With Every Heartbeat

maybe we can make it alright

we could make it beter some time

maybe we could make it mhappen baby

we could keep trying but

thing wisll never change so i did

look bakc still I"m ding with

every step in i tak eso i don't

olook back just a litterl bti beter

good enought to waste some itme

tell me would it make you happey baby

we could keep tryting but things will n

ever change so i don't look

still i'm tdying with e3very ste p i tak e

but i dont llook beta

still i 'm dying with every step

i take but i dont lookk bac k

it it ihurts wi th eery

heratnbveat

it ti hurst whti every hearbeat

it it heaurts with every hureah

beat

and it hursts ewith every

heart

abut

and it hurts with every hurea

tbeat

and it hurst with every harbeat

and and it hrust with every hearubeat

and it hurst with every heartbaeat

So here's this chapbook I made some years ago called Close Gauge Petcock. It's 17 pages of lyric spasm and problematic syntax. I guess. They are 4 dollars. I've decided to become a capitalist! There are 14 copies for sale. Here's a taste:

I rerung

make room being

me fadey orange color

in a bird slacks opus

or do I re

wring ladle equal

symbol surgery

of a I we

one sorts

the honey

crunch baseball

tender mit nebula

thrum the mollusks

out of their bats

ink

when

tupper

I inna

bust frequency

rolling on turtle canoodling

trying weave on fun

dorm hitch refractions

on squid and john

and clark and

several me’s

kissing several

or in this man love

the golden tub’s

not bored open till

heart pimples

avarice less than

stocks tempest

me fig-dried

a scarecrow in a

sour mist grump

emotional magics

are stinging us

me used to be

angry young man

me hiding me head

in the sand the

wizard in hightops

the I always go

neath those alex

testaments

leak carol no

monogram of an

oily air do the dishes

rinse and repeat

no snag glitch of

scanning

I like to forget every job

I ever do

the boasting combing

in essence which is

our ticklish behavior

I last out the morn

and you know

garrulously people

I think to worry

in their nefarious dreams

the lock closing buttons

on pins dropping over

pinzas in our wilt

9/17.1

oboe-acoustick'd & flattered like nipples

We engage the mytho-macular fun spindle

with a cam in wheat-crystal

consecutive plunges in irrigated but non-arable

Arab lands; only point away to adventure

Do we have split homologous green vibes 'r what?

9/17

8.8 unholy affinity

happening near a laser attached

to 2 lasers of profound personal sacrifice and devotion to duty

attached to a mouth that is registered

for minions and purple winter kill

Even in 2012 white and thick clouds

amount to non-natural coloration in regions

between blue and black on the color wheel

whose enormous photo essay

of blue-tinged water flails around effortlessly

Counter target from in an assessment process shows types of bacteria, including purple ones

starting to realize the massive superiority

of fun in zero sum layout of the white spatial tolerance deteriorating

a floaty-rotatey gold collection of vintage racial hatreds in a loot bag

"By the Fireside" translates to free-streaming indirect actions floating

that can be absorbed by the "service gangs"

which means a blog of psychiatric disorders anneals shock due to dilatation & extensive

massive swelling of having not that which you ain't got.

9/15

Robyn's hair has no author.

cold

searing

catches

curls

hides

refracts

light

9/14.2

Men's Health Daily if too warmed-over

may place pink ramparts in your atmosphere

like if Lil Wayne bought the Atlanta Hawks

with millions made in ambient

douchey dream suggestion

People are so mean they

just look at you and grip their private parts

They download basic cautionary tales

from the 20g of sugar per your

flippy valuable time!

9/14

Time to start hitting WalMart

as Pavement was here this night

grow my little weakass light in a can

person to person with equivalent damage

If you snap that FirstAid rugby structure

weakass pittance deflated behind

some kind of weakass wooden gate

hosing down suspects on some weakass boat

John Cale makes shittyass dijon mustard

But destroys in disc golf.

We already have an accidental forum

where we broadcast sex; there is

no further need for a fluttering slipshod parasol

or wideass Pennsylvanian diction to mark our place

or mark the runaway climate change

with a dry erase New Purity.

9/2

Put it in yr cereal box & shake it like Goldilocks

Move it like a bulky-ass couch don't fit 'n nook

This one's the one we call the skyhook it's

Kareem drops Batman off on his first day of School

The crisp leaves will holler at you

Crime fighter protecting the fragrant

Making the best care home & heart a mold like

Spittin' droppin' double-dip soup lip

Bitin' wind like comas improv electoral slip n slide

9/1

booger-shakin' carbuncle-ass pantry-raid

storehouse of a hosed magician's ass't who climaxed in the Ponzi

hole of a morbid fucker's most cheery-ass aesthetic of Pop tart flavor choice

Sample

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.

Sample

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.”

Sample

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

"motivate","motivation","motive","motley"

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.

Sample

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.

Sample

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:

Location!

Location!

Location!

Sample

Location!

Location!

Location!

Location!

Location!

FANFIC (SQUIDGE!)

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.

Sample

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.

Sample

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?

Why I Am (Not?) A (Pro) Feminist [Man Poet]

There is some thoughtful writing over at Delirious Hem. But it’s been bothering me alot lately that I really don’t how I might be a (Pro) Feminist [Man Poet]. I don’t know what that means. I don’t have alot of actual contact with women. There are issues involved with this. I felt like I’d better either post something of this nature, since I didn’t do so at Delirious Hem or try to get the piece taken down. I considered emailing Danielle and asking her to take the piece down, but I don’t want to do that so I’m posting this.

Let me be clear. I am Pro-Feminist. I am in favor of equality, of the inclusion of previously marginalized voices, of what a man can learn from the experience of being a woman. I was asked to contribute to this forum. But I almost immediately had conflicted feelings about it. I probably cannot honestly identify as Feminist. Their are alot of women who I admire and have huge amounts of respect for, who’ve shaped my life. But in all honesty I have deeply conflicted feelings not about Feminism, but about my own relationship to Feminism. I do feel that as a White Man I’m afforded and exercise more kinds of power in more contexts than I can even know about. A problem is being stuck in the mindset of seeing Feminism as something that’s “all about” women. It isn’t. It is about opening our public (and private) fields of discourse and exchange to more modes of thinking and being than are currently (readily) available. Some of the most important of those modes happen to have been developed by, and perhaps were known all along to women, but of course their voices have been marginalized.

Marginalized by people like me. In the sense that I am a White Male. A White Heterosexual Male. There’s a Louis CK bit where he is ironically extolling the virtues of being a White Male. It’s true. White Hetero Males are the most privileged group in the history of the planet. And it is a direct result of benefiting from a history of oppression and unspeakable brutality. We ought to at least bear witness to that.

I try to, I guess, compensate. I co-curate a reading series where I live. I try to invite at least as many women as men to read and attend. But then what am I saying here? That a poetry reading is a Male environment? It’s up to me to include women? What kind of position of power might I be giving myself by saying that? But then it is true. Poetry readings, English Dept’s (tho I haven’t been near one of those in a while), and various agencies of Literature are historically dominated by Males. And men do have to account for that.

The way we behave creates a wake that reaches everyone else. Men with rejection issues, with latent loathsome attitudes, latent misogyny, seek power. I’m no exception. I’m not anyone’s boss, anyone’s abusive partner, but that doesn’t exempt me from some shared responsibility.

I’d thought about writing about something I’d noticed, about how there seems to be a different codified behavior that is acceptable for a man than that that’s acceptable for a woman, say, in the context of a poetry reading. That it’s more acceptable for a man to kind of “not give a fuck”, where as if a woman takes on this kind of flippant stance toward it, she’s perceived as crazy, menstruating, or a bitch. A friend advised against this.

I can’t separate what would constitute a worldview that is Feminist and Male from how one might act in private. What things are permitted? What things are ok for me to do in my own place of shelter? What things are “ok”, in terms of dealing with these fucked up issues. I’m not sure what for me would constitute an active public Feminism. But I feel like I have to say these things if I’m going to signify as a (Pro) Feminist [Man Poet].

I would like some feedback here.

Blogging Is Painful

Blogging is actually very painful. Ok, laugh now. I dressed as Indiana Jones for my preschool Halloween party. Sound of a thousand babies clearing their throats. Programs seem to be as good a way as any to talk about this, which I’m not talking about and won’t be talking about. But what I want to say is that when a person blogs and they know that a few people might read it, and relate to it or not relate to it, and all the things that come with that, there is a pain in being aware of that. They make me cry, and knock my lumpen head on blind wood. Blogging is a means to connect to others, but it's also definitely a disconnect. We need to shift the warlike energy associated with politician's names over to sexual energy. Why shouldn’t a person be taught to love? You are looking at flickr pictures of your friend with Terrence Trent D'arby in Cancun. You are thirsty again. You get up to leave the house to buy Fresca.

It is a lousy substitute for social interaction. Not sure what in it exactly I'm referring to but yeah... But it is painful because it is done, even if unconsciously, in an effort to connect with people one feels disconnected from—possibly a geographical disconnect, or just a peculiar social disconnect. Like two murderous clowns masturbating each other. It is painful even when done anonymously. I'm actually lucky to have been born when I was, because if I were kid now, I would probably be on every ADD drug under the sun. There are probably as many kinds of disconnect as there are blogs. Of course art does cause change. Or maybe I just don't care as much. The geographical disconnect might include people who live too far away to be physically touched. Then Perry Farrell all of sudden jumps off the stage and next thing I know, dude's fuckin suplexing me like I'm some fuckin cornish game hen. And then I'm layin there with fuckin asphault-encrusted yogurt all over my face, and Perry Ferrell's all back on stage and he's flying down, a tap-tapping his elbow, which is The Flying Elbow smash. I like the type this way after all, it’s like viewing the poem through a pair of binoculars. I kind of don’t care about that thing from before there was this thing. They would be driving a golf cart along side me yelling encouragements while I'm on my daily 10 mile run by the sea shore. So built and not demonstrated, it lassos the comely moon. The social one might be peculiar, say, in the guessing that goes into who reads this, or who reads that who can't be communicated with in any other way. They send out signals that mingle around variously patterned salons of intelligently synced-up pattern-holes. I couldn't find what is supposed to be my own blog! And yeah there is some measure of importance to be considered.

Blogging might actually be the least cathartic form of publication. What should I have for lunch? This could be affected by alot of variables. I hated the Chicago Bulls. I might be totally wrong. I also subscribe to a loose idea of being committed enough to the process that one is willing write things that are potentially stupid, embarrassing or even petty. But the transmission of a blog post carries with it an expectation of not only an instant readership, but one that will instantly (because this is the Internet after all) reply with a counter-transmission. Will you please reply? In no time? Like, Richard-Dreyfus-obnoxious right now?

Is it necessarily only achieved through google-sculpting? I wonder if the other patrons can hear me under my breath. Very naughty, and yet the listener can't decide its naughty without a certain amount of presumption. One could blog in a completely nonchalant way. I came over 900 times last month. One could really have absolutely no expectations about being found out. Would a salad believe this? Do you ever find yourself asking this question? One could blog in a completely utilitarian way. A dream where I'm on tour with The Arcade Fire, and I think me and the blond one are like stranded in a McDonald's parking lot somewhere, until Marx comes by with his Hummer to pick us up, so we can catch up to the rest of the band on tour. So I'm left with one less way to get myself out of the house. One could behave in a completely sociopathic way, or indeed be blogging at the behest of some psychotic intent. But what’s the point of bringing that up? Either voluntarily or not, they are a part of their own consciousness of it.

Believe me when I tell you that blogging is not to be taken lightly. This is cathartic: I also watched LA Law on a regular basis. More likely it was because we just couldn't remember. I would like to now bifurcate that sentence a bit, and just say that the blogging of literally billions has implications which almost completely eclipse the implications of blogging itself. I wrote this in an essay in Health class and ended up being invited to help keep score for the Basketball team. But maybe all of life is beautifully harrowing. And the implications of communication? Of the digitized message-in-a-bottle that any blog really and truly contains? Aphex Twin is playing and I’m writing this and I’m looking at the monitor with part of the words covered by a smudge on the monitor. Blogs are meta-containers, like Russian dolls, and do require maintenance. I should know better and I do, but I go around loving every thing. I wrote a thing where a kid is murdering his father. What is the appeal of black metal? Don’t get me started.

A dream where I had to go back to my dishwashing job, where somehow I was obligated to and there was no way to get out of it. And looking in The Sports Section at an article about how Steven Wright is actually a really great athlete. There's a picture accompanying the article that shows Steven Wright's rifle-like tennis swing. And also an article about a local couple who were involved in the Avant Garde in the 1930s and 40s, posing nude with their parts strategically covered. And I'm yelling at Ross in my father's living room, loudly complaining that there's no way I'm going back to that job. He's trying to explain to me how the person they have now comes in late, calls himself "Mr. Bumblebut" and uses the wrong exit to leave. And I'm getting really upset but then I wake up. And I'm very relieved.

How would a serial killer’s blog read? A dictator’s blog? A phenomenon of the late 70s and 80s. I once masturbated in the back of a bus in Ireland. (This will be the only Item here that involves me masturbating.) I mean its good and necessary to have a philosophy. When I was a kid, I had a staring problem. I do "creepy" pretty well. We are nearing the end of summer, when the blogging is dumb and the living, it's easy.

How would a virus’ blog read? I don't quite understand when people say, "well I haven't written anything in a long time". If a virus could blog, we would not understand it. Er, I mean we would not be invited readers. I'm not good at knowing whether someone is joking. That would be too lateral, passive. There's a level at which this is all rhetoric. What a virus wants, of course, is direct contact.

I've always dreamed of being in a band of misfits where we play our instruments by not learning how to play our instruments. But the format dictates the expectation of the kind of shared experience that's peculiar to the Internet. Today is my day off, what should I do? I think I have hemorrhoids. Today is my day off, what'll I do. Does blogging remind anyone else of shadow puppets? Why do I feel like someone out there is about to “break it” to me? Please be gentle!

Joker

Accidentally once I told a joke
these guys…
ooh ooh the sky…
but not that
jumpy I’m sorry
I can’t get my bearing
but I’m like
ooh ooh!
Shut up! That’s boring!
I’ll say it you write it down
Verne Johnson… he fixed my bike once!
What? No.
No!
No more peanuts for you!
I was like…
put it in your hole
put it on your bowl
and Verne said… Yeah! Flannel!
Totally red and brown colored
but I didn’t get it
I was like… Whaa?
Just tooling around…
Verne said… Whaa?
There go my powers
Ooh ooh
Did you see that?
Verne kept singing like…
yeah…no…
Undies? How the hell
do I know

The Eggo Bus Blues

Try having my year
plugging up the incandescent
maternity singing
rumble tilts
That will get you
to cleaning your sinuses
as they rough and tumbling
felt lines
a thong spare as
the curt direction
given through tidy links
remedially after it
clenched I tell you
the waffling truth in those
circumstances
the crickey blandishment
absolution of the apostles
or betterment of
retreads ye take through
garnish for
sun-out
stares at the
sly and peaceful buzzing

Try havin my year
served with fennel in a
green plastic Pinocchio
bucket, hiccuped from the
infrastructural shepherds
with brutal lazer-toyed
beneficence
and plainly Americans are
worried on their stoops
breathing as animals
caged in film trailers
leaving smokey
perfumes

now you need release
getting used to these Towny
ways shying away around
plots of inherited binary
Smokey the Bear peers
outward from the
luminescent skiffle
pink visor
locking down
must-see
hardships, pen-whipped
lapidary as all get-out

I’ve been at this all year
shining deer in my
punk fashion
sufficing through
brutal relations
of seed
and whipped curls
to towns down-
grading collapsible
tents in the non-
functioning sun
spending absolution
through doubts of
demonstrative
star power as the lift
toward formality
reeling pant-leg
exclamations
in the final honking
good party

try this tuner to use
for anal relief Trucks
no survivors Plane down
the board of life-like
drinking contests warping
around the child-like
fertilized eggo waffles
burning in the Supra-addict
where we store culture
refuse to sneeze in the
disheartening new climate of
Toy box brokerage

or try this plant your
gardens slantwise
catch newly renovated
sun disposal as Hell
to feed the capital’s
distant passive abuse
with long curly locks and
forced receptions of pasty
figurative pulls on
soon-to-be captioned
desperate gestures
counseling pour
stork jokes or cold
grief whinnying
Ouch! disheveling
folks’ electoral
area attitudes

Some More Tasty Omelets

brush cutting of the not-strictly factual?
garlic? and sauté?
(third-person singular
simple present sautés, present participle
sautéing, simple past
and past participle
sautéed)

BCC has to crack a vault
or melt completely—

serve a perfect golf swing
into the homemade no-frills
heroism of the Net
yeah, it’s a little of the
tongue-depressing quality though—
ranging from feta and spinach, to ham and cheese,

ranging the alps in a nifty Vespa
w/ Richard D. James
what a body’s on now
getting the résumé out of my intestines, just
a little twinge of the “chaach”
you can eat brunch as you explore
the Men's Auxiliary

Artists must submit a written and drawn
omelet proposal: taters,
NEEDLES ETC ETC.
Before the parade, Artists must
report for inspection
The menu will be
Darren Dean, Scones, and waffle station
Weekly at 8:15am

when, out dashes your Disney tour guide to
vandalize Elk River Parks,
submits a hard copy of your cover letter,
a minimum commitment of fourteen weeks,
then collapses
under the weight of the omelet bar

Lego bacon cheeseburgers
sprinkled throughout the province
like crepes sprinkled on the county economy
run through to the daily xtra Muffin of sad sadness

I’m a better judge of massive omelets
than I seem to be
The National Honey board bears
an extensive kissing revenge on Joe, in the end

Each day they must wrap up the omelet
another day older
resumes more so in disrepair
sprinkled throughout the province

like it was so much egg white
standing erect
“under the tutelage of Randy Tutelage”
a study in foreclosed color schemes

a pragmatism rhapsodizing
it’s own undercooked urethra quality
nevertheless great transportation options
more than enough face-time w/ Mr. Tony Shaloub

this is what Heaven was looks like than—

a Lego breakfast table in El Rosario
an ice-cold campfire
a bachelor's degree and a few years of experience

scrubbing away the omelet residue
seeing home—

Some More Tasteful Outlets

I just can’t sustain
EATING THAT SHIT...
all this porn is at Defcon 1 its both
a me worse person
under Egyptian tombs
common with the dry forest
the movie War Games
after retirement
leafing throughing the geological
dontcha
evolutionary reptiles
common with
nature’s next can’t sustain
prone concentric meat doth like what
you say to contiguity
common with generating relief
what it always is—

SHED OF LIGHT
the upholstery within
concentric spires keeping
my A.C. squeaking
just plain more
alive that night surrounded by
bending animal of Dutch
frozen pizza common with
how bees will be nature’s
imagination
reptiles common with
philosophy’s basic and needful Magic Christian
cadaverous into the used
John Elway of
upcoming
extent
Defcon 1 common with
history’s belief
which I’m telling you and if
in a mopey
SO HIGH HEAR THIS
cease may cease
of my heat
upturned from under murals
in a tie-dyed
leafing through
common with
a me worse
a motherfucking alive person

Timeshare

I feel enjoyable
as if I were King Tut
basing this baffling
position
you seeing me
I or you
on a tinfoil buttering
Aztec visers
handing off the beat
to which I eat
a Roman in guilt only

why even I get
tired of writing all this
I oughta know then to
pair my wit with
your exotically based
window view

even admiring lots
of pulling porks
focusing the lemon gravy
an obvious pun
I oughta build or
at least tear it down
elegantly clinking
my hopes toward
aspiring away from
cheating the gov’t

a sound noise
or veritable
pocket rocket

you’re never gonna stop all the
teenage leather
sex neither nor
young marauding
guitar clinics
sexing the suburbs
in their pained delivery
circa ‘84
through ill-relaxed
window panes

don’t take the brown caulking
it’s a matter of fact massage
bunting out toward
Waukesha or one’s
warlike symptom in an
obtuse sex organ

when we say that
we mean liquor cabinet
the common lyric here in
the Highlands
in the foreground of a
turkey being slaughtered
the shameless lyre acquisition
down through history or
y’know against all
this vague inspiration

we say generating the
truth as a historical imperative
wakes up badly
stick in a toothpick
you pull it out doughy

here’s what you do
sing ectoplasmic gossip
around a hairball’s
autobiography gee
wouldn’t that not for once
be utterly boring

or a non-milk-based prose
a Vulcan Valkyrie
who once managed
the Velvet Underground

this poem is making me itchy
too much Robert Lowell
in my bathwater
those shoes that improve
jumping capability as memoir
lessons recede

I watched a fish die
and that was it
my inconsistent autobio
fueled by airy kissing
under thought ramparts
where horseflies put in the hours
this pre-mulder & scully
when I was but a scuzzy fantasy
a young girl offered
to let herself
be transported to

now I lick women
their lengths
they lend me their
remote love & sensuality
clap the hands in an
all done motion

I need my heart clapped
or at least three views
of the opportune siesta
these adamant
sobbing onto my handlbars moments
come all too easily
I oughta maybe share
an efficably-dosed margarita
with Kevin Shields
at Martin Scorsese’s timeshare
constantly losing Tina Fey’s
number in the most
pleasurable possible way

my face is becoming numb
the sun is rising
it’s a living
it’s a final doodle of tonight
it’s a soft reprimand
it’s a poignant detox

My Philosophy Of Life

Look out! foreign selves
collecting Nero’s mind
as a clean sheet, the rhyme a cleavage
across from it’s knot or,
straight into it’s deep, deep shadow
desperately, endlessly green
piles any space into the chest
around the little harp God—

pass door or, wanting to begin
the gossiped Queen Anne’s embryo wings

the various grays have Shut up
for a walk
out the window & true to feel
your third floor equivocating eye
no chicken scratching on spectacles
to be found out or, burst!

Occassionally now thick panels
like to be so beautiful

What is sad also
tunnels down my amazement!

this blue chair
ha! to see
the flower of the awesome

The Great Earth crouches, has found you
a passing dog overlaid, particular
howling and tending a deck of cards on Mount Olympus

Only he don’t come down
nakedly treading a handfull of his audience

We stand in the rain
ready to become seargents
so obvious and thereby silly
the long Penis dissolving
in the sky of clear dark blue

Somewhere above Tonight
standing on man’s eyes
the corners of her studio wear the good time
today—

children play and yet have quit
did not know what grows outdoors

saw with their green eyes
the scrupulous system between the columns
on a chart, is only the sky
hard arguing to the left—

those level miles
about itself

[Source text: A. Poulin's Contemporary American Poetry anthology. This and With Mercy For The Greedy are two from a manuscript possibly still in progress called, well... Contemporary American Poetry]