what you loved were
the impulsive turns and
errors of my defeat,
broken over your exquisite
lies lounging on desert-
beaten back street--
rejoice! for now among ye walks
a myth amongst mere mortals
drink up if we be friends and
can you get this one because i'm a little short
freedom keeps changing its definition on me
Do you want my granddaughters and sons
who are sweating it out in foreign lands
to starve me after getting wind that I am
attending useless meetings arranged
by the same crazy and clueless fellows...
my wife cooked another magnificent
supper and a poet hundreds of miles
away said in an interview that poets
would never be famous as Hollywood
Stars and I erased almost everything
I wrote for the day pleased to surrender
I too have started mornings
with kites made of lead
flying off foot, pushing a big
lint racket up the mountain
domesticated as the dozen carnations
you carry where you used to carry
a dozen dead elephants
inside a dozen dead snakes
And I will also tell you, having grabbed
the silver handle covered by a dozen
glittering fingerprints, and leaning over
(for I am near-sighted)
the Mighty Subway Map,
as if it were a star map - I will tell you:
Neither word nor name represents anything, but together they move matter, as if by magic.
Being a fucked up woman is an absolutely healthy response to living in this culture.
No auto-blocking is available at all, but you can block specific phone numbers and addresses.
I paid for a genetic test and they sent my money back,
saying my sample was contaminated, parts of my dna unidentifiable,
from atlantis maybe, or one of those countries that continues in mind and myth
though hasn’t been on the maps for centuries.
from now on the money's
about sentences
if you think you can place
that surprise litany
around your eyes
crowed of ants hide in their undergrounds lairs
their red wrinkled slave driver armies
are not marching to gain power
just yet
same mistake christ made
same mistake krishna made
same mistake crowley made
same mistake carroll made
conversation or a song
to fill its spaces. The night
remains quiet. I discover
Listen Listen to what you hear
to what you hear yourself telling yourself
listen to what you hear yourself telling yourself
while you are brushing brushing while you are
brushing your teeth
the gang walked in on them
dragged him across the floor
the door opened again and a different
female breed strolled in salty with blood from
route 66
Once we fully understand the mechanics
Of quantum consciousness,
We will finally be able to prove that humans
Create poems at rates
Of between 40 and 120 cycles (i.e., poems) a second.
I stopped, even though I can never
stop because the worlds
are revolving and the direction
of this world is not
the direction of my
world in thought
Your ass looks just like I thought it would—
Mike, ex-merchant marine, to me, fourteen,
phenomenal flicker of my puerile form
quickened by his glance, made real in his words.
I bet the crows last night that I'd give them some meat. Worthy enough to take a chance on the road as tires fly by. They laughed and said you've been away too long sister. And they settled on a branch above me. Quiet.
whistling pipes
whispering steam
prone on the mattress, breathing in the strangeness
the ceiling like a penalty in the game of visualization
You offer vacancy
where something mattered,
put chains and locks
around the clouds
stockpile guns
to kill the sea.
nature’s vacuum serpents
torment the horny bricolage ramping
before the umpire
cuts the torment fee
Da predators are tinking
it’s time foa wun feast
unaware dat dey going get fleeced.
contemplate themes and voodoos,
fountains’ waters evaporating
cold as clarity’s winter on our skin,
vocal
as noon calling toward the
listeners oscillating warmth
when giddy splash was rendered
in gory crimson palette & dark-hearted
subgenre was just a late digital addition high
on amphoterrible cherry-lime maze led
us
he dreams of a new physics - his memory muscle remembering little
he awakens under pressure - dismisses the event as a disaster
a new EDEN that can never be - just more media hype
the long line – an eruption of interruptions – an endless ellipsis
The nails came, squelching through him and pounding into me, each one a comet
destroying a planet, each one exploding
like sperm on an egg. People watched,
becoming christians, becoming saints,
there weren't really saints before, saint Mary,
saint Mary, the thief beside us became a saint.
I keep my little principality tidy. Like Genghis Kahn’s nuns, I am a part of a war nation, having no real land or location, taking pain out in ever widening circles. Shouldn’t I travel as the hordes did, living off the conquered, carrying only my broom, a war nation against my own. It doesn’t take much really. You only have to be hungry and willing to do what it takes to get fed.
There is no such thing as weather. On the off-chance that it rains, I will remember the indelible mark upon a winter pond where we would skate to music in our heads. The lamp of God was healing to a water deeper than some misplaced months.
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