the electricity of ecstasy
electrocuting her to death
kills
resuscitating
then
resurrecting her
like a brief
eternity
of white-hot blindness
She is deaf
not from
her screams
for she isn’t listening
she hears only the silence
of all noise
that ever was
and
every
lust
that will
begin
in
darkness.
Fucked in half,
as if the center of her body
was the center of her soul
the epicenter of the whole,
revolved around
by all the
planets
and
spasms of
every waking
atom,
she lives.
I was there for the hushed violence
of thermodynamics,
the cosmic orgasm of novas,
the astral orgy of randomly assorted elements,
the universal loneliness of corpuscles eternally expelled,
and the divine comeuppance of gravity.
:
We are the stretching placenta
of space
which never grows
and thus
no distance
can separate us
Friday, December 21, 2007
From sophism to sexism to socket wrenches
Convenience,
I tell her
at the risk of sounding violently blasphemous,
is the father of decay
and the son of invention.
Yes
she says
and
Necessity may be the mother of invention
but necessity is the daughter of a nagging wife
And all is philosophy
until
it becomes
technology
I
say
yes
and technology
is man’s way of
discovering the computer
in all things
yes
and the clock
and the engine
…..and…the mind?
Yea,
she goes,
it seems
we will
have to
discover God
by inventing Her
I tell her
at the risk of sounding violently blasphemous,
is the father of decay
and the son of invention.
Yes
she says
and
Necessity may be the mother of invention
but necessity is the daughter of a nagging wife
And all is philosophy
until
it becomes
technology
I
say
yes
and technology
is man’s way of
discovering the computer
in all things
yes
and the clock
and the engine
…..and…the mind?
Yea,
she goes,
it seems
we will
have to
discover God
by inventing Her
You Are The Most Beautiful Woman in the World
[dedicated to poor translations of Spanish Love Poems; and…oh yea, to all the women past, live, and yet; and for all the men who idolize them in secret.]
You make me dizzy.
Of course the rules say
I cannot say this.
I become tongue-tied,
lopsided, and when I see you,
slapped by a dozen or so chemicals,
glucose spikes, the flush of endorphins,
crashes of serotonin:
my knees give.
Yes, proper etiquette and
a happy state of affairs
condemn me.
God forbid I tell you
you are the most beautiful woman
I’ve seen in this world.
I’d be lame,
or, if not a liar outright,
plain crazy.
All of this and to top it off, make both of us uncomfortable.
I will not be called crazy though:
since no one believes me.
No one has.
When I ask
they tell me
my confession
makes me
an asshole,
and if I’m right,
many assholes
have beat me
there
Maybe the others
have meant it too
I say
or maybe the world’s blind
and I can legitimately curse her for telling me
I’m not allowed to call you beautiful
I can think the world
is an ugly place,
but there beauty goes,
a walking contradiction to my lie.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world and so the world cannot be ugly---even if somehow it is more acceptable to call the world ugly than you beautiful.”
but the world forgives me
for calling her ugly.
She has even made some of us heroes for it.
but you blush
and walk away
with a smile
and I never see you again
You make me dizzy.
Of course the rules say
I cannot say this.
I become tongue-tied,
lopsided, and when I see you,
slapped by a dozen or so chemicals,
glucose spikes, the flush of endorphins,
crashes of serotonin:
my knees give.
Yes, proper etiquette and
a happy state of affairs
condemn me.
God forbid I tell you
you are the most beautiful woman
I’ve seen in this world.
I’d be lame,
or, if not a liar outright,
plain crazy.
All of this and to top it off, make both of us uncomfortable.
I will not be called crazy though:
since no one believes me.
No one has.
When I ask
they tell me
my confession
makes me
an asshole,
and if I’m right,
many assholes
have beat me
there
Maybe the others
have meant it too
I say
or maybe the world’s blind
and I can legitimately curse her for telling me
I’m not allowed to call you beautiful
I can think the world
is an ugly place,
but there beauty goes,
a walking contradiction to my lie.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world and so the world cannot be ugly---even if somehow it is more acceptable to call the world ugly than you beautiful.”
but the world forgives me
for calling her ugly.
She has even made some of us heroes for it.
but you blush
and walk away
with a smile
and I never see you again
Failed Genius
'Are you a lawyer?'
the giant at the bar asks.
'No,' answers my dinner jacket and my notebook I clutch like lost dreams,
'I am a Liar.'
' A cocksucker' he adds.
Then offers to buy me a beer, then disappears.
The disappearing giant.
Full of fat, muscle, and dumb.
He had hair like Idaho
and can not stop beseeching the big tits for a barkeep.
But that lummox
of a genius disappeared.
He disappeared.
Disappeared!
--like virginity or
the happy loner back to the paradise of not being observed.
and the hell of no more beer
the giant at the bar asks.
'No,' answers my dinner jacket and my notebook I clutch like lost dreams,
'I am a Liar.'
' A cocksucker' he adds.
Then offers to buy me a beer, then disappears.
The disappearing giant.
Full of fat, muscle, and dumb.
He had hair like Idaho
and can not stop beseeching the big tits for a barkeep.
But that lummox
of a genius disappeared.
He disappeared.
Disappeared!
--like virginity or
the happy loner back to the paradise of not being observed.
and the hell of no more beer
Quitting smoke
of late
my words
are ugly and violent
from when I went from two packs a day
to cold cold turkey,
my brain went on strike,
and out went all thought
and any venturing
past the picket line's been
harshly blackballed
by sharply rising adrenaline.
Parts of myself that
still cling to serenity
have been muscled out
by the last cramps of sweet addiction.
How can the calmest water resist the slightest pebble?
It cannot.
But how can the rowdiest ripple defy tranquility?
My wife,
who calls me her dainty princess,
said that if I smoked just one a day,
that I would make
a very fine gangster.
my words
are ugly and violent
from when I went from two packs a day
to cold cold turkey,
my brain went on strike,
and out went all thought
and any venturing
past the picket line's been
harshly blackballed
by sharply rising adrenaline.
Parts of myself that
still cling to serenity
have been muscled out
by the last cramps of sweet addiction.
How can the calmest water resist the slightest pebble?
It cannot.
But how can the rowdiest ripple defy tranquility?
My wife,
who calls me her dainty princess,
said that if I smoked just one a day,
that I would make
a very fine gangster.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
My Lowest
My lowest moment
I had walked out on my jewelry factory job,
went to a neighbor's house,
knowing he had pot and booze,
and drank his whiskey and smoked his pot.
The next morning
I was taking a soupy whiskey shit
and had to throw up
and I got up
shit on myself,
threw up blood,
and splashed shit
all over my face
Yea, I'd say its time to move on brother.
I had walked out on my jewelry factory job,
went to a neighbor's house,
knowing he had pot and booze,
and drank his whiskey and smoked his pot.
The next morning
I was taking a soupy whiskey shit
and had to throw up
and I got up
shit on myself,
threw up blood,
and splashed shit
all over my face
Yea, I'd say its time to move on brother.
The Dog Artist
the dog artist
starved a dog
as a work of
art
and it wilted
and died
and he was asked
to leave
the art show
then they threatened
him
they showed him their inhumanity
they are more violent
their women are even skinnier, more anorexic.
the consciousness of the dog
is the consciousness of all things
and even this defies the dead
Galvani rammed rods
in the
frogs legs
and when they
twitched
he said
Look there is the force of life
but it was electricity
Volta came along
and said
No, not life
but of anything
and then built
a pile
and made
a battery
but consciousness is electricity
we are still in the Galvanic age of the mind
Pre-Copernican consciousness
but what does it matter what I believe
Now back to the artist
and the righteous threats
they take pride in
not seeing beauty
in ugly things.
They are proud
because they can see the ugliness
and only the ugliness,
and those who see only beauty are condemned.
This my dear artist is art and the life of a genius
he let a dog die
but they want to kill him.
This is their art, their murder.
That dog had a sense of smell
hundreds of times keener
yet it could dip it's head
in its own urine and feces without flinching.
That is what human grey matter is for,
to be disgusted,
to hate what it does not know or understand.
A monkey, however, is capable of many sins,
but not this hypocrisy.
Because even a monkey won’t want to kill a monkey
over a dog.
starved a dog
as a work of
art
and it wilted
and died
and he was asked
to leave
the art show
then they threatened
him
they showed him their inhumanity
they are more violent
their women are even skinnier, more anorexic.
the consciousness of the dog
is the consciousness of all things
and even this defies the dead
Galvani rammed rods
in the
frogs legs
and when they
twitched
he said
Look there is the force of life
but it was electricity
Volta came along
and said
No, not life
but of anything
and then built
a pile
and made
a battery
but consciousness is electricity
we are still in the Galvanic age of the mind
Pre-Copernican consciousness
but what does it matter what I believe
Now back to the artist
and the righteous threats
they take pride in
not seeing beauty
in ugly things.
They are proud
because they can see the ugliness
and only the ugliness,
and those who see only beauty are condemned.
This my dear artist is art and the life of a genius
he let a dog die
but they want to kill him.
This is their art, their murder.
That dog had a sense of smell
hundreds of times keener
yet it could dip it's head
in its own urine and feces without flinching.
That is what human grey matter is for,
to be disgusted,
to hate what it does not know or understand.
A monkey, however, is capable of many sins,
but not this hypocrisy.
Because even a monkey won’t want to kill a monkey
over a dog.
Lip Service
I used to be a drunk
but I
left
my social days behind.
I have always been a writer.
This would mean
I am generally an unsavory
and glum fellow,
better appreciated at a distance and preferably dead
but I
left
my social days behind.
I have always been a writer.
This would mean
I am generally an unsavory
and glum fellow,
better appreciated at a distance and preferably dead
Me & Maya Angelou
Fate all day long.
I push start
my
thirty year
old truck
and drive
straight to
a place
I don’t know
where.
that morning:
the radio
murmured
somewhere
between my
dream and
me
‘the poet Maya Angelou is coming to town, tonight’
which I thought was months ago
the lecture cancelled
and now she comes
so I’m kicking
my fliver out of
gear
at the top
of hills
soaring down
Highway 360
downhill
to the
river
because I will run out of gas
the solid
wood desk
in the back
gets
boogered
up
sick.
sliding side to side
grating along the legs
suddenly I
swerve left
into a church
by the
river
somehow on time
I am drunk as usual
and wearing a pressed suite with my kufi
looking as ridiculous as fine wine
with hair I hadn’t washed in a week
and smelling like a carton of used smokes
the door
lady was
old and
the church was
the biggest in
town
I just walk
right thru
because Link doesn’t pay for anything
[movies, concerts, university lectures etc…]
I just walk right in.
I am a ways
into the balcony
and someone stops me.
“Sir…do you have your ticket”
I just look
them square
and start for
the door
In the
foyer
I decide
to sneak in the
other door.
the door lady,
a little older,
stops me.
How much for a stub?
75 bones I don’t have
Lucky day
she says
I don’t know
who you have
to thank for this
but someone bought you
a ticket
I am on the
second row
front and center
eyelevel
with Maya
she comes
out and lights the room
as if it was dark
and soothes out
one funny
story after
another
I am not laughing
and looking me
dead
in the eye
she says
“I don’t trust a man who doesn’t smile. Never trust a naked man who wants to loan you his clothes.”
And I tried
but even
Maya
doesn’t like
me too
like pretentious self-loathing
the free bird don’t sing
she says
a bunch of
other shit
too wise
for me
overvascularized
tainted with
a lackluster
gospel
outro
it starts to rain on the way
home
ruining
the desk
just before
I run
out of
gas
I push start
my
thirty year
old truck
and drive
straight to
a place
I don’t know
where.
that morning:
the radio
murmured
somewhere
between my
dream and
me
‘the poet Maya Angelou is coming to town, tonight’
which I thought was months ago
the lecture cancelled
and now she comes
so I’m kicking
my fliver out of
gear
at the top
of hills
soaring down
Highway 360
downhill
to the
river
because I will run out of gas
the solid
wood desk
in the back
gets
boogered
up
sick.
sliding side to side
grating along the legs
suddenly I
swerve left
into a church
by the
river
somehow on time
I am drunk as usual
and wearing a pressed suite with my kufi
looking as ridiculous as fine wine
with hair I hadn’t washed in a week
and smelling like a carton of used smokes
the door
lady was
old and
the church was
the biggest in
town
I just walk
right thru
because Link doesn’t pay for anything
[movies, concerts, university lectures etc…]
I just walk right in.
I am a ways
into the balcony
and someone stops me.
“Sir…do you have your ticket”
I just look
them square
and start for
the door
In the
foyer
I decide
to sneak in the
other door.
the door lady,
a little older,
stops me.
How much for a stub?
75 bones I don’t have
Lucky day
she says
I don’t know
who you have
to thank for this
but someone bought you
a ticket
I am on the
second row
front and center
eyelevel
with Maya
she comes
out and lights the room
as if it was dark
and soothes out
one funny
story after
another
I am not laughing
and looking me
dead
in the eye
she says
“I don’t trust a man who doesn’t smile. Never trust a naked man who wants to loan you his clothes.”
And I tried
but even
Maya
doesn’t like
me too
like pretentious self-loathing
the free bird don’t sing
she says
a bunch of
other shit
too wise
for me
overvascularized
tainted with
a lackluster
gospel
outro
it starts to rain on the way
home
ruining
the desk
just before
I run
out of
gas
Prenatal Stew
She went to
the toilet
while I reheated
supper
and came into the
kitchen
smelling like
stew
“I threw up the stew.”
“OK.”
“Next time you shit put the paper towels in the can. The shitter can swallow’em. We need..”
“Anything else?”
“Could you come and see why it’s blood red.”
“The raspberry juice…”
“Agh, the raspberry juice…”
“Anything else?”
“Yea, don’t forget to give thanks for the food…”
the toilet
while I reheated
supper
and came into the
kitchen
smelling like
stew
“I threw up the stew.”
“OK.”
“Next time you shit put the paper towels in the can. The shitter can swallow’em. We need..”
“Anything else?”
“Could you come and see why it’s blood red.”
“The raspberry juice…”
“Agh, the raspberry juice…”
“Anything else?”
“Yea, don’t forget to give thanks for the food…”
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
the phd
The Phd
No amount
of education
enhances
creativity.
When I was your age I
produced matheorems
I ‘d had had not
a lick of higher training for.
At this stage
you are at your intellectual
peak and all goes to shit from here.
Maybe you should move,
but remember that educated people
need educated people:
the creative need no one
even though it is likely they adore everyone,
despite probably
only being able to tolerate
the conversation of lunatics and old Jewish ladies.
Also
remember that a lot of the people
who you look down on
are more
creative than thou,
and that this creativity is the essential thing,
the only thing people may remember you by.
As for your desire,
the next generation of position-seekers
and money-grubbers will inherit your position and money.
nothing more loathsome
to a true artist or scientist than a vapid highbrow
with nothing to show but the stretch marks of education and maybe a pay stub.
I will take a happy idiot
or an ignorant genius
over the merely well instructed,
together with their ho-hum orthodoxy
of avid hubris and impotent negativity towards humanity.
And you didn’t want to be friends?
You have enough love and knowledge already, do you?
You may leave the door open behind you.
No amount
of education
enhances
creativity.
When I was your age I
produced matheorems
I ‘d had had not
a lick of higher training for.
At this stage
you are at your intellectual
peak and all goes to shit from here.
Maybe you should move,
but remember that educated people
need educated people:
the creative need no one
even though it is likely they adore everyone,
despite probably
only being able to tolerate
the conversation of lunatics and old Jewish ladies.
Also
remember that a lot of the people
who you look down on
are more
creative than thou,
and that this creativity is the essential thing,
the only thing people may remember you by.
As for your desire,
the next generation of position-seekers
and money-grubbers will inherit your position and money.
nothing more loathsome
to a true artist or scientist than a vapid highbrow
with nothing to show but the stretch marks of education and maybe a pay stub.
I will take a happy idiot
or an ignorant genius
over the merely well instructed,
together with their ho-hum orthodoxy
of avid hubris and impotent negativity towards humanity.
And you didn’t want to be friends?
You have enough love and knowledge already, do you?
You may leave the door open behind you.
Probaganda
You young kids don’t add in your heads anymore
she says
I was looking
at
a safe and lock manual
I
planned on stealing.
What is your birthday if you don’t mind me asking
its nov 3 1932
you
were
born on
a monday
no, child, on a tuesday
well
at least
i
knew i
had
1 in 7
she says
I was looking
at
a safe and lock manual
I
planned on stealing.
What is your birthday if you don’t mind me asking
its nov 3 1932
you
were
born on
a monday
no, child, on a tuesday
well
at least
i
knew i
had
1 in 7
Plagiarism
the bitch
nabbed
my bag
with
triptych
in the
side
saddle
she's not
a purse snatcher
but a plagiarist
the only compliment
better
than being accused
of plagiarism
is
to be
plagarised
at least
this
divine
Sibyl
should shred
the words
lettin'em
fall where they may
statistically
50%
are predictable
so then what
is the unit
of plagiarism?
strings of
improbablities
of yea length
hook phrases
refurbished
after the fashion
of
Pascal.
nabbed
my bag
with
triptych
in the
side
saddle
she's not
a purse snatcher
but a plagiarist
the only compliment
better
than being accused
of plagiarism
is
to be
plagarised
at least
this
divine
Sibyl
should shred
the words
lettin'em
fall where they may
statistically
50%
are predictable
so then what
is the unit
of plagiarism?
strings of
improbablities
of yea length
hook phrases
refurbished
after the fashion
of
Pascal.
1,2,3
1,2,3
do you spare a $ for crack
naw i’ll buy you a beer for a smoke
i’ll spare you II
i haven’t puffed in 3 months
what’s it gonna hurt?
what’s it gonna hurt?
the crack heads are the only people who carry cash anymore
tell me about it
i’m no crack head you know
i know a gag
on january 31st i lost my girl
that’s no good
on febuary 2nd i lost my job
damn
on febuary 12th i lost my dad
sorry man
fucked me so hard i…
yea i’ve been there
…lived on the streets
since
that was 3 febuaries ago
man..
the money is for paying the shelter
it’s not free
naw it’s 45 a week
you should go to a free one
they won’t let me smoke crack
ah
say you got 4 for the bus
4
yea the bus is mighty these days
i got four
good.
do you spare a $ for crack
naw i’ll buy you a beer for a smoke
i’ll spare you II
i haven’t puffed in 3 months
what’s it gonna hurt?
what’s it gonna hurt?
the crack heads are the only people who carry cash anymore
tell me about it
i’m no crack head you know
i know a gag
on january 31st i lost my girl
that’s no good
on febuary 2nd i lost my job
damn
on febuary 12th i lost my dad
sorry man
fucked me so hard i…
yea i’ve been there
…lived on the streets
since
that was 3 febuaries ago
man..
the money is for paying the shelter
it’s not free
naw it’s 45 a week
you should go to a free one
they won’t let me smoke crack
ah
say you got 4 for the bus
4
yea the bus is mighty these days
i got four
good.
Murm
Murm
It is there it is all along
the dream
like you own breath
you don’t smell
labial
underside the seam
floating on nakedness
what most call
the subconscious I call
hard of hearing
unfeeling
s/he is too sensitive
too fragile
a drama queen
but just enough
to hear herself
whisper
when not speaking
It is there it is all along
the dream
like you own breath
you don’t smell
labial
underside the seam
floating on nakedness
what most call
the subconscious I call
hard of hearing
unfeeling
s/he is too sensitive
too fragile
a drama queen
but just enough
to hear herself
whisper
when not speaking
Step One
Step One
You know
when I
write I
cannot
worry about
if you’ll like
or dislike
or care or no
or if it works
or if its publishable
or worth typing out
I waste my
words
because I
have to
and if I
did worry
and tried
to
always be perfect
always be original
I’d never
get shit
done
the whole
idea
is freedom
but freedom
exists only
in vacuums
and vacuums
are flimsy
ideas
step two
is to
know
step three
is to
stop
knowing
and
do
You know
when I
write I
cannot
worry about
if you’ll like
or dislike
or care or no
or if it works
or if its publishable
or worth typing out
I waste my
words
because I
have to
and if I
did worry
and tried
to
always be perfect
always be original
I’d never
get shit
done
the whole
idea
is freedom
but freedom
exists only
in vacuums
and vacuums
are flimsy
ideas
step two
is to
know
step three
is to
stop
knowing
and
do
Apology for ‘Lechery’ [or, a letter to an Arab]
Ashraf say:
Sharmoot, GOOD non-sleazy flirting requires wit.
but still a flirt is as significant as a fart.
How you react to a flirt is what determines how loyal you are.
Link say:
There is social genius the likes of which such a concentration of nerves hasn’t been seen since the pecker. The nervous and the neurotic have neurons whilst the fluent and effluent have flow to spare. A glance shatters me and I shatter a bottle over your calm head talking jive to a girl and you’ll not miss a beat. You’ll have whores lined up like the terracotta army in flesh tones while I trip on a stack of porn and injure my knee. And passive pimpin’, mind you, though it hasn’t yet given world population growth a speeding ticket, is the will of the people, because there’s more than one way to pick a fruit--an earth tremor can jimmy it out of socket, a stiff breeze can spit shine too many leaves, a touchy-feely gravity lets the dead apple fall where it may. Instead I stammer and sometimes drool, not that it matters since I’m married and glad I don’t have to talk to girls anymore and off the dart board [where I was the hollow bald real estate outside the circle]. I’ll admit the blurb was for people to feel good about themselves who shouldn’t feel good about themselves, not your cock-ready strapping man whore slick of tongue and pillow, but your curtain-cunted, old, scorned bag of disposable whore all to easily passing up a life of happiness by dismissing loners and dweebs who are inaccessible too all but the most drastic of reformed sluts and the most patient of summer virgins. Give me your tongue-tied and crippled, and I’ll show you a marvelously sad bunch who can’t help but be a little more moral, and smarter with time to spare. Until I’d read Hawking, beans were my favorite veggie: he not only edifies but could get head from most of the fifth year seniors; and he is the first to admit this wouldn’t be possible without.
So when I said sad good flirters are dumb and not loyal, I meant booknerds don’t have verve because they got the nerve, and can’t cheat because they can’t cheat. Dig?
Respond only if you think I’m right
Sharmoot, GOOD non-sleazy flirting requires wit.
but still a flirt is as significant as a fart.
How you react to a flirt is what determines how loyal you are.
Link say:
There is social genius the likes of which such a concentration of nerves hasn’t been seen since the pecker. The nervous and the neurotic have neurons whilst the fluent and effluent have flow to spare. A glance shatters me and I shatter a bottle over your calm head talking jive to a girl and you’ll not miss a beat. You’ll have whores lined up like the terracotta army in flesh tones while I trip on a stack of porn and injure my knee. And passive pimpin’, mind you, though it hasn’t yet given world population growth a speeding ticket, is the will of the people, because there’s more than one way to pick a fruit--an earth tremor can jimmy it out of socket, a stiff breeze can spit shine too many leaves, a touchy-feely gravity lets the dead apple fall where it may. Instead I stammer and sometimes drool, not that it matters since I’m married and glad I don’t have to talk to girls anymore and off the dart board [where I was the hollow bald real estate outside the circle]. I’ll admit the blurb was for people to feel good about themselves who shouldn’t feel good about themselves, not your cock-ready strapping man whore slick of tongue and pillow, but your curtain-cunted, old, scorned bag of disposable whore all to easily passing up a life of happiness by dismissing loners and dweebs who are inaccessible too all but the most drastic of reformed sluts and the most patient of summer virgins. Give me your tongue-tied and crippled, and I’ll show you a marvelously sad bunch who can’t help but be a little more moral, and smarter with time to spare. Until I’d read Hawking, beans were my favorite veggie: he not only edifies but could get head from most of the fifth year seniors; and he is the first to admit this wouldn’t be possible without.
So when I said sad good flirters are dumb and not loyal, I meant booknerds don’t have verve because they got the nerve, and can’t cheat because they can’t cheat. Dig?
Respond only if you think I’m right
flname thrower
Flname thrower
[for a guy named Ted]
Wathc Neruda turn before the metafore
Fele Prevert tendre and shy pervert
Hare Reed dream as tho he’s hardly read
Bare Sexton breath a ton of sex scream
Taiste Buk on bottomes opps; Baud void of air
Genet&Villon mediocker @ crime & ryam
Paz ate ’n eats sheets enflym’d in inks
Mysundrestranding Valery; Pontifficating Pope
Throwing Shname like Borges
name throwers
always exclude
the name
we
wished
to use
most
[for a guy named Ted]
Wathc Neruda turn before the metafore
Fele Prevert tendre and shy pervert
Hare Reed dream as tho he’s hardly read
Bare Sexton breath a ton of sex scream
Taiste Buk on bottomes opps; Baud void of air
Genet&Villon mediocker @ crime & ryam
Paz ate ’n eats sheets enflym’d in inks
Mysundrestranding Valery; Pontifficating Pope
Throwing Shname like Borges
name throwers
always exclude
the name
we
wished
to use
most
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Vague
Vague
Vague is vogue
and old as words
and unknown
and new to
nouns not quite verbs
obscurity has
a place in history
in obscurity
words like the celebrated confetti of permutation
‘Boy, you got about as much individuality as a fart in a hot tub’
words pregnant and sentences on welfare
[We spill into sheets,
half-asleep,
existing
between
the batting of lashes,
awake in blurry spaces
between darknesses,
dizzy, alone.
Like flourishes of memory tied together with sweet lies]
The clear-minded
obscurantist
surely
suffers more
than
the
hazy
mind
does
with clarity.
Words are to man what marketing is to man's words. Yup
All else is
aria
onanism
glossolalia
that is,
singing solo
wacking off
speaking in tongues
the reader suffers to understand
or the writer suffers to be understood
are you a sadist or masochist?
ultimately producing
a single victim
Vague is vogue
and old as words
and unknown
and new to
nouns not quite verbs
obscurity has
a place in history
in obscurity
words like the celebrated confetti of permutation
‘Boy, you got about as much individuality as a fart in a hot tub’
words pregnant and sentences on welfare
[We spill into sheets,
half-asleep,
existing
between
the batting of lashes,
awake in blurry spaces
between darknesses,
dizzy, alone.
Like flourishes of memory tied together with sweet lies]
The clear-minded
obscurantist
surely
suffers more
than
the
hazy
mind
does
with clarity.
Words are to man what marketing is to man's words. Yup
All else is
aria
onanism
glossolalia
that is,
singing solo
wacking off
speaking in tongues
the reader suffers to understand
or the writer suffers to be understood
are you a sadist or masochist?
ultimately producing
a single victim
Friday, December 7, 2007
Us with Nothing; or, Truth
Certainty
there is
no truth
and
Failing to Seek
has no
advantage
over
thinking
you
know the
Truth
and
refusing to.
I smell
like
the
cold
sweat
of
uncertainty
and then
there
is
the
paradise
of
satisfaction
wisdom
and
respect.
against
the shame
of
discovering
nothing
worth
mentioning
there is
no truth
and
Failing to Seek
has no
advantage
over
thinking
you
know the
Truth
and
refusing to.
I smell
like
the
cold
sweat
of
uncertainty
and then
there
is
the
paradise
of
satisfaction
wisdom
and
respect.
against
the shame
of
discovering
nothing
worth
mentioning
Me, Pervert
the breast
man
can’t be gay.
because he loves breasts
nor can he
go for transsexuals
since he’s a purist
because he loves breasts
and only breasts
he does not
like young boys
or young girls
because he loves breasts
he is a fondler
at birth
clasping at
babysitters
aunts
moms
and never
gets
over
first
impressions.
he accumulates
porn
like tree rings
or dead skin
there are
a lot
of things
he can’t
be
because he loves breasts
and he
is made
to feel
common
even though
he claims
to be
a pervert
as much as
the next
he is
made
to feel
common
because he loves breasts
this is a prejudice he will never overcome.
My true letdown
came
a few years back
outside a university
when I saw a breasty
young gal
but
who looked
like a girl
a young little girl
too soft
and
I
real-
ized
I
was n’t
going to be
a dirty old man
this must
mean
I'm
no
real
poet
either.
man
can’t be gay.
because he loves breasts
nor can he
go for transsexuals
since he’s a purist
because he loves breasts
and only breasts
he does not
like young boys
or young girls
because he loves breasts
he is a fondler
at birth
clasping at
babysitters
aunts
moms
and never
gets
over
first
impressions.
he accumulates
porn
like tree rings
or dead skin
there are
a lot
of things
he can’t
be
because he loves breasts
and he
is made
to feel
common
even though
he claims
to be
a pervert
as much as
the next
he is
made
to feel
common
because he loves breasts
this is a prejudice he will never overcome.
My true letdown
came
a few years back
outside a university
when I saw a breasty
young gal
but
who looked
like a girl
a young little girl
too soft
and
I
real-
ized
I
was n’t
going to be
a dirty old man
this must
mean
I'm
no
real
poet
either.
Page 69
Huysmans
made
me
put out a candle with a tear.
melting the wax to the table.
The table ablaze.
I painted my interior white.
I threw out everything.
They accused me of many things,
they have not had to endure Huysmans.
Today I want to fashion
a giant picture frame
around my house
made of shattered white picket fences.
made
me
put out a candle with a tear.
melting the wax to the table.
The table ablaze.
I painted my interior white.
I threw out everything.
They accused me of many things,
they have not had to endure Huysmans.
Today I want to fashion
a giant picture frame
around my house
made of shattered white picket fences.
Joe Pelo
Joe’s Mom and Wife were
beheaded
by an 18 wheeler
and a month later
he was on the streets
trading black eyes
for broken noses
and blood among
brothers
but
never drunk
never smoking
nics nor greens
but
always dishing out
the smokes
the beer
in the street
Joe shaves his hair
and eyebrows
perfectly
He is old and big and mean
Joe is a Savior in Austin.
One day he got
belligerent
because I
couldn’t
spare a smoke
Later
he’d stole
beer from a
Frat house
a
nd
we made friends
quick-like
a bunch of us
went
from alley
to alley
until we got run off
by business owners
or security.
This was routine
That day I
ate
from the dumpster
for the first time.
The strawberry was most divine
29 bank robberies
had gone
unsolved
and they showed
a video
on the news.
Under the cowboy hat
Behind the shades
I saw Joe Palone.
I saw Joe Pelo
I saw Joe
in the
back
of the
bus
months
later;
I was going to say hi
but didn’t
Joe was just sitting
there
looking at no one.
beheaded
by an 18 wheeler
and a month later
he was on the streets
trading black eyes
for broken noses
and blood among
brothers
but
never drunk
never smoking
nics nor greens
but
always dishing out
the smokes
the beer
in the street
Joe shaves his hair
and eyebrows
perfectly
He is old and big and mean
Joe is a Savior in Austin.
One day he got
belligerent
because I
couldn’t
spare a smoke
Later
he’d stole
beer from a
Frat house
a
nd
we made friends
quick-like
a bunch of us
went
from alley
to alley
until we got run off
by business owners
or security.
This was routine
That day I
ate
from the dumpster
for the first time.
The strawberry was most divine
29 bank robberies
had gone
unsolved
and they showed
a video
on the news.
Under the cowboy hat
Behind the shades
I saw Joe Palone.
I saw Joe Pelo
I saw Joe
in the
back
of the
bus
months
later;
I was going to say hi
but didn’t
Joe was just sitting
there
looking at no one.
They Never See You Agian
fear
is less
dangerous than
bravery
and
quicker than
anger
you
will
watch
your
best friend
get
beat
within an
inch
of his
life
and
you
will
listen
to the
stranger
tell
you
he’s
going
to
kill
you
but
blind
him
before
he finishes
his
sent-
ence
is less
dangerous than
bravery
and
quicker than
anger
you
will
watch
your
best friend
get
beat
within an
inch
of his
life
and
you
will
listen
to the
stranger
tell
you
he’s
going
to
kill
you
but
blind
him
before
he finishes
his
sent-
ence
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Belle Laide, or Baudelaire’s Thoroughbred
An Insult?
Noooooo.
It’s just that you
are beautiful when you are sad.
Take a solemn beast, born into her sadness, faithful to it,
she is ridiculous if she smiles. Her sadness, her sad face, was a parasite to, then
consanguineous with, and eventually has come to embody the beauty it sought to efface.
The tear has become more peaceful than the violence of the smile, and her face, the stillness of which is now beyond all emotion, is fit for
the sculptor’s eternity
the ink of the painter
or the deformed light of the photographer’s lense.
Noooooo.
It’s just that you
are beautiful when you are sad.
Take a solemn beast, born into her sadness, faithful to it,
she is ridiculous if she smiles. Her sadness, her sad face, was a parasite to, then
consanguineous with, and eventually has come to embody the beauty it sought to efface.
The tear has become more peaceful than the violence of the smile, and her face, the stillness of which is now beyond all emotion, is fit for
the sculptor’s eternity
the ink of the painter
or the deformed light of the photographer’s lense.
Writers
Writers
There are 6 and a half billion
on this world
And I don’t know
how many literates
But they all think they’re
writers
And they all probably are
I mean, hell
Even I squeeze off a decent line
Now and Then
Most of us want to
be
Famous
more
than
alone
because
we
lack
even
ourselves
because if we were truly naked
we wouldn’t want to be seen so bad
We go for cheap thrills
and word play
and eloquent nonsense
and zeugma, synecdoche,
and bull shit.
[I hate that part of the poem]
We prefer
beautiful lies
to ugly
truth.
We break ground
with structure
And there is
more
genuine pretension
than sorrow
or laughter
more gimmicks than guts
but maybe guts is a gimmick
and sometimes the only originality
left is
being a
bad imitator.
and it does
n’t
hurt if
the audience is
generally
ignorant
The writer wants to
be
worshiped
by everyone
less clever
than herself
He’s not depressed
He is ill
from a
mouthful
of abscessing teeth
corroded
by
nightly
vomit
from wine
and general
neglect.
He hasn’t brushed
for a solid week
in thirty years
You say you
never talk on
the bus.
I make a
scene wherever
I go.
Women are better
writers, sure,
but they are scared to
walk down
dark alleys.
That’s my edge,
and why I had
to pick a guy up
off the ground
by the dick for
getting violent--and because he wouldn’t give me a story.
I give my money away so I can steal.
But that’s bullshit too.
The status quo
says
to question the
status quo.
The writer
figures
how many words
he can put in a
space of time.
The master,
though he writes
day and night
,
fights to
write
as few
words
as possible.
He still manages two or three thousand a day.
Being a writer is
about as impressive
as buying a lotto ticket,
Even if he wins
he is still profoundly
and fundamentally,
a loser.
A famous no body
Made of common elements,
he thinks himself uncommon.
He will pick up a penny
just to write about it.
His hope is
that he eventually curries
favor with those he presumes he hates.
But he is the bare-bottom of intelligence.
Writing in general is for inferior souls,
and the superior spirits of this world never wrote a word.
Readers are even worse.
So read away
read all the greats
imitate the best
or just
put this trash down
and
write.
There are 6 and a half billion
on this world
And I don’t know
how many literates
But they all think they’re
writers
And they all probably are
I mean, hell
Even I squeeze off a decent line
Now and Then
Most of us want to
be
Famous
more
than
alone
because
we
lack
even
ourselves
because if we were truly naked
we wouldn’t want to be seen so bad
We go for cheap thrills
and word play
and eloquent nonsense
and zeugma, synecdoche,
and bull shit.
[I hate that part of the poem]
We prefer
beautiful lies
to ugly
truth.
We break ground
with structure
And there is
more
genuine pretension
than sorrow
or laughter
more gimmicks than guts
but maybe guts is a gimmick
and sometimes the only originality
left is
being a
bad imitator.
and it does
n’t
hurt if
the audience is
generally
ignorant
The writer wants to
be
worshiped
by everyone
less clever
than herself
He’s not depressed
He is ill
from a
mouthful
of abscessing teeth
corroded
by
nightly
vomit
from wine
and general
neglect.
He hasn’t brushed
for a solid week
in thirty years
You say you
never talk on
the bus.
I make a
scene wherever
I go.
Women are better
writers, sure,
but they are scared to
walk down
dark alleys.
That’s my edge,
and why I had
to pick a guy up
off the ground
by the dick for
getting violent--and because he wouldn’t give me a story.
I give my money away so I can steal.
But that’s bullshit too.
The status quo
says
to question the
status quo.
The writer
figures
how many words
he can put in a
space of time.
The master,
though he writes
day and night
,
fights to
write
as few
words
as possible.
He still manages two or three thousand a day.
Being a writer is
about as impressive
as buying a lotto ticket,
Even if he wins
he is still profoundly
and fundamentally,
a loser.
A famous no body
Made of common elements,
he thinks himself uncommon.
He will pick up a penny
just to write about it.
His hope is
that he eventually curries
favor with those he presumes he hates.
But he is the bare-bottom of intelligence.
Writing in general is for inferior souls,
and the superior spirits of this world never wrote a word.
Readers are even worse.
So read away
read all the greats
imitate the best
or just
put this trash down
and
write.
The Fool’s Genius
The Fool’s Genius
He doesn’t
remember
how many times people
have called him
a genius
because
he
is n’t
one.
He
cannot fill his
solitude
but hates the crowd;
the easy books
are too easy
and the hard books
are too hard.
Nothing is impossible.
Schopenhauer says
there are no level
headed
geniuses
and he is
off .
He doesn’t choose
his thought.
It effervesces
from the
soda can
of his
thoughts.
He is too dizzy
to know when
people are out
to get him.
He harms w/o noticing.
He is the toy of lesser beings
His wife is pregnant and
all he thinks about is books
and writing
all he does is write
or want to
but this
obsession
makes him negligent
and doesn’t make him a genius.
“You have been gone all day,
and now all you care about
is writing some candy-assed
poem instead of
spending time
with your wife.”
He has over 100 notebooks
full of the most unlikely
invention
you wouldn’t know it
but he has novel ideas
for every single field.
If you ask him he will
tell you.
One day
when he was
25
someone called
him
a genius,
then one after the other,
a flood of people
did the same.
friends, professors, preachers,
nannies, enemies
fools
It nearly drove
him
mad.
We expect the
world
from you,
kid,
and he
delivered
nothing.
He never
has time to
publish or refine
his work.
Because he has moved on to brighter things.
Because all of his ideas are wrong.
He is a genius to fools
and a fool to geniuses:
He can never
respect anyone.
He doesn’t
remember
how many times people
have called him
a genius
because
he
is n’t
one.
He
cannot fill his
solitude
but hates the crowd;
the easy books
are too easy
and the hard books
are too hard.
Nothing is impossible.
Schopenhauer says
there are no level
headed
geniuses
and he is
off .
He doesn’t choose
his thought.
It effervesces
from the
soda can
of his
thoughts.
He is too dizzy
to know when
people are out
to get him.
He harms w/o noticing.
He is the toy of lesser beings
His wife is pregnant and
all he thinks about is books
and writing
all he does is write
or want to
but this
obsession
makes him negligent
and doesn’t make him a genius.
“You have been gone all day,
and now all you care about
is writing some candy-assed
poem instead of
spending time
with your wife.”
He has over 100 notebooks
full of the most unlikely
invention
you wouldn’t know it
but he has novel ideas
for every single field.
If you ask him he will
tell you.
One day
when he was
25
someone called
him
a genius,
then one after the other,
a flood of people
did the same.
friends, professors, preachers,
nannies, enemies
fools
It nearly drove
him
mad.
We expect the
world
from you,
kid,
and he
delivered
nothing.
He never
has time to
publish or refine
his work.
Because he has moved on to brighter things.
Because all of his ideas are wrong.
He is a genius to fools
and a fool to geniuses:
He can never
respect anyone.
The Cool Girl
she was the coolest girl around
and every body knew it
she was plain and buxomy
and eventually she made her way
around
and screwed everyone i knew
except me
and lucky with the big sticks
one day she dropped a joint
in my bag
next to an extralarge condom
i'd been carrying around
to fool the girls
to lie w/o having to breath
because the best lies never have to be told
but they don't buy
even my truth
a month ago she was
on the phone with a friend
of mine.
he said, 'i'm here with ryan ralston'
and she didn't say a word
nothing hurts like silence either
and every body knew it
she was plain and buxomy
and eventually she made her way
around
and screwed everyone i knew
except me
and lucky with the big sticks
one day she dropped a joint
in my bag
next to an extralarge condom
i'd been carrying around
to fool the girls
to lie w/o having to breath
because the best lies never have to be told
but they don't buy
even my truth
a month ago she was
on the phone with a friend
of mine.
he said, 'i'm here with ryan ralston'
and she didn't say a word
nothing hurts like silence either
The Excuse
The Excuse
b/c the big bang was neither big nor made a bang
b/c light [last line]
b/c the sex counselor has never had an orgasm
b/c I latch on to the first person who likes me
b/c I’ve been in a new city for one night and
I’m already seeing people I’ve met
b/c I
b/c I hit puberty before I knew my name has
two syllables [TX, Rhine diminutive for Ry-an]
b/c Artists are Charlatans
b/c I fucking hate books, I hate books w/ a passion: Everything else I just hate
b/c the great monuments began as playthings of ancient children
b/c I am immortal only since there’s no time
b/c even an Idiot is 49% genius
b/c I conducted the first nude orchestra w/ my feet
b/c the stranger caught me looking at her breasts and thought--
he is already cheating on me
b/c the small powerful men insist on clothes
b/c the good students don’t have to…..
b/c [fill in here…]
b/c the big bang was neither big nor made a bang
b/c light [last line]
b/c the sex counselor has never had an orgasm
b/c I latch on to the first person who likes me
b/c I’ve been in a new city for one night and
I’m already seeing people I’ve met
b/c I
b/c I hit puberty before I knew my name has
two syllables [TX, Rhine diminutive for Ry-an]
b/c Artists are Charlatans
b/c I fucking hate books, I hate books w/ a passion: Everything else I just hate
b/c the great monuments began as playthings of ancient children
b/c I am immortal only since there’s no time
b/c even an Idiot is 49% genius
b/c I conducted the first nude orchestra w/ my feet
b/c the stranger caught me looking at her breasts and thought--
he is already cheating on me
b/c the small powerful men insist on clothes
b/c the good students don’t have to…..
b/c [fill in here…]
Sephardim
Sephardim
Sephardi
smart like an Indian
crazy like an Arab
We do not fuck
our cousins
but we
cut
your throat
We are
Jewish enough
to be
hated
and not
Jewish enough
to be
loved.
Else they tell us we are not real Jews
or not really Jewish
and hate us
Fit for death
camps
Unfit for
solidarity,
milk and honey,
or
rights of passage.
We are
too brown
to be down
too white
to be tight
They have called
us
Conversos
Crypto-jews
Marranos
Pigs
We have
names like
Perec
Perez
Lucero
de Leon
Rivera
Castro.
You will miss us.
Ask
Jorge
if he is
a Jew
he ‘ll
say
no then
kill
you.
We survived
400
bloody
inquisitive
years
by excelling
in
deceit,
murder,
lies.
And only the best survived.
as picked over
as race horses
or slaves
killed with every sort of ingenuity
“Are you a Christian?”
You either lie good or die good
or go away.
You sell your home
or sell your soul.
you divorce God
and become
a priest
you fall
in love with
a Jewish nun.
You are excommunicated.
twice divorced.
You take your
bride to a
New Mexico
Your daughter
will abandon
her daughter.
You will be the father
of your grandchildren.
And your grandchild
is mother
to my
mother.
the old man
chose a shanty
over God
then
a piece
of ass
over both
and to think
my
dad’s
father
was
a bastard
child.
So I
eat shit
and
have
no
history
either
And
I
know
what
its like
to
be
a
nigger
too
Sephardi
smart like an Indian
crazy like an Arab
We do not fuck
our cousins
but we
cut
your throat
We are
Jewish enough
to be
hated
and not
Jewish enough
to be
loved.
Else they tell us we are not real Jews
or not really Jewish
and hate us
Fit for death
camps
Unfit for
solidarity,
milk and honey,
or
rights of passage.
We are
too brown
to be down
too white
to be tight
They have called
us
Conversos
Crypto-jews
Marranos
Pigs
We have
names like
Perec
Perez
Lucero
de Leon
Rivera
Castro.
You will miss us.
Ask
Jorge
if he is
a Jew
he ‘ll
say
no then
kill
you.
We survived
400
bloody
inquisitive
years
by excelling
in
deceit,
murder,
lies.
And only the best survived.
as picked over
as race horses
or slaves
killed with every sort of ingenuity
“Are you a Christian?”
You either lie good or die good
or go away.
You sell your home
or sell your soul.
you divorce God
and become
a priest
you fall
in love with
a Jewish nun.
You are excommunicated.
twice divorced.
You take your
bride to a
New Mexico
Your daughter
will abandon
her daughter.
You will be the father
of your grandchildren.
And your grandchild
is mother
to my
mother.
the old man
chose a shanty
over God
then
a piece
of ass
over both
and to think
my
dad’s
father
was
a bastard
child.
So I
eat shit
and
have
no
history
either
And
I
know
what
its like
to
be
a
nigger
too
Phineaus the Hypochondriac
Phineaus the Hypochondriac
Gage was skullfucked by a spike
running the length of
a would-be double chin
up through to
his forehead.
That was in 18__.
An accident at a mining explosion.
He used to be responsible
judgmental
calm
courteous
Now he’s flaky
angry-go-lucky
mercury
pissed
He never cussed; Now:
Cunt, fuck, shit, and whore are sandwiched between
syllables.
the way
Cunts, motherfuckers, shitbags, and whores litter
the streets
He used to shave, brush his teeth, make eyes with himself
in the mirror.
Now he admires his crater
on his bald spot
left front and center
And his breath smells like angry onions.
Phineaus used to have plans
Now he never knows where he is going
what he is supposed to be doing
why
Like
The tetrahedron that was ambition, desire, stick-to-itiveness, esteem
have muddied
the melt off
slurry
of icecaps
Unfocused desire is
bad virtue
too many dreams
laxative realities
missing the wasteland
for all the rotten stumps
There are people who drank so much
they can’t tell you what day it is
after you told them just seconds ago.
they have bleeding thalamus’s on their shoulders
Phineaus Gage had his
excuse.
They’ve got theirs.
What the fuck happened to me?
Gage was skullfucked by a spike
running the length of
a would-be double chin
up through to
his forehead.
That was in 18__.
An accident at a mining explosion.
He used to be responsible
judgmental
calm
courteous
Now he’s flaky
angry-go-lucky
mercury
pissed
He never cussed; Now:
Cunt, fuck, shit, and whore are sandwiched between
syllables.
the way
Cunts, motherfuckers, shitbags, and whores litter
the streets
He used to shave, brush his teeth, make eyes with himself
in the mirror.
Now he admires his crater
on his bald spot
left front and center
And his breath smells like angry onions.
Phineaus used to have plans
Now he never knows where he is going
what he is supposed to be doing
why
Like
The tetrahedron that was ambition, desire, stick-to-itiveness, esteem
have muddied
the melt off
slurry
of icecaps
Unfocused desire is
bad virtue
too many dreams
laxative realities
missing the wasteland
for all the rotten stumps
There are people who drank so much
they can’t tell you what day it is
after you told them just seconds ago.
they have bleeding thalamus’s on their shoulders
Phineaus Gage had his
excuse.
They’ve got theirs.
What the fuck happened to me?
I'm Pregnant
I’m Pregnant
Except it is not the I that is
but the She
pregnant
with
hopes, dreams
and our little Echinodermata
come together
in a big crunch
the ecdysis of butterflies
the revamping of atoms
on consignment
from dead time;
and things not yet born
for s/he has only known death
Except it is not the I that is
but the She
pregnant
with
hopes, dreams
and our little Echinodermata
come together
in a big crunch
the ecdysis of butterflies
the revamping of atoms
on consignment
from dead time;
and things not yet born
for s/he has only known death
GaB
GAB
[Dwindlings}
the cams and mainsprings of
Dick Bong
Jomo Kenyatta
when things went timewise
vestal virgin
banshees
too many snarls (drinks?)
Mayblossom
Why, they tell me a woman might be president
a sleek red convertible
brassiere
“Watch the shoes, that’s the tip-off.”
months fall off the calendar
the X buggers off
I lunged out of bed
[Dwindlings}
the cams and mainsprings of
Dick Bong
Jomo Kenyatta
when things went timewise
vestal virgin
banshees
too many snarls (drinks?)
Mayblossom
Why, they tell me a woman might be president
a sleek red convertible
brassiere
“Watch the shoes, that’s the tip-off.”
months fall off the calendar
the X buggers off
I lunged out of bed
Five Minutes of Pleasure, an Hour of Love
Five minutes of pleasure and An Hour of Love
For now
we males lamely pride ourselves
on underdeveloped breasts
and overgrown clitorises.
We are big-small
but mostly small,
breadwinners and pussy eaters
like confidence being the lack of confidence
For now
we males lamely pride ourselves
on underdeveloped breasts
and overgrown clitorises.
We are big-small
but mostly small,
breadwinners and pussy eaters
like confidence being the lack of confidence
Craise
Praise and criticism cancel like a like a swirlee.
Like perfect advice from everywhichway
flushed down the sexy hyperbolic
of my porcelain sarcophagus
with equal and opposite force they annihilate.
Like particle and antiparticle
into a swill of free deity
or the naked zero
(that which does not exist exists everywhere)
before vast spaces of positive and negative I am annihilated.
You would think that I care.
That maybe I should do what you praise
and not do what you condemn.
Surprisingly,
the shit of praise is slicked over
with the waste paper of critique.
The toilet hisses, tinkles, gurgles
like its possessed by hell.
I got my shit out.
No one has to love the smell.
Maybe I’ll shut the door.
Honey, next time I promise to put the seat down
but until then
I can give two shits.
I don’t have to care
any more than
you have to read,
but the difference is
I gotta get my shit out
and if I listened to you
I’d go dizzy with confusion.
There is only one man,
one humanity,
and that is me.
Cuz nothing gonna ride out
the lust of gravity and the grave.
Eventually we all gotta sit still.
We find the bottom of the whirlpool.
For we tumble toward the giant asshole in the sky.
The end at the center of the beginning
Like perfect advice from everywhichway
flushed down the sexy hyperbolic
of my porcelain sarcophagus
with equal and opposite force they annihilate.
Like particle and antiparticle
into a swill of free deity
or the naked zero
(that which does not exist exists everywhere)
before vast spaces of positive and negative I am annihilated.
You would think that I care.
That maybe I should do what you praise
and not do what you condemn.
Surprisingly,
the shit of praise is slicked over
with the waste paper of critique.
The toilet hisses, tinkles, gurgles
like its possessed by hell.
I got my shit out.
No one has to love the smell.
Maybe I’ll shut the door.
Honey, next time I promise to put the seat down
but until then
I can give two shits.
I don’t have to care
any more than
you have to read,
but the difference is
I gotta get my shit out
and if I listened to you
I’d go dizzy with confusion.
There is only one man,
one humanity,
and that is me.
Cuz nothing gonna ride out
the lust of gravity and the grave.
Eventually we all gotta sit still.
We find the bottom of the whirlpool.
For we tumble toward the giant asshole in the sky.
The end at the center of the beginning
Cash
I went from
living
with
my parents
to being a millionaire
and people still
treat me like shit
and I wouldn’t have
it
any other
way.
I could
be
on the streets
easy
without
the people
who love
me
so
We eloped
on April
Fools
Our wedding
rings cost
70 bucks
at Mal Wart.
I paid her back in July.
I think.
We moved
into a rental
in Denver
with no heat.
I’m at home
It’s 9 below
and when
it’s
a 105
I still
didn’t
need
made-up
air
I do not
want
fast cars
natty threads
bloated mansions
I don’t
want
any
it
I want time.
One can never have too much
love or knowledge
while those
who
have
enough love
or knowledge
say
you can never have enough
cash
I want time.
the in-laws
say I
don’t
work
even tho I wrote two
novels this summer.
I just want time for love and thought.
a license to be me
and nothing else.
Time to stare
thru
walls.
I can do it.
My cousin says she’s saved
cash
she doesn’t
know how to
spend.
Yea,
I say,
when you don’t
want
any thing,
to
have
and not
to
have
is the
same.
the
only
sin
in
America
is
to not
want
more.
I
live
like a dog
and love it.
living
with
my parents
to being a millionaire
and people still
treat me like shit
and I wouldn’t have
it
any other
way.
I could
be
on the streets
easy
without
the people
who love
me
so
We eloped
on April
Fools
Our wedding
rings cost
70 bucks
at Mal Wart.
I paid her back in July.
I think.
We moved
into a rental
in Denver
with no heat.
I’m at home
It’s 9 below
and when
it’s
a 105
I still
didn’t
need
made-up
air
I do not
want
fast cars
natty threads
bloated mansions
I don’t
want
any
it
I want time.
One can never have too much
love or knowledge
while those
who
have
enough love
or knowledge
say
you can never have enough
cash
I want time.
the in-laws
say I
don’t
work
even tho I wrote two
novels this summer.
I just want time for love and thought.
a license to be me
and nothing else.
Time to stare
thru
walls.
I can do it.
My cousin says she’s saved
cash
she doesn’t
know how to
spend.
Yea,
I say,
when you don’t
want
any thing,
to
have
and not
to
have
is the
same.
the
only
sin
in
America
is
to not
want
more.
I
live
like a dog
and love it.
Blessphemy
Like Jesus’ bone was Mary’s nine
Born hard
She did not have to lose hers
nor he his
It felt better than God
Born hard
She did not have to lose hers
nor he his
It felt better than God
Bananas
I could give two fucks about football.
Bananas, I love.
They are the reason we climbed into the trees,
and also the reason
we came down.
My first word,
nenal-nenal,
meant banana.
When you boil them
they taste like starchy potatoes
and go well with fish heads and coconut.
Fried, they are a crunchy sweetness;
nectar for the recently upright.
When blackened with time,
they are to be frozen then liquefied.
Of banananas,
food of brains,
I sing.
It is they I live for.
I cannot catch a ball
to save a life
but I am a born puncher
I listen to myself chew
I cry when I knock someone out
and remind myself I haven’t
come that far.
Bananas, I love.
They are the reason we climbed into the trees,
and also the reason
we came down.
My first word,
nenal-nenal,
meant banana.
When you boil them
they taste like starchy potatoes
and go well with fish heads and coconut.
Fried, they are a crunchy sweetness;
nectar for the recently upright.
When blackened with time,
they are to be frozen then liquefied.
Of banananas,
food of brains,
I sing.
It is they I live for.
I cannot catch a ball
to save a life
but I am a born puncher
I listen to myself chew
I cry when I knock someone out
and remind myself I haven’t
come that far.
Bad Reference
Bad Reference
by Link
Well there was
a
drunk night
when
I tried to
steal wine & cheese
It was a crime of Passion.
Well we’ll have
to give you
a call
tomorrow
to tell you
to not bother
coming in for your
second interview.
also, I left
my references
on the couch
me and
my pregnant
wife
borrow
at someone’s
house.
Tough break.
If I can’t get
some penny-annie
job
over a
petty crime
I have no choice.
I have to beg or stop being
petty
by Link
Well there was
a
drunk night
when
I tried to
steal wine & cheese
It was a crime of Passion.
Well we’ll have
to give you
a call
tomorrow
to tell you
to not bother
coming in for your
second interview.
also, I left
my references
on the couch
me and
my pregnant
wife
borrow
at someone’s
house.
Tough break.
If I can’t get
some penny-annie
job
over a
petty crime
I have no choice.
I have to beg or stop being
petty
Alone (in the crowd)
Alone (in the Crowd) link
Chicago
was like so many towns
strung together into rooms
with loners behind walls
that are like so many walls.
Love is at a specified place and time,
or auntie June at a summer reunion
at a picnic table under the sun,
but loneliness is anywhere,
like ubiquity or the void,
and beyond time.
Love and loneliness in this space called Chicago.
The town was grey like graves,
and cold,
windy when cold,
and grey like busy death.
I missed the skin of it:
I tasted the food but not the best food,
I saw books but not the famous ones,
got drunk on cheap wine and loved people I’ll never love again.
Else I walked the streets and talked to no one.
I bet you missed it too,
and why not?
Beauty fills the eye
and converses with the mind
and is forgotten like a perfect stranger.
Chicago is just another building in Paris.
The world is outside
and the universe has heartburn, dementia, and dysentery and is trapped in this cubbyhole.
I am just on the other side of that wall. .
I am my antonym.
I am paranoid like God, and jealous.
I’ll defile myself in a rash of murder and grace.
I am walled in and therefore everywhere,
and I was God until you interrupted me.
Can you see it yet,
that even in the smallest darkness there is confined infinity?
Can you not see that to be alone is to be God and that God is alone?
The hotel costs 59 a night.
Chicago
was like so many towns
strung together into rooms
with loners behind walls
that are like so many walls.
Love is at a specified place and time,
or auntie June at a summer reunion
at a picnic table under the sun,
but loneliness is anywhere,
like ubiquity or the void,
and beyond time.
Love and loneliness in this space called Chicago.
The town was grey like graves,
and cold,
windy when cold,
and grey like busy death.
I missed the skin of it:
I tasted the food but not the best food,
I saw books but not the famous ones,
got drunk on cheap wine and loved people I’ll never love again.
Else I walked the streets and talked to no one.
I bet you missed it too,
and why not?
Beauty fills the eye
and converses with the mind
and is forgotten like a perfect stranger.
Chicago is just another building in Paris.
The world is outside
and the universe has heartburn, dementia, and dysentery and is trapped in this cubbyhole.
I am just on the other side of that wall. .
I am my antonym.
I am paranoid like God, and jealous.
I’ll defile myself in a rash of murder and grace.
I am walled in and therefore everywhere,
and I was God until you interrupted me.
Can you see it yet,
that even in the smallest darkness there is confined infinity?
Can you not see that to be alone is to be God and that God is alone?
The hotel costs 59 a night.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
The Ontological Proof for the Existence of Love
Love
, if it is possible,
must be
, and thus the true lover
is loved in every possible reality
, and in every possible way.
When she leaves
the room
I become an atheist.
But I tell you:
She is my proof
for the existence
of God.
My full
body
orgasm
I use her name in vain.
, if it is possible,
must be
, and thus the true lover
is loved in every possible reality
, and in every possible way.
When she leaves
the room
I become an atheist.
But I tell you:
She is my proof
for the existence
of God.
My full
body
orgasm
I use her name in vain.
Space
No such two feet of cold polite dark air between them.
The bar let out.
The drink is up.
They stand there in the street
Nose to nose
like lovers or fighters
The bar let out.
The drink is up.
They stand there in the street
Nose to nose
like lovers or fighters
She is the Maven of my Ways
Two Lovers
Trace
Eachother’s Backs
as
light
as
clouds
touching
earth
with
shadows.
Though fingers sync,
neither leads
both go where need goes
Only the Correlation is real
Both the lines separating things
and things
Are False.
Entanglement between two nothings
Trace
Eachother’s Backs
as
light
as
clouds
touching
earth
with
shadows.
Though fingers sync,
neither leads
both go where need goes
Only the Correlation is real
Both the lines separating things
and things
Are False.
Entanglement between two nothings
Santa or God
People say they go to war over God
But they really go over Santa
More people have died in the name of Santa than
in the names of God
I do not believe
in Santa
and disdain anyone who does
even if they are children
only in mind
Why should I care
which
imaginary being
that fools
believe in
He has given me
a reason
to fight
for
my
ideas
But they really go over Santa
More people have died in the name of Santa than
in the names of God
I do not believe
in Santa
and disdain anyone who does
even if they are children
only in mind
Why should I care
which
imaginary being
that fools
believe in
He has given me
a reason
to fight
for
my
ideas
On How Information Cannot Decrease In the Universe
I told my wife on the way to the bar.
You either got it or you don’t.
Some people believe in God,
Country, and Family
but baby you are
my god, country
and fam…
But if I don’t write I die
or maybe kill
even if
I kill
me
God died
about
the
same time
romance,
crushes,
broken hearts,
died
in
ontology
and
phylogeny
And I
died
with
my
idea
for-
get-
ting
to
si-
ng
You either got it or you don’t.
Some people believe in God,
Country, and Family
but baby you are
my god, country
and fam…
But if I don’t write I die
or maybe kill
even if
I kill
me
God died
about
the
same time
romance,
crushes,
broken hearts,
died
in
ontology
and
phylogeny
And I
died
with
my
idea
for-
get-
ting
to
si-
ng
Of Me
Of Me by Me
After the punks
the metal heads
then grunge
then I lost track
of
who
was
doing
the
rejecting
After the punks
the metal heads
then grunge
then I lost track
of
who
was
doing
the
rejecting
Neurogenesis
The smell of rat
piss
will expand the mind
of girls.
Sex smells the same.
But I am no vermin
with a snooter
or dominant schnoz
roaming waves
of compressed
sex
tucked up in the armpit
of some turbulent
sigh.
I quit smoking and now all I smell is pollution and body odor.
All I smell is my brain growing again.
I smell like shit.
This only means I haven’t lost my mind.
piss
will expand the mind
of girls.
Sex smells the same.
But I am no vermin
with a snooter
or dominant schnoz
roaming waves
of compressed
sex
tucked up in the armpit
of some turbulent
sigh.
I quit smoking and now all I smell is pollution and body odor.
All I smell is my brain growing again.
I smell like shit.
This only means I haven’t lost my mind.
Not a Pervert but not a Poet either
She merely has the face of a model
and the body of God
the enterprise of happiness
has tacked a smile
on her whereabouts
and posed a
lightness
on her wandering feet
the muse
entreats
to cut in
on her
dance
with the wind
and the sea
but she
denies
and tells the stranger from a faraway land how she had toppled the Colossus of Rhodes with a glance
a very long time ago
for she does not
turn you to stone
she turns you to putty
You see,
I am not a poet
nor a pervert
just a guy
from
where hell
is supposed to
be
staring
off into a dusty sea
and forgetting
the decency
of silence
and unable to
find ugliness
in the world
I cry out
beauty
and the body of God
the enterprise of happiness
has tacked a smile
on her whereabouts
and posed a
lightness
on her wandering feet
the muse
entreats
to cut in
on her
dance
with the wind
and the sea
but she
denies
and tells the stranger from a faraway land how she had toppled the Colossus of Rhodes with a glance
a very long time ago
for she does not
turn you to stone
she turns you to putty
You see,
I am not a poet
nor a pervert
just a guy
from
where hell
is supposed to
be
staring
off into a dusty sea
and forgetting
the decency
of silence
and unable to
find ugliness
in the world
I cry out
beauty
Looking for Pussy
My wife is going to divorce me
she is going to kill me then she is going to divorce me
You think this is allegory
this happened
They wanna
talk about confessional poetry
Well…here she blows
Yesterday she told me she hated me
because I screamed in horror when
she rolled onto one of my books
I also slapped her on the back.
After that, who cares if I called her a bitch in jest?
She feels I am cheating
on her
when I read,
write or masturbate.
You see:
virginity
I was 27
before I got
bagged by a whore
When my penis
had her out-of-body
experience
and lost her
mass/energy
body/soul
particle/wave
I mean:
I couldn’t wake the dead and scared
rather:
There was a limp laughter
in my bed
On the other hand:
my wife despises me
because I took
her virginity.
She says I make her feel dirty.
Anyway my wife
is
off at work
when
I hear a scream.
I am undressed,
and outside,
it is sunny and cold.
For weeks my cat
Ding has refused to come in.
She has lost weight.
I sometimes find her on the roof
meowing at me passionately,
strangely distant.
I am undressed
and I step into the cold sun.
I round the bend and my cat is getting laid.
She screams.
She is mad because I scare her lover off,
and I am jealous because
she is making love.
And like they say:
when the cats away
the pussy will play.
I get dressed
I take a nap
I wake
Then it dawns on me:
I left the door open.
My wife’s cat
is an indoor
cat who’s
never been
outside.
Not anymore.
I search the house
twice over.
all 4000 feet
I go outside.
For three blocks in every direction,
For three hours,
I policed shrubs
porches
under RV’s
alleys
The neighbors see me coming to their door
and would be like
Who is this head case?
hair looking like a grease fire
and stammering
because I seldom finish sentences
[that’s why I write]
I said:
Stark White Cat Lost, Potential Ex-Wife going to trash husband
but I really said…
and scared kids
and saw only two cats [in the alley]
Nothing I do seems to come out right; 1
wherever I go I get pushed around.
I walk the muddy road and my footsteps
falter;
I sit with the other villagers and my
stomach aches with hunger
Since I lost the brindle cat,
the rats come right up and peer into
the pot
A cat, 10
a native of Saturn,
crosses the wall and vanishes
in the pages of a book.
Grass turns to night,
night turns to sand,
sand turns to water
Ah, Pussy, of the Sand, 17
The Hopes so juicy ripening -
You almost bathed your Tongue - D
and after speaking to no one, 20
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
Not that the cats are puppets. 25
Far from it.
They are living, breathing creatures,
and when any other being is contacted,
it is sad:
because you see the limitations,
the pain and fear and the final death.
That is what contact means.
That is what I see when I touch a cat
and find that tears are flowing down my face
Now Dogs pretend they like to fight; 35
They often bark, more seldom bite;
But yet a Dog is, on the whole,
What you would call a simple soul
Self-reliant like the cat-- 39
that takes its prey to privacy
And so we saw 41
And we conquered
And we came,
While the black cat watched
Turned dead white! 45
Boogie-woogie,
Rolling bass,
Whirling treble
of cat-gut lace
And like a Rocky Mountain cat 50
Making all spheres stink!
Yet at his death, O Lord,
May some prayer rise up!
And so after three
long
cotton mouthed
ours
I searched the house
again.
I found pussy
in the closet
she was
there at home
all the time.
Waiting.
This is what
love
is.
{The numbered stanza was plagiarized from the following: 1-9 Han Shan; 10-16 Octavio Paz; 17-19 Emily Dickenson; 20-24 Pablo Neruda; 25-34 William S Burroughs; 35-38 TS Eliot; 39-40 Marianne Moore; 41-44 Rachel Swiss; 45-49 Langston Hughes; 50-53 Rimbaud}
she is going to kill me then she is going to divorce me
You think this is allegory
this happened
They wanna
talk about confessional poetry
Well…here she blows
Yesterday she told me she hated me
because I screamed in horror when
she rolled onto one of my books
I also slapped her on the back.
After that, who cares if I called her a bitch in jest?
She feels I am cheating
on her
when I read,
write or masturbate.
You see:
virginity
I was 27
before I got
bagged by a whore
When my penis
had her out-of-body
experience
and lost her
mass/energy
body/soul
particle/wave
I mean:
I couldn’t wake the dead and scared
rather:
There was a limp laughter
in my bed
On the other hand:
my wife despises me
because I took
her virginity.
She says I make her feel dirty.
Anyway my wife
is
off at work
when
I hear a scream.
I am undressed,
and outside,
it is sunny and cold.
For weeks my cat
Ding has refused to come in.
She has lost weight.
I sometimes find her on the roof
meowing at me passionately,
strangely distant.
I am undressed
and I step into the cold sun.
I round the bend and my cat is getting laid.
She screams.
She is mad because I scare her lover off,
and I am jealous because
she is making love.
And like they say:
when the cats away
the pussy will play.
I get dressed
I take a nap
I wake
Then it dawns on me:
I left the door open.
My wife’s cat
is an indoor
cat who’s
never been
outside.
Not anymore.
I search the house
twice over.
all 4000 feet
I go outside.
For three blocks in every direction,
For three hours,
I policed shrubs
porches
under RV’s
alleys
The neighbors see me coming to their door
and would be like
Who is this head case?
hair looking like a grease fire
and stammering
because I seldom finish sentences
[that’s why I write]
I said:
Stark White Cat Lost, Potential Ex-Wife going to trash husband
but I really said…
and scared kids
and saw only two cats [in the alley]
Nothing I do seems to come out right; 1
wherever I go I get pushed around.
I walk the muddy road and my footsteps
falter;
I sit with the other villagers and my
stomach aches with hunger
Since I lost the brindle cat,
the rats come right up and peer into
the pot
A cat, 10
a native of Saturn,
crosses the wall and vanishes
in the pages of a book.
Grass turns to night,
night turns to sand,
sand turns to water
Ah, Pussy, of the Sand, 17
The Hopes so juicy ripening -
You almost bathed your Tongue - D
and after speaking to no one, 20
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.
Not that the cats are puppets. 25
Far from it.
They are living, breathing creatures,
and when any other being is contacted,
it is sad:
because you see the limitations,
the pain and fear and the final death.
That is what contact means.
That is what I see when I touch a cat
and find that tears are flowing down my face
Now Dogs pretend they like to fight; 35
They often bark, more seldom bite;
But yet a Dog is, on the whole,
What you would call a simple soul
Self-reliant like the cat-- 39
that takes its prey to privacy
And so we saw 41
And we conquered
And we came,
While the black cat watched
Turned dead white! 45
Boogie-woogie,
Rolling bass,
Whirling treble
of cat-gut lace
And like a Rocky Mountain cat 50
Making all spheres stink!
Yet at his death, O Lord,
May some prayer rise up!
And so after three
long
cotton mouthed
ours
I searched the house
again.
I found pussy
in the closet
she was
there at home
all the time.
Waiting.
This is what
love
is.
{The numbered stanza was plagiarized from the following: 1-9 Han Shan; 10-16 Octavio Paz; 17-19 Emily Dickenson; 20-24 Pablo Neruda; 25-34 William S Burroughs; 35-38 TS Eliot; 39-40 Marianne Moore; 41-44 Rachel Swiss; 45-49 Langston Hughes; 50-53 Rimbaud}
My Suicide Letter
Poetry is one long suicide
song
brief notes
that in the end could be
striped
of titles
and just slapped end
to end
and be one
long
sad song
except
friends and family
call
and freak
out every time
they read
one.
they think
this
sap
is done for
he’s
cashing in
you’re writing
and the door
rings
and you
answer
and it’s your
dad
and you say
Was it that good?
But they got it all wrong
you see
all wrong
it’s when you
don’t send
the song
when its
all too
wrong
because this is
when
the poet’s
happy
the only time
he’s happy
is when
he writes
his
suicide song
the rest
is for
being lame
like a soft cock
the poet is powerless
unless he is writing this
and the longest suicide notes produce the happiest and the best
silence kills
song
brief notes
that in the end could be
striped
of titles
and just slapped end
to end
and be one
long
sad song
except
friends and family
call
and freak
out every time
they read
one.
they think
this
sap
is done for
he’s
cashing in
you’re writing
and the door
rings
and you
answer
and it’s your
dad
and you say
Was it that good?
But they got it all wrong
you see
all wrong
it’s when you
don’t send
the song
when its
all too
wrong
because this is
when
the poet’s
happy
the only time
he’s happy
is when
he writes
his
suicide song
the rest
is for
being lame
like a soft cock
the poet is powerless
unless he is writing this
and the longest suicide notes produce the happiest and the best
silence kills
Lucretius or, lame poetry
Lucretius
or, lame poetry
I’m tired of poems that don’t mean anything
They are little more than a highly improbable
conjunction of words.
I’m also tired of belly-aching and heart aching
and headaches
Whatever happened to poetry and truth
or science that rhymes
a poem that
somehow gets across
a new thought
like
how the toilet swirls
because the earth spins
and
the galaxies spiral
because the universe rotates
like
Godel says
There is no time because there is time travel
Or maybe
likewise
there is no space because I travel in it
but more on that later
or not more
Poetry is lame.
Mine especially
I don’t know
enough math
to become a poet.
or, lame poetry
I’m tired of poems that don’t mean anything
They are little more than a highly improbable
conjunction of words.
I’m also tired of belly-aching and heart aching
and headaches
Whatever happened to poetry and truth
or science that rhymes
a poem that
somehow gets across
a new thought
like
how the toilet swirls
because the earth spins
and
the galaxies spiral
because the universe rotates
like
Godel says
There is no time because there is time travel
Or maybe
likewise
there is no space because I travel in it
but more on that later
or not more
Poetry is lame.
Mine especially
I don’t know
enough math
to become a poet.
Fucking Zen up
I was packing
my books
in the truck
and every one
fit snug
but not too snug,
you know
Then it dawned on me:
I left my notebook
at the bookstore
shit!!
Eight minutes til close
I hop in
I rev it up
I hug it up like a bitch
with hands in the 10 and 2 o’clock
I’ll never make it
and some cocksucker’ll nab
my sketch pad full of poems
Then try to publish them
and get ridiculed.
Never mind
I gun it
and hit ten green lights
and make a 20 minute
trip in 6
I sashay in
and the lights are off in the store
They confront me
and before long I
‘ve raised an army
of booksellers
combing
dark
bookstores.
We find nothing.
Then I remember
the scrape and the clank
on my way
to the
book store.
I almost get pulled
over by a cop
racing off
and my insurance expired yesterday
12 minutes later I
see her waving hi
in the street
No, not a hooker
better
My notebook
She’d slid off the roof
of the car
And there’s parking next
to the door
Sometimes Zen is fucking up Zen
or Dao
or Whatever
Yesterday I lost my wife’s keys.
my books
in the truck
and every one
fit snug
but not too snug,
you know
Then it dawned on me:
I left my notebook
at the bookstore
shit!!
Eight minutes til close
I hop in
I rev it up
I hug it up like a bitch
with hands in the 10 and 2 o’clock
I’ll never make it
and some cocksucker’ll nab
my sketch pad full of poems
Then try to publish them
and get ridiculed.
Never mind
I gun it
and hit ten green lights
and make a 20 minute
trip in 6
I sashay in
and the lights are off in the store
They confront me
and before long I
‘ve raised an army
of booksellers
combing
dark
bookstores.
We find nothing.
Then I remember
the scrape and the clank
on my way
to the
book store.
I almost get pulled
over by a cop
racing off
and my insurance expired yesterday
12 minutes later I
see her waving hi
in the street
No, not a hooker
better
My notebook
She’d slid off the roof
of the car
And there’s parking next
to the door
Sometimes Zen is fucking up Zen
or Dao
or Whatever
Yesterday I lost my wife’s keys.
DUMB PEOPLE; or Avicenna’s Coccyx
If I had to make
a choice
between being dumb
and being ignorant
I would call myself dumb.
Let’s face it
Both know
they don’t know
Avicenna said it,
that the highest among us
know what they
do not
know
And there is a whole lot of
shit not to know
Except:
The Ignorant
are at
peace with
ignorance
and take pride in calling
themselves ignorant.
The Dumb above all
hate themselves
and are going to
make you bleed
when you call them dumb.
The Ignorant know what
they know
and know things.
The Dumb do not know what
they know
and invent things.
The Ignorant are always right
And the Dummy is always wrong.
Ignorance is wealthy
And Dumb is poor.
The Ignorant ignore ignorance
but the dumbness
of a dumb man
eats him up
from within
like
Flesh eating bacteria
AIDS
and Leprosy.
The Ignorant are neutered
while the Dumb
have balls bigger
than any brain
or maybe
all brains
put
together.
Ignorance is staying in
at night
because of danger
Dumb is running headlong
into fire
so it
can burn longer.
Ignorance is trying
to match your clothes
according to arbitrary rules
Dumb is grabbing the
first shirt on the floor
and wearing yesterday’s pants
according to arbitrary rules.
Ignorance is thinking
you actually cleaned the bathroom
Dumb is realizing
the back of your pants
are wet
because you didn’t
tuck it in
while you were taking a shit
an hour earlier.
Ignorance is tailgating
so you can get home
and watch an extra
thirty seconds of commercials on TV
Dumb speeds up fast
so it can slow down fast
or wreck
between lights.
Ignorance doesn’t
eat meat
because ‘plants aren’t alive’
Dumb is
not eating your vegetables.
Ignorance is
the master
of ignorance
and Dumb fucks up
even dumb.
One is not better than the other
And they’re both going
to
succeed at knowing nothing.
And maybe it is true
what I heard the old man say
at the store:
The less I know
The better off
I am
But man is the thinking weed.
Considering how limited we are
and how limitless knowledge is,
We have only one real choice:
Are we going to be Ignorant
Or Dumb?
I,
I hate to say,
am mostly fucking dumb.
Dumb like a scab
or the ass of a philosopher.
a choice
between being dumb
and being ignorant
I would call myself dumb.
Let’s face it
Both know
they don’t know
Avicenna said it,
that the highest among us
know what they
do not
know
And there is a whole lot of
shit not to know
Except:
The Ignorant
are at
peace with
ignorance
and take pride in calling
themselves ignorant.
The Dumb above all
hate themselves
and are going to
make you bleed
when you call them dumb.
The Ignorant know what
they know
and know things.
The Dumb do not know what
they know
and invent things.
The Ignorant are always right
And the Dummy is always wrong.
Ignorance is wealthy
And Dumb is poor.
The Ignorant ignore ignorance
but the dumbness
of a dumb man
eats him up
from within
like
Flesh eating bacteria
AIDS
and Leprosy.
The Ignorant are neutered
while the Dumb
have balls bigger
than any brain
or maybe
all brains
put
together.
Ignorance is staying in
at night
because of danger
Dumb is running headlong
into fire
so it
can burn longer.
Ignorance is trying
to match your clothes
according to arbitrary rules
Dumb is grabbing the
first shirt on the floor
and wearing yesterday’s pants
according to arbitrary rules.
Ignorance is thinking
you actually cleaned the bathroom
Dumb is realizing
the back of your pants
are wet
because you didn’t
tuck it in
while you were taking a shit
an hour earlier.
Ignorance is tailgating
so you can get home
and watch an extra
thirty seconds of commercials on TV
Dumb speeds up fast
so it can slow down fast
or wreck
between lights.
Ignorance doesn’t
eat meat
because ‘plants aren’t alive’
Dumb is
not eating your vegetables.
Ignorance is
the master
of ignorance
and Dumb fucks up
even dumb.
One is not better than the other
And they’re both going
to
succeed at knowing nothing.
And maybe it is true
what I heard the old man say
at the store:
The less I know
The better off
I am
But man is the thinking weed.
Considering how limited we are
and how limitless knowledge is,
We have only one real choice:
Are we going to be Ignorant
Or Dumb?
I,
I hate to say,
am mostly fucking dumb.
Dumb like a scab
or the ass of a philosopher.
Borges Must Die
I saw Jorge in the
I didn’t see him
I told the cop
I didn’t tell
He ran out in traffic
He didn’t run
He was blind
He barely walked
2 am
Empty Streets
I ran him over
I ran away
I killed Borges
He looked ashamed to die
He was too ugly to die
He was born for immortality
I saw Borges in the rearview mirror
I saw him in my back seat
I see him wherever I go
I didn’t see him
I told the cop
I didn’t tell
He ran out in traffic
He didn’t run
He was blind
He barely walked
2 am
Empty Streets
I ran him over
I ran away
I killed Borges
He looked ashamed to die
He was too ugly to die
He was born for immortality
I saw Borges in the rearview mirror
I saw him in my back seat
I see him wherever I go
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