Friday, July 16, 2010


Ltd. April Fools Pranks & Gypline Ceilings
like the irony of this sky, like the tears below this, um,
dome of human grief. Or rather, dome over
human failings that twinkle, a
brief calligraphy of voices imitating each other.
Like navigation links on animal skin, like
editing textures of currency. Like infrequently accessed
relieved spring RAM, like building fantasy cable
right now! Like Ghandi-esque malfeasance, like
chance-applied skim-taxi
milk uber-early
transfer dust.

The biggest problem of a crowd
is our own toes.

I stand around with Jordan, Professor of Economics
behind People’s 50 Most Beautiful People.
Dad would basically open the parlor to any socialist
willing to unzip their pants.

One brought a decoy of Leslie Nielson’s modular panties.
Insufficient wireless gate opener remote problems
from self made turban ports
quadrature for sexy binary africa trucks
no smaller a New Urbanism than
oracle party boy gatekeepers on skidoos.

Like a lipid-rich environment of valley-speak & the
natal escapist ping of asparagus porn in the gorge.
Like crackhead McQueen confrontation in Borneo.
Like a weird touchpad on my crotch ready to switch
from timmyboy to Cassandra all grown up.
Like computational panther-styled vegetable garden water
leaving karate in the hallway.


Turnabout is fair Cynthia Rockrock.
Fresh water bottle mayonaise
while loud speakers gab luminescent auroras of useful info.
This savage unity, synthetic beauty in Turnbow relief.
Into a lovely smile that’s
blooming an oil rainbow. Lovely botulism risk, we agreed it is
disconnected or no longer in service.

Won’t be dumped from handling
carnauba wax in the other prison away from Bill Berkson.
No human accountability in Mineral Management Services, there never was
any golden age of journalism, as we must write checks
to grow this thing. But the people in the middle are bugged
by the people on the other side talking preliminary despair and pizza shortage.
But the slides show blooming fascism in the dioxide corridor, a combined
3rd bloody week of combo-cults and groundwater war!

Back when Roy Rogers, Tom Mix, Gene Autry, The Shadow
and The Nelson Family set the tone for ethical behavior, Greyson Chance
was a spermy gaga in the left eye of the market. When in doubt, you could always
say “market”, in a market, or at a Submersible Refridgerator Support Group.

In the future, plumbing will betray a pained spontaneiety.
People will vote to “give the knife” to the President. I thought
Ball Barkson thought, “Here’s a fattie who’s to maul me
to make his way to the half-mist/mast carnauba wax dinner rolls.”

Thursday, July 15, 2010


I read in the car
to the left and right of other things.
To see among the active hotsy-totsy levels:
taco bell, hugs, smoothies, naps.
To see conviction, yes girls, in among other things, turn
the hilly labyrinth lengthwise back down
numerous death-clown-telethons of severe travel
tip and lock jaw flows
in. We’re now seeing static visions forward.

Jack woke up in a group photo, a tiny
clown tickling his severe chin, the scrape of it
released as an arbitrary fungus. I feel lost in your
stanzas. I’m trying to write one word at a thyme.
Took a group photo for couch-lining, the oceans splenda
everything in sight. This tour is not some great radar
implants mirror, the teen nodded. The bird may indeed
holster too much yucca root. The Seeker made her discussion
from the thoughts of boys yammering teleportation
through Mike Hauser’s gift card track record.

Hauser tramped on, rude to all shoppers, ready to
scare the carp out of the rick-rolling motion sick
smoothies who called themselves the Detroit Loins.

The comp’d bing in Ashton’s trunk stems
Charlotte’s, Jamie’s, Bee’s
:o) What color is your room?: blue. How old is your mom?:
wail ply ind end bind tlle tulle siek seek sickness sickness sine onsets
at play.

They both soon helped slamming the door
to finish to smile teen-style
disdainful | contempt batter of egg & some pills
in funky peace!

I really thought Danny Devito
should’ve had Joe Pesci’s role
in Good Fellas.


All the conspiracy theories like long flowing threshers
wouldn't know Fran Drescher
if she shat on their face. Why would you know Fran
Drescher's shit from any other?

How many mind-fuckingly hard-to-locate
g-spots are in here. My head is all turned like
some celebrities carcass of an ethics board turnstile macaroni
bump-a-da-hump. But like I said, as for water --bring it!-- 'n I'll
bring the musical RSD instructors &
super-rich cheddar cheese sauce.

After a tense software download the light starts to filter in.
Where one long rhetorical thread emanated from the speakers
like cashed-out waffle hinges in disguised crude.
I can talk some smack so to soak up the bread, burn the butter-churn,
take that damn money out for some wealth creation.

Thursday, July 08, 2010


They used mafia-like tacos
to penetrate border patrol ranks, but who would
ask a random stranger that question was shot.
This is getting more important.
Everything sucks in Dallas, but this might
be my fav avocado! It’s interesting
to note where I am coming from,
where I am going, or anything else.

That I should build a deck
so hard. So people was pole-dancing
in their own skin, in an insecure part of Cincinnati. Better park
this night in keeping lookout for the flatness of the sky.

Wanna know why our officers of pole-dancing cows
are other than some scatological lining up
of an area’s—BOOM!—punching your ass
in an unprofessional photo
where a dude’s playing injun?

I just feel that agents crossing the border to get
the most bestest hummus are hounded enough
by pantry-hugging bumper humpers
in their Hazmat jumpers

don’t you?

It was sort of bad when I looked at Paris and was like
Yes! Kentucky!! but I live in an area where a young prick
wooed the old hippies into replacing the only fountain in town
with a tattoo mart in whiff-distance
of any Border Patrol agent’s just leaked shart.

Thanks to being passionately satiated at the movies
I may not be in a gang anymore. Expressing myself
could have the road check, the yay! Karma, the
next-door straight edge foreigner, and the pole-dancing
unemployment statistic in tow.
Pack away more KFC WMDs than the former
Miss America will tamp down a dirty joke hahahahahaha.

Juicy! Knitted a need to have a boyfriend once in high school
to clean up shit for 20 cents an hour. I could be a slut
toting binoculars into a Domino’s Pizza, wrangling
an outrageously racist flash video game an I-did-my-part-today
Spring Break away from little material possessions
that house the poor. An association with casual rhythmic
breast-feeding crept it’s way into Canada overnight but still
when asked to put an open hand on the ass of Obama, I
waterboard all that a twinkie stands for. I’m a poet. I get saved
by cool night breezes and filling my stomach with the thought police
alike. In one highly-publicized incident, I used and abused
ebony S+A+V+I+O+R bands, but for a cause that would
foundationally render this devastated country
prone to development!

Geographical comprehension, you ignorant slut!
Alot of these new Border Patrol Jam Bands have the same mantra:



captured the same mountains
but the sheep (SQUIDGE!)
wandered into Barbados.
Here be a mixtape of someone
who put their primitive mouth on a mixtape.
Alot of people think crossing over from SNL
into the movies is a dream.
XTC, cocaine and everything that's bad for me
encourages notifying the slutty zombie
of the need for a rewrite. And so I told Grace, Grace mommy,
Grace daddy, Grace of the Jews, Grace of the plebian
RedBox, I said, what President Obama wants
in his younger days, is the threat of sleep deprivation
to motivate him to deport as many immigrants
as possible. We all know that a broken clock is right
twice a day. So...
Obama to Host SNL (please?)!

I’m just thinking wear the other costume
if that’s the only permanant access
to other people Obama will allow you!
Obama is definitely the predatory
lender of land who gets slowly weaker and weaker
as time goes by.

Barbasol the Pimpered Upper. But it makes a good Foilage Diaper.
The Super Dolphin tweets Obama’s face onto a helipad,
now a dusky woodwalk, now a big canyon.
Like America’s face pasted onto it’s own
big knee of promise. Projected onto
the earnings of an implemented
austerity that is like
bone on bone. Swimming in the cables
in the warm sunlight mosh.


With two paunchy robo-friends
overlooking a failed predecessor.
A huge handlebar mustache was expected to
intervene for awhile, in carefully shrunk
to bungling, odd-sized envelopes, I yelped a pantry
of delicious need
into the microphone. My style had refereed the orgies
of yesteryear, blistering submission to NAFTA
as an opaque missionary position. Smartly crude
energy sourced the interference in camera-cop amazement, thinking
all of us “Maybe we should pick up those cute lil pills.”

I was not the rug-wearing
polemic nuisance everyone seemed used to.
I was Barbara Jean, glowing in a Laotian carcinoma, pedagogical
as paranoid as I was resplendent, a crumb of glam
in a sufficient guard’s eye. In a patterned handle of resonance
and jokey formation, clumsy-ass dobro variations
overlaid on the vocal track. Rhapsodic idiots
with brown nails.

If Elm Street knows skin, we show it
to be irreducible. Forgetting how to spell, picking up every
next option. The speedy camera shots, the paralysis we feel in
the face. It is lovely ludicrous humidity. American paucity
paid for by pattern elopements, vicious sounding of the common
vexing sandals. Collapsing new releases, sound-byte llamas etc.


I mean there’s really no way around it
is there? I mean when you encounter the ink
and get to seem pervy, that is for the Internet
and thou. And twisting and giving “the horse factor”
to a montage of the Champion, these pictures of my home
with dreadful unable tips: and was how the giant nose
down on the street discovered existence.

For to skip detail work
the subwoofers became garlicky, rock shamrock chatter
the automatic plankton Anniversary of your bones. You are
dancing in a windmill of preemptive Voice Recognition, the Capital
of flashing meeting points unaware of Sunshine
in meeting places 18 & 38.

Numbers are scary, right? I know.
Boggy recordings totally occasion the world
and are jarring. I’m here panting into the mic. Clutching it
like a Usinger’s bratwurst with the Star Power
in effect. Looks like high-end humor
turns out in the end to motivate a big wet boner. Big wet
8-bit thrusts in the night! Tell us whose powerful
screwed money needs an adapter!!

Baby we each other slowly whisk the
corn fields of all memory. It is a whisky
proposition to be satisfied, and sponsored by the state
all at one end. Let’s get pagan now!

Related girl-weeks of tours of RFK stadium, those guys
with pig noses testing the sturdiness of it’s prop
gleaming ball carrier. Love, with mouthful
opportunity for instruction. The difficult pickled parts
getting wet for the rest of inimitable life.
How’m I getting away with this, getting my knob shined
on the high-end at Target. You mean Rodefer, Ashbery,
the online Thomas Jefferson sauna, right?