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Author Topic: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)  (Read 24064 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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the sky lies about the
thick nature of ink, water, skin.
and we notice that this
red wine is ready to stretch.

one smack across the nose
becomes a running horse,
and whatever captures the Fall
is penniless.

i want to believe the pink sun
but the poisoning has me sunk
and clinging to the side rails
like a jack rabbit caught in a

i bring you anger with a bow
on top, a swirl of chocolate and
vanilla soft-serve Ice.
i dream of something vanilla,
not caring how muddy we get.

throw the rope over king's hill
and drag me over dirt's gravel.
bring me spinning on a rooftop
and i will slip in slow and grinning,
my last bed --

the steel tells the soup to drop
but it rises before it meets wood,
and the barriers of that floor hold
cracks which hold cracks holding

it will go further, spreading mold
which is the Maker of Babylon
and the reason our knees never
look past childhood. Here. Here.
find out what crawls out of your
mouth and shivers.

write it down and wrap the rubber
bands all the way 'round,
now toss everything you've ever
heard in a restroom into the
pit where your body finally
catches cholera...

tell them that you Loved Once.
(doesn't matter the number)
tell them that you Loved Once.
and that first love was a nipple
(real or bottle doesn't matter)
but have some grace while losing
your fluids.

this is your own personal
it doesn't cost a penny to
lose your teeth,
but if you'd help us out

just a simple pull
and the poem dies

it already did
after the first line

let us get to 

without the street lights
were there be headlights
and if they realized their
would they reach and fold
for each other as lovers.

without napkins would there
be folding and crumpling and
the quirky movements to swipe
away dribble.
perhaps the Vikings, as we were
taught smacked their heads down
into the food,
but the horns would fall off,
and that would mean some sort
of cleansing...

maybe the third time Pops makes
a move to stick something in
is the last time a person realizes
childhood has flown with the moths,
and hiding in the closet isn't a path,
nor ducking your head from the arrow,
nor hiding in the tent when the horns


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


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well, it's a damn fine start --unless it's finished, in which case it's a nice fine' --as well as what everyone else laid out on the previous page. yes. i toot the "good fucking job!" horn frequently. there's no harm in that, is there?

the shy insects are knocking
on the cement doors,
waiting for a crack
to sell some frosty gimmick.
and i am just the kind of
Sucker to buy into it,
looking at their black dot eyes
and knowing their emotions
run over cackling skins.

if i told you i was lonely
there'd be little surprise in
something so flamboyantly
so i'll tell you i'd eat your
body first if we were lost
in the cooking jungle,
and there would be plenty of
peppers to boot on top

i propose your thigh goes
first in case of embarrassment
but for all i know your flesh is
better served in a sushi roll.
and i'd rather leave the worms
talking to themselves around
the edges of the party,
swaying lightly with martini
olives drizzling on sticks.

i have told you a million times
to shut the door when you come
in from selling your toilet faucets,
but you scold me with your wagging
saying hey you cannibal-loving

let's go out tonight.

OK, i think.

I will.


I gave my uterus to the Salvation Army,
my white dangling ovaries to the oyster-
ran down the hall without any clothes
screaming "communist"!
and taped my shedded hair to my sweaty
hand balls.
I let them patch the hernia three times
more than my bank account could risk,
and brought them flowers when they
couldn't give a shit.

I spoke in tongues when I misunderstood,
and watched eastern europe where they still
tear the skin off my ancestors
That particular insecticide continues timeless
and supine,
but in the middle of the rubble a toad CAME
on my hands just yesterday
and i forgave its burp
like a Mother in a maid's tent.

When all the quaking and quacking assembled
in a line to march forward and fire,
i came running in by the side and grabbed
Custer by the throat and throttled my
legs into your personal rolodex.
i wanted to tell you about Red Emma
but her free love and anarchist views will
be tossed as ancient rubbish,

when nothing further from the ancient
is the precarious tender hand that placed
itself between my thighs and caught malaria.
i soothed its fever and told it "shoo"
and it went like a feather folding as a
switchblade off to hunt for research grants.
but i have done my schooling under the
tempest of drink and hovering like a gnat...

a bird severed my pencil in two and
carried my severed head to the wonder
of a carnal tower where we let the blizzard
in and ran thermometers over blackened feet.
i gave them that much. i did. i said i did.

but now as the night turns its ear to listen
to my hushed phone message declaring war
against the computer and the drip of writing
in my swaggering cowboy boots,
I slowly walk out into the garage

raise a cigarette to my lips
and cough out the general's plans
for lasers, cutlery, and the Iron Age.
we share the secret of making sense
only to ourselves,

and post poems.

some as poorly as this.

the smoke is spanking an
infant into the word
but this isn't Spain,
and all we are left with when
the shuttle drops you in rural

are the cutting of tongues.
i'll go first
and you will see the dust
from Babylon
squeeze off my clipped nails
and Swear,
begging for bread again.

pass the bread.


let's confirm
the pillow fight scheduled
like fleas to drop to our
mutual carpet
and continue to tug
fat eggs out.

let's turn the clock
to the ceiling's sky
where you dance to
the Kills
and practice releasing
The Bomb.

let's play rummy
without the cards but
the sex of grand-slammed-
--such as this you have
been pining for
--such as this you have
lost her hands

but let's ignore the
clatter of an illness
spreading over your iris
and blocking your feet
from letting her rocket
fly to the mosques.

you'll let go when the
chill sets in south,
and the plunger is
placed back into its
position behind the
toilet of my longing,

and the charm of saying
we wish we had a fuck
we could have had a fuck
there has to be a fuck
somewhere out there.

my compass needles your
thigh now,
and the smirk is set in
motion like a seesaw,
and whether it's this
state or another

whether the Valium runs
out and makes you
have a heart attack,
and whether my pain patch
flies off to the meadows,
and whether the storm
windows fail and curl
themselves into the
fetal position.

we are bound.
tied by the length
of roots prickling the
upper echelon of soil.
we are bound.
gripped by the swollen
feet i keep hidden and
the past you can not
tuck under a blanket.

we are the twins
with opaque skins falling
as surely as the asteroid
will come and wipe the
forest clean from our

this is The Bomb.
and we are ready


   listening tothe music
and picking    fights at Easter

or preparing ashes

for that Wednesday. like a Mother m
ary, which you aren't.

saying I did it Better
than               You and AM better
than    Soup during wars
or fingers
during               Sex.

you aint nothing until you

are knee deep                  in your best
friend's intestines

and watching                Death pick at its
fingers   as it  suavely walks

up to your nose

and hits              out the Season.


ignore the reaper and what will

humiliate you                  like a bruise on
the tip of                   those tiny nerve endings
inthe privates.

with or without fear

oh, no buddy.             even the most stoic
RUN when their heart beats             in two beats per

even the soldier feels nothing

but shock                       when half a shoulder places itself
in sandy cups.
Meat for dinner.          Meat for lunch and meat for breakfast.

You arenot gettingout           ALIVE,
so you better live hard

like a cockroach.                     SCURRY.

I don't have veins
except in my feet.

THEY AREWAITING            in the kiosk.
no tunnel and no Angel,

but all the ghosts going backwards

TO BEGIN                 again.

I have no more options.
No one is missed here when they


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


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there are enough times
through the thread of light
and the tally of darkness,
that i have sought to feed an
admirable confidante with
pickles in chocolate or sugar
launched into a pizza--

getting the ingredients from
an assortment of Depression Era
letters, I have threaded needles
without moving a spool,
and done other magical incantations
with bloody onions crying their
arms Out.

i am the imperfection of a fiend,
a friend, and a host,
though my doors remain open,
as i hope the spiders will retreat
to their own holes
and ignore the fax information
flowing through my sock drawer.

i take you upon my back
where the strength of parasites
haven't found me yet,
and neatly fold you under my arm
where i can keep you warm--
most of all I risk the verbal onslaught
of greenery and stick my finger in

hoping the water will carry the
current news to your bay
without me having to tell you
This or That stuffed animal has
Died and next comes me.
it was fungal and creative the
way I couldn't hide the worst of
it from you,

and you sit dreaming of museums
and hollywood where I know
you can play the piano for me,
risk deportation with a shrug,
and make me laugh in the middle
of soupy cries about being a

my younger sister
could never be whore or criminal
enough for the register of complaints,
because let's face it...
at half my age you already know when
the storm is running towards your friendly

and i hope you use my body
to shut the worst of them
and open the best in a repertoire
birthday present that will talk
over that gem of e minor.
my heart's employee of the month
has just given notice of leave,
and my aim is to shine your

brass coins so that you may
Live simply gleefully bliss,
as the corner approaches
the road
and hits.

Second Wind

earlier i drooled on this
puter without notice of a
nudge, sigh, or shout for our
queer and isolated assembly lines.
i drop Bridgette, and you counter
a red head. i form wax bubbles, and
you clean with ammonia.
i broke down an office door at the head
of a retail institution, and you, my dear,
have snapped on your high heels and
walked straight through that ugly swamp.

nearly every night there is the
static bombs that alert the birds to duck
and cover. the skunks to evacuate, and the
country called Haiti to flee as fast as possible.
we enter through a trap door and slide down the
laundry chute like two drunkards having the last party
before detox. we scramble our eggs into egg sandwiches
and wait for the long pause only an Earl would donate.

several miles away there is a shanty town
where religion is held in the sway of a rolled up dollar
and snorted like vaseline over the various impervious collar
bone ruptures. I look at you and you look away and you finally
say you have had enough. The labor pains are cruel and tedious
and not to be set about like lining up the book case with titles in
alphabetical admonishments.

we could buy guns but choose the pops
from cans of Vernor's as I ready the local mart,
tell you this state has only one area code and you may start
flying the distance Now if you wish--the only blockade being the
guilty sleeves of blue velvet you refuse to get cleaned or even take
down. the axis tilted when our first soul was born, or some such voodoo
i know exists in the smaller forts where we lie to ourselves.

we are playing the most intriguing and
volatile game known to man. it is the game of Hearts, and we both
happen to have none of them when the lines go down. when the skunks
leave their grass lining, and the wild dogs start praying, and the birds start
defecting to Europe, and the meerkat protects its children from the menace of
cobras without taking in food or magazines. without so much as a skinny worm
to digest, and without the face that stares back

at our backs.

we wouldn't be having
nearly this much fun.

at night she walks a fast
pounding while tripping over the
infestation of mutilated frog bodies
covering the stinking dusky

later she pours loads of sugar
on cereal, hiding the teaspoons
from her caretakers
by stuffing them in her bra,
her shoes,
her underwear.

the morphine finally tilts
her head to the side,
gently gliding her down
from the lost year memories
and the vindication

of living at home,
alone as ever
except for maybe.
the curls and lines
that make up her

when asked,
she doesn't feel like
going into the crowds,
embarassed by the dead
frog-smell, and the way
the body is caught by a hanger.

stiff and swollen,
water is pure danger.
she looks out at the bird bath
and knows why no bird in its
right mind
takes a dip.

it's sugar, nicotine, and morphine.
addicted frogs and birds
fly up from around her face
as she simply sits and cries
without her face twitching...

her face turning into a cloud
bubble and passing the thickened
dread of the coward's
broken heels and shotgun.
she is lost in myopia
and queerly her fingers

have stopped driving the car.
hands off!
look at me Ma.
no hands.
no hands.

he stretches the meadow
back with the flips of his hair,
and kicks off his shoes
a talon is stuck in the tree,
but the bird bones gasp
lonely under the swaying grasses.

i shoot the arrow.

she nods off under wine-
monsters and a heavy dose of
trauma lifts the fog from foot to
a dagger is open on her floor
and she steps on it to mimic

bloody hell enough of pain.

i shoot the arrow.

he dips down and starts to snooze
in a honey jar with a few dead
bee particles gripping fast.
he can't wait for the tux from
the cleaners.
but the size could be devastatingly

bloody hell enough to wait.

i shoot the arrow.

she has left the arena to take a
break from the hectic atmosphere,
but nothing sounds sweeter to her
than "sweetie" and it all comes
down to one ocean's visit.
one whale will see the plane and sigh,
and should she see the bubbles
there will be an emergency

i shoot the arrow.

they come to me
and i to them and it
never stops and yet there is all of this
                all of this
                             all of this
time                and distance.
and i don't know how long i can
hold him in the meadow
without my drowning in his lake,
nor do I know how long I can hug her
     without her flinching and her nails
digging into broken ice scraps.

someone's scalp.

someone's going to be scalped
on the revolution clock.
someone's going to fall through my
middle finger,
and when i go to shoot the arrow,
the bow will snap
and kill.

straight out
dead on

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the earth's tilting lisp is
making verbs absurd,
so i sneak down to one knee and
wag my finger into speeches,
start ripping them from the
and scoffing at the mildly
bemused moon.
This is What I Hear...

get off my back
because the bones are wrinkling,
bulging out of your purse
like so many credit cards
dancing on a dessert.
get off my belly
because the guts are shrinking,
dialing up strangers
to pay a bashful mortgage
for beach-front properties.

i've grown aching
plastic diapers
just to catch the last
drops of used grey water,
and i want you to stop
laughing at my
missing eyeball.
no matter how pleased
to have two.

it's not fucking funny
to be covered
in a house's icing.
nor would you think
much of your outfits if
none of them
rounded out your hips

and assume they
dead baby seals,
throttled like a rattle,
bouncing their chins off
the ice, spreading that red
paint all over your lips.
and the mothers.
all moms.
stranded and
defiantly crying.

every time i inhale,
some flakes of dirty debris
grab their choice of coffin
and sneak into
the chambers...
there are styles for death
and we pay top prices
for the eventual implosion
of balsa wood.

please write on my back,
as it needs lotion and care.
please rub my belly
as it needs food and silence.
please come home to me
my three queens of Love.

please come home
one last time.
before the candles
start assuming the position.
before I have to
take a nursery rhyme
with me.
before the violence
is assimilated and trusted.

please come home
my three darling
baby seals.
get under my wing
so that i might


she let the genie
shuffle out the window
and delicately started
the metronome

but someone
came crawling
up her long and
wayward pillows,
and shut off the
closed the closet,
and pressed her
old prom dress

between her armpits.

waking in the solitary
darkness of a lamp's
shining humming,
she chuckles before
feeling the hand.
it is not in the right
it is in the only place
left to consider.

the genie knocks
five hard times at her
but if she moves
the hand becomes fist.
the fist becomes
and the vagina closes
its sloppy sides

to shriek.

some gas squirts under
the window and curls the
metronome's hair,
opens the closet to
show her the ghost
and tells her to start
the ballet.

she grabs the fist
and licks her
elbow grease,
parts her thighs
and knows how to

there is cake
there is a mandolin
playing bluegrass.
there is a party
under her chastised

she takes the prom
dress and carves
it into a rope.
shatters the window
with a match,
and jumps.

the house of cards
behind her back
mumbles a reproach
she ignores
as her hand
carries the
disfigured metronome


I spit out the pits
from the watermelon
that was stolen from
a panhandler's shoulders.
I take out the bags of
licorice and gumdrops and
think it too awful to choose

the right color.

a pigeon walks straight
ahead of me,
waiting for me to shoot
the gun or throw some
boiled chamomile tea.
it is sneaking up on the

and my fever is hairy
and difficult to trap.
I choose the red licorice
stick and fling it at the
river bed running along
with its spinning nickels
as if money were a slut,
or witty tease.

take notice my dearest
sparrow! You-- now deceased
but tucked in my pillow
to keep the rain from
the last of its feathers.

we have to falter around the
valley before the mountain's
hinged swing steps can open
the doors away from falling

I put on the nightdress at noon
and tuck it into the boots
that grow up thigh high.
there is a puppy teething itself
just a foot or two behind me,

grabbing at dead worms and
the insects that hold its camera

The beggar is lying down but
has the shakes,
and so I shove a green mint leaf
in his mouth,
show him a breast for the toll

and tell him it will be fine.

but the brook that leads to
fire roots is babbling too far
behind him,
and without crutches
he will become a mark for my

I lie and tell him
I am staying the night.
when he falls into the shadow of
a pocket watch,
I pull out the dead sparrow
and clasp it to his wrist.

reaching the bottom of the
ice cream mountain's glow,
i reach in for the last of the
take a bite
without a tooth in my mouth

and begin to choke...

so this is how it ends...

about a minute of panic
before the spots light up
the chewed gravel.

one can't eat flesh
without becoming it.

"close the electric, or the cold will get out" --spoken about the fridge by Grandpa, the Hungarian violinist.

He was worried that if I played sports,
my hands would break and no more music
would flow out of the family's chest.
She was worried about my constant pouting
when the grinning comb ran through the gowns
I stared at in malice.

But you see.
I chose the opium den while the soldiers had
their slaughter fiesta,
and read my own history books wishing I was
Mayan and could have forwarned them.
The harbinger of my decadence lies in letters
sealed in a tin where at age 13,
I cried on my teacher's shoulder.
And she said, "it's not all that bad, is it?"

But it was.
I wanted to name my imaginary child Lily,
so all of you have become my safety pads
in the swiveled pond.
I wanted to be just as good as the boys,
so they ganged up and came in mass,
kicking at my shins as hard as a pickle
gets when dropped on a worm.
I didn't cry to show them I could take it.

So I started drinking the holidays down,
counting on my 40 digits the number of times
someone pointed out I was a psycho.
What they saw were the scratches and nicks
from a stranger that came when Love crawled
into my stereo and spun static out with just
one hit.

When the pain came, I sucked it in and bashed
my head in front of a confused practitioner.
Drugs were ordered and they were nearly the
best thing my posters had seen.
White and brown and yellow and green.
This one for the belly and that one for the head
and this one for the anxiety and this one for the
All of this was like watching a cracked vase lie
happily without the right glue. I stood in the kitchen
watching them slice peppers and thinking of my
pocket knife.

Right here is the entrance to God in my stash
of horror movies.
Right here is the exit I will take to the patio
where forbidden dugouts are tackled with shock.
Right under the bed are the crickets I am letting
take over, and you are allowed to slip in with a
satin gown showing your cleavage.

I have taken the DNA of several people with me.
So many that I no longer have fingerprints.
So much toil that I have to add the serial numbers
without assistance.
So much lost hair that a bird laughs at me every
time I switch on the lights.

I am growing antennae.
As well as a beak.
Bring me to the Hummus Tent.
Take my clothes off and send them
to the asylum.
Wash my hair thoroughly and try
not to wince when the lice
pop off the top like firecrackers.
The truth is...

I am terribly happy like a swan
couple petting in a theater.

Me mine.
Part animal.
Part human.
All their worry
for what?
It's not so bad
Is it?


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


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the dog knew--
stuck on a leash
it had started to dart around
like the ant I watched on a plastic
lid just a few days ago.
it sent out its trooper message:
I think I have found gold;
please do follow me into the garbage

the dog knew.
it knew the rumbling wasn't from a
goddess, pissed off for the lack of
precious offerings. playing cards on
some mountain top, and stomping away
upon losing to some other lucky city.
the dog is stuck leaping sideways in

its brains, like most of the humans
caught in the volcano's heated-ash-plume.
its brains
boiled inside its head.
and the excavation looks so different
if pointillism is the depiction.
but if you look at the people
and the way their mouths twist
into the oval-egg shapes,
and the way their arms held their
and the way they were running
for their children,
and the way they were hiding
in their small houses,
and the way they were crouching
as if it were wind and not
a catastrophic boom of

the dog knew.
even here on the edge of my
bed, where a cliff of get-well letters
scatters around my room like ants on
plastic cups.
even here where my stomach dives
in and out of books I have read several
times over.
even here where the ordinal numbers are
out of sequence and looking for some Ground.
even here where I guzzle 3 pills and
watch the wall wash itself into eggshell

even here the dog knows.
I ask it to pay my bills.
I ask it to rub my back.
I ask it to call my friends and thank them.
I ask it to tell my family everything is fine.
I ask it to close the door and shut out the

the dog knows better.

and leaves.

you are not the tease,
and you cross your legs
slowly at the ankles,
stretching out the calves
like every woman does--
when the dinner dishes are
when the phone calls slow
to a halt.

we play like tickling
ice cubes in a chaser.
we tell secrets the government
is stupid enough to know.
I want you to send
a package and you want
mine. I am slow to respond
as always, and you forgive
my criminal history.

tell me where your parents
were the day you decided
to go golfing?
tell me where your lover was
the day you shoved the box
of letters into the garbage?
tell me where the honey bee
is hiding in all this mess.
tell me you love me so that
we can continue the conquest.

my darling.
I am half wench and half patriarch.
Spinoza flutters down the screen
as a moth, and I touch it as if it were
a tiger. Gentle. Slow. Cautious.
Our dancing is erratic but looks splendid
on an escalator.
I have planted an espalier against your
deck, so that when the smoking starts,
you have a decent shrub to sit upon.
Gentle. Slow. Cautious.

you are the filament
inside my bulb.
you can enter through
my handcuffs and do the Bomb
or perhaps the pogo.
there is enough time left
for you to estimate the
length of these Lilliputian legs.

Gentle. slow. cautious.

psst! you people have me stumbling over rocks. the brilliant dance continues and I beg Devery and Innocence to continue, as well as the "new" poets. Keep going. Keep going. Even the wrong way is the right one...

i've been picking at the
straightjacket for hours and perhaps
years, but time is fickle that way--
no calendar means
no amount of days.
I find myself in the lead
blanket and can't lift the heft,
as hard as my legs kick and my spittle
announces and my voice box shatters,
as much as my head hits the wooden
Chair of Judgment, and as far as my
wishes hear the slurp of the ocean,
I need help.
I need it fast like a sucker.
I need it hard like a tango.
I need it before the lights sprinkle
the last of the day
and the depth of all the paint colors
swirl once again into black...

bring down the sack of new clothes
and i promise to wear them as much
as i hate them.
a dress with tulips,
and the red blood my fingernails
spot upon when you tickle my
friend you are not far from me,
but can't find your way around the
development, like a fly running
against the summer screens,
or a burst of rays slumbering up
the scaffold at 5 am.

I am waiting for a fix.
the bets have been made.
the criminals have their cellulars
and the cops read them their rights.
but the judge stands before my
steel belt and calls me
Freak for the cellar!

God damn,
I need a cubbyhole.

and then

the escape.

at first it's a little like
being tickled past your wishes,
how your stomach rolls up into
tissue wads and you spit out through
your clenched teeth, "sSTOP sSTop IT!"
but the supervisor at work won't
stop sending you surveys
you don't have time for--and the
bill collectors are calling and you
could care less,
and the family watches you go down
the side of the stairs and wonders

if you've even showered today.

depression is a the thick black grime
around the top of a jelly bottle.
anger is the seed stack in the corner
of your garage, building up its own host,
and most of all--desperation sits counting
the digits on your hands and toes,
calling you out for a fish fry,

and you don't eat fish.

not a morsel would think of passing
your bulbous lips,
and the shakes come through your
neighbor's annoying old radio...
music won't find you without a
but then that is true of Everything.

the time it takes to run to the
bathroom and sing into the toilet,
how many hours of your life
go splashing away from water,
and why the fear of strangers that
keeps the brim of your hat to
the bottom of concrete?
and how do you pay the reaper
when your fists have carved
themselves into permanence...

and all these annoying questions
build up in one bad poem,
where god fuck all,
I look down at my skinned

and for just this moment
I know what it means to

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Andy Pants--don't take this harshly as I just put out one of my worst poems EVER. If you are comfortable staying in a scheme and rhyming, then that is what you should do. Look up Ma Chao earlier and around this thread. He can rhyme your eyes bloody. BUT. IF you are looking for a change--fall free form. Forget stanza lines and forget rhyming unless you need it. Forget everything except one huge thing that I forgot earlier today--ADJECTIVES. They are the crust that makes poetry slightly off kilter. And I could be full of shit. I am no professional. But you asked for advice and now I have given you my best.

the creek water
licks the huge roots
sucking up to the tree,
and this little gurgling makes
me wonder about
the past i should have had,
and the future my body waddles

i am the thorn
inside the sink, swirling
around your disposed fries,
and i've become the
senior citizen far before the
age of 55,
picking at my teeth.
waiting for the scrub.
staring at the books
as though they were Fire.

i love you
even when your fit is
ruined by a commercial,
and i have just the right
amount of pep-to for your
upset belly,
loose as it is.
jiggling like mine.
we look at the same movie
and wish we were lesbians.

i got the lucky shot
as a screaming toddler,
and ran with my pants
falling behind me
straight into the lobby.
every mouth opening
in frigid shock.

just like you.

Devery does have a good EYE for fine poetry, doesn't she? And her short one above lets in just enough space and out as well.

The Year of Deaths

I've lost two relatives
and two pets
and the only difference
is the slime that will
take their boxes when
more are taken.

You can weep,
as one should
but the truth is
you're going to
eat one hamburger
too many.
and that will be
the End of you.

Or perhaps you
digest pills at a
rocket's rate.
Drink booze as
though it was
Take medicine
which will only
mean more of it.

and with the slithery
hand of a strong man's
grip, slowly you will find
your legs gone wobbly.
the heart racing nowhere.
the brain exploding in
the cellular phone taking
your last breath,
just as you Pushed all
those words into it.

the dog is now dying.
or something has gone
terribly, terribly, awfully
Wrong. This will be another
tear, and books will go down
for it. I will rip their pages and
eat them one by one, until that
first wave of nausea...

when i'll scream for paramedics.

i owe my grandmother more
divine kisses, and my uncle more
trips to the game table. i owe the
two cats a heart and some lungs.
i owe this dog, my dad's grief from
the year, rolled up like a sausage and



and having that sideways smile
locked in ashes and bone brittle.

funny. he loves peanut brittle.
and that may be the end of him too.

they say i am clear of it,
have made a new person to flirt.
have taken a pecan in caramel and
called it Mine.
am ready to work again.
as soon as the limbs kick in.
and when they do,
perhaps the grit from my

will finally fly free.
if you've smelled something
on the beach that hits your bones,
then my bet is a dead horseshoe crab.
and if your childlike inspection makes you
want to turn it over,
all the same to you.
i am not there.

as a species
we are not much for legs
past 4.
and as a monarch,
i personally can't look at the
middle of it.
the dinosaurs went down for
mysterious reasons,
and within 100-plus years,
we have turned on the heat.


i wake and turn to my friends.
all of them by way of the slick
all 3 tell me they love me.
1 I have visited and 1 comes soon.
all the same,
the crumble of my chest,
and the feeding of my intestines.
the bark that encases my fingers
writes a tidy bullshit.
and i care.
more than an amoeba.
possibly because of feeble feet.
perhaps due to not paying bills.

but i care.
all of them my microscope.
all of them wishing me well.
all of them worried i'll go nuts.
all of them huddled in their
Secret Society.
--none of them draw

equal parts sugar
tea and salt.
forcing me to eat
and making the phone
none of them draw

The stock will be
and then there will
be a party, where i
watch the Secret

play my final rhapsody.

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


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the weeds sniffle and
smirk at the same time,
gathered in my closet
and hushed away from
nosey relatives,

i start plucking
starting between the
toes, and gather momentum
as i refuse a shaver for the legs...
one snatch will wince and the next
flies as free as a turtle on ice.
another few will harness that inner
thigh sweaty area.
only the doctors count pulses

a twitch and a babbling "O"
find themselves curious as to the
patch missing where the surgery dug
IN. this will not be sent by notary,
and none of you will have the time.
but all of you will wonder what
Finally took her down.

as small as a cat's head,
and as ruthless as canines
are inching up further to the very
top of the mountain.
There lies a lot of the night left
before they see how Clean I can Be.
take a break, darling

and for god's sake

clean up the floor.

Fuck both of you. I have bills to pay!! hahaahaa. No. I love both of you. I just like to say the word Frig.

the hyacinths and rhododendrons
have died and are awkwardly licking
the turf, where here, in an autumn dusk
turning over sheets of a strange orange sky,
the cousin walks through what was once a glorious
playground. Kept neat by a changing rangling banging
group of men who had nothing but the seasons to sit upon.

There is a line of solid oaks and Douglas trees in the back.
She heads towards them giddy in the weeds as the grasshoppers
fiercely puncture her shins and hop off as mad as a hatter, and hopeless.
The rest of what was a fountain lies shattered before her, but Cupid stares
out into space with an incredulous grin, forgetting the terrain that is slowly taking
his feet under. The champagne she drank has made her wave her arms like a plane
in a quick sweep over this remnant. But the fountain has dug into rubble and racks of
glue that knock at her swollen feet. She wonders if the fort is still somewhere in the middle
passageway, ready for Indians and Cowboys to assault with their deadly scalps and high pitched
giggles long gone from adolescence.

She feels like an idiot, this curiosity getting the better of her, and sweeping her chores away from
her ailing mother and the constant drips of laudanum that are punched in between thin lips. But she wants
to forget the party inside the house. Small and noisy with whistles for a birthday that should matter but doesn't.
She walks through the twigs with her tiny wrists snapping off the branches that tuck at her face as if she were a
dirty mattress. There, lying in the distance, is a tiny shack of wood that is flying to the left ground clearing. Tiny
yellow finches start to wrestle behind her, but this is of no consequence to her eager steps.

What will be left inside the opening? She cranes her neck like a freakish swan, and peers at an angle, suddenly afraid
of all the holes in the ground and the probability of snakes. Nothing. Not a toy pistol. Not a slingshot. Not even the doll she had lost to the boys on a bet years ago. Someone is calling her name but she is caught in bristles and a syrup-like demand of weeds. The thorns pocket her hairs and go out for coffee. She strains to hear some music and
that slippery smile has left her face. None of this is memory's gush. None of it makes sense.

She turns to head back and tries to lope like a deer, but the ground eagerly takes snapshots of her grimace, and the
birds call out in attack. She feels a peck on her head and swipes in anger. Then another slight shot on the cheek. Then another slap of a wing to the eye. Then another host of falcons seem to pull her face back like a rubber stick and check for honey. The bird feeder is 10 yards away and lying to itself, completely full of seed, but so far down on a slant, that the squirrels have conquered. She yells when another bite plays on her arm like a piano.

She yells and knows there will be no one to hear, but something is calling her name like an echo over a cliff. Closer, but slow as a handkerchief, she fumbles and meets ground. To her left, Cupid is smiling wide and vividly awful. As she leans, hands and knees to the ground, a small yellow finch comes to dance with the rest and there is finally silence. Her dress is ripped in so many places that the tailor will hike up the price. Her face is marked with small blood pin holes. Her arms are sticky with a bastard glue,

and she is sleepy. Harder than she can imagine. She is so tired, she can barely raise her chest. As her knees fall in deeper inside the fountain a small gush of warm water sprouts. She watches as bubbles crest up her legs like ants on sugar. She lies down in the warm water and lets her dress float out like a drowned cow. She watches the shade of orange shift away from the house and turn dark blue, and as she lies next to Cupid she feels the urge to kiss, Stops. Imagines what they will say upon her soiled return.

She will not return. She digs her elbows into the warmth now crawling from belly to inner thighs. She feels the tickle of insects taking her brow for their journeys. She says her name 3 times and closes her hands inside the muddy warmth of the water. Her face falls next to Cupid's glare, and moving one leg to the side, she knocks him over with an elbow. She pushes him next to her belly and the water...

See? She thinks.
You used to flow and spit this water out yourself.

Can anyone see this?
and she falls into the hush of it.
she lets the water lap her chin like a dog.
she is caked in mud and jelly grime and she doesn't



-----------------------------------------------------dammit. time for bills. this might mmmm. maybe the prose thread instead. but too late. Suffer.

the typewriter is yawning
in the closet, where the thrown
"s" is coasting on one wedding
antique glass.
oh, such a loss of you
makes my shorts bleed without
a certified check or my buckles
popping off their belts.

the opera glides into my ears
and this is the eon becoming
a flash from a camera, where
dead friends wrote best wishes
and cake actually tasted sweet.
stop your accusations.
the shoes are tying their strings
into spotlight knots.

here's the rub of it.
here's the phone call i missed.
here's the kiss without teeth.
here's my hand checking pages.

in the thin garage's grumble
there is gas sloshing around like boots.
there is a baseball bat filled with
spiders and green yards' mulch
Standing Straight Up.

and that is what comes next
in the movie, but not the show.
Back Curved into the corner webs,
Nose shot full of coke--the drink.
Toe nails shoved into a mouse
and the gear stuck in idle for the
Rest of several lives diving in

splendid superman whirls out of
seatbelts and airbags into the

You broke the vow
when your nose blackened underneath
a dead battery. I pressed the pedal
into full shave, and my hair has not



that old subordinate repression
has stolen the falcon's talons
and headed to the ocean with
gallons of plastic milk,
where the sand meets your dead
bones, rattling in a chamber pot
that once made you Speak.

what you offered is lost upon a
professor's desk, where Plato thinks
the blood is beating without fingers.
all of the rabid dogs are refusing
water in fear, and we will vote the
earth itself out,

whipped over the shoulder of the moon
in a knapsack and forgotten. i bid you
farewell, knowing a mob is forming
its mosquito lances, and as for me,
i'll be the first to fall when that old
time religion demands Delilah to sell
her last garnet.

we've dug in, and you've dug in under
papers and dusty brows. they're talking
about CO2 emissions from computers,
and the Industrial Age pumps its fist
in the air, making a spectacular gas
chamber for those

nephews. cousins. distant pavilions.
before i am attacked for being a hyena
in a lion's musical, i've got garbage to
throw out.

and that includes you.
your hair trampled and spread out
over a vase in green preludes...
the mammals are bolting the doors.
those who are aware of death
have stopped speaking
from the top.

instead. there are drawers full of
dirty sparrows, those old dinosaurs
as Stable as shifting continents.
a plague of tidal waves washes over
your dead skin pieces
and keeps one molecule
in a pan.

i need a smoke when thinking of it.
and so do you, fallen female

there is a finish line for the
chronically pain-ridden,
and it starts with you slapping
the side of your head at a concert,
pulling your hair out on a table
where the physician scratches
his pinky and prepares the injections.

where you lost your chance
at becoming a Professor begins in
a car ride where the green light
slips off its nightgown and sits
on the edge of the bed waiting...
no, not a stroke.
but some rotten tomatoes are
falling around your eye,
where the permanent ice pick
keeps its backhoe ready for

seven years later you take out
the sheets of a swallowed and
void checkbook,
glaring over you is the ovaries
they've sold to customs. two
hernia repairs are just barely holding
your glass-cup bowels together.
approximately fifty hospital visits
are bleeding down your back,
and the pills are utterly devoid
of promise.

triglyceride and cholesterol beasts
are waving their flags on the fallible
heart plugs. three cancerous moles
dance in E minor against the batch
of newborns they are feeding,
and you are alone in your parent's

you have been proclaimed a territory
for gambling entrepreneurs.
no job will take your smells inside of
their promised HMO dossiers.
no friends are left except the line
of electric fence Cons that love
you for what

you might be.
one last resort is to snip the branch
in the back of the head and let the
face fall into a tin can,
halfway smiling,
you are ready to kill ether,
but inhale its cousins
into that red pin cushion
kept for quilting.

the shadow of attempted flights
out of the country
tear up the passport
and birth certificate,
saying finally,

you should be dead.
you have made it this far out
of aluminum baking,
only to find there is no way
to clean the oven

spitting out on an intercom
right next to your brain.
one step too far,
and the deed
rests its feet on a coffee table.
your ashes will Be.
your ashes will Succumb.
your ashes will roll around inside
someone else's dresser --

that black anesthetic light
turns over the page
and is shocked.



I have one box left
for the invention of
fresh bits of birth.
There are two blinking
lights sighing out their
stretch mark yields,
and these i dangle from
the neck,
letting loose of feathers
and the plop into the infants,
or enfants'

there is a breeze in the
pharmacy doorway,
where your former butt
quakes as you are unfolded.
the tissues have left for
Troy, the hiss of the Himalayas,
or a cottage in France.
wander to the locations
and find your fool's gold.

darling, i have only one
brain and heart,
but the sewing maching is
marching along a turnpike,
hooking out its thumb and
saying to a trucker:
"i need the Siamese tokens,
 but please turn up the stereo.
 you are about to finish the

on the back of a few skirts
there are zippers probing
the beetles dry,
and in the front of a cumberbun,
Helen waves the fishing ships
into her foyer and offers pudding.
in the morning you can have
All the ice cream sprinkles.

by noon I will have shaved
and given the toads in the yard
two tickets for a G rated movie.
one ashtray for some melted
three pairs of socks for Autumn.
one straw for cocaine.

take me with you dimpled girl.
open the can of pecans with
your shifting teeth.
take out a bow tie and throw
it into the clean lake,
watch closely now...

the waves are submitting
designs for evacuating clothes.
and here
a fissure rips off what's left,
and throws spring water
where the hearts were torn out
deep in South America,
a picture from my youth

will find your thumb.
I have left my breasts on
the chimney mantle,
where clever as book ends--
they do indeed jiggle without
let go of the watermarks.
forgive the length of 'hello'.

sit down and eat the berries.
your knuckles will endure the
winding staircase of licorice sticks.
i cannot predict whether your
feet have met an Irish bog.
i can say for certain that my
name will conjoin on demand.
there is no way to offer
a triumphant march without

but i will try to answer the
dubious nature of permanent
you can have the pieces of
the tubes,
but brass will be harder to find,
distinctive in taste,
and pocketed with amalgamated


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


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*thinks...jesus that bitch Devery has collapsed the last two pages...what an absolute tart!! and as for Sarah, my heart clinches over a letter to be written...and paper-doll, and the rest of're a bunch of devastating wits in a twitching vessel i'm about to shake like a rubber dolly!!! you soiled and decent purveyors of lexicology!!"


take down the cathedral,
the pumps those catacombs wear.
a beard sliding down and trimmed
in blood,
no. certainly not a white man.
or a banker's novice swearing to
the tutted women swishing out
mean meat in the market square.
not a crucifix waiting for the
martyr, but the rapid thinking
dump tank where the bullies
poked their fingers inside
his ribs and solidly flat nose.


more like a cage on some
dry and squalid sunrise,
where his fingers were pulled
by the weight of my reflexes.
it's Him on the shore of a
pristine lake with one bottle
tossed sideways into earth.
lapping at the water
like the good girl,
I shudder

and trollop,
gliding his hand to wear
bras, underwear, dresses, and
tunics broken off in bits of raunchy
here i am
all hide and seek like that
blasphemous ribbon
tying our shoes together.
i'll be the man,
you the wife.

this last one in particular,
spreads over oiled breads and
Angel hair pasta.
your favorite dish has left
me empty like the devil's plain
here we sit in silence,
playing at Victorian justices.
forgetting the pain.

where jesus
the idol of spears and plague,
enters the conversation
on a napkin embroidered
with the finest silk stitch.
"--let me accept those things..."

but we don't.
nor the price of the feast.
never the haughty host.
forget the best of war's books.
punch out the steam machines.
drive to meet the dusk,
and fail loosely and wrung out

like my cracked lips.
my soft belly lifting its lead.
my legs part and flex for myths,
my hands pull and startle in a movie.
my eyes pivot and prey over politics.
where i sweat at night is private like the
hush of a church...

my god.
jesus christ.

merciful mary
son of a bitch.

you've taken me

all the way


did you mean it,
without pumpkin lips
and the snowy cliff of
a hung brow.
drifting like an elephant's
muscular rubber hose
there was something
like taste down there.

i boiled my hand and
brought it to the table
of your delicate tummy,
turning the engines to
the side and inspecting
the knobs on your surface.
my mouth hungry for
dessert, my leg wrapped
around your skirts.

did you mean it.
taking my neck to the
dispensary. holding my hand
as they punched the tiny hole.
not there, i wondered
not where the clamp starts
bleeding out my spoiled
and dusty ovaries.

throwing kisses to the air
at terrorist repositories
where soon a banana was
purchased against the backs
of air conditioned greens.
while i trembled and stung
a line at the library as
research for oceanography
bridled and loosened a
plethora of indians and

did you mean it.
that we'd remain tied together
in a womb of fresh air and fires.
the sun would pour itself like
dainty pickles on our plates
and remind us of our skins
clutched and stalled on a
suburban hill.

waiting for the r.s.v.p.
flying through the tunnel,
i calmly sit upon my piggie-
butt. pull out the camera's
needle-nose and gather
the restless feet kicking
at your door,
saying "quiet" now.
a little bit of peace for
the pay of tonics.

hunch over the gullible
and figure out the diameter
of your iris at dinner,
during the bastardized sex,
during your coffee throat,
during salted relish.

did you mean it?
did you?
did it?

I am impressed. Like a bitch in heat, Devery, I hate you sooo much for your latest. (you actually made me cry and you know i hate that) Musings. I agree with Devery, basically--as the third poem has the most punch for me. Just as Devery is a sort of master at leaving an air of mystery behind even Those Lengthy Tedious Poems...I tend to be for...about 2-3 styles. The third one, Musings, is succinct in the correct areas, drawing the reader In. I like succinct if it Draws. The first one is missing more adjectives, and Could be something spectacular if worked into a dialogue of sorts. I'm going on too long. I have a bad habit. Andy Pants just wrote something of a tidy poem, which could be called a "statement" poem, yet it's so short that there is a certain charm in it. (my opinions are only mine--who am I to judge?) So. If I had a hat right now, it'd be off. What other style do I like? Mid to late Sexton. Unlike Devery, who is a first class twit, I sometimes need a Lot of juicy and jarring adjectives/metaphors galore. (did you like that?)

the battered wife creams up the folio
nice and tight as desks and permission.
she is lying on a coffin rambling about
wicked water bottles growing parched.

the thief knocks on a parish gate
laying down jaw breaker sickles.
he is crammed into a dossier's fist--
liars picking garbage on the freeways.

the butcher dilates and prods the fish eye
out upon the liver's barren comfort.
there are stripped viscera dancing a jig--
steamy ballots, forgotten at the poles.

something tinkles in your knapsack--
under Your dresser are the syringes.
self-absorbed avarice turns home on
the jobless, detrimental, cretin triumphs.

the boss is funding projects for the poor,
where the shacks find beer cans adrift.
pull off the veneer and suits disembowel
right below the vines where people swing

All necks broken
after being slapped.
All bruises pinched
on bathroom doors.
All your efforts
absorbed above.

---------------------------------------I can't FINISH a damn one of these. I'm lugubrious.

she brought the dumbest thong
and the garbage bag for tidying
up the after effects of affection.
but it wasn't like that around the
entire house, which settled in a

she kissed the cups and placed
them carefully upon the bed's
chamber pot. i went down on
her like two bookends and made
a bet against the windowpane's
hissing and folding breasts. i was
belittled, told her the winter ice

she broke the key inside my ugly
chin with a torpedo that cackles.
i stripped down to my socks and
sent letters of intention or regret
to her furnished dwelling--there
only her teats would show how
to fuck like magnets on a fridge.
did i think once that i'd whisper
I love you
to That?

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


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i chuck up the equivalent of the hot dog.
it was in itself, a treat, as it was unexpected.
what some would call 'surprise' - but that sounds
like a birthday. can it.
i hit the toilet lid, and am disposed to sit back after.
this is one squalid affair. one attack of the body.
'attack' isn't the right word. scrap it.
my lover-partner-ex is about to creep in and
throw up her hands as if that means anything.
i am on the tile floor. you've been there. you
understand. i'll play black jack. spades.
you can demand that i cease. 'cease' isn't the
right word. bolt your door.

the addict pushes you to another room.
'i'll clean this up. jesus Christ!' you are lighting
the fire on a cheap sheet designed to
resist acid rain. but crumple in a second.
'second' isn't the right word. are you hanging
on? don't.
paper towels are brought by your face.
it means nothing to the digestive system.
here is the failure of the nerves to execute
with proper force. here is the bomb shelter.
get in and die anyway. evaporate. hungry?
'hungry' isn't the correct term. neither is
'correct'. the right word lingers in the
bags of temporal lobes making you feel.
put it in the recycling bin.

your mouth opens in sorrow, but there
are insufficient funds. she barks and--
knocked to the floor. the legs actually
become something as the war starts.
except you can't afford the gun.
preparation is key. 'key' sucks. drop it.
grab anything as you plant your feet.
yell. scream. she is doing it as well.
how it has come to this, is understood.
it is documented even in movies.
the fickle foible. being short with hips,
the only deadly force you can inflict
is directly into the knees from a tackle.
make that the thighs too. 'too' isn't
proper. now you are throttled by the
neck and swinging shirt. pinch.

locked out of your dwelling. now ram
at the door with everything you have.
'let me in!' to be fair, the parents are
paying for the lover. the one inside.
inside the squeezed walls. on the trigger.
i just talked about sex. that is really
where everything starts. it becomes a
raw deal. 'raw' isn't the right word.
fuck you.

the cops come. sixty cars and twelve
belts. words will get you nowhere.
the floor collects drool from your brow.
your partner is explaining a mistake.
the jail is full and pills are on their way.
it is amazing what one can get away
with. especially if they refuse to take
you to a hospital. restrain everything.
lockdown. 'amazing' doesn't work out.
neither does 'groovy' or 'foxy'. but
you have never been this turned on.

the ride to the pharmacy happens
inside a 3,000 dollar car. it's yours.
leave the addict to drive. she complains.
i think of the hot dog. i think of tile.
i think of legs. i think of how quickly
i could turn the car over if i clutch
the steering wheel and turn hard.
at the drug store. waiting in the car.
traveling up the throat is acid. 'acid'
doesn't mean anything to you.
put it on your tongue, but not
backwards there. that will be the

second or worst mistake of your life.
no. the mistake started with that
first kiss. smooch. lip-lock. peck.
a whiff of clean air hits the cortex
as the car door opens. this is the
third or fourth error your judgement
has made. 'judgement' sounds like
shit. so is writing. so is breathing.

why forcefeed the coma or senior?
but something like a dose of alcohol
shaped in tiny green bugs. your mouth
is opened and the insertion begins.
i told you this was about sex. if you
have come this far. if you have even
tried. 'tried' is only useful if said after
'i' --this is just plain silly. nutty. ha.
green turned to yellow in a parking
lot, and that is art at its best. but
the seatbelt wins. it actually wins.
it actually saves your life. it is

maybe it was ten. it was a multiple
of 5. the woman is upset enough
not to share this time. the woman
bleeds every single month. you refuse
to eat it. that is far too picky.
put the aluminum in that mouth and
start chewing. it is a little like what
i am asking you to do. this is not
a love poem. it 'works' and it does


Dorothy Parker!  Miss Ninja has much to offer us...
Devery. You are so overdue, that the library has shut down and sent you hate mail. Your two-bit contributions are an abject self-pity fest, whereas mine are imbued with the best Frost ever wrote. Try writing something in iambic pentameter, or perhaps consult "The Poetry Dictionary" before you come back.  :coolsmiley:

i was three.
she popped off a lid.
poured a favorite potion.
took the required smokes.
hopped in the car and headed
for the deadly nightshade--
perhaps the game Scrabble
was somewhere in a closet,
the board decomposing.
the letters tumbling and
lapping against a beaver's dam.
the typewriter had dug itself
a foxhole, peeking cowardly
out to watch a trumpet
eat bacon.

there was no note left.
what would be the point
when sound and miracles
of soap have drained?
even flying down the stairs
to pinch faces into pity,
even sulking at dinner
where food rested in its
putrid Fall colors.
there is no allure for any
action once a reaction
has been confirmed.
lab rats pronounced the
edict the same.

they say if you've tried it.
failed. the chances for
you to succeed rise down.
shuttle buses will wrap
their long arms around a
tornado. offer perspective.
where she landed,
the face would be immune
to the drone of lightbulbs.
each bra could be burned.
this last masturbation,
a call to lions around
the globe.
the kind of rumbling bass
line one feels through soil.

a deck of seagulls lost
their eyes at a casino.
a pair of roses shaved off
their thorns and clamored in 
shelter. the salvation army
raised its honking bells to
the sky, and soiled itself.
a single hornet told the rest
to take a vacation from
religious tenets.
past notes pry, ambivalent
about their voting record.
she had taken scissors to
the marriage, and released
the vacuum hose from her
daughters' hairs.

with enough time in a garage.
a few enlightened chorus girls
start teaching the alphabet.
there is mockery under gables,
and jello in steel tubes.
foundations themselves meet
fault lines with one hand
behind their backs. treacle
is served raw, running the
silent slaughterhouse.
she clicked off the engine
to let Hansel and Gretel
write their own screenplay.
she clicked on the engine
to finish one last poem.

i was three.


you are remiss
to think the golden shadow
i forged into the checkbook
is the stained avalanche
blooming mold in disinfected


the hypocrisy dividing itself
from post traumatic lipservice,
the lies running through
waterfalls with beverages in hand,
all of the building's chipped and
purring hearts,
reside in earnest sofa shops.


take your fable to a
blistering rotisserie.
my own room as frosted
as a haul of textbooks.
closed with gratuitous
thieves turning back clocks.

this is where the ice
boomed over a filthy carpet.
this is where two widows
retire, vows and vices
balled up in a tissue.
this is where you sliced
through the artist's muscle.

my lips disheveled and
wearing out a pram.
my mouth violated out
of wedlock, and holding
that quiescent vigil.
my eyes following the
snare drum's naughty
noose, and letting the
gentle guard perform.


a fluid kiss.
an explosion of bats.
the unlocked jar.
the miscreant's fodder.
a staunch publication.
a synonym for blindness.
a cup of chili powder.

my neck
unwraps the knife,
placing it backwards.
pointed at hyper nerves.
resolute in fashionable

the handle rests
on a fleeing
it jigs as fiercely
as the gnash
of chimes.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- :buck2:

I want to die this way
she said.

i turned the wheel for home
and the knob up louder.
i looked over at her face
as her knuckles dug into mine,
and saw the red light turn
that face ridiculous.

I want to die like this too
I said.

but what i meant was without her.

the promise to follow one
into the deathbed
sounds exactly like

my unbuckled canker sore.
books making crank calls.
a ceiling fan repeating odes.
my bolted legs receding.

i don't want to die this way

but i do keep the locket.
i keep one pornographic tail light.
i hold two tickets for myself.
i playfully toss my ball inside teeth.

lying down, lying down.
getting up, getting up.

squeeze my eyelids hard.
not for the goblin, monster-ghost.
for the accentuation
of thunder.

am i dying?



Lookey!!! Mother fuck. I just had no idea...none. How many people feel "blocked" and are still birthing out surprises?
I still have no idea.

don't spread apple butter
over your delirious hairs.
you have one wise minute
to consider the flat globe.
you understand the metaphor
but not my crude apologies.

i'll be flawless inside a sparkling
Cupid, but snickered and
wasted on granola.
let's play, i say. let's do it
again until our mutual
sexes split our nails.

you. yes, you. what to hold
looks something like a bear,
but smells so intimate
that showers forfeit.
look at the clapping grins

guiding your humid face.
i can see your eye lose trust
as you brush off the lint of me.
you can act as if there is no
charted malady

but i've been basting inside
this warped wobbly shell.
raise the glasses, dear ones. 
i know i left the stairway
running over the tub's edge.
a cowardly runaway spells.
but this totem pole

is not my own.
not your moment to reiterate
what can't be accomplished
since my elevated election
has failed the parasite.
failed the host.

i've loved you
with a desperate-hostel-kind
of manner.
my lonesome candle lights
winter's curses now. glides over
and busts the mighty
discussion. a hollow resonance
brings the bells in to your
praying hands.

all this simpleton feedback
is the wish of my guilty
saucers. emptying themselves
of pitiful cups, volunteering
for your neck. that holy space
before our minds conjoin? it's
the sacred heap of my verbose

i've loved you
and said the undeniable over
digital bulkheads. you propose
an eraser for the tattoo i shed.
taking off the clothes, grasping
the blankets, putting our rears
down...i execute the blank
vowels. we raise the standards
and cold hips.

 i toast to the
erroneous phrase and you
brush my throat. we gather
ourselves in time to dispose
our hearts down to the wick.
we notice the handsome
rhetoric of the first kiss.
i tell you what she left on
our mangled doorstep. we
describe the gory hiding, and
you tell me. you say you've
loved me.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------laced-mutton garble.


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


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Rob. Someone stole your password and put a video of a laughing gnome up there. !

the moon
so infatuated with itself.
scabs punctuate our hair
splitting a moisturized sea
where our fish-feet grow
querilous, amused, tokens.
opaque perdition loping
from .............................shit


Schplynthia and Larry---very, very damn good.  O0

revision #1 --Old Box

around noon, the world sits down.
tea, wafers, sandwiches, naps unfold--
nonfat because you are fat dressings
rummage through, and garbage rumbles

but it's evening when shops yell
cease fire, branding sighs and eyelids
into every worker's penalty--
that bathroom needs cleaned.

every poet wants to feel synesthesia,
a combination platter far over five bucks
where a hamburger winces into brown,
the color joins letters, joins a mouth.

a neurological illness weans into song,
the higher a pitch, the lighter the shade
and the flu breaks out, dishwashing napping,
ovals around eyes, wrinkles around jet lag

a stabbing or bludgeon might make b-r-o-w-n
yes, spread itself like gossamer, register cons,
sleep walkers scoot over daily planners and just
in a symbol in a symbol spell out b-r-o-w-n.

cryptomnesia is the call to toilet, to car and gas.
those important subconscious dialogues to heed
we fatten ourselves in concealing secrets 
boxes of boxes of rows of construction.

hit the snooze early in forever, it curls your lids,
a cat ready to take you inside the box, scratching
the same scratch earlier, you lick dusty grains
swallow a hard b-r-o-w-n, and start seeing stops.

i finally dispute how b-r-o-w-n is relevant when
a burger enters my pores and finishes cleaning
a toilet, and gropes for a nightmare, and leans
into the washing where song means memory...

my doppelganger is Mr. Brown, an evil twin,
certain death, the proximity of which tans too far.
he's told to mind steps and drop chartreuse upon number.
a #9 for all it's worth, for all i'm worth is b-r-o-w-n


Devery. You should, like, like, publish or something.

the eyelid comes apart
snaps over a buzzard's peck
and releases night from day,
it breaks into velocity
a dose of saline washing
the film wavering in reds--
not the tempest of familiar
blood, but altogether keen
in ruminating what solitude's
photographs would give.

the eyelid auditions and splits.
now two for an unprecedented
length of insomnia, rolling upwards
into silver lines etching out the
slow buzz of a clock's surrender
the way shade enters a flask
of hawks bottled on a highway,
lunging and somersaulting over
corpses, all reaching overhead
to a mournful sullied daybreak.

two eyelids bounce inside
sockets, marking out territory
tarnished with the swarm of
bloody black dots, basking in
their chastized and rehabilitated
retirement plans. i wait for the
falling of ice upon my brow while
some resource pulls hideous hands
over my lips over the house over
my gaze, rolling alive but elsewhere.

I have nothing against you
but the kindness of a dirge,
smothering poison skirts
like pomegranet pops and
cheeks blowing gangrene.

bring anger's crinkling bow,
a heedless blabber in plaster.
your eyes growing in squint,
my false teeth heaving prayer,
spectacles and one dollar fits.

dramatic effect runs backward,
let's turn opal face nicks into
plain embroidery done fireside
clothe and throw ourselves

lurching into bombastic veins.

(1984) i was 13, take it easy on me... more to get the points down for revising.

I looked down, trying to ignore thoughts, trying to forget, what I knew I couldn't. Her words spread out into the air that I found hard to breathe. She was trying to help, her eyes pleading with me. Tracing lines on the floor, dazzled with squares, counting bisecting lines. I could not bear to look at her, scared of my tears. My voice disappeared, i wished speech would return. That wonderful tool--voice--absent. I wanted to get out, escape the cell, get out and rid of the pain. I couldn't, & deserved it. I kept tracing the lines of the floor, still implanted in my mind. Time to leave, someday I would hug her.

a health in deepstate
furtive glare, into wringing
hands, the type folding
white clouds into gurgled
tubas, the voice breached
into judgmental bears, loads
of laundry-ridden epsom salts
steeling corners around mouths.

a floor holds steady,
her back bone aligned for
sulphurus bombardment.
sqares intersecting cubes,
all accounted for in rummy
and flipping red/black
saying wrap those soft
hands around, tie your

arms in ribbon, the square 
deserves your arms on icey
assurance, the goal removed
in severe snatched swamp,
lightning traces a fog felicitation
and lumbers into styrofoam,
those hands warming my knee,
where it counted for love.

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


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(1984) i was 13, take it easy on me... more to get the points down for revising.

I looked down, trying to ignore thoughts, trying to forget, what I knew I couldn't. Her words spread out into the air that I found hard to breathe. She was trying to help, her eyes pleading with me. Tracing lines on the floor, dazzled with squares, counting bisecting lines. I could not bear to look at her, scared of my tears. My voice disappeared, i wished speech would return. That wonderful tool--voice--absent. I wanted to get out, escape the cell, get out and rid of the pain. I couldn't, & deserved it. I kept tracing the lines of the floor, still implanted in my mind. Time to leave, someday I would hug her.

a health in deepstate
furtive glare, into wringing
hands, the type folding
white clouds into gurgled
tubas, the voice breached
into judgmental bears, loads
of laundry-ridden epsom salts
steeling corners around mouths.

a floor holds steady,
her back bone aligned for
sulphurus bombardment.
sqares intersecting cubes,
all accounted for in rummy
and flipping red/black
saying wrap those soft
hands around, tie your

arms in ribbon, the square 
deserves your arms on icey
assurance, the goal removed
in severe snatched swamp,
lightning traces a fog felicitation
and lumbers into styrofoam,
those hands warming my knee,
where it counted for love.

warning?: graphic, grotesque, evil. "when they get what they want, and they never want it again..."

here, i have basted your nipples
with a pearl's saw, basked under
a single curl waiting in this mouth,
held your fingers in earnest as
the dive rockets down your pious
slit. it's all that can be made, all
to root for under the tree of
racked toes pushing a littered-
lottery ticket. i want the worst
of a sexual hiccup, your mouth
hissing my name. over and over
the insult reaches a volunteer in
an elevator. done with introduction,
finished with the throb of that
purple hump. take my black lips,
the bruise spreading down the
cum. you can mimic my orgasm,
and i can mimic your ass in a ray
of the piss you've left on my
wedding sheets.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------umm. yuck.

you are gleaming, all incandescent
like shark bones or bank receipts--
take leave now from tacky vests
or borders grinning over a boa--
as inhospitable or rendered false.
toothy-pulsing over prudent relaxants.

fondle like that thread. mediocre
attempts heated for love's sake into
stretches. i'm kissing your slip before
the handy quake of backs. bullet wisps
of thunder toasted into contents,
i'm leaving italics, transfixed to shine.

the wind's disheveled or brisk bakeries
step-violent. it tears something short-
dumped into rubbed fat, so it follows
that flint rules, it smacks itself drunk,
wrong as a dead bird floating. all tiny
and circumspect, smooched bumps.


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


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i'm drinking gin, baby, secretive
as it should
as your bile...
take stunt's jive, child, otherwise
being your throne
being it tall..
i'm building the toddler, anchored
like sweat
like shudder...
take red's heart-prunes, paused
under breast
under tricks...
i'm in the flute's presence, stoned
as omniscience
as breathy...
take medicine's jesting, overly-
like physics
like baths...
i'm inside a river's quick, strained
being glad
being soiled...

plagiarizing "closer" Rob. and the rest of you deserve a good swat.

a kind of god plopped
down next to me. a
wicker chair bristled--
a creaky virginal best.
we exchanged barely a
glance, but it was truly
riveting how molars can
achieve that confidence.
"shh" it said through
curled fingers and densely
swaying shoulder blades.

"how can i?" felt its way
forward, charming weight
sinking and all round about.
it stretched a toe out,
angry with my indolence.
--it was lucent just like
a tic grown grape-size,
but tiny prickles of yellow
glass ran through its pit.
one vowel, It answered.
two knees played reeds.
three fangs let go of spittle.
and i vaulted out of the
queerness, running straight
through the devil itself...

"how can i?"

i bask in this calculated midwinter
death-hunt. it could be the car spinning
as one does. perhaps the pop of a nose
on concrete. but i'll take a razor down
from any old shelf, rusty or new, place it
in between my teeth, swallow, repeat,

just like learning the right way to drink
shots, there is a right way to reap razors.
except i am not deadly in intention,
just absent in my furrowed brow. i dig in.
i wait for the snow to hit the coast.
by then my true calling as a pig's master
will swing around a carousel on blades
the feet can take as easy as socks.
by then i'll be ready for the circus
where a low hum is heard hundreds of


it slips, scurvy blackening our feet
while neck-up, we nod in unison.
the song's a good one, and fingers
do the tapping. brushing off the lint
in eyelashes, violently shaking the
engine into dare, all we cross over
is weed and mud. weed and mud.

perhaps it's the same to most, the
thrill of meeting in dance, or bumping
into the pockets of a stranger's sassy
rump. but everything at the bottom is
weed and mud. rows and ceaseless,
endless acres of weed and mud.

from out of it, our scurvy-blackened
stumps. light up dearest, the song's
our forgetful rag. i'd like to slip my finger
into the nook around your bottom, but
scorn the temptation. and just as soon
as we vanish from this courtyard, my
butt following yours, just as soon just as
soon as it's all over. just as soon as
birth opens the cannister, weeds and mud.

he's not much for poetry
not much for sentimental
reminiscences. but he promised
me we'd fix it. we'll fix it.
make a ball revolve
in a different direction. and he's
smelling slower, shuffling like
a barfly at noon.

when he goes i've got it.
two hundred bucks and no
metal-shop lathes or circular saws
necessary. but a gun a gun a gun.
i can save while my mother tears
each of her hairs straight out of
their caves. straight out of the
end of something shiny and with
heft. it feels good in the pocket,
better in the hand. feels good in
the pocket and better in my hand.

two hundred bucks and my molars
won't even blink. won't even take
notes. no date time or latitude. it's
fast, faster than my loneliness and
quicker than my overflowing tears
which drop helpless onto an expensive
laptop. an expensive laptop. i'll trade it
in buddy. i'll trade it in buddy, and get
a gun a gun a gun.

it's close to time for fixing things.
i'm going to fix things just right this time.
it's something like breathing into a bag,
but man it feels better in your hand.
pop da pop da pop. a few extra shots
before leaning backwards. daddy, i said
i'd get a job when i was well and i know
just the employment opportunity. i know
just where to work and let my hands
do what they were meant to do.
meant to do.

i'll get a pop. a bang. and pray someone
throws all of it away after, hope that
even here my absence means so very
little. like nothing ever happened but a
shitty poem or two. and then going
on to do better things. i've got a plan
a plan a plan for when it comes. i've been
smoking almost nonstop. i have a legal
right. a legal right. a certified legal right.
bang bang bang cowboy. my turn.

sere my eyes darling, as i have no way of predicting the following:


you flirted the way straight women
stalk tan necks and rancid bird seed.
took six honking hawks to remind me
of your flirtations. perpetually feeding
me gravy, when gravy was all wrapped
up in a goat's platoon. was it not just
the best, marrying you for those wavy
brown eyes which held the freezer
in the back of my workplace. frozen
little hashbrowns of puppies and kittens.
they looked like packed peppermint
slides. twisted or in mid-leap, and all
the wrong paws, contortion or slumber.
my instinctual spasms in tepid waters--
sick but basted seven years later. the
tropical sex ceased like a buttoned
bee's fist. if it wasn't love, it was a
kind of celestial comfort. like the box
of your useless art, a screened notepad
on the table, where a man began
calling you baby. i called you honey,
the difference being sideways with my
finger left inside of you. two months
later and his dick dissolved in a trumpet.
so what'd you get from my calibrations
honey honey? a new car all shined up
and purring in a veterinarian's freezer.
me, the spasm in a bow tie: the gist
of my tanned elbows skating like a
cold and tarnished pancake. roadkill
for the hawks, honey. peppermints
in Christmas decisions, yelping that
final puppie's drool. the one where the
pee leaves the premises like a gashed
toadstool. a toadstool all trumpets, gas,
flirts, smarts, cons, crumpets for our
kitten. purring in mid-leap? purple
lips, bloated gravy: purring in a flame's
Milk. took six hawks to remind me. six
more for the syrup on the pancakes.


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


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #27 on: March 11, 2009, 03:45:50 AM »

Many, many times in the past i have exhausted myself with excitement and begging for more, MORE from the people who have tapped in their poems. I had resolved not to do that for some time because I began to feel like a cheerleader without a pompom. Or perhaps a cheerleader without a head.

But if I could wrap up these last two pages and cart them off to that imaginary alley... where only words shift and people sit in their dusty jeans intoxicated with something awful like a fecal mop, something wonderful like a teeny bit of aspirin, and something exalting like drool's surprise. Well, then. I'd do it.
Scattermoon, Larry, Sarah, Devery--thank you-both comments and your own gifts. Strange_Jane, I shall pm you with the particulars. You have a cousin with a slight family resemblance and his name is Rob. When he shows up, he always brings punch.

Whoever I missed, I applaud. "Fingersmith" me some more. (Buk on ice capades)--------------a diversion:


i'd bring you back all you refuted
in those hefty bags during your twenties

i'd stack different shelves for the books
to take place of the sound the baby left

i'd cut off my knees and shove them into
candy boxes, fly them off to that coast.

they might surprise you. so that every time
your night is too still but the day is doused

there is jam on my tendons. won't be without
a cup of junior mints to find my knee caps

clasped together in prayer. i've a pack of
batteries for the dodgers and the clap

meant for her is just a nip higher than a
ceiling. dear friend i can't lose her either

or the way those little feet felt last night
as they briskly stole my lollipops, heading off

for a pickle jar, where a silly woman watches
her breasts sag. and all of those motionless

scrapes on the knees are for the birth of
twigs. the opened jugs of milk at three a.m.

your daddy's arms rolling a small pebble
that'd be her hand, her bubbling chin,

the dinner conversation you have left me to
hold. so that you can excuse my knees from

The Table. the only problem being that it's
round and i have nowhere left for all those

underwear you've thrown away. the bottles
of schnapps. the pureed Gerber bananas.

so here come my knees bereft daddy. it's
easier to say "da" and even better to reconsider

the finer aspects of plumbing. it's easily better
than to look at my yellow knees. but i'm sending

that, my twenties, and the first dollar bill for
ceiling repairs. this time we'll need a beer.

you never promised that lipstick
sort of friendship, nor the gurgle
of mouthwash before bed. i have
not the faintest notion of what
you Did instruct me to do, or how
the moon is frazzled by an awry,
vibrant--and sensual lick of Sun.
nearly every specimen has a
mating call. even the cicada
mumbles through its rickety butt.

a boom of token thrushes are
waking me as they do. i have 3,
count them: 3 hours of sleep.
my head rolls over and leans
into the imaginary switch, how
clean all the utensils could be,
if i were playing house and wiping
your puddles clean.

but you've your own responsible
clutches. they're the type to get
you from spot a to b. when you
open the door and step into C--
a cat's mouth, it might as well be
a piece of litter on your clack-
clack-clacking shoe. come in or
shutdown in a senior's home. no
memories sodden down with milk.

coffee costs wherever it's served.
you never bothered to forgive.
with the buttress, it won't hold
that hard or fast. a relative said
to tuck it away--be done with
your waving hands which turn
into fists in emails' deceased. with
every sodden piece of sleet, i buy
the collections of promise, and
mumble to the dumb. oh, no, not
that kind of dumb. more like a
kindred treachery of sorts...
i tell them to fuck you in the ass.

                                                                                           Mea-Culpa, i liked that one. yup.

rhyming for me is sort
of like breathing ocean
chips that linger on the
tongue and evade heft.
my weakness lies in the
hazy breeze of slipshod
yards walked. i'd give
a splinter for it.

once i reached to the
heavens with malicious
intent. God was busy
fixing someone who had
stuck in unnecessary paint
when it could have been
wallpaper. so i gave my
tan slacks to a tortoise
and i'd give a splinter
for it.

then there was the Parthenon.
i can't make a dazzling finish.
not in poetry, and so i laid out
the sobering plans and let the
sort it out. what a raucous
that jeweled mess made, and
it never turns out the way it's
written. i'd give anything for
a splinter.

i started the first fire, punched
Jesus in the beginning, ripped open
the soil, and wrote the jingle for
a solid hit. but following through
with any of these tasks had
not a thing to do with me.
you see, i'm not the one with
a lantern, avoiding all snafu
related agitation. when the bomb
hits, dusty carnivores will shake
hands. i'd take a splinter for that.

to be factual, which people that
write never share. to be punctual,
which is to be German or some
nationality far from me. to be
responsible for laundry, which is
heaped on my floor like so many
leaps of vowels. to be a poet,
which is used as loosely as the
temperature we exude with
'genius'. none of these are me.
i don't finish anything well; just
a flicker and a rib cage. i'd give
my life for that type of splinter.

let's look sideways before gulping salt water
the only way to turn ravenous lies in ammonia
and peppered stamps aligned on foreheads.
i won't take you to the mystique, that ramrod
novelty of poachers. those wolves would
devour syllable by letter by tunnel by you.
which is to say us, since we are connected
by a sheath of knives just in case, just in
case strawberries turn into lacquered gravel.

if you lean to the left, i can see the wander
your heels made on forbidden arrogance.
the learning happens very young, so young
that memory steps tentative on 8 years of
thwacks. mind your manners my son, my
hypocrite of greedy, feminine, turntables.
your sex means nothing here. we are bound
to the weighing of whiskered walrus flips.
under water is where i spot your bits,
and you spot my mole when i wag off
my fevered collar, all swollen, sideways.

i want. want your beef sliced under coal.
this is where the embrace turns somber.
this is where seals meet polar bear muscle.
this is where a meal buys its kiss with
the stink of liver's request to frolic.
there isn't much left in the tin can for
anyone, let alone the pack of destitute
tributes. this is where we wave bye
but your thievery took my wrapped tongue
placing it fuck knows where. so i type
this kind of letter, where a headlight
blinds us sideaways, please stay just

like that.

when you pleaded.
said "please" in your
most convincing manner--
i put myself down in the back
of the car, the livingroom, the bed,
and nearly all floors of the house.
occasionally the hiding was from
parents, but often they simply were
elsewhere. the genius of it is that we were
never caught. the genius of you was bribery.
a sack of candy, chores done for my benefit,
promises that i couldn't get pregnant. vows to
hold secrets, like tiny dying goldfish writhing on

you are visiting this summer, and i have forgiven
your illness. that slippery skating around my body.
you were sick and lonely and undoubtedly had special
Needs. failing at school, handling any drug along the way,
listening incessantly to the only music hoods know. Led, Rush,
Pink--they adorned your walls. something was seeping behind
the posters, but my head turned upwards to a ceiling fan. and
there, like a loose rabbit, i took out my homework with a zipper.
it's been 25 years of forgiving the trespasses. that's a couple
decades to comprehend the disease, and the utter stupidity of
backstabbing your most loyal fan.--the fact you've reproduced
brings a shudder familiar to the beginning.

my first two memories of you were playing sword in the basement,
and then sword in between my legs on a bathroom floor. looking upside
down on tile is where i found the whore in me, the pimp in you. the colossal
whimper of hot baths, all wrapped up in an ice cream cone afterwards. when you
arrive with your deep voice and awkward trembling from anti-psychotics.
when you show up. part-kin will want to make amends. part-kin will even
pull my jeans down. but imagine me sitting there on the toilet after the
front door opens. i will be checking to see if i have disappeared, or other bodily
mutilations have opened -- i know a lot of people have had it worse.
the whole planet flips like goldfish on carpet, breathing hard and rarely rescued.
but i have been, and "because i said so" --and because you defended me from
a bully the size of a train, and because everything revolves. mostly, even though
i write this. i couldn't give a shit what happens to you. a book told me to forgive,
and how i do. i do. i do.

                                                                                                dear Rob--thank you. this is far from decent,
                                                                                                but all the same, i'll stick around. try to let
                                                                                                loose some of your own sometime. they are
                                                                                                missed. plus. i just ran out of beer-thank you

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


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Yes, of course.  No one needs my permission for anything.

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


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #29 on: March 13, 2009, 11:47:39 AM »

The one about Jesus and the splinter was my favourite.
Yoshiki Vázquez Baeza.
Future husband.


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #30 on: March 30, 2009, 05:00:19 PM »

From the old Shadowbox: 

IF Brittany gets together with Chao and helps him edit...there will be fees and new heart ///// / brakes. Why do you think you need an editor, Chao? YOU can be the editor. You need an agent for the bright future, but what's to worry??If you have feelings for Brittany you should just tell her. Stop keeping things locked inside. heh. I have feelings for both of you now. I don't know what Rob is up to today...maybe sometime the 4 of us could get together and just trash a hotel room with love and prose. The maid wouldn't be confused by the love spent there. The prose all over the place. She might not be happy about that. We need fake I'D's or someone with a lot of money...I'll come up with something. Or we could just do it right here in cyberspace if we had too!! ok, food for fodder: needeth revision, worky-away
could be titled "Depression" -nearly all of mine can except the angry ones.
I'll just say #hmmm.

I have three days staring at the piled paper building.
Got one headache bad enough to call in the serial killer boss.
He has balding features and a firm gait, and he is just

out the back door on a roof where no one lives -- yet.
boss man please put a scaffold on top of the brain.
make it as sturdy as the precocious farm girl you ate
when you were called sissy. it's ok to cry when the nailgun
thumps into your thigh. just don't pretend you didn't sign
the waiver. i've got training in technology

like a noose never earned its pay
swinging over every bridge and tree
popping out eyes like blowing daisy's.

but make it a scaffold for me, as the sins are hefty
and i don't have any bags in the kitchen either.
put some stairs together that run down my face
and i'll remember how we slid down them on blankets.

i am drinking a lot of water because the toilet
is my new friend. it's more than what it takes from me.
it waits patiently as though it were a therapist--
wanting you to delineate a tongue on ice.

don't you dare come to my party. the fridge is gaping
like a toothless grannie. the microwave keeps telling me
to set you-name-it as if i didnt' have a wristwatch.
and he is going out the door first, because he talks like
a bobblehead and snorts out 3 am -- as if.
vain bashing blue bobblehead watch...

with some gear i can dance roulette on the candy bar
i let the parents buy. -- last Easter
there was a whooping good snot of a time, and we were
presented with chocolate bunny-bars.

my dreams are pointing blithely to the window.
there are 23 leaves waiting to fall. and if that
is the magician's number, then at 23 past bobblehead
...who i simply can't find
perhaps when it's then, i'll take a shower again.

it hurts my head to do the cleaning so - so
trees are starting to crunch underfoot like
flicking cig butts on aluminum siding. i'm still inside
the house cell but the carpet's gone mad
but i keep lying to it -- lying on it
bargaining for the boss and his scaffold.

once something said i was going to hell
i was wondering if it was because of the lava... lamp.
now I consider it the ultra-lite ceiling fan
to be the final bastard,
white like cocaine and church belching.

when they come
there will be me and the chum-toilet.
a microwave full of cayenne pepper,
cinnamon, grenadine, and bouillon cubes.
the bobblehead on the steps.
a scaffold down my head.

well. shitty. revise dear one as you know not what you have just expunged. Love to all the lovers. Take care of yourselves until the hotel mtg. p.p. ;O & ~O)


Who is going to pay the rent? There will be some days when this will all be very special and hilarious. On the other days, I'm wondering who is going to carry the janitor's keys. So...I thought about it Chao...and I found some old shit I just put down and walked away from. Feel free to hate it or'll see that the love ones are just tooooo sappy and cliche' for my own stomach. The only reason I don't throw them away is because I wouldn't have any clothes if I didn't have paper. mache. And by the hoo, to the posse: love to the dudes, rednecks, yankees and mid-westerner's--'tis much appreciated. Geographical areas have certain ethos', but that doesn't apply to any of us, does it? Fuck, no. We are Gods until forum disconnection.(perhaps some of the people mentioned above know the date, so I can fill my DayPlanner out?) Then we'll have to run somewhere else and be Gods. So it goes...

love crud:

is this cold heat
the shrill tone of your lack
of grounding,
your loss of resolve or
how hard our teeth
bounce in their sockets
never depended on any
first move,
yet we were always mouthing
always mounting
anything creeping in that

are we more than too empty
to see that as ajacent lots
waiting to be filled,
there are moments of shared
concrete water
but we will never touch

do you think our destruction
is worth the salt
of our struggling and baffled

will either of us allow touching
anyone again
when it hurts.


I beg you go quickly-slow
and belt me to those knees--
here on rounded corners
with pins and pens to mark you,
here in the face of your chasm
I will pluck, fold, and tuck

I've been robbed of you
like a cold steals taste,
snuffs out smell and bows out.
a river of water just barely
slurps on those soft and
frank lines.

bending always down,
my brown shuttle body weeps--
I am cold, awake, and ripe.
You are standing with hand on hip
singing blues
without the horns.
You are sliding past the road
circling and shelved
in ice.

giddy, luckless, fetid nights--
I am clucking out no sound
and dreaming ruthless now
of straightening out
that knee.

the floor between our feet
has fallen from a single ash,
the ceiling droops in rot.
I am watching
your fox trot hills recede
from me.

please send me your thigh
or perhaps even
a thumb
I will pickle it for the season.

I have already fetched
the blossom blooms
to bury the death

so that we may live.

OHHHHHHHHH. I just have to walk away now. Repulsion. I need a match.
When I recover, I'll throw out other shit that isn't about love and maybe I'll feel better. Until then, fond flicking fingers of fine famine farts. -alliteration is better than an inkblot. Or was that littering? The mind goes rat-a-tat aplat splat.


sick from the halloween candy, she rides out the nausea sitting
not too close
not too far
from a porcelain cranky toilet.
her mother asks if she can do anything
feeling guilty about indulging.
father is snoring.
the crew is laughing in secret.

later one will
grab her leg from under the bed--
the other will shove her out of bed
when the tossing starts.

she explodes out caramel into
the toilet.
upchucks bits of chocolate, and
hoists her hands
on the rims
she'll laugh at in college.

drunk like a vaccine,
she runs up the stairs and leaps
like a deer into beddy.

sister crawls in.
right when the drift begins,
she pounces on the bottom of
the bed with a "boo!"
belonging to the plunger now.

the fun of the night is capped
when gummy bears
hit big sis square in the noggin'
roll down her chest,
and other sister says,
"SHIT! Look what you've done!"


first, I'm sorry that I was lying to you when I said I wrote fiction, Chao. That's right. I am the woman you went to for grammarian help. And I'll tell you this much, there is absolutley no help for any of this except to keep at it with your pen. Rob...can I be your Katie Couric for a second? I want to be bouncy and happy and overflowing with cute joy about EVERYTHING...because everything is so wonderful. Chao and you and Brittany and well, not me. No one ever says I'm wonderful. And don't say it now because it doesn't count when you have to grovel for it.

Damn gentlemen, "why can't we all just get along?" Because. Just because it's less fun. So a small ditty for all of you...

you can write until the ulcers burst
and talk until your saliva dries out
but you will never have on clean clothes.
not one day out of the year.
look down at yourself right now...
your sweats are stained
and there is a hole somewhere
and your friends have noticed a
cigarette burn
and the coffee cup put a smiley on
your nipple,
and your underwear couldn't possibly
be more personal than they are
right now.

right this second.

and you like to watch them in jeans
and short shirts and heels and
i'm telling you
there is a panty-liner under there
that you wouldn't sniff if AIDS could
be cured by it.

or maybe you would.
maybe you'd eat your own shit too.
and if you were hungry enough

you'd rip right through the clothes to skin.
the dirtiest thing of all.
they put alcohol on it when drawing out blood
because your skin is crawling with mites
and food and saliva and mucous and shit.
just like your clothes.

but it feels better.
you've got to choose.
the dry-hump isn't so dry afterall,
but are you going to put the tampon

good golly that was gross and I would never write any such trash like that would I? Now, Rob and keep on loving one another in your manly ways, and I'll keep on loving you both and telling you that your are both incredible. you ARE. umm. If I could be any celebrity half-wit, does that automatically give me a turn at getting arrested for drugs or drunk driving? love to all.............p.p.


i know you didn't kill sonny-boy.
it was Mr. Green evangelist with the
in the bar bathroom.
certainly not the library.

if you're home
you don't pay much attention
to the plagues
rolling out on countless toilet
paper pieces.
you stub out your cigar only
to view your lovely new Gothic
boots. a buttress hits your nose.
lick your lips for the discussion
with the suicides.
they did it with the rope
in the closet and they had no CLUE.

if you gave up the smartest offspring
for the sins
you are a liar about your diet.
you're a neglectful axe-wielding
of the guillotine.
did you do it with the pipe in the den?
or was it more like

you forgot about the leaking faucet
and just said "fuck it."
are you best friends with Mr. Mustard?
he prefers the Queen and he
is mean
like cancer and the dinosaur.
tromp bang boom
and look at the WAR. the wars'

the endless crusades
for sonny-boy. the first and best
commie there ever was.
I know you didn't let anything
ancient fill the fields with
that is the forgotten shoe used
in Monopoly.
don't pass GO and give me 200
dollars and i bet...

you just watched sonny-boy
and ran for your own ass.
ran for the clouds.
ran for the oceans.
wept for a second when he was
except on Park Place
with a tophat and champagne.

HE got older and became conservative.
you kept running and watching the
making bubbles out of decay
and cursing the fact

there's nothing immaculate about it.
the gifts they brought
had nothing to do with balms
or value.
it was a fruitcake and some incense
and just a little bit of cocaine.

that coke made your lip numb
and you tossed the fruitcake
on Mary's only fancy dress,
and satan said as matter of fact--
you didn't care anymore about

I own the railroads and the utilities.
Baltic Avenue never looked
more like a bomb
has hit the jail. the crooks are teething
on your love handles. and SORRY.
i had sonny-boy's ears for dinner.

rice cakes just don't taste the same
and I know you'd agree
about one thing ...
your nightmares aren't the triumph
of Gin or Rummy.
even the Casino refuses a penny.
your talent only goes as far as
Chutes and Ladders.

isn't that what LIFE is all about?

yeah...that's rough draft indeed. but GOD. why isn't there a game called God? what IS god? why do the Hindu gods have so many arms? why is Buddha fat? where did the Shaker's go? I only have the answer to the Shaker's thing. well...a little on the Hindu thing also. Just not the answer to Buddha's rotund nature. I wonder if this isn't somehow linked to the "jolly-fat" idea that comes with Saint Nick and has been passed/pissed down to us?....certainly no one in Hollywood is allowed to be fat except Nicholson and Bates. mmm. why am I so fat? i don't even hardly eat....


I go away for a couple months, bury my head underneath a Mastodon in a museum...try to commit suicide when it doesn't eat me whole...then I arrive back here in wonderland. And I left it for a bit and voila!! Rob is loving Chao.


It took me many, many minutes to neglect the dog, crack my neck several times and keep reading your incredible prose and poetry. You've been busy Mr. Man! You have been ripping 'em out like farts caked in tiny screams across the desert in the back of those whitey-whites.

Ya know. Whoever this dame was, this producer of sad fruit. She lies here in the Shadowbox, suffocating under your cock-a-doodle-type. Truth serum and large bites taken out of cardboard diet cheese, throwing it back up in the air--watching it come back down on your face---oh, dear chao. You are stuck in the vomit cycle. spinning so mad your arms have drifted off. You don't even know where the land is you are so high up the witch's ass waiting to belt another out. And I am so glad to watch you unfold your legs and expose it all.
expose it all. always.  a diddy:

give me the salt and pepper
you can take your strutting
drooping tits back to the
slut-drop and the mud
the boys watch you in.
fight. fight.
slap her in the face with the
fake watered slipped-up
salt and pepper
you can have it any way you like
daddy with the wisdom,
cranky old genius scratching his
bald head with a paw
wrinkling faster
dying quicker
the ball is about to drop
so hold your breath --
do not move an inch.
salt and pepper please,
please I said.
Mommy pissed off again
with her slamming and stomping and
rocking the whole house because
nothing is good enough
no one gives enough
even daddy can't
do it right
and this time it is for god damn
sure. and still her laugh
splinters my face.
she is going too, crumbling like
the shrinking soap.
salt and pepper is good enough,
sisters. sisters. miles away.
you heard the last line of my success
when I was in my teens.
at 36 you have nothing for me
but the ruthless lot of pity
and pleading and beautiful families
you've posted in the rolodex
under names we don't share
half blood, half-life half of you
is burning down the weeds
sliding down monkey bars.

look at me now.
look at me without cancer.

salt and pepper for
her too.
she's got an able smile for bus
tickets and diners full of Jesus knick
knacks, and she won't come back
once she's gone there is no postal
illegetimate, illiterate, illegal young
woman standing proudly in the
dumpster of her white
trash city.
when the lid closes, she will too.
damsel of garbage, her teeth already
say goodbye,
i am a rotten bunch.

salt and pepper for him.
lost man with millions of kids
and i don't even know their names
and i don't even want too
because he's the one who played
fort with me and soccer and took
me in the woods.
remember the woods lost boy?
tell your sister exactly what to
do now.
you poor sick fuck
giving candy and secrets
and i still can't look at a
jolly rancher
without knowing you're a father now.
to millions of little woods kids.

salt and pepper for me the most.
put that stuff all over my salad
because I actually don't care for salad much.
like I don't care for you as you
read this and judge it, inhale it and
think it
beneath me.
shitty prose from a stupid hand on
a too-long evening.
I know what you think of me.
And I'll tell you what I think of you.

You're just a dash of salt and pepper.
I'm not any worse, any better.
You're a blip.
a tiny little blip in history.
one speck of pepper in a tooth
me-one grain of salt
on your mouthy licking orafice.
the one you like best.

Hey now...don't go getting offended. It's crap. Once it is laid out, I realize where I have to correct all the shit. And that last it seems happens in everything I have written...really could use some revision. Fuck it for now. Long live the deadly and wicked hand. The open eye, never blinking unless the fingers unlock. Those 2 sentences are aimed rather corny-ish at you chao. OH!! I forgot --yeah, don't go getting all up in my shit about my brother. There is some truth there for isn't what you probably think...

and don't cry Rob. By the way, the history lesson on drugs...yum-yums.
I'm coming down. Gotta go score some blow...get all boozed up...and chase the one hooker in town. Or at least try to find one hooker somewhere. They do it to you for money, right??


***more to come later***

"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #31 on: March 30, 2009, 05:07:56 PM »

bleed on my frosted teeth
and like a hammer there will be
cracks to behold
like the one that runs firmly
down every baby's butt.

i have become as large as
the blue whale
and extinction lies to the right
of my lonely eye,
survival to the left--
like how you feel when you
don't want your baby
and yes you do.

smile on my back and trace
the scars with your finger,
spell out words and make
me guess,
words like "ostentatious"
or "oblique"--
I prefer the "o" words tonight.
like the precious "o" of a
baby's mouth.

don't. stop. tickling.
my feet as they pummel you.
my arms when they flail
like a hot dog wrapper
you flung out the window,
ashamed of your decadence.
I never asked you to be
here. Never wanted your
last name. That same last
name baby has now.

No sir. Yes Maam. Follow the
yellow brick road and that movie
has a dwarf commiting
suicide in the background.
Come closer and let me show
you. Turn the candle away.
Shut the lights and watch
your shadow inhale.
It's all we have, just like

And I'm not talking about
this baby to be cruel. I am
simply pointing out the obvious.
take your aspirin and we'll
call the doctor
even run you to the emergency
spend every penny owned
and still baby might stop

tickling and running
fingers and bleeding and kicking
and screaming and making that
"o" face and making you broke
and giving you post-partum depression
and making you think it was a
huge mistake at 3 a.m. and
immediately feeling guilty when you
look at those bitty hands and
think about the hot dog wrapper--

and all of this
all of this
for baby
because the worst thing would be
for you to stop

bleed on my frosted teeth.
with them closed like blinds
in a dirty hotel room,
with my hands restrained--
I have become the room itself.

just one door over is baby.

ummm. I don't even have a baby. Just plodding along with my tick-tock...time is out. imaginary trapped woman with a baby. Because this beeaatch is always trapped in some way. At least in Chao-land. My humble regards to you, sir. Ohhh. There is a crapload more. Maybe better, maybe worse. Who knows? These two "light" ones are more recent. When I wasn't on the computer my pencil was very busy. It got quite small and I realized I was in a trap. I was repeating the same poem about 100 times. And so it goes... I hope these find you soon.

I hope you bless this space with your Colt .45 and your brains blown to bits and so much more...Ohhh. The white flag you tried to get out, but didn't succeed in time. OOOOh, Chao. That stanza is stuck in my head now. I know you are a wicked prose magician. I can't decide whether to kiss you or smack you for being sooooo.........smarty-pants.


The following is in homage to Rob. Mr. Two-Bit...who has prose of his own, and it seems simple at first, but dares you to truly take a bite. And, dear Sir--I am NOT putting you down with the above statement. It's a compliment. And I can't "do it" like you. No one writes like anyone else. But this was found and has a sort of commiserating flavor.

I had just come out of the coma
a few months taken away,
and what they don't tell you is
that after twitching like a fish--
every coma victim has a weed,
small or big that has grown.
They call it brain damage.

So I was mowing the lawn.
I was inhaling the earth thrown up
and swirling around my nose.
Picking the rocks and sticks
out of the way of my monster
decapitation machine.

I had lost the ability to name
some simple objects. Like
"spoon" and "door" and "car"
--but the regeneration of my own
engine came back like a small
spark of flame.

And now the two lanes left
of grass and dog poo. Without
knowing exactly where my feet
were, I abruptly had an urge to
get naked. Get right down to nothing.
Lay myself like a platter on the
higher grass. Shove the mower
to the side.
Breathe in the grass.
Let the chiggers and miscellaneous
bugs crawl where they wanted.

It wouldn't have mattered if
the neighbor called the cops.
Wouldn't care if they came for me
and stuck haldol or something
worse in my neck.
The purple old shirt went.
The old black sweats came off.
The boxers flew away.
The bra in its sweat sighed
when I released her.

I took off my glasses.
And for what seemed to be an hour,
I was prone in the backyard.
feeling everything move and
watching the sky float,
the trees shiver and ripple.
my feet naked and my crotch
naked and everything

Except I had forgotten to take off
the wristwatch.
Some crazy alarm started to beep.
This is the habit of the watch
even though I never commanded it
to alarm me.
And it struck me like a bolt,
as it had taken my Eden away
from me.

I got up. I left the clothes in the
yard. I went in the house and
gave the dog a treat.
Then I cried, and like a child--
I called my Mother to tell her
I loved her. And she wanted to know
what was wrong. And it was impossible
to tell her.
impossible to say.
Eden just left me.

I hope that wasn't too dismal. Take it for what it's worth. It is a true story actually...and I guess I am just damn lucky no neighbors spotted me. P.s. there were some sundry items I had to remove from certain cracks of the body. this is how you learn both the benefit of being naked outside and the price of it. shower extremely necessary--take off the wristwatch first.

And though I am trying to suck Rob in at the moment, it doesn't mean I don't want to suck in the Master Chao either.

I've tried hard...and think I've achieved 99% pacifism. The 1% still wishes someone would... smack Ann Coulter...hard.

I'm in a rut. So I went to the trash can and here you go:

the wolf never spilled a drop of saliva
on my tattoo or the foot-binded cripples.
and the symbol is for a mirage
because I've always been hallucinating
but that is besides the point.

it's the pack that does the killing
like the camel's I smoke,
like "The Scream" and poor Too-
but the optical illusion of time
under sweaty sheets lifted a
blonde beach of sand.

just like Hiroshima
the wolves howl under gates,
but in the desert in an inch
of oasis,
their hair had fallen completely
to the hidden reptiles' heads.
their blistering puss was the only
soup around.

but in that piss the pack dropped
and rolled,
me with my arm's tattoo
pulled at a paw and it's skin
fell off in my hand,
just like at Hiroshima
on the outskirt in a river hosting
something cold
after a pig roast. and the whole
room waved at me like Janis
with a needle stuck in her

so I got up. I woke up. I heard scratching
in the garage.
but it was a lobotomy.
my tattoo extinguished like a
911 call to an absurdly obese pimp.
the wolves came for it,
they had grown hungry for perfume,

they snapped at my neck I guess.
they put the tattoo straight up the
where the ice pick grabs brains
and jostles, guzzles and pulls
a lobe out.
I must have been delicious
as a walking jello.
I was at the least a bit of
pustular discharge.

and in the trash can I found the following:
Wendy's hamburger with extra onions
claims internal Msnbc employees had
kitty litter clumps and he worked
there for 50 years before dying from
a chronic-- plaque could contribute to
heart disease and a Pizza box with one
breadstick exploded in Iraq and someone
threw out 180 poems, and the Thought
for the Day: was a green pepper.
slimed at the bottom.

thinking of the dream and the trash
felt just the same.
but then again, flavor in jello is
only a choice between green and red.

stop or go it scuffles, stop or go.

this is facked up. i'm facked up chao. put it into your blender and make it work.


"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #32 on: March 30, 2009, 05:12:32 PM »

a pleasant 110 degrees on the cement floor,
400 pound batteries flowing down my assembly
those rolls had dents and squeaked, creaked,
then ran so fast in parts, it was almost...almost
impossible not to brain yourself with those hunks.
the sweat went from armpit to groin on every
man, and as hard as they tried, no woman
could handle her hair from falling slow, frizzing

the hicks, dicks, chicks, and spics,
that was the form in which they addressed
one another. fondling eachother on break time
with stories about beer, and trips to the casino
where Trump or Ceasar might put a million
right in their lap. a million and they could quit.
a million and linda would even take steven
with her. bob would take as many women as
he could...
and they would laugh about queers and gossip
about sherri or cheri or sherry.
how she and her whole group of quality control
could bite it for ruffling about the acid vat.

didn't matter when a row of 100 being charged
started popping the rubber ties off and bolts
fell to the floor as victims in a line-up.
not to us. we had to tug, pull, squeeze and shove
the bastard 30-thou a piece tubs around the plant --
like bees out to attack for their queen on some
days, but more often we were the fat house fly
buzzing and drunk at the window, smacking
around in a last dance and looking for home.

but it sure mattered up front, far away from the
stink of our showers. a lead-soaked environmental
requirement, our blood checks weren't. aspirin
will make you feel better said Smiles-a-lot.

a million and you could sign out. go home.
all those who had cheated the SAT, not the SAT
of high school, but the piss test to get into
college--we had signed the contract. and the contract
bullied about discharge upon saying something
almost...almost like u. u. union, if i recall.
you say union and you'll sign out up front
where the weather is better, and the dicks were
truly dicks in white. white against blue.

everyone there was an alcoholic, coked, or on
a mission. my coked boss held two full time jobs
and stepped like he was about to fall over,
the way hospital gowns walk. bob hit on every
thing including an asian, and that was like a
man complaining about a blister where
everyone had scurvy. he set himself up for the
std discussion and people stopped washing
their hands when he came to the sink. the last
of the 70's gigolo, bob had suddenly gotten aids.

but i wasn't anything but ghostly, standing smoking
and reading in the corner, one ear on the latest
newsbreak, one eye on the word "puritan" from
Hawthorne. i was as wrong as a lily eating an
onion, and felt as guilty as Hathorne did before
changing his name with a simple "w"--
putting that "w" in feels like a simple apology
for the hung Witch. he didn't look at it like that.
escape from guilt holds no confessor without

no one forgives Salem, and the white-shirts
wouldn't step out of their paper memo's and
air conditioning if Buddha sat directly on sherry
or shery or cherry's face. and the biggest boom
whispered was that v.p. edwards was getting
clinched by her nails, was getting sucked by
her lips and was his whore. maybe it was true
because she wore blue, her lipstick was even
blue, but she was never anything but up front.

and most blues who went up front never came
home to the heat. she plunged in quick to yell,
jogged back up front to yell, and stayed
on v.p. edwards' laptop--gazing in awe at his
business degree, loving how she was special,
and Smiles-a-lot nurse had even given
her a wrist brace for carpal tunnel jack-offs.
There was a bucket of bandaids under 110
degrees outside her door which was permanently
locked. so many had scribbled epithet's such
as "bitch" and "cocksucker" that they'd painted
the seal shut. this was a hoot to Osha, and v.p.
edwards lost 40 thou of his bonus.

our planned pizza party was cancelled due to
sherry or cheri or shery's need to blow hard.
due to a wrist brace and a bucket.

Smiles-a-lot gave us stretching exercises.
a direct insult to those who had almost...almost
lost a limb or hand or burnt the fuck out of a
leg. she wouldn't touch blood let alone the lead
dust, but she sure had a nice dentist--and someone
had died last year of an abscessed tooth.

someone said there was a plaque up front. and
once i went up through the locked gate of hell
just to glance and ask the receptionist for a memo.
i'd forgotten my memo, but someone named Paul
had died from lack of a dentist plan. a trophy the
size of my face was on the wall, the president
was rarely seen but huffed at the same weight of
my beloved batteries. (and so the plaque was not
as large as it should have been) but my beloved
batteries were making me into a running back.

i was as stupid as a post-game interview, and
my boss smiled and called me sweetie. my uniform
sagged just enough it was impossible to keep
the factory from knowing. i'd lost 20 pounds of fat,
and gained 20 extra muscle ripples, and no chick
had ever lasted at post seal before. i would never
lose my tits, no matter how hard i read hawthorne
on the breaks. i was smoking and eating and reading
and fucking myself all at the same time.
there was a great deal of sweat lost in showers and
i slept instead of thinking.
i was turning into a busy bee, feeding the 400 degree
twin oven's their children. a robot makes one year's
salary in there, as long as it almost...almost.
no accidents and no unions.

my feeder was across from me wearing heavy
gloves and watching the lava machine
spill out almost perfect square rods for
me to slam rubber over and fill with epoxy.
straps to hold me here and over, but using
them wouldn't allow you to hit quota. and hitting
quota was a promise for beer, a trip to the casino--
and just maybe you could sign out,
get out with a million in your lap
and almost...almost catch Trump or Ceasar.

the feeder had a name and he was the real thing.
the tremor was obvious, and Jim never said a
single thing to anyone; he never smiled to the
robot grasping his offering--and his flask sometimes
flew out of the boots he wore. a ha ha rumor about
him and his drunken fly window. maybe he was

my back was turned to the one green oven. i was
chipping caked glue off my hand like whittling a horse.
this night it was 120, and you wouldn't think such
a difference was anything less than another small
bruise. the highest squeal departed into the cacophony
and broke through as a sure sign that a machine
was broken.
and if a machine was broken, then your ass would
see white-shirts and someone was gonna pay.
i put my head into the oven because idiots look at
the lips of a gun when they jam.
but it wasn't me that was gonna pay.

i must have screamed as a defense attorney does
when his cash blurts out its guilt, but it wasn't the
intercom calling in a terrorist alert. the kind of terror
that could only happen when someone falls into an acid
vat. this was a different horror, and not one a robot
could assess. it took almost...almost.
a decade for me to vault over the chest-high line.
Jim's glove was gone and a silver spray was slowing
to the trickle of a calmed faucet.

he was growing limp and larger at the same time,
and i didn't see anything but his arm bent the
wrong way. it should have been straight, but a bone
danced out and left the rest to look out for itself.
i don't know how long we were on the floor, i don't know
when i realized that a finger was missing, or that blood
wasn't just on one of was creeping and crawling--
literally lapping and stalling against a piece of metal.
the robot couldn't possibly comprehend that the hands
were actually trying to stop the heartbeat timing,
1, 2, 3, 4 went the eruption from this hand.
all the while someone was holding the smiling bone
on the floor, and cupping Jim's head.

my boss had come in a steady gallop and that meant
I was gonna pay for this mess, someone was gonna
see the white-shirts, and v.p. edwards would be interrupted
from intercourse with sherry or sheri, possibly cheri.
it took a decade for the ambulance. in that time someone
who looked like me hit the red button. someone who talked
like me had grabbed every piece of soaking material.
people do that when a boy barfs beans on the bus.
and it stinks so bad, it smells so bad someone else will

at the inquisition, V.P. Edwards asked me what happened.
Sherri or, it was certainly Sherry opened a mini-
fridge full of Pepsi they kept hidden up front. Up front the
white-shirts circled around me the way children do
when a gull has a broken wing and is flapping, flapping,
flustered. Off my tracks died two batteries weighing in at
800 pounds and 60 thou. The one Jim broke his arm in and
lost a finger added another 400 and 30 thou.
It would have taken a robot 3 years to make up for this
accident. It would have taken Buddha to sit on Edwards' face
to stop his smirk and make Sherry stop gazing.

Smiles-a-lot was particularly pissed that the robot had
broken a finger in the process. The robot hadn't noticed it
had a finger...but apparently those cost someone else's salary.
Workman's comp. would've been close to me saying u.u.
union...and my hungover boss let the Up Front Parade of White
badger us and shake their heads...and Sherry got Pepsi's out
for all of them, never offering one to the robot or to boss. 15
minutes before lunch, my coked up loving boss Chuck snapped
and, "you couldn't possibly know how you'd react in an

The meeting was over and the other shift's hated me, and
Chuck laughed and laughed and laughed when I said that the
white-shirts hadn't offered ME a pepsi. My shift fell in around
me and begged for details the robot didn't remember. the
robot wouldn't recall. and the robot couldn't relay how it
felt when Jim almost...almost. seven months later, i had read
Hawthorne everday lost and the bills were done and i was
tired of being the chick "who laid Jim" ha. ha. so the robot

signed out. signed off without Ceasar or Trump.

and because Jim wasn't back, the monsterous machine was
sitting for something almost...almost. still. and because Chuck
was high and happy to see me win a million. and because
many had lost a finger, a toe, broken a leg, and always
burnt the fuck out of something. and because they would still
return and tell beer stories. and because i asked my boss.

chuck told me. Jim once had a wife and two daughters. One
daughter was in the driveway, in an idling monsterous car, and
maybe possibly his wife named sheri or sherry was in the house.
the other daughter was playing outside. there was some sound
and to a robot it probably sounded like a squeal, when the one
baby daughter put the car in reverse and ran the other one
over. popped and cracked her small pretty head. i don't recall
if my boss said it quite like that.

but Jim's daughter was dead, and the other was lost in the
custody battle, and Sherry took off and left him with nothing
because something went the wrong way, like a bone. something
wasn't supposed to collapse and bleed. and it wasn't an almost...
almost. so the flask was a good pain medication is a
good idea for cancer.

so i was leaving the building, and Chuck let me up Front (of
White) because they weren't home at 3 a.m. and i took every
pepsi i could get out of the mini-fridge. on my way out to the
parking lot, every pocket loaded with a can, even under my
armpits in my coat--and hawthorne in my hand. i put one can
where Jim would have been parked. the shift rattled in the dark,
inviting a robot to the only bar open at 7 a.m. "thanks but
maybe later" and i almost...almost.

suddenly there was a squeal so loud i lifted butter. or hands
or hawthorne to my ears. someone was coming in late. someone
was gonna pay. the camaro was gonna pay for being late, and
the time-clock doesn't lie. the pepsi cans that had frozen my pits
tumbled down the parking lot like running backs. i started tossing
others in the random row reserved for the elite, where Sherry
parked her blue shirt and blue lips now. where Smiles-a-lot
occasionally rammed stretching exercise and a bucket of band-
aids on hicks, dicks, chicks, and spics.

the robot started to smile on one corner of its cracked lips. and i
threw pepsi everywhere that the white-shirts would notice.
i thought i heard a coked-up man who worked two full time jobs
chuckling, and thought the chuckling was almost...almost. well.
it was my former boss, Chuck.

the robot took its first vacation in two years and sat in underwear
watching commercials. the robot that had thrown 800 pounds
to the ground to leap over rolling pins on a table began to think
about Hawthorne instead of read Hawthorne. it picked up "The
Scarlet Letter" and headed for the post office. before it left, it
put an index card on top of it, taped it down so Sherry could
never lick it, squeeze it, or fuck it off. and on the index card,
a beautifully disgusting blood-red "A" was scrawled.

I posted the book with a full smile for the first time in years.
I thought about Jim and hoped he was somewhere without tremor,
drinking whatever he wanted, watching whatever he wanted with
one good hand. Jacking off with his one good hand. Driving with
his one good hand. And rich as a mother fucker who just robbed
Trump. Maybe he'd die or be miserable anyway...

but Jim was able to sign out...he got out from under 120 degrees.
now he had a new chance. and it was his choice. there was no
one to tell him not to say u.u. union and no bucket for a broken
arm and lost finger. and even more i wasn't his heroine, i was
damn lucky Jim stuck his hand in a machine...and there wasn't
anything "almost" about it. i saw a torn off finger and a bone
sticking out of skin. and i did whatever it is that some people do
every single day.

I posted "The Scarlet Letter" to Vice President ----Edwards.

and now sometimes i wish i was working in a factory.

okay....that is not a poem. but the epic poem that i'd written before was much, much better. (meaning i hit 4th grade!!!) this is a story...and it wasn't before. so now i have to either tear it around, or tear it down.

it's certainly not as good as what chao did...
and chao, disregard everything i said above.
you've got me thinking about my father, and not the factory.
this is all your fault, fucker.

NOT DONE>>>wait.


"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #33 on: March 30, 2009, 05:17:03 PM »

Oh--I'm pm'ing you right after this.

Devery--I want more!

Rob--you are almost...almost. no. YOU ARE.

Chao--I'm stunned. dumbstruck. speechless. and completely annihilated.
I would wrap my arms around you.
I would tell you my love story...but can't do it as well as you just
did. Not a doubt in my mind about that. I am so sorry. So sorry.

that was not "just another love story"
and she's not right in the head. love her though you do...
and maybe she will be right in the head. love her as you always
will. and as much as you may feel you've lost...
as much as the hope is that she'll return.
she has used you as an escape...
she has used pills as an escape...
and she will continue to use until she is fixed.
the fixing of which is beyond your control.
sleep well my friend.
there will be another. and the hurt won't stop hurting until you
don't expect another or anyone. and then surprise...
something different will happen.
something different will hit your pillow other than your head,
and your charmed hands.
i preach like an old fart, and perhaps that is just hope and empathy.
but i preach to the lyric, "for everyone who's lost...who's lost something...who had to
dream awake...there's a calling, a calling
a calling..."

and no, that calling isn't god in this case. you know what it is, i think.


this is shit. my shit. sentimental and shit. not like my other shit. and i don't really like certain things about it, but it's rolling around in my head...

she gave me sea shells
and licked them to show how
the colors changed,
and tried to hold my hands
and said that she promised
and i very much doubted her
but i just found those shells in a box,
looking back she saw enough
and i saw in one moment
that she saw too much
and that she also knew too.

when my hound got too old,
my constant love in my teens--
i came to the house the night before
her scheduled euthanasia.
and we laid on the floor hugged
like the first night.
and when i finally got up to leave
my hound struggled up on
arthritic and useless legs.
we sat and i let her lick my face
until she stopped as i petted her.
and i looked in her eyes, and
she in mine
and she told me everything i
needed to know
that it was her time to go too.

i remember waving to Grandpa
as he stood in his driveway
with one hand on his wife's shoulder,
and a small smile at the corner
of his mouth.
my mother was crying as we pulled
away, because my mom hates the
distances between relatives.
and he had been, and was going
through so much pain.
as we rounded the corner
i knew it would be the last time
i would see him too.

and the other night i watched as my
own personal God laid watching
the news, grumbling at the insanity
on the screen. and dad's brother is
suddenly dying, as well as his cold-
fish wife, and my God is sleeping more
and more
as he continues the fight to make it
two more years to retirement.
so i kiss him on the head, and he
takes my hand and says, "sweetie"
--and the day i lose him will be the
day i curse God too.

and miles and miles away
is a young woman in a house
where every question she points
is blame, and aimed directly at herself.
and the joys of her day are more
fleeting than the anxiety and dread--
and there is a possible door to open
and the fear of doing just that
is the worry of another drop in the
the young woman knows what to do
and she knows how to do it
but she needs to take one look in the
eye of an old woman to see...
this is why life can change too.

there is a young man putting words
into art that can't be believed
and his wit is a cover for the beast
under that skull,
and at night he wonders how he
could have fixed it.
and when pissed too much he can't
and when the jokes he's telling
feel useless,
he slips into a disguise to expose
the worst and best of everything,
and him too.

p.s. i don't know you people. if you think i'm writing about you, you are dead wrong--unless you're my doggie. i've only ever written about one person in this box...and that person knows b/c i told such person to stop hanging around the gas station.... (i joke! i kid! i should delete this!)
ahhh. what the hell. i've just left out too many "too's" -sorry. all other "too's" included. must sleep. msut plsee. ewe. the animal not eww. but ewe. llama, spelled with 2 L's llama or lamma, no way...that's lambda. greeks are funny. initiation as a greek. you aren't greek lambda moo cow pi latte. not the ancient greeks. they were funny about other things. like religion. which we call mythology, but actual Christian dates of celebration are "stolen" from the Romans, and the Romans stole everything they could that was greek and re-named it. like i am not re-naming G.W.Bush==smirkturdlooks or i don't know or we've won the war!! or........knocking again?


 am so fucking happy that Suede and Devery are dipping in. Drool. Their prose just slapped my face, before chao jumped in and ruined everything--again! He is SUCH a downer. (if there is anything less "down" than good prose/poetry...i haven't found it yet) And chao, if that last bit was even slightly aimed at me...i've got a little something here for you. (tho I doubt it aimed at my Highness, more like my Lowness or some sexy Sista) And Rob, where's the love, bro.?Ahh. There it is.

how'd you get so bitter
little girl?
can't you watch your language
before the children hear...
why don't you even get
out of bed today
little girl...
why don't you even shave
your legs anymore.


Anne Frank we've got a trophy for you.
imagine being a teen locked up for 3 years
and then they come for you.
and it's you only, Anne.
a tear spills somewhere all the time
for your untimely demise and

try 7 years of isolation in "the prime
of your life"
you're the lucky bitch
the lucky bitch
because you're dead and i am
half alive.

Plath and Sexton we all wonder why
you chose gas as the way to go.
you took all of modern poetry's Mother-
and laid it out slow
played it out too fast.
still i don't have the company of a
metaphor to match your dull hope
and blind wandering misery.
you chose gas because you just might
have to get up quick
one last time
and feed someone dinner.
Sylvia, the baked potato.
Anne, the car exhaust platter.

both of you spent time in the mental
it's been 7 times for me. and that seems
to be a lucky number.
and yes, that's part of my

by the 3rd time you know exactly what
pills they will make you guzzle.
and you crawl in anyway
because all night you were looking for
a tree to take your car in on.
are out of gas.
are out of gas.

this is the disease of a poet.
to know the loss better than the average,
and to not accept the
simple tragedies
of something like
a grasshopper you stepped on
as it tried to dance
away from you,
and you from it--
but you failed and killed it anyway.
and i think that is how most
genocides start.
you didn't mean it, but your foot
crushed something wrong.

and what was wrong always comes back

that is, if you've got the disease.
if you are down here learning English.

my teacher doesn't even know i'm in class.
my teacher would laugh at my shoes
and my glasses
and the way my fingers move in tight
my teacher keeps telling us to write
larger and i try.

teach. i've got questions for you.
if you might have noticed me.
if you think you can tell
by my smell when i exit the platform
and my hands shake
shake rattling paper
all through the speech.
teach me how to know.
teach me how to leave here.
teach me why it's so hard

to leave my love for you in a bay,
to separate Snow White from
the rest of the dumb dwarf story.
to put my arms around someone else

without flinching.

i didn't always flinch,
and this bitter self-inflicted

this habit of dying
no one can taste but the dead.

just hold my arms still
until i stop



and I am yours.

I could be your Anne.
Your Anne.
Your Sylvia.

even Elvis if you like it
like that.

but I'm warning you now...
I will bow out before you
and I promise and swear
it won't be Nazi's
or peanut butter and banana's
or gas.

more like a week-long vacation
for a hospice bill.
or the small drip and tumble
of an i.v. in my foot.
my foot is the only place left
for needles and grasshopper's.

and so i will keep kissing
kissing when you stop the flinching.
and my head might go as it seeps
but my mind stays here.

my mind stays

THAT was just way too much bullshit. None of it has an ounce of truth concerning the author. Rather, all of it concerns the author. ...except maybe the part about Elvis. It might have been slightly rude to call Anne Frank a bitch too. Moody bitches just keep on yelling "bitch" until the word "bitch" won't mean anything anymore. Someone tell me what the hell I just said and get back to me.

Chao...who is this lesbian you love? Ya know...sometimes it's just a phase or all for show. I'm not like that. I don't remember sex, so I am bi-curious about myself now. And even saying "bi-curious" just made me decide to never, ever go into a mental ward again. I don't recommend them if they can be avoided. Very condescending and patronizing. Plus, there are legitimately crazy people in there. (and that's an education you only pay 5000 dollars a week for to know)

Ahahahahahahaha. yeah. that poem even depressed me, it was such bullshit. Funny. I never get depressed.


What the hell are you doing? Did you just grab my fucking biography or what? What the hell makes you write that way?

It's a singular attack followed by a blizzard that keeps me running back over and back over and back.

I really don't know what to do about you now. I had thought you would go out and leave me/us...why I don't know. I think because your own world is hidden -with just a few looks to get an idea. Impressions being what they are, I can't know you and stand on a dime and shout out to others, "this is what Devery is all about!"

No. no. you are not like that at all. You spill sparse and hard--but it's like walking by you constantly. You are moving so fast, I can only catch just a tiny bit of your elbow. Maybe some boots.

And I want to know you more. I want to sit in some dark bar and talk about global warming, then get right down to why you exist. Why you persist. That is where my teeth hide most of the time. Why we choose to exist against all logical reasoning that tells us, "you should chuck in your grammar book, your old photo's...and melt under re-runs of The Beverly Hill.................shit. You stand up against apathy. We all have different watches for this.

And I wonder about your watch.
whether you roam a little
before entering your door.
whether it's a bolt home instead,
because these people around you
are miserable and ignorant.
you are so tired of playing
kind of kiddie

But you love the child
and the softness of hair.
you'd take a good shag carpet
back just to show
you give the curse to fashion.
but you remain on the cutting
just visible to your friends,
completely entranced by a lover.

doesn't matter what lover's
name is.
it could be crackers on Tuesday.
it's always her and him at night.
slide on up
you precious puss. I love the
way you stumble on me.

You love the way people stumble
on you.
but not the way they trample him
or her.
You have dissected yourself enough
to know
how far off I am from piecing
one puzzle place

one solitary whole comfort.
a place where you rest
that can't be seen.

i can hear your tap running.
i can hear you open the fridge.
i can hear you gasp at my

and i feel your hand reach through
more solid ground.
you've got my heel.
you planted that cone as one
of your own.
makes me think harder about
and running.

waiting on the cement.
waiting on the cement.

always wanting more. always with love, Devery. an unworthy response, but it fell out just the same. Chao...I think we are going to have to buy the whole complex. Not just a few rooms. It's getting crowded and I am loving it, loving it. Knocking on your door too. Already Knocked hard on Rob's....


"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #34 on: April 23, 2009, 04:49:17 PM »

...still more from the old Box......

sex is a weapon
even if the best of it
leaves The Mrs. running
for a gun
when he leaves for the
even when he's so jealous
she got another boost
from a stranger
whistling that kind of
it will be just a number of
and some space of time
before the sex in any
is the mighty of all mighty

heart attacks.

yet we want it so badly
and we look away at the
jacking off in the zoo.
and we are the chimp
jacking off in our room.
how we are different
is so small indeed.

so sex is a weapon
but not the only crime...
the way i feel for the Robber
who is so desperate
he just needs 200
to get somewhere else.
and he or she will be caught
of course.
put in a cage
of course.
for 200 dollars and maybe
a pocket-full of change.

the way i feel for the junkie
under the most dire
of pits in life,
the way that junkie will
run and throw the needle
under the bed,
the crack pipe under a sofa.
it's stupid
of course.
it's hopeless of course.
the prison overflows
with the junkie's who should
be in a rehab cage
instead of the raping cell.

they say rape is all about
if that is so true
I can't understand why more
aren't raping men.

so if it gives you a hard-on
or a stiff one.
to think of you and your
smashing her face into mud
or asphalt,
ripping her pants down behind.
you can put it in two places.
and i know which one
you'll pick.

think about the stitches,
the way she won't remember
but everything the next time
someone whistles at her
walking down to get lunch.
and the rain
that night took all the evidence
so you're free for the moment.
you lucky bastard who is free.

think about having your gonads
if this kind of Power sets
you free.
if this kind of Power doesn't
make you cry.
if this kind of Power is because
your Mom was mean.
and the meanest thing you can
is Her in double-space.

she won't be quite the same
for the rest of her life.
looking over at Lover,
smiling with her knees quaking.
it's been so long...
"it's ok, don't you trust me?
I'm beginning to think you don't
love me..."

that kind of bribery is a weapon.
that kind of bribery is worse
than any man's head blown
quickly to bits
by the mob
he entered for reasons of his
like the Robber and the junkie
and the rest of us.

safe and locked up in houses.
we're safe here honey.

let's change the sheets on
the mattress.

I don't know where such horrible things come from. I sit and wait for a dead person to channel through me...heh. choke. Don't ask, don't even try to know why I just wrote what I did. I thought it was damn funny at the time, lately I have been in such a good mood. So the pencil jokes. Poorly. But Devery, sex is the most needed pistol of all time. That's what the next dead woman is saying to me. ....waiting...not sleeping again...waiting.

...................................................... ........................

it hurts me to toss it. and one of the few times you'll find me rhyming.

i saw the charlatan working
the magic again,
you've always got the angels
right behind your back.
and they'll always love you
not a single one attacks.
you've even got a Gaurdian
who helped you out
of the crack.
you didn't have that car crash
did you
but that's a statistical snack.

i've seen her on Montel and Oprah,
i heard that even Ellen took the
prankster in,
but she has never been put to
the test
of the cruelest scientist's pen.
and so she always calms the
sorrowful and tells them
once more shall they have
that surgery
only once more will they have
pain in purgatory...
not her words, but mine.
and just as good at that.
but the difference is that i'm not
selling you my books or back.
that prankster is quickly taking it all
with a wink and nod--
forget about the tax.

it never comes back that Mommy
never loved you
and occasionally with enough
Daddy is sorry for not busting
that time you got so high.
no, the charlatan is a genius
at zipping down your fly.


i've got some bad news that
will make you slightly ill.
the desperation of wanting them
is as old as us --ourselves.
the clinch you feel in your stomach
is the warning
we all have smelt.

why we can't accept the obvious
that false comfort
is someone's living,
and forgiveness for you may
come in confessions.
but that is rarely for the living.

the deepest that you won't ever
is the atom that will end up
in the comet,
blinking at the universe
and throwing out its vomit.

but don't be afraid that i have
attacked your fears and religion.
i've got nothing against you
except my own indignation.
my increasing inflation,
for a charlatan taking aim at you
and putting her new nails on...

i'll give you this much proven space
and honey,
this won't take that long.
the proof is in the pudding
if you want to believe in knocks
thumps and bumps.
but i have a smaller present
and it doesn't even mean
you're NOT.

what you've got is a strand of
something we all call DNA.
and what it means is that you
are one of a billionth or more,
everyone holler for God sakes.
and this is courtroom evidence
and no one makes a living by it
but some sad forensic pestilence.

what i'm saying is that you are
truly unique
in this space of time.
what i'm saying is you better get
out some ink,
because tomorrow isn't a promise--
it's a pause before a crime.

and even with the bad news of it,
and even with your loose lip in it--
i have just one suggestion:

should you see a reaper show up
kick the teeth a different

yeah. even that crap needs work, but it's all i have got to wing out. Sinister, i'll pm you asap. i have so much shit to do today, i just put out the world's most horrible rhyme. and don't go saying you loved it---i don't --- yet. perhaps my angels will. hmmm. maybe last line: kick the teeth out of your infection......dunno. can't rhyme that much without getting ants.

...................................................... ...........................

was bored, Siren. how'd you know?

and that kept building and building until a finale that made me put a sock in my mouth.

you used to dream the wooden dream
how a barn owl's eye-foliage is as white
as white can be.
and the way you raised your hand up
to browse between my chest
was the way i shot my right leg over
your waist.
a twist of my fetal clinch
sweet thing, it's always your say
when to rest.
you said there wasn't any more of it,
the way you slammed the door for it.
the bump against the kitchen counter.
the place you found my g-spot.

i had no idea it could collapse like a
penguin flops to its belly,
like the way you demanded the glasses
drop to a swollen and battered hand.
you're the kind that eats too fast
and complains about my third attempt
to find your keys,
not mine.

make your way through him because i
am so alone without you.
take a stance on issues about bathroom
i don't give a shit anymore
i don't give a shit anymore

except when i remember the shared
the way your freckles talked and walked.
the quick glance of e.s.p., and you know
i don't believe in that.
but the love can roll up in foil
and slut and slither a way to the freezer.
the way you dribbled ice cream down
your silk and cool pajama's
was the way an infant knows to cry
when gas has bloated the belly.

so have your marriage and picket
tell him he's the only thing right
for you.
i don't give a shit anymore.
i don't give a shit anymore.

tonight i found a letter you'd put
in the best section of my favorite
the one i made you read like edema
in the handicapped lane full of bowling
balls. then looping you over it,
and you swill and swell like a maggot.
except you've got the candle lit
and it's my post-birthday gift.
every time you touched me there
our hips.
our lips.
our hips.

so tell him that you'd die without him
and that you only care for love.
you can suck him all you want
and it will never make you as red
as my crawling made you flush.
i don't give a shit anymore.
i don't give a shit.

but one day i'll be in the barn,
up late listening for mice.
you'll come running in
because the house
is on fire
and you are all out of money
and you want to have some liquor
and you can't believe it's happened

to you and you alone.

and i'll swallow some raw intestine.
it will dangle from my maw.
the landing on your shoulder
will be the last kiss you can take.
a wing will flutter deep in your chest.
a toe will scar your neck.
i'll put on my fancy dress to make you
laugh. and then you'll want to dance.
but i'll be peck peck pecking.

and the owl will grip
right there
because it doesn't want to fly
and it won't care about the fuse
box you display.
you'd never show the correct
voltage anyhow.

that owl
will kill you.
that owl
will murder you slow.

i'm going to put you down
because i don't...

come on in the barn.

ho ho hum. needs help. lots of it. i tried. it's chao's fault really. when he puts on the love record, i put on mine. and it's cacophony, because mine has one chord---his has all three. bastard. and yeah, you swing hard tonight. but keep swinging or i'll languish. everyone join the brothel. you don't have to take off your shoes to enter.

...................................................... ........................

don't get offended if you're mentioned. or a flaw i ascribe to you is named which doesn't exist/or feels judgemental. the people i mention in this are yet a 3rd thing i wrote today. it's not flushed-out, it won't be something you'll list on a resume. and dear friends, any bitterness that should appear under your name is really mine. instead, take out the positive part and put it on a calendar or something, k?

My Electronic Friends?

I met Matt first at a smoke-lit strip joint,
his balls flying out of the g-string as he
coasted down a pole meant for firemen.
and he laughed while a song played for
his stroking; the rapster shield is an
ersatz pocket
no one cares to devour in His holiness'
paltry car or living room.
even so i'd rather eat his excrement,
run in with my inestimable syndicate
and chew my arm like cud,
spread my legs for a blender
and lob my last bit of skin
in donation
should he consider the sunset the
correct way to splinter his last verb,
being the last stint he'd play.

not in unison with anyone's ardor,
Rob shows up and prepares to take
one immense piss on a carpet.
marking out his territory is the most
patriotic, pathetic, and useless proposition.
he wants a paycheck with no covert
taxes, even if it means retirement
will be a continual quaff at the bar.
when i bring my aged bosom over,
he smiles at the stretch-marks and
tells me i'm oblivious about the pimp.
so if the world caves under a lamp
with one pigeon i've saved for
Rob is where I am going to go for
bygone rustling and accomodation.

Lyman enters rooms bubbling over
with his hippie dogma attached to
one large photograph spelling "beating."
he jots down the musician's choice
for taking, hoisting, and latching on
to a styrofoam cup, and he hates it
behind a stubborn smile a nazi
couldn't smack off. he'll be among
the final debate team arguing for
horns or strings. so when I am
pitched into the ebb of my tub, and
the bass won't play in my head,
my ears are tired of joy,
it will be him who makes me levitate.

Suede can't ruminate past the latest
addition of a lover's tempest. the way
it wobbles in a litigious face,
the pronouncement of the passed away
couldn't break that stroll for
anything. Suede has a brand new
auto, and that should make her stay.
but she won't and there will be no
retribution from him,
no alternating season could pull
his head into any other type of
business. so when i'm bitter
about the newspaper, and stretching
for a tirade that fits Mars in size...
it will be Suede that recalls for me
our conversation about love.

Sarah falls in front of school and can't
even make a toast of a grin about it.
she won't tell help how to save her
jewelry, her bodice, and platform. but
there will be brooding so long that
lightning couldn't out-run its pervasive
theme. holding and clutching at fear,
her bravery stands up with cake
for the birthday she can't have. yet if
I were to have one daughter and every
other relative to raise,
it would be this talented ace of a young
woman. it would be my quest for her
longing, to shatter the waste and
satisfy her thirst, her yearning.
should you bully her, i would not reveal
the moment my fist will connect.

Devery slips into the party with drugs
she can only lift for herself and a crony.
her ensemble that she dresses in is a
poster for the avant-garde, the blooming
wealth, and the deceased crimes
taken by her fang. we aren't privy to
her list of meditations and there are no
fax machine's capable of considering
that cowardice. But she cums just like
i do, and her thumb is the boat towards
my kind of icebox. if there were a way
to coddle the cast of malcontent's,
she'd devote a hefty sum towards it.
should she find a penny under a semi,
she'd empty a latrine through her
hand, and pluck it out for human trials.
when i am absent and pressed under
white t-shirts, Devery will point towards
the craving. this woman knows me
as an oarsman, and when the need for
rapport is skulking, and when it bruises,
she'll change my laundry for me.

all of you are the fabled epic,
which scatters into decrepid notes.
all of you are who i need,
who i want.

because i'll continue to hit the snooze
as life outside blows out tunnels.
there will be a catalog for the caste
system, a prescription for my pain.
and life itself considers me failed
genes, as i consider which way
to turn the telephone.
if i hear and keep an inconsequential
list, it will be the poets of some
strained box.

all of you are who i need,
all of you are what i am
or what i want, what i've been,
where i am not.
just the same my shirt is yours
but i am sorry if it doesn't

mmm. some of the people in here who have affected me. i may have missed someone, and it's not in order of importance--there is no such thing for me. but you've helped me endure and write in here. and if i've hurt your feelings, it's only because I am TRULY pointing at myself, taking guesses, and/or teasing you. the nasty and twisted and the sap is for later. it needs to be crumpled up and then read when i find the god durn car keys... although, if you read this the way i'd wish, it has a good deal of sap and appreciation as well. love to all--p.p. or whatever my name is...anyone?

"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #35 on: April 23, 2009, 04:58:48 PM »

Whatever it is, it is not quite right.


should one be born blind
there is no reason to miss
what you never knew

and a deflected pocket rocket.
in the first grade of middle school,
the girls stripped up in jordache
jeans and friendship beads on their
bloody toes,
a precise calculation as to
just how popular and what clique
would defend you...
the boys bothered by the new
mascara and the breasts they
never cease to stare at,
and their jock comrades,
the hood pot smoker's buddy.
the genius in the back row
with "A Clockwork Orange"

and i was no part of this
but something they whispered
as the girl next to me for most
of the year
had been killed.
one wrong-way turn down a
one-way ramp, and she and
her mom...gone. let's forget
she was poor, all the bad
Goodwill clothes can never
make middle school plot
or accept your existence.


so the teacher bristles and says
"if you had to choose between
blindness and being deaf"--
which is like asking a chipmunk
for inner-city directions--
"which one?"
in unison, the bored and board
raises a captious hand
celebrating deafness.
and i'm the only one in the
idiotic contemplation
raising my hand for blindness.


even then i had thought there
was enough color to make
me intoxicated, for i had known
everything to see by then.
but the despair of missing
music and conversation
went beyond the school wall
and into a house
never my own, always a deluge
at dinner.


now i think of art-in-progress
and the class that made a person
love Caravaggio, lean away from
consider Art History a possible
later it would be the love of
this or that significant other
and always the orgasmic union
of a movie punching my chest.

now it is another person that
contains my vision,
the battle to walk straight out
of the Predator,
and want a lonely bird's eyesight.

as music is my daily detention
flipping channels, and pampering
a new Cd.
how close i come to a spiritual
yield sign is as close as a
vibrator once used.
now in a brooding bin.

one can try to perceive
the lost perception of one
the way as you consume this
i can read your body language.

so i shouldn't have raised
that hand at all.
because losing one of five
makes one a fourth of new
and the price tag is so high
a contractor wouldn't even
take the job.

you'd survive
as something different.

fuck. what a mess.

...................................................... .......................................

a label for one and all.
how useless and profuse.
a teen can command their
own way
if they don't dare move at all.

it's impossible because the
bell rings for the next lesson.
a hallway or a busride
is the best place for mocking,
grassing, ribbing.
making every single body
run for their cult.
spurning the disabled individual
to walk faster than fashion
demands, lingo requirements.
your ugly shoes
your hip hair
your broken glasses
and the occasional explosive

discretion belongs in just one
or perhaps just one counselor.
even there an abuse can be
like paper candy can fool
the best intelligence.


hold on for a suicide
and school shooting.
this is the same as it was
with a huge new testimonial
of danger.
cut your arms up because
screaming isn't allowed here.
shave your head to be different
or the same.

this is a simmering water boil
so try to run straight home after
where more canines
might search you out.
and now it's mom and dad and
what sister and brother get
will never be the same
as your place mat.
which is the birthing order
of every dysfunctional
breeding ground.

there is no home for a teen.

so possess your gift for any talent,
rely on the neutron of the only one
who can understand. It's the best
a teen has, and the way to stand
sideways and foreward
stretching into the very best growth.
that will be your twenties.


one day just perhaps
a miracle will happen, and one
that doesn't require your
prone body lying on the floor
of a chapel.
for me
in a place where the football
the student president.
and the charm of every good
lay he took.
his corporation surrounded the
lunch table and giggled in
ruptured libation.

for it was a retarded or "slow"
teenage girl he started
buying the soda's for...
she chugged them down
in the split of a second.
making fun of someone like
is what a child would do
at a zoo by tapping on glass
that clearly states
"no tapping please."

what they didn't see
was that the 5 soda festival
by day three
made her vomit all the way
down the hall.

on the fourth day
a girl on the outskirt of sarcastic
and resembling the way we
feel about the beehive hairdo.
she arose with her lunch
tray filled with food she never
as she passed El Presidente.

it was a fake stumble
and a whoops!
gee, i am so sorry i just
spilled prune juice plus more
on the top of your head.

and the silence of one cafeteria
was enough.
the silence was enough.

because a miracle
had happened.
with or without

so much more i disliked about my teens. another time...when i can actually write.


(not for children)

the only thing done wrong
was the time you insisted on
purchasing a small whip.
and you wanted it to spank you
perhaps because your Mom used
to hit you with a shoe
on your head
straddling you on the floor
and smacking it again and again.

then it was my thigh you rode.
good horsey game.
and when the drugs numbed
the twat,
i used the vibrator
and my mouth attempted to vibrate,
and my two fingers entered
your hole
and you talked the regular

"fuck me" name
oh harder, faster
oh my god i'm going to cum
oh my god, oh my god, OH MY GOD.
and when you tried my race engine
which liked to idle to heat up.
you'd tell me where i was hard
where i was soft.
how delicious
how big my clit was.

in your closed-eye moment
you'd push your bosom together
nipples as pointed and hard as
the time you smacked me after i
threw up.
and still i'd take them in my mouth
and suck at just the right tempo,
and teasing was my favorite
and it made you say everything
i would have said.
only i wasn't the talking kind.

except in the beginning kissing
gazing into your eyes
telling you
how beautiful you were, how much
i loved, loved you.
and you told me it would be "hot"
if one day i'd wait for you in
a secret spot.
and push you up against the wall
and tear your clothes off
with my pocket knife
my pocket knife.

oh, i pushed you up against the
wall, but i'd tear with my hands.
the thought of cutting you by
was your turn-on
and dead end.
not mine.
once by accident, on the way
to that party where my ex
called you a cunt.
we had a voice recorder placed
in your jacket.
and it was on when you got me
in the corner of the hallway.

you jacked me off on audio.
and we laughed about it later.
and we hid the tape for later.
and i pictured you masturbating
for me later.
and i saw your nipples working
like a jackhammer, breaking
through rocks.
for later.
and i thought about each angle

every angle you put your vagina,
i put mine on yours.
sideways. doggie. you on top.
with your back facing me.
it was sacrilegious and they
have laws against us.
it was passionate. beyond the
and as soon as you got in my
car and asked to pull over
on a side street.
we fucked as your wife thought
we were buying beer.

how she didn't smell us on
one another. i have no idea how
you did that. i had no idea how you
knew just where to go.
all i knew was i was exhausted by
all-night screwing.
and happy like a kid on a slip-n-slide.
and the polaroids you gave me
when i was leaving...
i got evidence of your body
i got evidence of even more.

all those things i saved in my
head for later.
all those times you bent over
and asked me to enter your
all those times --and no,
dear reader--i didn't use a dildo.
i have proportions that are
different than that.
it was heinous and disgusting.
in the beginning it was love.

and now i sit here knowing
you're shoving your tits
in his mouth.

and maybe he uses a whip.
and i know you ride on top.
and i hope he breaks his dick.
i hope you
take it in the ass when you
are wasted drunk.
and i hope it tears your rectum.

that makes me one bitter

homely slut.

good god. i just shared the most disgusting thing ever. and if i die, no one is to share this with my family. ever. i'll strangle you with my ghost hands....wait. this poem isn't even about me. chew on that. i'm still a virgin. (holy my the pain meds. have just made me share the "sick and twisted thing" and now i am certainly doomed in here)

...................................................... .........................................

Suede and Devery--thanks for the compliments. i still can't believe i posted that. i figure someone is going to "bust me" (err) for being so...was it pornographic, or just plain true, or the dumbest thing i've ever shared. we shall see...

And Devery--by far, the most intriguing and juxtaposed piece. meaning, oh. Josephine. sorrow "rueful" followed with a possibility hidden. hmm.

i'll name this, but it's strange, as i never had names for anything i've written until i landed in

You can be an idiot too

you must be joking or
pulling my leg,
if you are telling me
there's no such thing.
and that God put it there,
the fossils.
to test our faith.
in China, they "invented"
the dragon
when they first found the
dinosaur bones
simply because everyone
wondered what kind of
creature it could be...
but it didn't take that long
in human history
to realize that their time here
was much longer
than our own.

so you must be an idiot
if your God doesn't recognize
the fossil.
you must be so far out of the
and maybe you live in Kansas.

because it's not only Kansas
but the entire nation.
the whole constitution ignored
mr. n.r.a.--and i'll get you later.
but a vast number have forgotten
separation of
church and state.
and yet you celebrate the founding
fathers as if they were
"out of sight" dude.
you want time out for prayer?
you want "creation theory?"
do it on your own watch.
not everyone thinks the way
you do.
because you are an idiot.

you must be off kilter
or out of sorts,
to not think Limbaugh
shouldn't hit the road.
this is the hypocrite who said
whites should be convicted
and sent up the river
should they abuse drugs.
and he's so kind, he also
stated that African Americans
are 12 % of the population...
so "who the hell cares?'
this is only a partial list of
his fat, and out of hand
mouth. so listen to him more
if you are an idiot.

and if you haven't caught on,
i'm using "out of..." and other
american idioms
because i'm an idiot too.
but not the following kind:

the one who thinks Columbus
found the earth was round.
no. that would be almost every
sailor since the first boat + Archimedes
measuring the Earth's circumference.
...jesus h.
even the name "columbus" is
under scrutiny,
even what he looked like is
now out of reach.
but we know that he set dogs
loose to eat the haitian natives
when they wouldn't obey
his demand for slavery.
and that wasn't the only place
this mysterious navigation genius
got out of hand.

you must come from another
to think a fetus can feel in
the first trimester.
the human fetus has no
nervous system, no brain
during those first 3 months.
and sure it begins to have
certain features,
but it also closely resembles
chicken fetuses.
read your science book.
people who lose a nerve or
bundle of them, would all
agree that they have no more
in their arm, finger, toe, face.
so saying a fetus feels pain
at that time,
and calling it a baby.
that's like calling a toddler
a senior citizen.
you stupid fucking idiot.

believe in a soul if you like
and march for that.
but you wouldn't take a crack-
baby home
and be a loving parent to it...
so shut your god damn mouth.

and "guns don't kill people,
people do" mr. heston and
everyone driving in front of me.
you are out of whack
and prone to propaganda
to think the 2nd amendment--
to believe the people who
wrote it,
could have any concept of a
future where
our ability to purchase
a handgun, or assault weapon
made for the armed forces--
to fire multiple rounds into
a school, McDonald's,
from a tower, or assassinate
a celebrity.
the truth is that it doesn't happen
in other countries.
murder does, but not mass
because in most places the
standards for getting a weapon
of that kind
is either illegal in the first place
or restricted much more than
our precious and out-dated
2nd amendment allows--
at your local hunting shop.
and self-defense is paranoia.
you think your kid can't find
it? then surely the kid
doesn't know about the ky
in your dresser drawer.
you really are an idiot.

and sure we are desensitized
to violence and gore.
but i've seen everything you have.
and it takes someone
out of their mind
to latch on to Hitler, Manson,
or some movie like
"natural born killers" --
and make it into a diatribe.
a reason to kill strangers.
and there are no warning signs
that can tell us
or separate the "regular" issues
or depression from the zombie
that will shoot your kid in the
so if you believe that rating
systems are not enough and that
we should start censoring
some of the very things you love,
you're out on a limb
that is bound to be broken...
your excuse makes you one more

and this is very similar
to accepting our culture of fear,
to sit at home quietly
and watch the color-codes for
terror snap up on Fox news.
if you can't see the evidence
that the administration has lied,
lied, lied.
then surely you have to take a
and realize what we've lost:
our right to an attorney should
they suspect you're involved.
our right to privacy on the phone--
in this poem, at work
and when you check a library
book out.
they can swoop you up and take
you to a far-off prison
where even the word "torture"
has somehow become disputable,
and something reasonable for us
to do.
Orwell wasn't far off with "1984"
as to what we're crumbling with
right now,
and if you think "torture" and our
continued war is anything less
than what the nazi's did,
you're lying to yourself.
you might as well put on a
and start killing what you term
"sand niggers"
--that means you've become
worse than an idiot.

and i am so far out from you
on this one
i don't want to share a dinner
with you.

there's so much more i could
and wing out into the air...
civil rights and queers
quota's and qualifications
prison overcrowding
abuse and assistance
drugs and legalization
environment and technology
health insurance and cost
cooties and planned parenthood--

i bet my list is growing in the
hall of the CIA. and who knows,
National Security
may be my Big Brother soon.
i'm not afraid to call myself
a liberal
and it's not a dirty word.

it's simply a way of thinking
that we can improve, change,

but even this stupid piece of
has made me tired and

i guess that makes me an
i suppose i am ignorant.
i know i am stupid too.

but i plead with you to watch
your step

umm. shouldn't watch the news i guess. not a poem, but a rant. so imagery has to be stuck in...and everything has to be flopped. and this is the worst think i've ever put inside this poetry box. forgive. i'm coming out of a coma...besides, you have the nasty sex thing to go back and read. and i don't look like what you think...hahahaha maybe.

...................................................... ......................................

"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #36 on: April 23, 2009, 05:04:44 PM »

debug mode:

i don't have the skills you are
and the way you like to continue
down the top of my shirt
is telling me to leave...

but i'll tell you something
before i go
that the innocence of turning
10 is lost when 40
brings on the slow...
when you watch a relative
go down the hatch,
it isn't the same.
never the same.
won't be the same.

as when the knife
has stolen your snatch.
and maybe it isn't that spot.
perhaps it's something strange
like your blindspot Mister.
the place you can't see
in the cleavage.
how quickly i'm going to
relies completely on your
periphery. the look you
just gave to me.
but you weren't the kind
to get the best grades
as you're obviously jumping
up the ranks of this fast
food regime.

or were you best in class?
not best of the class in
memorizing anatomy.
best of the class
in digging around the muck.
best of the class
in nothing else but what we
esteem as Doctor.
we all know what they were
like in class. the ones
that got A's and bitched to the
teacher until it wasn't
a 98
but a 100.
now they have us under.
now they've got all of us

oh, Mister.
Doctor won't look at my
for blindspots. but lumps.
wrong ones, like you are,
and the fact you are adamant
i wear this tight, tight shirt.
i could carve you out myself.
i could practice butchery
or witchcraft,
but i'm not going down like

i want to be head-first
in a slide into someone's lonely
and heavily sighing thigh.
breathing erratic, breathing for
breathing without a machine.
you won't meet me there.

no Mister.
you can't have it all.
my daily abuse of the ozone
isn't worth your call for the
minimum look at a mimimum

i want to give the doctor who
spoke to me as if i were an infant
one simple middle finger
when i wake to see him
with his fake
squint of joy.
he's not happy for me
he's found a reason to believe in
his own God.
what he's happy for

is the completion of a task.
the way you are Mister
when you'll fire me and throw my
file in the trash.
you're no better
no worse.
you think the upper echelon
is going to see you through?

they've got bubbles to float
out on,
and orthodontist bills.
and soon i'll see the dentist.
as soon as i can get out
from under all these pills.

so i'm rhyming here and there
you've got me walking in a circle
but i promise you tomorrow
i'm going to pummel
your smirk

just like me under a knife.
just like me under a knife.

the scars building on scars
the scars building on scars

my life is here in a strange
my time is spent here in a
stupid way.
my time here is nothing better
than staring down the cleavage
of anyone who enters.

just like you under a knife
the very first time you feel
death had been in the room.
the very first time you felt
an orgasm
could be the last time for
any of those.

i'll take your job.
i'll become a doctor if someone
does the surgery.
i don't have an answer like they
no satisfaction in getting it
when at least once you're
going to be the death of someone.

going to be the death of someone.
going to be the death.

not of me because my middle name
not of me because my middle name

is luck
you mother fuck.

too simple. too tired. always half-way what i wanted. always. if i have only one good stanza in my head, i always think to myself...why do i push it further? why does it always fail then? somewhere...doesn't matter where. never feels right in the end. all the same Mister. all the same Doctor. i'm really angered by you... and there is always time revision #?
toss them brothel.

...................................................... .............................................

if i gaze into yours
for more than thirty
it means i love you
a way
i'll keep in notes along
in meetings
along the days
in forums
around people
i wouldn't possibly
want to gaze at
for the one
who holds me here.
holds me down
strokes my hair
without my hair
loves my gaze without

and this is where
my nights
as all of you sleep.
all of you my
my first and only
the last reason
left unknown.
the last idea
the least of taste
way out there
in one of us.

which is worse, eh? hard call. depends on the depending.


Lyman that was sweet. both your reply to me, and the ode to someone i don't know...but the last line is my personal favorite. and i have to dip out for a bit perhaps. i look forward to coming back as soon as i can. OH. and Lyman...that was most definitely Cupid writing a message on the back of Mercury to send to someone.

the girl who cried
when she got Barbie
age 9
goes out on the porch
and smokes.
she wonders about some
other place.
a head resting next
to another head.
peaceful as it should be.
how she wants no
part of being

no way to enter a door
you wouldn't go near,
inhaling again and again
she deposits ash
on one finger
the finger she'd use
on anyone
who might jog by
and ask

for just one more

peaceful wish.
no clamor inside.
the cat knows something
is off.
but a meow is the
same as a ten year
not to be told in full.
not to be left for
a box.
not to be known by
or family and the
secret princess--

"it's always something
with you"
the cruelest thing i
ever heard from lips
i had for the flip of a
and it was heads
i won.
tails i won again.
i won it all.

and so the Barbie
goes back outside
and finds the star pointing
she sends one wish up
that someone up
that way will find
one solid night
one iota of breath
one time to think
as her head rests.

a little of this. a little of that. a mess i won't have to sort out tomorrow a.m. guten nacht


hunching low
as if a drive-by shot
had just taken
an entire week and

gone tonight like
a hydrocodone
knock knock
and there are still
salads to
with no dishes
to eat upon.

another scans the
of pounds of abuse
pillaging names
to be
except that single
special theatre

gone on the way
looking to dive
into the familiar
how it feels full
if not enough,

a bubble is set
about the air.
slipped under like
the tooth
the eye has it
upside-down but
the brain pushes into
and straightens
the pop.

an inescapable sound-
hairs in the ear
will touch and

there will be no answer
in the mind
for one going in one
coming out
and not two.
bubbles gather and

rapidly descends on
the feet of rapport
under the name
of shelter
now lining shelves,
all limbs
all exposed.

in one office
one principal
hunches low.
never knowing how
the bounce of the familiar
is somehow
with stamina
and groping

changing positions in
bubbles now bloom
cannon explosions,
and sleeping
on just one head

of a square
or rectangle
as it bursts just
enough hairs
of the ear,
burning down the
of one


wtf? "oh, no is all we are...oh, no is all we are...oh, no is all we are"
yes. that song was heard today. i know, i'm using "one" frequently lately--get off my back. y'all are asleep anyway... you make me laugh. i'm reviewing your work. i see something in the past, but it's growing wavy off the top of the i don't know where the brothel is, but i have a bad feeling that someone left me drunk by the side of the road...

Cupid and Daphne must have purchased the last round. I'd wink at them but now I am actually worn out. errheh.


it isn't necessary to ride down to the steel mill.
a predilection for hiding a corpse is only the sum total
of the reason you have cut-off shirts, shorts down your
knees. and you aren't even a lawn worker; not looking
at any skin because the minimum fee isn't organized
as a meatloaf recipe.

so the scheme is noir.
everyone get out money.

not much to offer except a thrill, as you've hunted before
hunt this rabbit in a lawn chair. get it through your head
without the weapon, there is no crime. Mr. don't tell your
girl swaying on the counter. Bragging rights can happen
in a different state with more herione. Beer, whatever your
taste is. (can't help but notice a black spoon)

so the planning is flawed.
wish the penny into a fountain.

right in the reptilian base where blood flow is conducted. and
you'll become a magician. not homicide and no police will knock.
the letter is written, the postage paid for. go ahead and utilize
a sharp knife if you've spent it all on crack. not casting doubt
on any aptitude as the neighbor saw you ride a deer. stop with
taking notes. you're a missonary. (can't help but see you wilt)

no. i've done far worse somewhere.
consider me dead already.

this is the correct way to become talented. assault isn't your
only retreat. take a vacation on sand or in a castle. the lord
would never protect the knight. bishop to Queen. check, not
checkmate. and take the damsel with you on horseback. watch
out for my gypsy cousins. (even here notice a vaunt aimed for


...................................................... ...................................

juxtapose what i want. so here.

she said
take two lefts
and the library
is next to
a church.

she said
go outside
and drunk

she said
take witness
of how much
you spend.

she said
there is no
such thing
as past
or future.
just now.

i say
you're a
and have
trash to

there are doubts.
a broken
slide show.
i say.

"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #37 on: April 27, 2009, 08:59:00 PM »

Here are some more from the old box.  I didn't see them in here yet.  Did I miss them somehow?

Rob, you're killing me.
Sinister--welcome! haven't had a rhymer about, so fling it. ( unless you stole that...doubt it though)

Amy you're so gay that I
said gay the first time
you hit me with
a hockey stick.
and Amy you came out to me.
and it was hush hush.
but the whole softball
team bullied me and i confirmed
what every single one of them
was about
to become.

all startled
and i crossed your confidence
and you hated me and called
me worse
and then you started fucking
the coach

and you did the same
thing to me
i did to you.
only worse.
much worse.

isn't a co-worker. just a republican log-cabin dummy.

we are just the 2.
this is your game, the way
one knows they should run to
the ball and catch...
not the start when they run
with the glove out-stretched.
that kind slows you down,
says Daddy.

smack. thwap. smack.
pssssfft. thump. psssft. thunk.
da da thump.
the ball has a rhythm.
feel it and see it.
the second it's off the bat.

i knew where it was headed.
i knew how to catch.
i hit line drives, rarely anything
i wasn't the best thing ever
and never will be
especially to my electronic

but i'll be your teammate.
I'll tell you "pick your own one
out Rob.
go get some for YOU!"
"nice play, mother fucker"
fucking play.

don't turn your head away
or down when I compliment.
buy me one beer
and tell me over and over...
look, you had two hot smashes.
you only fumbled one.
it's amazing you even
got one right.
you even got one.
amazing you even
got your glove

out in time.
it's amazing how i need you
to drive me home.
and i don't care anymore
about who is right
and why i am right.

take me home.
take me home.

next week you can toss
me some as i hit left-handed.
maybe next week
we can meet
we can meet

and play catch.

love you, Rob. mother fucker.

you're wounded
but you'll never be that dog,
giving chase to the cat
one last time.

you've got a broken back
and a spring that bounces
out of your mouth,
and no one washed it with
too much
or not enough.

you're afraid of the stuffy
uptight ass,
the strut of the waiter
taking you in for a hundred
dollar hot dog.
there's a place that people
like that attend,
and it's called bar's.
it's called fighting.
about which way the gate
will swing

opening in or out?
"i told you in the first place"
did the scolding bitch
was it the mold you fell
that makes you shell

all the while,
bouncing balls off the
slamming your fist to
a thigh
that knows the truth of

green eggs and ham.
for breakfast
there's a promise i'll keep
my lips closed
just long enough.

sit and read the paper.
throw your face
under the water from
a shower
never quite a comfortable

this is why Gary is hopeless.
this is where your cynical
flag beats on drums.
this is where your back itches.
there's one and one way to know
such as breakfast.

green eggs and ham.

dont stop it. you aren't a brat. you're a bratwurst. (the world's worst pun in history has been given) i like you that way. and if you stop sharing poetry, i'll break both your useless idiotic arms. i'd emoti--CON you. but you'd probably drop over with lyme's disease or something...

thanks for coming back. salt and pepper Mr. salt and pepper for your heart as well. (shit. try nooootttt to be sapppppy)--p.p. yes! triumph for my day. -J.

I am drugged and not responsible for the following...

snuck into your diary
like evil parents at 13.
took three sentences in
and knew what you
didn't wouldn't
feel for me.

snuck into your dresser
and no sweats, no jeans
but organized shoes
no brown with black.
your rules. tools.
my red t-shirt flapping
in a fan.
the only thing shared
for the heat.

snuck into your heart
and left a shoeprint with
no heel.
a spot of a tread.
race marks on thighs.
a speed zone miracle.
mine. medical.

walking on another
watching the story spread
like oil.
warning signs turned
no evil parent.
no consumer heart.
no requisite.
just words spilling water
the canvass
in the middle.

between what's moral.
what loss has covered.
how comfort is a plow.
caught between
and a green warning sign

says write.
leave politely.
close your diary.
believe the canvass.
find a plow for the sign.

don't steal a word.
take the paragraph.
deposit it under flannel
leather-bound books.
write some more.
politely lie. down.
open up your jewels.

i have a wrench.
paste. many fine point pens.
pry open the canvass.
let's practice

i'm on drugs. what else can i say? where is rob? WHERE IS SUEDE? Lyman, darling, I have fallen into a bit of an illness spell. I will get to you Cupid, if it kills me... wait. that death thing sucks. okay, Cupid. i'll get to you, i swear once more. the # of times i do that makes the prize amount rise, like the lottery. someone find Suede. Ma Chao is jerking off too. Rob is an old bastard like me. Devery should stop writing anything that makes me think. where is OhTheInnocence? WHEN WILL YOU PEOPLE LEARN THAT MY VERY EXISTENCE RELIES ON YOUR CORRESPONDENCE?

Everybody dies
Frustrated and sad
And that is beautiful


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #38 on: April 27, 2009, 09:04:23 PM »

balls. golf balls.

if you keep stealing parts of me.
all of you bent over laughing.
all of you unaware i'm in your closet.
one, two, maybe three
know the bank deposit.
and upon finding my wallet, no cash.
toolbox and all.
underneath your car wheels.
should i try and take this bolt out?
slow, fast, or the wrong one...
the wrong harbinger before a
bold in cursive. <<<<<<<<lost my mind.^^^^^

p.s. Sharon Stone. that's a discussion for lesbians. i don't care for any minority. i'm a republican.

"tell the truth"
but what of the "remains
of the day" and "2046"
where love goes denied.
omission bonds.
innuendo, an implicit bear
without claws.

confidential leaks.
but what of "Mommy Dearest"
and the tape of Judy,
drunk and saying that no
one understands.
so break your lips for
my hips are rolling a
new poster along.

i can sing "drag"
exactly this

sorry reference to movies, one cd, one documentary...and where it leads your mind. saw "2046" and only one line runs through--"Love is a matter of timing." not a new puzzle for me. leads to beliefs of inevitable failures and coincidences. where we choose and what we can't. philosophy be damned. pitiful response to yours Cupid. Sharon Stone in "Casino"=different Sharon Stone. Predictable? Perhaps. Is love predictable? never.

f___ it.

grow up woman
your hair, skin, and
cuticles in
the car, the bills,
the notes.
a king's ransom
for the decline.

put the rock in
dive into the cold.
find Virginia
hear your own

the cd's are stacked
organized by
customary play.
a script for you.
and I'm

"when i get to the top- i go back to the bottom..."

"look at her and the way------ she walks into the room.
"why does she do that when-- she runs her fingers through.
"how could that be if she's---- wanting to resign.
"no one would have guessed- childhood opens a limp.
"what a sad way to go--------- stuttering before the judge.
"that's the worst thing to------ become a parasite.
"no one saw it coming--------- when she ran into the Jump.
"i saw it but i couldn't do------ nothing to stop it.

read as one. or two separate...let the -- separate if you want the two. i tried to put it into separate places, but i couldn't navigate how it really looks. idiot. it Was two poems for the price of one. now it won't look that way. every time i look at it, i want to chuck the idea down the toilet. i think i should, as the simplicity is annoying.

a conversation of a kind?

waded through
a useless diary
some obtuse poetry
a to-do list
look at this photo?

the infant:

don't take that away.
i want it.
i want it.
tummy tummy.
don't go.
i want...

went down the corner
the income tax
medicare and medicaid.
her broken glasses.
the antique chest.
look at that rust!
look at the chair.
look sweetie.

the infant:

hungry. oooh hungry.
yes. yes. bottle.
more warmth.
smells good.
no cold water...
stop it.
not the diaper.
stop it.

what's the matter?
the tank is full.
it's the cinema again.
the book was awful.
tissues for you.
it will be better tomorrow
just wait.
what's the matter?

the infant:

hee. fingers. nose.
pull your hair.
more bosom.
i want it.
don't take it.
i want it.
your nose...

there's your song.
sing with me and
i promise to keep
jesus i'm sorry i am
not what you
thought i was.
there's my song.
sing with me?

the infant:

why the dark?
i'll scream now.
cry. cry.
guh...gool. glub.
where are you?
I want.
want you.
want you.

had sex last night.
it was better than
most times.
shouldn't ask for more.
why are you
telling me not to
leave for work?
someone has to do it.
i swear i'll come
home soon.
i won't be thinking
of you.

not today

the infant:

mommy gone.
daddy gone.
stranger with ugly
don't like you.
don't want you.
don't want to.
kind of funny.
another mommy?

don't want to hurt you.
it's not your fault.
something's wrong with
and i'll remember.
the driveway and the
the music shared.
a phone number.

i want

someone else.

a really poor attempt again. to capture thought only. but if someone else works on it, perhaps it will come out revised and fresh. i need to go to work, pay the bills, cook a candy bar. toast some plastic. what a rut.

and now, for something completely horrifying...

Ha. Ha. beg for it bitch.
we know you like it like this!
fucking dyke. here's how to fuck.
we'll show you! ha. ha. God
DAMN. Yeah, bro. stick it in.
pump her full. STICK IT IN!!
YeahhHHH. Fucking fuck! look
at her pussy! look at that!
wait. Fucking my Turn. my TURN!


ssstop. wait. just ssstop. please
oh. kick mother. kick.
can't breathe, can't breathe
air air air please. just ssstop.

Shit! Let's get the fuck out of
Here. Come on, man! Let's
GO. Leave it! Showed her,
didn't WE! AHA. Ha. ha...


bus. car. get in car. go.


mud. have to get this off.
i can't see.


yes, officer. yes. no, not that.
i don't remember.
i don't remember.
i was just down, is all.


yes, seargent. yes I'm a lesbian.
what does that have to do with? there's hardly any evidence...
other than mud. beer.

well. i don't see what that has to
do with...

i'm leaving.


thank God for my daily pain.
thank Hell for my absence.
thank the Dr. for the stitches.
thank the family for the cards
to "get well."

thank God and HELL that I'm alive.
at least I'm alive.
i could have died.

call work for me please.
i can't go in until this part moves.
thank you.

thank you.

at least i'm alive.

well. that's enough of that bullshit, isn't it? i put myself in the role of a victim and tried to imagine what you think. if you put yourself in the role of a victim, it won't be too difficult to see that it's easy to be one. that you are one. that we've all been one. and at're alive.

they were drunk
and it was fun in the
okay kiss for being drunk.
but wait.
yeah that massage was
where your hand is going
now isn't the right place.
not now.

and sorry
but not you.
okay i've said not now.
said wait a minute.
passed out.

passed out.
woke up with the jeans around
popcorn in my hair.
where did he go?
and why am i bleeding?
what is so funny

now that you've walked
in on me.
seen me like this.
and you're laughing because
you just had some.
and you think i just
had some too.

pass out.

what was his name?
you don't know
you say.
but he was here
and only one of four
or so.
you're still laughing.
i'm not just hung over.

i think i was taken advantage
i think i said no,
but i can't really say that

look at that bruise.
i can't wear anything
but sweats.

and she doesn't wear anything
but sweats
for a 100 degree summer.

version 2

at the atm.
getting the cash out for a night
of good times.
turn around and walk to the
car door.

oh, jesus. what the hell?
who is pushing me down?
i can't see your face.
i can't see anything.
if you grind me into the door...

who are you?
don't. don't un-zip.
i can't have that in my


what the hell happened to you?

i don't know.
can't find my glasses, and can't
hardly move my mouth.

oh my GOD. what the hell happened
to you?

i don't know.
can you get me a paper towel
or maybe some ice?
i'm very tired and i lost
my keys.
i think my glasses are at
the atm.
could you take the car
back and look for the money?

NO. what the hell happened?

i'm telling you
i don't know.

mmm. Devery wins that round for sure. if this can be called "winning." but Sinister, your response = one pounding resolution. one pounding heart. Devery. your heart just spilled a lifetime of stories out in yet another poem that pulls me backwards, and slams me forward. a roller-coaster. the victim in you is recognized. and a heart is sent in your direction. both of you. i'd emoticon, but my computer swiftly steals the good ones, so here:   

Cupid has been molested here.

I don't think it's funny what has been done to these victims.
I don't think it's anything less than horror. Not a movie. Life.
I should stop this tangle of hurt, but letting it spill...

you can't get it back.
you can't take it back.
and blame is for the one who spoiled.
shame is the name we carry.
because you couldn't understand.

now...a doe-si-doe and i'll quit this for a bit:

standing there on
a white paper sheet.
two women in the room.
aching there on the cold
floor in an e.r.

the shot they gave
is apparently a snapshot.
click. the blare of a light.
click. "i'm just taking pictures."
click. "can you turn your head?"
click. "can you lift your leg?"


what's so good about this?
i'm naked.
and who do you think
you are?
talking nice like i was
no, i don't want to get
on the table.


sorry but you weren't
there. why is everything
covered in white?
what is She doing writing?
why did they make me
say it.
twenty times or more.
and now they want
my body.

just like them.

"please...we're trying to help"

what are you taking...
click. flare.
i would rather you not
be there, i'd rather be
"just some more cuts"

what do you want from
what could be gained
from this?
i threw my shoes in the
garbage. and i told
Her that, didn't i?

click. "going to use the

shooting arching stabbing
KILLing pain.


not as much as me.

fini for now troops. all of this is so rough. not poetry exactly. well, it doesn't feel like poetry for me. not quite. more like a shadow of it. my contributions anyway...
Everybody dies
Frustrated and sad
And that is beautiful


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #39 on: April 27, 2009, 09:11:24 PM »

there isn't a second-
a gust to put a hair
or June Bug
in an eye that has
allergies. no shower
or acid or vinegar.
but we could spin

always some flax about.

there isn't a tumor on
a sea turtle.
more bulging remarks
are reclining on a
shell. no disaster
or struggle or fossil.
but we could climb
up the hair.

always some hair about.

there isn't a studio to
recite iambic pentameter.
someone read 100
most loved poems.
no finding crumbs,
or candy or meat.
but we could hide
from the devil.

always some devil about.

there isn't a way to mug or
murder or molest.
Bluebeard took all the wives
but the last.
no secret door, no bloody key
no singed trace.
but a flower to ruse evil.

always some flowers about.

there isn't a donation to give
to capitalism. no non-profit,
no monopoly, no Captain
to fight the sea or
tempted shark. without sonar
we're left a compass.

always some directions about.

there is no way to save
a poet. not food or linen or
trips or money. but i'm sitting on
top of the Rue Morgue...
and so are you.

always some poems about.

"I'm gonna buy this house and burn it down...put it 6 feet underground."
put that in your Trapper-Keeper.

Once In a Lifetime" ?? ("water flowing underground...")

"If you just pull down your
pants, I promise not to hurt

but you did.

"No one appreciates anything
I do around here!"

but we did.

"I can't understand what is
wrong with you."

and you won't.

"Your writing shows promise."

but it don't.

"You really have some talent."

not like that.

"I promise not to hurt you
if I put it in slow."

look. ceiling fan.

"You seem to have bottled

but i don't.

"We are trying to help you."

but you can't.

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

yes you did.

"I love you but not that way."

i know.

"I think we should be friends."

not so sure.

"You have healing hands."

for who?

"You are all I want."

not true.

"I won't take the demerol again."


"I swear I won't take it again."


"I am better now."

no you're not.

"Stop your kicking or we'll really
hurt you!"

kill me then.

"Your Dad is so angry."

all his life.

"I am worried about you."

so am i.

"I don't know what to do
to help you."

you did enough.

"Your poetry is so different."

oh no.

no it's not.

there. that has absolutely nothing to do with me. it's not a poem. an idea. and really, that's about as good as i can do right now.

the mean
the run-
the flat
and the
the way
of the
the center
of a
the platter
for a
and the
of disposal.

what is
when both
the very
what is
a bull
a matador

go down
to see up.

we all


next to you in the neigborhood
is a being that talks to you
about the weather and the
old dog.
about the flowers and the cross-
most likely the thing is female.
and i'll give her the name Ruby.

somewhere close in distance
is a blob of a misanthrope,
once an idealist, with all the
papers to prove
even eyes to look and plead.
bring me the generation
of choice
we all need some fish and

let's suppose that Ruby and the
blob meet.
the conversation won't be noted.
a hung jury, a report card with
one of a million times to say the
same thing.
"how are YOU?"
"i'm fine, and YOU?"

Ruby and the blob aren't fine.
the dogs and the temperature
are preparing to shoplift,
the cats have allergies to them-
selves. and the electricity
will be solar or nuclear or
a black-out will turn to riot.
everything lost isn't returned.

a fifty year marriage means
Ruby is going to die alone.
the blob has lyme disease or
halitosis or slurs. anything a leper
has will put it on the street.
in one case it's a box. or
the third time someone says
"I hope you find peace."
cyberspace for a stack of

one "friend" says i love you.
another says i care. this one
says he went to market. and
that one simply winks and notes,
the blob is weird.
the blob writes strange.
Ruby does the dishes singing
"Smoke Gets in Your Eyes."
Ruby spends her coupons
at the pharmacy.

you live on top of these things.
or down around the bend.
go to the job you never wanted,
go to the boss you can't look
at without
wishing you were Ruby and
checking in to rehab.
rehab is for quitting. keep that
losing and gaining along
with Social insecurity.

someone insinuates
i simply can't be the friend
you need.

Ruby and the blob.
Ruby and the blob.


Trumbo would laugh at this, wouldn't he Rob? Keep laughing, it's the only moments that we feel good. Well, sex and drugs are for quitting at some juncture. Laughing is for Ruby and the blob. No. They smile and don't laugh. But we know that, don't we?

pg-13 or rated R or X (maybe)

disregard the
love handle
bikini shave
dimples on
and always...

the turn
of the head,
the flip of a
pillow over
the orgasm
the toes
pointing or
the cry or
the moan
or breath.
bad, sour
and never...

push the
pull hair.

your head
on the

the first
is worth


just where do you get off? hmmm. gently. spot inconsequential. being forever consequential.

we all know the
battered-wife syndrome
and the hen-pecked husband.
and the time it takes before
"i love you too"
travels from a mountain
to the cottage.

switch the ride.
let the fish out of the
small bowl
into an aquarium
or it will perish.
stop flapping from
side to side.
stop swimming.
cease to be.

or choose to hear a
dirge, the band won't
strike a chord.
when all u can dance to
is the dirty dirge.
and don't spell mortgage
more gauge.
resist thinking the kitty
and the back porch
is the perfection of
why Frost is
a voucher.

get out of your computer
solitude. turned off
for being a liar and
no one ever is.
no one ever is.

unless all you want
is to discredit

one of the senses

we call


yeah................................the idea fell as the metaphor perished. leave all of creativity for beddie. teddy bears. simplicity. ironic, as there isn't a simple person around...

"dream pieces..."

a distended, extended Giant
named "Raggedy Anne"
is floating above me.
the youth desisting belief
not long enough,
before the wide smile
reveals the keen and honed


i wonder if someone put my
chin in a cutlery jig,
the bottom of the bone is
a thumb-run across the lazy
four a.m. patio places.
it's planar surface tells
me to think orally.
no sanctioned noise wills


always decapitated heads left
outside the window. squooshed
into dreadful beams and
dimunitive shapes, so as to
request closing drapes...
what a delight!
this happens after a jug of
alcohol takes me and All
to spilling chairs over.
just a jiffy and antipodal
memory suits me in shoes.


i wonder if the potato will
catch food poisoning. should
it, entering a tongue, bring about
a deadly abdominal wrench of
spasm. turning over to let the
gas leak suck me, positioning
for more than a candy bar.
squalid housing is nothing
to food poisoning.
both the same contagion, but
one shelters the blast of


all the characters are ready
to play
a scene. every monicker is
appearing to rankle my mass,
the substance of faith. the stuff
of Gods with dirty hands,
this role is for the antics of decisive
television clips. i am now King
of plyboard, and Queen of the
blindman's bluff.
prepared for maturity to


and the computer whispers.

whatever. maybe not that ending. blah. orwell lost out on this one, but he'll appear when he dusts himself...

Rob--divide the senses and make them seek different things, you Pan. jerk! deadbeat drunkard dumbass Pulitzer shithead. yeah, me too.
Drizz--bravo-A+ on last stanza in particular...lovely, more please. MORE.
SodaWaffle--who says you aren't a poet? bullshit. my personal favorites: .003, .005, .006 & .009 both have last lines to BOOM, also .007 repetition WORKS. and .013...leaves one wondering. You'd better find more or make more. i'm not even kidding. i know where you live. 

Much love to all. Keep them coming, as I am on a diet of Green Tea alone.

don't look at the following either==ha. seriously, don't even bother.


of course i am mesmerized by you
of course i love you
and that is why you must go.


there was a truck with an N.R.A.
membership sticker,
all the following obscene gestures,
some called bumper stickers:
"in God we Trust" plate on front.
"when the Rapture comes, this auto
will be vacant"
"Smile! Your Mom chose Life"
"The Marines"
"People 4 Eating Tasty Animals"
"I vote for gun rights"

not only was the man redundant,
but i wondered how many arms
Jesus would bring to the Rapture.
I thought "Rapture" was a song.


i missed out on a needed good-
bye before and i wouldn't do that
to you.
so it will be quick and painless.


the camouflage canopy was rolled
and tossed into the back,
the gun rack was mundane.
the confederate flag lynched my
and even though i'm an omnivore,
i respect the vegetarian.
so jesus likes your ammo,
and God loves your hunting tips.
there is a styrofoam cooler
smashed to the side
because i can tell you're into
the environment.
i love your truck and the way it
makes you feel when you
go deer-spotting.
drinking Pabst at 3 a.m. and
ready to shoot shoot shoot
a bunny would do.


mind you, i've never done this
it will be as hard on me as it is
on you.
don't be scared, because i love
don't be scared.


i had been given my dismissal
papers from my job,
i had one piece of red licorice
to eat, and i didn't even want it.
"so sorry to see you go, and hope
you get well."
and so your truck.
with Valvoline bottles in the back.
assorted cans of cleaners to
wax and make your Home
away from home.
as cool and corporate.
cool and corporate.
so i'm sorry i flicked my cig
into the back of your fucking
it took a half hour to hear sirens.
and when i looked out,
part of my body shook in terror.
part of my mouth smiled.

your whole statement
was up in flames.
and my new name was
no one knows, and even
it can't be tracked to me.
don't bother Mr. Honor.


please don't say anymore.
just close your eyes.
we already tried the pills and
it did not work.


lean back,
turn your head and give me
one last kiss.


there now.
doesn't it feel better that
your jugular has let go?
the look on your face
is scaring me.
so another kiss.
and another.
that's it honey,
slide down my legs easy.


so sorry we have to go.
but we have to go.
and you drew the straw,
and i got stoned.


now your eyes are closed.
now the gun can be put
in my mouth.

at last i am done with love.
so sorry that we loved like

#1 is not the same "person" as #2. i'm not even talking about going potty either. that's gross and horrifying.

Everybody dies
Frustrated and sad
And that is beautiful


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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #40 on: April 27, 2009, 09:17:39 PM »

I am completely blank, so this will be awful, but I am still going to give it a go...


it's around noon when the
world sits down.
tea or wafers, naps and
all of them with low-fat
because you are fat


it's around 9 p.m. when the
stores stop selling.
the employees sigh and
clean their station,
the worst job being the
the best job being,
that the managers watch
while someone lower
cleans, cleans
and gets one last soda.


every poet wants to feel
a combination platter from
a fast food place,
where a hamburger
all brown
is combined with letters.
in this case,
in the dryest month.
i'll say
b -r -o -w -n.
letters and colors swirled
into pixie sticks.


sometimes this neurological
illness seems
to make the high pitch in a
relate to lighter colors.
and i pray it isn't
b -r -o -w -n.
when it snatches on
to my delusions.


we all seem to have caught
the flu.
calling off working a
dishwasher's choice,
brunch tubs.
b -r -o -w -n.
let us
nap and notice those
round areas are starting
to get jet lag.


you've been around
sleep walkers.
a stabbing or bludgeon
of the wife,
even driving to work and
working the register
in pj's.
not at noon, and not at
9 pm.
but something is off on
the daily planner.
b -r -o -w -n.


we all have cryptomnesia,
what is named
a "concealed recollection"--
the subconscious
of a dog
knows when it's dinner.
begs to go take a piss.
and the subconscious
isn't the only


it's just the best acquittal
for remembering
what was forgotten.
like how the cat goes
into the box
and claws the sides.
same time
snacking and dinner.
it thinks in terms
of cleaning its station.
becoming a manager.
hitting the snooze for


i have synesthesia
because i've worked hard
on spelling
b -r -o -w -n.
and the color also means
the letters
s-h-i-z-c-b. why is irrelevant.
i'm washing and
clearing out the house,
which is my permanent
work station.
taking a nap at the
accurate sound.
a tone for the big
keel over.

making regrettable
remarks to my doppelganger.
i saw Mr. B-R-O-W-N
and told him I am switching
letters to numbers,
so retire on an island because
you mean 47689. and a light
shade of chartruese,

they say it's an omen
of death to see
your own
"evil twin"
but i don't believe in playing
when it's noon time.
and closing

i'll figure this one out later. those two terms i used are real terms, one is a real disease, the other ...look up Jung and Freud (even) and see what a "concealed recollection" is. not quite the same as a repressed memory, but close. i'll fix it later. just had to get a mash of ideas out at once, as I couldn't choose one to go on...i'll keep cleaning my work area. i also have a shitload of pm's to write.

thank goodness i don't have anything to lose!

all i can say to that is turdball. sarcastic turdball. here i am, encouraging SodaWaffle, (who has obvious abilities whereas you don't) and you are being a turdball. oh, i didn't mean that. i luvs ya. here. emoticon. 


i was the apple of
your eye.
now your eye reverses
further in.

i was a dream
full of wishes.
your older brother
a tough and serious
dry, laughing

that was 18 years ago.
now you sigh
when i ask you

you sigh all the time.
and i think
truth be told.
i'm the discovery
that even an apple
can turn into

and that juice
makes you worry
and you drink it
wishing i would
move on.
grow up threw my
and childishness.

but i will not.
and you hate poetry.

and i hate your
dinosaur collection.

and we have nothing
to talk about anymore.

except your diet.
my diet.
and one chuckle

just one to remember
what i was--
where you were in
your thirties.
where i am now,
always ignored.

and how you hate me

just as you now hate
your older brother

and there has never
been a god damn thing
either of us could do.

but lose
each other


i should tell you
one last thing.
you were an
source of strength

we have dwindled.
you are not to blame.
but these endless

are why i am letting go
of believing in
any one.
ever again.

so overly dramatic
you'd puke
if you saw this.

you'd lie and say
i was one of the
best things
ever happened.

and we both need
to stop lying like

because your patience
is gone.
and i stand mute
and moot
outside of
what you will
never read.

you hate poetry.
and i hated playing
chess with you.

we should have known
softball would not
be enough
for a lifetime.

sarcastic dependencies
or not.
you being my God.
me being your God.

there is no God.
so why do you want that.
why do you say you
don't fear death.

but you do
you do
you do.
and if you read
what i don't even put

oh, that idiot.
taking it all for granted...
but it's not that.
it's the juice spilling
down your shirt.

you have squashed
your pessimism edges
deeper into running
for Life.

is starting to hate


okay, quite simple. too simple. too melodramatic. but, as always. there it is...surely the everyone, anything any one bullshit needs to go at the very least. one can't address family members as easily as they least not initially.

in humble honor of two extraordinary people.
"better, better not see. better, better, better not tell." <eh? Amanda
and hadouken regards as well... 

don't expect Shakespeare on this one? give it my best for now...

first one maybe:
don't say anything!
especially to ...

(we played behind a
bush. what's yours
look like? not like
me) natural.
never said.

but for the lesbian.
never to be revealed.
crushed on top of a
tin lunch box,
stupor while announcement.
"A" is for apple.

moves. peers on top
of King of the Mountain.
on the head of a ballpoint
#2 pencil.
eating by yourself at lunch.
a tornado took. glances
and giggles. your name
is a bomb to diffuse,
barter with for pot later.
an explosion, a tremble,
and a stutter.
sitting in the back of a
bullies poking fun.
your hair ripping down
a cliff like a frog's tongue.
not caring for a shower.

run away.
caught at the door.
where do you think you're
Out. wish i was a bird.
a rock or fungus even.

discontinue turning in
papers about the gross
national product.
seeing visions while
beatings. verbal.
sexual. physical.
so common dear child.

animosity is a four-letter
word you can use the
rest of your
exposed and bitter

won't be the same
when you cultivate into
something other
than flesh.
save up for a canvass
and a song...
blooming happens whether
you want it.
birds speak in titters,
and they call you.

run again.

pretend the Universe
is wrapped in toothpaste.
hope the World sees a drop
of your water.
bite into chocolate wrappers
and snort tar.
dodge, duck, and evade
the Master

school and family
tied in a 69 position and
there is no room for
a bedroom here.
pull out your drawer.
that is where you are.

tap into cyberspace.
that is where i am.
evade the walking dead,
the zombie
dispense. the bottle rocks
and fills looming mouths.
but not the free age.
look over at the river.
it calls you.
but don't dial the number.
enjoy flow and blow
a huge bubble,
smacking her and him
right under the chin.

find me.
find me.
i am child.
adult formula.

and i don't believe
in the number
will defend the love
for hate,
while it fumbles through
a pickle jar.
rejuvinates for air.

finding any number
outside a bedroom
where 69
is a fucking trap.

we'll meet.
open your drawer.


as always, not what i wanted. but you know who i love, if you're reading this. and if you don't know who i love, you haven't asked me, have you?

Daphne jokes with me. Pervert. and quickies happen, but Cupid strolls in with a google (not the site, but the "sight") of arrows, making us all.
Love ----ly. What he offers almost makes me flush. My skin textured not the way it is usually noticed, but flushing was in my ancient body. (how i doth miss the orgasm, but the orgasm misses me as well)


she thought.
i can see you digging
far up that nose,
so far up that I
could actually be in
awe inspecting
the ramifications of
the passage.
or puke.

reaching down to
the passenger floor,
searching out the tissue
it moves away.
her hand moves closer.
it moves away.
her hand moves closer.
it moves away.

and she wrecks.

she thinks.
that's the end
of that appointment.

where's the insurance
driver's license


i'm going to find
the tissues
and pick my nose
as this dickwad
at my window.

only the man at the
is saying words i dare
never say.
like fucker,
for instance.

----sorry folks, i'm deprived of sleep again. so standard, it makes "my man" look like it's new. (and i like a lot of "standards" but insomnia is...what?

Everybody dies
Frustrated and sad
And that is beautiful
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