Acusar al Presidente

Hackensack, August 2020

yes 10:13 in hackensack and i am wondering
why on earth is my skin so skinny

when all the prayers say i should be greasy
my benedictions

should be known widely
how many people are even in this bolted down town

anyway if i stop with all the bolas de acero
cerveza and el gran

poeta contemporáneo maybe i’ll dry up
maybe i’ll go on that boat trip

i promised my family anyway
here’s to the good colonel

working the corner
for the wrong boxer

why fight at all the dog
lucy her coffee bean

rising in the midday sun
takes a dive into the green grass

was it right acusar al presidente
was it weather crashing down on my head

like a thug’s framing hammer
don’t even got a wallet

there’s certainly no cash
i’ll cancel all the cards

before you spend a dime
i’ve been discourteous look

up at the flying cars stare and steal
a handful of photos

of this first great fear two men
with blond pony tails

look at that lot
i should cast them out

of hell for being so official
so beautiful so dour

on this urine soaked street
i stole that photo of the dog

by the balls my dog with the coffee
bean tried to attack the man

fat man slicking himself with sesame oil
this mobile phone suggests a yellow face crying

of laughter
after with my thumbs

i type urine and sweat 🤣 that one
squeezes through the wire like a stranger

to me anyways
chopping grass the old fashioned way

the calendar says hello
with both hands it is august 1

a lens cap in my pocket
a black coin from not so long ago

i looked up mike kanemitsu now
i’m sweating 🤣 memory

passive dogs attack
the passive voice

yes 10:13 in hackensack
and i am wondering

Black Hills Treaty

consider what they saw there

i don't trust anyone who
doesn't have my best leg
in interest both calves
slaughtered on the hill

 neither had a camera 

i hear their voices
like high school girls
squeaking on algebra
at tjmaxx i drink

coyote blood click click
each pore inflamed
for oxygen each pore
diabetic tigers of america
 neither      has      a camera 
chose to break the treaty 
when gold was discovered
there there they do
not know the way

they saw what they saw

Poem Without Metaphor (Highwire Act)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 827


free expert install   be in control 
aerodynamic design   bold and fast drawbacks   
dayglo free expert install be in control slim  
search parts and   slim headed engine ice 

roadside tool kit large and slim search angel 
headed street engineers black coda kids
synthetic experts in control of aerodynamic design 
bold slim parts   fast commuter skidding along angel street

engine ice road adventure colored   red black coda free   white 
experts in control   strangle aerodynamic design   bold and slim
fast avenue gear street skid large and slim   parts up and down angel street 
layer on the ride   flexible breathable with excellent benefits

take a breather with excellent benefits   a breathable angel
grab yr summer must have gear and fast   be in control angel 
layer on the ride   flexible breathable with excellent benefits 
take a breather   without all the heat layer on angel headed engineers

“The Summer’s Over, Jack Spicer!” by Matthew Dickman

And Paris, France,
is still Paris, France,
though we've never been there together
but might
if life were a little longer
and no one ever invented knives.
I am crossing the bridge again
and the city is behind me being rescued
or being destroyed 
with a leaf on the end of a branch
turning maple-syrup brown. 
The first one. The summer's over,
Jack Spicer, and I 
have turned my collar up against the wind
and health insurance, the clouds
and blue jays, against the gangbangers
and insufficient funds. It's getting colder.
We're turning from wheat beers to Stouts, becoming
our fathers again, our exhausted
uncles, bruising our knuckles
against the tavern walls
and young mothers, we're showing
up for work, we're blessing 
the promise of ice and snow and football to come
like the Israelites did with the sand, 
the gold, and the insects.
It's raining, Jack Spicer, and I miss
Matthew Lippman. He's walking 
through an alley in Boston,
his beautiful hands and shoulders, his wife and daughter
at home. His heart beating up 
his body like a heavyweight, the nose broken,
the ribs broken—
I'm not ready!
Kiss me, take your legs and make a belt
of stars around me,
be my winter coat, my sobriety and bodega.
The oceans are getting blue
and the oysters are getting ready. Soon
we can cover the table with newspapers, with the faces
of senators and crossword puzzles,
the oysters
spread out over the sports page,
we can open the hard shells
and slip the cold
soft bodies into our mouths. We can drink
white wine and make a kind of Pacific 
out of lunch. I want to lie around 
the room with your jeans 
flung over a chair. I want to eat ice cream
and have my older brother back.
The summer's over, Jack,
and all the waitresses
are putting on their black tights like a funeral
of knees, the bartenders are wiping down the brass, the waiters are drawing out 
their lines of cocaine
like long strings of silk, pure white and perfect.
I have crossed the bridge
into a Paris that doesn't exist. Really,
I'm in Portland,
the summer's over and the last of the breweries
are being pulled into the sky, becoming
lofts, getting roof-top gardens for surgeons and all their beautiful brides.

From Matthew Dickman’s “Mayakovsky’s Revolver”

wikipedia poem, no. 9


  / suffer
has all them off 
with one would 
       time you have 
been thinking anyone brain tied behind me

sleeping a 
     literature of art   
   just as 
      on them 
   off with 
one of 
art   yes  
     just as on 
        think any literature / suffer
it has all my 
literature / suffering

it has a 
    subject i am not getting 
  one brain tied behind me
and it is a 
of them off with 
brain tied behind me

women think about 
      and think any one brain 
tied behind me ...
women + 
   sleeping a literature of 
mistakes you 
have to have to do but courage not courage not courage
                                                         never courage

for Susan Sontag & Robert Frost

Papier Collé Paris 12 [draft, 041020131625]

yr typical wanting poem
gouache object of desire
elusively layered trompe l’oeil
Los Angeles downloading
New York cruelly
papier collé Paris 12

not a feign 10
of perspective 8 paid
to the shot clock 6 winding
down —


3 could be me 1
really, should have been, but,
the tousled crayon flowers
ape their Pulitzer plaudits
like epaulettes

, but,
have a drink
another embryonic epithet.

you have to explain

something about sliding the thin cardboard lid off
remember very specifically there must be a comma
between thin, cardboard … my body’s heat printed onto
into the otherwise cold floor, the shoebox shaped like a shadow
but somehow subtly connected to the idea of a shadow
the shadow representing something hidden-aggressive
the next line emerges, rhymes mask with dagger
suggests things are not what they seem for reason
white door, gilded knob creaks opens stage right,
i don’t notice — too involved, self-involved — i must have noticed
eyes close, nose inhales deeply, points of the lips twist up
the excitement of being caught, the rush of causation

you have to explain what you find
you have to explain what you find
you have to explain what you find
you have to explain what you find