this is an e version of a book i'd make if i cld
I eat the apathetic for breakfast
I take a pitchfork to the eye
Of the apathetic.
I pretend it was an accident when
I turn and meet a four hundred degree
Pan against the prone forearm
Of the apathetic,
But it isn’t.
I take the apathetic’s mother out
For e coli breakfast
But this is only after fondling
The apathetic’s mother’s
Bible, in the corpse seat of
Her husband’s hearse.
I am all about the pathetic.
I prefer apes.
Synthetic garments, I stick my
Arms in the holes of now.
A path so worn there are arm-holes in the lining wood,
The would-tic, of the clock, all seconding what
Zeal and zest good
Worker bees have
I sting the apathetic; leave no honey for.
I have about had it with apathy. I have barely
Been acquainted with telepathy,
But still I know the future’s wrought with
Scenes of me giving it to the apathetic.
And I would, might, even. After this cigarette.
what is the name of that dylan song?
i don’t wanna cut you down, or boil
you down or pare
i just wanna smile and thank ya, pour
some sanka in your grappa.
i just wanna let you
grow, and watch
you grow, and
know you grow.
all i really wanna do is
(maybe) be friends with you,
i don’t wanna fuck you up, or
cut you up, or trip
an’ i don’t wanna fake you out, or
take you out, or
let you out.
all i really wanna do is baby be friends
i don’t want to say farewell,
or kneel a while at your turnsyle.
i’d just like to turn you ‘round
& set you down & make your
i don’t wanna be your
boss or foot the bill or be your shill.
i don’t wanna brush and floss ya,
flush & toss & spit and wash ya.
& i don’t wanna
clean your room
or see ya too soon
or fail to
i don’t wanna act yr nurse
fall under yr curse,
or immerse ya.
i’d just like to to make some plans
that end up well
and dry like hell,
all i really wanna dooo
is love you.
if i cld a body slam
if i was a body-slammer, i’d slam it
in the morning. i’d slam it in
the evening, all over this town.
i’d slam it in may-time, and it
would produce a slamming sound.
i’d pull on adhering trousers,
fashion a cummerbund, and gain 100 pounds.
no need for goggles, squint-menace
about the eyes would suffice. i wld grow
my ego large as a
one i wld wear
sauntering at night, inviting slamees,
nowhere in particular
if i was a body-slammer, i wld
i wld slam out a warning, slam in love
an answer: slam it my brothers!
slam it my sisters!
slam it !
if i cld a body slam
if i cld a body slam
if i cld a body slam
Thank you all for the lint,
You sweetened the sweater
With your talk cadence,
The hair suit you sent clings
To me, just like singing
To a brick -alley way
So syrupy the way this
What it is told and
I think my last words
The way out will ring
Said thru a thick assed
Scarf yo’ momma made.
i figure i am seven levels of hell above skid row
and nine miles below unflappable.
having hid out for several yrs from
the cultural revolution that is
on here, big usa,
i am nine months back in with it, now:
a lower-level poet fitted with a company, on
an unstoppable high,
sighting crimes and having things recited me.
i am not paid enough to wear my own poker face
in the face of whats most shocking
gaping open humanity.
we take in what comes, even swiftly
process, but each time a wicked thing
our way comes,
we are taken
i want to be taken aback
over and again, until i become
or, am ready to don an
award-winning poker face.
You did not get a migraine
From your neighbor’s record playing
It was not
By my tome
Let us not make migraine
For the result of a minor, if adamant
I know iconic figures who migrained
Until their fifties--I imagine mine
South, to the knees and be
I got 19 yrs to figure out the best way
To behave on mine,
Noise can be a tonic for
My migraines, Yeats
Wld turn symphonic for
You did not get a migraine
When your sister’s kids used their party favors
Let us not
Be crass when it comes to
We ought not dumb down sleep-driving, either
There is no reason to infantalize bulemia,
Folks who itch and folks who utter
We all climb out of some gutter
Your husband’s giant prick
Make you see stars
A Song for the Company Underground
Find Succor In The Humility Of
Knowing Full Freshness Is Never
In The Cards.
The Vegetable Boxes,
To Be Broken Down
Near The End.
Manifest Are The Inevitable
Ices Melting Inside Crates,
To Later Drip On Pants.
Soldiering On In The
Kitchen At Last, The Radio
Playing To A Day-Old
Bread, (May) Melts The Heart
While The Back Gets More Stiff.
When The Melted Heart
Hardens Again It Is Like
A Saran Or Spun Sugar
The Bells For Sleek And Chic
Do They Ever Play Meek Well.
They Battle Not,
The Most Likely Reason For That Gondola Accident.
The Reason Women Sometimes Leave A Faucets Sharp Hairs On
Cold Clean PorceLain I Lain I Lain Eye Lane:
It Were The Car Wheels,
Or Brakes Squeaking,
Was It Every Car In The Area
Squeaked The Stops
Squeaking Kept Bringenening Me Back To, And I Waking Still-Walking.
It Was Inferred That Green Moon Ringing Lids Orange A While.
There Had Been The Suggestion Of A Buckling Beneath That
Ladyskirt, Worn For Days.
A Big Green Bus Barrelled Thru Almost Into Me And Thank God
For All The Ice He Didn’t Slide.
There Went The Absence Of Squeaking.
The Stockings Net Unshimmied A Hot Leg While The
Lady Skirted Steaks. A Man Handed Thru His Peppered Locks, & Sat
To Reopen A Moot Letter Instead. There Were Reactions To The
Beat-On, Paralyzed Woman
Who Sued Her Ruscuer,
And Them Were Mixed Like
Coffins In A Dam.
True, We All Walked Once Together, In A Dam
Surrounded By The Buried. The Same Gondola Was Pried Open
I Imagine, The Night I Avoided Helicopter Beams By Running
To The Next Good Shadow, Beside The Next
Big Carved Granite Hunkola.
Someone Fell Out Of A Boat, And Now We Are All
Supposed To Consider The Consequences Before
We Go Fish.
a song of the poor
i don’t eat leavened bread on Easter.
i don’t own a cashmere sweater.
i don’t know a word for luster.
missing from the sailor’s bed
are the maps your rapture’s after,
but i don’t have a plank’s worth
of plundering on my roster.
i don’t forget to genuflect in clover.
i never felt a scarce rain in Oklahoma,
carrying my wife’s bleeding body
fallen off a mountain top in Boulder.
i haven’t shook for days beneath
a blanket heaving on your shoulder.
i haven’t been a drunk just yet,
or a junkie or a whore.
missing from the sailor’s bunk
is a library of mostly Langston.
the impression on the sailor’s bed
was left by the one true, and fair maiden.
i can’t walk a plank they laid
for crooked shoes and bankers.
i don’t have a finger in the dam
what broke in sobs for the
buttes standing in Montana.
i don’t fuss and cuss and soldier.
i don’t muster up the custer.
i don’t use up all the hot water.
i did not steal the way to California.
missing from the sailor’s bed are the
maps your rapture’s after,
in between the isles, in fortune land.
The rich make the rest of us
Accomplice, often gladly enough
So gladly we take pride
In their easy rides up
Our hard knockers,
They slip us mickeys
And we text them g thnks
In the braless morning
normal is blistering.
it gels, as the unreeling
wills of man around
the place divot and swerve,
just as normal times
suggest, and even insist on.
on persists the daily .
mind not any charade,
dance dip and throwback
your resistances, distancing
i could be ever seen you spake
the same old at the
best you set the net to catch
all in time
for the inspector’s fine tooth,
i should hope so.
time moves most when you
(a part in the sand)
but the rippling in.
your pot pour me’s rendring me /spent,
your soup d’jour is my own nickel,
to reward a big man
in some sky
for d.a. levy who waits like
we wait for the roses
that bloom and the roses
that never bloom and
some roses that never don’t
i see you in your checkered
nikes talking fast, no blackberry
yet navigating in waves, not
having to last .
the people are fading
their faces fading their
repose a fast: fingering
i see you on your purple huffy
baubles on glamour-ring forearms
out of gas from the hill
exhilarated by mtv
i see you working the aisles
moving cans forward, that newer
ones can be got last
we wait for the prophylactics
we swallow exhaustion, do push
ups for admiring, albeit fanning
we wait for traffic signs
he says she is not into temerity
she says he won’t hold his tongue for any
there are ballbusters, gall bladderers
turners in, and outers
i see you on your cell phone
smiling peripheral, lasting
for months at a time .
we wait for the free line/sail into summer
chains, barracks, and bummers/girls just want
to have fun and boys will be boys will be/
someplace you sumpter .
and the roses still bloom
distraction walk the district
Walking Berkshire, walking Cedar
It’s leaves, and it’s barely, and vacant,
A lot like holding for the operator
Nothing Happenstance Here,
this business of playing nice together
is a matter of survive a shift,
and then another
it has nothing to do with family
it is not common camaraderie
or even gentile service
or jewy uprightness
or moslem hospitality
it is not for the team or
success of the company
it is clock in and make a wish
it is turn a cheek and notice
the managers soft shoe aisles
this is moving product
it is i do you so you wont do
me in brothers, and sisters
let me carry your tray of toil
such production is not so we can
share in the fruits collective,
but on account we need to plow
thru another week here
and we are not to speak low in groups
of two or more
and we are not to scrimp on service
and o we are accountable for leaving
our post if it means walking a guest
aisle be damned
departments not mattering
we dont collectively prosper
we hone then out each other, civilly
remember your hat and your pin
this is not for the future savings pool
that we clock out early
The PC Police In The Phillipines
Threaten With Violence Actor Alec Baldwin,
For Prime-Time Cracking On Their
in conversation the word migraine
acts a vinegrette
to your pitiful salad act
u say that actress
with her too sparklee dress
what about the clown who
says that bridge traffic
gave my wife
u think some muther’s wife
didn’t spend three months in
fuck your heart attack
brot on by the size
of those pancakes
wanna crack on diabetes?
i bet u gave your daughter
one serious case of the bends
with your tuxedo
you got a headache, alright
woman, and its known around
town as the County Morgue
your hyperboles are fruitless
they barely draw flies
you cldnt get a mail-order bride
to paddywhack yr pinwheel falsies
the sweat of my forehead seals the ‘velope
another day, another ‘graine
i tell my friend,
no news is bad news
one moment pain’s staved, then it rages
no drug or doctor’s advice assuages
i work my mind on menial tasks
i toil, pointedly my focus on what
is at hand i joke i quip i laugh i decide its
to be in this boat,
as i leave my house to labor
rhyme of the latent migraineur
i pride after blowing
up my life raft another
fine morning for sailing on airs,
sun sets on your highest regards, thanks
my forehead lights your smoke sailor