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Author Topic: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)  (Read 23162 times)

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Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« on: March 11, 2009, 12:49:59 AM »

:-\<this is where I've been, and now that I am reading all these darling poems, I am absolutely thrilled and I am home. It was ugly. Many people are still stuck in the sewage. I can't go into the full details except to tell you that it is very late. You are asleep. I am not. And I MISSED ALL OF YOU AS WELL. And it seems that we may have some others coming in? Fantastic! So, now a couple little offerings. Don't judge too harsh. It was a very, very long brain surgery to get the crap out....
I'm amazed I can even tyep. <heh.

another Ting episode first:

Ting was marching up a kind
of scaffold
or so it felt,
and it swayed with the weight
of what had to be 
a small breeze bent at her
knees, but oddly a solid footing.
and as she gazed down
she was stunned to see
that there were nubs of plastic.
maybe rubber bubbles.

holding her feet firm as if
to stick them to each step
she took.
people were laughing all around
and the sound of something
just had to be
just had to be
putting the victims in the
dunking chair,
the crowd rising in ecstacy
at the suffering.

but why such care in her
why handle rails to steady
the vertigo?
wasn't it sad enough she was
going to be tortured?
put to death for the un-
but to suffer the pretense
of security beforehand.
 to watch.
 to see.

plunging towards doom
made the crowds hysterical
and Ting imagined the throng
showing signs of choking,
or a final chop and severing
of head from neck.
the gesticulations of the
peasants on this sunny day
would be enough
she hoped.

would be enough in itself
she hoped.

to kill her at the very top
of this wooden ladder.

everything she had seen and
flinched-- and had she not
even ordered it for others?
had she not even witnessed
her own Uncle disemboweled
for treason?
what of being drawn and
quartered ? or when she
was forbidden the castle's
back steps...

she had creeped down
and watched in solid shock
as a man's arms were ripped
inch by inch from his shoulders.
she had creeped down
at some point in the luxury
and the bird she had healed
was now back on the hood
of the car.

that bird knew her very
her very dreams and aspirations.
her very taste in food and
the time she awoke in morning
that bird was making her march
and its call was a wild
mast of a laugh.
for she had given life and it
would now take hers.

just as the books knealt
and had warned.
just as the fires she had
read about where ladies
fell through brick sidewalks
rupturing the ground

and as she was busy
thinking of bodies falling
through the ground, her feet
perched at the top of some
awful chute.
this was unlike anything.
unlike anything.
except a giant laundry
tumble to nothing she
could envision.

the blue sky blinked at her.
the --no. a relative was in
front of her. holding her hands.
"come on!" the young woman

Ting looked down at her bare legs
and felt shame saddle up her
she looked down at a kind of
shirt, only covering her upper arms.
now blushing,
she realized her torso was in
some sort of tights.
not for dancing or show.

at the bottom of this huge
blue chute would be servants
who scalded their feet in piss
and ammonia
just to keep her Royal gowns
clean and white.
these serfs, servants, indigents.
they hated her very birth.
would have been merry
for her to perish by some
"accidental" toxin...
Ting knew this just as she
knew the bird was now
inside the windshield of the
they would be delighted to see
her neck broken at the bottom
of that barrel...

"come ON!"
and with that final statement,
Ting started to fly.
she was swirling, arms spread
out and collapsed on water,
water or oil.
it didn't matter as she had
no hold on either.
and this river of rapids
was no straight descent.

her body rotated left and
right with malice
but she couldn't help the
that was spreading.
she went so high on one
Ting was sure she would be
talons in her back or a
blade waiting to fall.

and still.
she kept on smiling.
ridiculously grinning at the
thought of a blue liquid
tunnel to die in or upon
arrival at the bricks

that just had to be
had to be.

waiting at the bottom,
smirking at her ignorance
just as she laughed a hearty
release at the swift
swarm of the ride itself.
this would be how it
could go.

not the bird and not
the dream of the beautiful
her hands folding in hands.
a kiss before lips touching.
not the mirror that pounced
around the room following
her steps...

the end of this ride was a
and as she was shoved at
the speed of gravity.
she knew.
she thought.
her body might go into it
four to five feet deep.

but instead.

one giant splash of water.
no one watching
except adults. elders.
her mouth came
up in the perfect
only seen for breath.

and that's when Ting
realized she was a child
learning to swim by
being plunged.

I know, Devery. Not too good, was it? I really just got tired and that is "lame" but it's the truth. It can be "fixed" you know. Oh. And one comment, because I've seen it in here and in the past--I ALWAYS feel like what I write is crap, the only difference is on the 1 to 10 scale of how bad it is. Doesn't mean I won't post it though, as someone may find some sort of use from it. Maybe? Eh. don't be afraid your poems aren't "worthy" or something--I have not seen a poet--eer come down harshly on anyone, and if they did, I'd put them in a sewer. The ONLY thing you might get is advice, and that's not so bad. So knock it off! Stop teasing me telling me you're writing things and then not show them!!! O0

hey. Larry. Amanda. Devery. All you poets! It will take me some time to review everything, but from what I've seen--I am truly knocked out so far...and introductions have to be made because there are either new people or new names. "spill" them to me please. we could have coffee and a bagel or something...


you said
you just wanted
a hug

and two seconds
your pelvis

was leaning
into mine.

and that was
not where I wanted
any body part
of yours.

and that was
not the right moment
to tell me you
felt lonely.

and that was
the last time I
wrapped my arms

like the shape
of my pity
for your


(simple...and not exactly true)

BlondeRedhead--who let your rabid self in? splendid. SLAP ending. splendid.

I slip into the Zoo
in a dress made only
for Miss America contests
or something so
that the meal before
would cost more than
one year's salary.

for sure.
for sure.

I slide open my father's
to look for treasure,
only I am in a business
hurried out of a shower.
looking for leather loafers.
and that's when I come to
I am either my father
or treasure is fiction.

for sure.
for sure.

I smack on the headphones
to Lennon, Cobain, Janis and Jim.
Perhaps a hundred or more
dead voices trapped on
recordable devices...
at least for the time I'm here
to listen.
and with arrogance, I write
the word "arrogance"
wondering if I'll become
something of a record.

for sure.
surely not.

I'm done with at least
half my life
and so are you--or will be.
or have passed me.
unless you land on my
picket fence,
I can offer no sage
but will tell one thing
true. ?
Your brain never casts
an image of your mirrored
Self, past the desires of
18 or so--

it's sure
i'm sure

I open my new cd or
book with the same
anticipation of a bunny's
heartbeat, the drool
of being a teen.
and all my attempts at
were immature infatuations
or a delicate need my
mouth elected.

it always comes down to food.
food as a metaphor.
or food from someone's fryer.

for me.
for sure.


"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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:happy11: Rob, you just reminded me of a little something. A true story that can be seen by two small scars on my face to this day! Nice one. And may I just say...that I have no idea how to post without the alt + s "reply" --or how to post a new topic if i should feel so bold...? Clue me in someone. And I see many are back, and I see some are "new?" And I feel I can only say once again--that you are all taking up my day...

in honor of yours, Rob:

tried to let the neighbor's
old dog
pat pat
into its house.

old dog
pat pat
was almost blind.
and i was about to

embark on

the picture says
the word.

the old dog bit.
the face of my face.

and stupid and
i got to the
porch area.

and my childhood

"you're bleeding!"

and old dog.
pat pat.

i went in the house
and asked
on the ride to
the doctor.

am i going to die?

and they said no.

but they lied about


someone come in now. (as if i am not already busy marching through the 4 pages here. you know, there is almost every type of "modern" poetry in here that i can think of...and that can only be a good thing for anyone concerned or reading. i still encourage the shy --but err. Sued-Jack --see. You sent me a masterpiece once. And now look at you. Ripping them out at will...and starting this thread) i really do have an awful tendency at extremely lonnnnnng parenthesis'--thank you Devery. Ting is now in your hands. Others are welcome should they feel inclined. But if you kill her or something, I'll have to bring her back to life until the unit "we"- figure out what the hell she actually is and what she is doing, etc. ;)

clomping down the wooden
she'd lifted her bosom
in the perfect snap
of her thin-fingered

she explains in comma.
"she doesn't feel.
can't feel and won't
show and i can't
emote what isn't in
this deck of cards...
and why i'm departing
from our new dog."

and in my tux,
i showed up with full
stampedes of what i
felt and how i began
the square know
of feeling as lost
as the felt
in the skip of my song...

and we felt together.

and it was emotional.

and in her lack of patience.

for the lack of my cells.
and the knowledge
of my dust scent.

she left me.

talks to her ex.

and has married a Prick.

Rape is sooo funny. I hope, Wayne, that was an attempt at a joke. but you are whatever you are...


and so as the Arctic
heaved itself Fire-Green,
 the Other
was seen through a
broken spotlight,
half her face dimming
again, but a bet placed...
 for one second
the realism of a heroine
that was pushing the car
  electric-sliced bread
It and It... had shared the
pristine purse and tokens
of why

Ting saw her feet
shuffling now in golden
flannel boots
across that field to meet.
and how, in the room
of a smoldering
of a cable hitting the car
in jerks of tenderness...
a recall of the Butcher
was had.

Ting was spreading those
thin fingers again,
escaping the space
and the blanket the
Owl had discretely left
on the passenger seat,
before lifting back
on the cape
of a red dwarf's hood.
friend or foe, it gathered
weeds and whipporwills,
them at the top of a

a phantom riding fast.

from the ballpoint trunk,
the ballpark ruins of
a desert.

not a swirl or concoction
but memory.
her husband was a meaty
Man of clubbed and
neanderthal propensities.
once the finger had split,
She had run as a youth
to the chapel.
to find him leering over
a bed made of straw
came as no surprise.

lying before the altar
and having the indoctrinated
prayer set loose against
stone that never molded,
the sadistic God and
benign Grace fought
and neglected
like hospital band-aid

the meandering blood
pulsing from Ice to Heat
was symptom and particle
to the debt she owed
the rest of the raped--
the village brewing about
in anarchy and purple-
painted swingsets.
orange seesaws.

what witch had provided
no roots to till?

Ting knew the girl in
the balled-up trunk was both
Self and Echo beckoning
her backwards to the
sweatshop, where
one window tried to open
and failed.

shoulder to shoulder
and elbow hitting elbow,
Ting sewed in the place
of pennies
and back arches...
when the fire had started
and the conglomerate
she now realized she had

flown into the brick
just as in the chute
just as the golden footed
heels slowed her progress
to the fateful kiss that
and forever waited
on the bend of a plank,
and the boredom

of hotel rooms at
3 a.m.--
her smokey whores lined
up like postcards for
and it was Christ
or the tide.
the pull of Zuess himself
into the woods.
disguised as the Corporal.

She ignored the thump
of the girl's ginger fingers
as the driver, the pimp,
tossed a crack pipe
at her.
and Ting's first instinct
was to
hang it on a line to dry...

I dunno Devery. Bad headache tonight. I went-i-don't-have-a-clue. so of course you weren't in deep shit. i am, seeee? angel<<yes. I am the Virgin. errrhaha.

a horse fly has bitten
and it made a stain
on the finger.
Brash with an exceeding
slowness and vacuous

so pardon me.

practicing magic with
the mongoloids,
the retards
and mentally challenged
requires a disregard for
spittle on your lace,
paper towels for pee.

pissy pants.
"everybody knows" the dice
were loaded when Hitler
took the 1 year olds,
joking into the gas first.

embarrassing to have Aryan
blunders twirling on a stick,
like herring and blubber
when continents are to be
shoved about like trinket
key chains.
the land-shove is history
in full
Waltz steps.

try teaching 9 nails into a
with your infant.
only the ultimate toy is 100
pounds larger
and 100 pounds quicker
at throwing
snot on spasmatic

there the color was green.
just like the institutional
and peacocks let go
for the 8 dollar an hour
club to take in...
determining benefits--

your retirement from it
under indefinite
pontifications of grey...

behold the magic
from one year of matching
red on a red board
meant for plywood fires.
behold the small price
of clothing
when just one "freak"
triumphs on its rocking


the agnostics never burned
the heretics...
the aetheists were scorched
in their honest heresy.
the retards had long served
as botched signs for
weather tips
in some past "indian" tribes.

sitting by the side
of a Mother,
enchanted with drooped
eyes and button-sand
frets to play with...

these old same tribes.
some bartering for fur and
others confronted with a
man nodding in forlorn
despondent with
small pox quarry blocks.
and recollecting the
blood stains from
the furtive, no...
syndicate file folder
of vanishing the basic
9 nail
this india was no
mongoloid in adequate
tobacco harvests

9 nails in a baggie.

every time a cog
with peccaries or cows
shifts into gear and
craved the New Land
du jour,
the ensuing losses are
Past genocides of
pressuring the congenital-
splintered factions of corn,
and eventually
assimilated, absorbed-cotton,


natives gave and give in
 like the
need for amniocenteses
when the bulb of
a sonar diaphragm.
yes, diagram as well, reads:
"bonus oblational fuck-up"
without one fundamental
chamber music segment
 for the
chest walls...

be prepared for what you
can't want
don't treat
and wish was in a coffin
before a mysterious flood
caught the gene stream
and plucked out its


and so it's said he was called
King Philip.
the first to dress in European
drag although the skin
was red
and polarized from
"true promises"

--a governor had made
a "brotha" castrated and skinned
having a party watching
this kin of land eat its own

Ben Franklin himself
would feel the pressure to raise
the price for indian scalps...
and He Did, like everyone else.
and He wrote some splendid
sayings--as well as early birds.
i like to call him "fatty"
and think him progressive
in a well-educated graduation.

except for the scalping inflation,
he liked to have the ladies
sit on both of his laps.

but he was the same kind
of fart.

mind you.
Bacon is the same flavor.
and i'm saying the rest,
as well as a certain person.
so don't pick on someone
your own size...
out of time and robbed of
a defense
just like the mass attacks at

just like the 80 indian heads
placed precisely
on the poles in Manhattan,
where a woman had the joy
of her life...
taking a bag of 9 nails.
and kicking those heads down
the streets.

oh my. perhaps the best soccer
game ever.
and on the New England
colonization suntan,
people waited after Philip's
had helped them learn

how to put 9 nails in a bag--
now do it again.


he put up a good fight.
his head ended up on a pole.

and why this is as popular
as incest
is still beyond my studies,
and a vanishing

to have spittle on lace.
mucous in shoes.
and the alarming success

of 9 nails in a baggie.


all the fighting nations
grabbing pie
just like now.
and always a good idea
to throw more weapons
into the middle

of 9 nails in a bag.
80 heads on stakes.

watch the blooming
hide their diets.

all of them needing

and i've only got 2

and one baggie

for practice.

my poor indian King Phlip,
grandson to the chief who
saved the Pilgrims.
outnumbered and gunned
as it always is
as it always was.

your skull displayed
in the End.
like a dead deer in a
pick-up truck
or hanging skinned
on a basketball goal,

your wife and son were sold
into slavery.
so no chance for their own
brand of soccer.

being sold to the West Indies
was an act of merciful God
according to the white
faces peering up your

the Pilgrim mongoloids
somehow had 18 nails
and two baggies.
and other tribes failed
and signed-on --

just like now.
just like now without
the stakes for heads.

perhaps we should get
an amnioscopy.

i should have cut this off earlier. but i need to mix it up. sorry, folks. and btw. all the historical facts. Bennie. True. Before the "American Revolution"-King Philips' War was the bloodiest...Rock on dead peeps. Someone researched enough for me. "but i don't gotta no nails" you can't forget this sort of love-thing. and i think all casinos should immediately pass Go--

"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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Kafka. translation can make many differences...and his work is marked by this. this brings about many interpretations. and most of them not "fun"--but what i'll put here is just for fun:

based on "Conversation with a Worshiper"

man 1: "finally you've been caught,
           and I can see you've worn your
           best this time,
           and when you flog yourself all
           over the church floor.
           everyone tries not to look
           at your obvious attempt
           to needle us,
           to spurn us into action,
           to burn the floor with our own
           and I have you by the lapels now.
           and I have a mind to kill you."


           yes, you have me and do what
           You will.
           you want to know why I gesticulate
           and everywhere I lie
           I make grand motions and movements.
           I even look straight in their eyes
           to see some bend of a ray.
           a glimmer of changing hue.
           one dip and drop of recognition.
           I do all of this.
           Please let go of my lapels.
           I do all of this to see if I am alive.
           Because if no one watches,
           Then I must not exist, must I?
           And by your very hatred of me,
           And the way your face is now
           drawing down like a licorice cord
           ripped down the middle...
           I've accomplished a respite from
           the church floor.
           Your reaction alone,
           could last me more than 3 days...

           so I thank you. God bless.

from "Conversation with a Drunk"

man:    Your hygiene is disgusting and
           the way you hide in doorways at
           Night, and roll around on the
           narrow sidewalk in the day...
           It's a disgrace to see you and your
           Drunken Self make and part ways
           of ordinary people.
           I have reason to believe that you
           are responsible for Mr. Burden's death!
           At the very least, Mrs. Wearps' cow
           now taken ill!

drunk:   I'm sorry I do smell foul, and that
            I must seek shelter in warmth in
            public scenes. As for the Day, I am
            regularly pissed upon. kicked and
            always spat upon. So you see that part
            of my filth comes from the town itself...
            And I must say that I've heard you
            repeating over and over the individual's
            right to Be an individual in thought.
            And thoughts are what you are most
            interested. invested. inherently tested
            By. but it's the action you're taking this
            very second.
            the action of pulling me into the gutter.
            the action that says your compassion
            matches my love for the bottle.

            so if you'll excuse me,
            I'll see you on the sidewalk in the
            early morning...

a revision --unbelievable. and still needing revision.

these are yours to keep--
my hands, a harp, some keys
and the brace that jars the
back door.
I'd been saving them and
pulling out hidden floors.
boards that creaked under your
foot's balance.
at the bottom of the over-grown
closet. underneath the old
soccer shoe,
is the last piece of canvass you
splattered my face on
before you made That quiche.

the one our relatives both love.

This is yours to know.
the slow wrinkle of my forehead
and the crease that separates
my red vein from the blue
arts. these folding hands you
put into prayer position
to mock everything even now.

the way my neck curves
over the "shush!" of your long
and fighting thumb.
the leaning tower of my round
calves, smoldered into a frontier
of tic tacs and paper clips...

that is yours to have.
the gaze you give when pissed,
and the creation of stained
underwear --
no blood or fecal matter.
stains of your own oils and
fingerprints. that pit rolling
in your stomach
is laced with harmless
cyanide and I want you to
love it...

i'm burned in a tunnel of
your new vacuum. This,
your gift to me. We never
shared a moment with it
until just now.
over stew.
you want to leave.
but i've told you i quit.

before the haggling begins.
I've told you those things
that this is mine
and this is mine
and that was ours.

i don't need your markers,
or the way you grin
before passing gas
a half hour after dinner.

i never thought it was as
as i made it out to be.

and now i wish that this
had been filled by Lucretia
Borgia herself.
because this is mine.
and your leather stool
is too high for me any
which way.

i lied about so much more.
and i knew when you weren't
about to cum.
you'd get too loud right
before and the twitch
was as fake
as the march of tin soldiers.
but I came when I wanted
too all the same.
your slit was always meant
for coins.
coming over for dinner in just
one hour,

under the famous tunnel.
our favorite parents
will have quiche.

i'll be sulking in the bedroom
with my stew and writing
on chewed ribbon.
a portable press of the
letter "L" is all i need
to confirm the plane tickets.

saying I quit.
and you're leaving.
or was it?

the other way around.

smash bang boom --where's that woman's post, eh? the one that made me vomit! i ...want more. and, bravo! many a time over. brazayyy. i say. Devery. publish. publish. publish. oh, did it slip.

When naked and faceless.
borrowing the remote from
under a cat's paw
so that the pile of bills sits
forlorn against the car sale
All ready for the telephone

When bored and ducking
shrapnel wounds.
Friendly fire that makes its
nursing rounds explode,
making you hide under a
naked and faceless.
cloud-filled night sky.

When your blood runs
identical pathways of
moving boxes and
the decision to chuck
all of your letters and
"best friends forever"=
BFF! in yearbooks.
naked and faceless.

When crevices frazzle slip-
spitted-split ends,
your new hair buying a
locked cremation
for more grays than
blonde, brown, blacks.
and you look into the

nacht. and a murdering
of views over the roofs that
make borders in nations
Naked and faceless, you
take twenty steps into

and remember that
the cirrus cover,
this blanket has no
over the pimples
down on the first of Us.
the last of Us.

and maybe at the halfway
we should be peeking in
on the ram and fruit bat
turns. a meerkat society
leaning on shoulders.
standing on a stretched
apology to snakes.

We should be making up
our phototactic minds.
run towards the light like
moths do...
scatter away like the hissing
roach does.
the funny thing is. instinct
has no face or naked


on our shared merry-go-
jungle gym.
just Be before you know.

when youth climbs
up the kitchen counter,
a thorn sticks your
and reminds you...

there once was no such
thing as "naked"
And the only reason you
feel "faceless"
is because you've been

by a ten buck microscope.
a ten buck telescope.
and pimples
shining on your sunken
or squared chin.

now you are naked and
Time has a dip in what
you scream for,
and space fits the sky
but not your roof.
and there you are
watching wrestling.

and you never did that
watching the weather
through the back of your
and you never did that

so why not be Naked.
Faceless also.

---------------------------------------that is all. make sure you're back in 15 min.


"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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"Because my cock is small and my face makes up for it."  I'd like to sig that Ma Chao. If you don't mind. I bent over laughing and hit the shift key in some weird manner and fucked up the computer. Then I got up and went to pee and thought about the fact that I highly doubt your cock is smaller than your head. Why? Because people that joke that much about "taints" just ...don't ...have small cocks. Heads, yes. Cocks, no. (i'll flip you a quarter to see which is right)

To your poem. I just got done pm'ing you back. The poem is beautiful actually. It's not about someone's hair or the way they smell, or putting flowers in a vase. DAMN, chao. You belong in the brothel, and it belongs to you. Like orange grease that runs down your arm as you bite into a pizza slice and you burn the roof of your mouth...but you are so dang hungry, you just don't care. By the way, my ass IS larger than my head. That happens when you are over thirty. It's required...


woke up from being
under the influence of
one or ten flasks. they held
my head in a cradle of
perennial bliss,
and the rest of the legs.
the torso
and fingers
are just crackers for a
mosquito. and its built-in
Superior to an i.v.
because you can't feel its
fancy, snazzy, choice.

of honorable mention:

a bluebottle that slurps
up grease, & tanks of salt.
It vomits a quirky belch.
the way flies busy-buzz,
their very baby maggots
searching for me.
a stench or stink of rot.
and i am not quite that

looking at the cement,
i'm glad the cigarette hit
at the same moment my
hand hit my crotch.
without any enjoyment
known to me, and starving
for the blank space
between thigh and pelvis...
this is how i stack files
and honor my parents.

so i'm not rubbing.
so i'm not doing anything--
excluding no one from a
like the eighties full of
and the nineties spewing
for a blow job,
and who knows where
She is...
a Presidential fool with an
illegal friend taping her

Why that doesn't compare
to War. Or does it?

She's lying face down
on a patio,
dribble on a pillow
and one cigarette
about to combust her
poor little head.

it wasn't the Big Deal
and it wasn't a Crusade.
So let's wait for Social
Justice. Let's pass out
on lawn chairs.


but looking out the glass.
sitting there waiting
as he always does.

a hefty desendent of
muscle, fat, and orange-
white coloring.
he's been waiting for his
he's been sitting tight
 for the rub of a chin,
 scratch behind the ear,
 a chance to spread his
 on legs to claim.
 a beggar for attention
 and how could mommy
 miss this.
 her own eyes gazing at
 the drama of going to


and now he can knead
the rest of an hour
in an arm crib 
on a sheet

finally squinting his eyes.
the proud look of any cat.
the rest of the Pride will
wait their turn.
the rest corner the room
like soldiers.
they make me trip should
i voyage out of bed...
it's their duty to insure me.

this one has his Mommy.
this one waited.
and if that isn't love
and how could we know

any way.

and if that isn't love.
then you don't have a soul
and neither does the cat,

there's a possibility that
it's true.
but man.
this boy wants his mommy.

she can burn herself with
a cigarette
and slump like a drunk
on the patio.
but man...
this cat wants his Mommy.

I was tired. I did it for the money.---------------------------------------------I'll be embarrassed tomorrow.

Larry, vent all means. You shall receive something from me soon. (sorry it isn't a new guitar...$ you know, is a bitch)

ahhhehhh. here:

years will pass: five, ten, one
hundred and more.
the tallest building will
leave no hobo insurance;
the chance that a nut may

yet in five, ten, one hundred
there will be a reenactment,
something will recur and cough
its return out like a sponge
letting go of milk.
not sopping it up.

another first kiss
(no kiss is ever the same)
or the appearance of a mushroom
taking the lawn for repairs,
the sea blushing with a new

laying eggs on top of what was.
5. 10. 100. times the idea
of the circumference
four arms make in snarled and
jumbled greetings.
goodbyes and desire flipping off
a Yield Sign.

a drop of saliva
stained on glass,
may attach lustful
wishes onto a buzzard...

5, 10, 100.
it will repeat with indifference
to your shoes and finest gown.
flee to the museum where
the vaults
keep the scare in view.
only it may not be you.
once around or always matters
little in terms of calculating

dustbins, tin cans, a dvd.
the cd you've wrapped around
your head
presuming tomorrow is always
a tick away...
the ticks themselves no better.
though we have the funerals
to prove it, we'd rather watch...

until it's 5, 10, 100.
classical music has already been
repeated by the exhaust of Rock
on the back of a fossil or stone
turning to pebbles with no
yet the solo that freshens
a stage
is new, new, opening a trail.
diving in on one same key,
stroking out the mouth of a
with no Shame.

in 5, 10, 100
a bubble will surface on some
planet or moon or tidal wave,
and it will be the first time
it comes around--
you just might see it--
and the last time it swings
its own body into view.

sit down.
the old t.v. is out in 5.
what my father first saw,
I'll never know the genius of it.
what he won't understand.
someone will expand upon it.
and technology hits you with
ammonia to try and shake a jar
of pennies...
but even the words typed in

what we feel is owned.
in 5 to 10 to 100.
the crux of it lies in knowing
that we own our personal
second and underwear.
darling, even a fool says it's
the second that counts.

you Are a walking relic.

think of sex on atomic terms.
laughing over this planet
in drought or water,
Krakatoa on a massive scale
blows and blooms over the wax
in all of this.
5, 10, 100.

Do Something.

change positions in bed
with your lover.
this bang of Krakatoa and shirt
stains will happen
over and over
but you aren't absolved by this.
in 5, 10, 100.

Curie cut her life short to solve
"i don't know why..."
and that is better than
waiting for a nut to fall.
for a twenty to show up
on a dead hobo in a tall


is not your own.
born with it,
a choice.
and finally
for you...

nothing final.

----------------------------that was so simple in my book. and i've made a big fat mess........................................... :'(

all i can say to Larry and Innocence....god damn. hot damn. shit damn. here: :icon_queen: :icon_king:   

the chord fallen
finished with the performance.
a remnant of e minor in a degree
of erection flowed.
foot poised on the pedal
like an epoxy nightmare,
Ting struggled and lifted it...
her rhythmical piano discussion
made the jealous metronome
in view
a farcical and open-mouthed

realization. fruition had her back
arched in closely besides the
position of an ultimate Orgasm.
this could rumble like fountains
into repetitive splash,
she noticed her hands.
hovered above the keys like a
Supernova in mid-shatter,
fingers splayed and throbbing.

what she had played she Owned.
the rhapsody was no promise,
but a cut into the space of letters
and a split of accents
where no recorder could save
what she Owned.

she had started with the peasantry
in the front of her eyes,
wishing them a gift without any
possibility of giving,
desiring to dry the eyes of a woman.
just one she had seen from a carriage
now replaced by horses she'd ride

she'd ride into the instrument...

a lonely violinist often carried her
like a bowl to the doors of the
opening the bedroom wall that kept
Distinguished from Hordes,
Ting would often twist down to
her knees in sorrow's net...
those melodies would soak her
in Salt. Acid as well.


seemed to be a hush.
the audiences' still ignorance of
her centrifuged-flying playing
slithered from toes to face.
a full flush as red as a strawberry,
and a fire as incorrigible as the
enraged itself.

she waited, hands falling to her
lap as pebbles floating through
she waited longer.
   a Single boom flew threw the
   room in one ostentatious and
   thunderous Clap, the sound of
one machete looking to find...

Charlie's Car

the car shifted forward and
her head bumped the chair reserved
for escorts up front,
like a trip over ice, she was
humiliated slightly by Charlie's
But. He was always laughing when
he didn't have a person's face
wrapped in his fist like
a piston through a plant's leaves.
or a reddened head extinguishing
in biceps as large as
and much more present then
Charlie's own eyes and mouth.

his hysterical giggling continued.
annoyed and flabbergasted,
she felt the crack pipe by her thigh
and tossed it towards the dash
a tad more force than required.
the inside joke was tiresome
Charlie was always chuckling about
and her action made him even more

another enfant as well, Ting thought.
grimmacing and swearing in the
process of checking purse,
adjusting neglige'
picking at her teeth...
she experienced a flashback of
the client Nen.

Fury ripped up from Ting's gut,
and as she envisioned the whip and
Sneer, my god. my god. the butcher's
Belly was a sweaty rock of flesh,
hairy and rubbing up her face
in the rapid pace of a sprint...
his paw pushed
the top of her head downward,
Hard until it was so clear

the whip slashed her lip in 3
spots and her body in plenty
of isolated chunks as Ting stared.
yellow water spot on the ceiling,
and Nen was riding a kind of
horse that had blood dripping from its

she flung her elbows backwards and
hit the young woman beside her
like a hammer to a tooth,
and there was the tooth to prove it,
and there was no girl when Ting
dared look to her right again.
the blow with her arm had dissolved...
the way tablets hit water and
blow bubbles. the way cleaver's
dismantle bone and don't

she felt idiotic with her arms up
and elbows squeezed into
Cushioning of the custom ride,
and it was the traveling she delighted
in more than...

white and black spots covered,
as a map of bass-thrashing music
charged out of the rear speakers
with malice.

damn ghosts always persistent,
she thought.
"shut up Charlie and give me the
damn tablets."

"Pills for the chills?" Charlie guffawed
and belched simultaneously...

ehhh. Devery. Here it is as it stands. I like the finished performance better than the car...yes. I do. I have to put in more in the car area. Just wanted to show right now, and I think I'm revising "Charlie's Car" tomorrow. The first part, I have to stick with even if you hate it, only because I worked my ass off on it. (my ass?...sorry.) :love5:
Innocence. Changed the beginning a bit from what you saw. Not much. Shall be posted here as well. :love3:

Love to all! Musings? why did you think you'd get heat for that? no heat here. just experimenting poets...

"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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Lar--i'll dance with you anytime, moonlight, sun, and dusk/dawn. dusk being more amenable to my schedule......oh. what i've been able to digest= :headbang:
Innocence---I am going to get to your bad-ass self. you are NOT your age. !!(poem boost b/c it's true...and there isn't anyone sane who wouldn't say it)
All, including Caddy who just blew me away. --i see continued evolution and progress in everyone's "work" and FUN with poetry.
ps--haven't been around in awhile, and it'll be a slow process to get to the pm's let alone all the poetry i've missed!
shit, Devery. what the hell am i going to do with you?? you twisted lesbian jerk! writing like that on your own and with Ting. jail time for you!!! no probation!!!

here--version 2 ("kin d a")

we've become or are and can be
overly-concerned and blowing blisters
over the Dinners you can't hear,
as we're whispering about a Possible
or probable or yes, we think it's true.
an Issue is at hand, larger than a
whale can blow it's whole out,
smaller than this apartment can fill
with your Gas.

your grammar and spelling and checking
of the sockets and door knobs is
"haven't gotten?" WHAT is the matter with
You? what else to give to the monetary
Wizards standing at the Ready for
reasons still Unknown...and by the way,
2 Times 2 is 4, and you've gotten
all of your kind strewn like a baby's rattle
with a diaper on top, not to mention your
comfy blanky Plastered to you and the
Wall by the Rocker, both swaying

and you Smile at them, nodding your head
in some Kind of Sage determinations.
Should we have to Explain one more
Time Quantam Physics and the
Facts of the apostrophe,
We just don't know what to do about
what you've Become.

Are you evolving, even as you waddle
through dust debris, cat litter,
picking your nose in Full View.
This just isn't like you and we're
getting, becoming, overly sensitive
as You point your Crooked small Finger
as Us, not to mention
Jesus. Please stop trying to talk
to the Toaster!

you say you're working as thoroughly
as the cd player that spins in Random
constantly making the Apartment shift
like a Patient in a Dentist's Chair.
like a Porter serving the Rich on through
the Hostage Situation, you yourself have
become, and gotten us into...

dammit. Get up and Go Out and don't
tell me Any more bad news. You've gotten
a hangnail on top of All This also?
take your Tissues, Red Eyed-Pills and
get your Self to the dentist First.
we're tired of Hearing that too,
but we've gotten used to saying we
Love you. we do. we do. it's as easy
as "A is for the apple of our eyes..."

why do you keep saying "you've gotten...?"
go to the grammar school.
all the money we've become Masters of
Paying in admired Tuition and all this shattered
Attention assembled on your floor:
the baby rattle runs without your hands.
the diaper fills without your butt.
even your blanky covers Laziness
and You are not even Here to witness
any of it.

hush little baby, don't say a word.
Help is coming once Again.
one last joke.
we have become Catholic, but perversely.

when they minus-Abortion,
And yelp "Death Sentence!"
you haven't gotten a chance
      to Dispute.

mmm. i think it's more "clear" and has the same repetitive themes, but imagery and personification need to be inserted before I'll be satisfied. opinions always welcome. in the end. the tools for poetry effectiveness: imagery, personification, and metaphor/simile, as well as analogy & repetition...none of those matter unless they affect the reader. so revise this? not to revise? (before i move to version 3)

Innocence. I still felt better with the initial jolt as I wrote it, so thanks for appreciating the style. (---zzzz---something's being tinkered with---zzzz---) :love5:

Innocence??MmHmm? Just what are you being coy about? heh. actually. version 3 is --these are Variations on a Theme. ?? figure out the Capitalization ideas synthesized on this one, and you win ...a Brand New________?

version 3 (obviously)

we've become concerned over
Dinners, whispering about Possible
Issues at hand,
a Whale filling smaller truths
than Gas.
your whole can blow
overly-concerned blisters.
we think it's true.

sockets and door knobs of
grammar and spelling
haven't gotten You?
What Wizards, by the way,
give monetary reasons at
2 Times the Ready for Math?
is 4 standing at the baby's
rattle, strewn and checking
the Wall with a diaper on top?
a comfy blanky swaying,
not to mention the Rocker
Plastered and Unknown.

nodding at Sage determinations,
what you've Become Smiles Kindly.
and Quantum Physics don't Explain
Facts we Should just know...
in some
one's head, Time's apostrophe.

you waddle in Full crooked points,
not to mention Us. Jesus through
dust Fingers, small overly-sensitive
Fingers stop trying to talk.
You Are evolving and getting
cat litter, picking your nose
as this Toaster becomes.

Random constantly shifts thoroughly
as the cd player spins in a Dentist's
Hostage Situation. a Porter becomes
Rich, serving constantly, you say
like a Chair. yourself gotten like a.

apple hangnails on top of bad news
Get and Go. You have dammit eyes.
Red and Out the tired Hearing-Pills,
Any more Love we've used, and All
First eyes get your Self. bad is for
as easy we do. the dentist takes
Tissues as we do. All this also?

you keep saying "Tuition" without
this shattered grammar school. why do
you become Laziness without your
diaper, the baby rattle assembled in
Attention? Masters even here to
witness, your butt runs without hands.
We've become Paying Here. your covers,
the blanky in admired sayings.

baby, Help perversely Catholic jokes.
one joke Again, coming once is a
word HELP.

when "Dispute!" yelps
they haven't you to
sentence Death.

i didn't change the words in each "stanza"-- meaning, e.g. "Tongue" could have become "tongues" from version #2, although the meaning seems to be a little archaic as a result... (i miss the toaster?) anyway. there is still a "tone" that remains and I have intentions regarding the ---odd use of capitalization from beginning to end. EACH word has its own meaning to me, but it will be interesting if anyone prefers one "type" over another in the end...Oh. and i just have to do this....

MaChao--thanks! i'm experimenting like a turd, but grammar-fucks are not only fun, they also ADD to the poem itself --hidden meanings etc. or not hidden. we agree, and i like to see you back again. though what i just read seems like there might be some sort of epic going on????
ALL YOU--Musings. don't stop ever. Caddy. join the spiked-punch party. Innocence, I'm going to turn you upside down until you laugh. Devery. you went out of turn with Ting, and your own poems are deafening.

Personified Bedroom loves Bathroom?

the dresser folded up my Legs,
as it walked over and brushed
its Teeth.
oh, you wicked funny Precious
pieces of timber,
go ahead and keep up the dalliance
the Mirror has with you.
both of you congregating after
school, with your Fags lit
and tittering like young loves
Always do.
don't they?
Except when you fight,
you leave a Mess of paper
smoldering on the top of the shampoo
bottle's head, and i'd call it
inconsiderate, but the Bed has
the final Say on Rules.

your legs and teeth and precious
biting of this lip, keeps me
in the freezer, standing up fresh
with that old disease.
take this mirror, and light my fag
as we ride forward into the bright
night, always picking spots out
when your finger
tugs a zipper that makes me
call out God in the true prayer
shared the world over,
those frightening inches you take
out of my nose, ramming a stick
into the frontal lobes,
and we're hoping the best comes
from this fight. cum again. cum again?

the grocery store plops out
stock exchanges at our hours of
magnum delights and halloween
the candy's making a mess, covering
itself with wrappers for no reason,
like the arbitrary set of rules
you've demanded in this new bed.
a stranger's flat-bed-truck.

tell me the rules, lover.
say it again just like

yup. having fun with capitals 101. everything i capitalized in stanza #1 is somewhere in the rest of this poem. the poem itself...........mehhh.thhhpt.

"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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I see no reason to continue tinkering with that one, my dear. It Is, and can Close as perfectly as anything "seamless." (i over-did my stamina--but am posting a piece of crap 4 whoever)

there was no need to
dry the lips,
and no more whispers
of my inner thigh
being the World,
with no way to Carry
your first scrub of my
lower leg...

you were asking your wife
what marriage meant to
and your first Taste
was reaching behind
a scratch of a seat,
tickling the hairs of my

i took it as brazen and
some kind of White flag
fell out of my eyes
and their globular-slant
But my way.
was to tell you I loved You.
I love you.
what i meant is that I
Love You without
grounds to walk upon
and a fierce brooding
for a Single word in

not immune from your fingers,
they have dug into
the Center
of what was your focus--
what my lids bob around
in sleep,
and why there is no body.
no marriage
no union to march in,
no way to see another
under Mother Mary's glazed
and drunken beacon.

i'll take a blow-up doll.
not for the Sex of it.
but to tickle my knee
and laugh along
when you say
I Do.

what's trivial now is that
i can't eat,
couldn't even travel your
ear lobes,
don't want to remember
your slightly sunken chin,
but then my chest
raises in a breath
that rattles
like children

you remain the voracious
my head flies through
in chance cups of tea.
you remain the bitchy
my elbows rub against
on saucy sheets that

exactly like my skin
under pressure.
"permanent press"
you said at the laundry,
rolling your hips on the

I Do.
I push your picture once
a month,
waiting for you to call
or the remains of Rome
to call out artisans
with slim chances.
diminutive details
and one more time
before the Exhale
that ships without
hope Want Most.

to be called

oh, sweetie.
I Do.

-------------------------------fuck it, eh?

they don't ask much,
they are an occupied
glancing at honey dripping
slowly on bread that
a dead Uncle
and the dead Grandparents
and the dead friends
and the Dead themselves.
without a spoonful
of a bee's butt,
have gone missing
like child number...what?

so when waking,
I pop in the toes wiggling
by the end of the bed.
snap home the ankles into
leg sockets while they
break into sweat as I lift
leg number one
and, using a centrifuge,
roll them into position...
my torso Sighs.

starting with my fingers,
plucking them out of my
hair like errant leaves,
it starts to become easier.
no more confusion meets
me when the thumbs are
set against
the digital clock,
taking time without a
second hand.
there it is. lying under the
pillow as if it were sly.

All of this eats a second
or several days and now
years. for all i know,
the length it takes to walk
to your kitchen...
not the worst that could be.
not the worst that could be.
but my ride to Work isn't
full of eyebrow plucks
and lipstick studies.
no coffee stops and few
gas requirements...
not clogging the atmosphere
but looking at Dirt in a thirsty
and bent demeanor.

yet. how could the neighbors
shuffling to the bus
and running into their car
possibly perceive
that in the cubicle and
riding the Customer Service
that table 18, with its
rude couple ordering their
eggs again for the third time...
behind the school desk
writing down again and again
how the French Revolution
is boring, and whether
affirmative action
is completely

oh, but it's the robber at the
Bank, disguised as best one
can without cash.
and i'm saying, repeating, saying
to him and her...
"take it and let's get out
of this town"
"take it and let's get out
of this town"

i want to be the sweetest of
honey, a bee's last offer
for your lips.
dripping slow out of the bear
(why a bear?)
oh, i want to be your two week
vacation, and your way out,
and your way in,
and the way you'll feel good

let's get out of town, baby.
i'll stay in the bottle and
Promise you no oven
to drip,
to fry
and to die

--------------------------------fuck it again. but the demise can be seen in the fact i used "honey" in two separate poems. this one needs immediate care and revision in particular. gotta go. two weeks vacation... :-*

An Announcement for Consideration: In the past, the poet-eers, which could be found in as many as 3 different posts, had thought of the idea of naming our crackhouse, the "brothel." Now, I'm wondering if it shouldn't actually be the "Brotel" --as there are hotels that are brothels, and this would fit the growth in size? Thoughts? MaChao--you started it, 'tis only right you be in on any ideas...

You can, of course, ignore this message, poets, as you may be busy doing a poem?

Anythingodyne! (sorry, i like calling you that...but i'll knock it off)--you asked for constructive criticism, and i want to thank you for sharing in the first place...
okay. i read those "stanzas" or poems as 3 different poems, although i am not sure that's what you intended. you can see there are a lot of different styles around here, and a lot of experimentation--which is a good thing for all of us. In your first "ditty" (how's that for fancy) --i'd simply choose whether to rhyme or not to rhyme. (and btw, i only read once, which isn't really fair--so get back to me if i didn't catch something) why? only b/c in the other 2 you didn't, and that was 1 of the reasons i wasn't sure how to interpret all of it...but there is a Lot Going on in that Brain, and the only other advice: experiment with formats and your Capitalization if you want. b/c you often capitalize 2 words at a time, the reader goes down quickly--and there are times. some moments, where i am not sure Where i should have "stopped" and started in on the new thought...make sense?

like right now, i've been experimenting with Capitalizing where i want to emphasize. and for a long time, i've had a small habit with some poems of using lower-case "i" for when "i" don't matter much, and "I" when "I" do. just ideas.

everyone has their style. and then there are those that are flirting with a bunch of different kinds. any way you look at it, reading the other poet's will help you in your writing -- whether you like what they did or not.

mmm. but thank you. thanks one and all, as i just read the last few pages. i simply can't believe Lar, Innocence, Musings, Gargoyle, Devious, Mandolin, Caddy, et al-- and miss some--like Rob, Suede (i will call you by your old name until you magically appear), MaChao. Don't let the youngsters steal your thunder. Rather. Go ahead and let them. Make your own. Here's some Morse Code too (2 spaces in between words):
... . _. _..  _._. ._ ... ....  _ _ _ ._.  ._ _ _ _ _ _ _ . _ _ .

that was way too long for "send cash or woman" jeeeeeezz.

Everyone march forward, and as I've told many of you. As if I don't have enough shit to deal with when it comes to my 35 children and laundry, and mac & cheese for the National Guard. I KEEP apologizing for being tardy with replies. I have a firm excuse on this one, as it appears I am one of the lucky few who has acquired mono for the 2nd time in my life. I'll know 4 sure tom. but that is how it looks, as I can't stay awake for long at all. So. I AM watching. Just not always able to keep up--those people who don't know or care, etc. Fuck off, as I wasn't talking to you anyway.  :love3:(just kidding...don't fuck off, fuck On. with emphasis on "On" of course)

Really, though. It makes me feel bad. Innocence, Lar, Devery. Y'all. The tardy asshole Will appear. When? None of your goddammmmit business.

applause for everyone...even myself.(today i learned i am a tuba prodigy!) a haiku to say guten nacht, and hopefully more later:


scream fem-i-nazis
without suffering women
no such word exists.

sorry for the length of that. you're asleep and i have about 15 minutes until i am down for the count...

Rob, in honor of you mentioning that Frost died. And how we met--you calling me a stalker and me liking it...--

Frost was in love
with the moon and
the sun and life and
his Pepsi and so many
beautiful things.
like the way
he combed his hair
and his beloved marriage.
the Earth,
and how two paths
diverged and he
chose to be the most
glorious thing Ever.

before giving a reading
of his latest pretentious
love for himself,
i think he practiced for
the perfect dramatic voice,
and i imagine him sitting there.

scratching his balls.
and not worrying about

and for that alone
i could despise the man.
but he's dead now,
so i guess i'll just be
nice and say one thing.

i'm not really worse off
without him.

OH! two things.
(you knew already)

and i hope when you read
something of mine.
you don't think,
"golly gee. it's that bulldyke
acting like Frost again..."

i hope that you think of me as a "humdinger"-- what? well. Frost, you know.

holy fuck. i am just coming up for air. holy, holy, holy hail. Fishy, chachacha all you want. it's alliteration gone wild! Devery. i'm done darlin' it's my turn to wash the dishes. that poem actually SCARED me. and i'm old enough NOT to ever be scared, by say, Poe. but what you wrote scared the piss out of me. and note: upon entrance into these 3 pages or so, i see lying here my friends who i've missed for so long it's surreal. i'd write song lyrics about sanity, my own has recently been on a little-known record...uh, Cd called "The Wall" <>the worms are in, folks.

it's empty here, and you?

the knuckles are dragging
as the belly softly hums
what's electric in the
elastic bands, the rubber belts,
the looping knots
and the scribbled pockets,
  what's electric is covered
with pores in which to exchange
linoleum to skin, backwards
carpet to nostril, backwards
ceiling to lungs, backwards.
what's at the tips of the
the floor up to the chin,
the chin is holding tiny bubbles

between cheek and floor
sideways and crooked,
she is heaving
taking these last breaths.
so precious and so beholden
that it makes you quiver
when they slow it down
even one tick on the clock
is her finest hour,
her eyes going blank
out to space or
into one cold painting.
the wheels in an engine
spinning to rust.

and god
her grace as she had crawled
and mewed and burned her
paws and slumbered and ached
and mewed and stretched and
leaned and mewed and she couldn't
quite get there
but god
her grace as her belly went from
carpet to linoleum to try and get
further to the box and god she
was racked with every agonizing
point of her four feet we dazzled
at when she was a kitten and
god she
tried and calmed and broke out
in a five foot stretch and was so
embarrassed as one of her last
mews was a yowl, a gutter-embraced
Yowl of endings, as me turning
the corner

at 3 am

i laid down with her
in her own urine,
knowing just how far
she'd tried to get.
wasn't far enough.

being dizzy there
scratching her little chin
telling her she was good
and could go...
and like all my loves,
she paid no attention
to what i really wanted,
dying instead.

wrinkled and salty hands
felt it, motionless widened eyes
saw it, and my nose took in
her hair
right before the handles flew
off my own chest's lining--
then it was me who gave out
a caterwaul, and i had to bite
into my hand to stop it.
pulled her body closer
as if some cell of mine
was enough bait for god.

as if
3 am
and i had to worry about neighbors'
ears, and wouldn't they call the
cops and it's too early for that,
and aren't you a grown woman
and shouldn't you feel ashamed
to love some 10 pound furry thing
that much to lie in bed all day...
and god

damn it.
tell me where i'm more
than she ever was.
tell me that,
and i'll give you your

Oh, if you only knew. It is me who is missing you.
and the tales of your music have yet to be told...
I am sorry, dear friend. It happens to those I hold dear.
I neglect my house, this place of random meetings and heartaches.
I neglect my real house, which holds a shitload of bills I simply can't pay.
I neglect my cuticles, my time schedules, and my diet restrictions in the worst of it.

But it is my friends--you Lar. I always come back here feeling like my head should be cowed and waiting to be smacked and not forgiven for my lapses. But like you, there are a handful, that are everything to me. Every thing. So this: :love3: Knowing I come back like this:  :embarassed: odd, but this poor little one is rare to find:  :icon_farao: it needs a home. like perhaps in Egypt or something...

I love you too.

"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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blindeffigy--going to go to your link, and a mighty thank you to you as well. :coolsmiley:

I respond when someone asks for feedback ad nauseam because I really do give a shit about poetry. People for that matter. And as in anything in Art, I often feel that you are either "hit" hard by it--or it's a "miss" and there is some serious searching you have to do to understand why. Make sense? Hope so. I'll tell you more when I here your link, k? Just wait on that. There are so many links built up that I feel sometimes as though I am becoming a link myself...


come in and make yourself comfortable
and tell me
tell me
about how you did it again,
only add the small things like how
spittle, foggy, crisp, and clean.
i love you both.
i do.
and i need a bucket, right there under
the cabinet saddling at your nose.
i should have some water they tell me
so breathe into my leaves
because it's fall now,
and i am
quite possibly, probably, proudly, pointedly
telling you.
see me go, no hands.
see me go
don't let me out of the house again
because she was rude at the market and the
man in the car cut me off
and my whole month has been
and i really can't afford therapy
or anything else for that matter,
and i feel
taste or disposed of
something Awful coming.
something Awful.

it's not much, and it isn't quite poetry, but I am officially "stuck" and there is no cure, but to keep going at it.

sweet baby pale face.
honey grey eyes turning green
and back to flickers of orange on my
stubbed ember
honey blue sunken chin.
the hour glass that pops up on this
is the exact amount of time
i continue to spend with you.
that there
hitched-up bosom You bounced
like a gumball machine
  stuffed up a canteen of saliva,
your hair twirling in my fingers
and my eyes on those slacks,
those high
high boots...

baby dawdle drug addict.
drinking on the way to the hotel,
your hand slipped through the wedge
of your seat
and froze my right leg with
streamers from a stolen Stop sign.
tender baker clothing ex foliating Nun.
bringing me crackers and soup
sneaking off with the morphine
tipping the bottle
as I sunk out the bed
below the floor.
laughing lover who swore.
i knew you would have killed both
of them for me, baby.
and when i showed you the stain
your hand fell on mine as slow
and slight. trembling with anger
what they done to me
what they done to me.
i didn't need
anymore knives than i already had

sweet baby hour-slip.
waking me from nightmares and finding
you needed
to give yourself something better
than my face. my arms frozen in
soldier tactics, but willing.
anything for the pain.
anything for the fun.
anything but me kicking the bed
and grass flying out behind my heels.
my right eye was closed almost
Always in a half moon,
and it was those same eyes
that drew you in,
centering you on a mantle.
the altar in the steam of our
dying living room.

i gave you my
dry skin.
you done killed me more
than yourself.
more than them.
you'd done shot the helpers,
stealing the pantry and their
killed the police with a
vigilante beggar.
caught our songs today
and looked in That box you spent
three years building with one
feather and a bra.

i see my death in there
cracked candy lips calling my name.
i see the exact spot you
my inner thigh in a field,
and now i can't walk
without a bevy of bird sips.
this dry belly skin is still
waiting for your lotion.

my long gone second ticking
heartbeat stopped when you
done said.
always, eternity, and your
stupid vice ran over the bay.
rounding the corner just in time.
to see your head slump,
breathing denied.

Emergency Overdose
and you done killed them both
without even stopping to look
at the ugly mattress waving back at
Us and spotty with hairy strangers.
you done must have gone there
when i was purring under the
ultraviolet dripping
hips scolding my crotch and
you saying "yes, yes, yes,
Please, please, please."
and no
i was in for it as long as you
stayed on top of my one
broken finger. my one jutting
my blinking skull ramming so far
into yes,
that a paper clip clamped down and
Started eating.

never again when the leaving
 turned left over a Yield sign
   bent in the hurricane of our
    combined wordless
       bantering. bartering. baiting.
you left my leaving with a promise
five pictures and one epic romance,
all that fucking done did us wrong.
now toasting your pink crevices
and gazing nose
because you don't even know all
your offerings
were for yourself
and mine
in chicken bones that rattle in your
feathered naughty box.

my fossil under your chest,
and waiting to be discovered
by two young men
ready to dance
in the muck,
i'm so prepared now without

all the clothes folded and
your smelling tongue
as the clock puts the letters
in yellows.
you're laughing
watching me go down.
you're laughing
watching them disable my
under the ultraviolet
x-ray machine the rays name you

sweet baby done with me.
honey blue artist swan.

go then.
off in atomic
and you done
never raised to say

thank you.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. i did Not just write that. it is a stolen love letter from a three year old. make that four. and by the way, blindeffigy, everything Larry said--I concur. you're on your way. on your way. and Mr. who gave the poem above me, thank you. It IS going black, isn't it?

this here poem needs work, but i've been going at it now. help me out Dev, Inn, Lar, Mus --anyone. where are the flowing parts stopping? what tactics can i use to .................hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. i shouldn't steal. i will have to walk away from it and come back when i can see it better. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

ACK! look at my pretty darlings GO. and Innocence. I'll take the tree scenario for creative entry of the year. And a mighty hello to you, and you, and another you as well. I shall not give anyone PPDD?? intentionally--rather, only those that deserve it. And you, my apple, do not. :love5:my elder? my elder knows too... :love5: and the rest of you are in the stable, waiting to break free, or eating and knowing your due date. bravo Jason and blindeffigy!

all she remembers is
that one time behind a better
fortress of a wall where
people played plunge the
and isn't it funny what she
dead horses in art therapy
are worth hours of endless
toil, days of switching the
basic flick.     flicking.
--you know what i mean.

a sort of dying during birth
a kind of intake at the
Curve before the car hits the
and just yesterday I saw
for the first time.
a helicopter come in and
shuttle a dying man,
collapsed head in hand
to some sanitary place
where other people Wish,
want, beg
to take His place
like dead horses, all four legs
blown in the socket
and one gunshot in the eye.

but here, here I will show you
a different way to thin
your hips and no scolding for
a choice in lipstick.
here, right here in the places
of passings and goings and
tea, coffee, credit cards all
bowed and Maxed,
follow me to the tunnel.
under here, here
right here.
hold my hand.

it's a slow go of it
and you have to moan out of
the race track...
we need a different kind of
paper mache to mold what
was once Ugly.
pound it in the face with
your forehead and I promise
that here or there at some
corner in a field of sand

i give you sea shells that
you can lick,
changing their color to
these were my parcels
when I was being taken
by the jockey,
swollen feet burning loose
of being mastered,
and all four legs like
on the rails.

the difference?
i may be belly-turned
like an open roasted pig.
but my "spit"
is now our spit,
and even as we roll forwards,
now a little bit backwards--
aint nobody going to
shoot my friends.

my lovers sneak in at
night in the middle of my

sizzling up close and saying
"i saw you looked a little cold"
and i nuzzle my younger
off to lessons, sweet apple.
a phantasm pulling her roots
out and sprawling them to her
Own School. the whole world's
been shaking wet, sweet apple.
i pray without wafers and kneeling
   there are no more...   quit that.

shots taken of my electrocuted
the horror of which my humble
elder strokes out of my hair,
humming something about
Spanish moss and gravy,
neither of which we feel a desire
to mention.
our polite entries are folding
over napkins, shaped like flamingos.
and no.      isaid QUIT IT.
don't show the men lined up
to be hung, swinging in a loop
like bags of potato poets.
copies of lynchings and
a kiss on the left and on the
what's right is the Spanish moss.
our gravy song cleaning a
frozen bald barn.
red paint faded like a kitchen
worn from bacon grease.
perched on a median.

i Do take you be my Woman.
i Do take you by the pinky.
I do take you to stand Mster.
I do wait for both of you.
the railways shut in ghosts.
here comes the trains.
one on the right
another on the right,
gazing towards the right.
give me a 15 minute nap.
i'll hand you my horsey

second only to an ostrich
in size. befitting all the facts
dropped in egg yokes along
the road.
a kitchen worn to threads.
the spinning starts when
to the right
and to the right.
i find your barn as red as an
i find your palm pilot pieces
discussing surgery at my knee.

Spanish moss
and an apple.
a broken horsey with molars
in the front.

am i chewing you?
and grazing you?
am i          stopping that.
i've seen my accident on tape.
the jockey flew a furlong,
no remorse for the fact.
a few rocks in my hooves.
just like fingernails.
and i can gulp so well
i become Hrungnir.
a gnat has my attention.
now a fly. infinte buzz.
the jockey flew a furlong.
and the angry bettors

oh on oh. spin the famous
watch again. my leg snapped
off backwards on the rail,
and now the stable boy barely
touches the wall. tense like the
albino gene that kills my kind.
the Turkoman and the Tarpan.
my turds fill up their fossils.
and you're on one side
a' smilin'. the other, well.
attending my knee and singing.
apples and Spanish moss
gravy in red kitchens.
by the roads
1/8th a mile is a cracker jack
furlong for residence.
even so.

all of which rumbles.
all of this rumbles.
take this board down
with chalk.
we're on fire
in the nest of a stall.
a splendid bolstering
speed of fire.
these loves passing

I never want to roll
over too quick on you.
the sound of your
your breath.
your soft shoulders heave
making me feel...

take these shells.
you can lick them
and they will change
i lied           and now Stop.
you won't just get pink.
a dash of blue, even yellow.
crawl 100 yards and lick
again. salty. all our mossy
fruit is salty-sugar.

i'm your horse and pony!
the shape you make with
multiples of fives,
and you allow me my three.
love my three limbs.
you and you.
my skin is just a bit more
sensitive than gravy.

--------------------------------------"we" have been modified. we may be modified again. :icon_rr:

Rob. You are here again, plodding out your poems with some rapidity and that makes me happy. There is need for your poetry. There are requirements that are fulfilled. There are people who not only appreciate them, but adore them. A weird quote, "What you write is better than what you are." Accept it or toss it, there is something inside of that ---something that would only appeal to perhaps someone like me. I refuse to put your stuff out on the lawn. That was the best poem from you (for me) that I have eaten in the last few days. Thank you. If you'll excuse, I am going to continue crying now. There is no shame in both dusting off those annoying and trivial hurts, and at the same time crying about it in writing. If I do not flush the toilet, it will overflow. And no. My life Has been a wonderful jaunt--I am lucky, lucky, lucky. That is why my poetry is So absurdly pathetic for the most part...yin yang ping pong.

"I grew tired of the gender of things..."


a termite is digging in on my cheek,
as soggy and bold as a beached whale
peering through its great One Eye and
telling me that wood for the furnace,
wood for the stove and warmth,
wood for the paper,
is nothing like flesh for the insect.
the termite is a traitor and a revolting
swirl of mass that will be found out
to be a greasy, dressed-in-black
dirty criminal in its time.
lasting as far as my cheek can go,
and perhaps further through the tongue,
and then down into the throat where
the bot fly takes kittens,
and then passing the fly with its missiles
on a cold fire, into the pit of this
stuttering stomach.

and acid will announce itself and eat
my pretty, lovely, driven and misunderstood.
oh, i would have given it a home if it
could have gone up the nose and into the
brain. a soul or God or Santa or a Buddha
sits there belching, waiting for Mama to
come home and then a quick kiss on the
cheek again.
a dialogue of traveling exploits that would
bust the doors of an insurance salesman
with its annoying, prickly, circus of dry

oh, if the termite had visited just years ago,
what a festival of skin it could have rejoiced
and called for Allah to bring it In on a Wave
of broken spoons and forks without spikes,
eaten bare by a cousin--caterpillar, caterpillar.
walking up my thigh. surprised how wet it was
years ago, the heat of July and a name of a
servant called Mammy, a rude Aunt Tom speaking
Shakespeare without understanding a single
all those letters caterpillar, larvae of my drums,
finger up my nose and giggling, termite! your
Aunt Tom ran up my slackened thigh, the snot from
That nose comes from the stinky private spot
Termite would have been fond of, I know.

What a home for you in there, the arches and
backwards alleys where the yeast could break
out in a dance and make a socialite scratch
the fuck out of her crotch, oh termite, the caterpillar
took my salt and pepper, my assortment of
rare coins and the tunnel for a prick that
Aunt Tom politely avoided, fingers all numb and
juice withheld this time. like a lime. like a lemon.
like the fat in my cheek you are digging through
Termite of my belief! oh, i bow to you and sing
a hymn. the hymn of relief and the hymn of dying.

your time is limited to funnel, funnel, funnel. hurry
as there are spiders crawling between my toes.
Aunt Tom has left with a note that says,
"a prick would have been better" a prick or two
Can be nice, but there is little time left for we
are entering the End Times. The grand exit for the
cheetah, the blue whale, the bees are buzz buzz-Undoing
Byzantine chants and Russian Fairy Tales--Always.
food. stranger. incest. betrayal. liar. liar. liar.
the warnings fly by in Africa and incantations as rudely

as our skin flakes into dust, the ocean crushes rocks,
the billions of years it took to skid directly to the Milky
Way corner where a Red Star will eat its planets
like French kisses. border assaults and the bees are
Buzzing, busy-blue. spotting the dying arch of an
arm on a tree and calling out to the crows, and I refuse
to let the crows eat my beloved, awkward, and now
Humbled guest, Termite of my Own! Termite to cuddle...
unlike the bees, not as awful as they portend, grotesque
yellow masks at a ballroom dance sanctioned and pivoting--
and refusing flowers. refusing flowers as if they are
suddenly queer. as if the gender of their role in
nature was absolved by...Termite, little white thing
of nails. rods. drills. a machine tackles and misses,
as I cup the little man. Aunt Tom.
Peck on the cheek...

you require no more help.
small lonely only criminal termite.
come to my cheek.
cum on my cheek.
male or female.
i fake the orgasm.

_-----------------------------------You are responsible for this. Go directly to Her "hornet" poem--to a lesser extent, "consorting with angels" You are asleep. This one is a little different. A little bend you've given without knowing. And it's of course not only You. But I count...multiples of 5, and i give my knees...or would that be my cheek? (revolted? t'was a joke) Rob deserves credit too. That literally flew out, as we say. I imagine. 4 hours or 4 minutes. Subject to revision of course.


"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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It appears Devery, that I should leave you alone with 2 broken fingers --and I am struggling -fuck. I should have broken my hand sooner, fallen into a pit of misery, and left you alone to continue your Book in Homage to Frost. (err hahaha) No. Stunned. Always. Where? Why? I should never encourage anyone again...except...
"Woman Like A Man" D. Rice B-Side should be dedicated to my ex. And here she is, lying across the arm of the chair, waiting to F__K any single thing.

knew it, but not when--
that the call would be
hysterical and frantic,
like a dog in heat.
lost in some bar you'd never
encountered before
and the heroin
of my fallen heroine
collapsed and poised
in a circle, rattling her tail,
ready to drop those fangs.
13 minutes on her cell phone,
wanting to fix by sewing
and lacking thread--
no problem for the lippy
Monster Mom she loses
in a two-lane maze.

confirming the condition:
bleeding on scraped knees and
giggling about that--it reveals
All our love poured out
on the street, into the drains,
on the drips and tiny feet of Rats.
my small feet included and deleted
letter by l e t t e r.

my dear vagina host, it was
some sort of joke your Mom
spilled on the kitchen floor
or better,
down the Sink you once dared
dared, laughing at my quizzical
fat face.

"put your hand down and i'll
turn the disposal on for just a

and so the coincidence that
my hand was broken
like a chicken neck,
when i needed turkey.
it's thanks -give to me day.
it was a covert secret drunken
and you shouldn't remember it
you can't remember it
you won't remember it--
shed your skin Mrs. Rattler.
shed it into the mouths of
all the delighted pursued,
the creases of Kitsch heads
like mine
waiting to exhale and let you
die a ridiculous death.
an infected skinned knee i

cause Jumble Jo has money
and he's healthy and 
you fuck him on top like your
Mom did when she bashed the
side of that head just as thunder
makes a chandelier tinkle.
You were brittle it seems.
So play the same way taught
and dominate, subjugate,
terminate in a waltz.
and wasn't it...cum at the
same time, you said?
cum at the same moment?
Jumble Jo's coming back tomorrow,
and tonight
you regret.
oh, you slur over two minutes
and i allow it like a piglet.

some shrapnel aching to dig
deeper. some way to Be the
folding, smiling, warm hues your
Mother should have given without

but this is so old, the new wrinkle
in my brow is laughing at my
ear. i'm a fool waiting to hear one
word. i'm her fool, her Riot in silence,
her beacon back to art.
my mouth is now almost under
and when I look up
I dare to look down.
I see Narcissus stretching on my
lonely chair. Picking her teeth with
fifty dollar tweezers that insisted
we Need, need, needed.

My Love
it meant little to you to share
the same bowl with me,
my hunger may have amused,
but it could not detain your wretched
cruel and flawless Mother.
as the minutes crawled down,
i did not breathe. i looked under
the table
for a train to knock me dead.

you are the conclusion
of why children never turn into
adulthood without grunting,
possibly never and as a casualty-
all my screwed-in dead ones.
without a heap of trash bags
to lug on their backs.
no, you'll never forget it.
never be over it.
and be just like her.
heroine taking heroin,
wanting to try everything just once.

feel my fist connect.
you have 5? minutes left on the
cell phone,
and my shoe spirals through
burning the side of your face,
like Your MOM birthing you
and crapping a ton of misery
in your timid lips.
the birthing has been reversed,
and i have shoved you back
into the dark
so whine, cry, bitch.

a canal like her cunt
resembling somewhat the pink
labia surrounding yours-
an innocence that should have
been the bruised color of my own
lovely curls.
 stained glass that has
gone horribly beautiful and odd,
all this time without the skinniest
fingers you hold...
no knuckles belong in them,
and yet they once belonged
in me.

find Mama next time you're
Tripping and he's out with Boys
slinking in the woods
laughing at their farts,
age 65. age 10. spitting duels
for husband. find your Ma.
go find your Ma
in the mirror
where you placed your hair
with thirty bottles of conditioning,
straightening, bonding,
for your day.
look at you now. closer at the nose.
your "good" side is a
of a woman dying with a line of
Men coming up from the soil like
to touch the illusion of a warranty
all thin fingers and a hidden rattle.
doesn't matter if the rattle was
your toy, or now your tail-
the delusion of safety confronts
as you hurry and say

you're running out of minutes.
could i call your friend's number...
seven one seven

and i am deaf.
i am deaf.
and you are crying.
my pink woman.
my beastial snake.
and dumbcluck.

i don't know if
my fingers broke
before or after
you called.
or why.

sheeit. this needs a ton of work..........................a ton of work but i have to go and only have a few fingers at hand. this ending sucks and is fiction, but it felt that way...shit. advice. serious...the ending is screwed, and i have to fix it. but later. and Devery. Fishy. Innocence. Larry. Everyone--i've missed you 2. ps. ROB. whoever has "dissed" you--it's not me. never. If anyone thinks that I have forgotten their writing and efforts--how wrong that is.

Mandolin--1st I miss you. 2nd--if you're going to write poetry like that, then you should continue to WRITE as the mood strikes you. Some lovely images in that one, and I bow in your direction. :coolsmiley:

in the a.m.
the sun's blinking through
a strand of cloudy blinds,
all bound up in a girdle.
pink tints hurled as loyal and
faithful as no person could
Ever be or squander.

this isn't gambling,
with a promise to keep
at least fifty for a bill,
make that forty--
before leaving the table.

here is the sun that always
makes the body go fishing,
aroused in so many
bald personal kinks.


frost looks dismayed to
find the moon has left it--
as if in doing so, it means
the romance has resigned.
not even leaving a note
on the pillow,
a blasphemous Cheater.

I can't imagine how
both partners met
on a dance floor,
but I believe it to be
why Dawn and Dusk
each hold their "D"
tight in pockets of
tides slurping in
and fondling the sand

standing out on the
watching the frost start
to wind down the face
of the windows on the car,
hoodwinked and dazzled
by the pace of light.

this full dilation by 
increasing broad shoulders,
swirling yellow into the
i want to lunge into the
interior Cold, and watch this
talented ice turn to water,
just as fire to embers,
children to adults.

how fast it all goes was
declared by science in
uniform recognition,
all straining in some
whether real or imaginary,
whether pink or yellow,
singing about carbon and

water to frost to water,
All of it toying with the
Ground, tickling sides.
me in the backseat of a
car shaking my breath
like a martini.
my jaw opens and i realize
the presence of body heat
will speed up my Sunny-
Frost show...

to be selfish, thankful, and
guilty all at once.
the Sun dismantling the
ice in this or that spot
with a wry chuckle,
even the smallest nature
Watch is full of change.
and not a thing the moon
can do about it.
revenge comes at night.

i get out the scraper
before the toes turn black.
take the Sun's side for
and scrape off the frost,
helping it run towards
the ground, so that it may

again and again while
i resume my love for the
clouds breaking in their
shoes, the Sun firing off
verbal nettles.

perhaps slightly forlorn
to see the frost
fall down all winter
to be infallible is the part
forgotten when it comes
to our Star.
the burden it carries passes
even the astronomer
as meaningless.

today the feeling for this
dear frost and sweet sun
is like finding that the
brought you a mole
on the porch--
giving Mama the dregs,
dead animal gifts.
gross and appreciated.

falling off a car.
once clutched
in an absurd and human

jfoahaghadja;dij;anmcviahefgrg;oirgh;aroigha;orgh;adjf;adj i had space to fill somehow. sorry. :violent5:

this is an ugly, ugly "narrative" poem. read it. forget it right after. i have been dry for so long that i have to scratch the dust off to even find my bearings. and no. i don't need a shrink. this is my shrink. the sequence of the stanza's--off a tad i do think. time can change anything, although i doubt the Earth's gravity will change all that much. did you know, it's'd have to lift 200 lbs. on the moon for it to = 20 lbs on Earth? (round about numbers, but damn close) amazing. what is more amazing is when you are so sick that you can't even walk to the corner of your street without being winded. when you are little and healthy, you can never conceive of such a thing. time can change anything?

one week in bed or on
the melted chair,
swayed under my weight.
my baby boy walks by
and purrs with his timely
egyptian face. i try to
smile the infant's warmth,
and fail.

my knees are crippled
and in constant salsaThrobs,
working sideways to sleep
shifting the whole falling
up to my chin when it's
watering time. up to piss and
up to eat cereal, and down
again. salsaThrobs noticed.

oh jenny! jenny!
where has our tough,
rounding corners to catch
an extra base, balls up and
knuckles in, a smash up the
middle, and oh, she once
flew like a viper.
caught everything in hands,
buried A's like moths snatching
lightbulbs. flying or was it skidding?
seemed like a viper anyWhichway.

head to the floor,
new schools bubbling up between
coast and corn
never in fashion, braces and
glasses and everything falling
in counted synonyms when
head to the floor,
hidden cans with words that
gurgled as infants to the
same writing over and over
until the holocaust
actually knocked on the door

politely asked to come in,
sat quietly on a rocker
and when asked if it needed
everything smelling of burnt

oh, jenny! our jenny!
look at her patience, writing
notes with one hand while an
unfortunate chews on the other...
she'd say, "there, there, my love"
and smiles would roam the
workplace like bunnies. she
could be anything.
she might bring the sky down
and hold it for a bit.
she can juggle anything.
some hospital visits required.

from the instant the thing
was consecrated and grew
a tiny timid brain.
from the instant they gazed
at the birthing of this new
breed without skin.

she was already swollen.

not talking to anyone.

selfish and depressed.

as good as gone.

oh, jenny
she's gone ill and don't
you know. try not to look at
her as that...
she does the best she can
doesn't she?
doesn't anyone?
she's our baby, baby girl.
and even when we're gone...

the melting chair
and salsaThrobs
and watering cans.
get her up at least to piss
and take some pills.
encourage movement at all
times, no matter how small.

time can change anything.


"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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albunde--where have you gone? you may be "new" to me, but come back. Devery. We are so late on Ting it's silly. After the holidays? YOU are overdue on your own poetry. I give you one day to give me one stanza at least. And if you can't put an entire masterpiece together, then send me a pm with a tidbit in it...
Anne and Emily swinging in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!

Revision #33333333333333333333333333333333333333333333...
 "half crack'd"

come to me witches,
no need to swirl around that
bare, bald mountain musical
i am of you and because of
you, around your drab dresses
and above them
as well.

Beelzebub herself.
the rich have seats in the
best spots for Opera.
but for my witches,
i offer my copious rhapsodies
allegro! crescendo!
now kiss me slowly,
so much the more of It
Starts in the salient moan.

before the brass start
for Gabriel.   

my Smut's Mythology.

1 can run so fast lightning
slits its wrists.
in the tub obviously.
head lopped to a tilt.
pills and booze to get on.
make do.
Just as you already saw
how, no need for the Y.

yes. lightning.
its head is captured Here.
(click on "Here")

this next slide Officer
is a picture of my spread legs.
a perfect pawn shop cunt.
sewage spilling out or On, with a
cricket standing proud.
ants and raw meat are what
you See Now,
but look at my baby's foot!

look at your feet Witch!
a bunion is nothing like
what smells Jolly
without ever showering
in this fickle weather.

let's consider
another photo in time

1-half foot sticking part
way out,
not the common way to
release children from the vapors
of gut baggies.
but judge me as
my mother's toes are
pink and Before you.
before her was me before
me was before her,

and you're becoming a
golden member of needing
no time to live in when
this Mass is done. you will
be me before time was before
looking all sullen, lips
pursed and narrowing.
Narrow or demanding a
penny for a hit or prick.

baby ma's foot needs
tickling just
as much as my penis.
no, my dear rolled-eyed
why you're so afraid of this
I have buckets of bodily
needs. My feces perhaps
the Best of it--

is only a reaction to being
Awful      ly
unusual yourself.
forget the college stories,
and the fact your birth

have made you run so fast
you have no need for limbs.
your copperhead
private abdomen
supplies 2 dicks for 1.
i am now
wagering bets you can't
fuck for 16 hours straight
while humping.
Use the club pass.
The one that bars the niggers
will not please me...

i love my black beatific
sorceresses also.
please turn down the Bias.
toss your pennies in
a fountain
and my Satanic visage will
even swallow you there.
make a nice fat wish-prayer.
are you confused
that they are not the same?

my mother's little babe leg
is halfway out my vagina.
my dick has
discretely placed itself
in your mouth during
intermission. wake up and
pay attention.

swallow. (you knew that!)
i noticed in your pictures
that wreaths were put on
top of both those budding
penis nuggets
as they grew. and how the
1 lies to the right.
1 to the left.
Obviously we are snakes.
Worms are wiggling out of
the gates of heaven.

meaning: the moon.
and by introduction of myself
as Beelzebub,
i was also introducing you.
a union of union of union--
and everywhere.

there is bounty in lust, your
finger knows you best.
We are becoming
born of them, around them and
even descending below
Them. let's call for a strike.
let's stop my cum before your
cheeks gitjizzled.

i promise i will only be
true about this once. or did
your prayer pennies go 4?...
All the time we are together.
flying and bouncing marbles
off Eros' face stuck in tar.
a quick titter at Cupid's fat
Ass. aha!

let's get rid of those
ancient things. those
messy memories full of
crippling birthdays
where we both know
daddy and mommy
were forcing their smiles
About You.

lying about the cake.
the kazoo's you never had.
the time you were made fun
of for having an erection too
or bleeding through those panties
and running in terror.
we know Every Option
 on how a body
can be buggered, raped, and
 still be a piston in my bed.
I know how to woo you

away from shame.
you are in full view and smell
of my soiled and fetid

oh, yes.
i know everything about
All of you running. hiding.
Sad ones, in the bad seats
at the Opera. let's make it a
concert and light our heads--
all dicks and cunts Ablaze in
a furious riot to rush the Stage.
get up on top of me,

my cricket will step aside.
my sewage-filled cunt,
my mother's leg flopping out
like a white flag flaps for peace.
I will even forget this child for you.
I am not the kind to love the pack-
doggies. But if you are a dog,
we can work on manners.
Option #2. I'll wave my
and BindUs as Wolves.

look at my nipples stand up for You!
the bravest soldier in any attack
has the hardest teats.
my 5th one on the left never gets
but my nipple skin covers where
you are sitting. 

not to mention.

your view by now.
you see me as vulgar
and i hug your
tenderly plucking the rest
of your wreaths,
from your crossed legs.
i've snatched your erected
your hymens' flesh.
and now that we have fucked.

you can stay as long
as lightning hits.
slashing wrists while
Laughing on opiates.

open your eyes now that
I've ravaged you.
Ripped your intestines
out and blended them for
breakfast. You can be me
can be you and me eating
Ourselves Now.
keep me Always.
Pennies from Heaven.
my ticket's punched for you
  Super Fine Witch.
go ahead...

talk your way

oh. no  no  no nonononnonono. this is not for children. and perhaps i will delete it, as i am feeling this is Quite Possibly. Too disgusting for even myself. I'll think on that one.

he gave me the first drag of a cigarette,
and kicked the ball to me
gently challenging my legs,
their cunning and prowess,
unknown to me.
he flung daggers that went into
their sheaths upon striking,
my torso returned the assault,
playing sword-fight
with weed, stick, toy

and always ending up in the dirt.
rolling like so many marbles
down the bottom of the back
down to the huge willow tree,
and behind that to the trail
in the woods we had forged,
daring Robin Hoods'--
blowing cap guns at imaginary

discretely turning away from
one another to pee
by the dead tree limb
we would roll over and search
at times.
him. daddy#2. blonde locks flipping
Off their fingers
at driver's passing by...

him, all limbs akimbo, and
slim with thick lips.
it was the timber of his voice
that would call me when he knew
i was just scared enough
as he had hidden
and it was growing dark outside...
i'd come running as a dog
to food.
he'd proudly place me upon his

and take me over the blazing
cookie sheet of a street,
known only to me as the horror
of asphalt.
my feet never roughened enough,
and his flopping without flinching,
he'd start into a jog, stop quickly
and hold me tight upon the
canoe of his shoulder blades.
me laughing with brother.
the Laugh that brings all beings
to union.

and as he dared to reach further
to find something to accomplish.
be productive. clearly it Was
a production! A play! A coup!
The resistance worn down on one

my head lying next to the toilet.
something between my legs.
and the reason he is not
invited to Christmas...

a gentle boy all the same, and one
with defects I would come to know
as "simple" while he was adding
to his brain,
speed, acid, booze, Any Thing.
the call home after he ditched
high school and the family
dinner table,

I had said nothing of our Changed
Play. I had offered no reason why
my hair was unwashed and I wore
only jeans. A denim Robin Hood
to the hilt...
running down the gym dribbling,
all the girls in shorts, and me in
my Jeans. Lips snapped shut like
can flaps.

oh, dad.
it was not so much that you failed
Me. you could not have known
until my mouth became unhinged
under the pressure
of a centrifuge move to
the coast.
no longer raising my hand in class.
no longer talking or bringing
in friends.

when you got the phone call
that your son was hospitalized,
your daughter had simply beat
him to it,
and there in the halls of a rancid
shower-- a grown woman watching
close. some pieces of me were
left swirling around the drain--
chipped soap scraps.
and though i have been forgiven
for punching you at age 13,

your son. the one that carried
me through cliffs, and told the
neighbor Virgin Princess to
Leave Me Alone.
to stop teasing me on the bus
where a crowd would watch
as i turned the sway of my
to look out the window,
growing good at the trick of it.
not listening to the jabs
but Seeing all of them.
she left me alone after his
warning, for i was his wife.
his buddy and little sister.
his dream to be productive.

all those years ago
he was festering something awful
and your anger at Him
allows you no forgiving
of Me.

i know. even so. that the only thing
you have in your shoes
to provide to him as he
glides over asphalt
the rest of his days,
is a check.

here and there.
certainly at Christmas...

a paradox.
(perhaps a catch-22?)

one has a wound
that is festering,
willing to take the
whole body down.

it is the stuff of
mucus and clay,
the molding of cell
to cell, and the inability
of the body
to Grin.

the mind knows nothing
of this, except for
the printed instructions
and warnings for the
bandaid dressings
a miscellaneous
has presumed to be

(having been schooled
and memorized the # of
bones in the body, these
wizards lack sympathy
in direct proportion to
the need of it...)

or perhaps. you have
found a wise one, and one
that knows the sand of
your disposition
by reading a chart
and shaking your hand.

(this is much like looking
in a crystal ball. or perhaps
reading the palms?)

and so it goes...
that right at the moment
when the hospital calls for
their part of 666666666....$$
that you will never have,
and make 10 buck payments

when pestered.

(One Runs to the Pharmacy)
(One slumbers in with their
Disease and Waits for 2 hours
for 4 pills)

One can only afford one of
those precious jewels.
searching through the aisle
for relief,
one will undoubtedly

purchase the wrong
press it over the wound
of Misery.
and watch as the wound

the rest of the body
falling Off.
right there.
outside the gates

of the health

(the ambulance will
not arrive in time. the
technicians will taunt the
choice of bandaid chosen)

even when the heart
Stops Dead.
pitapat. thump-de-
eyes glazed and
open to the Sky...

I am fond of ambiguous and mysterious well as head-on collisions.
Innocence. I probably can't reach you before I leave for the trip. You should continue to Write. You are truly unbelievable, and I leave my heart at your step--knowing you will pick it up! Devery. I'm giving it my best shot for now!

The Exchange
Charlie rounds the corner,
heading to the Plaza.
the bass is so high
that Ting's legs look like
buoyant toothpicks in a
candy jar,
ricocheting off the door
and her pill bottles as
one of her pump's frowns
under the front seat.

her head jogs loose like
a rabbit's foot key-chain
in a child's clinched Fist
while bobbing for apples.
and then she remembers
as the lights change to orange,
it is time for the meat cleaver
and the paw
of the butcher's fat hand to
fall again...

Charlie's door slams and gives
Ting the scent of cooked duck.
she knows it's table #35,
but not whether the hair that
will be sitting there will be
firm red, black coal, or blonde-

groping for her cell phone,
the door fumbles from its
clicks and red velvet,
and her right leg falls into
the sip of a green gutter...
as the Red Cement rides closer
to her nose,
a flash from a camera

sends her arms soaring into
the window and the bulge
of His midriff,
her teeth grinding like salt
into crystal,
and her mind excusing a
decade of disco memories
in bathroom stalls...

Charlie grabs her by the
back of the neck,
and shakes her like a dead
Ting's feathers
discharge themselves from
and she finds her heel
pounding the front of
her foot for oxygen.

the car has gone into White,
and she flows up
onto the curb like a notebook
heaved out of a drawer.
she looks down her legs
for wool stockings
and eye's the rip in her hose.

no one is on the sidewalk.
her legs meet the concierge
upon turning to the left,
as a toddler in a bell boy cap
beams at her bosom
like it's cooked orange duck.

Ting halts. The cell phone in
her purse has escaped,
leaving the rest of the imprisoned
Objects to run wild.
a white rabbit's foot
made into a clip-key-chain
finds her hand.

middle pocket.
a ringlet of cut claws
under a tapestry of silk
diving into her wrist
like a cleaver spanking Fat.


"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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Okay Ms. Cheeky! Welcome back to YOU. All of my poems are Thoughtcrimes.

he carries in five foundation
Poles crackling on the back
of arthritic fires--refusing a heat
Pad to take the inflated heart
for sale to town. there, with lucky
Power, he might pause. forget losing
the brown wisps that boasted
Picayune cardiac arrests. much as
the man seated himself on the

Bench with weights spilled like dice--
startled and tired knuckles...could've
Bellowed for help, but it was impolite
to ask for assistance at 40. the way
Hercules glowered Atlas down at dinner,
ripping knots of flesh out of his nose,
Heaping those grand shoulders up &

Down while sighing the breath of--a rabid
Dog loose on the plains, dismissing yarn &
Hurtling backwards. shot without a license
Holding a gun, he scratches the door with five
Big Pillar's for retirement and waits. the
Bow plunges into fruits and yodels out thick
Pacifying sugars. aroma therapy-ittle. robust
Pants lying next to one calculating cigar.

the dinosaur knocks. pale, soft. glassy.
giving away the next check-
Mate. "they just say 'mate' now."

a Doric Column. the fifth
Pillar left. Drops.

The Lobby Ambulance

Ting saw the cookie next to the
desk clerk's hand, one mouth-sized
hunk removed so easily
that a forensics's expert could
easily identify Mr. Polish,
the name so full of consonants
and her constant mispronunciation
of it rolling over her in a quirky way
like seaweed on a
shoulder instead of a thigh--
the Pul-ick-ni-gin-kle-est
cookie man.

absurd and abrupt, the top of
the polish cookie man's toupee
had a perfection
that the arches in the cherry wood
rolling up the ceiling as cathedral
glass constructs,
could only attain through artificial
breast implants.

yes. it was much like the
wedding she had once had in Latin--
lying all the way through while
the Other gave the ring and Ting
Away to the butcher.
his daughter's black long hair
was so greased that St. Paul
bounced his orange lights off her
brow and down her nose.
no eyes. why not? why were they
(no. it could not have been Him)
it could not have been him.

through the haze of a foggy t.v.
screen-lamp, the iceblock had ruptured
her fingernails and was most disturbing.
Ting was separating faces she knew
into cubes. imperfect round cubes with
salad dishes to the sides of their heads,
all with the number 35 tattooed with
stamped out shredded carrots...

going backwards, the thump of
a magazine table, a woman's luggage
Set, and the oriental rug that covered
everything in lace stiletto smears
made her deaf and teased.
most of all
more than anything
the pressure in her armpit made her
want to giggle and bring it further,
the dangerous horse named in Polish
seemed to fall in love under
her nose, her eye, her
red, red leather skirt.

Nen now prying them through his teeth,
administering C.P.R.
as even the bell boy cap-head swarmed
but would not touch.
the Other walked over her eyes and
Ting reached up to tickle her inner
or at least get in behind her knee.
at least get in behind the knee.
the girl from the car was now an

ambulance technician.
hostile and pounding her for answers
like the trial for sorcery where she
had been checked for devil's bite marks.
extra teats. the fog made this blood-
taker ask over and over and over...
"allergies?! take...drugs?! did you...?!!!"
she was blonde and her breasts were
slightly grazing against Ting's own

and that is where she had always
wanted it most. the area around her chin.
how fitting. a tribute. the fog sliding cubes
into rooms where one chair and a desk
were waiting to watch the Sex of it.
a picture of the ocean tilted on the wall.
Ting was lifted by the Other,
who looked like a bell boy but was certainly
the blonde girl technician from the car
covered her mouth,
and Ting yelled into a Styrofoam

might as well have been a pillow.
might as well have been a chunk of
tossed out of a fat man's hand,
caught in jest in Nen's mouth,
the ambulance taking notes as it
ran over a lady on the sidewalk

and it just couldn't be possible.
not even possible it was Ting's mother.
but it was her mother that held her
hand over her mouth.
hand over her mouth,
time and again.
the blonde technician taking notes
after her arms were strapped.

a line of gravy dripping fast
her clothes cut off from her.
some blonde technician still stamping her
fingers in anger, writing numbers that were
cubes made into circles. Ting told the little
girl, "you aren't my daughter!" and was amazed
to find the hand of the bell boy

sneaking up her leg.

he was all over her.
all over her.
from entrance
to fall
to exit
to ride.
the bell boy was all over her.

and Nen seemed proud to have a
protege'...Nen seemed proud to have
his life again.
These were Ting's last thoughts
before her pulse
covered her mother's mouth on
the sidewalk.
no. not the sidewalk after All.
she covered her mother's mouth
so the Other would not become


Bravo!! I don't have a heart, am not a prostitute (though i try), and don't have 40 cents, either. If I missed someone, I shouldn't :coolsmiley: have. Fantastic.

she has silk and brooches,
bracelets of gold, ivory keys,
the rarest of gems,
and all of them, each piece that
might save ten lives or twenty...
but her hands are tied from such
humanitarian affairs,
and instead her business is
only the business
of dealing the heir.
bursting her sack open with a prince
swinging out, both twigs slicing with
agile swords...

she can't imagine the pain that it will
take from her body,
only the price of the prince
and the Hold, Hold, Hold
it will give her from being flushed down
the well should her insides fail.
even a female would not suffice
enough, and this is the way it Was
and why they still put the baby
girls out to die in some other lands.

there are only so many useful things
a thing with brooches can do.
silk and ivory and gems and lover's
glances, "making eyes" over a long,
long, long table
that we call history...
and I will call Her.


tonight I see Jocasta
loving her son in sin,
not recognizing the father
that laid him outside.
the sugar of his lips sweet,
his bravery and beliefs
as earnest as an

and had not his very presence
stopped famine and unrest?
had he not been innocent himself
in slaying his father at an
an intersection is where
Everything Happens.

Jocasta doesn't see that the
clean and sparkling diamond
will quite soon
bring her running into the dirty
running as she stabs At her
the needles blunt and tearing
the flesh around her eyes first,
daring her further,
and so she does that thing.
that urge we have all had...
at least once and ignored
but. But. But.

pokes them out like plum


on a different continent,
a place so hot, they say,
the hunting itself must be
kept short owing to a

the people are so black
they would look like tar
if it wasn't for their teeth,
a pigment so dense that it would
seem to carry water itself,
but it doesn't.
it simply tells the sun to give
the feet a break
for the long days in sand.

the mirage sees
the lost tribal member
long before the man will put
his teeth into the dirt
and choke to the distant rhythms
of animal skin
waiting for God to give, help,
Hold. Hold. Hold.
it is not too much but everyone
at an intersection
in the sun--
to ask for food to sustain.
to ask for shelter to sustain.

disease will come and wipe
the slate clean without
a single human
understanding the riddle.


I wanted to take the chair out
from beneath God when he sits
for dinner at the longest table
in the Universe,
wanted to goose him in a bar
as his lumpy butt slips by,
and play the animal skin drums
with my brooch stuck in my eye.

I wanted to do this to show
the injustice of the service.
That it is not a pretty pretty
jewel of a thing
to know death to be real.
But with one eye out already,
I am looking for That One Savior,

swirling my head around at odd
like a ribbon knotted way too far
to the left.
perhaps the right.
doesn't matter much to you
doesn't matter much to you...

look at your shoes.
underneath are the Dead
and they will be asking questions
from and for you.
drums, brooches, and the infinite

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. shiite.

Thank YOU BOTH--Dev & Wyatt. I liked hearing it Wyatt, but your kindness in writing it was also a gift. This way I can go back and forth, back and forth --as much as I want.  Dev. I am "winging" it here. (it will not be worthy of Her, but i'll try)

Dr. Nen & Sister?

she felt nothing but a slight
buzz in a vacuum,
and down at her knees
a beautiful jellyfish withstood
a cage of hands, just to wrap
its strings
up her torso,
producing a chorus line of
rainbow jets.
it was surreal and real,
unbelievable but true
that a horsefish the size
of a pinky nail now let
go of its sack of babies
right on her pupil.

she was delirious and bent
over in laughter at her white
and rough servants,
telling them their needles
were useless against veins
already plunged and cleaned
so many times
that rubber fishing boots
and cracking clams,
eating crab and lobster butts...

it all looked like a restaurant.
tittering at the thought of
being an appetizer,
her every motion was sent
backwards by restraints,
and verbal telephone bills.
her cell phone was in
her left hand,
and she hit the pound button.
Charlie would come
and flick off the retarded
with one bicep coiled
around a neck...

they had the half-sterile tube
far down the throat,
rolling their eyes,
swaying the gurney like a
ten speed going uphill for
the first time.

without so much as
a wakeup call,
an R.S.V.P. letter
or apology...
all the hands came off,
and Ting finally felt that
her feet were safe in the
peeping kiosk.

but the room.

the room was stenciled
with chicken gizzards,
black as her bedroom with
the butcher was, where no
moon litter
ever came through
the sink of a window
at her right.
at her right.

to the right.
was the slick black long hair,
that smile small in the left
her sister's high forehead.
sitting on a calendar and sundial.
a meat cleaver and sickle
placed like flowers on
the morning-stand.
the basin as red as the slaughter

above her.
the bald and shining
scalp of the butcher
had screwed her younger
through starvation
and the yield signs of orange
called Torture.
she was dead. Sister was dead--

alive only on a calendar,
her body she had watched
go from pink
to pearl bark with periodic
was served to peasants
in meat pies.
Ting was sure of it.
sure of it.
sure this dark room
with one light opening in
the floor...

positive it was her turn
to be orange duck,
split open like a clam.
an oyster on a treadmill
passed her thighs,
and up from the floor came
the burned face.

never revealed, but under
bound leather. the burn
mark slid down his neck,
rippling like limitless satins,

producing the guttural moisture
and noises only
plunged rubber boots make.
crotches sucked apart
like drains taking snot
and doggie pubic hairs...

Dr. Nen.
paging Dr. Nen.
calling Dr. Nen.

he rose up between the sheet,
phallus in his palm,
zippers covering his eyes.
the light in the floor shrank
like a feral dog
and the smell of menses
hit a water basin.

her sister's head whispering
next to her and detached
from the reel.
"take his zippers off"
"take his zippers off"
scratch and buck,
you majestic steed.
puncture with your
kill the ranger with one
dense Kick.

the Other would come
Charlie would come.
the pound number was being
tapped and read by the blind.
Dr. Nen
tightened something around her
climbing under her back.
he put his hand-phallus
on her neck.
one zipper let out a spurt
of mucous.

the room went red.
the basin went black.
the jellyfish left on a wave
and walked out.
the butcher came from a
corner in the ceiling singing
Dr. Nen
licked her lower back
with his curled long
toe nails.

Ting's breasts fell out
of her bell bottom jeans.

something beeped a long
something somewhere put
a spoon to her baby lips.
the Other
the cardiac
as Tall as a thimble stuck
in her nose.

the Other sighed,
clucking and swaying
in the bathroom stall.
"tisk, tisk..."
"we shouldn't"

paging Dr. Nen.
his zippered nylons
Cut Through.
the cardiac Cart
ran its thimble sky-
scraper up his burned neck,
spilling the
 full of clams with black hair.

Ting screamed.
yelped as the
feral dog had done
for months outside the
oak door.

watched fire slice open a
black notebook,
and ran
i am so sorry...
i didn't know...
sister, please. Please.

crawling on three legs
and yelping in heat.
losing her Eve's blood
from a dog's vagina,
her feral sister slid
on the notebook
and struck thunder
with one black paw...

-----------------------------------------------hey, Dev. i tried???


"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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damm Musings...who is the boogeyman? let me take a guess. Rob. Who done did this to you?

you said

there was always something
wrong with me
and you were
and are

now look in the camera as it
passes your silver anniversary.
your peculiar knees Itching.
the forecast says
with a ninety percent chance

            of doom.


and as much as you hate
your mother.
you had no problem
taking my own.
pension, retirement
and 401K money.
dad included the way
fathers are.
check in hand.
face chewing gum.

you can't fuck my father.
and you can no longer
fuck me.
but you will fuck a turtle
or perhaps a fork
if its got a dime in its
a dollar for some mascara.
a hundred to pay your
cell bill.


dear thief:

when i duped them into

you were taking care of me.

You Frankly Did.
in two manners.(?)
one finger inside me.
one flashing in front of my face.
another watching the show.
another dancing in the kitchen.

another reading the weather.

despite your hard work
and efforts.
something always appears
to be

something always seems
to be
wrong with you.

something is hiding your
keys every night.
and they have told you
since your youth.

something is wrong with


from this distance I can see
your child say to you in just
a few years.
i can't give you enough.
but you can give me your
pension when I leave

i will never be enough for you.

and you will tell it that the
wicked witch was
really grandma.
but grandma isn't there
for the birthdays. So, you 
might just as well

tell your baby teen
that its
relatives were all captured
by Bigfoot.
the loch-less monster.
or stuffed into the acid
of Pandora's Box.


i can hear you 
in the nude
while baby's friends' mouths
drop. and your husband
chews on the remote.

you say: *she will repeat it*
(she will say it twice)
(she will become the eraser)
you say:

i never did anything but love you
with devotion
and generousity.

and it will laugh.
call you Narcissus.
watch you as you check
your Vain Face in the mirror.

run away with a lesbian.
run away to college.
drink its brains into the attic.
and send you an email

good luck ma.
i'm gone from the shiny
House you've wrecked.

without so much
as smoke in the air.
without so much
as their baby skin

good luck ma.
you can send me a check
for the telephone


i am watching you become
the monster you demanded
to leave.
i am letting god or satan or the

pass a bill against your next

at finding yourself

by giving birth

to a hundred disrespectful

they will steal the mascara
and put stains on your
leather interiors.

you do understand this.
you will not accept this.
and they will call the police

when you show up
to visit,
apologizing and
blaming it all
on Bigfoot.
the Loch-less


why you think he will
come in for the rescue

is exactly why
you never will.


my last promise:

dear Con mistress,

i will go to art school
and send you my pension,
start flossing my teeth
more than once a day,
and send you one last

all of this hard work and

if you will simply


put on the condom.

catch the sperm.

and cease giving out



they will hang up the
phone on you
they will hang up the
phone on you
they will hang up the
phone on you.

and send you

the Bill.


her (my) her (my)
last declaration:

peace now.

all the sex has

stripped of it.

our bones are


your face
for the bridge.
is Not
your child.

let it go from


Bank Statement:

call your mother

for the final



hot damm. i want to shed the lampshade, climb into Musings' red boat, and end up back in north indio...

he let them kill him without fear but certainty.
ghandi and mlk jr. strolled into the coffin as well.
the martyr is the martyr that swings a rope around
its own neck, so that one day.
perhaps one day.
we will stop throwing rocks at one another.
for no good god damn reason.

forgive me for i know not what i do.

forgive me for i know not what to do.

forgive me for i know not who i am.

and yes. i am ready. take out your guns.
go ahead and fire. a piston with powder

to punctuate my skin.

i will not be late this time. my procrastinating

are determined to be an early appointment

with death.

all the same.

all the same.

it hasn't been as bad as i had thought.
it hasn't been as good as i wished.
and it hasn't been the fault of anyone.

i am coming home early.

doesn't matter where home


yeah, i know. it's not a poem. shhhhh. my metaphors are lining up outside the window. they knock. i am not answering at the moment. shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. quiet. i am going to sit back and watch the magic spread without me for a little. consider this particular "poem" (not) a random thought Not to be put in random thoughts.
keep going Musings. Keep going Rob. Keep going anyone.

the Nature Channel----and Woody once said, "to me it's just like one giant restaurant."

i've seen this many times.
the attack starts slow
like flirting.
there is a raid in the water.
fish willing to die in order
to spawn,
pushing past their best friends
for the pit.
a heavy-breasted bear
visiting the same place
its elders always did,
dips its hand in and strums
a guitar.

the crowd goes wild,
flapping like an umbrella
hit by custard bombs.

candy fishes come out with
heads pulsing left and right.
as if it was a miniature tornado,
as if air could invite gills
to the party,
the fish tries one more time
to do a somersault
back into traffic.

now we watch the inefficient
filling out of applications,
someone in human resources
has forgotten their briefcase,
and the candy dish is stolen.
lights in a hurricane
don't bob and weave the way
boxer's do--they arc. arc over
to the rain and wind
asking forgiveness,
arc over the river bed and
exhaust themselves
into pickles.

we throw a curve to kiss.
we throw a curve to hold.
we mate in the humping arc
that mammals know.
we date for the need to
and this is why a roller coaster
feels like our wheels have
been rotated.

get back into the fetal position.
get back into the womb.
go over and get the candy.
there is so much curvature
Left to Do.

watch the old art, more sage than
Art. the girls circle the antelope
with shoulder blades surfacing
against the air,
tiny waves smooth out their
hair on the sand.
this will be muscle vs. muscle,
jaw against spine-filled Neck,
fang against bone.
snap your finger sideways
when the twig appears out of
it will break without the awful
business of suffocation,
quick like the right way to hang,
faster than lightning tapping on
a golf course,
meaner than the first time
one cries from hunger.

the first move to mate
starts at the neck,
and the perfect sense of ending
life at the neck
announces itself on the intercom
over your cubicle...

muscle, jaws, teeth.
we have so little of it
there is a reason to call Him
a "bouncer"--
one head can hit pavement
with more rapidity
than a glass cracks
when ice is thrown on heat.

notice the glass splinters
look just like our arteries,
tree branches are upside-down
underneath the breathing skin.
This grace of roots
flipped towards the sun
is lost upon our lotions,
lost upon our eyes.

we are absent from the tree,
but it is preoccupied with
Us, giving us enough space
to kill our curly cars.

put us back in the basket,
and back in the pouch,
back in the rocker,
and back in diapers.
we look to the water to feel
something other than being
a rolling lump.
it is too long to stay
land-bound for candy.

get on the ship,
sweetheart. get on the ship
and look at where the ocean
is Actually
Clear. our minnows never
looked so precious.

come home from vacation
without any luggage,
but a crate of Rum.
the elephant and giraffe
like a ripe fruit as well.
on that continent,
and at a certain time of year,
the fruit makes all of them
fall down drunk,
telling their foe and best

i love you, even when you
must be
my candy dish.

even so,
a hiss of water bows and
prays under our feet.
though we choose to ignore
the moon's pull,
the tide will not disregard us.
bodily debris are eaten in the deep
by a line of blind albinos.

there they don't have to brush.
they don't have to floss.
they don't have a dentist.
and at any moment.
right now for instance.
the giant squid will wrap its
sneaky legs around Even Them,
and kiss. kiss. kiss.

the blades of grass outside my
house ask with reverence:

do not sit upon me for long,
as the sun is coming
and these are my kisses
to the sky.
my pack is my pack.
my land is my land,
and you are welcome to visit.
as this is a Hungry Railroad.

the lion women send
out their court appeal:
do not smell me
do not see me
for i am after you because
the milk in the fridge
is spoiled.
baby needs some candy.

my kiss is the beginning.
my kiss is the end.
my kiss is the candy.
and my kiss will take yours.

should have stopped it earlier. wait. there is a lion at the door.

he fell
out of a flask,
teeth between knees,
flowing down the pavement
in rapid breast strokes
too slow to count.

i picked out
one licorice stalk
left standing in a side pocket
and placed it down on
next to where i guessed
his mouth might be.

i would take the vomit
of candy hardened by my
own lime,
over the smell of him
rolling there in piss
and god-knows-what

a stuntman
suddenly leaped on or off
lights in the entrance,
making my own glasses
wreck themselves over the
distances between flesh cakes.

i said
fish cakes.
i said
crab cakes.
and then counted to three
just to make sure...

his twiggy legs brought my
mouth so close to my chest,
that i licked it and stared
like it was time to Finally
change the thermostat for

my breasts knodded,
put the baskets on their heads,
and slid out clean,
like a knife splitting
pea pods,
when hands would have been
simple enough.

the top of my
head became The Pepper
Shaker as noted,
pulling skin off the scalp
and making a small
flag of my hair stand up
upon rolling over.

i rested
waiting for him
or him
and i said fish cakes
and counted to three
just to make sure...

the lights to the entrance
blinked at me with long lashes,
seductive enough to take
the pots and pans down,
make a dinner of the licorice
and call it even.

and then the lights exhaled
dark like the hollowed-out eyes
in a small bust of Mozart or
even Beethoven,
and that is when I remembered
the smell of hair,
what flame to it meant...

you only put your hands
on that kind of action
Once, babe.
then you bend down and
count to three,
never witnessing darkness
move on the ground
in shadows
quite the same before
or after...

he lunged and that was
fine by me.

i stole his flask
for a year or so.
maybe more or less.
impossible to know really.
strange the way the days dive...

knocked around like a
cherry by a straw,
casual swings that roll
that bull-headed berry,
over the froth of a

you can ask them Not to
put the berry on top,

and they will
not listen.


"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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Bravo everyone!!

I just stayed up until 3 am writing --you won't believe this. A "happy" poem --for me. In honor of all the wonderful poetry that preceeded it, no less. AND. I hit ONE button...when the whole damn thing disappeared, I went backwards to try and capture it. ALAS!! It is GONE. GONE FOREVER. and i am so pissed off --here:

i wrote a poem
one about love
it was about taking a chance
on strangers

and now i hate them.

nice of me, huh?

No. It isn't true. But dmanamamamamamammmit. FUCKED. FUCKED. FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!

it won't get thickened,
splitting the walls of steel
into blocks of condensation--
considering the apple's fall
away from gravity's turgidity,
swelling the way to an insect pool.
or better, the malfunction of an
emoticon posted on a desk's sludge.
all about scenery. all about joining
five senses effortlessly.                                                                                                                                                                                                 
strangers flow towards their
on cement rugs hanging like
drapes over the hum of subway

between the water bottle and
coffee mug, a nod turns and locks.
one has a second to decide,
a possibility of winter swirling
in its childhood Angel twinkle
to read or announce a start--
that juicy magazine headline,
determines the age of a ripened
grape descending in a stagger,
as brick-backs insult hot shades

bolting a feather from the lock,
yielding to a phone number's chance,
the lonely bingo ball sans marker
hops on the bean's sweaty hands.
introducing the family-friend crew
to the blood workshop and hazard--
this is the peaceful enterprise
of luck pressing a domino agent.

the risk is a permanent membership
as victim in a forum,
lips sealed by rubber bands,
tightened into round mannequin
gestures where screams are
locked and nodding,
suddenly sage about the facts.
---keep the hands busy
---keep the mind occupied
---keep the shoulders back

quit locking with fools
owning stock with darling pets,
but by all means smoke
to consider--
colors splay with stick figures
made of chalk and oak trees,
living can be spent in rolling
pennies into shank-outfits,
breath being the sugar the finger

the head might rain in plural
moon-made frills.
let love and amorous lace
sink into the populace.


i lock and nod with a man
who could desire to lift my
mouth, and prove to be a twirl
from his knees to palms
where the flying is imaginary,
deemed too dangerous by the
current edition of doctor spock--

write this down:
skeptics have the loudest wrestle,
and these are playful rites
where ceremony is made to
stay in the corner, peeking
without a swiveling carpet
or monster...
only the required manners will
help pass test after test before

we nod and lock in cacophonous
bear stories,
fixing our feet into positions
lost, recovered, and dashing...
i play the indian
he plays the cowboy,

and when the cap gun aims,
the corner couldn't hold a
bicycle if pedals and spokes
began to count higher than
a chimpanzee.

i'm willing to pray for the genocide
to take me, as the hands
holding the frame of my watch
will be my friends' way of
nodding, stealing the peace pipe,
and locking skin to skin
the way an iron ought to shave...

friends are like this,
oceans without warrants and
passports dunking the cargo
into the rat's lucent boneyard.
cleaning these remains with ammonia
and bleach are the only way
her fox smells the hasty arrival
of sand-filled shoes.

here are the shortbread treats,
the only tea she'll take with cream--
but this heresy is allowed
like the blemish on a fine shirt
where mouths utter silently--
one finishes the bite at precise
measurements where the other
lifts a broken compass,

as soon as ice falls, sleet
demands the wine to portend a
daily walk where the parrot
saves the blasted cafe's and little
else, but the magnet suffering
from malaria is wise to all

for candle-lit invitations--
don't make her sweat without
the clothing from her lovers,
she'll use the sting from a fossil
to bury the body she holds
without a shelf to put it on...

build me woman,
one lego into another, as
crooked, wily, ugly as a lantern
stripped of iron but bursting with
water-blushing lettuce...
my tux is ready and all suitors
are perplexed.

what kind of guest holds a
cigar where she wants--
guzzles vodka with fruit ledgers
tied in nooses that go ignored,
unless her hand inspects the
rough fibers and cries
for all the hung,
for the raw meat,
strong-arm tactics


we all lean so far into
our own fantastic daily routines,
desire bouncing so wide over
crackers, cereal, and snacks,
it isn't hard to choose a critical
matter, swinging the circle on
a tether where weight can
Break the Bottom of the Balance.

but it won't.




(this is my best poem ever!)

"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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I am
splayed all over
a new season,
and the fresh breeze
Always flips my
bodily compass--
you're thinking i
turn from you,
or you're thinking i
turn from you...

and perhaps we should
all look through a shoe
box for salvation,
opening arms as if they
are easily replaced,
but opening the arms without
the shoe box outline would be
more prudent...waiting for a blowhole
is worth the blow.

the numbers
dwindle like awkward
leaves, having coughed
their way through the winter,
this Spring will make it all the more

this is a rare confection
not tangible, not smoke,
and utterly unable
to bring in the morning
here lies the lie
and these are the folded clothes,
waiting for a passport
or a couple weeks
picking off my strings...

the fingers are crazy
with wild resources,
densely sponged;
the mouth appears locked
in the Stunned breath
and closed alphabet tap...
the wrench had decided
to hide.

the image of a fairy tale
inside the house of a crack
a folk tale with no
referral to the yeast--
and not one of them,
in the sly trio of foxes
can swap what they
don't want and do want
and wished they'd

we can't hold at the joints
when one is stuck racing
around the number 8.
as fatigue assumes its
position in bed,
panting and stopping on
the offbeat Heart rhythm...

one more grin.

look here.
 our water greets
cards on the shore--
skinning elbows and
shins in equal parts
butter and cream,
the annoying hail a
guide spells out
too slowly,
help me make out

where the ancient
cathedral or obelisk or stones
Are, so we can go through with it.
become backwards in progressive

and the appetite in my fingers,
having choked off my lips,
will put the car into reverse
and drive, yield, Go.
now find me in paper clips.
find me in the yellow corner
of the picture,
and stop worrying
sly foxes...
when the leaf flips
i'll resume as needful
but for now
my hands are full of
rainy leaves

and the urge to burn them.

----------------------------------------------------------------------soon, k? :love5: :love5: :love5:

Dear Mandolin, Larry, and All who...mmm...twiddle around my straw stick with ready arms. Yes. I fucking miss you too. I really do. And I am sorry I haven't been 'Round Here. How doth the mutant explain the mutation? Probably in a pm. I will get to you. I will come to you at the oddest times with my tail tucked...but once again ready. I love you too.

she went carving.
tickling the toddler
under her bra loose and
away from its fellow
skeletal grubs.

the slope between
the quenched cloy of
hazy fingers gasped
in a distant
carom of grapes
and jam.

still sculpting,
a bit of gas rummaging
inside pudgy cheeks,
she struts out the number
five. ten. twenty lint balls
freeze on the tips
in an alarming

dismaying beam of feathers.
it's a woeful prodigy
gone screwed.
it's a taciturn genius
with one thumb severed
by dust balls.

a seeming recoil-of-a-bird,
a quacking format
without the spring yellows
wincing during yoga.


what she is
what she is
what she is.

the buffet is free.
the breasts are lopsided.
the pharmacy is closed.
the mall opens for napkin-
skinned seniors.

not a thought
while donning a white cape.
devil horns from halloween
shedding the pose in
nuclear legs,
she smokes more than a
half-life of cereal
boxes from underneath
the lazy chins of
More worms.

there are dormant bulbs
to light
and freaks over the exit
signs to release.

why the mall stands proud
over the sterile pharmacy,
holding its breasts out for
and playing rummy
when there is so much dust
gathering the bugs
in candy dishes.

she picks at an infected
sore on her knee,
scolding the sway of
and the barbecue tossed
from those full lips into
the sink.

she ducks away from

webbed toes.

what she is.

"no birds here"

more like.

number 5.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft. :violent1:


i've stomped out the
soda pop buzzards that are
to take back the sky and spill
its scuffling thumbs under your
twin shins.

swaying in the hip lilt
of jerked salt,
she exclaimed as if it were
Hel, the god of guidance
counseling for the abused and
neon ghosts...
she yelled as if her nose had
a swollen bastard tic flowing its
blood blubber
past its baldness.
she shouted when the t.v. was
beeping out radar tunnels
from the inside of my cadaver


I didn't let the comment pass
because I was swaying in the beer.
next to the 8 tracks
standing in a fungal newspaper riddle,
I said clearly with full intent.
I told her as brutally as an ox cart
full of pinched oranges and steel
pears can shred off jugular veins.

I will have none of this.

with long exasperated index fingers,
i've jogged over to the club
to bake rice into your. this. your.
best pair of knickers.
if you put dice below the guards'
blow horns and centrifuges,
i shall find those very same
tiny white pieces of infirm

i will not return to the sanctuary
with stamps wanting to tease me
for a cable bill.
but the virgin bushes will line up
for the raping to twist reaping,
cutting the shelved pool waters
into geometry suckers.
belly flops for the trickle of

belly flops for the drunk.
belly flops for the bottles.

the backstroke is

and missing.


"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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Musings...that was sweet. I could tell you how long the car ride was and occasionally is, but we all have our little trials. Devery. You have a huge trial called -- how can you put desire and somber in so few words? Larry. Wtf? You go, you badass mother. Rob. I am always late. Or THEY are always going absent on you, and it's not a circumstance they are proud of...this much I am sure.

they brought a
dart gun to the gurney,
and pleaded with its
cylinder to work.
lying there, the drip
from the saline bag
held the side of
my head
until the bed pan
to the guts i once

i come back with
folded arms.
with an entomologists'
glamour for pinned moths.
reaching my tortoise
brains into long division
has been a breeze
under what Celsius
can comprehend.

so i implore, beg,
retreat, beg.
throw me a treat
better than the sex
i remember was once
of mythological
destruction and
ammunition microscopes.

you were always
the first love
and though we are
crossed off in the
leaking out those
hushed hugs from
the circumference
of nannies...

i turn my body in
every direction not
recognized by rockets.
you turn your face to
me and ask how i feel
when it is clearly time
for the spiders to
come inside.

fall and spring shook
hands on it,
and between those days
i found god in a syrup
and also a tantalizing
number of trained

let's break down into
finite particles of sudafed's
attempt to shut tylenol
into the bathroom.
i am in here still
my first love.
waiting by the porcelain
plus all the cooled rags
to run down the
newspaper trucks.

i just heard the
origami swans waiting
for you to roll over and
speak seven different
for seven different
spotlight moons.

my pride for you is
that it is stipulated
in the living-death-Will:
the phones will not
when the emergency
assault teams

and you, kindest of hippie, shall be reported to the poetry and music industry with a ginormous amount of affection and gratitude for your offerings. y'all make me smile in the most private of sentiments.

this is the common theme
of every poet writing about poetry,
and as my vanity and theirs run
through the ports of weather
go under the edged cracks in
doors where the handle sighs,
picks up the phone book for
signs of the apocalypse baggies,
and treads over false testimony

the colloquial fights for my local
regressions, bouncing in the Commons,
trying on the shapely ghosts,
the fresh radish musicals,
the dribble gathering its postcards,
and that pernicious rag which haughtily
eludes destination.

even more bakers can't find the recipe
for the childlike sourdough
and the executive's squeezed ballpoint scalp
won't mix batter in the copying machine.
all of the children which are slinky
playful lap dances... there isn't enough room
in the gas station for their filthy hands.

take away the miserable misanthrope
stowing away soaps in its bra,
and what's left is the absence of
the right words.
the correct simile.
that bastard of a metaphor that
dies alongside the snowy and ashen

i wake to find that it's superlative.
the inconsequential idioms are trumped,
growing small hairs under my chin.
the loss of every mother can only
drop milk in my polar friends' parlors.

the shades are perpetually
taking their hands into the organic
or plastic nightshade,
pushing, pinching, and pitching
out the beginning lessons.

the light bulb scalds,
and the mediocre poet holds it

The Introduction of Lists

right here is the apologetic
collector's basket.
over there is the sagging
dining room table.
under the magazine is the
grimmacing toaster,
and locked on the open
you'll find a class ring.

the single stream bathroom
waits for a vanilla spray,
the cd's are stacked sideways
against the tendency of aging
the books are flowing on the
windows where your elbows
should dig in.

in the valley lies the monkey
bars and merry-go-stop rounds.
on that hill is where an owl
breaks its neck in constant
mice dreams,
and the gathered white noise
of each rooms' clock progression
should remind
that you are the welcome
Contact List.

the "falling rocks" sign
dabbles in calligraphy oxymorons,
but be aware this is your grass
roots melancholy--
as gleeful as frontal lobes for 
breakfast Could Be
that every gulping, sip of soda,
lies about the stingy nature
of your yodeling
in an outdated garage band.

here is your old bitch as well.
flying her nest twigs
into lards's soaked palms...
as if capturing bacon in a net
was like slitting a worm's throat.
as if watching for the draw bridge
Could Be as sultry as swimming
across the moat in an iris.

here are the figs you left wrapped
for a relative's party--
as if holidays would set down their
charming and delusional in-laws,
as if it were easy to ride behind
or before an atlas Could Speak.

--------------------------------------------------------i'll come back to this maaaaayB. dammit. dammit. pee.

it is basically 15 Steps
from the laptop to the sliding
glass door,
where uPon its gathering of
a sigh. a lighter. a recording
the porch will sIt itself down
and try to remember the
rank of letters.

from the chair to the kitchen,
there are probably Nine steps.
whenever a body finds itself
loitering in that adminiStrative
a couple of cats will ask
to be loaded up on the lifT
so that they may have the
same food thEy have had
at the same times for
longer than the pResent
domicile existed.

about ten feet away,
rounding the Wayward trash bin
which stubs the toe into
an electric-socket-hoedown,
a person can assemble their
slumping spine. one can pat
and soar, or pick At the visage
where progress paints and
plucks downwards.
the odd Trees collected over
shirts, scalps, and toneless skIns
are gripped, thanked,
and reSented.

this is not the mansion's
smallest location.
five or so
feet away
the cHair takes the body,
boasting noteworthy
precedence and detecting
the pleonastic drink,
and three inches of
constant favoRites.

forlorn and noir-mottled
poEtry books.   

This page should be stamped on my forehead, so that I can point in reference and homage.

earthquakes forget to close doors,
and this is how a new mother's scream
can be seen shivering into the
heartbeat of a blue cough,
the immature gaze of seeing
haze from a room of halogen

long after the sac has burst its
eloquent sexual colors,
every single person puts a smile
through the vision of rockers
greeting the helpless
sucking head.

And when there is no crying,
and all the hoses in the world
can't clear lungs out
that aren't lungs to begin with,
And when the seventh or so
shot has been given,
and the doctor suspects a
tragic dimple has been lost
for the length of

labor's breathing.
Smiles are left to their grim
and pursed Coffee breaks.
how soon someone chooses to
a ripped basket,
labia as swollen as a marching

if the crib and stuffed animals
are to be left for another attempt,
it is simply best to send
the Mother into sleep's
black weight machines
while they stop
every futile encouragement.

when the baby becomes alien,
its global head
as close to elephantitis
or the fever of meningitis
or the main coordinating signal
ceasing heartbeats.

no blood flow and no normal brain.
and why put the woman through
seeing what has gone wrong--
the scripts for grief have been
signed ahead of time,
just as the rattle from the baby

quickly tosses itself into the
garbage sack,
one sac having failed 
one sack easily hoisted
into a dumpster.

ehhh. this will suck. when i receive such praise i get embarrassed and then immediately know the next one will just suck. so there! haha. I assure you, the next one will be love angst-ish and more .mmm. whatever.

Banal & Awkward Formalities

I took notes when my father
started pulling at his hair
while the sounds of crashing
Tupperware on top of the
Three keys:
spoon, fork, and dinner knife
were as dulled or mitigating
or crusty over the mistaken
foul ball hitting chalk dust,
or as frightening as revealing
burps and slobbery saxophones.
the oblivious young man was
 high on skipping classes about
and this son who didn’t take his hat
off at the dinner table,
he’d been told more than once
and more than once was more
than one too many by then.

In reproach to the request:
Why is there such a rule, even, man?

Chastisement  begins with
hearing loss by the attendants,
so all of us waited for percussion.


“pass the fucking sugar, man, if
 you‘d rather we discuss  lack of
 manners some other time.”

Dad’s tone barreled down the kitchen
corners and even  made the dog
freeze and shut its drooling lips--
like a freezer pop promptly
leaving purple for noodle soup.

After gawking and desiring a little
dose of seemliness myself,
not to mention the way the youngest
mouth can turn equal parts
Mercury or ether…and

after a pause that left my stoned
brother exiting the scenery,
I quietly said over the beginning
of smiles on the sides of my sister’s

“can someone please pass the iced tea,
 dude, and after that, can I get some
 gravy, man.”

I had hit the lucky length of timing,
And one giggle turned into bellows
down the table
 into laughter’s nest,
As I hid my face just in case…
Just in case I had bombed.

Linguists are not immune to this.
it’s just their job to
wander the paths of speech
and note which words will bloom,
like lady bugs taking over
Garden parties,  or samples stolen
as “hearty” meals from microwaves,
the maids will eat these at home
but shine the forgotten appliance.

but the best to speculate about
Which can be put on the time scales.
and which ones
will last it out, man.
see things through, chief.
or give it one last go, chap

Now “journalists” stop finding news
or burning their calluses without
opinions from any type of accuracy
sought in check-book-balances,

It is getting late to kid ourselves
about the meaning of liberty.
manners, traditions and language
raise their butts up for the sprints,
fully aware that this means more
to the common man
than the equation for the speed
of light.

But knowledge has its own sneaks.
The words sound for juiced air,
And the manners ask to work on the farms,
And traditions ask for the world in customs.
These three runners have everything to lose,
And in increments they Do.

yesterday I saw a calligraphy set,
overpriced and bowing at the bottom
of the kits presented  in every bookstore.
there’s little doubt that if purchased
on a whim, and made into the art
it says it Is…
there won’t be enough ink to keep

the apprentice rolling backwards into
the lap of antiquity,
pretty as it should be and as worthless
as the coned lighthouses dotting maps.

Two teens cut in line before me
pretending fake giggling about
some other endearing topic,
perhaps involving the lack of manners
it takes to cover up 3 hickies,

or maybe they were entirely too excited
about the necessity of lavishing
Baby’s first books along with some sort
of report
saying Mozart can make your infant
more intelligent.

cutting in line, the loss of tradition,
and the gain of one rude hat on the table.
Wanting to write with the loops of ink,
The dropped custom-- a momentary reflex
Against the habits of  writing Here.
The sound that didn’t come out of the
Mouth to make mention of the trespass

What ugly new lessons I am dropping--
And seeing dropped, absurdly, in front
of me.


Filling in the Chart:

"Why am I here?"
Ting said it softly
in obedience of whatever
could be worth the restraints
and a catheter.

the nurse or doctor
didn't answer her question
but resumed in this puddle:

your height and weight,
your living relatives
your profession
how long have you been
an addict?

Ting swung the only thing
she could,
her head pushed away
from the ridiculous
notes of query,
and she waited for reasons
that could hold sway,

and then she felt a hand.
small and sandy like hers,
they had shared cotton candy
and Ting had bought her a
hot dog, knowing this was all
her black-haired friend would
receive that day.

skipping down to the end,
they tipped up a little
on the edge of the pier
and watched the water break
over the poles,
the poles themselves green
underneath and gross,
filled with fauna
they frowned about when
turning to face the other.

but they were holding hands.
the simplest gesture of
and now Ting strapped into
a bed where each limb
was locked,

she started to cry
remembering how they had
dressed up as flappers although
they were nothing but country
girls on the loose for a day.

"Look at my dress shimmy!"
her black-haired partner had
squawked, amazed at how
plastic beads could make that
crinkling sound of change
just by moving shoulders
or hips.
"I Know!"
Ting had said back.
and then her face began to flush,
because noticing her friend's hips
was a little like knowing her
nakedness. fierce fire
had run up her chest to display
its new knowledge.

that whole day seemed
spent holding hands,
and every time the other let go
for a little,
Ting begged to have it back
and emptied out her money
to everything of fancy
the young woman desired,

just as she desired the sweat
and the smell of taffy,
confusion crept and
there was no way to tell
an idiotic doctor that as
he was checking her

all she had ever wanted
at that moment on the pier,
hands melted and faces in
full agreement.

that her face had turned
and told Stella
with her lips
the only thing her lips
did now without feeling
but for a profitable price.

but back then
and then again.

just a bit more than a kiss
and she would have
thrown away the whole
notebook full of longings
and mealtime references.

the medical crew had decided
that when a bed opened at the
state facility,
it would open for Ting,
and hearing this much

for some reason
she was not surprised to
look out the plastic window
and see her Owl.
Her Owl.

it was supernatural
and unbelievable
but within the space
of one bed check,
Ting had been set
to fly.

----------------------------------i think this is shit, but i am trying, Dev.

nights like this
i wonder if i shouldn't
have put more than five
trash bags out for the move,

and times like this
when the metaphor misses
its lumpy hair
and personification becomes
making my foot scream at
the corner of the table.

moments like now
when there is no place
to put the butted head of
my constant broken baby of
a heart,
wanting to save you all...

and times like this
when i'd rather the whole lot
go down in one giant rocket,
sparkling like a giant gear
caught jammed,

and especially nights like this
when you've sent me
a note to tell me you're
miserable and i am missed.

particularly at spots
where you've shot blood
directly out of my ears,
i want to take the bridge out
over the ocean

where the impact
will hardly be heard.

"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke


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the mating game started
after the deluge today,
thousands of frogs going
for it,
talking about it over donuts,
spreading their throats
out for new necklaces,
and twisting their hair
unconsciously over shoulders,
while the males
crossed legs to hide erections,
unable to focus on anything
but those darling lips,
while the catty young women
checked their purses to see
if they'd be going Dutch...
or perhaps it's just a ploy
a play
a way
out of the messy pit,
why not turn to the rear and
let what's happening
happen, because this smell--
this odor is new
and sliding into the air
while both sexes gather tea,
and behave as beasts
behind dumpsters.
after all the phone calls
some child is bound
to pick up the receiver.


miles and miles away i
become red and cheeky,
washing those parts in the
new shower where a nozzle
has never seen my tattoo
until now,
never looked at my fat thighs
until now,
never noticed the stray hairs
until now.


i take 3 steps out onto
the porch and shut eyes against
the visions of orgies running the
sewer control towers.
i refuse to think of you,
my friend,
in the mating position i know
we haven't mulled over
while dining
on red velvet cakes,
me running an old toothpick
through the middle
of icing

just to test the word
while you charge forward
and say "union"

we must now consume the
diaspora of suburban sprawl
and sandy grasses.
i am forcing you down from
an attic with only darkness
as its fear,
while you throw me over
in the carnival tent
and remind me that clowns
are Only

we'll have to sort out
which part of the poem is
about frogs,
which is about discovery,
and which is about us

somewhere in a rented
hotel room where the air
stamps out my new lighters
and sets the pupil
to the task
of burying.

i think
fried long enough,
i must resemble the taste,
the obnoxious assembly
called "Chicken".
choose the leg or the
leg or breast.

whenever you arrive
here in your sleep,
i'll still have half of
me spinning on the

we had lost sight
of the shredder next
to the fax machine when
our tickets were passed to us
near an iron gate
by a man with a

we both wished we had been
drawn to the left, where
cupcakes were falling off the
backs of horses,
and mermaids were joking,
wrapping their hands around
their throats, waving them into
the air, mimicking drowning--
on that side of us,
the clients wore heels
and their faces held the tint
of blue against foggy

but in front of them was a
man with a buffalo's body
and he hummed idly by
a stake crying in anguished
or rather,
the skeletal gristle of
a single cloud wrapping its
way up into blue vapors.

i felt the sting of a drop
and we started to dash in fright,
but the result was walking
backwards of course,
and the dog with
fingers in front of us
told us to piss off, or at least
quiet down...
the journey Outside had no
bearing on your place in the Animalia

our identities were in the
our identities were fused
at the iron gate.
our identities had lost all
their blood.

a crowd walked onto a stage
where stakes waited for their
shapes, and I reared back
with my mouth open
while you clenched down hard
with yours.
it happened quickly and dust
splattered our hair with pockets
of grey...

behind us
a man with a boisterous
baker's hat informed us that unless
we started to eat the rotting fishes
pinned against the shoreline,
we would lose our privilege of
and continue to venture downhill
with a soup kitchen just out
of reach.

i looked up for guidance and was
handed the smaller salmon
which only started to flail
upon reaching my hand.
my mouth did the rest as
fast as it could, feeling pasty.

perhaps three more feet
and floating began
as a breeze,
it was then
we both realized we were
standing without gravity.

our identities were in the
our identities were fused
at the iron gate.
our identities has lost all
their blood.

i broke off one rib
to show you my secret.
you showed me an
where the sand resisted
Something Sighed before
saying "yes"
and spinning a film reel...

this part is where
i apologized,
crying out the explanation of
our deaths.

here is where
you danced without a
to show me how we had

Jack's Broken Heart --he simply liked the old Box better. Of course, you can pm him to let him know errrr. Suede --i hope-- remains ok.

you flowed up into the
bottom of my sock like a
cat's claw,
sharp and obtrusive
with a soft, bulbous belly

and we smoked
and you cut my hair
and we made agreements
and promises every lover fiddles.

i lost you in the parking lot,
a complete reversal
of kissing you with my fingers
in the right place
late at night

and you asked for it
over and over again you needed
tonic just to stand by my side,
and in this you didn't waver,
your loyalty stretched

like gauze
that catches birds.
like the edifice called a mall
where you worked and I know

you had sex with her also,
because no one puts another's
picture in on display unless
it means cheating.

i played the fool and let you
laugh when you knocked me
to the floor.
and i played mother to your

but all you ever wanted my
dearest junkie
was some medicine,
and now and look what you
have done...

your dolly has run out of
except maybe must.
dust from something sticky.

we are gone from the
space from nose to nose,
from hand to hand,
from pelvis to pelvis.

and it's your turn to bawl.
you said "i'll handle this"

and the frost sliding down
should have told me as much,
the ending
and the start.

one kiss for the love
one kiss for the loss
one for the digging
and one for the climbing...

i'll handle this.

i found you in a pocket made
for microwaves,
and confessed every lie, every
fortuitous finding,
every baked confection
and all those pretty angels


once you give a confidante
the bones of your pocket change,
they will either find misery and
edge away from you as slowly
as a wolf smelling metal,
or clasp on to you through
the waves like the sandy floor,
pointing out where not
to slip or sink.


taking the sum of accomplishment
and throwing it up to the phantasm,
my god (assumption)
my god (perhaps not)
my god (no way)
there are colors i can't name,
like your blackened fingernails--
be my mechanic please.


i've thrown the relatives outside
of the caged Thought,
and brought you here so that you
may see the splendor
or how a body swells
and retreats,
going grey without aging
is quite the carnival trick,
isn't it?


it takes very little for a
complete stranger to fall dead
and you will walk over it like a
construction zone.
you must go on inside the tears
and outside the smiles
unless, of course, you ain't that


we are on the roller coaster
so put your arms out and feel the
breath. when you are pretty,
it's so close to petty. let's make it
graceful instead. let's make it handsome
once again. there is only so much time
to name the worthy.

i'm telling you that the
jackhammer doesn't stop for
anyone or anything...
except when work is done.
and then we're all good and



"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke
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