i lie prostrate

after a week, i lie prostrate


i come down to
this last hour
this last journey
lilacs and bronze

you afforded me
i watched up up
together together and a part
and apart
and widen and part

then together
gone! a
nd together
this pole

i looked clear that day
sleeves of my sweatshirt up
let it be mine again
i shrieked isis, agape

shrieked it
lying prostrate

thing is

still hearing the last goodnight
making it through a morning
reading isis, agape
squinting for poets
grasping for friends
not making it through morning

reading you love me in the morning
reading

holding onto each other

Tom Collins

To and from Avis,
we take the bus.
The navigator or our journey
is a man filled with Jesus.
He does please us.
Las name Collins, first name Tom.
He listens to gospel
on a CD Rom.
From the looks of his skin
he could be a member
of the nation of Islam.
He's got a mixed drink named after him,
for a good time mix sweet, sour, and gin.
He's quick to help
when he parks the shuttle.
My bag is so heavy, he busts a nuttle.
But he's a trooper
no time for rebuttle.

Lime chips

When I eat lime chips
I feel like shakin my hips
They make me so happy
I know it sounds sappy,
But I crave them when life
gets crappy.
Sometimes they are crispy,
sometimes stale, but either way
They would be my last meal.
In jail.
Thank you Lays, for you have brightened
my days.
Hey no joke, it's seriously making
me broke.
But like I said, they make me smile
For them, I would walk a mile.

These are poems from the past. The said thing is, they are only from 3 years ago. Clearly I've grown...


Hairy leg

What I have is a hairy leg
When I show people, they beg
me to stop
they do a jaw drop.
It makes me feel sad, bad, not so rad.
Dang I'm mad.
My friend Hannah is it's biggest fan.
She doesnt care that it's not tan
or smooth.
What do I have to prove?
Nothing.
That's right father, you can't bother
me.
Grow hair, grow hair.

disciple

she says interpreting is hard
she says she must make a thoughtful inquiry

i say the politics are hard
i say

the politics are involved in interpretation


she wonders how a field
of study becomes
discipline

i do not explain
i say the man the man society should understand

should

the narration, she wonders
the narration is how history
is interpreted

i am unrepresented
she resists the notion she studies
she says it should be turned into science

i say it involves too much politics
to be or to be politic or to be propogate
just master the manifestos, i say

she plays the personal in narration
she enters the philosophy different takes

through history, i say, lay the foundation it's 306/307

she uses
-the language of the masses

scene

scene of

closet, closest daughter

rage in traffick

present in Spanish walls

she to the left of love

eager in doubt, velvet mother

culture in right, in wrong in

doubt

in loyalty plotted dots

to the ending

oyo oyo

The importance of the titanium point tip situated, bright centering the circular metal dome. Measure for purchase, money switching child hands. Plastic, foam, cradle the paper mold. Worth glass is a visible, is shard still vision gain.

Taking this mold, its cold metal. About distanced a finger’s tip, palm meets wrist about right. Clipping a light volume. Preparing feet, legs, forearms and chin. Curl and release the projection at a rocket’s angle; gravity gains velocity, swing back to a balance, grind and whistle.

This taught feature vibration of a tri-finger joint. The velvet purchased, beside a separate thing, protecting a sheath. The bearing, an oiled groove. A match to an oily twine, release the sleep to an auditory ping, and the sharpened brick crack.

technologic

technologic

jogged tongue to remember
writing in red ink
to be right not wrong
flipping cards rote and recall
flying by as

migrant to the cities
hunger, environment
for modernization
population and poverty
learning recycling codes
on diskettes
hard drives swooning
over spreadsheet,
house commitment, memory
our neighborhood
in well educated store
coming up surfing the net
to program,
to network
apply the database application
across the information superhighway
publishing, doesn't exist in language
to print, to develop
beauty slum
illiteracy, recycling
overpopulation, technology of slum resolve
account printers
to urbanize building
resources of undernourished
design, malnutrition

white cards a causation to recall
to forget for tomorrow

meg's parking ticket

three classes with that guy
convertible it was a nice day
down for a day
hid it in the console so
it wouldn't get stolen
information about a car

scapegoat

existing now in a (w)hole
before you, buying Danish clogs
forced impostor alone
circumscribing outer edges
of the flat generational lie
through Belarus and Poland
eyes never falling on free terrain
no pleasure of dirt on a barefoot
somehow surviving our mother's land
wound up like a
splintered top
in sweet Denmark
to shake in a basement
rocking chair, starched calico dress
breakable as a Danish plate
and you weren't Jewish
under a black halo of curls
remembering day and night
handed down in a nose
not a story
a thin undereye of blueblack veins
a scarf for the cold nights
never revealing the bronze chain
dangling a delicate chai
around your neck
and you weren't Jewish

in the cold

the sheets cracked full of air
covering metal bed frames better
than i
more intent on framing you in the
minus four degree heat
my reaction to you was quite
the same as it could have ever been

in the cold

mornings after grains of
salt between my teeth and
the soles of my shoes teeth and
my veins staggering exquisite
break

at that time of morning joints cry as i sing!
and stretch ligament greeting
the coils sub skin
relax
and that's beautiful

as it could have ever been

in even a degree inferior
to the handle becomes an inside
which becomes a tree
which meets the ground
and ice which meets the hallways
to your door
and maybe an afternoon
with you

eyes are frantic when the generational groan is covered
an anul sob is the extent of my relief
ingesting the rotten eggs and
"put it in your eye you fuckin dyke" but
straight mama he's ignorant and you don't have an in
you're daughter is one of them
today i get to be curtain twitcher
but yesterday i munched on carpet, but i also read a book at the library
and my roommate flicks beans, but she also teaches truth in a classroom
and my love is a dyke, but she's also a mentor to a little girl with braids who calls herself "T"

and the cubicle walls are thin and nothing cuts like the tongue of a
a bored farmer's wife
who takes it up the labonza herself
just housewives in drag

but why but why she asks
when it's in my walk
and it's in my hair and its in my tattoos
but why why she asks
when it's in my voice
and my tattoos and the marks on my arms
and the marks on my legs and in my hair
and the rotten eggs in my hair
and there is vomit on my shoes so shitting doesnt work anymore
chipped my tooth on the porcelain in a rage of thirst
cause i'm not better than a dog's tongue lapping in a spinal thrust
buy why why she asks
when he doesn't even know you
but it's in my walk and my hair and my tattoos and my scars

for as much as it is in me, it is in you
haunting you in daymares
where i'm waiting

another response to her

i have made a habit
twirling my greasy strands
and now I’ve cinctured this bloody finger callous

the claw (the nail)
the blood bubble

outline your navel
in navigating the tendons
my rings get in the way

the snags
the divots are sweat bowls

belt sounds clinking resound
signal sex like the church at midnight
parishioners consecrate the holy fuck

hump the knob till the click, the sigh
your beauty peaks
in a concentrated stare on the needle, on the match-flame

the lesbian crack binge
the first sweet breath

where skin was bare
hair has grown thick and black
to the mouth to the nose to the eyes-mark it at the pock scar

you’ve caught me again

the claw (the nail)
the blood bubble

Emmet Williams did this thing called "The Ultimate Poem." The rules of the game are as follows. 1) Choose 26 words by chance operations-or however you please. 2)Substitute these 26 words for the 26 letters of the alphabet, to form an alphabet of words ie a=dog, b=table etc. 3) Choose a word or phrase (a word or phrase not included in the alphabet of words) to serve as the title of the poem. 4) For the letters in the title word or phrase, substitute the corresponding words from the alphabet of words. This operation generates the poem. 5) Repeat the process described in step 4 with the results of step 4. 6) Repeat the process with the results of 5. 7) Keep going.

This is what I came up with.

"dorm room blues"

vienna escape check promise
check
escape escape
promise
blues guns fray
gone

apple magnets fray woman
woman fuss
fray
gone
switch fuss
rider fuss
switch humble
fray switch duchess
shotgun check escape
promise magnets gone
fuss

fuss
shotgun shotgun
guns
fray
promise fuss tidings woman fray groove gone
wait check
fuss killer
suddenly escape promise
fuss woman

wait waterfall
guns
guns

suddenly fuss magnets groove
suddenly fuss groove fray check
wait fuss
guns guns

gone waterfall vienna vienna fray
woman guns killer
wait waterfall gone gone
promise fuss tidings
woman fray groove
gone
tidings check escape escape
apple
fray

tidings escape woman fray
suddenly fuss groove fray check
wait fuss
guns guns
apple magnets fray woman woman
fuss

spring creek road

on spring creek road
water in the gutter
doesnt discriminate
it's all filthy
rinsing pebbles or
rounding the teeth and gums

no such thing as concrete
river divider discrimination

where brown skinned babies
build things with two hands
inherited from the steel and spark
of the assembly plant
darkened leathery finish
kneeding black earth
and sweet meats

big brothers race things
with two wheels
true angel bodies
swing widely in the sun
raising glasses of pure water
to golden eyes
to ascertain the essence of their lives

across the road
using the curb as a springboard
raising glasses of pure water
to blue eyes
to ascertain the essence of their lives
natives of another kind face an indoor world
a white enameled season
too white to see cracked muddy surfaces
where the water ran
and didn't come back

Response to WCW

what are pants, if not for drying hands?
other than to cover your privates.

Imagination
isms
la fille, Camille, on the cover screen is a cognate for dollar, no?
ta Daouleaur, no? Transgression tongue sounds
transpose the airwaves and become dense theory
the poet is nothing but a scholar making observations
Imagination
isms
WCW on another list of paperback books and ladders
lowering into a knapsack thicket
dark corners where crumbs take a nap after resting their minds
resting eyes is a synonym for sleep
words rest when human body parts slip them in empty spaces
Imagination
isms
the chair is a lucky mother fucker
socks make way for black faded guitar pants leading to green
bumpy cotton mountains
Mount Abercrombie and straps and pads and navel
with lint in it
and warm lips
and there is that tongue again
slippery candy can kayak taking a tongue trap ride
Imagination
isms
that dark haired beauty crawls through the doorway again
she sings happiness is a warm gun
but she doesnt know happiness is a warm gun like i
know happiness is a warm gun
she's a lone star on the range
but her baby buddy with the size small sticker on her foot
and is small
doesnt please her
who says please, please me again?
Imagination
isms
isms
isms

a google poem

Lip Gloss,
PUSSY PUCKER POTS
..LESBIAN ...
PUSSY PUCKER POTS
..LESBIAN..VEGAN..
Strawberry Snatch

with gusto

a poem by Cato and the Green Hornet (Melissa Coyle and Jenna Goldsmith)

The light slid in envelopes
stole a curtain for clothes
waking to open the rusty cages
letting the machines breathe

new electricity into the power lines
plagiarizing graffiti off the overpass
the stop today is dusty heaven

chickens hanging by their necks from the highwire
poor poultry, poor poultry
this shit would never fly in Denver

where the crowds paid us in what they could give
so chimps become gods and midgets got stoned

we wrote poems about things that never happened
and shook blood hands after carving “howl” into our palms with a “to go” fork

to the dismay of Linda our waitress
cause we tipped her in horse feed and the shavings from our pencils
and I said damnit, how’s that for educational!

so for one week I made and sold candlesticks
but a beard on a lady, on the road
is lies to a beatnik-revolving the earth

oh well we still have our eyebrows
whatever.

here you me

tell me that you’re here.

remove the blinders that impeded my perception
(bolting to my skull bone like a helmet
not protecting me from anything)
so I can see.

unwrap my heart like a candy
placing it to you mouth
(the air is no longer swirling song
and unsafe)
so I can melt.

engrave my skin and make me understand
(don’t mind the hair, it will grow back
press your thoughts to my chest
hard)
so I can feel.

smother me in something dense
(like a wet sigh
or a muffled breath that you never meant to share
but I caught
only because I was under your mouth)
so I can hear you.

these things tell me you are here.

morning activities

stripping
the bed, glancing at
chocolate honey hair
contrasting milky tones
cover insides that only hours ago
worked overtime
you became graceful between 3 and 4
you became a traveler around 5
taking time to go over the nights blur
you make me water
tiptoeing the floor which
has become a minefield of the sum of your parts
and I simultaneously count
the imperfections of your back
coming up with approximately
zero.

for anne, for living

what was it about living, for living
was the problem for you.
words electric; life giving compulsion and spirit
and they spun a sticky web for you,
they buildt something made
to catch you.
the slit was enough to pass through
opening your mouth to death's morsel
still you pursed those ruby red's in affectionate disgust
and smiled in the accomplishment.

oh, i am your friend
i can glance across the table at you,
all neuroses and knuckles
stale smokes and cool looks, you are
amidst the smooth smoke balloon strings
they escape your face where they are able, driving heavenward
but not by choice
why would they want to

and what you needed was enclosed
in those four walls
if only you knew.
a radio, some words flush on the pages of a book
and the ink in the typewriter
because you wouldnt use a pen

did your Icarus ever ascend to you, Anne?
from the exciteable sun, for
you tamed the sea and sky
buoyed by words
just living to die.

hwy 173 (back to belvidere)

jokes that i have become to her are contained here.
when the dawn came she took off
her gauzy white robe
positioning herself in the sun,
on the expanse,
behind two sturdy wheels (assuming a smooth ride)
but i was the crooked spoke adjacent.

this pinion gear (she built the hardware)
is the wheel of our circumstance and
she will not have it.
one, maybe two times i gobbled up bone-thin goodness,
obvious fleshy cheeks behind a turned back
and what was it to us but a fork in the road
albeit a wrong turn,
as it was so clear that i had rolled far
far ahead of myself.

is their room for function in form anymore?
we must dwell on the past for composition
easy for her to say, yet there was something
compelling in the wrong
of her right of way.

so was that really me in the days
she cites, in verbose speech she makes
from faraway places
i will never go.
beats her mind caught
just to catch.
adding growth and pressure to
her swollen brain which heavily rests on my hand
pacing on rainstreaked streets in time to
the excitement
bending through space
contained in her fluids,
creating excrement for my senses.
recalling hips under her slender fingertips
that shake like string on an instrument
only she knew how to play.

recall the crooked spoke
not meant to travel.
but the round faces i touch can turn
eyes to me for every uninhibited emotion.
and for the emerging energy
the most satisfying ride there will be,
will be.