Friday, February 10, 2006


so docile the trend, a pill
untaken, stop them from murdering gays,

made this pulse
with deep historical resonance

a splatter of plant gut
into the opponent, so plough up the road,

nevernomore gotta
whole 'nother
where they got it from
nope it's enough, yeah?

property of spine-chilling horror
gave us this tantric biscuit to suck on
Argos retreats! It's that kind of thing

that makes us more meaty, a little
more crosseyed, and appreciably stylish
in the coiffure.

He says he's not going to stop them.
Who will drink of the scurfy tide
of propositional attitudes, voted
meaninglessly in like pate?

"Me! Me!"
cry the Bozoid thinkers
in the land of boneless ham,
rallying for the "downsize
me out and defend the sanctity" package.

It's electrostatic perm season! The apes
abundant in four-thousand year hangover, an
overdeveloped sense of danger rotting in the
gene pool
Pulpy discourse fills
the space where frequencies
are worth millions

Very, very often

tree w/sequin leaves, alternating
novelty and threat

shoes seem less hyped
w/closed ear

racist because fucking idiot
aha! clunkety-

the age of fortunes
in parking, rattling pearls
in the cold, froth on the mouth
as imitation cattle

aroma b/c outsourced

Billy Collins in coitus on jacket?
They prefer this to the legality of the anus.
Figures. Slush breaks up the light.
In Associated Bank, my name refers to $3.92,
I recognizes Bonaparte. Popular liberal moms
push everyone named "Jackson" south amidst
malls. Shadow the capital.

dumpy torpor calls in the season or the guard
neutral unless subsidized a crane in eliot
haircut endeavor eggs on news grasp eludes
meningitis comes slow if it comes to blows
amateur night at the carved species breast
theory of aspartame theory bombs at conference
haven't decided shrubs go back and forth ok?
laboratory signals ok crust ok view and now
washy-washy brings out the best in death

crab lake water more shoes
isn't going to like motoreconomics
very enzyme occultation, nourishing
very small farmers squeaky monosyllables aim to

sham nudist arcs
toward questionable conclusions
for waged demise
somebody explains:
"you're less than ten percent"
scattered their seeds
clung at sleeve
in season
with the prey
at hand
quiet for


(a strange little lyric scribbled after being up all night in San Diego)

Turns out
I share a birthday with Duncan’s mom
—a discovery made
two days
too late

is the cruellest time
to be awake—your job is finished
The Kinko’s song
cycle repeats

You haven’t seen the indifference of nature until you’ve been pegged in the forehead by a pigeon diving to follow its cohorts to the hot spot in the parking lot while you move to evade the suits beelining for the recycled air of their offices, oblivious as you stagger, catch your ass on a hydrant and just avoid tumbling into the street, winking under the trickle of blood and thinkng that your meter must have run out and you don’t have any insurance.

But what’s
you ask

(my lost, longed-
after and deeply
imperfect darling)

on the bus, the only place
you can’t see

the ad
in which

none of this occurs.

Monday, February 06, 2006



the wrong side

of the continent

the wrong side

of the baby

the trend in

home maker trends


being fair

unless they were marginal

it not

being the same complaint

in the other mouth

it not

being the mere presence

of a thing intruding

it not

not being


Flicked nipple. A

gasp. Memory operates

the tongue. Or is that

you? I, no or only

singular experiences. No


Sunday, February 05, 2006

The Obligatory Story

At nine o’clock, just as the sun was rising,
she crossed the threshold, head in her hands.
Whose head it was must remain a mystery.
The shaded garden had drawn her, like a caricature,
under the trees. Squirrels and crows screamed
at one another, limb from limb. Images
of arterial behavior were avoidable. A flag
got flat, rented a room, lived out her life
exactly as expected. What had seemed like
the lights of distant radio towers turned out
to be the inferno raging through the forest
on the other side of the mountains. Still,
the soft rock of San Diego. Three days of
rain in the discarded denouement—not everyone
can identify with that. A positivist posited;
an ironist ironed… until it adhered to the bumper.
It was certainly nine somewhere.

To tell a story would take architecture,
which means arches, laid in interlocking patterns across
or sinking into the marsh of a history.
There’s be some kind of innocence…
Anything bright enough would have been
in the past, the telephone almost a curse, partnership
a model of mines collapsing or driving shrapnel
into soon-to-be-Islamic bones unless it extends to,
or makes room for, at least the image
of limitless others. Without unanswerable questions,
the hero dies for the merely unanswered.
And that makes the sale, a telling tale
leaving radical skepticism horny
or challenging to the touch.

In the kitchen, Tex had a special agent
carve his chicken, before sending him off
to the sub-basement for a long, electric debriefing.
No-one analyzed the national transference,
gripped as we were within the newsy detail,
drowning in analogy like we liked it.
Peel away, peal away, o bells of the starry
specific locale, o decals of forgetting,
forgetting the hope left in thin deposits
beneath their shrunken flesh, their next flight
through the catacombs, the next bill,
coming due with the inevitability of hunger,
of the twitchy panther eating what it’s told.

How lovely to flee all these rooms,
to see the breeze as we hear
language, moving arms,
moving leaves.