November 14, 2008 - Update

6:53 a.m. (breaking up)

My thoughts don't come home.

I am a hound chasing the tail

of its intestines.

Seeing her come home

was like seeing Santa Claus

on Columbus Day.

By the time I came

home, my epidermis was

already erased.

Part One:

Not To Be,

Or, To Be At Love

I wanted one and no others. I have

a wool mane made of real soft cotton gauze.

Cold women want this medicine of mine.

But Men often eat meat Without reason.

I put seasoning on My Woman's jaw.

I become Lover and she turns to salt.

We keep quite a long history at hand.

You will remember once having a man.

Before tonight's end we will make amends:

Again     Again     Again     Again     Again

Week One - September 02, 2008

(these poems are from week one of Advanced Poetry, last week)

DisSections 1-3:

Cow as Poet

I'm a cow being led to the slaughter:

meat for the many, no more than fodder.

Pieces to be eaten,

bones to be sold

and traded in for gold.

For these reasons I am maimed and beaten.

At the market my parts are traded.

With their tools I am food that is baited.

Sick of stupid tricks:

"We feed your needs"

then will make you bleed.

For this I sit upon my wicked crucifix.

I pay their wage, they pick my cotton;

and then I, denied the profit.

Often are students taught:

Please, reread each ingredient,

and always be obedient,

And then maybe one day learn the ways of those whose bodies are

bought.

Me and My People

The Flower Factory exploded

and no one in the Olfactory System knows why or which is which.

This is a sickly situation.

One that requires Gospel Choirs chanting to /Hallelujah/

with violins and the violent Hounds of Tyrus,

moaning, "Here, Here, praise the white man but then Pray!"

I say it's about boys who plant trees in their lungs:

the mother's young begging for unbirth.

Oh, how self-destructive the South is.

how wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

The people who raised and ate with my people.

Their leaders who chicken-scratched their names in trees

and forgot tot cross their t's.

And boy, how I was teased.

I was begging for unbirth and they had read the thicker book.

Mine and my people stay above sea level

and reap, reap, reap.

We whose highways have traveled inward,

taking Night Trains in the day

and living for the Great Evening.

And, Here, here, for the newly insane

and neatly deranged.

We who stand knee-deep in our own vowels.

We howling wolves, we shifting clouds.

Last Moments

I stood up too quickly,

feeling the sick in my stomach,

and started marching toward the arched room,

a dark womb.

But first, slipping my fisted feet

on cold tile, miles from sleep,

walking between walls through the longest hall.

And the dusty headboard is within view.

The evening's worker is eventually entombed

by my closed eyelids, after the longest haul.

A fallen boy soldier crashes with his last weep

on a flat mattress, and finally stolen sleep...

Week Fifteen

The Tourist:

A Snuff Sonnet

that's him, standing and yelling in his underwear,

biting hard, hitting her, pulling her hair,

she, mean-faced with ripped jeans and a half-clawed off bra,

long-haired pirate costume guy w/ beard & beer, trying to remove her

     top,

but w/ an intense stance, threatening with a fist and a lighter,

getting closer to lighting her hair on fire, she yells, "you fucking liar,

you said this was the last time,"

but then they clocked her jaw and it stopped working after awhile,

then she stopped smiling and mentioned with her eyes how happy she'd

     be to be hanged

and her popped-out eyeballs and cheeks dropped, she had blood running cold off her

     face,

the two guys waited till she sleeped then lept

onto her half heart-attack body-sack, soon to be bagged, but not too

     late,

she was half-dead and raped,

with the red word "Tourist" smudged across her face.

Week 14 Sestina

Power v. Immortality, The Last Battle:

A Sestina

Cast of Characters:

I. The Axis of Power

1. Richard Nixon

2. Joey McCarthy

3. Henry Kissinger

II. Allies of Immortality

4. Karl Marx

5. Allen Ginsberg

6. Krishna

Narrator:

                   Them immortals awaken and chant to This, the Krishna.

Those voting educators change their channels to a confession of Richard Nixon.

Meanwhile, after his morning rant & dance, Allen Ginsberg

sends his fans an autographed picture of his "favorite man,"Joey McCarthy.

The barfly martyrs make their orders toward Karl Marx.

"Yes, sir, can I get a shot of Kissinger?"

Well, ol' Henry huffs up out of his hellhole, holding a pitcher. Kissinger

lifts his arms to Nixon, unbeknownst to Mr. Krishna.

Regardless, after he starts raving, growling his remarks on 60's Marxists,

the pigeonholed tiptoeing nose of Richard Nixon starts to grow. But Nixon's

pistol fists grip strongly. Then he gets an LBJ from Joseph McCarthy.

All the while, miles of prayers fall from the heating lips of Allen Ginsberg.

O! Well, Mr. Allen Ginsberg

rips from his sitter's hands the key to his invisible air-flier. Joey McCarthy & Kissiner

ask a few questions, wait for two seconds, & accuse. Actually, McCarthy

just assumed. Meanwhile, in a green-white room, sinlessly sits focused Mr. Krishna.

Well, having had it w/ freedom addicts, Nixon

gives his middle finger & a sentence of Madness to Karl Marx.

Well, Sir, Mr. Marx wouldn't have it; found their clues, counter-sued, Marx

v. Thee Free Speech Criminals. Well, Blue Lady Justice reviewed this shit against Marx & Ginsberg

by Mr.'s Nixon & McCarthy & Kissinger, favored the Father of Communism, but sent Krishna to prison. Nixon

would be pleased, thus they appeased. Regardless, Kissinger

ignorant, got started getting rid of Krishna.

But upset by what proceeded, pissy was unlistening McCarthy.

Basically, McCarthy

sent the goony DEA to place stashes in Krishna's apartment. Marx

was tipped off, so sent off to tell all to Allen about Krishna.

Sent the info, after Blindfold was off, Ginsberg

fell asleep well, knowing that they plans of Kissinger

were too foolish. Krishna was invisible. He sent a messenger to Nixon.

Oh my, by this time, Nixon

was pissed. 6 months & Mr. McCarthy

had nothing. "Somebody or something must be a-fired!" Kissinger

saw his unthawing eyes, was surprised, but pointed to the red button. Marx

thought he saw it comin', so warned Ginsberg.

They (Marx & Ginsberg) were lifted above all with all the other lovers by Krishna.

Krishna, of course, was fine.

Ginsberg was alright, Marx was alive.

Kissinger was killed unkind. McCarthy died. Poor Richard Nixon didn't survive.

1 Year, That's All We Got

One Year:

An Anniversary Poem

1 Year since your fears got fixed

And your shell was finally harmonized with

1 Year since they paid you in silver things

Diamond-colored frostbite change

1 Year for a thousand men

To crumble from the weight of your playful ways again

And 1 More for your blue knees

And what they mean to me

And 1 More for each

Batch of peaches you'd have to squeeze out, to bleed

1 Day after that for mind-chime,

To change your clocks to Our Time

1 More for, I could've sworn,

The Day you dropped and I stopped being bored by them fits: Good Lord

1 More Night for It,

Doing time inside yer spit: Lovershit

1 More arm

to keep thee within my swarm

1 More for

The Madness Of Love

Week Thirteen Poems

That Flight; Thee Head:

A Consummation Poem

You opened up at last, once I'd asked you too.

It made sinse as them holes need be covered er filled again

And again we waited till the Sangria was ovar till I ate

And Once Again this punishment isn't finished. Squish me within.

You'd been be-coming or wanted to too long until I dreamed fantastically

of the space by your knees, believing In. In Evenin'

Again!

O! how my desire grows, of course, you nose.

How yer pen stimulated my thinkin', and me thinkin' straight again!

Yes! I can come over, Come On, oh?

Though the thou swelled with sweat and pride

as I complimented them great snake eyes.

We wished thee aschewed, I gripped you anew.

1 more somethin'-somethin',

grow and groan till tomorrow about how I Done You wrong

and tonight right again!

Made Fire-Breathe Meds:

The Bonds of Breakin' Wholesome

Man the Blue

J's!

flew

as Dorothy danced

to "Dark Side of the Moon."

We ripped dem splits

anew.

Till dawn

we chewed

the

food

and

held Joint

hands

for a few.

I heard you

dance to

the

Krishna chants

before you got

high

and decided

to drive.

Hints

of intense heat

hitting me in the cheeks--

I fire-breathe!

I found

my mind

and it

is finite.

"Last Night, She Said":

A Consummation Poem

a. ^ ___ (     ) --->

b. "     " - _____     "     " - _____

c. ... , & "     " - _____ "?" = <

d. "..." [     ] ; + ++ +++ ###

a. -------------------------->

b. ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ---> ) ) )

c. >>>>>.

d. !!!

Week Twelve Prose Poems

Cocaine Blues II

Oh dat cocaine--go cat, go break yo nails. Rake yer teeth. Call dem cares gone. All dem cares gone on. This sniff is Hollywood. Hit this Hollywood cocaine. Go 'head, ol' Head, ol' King Caine. Cringe through breakfast. Wake up, caine mane. Wiff! Waff it off the top of the dropper, pop it in. Mmmm, dem sins, dem dirty sins. Keep breathin', Stephen. Don't go cold, Joe. Josephine goes with me to the machine, get gold. O! you know, don't thou? Speedy dreambombs. Sleep lots, deep, lost, gone on home. Woo! Wake-up, make the table & blanket, fool. Mmmmm, get gone--

A Quick Letter

We Did It.

"We did it for democracy. We did it for ending a horrendous dictatorship. We did it because they hate freedom. We did it because of oil wells. We did it to get back. We did it to stop that. We did it against genocide. We did it for Imperialism. We did it for Christian Imperialism. We did it for basic human different rights. We did it for Peace. We did it to end that thing. We did it because they disagree with us. We did it because we disagree with them. We did it. We did it again."

Week 11 Poems

The Relationship Between Chain & Feed

When will we walk away?

In this bean-stalk pacing,

she crawls into a hill's cave;

waster-faced, spacy dream-all for days.

Shall I kill or skin my wayward talking?

Sway off with me please, Pleasure-Sender.

Feed me resin.

Fill in me Kingly sins, please. Wait, stay, or break, Dear Honey-Babe.

"Will we walk when awed?"

She asked after she dropped the pills.

Wall-to-wall, in hallways mopped, grasping

away at empty & mowed grass lawns, if at all.

Eat it all gone.

Shall we keep singing, Darling? How we draw

sweeping cloud-drops, lazy-eyed & amazing.

"He came," she called to me a week back.

Shall she show some of her ashes?

Wash off thee own old green brass-buttons.

Hash up.

Something's groan, its growing growl, found out we all go.

What says she's all Home, no houses or mattresses?

All we know of passion is almost cashed & exhausted.

We chased the weight--it was caught.

Can we keep the relationship between chain and feed?

Do you decide to decay daily?

Who says they who drew caves be fully caving?

Dark-eyed Maiden, wholly made w/ Olden Waist--

depraved, shaved & hungry--

Will ye wait? "Patience, Babe" played on the TV-Radio today.

They made the newspaper. O it was great,

& the apeshit lady was delayed.

How have we heeded ahead?

Have ye et? Bedsheets

& beers & Headtears?

Ye eat yet? Deep sweaty eyeballs call mine name,

eh? Now we pace! Me: tongue-lunge: tripping & racing.

We ate, wasted, sour grapes.

The gloomy prunes were juiced too long.

We wait it out? And how? How have

we heeded ahead?

Laying in a Field W/ Scarlett Johansson

When the felt-tip shards get old & bent,

I say,

"How the vowels howl.

Woa! the clouds grow."

I'll lay

In the field with Scarlett Johansson.

Candy

Squeeze me exquisitely.

This womb moves to me.

Be my ex., quietly.

His mob vows to bomb me.

Thee ecstasy.

Say, talk heat--syng!

to me. Sex stays cheeky.

Cast sass at he; they eat.

Groan, goner & go home.

Organ gardens grow.

More go? Gone on? Rogue Maggy

and gang vows to bomber.

"Lord," we keep eating,

treating peaks as World Peas.

Fry-Write Apology Haiku

Apology Haiku

 

The past is my fault.

I'll take Viet Nam upon

my shoulders tonight.

Week Nine Poems

Number Five. Number Five. Five:

An Obsessive Compulsive Confession

Five clicks of the finger,

Five eyebrow raises this morning,

Five footsteps forward,

Five typewriter fingers tapping a lot,

Five times I wash them,

Five leg-slaps times Five,

Five lifts of the thigh,

Five knee twitches, Five more,

Five inhalations in a row,

Five times my eyelids dive,

Five conversations with women believers,

Five water faucets,

Five shopkeepers that are upset,

Five cracked and green tiles,

Five times I slept yesterday,

Five times I ask directions,

Five times I misspeak,

Five times I misplace something,

Five times I go underneath,

Five: I forget my mind,

Five Is The Color

Of My True Love's Hair.

The Unbearable Fiveness of being.

Number five times Number Five.

"Number Five. Number Five. Five."

Paper Ash Trays

White powder and used volcanic eyeshadow

and bugsplat eyeliner.

Or night time sunglasses.

Chalky insides and Korean black food decay

and dark bleeding ink.

Or a cutting glass evening.

Ashy molasses and swarming burnt eyebrow-hairclumps

and smeared black space.

Or my Hemingway shot glass.

Burnt tips of cigarettes and their black sisters

and spreaded-out ash flecks.

Or the ash tray.

Week Eight

Jonastown is a Poem: Town Hall Slogans

Voting will begin tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. and end at 11:00 p.m.

A) Jonastown is the oil from

My hands that bumps something

Or that I slap down.

B) Jonastown is halfway between

Wife-beating and Masturbation.

Usually the ones who live here

Are men ages 12-55 & mermaids.

C) If Jonastown doesn't have

Any boxing matches, it's no good.

D) Is it Jonastown if it doesn't explode?

I don't think so, and neither does

Ray Charles (Blind Prophet of the South).

E) Jonastown is where Elvis (male, 18)

Was born.

F) Jonastown is something

That is coughed up.

G) Jonastown is an everyday affair

For a few.

H) Jonastown's hotels are full!

Come back later if you feel yer

Odds are better than 4:1!

I) Jonastown is busiest when

The gutters are full and

All the lights are on.

J) In Jonastown, yer

Either seller or consumer.

Sisypha's Initation: Extended Haiku

Sisypha steps forth

toward the knob on the door,

forward to water.

In a cotton dress,

white with holes on the side; grass:

No red anymore.

She has liquid flicked

upon, sort of, with a pour-

dousing-ish effect.

Made with ladybugs,

the field feels funny, itchy,

but so fabulous.

Walking away from,

she hopes her grandmother feels

sick for making her.

Now she is alone,

by herself in the field now.

This is it: okay.

The Great Lakes In Macedonia Will Hear My Groan; They Shall Know My Ferocity!

This Pen's a weapon.

Literally, I killed my

neighbor with it.

Week Seven Poems

A Pantoum for Sisypha's Past

Sisypha was resisting,

insistent on pissing off too many

police officers

when she was twelve.

Insistent on pissing off too many,

Sisypha may risk detention.

When she was twelve,

she'd had the fever bad.

"Sisypha may risk detention,"

she mocks with precise pretensions.

She'd had it bad,

hardly ragged for awhile.

She, now a teen, mocks with precise pretension,

"Sisypha had problems with attention & convention;

hardly ragged at all."

What a mess my beloved has become.

Ghazal Song for Sisypha

I wanna taste yer leaky ketchup w/ its processed nature

and the blade of yer face & its moisture-keeper.

You were meant to lose liquid, for it to shoot forward.

I was made to sponge you up, to construct an oil well for yer blowhole.

"All my lovin', I will give to you. All of my lovin', Darlin', I'll be true."

What sass the Beatles had. We lay and listen and gaze with the integrity of loose children.

Now that you've come, too, you can feel me move through yer bruises,

as the forehead swells with booze and cigs and sweat.

No wonder you came, Sisypha. I told you to get paid, you

who still shaves too much today, and didn't listen to me, and won't remain.

Sisypha Presents Religion:

Ransom Note Ghazal (taken from NONzine)

Sustain. Release. Eat. Sustain...Smoke out of your mind: Tell Stories.

Battle for an Anonymous Garage Soul.

Because the world is avisual & celestial math

The fall of you or your body gets weird.

Gonna miss the poor house place below:

Tell 'em we can blow my young mind.

Feelin' the hound...Get the ability.

Animalkind is obsolete.

Don't let your red dirt expire! roll a tornado!!!!!!!!!

Cast out years of the kitchen table!!

Start to Dance!! Blossom a GOD

I'm not here I'm not here I'm not here I'm not here I'm not here I'm not here I'm not here

Week Six Poems

Magical Rage

Allen Ginsberg, all alone,

enters the eternal. Smoking a joint

by himself, he answers, "Yes, yer

Highness?" We, the feverish, forgive

him for moving forward. But no, Nina's

there, Nina Simone. "Hey Al,

got a bowl?" And they talked

about, naturally, jazz. And

Allen an' Nina smoked.

Then, they discussed their

sex lives. "Spicy," Nina described.

"(Scripturally)," Allen resisted. His

beard cut off: Mr. was hysterical

for awhile; though, they continued

(they had a long time). Given up

on inventing his surroundings, Allen

an' Nina got hungry. They desired,

yes, as their stomachs were aching from

infinite, & lungs choked by eternity.

They compromise on voodoo.

Nina and Allen now with a smoke-pile,

playing chess cautiously. Nina's

eyes deep, pulling in from the

smoke and choked with the play

of the match/game. They agree

to be pleased together. They shoulder

into an elevator, a doorway appears.

The magic of one an' rage of the

other, they surmise something fine.

They light fires, burn down buildings,

chant with Jerry Falwell. In the

end, it went pretty great. They

put out their buds in the new bonfire:

stoked, blazed, loaded,

and go back to their beds.

Tomorrow, the two listen to The Who's

"Tommy" again for the first time.

While trading pawns, Allen blows out

a lion from his tongue, w/o paws.

She chuckles. Nina realized that

lies, those pleasurable, are acceptable in Heaven.

"Hey, I've ne'er screwed a Jew." Allen

chuckles, like she knew he would. They,

together, soulmates? ol' friends?

together? invisible?

"Hey Nina, can you load up this

glass hitter? I got 'er in India.

She's terrific."

"Sure Al, b'wait a second. You wanna

smoke the rest of this?"

"Will you sing?"

"Can you read?"

Yes, they giggle and play

footsies. Her great little paray, oopsy, wait...

Her great little parade didn't gain any

weight. At least she don't hear the

sirens anymore. 

                              "Her sides don't hurt,

ears ar' workin' fine. No more jangle-jangle,

'cept when Allen plays Tambourine?

In a liberated Africa! In the peaceful East,

Indonesia, overseas? Go to the

unknown? Okay: space. Make yer

choices in Heaven."

                                     - April 10th, 1969 Heaven Commercial

Did Heaven get a TV spot? What else has

Heaven got?

                        Dictator Tots, Jupis, Continuum

Powder, Lucky Charms, HFLA (Huge-Fucking

Library Association [quite anti-censorship]),

etc.

etc. x a = Heaven

a = infinite

Heaven = infinite x etc.

but math is too imperfect for their

home. All grown up, real young. Impossible,

you will say? Watch yer tongue. It's

nonsense, yer Alice in a toybox, exiting

an' entering simultaneously. Can it be?

"To be cont'd" bullshit, we'll see. Really,

I hope not. Me? Exactly. Them: eternity.

Must be nice, less than pleasure: never, anytime.

Bronze Lungs

I don't know if I left Sisypha.

A foot forward, a baby-toe back,

a retreat, a forfeit, a hostage

of my pose, goin' nowhere, with

a statue's courage, a bronzed-

long distance runner. Gonna pause

before any explosion or go on when

no one'd notice. Whithin, always, I am;

so often I cannot. My feet urge

my bones, I keep posted, boring

non-motionings, stopped as long as the ocean.

But someday, these waves will be home.

The Mothkeeper

I swat at the moths;

the moths flee.

They multiplied too much,

too rapidly, destroin' property

an' people,

tying off their conscience with a loop.

Hanging by a head-thread, the moths

would leave off, away for some food.

"my grandma knitted that sandwich,

geek," my younger brother squeals/squeaks.

He bites at the moth's feet.

Where've you been, mothface?

Gonna go on? No, an' quit nagging.

Yer annoying, a nuisance, something to be

loosed, gruesome, too old to boot.

Um, uh, hold on...So, man, it's lagging.

Regardless, I'll arrest 'em an' rape 'em.

So, they'll get slaughtered an' shamed.

Well, I'll whip 'em an' waste 'em.

Yeah, I'll yip an' yawp.

Oh, it will go on, the games aren't for our show.

Pyscho Physics

Psycho Physics

Sisypha

witnessed the finality of existence

when her vision went toward the sun.

Too much light makes thing stop.

I wonder some if Abraham Lincoln's been burned into my retinas.

Go away, Abe.

Sisypha went 

and experimented with using 

physics to prove her illness.

Once, when she was young, she went

under. I can't keep the clouds from swinging.

The laughter shifts into sickness.

In the duality 

of Everything she places her trust.

Unchurched, she learned of things unwanted.

Her eyeballs saw things a bit too rusty.

Underdone, my brain can't keep from shaking;

without anything set, I get more forgetful.

Pulled between what is

& has been,

her awareness is unkempt.

Sharply, Sisypha believes in the unseen.

Dissecting my mind & mine raggedy organs has

left with me a little more than something.

Sisypha sifts through the pages

of yesterday's proofs,

without much will or strength.

Shrunken, her courage kinda remains, continues.

I, drunk with a mystical rage, will

tip over so soon.

Entirely wrecked, her daily mindset becomes

feckless. Stepping forward,

though without movement, Sisypha

tunes in and escapes too willingly.

O! the synesthesia's absurd--

liberty isn't always freeing.

Fried, tired, & tried, her body: lazy an' unemboldened,

seeks rest. Her parts worn, her balance unsteady,

she doesn't dance for too many weeks.

She lies in red bed-sheets, can't reach the nightstand.

I live with Sisypha always.

She sleeps adjacent to me, eternally.

/She has buried herself in me so deep./

Week Five Poems

The Prettiest Girl With The Thinnest Face

[click to enlarge]

Rusty Bagpipe Lungs

Her diaphragm expanding

infinitely with a crescendo,

her backyard

with all its beers.

her acid tongue,

bitten rough,

her newly crocheted stomach,

empty, without enough,

her always brushed teeth,

worn clean from all the LSD,

her tight appendages,

to the touch: cotton,

her "I don't know how to sing"

eyes, oily from gasoline.

her "Fuck you, you're the whores

Pigs and Politicians. Whatever,"

her, "I don't get to see you often...

What, I wasn't listening?"

Webs

She pirouettes

w/ cigarette-stained breath.

Daddy sinned,

the building sleeps, ratty business.

Fingerish spiders

lit on fire by vicious lighters.

"Hey, dust

mixed up with champagne just makes mud."

She whispered,

"You look too young to be an apple-kisser."

Week Four Poems

Notes on The City

February 05, 2008

Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse

Concrete Walls, crumbling can't stop.

"POST NO BILLS," tells bearded police.

Our architecture & marathons

& cocaine marching bands &

huddled ballet wretches

& Prophitears. Mexico may

be laughing, or you're insane,

Someday masses. And how the

forgotten Midwest sleeps early.

First Heaven: A Cinquain

Syllables: 2/4/6/8/2

Sometimes,

I wonder if

Heaven is really just

a big bureaucracy. There might

be dues.

Lavender

An assignment that required four syllables per line.

Ripping ballasts,

trapped, tasked,

rude, but baldly

as we all can

manage, erm, or

foresee. The bank

is on a date

and spends millions

on righteous tights.

Pitied, all the

Deities eat

rams and dried meats.

Salt, eh? Can the

Carpetfuzz get

unrolled, ripped up?

Say man, gonna

bowl or scream? If

it's one it's two,

but the Captain's

at sea--always

will be.

               Pill-heads

and pillow aunts

can sing, can dance!

Ripened pin men

will fish joy, the

rich or goddamned

stomach turners

will find out your

Secret Love Meal.

How does it feel

if the eyes, long

mangled, unsunned,

bloodfilled, craven,

solo, sometimes

Fifty,

           Whir! I

went past Tie Man:

sweater, pale hands,

Barber! Without

seconds that turn

around, maybe

the candy canes

will release some

figurative

numberfuckers,

a painless tour,

a free zoo, much

obliged, DR.

Saliva, stiff as unearthings.

I wonder some

if we're robots.

Free-writing, Wednesday, January 06, 2008

Notes from Survey of British Literature II

Grow upward out of or

harness yer explosions.

yer eyes' undoing, sick-filled,

scraped out,

overmined manholes

Paisley's stomach gut was

shoveled, impressed, seeking a

mister--underdressed. Sister Paisley,

come out from under the stairs.

Yer home isn't there, is it?

Mine's heavy.

Free-write, Sunday, February 02, 2008

Insane Chained Feed

Taking turns at naps,

we planned the other's unravelings,

brushing off our dusty paths

and mapping fantastic tongue babbling.

The fox, tricked, reveals the trap.

Gory, plastic ideations

of the suicide-ridden society

left all of our creations

longing for soberness. Eh, sobriety...

Though pious, the hunter waits with patience.

Caged, the poet caves idly.

Heavy, his chest quivers with anxiety.

What hath his mind's eye seen,

his brain's very own unbridling?

All the while, the Creator laughs, mad, wildly.

Week Three

Eh, Sisyphus?

Eh, can your wanderings appease me,

Sisyphus?

Daily, I doodle while you blab--

unscathingly brilliant at nothing.

Can ye dance, Marionette?

Have yer strings been tied

to the above things

of thine older toothpaste ads?

Ye dance is unsubtle,

ye return to yer man in the tub,

the one who offered you mud for some rubble.

Your habits fulfilled the famine of the Almighty's madness.

Say, can ya count?

Have ya no ink on yer fingers! dark

child with bad habits,

dragged from the basement to an attic, high-rise?

Back to the basement, I imagine

if Sisyphus ever slept.

Dozen Odds With Word Choice, Things Her Maker Will Thrust

A Great Gas Station Prophet,

immobilized with the force of everything,

lit up a pile of gasoline:

The Great Gas Station Poet Sings,

reciting the memorized youthful phrases:

a) don't beat yer child unless ya make them minimum wages.

The Great Gas Station Singer emerges

toward a pile of womens and ends

with a pile of loose drags and forceful sorcery urges sans amends.

The Great Gas Station Sinner thins, wordless,

the iniquities of them blues singers

bring him back inside again.

The Great Fires of Godless Space Combust!

The sugarpie lining of his skin becomes crust!

His eyeballs and steering wheel and mind become rust!

godless purpose, must binge, bring yer pages, frozen

A. On Concrete Life; B. On thee Fleshly Thrills;

C. On Contradictions on God; D. On the Never-Land God

Fly, great things--

child's dead after he's

killed. Harm comes. A fun

man, well, brings. Ain't we from cruel seed?

When them stories flung thine daughter

lucky, some laughin'

wondrous grins an' spinning

clover. Man, I earn those bowls:

delight, group sex, a wash machine.

Thine daughter,

if a cry of commands

cues mass screens, walls can sin indeed.

Read, line after line,

as He gifted his rooms:

Him will forfeit.

Free Write, Friday, January 25, 2008

Chaotic Cosmos Dream I

Griefstricken,

Cosmically, I blunder.

And to wander about them smitten

underneath the thunder:

spun wonder

with the grace of a chicken.

The buttons

of our daughters are unraveling,

 their forgotten undersomethin's

fought harder than a star's unsaddling.

I dabble with the gods a lot, rambling

about the Jupiter muffins.

The grace of god,

But what is it (translation: what is he?)?

A first cause,

FLAWed? Great Probability?

Does that even mean anything?

Hope, I ought not.

What is the standard of perfection?

What can be infinite?

We are the first cause of these word-inventions--

abstractions as illogical as universal minutes.

But wait, I isn't finished.

Did the matador defy convention?

Week Two

Ink is Murder

As I sit and try to write,

I mostly think of the clinically insane,

and a poem only occurs when it's tamed.

Let yer fovea see me intolerable fits:

just for a minute, a ciggy, a sit,

a prying ball pit,

flying; fall in the future;

Super Tourists flooding into Houston;

mostly the divine seek praises

and showers of gold but use waste

tastelessly, grabbing the goat and girlfriend of a nearby fiend.

"Jealous of the glory," they claim--

a shame.

Purple horses and horsepill anxiety

fishpipe womansailor fornicator brainpower

gloating the games of lawnmower neighbors forever

claiming the trust of the tourist craze.

Sleep in, Sleep Out, Wake Up! Walk off.

Green gory gangrene ghosts of glory.

Mean stories and preen host stuffs or eats.

The east is a castle for magic,

a beast sits on, past full floor mattresses.

And there it is:

the Vicar calls it a creative process,

I call it slaughter.

a cow, going into the machine:

beheaded: guillotined; ripped open,

sterilized, meat for the women.

Taciturn Timmy, 

(that's his perm, thinning)

Taciturn Timmy is different than most,

He swallows others' insides; towards Heaven he floats.

His friends follow their mothers and fight for the Ghost.

And Taciturn Timmy just thinks this is gross.

Taciturn Timmy

with his cotton-ball eyes

and eyes wide,

he's thinning

[and did you see his waistline? he's sure getting skinny!].

Sinner sinning is the meeker,

bleaker is the wins of the believer,

the Sin is the Power, you see, sir.

Do thee prefer men in the freezer?

Fine, then soak toast with the fires forever.

Chase, Fall, Caterpillar, Creep, Call

And my father was talking about Superman.

"Sir, I believe without a doubt, you sure can!"

FATHER free the fleshliness within me:

Step One: scrape the skin till   I   bleed.

Yet,  um,   wait.   A    men will  I   be. 

Certain the matter is finished, I sleep:

Serving fodders to the ceiling fan, I walk

toward a telephone, and reinterpret the numbers.

Fumbling, I feel the numbers and they feel numb

or burning, switching between the two.

Underneath the furnace I tame the numbers,

and the numbers surface, call mine name,

"Thine is the world in which you inhabit,"

the numbers babbled, in the form of this prim rabbit.

I knelt and felt its knitted insides and sides!

cotton unrusty, brushing my fur,

I become what I adore, and to her I order:

My brain is on fire, squelch the burning

or border my mind to keep it from spewing.

Slurringly, I am doing what I sort of forced.

But now my slant is frozen, of course.

Notes:

Jefferson Airplane - White Rabbit (video by alifighter)

Week One

Feed the Hungry

Sentenced,

the bubble gum-kisser inclined.

She'd bitten garish cinammon,

smitten and under-scented, but musky.

Trust, the girl sees, as a solemn phrase,

swollen tastes from Seldom Ways,

when one will emit and un-waste a somber space.

Sniffing glue seldom receives such high praise.

Actually, smolten cocaine leaves a girl quite hungry,

but actually, she needs apples in peace,

surrounded by the Vietnames, capisce?

The prisoner, poison-pissed, sits atop a pretty girl's lisp, reads:

"Thee, I got the candieth."

The girl has spent her senses and gotten her intestines twisted

over cinammon fishes (childish, but sinful).

They, the gummy, got crushed an' assaulted,

crass an' bloated. He whom has created the Golden Bridge,

but forgotten the kindness of candy, shall have their flesh

washed away for eternity: the next century.

And the children fight, unpolite. Filled with the sight, I rightly plead:

"It's my turn, you see."

"If you exist a human

Then you can

Understate the importance of a craving."

     - Me, a guy drafted by the grocery store aisle Navy!

Baklava

Breakfast as King!

Living advantageously,

violent asthma

I'll Know When I'm Ten Feet Tall

While I was eating

the fried mushrooms

(A Children's Guide to the Five Senses:

Smack-smack, you can hear.

Ooh, earth tones, you can see.

Mmm, fried mushrooms! you can smell.

Squishy, squishy, you can feel.)

Fuck, what's the other sense?

Regardless, what I was saying:

While I was eating

the fried mushrooms,

I was listening to

Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd.

I wanted to see if

the auditory hallucinatoory sounds

would synchronize with the eating of

my mushrooms.

The results were sad,

as sad as the

feeble mushroom's body between my thumb and index finger, or as sad

as the saxophone in "Us and

Them," or as pathetic as the archaic

dirt covering its outsides, extinct races,

dried-blood light brown.

I'm as homebound as the smell of those fried mushrooms.

I wish I could remember the other sense.

Fuck. Sorry if I offended you, that was stupid.

I should watch my tongue.

Week One Notes:

Pink Floyd - Us and Them (video by rrempel)

These do not include the poems above. These are just the more literary notes for the assignment.

Grandma says, “Girl that sits alone is girl alone forever.” I didn’t buy this. I would never. Besides, Grandma is full of shit. She think’s she’s clever, but she really isn’t—she lacks wit. Of course, she’s definitely better than old Elanna DeWitt. “Have you heard about her and her letters! The girl rote all that was writ! But in front of her brain of a lever, there’re eyes that’re deep as a pit.” Grandma says this while a sweater she knits.

Cheesecake is where we slept. It is the softest most sickening fabric I’ve had to digest. Eh, I digress. I would compare it to a Brazilan face that’s about to molest.

Fried mushrooms are made up of the inside of an atomic bomb, and also the outside. The insides are nuclear. The outsides are a shell that’s about to unravel, exploding with the atomic euphoria of the mushroom itself, its juices, its destruction. I.Moist under stuff. II. Holy rapture. III. Ovular or mount. Mostly us sleep hushed right over our mother’s stuff.

Baklava is a mountain full of godsaliva, a promised land, the meal of the few and of those about to inherit wisdom and beauty. Breakfast as King! Living advantageously, voraciously asthmatic.

Cheesecake: Cheap harlot eater / easier sex, 'cept cheaper, / always kills enough.

Mushrooms: Moist underneath stuff. / Holy Rapture: ovular, / ornate, mountainous stalk.