Tuesday, February 21, 2017


Have you heard about the
Go to nerve syndrome
new virus and the ever
changing nature of slang
can be quite confusing
like the static of a
Berlusconi media
and your jittery morning
smile as birds hover over
your fevered bedhead.

It is the itch
under the sack
in your scalp
the facial tic
the stutter in your Mom’s
hubbidahubudda Budhha
phone call now.
But, never mind the history.
Ignorance is bliss is fear
is the right to be PC
is the right to be offended.

If you don’t like the games
the lines, then
gallop over them like John Lennon
Unicorn and rain piss
on the gods or as the wombat,
if you please, rough as a boar,
hard as a table
appearing cuddly.
Fuck on the water
get weird on a raft.
Mind the outboard motor.
When the hearts of scar tissue
sings of hunger from your intestines
and Bob Kaufman ceases
to believe in your dreams.

Blow the bass player.
Burn the books.
Buy drinks for the drummer.
Listen to your enemies.
They wanna give you universal
access to anything you can
pay for with plastic.

Yuck it up at funerals. Nostalgia is for creeps.
Just as one would not show their
hand to the father, that entity that dealt it,
felt it, held it, cherished it, smelled it and
knelt down in thanksgiving for it,
lest he thwart your angst-felt wisdom;
so, too, do ignore the lists of the masses.
They are to be burning heaps,
steaming crocks of nothing
good, but for the ones who
conjured them up, wrote them down
and share the profits.

Kill the clouds and blot out
the sunshine if it omits desire
and stilts creativity and love.
Leave the world to sweat
and dream of ether.
Laugh at pain as it melts
or becomes more severe.

Eavesdrop, you Creep.
You will learn something.
She says, “Did we talk about the generator?”
He quotes the idiocy just to
misuse the word.
Grammar is for snobs.

Know your Mother while you teach
her to smuggle your conviction to
master agents of control
if you read this with your pants on
and the headphones turned up just a little
further than your buzz, dial the boss
and tell him it is for the candy-colored
bunions of your stage coach Betty.
Tell him you desire butterfly dust in
your milk bottles in the morning. Tell him.
Tell him. Tell him there is no stain without
shouting and ape shit algelbra.
Tell him you love him. Set him free.

Stir the fear into the corn syrup
and watch the world waddle
in their muumuus.
If you have to engage further,
thank the world equally for pain
and giggles; thank the idea of the cosmos
as you do another migraine;
as you would an orgasm
that cripples;
or polio and the lack thereof
and the drivers in need of
dead pedestrians and rotting birds.

Tell the story about wellness falling
on the pilgrimage into nothingness
when never allowed something to peak
into the abyss and the
rain fell up the stairway to find the
love of a wombat only to find that
they are as hard as a table, on the trail to moans.

We are a generation that consumes cultural
identities like locusts, but never digests any of them.
When you eat three, then there are nine.
But, is that true?
Try it sometime, then, yell “HA! LOCUSTS!”

Generosity begat pain and deafness, sorrow.
Tweets and writhing knew all
The buttercups and the lids of eyes
Fluttered upon a dismal mid-morning as
goats ate grass with dressing on
the side.

Yuck it up at funerals. Nostalgia is for creeps.
Tweets are crutches. Count the dead.
But, if you need them, use them.
Know that sometimes
They are best meant for pretty birdies
and Satan brought home donuts, and it's
Stanley Kubrick's fault, he typed.
He tapped it into his device.
He quotes the idiocy.

...remember a time when a dyslexic
15-year old could perform a tonsillectomy
on a raging river with nothing but a bit
of quartz and a rotary phone or
live in a paper bag at the bottom of a
septic slaughterhouse and
not lose any sleep.
The guy who made my cabinets told
me all about it. Had the meter maid
delivered to his ulcer.

Still, it ain’t over yet, but
I'm gonna miss my widget frag
My Don guy wag my wiggle in
The diggle of the wonkey lag
At Sunday do my jiggle jump
Off the bridge in your slit,
you gape guy.
Poop in the atheist member
Of mod flood, you Doufous!

But, I won’t share this except
to you, my confessor.
What are you doing there?
They create my fear.
Where do the toes go?