“Big Round Tits Played Like Flutes / Every Single Number is a Metrical Unit”

There is no war
buy buy buy

Charming isn’t it? How here, high, second storying
There can be none. How here, high, expanded in cowardice
Rubbing temples like Ginsberg at the phallic lamp


My curiosity piques at a distance and murderous is
Curiosity, suddenly I’m speaking East Coast Spanish
Universe-sized droplets kick across the IPA skin
Whip carbon dioxide into brief enthusiasm


Internal rhyme, do I care about the color of my beer?
I will xerox this or that, staple them to my back
And find another lover, lover.


Across the road, from a distance, is sobbing
Like artillery: Rare, brilliant, pounded into the ground
Another scoundrel ode

Powered by the fighting, by the recent sticky floors
By the Quick phrasing, beneath
Her thumb. Am I quoting that correctly?

Breathe, offset temple, breathe.

A lo hecho, pecho.

Dream 06012013

I woke, feeling of particularly base moral character, because of this dream I had.

The dream was built upon a typically gauche bacchanal at a filmic hivelike Midwestern frat house, a free Chinese buffet erected on the street outside operated by presumably a crosstown rival frat, the unacceptable total loss of some unreplaceable button down-type evening wear, and the medically airtight revelation by special hand delivered letter that I did in fact have AIDS, contracted during a blasé threesome during the prior night’s hockey party.

I loved that shirt.

improv for wristwatch, 09262012

maybe there’s too many advertisements in my mailbox
for “food slicer” — who’s buttering what now? Continue reading “improv for wristwatch, 09262012”

untitled dreambook entry, 09122012xx

[i keep a blank moleskine next to my bed. i’ll wake up in starts and jot words, ideas. recently i rolled out of bed and found this entry. i’m not sure who wrote it. very weird. very minor editing.]

Continue reading “untitled dreambook entry, 09122012xx”