Yesh

Yesh

Yesh
a commmon denominator =ing affirmation
a verb with little left of its common sense
an acceptable perversion of menstruation
with embryonic 187’s lying quiet as W*A*L*L*F*L*O*W*E*R*S
when two (2) beats of a mixer femininely collide
looks as if a blond was just dropped on Saigon
in jelly shoes & fire hydrant soak downs
*
Yesh
a nod, a hum bob, a droll in cosmic Levi’s
& star spangled stitches on mudflap pockets
starring ex-girlfriends incarcerated  in pewter frames
like hOOlah-hOOp earrings & fourteen carat fingercuffs
*
Yesh
is a hillybilly Jeezus rolling religious blunts
smoking up spiritual cannabis from inside a B-mer
while the congregation still passes plates of t(i)n percent
it is “girdlemamma mulatto bitches whose brains are red
jelly stuck between ‘lizabeth taylor’s shoes”
*
Yesh
is BLACK poems, WHITE poems, Beats & Confessions
come either dull yellow marquis or two a.m. holy whisper
it’s mouth full of platinum grille or overbite dentures
it’s gawdawful truth of teeth on the way to the dentist
& ya know we all goin’ to th’ dentist!
*
Yesh
is Saul Williams ripping seams from a starry blanket
restitching mad men back inside their Malcolm Minds
doubletalk & blues boomerangs in Jheri curls of midnight moon
through high tree afros & Channel 35 Kung-Fu theatre
it’s 4 carat headlights beaming through eyes of a rollerskate rink
it’s boxcarred, mamaborn, skinned-knees, sweetsonchild,
heartmadness, panebreaking, Parastroika, twilight whinos & me
*
Yesh
is black licorice bowls & grandchildren & fragrant palms
& ashy synagogues, ghostconsciouscompost, & ole Tenderloin
it’s kaleidoscopic hips & boogaloo with hemp, it’s double Crown
& Coke & Coke & Cock & Cock & homemadeness in JuJu
imposters on Amorikan radio sipping dollar bills from cancans
smooth yellow taxi rides, Central Park horse dung, all-night gospel
radio pulled behind the black stallion of midnight & love affair
*
Yesh
is lyrical light over Greyhounds, life pawing to smell itself
dangercourse & introcourse ‘cause we all know one another too damn well
it’s womb & black trees & white trees populating synonymously
we all dirty when the coffin goes hush!
it’s Spookwaffe & copacetic time drifting thick in hourglass
black pianists tickling white rib piano keys over snifters of cognac
Vomit: the bigot snake crawling outta back of musty ole throats!
Apology: what’s left of a lizardquick tongue dry from no rain!
*
Yesh
is the scream of people who want revolution & everyone
loves a good trend- it’s crazed ignorant hooligans & Howl
it’s Time when it’s time to fight when the kids of patience have been put to bed      
it’s omm bomm ba bomm deep deep in jungle hearts
it’s destroyed statues & unspoken notes in instruments like the voice
it’s bay be why you leave me here & white eyes weeping
in dark oceans of SEE ~ it’s scars of missing self & heads
filled with nothing but jelly blood & a few missing teeth
it’s leaping blue shadows from late night television
it’s this wide leather cosmos along a white hot riveted sofa
arms spread wide as love & crooked as a hug
*
Yesh
is the revelation, the perception, the rationale & the use
subway systems crushing breath in hollowed out tunnels
where the movement is more than on wheels dig?
syllabic organic calibrations of vocal distention
it is Bohemian rootlessness, quasi-defined sensibility
of knowing no matter how loud you get you still ain’t never been heard
with klansmen conking adverbs & erasing racists from shadows
it is nuclear force reasoning from black sacks of birth
it is hate whitey, hate hierarchical monsters beneath beds
it is Sisyphus Syndrome of Amorikan life & social peepa
it is Blackus Retrogradus in status quo-isms that gives me runs!
*
Yesh
is holes where stars have fell & thumbs stagger midair for the count
it is mangy lionesses in late night dive bars with wicker baskets
for asses & a pocket full of monkey foreskins
talking ‘bout come to momma under the weight of Thunderbird
I swear she had black boobies even before the sun set her fire
with a round brimmed hat from a make believe Father
religion: genealogy standing on docks until a horizon steps up to embrace me!
it is the white-anglo loveless drip of sun on mother America
*
Yesh
is the simple straight-forwardness of anger shushing me into P.C.
that I rummage closet floorboards for my space helmet
‘cause I cannot live no more on this stanky front porch!
the clocks have all gone cobblestone & there is oblique suckling
of my everlasting gawdawful last nerve. raise the bastard to flip-out
in the responsibility heaviness of horse manure & bullshite!
it is Ouende Ouende & tar boll weevils in the lungs of deddy
*
it is criss the heart, criss the heart in corroding speech promises
it is a song that no one (especially not even the silly wind) will sing anymore
standing up, or on their knees, or peeking
into the dead of their own clasped hands

Le Damnation de Faust

Le damnation de Faust

            “Even as the swiftness of lightning ye have passed by the Beloved One, and have set your hearts on satanic fancies. Ye bow the knee before your vain imagining, and call it truth. Ye turn your eyes towards the thorn, and name it a flower. Not a pure breath have ye breathed, nor hath the breeze of detachment been wafted from the meadows of your hearts. Ye have cast to the winds the loving counsels of the Beloved and have effaced them utterly from the tablet of your hearts, and even as the beasts of the field, ye move and have your being within the pastures of desire and passion.”~ Baha’u’llah

            The shirsh of her skirt against the stillness of the air around me makes me think. She wears a pinwheel skirt with ling pleats running the length of her shape. To my eyes, she looks like a pixie with creamy wings feathering against her bell jar curves. She is transversing the long iron arm of the bridge to where I am. Her essence makes me sweat inside of my own skin and I grow up through the stony ground of my own skin as if some wick through a waxy self. She strikes me with her eyes and we look into the menagerie of one another, as if we are heads of mistakenly separated eyeballs. I feel unpeeled, unveiled in her glances and I cannot help the electricity along the strands of sight between us. She is wearing a jade pendant on the curve of her breasts and I am lost to it. It bounces playfully with her gliding while my eyes do the same motion in the front of my skull. The sun glistens overhead, shining down against her nape and her pulse is wild in the cage of her throat. The lunch traffic jeers the pedestrians. Pigeons are stuttering along the sidewalk, through the wiry fences of table legs. There are ghosts here along the riverside streets, dissipating memories in the shop windows, wraiths of more ancient faces in and out the oversized letters there painted.

            Love is the purgatory of muffins, the paradise of crisp bagels, and the hell of fresh crimped bread ends and croissants. The shop owners watch over the faces of the visitors, the merchants over one another in the satisfaction of their touchable hell. They peddle smiles in glass windows to the beautiful girls passing by and nods of gentlemanly gesture to the lads. After all, it is the responsibility of the merchant folk to make of heaven this effective reality. The men crane their necks along the canal faces smooth as stones sunning in the flood walls and jaded in the marbled perplexity of pigeon shite. The women turn their noses under the stench of fish screening from the water, posing in their perfumes with the restaurants and flowers. Love is the balloons jostling in vivacious colors over pallid women’s faces. Happy are the children when they grasp the strings and hellish when they want for it. Even their little minds suffer in the purgatory of second thoughts, I think to myself, as they run in hypnotic angles and zigzags along the sidewalk. I am certain as they grow, the steep mountains of idea will grow less unkind and yield to them as they shed the skin of faithlessness that holds them and the fear of motion that suffers in them.  

            The awnings have their shadowy lines with rods pushed through, expanding color over color, sunlight stabbing over sunlight. Love is nonetheless, a café where the wind is the open window to this myriad of a promiscuous scenes, causing my head to tilt in lover’s cant. I sit out front of, this cathartic café, writing love letters in a cryptolect to a woman who would no longer have me. I cannot enter inside the sanctuary of her penmanship and her blue lines now. She is no longer for the single-minded and her words are stricken from the jargon on the human heart. The scent of the bakery canoodles in my nostrils and my head foams in a hunger that effaces the thought of letting her go. This is where we met so very long ago now, in the feverish umbrellas of concrete buildings. There are brick scales along the underbelly and the alleyway. I can feel the swelter of breath on the back of neck. There is a freshness that I cannot place wherefrom on my lips pluming from the grottoes of wine glass and nectar carafe. Even if she had spoken, I would be caught outside the constructs of a sentence and the words would be frail mumbles of penance. I would have to shave a word from the back of my throat just to say anything. I am sure she is the kind of lover that would simply quote the conversations of ancient philosophers in a way only a dogmatic religion could accept. As for me, I would be left reserving her as final language in a fallacious pragma, caught in a soul sleep until judgment comes.

            Her words hook me, although she hasn’t spoken, and I can feel the tines pushing without mercy into my ears. Her calves hang in her stockings as if they were bulging eyes of Koi snared in shrouds of fishnet. They wriggle when she strides against her ankles and are held in by her lean bones. There is rhythm from a cosmos in her hips when she turrets her eyes onto me. My head is helpless in their penetration. The pigeons flutter in slow motion at her heels as if release doves for the trinity followed by one more. From this constellation of nails in the park bench, my eyes are lopped off easily as dandelion heads. My sight is a dangling retrograde. My tongue is swollen as a winter doorframe. So my eyes fueled in the rage of glances and our exchange of mildly damp words, make her mine for the eternity of the next few hours that we manage to skim from the ordinary day. The clock lies with an insomniac ticking ever awake, a paraplegic hung to the wall of shadows turning away from the dying of the light.

            She wears a linen blouse that is so sheer it shows her apple blossoms of breasts so perfect. I love her breasts as a worship of them, like the ancient Norsemen did of cave succubus. I could rub clay on them or off of them to make sculptures of them for human vanity to share in my repose. She always catches me peeking somehow, as if her extra sensory is alerted to my every movement. I feel her walking up against my skin. The blouse covers half of her thighs and I watch them turn over one from the other, these ginger spits gyrating through the coals of this metallic room. She knows how she kills me. A knock comes from the door. It is not a knock, more a shuffle with a knock on the end of it, as if something has fallen. I cannot think straight with this headache. I effuse in the caginess of my boxer briefs and billow toward the door. I should have known I would receive a package today. I could not think of anything except Melusine now.

            “Artaud?” the postwoman asks in a manner befitting a tramp, not the proper sinner like my Melusine. She was striking for a postal service worker. We had spoken on occasion and I believe her to be sweet on me, although for the sake of anything holy I cannot place why.     “Artaud?”, the last voice calls out again before I can hear the gruff shuffle of boots descending the steps and fading off to a blackness somewhere else. 

            She is still talking however I cannot hear a word spewing from her greasy mouth. I manage to brush her intrusion aside with prevaricated language that she accepts and dutifully yields.  

            With the door closed, my hand pulls the window drape back by its hip roll to peek at the postal woman’s arse. These convicted eyes stare a little too long imagining the sweeping of her hips as if golden reeds in the sensual wind of our motion. As they examine the canvas in mail carrier hips, Mel’s hands reach around my waist into my elastic waistband. My head bobs limp on the spinal cord as she drops the bell jar shapes of her hands into the band. I feel her breath warming against the blades on my shoulder. Her hands massage in slow, deliberate circles of kneading and my body becomes a coffyn easily molded. She has small baker hands that squeeze tightly. A moan simply falls out of my lips.

            “You like her don’t you?” she aspirates in my ear. She lets her words linger a bit on my lobe. “We could have her. We could tie her with our shoelaces and you could watch me ravage her. We could pour delectable sauces over her bones and seductively lick them clean. See how much I love you? See how much I want you in me? “

            I am rarely surprised by the words Melusine constructs sentences out of and her choice of them is always direct and bold. My body stiffens with sweet language as if it was some aphrodisiac and she knows she can play me this way. Just as I was thinking about turning around to defend myself, her nails scratch grooves into my thighs. I go numb. She has delicious red spades for fingertips and I am soft as loam in her hands. The box, think about the package. I am in a sort of love, what else could I do except subvert to her whims. I am as useless as any other man would be when confronted with such a devilish apparition. I allow her to swaddle me for the ones she can no longer touch. For the little digits she misses so very much and that I hold dearer than she knows. When she leaves, she flings my old button-down across the leather arm of the chair, and smiles saying she can no longer write me. She winks and says to keep my eyes on the mail slot in the door for her posts. I shiver in gooseflesh as I cannot wait to receive whatever she would send.

            Weeks go past and the shakes take over, the grass grows too tall to sift through the mower and the flower heads are held fastened to the ground by frail green strings. The trees are coughing in the lateness of the season, spitting up orange and red on themselves. There are a few bugs left marching in the tenements of grassy beds as the hoariness begins to stubble out. This skin feels rubbery these days with splotches and purpleness in ways inhumane to the atomic body. Nonetheless, I can only watch the spiders from my glass, licking their lips and packing for warmer days. My skin is cinder-like and a scoriae of infections and I fear I will not receive her words in time. My legs wander off to the terrace in varying degrees of purging with the weight of this bag of bones on my back pushing my eyes downward. I scorn the bumblebees in the framed wall, the mulatto trashman with his mild and silent wave, their faces my bent eyes will no longer allow me to see. This world is breathing just outside the glass. If there is a place any further away for it to retreat, I beg it please don’t go.

            Her first letter arrives by post today. I must have some defiantly mad, wandering eye as my eyes seem sewn closed despite the midafternoon sun warming my face. They rearrange things into view with some effort. It is almost as if her eyes were clipped to mine, her white paper an animal lead and me a weakly trained oaf. I want that letter, I need that letter. These letters are unsolved pieces of a broken heart. They are tiny galaxies forming inside of me where a woman should be. I feel as if I am creating a star in me, a burning growing hotter and trying to keep it in control. What will it say? I wonder aloud. The Mozart drowns out the sound so if I speak anything at all, even he will not hear them. His allegro dances louder into this romantic fool’s head. I am moronic for these notions and I fully accept the fate lain before me, however they exist nonetheless. I should call them ‘romonic’ instead. It suits. I never really had a successful love. I only know the ones that either leave or cheat in the blindness of wandering to someone else’s lover, so the simple notion of a woman loving me for what she knows is searing, explosive. Why do the hearts that cleave from the chest ramble in haste at the urging of grace to find new green?  I’ve had the greatest sex of my entire existence with one lover, the greatest arguments with another and the most arrogant ignoring with yet another. True, there are times I hold them and caress them, same as they have with the reflection of me. I have not always been so awkward as a lover as I have been penitent and unjust as a relation.

            She writes this letter in her old language. I open it and it becomes illegible to me. This is as foreign as the books she carried that day. There are little characters that I can recognize as Asian however that is the extent of my linguistic skills. Why would you send me a letter in Chinese? When we spoke, she knew I didn’t speak any language but English and Spanglish. She sent me this thing knowing full well that I cannot read it. That shoots an ache into me making warble of my equilibrium. I have waited for months for any word from her, any contact and this is what I receive. You’re slicing me into little pieces my bunny. I have to know what they mean. There was a softcover book as well as a small candle.  The book is Some Prefer Nettles as it is captioned in English, although written entirely in Japanese. It is titled Tade ku mushi. It is also in a language unbeknownst to me. I scour the internet for a translation and after two weeks of gluing scraps of printed words from a translation website, I give up and buy the damned English version. Turns out it was about a hairy tit. The crooked language fetters my eyes and my hands tremble in the idleness of the keystrokes. My shadows will remain captive in this motionless place as long as it pleases the justice. Ah, this is madness!

            I smile at the cover of the envelope of this new post, making mental love like liquid fire and glide into the carpeted den through the foyer. There is a hunger of questions in me and senseless answers in this letter of how I should live and directions to follow on the slowness of dying. This white paper casket is filled with my bones and the ink smudges on organs. I know the impatient vein that yearns to be plicked is one postage stamp away. I live in the present, the slow motion moments of when starving lovers must eventually meet. There is not much of an appetite anymore and the cans of beans mock my eyes from their cylindrical spaces in the cupboard. The cupboards are dusty in their wooden skeletons from the lack of food no doubt. The windows are darker now with reflections of bony face, in a veil of jaundice skin and eyes sunken to egg crates or rings that have suddenly lost their jewels. Were anyone to see me, to surely read the lines of distraction across this face, there is no doubt they would no longer see the man in the seediness before them. The once round orbs that flanked the once lean and fastidious nose are now dry wheat sacks, with the nose no longer sprayed in the sanctity of acknowledging fragrance. The vibrant flowers outside tapping against the window are husks of straw nowadays and the grass seems to no longer sing in the grievous of early winter wind. They who filled wild in the spring green leotards, leaping past trees in their young appetites are now only held alive live to remain patient for the secret translations of next season’s intimate heart. My hands try to remember how to treat the envelope as they massage the corners that have been dog-eared through its travel overseas. The hands always feel the solace before the severed head.

            I could never throw the books away, or any of her gifts. I could however I couldn’t due to the ache in my ropy knuckles, the raw bones washed smooth as stones in this affliction. That is what someone who is separating from the very self says. There they lay, strewn as fat as irrecoverable cats along the rim of the wooden dining room table, and there along the wooden masked mantel over the fireplace. In hast a few are shuffled over the toilet tank that can be read in the drunken stupor of bowel movements. If this conjoined memory of mine can manage a solitary moment it is with her there in the stall, in our penumbra and aloneness. My eyes fantasize about our nakedness, and writhe like those Koi, now in orange towels by the tub, by the shimmer of scaly candlelight. The wicks are low lit as ignis fatuus over this foggy sensation of thick-headedness in my skull. These pallid hassocks for fingers pour two crystals of red wine and float rose petals as a votive in the bell jar on the nightstand. Sandalwood bath salts arouse the air over the gaping wounds of pipes and carpentry that is this house. There is a palmetto lonely and slipping further down into the porcelain surrounding of the tub. Its legs sprawl in fumble, resume the scratch toward the crest and the white wave of slipperiness washes it back down even further. The dumb thing shuffles off to the side to try another slope of equal grading and there is a laughter that chides from my mouth. A giggle hangs like dry spittle on my lips then as the bug careens down the side of the tub, it falls out over the tongue and spills onto the world kicking and screaming.

            Her quiet shape leads me to autumn circles of the pond, to the leaves frozen in late season and with drifts of bloated hands she guides me closer to the edge. There comes a glow up through the murky water, which gives way to the dark shape rising beneath. Inside the bare cupboards, a mousy infestation weaves its tiny red eyes in and out of the shadowy waves. It rolls its eyes in the dark like a pixie wandering in a white paper bell jar. The counter holds up my shape so that the mouse can see through me, the real me and forgive me. I suppose I owe both of us that much.

            She creates a craving in me, and she says has to have me from the inside, completely and wholly without ever having speaking a tangible word. My pulse is a heartbeat away from the ice forming on the radiator so I read a letter to keep my pulse warm. Letters from her are more than a kiss along the seal, they are mingles in my soul. Another giggle extorts in the remembrance of our silent orchestras in the dark, our stolen maneuvers from the shadows where we lay separate by lambent graves. Each wet seal of the stamp is a tangible, speaking purse of lips between the absences of lovers. I miss her already. A true love letter from a woman is best written to the man she is betraying. My fingers would come to know that the peel of a layered time slowly burns back to the ashy rinds of the human lust from whence it comes.

            Her breath rushes the mouth of the envelope in gulps of freshwater over me and I am cooled in the ebb of thoughts my eyes have yet to share. Choking in the washing, my lungs are set afire in the sighs that escape the gluey lips. The ears of the soul hear her laughter lingering on the caramel flavored straw we still share at the café. I stare for long instances about the envelope, measuring the wrinkles, the stamp and the postmark with acuity. Will she reveal herself anymore here? A piece of her has fallen away from her mouth and into a post, traversing the wide girth of ocean between us. In this hour of the wolf, we sit. My eyes gaze through their jaded lens and wonder when our electric bodies will at last rest. Mel, in her dress dripping from her, like melted ice cream, her licorice red lips and her poured molasses eyes, sits across the keyboard, with her legs folded from the hip. Neither of us speaks aloud. The air condensates on her glass as she sips her tea in small breaths. She exists I think with a sigh. Our eyes may have plea-bargained from across the centuries, however in this moment, we meet. It is as if through the angular momentum of our past insoluble lives, we have formed the center of a star in this very white hot moment of now.

            I do not know how I arrived to know her, yet I do. My imagination suggests that we met on a Caribbean Oceanside, with her silvery breasts teasing me in Europa’s fierce moonlight. She sees the shadow of Zeus, looking out over the sand. Her hips lure him, swaying as white as fertile cows in fields of India. There is a bungalow, with cross-hatching shade and the walls are aching with insomnia. There stretches between the sea and an armament of the stars a plaster shape of two lovers. The form changes to the softness of a felt black bull and comes silently to her feet.

                        My lover Coniglio, I feel exhausted in my days and feel pinches of

                        a knife in my midnight underbelly. So much that I can no longer

                        talk to the people I pass or work with. I long to be touched just once

                        more by your hand. Maybe in some strange existence, you will

                        have sent me a postage with your fingers inside? I would exchange

                        these toes for your kindness. You must come back, come back.

                        I swear to be kinder if you would only answer quickly. My time

                        Is short and I cannot remain past evening.

                                                                                    Ever, Melusine

                A sigh drips heavy as syrup. A cock leaps as if a straining tiger through the paper cage. The brevity in her words is irrelevant. It is a phantasmal anagram that is our relationship. Standing along this wide precipice of a gaping chasm is the panting breath of a lover quelling up into flared nostrils. These eyes read the puzzles aloud, in private, in glints, over toast and coffee, and with the thrush of the remaining blood coursing in me. What little time that is left is going to be spent, prefers to be spent in the hollow crux of her letters. The shut-down had started and according to the doctors who verily prod at my bones, there is nothing personified of the bitch that is hope. She has run her course, her eyes sunken in shame of not answering my prayers and in defeat she is striding the back of a magnificent bull to another life. What is left here, in clothes turned inside out, burying blades in the ground, blade facing up is a mad, penitent lover. Being no longer able to defend myself, I can only succumb to the sandalwood scents and the rose hips in the glade of the tub. What else is there in the curve of dying arms?

                        My sweetest Lute Mel, come lie in the curve of me and rest now. Rest in

                   what touches I have left. Whisper to my ears that I am yours, bite my       

                   cheek because so I know you are near me. I feel you sucking on the red

                   gumballs that are my eyes these days and rolling them back into my own mouth

                   so I know our lips have struck. I fear that our time is thinning and when

                   your husband returns, I will sell the bulk of my clothes, to rid my senses

                   of you. The post is readying your package  with Styrofoam and my fingers. My

                   last touches must be of your cheeks and your thighs.

                                                                   Je Taime, Artaud

            There is very little red in my cheeks these days and I wonder if the blood in my fingertips will remember me when they are with her. I am faint as a wolf whimper in the distant pine and as opaque as concrete mortar. My insides are turning to outside. When I puke, I swear they are rhinestones along the porcelain rim of a great chalice. In silence, my eyes see her figure in the fresco with Saints at the feast of Christ. The plaster in the apartment is older than yellow now, much too old for this sickness. It bulges in wet surges around the cornice over the windows. The paint is no longer the tone of wasabi green first strained in the paint buckets. There no need to tend the place where there has not been a visitor in months. The end of a writer is slow as rot in the skull, as rusty as nails wedges between toes. The swirls of room light become faded and wispy thin, as me I imagine myself looking. All my head can think of is her body. All these eyes can see is our moments in a bungalow, burning low but still lit somehow. Melusine, my Eucharist, I say, my most precious. These trembles are worsening however I can still tell the difference between the morphine and the memory can’t I?

            The chinky flap on the post pocket door makes a familiar jingle. This toad of a heart inside my chest leaps into the stillness of the apartment air. I think of a night of gathering fruit in woven baskets or frayed hemlines of her flowing linen dress. She comes to the doorway, in the shape of O, blindfolded and breathing heavily. Her nostrils flare and her breasts red as roses on thorn bushes. She comes to meet me but we do not touch one another. We force ourselves not to. We are two combustible ends in a room of fuel and electricity. Instead, we encircle the other, eyes in a lock and I retrace her toes with ghosts of fingers. I allow her hands to take a switchblade, a pig gutter, to my buttons and seams. They come a part in loose scrolls of what used to be clothing. My head spins in a dizziness that no other lover has bound to my thoughts before or since our meeting. We are two naked apparitions, her in her linen veil and me in my wretched skin.

            Her fingers make motion to plick the mushroom head of my penis, stirring an ache in my lap. Still, we did not touch. My eyes chase the shadowy curvature of her ears, to her eyes, down the pouting points of her mouth. These eyes remain locked behind the visions as if they were convicted cowards, never moving. They watch the crème wash over her shoulders and linger in a spider web in taut spots of a lover. This excites me. Fingers tremble as her back arches in the slight chill of the room, crème against warm skin. These finger bones play her back like fingerless white keys along a piano. I ease up behind her, a raging cock probing in the wet air between her thighs. Our skins are far too thin to touch. I could explode in the intoxicating cognac of her spilling the wetness from the rim of her onto my cock. The closer we become, the tauter the strings become, pushing against our opaque forms. I reach for an apple in the basket on the nightstand. It’s as if the apple has the only color in the room and glistens brilliant as street lamps in the Rosse Buurt. Her lips pull around the apple in a trained elasticity and I moan haplessly. She takes the time to playfully tease the flushes of skin along the core of the apple for my pleasure. There is a crack showing blackness in the guts of the wall. The white shell of this hollow room is frail as skin and I feel something in my bones ache. This plaster between us cannot last.

            I hold my distance from the envelope, if for no other reason than for the chasteness of the moon, slowly drawing its drapes in the bungalow night. I smell her sweet neck and know I have my nose against her. Somehow, someplace she holds my nostrils close to various places on her body. I melt in the aroma of her over me as if her letters are candles of her hips and thighs. She sits on my keyboard again with her legs wide as rose petals. She touches herself, head hanging back in the blackberry strands of her hair. Her jaded eyes blossom open to me, her licorice lips twist words I cannot make out. She moves her mouth in her old language so that I cannot hear her. My eyes steal glimpses of her nakedness and I move between her thighs to meet her.    There is a bunny in a wolf’s mask atop the desk, in tenements for heels that rise high as her arse. Her scent reaches up to meet me. This is a lover’s life, a silent seduction in the chambers of our separating worlds.

            At first, our words rouse shapes into letters without the word love, and although neither of us will ever express the sentiment, I find lucidity in the thinking that we are madly so. We never penetrate the veil surrounding her marriage and the frailty of my condition. We have become content in the letters we write between us, the bits we package and receive via postman. We exchange letters with every ounce measured, every gram of limb examined and quantified. This is the penultimate cremation of a lover’s self, to give freely and wholly with no remorse. There is no sadness or reprieve in the taking of one’s flesh and presenting it as canang sari to the gods for which we thank for generosity and grace. I give my hands freely in a basket with white rice and colorful palm leaves. I no longer need them if I am to be without her to touch.  

             She responds to my letter, with a bamboo tray woven and including the fingers from her right hand with her toes. The tray is strewn with Frangipani flowers in brilliant yellow petals, arranged with five orbed, berry-like toes. The digits look plastic and purple although alive with color back dropped by the clipped buds. My eyes quell up with this gesture from my lover. The fragrance of the Frangipani plumes silently in the room and lasts for days. I smile and think I will make a soap of the digits so I can bathe in her while I can.

            Some days, in the pangs of hour-less nights, I swear I can feel the tender rush of thighs or the moistness of her vagina shivering over me. There are phantom limbs where she sits as if never stolen by grace, cupping the ripeness of her apple breasts, despite my whole hand unrecognizable. I know that it is a farce to think we can go on, because there are only hot flashes now digitizing at the ends of my white bandages. I can feel the lukewarm palms that cup her breasts, her nipples twisting between their tips. I can form the relative shape of the cupping motion, with my eyes closed, except on the one hand. I touch myself in the lonely corners of the apartment and I keep my eyes closed in the shadowy fantasy that becomes her innervate body.

                        My sweet, my satanic fancy, I can only think of us making masterful

                        and bloody love. My drizzle is your ganache. My red

                        lap seeps in our loving pulse. I bleed on you my lover. I drizzle

                        these tainted fingers and tuck them between my thighs. Rock me

                        to sleep my my silent tiger, whoosh your tail against my pierced

                        labia and tuck yourself into me. There is where we were born,

                        millenniums ago and there is where you will find the lensatic

                        needle to find me. No matter how the reflection alters the mirror,

                        no matter how queer the limbs attached will be, ours is fever red.

                                                                        With blazing breath, Melusine

            She knows how to love me and I fall to the sheets exhausted with every inch of fever she possesses. She is an outline on Monday that blows every word out in a fire ball across my keyboard come Saturday. She is vain imagining, a stalk tall as the midafternoon I know as truth. I stutter rampant into the mirror at a ferocious stranger staring back out to the room, alabaster white in nakedness with a smirk across his lips. His glint side to side like minnows caught in a black fishbowl. I roar out loud in laughter. My eyes drill diamond spikes into the glass and I can no longer see with acuity. I feel her straddling thighs smooth as eggshell. She climbs on to all fours atop my writing table. Her hair is draped over her shoulders and she tosses it about as if fine linen makings of a scarf. The wispy tips of her hair rush the air as if a thousand hummingbirds onto my exposed nipples. I write free of clothes these days, free of distraction, free of consciousness. Her face comes through the pearl drops of rain ticking against the window now. The pavement is a slick black tongue lapping in the wooden hollow mouth of window. My eyes watch the rain bounce to and away from the glass like crickets in a jar. The days fall to a hushing darkness and sleep comes in waves of stale drugs.

            There is a Pan Yuliang nude that moans and moves when there is no one there, and is tacked as ingrates to the wall for inspiration. They tangle in the water of writhing arms, not being able to make out the legs from the torsos. These desperate, tired eyes watch their movements as they bathe along the warm summer stones with the waterfall weeping as the willow. I know that the nothing that is there is the same as it always has been. Still I see the full figure of her shadow on the wall behind them. She whispers baby as only she can, stretching arm over arm to the Jasques Brel vinyl I have spinning on the record box. Her eyes explode with the momentum and a passion and my cock is a phantom gorging her. I watch the tilt of her arse sway like waves breaking away and toward me. I can smell the jempiring on her skin and the must from her wetness. She is ripe with a distress that has to be taken. The letters are less frequent and still no one knocks for me. My door stands still and quiet as a casket hinged upright. The wooden fringe and the copper lock keep me.

            She never mentions her husband in her letters and I never ask. It was how we have existed all these months. I awake to her ataxic trembles in my skin. My eyes oscillate to keep rhythm. We exist, her and I, two rights in the space time continuum, to bend the stars with the natural affinity of us. She rearranges her figure atop my table again, where she sits directly in front of me. I stammer over the chair that plays tricks and moves when I am not paying it mind. All I see is her face, round and pale as a moon. She sits with her legs crossed then slowly she pushes them open with her hands, resting her feet into the arms of the chair I steady myself into. I reach out with a phantom touch to place my fingertip on her nose ever so gently yet land against her high cheek. She locks me in and I allow her hips to display at my eye level and I notice a pearl of a piercing that hanging from her clitoris. I survey her every chance I can, being a man hapless and blurry with inoculating love. I measure the circumference of her breasts, the length of her thigh muscle and count the freckles along her clavicle.

            After what seems like years, I have to know that she exists as we never leave the room and the flowers are now wilted. What is a mind that plays games and dances in the broad arm waves of a monkey? She has clear and sure knowledge that I am a tangible bag of bones, yet I am ever skeptical of her reappearing to me. I am growing frail, my eyes near cataract now and my legs fail to do their work beneath me. I spend my days restless as a lover to her, knowing that surely I am of little satisfaction to a woman fine as she is. I may have been good looking enough in my youth however the seclusion of my writing combined with the onset of this obsession, left me vulnerable and acting mostly as an oddball. I wouldn’t fit in the local bar circles, meaning her friends who did on rare occasion want to meet me, would think of me as an invalid source of man. They would certainly mock me as the loner with the pint and I suppose they would never consider whether I have a functional penis or not. I am off limits to the debauchery of bar wenches now, answering to the beckoning of Melusine.

            The last letter comes today. My veins boil in gasoline and my body aches. My legs are strained and thinner than when the first letter arrived so long ago. I feel the surge again in my lungs and the breath growls in my head. She will bound right up as a fairy does in the moats of Scotland, introduce herself and we will be inseparable thereafter. There are no more digits to give and perhaps she knows I have nothing more to give. Perhaps in that fresh idea, she has taken a new lover to exchange parts with. No, no, no… of course not, she has sent me this letter hasn’t she? I am her tiger and she remains my congilio. That’s how a system of sound works, she would say. I have given everything to love her. My hands have been cold without the warming kindles at the nub. My face smells of camphor and bandage gauze tinged of almond extract that is hardly noticeable. My pot belly and flabbiness has eroded to bony ends of strawberry bursts. I see lesions on my face and neck and wash them daily with soap from her hands.

            We can offer the other no better truth than a valid excuse as to why we choose to interrupt our infinity to cross quantum affinity in this way. I was flattered in the earliest stages after our bungalow days and hold myself dumbfounded with fever in these latest. She tells me she has become arranged with another man. She is relocating to the southern parts of Spain. I did not recall if I knew the city. She writes that she ever loves me and requires a last piece of me to hold in the hallowed bell jar of our romance. I didn’t ask anything more, I didn’t need to. My time is phosphate and this woman inflames my bones like cheap matchsticks. Our letters have become the only solid form of our accretion we will now ever see to fruition. I know what I must do so that she can be free and love him as she has loved me. I cannot allow her to suffer this way. What part of me is what you seek my lover? What part shall I remove in order for your ears to hear what I speak here now? My head is spinning in the green of the wall now and my temples thrum in a rush that is new to me. I see now the pallid mask in the lavatory glass is righteous in the knowing that it can fulfill the last wishes with the cosmic rights to a body quickly turning away. I pen my last letter, curving the letters over in the air. I believe the night wind is on me as I see a faint light on the wick. My eyes are dimming and my heart settling, calming to hands making ready the postal.  

                      I miss you my beautiful lute. I miss your taste that I never have tasted. I

                   miss your toes that I am guilty of rolling on my tongue until they became

                   too rotted to pleasure my taste buds with. The ripeness of jasmine

                   was replaced with the decay and eventuality of intemperance. I am sending

                   you my heart so that can feel the rightful way a lover should.

                   Consider this gift the last marvels of explosion this cosmos could muster and

                   in its decay the reminder that I will not be much for much longer. I am

                   losing strength in the altitude of not having felt you or quenched my flame

                   in you in far too long. You have my fingers as wicks and so too these eyes

                   as windows to the stars, so we may forever make love beneath the same brilliance.

                                                         Fading into You, Artaud.

          As I lick the salmon tipped flap of the envelope, I bow my head in the privacy of my own body. I imagine reproducing every oral sensation that her and I have managed all this time. There has been no one come to my door to check health, life or postal of me. I will leave the jar of this place and fetch the courier come tomorrow morning. I am weary now and my dreams fuck in screams of French jazz and slow gyrating trumpets of Miles Davis. She did not know me in her beginning, nor I her; however as abandonment reminds me, we know one another through submission. There are no greater questions than when death muffles the pinging echo of a last pulse in an ear. There are no white lilies marking the gravestone of this withered shape. Eyeless and without fingers, I am lain quietly to rest in the chasm between her thighs. She has become midnight, the hour of the wolf, with her low lamp into the bogs of my fatality.

            In that one room bungalow, the moon so fierce, where we had made bars out of coconut trees, we will meet one last time in our human sleep. She in her deathly corset will remove a gutting knife from her pocket and slide the blade skyward to expose the silver. Her breasts will tease in virgin glints and I will rouse in her salty air. Do this in remembrance of me. This is my blood, my covenant to thee. My eyes are too blurry to rearrange shapes however I can still hear the piano speaking in Franz List’s Feaux Follets. This is Le Damnation de Faust.  We will never need language so it is quieter now. She moves into my space, never touching my skin, as is the way we always make our love. There are flicks of fireflies ebbing along the hillside outside the window. The walls are moving in a warble with time, the clock tells me so. The hinges of the windows are gone now I think and the stars shine bright for me. They remind me of piano keys and her atop of the glossy rain slicked mantel. I can make out the sea almond trees shirshing again and shimmering like roof tile as if we were just meeting. There is a rustle in the brush from the open arches of the window at the foot of the canopied bed. I see a shape forming from the black hill and think of Europa. I see her dazzling ribbons of hair cursing in the wind like cattails and I know my lover comes to me. I see her sandy hips against the plaster of this fading bungalow. I see the armament of the arms forming over the horned points of the stars. I am erect.

            There comes a plick against my wrists and I swat the mosquitos away. I smell the tainted carbon of lover’s blood. A chill dances along the keys of my spine and I shiver in the knowing the water has risen to meet me. I open my shuttering eyes one last time to see her waist in front of me, lying on her back, with legs opening as a lotus flower. She calls me to rut her like a swan to seed her as a bull, to take what is rightfully mine. I can sense her in the air as tangible as the day she struck my leg with her dress hemming. It was the only time we would touch, the only crescent of our voice, the only blow to our rusting trumpet. We would never touch again in the light or the darkness, in the realm of make-believe nor in the constructs of human fucking.

            I lie bleeding out in the sweaty sheets we never made love in. I hear the slowing, fine thumps of a metronome, giving release to the chasm from which it came. I freely lower my head, with tongue speaking in her mystical language. Liszt’s piano drowns in the thick waters of the brook. In her shade-blackened vagina, I long to tuck my last hand in between her lips, feeling for the heads of the Koi. One reaches its head up to meet me and I cup my hands around its apple curves and surge into the falls rushing between her. I can taste her now as if she herself is a bakery. I am wet from her; succumbed to the compass points she has anagrammed in the stars for me. The searching begins again with the dying of one rhythm and the release of the other. In the last untwining of me along the canopied bed, witnessed by that godawful paraplegic clock, I listen to the letters of her envelopes falling like rain along the tin roofs over the bungalow. I know that they need no answer. I know the best of a woman’s love letters are written to the man she so purely betrays. There comes a knock at the door.       

                                                                    

         

The Boy Bonnet

The Boy Bonnet

As a boy I’d climb feverishly
into strokes of a tree’s curved arms.
Up where chiding wrens are useless.

I would consider
about the godawful sun in these red eyes,
about the need to push a chick from its youth,
about the stirring of squirrels as neighbors,
chasing laps of acorns around barky table tops.

Mama always said that
I am safe in green mossy socks
& as long as bluebirds
will nest in the rooftop tenements
of the bonnet.

I become so comfortable in the rung
of her sunken knuckles
I swaddle too close to what's left
of a baby’s face  
considering if anyone would notice
a boy leaping away from such
an irresponsible bonnet.

  

on Choosing Sides

on choosing sides

            good luck dear quadriplegic moon! there does not seem to be any god standing in the doorway of stars holding out spare parts for limbs… what a drag for you my friend! & i am still just a clock of unwinding meat, an asexualized maggot with seedlet eyes hung in a shiny forehead of bone. were i you i suppose i’d have let go of this earth by now rather than spin its arms, frozen cheek to warm breast for 4 billion years, waving like stage featured minuet in tutus & human brittle. this race of brand new man with intellectual bow-ties & spit shiny skyscrapers, unaware of the cosmic pendulum within your wink. that sable pantheon of hydrogen thugs & galactic wheezing a rouge for the silent mask of the Roche, when the mouth of the fly becomes the swallow of the flown.

            o dear moon, i am but flints of combustible ribs, hung on a skin clothesline with the rest of the sheets. i cannot churn the wheelchair you stick yourself in, take a stick & poke the eyeballs of space to red juicy yolks or yank the holy curtain rodded into the jet dead space between us away for you to see straight. i just pray this crater of smacking cues,  teenage tectonics & leaking veins of molten bubblegum would suffice to say that we are young pimpled faces with our automatic rifles, standing post in an atmosphere you hold in your alabaster palm. we may march in California skin & speak too fast out of turn, mulling thoughts into selfish grain for the consumption of a fragile framed time, however i cannot change their commands.

            i can sing when the tide moves her waist under me & clean the tar jizzom from your mantled carseat, when i’m through with her. i can run my piano fingers through her green hemlocks in the sunshine of today & stab her with steely sunset when i walk away each night. i can slip on concrete condoms to keep the semen of a forest from growing up inside her womb & i can push my coat hangers deep into her uterus when she thinks i am in love with her. what i cannot do is wash these sticky hands clean from your incessant staring while i skull fuck your sister earth into a dead sled of a wheelchair to roll quietly next you in the Great Hall of autistic children.

            i am the worm tick ticking in that cold can inside your chest. i am that parasite wallering out your eyelids & leaving track marks into forearms that i would amputate sometime soon enough. good luck dear quadriplegic moon! rising up with the rest of your cosmic shoes underneath a god’s heel that left you limbless & one good eye in a monocle of me… the sun is a bummed cigarette, a good-natured fag of ash & curdled wine lipstick on the end of a cold butt & I am unafraid of the dark! good luck on your front porch with the rest of your low-lit fireflies, in a negrous field of a godless universe, where i am the center of myself… & i only want to be on the side that wins…        

Scenes from a '69 Dead Sled

Scenes from a

‘69 Dead Sled



by Solomon Fink



I. the Ideal of Men

Dreaming of the Free



younger men are always dreaming free,

their hearts in centrifugal winds of youthful fervor and forgetting

like sunflowers in concrete fields dismissing of pollen

while gelatinous cogs of mind machinery slowly age to rusty canned helmets

duty becoming a common unborn child cutting itself free

honoring mysogynistic scraping of a cervical balloon

and i was wearing thin this skin bag of cause and effect

i was becoming a free man of idealistic dreams

and gathering my sanity into a gunnysack slung onto my back

to step out among the stars, one thrombone heel before the next

i was becoming a Mutjahre on the waltzing away from Mother America

her souring tits were empty to these thirsty lips

and with that dry taste of abandonment i awoke

anulled from the sleep of my human birth



these bones were chromium and burnt orange steel

pinions of earthen dust from an Infinite Mechanic

towed in the recollections of a umbilical

watching scenes from the windshield play out loud

like motions in front of a ‘69 dead sled

joining the collection of mass burial plots prepurchased

chosing to tear off the burdened man’s rearview for reaction sake

marring the open wound of bitterdom until it trickled

i was becoming a younger man choosing dreaming of action

over concrete quid pro quo of rubberstamp consequence



young men of this generation were no longer dreaming of either

of drowning in fire or burning in water

only of warm, wet pools of astroglide and thigh highs

amphetamine driven into foothills of bar wnches

following ridge lines of Americana Ass through gates

into the Valley of the pink Lotus

in their camo-condoms and mountaineering lensatics

fingers marching, forked words beguiling,

to have the Valley open right up

a fresher blossom on an earlier grave with a locked gate



i was seeing these faces before pheramone flushed cheeks

and after sheets soak-spent in shades of hollow sweat

with quivering quads and convulsing muscles

i was seeing them lay as willing as bony buttercups

yellow buds spread wide to the moon

yet young men were still dreaming of more fields

that broken stink of fermented loam just there

just outside Christ jumping off his crooked cross



i was dreaming of becoming marrowless Hollow Bone

a scholar of gentlemanly proportion with weed and mescaline

a sage, a vessel, up all night with starry tokers

walking from ocean to ocean, 17th Street to Big Sur

cracking King Crabs legs at sunrise

before watching John Denver go down in in sunset



this is life wandering, theaters of uncircumcised

panting against ticket booths of those foreskins snipped

standing unaware and aloof with Uncle Walt

our barbaric yawps bouncing across rooftops

of tinking tin or gasping of clay asphalt

over brown-box ghettos of sleeping babies

mulling trailor parks into red-white blur of open highway

i was dreaming of freeing myself

unchaining this elastic leash ever snapping back

and i, another of its stark raving lunatics

foaming from an incorrigible jaw

i, an erupting pubescent Saint of Hormone

bones stretching in age of concaving air,

eyes rearranging teenage ratio to manly veranda

this i give birth from hands of Sage Homme

reincarnating one tickity-tick of non-stop meat-clock



i am myself stepping from atomic graveyard alone,

from under Old Glory and Army dress greens

blue infantry smile tucked under arm

and three stripes down in rime of rear view

and all of my abstaining sins following

toward my terminal point of damnation

but door to door prophecying at strip clubs

and popping little blue realities with Tangueray

intergalactic nebulas in frothy bloom

making it to Memphis on a hundred bucks of borrowed cash

getting stomped in before bawling and wail

sipping day-old grinds from chipped porcelain

making it to the home of pomeade, jug bands

and a black baby named Rock n Roll

dirty faced pawnshops, the roasting smell of pit barbecue,

melting of alleyways plastic and burnt crackpipe pens,

sweating skin like waxy candles under lowlit wicks,

white headed sprigs of cotton jumping from a Mississippi Delta

dancing naked after Beale Street shuts her drunken eyes

sipping SoCo through a sissy straw and teasing Socio-babes

with their silicone minds and fake breasts straining bikini

before throwing up a morning sun with street sweep



i usually dream of popping heads off Barbie dolls

since walking out of prosthetic childhood

slow-killing premeditation of woman and the holy holy natural

them coloring clowns in heels and silicone

while they’d bob their horse-hair heads into barrel tubs

of swollen pant apples and pelvic overloading

back doors being kicked in by G.I. Joes or Stretch Armstrongs

them pigtails now plastic ponies circling bar top tables

chasing highest bidder or malted beverage

painted skin-canvas in Mac counter rainbow

and Abercrombie sweaters pushed two different shades

smelling of jasmine, honeysuckle, rose

and radiator moonshine



young men were dreaming of drinking with best mates

younger men were dreaming of dreams lilting in dreams

where sovereignty becomes a redneck disproportionate

with a whisper atomizing away in hillbilly bravado

human hearts regulating homeostatically within gaps

smelting like hammocks of mule manure

and karaoking Islands in the Stream with Dolly Parton



floundering dollars and shoes along broken brick roadways

to an Oz on an oasis somewhere in this nowhere

imma a bottle-caught wizard in red ruby Chuck Taylors

chunks of liquored oatmeal in bibulous throats,

circles of soused drool stain in tatty jeans

holding flower petals to main drag gangstas;

overweening rose petals into unwound lowrider windows

reechoing metallic clicks from a recessed room of boozehound cerrabelum

this is a young man dreaming in bubbles of unspoken air hole

mentioning Buddha and the Kaballah Cadillacs

no longer threat to chromium steel or crematorium

even hell has angels watching over in eliptical shoulders

cadres of starry cataracts through tunnels of scar tissue black



thoughts effusing down a brick sided nightclub is short of celestial

and as pungent as the virgin martyrdom of Starry Dynamo

smells of deflowered pussy and vibrating jelly bottle

tainting placebo of Motherhood wrapped thirteen times

shoved off the ends of bedroom gallows

now pendulous in white halo rings around streetlights

prom queens with half shirts stretching in 88s and thunderbolts

neon twirling panties in bijou hoola-hoop hands establishing pelvic synagogues

and doling out strands of pearl broken from noose

cigareetes falling with only lipstick headed butts

and disjointed stalks of menthol amputated

their last exhales of nervous nicotine and city hallways

Ecstacy in stoning thrusts of midnight freight train

a million babbling faces along ancient cobblestone

their amok mouths dribbling like spoken semen

where the Condom always runs away with the Spoon

II. the Dochotomy

of a Swagman



a Greyhound to Denver was giving credence to divinity

autistic ears listening to phonetic thunderings

like nugatory miming of Charlie Chaplin

fleeing conjugal suppositions of wedlock;

diamonds are chintzy substitutes for cock rings anyway

hearts wind up spooning ice cream and love letters

meliorating into panty troves along carpet

contemplating martyrdom for a sisterhood of mother

burning the sacred Mother Bitch at stake

and chumming hands in new born feculent water

for cartalgenic faced sharks of diaper rash

getting high off ammonia and Similac,

instead of bourbon mash and black crosses

with Hooters girls in orange bikinis

a catharthic cleansing of counterproductive house

before mid-afternoon blowjob and Jerry Springer bathos

pushing the black mohair pins

up through the pitch eye of an all night needle



younger men are always dreaming of free

strangling wraiths with stringy hands

sans consequence to running down a naked sunset

squeezing the Phoenixian goddess right out

pursuing ten years of white-knuckled marriages

chasing that red headed bitch across western cerulean

inexoribly to sea salty mattresses of California seabank

toward Colorado where buildings are popping up in culteral pedantics

through warbling desert crack of syphollitic highway

and fragments of Gotta Keep em Separated from cosmic speaker



there is jasmine enbosomed in mid-summer fever

sweating off tears of misanthropic one-eyed days of subdued stench of roadkill

or incensing truckers to rub their boxcar peckers to

divine purple tips like young girl hips

standing naked melodic in median dresses

Gods are met along highways, washed into ditches,

burned at mid-west stakes or attaining enlightenment

like Bhikkhuni heavily versed in Kama Sutra scrolls

God a golden gutarista beside crossroads of choreographed cosmos

humans but busted notes in infinite concerto

with wah-wah of ignornace always hammered on



peaks of Long and Pike helmets marching catwalks of mossy watch towers

as henchmountains with cirrose blue leather jackets

glorious straw bristle heads of sunflower

broadly shouldered thugs of glassy-eyed cascade

with toothpicks of forests dangling from corners of alveolar ridges

of blue spittoons of annular lake mouths

pushing albatross spectres upward to space

bleak grumbling balls rolling out onto highway

like popped white seltzer tablets

from beneath bedskirts of mountain tumble-weeding in Gunsmoke

and the stratosphere picking them up with dissenting moans

and beating the black out of white stripes of lightning

its little black boy gums bleeding open and dislocated

jumping out of view into hedge row of Pikes Peak

and a porch light flashes on their nappy afros in photonegative

as if field hands jinking from probing searchlight

their systemic hands in a line letting go

afraid of themselves and left blundering in blind veils

like abandoned babies dumped in bottomless trashcans

or billfold left dangling alongside a whorish chamber pot

challenging opposition to give dignity to the scorned



young men standing by cracked faced roadsides with ethereal dreams

asphalt twining out in flutes of black spotted tongue

with Samsonite and stickers of pin-ups and Eiffel Tower

curvaceous blonds sucking nicotine smokestacks

with perfect SPF and a hand full of Aces

apathetically watching eager milemarkers along I77

like resurrected cocks with an oozing mescaline eye

and echoes of Midnight Rider in canyon abysm

stirring sleeping goats with shit imbued fur

young men trading libations for oasis in Grand Junction motels

trading algid dusty Mojave blankets for Motel 8’s

or single beds of bar room trailor park girls

chasing that magnificent of holies Redheaded Porpagator

her unmistakable western ass hollering like an Aussie Drover

into fatiguing earlobes of Eastern Cattle



filling gas tanks and styrofoaming rings of coffee cups in Barstow outskirts

to catch glimpse of Hollywood ghosts cajoling by

leaning apparitions of grey haired James Dean

against skipping jukeboxes of starry Blackwell Corner

before shoving off to Forever-Wind

paralleled on some intricate roadsides of vinyl rhumb line

his hair still sticking in the clouds for descrying sake

or on the bark of some defunct Joshua tree



ambling their Mojave rims alienated and without Holy Trinity

aggragating banshees in shades of blowzy cattle

those pale faced horns in cultus vanity

consuming crones in silver metal granaries behind Silver Springs

mimicking bromidic trailheads in witch hunts

to quartz mirrors of Devils Playground

jingling in halls of Norad and reflecting fractions of electricity

a perpetual volta of a cumulonimbic figurine

snapping like anarchic ends of a titanic wrist

lashing mountain backs in momentary welts

ferocity with the serenity of a pirhouetting ballerina

cry! cry! you orphanage of beaten sky!



looking for remnants inside a younger mans bones

snow gyring up in blistering belts to imbricated waists

white powder stirring up like cooing pidgeons shewed

from cavernous rooftops of altitude and bird shit

finding glints of recollection in Academy Blvd. pool halls and caliginous dive jukes

with forty year old trixies with Jordache daughters

bastardizing German accents across pool tables to get laid

unbuttoning blouses of geniality into out loud caterwaul

drunken tomcats groping into limp cricketeering bowlegs

nine ball tournies were Fetanyl for champions of human dynamo

and dead marching enebriation for bar stool stooges

Moloch! Moloch!



working amongst Vulgus of a local mall for take-home and beer dole

bartering sneakers for booze and flashes from Hooters gals

for ice sacked pitchers of Coors Light and matchstick hand jobs

from orange shorted legging girls with their push up bras in fists

afterhour sex sweat as redolent as chicken grease

and daubs of scuzzy civet and store-hound eau du toilette

from discounted perfumerias or JC Penneys or roadside pup tents

twelve year old ratty haired fence jumpers

selling turquoise and crab legs with illegal Mexican accents

making change with concertina scraped palms

pressing 1 for english translator rolling rosary between thumbs

folded stemmed waists of sunflower magnifica

smoldering love affairs with blackberry eyes

olive limbs as smooth as acrylic tubs

mouths as savory round as gas pumps

getting orbs of nakedness into silver pellet shower storms

lathering penasia and vulva in hand savagery

scrubbing and screwing in suds for sake of virginity

pores exhaling feculence in steamy mikvah bliss

consoling to All-Night Bible Hour on public radio

with blackwashed shadows of the Rockies catatonic over every shoulder

suckling teets of rain cloud nipples under shawled Apache maidens

reminding white-skinned America of La Belle Sauvage

washing into Colorado Springs noon time or interupting lunch

pushing faces of climbers off rocks at Garden of the Gods

as if ants in body harness and defying gri gri

mouths aching with thirst of desert tongue



this was the dreaming of a twenty year pauper



self stolen before those succubus years of dizziness

wrapped with legs of smoothly shaven waitress girls

ears drenched in lobe spittle and lip gloss

and starving pants of heaving breasts

when warm beer and cool pussy would eventually run itself dry





III. in the Bone Courtyard

of Traveling Kings



young faces like timestamped skin-emmets making separate ways to California

riding golden railways to tofu, junkies, tattoos and the American Slit

to valleys of drunken grapes, festering garlic and Time

that improprable, unpredictable gash of Nun

in bulleted tubes of Greyhound then Amtrak

with absolute faces of forgetting, just a knowing that they were

a few faded jeans congested into unhemming gunnysack

from duffle, then drab of camo Alice pack

eventually into plastic overhead compartments

with empty peanut wrappers and aluminum foil

voracious mouths eating dried salisbury steaks and moon pies

from torn off ends of unexpiring MREs

peanut buttering in spoons of discovering portability

stuffing cheeks with dry cracker or unleavened bread

until our shit wadded up for days

in premenstrual shit cramps and migraines

lamenting eyes becoming sizzling electric headlights

of two howling freight trains across forehead tracks



finally letting loose of curdling bowel ropes

into porcelain baskets at rest stops in crescendo

2 maybe 3 flushers of peanut butter and cheese

in stain rimmed hoola bowls along I-70 corridor

like enigmatic Baba Gulabgir and his writhy cobras

naked and pissed off incensed in full-eye contact

their spreading helmets, hisses in nagging woman tongue,

leaving exhausted anal snakebites of red chafe

crosslegged thanking Ganesh for handicap bar

sitting so long our naked feet went to sleep



night bronzed noses of mice trampling through fields of buttercups

with yellow hands swaying at a Big Sky concerto

along piano wired threads of spiderlegged locomotive cicotrix

imagining virgin sodded heads peeking out from canted hoods

opening the holiest of blossoms for eye-roll and syrupy moans

miles on miles of banana studded stems for picking

and over-twenty-one glittery girlie FHM faces

sprouting untouched womanly burr of pink velvet

jimsonweed vast and unopinionated leaning in the wind

pollinating in breezes of masturbatory pubescence

chased by portly bumbles with taste of Hamunaptra nectar

unchaste and laying whoredoms in seed to wind



looking glasses of tinted train window capturing American Pomerium

doctors robed in tweed-suit and wingtips

peddling bottles of neon liquid at the feet of Jeezus

shutters flashbanging in nigrous raincoats

framing it with sottish eyes of travel sized rum

thumping fingers on foreheads with a midday sunfinger

whishing of hungover cycloptic eye banging with rollshade lids

in swelling blisters against skins of leper glass

explicative faces in molten circles of curious children



making love to ginger eyed Army gals in Fort Carson

rolled over under nine shuttering orgasms

her cat throat purring and yowling into shadows

diassembling M16s to making them absolute again

wiping sniffles of carbon black into government tissues

a carcass of 5.56 mm ammo faetaled in Vietnam memories

haunting misfires in sleeping thatch huts over baby heads

yellowing like its final turned page



while nursing a sister in carpel tunnel casts

make believing she was a mother and family

icy dead end streets meeting neck of highway

hindsight is burying a relative with a pulse

her feet chopped of tucked into pine box

with her soul Florida bound on an 11:05 to Boca Raton



living in hobo clothes on dollar bills and vending machines in Moapa Valley

sucking holes in soda cans for Holy Mary Fizzle

like making Bloody Marys in nun robes for third world Tse-Tses

dying a thousand times inside these cowardly sockets

men lying and afraid of telling the truth smoking rolled poison

hearing chatter teethed mumbles along spiral of metal wheel

humming in Aurora Borealis electrical storm

lardy Italians whistling at shadows on canyon walls

greasy haired and cabbage patched under jewelry

their iridescent gawk coming out of night

flitting along hummingbirds away from ourselves that way

dreaming in our young men appetite

from four thousand miles and forty hollow corpses

of stowed away Stoli and Jim Beam bottles

two gout stewardesses and an un-smoked ganga roll

ass-smacking on teeting tracks with rainbows of white pearls

pooling in runny yolks at the heels of boots

blithesome heads in fuzzy fidoras with imaginary goddesses

bouting up against fat swollen headed pillows

sneezing mustard gas in cramped spaces

etherizing like distilling water bags

whore bathing in steel pools of rest stop commodes

with spouts and flushes of swirling blue water

toothbrushes raking stale muffins

from between erupted pouches of bleeding gum



watching faces waltz out of confusion into foggy quo

as if sinister knowing with belted handguns

trigger-cocked and smiling rounds

their ashy corporate knees and scuffed porcelain teeth

women in chains in husband dungeons

pliers in melotto finger holds

knocking loose luster of all-resin crooked crowns

like plastic kings on thrones of bone teeth

cutting ties with enamel jesters

in a mouth under Spanish Inquisition





IV. Unraveling Stars of

Human Brittle



young men dreaming up asinine delusions as beliefs

waking up with mouthcaves of arse and chokedamp

after carnal fantasies with Hollywood starlets

blonde bombshells of iniquity and cutoffs

riding mechanical bulls at Gilley’s in carmine coats of sunburn

jumping naked in Belaggio’s open palms in Vegas Theravada

white piping fingers of a fountain whistle of blah

swaying gondolas and churn of spilling bleach river

distant chings of slot machines spreading surly thigh

for shiny bastards chuting into paper cups

staring madly at lawns of felt green card tables

where the angry Father earns college tuition in a visor

for a geek at MIT and smoking unfiltered Camels

and ass impaled by rainbow coalitions



headlights beaming down a narrow forehead of gelded desert road

in double barrelled cans chasing nigger of a hitchhiker

starry napped afro with white lined eyebrows

to the sounds of Ray Charles’ I Gotta Woman

laughing at how many times something has tried to kill it

prevailing inexhaustible swings from every failing

at the next douche of rinsing depluming sunrise

humming the morning after reveille of losing virginity



confounded by late hour schizophrenic faces of two different days

a dichotemy doing shots of Cuervo of opposite polarity

leaving a cut open wound of priest for penance

to step left footed onto a Barstow sidewalk for salvation

beneeath smells of arid ripe sand and backseat unshoed feet

wanking in filth of fifty cent condom

feeling Phillistinian set aloose from beating of broken rod

just to smile for cockatrice of a copperheaded dawn

staring into orange beads like a West Coast Basilisk

undoing eyes blinking into Los Angeles streetlights



leaving Saugus en route for that dusty throat of Big Bear

like ole Aub and Del in ghostly sheets across Rattlesnake Canyon

into High Sierras with pine whistles and chubby bass

buying Yoo-Hoos and beef jerky for lake trout

chumming with hot pink bits of aquatic ecstacy

driving those dawn floppers beserk jumping up through glassy rings

the early sunrise lights bouncing in red-orange carnivale

fat-headed sunflowers lulling with yellow faces

like obese children by the jingling candy truck

laying in clomps of field boot by netted bivouac

casting shadows of black forearms

out of the sleeves of robes on ends of trees

night becoming a lean-to with a holy constellation roof

and beer buzz hummed like blind choir boys

thwirping against the shrubs metronome

awaking to the march of the chainsaw eternal

in stingy gnarls and Brutus grunts of yellow mechanical beetle

Machine Man is stomping in grove faces with iron clad heels

kicking in green teeth and solar plexas of Demeter

shaking loose in Ten Petals of ignorance

settling debt of ancient siddhi with mouths of a hundred years

perpetuality of human worm with no beginning and no end

an unbalancing equation left hanging

in centrifical noose of an uninterupted pendulum



kinetic energy is accelerating in dreaming young bone vehicles

until arriving in a cabbage picking Fresno cowpatties

where mixed bags of legal and illegal aliens charge one-armed

through sun bitten hedgerows of vegetables

stuffing dollars into bra straps and box springs

so mijo can attend agricultural university to grow hashish

and prima can can learn Engrish on her back in dorm rooms

falling in line with trailor trash, spicks, wops, wetbacks,

crackers, neegroes, autties, pricks and theives

in fragments of college cunt on fire from Radio Nowhere

jabbed at by eager peckered boys following close behind

tuning in and turning on, radio knobs in one lathered hand

steroided jocks with purple headed veins gripped in the other

starving for a next fix of andro and cheerleader quim

muscles splitting, penises shrinking, brittle heads of nerve endings

a gaping end to losing chasms of spiritual conscience

snapping like necks of brittle field mice in traps

before tomorrow killing newborn and wife in jealous rage of shadows

in the name of a holy Christian army

questioning their trinity of faith by drowning in fire,

or giving up and lying down in it



murdering fathers in their black shadowy oilskins

pupils dilated in aborted doll eye stares

making passage in underground railroads

like hacked up parts of American Nigger still in chains

and nappy cotton heads fresh from one boat

boarding under sails of Flying Dutchman and troubador of another

Moloch! shot the bitch of America in the forehead for ten bucks and a gallon of oil

rode her naked ass down stairs of sovreignty for France

torches catching blaze in the pumpkin carved bullet holes

and a Senate of prickless gleeing their balls in murmurs of wheeee!

eye balling white cans of face paint and wooly-bully wigs



oh college of the damned! walking immigrants alive in cocoa butter

wrapping scrotums in cotton candy caoutchouc

inviting minions of fraternity to dorm room festivals

with topless twenty year old sorority girls

blowjobbing like appletinis at Happy Hour

before ten cent taco night at Del Taco

mixed with body shots and jungle juice

making for guysers of cheese and meat come 2 a.m.

laughing and puking magnums of Chilitos across car hoods

exchanging fake numbers with Victoria’s Secret girls

the words PINK screenprinted on their Barbie Doll asses

each dreaming of Centerfold or Cosmo divinity

or another catatonic Hollywood starlet hopping off Holy Slow Train

Bitters rolled in sweet clove sticks in ‘tween their lips

legs freshly shaved for modeling career derailment

left popping ludes, pinkies, downers, amphetamines or crosses

rising up in their grey ash-haired morning bedheads

preching along the tops of their barrio mounts

as if clashing gongs atop alabaster rock in Tibet

and they sing their tambourine tributes to Janis and Oprah

all Queens of L.A. or at least so the barbituates tell it

no one dreams of making it with a cankled waitress

serving Moons Over my Hammy at Denny’s

and drowning patrons in burnt coffee grinds and flavored creamer



these young cosmos-phistos dreaming instead of Mamis and Geishas

thumb-thumping toffee cans in lieu of drums

opening windows of fresh air from spiritual whorehouses

meeting olive skinned hispanic chicas dancing Duranguenese

throttling shots of Patron and Cuervo in short-shorts and cowboy boots

doing the Running Man, Chicken, Bus Driver and Sprinkler

to sounds of Soul Train and Solid Gold, barking whoop! whoop!

with broken rhythms of Snoop Dogg and Tu Pac spitting off ammo

rolling on blunts and sipping pisswater 40’s

for the homies in cell block six strung by bedsheets

sifting in ectoplasmic forms in from Fraternity Row doorways

of guys who race Accords and Civics into thin desert air

against apparitions of Route 666 into waffling night air

scraping fenders from hounds teeth of starlite

to have their last breath snaggled between the face of a god and an elm



young men dream of running homerun bases in Fulton County

circling cosmic aureola of red clay tit

starving with flickering devil tongues made of money

listening to baseball cracking into wafts of viral Meyer Lemon tree

where the smell of worn leather calls the plowboys in

where they supplant themselves with tight nylon pants

and smack one another’s homogenous ass cheeks

grabbing them like pasty snowglobes and shaking them out loud

marching like uniform saints to the organ groans

into payday vagina dug out of red, white and blue bleacher

to the Jones Boys hitting homeruns in the World Series

as the Monkeys of Summer chasing Hammerin’ Hank

of juicing stitched baseballs into top deck floodlights

rubbin’ off to grandstand opera and pokin’ ballboys

for an autograph, backseat hummer and a full size poster

carrying sunburning girls and their red striped shadows

along muscular piped arm ladders to heaven and limp penasia

living unbridled across tubs of unconscious bubbles was still a verb then

Moloch! the love affair with phallus and the American Bunghole!



doctors throwing pills at purpling lips

stuffing pig faces with wooden crucifix and day old apples

in a hospital of orderlies stealing underwear

surviving toileted epilepsy and cancer at chapel alter

with a hundred and ten pound supermodel’s cancerous ecydsis out of skin

standing on an Eternal street corner with clots of hair

waving goodbye to a god chained around her neck

her legs toggling for one last step toward wedding vow

before arresting the ghost who stole her body

blinking her eye lids to a lasting starry dynamo

we were burying a corpse unwound of its twine of soul

under grey cups of steeping teabag cloud

an ungrateful God hanging his head opening his dutiful arms

and singing Bringing in the Sheaves on a Saturday morning



identifying caramel melts of Shakti

in muddy amber bleeding from her wrists

casting down herself onto a cross for family name

and lying in cocentric circles of wedding band

with the price tag still neatly stapled inside



young men rarely dream of burying, yet they do

from parents to wives to habitualistic regrets

faces stuck on Ally McBeal’s dancing babydoll

shoveling out broken bits of plastic

from wedding cake tops, unabled autistic relationships,

cornfields of exterrestrial crop circles, or old fucking scars



they dream along paunchy clouds smoking skunk herb

on occasion some finer hybrid from Canada

chasing Tinner’s Rabbits to cauldron of moors

Devil’s hounds in full cry across Hayne Down

through windowed filters of sheer curtains

like see through nipples of a black country night

or gigantic chocolate kisses in whorehouse teddy

eating, pissing, gorging more, fucking less, stabbing wet noodles

as if beery penises stuffing armaments of flacid helmets in self defense

making air balloon babies out of busted condoms

washing out herds of gushing ovulate to floor or toilet

like cattle to cervical packing plant

aborted with social ease of canned explosion

with little interference from mother or God herself

Christians waving their paper arms with highlghted Bibles

like monkeys clanging disgusting tambourines



V. the Understanding

of the Wanderjahr



dreaming out loud was for graduating succubi

rose tattooed B-girls in scarlet letterman jackets

Snoopys pushing lawnmowers on pubic yards

and the body delicious was a nauseating trend

money becoming tasteless on tongues of credit cards

a notion that it is easier to get in college than making azimuth

Wanderjahrs with waistcoat and stenz waltzing through universe

along cosmic hippie trails to Freak Street in Kathmandu

just another gash strung out with a rainbow of spoons

another Fritz or Froehline with scratchy nails and selective memories

tossing ringworms of hipcat words into speech



staring down the iconic blouse of Americana with her hideaway bra

one too many batteries to the imperial tongue

paved in political gold streets or conventional wisdom puss,

lobbyists’ groping under the table pyramid schemes,

or Fannie Mae digging poor black grandmothers from under porches

dreaming of woven American apple pies and white picket fences

mind dulling to inevitability of becoming Swaggies

hiding behind gyrating hips of religious politics

back when stringing up negroes was still a gas

to watch them erect and self-shat like run over earthworms



feelthy old pervs sitting on rusty summer swings

in flannel mothballs and popsicles in the basement

so the muscly armed paperboy would come see

drinking more at thoughts of crooning repentence

owing myself in grapeshots of liquid apology

but fuck if i was going to admit it

purging up succubant childhood memories

specters of nihilistic whorehouses and adulterated philandering,

cocaine and sticky dollar bills, riding trains of bed rails,

biting metal iron across brittle bone shoulder,

floating, swollen eyed bulbs of dead Pekingnese,

probing gropes of older men,

ninjas in parking garages and Dharma Bums,

libertine living for lack of common sense



hands scraping nicotine off yellowing troughs of front windshields,

diffracting eight tracks of Alabama’s Roll On,

cauterizing fish sticks steeping in pickle juice,

stealing cable and its fracturing moans of porn,

black & white midnight Kung Fu



hours creeping like rust along that bastard minute hand

we who were sleeping on pleather fold down beds

in backs of bubble windowed vans

a mindstruck volta of the eighties

praying out loud to pearly exploding stars

into a black ear of deaf internal brittle

an eternal cracker sacrament of cigarette butt sky

pleading on our best skinned up kiddo knees

that our God would come syringe head first

pricking purple capped hoola-holes into our arms

to relieve burning hunger from belly of Batie-Bummell bear

quenching drowning fire with gasoline vein

where Southside Teenagers dream of DMV Drive

vivacious bombshells spread eagle on Jaguars



i caught in a carcrash of rusting skin of a ‘71 Dead Sled

skimming across treetops of spiritual servitude

and across jiggling fat rolls of obese America

from frisbee waffles and lobes of What-a-Burger

in search of a well lubed freedom

promised in a letter from Uncle Jefferson

his good old boy network closing in

on two hundred plus years of anarchy

minus satanic wigs and powdery faces

rerecording that Declaration of Codependence

shackling those pages of metaphors, now run

wet ink and disappearing agendas

then again they knew that when they wrote it

their scape goats becoming elected officials

picking pockets of the Withouts and the Old

slithering behind podium bushes

in underbellies of striped wool suits

smoking Habanas with interns on my dime



for vicarium, i stretch my lungs

yowling back at my Republican neighbor

like some drooling Hangman

his Elephants rolling hashish with freshly minted deuces

decapitating his lifestyle with hands full of ego

my Metallica and Red Hot Chilli Peppers

interrupting his sonatas of Beethoven

Fucker never even knew Beethoven was deaf

makes for phenomenal drinking music though



this is the last dream of a jaded jack-off lover

as the ladies part ways with their woven flowers

their denim petals releasing into pink orgasmic moans

like the forgiving liquidity of whorehouse apologies

or baby seals suckling oil out of ocean’s teet

their midnight silk dresses of tar pulled

over shoulders of a raped and bruised old bitch

that cosmic whorehouse pirhouetting

of a dry, small titted oracle



VI. Watching Flies Falling Out

of Corporate Window Sills



this, this is what we dream of

WE

stolen by those succubant years

molesting in hole-in-wall bars with neon smiles

watching wedding gowns meet

fear of commitments in lowlit pubs

spinning wheels for drink specials

smoking camels and ordering diet sodas

dying cannot be ugliness so we rented ourselves more time

chameleon hair colors, adjusting tummy lines,

running nowhere on treadmills, in tight shorts,

mascara and lip gloss and lacy black thong



Death need not see the face it collects

in Pagan secrets we go into hollow night

hands wrenching with grocery bag bibles

threads of memories slowly unwound

praying unto melting candles of broken faith

lopping off at the wick of exchange of soul



young men dreaming out loud in propietous cause

self addiction becoming soothing philanthropy

taking off our shoes so not to be tread, knowing

the naked eye doesn’t even know we exist

dreaming of becoming banks for the wealthy,

trollips in green dresses, expanding thresholds

of mortgage rates,

assuming robes of deity,

driving elderly women mad with ideas of suicide,

their youthful flower now ashy grey

to be dry fucked wide open by raping commerce

with little bald men with high blood pressure,

sucking teet of secretary and flavor-of-the-months,

arranging board meetings in Cancun,

before swan diving from a fourteenth floor balcony

unemotional about empty bonds and ponzie scheme



young men dream of donning suits of fine wool

smoking Arturo Fuentes,

with latina concubines and yachts,

sailing to edges of Dry Tortugas

writing books of extrodinary irreverence,

raising pedestals to special interest deities,

fund raising reach-arounds and wine benefits,

travelling to far off islands and buying them

for love of barbie doll from college dorms,

while she torments her offspring into depression

so that she can fall into bottles of vicatin,

when Age paints an uglier canvas,

bitching about it to the ears of listening pool boy

she has effortlessly spread her legs for in the cabana

when dollar bills have curdled her gash of a face

then blaming cheating husband for Lack of Attention

or black dress antennae wearing interns

it was only one menage e trois for him

model Mercedes icy smooth vespertine with xenon headlamps

auto-fuck-me sunrooves, power windowed

fencing out the bildge rats with newpaper and water bottles

begging for wrinkled dollars cleaning windows

just outside a Help Wanted window

Moloch! Moloch! the bottle is full with the Demon!



they who are too rusty to dream or curve lips toward smile

before the mortgage was stolen from under them,

before their wife ran off with the pool boy,

and just before they decide

to find that fourteenth story window

to make dressing on that boulevard of stars

from up there anyone can leave an imprint

cut! the pilots wave or am i just paranoid?



these young-man dreams of walking along open road

letting strain of planter’s foot and ache of back

whimpering into curtains of a falling sunset

until i reached that golden destination of western coast

through Las Vegas funhouses and pasty-tittied strip clubs,

wedding chapels of instantaneous nuptials or divorcees,

bull riding with reminding signs in wooden screma

SCRAPE SHIT OFF BOOTS,

mechanical bulls tossing tourista cowboys

with their seersucker gouchos and woven deck shoes,

i dream of drinking in New York, New York with hourglasses of frozenia

the velvet night street to the Venetian Hotel

before my buzz dims to all-night rave clubs,

Vegas is always looking like a lake of fireflies with faces punched in it

humming pwangs of oasis over desert water of Mojave

just corporate flecks of a night air incognito



until i would finally walk out onto Los Angeles freeways

in the gasoline smoky curves of a 405 bitch

her cracked face and birthing girded hips tagged in hosital mile markers

her hispanic and gringo chipped chin of intolerance

lines blurring from Bloods and Crypts in Industry

Moloch! cry Moloch! the sin is not in the trigger!

powerlines like cable spiderwebs hanging out

between sticky floored laundrymats and crackhouses

catching flies with their drip of honey you dig

concert posters of Che like industrial wallpaper

or rising up armbands on Nazi mokeys on telephone poles

and playground junkies with election reminders



young men dream of life far away from pirhouetting Statue of Liberty

prancing pearly whites around circles of the too poor; too homeless

rusting tin cans bobbing in a harbor of too wretched refuse

rewritten by Pens of the Rich in green ink



is the City of Angels breaking off into Pacific hell?

with her children running with tar seeped feet

along ancient crumbles of San Andreas seashells

cry for children that do not know how to swim!

while sharks circle in their plexi-glass tanks at the aquarium

around and around and infinitely starving around

around and fucking doll-eyed around

where Presidio meets a tank of Monterrey ocean enclave

it rocky jutted teeth sweating for blubbering 5th grader

dizzy and rolled eyed seeds from whale fat overdose

banging their tiny fists onto glassy wall drums in search of Megladon

those children dreaming of yipping yipping dolphins

raising Atlantis in their glossy grey submarines

and eeking out leagues of decaying bottom-floor mystery

drawn in by orange hats of bonfire and uboat under Japanese plume,

sand dunes of tireless drum circles of hippie beach bums,

and gagging on cheaply rolled blunts

sweet Moloch for the gypsy! rye Moloch for the pain!



every man is a purging bone bottle and spiny whistle

emptying vessels into a gullet of insatiable time

to use and be used in moments of proportional discardment

like carbon dated prophylactics through time

stuffed in wild Barracuda backseats, in Coca-Cola cans,

warm apple pies or oily knuckled palms,

drifting aimless on white lipped seas

glorifying whichever god allows sanctity

before falling spent-empty to Davey’s sweetest drown

downward into oblivion of forever Undertow

to bottomless floors of wasted carcass before magical wisks of time

panging in hollow uboats and reef halved oil tankers

fingersnaps gnawed on by starving sea vermin

tentacled and barnacled ottomans of bony scrap

only to rise again like a ghostly phoenix from watery ashes

into hands of judgmental but forgetting gods

we’ve so aptly lept like and easily ignored



VII. Walking Mormons

to the Mountain of Buddha



young droning men dream after monastic Death

of dying in a flowery bonneted hole

headstones perched in their stony pillows

along green fields beside Buddha and his earthen blanket

woven and stitched with worm heads

and decaying hairlines of forgotten brows

until dreaming is no longer a dream awakened from

restless bones twisting in lacy caskets

waiting for tunnels of propagandic lights

waiting for hands of promising gods

waiting for grains of an hourglass to sift through forests of bones

ghosts of native indians running with white ponies

across separating ends of untied golden plains

with White Buffalo and Black Elk to lead them

their hallowed bones clanking on horseback

all skin-stitched to the grass seeds



We will see them from tops of skyscraping teepees

knowing they resound true and straight as arrows

as last fragments of a medicine man faith

while the Whites are sweeping them into dust bowls

along their Trail of Tears through orange and gold

pretending to exist in canyons where they were hung

with echoes of their screams through morning

like pelts of a a used rainstorm

and the Government is turning away

Mormons are still crusading across open range snow

halting wagon at God’s feet somewhere in Utah

praying for their Jeezus and sanity of Joseph Smith

looking up cloudy skirts into a a soft heaven

sipping on grape juice at Sacrament with crackermeal eyes

a congregation warming chestnuts of commonality

wearing badges of Adultery and plurality

in harkems of don’t ask-don’t tell

walking up to heaven in glints of white stone

like chards of unfound Spear of Longinus or not

splintered into fifty states of grain silos and Temple

while ghosts of Davey still fight for Alamo

for Santa Anna is a reciprocating wetback well costed

for love of The Church and busted rosary



these are no longer dreams of young men

dreaming of a phallic natured skyscrapers

morphing landscapes into concrete bedlams

the rest are just daytrippers picking at scabs

a devoted wink in an enormous eye over millenia

where the Mind Volta is recharging inanimate



dreaming is eternally simpler in childrens heads

ideas of bouncing balloons and gushing pinatas

bursting right out in rushes of maroon below

when grasping notions of grass and color expounded

wretching subject from misunderstanding

like physicians of a mind diseased coloring book

shading in untidy edges with hue

gliding unsteady scalpel heads into infected bursts bags of sodomy

when words were moon spelling over spoken tide

cramping vocal chords uttering mystic lingo

through flittering hands of a godly guitarista



young men dreaming of new words to complain with

under weight of insatiable whining

as if a walking paraplegic pushing a wheelchair

over feet of the walking handicapped

them walking barefoot through universal divides

treading sole when silence would not do

mumbling from quivering lips uncommanded

in teetering rickshaws toward quim-Nirvana

when wiser throats keep their mouths shut

now with sealing grolsch minds these men twitching

singeing stubborn wings beneath lampshade

where no one hears them cry



there was a time when the cosmos mattered

and cocks didn’t roll out of jagged zippered solar systems

in wet presoaked headed swollen tongues

we were tuliped and daisy-chained at airports

in the rich colors of 70’s Poppychild



when you could sweat out sermons of crumbled jazz

in train whistles of horns or just blown on tits

through smoky bars of last call booze

from lengths of caramel colored atrophy,

veining cigarettes in yellow rigamortis,

squeezed artery exhaling from wheeze-bags of lung

a dream of a zipper was Christ on denim crosses,

hung with empty dollared pockets

and hand fulls of qualudes,

no rent or bail for resting Gargantuines

beneath oil stained and dull shined pompadour helmets,

droving circles of two dollar wet beer stain,

and pockets of useless ATM receipts

were like biblical papers not easily translated



when dreaming eyes were cut wide open into view,

like wrists of white newspapered lawns

sentenced to minutes of black letters

milky galaxies of half-lit words streaming into one Constant

black holes of hormonal dharmic heads

chanting Gaudeamus omnes or Vandana Ti-sarana

language as discernable as star drizzle

and too few actions that correctly correspond

letters mentioning near-dead negro men

and with rattlling pang of teeth

flung across patrol car hood,

crying MLK while spitting red upward into shiny tin eyed batons,

striking match of a city of lost angels



young men dreaming of miles of burning asphalt

in red flickering tongues from hell

as history gets cut this way with dull witted buck knife

begnning in pork gouged into wet nigger underbelly

like a spoon into the belly button of a yowling Buddha

ending in an open hand

trying to catch its own water



VIII. Summa cum Laude

from a Donut Shop



starry young men dream of not aging

throwing horseshoes into the wide hipped stars

to watch them fall right out of night

graduating crib to immaculate grave

staring dolly eyed from its hollow sockets

like empty egg crates of university

unzipping its gritty faced fly

releasing cum filled emotional twinkies loose

from pale pastries of college funneled dorm

forms of sunbathed countertop barbies

running circles like plastic ponies

around bottles and boys at bar table tracks

their stamping tees in colors of rebellion or Benetton



young minds of men are always dreaming of sports

their seventy homeruns and hat tricks

a brothel of white pants circling bases

sticky bar room floors with flat screens

shouting through paper thin plaster walls

in jingles of shadows pushing into doorways

as if a Mamasan was shooing them in

they dream of smoking Hookahs with Mu’assel

or Soex Shisha in tightly fitted parlors

like grey nicotine stained tshirts of mud patch

summa cum laude in middle eastern robe

chasing sanskrits of tatooes and cuffed anarchical Levi’s

along this escalating traffic from Wilshire to Beverly

clanging maps of the Stars like trash can lids

leading to Estates with empty hearted Homes



young men are dreaming of being on-the-road themselves

taking railcars to Emerald City or Vancouver coffee shops

smoking fags with Jack Kerouac and the boys

flirting with blondes and their sapphire eyelets

snuggling into wraps with Canadien angels

or ruining them onto islands from forgotten wars

where untrusting immigrants run from martial law

crying with slanted eyes and golden flesh

fondling inside bellies of colossal cedars

their naked bones in snowblind fur coats

this subconcious Elysium without barbaric venality

dreams of moon circlets and dazzling twitter light

where all men become truly brothers of Earth

in havens of winged contropasso and comedy



and hairless monks are shaving heads of abandoned knots

salvation by Rogaine autonomy

tweekers throwing abused childhoods

with all its reason and idiocy reared back

like red bricks into storeway awnings

ones they usually have sunken under

as street corner tse-tse headed fly needles

gorging fat face into delicious warm forearm

hiding in cocoons of garbage dumpster

holy rollers chaining themselves to leaning trees

in prayer and gasoline for salvation

or mercy of arbol and free agency

so their declined ghost can rise with steam of paper plant

and the stink of festering sulphur dioxide

or plume of a transit choking between 5th & Pine



chicken stands deep frying on streets downtown

in lopped off limbs of bawk-bawking hot wings

like convertible cadillacs of carcass

stoked beside leather shops and handcuffs

Queene Anne dressed as an invariable hill

steeply climbing like legs moonward

an assertive hand up into black skirt of evening

spinning in dizzying revolution of the Space Needle

the city with concrete umbrella in twirl

crying Moloch! Moloch! and only beer to taste!



dopey-eyed soldiers pricked in tin badges

with doughnut licked mouths and powdered noses

chocolate smirks and flack jacket barreled chests

sqwalking radios abandoned for pastry curls

while they sit and silently sexually reference

holy grails of single mothers on lunch hour

their swollen breasts of souring cream

jilting behind checkerboard waitress unis

while catching waft of menstruating pussy

this teenage succubus with apple breasts

her redvine lips pouting around imaginary cocks

their smeared lipstick in stained rings

until she bites smilingly down

laughing



IX. Sage Homme



there was a time when the cosmos mattered

bubble gummed condom shops

and Buddhist hippie stores

exhaling their patchouli

when a hippy-hippy-shake lip glossed out loud

like pop-up carnival girls for stuffed prizes



this was young men dreaming of sex and godliness

tweekers in orange-skinned shorts, greasy fingers,

burger babes in roller skates, tattooed bar wenches

barbie is a bitch that killed natural woman

her brunette hair chasing in streaks of platinum

sun kissed stripes of southern cali bleach

hourglassed beneath bulimic sizes and 38D uplifts

choking on burn of throat weed

razzing scorched in that silicone chest

barbie was that dream within masturbating heads

when self-love was religious slippery and unconscious

as if gods created exploding universes from pale nebula

wherever prosthetic bars were tracks of frozen concoction

blowing their blue collared whistling lips

foreheads cringing in wrinkles of sick balloons



young men were dreaming of Shakyamuni and breasts

under rooms swooning in Nag Champa cloud bursts

reruns of Sesame Street word for the day: Jivatma

Virgins still trimming their wicks for a Man in Black

creamy doe eyes propped outside Starbucks chapels

sipping on Darjeeling and half-n-half

or double shot espresso lattes

like priests waiting outside panes of coffee confessional

there was awe in spiritual opportunity

godliness was persona in righteous pimp suits

and saints wore hand-me-down alligator shoes

and whores were stealing from themselves

with pink heels and generic sucking lips

tucked into black-n-white nun tunic

browning roots threading up

through nappy burlap bags of blonde scalp

donning heads of yester-women reincarnate

fucking like they just broke up with Narcissus



when sophisto-cated rioting was breaking out

lobbyists were being swatted away

their plastic kamakazi one-sided hum and venerability,

their crayonic posters, inked fingernails and bought agendas,

masquerading in politcial dissertation with lopped heads

preaching planet awareness with god-fish in pocket

scraping bark from scabbing trees for lattes

their stealing hands through coffee bean grind

in cages of green crocodile baristas

foaming non-whip low fat cappuccinos

into coffee needle to atrophied umbilical

breeding retarded jittering bastards

with beastie chains and folded pages of Bukowski

pronouncing the Apocalypse in incomplete sentences

death by cosmic collision in the year of 2012



this is how young men got through those succubus years

those hazing twenties dubbed out

in blurry spectacle or warbled soundscape

blowing backsides of drunken skulls into dark alleyways

or into stanky motel room sinks for morning maid



sanity becoming a breakthrough to advanced trauma

like the puppet with a hand up its arse

smiling until the radical transformation

or uncomfortable flatulence of having neither



trading illegal junk for caffeinated ones

riding transit into watery lanterns of night

Seattle burning in a lake of fireflies amongst starving volcanoes

seeping asphalt and neon snakes from concrete trees

protecting Emeralds with ghosts of Bruce Lee and Wyatt Earp

even before the Rooster last crowed

self inflicted by an overdosing spoon

naming gods before bleeding the freaks

always raining for the dead, and they’re always dying

Cobain sucking off frustrated wrong ends

of a phallic barreled shotgun

his cancerous eyes staring out wet mattes

of a mop of fresh red and blonde

this was opportunity dreaming of rubbing itself

dreaming of matchsticks of ovulating snatch

stroked with wet tips of zealous cock

stoking coal of an ember loving itself

winding up ashes in boxes in a diluted eternity of dirt



no judge is a jury in alleyways

all are amputated newborns in trashcans

peddling with dime bags of crank and whale blubber for soap

if it smokes all the same or not in the end

a Jesuit Pelican bleeding from its eyes

peckering at its waist for its younglings

who never learn to pecker for themselves

breaking into paper machines

watching ink becoming battered wives

and jewish children praying for the Irish

chubby Sunday papers with coupon fingertips

its forehead a headline Granny Blows out Brains

just to survive for foreclosure

and cell phonic gunslingers twirling

crusted hands to digital sidearm and ringtone

calling to a suicidal America

that is not calling back



X. For God and Ulster

in the Zabruder Cosmos



young men are sleeping on elevated trains

in dull commuter eyes watching smoking metal caskets

driving by in narcotic exhaust fumes

canoodling lover bumpers six inches apart

honking internal bugles of Reveille at stop lights

on thin strings of untying highway

of a black corset on narrowing waists

of a dashed angel into a lovers night



desperately segragating demons of the fleash

from angels of the soul For God and Ulster

from Irish history including Catholics

White Supremacy still existing in monkey skulls

rowing ships in Amistads of broken Africans

colored dogs between gouged whipping post

and humility of oppresive collar

gouting proudly for paycheck and application

too freshly uneducated to give up seats

still boarding fake railroads to Underground Freedom

punching bus passes with food stamps

unceasing centrifugal Cadi rims with baby’s milk money

Fatherhood never realised on malotto faces

as if autistic children from the Inside Out



young men too busy dreaming of servitude to thumping gods

in distorted fragments of Hip-Hop radio dial

perching boom box on bus seats like melodic toddlers

being born average making themselves common



crotches making into waistlines with boxers labels

carrying pride in hand fulls of pull up denim

these young men do not dream of being Fathers

standing posthemous in symbiotic dole lines

listening to echoing gun chambers

when babies are too hungry to smile

and sleeping at the OK Compton Corral

crawling in fecal engorged diapers

along matress-less bottoms of toyless cribs

there is Cosmos in babies eyes

a nebula in full bloom of the human star brittle



swirling solar systems of imagination

microcosming behind orbs of human doll

predecessing onesies and fleece rompers

crying into a thick plastic air of crack

hoarse in a toddler funnel of nowhere

wide eyed and mouths gaping in thunderstruck stare

the God i know doesn’t suffer the babe

during her old time gospel hour on late night AM



eventually all young men are dreaming of identifying

a third shooter from proverbial grassy knolls

hidden in plain sight on Zabruder film

headless corpses copulating American throats

silently raping inarticulating elementary innocence in Teletubby TV

lint-filling pockets pulled gnarled and half bitten

like dingo ears on New Zealand prairies

of Us left abandoned or have abandoned Ourselves

this inner space cosmos in all its temporal concavity

of spinning hypocritcial wheels alongside

pollocks of orange striped safety barrels

where county prisoners are picking at manhole scabs

and breaking up ancient alignment of asphalt ditches

them young men use to dream of the Fall of America

Naked Lunches and holy Beat Commiseration

reading browning pages of American chapbooks

Ghost Dancing with headless feathers,

nylons on foreheads, ectoplasmic Hemingway,

creating Avatars for disjointing social pages,

deleting at will paper trailing friendships with guilt

this was before the ineluctable self came

in narcissistic rotunds of midsection of Without

scuttling along streets by yowling fish markets

where tattooed dolls throwing bohemian salmon and cod

wearing slap of rubber apron in midnight fantasy

and rolled-eyed herrin wrapping themselves in paper pinatas

like smelly scaly geisha in yesterdays print

opening lotus blossomed guts for debit swipe



watching as tourists laugh in yellow facade of people parade

like Carnis heckling in conjecture of weight

stuffed bear offertory for obesity misnomered

Men Without Countrys in convertibles and white hats de rigueur

mayorically waving to sidewalks of dead eye votes

cursory circling of Lee Harvey or grassy knoll



unfaltering selector levels aiming down range

with God and Ulster subterfuging inside delusional heads

and starving shells still loaded inside the penetralia of the soul





XI. the Funeral Pyre of

the Unforgiven



young men once dreaming of making cosmos matter

applying social tourniquets to Pork Barrel artery

and noose to impropering elected vagabond

with multi-mansion and hydroxy wives

made into bags of indescretion or overdose

like human syntax quivering their admissions



the little china men with bails of hay

peddling rickshaws for jade eyed rider

and two coins for the Holy Holy Riverman

men on Lincoln’s nose wandering North by Northwest

eventual revenants of Unforgiven lost in pyre

self risen marching for 39 Steps into Haven

beneath sad sunbeams with severed sun tangled arms

reaching into explosions of shattering rooms

sunsplotched hand grenades with pulled pins

opening windows for old man stench

and exhaling cigarette smoke before sacred interuption

loud veerts of asses mid-flatulation

silently cropdusting golden doorways

shopkeepers waving against infestation of invisible fies

a semi shirsheing sprays of must into highway air

waving back to Yosemite Sam

wagging with pistols on ears of mudflaps

like a metallic hound with pistolera ticks and not enough bullet

eyes screaming blind in sunlight ricochet into hollow orbs of Forget

and mouth contorting in bites of cheese sandwich

jaws ringing like starving church bells

after evenings of Jaigermeister shots

a smell of jasmine and coffee walking out loud

along sidewalks masking in fading garden

with daffodil faces in closing Shakespeare audience

singing hymns of metric rhyme

fingers of sunflowers stretching themselves

out into yellow circular rings

like fat girls twirling in hoola-hoops

their chubby green stalky legs under them



having realised that dreaming is of tomorrow anyway

this young man with hang nail memory

with nauseating stomach churning, turning,

leaning into a rusty dumpster bucket bone

pigeons peckering through bits of chowder

this young men is dreaming of living out loud

in unchaste forearms of Mother America

her virginity lost in backseat theaters

where the sounds out of her box are muffling

into car windows of no one listening



we who are walking in concrete easement with dead things

accepting how dead cats looks like home

with the lights always off

bloating with wandering eyes toward sky

and no one there to help them through Eternal Homework

just scraping shit from a litterbox

reminding me of road kills in Floridian aquaducts

with smiling gators and their furry teeth

sloshing into baptismal dinner water

miles from Everglade glass of briny water

where the Egret befriends Death in a delta



adjusting truths of ever crooked lazy eyes

praying that cemetary grass is freshly mowed

for minuettes of marching souls of this Comic Cosmos

praying for drum roll of a legion of drummer boys

leading us quietly into that cerulean morning Reveille



them readying for the smop of lumpy heads plopped off

from their conscience hinges onto red-ripe funeral pyre

or into junk heaps of scrap-splooge stem cell

young men most agreeably do not dream of burial

of cremating, hole swallowing, running over or throwing up

by a wheezing two ton Belvidere with no insurance

like scraping bulldozer plowing up mass grave



they don’t dream of identifying bodies familiar

waiting for stasis to pop of curling window shade

to raise their immovable eyelids back to life

of dithery morgue rooms with soulless Coroners

imbibing smoking in spite of fourteen hour shifts

purchasing real estate for plot and hole and posterity

fluffing concrete pillows with wreaths of plastic lilac

considering that hollow eyes will no longer be needed

there is no use for eyes in Hell anymore than a match

supposing Lucifer a good southern hostess

sweet tea and burnt cornbread for All



XII. the Holy Slow Train



the cosmos was greying to this young man

hope was a lover walking out yet again

leaving a warm mess of adulterating pajama

and me cleaning remains of a sticky, wet spot



this young man was dreaming of anything new

shortening bowling lanes, swimming in snake beds,

running miles away with attenuating faith,

with black lab, languid old jeep and life string rose-red untwining

bunk- rooming with child molestors and imminent porn stars

sweeping up crumples of Venus de Milo love letters

from married ex-girlfriends writing their dreams awake

their ink striking edge of paper in sour cyclolithic matchstick



conveniently detained behind MySpace and four thousand miles

weeping in IMs of unfaithful husbandry

yammering in stories of aching wine bottle and marooned clit

palpitating in sleepless inexcitable marital sheets

condemning and unsatisfied with wraiths of wedding vow

never once dreaming of an end to this cosmos

deacons still passing plates for an offering delayed

buck knifing penises into roadside brush

ringing doorbells with holy holy holiday shotguns

nebbish housewives reflecting in pools of neighbors coagulation

for God, ulster, country, wine or barbituate

consummating the phallic wrongs

with banshee vaginal rights of this our Americana

seemingly exhausting all succubant failures first

along spaghetti rails of a moonlit Holy Slow Train



young men are now dreaming in insular eyes

moving on to neighbors wife or daughter

having psychodelic menage a trois with Ezra

contorting declarations of Americana and tears,

seizing wrists of Hallelujah beaten children

only to prostrate Glory Glory vestal Mary

giving birth to ruination and avant gard reincarnate

miles of juxtaposing details in luminous wanderlust



crackling bails of hay in picketed lofts

setting midnight ablaze with red haired schoolteachers

applying ointments to itch of crotch

until death do they part the preacher says



and so it comes quicker beneath stealing hands

burying brides in trunks of watery easements

and grooms in gardens with black soil tux

no one dreaming of L O V E anymore

etching and plinking into marble headrests

fallacio of false adulations of faithful husbands

looking down from necks of cornflower tie

into surviving orbs of Wife

complaining neglected in Armani Reds zoots

stuffing into six foot boxes with jizzing hooker pics

and two more coins for the Riverman there

Death is a blazing sow that is always hungry

repelling notions of jacklighting sickles

probing into boarish night of infinite bedazzle

until maggots are chitter-chattering in windows of the skull



this ending of the customary cosmos stream

a rusting can of flesh hides left jerking in cresting sun

fusing into bags of weed and ink pen pipes

high as a googling baby face coping with reality

into the soft Haven of beer goggled satin

a reflective paradigm of self-anecdote

where black laced thighs ride high on poker tables

in whispering conversations of mispronounced sigh

stuffing twenty dollar bills by the handful

damnable eyes blinking into smoky scintilla of disco ball



turning glints to fuck-dreaming of naked shadows

of dancing banshees into midight candle flame

mewling at 3 a.m. THfUMP of lover

breaking silhouettes as if moon-sliced falling out of bed

disappearing dybbuks into black doorways

shades of blank mama-night corduroys

tip-toeing one night stands clambering out windows

as if the madden dead may rise up alluded

fumbling for bus passes and skid marked whities

asses squelching open asphyxiation of morning

down marginal libretto of a daybreak sidewalk

expulsing individual embryos for life gravida

watching from outside pitious eyes of a sage homme

palms wrist up into heavenly uterus



young men are dreaming of cheating the undetaker

of knocking back years with prescription pills

fighting inevitable urge to spiritually Translate

riding Harleys in Heaven with tube topped babes

craven proletariat rotting on geriatric herbarium

aghast of becoming smelly truckers with smokestack eyebrows

nubbing toothless gums into truckstop victuals

thumbing pages of nudie mags with steering wheel hands

keeping metal boxes between forever white lines

praying to Almighty God on a CB microphone

or dialing suicide hotlines for free lunches or Chic-fi-la coupons

listening to Rush Limbaugh on all-day radio



modern citizenry are not dreaming of turning lathes

of blowing glass or bending bumper steel and license plates

attending mass or climbing out of bottles divine

hoarding at astronomical knees like children of immeasurable machinery

or deified panties of young girls in that same Waffle House

dabauching geezers are dreaming of winking at the paperboy

in terry cloth bathrobe and slow-melting popsicles

racing sprinklers to the edge of lawn dilletante

and the lewd Catholic priest seranading across the street

until sequestered in dentured grins and formaldehyde

as wormfood incommunicado beside lumps of pedophiles

Boy Scoutmasters and nymphomaniacal hounds of wail

with plicated hands in chocolate laiden pocket

in adulterated hopes of children in flaming night gowns

sitting on toilets so long for a shat their feet fall to sleep

apparitions of choirs of naked boys by lakes of fire

quenching perverted tongues in hells of brimstone Oasis



those same parasitical bastards of children

now old men laying beside battered wives

or creeping along to their blank hole

joints howling from lifeless tombs in hospital beds

pissing red into hand cans and on nurse legs

burying themselves with styrofoam flowers

and dead flies on an infinite window sill

strangely complaining about death from warbling mouths

of animals who have had to just live



XIII. Through Television Eyes

into Cosmic Fade



no longer bleeding from slit wrists of human Gomorrah

no longer dreaming of Atlantis and a waitress ass

like convicted cowards behind retinal bars

dreaming is becoming sodomy of the duped



mangled tubes of empty K-Y on motel nightstands

dreaming is becoming stolen Bibles of Gideons or New World Order

in fetal curled asylums of the same hotel rooms

nicotine tingeing of cigarette butts on tubskirts

and crayons of makeup for failing marriages

no one fucks Lady Scaramouche anymore



watching bareback canoness being buried beside hookers

both spread eagle on parallel armed crosses

virgins buried abreast cadavers of strippers

refracted in colossal prismatica left immaterial

like watching fragments of pay-per-view

in sodded humdrum under cosmic spotlight of stars

watching purgatoried hitchikers under raven wing of night time

pecking buxom worm from fast food trays

incubated heat lamp dynamo winking one eye down

the brainsick madman behind the counter

diffusing twisted ends of a pencil thin mustache

in a perma-grin love affair with teeny-bopper cashiers

watching thunderous guitars blur into talismanic wands of MTV

voodooistic reverbs and shamn riffs on Headbangers Ball

Cable God and his minions of puppeteering on strings

sublimating from frizzy faces of four feet speakers

from one eyed shrews of blue-toothed CD players

in sermons of Saint Anger from a carpet pulpit

watching Air Jordans hotfooted and wagging tongues

legends climbing into constellations of market share

where planetariums pay homage to existence

their pudgy circles orbiting godliness

in rings of of cosmic diamonds and rave

watching pitchers hit homeruns cuz the chicks dig the long ball

and tearing out ACLs with plastic sporks

of having overdosed them to bone brittle



flipping a hundred channels of narcoleptic stare

every fifteen minutes of meaningful drama poorly interupted

by twelve dancing rabbits with toilet paper

laughter-loving children who once were irresistable forces

now mummifying into immovable objects

giving birth to billions of remote controls for vision sake

growing old with eyes like cantaloupes and no brain behind them



watching waves run like wet dogs along beaches

their salty tails wagging into pools of skin-breakers

their starving hound nostrils in clumping sand and Cheetos

beside venerable white-haired lady and her Universal Lie

in a metal detector for reposing retirement

this human hope of prolonging man’s irrevocable torment



engaging with autistic dimensia of lover-hood

proposing to prophesied wives in Japanese Shangri-la

looking up like wanting coy from a pond of austere knees

shooting heart up through phiz of broken glass

and left wheezing in rejection on her lap

watching facades slip into alterior conscience

traveling into caves of ancient beastial divination

scrolling pages of holistic medicine or retardation

with shaking fingers and pang of hallucinagenic hangover

waiting for someone to answer in a room of deaf

awaiting slip of blade from gospel torreador



staring back with autistic eyes and imbroglio

weeping at the solace of their passing

furrowing into rabbit holes after that skinny bitch

her shrooms and mescaline breath always unattainable

lolling in spent lover sheets in sweating withdrawal

finding comforts in alleyways with someone elses daughter

in illusionary prom dresses and skinned up knees

like plastic dolls atop a wedding cake

why is Barbie killing the American woman?

making her up in two story and pink Corvette

and sending her off to vowing church with Ken



XIV. the Succubus Years



truth is i dont remember roaring through my twenties

dreaming through those succubus years,

flying like gods crowning out of molotov fire

snorting like whores misguided in narcotic philanthropy

alcoholic bellydancing of ABC store variety

lightning in some bone bottle running wild

in mental masturbations of opposite polarity

where the hands just won’t leave me be



weed on Fridays morphing into bleached white portals

stolen Saturdays waking in noonday haze

behind spackling marble of bloodshot eyes

unable to rearrange truth out of clean white teeth chatter

getting pasted in Nirvana inside helmet sized Cuervo-ritas

drinking manna from fish bowls in festooning lips

cocks in prowling hand; nobbing dark circles of cunt

like one eyed battle-axes behind picket fences

rising in wet chin-welts like sexual Lazarus

after unlocking Esquiline Gate to an empty cross

watching friends plicking ends of choking out ciggies

into paper ash cans and calcinating spit cups



standing in jowls of biting cold just to feel conjointed

friendships are afterhour rainchecks in retail

condensation on a work whistle soon evaporated



closer than that suicidal witch’s womb

i was unthoughtfully extracted from,

head tearing her convicted entrails to a vermillion red

like predatory snakes molting out of colonic ecydsis

and like some mother’s when the bleeding’s done

slithered away into a deeper grass



her sister-loving self resting in cloudless atmospheres

like cherubs in striped pajamas self professing Auschwitz ashes

buildiing the kiln box one brick by hand

two by everyday abandoning

tormenting herself inside a new metal womb now

lost and not buried, sacrilegious and beheaded

in self-loathing and liquidity of giving up

a transcendental accident of drug induced abduction

hauled into a shallow outer space

where the fruit of Eden has been tasted

and left peeling in a human rind along her sofa

her curdling apartment still reaking

making window for firemen and a peeping Lucifer

with jittery television still tuned to cooking show

swigging cooking sherry into sunrising throats

there are no gua-rawn-tees for the dead



waking up clot eyed, numb-stiff and bone groggy

a sedated disfigurine in thick tufts of cotton fog

escaping hallways of cognitive hedonism

crying Moloch! Moloch! with rocking cradle

away from lion-headed iron rod fire poker

with large metallic teeth and small hands

with biting lips of baby faced diamonds in my head

always whining for something more

so in feeding them teenage skin from pouting shoulder

decidely casting shadows as long as lifetime



young men dreaming of hitchhiking across continents

penniless swagmanthology of being on the run

is more enlightening than running to somewhere

where the ticket stays unpunched



removing barricades of of left out ideals

in dreams of puking by light of train track

stuffing groves of rotten cucumbers

haunted insane by vinegar into nine year old gagging gullet

away from George Jones seeping like dirty tar fingers

through epidermia of creaking floorboards



climbing like fat headed babes into cribs

or into broken down jolopy of canned metal

resembling the rumble of abandoned racecar

or expended carcass of Phoenixian goddess

their red heads cracked; their rubbery legs unshaven

like sun chewed whores in a microcosmic junk yard



away from snakes from a creekbed hanging from green afro tree tops

away from combing tines picking out nappy heads

in shady haunches outside the woodline

as if Helter-Skeltering moths in a lampshade

or devotees of Bacchus anxiously waiting outside liquor store

humming beneath a vagrant eye of parking lot

coonhounds yowling two yards away from sunset

fading to black under pressed moon thumb

pencil lines trailing away from drawn houses

through chainlink and leafy faced boscage

smelling of stale carton cigarettes and Chaps

wanderlusting until chemical dependency diffused

or come jejune snore of finally passing out



away in early morning debouchment of sun regiment

shirshing of waking treetops in teenage hair mattes

fingernails tapping against pairs of clear skull windows

shining in a cycloptic eye over cum stained city life

and incalculable wet spots attenuating into crusty carpet

ring-wormed cup circles seeping into antique wood

fucking twang of endless George Jones hanging up

like smelly old man socks in bromidic bourbon air



i was dreaming of forgetting to remember those years

those juke-boxed drowning vinyl babies

with record player foreheads torn off

crawling with the Jimmy’s Kingsnakes onto tapestries

breathing in sows of inoculation

curling panties down writhing thighs into mewl

and giggling with moist spiccato of fingers

girls are cumming in palms on rooftops of pasty wizen men

above sifted exhaling of uncorked bar breath

parties in emerald backyards of beerbottle brush

sharing alleys of puking with crack whore skeletons

behind alabaster faces, blowing hard

these California-angeled Sunflowers fisting scrotum and dollar bills

wiping corners of drizzled mouths in collegiate kerchief

waving smiles to the White House cameras blooming

like lilies in hands of parading prom queens

piggy backing to nowhere in a used Cadillac



i was forgetting faces from bigotry riots

broken negroes hanging in neon portholes

somehow smiling in their beaten faces

like black mannequins in awnings

uneducated crackers with scraped off handguns

shooting out streetlights and aiming for God

hawtpink t-shirted college drop-outs hiding under pig tails and large breasts

like porn propaganda for bourgeois media

licking her lips and arching back for common Barbie-mania

forgetting smell of damp CS gas in misty morning fog

inhaling clarity of translation into perfect enunciation

forgetting us dogs of war let aloose and unkept

with wet flea bites of military chemistry

a lit fuse spidering along arms of dynamite

noses untapping and spouting under stomp of riot boots



ablutionary sheets of disengaged motorcycle rides

sucking in mephitic cannabis at 4:20 with friends

in a square park where no one mattered

framed in a fence of no one cared

letting loose bulging black liners into stretching echoes of rag and bone

we were barnamizing smoke into circus rings

jeering rodeo-clown police in academy gym shorts and Ray-Bans

we were bullying ourselves onto Chelsies like oxymoronic hobos

liberating burn holes into suburban history of sophisticates

their eli eli white lab coats tending flock

and we heard Ginzap crying Moloch! Moloch! in the night

shipping subordinate packaged minds anywhere outside American Pomerium

heads psychotropically mangled into thoughtless shoulder cans

along rickety railroads and interstates beneath oilskin of nighttime

her molasses hair dripped back against lace clouds

under pretenses of finding indians lost in hymns of Geronimo



this is how i was forgetting that angels existed

sitting my ass in branny paperback chapbooks

sniffing white powders of poetic effigy

inside leopard print pews where words were making themselves

sweet as virgin fruit from yearning schoogirl vine

masturbating in flashes of star-spangled white arse

by curtainless apartment window barefoot and broken versed

twiddling gardens of closed gated virgins

misshaping screams into climbing walls

flicking neon against brittle creaks of well-worn headboard



this was how this young man lost his dreaming

keeping that bitch of meretricious time at bay

wispy old books being alienated for white ones

emptying stirrup cups of frothy psychoses

through reverberations of beer head and monkey nuts

walking benumbed into blue-green slippers of the Pacific

cauterizing flat feet into blue clumps inside ancient socks

indiscretions like disfiguring howls from birth canal

weeping with homosexual boneflowers

wilting along unforgiving stems and lesions

forcing imagination into rabbit holes of exctasy and martini

keeping vantage lateral and unfixed



waking under red eyed mornings like hung over pandas unsmiling

glittered hair and familiarly sore asses

stumbling from unemployment lines into empty parking lots of bars

and writing alternative country lyrics until passing out

breathing arcane mountain air through millions of dead capillaries

instead of joining the White Arrow holocaust

or subjegating packs of rabid Buddhists

i was busy burying oil slicked bones under American agenda

plunging unfathomable bores into fidgeting underwater veins

burning carcass in pyres of bonewood



i was forcing childish eyes to see

when asians were being chased into hills of cedar trunk and hiding

when governments were dropping notices of ticking intervention

wide metallic smirks of absolution

through sweating palms and mudhut villages

subtle reminders of enlarged penis, pissing on islands to make continents

making blue eyed brunettes from slanted wombs

or dying from crabs of an unwashed sailor

bruised and naked on steel sheets

squinting eyes to rearrange an awkward truth into porch light

heads hanging on bony posts forgetting what alarm clocks wake them

orbital prisoners caged by self serving retinal bars

looking intelligent and bursting promises like congressmen at elections

foreheaded eyes barreling into a face of porcelain rejection

after moaning under toilets and reciting puke through the night

overhead a ghost of Nina Simone whispering smoky in one ear

from cosmic speakers of Big Box bathroom stall

with the smell of throw-up and feces

mouths blowing chunks like whistles into a circle of plastic rim

face framing from the inside; reminding me of egg soup

the smelling of noodles and sour mash whiskey

contorting with a pungent reaking of piss puddle



every Saturday was turning vast and familiar

unrelenting forgiveness in a chain of Catholic rosary

squawking of middle eastern taxi

with patchouli and cheap cologne

smelling of city bus diesel under cloud of two-day libation,

mowing lawns of literary sod,

leaving excrement as learning compost

wandering 4 a.m. moon licked streets in search of Buddha

singing Moloch! life has brought in the sheaves

protestants in Goth black and circling tambourine eyes

gathering along fuzzy red velvet sofas

holding hands and dousing chaotic incantations

baristas handing out headless cappuccinos

making ways into grumbling lattes for nervous babies

and heavy metal chests rattling in tin can hearts

listening with ears to winds like shards of broken glass in a windstorm

silently flattering the panting of the Wolf

where the tongue will always keep the ears deaf



devising ideals to row out of the Loch of Ness revealed

and revelate to this machinery of mankind

to sickly remedy our unconscious mind volta

keeping the SwagManthology rolling above ground

to keep myself from being rolled beneath it

the ripening stagnancy of decomposing hangover ghosts

and like all Saturdays of succubus

uncuring in cancerous tumor of daybreak

left sucking bone for life and molten marrow

scrawny and unwilling to be removed Eternal

succumbing to plowing under new roots

with aging seedlet rind eyes

re-sodding for some other rising of Boneflower up through stone

writing in a new sick language to masturbate for themselves

whether be it in offices in a fourteenth floor

where they eventually throw or are thrown from

or inside corpses of empty bourbon bottles

where an undertow is rolling them sadly beneath her sour mash tongue



coming to necessary end and myopic refraction

to an inevitable blinding

to degeneration and millenia of abandoned festering



this truth remains i don’t remember menstruating through my twenties

in fragments of broken alternative radio

or writhing under rose oiled fishnetted thighs

staring at negroes still being beaten and chinese making me soup

with buried headstones for parent and suicidal urn for jewelry box

i don’t remember those things and bid them gone

they can haunt some other Smoking Tomb of crypt

i am releasing them to dirt, or air, or shallow ditch of a grave

with a crackerjack spade i cover their severed limbs

leaving respite to open wind and dim forgetting

abstracting their thoughtless little minds

into colorful crayons of chimeric chickabiddy



i am abandoning them to small glass petris in introspection

of a million dying fireflies of inhuman star brittle

leaving unstitched and loosely strung

as if worn out toys in closing apocolyptic toybox



i am severing useless arms from sacks uncarried

in THfUMP of bastardizing disrobe

sutchering scar with twine of Nevermore

unscreening back porches of wild dingos

for a nighttime Hitchhiker to gather

as a raven, a negroid, an anvil or a fist

and to butcher their barking bone with open sore

leaving this piece of sarcophagus prose this year

for worms to feed for a thousand more