gone
HUMOR (92)
INFECTS US WITH GOOD GERMS
Pus 94
Under a pretty
Protuberance
Glorify weakness to feel fresh? 94
Canned ants 94
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
We would create “beauty” 93
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
Anyone who likes Rilke 92
Can’t be all wrong
Preoccupied with lightning thighs
And swollen kisses
Preparing for a little death
That is not a sneeze
Yes, I recognize 92
The soft touch of your slipstream
As we waft past each other
Don’t lie to us 91
She pushed her finger
Into something else
House symbols 94
More cracks
To lick with love’s
Psychodrama
Painted with spittle
Sinking into the soft foundation
Of mortality
The center sagging
In a wide gaping smile
Tangled genes (JAMA) 91
Are not the only truth
Luminous after lactation, 92
We cycle recycled
Knowledge
On the ledge
Of extinction
Green tongue 92
Ought to see a doctor 93
I’m underpaid 94
Under wear
Poetry to capture
Smells
And dribbles
So street clothes
Can stay clean
Sniffing my spore 93
Walking home in a blizzard 92
Tears got stuck in my eyes 94
Why My Brother Quit 91
Kids caressed cows
On campouts
Came back crappy
My fastidious stomach 93
My illuminated belly button
My interrogative woolybooger
My forensic flea
Umbilical Amniocentesis 91
So much poetry is from the belly
Cocksucker poetry 92
Making sperm pretty
Bitter about the bitterness
Of beer and poisons
But mentioning only oysters
Not realizing the symmetry
My unfriend 94
Ununloads his
Unununderbelly
Unundulations
Scraping sperm
From unununununder
The unununderbrush
Unproductively
Everything is everything? 94
In fantasy throes
My lover want me to squeeze
Out the milk that I can’t produce
With her
Pap 92
Smear
Finds junk
My excrementation 93
Is a kind of loving
Being a generous soul
I wish nutrients for plants
And trees
Mom 92
Made music
With her
Flatulence
“Dogshit?” 93
A Brief History 94
Got `em
Wore `em
Ripped `em with my teeth
(Used `em to polish my shoes)
Pooperscooper 92
Carried for fun
Calling for a “spot”
That doesn’t exist
Paint me a picture of a perfectly normal place 94
Then throw up on it
Yellow Journalism 91
Piss professor
Calls himself “Urologist”
Says, “According to my analysis
Urinalysis is yellow”
Eyes of ochre 94
Sparkling shadows
Skin, greenish
Beauty over a bowl
Barfing bitter
Embarrassment
Pretend emotion 94
With a pseudo name
“And away go troubles down the drain”
Houses squat upon radon 93
Calling themselves Uranus
Uranium
Doodoo 94
Dropped in the crack
Between poetry and concrete
Downstairs, in that tile kitchen 94
Young girls squealed with delight
As cockroaches they’d found in the tuna
Squished under their plasticgloved
Fingers and young guys jerkedoff
Into the scrambled eggs for fun
Because they couldn’t hear the words
Of the murmurous rich
Sail away with me 92
Into a satire of wind
And odor
“But she loved me” he says 92
To himself, though destroyed
Teeth, liver, mind, romance,
As his body swells and he
Loses control of his colon
After questioning that lost
Love for so long
Sticky goo 94
On his fat stomach,
Oncetreasured sperm
Eggbutt baby vacated eggs? 91
A Period of Faith 94
Metaphor connection
Of Blood communion
And lips slippery with sperm
Woman, buy your seeds in a Burpee Catalogue 91
For all your fertile attempts to cultivate
That belching, incontinent man
Aliens crawling up the toilet bowl 94
And into your ….
Poetry
Peggy’s peonies in warming bathwater 92
The sky should not leak watercolors 92
Releasing a fart 93
Into a night filled with
Smokestack flares
Can you talk to yourself and think something else? 94
Wrong moon, right moon, it’s still the moon 92
We fell in love under
Ants in our underwear
NIHILISTIC PESSIMISM (93)
Charles Bukowski, eh? 93
I just ask, have I made it to the millennium yet?
There may be flies on some guys and vultures eating
Your udder disgust but there is/There has/Belong to there?
But there are VYGERS on me. Not visual? Not of the working
Man? But there are assholes sucking be back into them.
Doubletalk doublestandard doubledipped dick 92
He rubbed me with atomic balm 92
I blew up and hit the ceiling
Stairs stares sinking in 94
Ah, what the fuck looking up my dress
So, I think I have your meaning 91
You piss
You sit
You drink
You piss
HERE IT IS IN A
NUTSHELL (94)
AN ASSHOLE FOR GAY GUYS
The birthday boy on a Sopwith Camel 92
(add blood somewhere)
No insult intended, but 92
My mother’s breath wasn’t
Exactly “inspiring”
(It’s supposed to be a joke, mother)
He dances like a plop of mashed potatoes 94
Sometimes does a twostep dollop of cranberry sauce or
The turkeywithahandupit assist
As inspired by (my mother’s breath) by the guy
With the parakeet on his violin bow
During the “Flight of the Bumble Bee”
Eggs on chair 91
I sit
Discover them
Grungy leaps into a hole, 92
Not knowing how deep
Boydirt goes the glint
On the string of spit and tears
And snot on shadowed faces
PANCAKE
I won’t keep a single one 92
Flat and burned
Twisted
Uncooked bubbles
With liquid insides
How nicely farted the moon an orange fog, 94
But “poached” encroached
On the Cutty Sark mist,
Eggs running catsup,
Wrecking the bouquet,
Had him stumbling into a bloodshot day
Road kill poetry 94
The pus of squeezed pimples
THEY SMELL YOU
THEY SMELL
PASQUE PETALS (94)
Dune cradles 94
Sand cracks
Under inverted
Sky, dripping
Foam
“PACKING FOR PEKING”
The crude statue, white,
Keeps falling in my head
The white of the suitcase
Is not pure white like that,
Under the tanks’ lights
My underwear are not white like that.
How can I travel?
The steam in your moustache 93
Sticks to you like Winter love
A steam that recycles and starts again.
THAT’S WHAT THE
PECKERWOOD
HAS TO SAY ABOUT REALITY;
IT IS SO OFTEN EATEN
AND RECYCLED OUT THE OTHER END
FLYING AWAY
PEGASUS (94)
ESCAPES THE ATMOSPHERE
BEFORE PLOP DROPS
Addicted, you can’t tell what’s enough 92
From what’s snuff.
“Snuff snot! That’s snuff snot!”
“It’s not! It’s not snot.”
“It’s snot.”
“It’s not snuff snot; It’s not snot
It’s not. Now that’s enough.”
“It’s not, that’s snuff.”
“That’s enough!”
“That’s snuff. That’s snot so it’s snuff snot.”
“It’s not Well… It’s snot alright but it’s not
Snuff snot. There’s not enough snot for it to be
Snuff snot, there’s not.”
“That’s snuff, is it not?”
“That’s enough, okay? I’ll say it’s snuff,
Even though it’s not snuff, if you’ll say it’s enough.”
“It is enough snot to be snuff snot, so I don’t have to
Say it’s enough of this because it’s not, it’s snot.”
“That’s enough snuff stuff.”
“No, it’s not. It’s snot until you wipe it, so
It’s not until you wipe it so that I don’t have to look
At it. Then I’ll say it’s enough, but now it’s snuff
On the tip of your nose and snot on your lip.”
“I’ll wipe the snot, but it’s not snuff.”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
I’M SO TIRED OF THESE “P” WORDS
AND “P” POETRY, SO,
TAKE A “P”. GIVE A “P”
WHAT’S A “P” BETWEEN FRIENDS?
ON A
Pep tide 94
Pep toe
Abysmal depth
Of endless murky streams
Clamped peptight
At the feel of warm waves
Peppy prep for evacuation
Shrubbery verity 94
“Ni!”
And humming bird farts
For a whiff of the arts
“Ni!”
Amherst is buried under snow
But the pantyhose still come out
To aim a dart
In broccoli directions.
Asparagus takes years
To root and settle
While Carol contrives herself
As a hummingbird feeder
“Ni!”
Between two of them
Grateful
Cheese
Licking up dew
Sentences.
Verbs have or do
Dart up
Dart up!
Down boy.
Climb a tree.
Naaaaannncy! 91
How many times do I have to tell you
You don’t have to leave open the bathroom door
To swim through it?
I spit on the wand 94
Of the blonde
The Grumbler 93
Sweat crack
Texas chapped
Dick
To Withstand 93
Sliding dew
Darkest stars touch
Mooneyed crescent hill
An endless girl
On couldnot nights
Of a gentle hand
PIE POETRY IMAGERY AND EXPRESSION (93)
PISSED INTERCOURSE EXPULSION
WHO CARES ABOUT INTERCOURSE?
You bust the hymen 94
Of your children’s minds
“Null brown … cellulose…
Reclaiming” yourself.
What’s hard to accept 92
Is the gums giving up
A PLACE FOR POETS (91)
BETWEEN TEETH, TO BE FLOSSED.
The large curd of her anxiety 94
Bubbles the surface of the skin.
I reach for her nippled flares, 93
Burn my fingers on the yellowed skin
PLANTAGENET (94)
THROWING HAIR EXTENSIONS OUT
OF THE
PLASTIC TOWER (94)
After Children’s Day
I am stuffed turkey on token gifts
Candycaned into a corner
Eggnogged out of excitement
Tinselled to the tonsils
Mulled by makebelieve smiles
Fruitcake filled
Tied up to my neck
In Christmas credit
Early October in Intercourse 93
MidMay in Maggie’s Nipple
Breaking wind in Barcelona
Did you go there for the foottar?
How sweet is a Pennsylvania memory?
It is
Monday in Montauk
And why did I come here?
I’m uncertain about the expenditure 92
Of all this time taken to make up
Smooth and rhythmic internal rhyme without
Enjambment, cliché, or sentiment,
About all this time spent, words worked at hard
To appear simply worked out, having, as I do,
So little, of substance, to talk about
And, feigning distress, no one to address.
Oh me, oh my! It’s time now to say goodbye,
But let me take this opportunity to end on a sour note
And not the kind I make, sucking lemons.
Fickle musiclover 94
Haunted by the ghosts
Of one note after another
Haunted, exorcised, haunted, exorcised
Because there has to be something
To fill the silences
Warm dark 92
Worm dark
Warm dirk
Worm dirt
Wart worm
Dark work
Mud stygma, moss sygmata 93
Mystic sty in the eye
Astigmatism of sunshine
Water
Butt on 92
Button
Not tub,
But ton
On Butt.
Butt on
Button
Men 91
To smell you is to
Want to sneeze and cough,
Hold perfumed fingers
Under my nose, while
Escaping
If I were the tampon inside you 93
I would suck your insides dry
And cause those intense looks of nearpain on your face
As I entered and exited you
Dueling scars 93
Are no longer
In fashion
Nor shorter
Naked
(And new knitted flesh
Doesn’t put up much
Of a fight anyway)
POETRY NIPPON (94)
THE BUTT (OF WHAT JOKE?)
Cocaine stapled 93
There’s snot
Much in
The baby face
Selfinflicted, perfect lips 91
Hard tunnel for my choo chew
Tooth impressions, scrape marks
Balloon lips bought
Deflated
Wiz ards 93
Wizz
Whiz
Zapper bulldogs 94
A mucuswet sky
Won’t release the harvest moon
Braless 92
Does the best poetry
Speak “best
With its body?”
Almost Obscenity 91
Scythes lopping
Dancing Jersey
Udders
Milking girls
Hey, shit wit, if the shoe fits, poop in it 91
If I wanted to cater 92
To the highest common
Denominator of humanity
What would that be?
Contradiction 92
Too wide to admit
Darkness
He’s an economysized
Asshole
Apocalyptic Entrails 94
Cryptic conclusions
Trypticfolded illusions
Chipped dick delusions
Endtrail conclusions
That smell was deodorant 91
Pheromone
And the genius of the balls
With not always tongue in cheek 94
But, at least, tongue in twat poetry
A collector’s journal? 92
Fat collector’s propaganda?
Do they have diet bubblegum cards?
Liposuction leftovers in sealed jars?
I admit that I am an asshole 92
But I don’t dwell on the thought,
Just write poetry about it
We tear at the scabs 92
Weave word butterfly
Bandages
To seal the wounds
They dump their waste on us 91
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”
Pinched nose 94
Between his crack
Two birds with one
Asshole
Bodyfluid poetry 92
Spurts
Into empty space
Rowing into Summer darkness 94
In only briefs,
He calls himself, “Poet”
Perhaps, it’s a ball game 94
The sun is out
He scratches balls, rolls bat in fingers
Sometimes I stand on my bed 92
And try to piss into the lake
Does that make sleepy sense
To you, watching me,
My belly protruding,
Hips tilted like a man
Buttefirst 94
Echoes
Sometimes, I pass 92
Words
In thick chunks
Bone dirt 93
Gas 92
From dead body
Yellow cardboard
That plastic smell
Of old photos
You offend the way 92
Vomit offends the willow
Like they say, 92
Bullshit walks,
But they don’t mean
The kind that just sits there,
Steaming
Charles should write as 94
Charles more slowly
Squeeze his effusions
Into a tight stream
The memory 92
A million mouths
Salivating over me
And now I call myself woman,
Know how few men there are
I need a gas mask for so gassy a poem 92
Icarus Hiccups 92
Dad’s hot air
And sporatic spasms
Are killing me
Cramped smile 92
Is like a
Cramped simile
Paint pretty pictures in my brain 94
And then snap small bones
In the “snowy field of foxtracks”
Dripping blood fluids, all about
BUT, BUT, AT LEAST……..
THE BEAUTY OF SHAKESPEARE
OVERCAME BODY SMELLS, STILL DOES.
TODAY’S POETRY IS SO FRAGILE THAT
IT CAN NOT STAND TO BE PISSED ON.
TODAY’S DELICATE POETRY
DOESN’T DARE EVEN TWEAK
THE NOSES OF UNDERGROUND MONARCHY
Sweating and spitting 91
Pages out of you
Your poetry is soggy 93
With the sotweed factor
Blood rains and tears rain 91
And coffee rains down drains
And love juice rains
And we dance in the rain
Milking poetry’s shriveled breasts 91
The poem does not know
It’s sucking on a wetnurse
While its mother is full,
Ripe, exploding,
But too busy
The spirit of her tits 94
Took
A rest
Bitter about the bitterness? 94
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.
In toilet tissue details 91
The big black boot
Of injustice is spared
A forest review
At my poetry readings 91
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 teeshirt
Let me blow my hot air 94
Over your
Conifers
What people do you remember? 92
The ones who slurped and burped?
Or the weird ones that they wanted to be?
I don’t even see 92
Yesterday
Though these tears
Amazing 94
How the architect of your house
Assumes
That you are not butter
Living on the faultline 92
Of a fart
Roses, Rues, and Ruses 92
Bouquet in arms in crinkly paper
We wind our way down French boulevards
With names like Sacre CWWWWWWHIC!
………… Cwwwwwwwwwwwhic! ….
CWWWWWWWHHHIC!!!! (Sorry hairballs)
When the horizon is bigger than the moon 92
Can you see the crack
In the atmosphere?
Can you see
The brown asshole of fluorocarbons?
Scat John! 92
I’ve had men like you, John.
I usually stick your faces
In it
Then say, “Bad boy!”
And make you clean up your mess
Before I kick you out the door
Hey, Norma, dear, 91
I see you there,
Sitting on your ample
Peripheries
In Another Mist, and Not a Missed Mist 94
I’m sitting
Disturbed
Pressure against
My buttocks
And I’d be happy
To pinch a loaf
But don’t
He looks like a zootsuiter 92
Spinning keys on a chain,
That precocious little baby of mine,
Playing jump rope with our umbilical cord
SeaSick Fishing Chum 94
Fishing for poetry,
He vomits imagery,
Bait
Puke, puke, puke 92
You don’t have to puke
Up poetry
Hey, icehole 93
That’s some bitchin’ lichen
Copper grows from our mother’s ass 92
Brimstone dream invasions 94
Is it the city or some asshole?
Nan’s Last Sneeze 92
Blew her brains out
Busted a blood vessel
The ears go first….
….eh?
He farts in perfect pitch 94
Arthritic fingers tap the table
Music comes from the strangest depths
Prune juice adjusts timbre
Chair cushion controls amplitude and duration
In old age, he has developed
A new music of all the senses
Kleenex bubbled a bit green 92
Three large specks, greybrown
Two little ones
Four specs had nosehairs sticking out
Nothing happened 92
Didn’t cut my finger
There’s no way around it,
Three bottles
left
SHOCKSILLY
SCATOLOGY
In The Louvre, I Remember “The Orange Show”, 94
Houston, Texas
Or
DuckPucky Synecdoche
(Not
Get married so they’ll think better of you
But
Akin to seem good)
As the smiling duck for duckpucky
As we looked for fifty duckpucky landmines
for we looked for fifty ducks
As birdpucky for duckpucky
As duckhouse droppings for aviary ambiance
As food (exfood) for duckpucky
As duckpucky for duck feed
But not as duckjoy for duckpucky
That would be sarcastic synecdoche
And something completely different.
You know how to waste lines of verse 91
And the trash can colludes
Beware the epigram 94
It makes everything average
While life is both boiled and coldslawed cabbage
(And farts, and potato salad
and baked beans and burps)
Sometimes my pen is full of shit 94
Sometimes words leak out
And dysentery becomes brown scribbles
For/Of smelly expression for me to tout??????
Tramp tree 92
Out of mythology
Pulls up its roots
And leaves
Flight Path: A Villanelle 92
Ah, Well, What the Hell?
Flight Path: Free Verse
Dark light
Images images
Moon vector
Cloud blur
Rimjets
(With little rusttrails
In suggested spirals)
Dark light
I still can’t seem to get it
Right
Haha Single raindrop 94
Maybe it was bird shit
Don’t sit on my pewend 93
or gooend or spewend
Electromagnetic 92
Speedoflight
Shitburgers
Face in hand………….. 91
I’m an old fart
Publish me!
Never forget…… 92
Shit!
….. I forgot what.
Fastfood buffet reminds me 94
Of the day I was born and wasn’t
Scooped like a Csection
Into shallow plates
At a good foodcost percentage,
Delivered,
All prepped,
By the truckload
The algebra 92
Of a soggy
Greening brassiere
Disgust 93
Courses through me
Building pressure
And the only escape
I have is the written turd
Short Title 92
Shit poem (shorter)
Some people 94
Need to crack
Their knuckles
Some people
Need to knuckle
Their cracks
Listening to the pitterpatter 92
Of tiny
Eggs going to ground
Stinking verandah 92
Vowelsong breeze
In French farts
FIGHTING
FUCKFUCKFUCK WORDS
SCREAMING
“WHO GIVES A SHIT?”
“WHO WANTS ONE?”
Don’t tell me you’re gifted! 94
So,
Don’t tell me that the bloodstain covered your heart yuck,
The bile made you smile,
The urine puckered your pussy,
The mucus made you remember,
The sperm made you cut yourself.
Don’t you tell me that, if you’re gifted.
Clearer Than 94
The moon roamed even these landscapes
Of flying haystacks
And the pond’s hot buttresses, thunder colors,
Mysterious wind of scummed peonies,
And magenta poplars.
Bleeding blossoms bloomed
Like there were clouds
And won’t stop
It is October 93
Everything is
Cool, smells of wholes,
Concrete blisters,
Ice to fill them
Soon.
(And then, of course, it’s going to twist and turn them,
make them swell out of shape and break through their
boundaries and have holey babies so that soon there’ll be
more holes to fill and then leaves will leave, it will
leave and be a different season)
Even the toilet’s scrubbed and foreign.
Someone made the water blue
Domino effect with falling towels
In Lightning colors of hauberked nakedness
Like stiff cotten
And there were flying mistresses of furballs
Against the wall by the spiget
Scrubbing the dirty bottom 92
Of the twoheaded baby
You bore and called Poetry
Already stinging it sightless with soap
Putting screams in its burbling mouths
Considering murder vicariously
You say they say “Stop, you’re killing me!”
Fourteenandathird (14 1/3) HalfPoems 94
Wart physiognomy
Viral cystosis on the probascus
Mapping of mavens
To maul the mentality
To make plain topography
For the map of the mind
Lamentation: Limerick Lamentation 94
A writer who courts lamentation
With grief as the seed of gestation
If pumping the pud
Of a world full of crud
And fucking all cause for elation
Let your tongue 92
Swim through the sunken portholes
Of my clichés, my hackknees,
My dog growls,
My dog ma is the bitch
That torpedoed the best of my days
Imagery 94
Rose Blood
Wilting Yellow crud
Green Bile
Part strong Some sperm
Some roots In fresh feces
Survive In plastic
Gay Green Piece
Beauty heaped upon beauty 91
Pinkly profligate
Mulch pile with carrot peels, broccoli and beets
Here I Sit, All BrokenHearted 93
The editor
Wants
Only
“Garde”
or
“ApresGarde”
Poetry
In a sort
Of
Right
Guard
Anti
Perspirent
Mode