>untitled 0722720101108, avon

>what pulls the tall thin girl’s white towel
closer to her teak tent-pole legs, three
delicately bent, lean firecrackers and
a curious quarter-stick of dynamite

fixed toward the ocean, so many
seem over-prepared, hesitant like
gulls idling on an island of wet rock
white wind a steady beating, just starved

kept from instinct’s kiss, though the peddlers
the combers, the oogler’s eyes, the uninitiated
family men, the habitual nappers, each shovels
a new hole where no new holes could imagine

their digging;
three lean firecrackers and
a quarter-stick of dynamite.

>Notes on Calvin, Pt. 1, 07232010855

>I don’t know how to pronounce a word like that, Cookie!

He was staring like he does at her scrunched up knees, they looking like a kid’s drawing of a pathetic and eyeless pensioner sucking a bright fresh lemon.

Cookie, make it plain. Plain-American. Don’t say it like you’re sucking your rotten teeth like some faggy Frenchman. You gotta push, push, push the sinewy, smooth, sashaying, sexy smoke out past your upturned nose.

For the first time all afternoon, the bowl of melted vanilla ice cream, our thirty-something hero Calvin Thrust scrambles his nerves for just long enough to allow his plain brown eyes to float to the surface and graze Cookie’s line of sight.    

You know, if I have to think about it I don’t want to buy it. More than likely I’ll keep my wallet in my pocket and save my coin for the kiddies’ college fund. I want action, Cookie. Lay the fucking egg and get the fuck out.

Calvin, still mostly eye-locked below Cookie’s bedazzled belt sweeps his manicured hand, one manicured pointer finger extended, down the east wall left across the floor and up the west wall to the ceiling.

I’m done. Fuck, Cookie. Okay. Listen. You drain me sometimes. It used to be a treat sharing this space with you, but listen. Pretend there’s a long thick piece of that buff-colored masking tape bisecting the office; you stay all the way over there, I’ll stay over here.

He repeats the same sweeping motion, now stealing glances at the bridge of Cookie’s nose. Having the ungroomed quality of a pubescent boy’s yellowish underarms, the vast speckled diamond of sallow real estate between her vacant eyes becomes a target. He aims. Fires.

You do your work, I’ll do mine. Capice? And that’s it. Got it?

Calvin clears his throat. 

Got it.

>George Plimpton Headache (Revision 071820101722)

>I am sure I will die young
What cruel carpenter fucks near the reclined
And I know, George Plimpton finger-taps a cotton knee
In the packed back seat of a Silver Cloud
Though, having read through the obituaries I prefer
Philip’s pounding contrast, its striation

My dreams puncture film
Insecurities of proof regarding
Petty, pretty well-dressed bourgeois

Busy bosses promptly impress, remain soigné
And sew with their feet. But the ending’s neat: motion
Flickers a painted on Ka-Poe!, colors Bang!
Fall off the screen, the Rolls’ door Bang! sheds snow
The black matte inverts, awake
I am content to die so young.

>pop song > painting

>improperly framed
the transparent glass pane
brushes against its own infertility
the director’s proclivity for
carnassial misdirection

into the soft sand

beneath Pfeiffer Beach

with a waterworn wand
the director writes the word


black shot
fingers sever
black shot

whispers, twice from her
once from her consort, leading
her hands cross.
she is not guarded.
she hides nothing.
you must listen

the director is pleased
tells her, “There is nothing
that needs to change.”

>the real wet pussy

>I saw you last night
past the panning red light.

Technology has advanced
beyond the declining limits
of one woman’s humble, earnest


I did not set a trap
in which a lady
gets caught, merely
a fireworks extravaganza
to draw your attention
to the steady panning red light.

Did you see it?