Trails painted red.
Trolls collecting the wrong fees
for dollhouses never built for the wrong sexes.
Liars lie where wisdom ought to breed.
Children bathe in too many shades of juice to digest.
This is a circus, I feel I’m in a circus.
Wherefore art thou?
Yes yes YES.
Phantom messes lodge in my seat.
Please please purchase me out of this life,
away from rainbow flakes of gravity.
So much expressiveness in toes
So much pain in the world, in people,
such a huge need for love exists.
Changeling stress won’t utter the words
you want to hear.
For in its furry body,
only farthings can get
the newfound dribblings of self
Imagining self stains my goggles
with a pillowcase sodden by night,
a chance completed by sleep
and left seeping out
in a prattle of bygone.
a fully satiating self
sits at desk, so still.
With the discipline of Titus,
she surges into herself
by finally giving the world
its reason to beg for more.
Rub your beak in charcoal and see
the darling pea that yearns for a pod
nearing beanful engulfment without respite.
You’re a midget?
Well, you’re tax-deductible.
You heard me!
You’re so short
you don’t even have to pay!
Pleasing the likeliest of crowds
hardly seems a feat of great mercy,
yet it still happens constantly and consistently.
Doesn’t matter who stops it, tries to, or doesn’t listen at all.
This particular scrim still outlines your tides of life,
waving you up and around me.
Moon forces up the liquid love around us,
eternally, yet only now so tangible.
What is, what was.
There are so many ways to go about it.
This trifling, meddling carnage
which could be dizzying.
But lo and beheld, it tries not-
to be fortuitous and so newfangled.
Ironically never terse enough.
Pile on the zygotes!
Just high enough to tempt the tempter,
to bludgeon the mindstuff.
Flippancy will not delight
where toppling over preconceived jokers might.
Chipotle mediation for kind hearted, restless fools
in meetings of clowns and miscreants.
Please do not dismiss my fitness like that.
Secularities strike me peculiar!
“If nostalgia is a country, tango is the capitol.”
Splash out the unadulterated bliss!
Until there is little left to understand.
Only the last left sage branches,
spriggets slid through teeth.
Pulled off tiny leafy by tiny stem,
leaving behind bare-armed twig bodies
littering leafless floors,
The changeless martyrs of forest time.
Encrypt a poem
for the sake of the poem,
Photograph by Jill Freedman
from “Circus Days” (1971)
poem III of The Chelsea Chronicles
Petulant epigraphs sign themselves away to hell,
to devil’s not of their making.
Easing down into the graves of gradient yesteryears,
they shout: “Define me!”
Chance fling gives way to flight,
the nuclear smile’s conduit to sight.
And the cannon hurdles herself
up against the wall. Again.
Fish sleep in her underwear,
doubting the waterlogging of their reality.
What perfects her sight shall not be lackluster nor salty.
Those furtive chops she’s got whisper to her
about closets and doors and crows-
in there, where love is kept.
Swinging with bats and fans of you.
Smooth and protected early selves,
a spliff to the right, errant or not.
Bebop greats swim with great dreams.
And the shelf.
As the cream on the cup is, most accurately, the jazz you always feared. Whatever is next, whatever is next is not what it was. Is is is; was was, was. Not nothing, yet certainly not much of anything.
Futility will not give way to fear, except that the phenomenal might force its way out from itself and into whatever dynamism it is that keeps it kicking, that lets it linger on getting somewhere, that that that.
And the edge of sanity still daunts us, me and my laptop, for sanity itself, too much to actually tempt me, eat me, mutilate. Me. If this is one of the first novels you are reading, that should should should be your doom, or else a parent of yours, depending of course on taste and regimen.
Don’t hold onto the feeling too long; it’ll wire you up to yourself, to the obsessive and disgusting slabs better left as fat. And forgotten (obviously). It’s almost like we’re getting somewhere once again, but not. We’re not. Don’t get all frothy already, it’s not attractive. Not very, but you could fix her up by stuffing a cork in it. If you could. If you would.
My smile wears on, a moment too far past the announcement that Bush was arguably, attemptably thrown a grenade at. Still the pleased, if small, chortle hung over into a statement of small child murder. And the eventual announcement of the children’s father as suspect, and who would believe it?? He, who once chased, he did chase a neighbor with a loaded chainsaw, et cetera. And all in Texas, who would think? A sweet sweet state. The presidential appliqué.
A ludicrous contraction of absolute infinite lovemaking need
teethes at bloody trying pulsations, but man towers over sweaty biceps.
Thirst, rip, crazy black void tangles gossamer training bars, lots of purty tall legs,
gophers miss night getting perfect abyss, frogs let alley plights fall amiss.
Balls billow sheets, women grate the following purchases of beans to protect, borrow, get.
Willows graduate from the netherlands sailing patch, with a sallow french giggle,
not a bit guinea pretext. A frothy purple bowl’s rounding edge and a scruffy, taut flint
crinkle and flex flaxseed grit. Gaunt follows preaching parted parties and ruffles sanguine riddle flicks.
M nails the lip lick. Sorry, preening bunnyrabbits truce.
Maps riding notebooks eyeball flip quits the pillow candlestick, chance bliss at, over, when he
with great golden lock, the collateral phenomenal cook of glassy chops. Little to stem lid pot,
potato recipe for tree gut ivy formula forgotten. Priceless trees we let wreck our fortunes
without flagellation. Holes give others meat berms and snickering nightmares
of flies in teacups battling
bunches of lip griddle, knock pickles.
Tumultuous tar pits ease themselves
into the disguise formerly known as “your anus.”
Do not tempt me; I will go there.
You’re so old that you’ve still got
the hard taco on the outside.
Just wear your diaphragm and a helmet;
your prominent jugular won’t get in the way, I promise.
An Indian nugget has deposited itself
into my overnight bag.
This is the last thing I need,
another pesky Hindu barging
its way into my consciousness.
Popsicle dreams never disappoint me.
I am a muse in disguise.
A bed of nails will do me just fine;
ascension will be my ultimate tribute.
Human beings are such cowards!
You may scoff at me. You may.
But others will not.
The natural order will reveal itself-
as not existing.
Do not please me, I refuse to be pleased.
It is not within my scope to accept mercury.
The last time we do it
will be just as the first, a medieval paradise.
Give me nuts and seeds;
let my vegetation do its glory.
Rate of Change = Rate of Loving
Do you see this?
Do you see me?
Do you love me?
Homemade juxtaposition sauce
with sizzling sirloin lizards
on a side of soft shell spankings.
Roast prime devil, venous green salad,
subdural hem-sho; beatnik don’t know.
Meet you in your room at half past
pluming pummels. Plum-laced perfect!
Screeching Beatniks tumble from the sky
as tornadoed follicles shoot upward,
strangling pouty goose flyers.
No remorse please . . .
the wings are only to be snapped
off for swanky face fans, in any case.
Those wings once snipped and then dipped,
dipped in the Orient, purely were,
purely they were sprouted and fated to be
(to this diabolical and fancy-free embellishment),
the establishment, really, of bourgeois love.