4:34 PM - 7/20/2006 - comments {0} - post comment

Breach

I pull my underwear out of a bag. In fact, all I have are bags and boxes

filled with lid and jars - yogurt cups, bottle caps, coffee cans -

filled with pencils and paper clippings; all the dolor of tinkering.

Perhaps that was Roethke and nothing at all alike because, of course, this is not all:

Somewhere there is a bag, maybe a box, full of old underwear.

Summa cum laude via Literature: I know nothing of Shakespeare. Nothing.

Instead I spend hours with the dead who refuse to think after they think and speak.

I steal entirely from these everyday geniuses; those who are unable to hear

their words, words, words: I do nothing but steal. At cliffs and dams, I stalk friends

after they have died; I say I am coming, but the more I pull the trigger,

the more I come alive. Still, it all comes out as word, swor, dswords…

(these are my words, words, words).

I smoke and go (or don’t) and I never sleep in a bed. I check for cancer daily;

the tumors have formed to the shape of my hand. I sleep if it’s convenient

and I pee nicotine while I rehearse telling my family I have developed an old disease:

I’ve practiced this with my preference for the wrong sex and I don’t know who the hell made it this way either, but when I stand naked in the mirror documenting moles,

I end up dancing like the Happy Genius that I am.

I have only ever hated one person. Maybe more. I do not let God know this.

During class (I often dream of a boxing match: e.e. cummings sings

sweet obscenities from the stands and long dead relatives pass out poisoned peanuts

to my opponent’s fans. In the end, her fans are dead. I resuscitate them all.

She doesn’t give a damn) I am always praying.

4:33 PM - 7/20/2006 - comments {0} - post comment

obligatory best friend/death poem #153

obligatory best friend/death poem #153

I hope that when you die, they shred what’s left of your throat with menthol turpentine;

and in the strips of your esophagus they find a billion bullets bleeding and slipping

down the slopes of bad stories and strange secrets, and the scars from a heinous laugh.

And I hope that when I die, I smell so bad they need a mask and cut from a distance;

and in the core of my cockles they find a vial of shit and a cummings and Stein casserole oozing with repetition and parentheses, and the thrill in never knowing how to read.

I hope that when we’re both dead, nobody says it’s a shame because it’s probably a sham;

and maybe you’re off finger painting with your vomit and I’m playing tricks on my soul

or maybe we’re both off somewhere being dead and shitting in mouths as they sleep.

4:31 PM - 7/20/2006 - comments {0} - post comment

letter 87 to the psychiatrist

letter 87 to the psychiatrist

dear marty, it’s windy and 3:02 PM april. i’m kicking away the pomeranians

& chihuahuas under this table stabbed by an umbrella, but i’m not kicking them hard;

my inner skunk is not acting up today. kat the brave can’t light her cigarette

and billy breakup slices his throat with his finger and then, sometimes, points at me.

that’s when i kick these dogs hard. earlier reni cried “buddha, show me your titties!”

and then fell into a coma. i’m pretty miserable only because i like “miserable.”

actually, i want to die and come back as a word. marty, it’s all: tick tick tick tick ding! Dead!

4:30 PM - 7/20/2006 - comments {0} - post comment

hell

hell

if i go to heaven

as a soul, then i hope

my goddamn soul hates fish.

if i don’t go to heaven,

there won’t be any problem.

soul, please don’t make me smoke

pot; i hate the taste and

smell: big shitty autumns.

but i do like absinthe;

i hope they sell it there.

and if jesus did shit

with wine, i hope that shit

ran dry: gutter water.

i don’t care how much it costs,

it tastes like piss and rust.

and if i go to hell,

oprah better not die:

i don’t want to meet her.

unfortunately oprah

is everywhere: this is hell.

4:29 PM - 7/20/2006 - comments {2} - post comment

This is about a Sunset

This is about a Sunset

It’s not usually until around dusk

that I consider sitting on the couch,

but I’ve learned that the sitting

won’t last long because I always

look out the window towards Wilcox

and the sun, that bitch, stabs me in the eyes.

4:29 PM - 7/20/2006 - comments {0} - post comment

Fucko

Fucko

Gigantic fuckos sit in front of my television and talk

about who’s fucking who and who’s not getting fucked.

Gail comes into my room and asks why there is a knife

stabbed through my painting. “Because it looks good

and I was out of nails.” She then tells me about some awful book

Oprah is forcing on the world and I say, “Get out of my house.”

4:28 PM - 7/20/2006 - comments {0} - post comment

This One Dives Into the Deep Pits of My Soul

This One Dives Into the Deep Pits of My Soul

It used to be that I’d rather swallow deer antlers

than hang out with my friends while I’m sober;

this is mostly because they are always drunk

and about as coherent as drowning children,

but now instead of wanting to throw cats at them,

I sometimes almost cry because I know I’m leaving

and I’m going to lose all my best drinking buddies.

4:26 PM - 7/20/2006 - comments {0} - post comment

How I saw the World during Lecture with Dizard: A Merger of Presumptions of Wallace Stevens and the History of Black American Literature

How I saw the World during Lecture with Dizard: A Merger of Presumptions of Wallace Stevens and the History of Black American Literature

Spider ate moth

that sat on plant

used for healing.

Little boy whispered:

My books speak to me

and no one else.

Spider ate him, too.

4:25 PM - 7/20/2006 - comments {0} - post comment

interdisciplinary studies make me hard

interdisciplinary studies make me hard

if i were to kill and get caught,

my defense would be deconstruction.

so when you, sir, try to convict me,

i will have to explain, nay fucker! that act

was committed in a world that is impossible

to convey through language; i am innocent

and guilty and neither, and the god of god,

a torpedo swooping down a fallopian tube,

and santa claus all at the same (non)time.

i am suspended in indeterminable schmernable:

la di da la fucking derrida.

4:24 PM - 7/20/2006 - comments {0} - post comment

stop staring at my karma

stop staring at my karma

perhaps there was

more to life than making warm toilet seats

and rags out of old underwear

or maybe its been a papier mache death

all along, and now, nobody can die:

weve all been fucked.

so when i say im sorry for ruining your icon reel,

just know, id do it again, for free: the cost

is lifing and deading forever: neverywhere forever,

only you and all yous

in numbers

that cant even be counted, you do know that

not everything

can be accounted for:

the babble of good news.

4:23 PM - 7/20/2006 - comments {0} - post comment